West Lawn, and The rector of St. Mark's

“He was very white, and his voice trembled, while his eyes had in them the far-off look I had once or twice observed before.

“‘There are some things in our family history,’ he began, ‘which I shall omit, as they have nothing in particular to do with Anna and myself. For instance, you know, perhaps, that we once lived at West Lawn in different circumstances from what mother is living in now, and that we suddenly sold the place, purchasing a smaller one, and living in a cheaper, plainer way. Why we did this I need not say, except that Anna was in no way connected with it.

“‘She was my adopted sister; and she came to us when only six years old. I was twelve, as was my twin-brother Robert. He went from us years ago, and has never been heard from since. We fear he is dead, and the uncertainty is killing my mother. I shall soon be all alone. But I was telling you of Anna, who grew so fast into our hearts, my brother and I quarrelling for the honor of drawing her to school. This was in her childhood, but as she grew older Robert professed to care less for her than I. “She was a doll-baby,” he said; “a compound of red and white, and yellow curls.” He would not even acknowledge that she was beautiful, but said she could not compare with the maidens of New York, where he went to live when Anna was fourteen and we were twenty. His coldness troubled me at first, but when I came to think of her as something dearer than a sister, I was glad that he so seldom came to Morrisville, for he was far finer-looking than I am. Put us side by side, and nineteen out of twenty would have given him the preference. But he did not care for Anna, and when she was sixteen I asked her to be my wife. It was here, too, Dora, on this very bench, where you are sitting with me, and it was eleven years ago this very day.

“‘Something most always happens to me on this day—something which leaves its impress on my mind. One year ago we went to that picnic by the lake. Do you remember it, Dora?’

“‘Yes,” I gasped, while my cheeks burned painfully. ‘Yes, but go on with Anna.’

“He was silent a moment, and then continued:

“‘We were in the habit of coming here to sit, she little dreaming how near we were to the spot of earth where she would ere long be lying. I have told you that I asked her to be my wife, but I have not told you how much I loved her, for I did—oh, so much, so much! And she was worthy of my love. Whatever happened afterward she was worthy then. You have seen her picture. It hardly does her justice, for no artist can ever give a correct idea of what that face was when lighted up with life, and health, and love. I have never seen a face one half as beautiful as Anna’s. She knew that she was beautiful, but it did not make her vain, for she knew that God had given her the dangerous gift of beauty, and she tried to keep His gift unsullied, just as she tried to keep her heart pure in His sight. I cannot think of a single fault she had unless it were that she sometimes lacked decision, and was too easily swayed by those in whom she had confidence. But in all essential points she was right, serving God with her whole soul, and dedicating herself early to His service.’

“‘Then why,’ I exclaimed, ‘when Robin asked if she was in heaven sure, why did you hesitate to tell him yes?’

“A look of pain contracted his features as he replied:

“‘I am speaking of Anna as she was when I asked her to be my wife. We read of angels falling,—then why not a mortal man? though Heaven knows that I cannot fully believe that Anna fell. I could not live if I believed it. Mother’s religious creed and mine differ in one point, although we profess the same holy faith. To me a child of God is a child forever, just as no act of mine can make me cease to be my mother’s son. But to go on. I loved her with my whole soul, and I told her so, while for a moment she made no reply, except to lay her head upon my arm and weep. Then lifting up her eyes she said she was too young to know her own mind yet; that she loved me, and always had,—like a brother at first, but latterly in a different way, and if I would not require her to be my wife at once, and would promise to release her should she ever come to think that she could not be mine, she would answer yes. And so we were engaged.

“‘After that I seemed to tread on air, so happy and so full of anticipation was my whole being. I had been graduated the previous year, and I was then a student in Dr. Lincoln’s office, but I boarded at home, and saw Anna every day, counting the hours from the time I left her in the morning until I returned late in the afternoon to our fashionable dinner, for we observed such matters then. I shut my eyes at times, and those days come back again, bringing with them Anna as she used to look when she came out to meet me, her curls falling about her childish face, and her white robes giving her the look of an angel. I loved her too much. I almost placed her before Him who has declared He will have no idols there, and so I was terribly punished. We were to be married on her twentieth birthday, and until about a year previous to that time I had not the shadow of a suspicion that Anna’s love was not wholly my own. I well remember the time, a dreary, rainy autumn day, when she came into my room, and leaning one hand on my shoulder, parted my hair with the other, as she was wont to do.

