 | CHAPTER XI.
RICHARD'S STORY. West Lawn and The rector of St. Mark's |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
RICHARD'S STORY.
HE was very white, and his voice trembled, while
his eyes had in them the far-off look I had once
or twice observed before.
“`There are some things in our family history,' he began,
`which I shall omit, as they have nothing in particular
to do with Anna and myself. For instance, you
know, perhaps, that we once lived at West Lawn in different
circumstances from what mother is living in now, and
that we suddenly sold the place, purchasing a smaller one,
and living in a cheaper, plainer way. Why we did this I
need not say, except that Anna was in no way connected
with it.
“`She was my adopted sister; and she came to us when
only six years old. I was twelve, as was my twin-brother
Robert. He went from us years ago, and has never been
heard from since. We fear he is dead, and the uncertainty
is killing my mother. I shall soon be all alone.
But I was telling you of Anna, who grew so fast into our
hearts, my brother and I quarrelling for the honor of
drawing her to school. This was in her childhood, but as
she grew older Robert professed to care less for her than
and white, and yellow curls.” He would not even acknowledge
that she was beautiful, but said she could not
compare with the maidens of New York, where he went
to live when Anna was fourteen and we were twenty.
His coldness troubled me at first, but when I came to
think of her as something dearer than a sister, I was
glad that he so seldom came to Morrisville, for he was far
finer-looking than I am. Put us side by side, and nineteen
out of twenty would have given him the preference.
But he did not care for Anna, and when she was sixteen
I asked her to be my wife. It was here, too, Dora, on
this very bench, where you are sitting with me, and it
was eleven years ago this very day.
“`Something most always happens to me on this day—
something which leaves its impress on my mind. One
year ago we went to that picnic by the lake. Do you remember
it, Dora?'
“`Yes,” I gasped, while my cheeks burned painfully.
`Yes, but go on with Anna.'
“He was silent a moment, and then continued:
“`We were in the habit of coming here to sit, she little
dreaming how near we were to the spot of earth where
she would ere long be lying. I have told you that I asked
her to be my wife, but I have not told you how much I
loved her, for I did—oh, so much, so much! And she
was worthy of my love. Whatever happened afterward
hardly does her justice, for no artist can ever give a correct
idea of what that face was when lighted up with life,
and health, and love. I have never seen a face one-half
as beautiful as Anna's. She knew that she was beautiful,
but it did not make her vain, for she knew that God had
given her the dangerous gift of beauty, and she tried to
keep His gift unsullied, just as she tried to keep her heart
pure in His sight. I cannot think of a single fault she
had unless it were that she sometimes lacked decision, and
was too easily swayed by those in whom she had confidence.
But in all essential points she was right, serving
God with her whole soul, and dedicating herself early to
His service.'
“`Then why,' I exclaimed, `when Robin asked if she
was in heaven sure, why did you hesitate to tell him
yes?'
“A look of pain contracted his features as he replied:
“`I am speaking of Anna as she was when I asked her
to be my wife. We read of angels falling,—then why not
a mortal man? though Heaven knows that I cannot fully
believe that Anna fell. I could not live if I believed it.
Mother's religious creed and mine differ in one point,
although we profess the same holy faith. To me a child
of God is a child forever, just as no act of mine can make
me cease to be my mother's son. But to go on. I loved
moment she made no reply, except to lay her head upon
my arm and weep. Then lifting up her eyes she said she
was too young to know her own mind yet; that she loved
me, and always had,—like a brother at first, but latterly
in a different way, and if I would not require her to be
my wife at once, and would promise to release her should
she ever come to think that she could not be mine, she
would answer yes. And so we were engaged.
“`After that I seemed to tread on air, so happy and so
full of anticipation was my whole being. I had been
graduated the previous year, and I was then a student in
Dr. Lincoln's office, but I boarded at home, and saw
Anna every day, counting the hours from the time I left
her in the morning until I returned late in the afternoon
to our fashionable dinner, for we observed such matters
then. I shut my eyes at times, and those days come back
again, bringing with them Anna as she used to look when
she came out to meet me, her curls falling about her childish
face, and her white robes giving her the look of an
angel. I loved her too much. I almost placed her before
Him who has declared He will have no idols there,
and so I was terribly punished. We were to be married
on her twentieth birthday, and until about a year previous
to that time I had not the shadow of a suspicion that
Anna's love was not wholly my own. I well remember
the time, a dreary, rainy autumn day, when she came
parted my hair with the other, as she was wont to do.
““`Richard,” she began, “isn't it just as wicked to act
a lie as it is to tell one?”
