"Call Mrs. Peters," he said, and when that matron came, he bade her give to the invalid every possible care.
Slowly Miss Porter came back to life, but it was only to faint again, and with each fainting fit it became more and more apparent that life was ebbing fast. They did not say to Rosamond that she would die, but they told it to Mr. Browning, who heard as one who hears not. Every other sensation seemed to have given place to a feeling of horror, and when at the close of the second day word came to him that she _was dying_, and had asked to see him, he arose mechanically and walked to her sick room as calmly as he had visited it the previous night, when he knew she was asleep. One glance, however, at her white face and wild bright eyes roused him to the reality, and bending over her pillow, he forced himself to take her hand in his, saying kindly, "Marie, do you know me?"
"Know you? Yes," she answered. "You are my husband--my husband." She lingered upon that name as if its sound recalled to life some olden feeling--some memory of Holly Wood, where they first had met.
"Marie, you are dying," he continued. "Shall we part in anger, or in peace?"
"In peace, if you will," she answered. "I have had my revenge--but it is _not_ sweet as some say it is. I would rather, Ralph, that I had never known you, for then I should not have been the wicked wretch I am."
Mr. Browning did not reply to this, and for a few moments there was silence, during which she seemed to sleep. Rousing up ere long, she gasped for breath, and grasping nervously her husband"s hand, she whispered, "I am going now--there"s no sham this time--five minutes more, and you are free to marry Rosamond. Be kind to her, Ralph. Deal with her not as you dealt with me, and--and--come closer to me, Ralph.
Let me whisper this last so as no one can hear."
He bent him down to listen, and summoning all her strength, she said, not in a whisper, but in tones which echoed through the silent room-- "NEVER, NEVER STRIKE ROSAMOND, WILL YOU?"
Rapidly the story circulated that the strange woman who lay dead at Riverside had been Ralph Browning"s wife, and hundreds flocked to the funeral, hoping to gain a view of the deceased. But in this they were disappointed, for there was nothing visible, save the handsome coffin, on whose silver plate was inscribed the word "MARIE."
Some said that "Browning" might have been added to the name, and while others marvelled that the husband wore no badge of mourning, a few said wisely that the _mourning_ was visible in other than the usual signs--in the hair gray before its time, and in the deep-cut lines which a _living_ sorrow alone had made. And so, amid surmises of the past and foretellings of the future, the ill-fated Marie was laid in the village vault, until word could be received from her old uncle, who might wish to have her rest among the balmy groves and fragrant flowers of her beautiful Florida home.
And now our story winds to its close. Ralph Browning was free indeed, but death had been at Riverside, and the shadow it had left must disappear ere he took to himself a second bride. Rosamond, too, must recover from the blow which had fallen so crushingly on her--must learn to confide again in the man she loved--to think of the great wrong he had done her as the result of an early, boyish error, which he regretted even more bitterly than herself.
And so the warm spring rains had fallen and the April blossoms were bursting from the dark, moist earth ere the wedding morning came. At the bridal there was no satin dress--no orange wreath--no flowing veil--but there was perfect love shining in the beautiful brown eyes of the girlish bride, while the fine face of the bridegroom wore a look of perfect happiness, as if the past were all forgotten, and the world was bright and new. Europe was still their destination, and among those who accompanied them to New York, going with them even to the vessel"s deck, none bade them a more affectionate adieu than Mrs.
Van Vechten herself. She had spent a part of the winter at Riverside, and had learned to appreciate the gentle girl who she knew was to be her brother"s wife.
Ben, too, was of the party. He had listened in amazement to the story of his uncle"s first marriage, wondering how it could have been kept from him, and remembering several little incidents, the meaning of which he now understood. He had given up the Crimean war, as well as the dancing girl, and now he had given up Rosamond, too, but he bore it quite heroically, and ever after took especial pains to speak of her as "My Aunt Rosamond." For more than a year the bridal pair remained abroad, and then returned again to Riverside, where now the patter of tiny feet, and the voice of childhood is heard, for children have gathered around the hearthstone, and in all the world there is not a prouder, happier wife and mother than the little Rosamond who once on a dreary November day listened, with a breaking heart, to the story of Ralph Browning"s Youthful Error.
DIAMONDS.
"The boys mustn"t look at the girls, and the girls must look on their books," was said at least a dozen times by the village school-master, on that stormy morning when Cora Blanchard and I--she in her brother"s boots, and I in my father"s socks--waded through drift after drift of snow to the old brown school-house at the foot of the long, steep hill.