“‘“Richard,” she began, “isn’t it just as wicked to act a lie as it is to tell one?”

“‘“I supposed it was,” I said, and she continued:

“‘“Then you won’t be angry when I tell you what I must. I was very young when I promised to be your wife, and I am afraid I did not quite know what I was doing. I love you dearly, Richard, but you seem more like my brother; and, Richard, don’t turn so white and tremble so,—I shall marry you if you wish it; but please don’t, oh! don’t—”

“‘She was weeping bitterly now,—was on her knees before me, my Anna, my promised wife. I had thought her low-spirited for some days, but had no thought of this, and the shock was a terrible one. I could not, however, see her so disturbed, when I had the power to relieve her, and after talking with her calmly, dispassionately, I released her from the engagement and she was free. I did not even hint at the possibility of her learning to love me in time, because I fancied she would be more apt to do so if wholly untrammelled; but that hope alone kept my heart from breaking during the wretched weeks which followed, and in which Anna’s health seemed failing, and her low spirits to increase. A change of air was proposed, and she was sent to Boston, where my mother has relatives. It was on the eve of the new year when she came back to us, with a white, scared look upon her face, which became at last habitual, making it painful to look at her, she appeared so nervous and frightened. It was as if some great terror were continually haunting her, or some mighty secret, which it was death to divulge and worse than death to cover up. I supposed it to be a fear of what I might require of her, and so I said to her one day that if the thing preying upon her mind was a dread lest I should seek to make her my wife, she might put that aside, as I should not annoy her in that way.

“‘Never to my last hour shall I forget the look in her eyes,—a look so full of anguish and remorse, that I turned away, for I could not meet it.

“‘“O, Richard,” she moaned, drawing back so I could not touch her, “you don’t know how wretched I am. It almost seems as if God had forgotten that I did try to serve Him, Richard. What is the unpardonable sin? Is it to deceive?”

“‘I thought she referred to her relations with me, and I tried to soothe her agitation, telling her she had not deceived me; that she had told me frankly how she felt; that she was wholly truthful and blameless.

“‘With a cry which smote cruelly on my ear, she exclaimed:

“‘“No, no, you kill me! Don’t talk so! I am not blameless; but, oh! I don’t know what to do! Tell me, Richard, tell me, which is worse, to deceive, or break a solemn vow?”

“‘I had no idea what she meant, and without directly answering her questions I tried to quiet her, but it was a useless task. She only wrung her hands and sobbed more passionately, saying God had cast her off, and she was lost forever. This seemed to be the burden of her grief for many days, and then she settled down into a stony calm, more terrible than her stormy mood had been, because it was more hopeless. She did not talk to us now except to answer questions in monosyllables, and would sit all day by the window of her chamber, looking afar off as if in quest of some one who never came.

“We thought when she came home that we had as much as we could bear, for a domestic calamity had overtaken us, involving both ruin and disgrace, unless it were promptly met; but in our concern for Anna, we forgot the other trouble, else we had fainted beneath the rod. At last the asylum was recommended, and the first of March we carried her there, taking every precaution that her treatment should be the kindest and most considerate.”

“‘How long ago was that?’ I asked, starting suddenly, as a memory of the past swept over me.

“‘Seven years,’ he replied, and I continued:

“‘Was it in Utica? If so, I must have seen her, for seven years this summer Mrs. Randall and I visited a schoolmate in Utica, and one day we went from curiosity to the lunatic asylum, but I did not see a face like Anna’s in the portrait. Oh yes,’ and I started again, ‘I remember now a young girl with the most beautiful golden hair, but her face was resting on the window-sill, and she would neither look up nor answer my questions,—that was Anna,’ and in my excitement I could scarcely control myself to listen, while Richard continued:

“‘It is possible, and seems like her, as she would not answer any one.

“‘Every two weeks mother and I visited her, but after the first time she never spoke to us; but tried to hide away where we could not see her. She gave them no trouble whatever, as she seldom left her chair by the window, where she sat the live-long day, looking westward, just as she did at home. She had written one letter, they said, and when we asked to whom, the matron could only remember that she believed it was to California, adding that the attendant who then took the letters to the office had sickened since and died. It was to some imaginary person, no doubt, she said, and so that subject was dismissed by my mother, but I could not so soon forget it, and when next I visited her, I said abruptly:

“‘“Anna, what correspondent have you in California?”

