At the mention of him I started as if smitten by a heavy blow, for I thought, “I cannot in his presence give myself to another;” and I used all the arguments of which I was mistress to induce Dr. Clayton to defer our marriage until we reached Meadow Brook. But to this neither he nor Mrs. Lansing would listen. Glad, that I was thus out of her way, the latter seemed unusually kind, offering to give me a bridal party as a “testimony of her respect.” Thus was I silenced, while they arranged the matter as they pleased, it being finally decided that the wedding was to take place immediately after the doctor’s return, as he had first proposed. So overcome and bewildered was I with the exciting scenes through which I had passed, that, strange as it may seem, I slept soundly that night, dreaming towards day-break that I stood on the deck of a noble vessel, gazing upon a most glorious sunset, which, however, had less charms for me than did the man at my side, whom I called my husband, and whom I loved again as I had done long ago, when with my face buried in the grass beneath the old grape-vine I had wept over his inconstancy.
With the remembrance of that dream still haunting me, it was quite natural that I should in the morning meet Dr. Clayton with more cordiality of manner than I had yet evinced towards him. Quickly perceiving the change, he said, as he kissed my brow, “My Rose is learning to love me, I see.”
And for a brief moment I, too, fancied that he was right—that I should love him—nay, that I was beginning to love him, when suddenly in the doorway appeared the form of one, the very sight of whom curdled my blood for an instant and then sent it bounding through my veins! It was Mr. Delafield. He had nerved himself to see me, to stand face to face with his rival, and bravely did he meet the trial, bowing courteously to Dr. Clayton and smiling kindly down upon me as he bade me good morning. I glanced at him once and saw that his eyes were riveted upon the plain band of gold, which encircled my fourth finger, confirming the truth of what he had just heard from his sister. At last, as if he would test his strength to the utmost, he took my hand and said, as he slowly twirled the ring, which was rather large, “And so you are going from us?”
I could not answer, nor was it needful that I should, for without waiting a reply he placed my hand in that of Dr. Clayton, and continued, “As a brother commits a dear sister to the care of another, so commit I to your care my Northern Rose, charging you to watch tenderly over her, for ’tis not every one who winneth such a treasure.”
This was all he said; the next moment he was gone, and when, Dr. Clayton, drawing me to his side, told me how he would treasure up the words of my friend; I involuntarily shrank away, for the shadow was again around me, and turn which way I would, it whispered to me of another love—another heart, which I fain would have called my own.
That night Dr. Clayton left us, and the very morning after his departure we were surprised by the appearance of Ada, who came unexpectedly to us all. “She was tired of living with that old fidgety Mrs. Johnson,” she said, “and would rather come home.” Much as Mrs. Lansing liked Ada, she would rather she had stayed away until I was gone, for she was in constant dread lest the falsehood she had told me concerning her brother’s engagement should in some way be betrayed. But there was no help for it, and as one sin always calls for another, so she must now conjure up something with which to meet the emergency. Accordingly, Ada was told that “somehow or other I had received the impression that she was engaged to Mr. Delafield, and that it was as well to let me think so; for though I probably liked Dr. Clayton well enough, she (Mrs. Lansing) fancied that I liked her brother better, and that if I supposed there was the slightest chance of winning him, I would not hesitate to discard the doctor.”
Very readily Ada fell in with the views of Mrs. Lansing, who proposed further that they should continually ring in my ears the praises of my affianced husband, of whose virtues Ada was supposed to have heard from Mrs. Lansing; while at the same time, I was to be interested as much as possible in the preparations for my wedding, which was to be quite a grand affair, and to which many of the village people were to be invited. And so the days wore on, during which I could hardly be said to exist, so little did I realize what was passing around me. I dared not think, for if I did, the tumult of thought which crowded upon me seemed turning my brain to fire, and when each morning I awoke from an unrefreshing slumber, it was always with the thought, “What is it? This load which oppresses me so?”—then, as the stern reality came up before me, I would bury my face in the pillow and ask that I might die, and thus escape the living death which awaited me, and which was now but a week or two in the distance.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE CRISIS.
It was the night before the one appointed for the bridal, and in the solitude of her chamber, a young girl wept in the utter hopelessness of despair. At the morrow’s early dawn he would be there to claim her as his bride, and though he was noble and good, there was in her heart no answering chord of love, and she knew that without such love their union would be unholy. Earnestly, and with many tears had she striven to awaken again the deep affection she had felt for him in the time gone by, but it could not be, and shudderingly she thought of the long weary years when she should be an unloving wife, bearing a crushed and aching heart, wherein was enshrined the memory of one, of whom it would soon be a sin to think.
On the table at her side lay her bridal dress, the gift of Richard Delafield, who, without a shadow on his brow, or a wavering in the tones of his voice, had asked her to accept it as a token of the esteem he should ever feel for her! Alas, poor Rose, as your tears fell like rain upon the orange wreath which seemed to mock your woe, how little did you dream of the anguish it cost the donor to say to you the words he did, or that your sorrow was naught compared to his, for you could weep, while to him this privilege was denied, and his was the hard task of enduring in silence the burning pain which no tear-drop came to moisten.