““`I supposed it was,” I said, and she continued:
““`Then you won't be angry when I tell you what I
must. I was very young when I promised to be your
wife, and I am afraid I did not quite know what I was
doing. I love you dearly, Richard, but you seem more
like my brother; and, Richard, don't turn so white and
tremble so,—I shall marry you if you wish it; but please
don't, oh! don't—”
“`She was weeping bitterly now,—was on her knees
before me, my Anna, my promised wife. I had thought
her low-spirited for some days, but had no thought of
this, and the shock was a terrible one. I could not,
however, see her so disturbed, when I had the power to
relieve her, and after talking with her calmly, dispassionately,
I released her from the engagement and she was
free. I did not even hint at the possibility of her learning
to love me in time, because I fancied she would be
more apt to do so if wholly untrammelled; but that hope
alone kept my heart from breaking during the wretched
weeks which followed, and in which Anna's health
seemed failing, and her low spirits to increase. A
change of air was proposed, and she was sent to Boston,
where my mother has relatives. It was on the eve of
scared look upon her face, which became at last habitual,
making it painful to look at her, she appeared so nervous
and frightened. It was as if some great terror were
continually haunting her, or some mighty secret, which
it was death to divulge and worse than death to cover
up. I supposed it to be a fear of what I might require
of her, and so I said to her one day that if the thing
preying upon her mind was a dread lest I should seek to
make her my wife, she might put that aside, as I should
not annoy her in that way.
“`Never to my last hour shall I forget the look in her
eyes,—a look so full of anguish and remorse, that I
turned away, for I could not meet it.
““`O, Richard,” she moaned, drawing back so I could
not touch her, “you don't know how wretched I am.
It almost seems as if God had forgotten that I did try to
serve Him, Richard. What is the unpardonable sin?
Is it to deceive?”
“`I thought she referred to her relations with me, and
I tried to soothe her agitation, telling her she had not
deceived me; that she had told me frankly how she felt;
that she was wholly truthful and blameless.
“`With a cry which smote cruelly on my ear, she
exclaimed:
““`No, no, you kill me! Don't talk so! I am not
blameless; but, oh! I don't know what to do! Tell me,
solemn vow?”
“`I had no idea what she meant, and without directly
answering her questions I tried to quiet her, but it was
a useless task. She only wrung her hands and sobbed
more passionately, saying God had cast her off, and she
was lost forever. This seemed to be the burden of her
grief for many days, and then she settled down into a
stony calm, more terrible than her stormy mood had
been, because it was more hopeless. She did not talk to
us now except to answer questions in monosyllables, and
would sit all day by the window of her chamber, looking
afar off as if in quest of some one who never came.
“We thought when she came home that we had as
much as we could bear, for a domestic calamity had overtaken
us, involving both ruin and disgrace, unless it
were promptly met; but in our concern for Anna, we
forgot the other trouble, else we had fainted beneath the
rod. At last the asylum was recommended, and the first
of March we carried her there, taking every precaution
that her treatment should be the kindest and most considerate.'
“`How long ago was that?' I asked, starting suddenly,
as a memory of the past swept over me.
“`Seven years,' he replied, and I continued:
“`Was it in Utica? If so, I must have seen her, for
seven years this summer Mrs. Randall and I visited a
to the lunatic asylum, but I did not see a face like Anna's
in the portrait. Oh yes,' and I started again, `I remember
now a young girl with the most beautiful golden
hair, but her face was resting on the window-sill, and
she would neither look up nor answer my questions,—
that was Anna,' and in my excitement I could scarcely
control myself to listen, while Richard continued:
“`It is possible, and seems like her, as she would not
answer any one.
“`Every two weeks mother and I visited her, but after
the first time she never spoke to us, but tried to hide
away where we could not see her. She gave them no
trouble whatever, as she seldom left her chair by the
window, where she sat the live-long day, looking westward,
just as she did at home. She had written one
letter, they said, and when we asked to whom, the
matron could only remember that she believed it was to
California, adding that the attendant who then took the
letters to the office had sickened since and died. It was
to some imaginary person, no doubt, she said, and so
that subject was dismissed by my mother, but I could
not so soon forget it, and when next I visited her, I said
abruptly:
““`Anna, what correspondent have you in California?”
“`Instantly her face was pallid with fear, and she fell
I dwelt day and night, finding no solution whatever to
it, and forgetting it at last as the terrible tragedy drew
to a close.
“`Late in July mother went again to visit Anna, and
when she returned her hair was almost as white as you
now see it, while her whole appearance was indicative of
some great, crushing sorrow which had fallen suddenly
upon her. Anna had asked to be taken home, she said,
—had fallen on her knees, and clasping her dress had
kissed it abjectly, crying piteously, “Home, mother;
take poor Anna home; let her die there.”
“`It was the first time she had spoken to us in months,
and we could not refuse. So she came,—the seventh day
of August,—travelling by railroad to the station, and
coming the remainder of the way in our carriage. Her
last fancy was that she could not walk, and I met her at
our gate, carrying her into the house—and upstairs to her
old room, which had been made ready for her. As I
laid her upon the bed, she clasped her arms tightly
round my neck, and whispered, “God has forgiven me,
Richard, will you?”
