Gerard's library, which had come down to me with the rest of his possessions, was large and well selected. Himself a poet, his shelves were rich in the works of all the masters of song. I transferred volume after volume to Rachel Deane's table. Her earnest thanks, the glow of pleasure on her sweet young face, were my reward. I was daily more and more astonished at the rare, intuitive quickness of her intellect. It stood her in good stead of rules and precedents, so that I have seldom met with a finer critic. I was a genuine book-lover myself. Even commerce and business had not been able to wean me from poetry and fiction, and it called back more than my early enthusiasm to share the deep, quiet, yet sometimes rapturous appreciation of this young girl. I often told her she brought back my youth. I know now that I loved her even then, but I never acknowledged it to myself-I never thought of marrying her. It was, as I have said, a fixed fact in my mind, that the future Mrs. Gerard Sunderland was to be a lady of wealth and position. I never thought of finding her in the shy, quiet daughter of a village clergyman. So I went on, with this future settled in my mind, going to see Rachel daily, lending her books, rambling with her over the fields, and learning to watch for the coming of her rare, sweet smiles and the low music of her voice, with an interest for which I never tried to account. I remembered afterward a thought which came to me then-a wonder as to how she would love-this young girl, so shy, so tender, yet, it seemed to me, so faithful. I remember thinking how blessed the man would be who should win her pure heart, but I never thought of seeking this love, of which I believed her nature capable, for the crown of my own life. That was a long, bright summer. I had come to Woolwich, weary of the world, of fashion, of business, of care. I had found there rest, pleasant companionship, quiet. I was satisfied. I had scarcely perceived that autumn was tinting the forest trees, ripening the fruit in the orchard, the grain upon the hill, and sending forth his lawless winds to gather up the spoil of summer. I was too happy to heed the flight of time. Rachel and Rachel's father were enough of society; Mrs. Tabitha managed my housekeeping concerns admirably, and I was content. But the spell was broken one fine morning, late in October, by the receipt of a letter from my only sister, Flora. She was two years younger than I, and yet for seven years she had been Mrs. Maxwell Grafton. She was a brilliant and fashionable woman, but a good sister notwithstanding, and, as the world goes, a devoted wife. It had never ceased to be a mystery how little Flora, the pet of my boyish days, could ever have matured into this stately matron, so unlike my gentle, retiring mother; and a stranger mystery still, how she, younger than myself, and a woman, had ever acquired so much mastery over me, an independent bachelor. The solution of this last half of the riddle lay, I suspect, in three words I think she inherited her poetical tendencies from her father. There was something very touching in this old man's quiet, self-contained life. Every night, all through the long sum--strength of will. mer sunsetting and twilight, he would sit at his western window and look forth over the churchyard, with its white tombstones bathed in the sunset gold. I thought he was calling the past days back again-sitting in fancy beside the Amy of his youth and his love-that he saw not the green grave where he had laid her, but was looking over and beyond it, through the golden glory of the clouds, to a far-off shore, where his eyes-none but his-could see the gleam of a white brow, the fall of chestnut hair. One night, when he had been sitting there a long time, he turned away with a radiant look. Somewhat of inspiration had chased the gray shadow from his worn and aged face. Rachel and I sat together, in silence, at the other end of the room, but he seemed unconscious of a witness. His voice was clear and hopeful. In a steadfast tone he said, “I shall go to her, though she can not come Blessed be God-the God of Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob!" to me. As he left the room I looked at Rachel. Through the twilight I could see the tears shining in her eyes. "He loved her so faithfully," she said, “so many years, and now she is dead he loves her still. Oh, it was worth living and worth dying for-I know my mother thought so." I remember wondering, as I broke the seal of her stylish-looking letter, what she had marked out for me to do; feeling a half-vexed consciousness that I should obey her, though the purport of her missive should be to dispatch me to the North Pole. Low be it spoken, I have a horror of arguing with a woman. They will talk so fast, they have such a feminine gift for making the worse appear the better reason, that I would far rather lay down my arms in despair than stand the shock of such a volley of words. I suspect Flora had found out this weak point, and grown tyrannical on the strength of it. 66 The letter opened with an account of a brilliant summer. I hurried over this, getting only a vague and confused idea, which rung through my brain a dozen changes on such formidable key-notes as Saratoga," 'Newport," "splendid creature," "pistols,' despair." I hurried on to what more immediately concerned myself. I was a sad, provoking fellow to have buried myself up all summer in Woolwich. she thought; so Maxwell thought; so some one else thought, whose name I didn't