University of Virginia Library

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
HOME.

Oh, what a change it was from sunny Florida to bleak
New England, and how both Edith and Victor shivered
when, arrived at the last stage of their journey, they looked
out upon the snow-clad hills and leafless trees which
stood out so bare and brown against the winter sky. West
Shannondale! the brakeman shouted, and Edith drew her
furs around her, for in a few moments more their own station
would be reached.

“The river is frozen; it must be very cold,” said Victor,
pointing to the blue-black stream, skimmered over with a
thin coat of ice.

“Yes, very, very cold,” and Edith felt the meaning of
the word in more senses than one.

Why wasn't she glad to be home again? Why did her
thoughts cling so to distant Sunnybank, or her heart die

within her as waymark after waymark told her Collingwood
was near? Alas! she was not a loving, eager bride
elect, returning to the arms of her beloved, but a shrinking,
hopeless, desolate woman, going back to meet the destiny
she dared not avoid. The change was all in herself, for
the day was no colder, the clouds no greyer, the setting
sun no paler than New England wintry days and clouds
and suns are wont to be. Collingwood was just the same,
and its mssive walls rose as proudly amid the dark evergreens
around it as they had done in times gone by, when
to the little orphan it seemed a second Paradise. Away
to the right lay Grassy Spring, the twilight shadows gathering
around it, piles of snow resting on its roof, and a thin
wreath of smoke curling from a single chimney in the
rear.

All this Edith saw as in the village omnibus she was
driven toward home. Richard was not expecting them
until the morrow, and thus no new fires were kindled, no
welcoming lights hung out, and the house was unusually
gloomy and dark. During Edith's absence Richard had
staid mostly in the library, and there he was sitting now,
with his hands folded together in that peculiarly helpless
way which characterized all his motions. He heard the
sound of wheels, the banging of trunks, and then his ear
caught a footstep it knew full well, a slow, shuffling tread,
but Edith's still, and out into the silent hall he groped his
way, watching there until she came.

How he hugged her to his bosom — never heeding that
she gave him back but one answering kiss, a cold, a frozen
thing, which would not thaw even after it touched his lips, so
full of life and warmth. Poor, deluded man! he fancied that
the tears he felt upon his face were tears of joy at being
home again; but alas! alas! they were tears wrung out by
a feeling of dreary home-sickness — a longing to be somewhere
else — to have some other one than Richard chafing
her cold hands and calling her pet names. He looked older,

too, than he used to do, and Edith thought of what
he once had said about her seeing the work of decay go
on in him while she yet was young and vigorous. Still
her voice was natural as she answered his many questions
and greeted Mrs. Matson who came in to see her as soon as
she heard of her arrival.

“In mourning!” the latter exclaimed, as with womanly
curiosity she inspected Edith's dress.

Richard started, and putting his hand to Edith's neck,
felt that her collar was of crape, and a shadow passed over
his face. He liked to think of her as a bright plumaged
bird, not as sombre-hued and wearing the habiliments
which come only from some grave.

“Was it necessary that my darling should carry her
love for a stranger quite so far as this?” he asked. Need
you have dressed in black?”

Without meaning it, his tone implied reproach, and it
cut Edith cruelly, making her wish that she had told him
all, when she wrote that she was coming home.

“Oh, Richard,” she cried, “don't chide me for these outward
tokens of sorrow. Nina, dear, darling Nina, was my
sister — my father's child. Temple was only a name he
assumed to avoid arrest, so it all got wrong. Everything
is wrong,” and Edith sobbed impetuously, while Richard
essayed to comfort her.

The dress of black was not displeasing to him now, and
he passed his hands caressingly over its heavy folds as if
to ask forgiveness for having said aught against it.

Gradually Edith grew calm, and after she had met the
servants, and the supper she could not taste was over, she
repeated to Richard the story she had heard from Marie,
who had stopped for a time in New York to visit her
sister.

A long time they sat together that night, while Richard
told her how lonely he had been without her, and asked
her many questions of Nina's last days.

“Did she send no message to me?” he said. She used
to like me, I fancied.”

