University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
THE NINETEENTH BIRTH-DAY.

Edith was nineteen. She was no longer the childish,
merry-hearted maiden formerly known as Edith Hastings.
Her cruel disappointment had ripened her into a sober,
quiet woman, whose songs were seldom heard in the halls
of Collingwood, and whose bounding steps had changed
into a slower, more measured tread.

Still, there was in her nature too much of life and vigor
to be crushed out at once, and oftentimes it flashed up
with something of its olden warmth, and the musical
laugh fell again on Richard's listening ear. He knew she
was changed, but he imputed it all to her long, fearful
sickness; when the warm summer days came back, she
would be as gay as ever, he thought, or if she did not he
would in the autumn take her to Florida to visit Nina,
for whom he fancied she might be pining. Once he said
as much to her, but his blindness was a shield between
them, and he did not see the sudden paling of her cheek
and quivering of her lip.

Alas, for Richard, that he walked in so great a darkness.
Hour by hour, day by day, had his love increased
for the child of his adoption, until now she was a part of
his very life, pervading every corner and crevice of his
being. He only lived for her, and in his mighty love, he
became selfishly indifferent to all else around him. Edith
was all he cared for; — to have her with him; — to hear
her voice, — to know that she was sitting near, — that by
stretching forth his hand he could lay it on her head, or
feel her beautiful cheeks, — this was his happiness by day,
and when at night he parted unwillingly from her, there
was still a satisfaction in knowing that he should meet

her again on the morrow,—in thinking that she was not
far away, — that by stepping across the hall and knocking
at her door he could hear her sweet voice saying to him,

“What is it, Richard?”

He liked to have her call him Richard, as she frequently
did. It narrowed the wide gulf of twenty-one years
between them, bringing him nearer to her, so near, in
fact, that bridal veils and orange wreaths now formed a
rare loveliness walked ever at his side, clothed in garments
such as the mistress of Collingwood's half million ought
to wear, and this maiden was Edith — the Edith who, on
her nineteenth birth-day, sat in her own chamber devising
a thousand different ways of commencing a conversation
which she meant to have with her guardian, the subject
of said conversation being no less a personage than
Grace Atherton. Accidentally Edith had learned that not
the Swedish baby's mother, but Grace Elmendorff had
been the lady who jilted Richard Harrington, and that,
repenting bitterly of her girlish coquetry, Mrs. Atherton
would now gladly share the blind man's lot, and be to him
what she had not been to her aged, gouty lord. Grace
did not say all this to Edith, it is true, but the latter read
as much in the trembling voice and tearful eyes with
which Grace told the story of her early love, and to herself
she said, “I will bring this matter about. Richard
often talks of her to me, asking if she has faded, and why
she does not come more frequently to Collingwood. I
will speak to him at the very first opportunity, and will
tell him of my mistake, and ask him who Eloise Temple's
mother was, and why he was so much interested in her.”

With this to engross her mind and keep it from dwelling
too much upon the past, Edith became more like herself
than she had been since that dreadful scene in the
Deering woods. Even her long neglected piano was visited
with something of her former interest, she practising

the songs which she knew Grace could sing with her, and
even venturing upon two or three duets, of which Grace
played one part. It would be so nice, she thought, to
have some female in the house besides old Mrs. Matson,
and she pictured just how Grace would look in her white
morning gowns, with her blue eyes and chestnut curls,
presiding at the breakfast table and handling the silver
coffee urn much more gracefully than she could do.

It was a pleasant picture of domestic bliss which Edith
drew that April morning, and it brought a glow to her
cheeks, whence the roses all had fled. Once, indeed, as
she remembered what Arthur had said concerning Richard's
probable intentions, and what she had herself more
than half suspected, she shuddered with fear lest by
pleading for Grace, she should bring a fresh trial to herself.
But no, whatever Richard might once have thought
of her, his treatment now was so fatherly that she had
nothing to fear, and with her mind thus at ease Edith
waited rather impatiently until the pleasant April day
drew to its close. Supper was over, the cloth removed,
Victor gone to an Ethiopian concert, Mrs. Matson knitting
in her room, Sarah, the waiting-maid, reading a yellow
covered novel, and Richard sitting alone in his library.

