Nat Wolfe by Mrs. M. V. Victor - HTML preview

CHAPTER XI.

THE BIRTHDAY AND THE LETTER.

I took the scroll; I could not brook
 An eye to gaze on it save mine.
 
 But oh, to-night, those words of thine
 Have brought the past before me;
 The shadows of long-vanished years
 Are passing sadly o'er me.—MISS LANDON.

DR. CAROLLYN arose late the next morning; a night of unrest had hardly decided him to obey his better nature. With the breakfast which he ordered in his chamber came two or three packages left at the door that morning from the princely establishments of merchants and jewelers which he had visited the previous day. They were presents for Elizabeth. This very day was her eighteenth birthday; and these were some of the costly gifts he had pleased himself selecting for his daughter.

The blue silk dress—her mother's favorite color—of a new and lovely shade, rich and lustrous; the coronal and necklace of pearls, the cashmere shawl, the dainty perfumes in bottles filagreed with gold—he set the packages before him on the table, not offering to untie them, staring at them coldly, as he trifled with his coffee and toast.

Unreasonable as the black jealousy which had once blotted the sunshine out of that house was the anger with which he thought of the man who had yesterday intruded himself into his new-made Paradise. "Was he never to have any peace?"

We are afraid peace is not purchased with such a temper as yours, Dr. Carollyn.

In the mean time Elizabeth had gone down to the solitary breakfast room, tremulous with love and tears, meaning to throw herself upon her father's breast and speak for Nat the words he was too proud to urge for himself. When she found herself alone at the meal, of course appetite and courage failed; she went to her chamber, and gazed out at the golden sunshine as if it had been a great gray cloud drifting up and obscuring her birthday—her birthday! yes, she was eighteen, and she remembered with a thrill the faded yellow envelope lying carefully locked amid her most precious treasures, which had held for so many years the letter of her dead mother awaiting this very day.

With a reverend touch she now drew forth this missive, and with careful, trembling fingers broke the seal; a mist swam before her eyes as she first gazed at this delicate, indistinct chirography, but it cleared away with the kiss she pressed upon the paper.

Between herself and her father there had never been any explicit understanding as to the melancholy causes of the separation of the parents; the subject was one so painful that it had been avoided, with the confession of Dr. Carollyn that all the fault had been his, and that sometime her child should know all that he could tell her of the life and character of her adored, her angelic mother.

A desire to understand the mystery mingled with the reverent affection with which the young girl began the perusal of the letter:

"MY OWN DEAR CHILD—MY DAUGHTER:—I tremble while I write the word daughter, for I feel how much sadder, more deadly perilous it will be for my poor orphan, that she is born to the heritage of woman. Before you came to me I prayed that you might be a boy, and if I regret that my prayer was not answered, you will know that my love and solicitude are in proportion to my regret.

"When you read this, if you ever do, you will have come to woman's estate; now, while I write, you sport in the grass and flowers at my feet, scarcely able to balance yourself on the unequal ground, your bright hair blowing about your face in little rings, your eyes trying to catch mine, full of laughter and love, so innocent, so gay—yet, oh God, so like his own—yes, darling, they are his eyes which look at me constantly through my baby's. I stop, to catch you to my heart, to hold you there till you cry with the cruel fondness, and I set you down, and push you softly away—for I would not hurt you even with my love! ah, no! it is so dreadful to love only to be killed by love. It is strange that I love him yet, seeing that he has wronged me in such a manner that I can never go back to him, never have any more happiness or faith; but I do—I do, and the very perfectness with which I loved him makes the impossibility of my ever going back to him again, who gave me my death-blow so pitilessly.

"Yesterday I chanced upon some lines—written by a woman. I know they were—which told my story partly—all but the love—the despair—for it was the hand dearest to me in the world which sent the arrow, and that is what murdered me.

"A whisper woke the air,
 A soft, light tone, and low,
 Yet barbed with shame and woe.
 Ah! might it only perish there,
 Nor further go!
 
 "It was the only heart it found—
 The only heart 'twas meant to find,
 When first its accents woke.
 It reached the gentle heart at last,
 And that—it broke!
 
 "Low as it seemed to other ears,
 It came a thunder crash to hers—
 That fragile girl so fair and gay.
 'Tis said a lovely humming-bird,
 That dreaming in a lily lay,
 Was killed but by the gun's report
 Some idle boy had fired in sport;
 So exquisitely frail its frame
 The very sound a death blow came:
 And thus her heart, unused to shame—
 Shrined in its lily too—
 Her light and happy heart, that beat
 With love and hope so fast and sweet,
 When first that cruel word it heard,
 It fluttered like a frightened bird—
 Then shut its wings and sighed,
 And with a silent shudder, died!"