“‘Instantly her face was pallid with fear, and she fell at my feet senseless. This was a mystery upon which I dwelt day and night, finding no solution whatever to it, and forgetting it at last as the terrible tragedy drew to a close.

“‘Late in July mother went again to visit Anna, and when she returned her hair was almost as white as you now see it, while her whole appearance was indicative of some great, crushing sorrow which had fallen suddenly upon her. Anna had asked to be taken home, she said,—had fallen on her knees, and clasping her dress had kissed it abjectly, crying piteously, “Home, mother; take poor Anna home; let her die there.”

“‘It was the first time she had spoken to us in months, and we could not refuse. So she came,—the seventh day of August,—travelling by railroad to the station, and coming the remainder of the way in our carriage. Her last fancy was that she could not walk, and I met her at our gate, carrying her into the house—and upstairs to her old room, which had been made ready for her. As I laid her upon the bed, she clasped her arms tightly round my neck, and whispered, “God has forgiven me, Richard, will you?”

“‘I kissed her, and then went down to mother, who needed my services more than Anna, and who lay all that evening on the lounge as white and rigid as stone. The next day I saw a good deal of Anna, and hope whispered that she was getting better. The scared, wild look was gone, and a bright, beautiful color burned upon her cheeks. Her hair, which had been cut, was growing out again more luxuriant than ever, and curled in short ringlets about her head. She talked a little, too, asking if we had ever heard from Robert, and bidding me tell him, when he came back, that she spoke kindly of him before she died. This was the eighth. The next day was her birthday, the one fixed upon for our bridal. I do not know if she remembered it, but I thought of nothing else as the warm, still hours glided by, and to myself I said it may be some other day. Anna is better. Anna will get well. Alas! I little dreamed of the scathing blow in store for me; the frightful storm which was to rage so fiercely round me, and whose approach was heralded by the arrival of Dr. Lincoln, who had been there before, holding private consultations with my mother, and looking, when he came from them, stern, perplexed, mysterious, and sorry.

“‘Dora, you know what all this portended, but you do not know, neither can you begin to guess, how heavy,—how full of agony was the blow which awaited me, when just at nightfall I came up from the office where I had been for several hours. “Anna was dying.” This was the message which greeted me in the hall, and like lightning I fled up the stairs, meeting on the upper landing with my mother, who had grown old twenty years since morning.

“‘“Richard, my boy, my poor boy, can you bear it? have they told you? do you know?”

“‘“Yes,” I said, “Anna is dying. I must see her; let me go,” and I tore away from the hands which would have held me back until I was to some extent prepared.

“‘I did not heed her voice, for through the half-closed door I caught a glimpse of Anna. She saw me, too, and her hand was beckoning. I was half-way across the room, when a sound met my ear which took all consciousness away, and for the next three hours I was insensible to pain. Then came the horrid waking, but the blow had stunned me so, I neither felt nor realized as I did afterwards. I went straight to Anna, for she was asking for me, she from whom the rest stood aloof as from a polluted thing. Through all the horror she had never spoken a word, or made the slightest sound, and this suppression of feeling was hastening her end. Nothing but the words, “Tell Richard to come,” had passed her lips since, and when I went to her she could only whisper faintly, “Forgive me, Richard. It’s all right, but I promised not to tell. It’s right, it’s right.” Then she continued, entreatingly, “Let me lay my head on your arm as it used to lie, and kiss me once in token of forgiveness.”

“‘Dora, you are a woman, and women judge their sex more harshly than we do, but you would not have had me refuse that dying request?’

“‘I should hate you if you had,’ I sobbed, while he continued:

“‘Mother made a motion of dissent. She was casting a stone, but I did not heed her. I lifted Anna up; I held her on my bosom; I pushed away the clustering curls; I kissed the quivering lips sueing for forgiveness and assuring me all was right. I forgave her then and there as I hoped to be forgiven; I said I would care for her baby; I received her last injunction; I kept her in my arms until the last fleeting breath went out, and when I laid her back upon the pillow she was dead!

“‘Death wipes out many a stain, and Anna, by her dying, threw over the past a veil of charity, which only a few of the coarser, unfeeling ones ever tried to rend. There was gossip and talk, and wonder, and pity, and surmise, and something suspicious thrown upon me, the more readily as people generally did not know that our engagement had been broken; but I outlived it all, and when, three months after Anna died, I rose from a sick-bed, and went forth among people again, they gave me only sympathy and friendly words, never mentioning either Anna or Robin in my presence.