Edith did not know how terrible a message Nina had
sent to him, and she replied, “She talked of you a great
deal, but I do not remember any particular word. I told
her I was to be your wife,” and Edith's voice trembled,
for this was but a prelude to what she meant to say ere
she bade him good night. She should breathe so much
more freely if she knew her bridal was not so near, and
her sister's death was surely a sufficient reason for deferring
it.

Summoning all her courage, she arose, and sitting on
Richard's knee, buttoned and unbuttoned his coat in a
kind of abstracted manner, while she asked if it might be
so. “I know I promised for New Year's night,” she said,
“but little Nina died so recently and I loved her so much.
May it be put off, Richard — put over until June?”

Edith had not thought of this in Florida, but here at
home, it came to her like succor to the drowning, and she
anxiously awaited Richard's answer.

A frown for an instant darkened his fine features, for
he did not like this second deferring the day, but he was
too unselfish to oppose it, and he answered,

“Yes, darling, if you will have it so. It may be better
to wait at least six months, shall it be in June, the fifteenth
say?”

Edith was satisfied with this, and when they parted her
heart was lighted of a heavy load, for six months seemed
to her a great, great while.

The next day when Grace came up to call on Edith, and
was told of the change, she shrugged her shoulders, for
she knew that by this delay Richard stood far less chance
of ever calling Edith his wife. But she merely said it
was well, congratulating Edith upon her good fortune in
being an heiress, and asking many questions about Arthur
and Nina, both, and at last taking her leave without a

hint as to her suspicions of the future. To Edith the
idea had never occurred. She should marry Richard of
course, and nothing could happen to defer the day a third
time. So she said at least to Victor, when she told him
of the arrangement, and with a very expressive whistle,
Victor, too, shrugged his shoulders, thinking, that possibly
he need not read Nina's letter after all. He would rather
not if it could be avoided, for he knew how keen the pang
it would inflict upon his noble master, and he would not
add one unnecessary drop to the cup of sorrow he saw
preparing for poor Richard.

After a few days of listless languor and pining home-sickness,
Edith settled into her olden routine of reading,
talking and singing to Richard, who thought himself happy
even though she did not caress him as often as she
used to do, and was sometimes impatient and even ill-natured
towards him.

“She mourns so much for Nina was the excuse which
Richard wrote down in his heart for all her sins, either of
omission or commission; and in a measure he was right.

Edith did mourn for sweet little Nina, but mourned not
half so much for her as for the hopes forever fled — for
Arthur, at whose silence she greatly marvelled, thinking
sometimes that she would write to him as to her brother,
and then shrinking from the task because she knew not
what to say.

Spite of her feelings the six months she had thought so
long were passing far too rapidly to suit her. Time lingers
for no one, and January glided into February, February
into March, whose melting snows and wailing winds
gave place at last to April, and then again the people of
Shannondale began to talk of “that wedding,” fixed for
the 15th of June. Marie had become domesticated at
Collingwood, but the negroes, who now called Edith mistress,
still remained at Grassy Spring, waiting until Arthur
should come, or some message be received from him. It

was four months now since Edith left Sunnybank, and in
all that time no tidings had come to her from Arthur.
Grace's letters were unanswered, and Grace herself was
beginning to feel alarmed, when, one afternoon, Victor
called Edith to an upper balcony and pointing in the
direction of Grassy Spring, bade her look where the graceful
columns of smoke were rising from all its chimneys,
while its windows were opened wide, and the servants
hurried in and out, seemingly big with some important
event.

“Saddle Bedouin,” said Edith, more excited than she
had deemed it possible for her to be. “Mr. St. Claire must
be expected. I am going down to see.”

Victor obeyed, and without a word to Richard, Edith
was soon galloping off toward Grassy Spring, where she
found Grace hurriedly giving orders to the delighted
blacks, who tumbled over each other in their zeal to have
everything in readiness for “Marster Arthur.” He was
coming that night, so Grace had told them, she having
received a telegram that morning from New York, together
with a letter.

