Richard Vandermarck Part 27

"Tell me, Pauline: did he ever ask you anything about last summer, or did you ever tell him?"

"No, Richard, I could never have spoken to him about it; and he never asked me. But I know he saw that I was not happy."

"Pauline," said Richard, after a pause, and as if forcing himself to speak, "there is no use in disguising from you what your position is: you know it yourself, enough of it, at least, to make you understand why I speak now. I don't know of any way out of it, but one; and I feel as if it were ungenerous to press that on you now, and, Heaven knows, I would not do it if I could think of anything else to offer to you. You know, Pauline, that if you will marry me, you will have everything that you need, as much as if your uncle had left you everything."

He did not look at me, but paced up and down the platform, and spoke with a thick, husky voice.

"You know it's been the object of my life, ever since I knew you, but I don't want that to influence you. I know it is too soon, a great deal too soon. And I would not have done it, if I could have seen anything else to do, or if you could have done without me."

I must have been deadly pale, for when at last he looked at me, he started.

"I don't know how it is," he said, with a groan, "I always have to give you pain, when, Heaven knows, I'd give my life to spare you every suffering. I can't see any other way to take care of you than the way I tell you of, and yet, I have no doubt you think me cruel, and selfish, to ask you to do it now. It does seem so, and yet it is not. If you knew how much it has cost me to speak, you would believe it."

"I do believe it," I said, trying to command my voice. "I think you have always been too good and kind to me. But I can't tell you how this makes me feel. Oh, Richard, isn't there any, any other way?"

"Perhaps there may be," he said, with a bitter and disappointed look, "but I do not know of it."

"Oh, Richard, do not be angry with me. Think how hard it is for me always to be disappointing you. I have a great deal of trouble!"

"Yes, Pauline, I know you have," he said, sitting down by me, and taking my hand in a repentant way. "You see I'm selfish, and only looked at my own disappointment just that minute. I thought I had not any hope that you might not mind the idea of marrying me; but you see, after all, I had. I believe I must have fancied that you were getting over your trouble: you have seemed so much brighter lately. But now I know the truth; and now I know that what I do is simply sacrifice and duty. A man must be a fool who looks for pleasure in marrying a woman who has no love for him. And I say now, in the face of it all, marry me, Pauline, if you can bring yourself to do it. I am the only approach to a friend that you have in the world. As your husband, I can care for you and protect you. You are young, your character is unformed, you are ignorant of the world. You have no home, no protection, literally none, and I am afraid to trust you. You need not be angry if I say so. I think I've earned the right to find some faults in you. I don't expect you to love me. I don't expect to be particularly happy; but there are a good many ways of serving G.o.d and doing one's duty; and if we try to serve him and to live for duty, it will all come out right at last. You will be a happier woman, Pauline, if you do it, than if you rebel against it, and try to find some other way, and put yourself in a subordinate place, or a place of dependence, and waste your life, and expose yourself to temptation. No, no, Pauline, I cannot see you do it. Heaven knows, I wish you had somebody else to direct you. But it has all come upon me, and I must do the best I can. I think any one else would advise the same, who had the same means of judging."

"I will do just what you think best," I said, almost in a whisper, getting up.

"That is right," he answered, in a husky voice, rising too, and putting my cloak about my shoulders, which had fallen off. "You will see it will be best."

CHAPTER XXII.

A GREAT DEAL TOO SOON.

But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, Are governed with a goodly modesty, That suffers not a look to glance away, Which may let in a little thought unsound.

_Spenser_.

Vouloir ce que Dieu veut est la seule science Qui nous met en repos.

_Malherbe_.

Richard had obtained for me (with difficulty), from the lawyer of the new uncle who had arisen, the privilege of remaining in the house for another month, undisturbed in any way. At the end of those four weeks I was to be married to him, one day, quietly in church, and to go away. It was very hard to have to see Sophie, and be treated with ignominy, for doing what I did not want to do; it was very hard to make preparations to leave the only place I wanted to stay in now; it was very hard to be tranquil and even, while my heart was like lead. But I had begun to discover that that was the general order of things here below, and it did not amaze me as it had done at first. I was doing my duty, to the best of my discernment, and was not to be deterred by all the lead in the world.