We were the only girls who had dared to brave that wintry storm, and we felt amply repaid for our trouble, when we saw how much attention we received from the ten tall boys who had come--some for fun--some because they saw Cora Blanchard go by--and one, Walter Beaumont, because he did not wish to lose the lesson of the day. Our teacher, Mr. Grannis, was fitting him for college, and every moment was precious to the white-browed, intellectual student, who was quite a lion among us girls, partly because he was older, and partly because he never noticed us as much as did the other boys. On this occasion, however, he was quite attentive to Cora, at least, pulling off her boots, removing her hood, and brushing the large snow-flakes from her soft wavy hair, while her dark brown eyes smiled gratefully upon him, as he gave her his warm seat by the stove.
That morning Cora wrote to me slyly on her slate: "I don"t care if mother _does_ say Walter Beaumont is _poor_ as _poverty_--I like him best of anybody in the world--don"t you?"
I thought of the big red apple in my pocket, and of the boy who had so carefully shaken the snow from off my father"s socks, and answered, "No"--thinking, the while, that I should say _yes_, if Walter had ever treated me as he did my playmate and friend Cora Blanchard. She was a beautiful young girl, a favorite with all, and possessing, as it seemed, but one glaring fault--a p.r.o.neness to estimate people for their wealth rather than their worth. This in a measure was the result of her home-training, for her family, though far from being rich, were very aristocratic, and strove to keep their children as much as possible from a.s.sociating with the "vulgar herd," as they styled the laboring cla.s.s of the community. In her secret heart Cora had long cherished a preference for Walter, though never, until the morning of which I write, had it been so openly avowed. And Walter, too, while knowing how far above him she was in point of position, had dared to dream of a time when a bright-haired woman, with a face much like that of the girlish Cora, would gladden his home, wherever it might be.
That noon, as we sat around the glowing stove, we played as children will, and it came my turn to "answer truly whom I intended to marry."
Without a thought of the big apple, the snowy socks, or of any one in particular, I replied unhesitatingly--"The one I love best," and the question pa.s.sed on to Cora, who was sitting by the side of Walter Beaumont. He had not joined in our sport, but now his eye left his book and rested upon Cora with an expression half fearful, half expectant. She, too, glanced at him, and as if the spirit of prophecy were upon her, she said--"I shall not marry the one I love the best, but the one who has the most money, and can give me the handsomest _diamonds_. Sister f.a.n.n.y has a magnificent set, and she looks so beautifully when she wears them."
Instantly there fell a shadow on Walter Beaumont"s face, and his eye returned again to the Latin lettered page. But his thoughts were not of what was written there; he was thinking of the humble cottage on the borders of the wood, of the rag-carpet on the oaken floor, of the plain old-fashioned furniture, and of the gentle, loving woman who called him "her boy," and that spot her home. There were no _diamonds_ there--no money--and Cora, if for these she married, would never be his wife. Early and late he toiled and studied, wearing his threadbare coat and coa.r.s.e brown pants--for an education, such as he must have, admitted of no useless expenditure, and the costly gems which Cora craved were not his to give. In the pure, unselfish love springing up for her within his heart, there were diamonds of imperishable value, and these, together with the name he would make for himself, he would offer her, but nothing more, and for many weeks there was a shadow on his brow, though he was kind and considerate to her as of old.
As the spring and summer glided by, however, there came a change, and when, in the autumn, he left our village for New Haven, there was a happy, joyous look upon his face, while a tress of Cora"s silken hair was lying next his heart. Every week he wrote to her, and Cora answered, always showing to me what she had written, but never a word of his. "There was too much love," she said, "too much good advice in his letters for me to see," and thus the time pa.s.sed on, until Walter, who had entered the junior cla.s.s, was graduated with honor, and was about to commence a theological course at Andover, for he had made the ministry his choice. He was twenty-one now, and Cora was sixteen.
Wondrously beautiful was she to look upon, with her fair young face, her soft brown eyes, and wavy hair. And Walter Beaumont loved her devotedly, believing too, that she in turn loved him, for one summer afternoon, in the green old woods which skirted the little village, she had sat by his side, and with the sunbeams glancing down upon her through the overhanging boughs, she had, told him so, and promised some day to be his wife. Still, she would not hear of a positive engagement--both should be free to change their mind if they wished, she said, and with this Walter was satisfied.
"I have no _diamonds_ to give you, darling," he said, drawing her close to him; and Cora, knowing to what he referred, answered that "_his_ love was dearer to her than all the world besides." Alas, that woman should be so fickle!
