Richard Vandermarck Part 31

"Yes: Kilian Vandermarck was married yesterday."

"Yesterday! how odd. And pray, who has he married? Not Mary Leighton, I should hope."

"Leighton. Yes, that's the name. No money, and a little _pa.s.se_.

Everybody wonders."

"Well, he deserves it. That is even-handed justice, I'm not sorry for him. He's been trifling all his days, and now he's got his punishment.

It serves Sophie right, too. I know she can't endure her. She never thought there was the slightest danger. But I'm sorry for Richard, that he's got to have such a girl related to him."

"Oh, well," said Mrs. Throckmorton, "I don't know whether that'll affect him very much, for they say he's going to be married too."

"Richard!"

"Yes; and to that Benson girl, you know."

"Who told you?"

"Mary Ann. She's heard it half a dozen times, she says. I believe it's rather an old affair. His sister made it up, I'm told. The young lady's been spending the summer with them, and this autumn it came out."

"I don't believe it."

"I'm sure I don't know; only that's the talk. It would be odd, though, if we'd just come home in time for the wedding. You'll have to give her something handsome, being your guardian, and all."

I wouldn't give her anything, and she shouldn't marry Richard, I thought, as I leaned back in my chair and looked into the fire; a great silence having fallen on us since the delivery of that piece of news.

I said I didn't believe it, and yet I'm afraid I did. It was so like a man to give in at last; at least, like any man but Richard. He had always liked Charlotte Benson, and known how clever she was, and Sophie had been so set upon it, (particularly since Richard had had so much money that he had given her a handsome settlement that nothing would affect.) And now that Kilian was married and would have the place, unless Richard wanted it, it was natural that Sophie should approve Richard having _his_ wife there instead of Kilian having his; Kilian's being one that n.o.body particularly approved.

Yes, it did sound very much like probability. I wasn't given to self-a.n.a.lysis; but I acknowledged to myself, that I was very much disappointed, and that if I had known that this was going to happen, I should have stayed in Europe.

I had never felt as if there were any chance of Richard marrying any one; I had not said to myself, that his love for me still had an existence, nor had I any reason to believe it. But the truth had been, I had always felt that he belonged to me, and was my right, and I felt a bitter resentment toward this woman, who was supposed to have usurped my place. How _dared_ Richard love anybody else! I was angry with him, and very much hurt, and very, very unhappy.

Long after Mrs. Throckmorton went to her middle-aged repose, I sat up and went through imaginary scenes, and reviewed the situation a hundred times, and tried to convince myself of what I wanted to believe, and ended without any satisfaction.

One thing was certain. If Richard was going to marry Charlotte Benson, he was not going to do it because he loved her. He might not be prevented from doing it because he loved me; but he did not love her. I could not say why exactly. But I knew she was not the kind of woman for him to think of loving, and I would not believe it till I heard it from himself, and I would hear it from himself at the earliest possible date.

I did not like to be unhappy, and was very impatient to get rid of this, if it were not true, and to know the worst, at once, if it were.

"My dear Throcky," I said to my companion, at the breakfast-table, "I think you'd better go and take dinner with your niece to-day. I've sent for Mr. Vandermarck to come and dine, and I thought perhaps you'd rather not be bored; we shall have business to talk about, and business is such a nuisance when you're not interested in it."

"Very well, my dear," said Mrs. Throckmorton, with indestructible good-humor.

"Or you might have a headache, if you'd rather, and I'll send your dinner up to you. I'll be sure Susan takes you everything that's nice."

"Well, then, I think I'll have a headache; I'm afraid I'd rather have it than one of Mary Ann's poor dinners. (I'd be sure of one to-morrow if I went.)"

"Paris things have spoiled you, I'm afraid," I said. "Only see that I have something nice for Richard, won't you?--How do you think the cook is going to do?" This was the first sign of interest I had given in the matter of _menage_; by which it will be seen I was still a little selfish, and not very wise. But Throckmorton was a person to cultivate my selfishness, and there had not been much to develop the wisdom of common life.

She promised me a very pretty dinner, no matter at what trouble, and made me feel quite easy about her wounded feelings. One of the best features of Throckmorton was, she hadn't any feelings; you might treat her like a galley-slave, and she would show the least dejection. It was a temptation to have such a person in the house.

I had sent a note to Richard which contained the following:

/# "DEAR RICHARD:

"I am sure you will be surprised to know we have returned.

But the fact is, I got very tired of Italy; and we were disappointed in the apartments we wanted in Berlin, and some of the people we expected to have with us had to give it up, and altogether it seemed dull, and we thought it would be just as pleasant to come home. We were able to get staterooms that just suited us, and it didn't seem worth while to lose them by waiting to send word. We had a very comfortable voyage, and I am glad to find myself at home, though Mrs.

Throckmorton doesn't think the rooms are very nice. I want to know if you won't come to dinner. We dine at six. Send a line back by the boy. I want to ask you about some business matters.

"Affectionately yours,

"PAULINE."

And I had received for answer:

/# "MY DEAR PAULINE:

"Of course I am astonished to think you are at home. I enclosed you several letters by the steamer yesterday, none of them of any very great importance, though, I think. I will come up at six.

"Always yours,

"RICHARD VANDERMARCK.

"P.S. I am very glad you wanted to come home."

I read this letter over a great many times, but it did not enlighten me at all as to his intentions about marrying Charlotte Benson. It was very matter-of-fact, but that Richard's letters always were. Evidently he had thought the same of it himself, as he read it over, and had added the postscript. But that did not seem very enthusiastic. Altogether I was not happy, waiting for six o'clock to come.

CHAPTER XXVI.

A DINNER

Time and chance are but a tide, Slighted love is sair to bide.

The dining-room and parlor of our little suite adjoined; the door was standing open between them, as I walked up and down the parlor, waiting nervously for Richard to arrive. The fire was bright, and the only light in the parlor was a soft, pretty lamp, which we had brought from Italy.

There were flowers on the table, and in two or three vases, and the curtains were pretty, and there were several large mirrors. Outside, it was the twilight of a dark autumnal day; almost night already, and the lamps were lit. It lacked several minutes of six when Richard came. I felt very much agitated when he entered the room. It was a year and a half since I had seen him: besides, this piece of news! But he looked just the same as ever, and I had not the self-possession to note whether he seemed agitated at meeting me. I do not know exactly what we talked about for the first few moments, probably I was occupied in trying to excuse myself for coming home so suddenly, for I found Richard was not altogether pleased at not having been informed, and thought there must be something yet to tell. He was not used to feminine caprice, and I began to feel a good deal ashamed of myself. I had to remind myself, more than once, that I was not responsible to any one.

"I just felt like it," was such a very weak explanation to offer to this grave business-man, for disarranging two years of carefully-laid plans.

I found I was getting to be a little afraid of Richard: we had been so long apart, and he had grown so much older.

"I hope, at least, you are not going to scold me for it," I said at last, with a little laugh, feeling that was my best way out of it. "I shall think you are not glad, to see me."

"I am glad to see you," he said, gravely; "and as to scolding, it's so long since you've given me an opportunity, I should not know how to go to work."

"Do you mean, because I've been away so long, or because I've been so good?"

Susan, who had been watching her opportunity, now appeared in the dining-room door, and said that dinner was on the table.