University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
THE LAND OF FLOWERS.

It was the original plan for the party to remain two
weeks or more at the Mountain House, and then go on
to Saratoga, but so delighted were they with the place
that they decided to tarry longer, and the last of August
found them still inmates of the hotel, whose huge white
walls, seen from the Hudson, stand out from the dark
wooded landscape, like some mammoth snow bank, suggestive
to the traveller of a quiet retreat and a cool shelter
from the summer's fervid heat. Edith's health and
spirits were visibly improved, and her musical laugh often
rang through the house in tones so merry and gleeful that
the most solemn of the guests felt their boyhood coming
back to them as they heard the ringing laugh, and a softer
light suffused their cold, stern eyes as they paused in the
midst of some learned discussion to watch the frolicsome,
graceful belle of the Mountain House — the bride elect
of the blind man.

It was known to be so now. The secret was out —
told by Victor, when closely questioned with regard to
Edith's relationship to Mr. Harrington. It created much
surprise and a world of gossip, but shielded Edith from
attentions which might otherwise have been annoying,
for more than Richard thought her the one of all others
whose presence could make the sunshine of their life.
But Edith was betrothed. The dun leaves of October
would crown her a wife, and so one pleasant morning
some half a score young men, each as like to the other as
young men at fashionable places of resort are apt to be,
kicked their patent leather boots against the pillars of
the rear piazza, broke a part of the tenth commandment

shockingly, muttered to themselves speeches anything but
complimentary to Richard, and then, at the appearance of
a plaid silk travelling dress and brown straw flat, rushed
forward en masse, each contending frantically for the honor
of assisting Miss Hastings to enter the omnibus, where
Richard was already seated, and which was to convey a
party to the glens of the Kauterskill Falls.

Edith had been there often. The weird wildness of
the deep gorge suited her, and many an hour had she
whiled away upon the broken rocks, watching the flecks
of sunlight as they came struggling down through the
overhanging trees, listening to the plaintive murmur of
the stream, or gazing with delight upon the fringed,
feathery falls which hung from the heights above like some
long, white, gauzy ribbon. Richard, on the contrary, had
never visited them before, and he only consented to do so
now from a desire to gratify Edith, who acted as his escort
in place of Victor. Holding fast to her hand he
slowly descended the winding steps and circuitous paths,
and then, with a sad feeling of helpless dependence, sat
down upon the bank where Edith bade him sit, herself
going off in girlish ecstasies as a thin spray fell upon her
face and she saw above her a bright-hued rainbow, spanning
the abyss.

“They are letting the water on,” she cried, “Look, Richard!
do look!” and she grasped his hand, while he said to
her mournfully,

“Has Birdie forgotten that I am blind, and helpless,
and old — that she must lead me as a child?”

There was a touching pathos in his voice which went
straight to Edith's heart, and forgetting the rainbow, she
sat down beside him, still keeping his hand in hers, and
asked what was the matter? She knew he was unusually
disturbed, for seldom had she seen upon his face a look of
so great disquiet. Suddenly as she remembered his unwillingness
to come there alone, it flashed upon her that

it might arise from an aversion to seem so dependent upon
a weak girl in the presence of curious strangers. With
Victor he did not mind it, but with her it might be different,
and she asked if it were not so.

“Hardly that, darling; hardly that;” and the sightless
eyes drooped as if heavy with unshed tears. “Edith,”
and he pressed the warm hand he held. “ours will be an
unnatural alliance. I needed only to mingle with the
world to find it so. People wonder at your choice —
wonder that one so young as you should choose a battered,
blasted tree like me round which to twine the tendrils
of your green, fresh life.”

“What have you heard?” Edith asked, half bitterly,
for since their engagement was known at the hotel, she
had more than once suspected the truth of what he said
to her. The world did not approve, but she would not
tell Richard that she knew it, and she asked again what
he had heard.

“The ear of the blind is quick,” he replied; “and as I
sat waiting in the stage this morning I heard myself denounced
as a `blind old Hunks,' a selfish dog, who had
won the handsomest girl in the country. Then, as we were
descending to this ravine you remember we stopped at
the foot of some stairs while you removed a brier from
your dress, and from a group near by I heard the whispered
words, `There they come — the old blind man,
who bought his ward with money and gratitude. 'Twas
a horrid sacrifice! Look, how beautiful she is!' Darling,
I liked to hear you praised, but did not like the rest. It
makes me feel as if I were dragging you to the altar
against your will. And what is worse than all, the verdict
of the people here is the verdict of the world. Edith,
you don't want me. You cannot wish to call one husband
whose dependence upon you will always make you
blush for your choice. It was gratitude alone which
prompted your decision. Confess that it was, and I give

you back your troth. You need not be the old blind
man's wife.”