The same train which carried Walter away, brought Mrs. Blanehard a letter from her daughter, a dashing, fashionable woman, who lived in the city, and who wished to bring her sister Cora "out" the coming winter. "She is old enough, now," she wrote, "to be looking for a husband, and of course she"ll never do anything in that by-place."
This proposition, which accorded exactly with Mrs. Blanchard"s wishes, was joyfully acceded to by Cora, who, while antic.i.p.ating the pleasure which awaited her, had yet no thought of proving false to Walter, and in the letter which she wrote informing him of her plan, she ensured him of her unchanging fidelity, little dreaming that the promise thus made would so soon be broken! Petted, caressed, flattered and admired, as she was in the circle of her sister"s friends, how could she help growing worldly and vain, or avoid contrasting the plain, una.s.suming Walter, with the polished and gayly-dressed b.u.t.terflies who thronged Mrs. Burton"s drawing-room. When the summer came again, she did not return to us as we had expected, but we heard of her at Saratoga, and Newport, the admired of all admirers; while one, it was said, a man of high position and untold wealth, bid fair to win the beauteous belle.
Meantime, her letters to Walter grew short and far between, ceasing at length altogether; and one day, during the second winter of her residence in the city, I received from her a package containing his miniature, the books he had given her, and the letters he had written.
These she wished me to give him when next I saw him, bidding me tell him to think no more of one who was not worthy of him.
"To be plain, Lottie," she wrote, "I"m engaged, and though Mr.
Dougla.s.s is not a bit like Walter, he has a great deal of money, drives splendid horses, and I reckon we shall get on well enough. I wish, though, he was not quite so old. You"ll be shocked to hear that he is almost _fifty_, though he looks about _forty!_ I know I don"t like him as well as I did Walter, but after seeing as much of the world as I have, I could not settle down into the wife of a poor minister. I am not good enough, and you must tell him so. I hope he won"t feel badly--poor Walter. I"ve kept the lock of his hair. I couldn"t part with that, but, of course, Mr. Dougla.s.s will never see it. _His_ hair is gray! Good-by."
This was what she wrote, and when I heard from her again, she was Cora Dougla.s.s, and her feet were treading the sh.o.r.es of the old world, whither she had gone on a bridal tour.
In the solitude of his chamber, the young student learned the sad news from a paragraph in a city paper, and bowing his head upon the table, he strove to articulate, "It is well," but the flesh was weak, warring with the spirit, and the heart which Cora Blanchard had cruelly trampled down, clung to her still with a death-like fondness, and followed her even across the waste of waters, cried out--"How can I give her up!" But when he remembered, as he ere long did, that "twas a sin to love her now, he buried his face in his hands, and, calling on G.o.d to help him in this his hour of need, wept such tears as never again would fall for Cora Blanchard.
The roses in our garden were faded, and the leaves of autumn were piled upon the ground, ere he came to his home again, and I had an opportunity of presenting him with the package which many months before had been committed to my care. His face was very pale, and his voice trembled as he asked me--"Where is she now?"
"In Italy," I answered, adding that "her husband was said to be very wealthy."
Bowing mechanically, he walked away, and a year and a half went by ere I saw him again. Then he came among us as our minister. The old, white-haired pastor, who for so long had told us of the Good Shepherd and the better land, was sleeping at last in the quiet graveyard, and the people had chosen young Walter Beaumont to fill his place. He was a splendid-looking man--tall, erect, and finely formed, with a most winning manner, and a face which betokened intellect of the highest order. We were proud of him, all of us--proud of our clergyman, who, on the third Sabbath in June, was to be ordained in the old brick church, before whose altar he had years ago been baptized, a smiling infant.
On the Thursday afternoon preceding the ordination, a large traveling carriage, covered with dust and laden with trunks, pa.s.sed slowly through our village, attracting much attention. Seated within it was a portly, gray-haired man, resting his chin upon a gold-headed cane, and looking curiously out at the people in the street, who stared as curiously at him. Directly opposite him, and languidly reclining upon the soft cushions, was a white, proud-faced lady, who evidently felt no interest in what was pa.s.sing around her, for her eyes were cast down, and her thought seemed busy elsewhere. I was sitting at my chamber window, gazing out upon them, and just as they drew near the gate, the lady raised her eyes--the soft, brown eyes, which once had won the love of Walter Beaumont, and in which there was now an unmistakable look of anguish, as if the long eyelashes, drooping so wearily upon the colorless cheek, were constantly forcing back the hidden tears. And this was Cora Dougla.s.s, come back to us again from her travels in a foreign land. She knew me in a moment, and in her face there was much of her olden look as, bending forward, she smiled a greeting, and waved toward me her white, jeweled hand, on which the _diamonds_ flashed brightly in the sunlight.