“‘During that sickness, my opinion with regard to the practice of medicine underwent a change, and greatly to the horror of good old Dr. Lincoln, with whom I studied, I became a homœopathist. This furnished me with an excuse for leaving Morrisville, as I wished to investigate that mode of treatment, and gain every possible information from physicians whom I knew to be intelligent and thorough. I went first to New York, and after a few months commenced my new practice in Boston; thence, as you know, I went to Beechwood. Once I hoped mother might be persuaded to go with me, but she said:

“‘“I would rather stay here, where people know all about it. I could not bear to be questioned concerning Robin.”

“‘Women are different from men; it takes them longer to rise above anything like disgrace, and mother has never been what she was before Anna’s death. She came in time to love Robin dearly, but his misfortune added to her grief, until her cup seemed more than full. Her health is failing rapidly, and a change of place is necessary. For a long time past I have had it in my mind to sell the cottage and take mother to Beechwood. A friend of mine stands ready to purchase at any time. I saw him two hours since, and to-morrow the papers will be drawn which will deprive us of our home.’

“‘And your mother!’ I exclaimed, ‘will she go to Beechwood?’

“‘Not at present. Not until she is better, Dora. I am going with mother to California as soon as I can arrange my affairs at home. I may not return for a long time, certainly not for a year.’

“There was a tremulousness in the tone of his voice as he told me this, while to me the world seemed changed, and I felt how desolate his going would leave me. Still I made no comment, and after a moment he continued:

“‘And now, Dora, comes the part which to me is most important of all. Men do not often lay bare their secrets except to one they love! It has cost me a great effort to go over the past, and talk to you of Anna, but I felt that I must do it. I must tell you that the heart I would offer you has on its surface a scar, but, Dora, only a scar; believe me, only a scar. It does not quicken now one pulse the faster when I remember Anna, who was to have been my wife. I loved her. I lost her; and were she back just as she used to be, and I knew you as I know you now, I should give you the preference. You are not as beautiful as Anna, but you are better suited to my taste,—you better meet the requirements of my maturer manhood. I cannot tell when my love for you began. I was interested in you from the first. I have watched and pitied you these four years, wishing often that I could lighten the load you bore so uncomplainingly, and when you came away this time, life was so dreary and monotonous that I said to myself, “Whether Dora hears of Anna or not, I’ll tell her when she returns, and ask her to be my wife.” At first I was a very coward in the matter, and cautioned mother against revealing anything, but afterward thought differently. If you are to be mine, there should be no concealments of that nature, and so I have told you all, giving you leave to repeat it if you please. There is one person whom I would particularly like to know it, and that is Jessie Verner.’

“The mention of that name was unfortunate, for it roused the demon of jealousy, and when he continued:

“‘Dora, will you be my wife? Will you give me a right to think of and love you during the time I am absent?’

“I answered pettishly:

“‘If I say no, would you not be easily consoled with Jessie? You seem to admire her very much.’

“While he was talking to me he had risen, and now he was leaning against the iron fence, where he could look me directly in the face, and where I, too, could see him. As I spoke of Jessie, an amused expression flitted over his features, succeeded by one more serious as he replied:

“‘I never supposed Jessie could be won even if I wished to win her, but now that I am at the confessional, I will say that next to yourself Jessie Verner attracts and pleases me more than any one with whom I have met since Anna died. There is about her a life and sparkle which would put to rout a whole regiment of blues, while her great kindness to mother and Robin show her to be a true, genuine woman at heart. I have seen but little of her. I admire her greatly, and had I never met you, Dora, I might have turned to Jessie. Surely this should not make you jealous.’

“I knew it should not, but I think I must have been crazy; certainly I was in a most perverse, unreasonable mood, and I answered:

“‘I am not jealous, but I have seen your great admiration for Jessie, and if on so short an acquaintance you like her almost as well as you do me, whom you have known for years, it would not take long for you to like her better, so I think it wise for you to wait until you know your mind.’

“I wonder he did not leave me at once; he did move away quickly, saying:

“‘It is not like you, Dora, to trifle thus. You either love me or you do not. I cannot give you up willingly. You are tired, weak, excited, and you need not answer me now, though I hoped for something different. I shall think of you, love you, pray for you, while I am gone, and possibly write to you; then, when I return, I shall repeat the question of to-day, and ask you again to be my wife.’

