University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.
EDITH AND THE WORLD.

“Victor is faithful,” Edith said, as she saw the light,
and fancied that the Frenchman was still up, waiting to
assist his master.

But not for Richard did Victor keep the watch that
night. He would know how long that interview lasted
below, and when it was ended he would know its result.
What Victor designed he was pretty sure to accomplish,
and when, by the voices in the lower hall, he knew that
Edith was coming, he stole on tip-toe to the balustrade,
and, leaning over, saw the parting at the parlor door, feeling
intuitively that Edith's relations to Richard had
changed since he last looked upon her. Never was servant
more attached to his master than was Victor Dupres
to his, and yet he was strongly unwilling that Edith's
glorious beauty should be wasted thus.

“If she loved him,” he said to himself, as, gliding back

to his room, he cautiously shut the door, ere Edith reached
the first landing. “If she loved him, I would not care.
More unsuitable matches than this have ended happily
— but she don't. Her whole life is bound with that of
another, and she shrinks from Mr. Harrington as she was
not wont to do. I saw it in her face, as she turned away
from him. There'll be another grave in the Collingwood
grounds — another name on the tall monument, `Edith,
wife of Richard Harrington, aged 20.' ”

Victor wrote the words upon a slip of paper, reading
them over until tears dimmed his vision, for, in fancy, the
imaginative Frenchman assisted at Edith's obsequies, and
even heard the grinding of the hearse wheels, once foretold
by Nina. Several times he peered out into the silent
hall, seeing the lamplight shining from the ventilator over
Edith's door, and knowing by that token that she had not
retired. What was she doing there so long? Victor fain
would know, and as half-hour after half-hour went by,
until it was almost four, he stepped boldly to the door and
knocked. Long association with Victor had led Edith to
treat him more as an equal than a servant; consequently
he took liberties both with her and Richard, which no
other of the household would dare to do, and now, as
there came no response, he cautiously turned the knob
and walked into the room where, in her crimson dressing-gown,
her hair unbound and falling over her shoulders,
Edith sat, her arms crossed upon the table, and her face
upon her arms. She was not sleeping, for as the door
creaked on its hinges, she looked up, half-pleased to meet
only the good-humored face of Victor where she had
feared to see that of Richard.

“Miss Edith, this is madness — this is folly,” and Victor
sat down before her. “I was a fool to think it was
Mrs. Atherton.”

“Victor Dupres, what do you mean? What do you
know? Why are you here?” and Edith's eyes flashed

with insulted pride; but Victor did not quail before them.
Gazing steadily at her, he replied, “You are engaged
to your guardian, and you do not love him.”

“Victor Dupres, I do!” and Edith struck her hand upon
the table with a force which made the glass lamp rattle.

“Granted you do,” returned Victor, “but how do you
love him? As a brother, as a friend, as a father, if you
will, but not as you should love your husband; not as
you could love Arthur St. Claire, were he not bound by
other ties.”

Across the table the blanched, frightened face of Edith
looked, and the eyes which never before had been so black,
scanned Victor keenly.

“What do you know of Arthur St. Claire's ties?” she
asked at last, every word a labored breath.

Victor made no answer, but hurrying from the room,
soon returned with the crumpled, soiled sheet of foolscap,
which he placed before her, asking if she ever saw it
before.

Edith's mind had been sadly confused when Nina read
to her the scratching out, and she had forgotten it entirely,
but it came back to her now, and catching up the papers,
she recognized Richard's unmistakable hand-writing.
He knew, then, of her love for Arthur — of the obstacle
to that love — of the agony it cost her to give him up.
He had deceived her — had won her under false pretenses,
assuming that she loved no one. She did not think this of
Richard, and in her eyes, usually so soft and mild, there
was a black, hard, terrible expression, as she whispered
hoarsely, “How came this in your possession?”

He told her how — thus exonerating Richard from
blame, and the hard, angry look was drowned in tears as
Edith wept aloud.

“Then he don't know it,” she said at length, “Richard
don't. I should hate him if he did and still wished me
to be his wife.”

“I can tell him,” was Victor's dry response, and in an
instant Edith was over where he sat.