deserve to know. However, if I would come at once to New York she would forgive me. I must come So that was certain-I must be there in time for her great party, which was coming off next week, the first of the season. She had a friend | diction that followed the rector's prayer it faded to show me-one who was just my ideal-ele- from my mind. gant, stately, beautiful, and very rich. Yes, she knew Anastasia St. John would just suit me, but perhaps I wouldn't suit her-she couldn't tell. Anastasia wasn't a woman to be won without wooing. But there, she was busy, she had wasted time enough on me, only I must come next Monday. It never entered into my head to disappoint her. Perhaps the promised introduction had something to do with my ready obedience. Anastasia St. John-I liked the stately name. Flora's description pleased me too. This was just the kind of woman I had always meant to marry, and it was nearly time now-I had passed my twenty-ninth birthday this very summer. I commenced my preparations for leaving home. That night-did I tell you it was Saturday? -I went to bid Rachel good-by. I carried her a few books which she had expressed a wish to read, and offered her the use of my library during my absence. Was I mistaken? It seemed to me that a look of pain crossed her face when I spoke of leaving Woolwich. I even thought there was a suspicious mistiness in her eyes. The time came afterward when memory reproduced that look of tender sorrow. She did not speak for some moments. She sat silent, while her father answered me; but her voice was clear and gentle as usual when she wished me a pleasant winter and bade me good-by. I listened sharply, but there was no quiver of pain in it. I never went to the rectory on Sundays, but the next day I saw Rachel once more in church. If she had grieved at parting with me her face did not show it now. The faint rose-hue on her cheek was no deeper; there was no faltering in her tones as she joined in the singing; no suspicious dew in her clear yet tender eyes. The rector's sermon that day moved me strangely. It was about heaven-that heaven where his beloved waited for him; toward which his aged, trembling feet were hastening fust. There was, I know not what, of power and majesty in the old man's tones, so that all who heard him felt that he testified of that which he did know. As I listened, how vain it seemed to grope for happiness among the rubbish of earth! All of life looked empty and worthless, save the one narrow path which he pictured in faltering tones —the path leading, sometimes over rugged hills where sharp stones goad the weary feet, sometimes through green pastures and beside still waters of peace. I remember, as I heard him, the thought came to me whether that saintly young girl, lifting such meek eyes to her father's face, was not a fitter companion for one whose feet should walk in this narrow path than Anastasia St. John, whose proud name seemed to conjure up a shape of earthly, not heavenly beauty, gleaming with gold and diamonds; a rustling of silken drapery; an embodiment of pomp, and pride, and worldliness. But this reflection was only momentary, I was scarcely conscious of its existence, and with the bene Of Rachel Deane I thought as a dear sisternothing more; and yet, it was strange, the last night of my stay in Woolwich I drew no pictures of New York gayety and splendor; my fancy summoned no stately Miss St. John to bear me company; but my eyes seemed to see, instead, an ancient gray-stone rectory-an old man sitting by the western window watching the sunset and the graves-a young girl pacing back and forth among the shadows, with tender, thoughtful eyes of brown, singing to herself now and then snatches of those grand old hymns which seem to have been set for martyrs to die by. I went to sleep with this cadence coming, or seeming to come, to haunt my slumbers, low, and sweet, and very sorrowful. The next morning I left Woolwich. II. My first three days in New York were not very eventful ones. There was Flora's careless yet good-natured welcome, my mother's tender greeting for her only boy; and then I found my way to the offices and counting-rooms of half a dozen good fellows, old friends, whose society somehow gave me less pleasure than formerly. I think a certain peace and quietness had grown into my spirit during that long, still summer in the country, on which the bustle and confusion of this great, busy town jarred at first with a sense of pain. My sister's grand party came off on Thursday night. I stood by her side at one end of her brilliant drawing-room while she received her guests. Her réunions were always very successful. It was an amusement to me to watch the different faces-the varying expressions of those handsomely-dressed men and women whom she called her "set." At last her quick whisper in my ear aroused me from my halflistless mood. I turned eagerly toward the door. At first I thought I had been struck blind-then I saw. It was Anastasia St. John. The expression "a stately woman" had always, from some old, boyish association, conveyed to my mind the idea of a brunette. I had pictured Miss St. John, therefore, with flashing black eyes, with olive face, framed in shining raven hair. I had been mistaken; and yet she became forever after my standard of stately beauty. She was the proudest woman I have ever met. There was pride in her thin nostril, her curling lip; pride sat serene and regnant on her smooth brow. She was tall, and faultlessly formed. Her skin was marble white, save