Now was Edith's time if ever, and thrusting the worsted
work she was crocheting into her pocket, she stepped
to the library door and said pleasantly “You seem to be
in a deep study. Possibly you don't want me now?”

“Yes, I do,” he answered quickly. “I always want
you.”

“And can always do without me, too, I dare say,” Edith
rejoined playfully, as she took her seat upon a low ottoman,
near him.

“No, I couldn't,” and Richard sighed heavily. “If I
had not you I should not care to live. I dreamed last
night that you were dead, that you died while I was gone,

and I dug you up with my own hands just to look upon
your face again. I always see you in my sleep. I am
not blind then, and when a face fairer, more beautiful than
any of which the poets ever sang, flits before me, I whisper
to myself, `that's Edith, — that's my daylight.' ”

“Oh, mistaken man,” Edith returned, laughingly, “how
terribly you would be disappointed could you be suddenly
restored to sight and behold the long, lank, bony creature
I know as Edith Hastings — low forehead, turned-up nose,
coarse, black hair, all falling out, black eyes, yellowish
black skin, not a particle of red in it — the fever took that
away and has not brought it back. Positively, Richard,
I'm growing horridly ugly. Even my hair, which I'll confess
I did use to think was splendid, is as rough as a chestnut
burr. Feel for yourself, if you don't believe me,”
and she laid his hand upon her hair, which, though beautiful
and abundant, still was quite uneven and had lost
some of its former satin gloss.

Richard shook his head. Edith's description of her personal
appearance made not a particle of difference with
him. She might not, perhaps, have recovered her good
looks, but she would in time. She was improving every
day, and many pronounced her handsomer than before her
sickness, for where there had been, perhaps, a superabundance
of color and health there was now a pensive, subdued
beauty, preferred by some to the more glowing,
dashing style which had formerly distinguished Edith
Hastings from every one else in Shannondale. Something
like this he said to her, but Edith only laughed and continued
her crocheting, wondering how she should manage
to introduce Grace Atherton. It was already half-past
eight, Victor might soon be home, and if she spoke to him
that night she must begin at once. Clearing her throat
and making a feint to cough, she plunged abruptly into
the subject by saying, “Richard, why have you never
married? Didn't you ever see anybody you loved well
enough?”

Richard's heart gave one great throb and then grew
still, for Edith had stumbled upon the very thing uppermost
in his mind. What made her? Surely, there was
a Providence in it. 'Twas an omen of good, boding success
to his suit, and after a moment he replied,

“Strange that you and I should both be thinking of
matrimony. Do you know that my dreaming you were
dead is a sign that you will soon be married?”

“I, Mr. Harrington!” and Edith started quickly.
“The sign is not true. I shall never marry, never. I
shall live here always, if you'll let me, but I do want you
to have a wife. You will be so much happier, I think.
Shall I propose one for you?”

“Edith,” Richard answered, “sit close to me while I
tell you of one I once wished to make my wife.”

Edith drew nearer to him, and he placed upon her head
the hands which were cold and clammy as if their owner
were nerving himself for some mighty effort.

“Edith, in my early manhood I loved a young girl, and
I thought my affection returned, but a wealthier, older
man came between us, and she chose his riches in preference
to walking in my shadow, for such she termed my
father.”

“But she's repented, Mr. Harrington — she surely has,”
and Edith dropped her work in her earnestness to defend
Grace Atherton. “She is sorry for what she made you
suffer; she has loved you through all, and would be yours
now if you wish it, I am sure. You do wish it, Richard.
You will forgive Grace Atherton,” and in her excitement
Edith knelt before him, pleading for her friend.

Even before he answered her she knew she pleaded in
vain, but she was not prepared for what followed the silence
Richard was first to break.

“Grace Atherton can never be to me more than what
she is, a tried, respected friend. My boyish passion perished
long ago, and into my later life another love has

crept, compared with which my first was as the darkness
to the full noonday. I did not think to talk of this to-night,
but something compels me to do so — tells me the
time has come, and Edith, you must hear me before you
speak, but sit here where I can touch you, and when I'm
through if what I've said meets with a responsive chord,
lay your hand in mine, and I shall know the nature of
your answer.”

