University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.
DESTINY.

Not for one moment did Edith waver in her purpose,
and lest Richard should suspect what he could not see,
she affected a gayety in his presence sadly at variance
with her real feelings. Never had her merry laugh rang
out so frequently before him — never had her wit been
one half so sparkling, and when he passed his hands over
her flushed cheek, feeling how hot it was, he said to himself,
“The roses are coming back, she cannot be unhappy,”
and every line and lineament of the blind man's face
glowed with the new-born joy springing up within his
heart, and making the world around him one grand jubilee.

Victor was quick to note the change in his master, and
without the least suspicion of the truth, he once asked
Edith, “What made Mr. Harrington so young and almost
boyish, acting as men were supposed to act when they
were just engaged?”

“Victor,” said Edith, after a moment's reflection, “can
you keep a secret?”

“Certainly,” he replied. “What is it, pray? Is Mr.
Harrington matrimonially inclined?”

Edith's heart yearned for sympathy — for some one to
sustain her — to keep her from fainting by the wayside,
and as she could not confide in Grace, Victor was her
only remaining refuge. He had been the repositary of all
her childish secrets, entering into her feelings as readily
and even more demonstratively than any female friend
could have done. Richard would tell him, of course, as
soon as it was settled, and as she knew now that it was

settled, why not speak first and so save him the trouble.
Thus deciding, she replied to his question,

“Yes, Richard is going to be married; but you must
not let him know I told you, till the engagement is made
public.”

Victor started, but had no shadow of suspicion that
the young girl before him was the bride elect. His master
had once been foolish enough to think of her as such
he believed, but that time was passed. Richard had grown
more sensible, and Edith was the future wife of Arthur
St. Claire. Nina would not live long, and after she was
dead there would be no further hindrance to a match
every way so suitable. This was Victor's theory, and
never doubting that the same idea had a lodgment in
the minds of both Arthur and Edith, he could not conceive
it possible that the latter would deliberately give
herself to Richard. Grace Atherton, on the contrary,
would be glad to do it; she had been coaxing his master
these forty years, and had succeeded in winning him at
last. Victor did not fancy Grace; and when at last he
spoke, it was to call both his master and Mrs. Atherton a
pair of precious fools. Edith looked wonderingly at him
as he raved on.

“I can't bear her, I never could, since I heard how she
abused you. Why, I'd almost rather you'd be his wife
than that gay widow.”

“Suppose I marry him then in her stead,” Edith said,
laughingly. “I verily believe he'd exchange.”

“Of course he would,” Victor answered, bitterly.
“The older a man grows, the younger the girl he selects,
and it's a wonder he didn't ask you first.”

“Supposing he had?” returned Edith, bending over a
geranium to hide her agitation. “Supposing he had, and
it was I instead of Grace to whom he is engaged.”

“Preposterous!” Victor exclaimed. “You could not
do such a thing in your right senses. Why, I'd rather see

you dead than married to your father. I believe I'd forbid
the banns myself,” and Victor strode from the room,
banging the door behind him, by way of impressing
Edith still more forcibly with the nature of his opinion.

Edith was disappointed. She had expected sympathy
at least from Victor, had surely thought he would be
pleased to have her for his mistress, and his words, “I
would rather see you dead,” hurt her cruelly. Perhaps
every body would say so. It was an unnatural match,
this union of autumn and spring, but she must do something.
Any thing was preferable to the aimless, listless
life she was leading now. She could not be any more
wretched than she was, and she might perhaps be happier
when the worst was over and she knew for certain that
she was Richard's wife. His wife! It made her faint
and sick just to say those two words. What then would
the reality be? She loved him dearly as a guardian, a
brother, and she might in time love him as her husband.
Such things had been. They could be again. Aye, more,
they should be, and determining henceforth to keep her
own counsel, and suffer Victor to believe it was Grace instead
of herself, she ran into the garden, where she knew
Richard was walking, and stealing to his side, caught his
arm ere he was aware of her presence.