“He was perfectly collected now, and something in his manner awed me into silence. The sun had already set, and the night dews beginning to fall. He was the first to notice it, and with tender care he drew my shawl a second time about my neck, and then taking my arm in his, led me away from Anna’s grave out into the streets, where more than one turned to look inquiringly after us, whispering their surmise that we were really engaged.

“He stayed in Morrisville three days after that, and Mattie invited him to tea, with Judge Verner’s family and Dr. Lincoln. He came, as I knew he would, but the judge and the doctor kept him so constantly talking of homœopathy that I hardly saw him at all till just as he was going, when he held my hand in his own and looked into my eyes so kindly that I could scarcely keep back the tears which would have told him that I loved him now, and he need not wait a year. A bad headache had prevented Bell from coming, and as the judge was called away on business, the doctor walked home with Jessie, while I watched them as far as I could see, feeling myself grow hot and angry when I saw how Jessie leaned upon his arm, and looked up in his face as confidingly as a child.

“Remembering that he wished her to know of Anna, I tried one day to tell her, but she knew it already from Mrs. West, and exonerated Richard from all blame. She is at the cottage a great deal, and Mattie thinks her greatly interested in Dr. West. I wish he had not said that next to me he preferred Jessie, for it haunts me continually, and makes me very unamiable.”

“‘Come immediately. Madge is very sick, and cannot possibly live.

This is the telegram which I received this morning, and to-morrow I am going to poor Margaret. God grant she may not be dead! Dear sister, what would I not give if I had never written those dreadful things of her in my journal. Poor Margaret! her married life has not been very happy with all those children born so fast, and if she lives how much I will love her to make amends for the past. My trunks are packed and standing in the hall, and I am looking, for the last time it may be, on the woods and hills of Morrisville, where the moonlight is falling so softly. I can see a little of the cemetery in the distance, and I know where Anna’s grave is so well. I have been there but once since that day, and then I found Jessie with Mrs. West planting flowers over Robin. Mrs. West loves that young girl, and so do I, in spite of what the doctor said; but she does shock me with her boyish, thoughtless manners, actually whistling John Brown as she dug in the yellow dirt. Jessie is a queer compound. She and her father and Bell are going on with me to Saratoga. Oh, if Dr. West could be there too, he would cure Margaret. I have been half tempted to telegraph, but finally concluded that brother John would do so if desirable. Poor John! what will he do if he is left alone? and does Jessie remember the foolish thing she said about his second wife? I trust not, for that would be terrible, and Margaret not yet dead.

“My heart will surely break unless I unburden it to some one, and so I come to you, my journal, to pour out my grief. Margaret is dead; and all around, the gay world is unchanged; the song and the dance go on the same as if in No.—there were no rigid form, no pale Margaret gone forever,—no wretched husband weeping over her,—no motherless little children left alone so early.

“It was seven when we reached Saratoga, and I stepped from the car into the noisy, jostling crowd which Judge Verner pushed hither and thither in his frantic efforts to find his baggage, and secure an omnibus. How sick of fashionable life it made me, to see the throng upon the sidewalks and in front of the hotels, as we drove along the streets, and how anxiously I looked up at all the upper windows as we stopped before the Clarendon, saying to myself, ‘Is this Margaret’s room, or that?’

“I knew there was a group of men on the piazza, and remembering how curiously new-comers are inspected, I drew my veil before my face and was following Judge Verner, when Jessie suddenly exclaimed, ‘Perfectly splendid!’ and the next moment my hand was grasped by Dr. West. He was waiting for us, he said; he expected us on that train, and was staying downstairs to meet us.

“‘And Margaret?’ I asked, clinging to his arm, and throwing off my veil so I could see his face.

“‘Your sister is very sick,’ he replied, ‘but your coming will do her good. She keeps asking for you. I arrived yesterday, starting as soon as I received your brother’s telegram. Johnnie is nearly distracted, and nothing but my telling him I was sure you would prefer to have him remain at home, was of the least avail to keep him from coming with me.

“All this he told me while we waited in the reception-room for the keys to our apartments.

“‘It is very crowded here,’ he said, ‘but by a little engineering I believe you are all comfortably provided for. Your room especially,’ and he nodded to me, ‘is the most desirable in the building.’

