University of Virginia Library

36. CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE SACRIFICE.

For a few days Edith hoped that the fire might defer
her marriage a little longer but almost the first thing
which Richard addressed directly to her was, “Let the
preparations go on as usual; there need be no delay.”

So the dressmakers were recalled and bridal finery
tossed about until the whole was finished and the last
sewing woman departed, taking with her, as her predecessors
had done, a large budget of items touching the cool
indifference of the bride elect and the icy reserve of the
bridegroom, who was greatly changed, they said. It is
true he was kind and considerate, as of old, and his voice,
whenever he spoke to Edith, was plaintively sad and
touching, but he preferred to be much alone, spending his
time in his chamber, into which few save his valet was
admitted. And thus no one suspected the mighty conflict
he was waging with himself, one moment crying out, “I

cannot give her up,” and again moaning piteously, “I
must, I must.”

The first meeting between himself and Arthur after the
fire had been a most affecting one, Richard sobbing like a
child, kissing the hands wounded so cruelly for him, and
whispering amid his sobs, “You saved my life at the peril
of your own, and I shall never forget it. God help me
to do right.”

Many times after this he rode down to Brier Hill whither
Edith had frequently preceded him; but Richard never
uttered a word of reproach when near the window he
heard a rustling sound and knew who was sitting there.
Neither would he ask a single question when soft footsteps
glided past him and out into the hall, but he always
heard them until they died away, and he knew those little
feet were treading the verge of the grave he had dug
within his heart. It was not yet filled up — that grave
— but his mighty love for Edith lay coffined there, and he
only waited for the needful strength to bury it forever by
verbally giving her up.

And while he waited the May-days glided by, and where
the apple blossoms once had been, the green hard fruit
was swelling now, the lilacs, purple and limp, had dropped
from the tree, the hyacinths and daffodils were gone,
and June with her sunny skies and wealth of roses,
queened it over Collingwood. It lacked but a week now of
the day appointed for the wedding, and Edith wished the
time would hasten, for anything was preferable to the
numb, apathetic feeling which lay around her heart. She
had no hope that she should not be Richard's wife, and
she wondered much at his manner, trying more than once
to coax him from his strange mood by playful words, and
even by caresses, which won from him no responses — only
once, when, he hagged her tightly to him, kissing her lips
and hair, and saying to her, “God forgive me, Birdie, I
never meant to wrong you and I am going to make
amends.”

The next day when Victor went up to his master's
room he was struck with the peculiar expression of his
face — a subdued, peaceful expression which told that he
was ready at last to make the great sacrifice — to fold the
darkness more thickly around himself, and give to Arthur
the glorious daylight he once hoped would shine for him,
and Richard would make this sacrifice in his own way.
Edith should read Nina's letter aloud to him, with
Arthur sitting near, and then, when it was finished, he
would ask if it were true, and why she had not told him
before.

Dinner was over, and in the library, where Richard had
asked Edith to be his wife, he sat waiting for her now,
and for Arthur who had been invited to Collingwood that
afternoon. The day was much like that other day when
Victor alone sat with him, save that the south wind stealing
through the casement was warmer, more fragrant than
the breath of May had been. The robin was not now
singing in the maple tree, but it would come home ere long,
and Richard knew full well the chirping sounds which
would welcome its approach. Once he had likened himself
to the mated robin, but now, alas, he knew he was
but the wounded bird, who finds its nest all desolate, its
hopes all fled — “a tough old owl,” he said, smiling bitterly
as he remembered when first he used that term. Edith
was right; she could not mate with the owl, he thought,
just as Arthur stepped across the threshold, and Edith
came tripping down the stairs.

“Sit on a stool at my feet, as you used to do,” Richard
said to her; “and you, Arthur, sit by me upon this sofa.”

They obeyed him, and after a moment he began, “I have
sent for you my children, not to inflict pain, but to remove
it. Heaven forbid that through me you should suffer longer,
or that any act of mine should embitter your young
lives. Do not interrupt me,” he continued, as Edith was
about to speak. “I must hasten on, or my courage all

will fail me. Arthur, give me your hands, the hands that
saved my life. I will touch them as carefully, as tenderly
as I am about to deal with you.”