“You cannot, you must not, you shall not. It will kill
him if I desert him. He told me so, and I promised that
I wouldn't — promised solemnly. I would not harm a
hair of Richard's head, and he so noble, so good, so helpless,
with so few sources of enjoyment; but oh, Victor, I
did love Arthur best — did love him so much,” and in that
wailing cry Edith's true sentiments spoke out. “I did love
him so much — I love him so much now,” and she kept
whispering it to herself, while Victor sought in vain for
some word of comfort, but could find none. Once he said
to her, “Wait, and Nina may die,” but Edith recoiled from
him in horror.

“Never hint that again,” she almost screamed. “It's
murder, foul murder. I would not have Nina die for the
whole world — beautiful, loving Nina. I wouldn't have
Arthur, if she did. I couldn't, for I am Richard's wife.
I wish I'd told him early June instead of October. I'll tell
him to-morrow, and in four weeks more all the dreadful
uncertainty will be ended. I ought to love him, Victor,
he's done so much for me. I am that Swedish child he
saved from the river Rhine, periling life and limb, losing
his sight for me. He found it so that time he went with
you to New York,” and Edith's tears ceased as she repeated
to Victor all she knew of her early history. “Shouldn't I
marry him?” she asked, when the story was ended.
“Ought I not to be his eyes? Help me, Victor. Don't
make it so hard for me; I shall faint by the way if you
do.”

Victor conceded that she owed much to Richard, but
nothing could make him think it right for her to marry
him with her present feelings. It would be a greater
wrong to him than to refuse him, but Edith did not think
so.

“He'll never know what I feel,” she said, and by and by

I shall be better, — shall love him as he deserves. There
are few Richards in the world, Victor.”

“That is true,” he replied, “but 'tis no reason why you
must be sacrificed. Edith, the case is like this: I wish,
and the world at large, if it could speak, would wish for
Richard to marry you, but would not wish you to marry
Richard.”

“But I shall,” interrupted Edith. “There is no possible
chance of my not doing so, and Victor, you will help me. —
You won't tell him of Arthur. You know how his unselfish
heart would give me up if you did, and break while doing
it. Promise, Victor.”

“Tell me first what you meant by early June, and October,”
he said, and after Edith had explained, he continued,
“Let the wedding be still appointed for October, and unless
I see that it is absolutely killing you, I will not enlighten
Mr. Harrington.”

And this was all the promise Edith could extort from
him.

“Unless he saw it was absolutely killing her, he would
not enlighten Richard.”

“He shall see that it will not kill me,” she said to herself.
“I will be gay whether I feel it or not. I will out-do
myself, and if my broken heart should break again, no one
shall be the wiser.”

Thus deciding, she turned toward the window where
the gray dawn was stealing in, and pointing to it, said:

“Look, the day is breaking; the longest night will have
an end, so will this miserable pain at my heart. Daylight
will surely come when I shall be happy with Richard.
Don't tell him, Victor, don't; and now leave me, for my
head is bursting with weariness.”

He knew it was, by the expression of her face, which,
in the dim lamp-light, looked ghastly and worn, and he
was about to leave her, when she called him back, and
asked how long he had lived with Mr. Harrington.

“Thirteen years,” he replied. “He picked me up in
Germany, just before he came home to America. He
was not blind then.”

“Then you never saw my mother?”

“Never.”

“Nor Marie?”

“Never to my knowledge.”

“You were in Geneva with Richard, you say. Where
were you, when — when —”

Edith could not finish, but Victor understood what she
would ask, and answered her,

“I must have been in Paris. I went home for a few
months, ten years ago last fall, and did not return until
just before we came to Collingwood. The housekeeper
told me there had been a wedding at Lake View, our Geneva
home, but I did not ask the particulars. There's a
moral there, Edith; a warning to all foolish college boys,
and girls, who don't half know their minds.

Edith was too intent upon her own matters to care for
morals, and without replying directly, she said,

“Richard will tell you to-morrow, or to-day, rather, of
the engagement, and you'll be guarded, won't you?”

“I shall let him know I disapprove,” returned Victor,
“but I shan't say anything that sounds like Arthur
St. Claire, not yet, at all events.”

“And, Victor, in the course of the day, you'll make
some errand to Brier Hill, and incidentally mention it to
Mrs. Atherton. Richard won't tell her, I know, and I
can't — I can't. Oh, I wish it were —”

“The widow, instead of you,” interrupted Victor, as he
stood with the door knob in his hand. “That's what
you mean, and I must say it shows a very proper frame
of mind in a bride-elect.”