“I did not then know he had given it up to me, going himself into a little hot attic chamber. Kind, generous Richard, you are a great comfort to me these dreadful days. As he had said, my own room was every way desirable, but I only gave it at first a hasty glance, so anxious was I to get to Margaret. She knew I had come, and was asking continually for me. How sadly she was changed from the Margaret who stood upon the piazza and said good-by one morning last June. The long curls were all brushed back, and the blue eyes looked so large, so unnaturally bright, as they turned eagerly to me, and yet I liked her face better than ever before. There was less of self stamped upon it, and more of kindly interest in others.

“‘Dora, darling sister,’ was all she said, as she wound her arms about my neck, but never since my childhood had she called me by so endearing a title, and I felt springing up in my heart a love mightier than any I had ever felt for her, while with it came a keen remorse for the harsh things written against my dying sister.

“I knew she was dying; not that instant, perhaps, but that soon, very soon, she would be gone, for there was upon her face the same pinched look I had seen on father and Robin just before the great destroyer came.

“‘Dora,’ she whispered at last, ‘I am so glad you are here. I was afraid I might never see you again, and I wanted so much to tell you how sorry I am for the past. I did not make your home with me as happy as I might. Forgive me, Dora. I worried you and John so much. He says I never did, but I know better. I’ve thought it all over, lying here, and I know you cannot be so sorry to have me die as I should if it were you.’

“I tried to stop her,—tried to say that I had been happy with her,—but she would not listen, and talked on, telling me next of the little life which had looked for half an hour upon this world, and then floated away to the next.

“‘I called it Dora for you,’ she said, ‘for something told me that I should die, and I thought you might love baby better if she bore your name. But I am glad she died; it makes your burden less: for Dora, you will be my children’s mother,—you will care for them.’

“I thought of Dr. West, and the year which divided us, but I answered, ‘Yes, I will care for the children;’ and then, to stop her talking, I was thinking of leaving her, when Jessie’s voice was heard in the hall, speaking to the chamber-maid.

“‘Who is that?’ Margaret asked, her old expression coming back and settling down into a hard, unpleasant expression, when I replied:

“‘That’s Jessie Verner. The family came with me, or rather I came with them. You know her; she was here a few weeks since.’

“‘The dreadful girl! Why, Dora, she whistles, and romps with the dog, and talks to the gentlemen, and goes down the sidewalk hip-pi-ti-hop, and up the stairs two at a time; and joked with John about being his second wife right before me! Actually, Dora, right before me!’ and Margaret’s voice was highly indicative of her horror at this last-named sin of Jessie’s.

“‘It was better to joke before you than when you were absent. Jessie is at least frank and open-hearted,’ I said, but Margaret would not hear a word in her favor, so deeply prejudiced had she become against the young girl, who half an hour later inquired for her with much concern, and asked if she might see her.

“‘I did not know,’ I said, ‘I’d ask.’

“‘Never, Dora, never!’ and Margaret’s lips shut firmly. ‘That terrible girl see me! No, indeed!’ and in this she persisted to the last, Dr. West telling Jessie that he did not think it best for her to call on Mrs. Russell, as it might disturb her.

“That night, tired as Jessie was, she danced like a top in the drawing-room, meeting many acquaintances, and winning a host of male admirers by her frankness and originality. Next morning I counted upon her table as many as six bouquets, the finest of which she begged me carry Margaret, with her compliments.

“Margaret was weaker this morning than she had been the previous night, but her eyes lighted up with a gleam of pleasure when I appeared with the flowers, and she involuntarily raised her hand to take them.

“‘Miss Jessie sent them,’ I said, and instantly they dropped from Margaret’s grasp, while she exclaimed:

“‘That dreadful girl? Put them out of my sight. They make me sick. I can’t endure it!’

“So I put the poor discarded flowers away in the children’s room, and then went back to Margaret, who kept me by her the live-long day, talking of the years gone by, of our dead parents, and finally of the rapidly coming time when she would be dead like them. Then she spoke of Johnnie and the little boys at home, and gave to me messages of love, with sundry injunctions to mind whatever I might tell them. Remembering Johnnie’s letter, in which he had expressed so much contrition for the saucy words said to her when he did battle for me, I told her of his grief and his desire that I should do so. Margaret was beautiful then, with the great mother-love shining out upon her face, as with quivering lip she bade me tell the repentant boy how she forgave him all the past, and only thought of him as her eldest-born and pride.