“`I kissed her, and then went down to mother, who
needed my services more than Anna, and who lay all
that evening on the lounge as white and rigid as stone.
The next day I saw a good deal of Anna, and hope whispered
that she was getting better. The scared, wild
upon her cheeks. Her hair, which had been cut, was
growing out again more luxuriant than ever, and curled
in short ringlets about her head. She talked a little,
too, asking if we had ever heard from Robert, and bidding
me tell him, when he came back, that she spoke
kindly of him before she died. This was the eighth.
The next day was her birth-day, the one fixed upon for
our bridal. I do not know if she remembered it, but I
thought of nothing else as the warm, still hours glided
by, and to myself I said it may be some other day.
Anna is better. Anna will get well. Alas! I little
dreamed of the scathing blow in store for me; the
frightful storm which was to rage so fiercely round me,
and whose approach was heralded by the arrival of Dr.
Lincoln, who had been there before, holding private consultations
with my mother, and looking, when he came
from them, stern, perplexed, mysterious, and sorry.
“`Dora, you know what all this portended, but you
do not know, neither can you begin to guess, how heavy,
—how full of agony was the blow which awaited me,
when just at nightfall I came up from the office where I
had been for several hours. “Anna was dying.” This
was the message which greeted me in the hall, and like
lightning I fled up the stairs, meeting on the upper landing
with my mother, who had grown old twenty years
since morning.
““`Richard, my boy, my poor boy, can you bear it?
have they told you? do you know?”
““`Yes,” I said, “Anna is dying. I must see her; let
me go,” and I tore away from the hands which would
have held me back until I was to some extent prepared.
“`I did not heed her voice, for through the half-closed
door I caught a glimpse of Anna. She saw me, too, and
her hand was beckoning. I was half-way across the
room, when a sound met my ear which took all consciousness
away, and for the next three hours I was insensible
to pain. Then came the horrid waking, but the
blow had stunned me so, I neither felt nor realized as I
did afterwards. I went straight to Anna, for she was
asking for me, she from whom the rest stood aloof as
from a polluted thing. Through all the horror she had
never spoken a word, or made the slightest sound, and
this suppression of feeling was hastening her end. Nothing
but the words, “Tell Richard to come,” had passed
her lips since, and when I went to her she could only
whisper faintly, “Forgive me, Richard. It's all right,
but I promised not to tell. It's right, it's right.” Then
she continued, entreatingly, “Let me lay my head on your
arm as it used to lie, and kiss me once in token of forgiveness.”
“`Dora, you are a woman, and women judge their sex
more harshly than we do, but you would not have had
me refuse that dying request?'
“`I should hate you if you had,' I sobbed, while he
continued:
“`Mother made a motion of dissent. She was casting a
stone, but I did not heed her. I lifted Anna up; I held
her on my bosom; I pushed away the clustering curls;
I kissed the quivering lips sueing for forgiveness and assuring
me all was right. I forgave her then and there
as I hoped to be forgiven; I said I would care for her
baby; I received her last injunction; I kept her in my
arms until the last fleeting breath went out, and when I
laid her back upon the pillow she was dead!
“`Death wipes out many a stain, and Anna, by her
dying, threw over the past a veil of charity, which only
a few of the coarser, unfeeling ones ever tried to rend.
There was gossip and talk, and wonder, and pity, and
surmise, and something suspicious thrown upon me, the
more readily as people generally did not know that our
engagement had been broken; but I outlived it all, and
when, three months after Anna died, I rose from a sick-bed,
and went forth among people again, they gave me
only sympathy and friendly words, never mentioning
either Anna or Robin in my presence.
“`During that sickness, my opinion with regard to the
practice of medicine underwent a change, and greatly
to the horror of good old Dr. Lincoln, with whom I
studied, I became a homœopathist. This furnished me
with an excuse for leaving Morrisville, as I wished to
information from physicians whom I knew to be intelligent
and thorough. I went first to New York, and
after a few months commenced my new practice in
Boston; thence, as you know, I went to Beechwood.
Once I hoped mother might be persuaded to go with me,
but she said:
““`I would rather stay here, where people know all
about it. I could not bear to be questioned concerning
Robin.”
“`Women are different from men; it takes them longer
to rise above anything like disgrace, and mother has
never been what she was before Anna's death. She came
in time to love Robin dearly, but his misfortune added
to her grief, until her cup seemed more than full. Her
health is failing rapidly, and a change of place is necessary.
For a long time past I have had it in my mind to
sell the cottage and take mother to Beechwood. A friend
of mine stands ready to purchase at any time. I saw
him two hours since, and to-morrow the papers will be
drawn which will deprive us of our home.'
