Part 30 (1/2)

”Not unless you show me such horrid pictures,” Edith sobbed, impetuously, for in her heart of hearts she felt the truth of every word he uttered, and her whole soul revolted against the view presented to her of the coming time.

But she would conquer such feelings--she would be his wife, and drying her eyes she said, ”I can give you my decision now as well as at any other time, but if you prefer it, I will wait four weeks and then bring you the same answer I make you now--I will be your wife.”

”I dare not hope it,” returned Richard, ”You will change your mind, I fear, but, Edith, if you do not,--if you promise to be mine, don't forsake me afterwards, for I should surely die,” and as if he already felt the agony it would cost him to give his darling up after he had once possessed her, he clasped his hands upon his heart, which throbbed so rapidly that Edith heard its m.u.f.fled beat and saw its rise and fall. ”I could not lose you and still live on without you, Edith,” and he spoke impetuously, ”You won't desert me, if you promise once.”

”Never, never,” she answered, and with a good night kiss upon his lips she went out from the presence of the man she already looked upon as her future husband, breathing freer when she stood within the hall where he was not, and freer still when in her own chamber there was a greater distance between them.

Alas, for Edith, and a thousand times alas, for poor, poor Richard!

CHAPTER XXV.

DESTINY.

Not for one moment did Edith waver in her purpose, and lest Richard should suspect what he could not see, she affected a gayety in his presence sadly at variance with her real feelings.

Never had her merry laugh rang out so frequently before him--never had her wit been one half so sparkling, and when he pa.s.sed his hands over her flushed cheek, feeling how hot it was, he said to himself, ”The roses are coming back, she cannot be unhappy,” and every line and lineament of the blind man's face glowed with the new-born joy springing up within his heart, and making the world around him one grand jubilee.

Victor was quick to note the change in his master, and without the least suspicion of the truth, he once asked Edith, ”What made Mr.

Harrington so young and almost boyish, acting as men were supposed to act when they were just engaged?”

”Victor,” said Edith, after a moment's reflection, ”can you keep a secret?”

”Certainly,” he replied. ”What is it, pray? Is Mr. Harrington matrimonially inclined?”

Edith's heart yearned for sympathy--for some one to sustain her-- to keep her from fainting by the wayside, and as she could not confide in Grace, Victor was her only remaining refuge. He had been the repositary of all her childish secrets, entering into her feelings as readily and even more demonstratively than any female friend could have done. Richard would tell him, of course, as soon as it was settled, and as she knew now that it was settled, why not speak first and so save him the trouble. Thus deciding, she replied to his question,

”Yes, Richard is going to be married; but you must not let him know I told you, till the engagement is made public.”

Victor started, but had no shadow of suspicion that the young girl before him was the bride elect. His master had once been foolish enough to think of her as such he believed, but that time was pa.s.sed. Richard had grown more sensible, and Edith was the future wife of Arthur St. Claire. Nina would not live long, and after she was dead there would be no further hindrance to a match every way so suitable. This was Victor's theory, and never doubting that the same idea had a lodgment in the minds of both Arthur and Edith, he could not conceive it possible that the latter would deliberately give herself to Richard. Grace Atherton, on the contrary, would be glad to do it; she had been coaxing his master these forty years, and had succeeded in winning him at last. Victor did not fancy Grace; and when at last he spoke, it was to call both his master and Mrs. Atherton a pair of precious fools. Edith looked wonderingly at him as he raved on.

”I can't bear her, I never could, since I heard how she abused you. Why, I'd almost rather you'd be his wife than that gay widow.”

”Suppose I marry him then in her stead,” Edith said, laughingly.

”I verily believe he'd exchange.”

”Of course he would,” Victor answered, bitterly. ”The older a man grows, the younger the girl he selects, and it's a wonder he didn't ask you first.”

”Supposing he had?” returned Edith, bending over a geranium to hide her agitation. ”Supposing he had, and it was I instead of Grace to whom he is engaged.”

”Preposterous!” Victor exclaimed. ”You could not do such a thing in your right senses. Why, I'd rather see you dead than married to your father. I believe I'd forbid the banns myself,” and Victor strode from the room, banging the door behind him, by way of impressing Edith still more forcibly with the nature of his opinion.

Edith was disappointed. She had expected sympathy at least from Victor, had surely thought he would he pleased to have her for his mistress, and his words, ”I would rather see you dead,” hurt her cruelly. Perhaps every body would say so. It was an unnatural match, this union of autumn and spring, but she must do something.

Any thing was preferable to the aimless, listless life she was leading now. She could not be any more wretched than she was, and she might perhaps be happier when the worst was over and she knew for certain that she was Richard's wife. HIS WIFE! It made her faint and sick just to say those two words. What then would the reality be? She loved him dearly as a guardian, a brother, and she might in time love him as her husband. Such things had been. They could be again. Aye, more, they should he, and determining henceforth to keep her own counsel, and suffer Victor to believe it was Grace instead of herself, she ran into the garden, where she knew Richard was walking, and stealing to his side, caught his arm ere he was aware of her presence.

”Darling, is it you?” he asked, and his dark face became positively beautiful with the radiant love-light s.h.i.+ning out all over it.

Every day the hope grew stronger that the cherished object of his life might be realized. Edith did not avoid him as he feared she would. On the contrary she rather sought his society than otherwise, never, however, speaking of the decision. It was a part of the agreement that they should not talk of it until the four weeks were gone, the weeks which to Richard dragged so slowly, while to Edith they flew on rapid wing; and with every rising sun, she felt an added pang as she thought how soon the twelfth of May would be there. It wanted but four days of it when she joined him in the garden, and for the first time since their conversation Richard alluded to it by asking playfully, ”what day of the month it was?”

”The eighth;” and Edith's eyes closed tightly over the tears struggling to gain egress, then with a mighty effort she added, laughingly,