Edith made a gesture for him to leave her, and with a
low bow he withdrew, while Edith, alternately shivering
with cold and flushed with fever, crept into bed, and fell

away to sleep, forgetting, for the time, that there were in
the world such things as broken hearts, unwilling brides,
and blind husbands old enough to be her father.

The breakfast dishes were cleared away, all but the exquisite
little service brought for Edith's use when she
was sick, and which now stood upon the side-board waiting
until her long morning slumber should end. Once
Mrs. Matson had been to her bedside, hearing from her
that her head was aching badly, and that she would
sleep longer. This message was carried down to Richard,
who entertained his guests as best he could, but did
not urge them to make a longer stay.

They were gone now, and Richard was alone. It was
a favorable opportunity for telling Victor of his engagement,
and summoning the latter to his presence, he bade
him sit down, himself hesitating, stammering, and blushing
like a woman, as he tried to speak of Edith. Victor
might have helped him, but he would not, and he sat,
rather enjoying his master's confusion, until the latter
said, abruptly,

“Victor, how would you like to have a mistress here —
a bona fide one, I mean, such as my wife would be?”

“That depends something upon who it was,” Victor
exclaimed, as if this were the first intimation he had received
of it.

“What would you say to Edith?” Richard continued,
and Victor replied with well-feigned surprise, “Miss Hastings!
You would not ask that little girl to be your wife!
Why you are twenty-five years her senior.”

“No, no, Victor, only twenty-one,” and Richard's voice
trembled, for like Edith, he wished to be reassured and
upheld even by his inferiors.

He knew Victor disapproved, that he considered it a
great sacrifice on Edith's part, but for this he had no intention

of giving her up. On the contrary it made him
a very little vexed that his valet should presume to question
his acts, and he said with more asperity of manner
than was usual for him,

“You think it unsuitable, I perceive, and perhaps it is,
but if we are satisfied, it is no one's else business, I think.”

“Certainly not,” returned Victor, a meaning smile
curling his lip, “if both are satisfied, I ought to be.
When is the wedding?”

He asked this last with an appearance of interest, and
Richard, ever ready to forgive and forget, told him all
about it, who Edith was, and sundry other matters, to
which Victor listened as attentively as if he had not heard
the whole before. Like Edith, Richard was in the habit
of talking to Victor more as if he were an equal than a
servant, and in speaking of his engagement, he said,

“I had many misgivings as to the propriety of asking
Edith to be my wife — she is so young, so different from
me, but my excuse is that I cannot live without her. She
has never loved another, and thus the chance is tenfold
greater that she will yet be to me all that a younger, less
dependent husband could desire.”

Victor bit his lip, half resolved one moment to undeceive
poor Richard, whom he pitied for his blind infatuation,
but remembering his promise, he held his peace, until
his master signified that the conference was ended,
when he hastened to the barn, where he could give vent
to his feelings in French, his adopted language being far
too prosy to suit his excited mood. Suddenly Grace Atherton
came into his mind, and Edith's request that he
should tell her.

“Yes, I'll do it,” he said, starting at once for Brier Hill
'Twill be a relief to let another know it, and then I
want to see her squirm, when she hears all hope for herself
is gone.”

For once, however, Victor was mistaken. Gradually

the hope that she could ever be aught to Richard was dying
out of Grace's heart, and though, for an instant, she
turned very white when, as if by accident, he told the
news, it was more from surprise at Edith's conduct than
from any new feeling that she had lost him. She was in
the garden bending over a bed of daffodils, so he did not
see her face, but he knew from her voice how astonished
she was, and rather wondered that she could question him
so calmly as she did, asking if Edith were very happy,
when the wedding was to be, and even wondering at Richard's
willingness to wait so long.

“Women are queer any way,” was Victor's mental
comment, as, balked of his intention to see Grace Atherton
squirm, he bade her good morning, and bowed himself
from the garden, having first received her message
that she would come up in the course of the day, and
congratulate the newly betrothed.

