University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
THE END.

Over the horrid awakening which came to the wretched
man, we need not linger; neither is it necessary to dwell
upon the first few days of mystery and dread, when death
seemed brooding over Riverside, and rumor was busy
with surmises and suspicions concerning the stranger, and
the relation, if any, which she bore to Rosamond Leyton.
We will rather hasten on to the morning when to Mr.
Browning the joyful tidings came that Rosamond was
better—so much better, indeed, that he could see and talk
with her if he chose.

Only once since the fearful night when he found her
moaning in her bridal dress, had he stood by her bedside
—for, though he longed to be there, he could not endure
to see her turn away from him, whispering as she did so,
“It was cruel—oh, so cruel to deceive me so.” Neither
had he been near Marie Porter, consequently he knew
nothing of the means by which she had imposed upon him
the story of her death. But Rosamond knew—Rosamond
could tell him, and from no other lips would he hear
it. So, when he learned that she was better, he asked to
see her alone, and Mrs. peters, to whom he had necessarily
confided the story of his marriage, carried his message
to Rosamond.

For a moment Rosamond did not seem to hear, but
when the message was repeated, the great tears forced

themselves from beneath her long eyelashes, and rolling
down her cheeks, dropped upon the pillow.

“He might have spared me this,” she said, “but if it is
his wish, I can see him.”

With a mighty effort she stilled the violent throbbings
of her heart, forced an unnatural calm upon her face and
whispered—“Let him come now; I am ready.”

He was standing without the door, so near that he
heard the words, and in a moment he was at her side.
Falling upon his knees before her, he clasped her hands in
his, imploring her forgiveness for the great wrong he had
done her in not telling her the truth at first. “But I am
innocent of the last,” he said; “believe me, Rosamond, I
thought her dead, or I had never asked you to be my
wife. I know not how she deceived me so terribly, but
you know, and I have sought this interview to hear the
story from your own lips. Will you tell it to me, darling
—Miss Leyton, I mean,” he added hastily, as he saw a
shadow of pain flit over her face.

“I will if I can,” she faintly answered, and summoning
all her strength, she repeated to him what Miss Porter
had told her, except, indeed, the parts with which she
knew he was familiar.

“The plot was worthy of her who planned it,” he said
bitterly; then, as Rosamond made no reply, he continued
—“she told you, I suppose, of our married life, and
painted me the blackest villain that ever trod the earth.
This may in part be true, but, Rosamond, though I may
never know the bliss of calling you my wife, I cannot
be thus degraded in your sight and offer no apology.
I was a boy—a self-willed, high-tempered boy, nineteen
years of age, and she aggravated me beyond all human

endurance, seeking ways and means by which she could
provoke me. I loved her at first—nay, do not turn away
incredulously. Heaven is my witness that I loved her, or
thought I did, but 'twas a boyish love, and not such as I
feel for you.”

“You swore at her,” said Rosamond, unable to reconcile
love with an oath.

“Once—only once,” he replied. “I blush to own it,
for it was not a manly act.”

“You struck her,” and for the first time since he had
been in that room the brown eyes rested full upon his
face.

“Yes, Rosamond,” he answered; “I own that, too,
but she goaded me to madness, and even raised her
voice against my sainted mother, who had borne so dastardly
a son as I!”

“And Riverside?” said Rosamond. “Did your uncle
die deceived?”

“Never—never,” Mr. Browning exclaimed, starting to
his feet. “I told the whole truth, or I would not have
lived here a day. Rosamond, I have greatly sinned, but
she has not been blameless. She insulted me in every
possibly way, even to giving you her wedding ring, and
then, lest I should not see it, wrote to me `to look upon
your finger. No wonder you thought me mad!”

“Her wedding ring! Could she do that?” said Rosamond.

“Yes, her wedding ring. It first belonged to Susan,
who gave it to me for the occasion, and two weeks after
I had it marked with Marie's name and the date of
our marriage. It is broken now, and I would to Heaven
I could thus easily break the tie which binds me to

her, and keeps me from you! Oh, Rosamond, Rosamond,
must it be? Must I live my life without you,
when I need you so much—when my heart longs so to
claim you for its own?”