The next morning we met, but not in the presence of the old man, her husband. Down in the leafy woods, about a quarter of a mile from Mrs.
Beaumont"s cottage, was a running brook and a mossy bank, overshadowed by the sycamore and elm. This, in the days gone by, had been our favorite resort. Here had we built our play-house, washing our bits of broken china in the rippling stream--here had we watched the little fishes as they darted in and out of the deeper eddies--here had we conned our daily tasks--here had she listened to a tale of love, the memory of which seemed but a mocking dream, and here, as I faintly hoped, I found her. With a half-joyful, half-moaning cry, she threw her arms around my neck, and I could feel her tears dropping upon my face as she whispered, "Oh, Lottie, Lottie, we have met again by the dear old brook."
For a few moments she sobbed as if her heart would break, then suddenly drying her tears, she a.s.sumed a calm, cold, dignified manner, such as I had never seen in Cora Blanchard. Very composedly she questioned me of what I had done during her absence, telling me, too, of her travels, of the people she had seen and the places she had visited, but never a word said she of him she called her husband. From the bank where we sat, the village grave-yard was discernible, with its marble gleaming through the trees, and at last, as her eye wandered in that direction, she said, "Have any of our villagers died?
Mother"s letters were never very definite."
"Yes," I answered, "Our minister, Mr. Sumner, died two months ago."
"Who takes his place?" she asked; and, as if a suspicion of the truth were flashing upon her, her eyes turned toward me with an eager, startled glance.
"Walter Beaumont. He is to be ordained next Sabbath, and you are just in time," I replied, regretting my words the next instant, for never saw I so fearful a look of anguish as that which swept over her face, and was succeeded by a cold, hard, defiant expression, scarcely less painful to witness.
She would have questioned me of him, I think, had not an approaching footstep caught our ear, sending a crimson flush to Cora"s. .h.i.therto marble cheek, and producing on me a most unpleasant sensation, for I knew that the gray-haired man now within a few paces of us, was he who called that young creature _his wife._ _Golden_ was the chain by which he had bound her, and every link was set with diamonds and costly stones, but it had rusted and eaten to her very heart"s core, for the most precious gem of all was missing from that chain--love for her husband, who, fortunately for his own peace of mind, was too conceited to dream how little she cared for him. He was not handsome, and still many would have called him a fine-looking, middle-aged man, though there was something disagreeable in his thin, compressed lips and intensely black eyes--the one betokening a violent temper, and the other an indomitable will. To me he was exceedingly polite--rather too much so for my perfect ease, while toward Cora he tried to be very affectionate.
Seating himself at her side, and throwing his arm around her, he called her a "little truant," and "why she had run away from him."
Half pettishly she answered, "Because i like sometimes to be alone,"
then, rising up and turning toward me she asked if "the water still ran over the, old mill dam in the west woods just as it used to do,"
Saying if it did, she wished to see it. "You can"t go," she continued, addressing her husband, "for it is more than a mile, over fences and plowed fields."
This was sufficient, for Mr. Dougla.s.s was very fastidious in all matters pertaining to his dress, and had no fancy for soiling his white pants, or patent leathers. So Cora and I set off together, while he walked slowly back to the village. Scarcely was he out of sight, however, when, seating herself beneath a tree, and throwing herself flat upon the ground, Cora announced her intention of not going any further.
"I only wished to be alone. I _breathe_ so much better," she said, and when I looked inquiringly at her, she continued, "Never marry a man for his wealth, Lottie, unless you wish to become as hard, as wicked and unhappy as I am. John Dougla.s.s is worth more than half a million, and yet I would give it all if I were the same little girl who, six years ago, waded with you through the snow-drifts to school on that stormy day. Do you remember what we played that noon and my foolish remark that I would marry for _money_ and _diamonds!_ Woe is me, I"ve won them both!" and her tears fell fast on the sparkling gems which covered her slender fingers.
Just then I saw in the distance a young man whom I knew to be Walter Beaumont. He seemed to be approaching us, and when Cora became aware of that, she started up and grasping my arm, hurried away, saying, as she cast backward a fearful glance, "I would rather die than meet him now. I am not prepared."