It was coming now — the scene which Arthur foresaw
when, sitting in the Deering woods, with life and sense
crushed out, he gave his Edith up to one more worthy
than himself. It was the foreshadowing of the “Sacrifice,”
the first step taken toward it, and as one who, seeing his
destiny wrapping itself about him fold on fold, sits down
stunned and powerless, so Edith sat just where he bade
her sit, and listened to his story.

“Years ago, Edith, a solitary, wretched man I lived in
my dark world alone, weary of life, weary of every thing,
and in my weariness I was even beginning to question
the justice of my Creator for having dealt so harshly
with me, when one day a wee little singing bird, whose
mother nest had been made desolate, fluttered down at
my feet, tired like myself, and footsore even with the
short distance it had come on life's rough journey. There
was a note in the voice of this singing bird which spoke
to me of the past, and so my interest grew in the helpless
thing until at last it came to nestle at my side, not timidly,
for such was not it's nature, but as if it had a right to
be there — a right to be caressed and loved as I caressed
and loved it, for I did learn to love it, Edith, so much, oh,
so much, and the sound of it's voice was sweeter to me
than the music of the Swedish nightingale, who has
filled the world with wonder.

“Years flew by, and what at first had been a tiny
fledgling, became a very queen of birds, and the blind
man's heart throbbed with pride when he heard people

say of his darling that she was marvellously fair. He
knew it was not for him to look upon her dark, rich, glowing
beauty, but he stamped her features upon his mind in
characters which could not be effaced, and always in his
dreams her face sat on his pillow, watching while he
slept, and when he woke bent over him, whispering,
`Poor blind man,' just as the young bird had whispered
ere it's home was in his bosom.

“Edith, that face is always with me, and should it precede
me to the better land, I shall surely know it from all
the shining throng. I shall know my singing bird, which
brought to our darkened household the glorious daylight,
just as Arthur St. Claire said she would when he asked
me to take her.”

From the ottoman where Edith sat there came a low,
choking sound, but it died away in her throat, and with
her hands locked so firmly together that the taper nails
made indentation in the tender flesh, she listened, while
Richard continued:

“It is strange no one has robbed me of my gem. Perhaps
they spared me in their pity for my misfortune. At
all events, no one has come between us, not even Arthur
St. Claire, who is every way a desirable match for her.”

Again that choked, stifled moan, and a ring of blood
told where the sharp nail had been, but Edith heeded
nothing save Richard's voice, saying to her,

“You have heard of little streams trickling from the
heart of some grim old mountain, growing in size and
strength as they advanced, until at last they became a
mighty river, whose course nothing could impede. Such,
Edith, is my love for that singing bird. Little by little,
inch by inch, it has grown in its intensity until there is
not a pulsation of my being which does not bear with it
thoughts of her. But my bird is young while I am old.
Her mate should be one on whose head the summer dews
are resting, one more like Arthur St. Claire, and not an

owl of forty years growth like me; but she has not
chosen such an one, and hope has whispered to the tough
old owl that his bright-eyed dove might be coaxed into
his nest; might fold her wings there forever, nor seek to
fly away. If this could be, Edith. Oh, if this could be,
I'd guard that dove so tenderly that not a feather should
be ruffled, and the winds of heaven should not blow too
roughly on my darling. I'd line her cage all over with
gold and precious stones, but the most costly gem of all
should be the mighty unspeakable love I'd bear to her.
Aye, that I do bear her now, Edith, — my daylight, my
life. You surely comprehend me; tell me, then, can all
this be? Give me the token I desire.”

He stretched out his groping hand, which swayed back
and forth in the empty air, but felt the clasp of no soft
fingers clinging to it, and a wistful, troubled look settled
upon the face of the blind man, just as a chill of fear
was settling upon his heart.

“Edith, darling, where are you?” and his hand sought
the ottoman where she had been, but where she was not
now.

Noiselessly, as he talked, she had crept away to the
lounge in the corner, where she crouched like a frightened
deer, her flesh creeping with nervous terror, and her eyes
fastened upon the man who had repeated her name, asking
where she was.