where, in the cheek, a faint dash of crimson broke up through it, cold yet clear as a winter's sunrise. Her long, thick hair was of a pale gold color. It was folded back from her forehead in heavy waves, and wound about her small, erect head like a coronal. Her eyes were blue and brilliant, but there was no warmth in them. Her dress suited her. It was a robe of some costly lace, floating cloud-like over azure satin. Rachel Deane may have been lovelier, but this Anastasia St. John was the most beautiful woman I ever saw. There was a kind of empressement in my sister's tones as she introduced us which convinced me that my name was not unknown to this cold goddess, but her manner was careless, and yet polished as glittering steel. From that night I had an interest in New York. I had coolly made up my mind to marry Miss St. John, if I could win her. There was an intense excitement, a keen zest, in trying to conquer this cold indifference, this haughty calmness. That winter was to me like a long game of chess. Warily, carefully I planned every move. Self-complacently I said, "I am playing well." But after a time I ceased to perceive this expression. I began to believe that I loved her; that that marble face, the clear blue of those eyes, the pale gold of that hair, were each and all dear and necessary to my happiness. I thought, too, that she seemed to soften toward me. Her voice grew lower. Sometimes I saw a strange tenderness in her eyes. Fool that I was, I thought it was evoked by my voice. I had indeed played well, I said to myself in these days. The checkmate was near at hand. Already the game had lasted through the winter. It was on an April morning that I thought to win my crowning triumph. I went early to see Miss St. John. I found her alone, but I looked in vain for the tenderness I had fancied was growing habitual to those clear eyes. Had I, then, mistaken their expression before? I had intended this morning to ask her to be my wife, but the words did not come easily. I sat still for a time and looked at her. In this subtle trial of strength Woolwich was well-nigh forgotten. Sometimes I saw in my dreams a gray rectory; a saintly girl, with calm, holy eyes, sitting alone in the shadows; an old man, looking out toward heaven. But in the daytime my whole thought centred in this state- "Could that proud woman ever love?" I ly maid of ice-this Mrs. Gerard Sunderland once more asked myself, doubtingly. "Would that was to be. And yet I was forced to ac- any lover dare to tangle up his fingers in the knowledge to myself that I made little progress. pale sunshine of that hair? Would any husI was much in Miss St. John's society. Her band's brow find rest on that pulseless bosom? mother was an invalid, and my sister was her Would any children dare to climb that silken chaperon to balls, and drives, and operas. She knee?" There was no answer in the cold pride accepted my attentions, or rather she endured of her face. But another voice spoke to methem without seeming scarcely to be aware of a voice which no ear could hear but mine. them. She wore my bouquets, played my music, read my new books, and yet I grew no nearer to her. This piqued me, and I became more earnest in the pursuit. Lounging in my sister's dressing-room one morning, I said, with assumed carelessness as I unwound a roll of ribbon, "I give you credit for good taste, Flora, but I don't see what you think a man could marry in Anastasia St. John. One wants a woman whose heart beats once in a while, just often enough to show its existence; but Miss St. John! I'd as soon think of kissing life into a statue!" Flora came up to me, and deliberately took the ribbon out of my profane fingers. What were you, Rachel Deane-you so shy, so small, so quiet-that you could shut out that proud beauty from my vision? By what strange might of your deep nature did you follow me, call me, draw me toward you? Never did mortal eyes rest upon your face more clearly than my spirit saw you then. Fearlessly your pure soul spoke to mine! "Sin not," it said, "against your own best nature. Your love is mightier than your pride." Every pulse leaped, every nerve in my body thrilled, as those words rung through my heart's chambers. She seemed to stand before me like. an accusing spirit. Oh, I knew then that I loved Rachel Deane ! I believed-how sweet "Three dollars a yard, Mr. Gerard Sunder- the hope was-that she loved me; that apart land. I can not have you spoil it. As for earth held for either of us no true happiness. Anastasia, you don't know her, and I do. She In my heart I blessed her for rising up before has got too much heart, instead of too little-me then-I called her my salvation. Her presyou may not be the one to discover it, but it's ence seemed very real to me. I lifted my eyes, there. If she does love, it will be worth win- and they fell on Anastasia St. John, sitting there ning." calm, and proud, and very beautiful-her great I did not believe my sister at the time, and eyes seeming to look at something far away— yet her words led me to observe Miss St. John something that was not me. I had never loved more closely. I began to see that she was weary her; she had never loved me. Something withsometimes. More than once I detected an ex-in me forced me to speak to her—a new emotion pression in her fine eyes when they met mine which said, just as plainly as any words could have done, "I should like you for a friend, Mr. Sunderland, if you would content yourself without trying to be my lover. You do not deserve