"I was not so happy as that poor girl to die so quickly, but the wound was none the less fatal that it was the more lingering. I thought I could not, would not live—and perhaps it was you, growing in my life and soul, whose expected coming held me back. But I am going now and soon. Now I wish that I were to live. I would be willing to endure years of worse sorrow, for the privilege of shielding my poor little baby flower from the world's harshness. But the desire comes too late. I must leave you, leave my little helpless orphan girl to the mercy of every wind that blows.

"My darling, you will surely think your mother mad or foolish. I began this letter because I could not go away from earth without leaving you some token of the unspeakable tenderness I feel—some message from your mother. And I have only been talking of myself and of griefs with which I should not have saddened your girlish heart.

"It has been a question which I have debated long and anxiously, whether I ought to send you to him upon whom you have a child's claim—whether I have any right to keep you from the name and fortune and the paternal care to which you are entitled. God forgive me if I have chosen wrong—if that which I have suffered has so clouded my vision that it seems better to me that you should take the risk of happiness in this humble, secluded home, rather than in that brilliant sphere which has proved not so bright as it is cold and pitiless.

"Here my soul has never been wounded; here suspicion, distrust, has never been manifest—only the kindness and affection of honest, unsophisticated hearts. Am I wrong, then, in leaving you to such guardianship, sure to be true and unpretending, even though I wrong you out of a more splendid heritage—out of worldly wealth and fictitious tenderness? It seems to me, who have been hurled so suddenly from my pinnacle of bliss, as if the lowest rest were the safest. And who knows?—it might even be if I sent to him the child of our love that he might deny you, my innocent little angel babe, the claim upon him which you have? Would it be more cruel than the wrong he visited upon his wife? No! I will not trust you to him—to your own father, Elizabeth!—though I love him still as completely as the day he led me to our wedding rites.

"But if fate should throw you into his care—if he should seek you and find you and seize upon you as his, absorb you into himself, fatally, as he has me, I will pray to the Heavenly Father, in whose presence I shall be dwelling, that he may never darken your life as he has mine—that he will cherish you, not for his own, but your sake, love you, as your mother loves, self-forgetting, for your happiness and not his own glory. I will pray that that iron will of his, to which I delighted to yield, which I felt only as a band of flowers, because I loved him so, may never tighten about your heart, as it did about mine. I will pray and trust—God will be good to my little orphan girl. I leave you to Him, rather than to any earthly father.

"And now, I have said nothing, can say nothing. Only that I love my child—that I go away from her with a pang which only dying mothers feel—that I will, if it is permitted me, still watch over her from the blue hights of heaven—that I expect to meet her, some happy future day, in the pure eternal city.

"The little mementoes which I shall be able to leave you will be dear to you because they have been dear to your mother. Among them is my wedding-ring. Keep it for your bridal. Good-by, my daughter—it is so hard to say good-by.

"If it should prove, by the time you read these words, that you have found your father, I need not tell you to love him, for none can help that; you will be a good daughter; but, if he stands between you and happiness, plead with him, for my sake, to deal gently with my child. And so, again, good-by. God bless and keep you, my darling. Good-by. You will come to me sometime, after you have done with this brief world. Till then, God will be with my child.

"YOUR MOTHER,
 "ANNIE ST. JOHN CAROLLYN."

Elizabeth's tears were dropping upon the faded letter—that wayward, fond, not overly-wise letter which had evidently torn itself out of the mother's heart, whether she would or not, and written itself down, without thought of wisdom or plan. And yet, as by some strange, prophetic foreboding, had she not pictured forth the future precisely as it now stood?

Again and again she read the passage:

"If he should seek you and find you and seize upon you as his, absorb you fatally into himself, as he has me, I will pray to the Heavenly Father," etc.; and as she brooded over it, her tears ceased to fall, a light came into her face, and she whispered, looking up:

"My dear mother is praying for me now; she is watching over me, softening my father's pride, blessing our love—yes! she approves my love for Nat—she will plead our cause. I will not go proudly away from my father, as I intended, when he so insulted my lover last night. I will take him my mother's letter, and that shall be our peacemaker."

With the letter in her hand she went to her father's door; but her knock remained unanswered. She had not heard him leave the house, and stood irresolute, half-minded to intrude, without being bidden, into his presence. While she hesitated, the door of the room adjoining was partially unclosed. She looked up in surprise, for it was the chamber forever closed, into which she had not been permitted to look since she entered the house—the chamber where only the master went, alone, at night, to surround himself with ghosts of the past—her mother's bridal-chamber.

"Come in here, Annie!"

She hardly knew her father's voice, oppressed with emotions which his pride endeavored to subdue; but she caught a glimpse of his face, troubled, and wet with tears, and she sprung forward, forgetful in an instant of her own wishes, flinging her arms about his neck. Softly he closed the door, and the two were in the apartment, haunted by the long-vanished presence of one, the young, the beautiful, the happy—the dead wife and mother—the tragic close of whose brief dream of bliss had overshadowed the luxury and beauty of this spot with a darkness which could be lifted in this world—"nevermore!"