“Here, Richard,” she answered at last, her eyelids
involuntarily closing when she saw him rising, and knew
he was coming toward her.

She had forgotten her promise to Arthur that she
would not answer Richard “No,” should he ask her to
be his wife; that, like Nina's “scratching out,” was null
and void, and when he knelt beside her, she said half
bitterly,

“It must not be; the singing bird cannot mate with the
owl!”

Instantly there broke from the blind man's lips a cry
of agony so pitiful, so reproachful in its tone, that
Edith repented her insulting words, and winding her arms
around his neck, entreated his forgiveness for having so
cruelly mocked him.

“You called yourself so first,” she sobbed, “or I should
not have thought of it. Forgive me. Richard, I didn't
mean it. I could not thus pain the noblest, truest friend
I ever had. Forgive your singing bird. She surely did
not mean it,” and Edith pressed her burning cheeks
against his own.

What was it she did not mean? That it could not be,
or that he was an owl? He asked himself this question
many times during the moment of silence which intervened;
then as he felt her still clinging to him, his love
for her rolled back upon him with overwhelming force,
and kneeling before her as the slave to his master, he
pleaded with her again to say it could be, the great happiness
he had dared to hope for.

“Is there any other man whom my darling expects to
marry?” he asked, and Edith was glad he put the question
in this form, as without prevarication she could
promptly answer,

“No, Richard, there is none.”

“Then you may learn to love me,” Richard said. “I
can wait, I can wait; but must it be very long? The
days will be so dreary, and I love you so much that I am
lost if you refuse. Don't make my darkness darker, Edith.”

He laid his head upon her lap, still kneeling before her,
the iron-willed man kneeling to the weak young girl,
whose hands were folded together like blocks of lead, and
gave him back no answering caress, only the words,

“Richard, I can't. It's too sudden. I have thought of
you always as my elder brother. Be my brother, Richard.
Take me as your sister, won't you?”

“Oh, I want you for my wife,” and his voice was full

of pleading pathos. “I want you in my bosom. I need
you there, darling. Need some one to comfort me. I've
suffered so much, for your sake, too. Oh, Edith, my early
manhood was wasted; I've reached the autumn time, and
the gloom which wrapped me then in its black folds lies
around me still, and will you refuse to throw over my
pathway a single ray of sunlight? No, no, Edith, you
won't, you can't. I've loved you too much. I've lost too
much. I'm growing old — and — oh, Birdie, Birdie, I'm
blind! I'm blind!”

She did not rightly interpret his suffering for her sake.
She thought he meant his present pain, and she sought to
soothe him as best she could without raising hopes which
never could be realized. He understood her at last; knew
the heart he offered her was cast back upon him, and
rising from his kneeling posture, he felt his way back to
his chair, and burying his head upon a table standing near,
sobbed as Edith had never heard man sob before, not even
Arthur St. Claire, when in the Deering Woods he had
rocked to and fro in his great agony. Sobs they were
which seemed to rend his broad chest asunder, and Edith
stopped her ears to shut out the dreadful sound.

But hark, what is it he is saying? Edith fain would
know, and listening intently, she hears him unconsciously
whispering to himself, “Oh, Edith, was it for this that
I saved you from the Rhine, periling my life and losing
my eyesight? Better that you had died in the deep waters
than that I should meet this hour of anguish.”

“Richard, Richard!” and Edith fairly screamed as she
flew across the floor. Lifting up his head she pillowed it
upon her bosom, and showering kisses upon his quivering
lips, said to him, “Tell me — tell me, am I that Swedish
baby, I that Eloise Temple?”

He nodded in reply, and Edith continued: “I the child
for whose sake you were made blind! Why have you
not told me before? I could not then have wounded you

so cruelly. How can I show my gratitude? I am not
worthy of you, Richard; not worthy to bear your name,
much less to be your bride, but such as I am take me. I
cannot longer refuse. Will you, Richard? May I be
your wife?”

She knelt before him now; hers was the supplicating
posture, and when he shook his head, she continued,

“You think it a sudden change, and so it is, but I
mean it. I'm in earnest. I do love you, dearly, oh, so
dearly, and by and by I shall love you a great deal more.
Answer me — may I be your wife?”