“Darling, is it you?” he asked, and his dark face became
positively beautiful with the radiant love-light
shining out all over it.

Every day the hope grew stronger that the cherished
object of his life might be realized. Edith did not avoid
him as he feared she would. On the contrary she rather
sought his society than otherwise, never, however, speaking
of the decision. It was a part of the agreement that
they should not talk of it until the four weeks were
gone, the weeks which to Richard dragged so slowly,
while to Edith they flew on rapid wing; and with every
rising sun, she felt an added pang as she thought how

soon the twelfth of May would be there. It wanted but
four days of it when she joined him in the garden, and
for the first time since their conversation Richard alluded
to it by asking playfully, “what day of the month it
was?”

“The eighth;” and Edith's eyes closed tightly over
the tears struggling to gain egress, then with a mighty
effort she added, laughingly,

“When the day after to-morrow comes, it will be the
tenth, then the eleventh, then the twelfth, and then, you
know, I'm coming to you in the library. Send Victor
off for that evening, can't you? He's sure to come in
when I don't want him, if he's here,” and this she said
because she feared it would be harder to say yes if Victor's
reproachful eyes should once look upon her, as they
were sure to do, if he suspected her designs.

Richard could not understand why Victor must be sent
away, but anything Edith asked was right, and he replied
that Victor should not trouble them.

“There, he's coming now!” and Edith dropped the
hand she held, as if fearful lest the Frenchman should
suspect.

This was not the proper feeling, she knew, and returning
to the house, she shut herself up in her room, crying
bitterly because she could not make herself feel differently!

The twelfth came at last, not a balmy, pleasant day as
May is wont to bring, but a rainy, dreary April day, when
the gray clouds chased each other across the leaden sky,
now showing a disposition to hang out patches of blue,
and again growing black and heavy as the fitful showers
came pattering down. Edith was sick. The strong tension
of nerves she had endured for four long weeks was
giving way. She could not keep up longer; and Richard
breakfasted and dined without her, while with an aching
head she listened to the rain beating against her windows,

and watched the capricious clouds as they floated
by. Many times she wished it all a dream from which
she should awaken; and then, when she reflected that
'twas a fearful reality, she covered her head with the bed-clothes
and prayed that she might die. But why pray
for this? She need not be Richard's wife unless she
chose — he had told her so repeatedly, and now she too
said “I will not!” Strange she had not thus decided before,
and stranger still that she should be so happy now
she had decided!

There was a knock at the door, and Grace Atherton
asked to be admitted.

“Richard told me you were sick,” she said, as she sat
down by Edith's side; “and you do look ghostly white.
What is the matter, pray?”

“One of my nervous headaches;” and Edith turned
from the light so that her face should tell no tales of the
conflict within.

“I received a letter from Arthur last night,” Grace continued,
“and thinking you might like to hear from Nina,
I came round in the rain to tell you of her. Her health
is somewhat improved, and she is now under the care of
a West India physician, who holds out strong hopes that
her mental derangement may in time be cured.

Edith was doubly glad now that she had turned her
face away, for by so doing she hid the tears which dropped
so fast upon her pillow.

“Did Arthur mention me?” she asked, and Grace
knew then that she was crying.

Still it was better not to withhold the truth, and bending
over her she answered,

“No, Edith, he did not. I believe he is really striving
to do right.”

“And he will live with Nina if she gets well?” came
next from the depths of the pillows where Edith lay half
smothered.

“Perhaps so. Would you not like to have him?”
Grace asked.

“Ye-e-e-s. I sup-pose so. Oh, I don't know what I
like. I don't know anything except that I wish I was
dead,” and the silent weeping became a passionate sobbing
as Edith shrank further from Grace, plunging deeper
and deeper among her pillows until she was nearly hidden
from view.