Timidly Elizabeth looked around, moved by a curiosity that was all reverence and love. The blinds of one window were flung open and the sunshine burst through, melting into the amber drapery of the heavy silk curtains like topazes into gold. Save that the furniture was kept scrupulously free from dust, proving the frequency of her father's visits, scarcely an article seemed to have been moved from its place in all those years. Curtains of amber silk corresponding with those of the windows draped the bed, faded by time, but otherwise unchanged. The party-dress which the bride had worn that fatal evening, lay across the pillows where she had thrown it when she exchanged it for the traveling suit in which she made her escape. The little satin slippers of the same color as the dress, stood side by side on the carpet near by. The sight of these touched the young girl beyond all else; she sprung to them, took them up, kissed and pressed them to her bosom, all unreflecting of the pang the impulsive action inflicted on another, until a sound like that of a strangled sob, caused her to replace them, and return to Dr. Carollyn, who had sunk into the chair nearest him—her favorite chair, a dainty, cushioned thing of amber satin brocade, well fitted for a lady's chamber.

"Dear father," she said, holding his hand, and looking into his eyes with a love which ought to have satisfied him.

"Yet you wish to throw me away—you love another better than me," were the words he said.

He had not meant to say them; he had come into that room for the purpose of obtaining complete mastery over the tyrannous part of himself, and he thought had conquered it forever; and he had no more than said them, before he was ashamed, adding quickly:

"I do not blame you for it, little one. I shall not oppose you—only I have had you such a brief time to myself. Is it strange I was disconcerted to find myself put away so soon?"

"Not put away, dear father—not loved any less, but rather more than ever. Oh, father, I know you will not condemn a happiness which you once knew so sweet. Do you know I am eighteen to-day? I have been reading my mother's letter; here it is—read it, too, will you not?"

She thrust it into his trembling hand; she dared not look at him, but went and sat at the window while he read.

The silence was long and oppressive; at length she ventured to turn to her father, and saw him sitting motionless, with bowed head, great tears rolling silently down his face and dropping upon the paper clutched in his hand. She stole to his feet, knelt, and clasped her hands over his knee, looking up at him with a glance full of sympathy and confidence—she trusted to the power of the mother up in heaven who had said that she should watch over her at this crisis.

"She knew me better than I knew myself," muttered the proud man; "I do not wonder that she wanted to hide you away from my selfishness, Annie."

"Yet she loved you so, through it all," murmured the young girl.

"She did. The letter is like herself—her goodness is more than I can bear. But it is not too late for me to prove myself worthy of that love yet. No, my child, I will not wring the life out of your warm young heart with this steely will of mine. Where is this lover of yours? Send for him. Be he bear or buffalo, wild Indian or adventurer, he shall be my son. You shall share with him all that I have to give."

"He is neither bear nor buffalo," cried Elizabeth, smiling through her tears. "If you will only take a good look at him, papa, you will see what he is—you will not be ashamed of him."

"Pshaw!" muttered Dr. Carollyn, rising, and shaking himself. "But where did you say he could be sent for, little one?"

"At the Metropolitan, I am quite sure he said."

"No doubt of it, then. Come, I will send Pomp with an invitation, in my own name, for him to dine with us this evening. Come into my room, and while I am writing the note you can be examining these parcels, which seem to be directed to you."

They passed out into his bedchamber, and while he quietly indited quite a lengthy note, for an invitation to dinner, Elizabeth untied the precious packages one by one. It was not the beauty and splendor of these birthday presents, however delightful these were, which gave that rich bloom to her cheek, that lustrous gladness to her eyes. One stolen glance at her radiant countenance half repaid her father for the sacrifice he was making.

That was a memorable evening in the household calendar. When the three sat down to the repast—which, in honor both of the birthday and the betrothal, was served with the most sumptuous appointments of which the establishment was capable—the haughty physician, divesting himself of the ugly green spectacles of jealousy, looked at his guest with fair, appreciative eyes. He was forced to admit that this great, overgrown, self-willed son of his was no unfit match for his daughter; in fact, that he was really a magnificent man, with brain and talent enough for half a dozen; and, what he liked better than all else, with self-respect enough to know and maintain his rights.

"No danger of my hurting him with my iron will," smiled Dr. Carollyn to his own thought, as he measured the strength of his whilom antagonist, but now friend and son.

And he liked the idea—for proud people respect pride in others; and, since Annie would fall in love and be married, he could not remember any young man in the whole circle of his acquaintance, who, all things considered, was so satisfactory.

So he made himself very agreeable at that little dinner; and after it was over, and they had talked together awhile in the library, he made an excuse to withdraw to his own room, leaving the young girl showing her gifts to her lover, and the two were alone with their happy hopes.

Youth and beauty, and love and peace—let us leave them upon the threshold of the promised future. We can see the light which shines out of the opening door; the twain step over and disappear in the enchanted atmosphere within.

THE END.