It was a terrible temptation, and Richard Harrington
reeled from side to side like a broken reed, while his lips
vainly essayed to speak the words his generous nature
bade them speak. He could not see the eagerness of the
fair young face upturned to his — the clear, truthful light
shining in Edith's beautiful dark eyes, telling better than
words could tell that she was sincere in her desire to join
her sweet spring life with his autumn days. He could
not see this, else human flesh had proved too weak to say
what he did say at last.

“No, my darling, I cannot accept a love born of gratitude
and nothing more. You remember a former conversation
concerning this Eloise when you told me you were
glad you were not she, as in case you were you should
feel compelled to be grateful, or something like that, where
as you would rather render your services to me from love.
Edith, that remark prevented me from telling you then
that you were Eloise, the Swedish mother's baby.”

Never before had the words “that Swedish mother”
touched so tender a chord in Edith's heart as now, and
forgetting every thing in her intense desire to know something
of her own early history, she exclaimed, “You
knew my mother, Richard. You have heard her voice,
seen her face; now tell me of her, please. Where is she?
And Marie, too, for there was a Marie. Let's forget all

that's been said within the last half hour. Let's begin
anew, making believe it's yesterday instead of now, and,
when the story is ended, ask me again if the singing bird
can mate with the eagle. The grand, royal eagle, Richard,
is the just similitude for you,” and forcing herself to sit
upon his knee, she put her arms around his neck bidding
him again tell her of her mother.

With the elastic buoyancy of youth Edith could easily
shake off the gloom which for a few brief moments had
shrouded her like a pall, but not so with Richard. “The
singing-bird must not mate with the owl,” rang continually
in his ears. It was her real sentiment he knew,
and his heart ached so hard as he thought how he had
staked his all on her and lost it.

“Begin,” she said, “Tell me where you first met my
mother.”

Richard heaved a sigh which smote heavily on Edith's
ear, for she guessed of what he was thinking, and she
longed to reassure him of her intention to be his sight hereafter,
but he was about to speak and she remained silent.

“Your mother,” he said, “was a Swede by birth, and
her marvellous beauty first attracted your father, whose
years were double her own.”

“I'm so glad,” interrupted Edith, “As much as twenty-one
years older, wasn't he?”

“More than that,” answered Richard, a half pleased,
half bitter smile playing over his dark face. “Forgive
me, darling, but I'm afraid he was not as good a man as
he should have been, or as kind to his young wife.
When I first saw her she lived in a cottage alone, and he
was gone. She missed him sadly, and her sweet voice
seemed full of tears as she sang her girl baby to sleep.
You have her voice, Edith, and its tones came back to
me the first time I ever heard you speak. But I was telling
of your father. He was dissipated, selfish and unprincipled,
— affectionate and kind to Petrea one day, cold,

hard and brutal the next. Still she loved him and clung
to him, for he was the father of her child. You were a
beautiful little creature, Edith, and I loved you so much
that when I knew you had fallen from a bluff into the
river, I unhesitatingly plunged after you.”

“I remember it,” cried Edith, “I certainly do, or else
it was afterwards told to me so often that it seems a
reality.”

“The latter is probably the fact,” returned Richard.
“You were too young to retain any vivid recollections
of that fall.”

Still Edith persisted that she did remember the face of
a little girl in the water as she looked over the rock, and
of bending to touch the arm extended toward her. She
remembered Bingen, too, with its purple grapes; else why
had she been haunted all her life with vine-clad hills and
plaintive airs.

