University of Virginia Library

3. III.

Oh, how fast we whizzed along. I had heard some
one say we had started a little behind time, but it was
not half fast enough for me. I felt like crying out to
the conductor for more speed. My spirits were at
their flood. I was going to Rachel. I knew my own

heart now. With the hope of her love in my mind I
grew quieter. I sank into a reverie. I sat back in
my seat and drew my hat over my eyes, and then I
strove to recall all the tokens she had given me of her
regard. The expression which I had seen upon her
face the night before I left Woolwich came back to
me. I remembered her timid pleasure at my coming.
How charming she seemed to me in her beauty, her
grace, her innocent youth. I pictured her as my wife.
I thought how bright would be the stately house behind
the pine-trees when her light figure glided up
and down the stairs, or sat, in household quiet, by the
hearth-stone. I gloried in the thought of protecting
her—of keeping all sorrow and care away from her
life—of leading her footsteps out of the shadow into
the light.

Absorbed in thoughts like these, time sped rapidly.
We were nearing Woolwich. I looked from the window,
and the fields by the wayside were familiar. My
heart bounded. Soon I should see Rachel. I would
tell her that I loved her—I would know my fate from
her own lips. I fancied how her eyes would droop—
how the color would come and go in her cheeks—how
shyly her little hand would flutter into mine.

Just then came a sudden, quivering motion running
along all the train—a crash—a loud, prolonged,
wailing shriek, and after that I remembered nothing
more.

It was a warm morning in May when my consciousness
came back to me. My first emotion was that
of pleasure in the balmy air; the blossoms upon the
trees which brushed in at the open window; the
spring sunshine over all. Next came a curious feeling

of, not exactly pain, but goneness. My senses were
hardly yet fully aroused. I put my hand where this
sensation most oppressed me. My right leg seemed
to have been cut off above the knee. I should have
thought I must be dreaming, but that the maimed
limb was exquisitely tender and sensitive to the touch.
I looked around the room where I was lying. It was
not in my own house. It bore strange resemblance
to an apartment in the rectory. I was quite alone,
but some feminine piece of work lay upon a stand by
the window. A few spring flowers stood there also, in
a delicate vase.

Soon I heard footsteps approaching. I closed my
eyes and lay very still. The footsteps came into the
room. Then I heard Rachel's voice, in a tone of sad,
almost pleading inquiry:

“You do think, Dr. Smith, that his reason will come
back to him? He won't rave so always?”

“No fear of that, Rachel. No head could stand
such a blow as his got without being dazed for a while.
Poor fellow! when his senses do come, it'll be a sorry
awakening. A young, rich, good-looking man like
him to have to carry a cork leg with him all his life.”

I heard Rachel sigh, but she did not answer, and
Dr. Smith left the room, saying he would be back in
half an hour to dress the leg. Rachel came to the
bedside. I knew she was standing beside me; I knew,
as well as if I had seen her, that her tears were falling
silently. I opened my eyes and looked at her.

“Come, Rachel,” I said, “I heard what Dr. Smith
told you, and now I want you to sit down beside me
and tell me all about it. How long ago was it?”

She struggled hard to control herself.

“About four weeks,” she said; “the cars—” but
here she broke down utterly and hurried from the
room. I lay there, wrestling with an agony before
which any mere physical suffering sank into insignificance.
It was not that my pride was humbled—not
that I must go through life a lame, to some degree a
helpless man, but it was that I felt I could never ask
Rachel to be a cripple's wife—to mate her loveliness
with my deformity. I strove in vain to choke back
the cry which my longing heart would utter. My
grief o'ermastered me. But I will not write out the
sorrow on which only God and my own soul have
ever looked.

When Dr. Smith came back I drew from him an
account of the accident. I shudder to recall the frightful
story now. So many souls called, unthinking, before
their Maker. Such groans, such tumult, such
helpless cries of agony. Dr. Smith pictured it vividly,
but there is no need that I should write out its horrors
here. I had been taken up, at first, for dead,
stunned by a severe blow upon my head. In all this,
the doctor said, Rachel had been the most wonderful
nurse. I believed him.

During the two tedious months of convalescence
which followed, there was often, in the midst of my
agony, a troubled joy. Sometimes it seemed happiness
enough to have Rachel in my sight; her gentle
hands ministering about me. Sometimes, too, there
was a look in her eyes whose meaning I dared not
meet, lest it should make me selfish. I had resolved,
firmly, that I would never seek her love. I would
not impose upon her tenderness, her pity, to win any
pledge which she might regret afterward. No, I must

live alone all my life; but I turned from these thoughts
to rejoice in her smile, in the tender tones of her voice.

It was midsummer before I went to my own house.
In the mean time I had learned to walk in the poor
crippled fashion in which I must make up my mind
always to move about hereafter. Several times I had
proposed to go home, but neither Mr. Deane nor his
daughter would allow it. I must stay with them until
I was quite well. I had been brought to them
when I was first hurt. They had nursed me through
my delirium; they had claims upon me, and I must
obey them. I confess I staid with them willingly.
But at last the time was fixed for my final removal.
The day before, I was to drive to my home and give
Mrs. Tabitha a few directions. I had sent for Mike to
come with the carriage.