me, because you do not understand me. I should gratify no part of your nature but your ambition." I had for her-a calm, quiet esteem, a friendly "I am here, Miss St. John, to bid you goodby. I leave New York this afternoon. Your society has made this winter very pleasant to We began it as strangers; I feel that we shall part as true friends." me. - My first emo She understood me. She had never looked consciousness came back to me. so good to me as then. She put her hand in tion was that of pleasure in the balmy air; the mine. Did I see rightly I think the tears blossoms upon the trees which brushed in at gathered in her eyes. Her voice was very gen- the open window; the spring sunshine over all. tle. Next came a curious feeling of, not exactly pain, but goneness. My senses were hardly yet fully aroused. I put my hand where this sensation most oppressed me. My right leg seemed to have been cut off above the knee. I should have thought I must be dreaming, but that the maimed limb was exquisitely tender and sensitive to the touch. I looked around the room "I thank you," she said, warmly. "We are true friends-we will be. I am not so careless or so happy as the world call me. I have my griefs; but when I think of you, I will remember that I have one friend." "God bless you!" I said, with a fervent prayer for her in my heart. I left her with such tenderness as I had never thought she could inspire. I never saw her again. My sister met me upon the stairs. She had known of my intention to visit Miss St. John. "How sped your wooing?" she asked, gayly. "Flora," I answered, "you were right. You understood your friend better than I did. Miss St. John could love with a love that would be worth winning, but I am not the one." I believe she thought I had been rejected. At any rate, she made no opposition to my plan of returning to Woolwich that afternoon, and three o'clock saw me upon the cars. III. Oh how fast we whizzed along! I had heard some one say we had started a little behind time, but it was not half fast enough for me. I felt like crying out to the conductor for more speed. My spirits were at high tide. I was going to Rachel. I knew my own heart now. I knew I loved her-I thought she loved me. With this hope in my mind I grew quieter. I sank into a reverie. I sat back in my seat and drew my hat over my eyes, and then I strove to recall all the tokens she had given me of her regard. The expression which I had seen upon her face the night before I left Woolwich came back to me. I remembered her timid pleasure at my coming. How charming she seemed to me in her beauty, her grace, her innocent youth. I pictured her as my wife. I thought how bright would be the stately house behind the pine-trees, when her light figure glided up and down the stairs, or sat, in household quiet, by the hearthI gloried in the thought of protecting her-of keeping all sorrow and care away from her fair life of leading her footsteps out of the shadow into the light. stone. Absorbed in thoughts like these, time sped rapidly. We were nearing Woolwich. I looked from the window, and the fields by the wayside were familiar. My heart bounded. Soon I should see Rachel. I would tell her that I loved her I would know my fate from her own lips. I fancied how her eyes would droop-how the color would come and go in her cheekshow shyly her little hand would flutter into mine. where I was lying. It was not in my own but some feminine piece of work lay upon a "You do think, Dr. Smith, that his reason will come back to him? He won't rave so always?" "No fear of that, little Rachel. No head could stand such a blow as his got without being dazed for a while. Poor fellow! when his senses do come, it'll be a sorry awakening. A young, rich, good-looking man like him to have to carry a cork leg with him all his life." I heard Rachel sigh, but she did not answer, and Dr. Smith left the room, saying he would be back in half an hour to dress the leg. Rachel came to the bedside. I knew she was standing beside me—I knew, as well as if I had seen her, that her tears were falling silently. I opened my eyes and looked at her. "Come, Rachel," I said, "I heard what Dr. Smith told you, and now I want you to sit down beside me and tell me all about it. How long ago was it?" She struggled hard to control herself. "About four weeks," she said; "the cars-” but here she broke down utterly and hurried from the room. I lay there, wrestling with an agony before which any mere physical suffering shrank into insignificance. It was not that my pride was humbled-not that I must go through life a lame, to some degree, a helpless man, but it was that I felt I could never ask Rachel to be a cripple's wife-to mate her loveliness with my deformity. She could pity me--she did pity me-but I must shut out of my heart, from henceforth, the golden hope of love-I must live and die alone. No wife's head must lie upon my breast-no children's voices call me father. I strove in vain to choke back the cry which my longing heart would utter. My grief o'ermastered me. But I will not write out the sorrow on which only God and my own soul have ever looked. Just then came a sudden, quivering motion running along all the train-a crash-a loud, prolonged, wailing shriek, and after that I remembered nothing more. It was a warm morning in May when my unthinking, before their Maker. When Dr. Smith came back I drew from him an account of the accident. I shudder to recall the frightful story now. So many souls called, Such groans, such tumult, such