“Your mother sang to you the airs, while your nurse,
whose name I think was Marie, told you of the grapes
growing on the hills,” said Richard. “She was a faithful
creature, greatly attached to your mother, but a bitter
foe of your father. I was too much absorbed in the shadow
stealing over me to pay much heed to my friends, and
after they left Germany I lost sight of them entirely, nor
dreamed that the little girl who came to me that October
morning was my baby Eloise. Your voice always puzzled
me, and something I overheard you saying to Grace
one day about your mysterious hauntings of the past, together
with an old song of Petrea's which you sang, gave
me my first suspicion as to who you were, and decided
me upon that trip to New York. Going first to the
Asylum of which you were once an inmate, I managed
after much diligent inquiry to procure the address of the
woman who brought you there when you were about
three years old. I had but little hope of finding her, but
determining to persevere I sought out the humble cottage

in the suburbs of the city. It was inhabited by an elderly
woman, who denied all knowledge of Edith Hastings
until told that I was Richard Harrington. Then her
manner changed at once, and to my delight I heard that
she was Marie's sister. She owned the cottage, had
lived there more than twenty years, and saw your mother
die. Petrea, it seems, had left her husband, intending
to return to Sweden, but sickness overtook her, and she
died in New York, committing you to the faithful Marie's
care in preference to your father's. Such was her dread
of him that she made Marie swear to keep your existence
a secret from him, lest he should take you back to a place
where she had been so wretched, and where all the influences,
she thought, were bad. She would rather you
should be poor, she said, than to be brought up by him,
and as a means of eluding discovery, she said you should
not bear his name, and with her dying tears she baptised
you Edith Hastings. After her decease Marie wrote to
him, that both of you were dead, and he came on at once,
seemed very penitent and sorry when it was too late.”

“Where was his home?” Edith asked eagerly; and
Richard replied,

“That is one thing I neglected to enquire, but when I
met him in Europe I had the impression that it was in
one of the Western or South-western states.”

“Is he still alive?” Edith asked again, a daughter's
love slowly gathering in her heart in spite of the father's
cruelty to the mother.

“No,” returned Richard. “Marie, who kept sight of
his movements, wrote to her sister some years since that
he was dead, though when he died, or how, Mrs. Jamieson
did not know. She, too, was ill when he came to her
house, and consequently never saw him herself.”

“And the Asylum — how came I there?” said Edith;
and Richard replied,

“It seems your mother was an orphan, and had no near

relatives to whom you could be sent, and as Marie was
then too poor and dependent to support you she placed
you in the Asylum as Edith Hastings, visiting you occasionally
until she went back to France, her native country.
Her intention was to return in a few months, but a
violent attack of inflammatory rheumatism came upon
her, depriving her of the use of her limbs, and confining
her to her bed for years, and so prevented her from coming
back. Mrs. Jamieson, however, kept her informed
with regard to you, and told me that Marie was greatly
pleased when she heard you were with me, whom she
supposed to be the same Richard Harrington who had
saved your life, and of whom her mistress had often
talked. Marie is better now, and when I saw her sister
more than a year ago, she was hoping she might soon revisit
America. I left directions for her to visit Collingwood,
and for several months I looked for her a little, resolving
if she came, to question her minutely concerning
your father. He must have left a fortune, Edith, which by
right is yours, if we can prove that you are his child, and
with Marie's aid I hope to do this sometime. I have,
however, almost given her up; but now that you know
all I will go again to New York, and seek another interview
with Mrs. Jamieson. Would it please you to have
the little orphan, Edith Hastings, turn out to be an heiress?”

“Not for my own sake,” returned Edith; “but if it
would make you love me more, I should like it;” and she
clung closer to him as he replied,

“Darling, that could not be. I loved you with all the
powers I had, even before I knew you were Petrea's
child. Beautiful Petrea! I think you must be like her,
Edith, except that you are taller. She was your father's
second wife. This I knew in Germany, and also that
there was a child of Mr. Temple's first marriage, a little
girl, he said.”

“A child — a little girl,” and Edith started quickly,
but the lightning flash which had once gleamed across her
bewildered mind, when in the Den she stood gazing at
the picture of Miggie Bernard, did not come back to her
now, neither did she remember Arthur's story, so much
like Richard's. She only thought that possibly there was
somewhere in the world a dear, half-sister, whom she
should love so much, could she only find her. Edith was
a famous castle-builder, and forgetting that this half-sister,
were she living, would be much older than herself, she
thought of her only as a school-girl, whose home should
be at Collingwood, and on whom Mrs. Richard Harrington
would lavish so much affection, wasting on her the
surplus love which, perhaps, could not be given to the
father — husband. How then was her castle destroyed,
when Richard said,

“She, too, is dead, so Mrs. Jamieson told me, and there
is none of the family left save you.”

