Richard Vandermarck Part 28

I went down-stairs, feeling quite easy in mind, and sat down to my letter. That threw me back into the past, for to Sister Madeline I poured out my heart. An hour went by, and I had forgotten Richard and the library. I was recalled to the present by hearing some books fall on the floor (the library was over the parlor); and by hearing Richard's step heavily crossing the room. I started up, pushed my letter into my portfolio, and wiped away my tears, quite frightened that Richard should see me crying. To my surprise, he came hurriedly down the stairs, pa.s.sed the parlor-door, opened the hall-door, and shutting it heavily after him, was gone, without a word to me. This startled me for a moment, it was so unusual. But my heart was not enough engaged to be wounded by the slight, and I very soon returned to my letter and my other thoughts.

When I went up to bed, I stopped in the library, and found the lamp still burning, the pens unused, a cigar, which had been lighted, but unsmoked, lying on the table. A book was lying on the floor at the foot of the bookshelf, where I had left Richard standing. I picked it up.

"This was the last book that Uncle Leonard ever read," I said to myself, turning its pages over. I remembered that he had it in his hand the last night of his life, when I bade him goodnight. I was not in the room the next day, till he was brought home in a dying state.

Ann had put the books in order, and arranged them, after he went down-town in the morning.

I wondered whether Richard knew that that was the last book he had been reading, and I put it by, to tell him of it in the morning when he came.

But in the morning Richard did not come. Unusual again; and I was for an hour or two surprised. He always found some excuse for coming on his way down-town: and it was very odd that he should not want to explain his sudden going away last night. But, as before, my lack of love made the wound very slight, and in a little time I had forgotten all about it, and was only thinking that this was Friday--and that Wednesday was coming very near.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A REVERSAL

All this is to be sanctified, This rupture with the past; For thus we die before our deaths, And so die well at last.

_Faber_.

Dinner-time came, and pa.s.sed, and still Richard did not come. At eight o'clock Ann brought the tea, as usual, and it stood nearly an hour upon the table; and then I told her to take it away.

By this time I had begun to feel uneasy. Something must have happened.

It would necessarily be something uncomfortable, perhaps something that would frighten me, and give me another shock. And I dreaded that so; I had had so many. But perhaps, dreadful though it might be, it would bring me a release. Perhaps Richard was only angry with me, and _that_ might bring me a release.

At nine o'clock I heard a ring at the bell, and then his step in the hall. He was slower than usual in coming in; everything made me feel confused and apprehensive. When he opened the door and entered, I was trying to command myself, but I forgot all about myself when I saw _him_. His face was white, and he looked haggard and hara.s.sed, as if he had gone through a year of suffering since last night, when I left him with the lamp and cigar in the library.

I started up and put out my hand. "What is it, Richard? You are in some trouble."

He said no, and tried to speak in an ordinary tone, sitting down on the sofa by my chair.

I was confused and thrown back by this, and tried to talk as if nothing had been said.

"Will you have a cup of tea?" I asked; "Ann has just taken it away."

He said absently, yes, and I rang for Ann to bring the tea, and then went to the table to pour it out.

He sat with his face leaning on his hand on the arm of the sofa, and did not seem to notice me till I carried the cup to him, and offered it.

Then he started, and looked up and took it, asking my pardon, and thanking me.

"Are you not going to have one yourself?" he said, half rising.

"No, I don't want any to-night. Tell me if yours is right."

"Yes, it is very nice," he said absently, drinking some. Then rising suddenly, he put the cup on the mantleshelf, and said to me, "Send Ann away, I want to talk to you."

I told Ann I would ring for her when I wanted her, and sat down by the lamp again, with many apprehensions.

"You asked me if anything had happened, Pauline, didn't you?" he said.

"No," I answered. "But I was sure that something had, from the way you looked when you came in."

"It is something that--that changes things very much for you, Pauline,"

he resumed, with an effort, "and makes all our arrangements unnecessary--that is, unless you choose."

I looked amazed and frightened, and he went on.

"I made a discovery last night in the library. The will is found, Pauline."

I started to my feet, with my hands pressed against my heart, waiting breathlessly for his next word.

"Everything is left to you--and I have come to tell you, you are free--if you desire to be."

"Oh, thank G.o.d! Thank G.o.d!" I cried; then covering my face with my hands, sank back into my seat, and burst into tears.

He turned from me and walked to the other end of the room; each of us lived much in that little time.

For myself, I had accepted my bondage so meekly, so dutifully, that I did not know the weight it had been upon me till it was suddenly taken off. I did not think of him--I could only think, there was no next Wednesday, and I could stay where I was. It was like the sudden cessation of dreadful and long-continued pain: it was Heaven. I was crying for joy. But at last the reaction came, and I had to think of him.

"Oh, Richard," I cried, going toward him, (he was sitting by the window, and his hand concealed his eyes.) "I don't know what you think of me, I hope you can forgive me."

He did not speak, and I felt a dreadful pang of self-reproach.

"Richard," I said, crying, and taking hold of his hand, "I am ashamed of myself for being glad. I will marry you yet, if you want me to. I know how good you have been to me. I know I am ungrateful and abominable."

Still he did not speak. His very lips were white, and his hand, when I touched it, did not meet mine or move.

"You are angry with me," I cried, bursting into a flood of tears. "Oh, how you ought to hate me. Oh, I wish we had never seen each other. I wish I had been dead before I brought you all this trouble. Richard, do look at me--do speak to me. Don't you believe that I am sorry? Don't you know I will do anything you want me to?"

He seemed to try to speak--moved a little, as a person in pain might do, but, bending his head a little lower on his hand, was silent still.

"Richard," I said, after several moments' silence, speaking thoughtfully--"it has all come to me at last. I begin to see what you have been to me always, and how badly I have treated you. But it must have been because I was very young, and did not think. I am sure my heart was not so bad, and I mean to be different now. You know I have not had any one to teach me. Will you let me try and make you happy?"

"No, Pauline," he said at last, speaking with effort. "It is all over now, and we will never talk of it again."

I was silent for many minutes--standing before him with irresolution.

"If it was right for me to marry you before," I said at last, "Why is it not right now, if I mean to do my duty?"

"No, it is no longer right, if it ever was," he answered. "I will not take advantage of your sense of duty now, as I was going to take advantage of your necessity before. No, you are free, and it is all at an end."

"You are unjust to yourself. You were not taking advantage of my necessity. You were saving me, and I am ashamed of myself when I think of everything. Oh, Richard, where did you learn to be so good!"

A spasm of pain crossed his face, and he turned away from me.

"If you give me up," I said timidly, "who will take care of me?"

"There will be plenty now," he answered bitterly.