Part 9 (2/2)

She was going home to Beechwood; going back to the home she had left in such high spirits to join the lover who was to be all in all to her forever more; the lover who was to s.h.i.+eld her henceforth and forever from the world's storms, and was to be all devotion to her and love her fondly until death did them part. And this had been the end of it. Her high hopes lay in ruins around her. Her idol had been formed of commonest clay, and lay crumbled in a thousand fragments at her feet.

Surely, no young girl's love dream ever had such a sad awakening, and was so cruelly dispelled.

She would go home to her haughty old father, tell him all, then lie down at his feet and die. That would end it all. Even in that moment lines she had once read came back to her with renewed meaning:

”And this is all! The end has come at last!

The bitter end of all that pleasant dream, That cast a hallow o'er the happy past, Like golden suns.h.i.+ne on a summer stream.

”Sweet were the days that marked life's sunny slope, When we together drew our hearts atune, And through the vision of a future hope, We did not dream that they would pa.s.s so soon.

”In happy mood fair castles we upreared, And thought that life was one long summer day; We had no dread of future pain, nor feared That shadows e'er should fall athwart our way.

”But sunken rocks lie hid in every stream, And s.h.i.+ps are wrecked when just in sight of land; So we to-day wake from our pleasant dream To find our hopes were builded on the sand.

”I do not blame you that you do not keep The troth you plighted e'er your heart you knew; Better the parting now than wake to weep, When time has robbed life's roses of their dew.

”Another face will help you to forget, The idle dream that had its birth in trust, And other lips will kiss away regret, For broken faith and idols turned to dust,

”Ah, well, you chose, perhaps, the better way; Another love may in your heart be shrined; And I--I shall go down my darkened way, Seeking forever what I ne'er shall find.”

It was two o'clock by the church belfry when she reached Beechwood, and a quarter of an hour later when she reached the great mansion that stood on the brow of the hill.

She remembered that one of the rear doors, seldom used, was never fastened, and toward this she bent her faltering footsteps. It yielded to her touch, and like a ghost she glided through it and up the wide, familiar corridors, her tears falling like rain at every step.

She knew it was her father's custom to spend long hours in his library, sometimes far into the gray dawn. He found this preferable to the presence of his sharp-tongued second wife, who was always nagging him for more money, or to put his property into her name as proof positive of his unbounded, undying affection for her.

In his library, among his books, there was no nagging. Here he found peace, silence and quiet.

Therefore, toward the library, late as the hour was, Faynie made her way, stealing along quietly as a shadow.

The door stood slightly ajar, and a ray of light, a narrow, thread-like strip, fell athwart the dim corridor.

When Faynie reached the door she paused, trembling with apprehension, a feeling of intense dread, like a presentiment of coming evil, stealing over her like the shadow of doom.

She was prepared for his bitter anger, for the whirlwind of wrath that would be sure to follow, but she would cast herself on her knees at his feet, and with head bowed, oh, so lowly, so piteously, wait for the hurricane of his rage to exhaust itself. Then she would bend over her head still lower, her pride crushed, her pitiful humiliation complete, and sue on her bended knees, with her hands clasped for his pardon and his love again.

She would plead for it for the sake of the fair, hapless young mother whom she had loved and lost in his early youth. Surely, for her sake he would find mercy, perhaps pardon, for the child she had left behind her, the fair, petted, hapless daughter, who had been so lonely, and whose heart yearned so for love ever since he had brought in a second wife to rule over his household.

Ay, from that hour he and his daughter had seemed to drift apart.

Nerving herself for the ordeal, the girl crept to the door and timidly swung it back.

There was a figure bending over the writing desk; not the tall form of her father, but her stepmother.

Faynie drew back with a startled cry.

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