Grace could not comfort her; there was no comfort as
she saw, and as Edith refused to answer any of her questions
upon indifferent topics, she ere long took her leave,
and Edith was left alone. She had reversed her decision
while Grace was sitting there, and the news from Florida
was the immediate cause. She should marry Richard
now, and her whole body shook with the violence of her
emotions; but as the fiercest storm will in time expend its
fury, so she grew still at last, though it was rather the
stillness of despair than any healthful, quieting influence
stealing over her. She hated herself because she could
not feel an overwhelming joy at the prospect of Nina's
recovery; hated Arthur because he had forgotten her;
hated Grace for telling her so; hated Victor for saying he
would rather see her dead than Richard's wife; hated
Mrs. Matson for coming in to ask her how she was;
hated her for staying there when she would rather be
alone, and made faces at her from beneath the sheet;
hated everybody but Richard, and in time she should
hate him — at least, she hoped she should, for on the whole
she was more comfortable when hating people than she
had ever been when loving them. It had such a hardened
effect upon her, this hatred of all mankind, such a
don't care influence, that she rather enjoyed it than otherwise.

And this was the girl who, as that rainy, dismal day
drew to its close and the sun went down in tears, dressed
herself with a firm, unflinching hand, arranging her hair

with more than usual care, giving it occasionally a sharp
pull, as a kind of escape valve to her feelings, and uttering
an impatient exclamation whenever a pin proved
obstinate and did not at once slip into its place. She was
glad Richard was blind and could not see her swollen
eyes, which, in spite of repeated bathings in ice-water and
cologne would look red and heavy. Her voice, however,
would betray her, and so she toned it down by warbling
snatches of a love song learned ere she knew the meaning
of love, save as it was connected with Richard. It was not
Edith Hastings who left that pleasant chamber, moving
with an unfaltering step down the winding stairs and
across the marble hall, but a half-crazed, defiant woman
going on to meet her destiny, and biting her lip with
vexation when she heard that Richard had company —
college friends, who being in Shannondale on business had
come up to see him.

This she learned from Victor, whom she met in the
hall, and who added, that he never saw his master appear
quite so dissatisfied as when told they were in the library,
and would probably pass the night. Edith readily guessed
the cause of his disquiet, and impatiently stamped her
little foot upon the marble floor, for she knew their presence
would necessarily defer the evil hour, and she could
not live much longer in her present state of excitement.

“I was just coming to your room,” said Victor, “to
see if you were able to appear in the parlor. Three men
who have not met in years are stupid company for each
other; and then Mr. Harrington wants to show you off,
I dare say. Pity the widow wasn't here.”

Victor spoke sareastically, but Edith merely replied,

“Tell your master I will come in a few minutes.”

Then, with a half feeling of relief, she ran back to her
room, bathing her eyes afresh, and succeeding in removing
the redness to such an extent, that by lamplight no
one would suspect she had been crying. Her headache

was gone, and with spirits somewhat elated, she started
again for the parlor where she succeeded in entertaining
Richard's guests entirely to his satisfaction.

It was growing late, and the clock was striking eleven
when at last Richard summoned Victor, bidding him show
the gentlemen to their rooms. As they were leaving the
parlor Edith came to Richard's side, and in a whisper so
low that no one heard her, save himself, said to him,

“Tell Victor he needn't come back.”

He understood her meaning, and said to his valet,

“I shall not need your services to-night. You may retire
as soon as you choose.”

Something in his manner awakened Victor's suspicions,
and his keen eyes flashed upon Edith, who, with a haughty
toss of the head, turned away to avoid meeting it again.