It was very well for Richard to say, he did it for sacrifice and for duty. I have no doubt at first he did it greatly for those two things: but he grew happier every day, I could see. He was very considerate of my sadness, and always acted on the basis on which our engagement was begun, never keeping my hand in his, or kissing me, or asking any of the trifling favors of a lover.

He was grave and silent: but I could see the change in his face; I could see that he was more exacting of every moment that I spent away from him; he kept near me, and followed me with his eyes, and seemed never to be satisfied with his possession of me.

He bought me the most beautiful jewels, (he had made great strides toward fortune in the last six months, and was a rich man now in earnest,) and though he never clasped them on my throat or wrist, nor even fitted a ring on my finger, I could feel his eyes upon me, hungering for a smile, a word of grat.i.tude.

And who would not have been grateful? But it was "too soon, a great deal too soon," as he had said himself. I was very grateful, but I would have been glad to die.

I have wondered whether he saw it or not, I rather think not. I was very submissive and gentle, and tried to be bright, and I think he was so absorbed in the satisfaction of my promise, so intent upon his plans for making me happy, and for making me love him, that he made himself believe there was no heart of lead below the tranquillity he saw.

It was the third week since my uncle's death. The next week was to come the marriage, on Wednesday, the 19th of May.

"Marriages in May are not happy," said Ann Coddle.

"I did not need you to tell me that," I thought.

It was on Thursday, the 13th; Richard had come up a little earlier, in the evening. It grew to be a little earlier every evening.

"By-and-by he will not go down-town at all, at this rate," I said to myself, when I heard his ring that night.

I was sitting by the parlor-lamp, with the evening paper in my lap, of which I had not read a word. He came and sat down by the table, and we talked a little while. I tried to find things to talk about, and wondered if it always would be so. I felt as if some day I should give out entirely, and have to go through bankruptcy. (And take a fresh start.)

He never seemed to feel the want of talking; I suppose he was quite satisfied with his thoughts, and with having me beside him.

By-and-by, he said he should have to go up to the library, and look over the last of some books of my uncle's, and finish an inventory that he had begun. Could I not bring my work and sit there by him? I felt a little selfish, for we were already on the last week, and I said I thought I would sit in the parlor. I had to write a letter to Sister Madeline. I had not heard a word from her yet, though I had written twice.

Why could not I write in the library?

I always liked to be alone when I wrote letters: I could not think, when any one was in the room. Besides, trying to smile, he would be sure to talk.

He looked disappointed, and lingered a good while before he went away.

As he rose to go away he threw into my lap a little package, saying,

"There is some white lace for you. Can't you use it on some of your clothes? I don't know anything about such things: maybe it isn't pretty enough, but I thought perhaps it would do for that lilac silk you talked of."

I opened the package: it was exquisite, fit for a princess; and as I bent over it, I thought, how dead I must be, that it gave me no pleasure to know it was my own, for I had loved such baubles so, a year ago.

"What a ma.s.s of it!" I exclaimed, unfolding yard on yard.

"You must always wear lace," he said, throwing one end of it over my black dress around the shoulder. "I like you in it. I am tired of those stiff little linen collars."

The lace had given me a little compunction about not spending the evening with him: but as I had said so, I could not draw back; so I compromised the matter by going up to the library with him, to see that he was comfortable, before I came down to write my letter.

I brought the little student-lamp from my own room and lit it, and put it on the library-table, and brought him some fresh pens, and opened the inkstand for him, even pushed up the chair and put a little footstool by it. Though he was standing by the bookshelves, and seemed to be engrossed by them, I knew that he was watching me, filled with content and satisfaction.

"Do you remember where that box of cigars was put?" he said, turning to me as I paused. That was to keep me longer; for they were on the shelf, half a yard from where he stood.

I got the cigar-box and put it on the table.

"Now you will want some matches, and this stand is almost empty." So I took it away with me to my room, and came back with it filled.

"Is there anything else that I can do?" I said, pausing as I put it on the table.

"No, Pauline. I believe not. Thank you."

I think that moment Richard was nearer to happiness than he had ever been before. Poor fellow!