For an instant Edith's heart leaped up, and the sun
spots dancing on the leaves were brighter than she had
ever seen them, but the feeling passed away, and laying
both her hands reverently in Richard's, she said,

“I will be your wife. I care nothing for the world, and
we won't mingle in it any more to cause remarks. We'll
stay at Collingwood, where people know us best. Let's
go home to-morrow. I'm tired of this hateful place.
Will you go?”

Ere Richard could answer, Grace Atherton was heard
exclaiming,

“Ah, here you are. I've hunted everywhere. Mr. Russell,”
and she turned to the dark man at her side,
“this is Mr. Harrington — Miss Hastings — Mr. Russell,
from Tallahassee.”

Edith did not at first think that Tallahassee was in
Florida, not many miles from Sunnybank, and she bowed
to the gentleman as to any stranger, while Grace, who
had just arrived in another omnibus, explained to her
that Mr. Russell was a slight acquaintance of Arthur's;
that the latter being in town, and accidentally hearing
that he was coming North, had intrusted him with some
business matters, which would require his visiting Grassy
Spring — had given him a letter of introduction to herself,
said letter containing a note for Edith — that
Mr. Russell had been to Shannondale, and ascertaining
their whereabouts, had followed them, reaching the Mountain
House in the morning stage.

“He can spend but one day here,” she added, in conclusion,
“and wishing him to see as much as possible of
our northern grandeur I brought him at once to the Falls.
Here is your note,” and tossing it into Edith's lap she
moved away.

A note from Arthur! How Edith trembled as she held

it in her hand, and with a quick, furtive glance at the
sightless eyes beside her, she raised the dainty missive to
her lips, feeling a reproachful pang as she reflected that
she was breaking her vow to Richard. Why had Arthur
written to her — she asked herself this question many
times, while Richard, too, asked,

“What news from Florida?” ere she broke the seal
and read, not words of changeless and dark despair, but
words of entreaty that for the sake of Nina, sick, dying
Nina, she would come at once to Florida, for so the crazy
girl had willed it, pleading with them the live-long day to
send for Miggie, precious Miggie, with the bright, black
eyes, which looked her into subjection, and the soft hands
which drove the ugly pain away.

“All the summer,” Arthur wrote, “she has been failing.
The heat seems to oppress her, and several times I've
been on the point of returning with her to the North,
thinking I made a mistake in bringing her here, but she
refuses to leave Sunnybank. Old sights and familiar places
have a soothing effect upon her, and she is more as she
used to be before the great calamity fell upon her. Her
disease is consumption, hereditary like her insanity, and
as her physical powers diminish her mental faculties seem
to increase. The past is not wholly a blank to her now;
she remembers distinctly much that has gone by, but of
nothing does she talk so constantly as of Miggie, asking
every hour if I've sent for you — how long before you'll
come; and if you'll stay until she's dead. I think your
coming will prolong her life; and you will never regret
it, I am sure. Mr. Russell will be your escort, as he will
return in three weeks.”

To this note two postscripts were appended — the first
in a girlish, uneven hand, was redolent of the boy Arthur's
“Florida rose.”

“Miggie, precious Miggie — come to Sunnybank; come
to Nina. She is waiting for you. She wants you here —

wants to lay her poor, empty head, where the bad pain
used to be, on your soft, nice bosom — to shut her eyes
and know it is your breath she feels — your sweet, fragrant
breath, and not Arthur's, brim full of cigar smoke.
Do come, Miggie, won't you? There's a heap of things I
want to fix before I die, and I am dying, Miggie. I see
it in my hands, so poor and thin, not one bit like they
used to be, and I see it, too, in Arthur's actions. Dear
Arthur boy! He is so good to me — carries me every
morning to the window, and holds me in his lap while I
look out into the garden where we used to play, you and
I. I think it was you, but my brain gets so twisted, and
I know the real Miggie is out under the magnolias, for it
says so on the stone, but I can't help thinking you are
she. Arthur has a new name for me, a real nice name, too.
He took it from a book, he says — about just such a wee
little girl as I am. `Child-wife,' that's what he calls me,
and he strokes my hair so nice. I'm loving Arthur a
heap, Miggie. It seems just as if he was my mother, and
the name `Child-wife' makes little bits of waves run all over
me. He's a good boy, and God will pay him by and by
for what he's been to me. Some folks here call me
Mrs. St. Claire. Why do they? Sometimes I remember
something about somebody somewhere, more than a hundred
years ago, but just as I think I've got hold of it right,
it goes away. I lose it entirely, and my head is so snarled
up. Come and unsnarl it, wont you? Nina is sick, Nina
is dying, Nina is crazy. You must come.”