“`And your mother!' I exclaimed, `will she go to
Beechwood?'
“`Not at present. Not until she is better, Dora. I
am going with mother to California as soon as I can
arrange my affairs at home. I may not return for a long
time, certainly not for a year.'
“There was a tremulousness in the tone of his voice as
he told me this, while to me the world seemed changed,
and I felt how desolate his going would leave me. Still
I made no comment, and after a moment he continued:
“`And now, Dora, comes the part which to me is most
important of all. Men do not often lay bare their secrets
except to one they love! It has cost me a great
effort to go over the past, and talk to you of Anna, but
I felt that I must do it. I must tell you that the heart
I would offer you has on its surface a scar, but, Dora,
only a scar; believe me, only a scar. It does not quicken
now one pulse the faster when I remember Anna, who was
to have been my wife. I loved her. I lost her; and were
she back just as she used to be, and I knew you as I
know you now, I should give you the preference. You
are not as beautiful as Anna, but you are better suited
to my taste,—you better meet the requirements of my
maturer manhood. I cannot tell when my love for you
began. I was interested in you from the first. I have
watched and pitied you these four years, wishing often
that I could lighten the load you bore so uncomplainingly,
and when you came away this time, life was so dreary
and monotonous that I said to myself, “Whether Dora
hears of Anna or not, I'll tell her when she returns, and
ask her to be my wife.” At first I was a very coward in
the matter, and cautioned mother against revealing anything,
but afterward thought differently. If you are to
and so I have told you all, giving you leave to repeat it
if you please. There is one person whom I would particularly
like to know it, and that is Jessie Verner.'
“The mention of that name was unfortunate, for it
roused the demon of jealousy, and when he continued:
“`Dora, will you be my wife? Will you give me a
right to think of and love you during the time I am absent?'
“I answered pettishly:
“`If I say no, would you not be easily consoled with
Jessie? You seem to admire her very much.'
“While he was talking to me he had risen, and now he
was leaning against the iron fence, where he could look
me directly in the face, and where I, too, could see him.
As I spoke of Jessie, an amused expression flitted over
his features, succeeded by one more serious as he replied:
“`I never supposed Jessie could be won even if I
wished to win her, flut now that I am at the confessional,
I will say that next to yourself Jessie Verner attracts
and pleases me more than any one with whom I have
met since Anna died. There is about her a life and
sparkle which would put to rout a whole regiment of
blues, while her great kindness to mother and Robin
show her to be a true, genuine woman at heart. I have
seen but little of her. I admire her greatly, and had I
Surely this should not make you jealous.'
“I knew it should not, but I think I must have been
crazy; certainly I was in a most perverse, unreasonable
mood, and I answered:
“`I am not jealous, but I have seen your great admiration
for Jessie, and if on so short an acquaintance you
like her almost as well as you do me, whom you have
known for years, it would not take long for you to like
her better, so I think it wise for you to wait until you
know your mind.'
“I wonder he did not leave me at once; he did move
away quickly, saying:
“`It is not like you, Dora, to trifle thus. You either
love me or you do not. I cannot give you up willingly.
You are tired, weak, excited, and you need not answer me
now, though I hoped for something different. I shall
think of you, love you, pray for you, while I am gone,
and possibly write to you; then, when I return, I shall
repeat the question of to-day, and ask you again to be my
wife.'
“He was perfectly collected now, and something in his
manner awed me into silence. The sun had already set,
and the night dews beginning to fall. He was the first
to notice it, and with tender care he drew my shawl a
second time about my neck, and then taking my arm in
his, led me away from Anna's grave out into the streets,
whispering their surmise that we were really engaged.
“He stayed in Morrisville three days after that, and
Mattie invited him to tea, with Judge Verner's family
and Dr. Lincoln. He came, as I knew he would, but the
judge and the doctor kept him so constantly talking of
homœopathy that I hardly saw him at all till just as he
was going, when he held my hand in his own and looked
into my eyes so kindly that I could scarcely keep back
the tears which would have told him that I loved him
now, and he need not wait a year. A bad headache had
prevented Bell from coming, and as the judge was called
away on business, the doctor walked home with Jessie,
while I watched them as far as I could see, feeling myself
grow hot and angry when I saw how Jessie leaned upon
his arm, and looked up in his face as confidingly as a
child.
“Remembering that he wished her to know of Anna, I
tried one day to tell her, but she knew it already from
Mrs. West, and exonerated Richard from all blame.
She is at the cottage a great deal, and Mattie thinks her
greatly interested in Dr. West. I wish he had not said
that next to me he preferred Jessie, for it haunts me continually,
and makes me very unamiable.”
| CHAPTER XI.
RICHARD'S STORY. West Lawn and The rector of St. Mark's | |