He covered his face with his hands, and Rosamond
could see the tears dropping slowly through his fingers.
Terribly was he expatiating the sin of his boyhood, and
what wonder is it, if, in his agony, he cried, “My punishment
is greater than I can bear!”

Rosamond alone was calm. She seemed to have wept
her tears away, and the blow which had fallen so crushingly
upon her, had benumbed her heart, so that she now
did not feel as acutely as the weeping man before her.
Very soothingly she spoke to him, but she offered no
word of cheer—no hope that all would yet be well.
“They would bear it with brave hearts,” she said, “and
he must be reconciled to his wife.”

“Never—never,” he exclaimed. “The same roof cannot
shelter us both, and if she chooses to stay when she
is better, she is welcome to Riverside, but I cannot share
it with her.”

Neither said to the other, “It may be she will die,” for
such a thought had never intruded itself upon their minds,
and yet Marie Porter's life was numbered now by days.
The heart disease, from which she had long been suffering,
was greatly aggravated by the strong nervous excitement
through which she had recently been passing. Stimulants
of a most powerful kind had created a kind of artificial
strength, which had enabled her to come to Riverside,
but this was fast subsiding; and when she bent over the
motionless form of Rosamond, and feared that she was
dead, she felt, indeed, that death would ere long claim

her as his own. The sight of her husband, too, had well
nigh been more than she could bear. For nearly nine
long years she had not looked upon his face, but she remembered
it well—a handsome, boyish face. His hair
she remembered, too—his soft, dark, wavy hair, through
which her fingers had sometimes strayed, in the far back
days at Holly Wood, before she was his bride. He would
not be greatly changed, she thought; and when, on that
fatal night, she heard his coming footsteps, she pictured
him in her mind much as he was that winter-day, when,
standing in his sister's door, he bade her a long good-bye.
Nearer and nearer he had come—faster and louder had
beaten her heart, while a cold, faint sickness crept over
her.

“Open the window—I cannot breathe,” she gasped;
but ere her request was obeyed, Ralph Browning had
fainted on the threshold, and she had asked that she
might die.

She had seen him only for an instant, but that sufficed
to tell her he was changed from the dark-haired, handsome
boy, into the gray-haired suffering man. His eyes had
met hers, but the fierce hatred she expected, was not
there; and the look of utter hopeless despair which she
saw in its place, touched her as reproach and resentment
could not have done.

“Oh, I hope I shall die,” she said, as she hid her face
in the pillow. “I hope I shall die.”

This wish she uttered every hour; and when, at last,
the physician said to her, “Madam, you will die,” she answered,
“It is well!”

She did not ask for Mr. Browning, for she knew he
would not come, but she inquired anxiously each day for

Rosamond; and when, at last, she heard they were together,
she laid her hand upon her heart, and watching
its rise and fall, smiled to think how fast her life was going
out.

“Listen, Maria,” she said, “Listen to what they say,
and hear if they talk of me.”

Noiselessly Maria glided to the door of Rosamond's
chamber—stood there for a moment and then as noiselessly
came back repeating to her mistress the substance of what
she had heard, together with sundry little embellishments
of her own.

“He will give you Riverside and go away himself,” she
said, and Miss Porter quickly rejoined, “Go where? Go
with whom?”

“With Miss Leyton of course,” returned Maria. “He
said he would not live without her.”

“The wretch!” ejaculated the angry woman, all her
softer emotions giving way to this fancied insult. “He
might at least wait now until I'm dead. I'll go to him
myself, and see if in my presence he dare talk thus to
her.”

She was greatly excited, and spite of the painful throbbings
of her heart and the dizzy sensation she felt stealing
over her, she stepped upon the floor, and hurriedly crossed
the room. The effort was too much for her feeble
strength, and she sank fainting upon a chair. The girl
Maria had seen her faint before, but never before had she
seen so fearful a look upon her face, and she ran in terror
to Mr. Browning, beseeching him to come “for her mistress
was dying sure, and would trouble no body much
more.”

For a moment he hesitated, but when Rosamond said

“Go,” he went. Taking the fainting woman in his arms
he laid her upon the bed as gently, though not as tenderly,
as he would have lain his Rosamond there.

“Call Mrs. Peters,” he said, and when that matron
came, he bade her give to the invalid every possible care.