Once alone, Grace's calmness all gave way; and though
the intelligence did not affect her as it once would have
done, the fibres of her heart quivered with pain, and a
sense of dreariness stole over her, as, sitting down on the
thick, trailing boughs of an evergreen, she covered her
face with her hands, and wept as women always weep
over a blighted hope. It was all in vain that her pet kitten
came gamboling to her feet, rubbing against her dress,
climbing upon her shoulder, and playfully touching, with
her velvet paw, the chestnut curls which fell from beneath
her bonnet. All in vain that the Newfoundland dog came
to her side, licking her hands and gazing upon her with a
wondering, human look of intelligence. Grace had no
thought for Rover or for Kitty, and she wept on, sometimes
for Arthur, sometimes for Edith, but oftener for the
young girl who years ago refused the love offered her by
Richard Harrington; and then she wondered if it were
possible that Edith had so soon ceased to care for Arthur.

“I can tell from her manner,” she thought; and with

her mind thus brought to the call she would make at
Collingwood, she dried her eyes, and speaking playfully
to her dumb pets, returned to the house a sad, subdued
woman, whose part in the drama of Richard Harrington
was effectually played out.

That afternoon, about three o'clock, a carriage bearing
Grace Atherton, wound slowly up the hill to Collingwood,
and when it reached the door a radiant, beautiful woman
stepped out, her face all wreathed in smiles and her voice
full of sweetness as she greeted Richard, who came forth
to meet her.

“A pretty march you've stolen upon me,” she began,
in a light, bantering tone — “you and Edith — never
asked my consent, or said so much as `by your leave,' but
no matter, I congratulate you all the same. I fancied it
would end in this. Where is she — the bride-elect?”

Richard was stunned with such a volley of words from
one whom he supposed ignorant of the matter, and observing
his evident surprise Grace continued, “You wonder
how I know. Victor told me this morning; he
was too much delighted to keep it to himself. But say,
where is Edith?”

“Here I am,” and advancing from the parlor, where she
had overheard the whole, Edith laughed a gay, musical
laugh, as hollow and meaningless as Mrs. Atherton's
forced levity.

Had she followed the bent of her inclinations she would
not have left her pillow that day, but remembering Victor's
words, “Unless I see it's killing you,” she felt the
necessity of exerting herself, of wearing the semblance of
happiness at least, and about noon she had arisen and
dressed herself with the utmost care, twining geranium
leaves in her hair just as she used to do when going to see
Arthur, and letting them droop from among her braids in
the way he had told her was so becoming. Then, with
flushed cheeks and bright, restless eyes, she went down to

Richard, receiving his caresses and partially returning them
when she fancied Victor was where he could see her.

“Women are queer,” he said again to himself, as he saw
Edith on Richard's knee, with her arm around his neck.
“Their love is like a footprint on the seashore; the first
big wave washes it away, and they are ready to make
another. I reckon I shan't bother myself about her any
more. If she loved Arthur as I thought she did, she
couldn't hug another one so soon. It isn't nature — man
nature, any way; but Edith's like a reed that bends.
That character of Cooper's suits her exactly. I'll call her
so to myself hereafter — Reed that bends,” and Victor hurried
off, delighted with his new name.

But if Victor was in a measure deceived by Edith's
demeanor, Grace Atherton was not. Women distrust
women sooner than men; can read each other better, detect
the hidden motive sooner, and ere the two had been
five minutes together, Grace had caught a glimpse of the
troubled, angry current over which the upper waters rippled
so smoothly that none save an acute observer would
have suspected the fierce whirlpool which lay just below
the surface. Because, he thought, they would like it better,
Richard left the two ladies alone at last, and then
turning suddenly upon Edith, Grace said,

“Tell me, Edith, is your heart in this, or have you done
it in a fit of desperation?”

“I have had a long time to think of it,” Edith answered
proudly. “It is no sudden act. Richard is too noble to
accept it if it were. I have always loved him, — not exactly
as I loved Arthur, it is true.”

Here the whirlpool underneath threatened to betray
itself, but with a mighty effort Edith kept it down, and
the current was unruffled as she continued,

“Arthur is nearer my age — nearer my beau ideal, but
I can't have him, and I'm not going to play the part of a
love-lorn damsel for a married man. Tell him so when

you write. Tell him I'm engaged to Richard just as he
said I would be. Tell him I'm happy, too, for I know I'm
doing right. It is not wicked to love Richard and it was
wicked to love him.”