“‘And, Dora, when I’m dead, cut off some of my curls, and give the longest, the brightest to Johnnie.’

“I assented with tears, and received numerous other directions until my brain was in a whirl, so much seemed depending upon me.

“Hovering constantly over and around her was brother John, doing everything so clumsily and yet so kindly, that Margaret did hot send him from her until the day was closing. Then as I came back to her after a short absence, during which I had gone with Bell and Jessie to the Congress Spring, she said to him softly:

“‘Now leave me with Dora.’

“He obeyed silently, and I fancied there was a flush upon his cheek as he closed the door upon us. All thought of that, however, was forgotten in Margaret’s question:

“‘Dora, are you engaged?’

“How I started, standing upon my feet, so that from the window I saw Dr. West leaning against a tree, and talking to Jessie, who sat with Bell upon the piazza. I thought she referred to him, and I answered her no, wondering the while if it was a falsehood I told her.

“‘I am glad,’ she said, reaching for my hand. ‘When I heard he was at his sister’s in Morrisville, I thought it might end in an engagement, particularly as he admired you so much when he visited us last summer.’

“I knew now that she was talking of Lieutenant Reed, and that no suspicion of my love for Dr. West had ever crossed her mind, and so I listened, while she continued:

“‘I told you last night that you must be my children’s mother, and you promised that you would. Tell me so again, Dora. Say that no one else shall come between you, and if, in after years, children of your own shall climb your lap, and cling about your neck, love mine still for your dead sister’s sake. Promise, Dora.’

“For an instant there flashed upon my mind a thought, the reality of which would prove a living death, and in that interval I felt all the sickening anguish which would surely come upon me were I to take her place in everything. But she did not mean that. She could not doom me to such a fate, and so when she said to me again faintly, oh! so faintly, while the perspiration stood on her white lips, and her cold hand clasped mine pleadingly, ‘Promise, Dora, to be my children’s mother.’

“I answered, ‘Yes, I will care for and be to them a mother.’

“‘You make me so happy,’ she replied; ‘for, Dora,’ and her dim eyes flashed indignantly, ‘you may say it was all in a jest, but I know that dreadful whistling girl meant more than half she said. She fancied John, and sometimes I thought he fancied her. Dora, I should rise out of my grave to have her there, in my room, riding in my carriage, sporting my diamonds, and using my dresses, the whistling hoyden!’

“I shed tears of repentance over Margaret’s dead body for the merry laugh I could not repress at the mere idea of her being jealous of Jessie Verner, who was only eighteen years of age, while brother John was almost forty. My laugh disturbed her, and so I forced it back, going at her request for John, who, when next we met alone, stroked my hair kindly, saying to me:

“‘You are a good girl, Dora, to make Madge so easy about the children.’

“Again that torturing fear ran like a sharp knife through every nerve, and hurrying on to the farther end of the long hall, I sat down upon the floor and wept bitterly as I thought, ‘What if Margaret did mean that I should some time be his wife. Am I bound by a promise to do so?’

“From the busy street below came up a hum of voices, among which I recognized the clear, musical tones of Dr. West, while there stole over me a mad desire to fly to him at once, to throw myself into his arms and ask him to save me from I knew not what, unless it were the white-faced sister going so fast from our midst. And while I sat there crouching upon the floor, Jessie came tripping down the hall, her bright face all aglow with excitement, but changing its expression when she saw and recognized me.

“‘Poor Dora!’ she whispered, kneeling beside me and pressing her warm cheek against my own; ‘I am so sorry for you. It must be dreadful to lose one’s sister. Why, only this afternoon, when I was talking and laughing with those young men downstairs, whom I can’t endure, only I like to have them after me, I was thinking of you, and the tears came into my eyes as I tried to fancy how I should feel if Bell were dying here. Death seems more terrible, don’t it, when it comes to such a place as this, where there is so much vanity, and emptiness, and fashion? I have been saying so to Dr. West, who talked to me so Christian-like. Oh! I wish I was as good as Dr. West! I should not then be afraid to lie where your sister does, and go out from this world alone in the night, leaving you all behind. Is she afraid, do you think?’

