Wives and Widows; or The Broken Life Part 72

That night, before he retired, I saw him going toward the library with his arm around Jessie's waist. When they came out again, I could see that Jessie had been crying; but she looked happy notwithstanding these traces of tears, and when she bade her father good-night, he left a blessing upon her forehead.

In the solitude of that half-hour, the proud man had asked forgiveness of his own child, and she came forth with a heart almost broken with tenderness for him.

After this his love for Jessie became a part of his life; he fairly worshipped her. But his manner to me changed. He was kind, gentle, generous; but all this was accompanied with a sort of reserve almost amounting to shyness. Had I indeed offended him beyond forgiveness? How often I asked myself this question, and each time my heart sunk into deeper depression; for who could answer it? Let who would be happy, it seemed that I was always to suffer. Indeed, it required some little magnanimity not to feel the difference between the lonely, unloved existence reserved for me, and Jessie's brilliant lot.

A few months after Mr. Lee's return, wedding preparations were making cheerful progress in our house. Jessie would leave us on a bridal tour, and then come back to the old mansion behind the hill, which the two Mrs. Bosworths had vacated for a pretty cottage on the grounds, and refurnished sumptuously for the young people. Everybody was pleased--everybody was happy, except myself. What could become of me?

When Jessie was gone, my home would be broken up again. I must be cast forth a waif upon the world. How could I help being sad?

Just a week before Jessie's wedding, I sat alone in the deep window of the drawing-room, thinking of my desolated future, and weeping those still tears that one learns to shed after much sorrow. It was sunset.

Young Bosworth and Jessie were in the garden, and I could hear their happy voices coming up from among the flowers.

As I sat there, so dreary and loveless, some person entered the room. I knew by the tread that it was Mr. Lee, and tried to conceal myself; but he came directly to the window and stood at my side, looking out upon the glorious view. In those times I was timid, and almost afraid of his presence; so, rising quietly, I attempted to leave the window. But he begged me to remain. There was something that he wished to say.

I sat down, trembling with dread. Was he about to tell me, what I knew already, that Jessie's marriage would render my stay at the Ridge impossible? I would not wait for that, but said at once,--

"Oh, Mr. Lee, it is quite unnecessary. I know what propriety demands.

The very day she leaves home, I shall go back to the old farm-house. It will not be an unhappy life."

"But I have come to prevent this," he said, in a low, strange voice. I looked up in sudden surprise, a smile was trembling on his lips. "Never, if I can help it, shall you leave a home which owes half its sunshine to your presence. Without you, the old place would be lonely indeed. You must not all forsake me at once."

"But it is impossible!" I faltered. "Even kind old Mrs. Bosworth would set her face against it. I might, perhaps, stay with Jessie," I added, with a piteous attempt to smile; "but she has not invited me."

"Because she knew from the first that I could not give you up. She guessed how dearly I loved you, almost before I was sure of it myself."

I felt myself turning white. This great happiness was beyond all realization. I looked timidly in his face, and read in his eyes what I had never dreamed of before. He sat down by me very quietly, and, with a little gentle violence, drew my head upon his bosom. I could hear the strong, irregular beating of his heart, and his words, so persuasive, so manly, charmed away the shock and tremor of his first sudden avowal.

"I have not spoken till now," he said, "because circ.u.mstances, that we will never speak of, have made me for a time doubtful if they ever would be forgiven by a proud, good woman like yourself. But I love you, dear girl, with my whole heart and soul; first for your own sake, and next because the angel who blessed our home so long, owed everything to your care. She loved you dearly, and said it with her last breath."

I was sobbing upon his bosom. The memories so sad and touching which sprung out of his words flooded my heart with tender grief. Yes, she loved me; and that, perhaps, was the golden link which had drawn his soul to mine.

"Do not weep," he pleaded; "but look up and bless me with one smile, one word. Do you love me a little in return for all I feel? Can you love me entirely some day?"

I looked up and my eyes met his. "You know; you are sure. Why ask that?"

I whispered. "There has never been a time since I was a little girl that I have not loved you; first as my kind, kind guardian, then as the being _she_ loved better than anything on earth, and now--"

"Now as your own husband!" he exclaimed, folding me close to his bosom, and pressing kisses upon my lips. "Oh, my darling, you have made me completely happy."

In twenty different ways he told me of his happiness, his love, and the sweet necessity there was for my presence in his life. At first it seemed impossible for me to believe him; but after a while my heart received the full conviction of his love, and settled down into that fulness of content which makes some one hour of every human life a heaven.

As we sat together, with the twilight gathering around us, the curtains falling over the recess of the window rustled apart, and Jessie came through them. Her father did not move, but looked up smiling. I felt a flood of crimson burn across my face. She looked at him a moment, then at me, but obtained only a timid glance in return: it was enough. She bent down and kissed me with affectionate warmth; then disappeared quietly as she had come, leaving me the happiest mortal that G.o.d ever blessed.

One week from that day two weddings were solemnized in that house; but only one couple went away. That home was too dear for any thoughts of fashionable travel with us.

The last year of the war we took a trip to the White Mountains, and made some stay at New York on our return home. Having nothing special to occupy us, one evening we joined a party from the hotel, and went to hear a reading from the poets, to be given at a public hall in Broadway. It so happened that no one mentioned the name of the reader, and we had not thought enough about the matter to inquire.

The hall was full of what seemed to be persons from the upper cla.s.ses, and some little excitement prevailed, as if there was a peculiar interest taken either in the subject or reader. This aroused our curiosity a little, and we waited with more than usual impatience for the lady to appear.

She came at last from the side platform, a radiantly beautiful woman, with the air of an empress. Her black lace dress, richly flounced, swept the floor; her white neck was exposed, and her superb arms uncovered to the shoulder. A cl.u.s.ter of scarlet flowers glowed in her hair and on her bosom. My heart gave one bound, and settled back with a sickening recoil.

It was Mrs. Dennison.

She approached the reading-desk, rested her hand upon the volume that lay upon it, and looked around upon the audience. Her eyes fell upon us.

She recoiled a step; a flash of red shot across her face. But instantly she resumed her former position, looked steadily in our faces, and then quietly allowed her eyes to pa.s.s over the crowd.

While her hand rested on the book, a cry broke over us from the street.

Some newsboy, shouting as he sped along, sent his voice ringing through the open doors:

"Further particulars of the battle of the Wilderness! Death of Colonel Lawrence!"

The woman heard this cry. Her hand fell heavily away from the book--her face grew livid under the gas-lights--she staggered, and fell to the floor.

THE END.