helpless cries of agony. Dr. | picture my Uncle Gerard painted of your mothSmith pictured it vividly, but there is no need er. You are like it. I am not the inheritor alone that I should write out its horrors here. I had been taken up, at first, for dead; stunned by a severe blow upon my head. In all this, the Doctor said, Rachel had been the most wonderful nurse-I believed him. me. During the two tedious months of convalescence which followed there was often, in the midst of my agony, a troubled joy. Sometimes it seemed happiness enough to have Rachel in my sight; her gentle hands ministering about Sometimes, too, there was a look in her eyes whose meaning I dared not meet, lest it should make me selfish. I had resolved, firmly, that I would never seek her love. I would not impose upon her tenderness, her pity, to win any pledge which she might regret afterward. No, I must live alone all my life, but I turned from these thoughts to rejoice in her smile, in the tender tones of her voice. It was midsummer before I went to my own house. In the mean time I had learned to walk in the poor crippled fashion in which I must make up my mind always to move about hereafter. Several times I had proposed to go home, but neither Mr. Deane nor his daughter would allow it. I must stay with them until I was quite well. I had been brought to them when I was first hurt. They had nursed me through my delirium-they had claims upon me, and I must obey them. I confess I staid with them willingly. But at last the time was fixed for my final removal. The day before I was to drive to my home and give Mrs. Tabitha a few directions. I had sent for Mike to come with the carriage. When it arrived, I entreated Rachel to do her patient one more good turn, and drive home with me for an hour. She consented, and we took the short drive in silence. When I reached the house I wanted to walk a little about the grounds, and she would make me lean upon her arm. How strangely it reminded me of my fancies, that sad day in April, about how tenderly I would protect her. Now this frail, delicate girl, at my side, was helping to guide my steps. I could not bear it; I hurried her into the house. I do not know how it chanced that we sat down, not in the drawing-room, but in my Uncle Gerard's study. For a time I looked at her in outward silence, but my soul was crying out in its agony. So many hopes came back to mock me. I had thought once how her light feet would flit in girlish glee, up and down those walks lying so white and gleaming in the summer sunshine, that she would sit by my fireside, the glory of my home and my life. The great pangs became too mighty for me. In spite of myself they found a voice. I rose and walked across the room. I put back the curtain from before her mother's picture. of my uncle's wealth, but of his hopeless love. This is my inheritance. To live here, as he lived, alone. To love, as he loved. To long vainly, as he longed. Nay, Rachel, do not turn your eyes away. I did not mean to tell you, but you must hear now. Even as my uncle loved your mother and loved in vain, so must I, till my death day, love you. I was coming to Woolwich that day to tell you this love, to ask you to be my wife. I thought then I could win you, but God interposed and we are separated." She came across the room. She laid her hands, her little woman's hands, upon my arm. The truth shone out of her clear eyes into my very soul. Her voice was firm but tearful. I can never forget her dear, dear words: "We are not separated. We never can be. Take me, Gerard, if you love me. I love you; I have loved you long. I do not care for life unless I can pass it with you." I could not gainsay her. I felt that she spoke truly, and thus the great joy and blessedness of love drifted into my heart; flooded my full life. I could not speak. I opened my arms and took her, thank God, I took my betrothed close to my heart. I know not how long we sat there. It was almost night before we returned home. As I led her up the steps, I said, not because I doubted her, but because I longed to hear her reply, "Are you sure, my beloved, that you will never regret this-that you will be quite content with an ugly, crippled man, so many years older than yourself?" Her brimming eyes answered me, and then her voice came to my heart, freighted with words too full of blessing to write here. They satisfied me forever. We went together to her father as he sat at the western window. We told him of our love and asked his blessing. He rose and laid his aged, trembling hands, upon our heads. He blessed us. As we turned away we heard him murmur: "Now, Lord, lettest thou thy servant depart in peace!" We turned back as we reached the door to look at him. He sat again at the window, and his far-seeing eyes were fixed, not on his Amy's grave, but on the golden clouds, far, far away. We left him there. We had much to say to each other. I told Rachel of Miss St. John, and how she herself had been present to my fancy; had come after me and brought me back, when I would have done my own heart wrong; and she answered me with smiles and with tears. That first twilight after our betrothal was a golden hour. When we went in, the moon had risen. The old man sat there still. Rachel went up to him and laid her hand upon his brow. "There," I said, and my tones were almost "Oh, how cold he is!" she cried. "Father, stern with the effort to keep back the grief surg-father, wake up! Don't you hear me, faing in my heart, "there, Rachel Deane, is the ther?" |