The second postscript showed a bolder, firmer hand, and
Edith read,

“I, too, echo Nina's words, `Come, Miggie, come.' Nina
wants you, and I — Heaven only knows how much I want
you — but, Edith, were you in verity Richard's wife, you
could not be more sacred to me than you are as his betrothed,
and I promise solemnly that I will not seek to
influence your decision. The time is surely coming when

I shall be alone; no gentle Nina, sweet `Child-wife' clinging
to me. She will be gone, and her Arthur boy, as she
calls me, free to love whomsoever he will. But this shall
make no difference. I have given you to Richard. I
will not wrong the blind man. Heaven bless you both
and bring you to us.”

The sun shone just as brightly in the summer sky —
the Kauterskill fell as softly into the deep ravine — the
shouts of the tourists were just as gay — the flecks of
sunshine on the grass danced just as merrily, but Edith
did not heed them. Her thoughts were riveted upon the
lines she had read, and her heart throbbed with an unutterable
desire to respond at once to that pleading call — to
take to herself wings and fly away — away over mountain
and valley, river and rill, to the fair land of flowers where
Nina was, and where too was Arthur. As she read, she
uttered no sound, but when at last Richard said to her,

“What is it, Birdie? Have you heard bad news?” her
tears flowed at once, and leaning her head upon his shoulder,
she answered,

“Nina is dying — dear little, bright-haired Nina. She
has sent for me. She wants me to come so much. May
I, Richard? May I go to Nina?”

“Read me the letter,” was Richard's reply, his voice
unusually low and sad.

Edith could not read the whole. Arthur's postscript
must be omitted, as well as a portion of Nina's, but she
did the best she could, breaking down entirely when she
reached the point where Nina spoke of her Arthur boy's
goodness in carrying her to the window.

Richard, too, was much affected, and his voice trembled
as he said, “St. Claire is a noble fellow. I always felt
strangely drawn toward him. Isn't there something between
him and Nina — something more than mere guardianship?”

“They were engaged before she was crazy,” returned

Edith, while Richard sighed, “poor boy, poor boy! It
must be worse than death. His darkness is greater than
mine.”

Then his thoughts came back to Edith's question, “May
I go to Nina?” and his first feeling was that she might,
even though her going would necessarily defer a day to
which he was so continually looking forward, but when he
remembered the danger to which she would be exposed
from the intense heat at that season of the year, he shrank
from it at once, mildly but firmly refusing to let her incur
the fearful risk.

“Could I be assured that my bird would fly back to me
again with its plumage all unruffled I would let her go,”
he said, “but the chances are against it. You would surely
sicken and die, and I cannot let you go.

Edith offered no remonstrance, but her face was very
white and her eyes strangely black as she said, “Let us go
home, then; go to-morrow. This is no place for me, with
Nina dying.

Nothing could please Richard more than to be back at
Collingwood, and when Grace came to them he announced
his intention of leaving on the morrow. Grace was willing,
and Victor, when told of the decision, was wild with
delight. Mr. Russell, too, decided to go with them to
Shannondale, and when, next morning, the party came out
to take the downward stage, they found him comfortably
seated on the top, whither he had but little trouble in
coaxing Grace, who expressed a wish to enjoy the mountain
scenery as they descended.

“Will Miss Hastings come up, too?” he asked, but
Edith declined and took her seat inside between Richard
and Victor, the latter of whom had heard nothing of the
letter; neither did Edith tell him until the next day when,
arrived at Collingwood, they were alone for a moment in
the library — then she explained to him that Nina was
sick, possibly had sent for her.

“I thought things would work out after a time, though
honestly I'd rather that little girl shouldn't die if it could
be brought round any other way,” was Victor's reply,
which called a flush at once to Edith's cheek.

“Victor Dupres,” said she, “never hint such a thing
again. It is too late now; it cannot be — it shall not be;
and if I go, Arthur has promised not to say one word
which can influence me.”

“If you go,” repeated Victor, “Then you have some
intention of going — I thought he had objected.”

“So he has,” returned Edith, the same look stealing into
her eyes which came there at the Falls. “So he has,
but if Nina lives till the middle of October I shall go.
My mind is made up.”

“Oh, consistency, thou art a jewel,” muttered Victor,
as hearing some one coming, he walked away. “Means
to jump down the lion's throat, but does not expect to be
swallowed! Splendid logic that!” and Victor shrugged
his shoulders at what seemed so contradictory as Edith's
talk and Edith's conduct.