“I wish I knew where mother was buried,” Edith sighed,
her tears falling to the memory of her girl mother,
whose features it seemed to her she could recall, as well
as a death-bed scene, when somebody with white lips and
mournful black eyes clasped her in her arms and prayed
that God would bless her, and enable her always to do
right.

It might have been a mere fancy, but to Edith it was a
reality, and she said within herself,

“Yes, darling mother, I will do right, and as I am sure
you would approve my giving myself to Richard, so I
will be his wife.”

One wild, longing, painful throb her heart gave to the
past when she had hoped for other bridegroom than the
middle-aged man on whose knee she sat, and then laying
her hot face against his bearded cheek, she whispered,

“You've told the story, Richard. It does not need
Marie to confirm it, though she, too, will come sometime

to tell me who I am, but when she comes, I shan't be
Edith Hastings, shall I. The initials won't be changed,
though. They will be `E. H.' still — Edith Harrington
It has not a bad sound, has it?”

“Don't, darling, please don't,” and Richard's voice had
in it a tone much like that which first rang through the
room, when Edith said,

“It cannot be.”

“Richard,” and Edith took his cold face between her
soft, warm hands, “Richard, won't you let the singing
bird call you husband? If you don't, she will fly away
and sing to some one else, who will prize her songs. I
thought you loved me, Richard.”

“Oh, Edith, my precious Edith! If I knew I could
make the love grow where it is not growing — the right
kind of love, I mean — I would not hesitate; but, darling,
Richard Harrington would die a thousand deaths rather
than take you to his bosom an unloving wife. Remember
that, and do not mock me; do not deceive me. You
think now in the first flush of your gratitude to me for
having saved your life and in your pity for my blindness
that you can do anything; but wait awhile — consider
well — think how I shall be old while you still are young,
— a tottering, gray-haired man, while your blood still
retains the heat of youth. The Harringtons live long.
I may see a hundred.”

“And I shall then be seventy-nine; not so vast a difference,”
interrupted Edith.

“No, not a vast difference then,” Richard rejoined,
“but 'tis not then I dread. 'Tis now, the next twenty-five
years, during which I shall be slowly decaying, while you
will be ripening into a matured, motherly beauty, dearer
to your husband than all your girlish loveliness. 'Tis then
that I dread the contrast in you; not when both are old;
and, Edith, remember this, you can never be old to me,
inasmuch as I can never see you. I may feel that your

smooth, velvety flesh is wrinkled, that your shining hair
is thin, your soft round arms more sinewy and hard, but I
cannot see it, and in my heart I shall cherish ever the
image I first loved as Edith Hastings. You, on the contrary,
will watch the work of death go on in me, will see
my hair turn gray, my form begin to stoop, my hand to
tremble, my eyes grow blear and watery, and when all
this has come to pass, won't you sicken of the shaky old
man and sigh for a younger, more vigorous companion?”

“Not unless you show me such horrid pictures,” Edith
sobbed, impetuously, for in her heart of hearts she felt the
truth of every word he uttered, and her whole soul revolted
against the view presented to her of the coming time.

But she would conquer such feelings — she would be
his wife, and drying her eyes she said, “I can give you
my decision now as well as at any other time, but if you
prefer it, I will wait four weeks and then bring you the
same answer I make you now — I will be your wife.”

“I dare not hope it,” returned Richard, “You will
change your mind, I fear, but, Edith, if you do not, —
if you promise to be mine, don't forsake me afterwards,
for I should surely die,” and as if he already felt the agony
it would cost him to give his darling up after he had
once possessed her, he clasped his hands upon his heart,
which throbbed so rapidly that Edith heard its muffled
beat and saw its rise and fall. “I could not lose you and
still live on without you, Edith,” and he spoke impetuously,
“You won't desert me, if you promise once.”

“Never, never,” she answered, and with a good night
kiss upon his lips she went out from the presence of the
man she already looked upon as her future husband,
breathing freer when she stood within the hall where he
was not, and freer still when in her own chamber there
was a greater distance between them.

Alas, for Edith, and a thousand times alas, for poor,
poor Richard!