The door was closed at last; Victor was gone; their
guests were gone, and she was alone with Richard, who
seemed waiting for her to speak; but Edith could not.
The breath she fancied would come so freely with Victor's
presence removed, would scarcely come at all, and she
felt the tears gathering like a flood every time she looked
at the sightless man before her, and thought of what was
to come. By a thousand little devices she strove to put
it off, and remembering that the piano was open, she
walked with a faltering step across the parlor, closed the
instrument, smoothed the heavy cover, arranged the sheets
of music, whirled the music stool as high as she could
turned it back as low as she could, sat down upon it,
crushed with her fingers two great tears, which, with all
her winking she could not keep in subjection, counted the
flowers on the paper border and wondered how long she
should probably live. Then, with a mighty effort she
arose, and with a step which this time did not falter, went
and stood before Richard, who was beginning to look
troubled at her protracted silence. He knew she was near
him now, he could hear her low breathing, and he waited
anxiously for her to speak.

Edith's face was a study then. Almost every possible
emotion was written upon it. Fear, anguish, disappointed
hopes, cruel longings for the past, terrible shrinkings
from the present, and still more terrible dread of the future.
Then these passed away, and were succeeded by
pity, sympathy, gratitude, and a strong desire to do right.
The latter feelings conquered, and sitting down by Richard,
she took his warm hand between her two cold ones,
and said to him,

“'Tis the twelfth of May to-night, did you know it?”

Did he know it? He had thought of nothing else the
livelong day, and when, early in the morning, he heard
that she was sick, a sad foreboding had swept over him,
lest what he coveted so much should yet be withheld.
But she was there beside him. She had sought the opportunity
and asked if he knew it was the twelfth, and,
drawing her closer to him, he answered back: “Yes, darling;
'tis the day on which you were to bring me your decision.
You have kept your word, birdie. You have
brought it to me whether good or bad. Now tell me, is
it the old blind man's wife, the future mistress of Collingwood,
that I encircle with my arm?”

He bent down to listen for the reply, feeling her breath
stir his hair, and hearing each heart-beat as it counted off
the seconds. Then like a strain of music, sweet and rich,
but oh, so touchingly sad, the words came floating in a
whisper to his ear, “Yes, Richard, your future wife; but
please, don't call yourself the old blind man. It makes
you seem a hundred times my father. You are not old,
Richard — no older than I feel!” and the newly betrothed
laid her head on Richard's shoulder, sobbing passionately.

Did all girls behave like this? Richard wished he
knew. Did sweet Lucy Collingwood, when she gave her
young spring life to his father's brown October? Lucy
had loved her husband, he knew, and there was quite as
much difference between them as between himself and

Edith. Possibly 'twas a maidenly weakness to cry, as
Edith was doing. He would think so at all events. It
were death to think otherwise, and caressing her with unwonted
tenderness, he kissed her tears away, telling her
how happy she had made him by promising to be his —
how the darkness, the dreariness all was gone, and the
world was so bright and fair. Then, as she continued
weeping and he remembered what had heretofore passed
between them, he said to her earnestly: “Edith, there is
one thing I would know. Is it a divided love you bring
me, or is it no love at all. I have a right to ask you this,
my darling. Is it gratitude alone which prompted your
decision? If it is, Edith, I would die rather than accept
it. Don't deceive me, darling, I cannot see your face —
cannot read what's written there. Alas! alas! that I am
blind to-night; but I'll trust you, birdie; I'll believe
what you may tell me. Has an affection, different from
a sister's, been born within the last four weeks? Speak!
do you love me more than you did? Look into my eyes,
dearest; you will not deal falsely with me then.”

Like an erring, but penitent child, Edith crept into his
lap, but did not look into the sightless eyes. She dared
not, lest the gaze should wring from her quivering lips the
wild words trembling there, “Forgive me, Richard, but I
loved Arthur first.” So she hid her face in his bosom,
and said to him,

“I do not love you, Richard, as you do me. It came
too sudden, and I had not thought about it. But I love
you dearly, very dearly, and I want so much to be your
wife. I shall rest so quietly when I have you to lean
upon, you to care for. I am young for you, I know, but
many such matches have proved happy, and ours assuredly
will. You are so good, so noble, so unselfish, that I
shall be happy with you. I shall be a naughty, wayward
wife, I fear, but you can control me, and you must. We'll
go to Europe sometime, Richard, and visit Bingen on the

Rhine, where the little baby girl fell in the river, and the
brave boy Richard jumped after her. Don't you wish
you'd let me die? There would then have been no bad
black-haired Edith lying in your lap, and torturing you
with fears that she does not love you as she ought.”