As she had said, Edith meant to go, nay more, was determined
to go, and when, on the third day after their return,
Mr. Russell came for her final decision, she said to him,
ere Richard had time to speak,

“I shall not go now; it is too early for that, but if Nina
continues worse, I will come to her the latter part of October.
I am writing so to her to-day.”

Richard was confounded, and could only stammer out,

“Who is to be your escort?”

“You, Richard;” and Edith clasped his arm, thus reassuring
him at once.

She had some thought, some consideration for him; she
did not intend to desert him wholly, and he playfully
tapped her chin, laughing to think how the little lady had
boldly taken matters into her own hands, telling what
should be with as much sang froid as if she were master

instead of himself. And Richard rather liked the independent
spirit of Edith, particularly when he found that
he was not wholly left out of her calculations. And so
he arranged with Mr. Russell, that if Nina were not better
as the autumn advanced, Edith should perhaps go
down to see her.

Arthur had made his marriage with Nina public as
soon as he returned to Sunnybank, but as Mr. Russell's
home was in Tallahassee, and he himself a quiet, taciturn
man, he had not heard of it, and in speaking of Nina to
Edith, he called her Miss Bernard, as usual, and thus
Richard still remained in ignorance, never suspecting that
golden haired Nina was the same young girl he had married
years before.

Poor Richard, he was ignorant of many things, and
never dreamed how light and gay was Edith's heart at
the prospect of going to Florida, even though she half
expected that when she went it would be as his wife.
But Richard determined it otherwise. It cost him a
struggle so to do, but his iron will conquered every feeling,
save those of his better judgment, and calling Edith
to him one day two weeks after Mr. Russell's departure,
he said,

“Birdie, I've come to the conclusion that a blind man
like me will only be in your way, in case you go to Florida.
I am not an interesting traveling companion. I require
too much care, and I dread the curious gaze of strangers.
It makes me very uncomfortable. So on the whole I'd
rather stay at home and let Victor go in my stead. What
does Birdie say?”

“She says you are the noblest, most unselfish man that
ever lived,” and Edith kissed his lips, chiding herself seriously
for the spirit which whispered to her that she too
would rather go without him. “I won't stay very long,”
she said. “Our wedding need not be deferred more than
two months; say, till the first of January, at 7 o'clock,

just as we before arranged it for October, only a more
quiet affair. I shall then be your New Year's gift. Does
that suit you, dearest?”

She did not often call him thus, and when she did she
was sure of accomplishing her purpose. The strong man
melted beneath a few words of love, becoming a very
tool in the hands of a weak girl.

“Yes, darling,” he replied, “that will do — but supposing
we hear that Nina is better, or dead — what then?”

The mere possibility was terrible to Edith, but she answered
calmly,

“Then we'll be married in October, just as first proposed;”
and thus was the die cast, and a fresh link added
to the chain of Edith's destiny. She was going to Florida;
going to Arthur; and going alone, so far as Richard
was concerned.

Spying Victor coming up the walk from the post-office,
she ran out to meet him, telling him of the journey before
him, and almost crying for joy when he placed in her
hand a worn envelope bearing the post-mark of Tallahassee.
It was from Arthur, and contained a few lines only, telling
of Nina's increasing illness, and her restless, impatient
desire for Miggie. In conclusion he wrote,

“We have had no fever this summer. You will be
perfectly safe in coming any time after the middle of October.
I shall welcome Mr. Harrington most cordially if
he sees fit to accompany you.”

Edith could read this to Richard, and she did, feeling
a pang at the perfect faith with which he answered,

“Were it not for the tedious journey I believe I would
go with you, but it's too much of an undertaking. I
won't trammel you with so great a burden. I'd rather
stay at home and anticipate my darling's return.”

Then with the same forethought and careful consideration
which marked all his actions, Richard consulted with
her as to the best time for her to start, fixing upon the

15th of October, and making all his arrangements subservient
to this. He did not tell her how lonely he should
be without her — how he should miss her merry laugh,
which, strange to say, grew merrier each day; but he let
her know in various ways how infinitely precious she was
to him, and more than once Edith felt constrained to give
up the journey, but the influences from Florida drew her
strangely in that direction, and resolving to pay Richard
for his self-denial by an increase of love when she should
return, she busied herself with her preparations until the
15th of October came, and her trunks stood ready in the
hall.

“If I could only read your letters myself, it would not
seem one-half so bad,” Richard said, when at the last
moment, he held Edith's hand, “but there's a shadow
over me this morning — a dark presentiment that in suffering
you to leave me I am losing you forever.”

Edith could not answer, she pitied him so much, and
kissing his lips, she put from her neck his clinging arms,
wiped his tears away, smoothed his ruffled hair, and then
went out from his presence, leaving him there in his sorrow
and blindness alone.