Arthur complied with his request, and pressing the right
one, Richard continued,

“I joined this once with another, a tiny, little hand, now
laid away beneath the Southern flowers; and you said
after me, `I, Arthur, take thee, Nina, for my wife.' You
remember it, don't you?”

Arthur could not speak, and, save the violent start which
Edith gave, there came no answer to Richard's question
as he went on:

“It is only a few weeks since I learned who was that
boy husband of eighteen and that girlish bride of fifteen
and a half, but I know it now. I know it all, and this
explains much that has been strange in me of late. Edith,”
and he felt for her bowed head, “Edith, I have here Nina's
letter, written by stealth, and brought by Victor to me,
and you must read it to us — then tell me, if you can, why
I have so long been deceived?”

Edith had glanced at the beginning, and with a choking
voice she said,

“No, no, oh, Richard, no. Don't require it of me.
Anything but that. I never knew she wrote it. I never
meant — oh, Richard, Richard!”

She laid her head now on his knee and sobbed aloud,
while he continued:

“You must read it to me. 'Tis the only punishment
I shall inflict upon you.”

“Read it, Edith,” Arthur said, withdrawing one of his
hands from Richard's, and resting it upon her head thus
to re-assure her.

Richard guessed his intention and laid his own on
Arthur's. Edith felt the gentle, forgiving pressure, even
through the wounded, bandaged hand, and this it was
which gave her strength to read that message, which

brought Nina before them all, a seemingly living, breathing
presence. And when it was finished there was heard in
that library more than one “great cry, like the breaking
up of the ice on the Northern ponds.”

Richard was the calmest of the three. The contents of
the letter were not new to him, and did not touch so
tender a chord as that which thrilled and quivered in
Arthur's heart as he listened to the words of his sweet
child-wife, the golden haired Nina. Though dead she
was all powerful yet, and Nina, from her grave, swayed a
mightier sceptre than Nina living could have done.

“Edith,” Richard said, when her agitation had in a
measure subsided, “you have read the letter, now tell me,
is it true? Crazy people do not always see or hear aright.
Did Nina? Has Arthur loved you all the time?”

“Spare Edith,” Arthur cried; “and question me. I
did love Edith Hastings, even when I had no right so to do.

“And would you ask her to be your wife if there were
no Richard in the way, and she was free as when you first
knew and loved her?”

Arthur knew the blind man was not trifling with him,
and he answered promptly,

“I would, but she will bear me witness that never since
Nina died, have I sought, by word or deed, to influence her
decision.”

“I believe you,” Richard said; “and now, let us compare
our love for her, one with the other. Let us see
which is the stronger of the two. Do you love Edith so
much that you would give her to another, if you knew she
loved that other best? If she were promised to you by a
vow she dared not break, would you give her to me, supposing
I was preferred before you?”

Arthur was very white, as he answered,

“That would not be one-half so hard as the yielding
her to one whom she did not love, and, Richard, I have
done this. I have given her to you, even when I knew
that a word from me would have kept her from you.”

“That is hardly an answer to my question,” Richard rejoined,
“but it shows how honorable you have been. I
question whether I could have done as much. Your sense
of right and wrong was stronger than your love.”

“But,” said Arthur, quickly interrupting him, “you
must not think that I loved Edith less, because I did not
speak. Silence only fed the flame, and she cannot be so
inexpressibly dear to you as she is to me. Oh, Richard,
Richard, you do not know how much I love her.”

“Don't I?” and Richard smiled mournfully; then turning
to Edith, he continued, “And you, my darling, I would
hear from you now. Is it Richard or Arthur you prefer?”

“Oh, Richard,” Edith cried, “I meant to keep my vow,
and never let you know. I was going to be a true, a faithful
wife, even if it killed me — I certainly was — but, forgive
me, Richard, I did love Arthur first, Arthur best,
Arthur most of all,” and again the “great cry” smote on
Richard's ear, touching a chord like that which is touched
in a mother's bosom when she hears her suffering infant's
wail.