When it arrived, I entreated Rachel to do her patient
one more good turn, and go home with me for
an hour. She consented, and we took the short drive
in silence. When I reached the house I wanted to
walk a little about the grounds, and she made me lean
upon her arm. How strangely it reminded me of my
fancies, that sad day in April, about how tenderly I
would protect her. Now this frail, delicate girl at my
side was helping to guide my steps. I could not bear
it; I hurried her into the house.

I do not know how it chanced that we sat down,
not in the drawing-room, but in my Uncle Gerard's
study. For a time I looked at her in outward silence,
but my soul was crying out in its agony. So many
hopes came back to mock me. I had thought once
how her light feet would flit in girlish glee up and
down those walks lying so white and gleaming in the

summer sunshine; that she would sit by my fireside,
the glory of my home and my life. The great pangs
became too mighty for me. In spite of myself they
found a voice. I rose and walked across the room.
I put back the curtain from before her mother's picture.

“There,” I said, and my tones were almost stern
with the effort to keep back the grief surging in my
heart, “there, Rachel Deane, is the picture my Uncle
Gerard painted of your mother. You are like it. I
am not the inheritor alone of my uncle's wealth, but
of his hopeless love. This is my inheritance. To live
here, as he lived, alone. To love as he loved. To
long vainly as he longed. Nay, Rachel, do not turn
your eyes away. I did not mean to tell you, but you
must hear me now. Even as my uncle loved your
mother and loved in vain, so must I, till my death day,
love you. I was coming to Woolwich that day to tell
you this love, to ask you to be my wife. I thought
then I could win you; but God interposed, and we
are separated.”

She came across the room. She laid her hands, her
little, woman's hands, upon my arm. The truth shone
out of her clear eyes into my very soul. Her voice
was firm but tearful. I can never forget her dear,
dear words:

“We are not separated. We never can be. Take
me, Gerard, if you love me. I love you; I have loved
you long. I do not care for life unless I can pass it
with you.”

I could not gainsay her. I felt that she spoke truly,
and thus the great joy and blessedness of love
drifted into my heart—flooded my full life. I could

not speak. I opened my arms and took her—thank
God, I took my betrothed close to my heart. I know
not how long we sat there. It was almost night before
we returned. As I led her up the rectory steps,
I said, not because I doubted her, but because I longed
to hear her reply,

“Are you sure, my beloved, that you will never regret
this—that you will be quite content with an ugly,
crippled man, so many years older than yourself?”

Her brimming eyes answered me, and then her voice
came to my heart, freighted with words too full of
blessing to write here. They satisfied me forever.

We went together to her father as he sat at the western
window. We told him of our love and asked his
blessing. He rose and laid his aged, trembling hands
upon our heads. He blessed us. As we turned away
we heard him murmur,

“Now, Lord, lettest thou thy servant depart in
peace.”

We turned back as we reached the door to look at
him. He sat again at the window, and his far-seeing
eyes were fixed, not on his Amy's grave, but on the
golden clouds far, far away. We left him there.

We had much to say to each other. I told Rachel
of Miss St. John, and how she herself had been present
to my fancy—had come after me and brought me
back, when I would have done my own heart wrong;
and she answered me with smiles and with tears.
That first twilight after our betrothal was a blessed
hour.

When we went in the moon had risen. The old
man sat there still. Rachel went up to him, and laid
her hand upon his brow.

“Oh, how cold he is!” she cried. “Father, father,
wake up! Don't you hear me, father?”

I went toward her. Her father could never more
hear any sound of earthly tones. He was gone to
Amy. Who can tell what voice had called him?
what fair hand had beckoned from the sunset clouds?

We laid him by Amy's side in the quiet church-yard,
where the snow-flakes would drop, a white mantle
of peace, above them in the winter; where the
summer winds would blow, and the summer birds
would sing. Even in their death they were not long
divided.

Rachel bore it well, for she knew that joy had dawned
for the reunited ones in heaven; and on earth my
love comforted her. It was not many weeks before
she became my wife. She dwelt in peace in the stately
mansion where her mother's portrait had waited for
her so many years. My life was rounded into full and
beautiful symmetry. I asked no more of fate. I was
content with my crippled form, my halting gait, for
my soul's life was bright and blissful; the path wherein
Rachel and I were walking onward to the world lying
beyond was lightened by Heaven's own sunshine.

The summer was not over when an unusually long
letter came to me, in my sister's hand. She had written
previously her congratulations on my marriage,
and an invitation to bring my bride to New York.
As she was not a frequent letter-writer, I broke the
seal with considerable curiosity. The contents were
sad, but they gave me the key to a character I had ardently
desired to comprehend.

“We know now,” she wrote, “why Anastasia St.

John did not care for you. A little while ago, a young
man, the supercargo of a vessel, was reported as lost at
sea, and then it came out. She had known him when
her father was poorer—when they were both children,
indeed, and had loved him faithfully all her life. He
was poor, and her father opposed it; but she was content
to forego wealth and luxury for his sake. They
were waiting till he could make enough to marry respectably.
This was why she was always so cold in
society. You know how she kept every one at a distance.
It seems she saw his death in a paper, and it
literally broke her heart. She was found with the
blood flowing in a crimson tide from her mouth, and
the paper clutched in her hand. In three days she
was dead. They buried her yesterday. Poor, proud
broken heart! Poor Anastasia St. John!”

My darling had read the letter over my shoulder.
I felt her tears upon my cheek as she murmured, in
her tender, pitying voice, this fragment from a ballad
that she loved:

Behold, I have told you the story of My Inheritance.
Vale!