It cost Edith more to say this than she supposed, and when
she finished, the perspiration stood in drops beneath her
hair and about her mouth.

“You are deceiving yourself,” said Grace, who, without
any selfish motive now, really pitied the hard, white-faced
girl, so unlike the Edith of other days. “You are taking
Richard from gratitude, nothing else. Victor told me of
your parentage, but because he saved your life, you need
not render yours as a return. Your heart is not in this
marriage.”

“Yes, it is — all the heart I have,” Edith answered
curtly. Then, as some emotion stronger than the others
swept over her, she laid her head upon the sofa arm and
sobbed, “You are all leagued against me, but I don't
care. I shall do as I like. I have promised to marry
Richard, and Edith Hastings never lied. She will keep
her word,” and in the eyes which she now lifted up, Grace
saw the tears glittering like diamonds.

Then a merry laugh burst from the lips of the wayward
girl as she met Mrs. Atherton's anxious glance, and running
to the piano she dashed off a most inspiriting waltz,
playing so rapidly that the bright bloom came back, settling
in a small round spot upon her cheek, and making
her surpassingly beautiful even to Grace, whose great
weakness was an unwillingness to admit that another's
charms were superior to her own. When the waltz was
ended Edith,s mood had changed, and turning to Grace
she nestled closely to her, and twining one of the silken
curls around her fingers, said coaxingly,

“You think me a naughty child no doubt, but you do
not understand me. I certainly do love Richard more
than you suppose; and Grace, I want you to help me, to

encourage me. Engaged girls always need it, I guess,
and Victor is so mean, he says all sorts of hateful things
about my marrying my father, and all that. Perhaps the
village people will do so, too, and if they do, you'll stand
up for me, won't you? You'll tell them how much I owe him
— how much I love him, and, Grace,” Edith's voice was
very low now, and sad, “and when you write to Arthur
don't repeat the hateful things I said before, but tell him
I'm engaged; that I'm the Swedish baby; that I never
shall forget him quite; and that I love Richard very
much.”

Oh, how soft and plaintive was the expression of the
dark eyes now, as Edith ceased to speak, and pressed the
hand which warmly pressed hers back, for Grace's womanly
nature was aroused by this appeal, and she resolved
to fulfill the trust reposed in her by Edith. Instead of
hedging her way with obstacles she would help her, if possible;
would encourage her to love the helpless blind man,
whose step was heard in the hall. He was coming to rejoin
them, and instantly into Edith's eyes there flashed a
startled, shrinking look, such as the recreant slave may be
supposed to wear when he hears his master's step. Grace
knew the feeling which prompted that look full well.
She had felt it many a time, in an intensified degree,
stealing over her at the coming of one whose snowy locks
and gouty limbs had mingled many a year with the dust
of Shannondale, and on her lips the words were trembling,
“This great sacrifice must not be,” when Edith sprang up,
and running out into the hall, met Richard as he came.

Leading him into the parlor, and seating him upon the
sofa, she sat beside him, holding his hand in hers, as if she
thus would defy her destiny, or, at the least, meet it
bravely. Had Grace known of Victor's new name for
Edith she too would have called her “Reed that bends,”
and as it was she thought her a most incomprehensible
girl, whom no one could fathom, and not caring to tarry
longer, soon took her leave, and the lovers were alone.

Arrived at home, Grace opened her writing desk and
commenced a letter, which started next day for Florida,
carrying to Arthur St. Claire news which made his brain
reel and grow giddy with pain, while his probed heart
throbbed, and quivered, and bled with a fresh agony, as
on his knees by Nina's pillow he prayed, not that the cup
of bitterness might pass from him — he was willing now
to quaff that to its very dregs, but that Edith might be
happy with the husband she had chosen, and that he, the
desolate, weary Arthur might not faint beneath this added
burden.