“I did not know, and I answered only with a choking sob, as I gazed up into the clear evening sky, where the myriads of stars were shining, and thought of the father and mother already gone, wondering if we should one day all meet again, an unbroken family. For a long time we sat there, I listening while Jessie talked as I had not thought it possible for her to talk. There was more to her even than to Bell I began to realize, wishing Margaret might live to have her prejudice removed. But that could not be. Even then the dark-winged messenger was on his way, stealing noiselessly into the crowded house and gliding past the gay throng, each one of which would some day be sent for thus. Up the winding stair he went and through the upper halls until Margaret’s room was reached, and there he entered. Dr. West was the first to detect his presence, knowing he was there by the peculiar shadow cast by his dark wing upon the ghastly face and by the fluttering of the feeble pulse; and Margaret knew it next, and asked for me and the children.

“I was sitting with Jessie at the window, watching the glittering stars, when a step came hurriedly towards us, and Dr. West’s voice said to me, pityingly:

“‘Dora, your sister has sent for you. I believe she is dying.’

“I had expected she would die,—had said I was prepared to meet it; but now when it came it was a sudden blow, and as I rose to my feet I uttered a moaning cry, which made the doctor lay his hand on my head, while, unmindful of Jessie’s presence, he passed one arm round my waist, and so led me on to where the husband and the children wept around the dying wife and mother. The waltzing had commenced in the parlor below, and strain after strain of the stirring music came in through the open windows, making us shudder and grow faint, for standing there, with death in our midst, the song and the dance were sadly out of place. For a moment I missed the doctor from my side, and afterwards I heard how a few well-chosen words from him had sufficed to stop the revellers, who silently dispersed, some to the other hotels, where there was no dying-bed, some to the cool piazzas, where in hushed tones they talked together of Margaret, and others to their rooms, thinking, as Jessie had done, how much more terrible was death at such a place as this, than when it came into the quiet bedchamber of home. And the great hotel was silent at last, every guest respecting the sorrow falling so heavily on a few, and even the servants in the kitchen catching the pervading spirit, and speaking only in whispers as they kept on with their labor. And up in Margaret’s room it was quiet, too, as we watched the life going out slowly, very slowly, so that the twinkling lights were gone from the many windows, and the nuns in the convent across the street had ceased to tell their beads ere the chamber-maid in our hall leaned over the bannisters, and whispered to a chamber-maid below, ‘The lady is dead.’

“There had been a last word, and it was spoken to me, ringing in my ears for hours after the stiffening limbs were straightened, and the covering laid over the still, white face of her who said them.

“‘Remember your promise, Dora,—your promise to your dead sister.’

“Yes. I would remember it, as I understood it, I said to myself, hugging little Daisy in my arms, and soothing her back to the sleep which had been broken that her mother might kiss her once more. And while I cared for Daisy, Jessie cared for Margaret, just as she had for Robin. Jessie was a blessing to us then, and we could not well have done without her. Bell, though ten years older, was helpless as a child, while her young sister ordered all, thought of all, even to the bereaved husband sobbing so long by the side of his lost wife. In the gray dawn of the morning, as I passed the room, I saw her standing by him, and knew she was comforting him, for her small hand was smoothing his hair as if he had been her father. Involuntarily I looked to see if from the dead there came no sign of disapprobation; but no, the wife was lying there so still, while Jessie comforted the husband.

“They have put Margaret in her coffin; it is fifteen hours since she died, and to-morrow we shall go with her back to the home she left a few weeks since, and whither a telegram has preceded us telling them of our loss. Jessie would gladly accompany me, but I do not think it best, neither does Bell, and so she will remain behind, and visit me in the winter with her sister. I shall need her then so much, for the world will be doubly lonely,—Margaret gone, and the California sun shining down on Richard. Do I love him now? Yes, oh yes, and I am not ashamed to confess it here on paper, while more than once I have wished so much to tell it to him,—wished he would ask me again what he did by Anna’s grave, and I would not answer angrily, jealously as then. I would say to him:

“‘Wait, Richard, a little time till Margaret’s children are a few years older, and then I will be yours, caring still for the little ones as I promised I would.’

“But he gives me no chance, and talks with Jessie and Bell far more than he does with me. He is going with us to Beechwood, and then in a few weeks’ time he too, will be gone, and I left all alone. Oh, if he would but give me a right to think of, and talk of him as of one who was to be my husband, that terrible something would not haunt me as it does, neither should I ask myself so constantly:

“‘Did Margaret mean anything more than that as a mother I should care for her children?’”