Edith's was an April temperament, and already the sun
was shining through the cloud; the load at her heart was
not so heavy, nor the future half so dark. Her decision
was made, her destiny accepted, and henceforth she
would abide by it nor venture to look back.

“Are you satisfied to take me on my terms?” she
asked, as Richard did not immediately answer.

He would rather she had loved him more, but it was
sudden, he knew, and she was young. He was terribly
afraid, it is true, that gratitude alone had influenced her
actions, but the germ of love was there, he believed; and
by and by it would bear the rich, ripe fruit. He could
wait for that; and he loved her so much, wanted her so
much, needed her so much, that he would take her on
any terms.

“Yes,” he said at last, resting his chin upon her bowed
head, “I am satisfied, and never since my remembrance,
has there come to Richard Harrington a moment so
fraught with bliss as this in which I hold you in my arms
and know I hold my wife, my darling wife, sweetest name
ever breathed by human tongue — and Edith, if you
must sicken of me, do it now — to-night. Don't put it
off, for every fleeting moment binds me to you with an
added tie, which makes it harder to lose you.”

“Richard,” and, lifting up her head, Edith looked into
the eyes she could not meet before, “I swear to you, solemnly,
that never, by word or deed, will I seek to be released
from our engagement, and if I am released, it will
be because you give me up of your own free will. You
will be the one to break it, not I.”

“Then it will not be broken,” came in a quick response

from Richard, as he held closer to him one whom he now
felt to be his forever.

The lamps upon the table, and the candles on the mantel
flashed and smoked, and almost died away — the fire
on the marble hearth gave one or two expiring gasps and
then went out — the hands of the clock moved onward,
pointing to long after midnight, and still Richard, loth to
let his treasure go, kept her with him, talking to her of
his great happiness, and asking if early June would be
too soon for her to be his bride.

“Yes, yes, much too soon,” cried Edith. “Give me the
whole summer in which to be free. I've never been any
where you know. I want to see the world. Let's go to
Saratoga, and to all those places I've heard so much about.
Then, in the autumn, we'll have a famous wedding at Collingwood,
and I will settle down into the most demure,
obedient of wives.”

Were it not that the same roof sheltered them both,
Richard would have acceded to this delay, but when he
reflected that he should not be parted from Edith any
more than if they were really married, he consented, stipulating
that the wedding should take place on the anniversary
of the day when she first came to him with flowers,
and called him “poor blind man.”

“You did not think you'd ever be the poor blind man's
wife,” he said, asking her, playfully, if she were not sorry
even now.

“No,” she answered. Nor was she. In fact, she scarcely
felt at all. Her heart was palsied, and lay in her bosom
like a block of stone — heavy, numb, and sluggish in its
beat.

Of one thing, only, was she conscious, and that a sense
of weariness — a strong desire to be alone, up stairs,
where she was not obliged to answer questions, or listen
to loving words, of which she was so unworthy. She was
deceiving Richard, who, when his quick ear caught her

smothered yawn, as the little clock struck one, bade her
leave him, chiding himself for keeping her so long from
the rest he knew she needed.

“For me, I shall never know fatigue or pain again,” he
said, as he led her to the door, “but my singing-bird is
different — she must sleep. God bless you, darling. You
have made the blind man very happy.”

He kissed her forehead, her lips, her hands, and then
released her, standing in the door and listening to her
footsteps as they went up the winding stairs and out into
the hall beyond — the dark, gloomy hall, where no light
was, save a single ray, shining through the keyhole of
Victor's door.