Five weeks went by — five weeks of busy talk among
the villagers, some of whom approved of the engagement,
while more disapproved. Where was that proud Southerner?
they asked, referring to Arthur St. Claire. They
thought him in love with Edith. Had he deserted her,
and so in a fit of pique she had given herself to Richard?
This was probably the fact, and the gossips, headed by
Mrs. Eliakim Rogers, speculated upon it, while the days
glided by, until the five weeks were gone, and Edith, sitting
in Grace's boudoir, read, with eyes which had not wept
since the day following her betrothal, the following extract
from Arthur's letter to his cousin:

“Richard and Edith! Oh! Grace, Grace! I thought
I had suffered all that mortal man could suffer, but when
that fatal message came, I died a thousand deaths in one,
enduring again the dreadful agony when in the Deering
woods I gave my darling up. Oh, Edith, Edith, Edith,
my soul goes after her even now with a quenchless,
mighty love, and my poor, bruised, blistered heart throbs
as if some great giant hand were pressing its festered
wounds, until I faint with anguish and cry out, `my punishment
is greater than I can bear.'

“Still I would not have it otherwise, if I could. I deserve
it all, aye, and more, too. Heaven bless them both,
Richard and his beautiful singing bird. Tell her so, Grace.

Tell her how I blessed her for cheering the blind man's
darkness, but do not tell her how much it costs me to bid
her, as I now do, farewell forever and ever, farewell.”

It was strange that Grace should have shown this letter
to Edith, but the latter coaxed so hard that she reluctantly
consented, repenting of it however when she saw the
effect it had on Edith. Gradually as she read, there crept
over her a look which Grace had never seen before upon the
face of any human being — a look as if the pent-up grief
of years was concentrated in a single moment of anguish
too acute to be described. There were livid spots upon
her neck — livid spots upon her face, while the dry eyes
seemed fading out, so dull, and dim, and colorless they
looked, as Edith read the wailing cry with which Arthur
St. Claire bade her his adieu.

For several minutes she sat perfectly motionless, save
when the muscles of her mouth twitched convulsively, and
then the hard, terrible look gave way — the spots began
to fade — the color came back to her cheeks — the eyes
resumed their wonted brilliancy — the fingers moved
nervously, and Edith was herself. She had suffered all
she could, and never again would her palsied heart know
the same degree of pain which she experienced when reading
Arthur's letter. It was over now — the worst of it.
Arthur knew of her engagement — blessing her for it, and
saying he would not have it otherwise. The bitterness of
death was past, and henceforth none save Grace and Victor
suspected the worm which fed on Edith's very life, so
light, so merry, so joyous she appeared; and Edith was
happier than she had supposed it possible for her to be.
The firm belief that she was doing right, was, of itself, a
source of peace, and helped to sustain her fainting spirits,
still there was about her a sensation of disquiet, a feeling
that new scenes would do her good, and as the summer
advanced, and the scorching July sun penetrated even to
the cool shades of Collingwood, she coaxed Richard, Grace

and Victor to go away. She did not care where, she said,
“anything for a change; she was tired of seeing the same
things continually. She never knew before how stupid
Shannondale was. It must have changed within the last
few months.”

“I think it is you who have changed,” said Grace, fancying
that she could already foresee the restless, uneasy,
and not altogether agreeable woman, which Edith, as Richard's
wife, would assuredly become.

Possibly Richard, too, thought of this, for a sigh escaped
him as he heard Edith find fault with her beautiful home.

Still he offered no remonstrance to going from home
awhile, and two weeks more found them at the Catskill
Mountain House, where at first not one of the assembled
throng suspected that the beautiful young maiden who in
the evening danced like a butterfly in their midst, and in
the morning bounded up the rocky heights like some
fearless, graceful chamois, was more than ward to the man
who had the sympathy of all from the moment the whispered
words went round, “He is blind.”

Hour after hour would Edith sit with him upon the
grass plat overlooking the deep ravine, and make him see
with her eyes the gloriously magnificent view, than which
there is surely none finer in all the world; then, when the
sun looked toward the west, and the mountain shadow
began to creep across the valley, the river, and the hills
beyond, shrouding them in an early twilight, she would
lead him away to some quiet, sheltered spot, where unobserved,
she could lavish upon him the little acts of love
she knew he so much craved and which she would not
give to him when curious eyes were looking on. It was
a blissful paradise to Richard, and when in after years he
looked back upon the past, he always recurred to those
few weeks as the brightest spot in his whole life, blessing
Edith for the happiness she gave him during that season
of delicious quiet spent amid the wild scenery of the
Catskill Mountains.