“Edith,” he said, “if I insist upon it, will you still be my
wife?”

“Yes, Richard, and it will not be so dreadful now that
you know I do love Arthur best, for I do, I do, I can't help
it, and I have tried so hard. He is young like me, and
then I loved him first, I loved him best.”

And in this last the whole was embodied. Edith loved
Arthur best. Richard knew she did, and turning to
Arthur, he continued,

“And what will you do if I insist? Will memories of
the love you bore your lost Nina sustain and comfort you?”

Richard spoke half-tauntingly, but Arthur conquered the
emotion of anger he felt arising within him at this allusion
to the past, and answered mildly,

“As I hope for Heaven, I did love my poor Nina at the

last, with a love which, had it been sooner born, would
have made me a happier man; and Nina knew it too.
I told her so before she died, and I would fain have kept
her with me, but I could not, and now, if I lose Edith,
too, it will not be so hard, because I did love Nina, and
sweet memories of her will keep my soul from fainting,
when I am far away from her little grave, far away from
you, and far away from Edith.”

Arthur arose to leave the room, but Richard held him
back, saying to him,

“You have answered well. Now listen to me. Edith
Hastings cannot be dearer to you than she is to me, but
think you I will compel her to be mine? Should I be
happy, knowing that always in her dreams another arm
than mine encircled her dear form, that other lips than
mine were pressed to hers, which moaned in sleep not
Richard's, but Arthur's name? And this would surely
be. The wife I mockingly called mine would be yours in
spirit, whether on land or sea, and I ask for no such bride.
Were I sure I could win her love, even though it might
not be in years, not all the powers of earth should wrest
her from me. But I cannot. Such is her temperament
that she would give me only hatred, and I do not deserve
this from her.”

“Oh, I wouldn't, I wouldn't,” Edith sobbed, and Richard
continued,

“Hush, my child, I know how it would be, even if I did
forget it for a time. You must not be the blind man's
wife, though the giving you up is like tearing me asunder.
And now, Edith, let me hold you once more as I never
shall hold you again. It will make me strong to do what
I must do.”

Edith could not move, but Arthur lifted her up, and
placing her in Richard's lap, laid one of his own hands
pityingly on the head of the blind man, whose tears dropped
on Edith's neck, as he breathed over her his farewell.

“Light of my eyes, joy of my heart, you know not

what it costs me to give you up, but God in Heaven
knows. He will remember all my pain, removing it in
His own good time, and I shall yet be happy. It is true,
a black, dreary waste stretches on into the future, but beyond
it, even in this world, the bright daylight is shining,
and Richard will reach it at last, — will learn to think of
you without a pang, to love you as his sister. Arthur,
I give to you my darling. I release her from her vow,
and may the kind Father bless you both, giving you
every possible good. Let no sorrow for me mingle with
your joy. I shall have grief and heaviness for a time,
but I am strong to bear it. Morning will break at last.
Let the wedding night be kept the same as is appointed,
there need be no change, save in the bridegroom, and of
that the world will all approve. And, Edith, if during
the coming week I am not much with you, if I stay
altogether in my room, do not try to see me. I once
thought you would be my wife. I know you cannot now,
and you must not come to me at present. But on your
bridal night, I shall go with you to the church. It would
look strangely if I did not. I shall return with you to
the house, shall force myself to hear them call you by
another name than mine, and then, the next morning
Arthur must take you away — for a time, I mean. I know
you will wish to thank me, but I'd rather you would not.
God will reward me in some way for the sacrifice I make
this day. Now, Edith, kiss me once, kiss me twice, with
your arms around my neck. Lay your soft cheek against
mine. Yes — so — so —” and over the dark face there
broke a shadowy smile, as Edith did his bidding, kissing
him many, many times, and blessing him for the great
happiness bestowed upon her.

“There, that will do. Now, Arthur, lead me to my
room, and sit with me until this horrid giddiness is gone,
and my heart beats more naturally.”

He put Edith from his lap — passed his hand slowly

over her face, as if thus he would remember it, and then,
leaning heavily on Arthur's arm, tottered from the room
— the noble Richard who had made this mighty sacrifice.