Slowly Miss Porter came back to life, but it was only
to faint again, and with each fainting fit it became more
and more apparent that life was ebbing fast. They did
not say to Rosamond that she would die, but they told it
to Mr. Browning, who heard as one who hears not.
Every other sensation seemed to have given place to a
feeling of horror, and when at the close of the second day
word came to him that she was dying, and had asked to
see him, he arose mechanically and walked to her sick
room as calmly as he had visited it the previous night,
when he knew she was asleep. One glance, however, at
her white face and wild bright eyes roused him to the
reality, and bending over her pillow, he forced himself to
take her hand in his, saying kindly, “Marie, do you know
me?”

“Know you?” “Yes,” she answered. “You are my
husband—my husband.” She lingered upon that name
as if its sound recalled to life some olden feeling—some
memory of Holly Wood, where they first had met.

“Marie, you are dying,” he continued. “Shall we part
in anger, or in peace?”

“In peace, if you will,” she answered. “I have had
my revenge—but it is not sweet as some say it is. I
would rather, Ralph, that I had never known you, for
then I should not have been the wicked wretch I am.”

Mr. Browning did not reply to this, and for a few moments
there was silence, during which she seemed to

sleep. Rousing up ere long, she gasped for breath, and
grasping nervously her husband's hand, she whispered,
“I am going now—there's no sham this time—five minutes
more, and you are free to marry Rosamond. Be
kind to her, Ralph. Deal with her not as you dealt with
me, and—and—come closer to me, Ralph. Let me whisper
this last so as no one can hear.”

He bent him down to listen, and summoning all her
strength, she said, not in a whisper, but in tones which
echoed through the silent room—“Never, never strike
Rosamond, will you?”

Rapidly the story circulated that the strange woman
who lay dead at Riverside had been Ralph Browning's
wife, and hundreds flocked to the funeral, hoping to gain
a view of the deceased. But in this they were disappointed,
for there was nothing visible, save the handsome
coffin, on whose silver plate was inscribed the word
“Marie.”

Some said that “Browning” might have been added to
the name, and while others marvelled that the husband
wore no badge of mourning, a few said wisely that the
mourning was visible in other than the usual signs—in the
hair gray before its time, and in the deep-cut lines which
a living sorrow alone had made. And so, amid surmises
of the past and foretellings of the future, the ill-fated
Marie was laid in the village vault, until word could be
received from her old uncle, who might wish to have her
rest among the balmy groves and fragrant flowers of her
beautiful Florida home.

And now our story winds to its close. Ralph Browning
was free indeed, but death had been at Riverside, and

the shadow it had left must disappear ere he took to himself
a second bride. Rosamond, too, must recover from
the blow which had fallen so crushingly on her—must
learn to confide again in the man she loved—to think of
the great wrong he had done her as the result of an
early, boyish error, which he regretted even more bitterly
than herself.

And so the warm spring rains had fallen and the April
blossoms were bursting from the dark, moist earth ere
the wedding morning came. At the bridal there was no
satin dress—no orange wreath—no flowing veil—but there
was perfect love shining in the beautiful brown eyes of the
girlish bride, while the fine face of the bridegroom wore
a look of perfect happiness, as if the past were all forgotten,
and the world was bright and new. Europe was
still their destination, and among those who accompanied
them to New York, going with them even to the vessel's
deck, none bade them a more affectionate adieu than Mrs.
Van Vechten herself. She had spent a part of the winter
at Riverside, and had learned to appreciate the gentle
girl who she knew was to be her brother's wife.

Ben, too, was of the party. He had listened in amazement
to the story of his uncle's first marriage, wondering
how it could have been kept from him, and remembering
several little incidents, the meaning of which he now understood.
He had given up the Crimean war, as well as
the dancing girl, and now he had given up Rosamond,
too, but he bore it quite heroically, and ever after took
especial pains to speak of her as “My Aunt Rosamond.”
For more than a year the bridal pair remained abroad,
and then returned again to Riverside, where now the patter
of tiny feet, and the voice of childhood is heard, for

children have gathered around the hearthstone, and in all
the world there is not a prouder, happier wife and mother
than the little Rosamond who once on a dreary November
day listened, with a breaking heart, to the story of Ralph
Browning's Youthful Error.