“He started North the first of Feb.” she said to Edith,
“taking Richmond on the way, and has been detained
there ever since by sickness. He is very feeble yet, but
is anxious to see us all. He has received no letters from
me, it seems, and thinks you are married.”

Edith turned very white for a moment, and then there
burned upon her cheek a round, red spot, induced by the
feeling that the believing she was married had been the
immediate cause of Arthur's illness. Edith was no longer
the pale, listless woman who moved so like a breathing
statue around Collingwood, but a flushed, excited creature,
flitting from room to room, and entering heart and soul
into Grace's plans for having everything about the house
as cheerful and homelike as possible for the invalid. She
should stay to welcome him, too, she said, bidding one of

the negroes put Bedouin in the stable and then go up to
Collingwood to tell Richard where she was.

Arthur was indeed coming to Grassy Spring, brought
thither by the knowing that something must be done with
the place ere he went to Europe as he intended doing, and
by the feverish desire to see Edith once more even though
she were the wife of Richard, as he supposed her to be.
Grace's first letter had been lost, and as he had been some
weeks on the way he knew nothing of matters at Collingwood,
though occasionally there crept into his heart a
throb of hope that possibly for Nina's sake the marriage
had been deferred and Edith might be Edith Hastings
still. It was very sad coming back to the spot so fraught
with memories of Nina, and this it was in part which
made him look so pale and haggard when at last he stood
within the hall and was met by Grace, who uttered an exclamation
of surprise at seeing him so changed.

“I am very tired,” he said, with the tone and air of an
invalid, “Let me rest in the library awhile, before I see
the negroes. Their noise will disturb me,” and he walked
into the very room where Edith stood waiting for him.

She had intended to meet him as a brother, the husband
of her sister, but the sight of his white, suffering face
swept her calmness all away, and with a burst of tears she
cried, “Oh, Arthur, Arthur, I did not think you had
been so sick. Why did you not let us know; I would
have come to you,” and she brought herself the arm-chair
which he took, smiling faintly upon her and saying,

“It was bad business being sick at a hotel, and I did
sometimes wish you were there, but of course I could not
expect you to leave your husband. How is he?”

Edith could hear the beating of her heart and feel the
blood tingling her cheeks as she replied, “You mean
Richard, but he is not my husband. He —”

Quickly, eagerly Arthur looked up, the expression of
his face speaking volumes of joy, surprise, and even hope,

but all this faded away, leaving him paler, sicker-looking
than before, as Edith continued,

“The marriage was a second time deferred on account
of Nina's death. It will take place in June.”

Grace had left the room and an awkward silence ensued
during which Arthur looked absently into the fire, while
Edith gazed out upon the darkening sky, wondering if
life would always be as hard to bear as now, and half
wishing that Arthur St. Claire had staid at Sunnybank
until the worst was over.

There was a sound of wheels outside, and Edith heard
Richard as he passed into the hall. He had received her
message, and thinking it proper for him to welcome Mr.
St. Claire, he had come to Grassy Spring to do so, as well
as to escort Edith home. Richard could not see how
much Arthur was changed, but his quick ear detected the
weak, tremulous tones of the voice, which tried to greet
him steadily, and so the conversation turned first upon
Arthur's recent illness, and then upon Nina, until at last, as
Richard rose to leave, he laid his arm across Edith's shoulder
and said playfully, “You know of course, that what
you predicted, when years ago you asked me to take a
certain little girl, is coming true. Edith has promised
to be my wife. You will surely remain at Grassy Spring
through the summer, and so be present at our wedding on
the 15th of June. I invite you now.”

“Thank you,” was all Arthur could say, as with his accustomed
politeness he arose to bid his guests good night;
but his lip quivered as he said it, and his eye never for a
moment rested upon Edith, who led Richard in silence
to the carriage, feeling that all she loved in the wide world
was left there in the little library where the light was
shining, and where, although she did not know it, Grace
was ministering to the half fainting Arthur.

The sight of Edith and Richard had affected him more
than he supposed it would, but the worst was over now,

and as he daily grew stronger in the bracing northern air
he felt more and more competent to meet what lay before
him.