Chapter XXII: Down by the Lake Shore

The shadowy woods which skirt the lake shore tell no tales of what they see, neither do the mossy rocks, nor yet the plashing waves kissing the pebbly beach, and so Dora was free to pour out her griefs, knowing there was no listening human ear, and forgetting for a time that there was an eye which kept watch over her, as with her face upon the yielding sand she moaned so piteously. She could not sit where she and Richard sat, and so she chose the projecting trunk of a fallen tree, and sat where her feet could touch the water below if she should wish it so, as once she did, dipping the tip of her thin slipper, and holding it there till it was wet through to see what the feeling was!

Dora did not try to pray. She never thought of that, but only remembered how desolate, how miserable she was, vainly imagining that to rest beneath the waters lying so calmly at her feet was to end all the pain, the misery, and woe.

The sun was going down the west now very fast, and out upon the bosom of the lake, at some distance from the shore, it cast a gleam like burnished gold, and Dora, gazing wistfully upon it, fancied that if she could but reach that spot, and sink into that golden glory, it would be well with her. No thoughts of the hereafter crossed her disordered mind, and so she sat and watched the shining spot, until there came to her a memory of the night when Robin died, and the time when the sunshine round Anna’s picture looked like the bed of fire upon the lake.

“They are in heaven,” she said; adding mournfully, “and where is that heaven?”

“Not where they go who take their lives in their own hands,” seemed whispered in her ear, and with a shudder she woke to the great peril of her position.

“Save me, O God!” she sobbed, as she moved cautiously back from her seat upon the tree, breathing freer when she knew that beneath her there was no dark, cold water into which she could dip her feet at pleasure.

She had dipped them there until both hose and slippers were dripping wet, but this she did not heed, and once off from the tree, she sat down where Richard sat, and tried to look the present calmly in the face,—to see if there were not some bright, happy spots, if she would but accept them. With her head bowed down, she did not hear the footstep coming through the woods, and drawing near to her; but when a strange voice said interrogatively, “Miss Freeman?” she started and uttered a nervous cry, for the face she saw was the face of a stranger. And yet it was so like to Dr. West, that she looked again to reassure herself.

“I am Robert West,” the man began, abruptly. “I am Richard’s brother. He sent me here,—he sent me to _his Dora_, and you are she.”

For an instant a tumultuous throb of joy shot through Dora’s heart, but it quickly passed, as she answered Robert:

“You are mistaken, sir. I am to be Squire Russell’s wife to-morrow.”

Sitting down beside her, Robert repeated rapidly a part of what the reader already knows, telling her of Anna, of his own sin, and exonerating Richard from all blame. Then he told her of the meeting in California, of his long illness,—of Richard’s anguish when he heard that she was to be married,—of the reaction when that letter so long in coming was received,—of his haste to embark for home, and his illness during the voyage,—illness which made him so weak that he was brought from New York on pillows, and partly in his brother’s arms.

“But he has reached here in safety,” Robert continued. “He arrived perhaps an hour ago. He is at his old boarding-place, Miss Markham’s, and mother is there with him. He knows you are not married yet, and would have come to you himself, but for his illness, which made it impossible, and so he sent me to say that even as he loves you, so he believes that you love him, and to beg of you not to sacrifice your happiness to a mistaken sense of duty. You could not be found when I inquired for you, but a servant said she saw you going towards the lake, and as she pointed me the way, I came on until I found you. Miss Freeman, you know my brother, and know that there lives no better, more upright man, or one who will make you happier as your husband. You have heard my errand, and now what word shall I take back to Richard, or will you go yourself and see him?”

Dora had sat like one stunned as Robert told his story; hope, joy, and despair alternately succeeding each other in her heart as she listened. At a glance, too, she took in all the difficulties of her position, and saw how impossible it was for her to overcome them. This was in her mind when Robert asked if she would go to Richard, and with a bitter moan she answered:

“No, no; oh no! he has come too late. I cannot break my word to John, and he trusting me so fully. Tell Richard it might have been, but cannot be now.”

Again Robert West pleaded for his brother, and for the poor heart-broken girl beside him, but her answer was just the same:

“It might have been, but cannot be now.”

At last as it grew darker around them, and the night dew made Dora shiver, Robert gave up the contest, and said:

“You must go home, Miss Freeman. It is imprudent to stay here longer in the damp night air. I am satisfied that you do not know what you are saying, and so I shall see Squire Russell, and acquaint him with the whole.”

In an instant Dora was on her knees, begging that her betrothed might be spared this pain.

“Think of the sorrow, the disappointment, the disgrace,—for to-morrow morning early is the wedding, and everybody knows. Why, our passage to Europe is secured, and we must go.”

“Not if I have the power to prevent it,” was Robert’s reply, as he led her across the fields, still insisting that he should see Squire Russell.

At last, when she saw how much in earnest he was, she said, “I will tell him myself; I can do it more gently, and it will not hurt so much. Don’t go to him, but leave it with me.”

“Will you tell him all and ask to be released?” Robert said, making her stand still while she replied, “I’ll tell him all, how I love Richard best; but I shall not ask to be released.”

Robert was satisfied, for from what he had heard of Squire Russell he believed he would never require of Dora so great a sacrifice.

“I shall be here with the early dawn,” he said, as he left her at the gate.

Dora did not reply, but stood with her eyes riveted upon the house across the street, where she knew was Dr. West. There was a light shining from the windows of the upper room, while the figure of a woman wearing a widow’s cap was occasionally seen passing to and fro.

“That is Richard’s room,” she whispered, feeling an intense desire to fly at once to his side and assert her right to stay there.

Then, remembering her promise to Robert, she walked slowly to the house, meeting in the door with Johnnie, who, wild with excitement, exclaimed, “Hurrah, guess who has come! Dr. West,—and I have been in to see him. He’s whiter than a ghost, and what is funny, his chin fairly shook when I told him I was to have a new mother to-morrow, and what do you think, that woman, his mother, put me out of the room and said too much talking hurt him. Did you know he was here?”

“Yes, I knew, Johnnie; where’s your father?” Dora asked, feeling that if she waited longer her courage would give way.

“Father’s in the library, and he’s ordered us youngsters to keep out. I guess he’s expecting you, for he asked lots of times where you was, and nobody knew, Jessie’s over there,” and Johnnie jerked his shoulder in the direction of the doctor’s window.

Very slowly, as if going to her grave, Dora walked on till she came to the library door. It was shut, and as she stood there trembling, she caught the sound of a voice praying within, a voice which trembled with happiness and gratitude as John Russell thanked the God who had given to him Dora.

“I can’t; oh, I can’t,” Dora sighed, as, faint and sick, she leaned against the wall, while that prayer proceeded.

Then, when it was finished, still feeling that she could not talk with him that night, she went up to her room, and in the garments all damp and stained with night dew, and the slippers wet with the waters of the lake, she sat down by the open window and watched the light across the way, until she heard Jessie coming and knew that Robert was with her. They were talking, too, of her, for she heard her name coupled with Dr. West’s, while Jessie said, “It’s dreadful, and I do so pity Squire Russell,—he is such a nice, good man.”

And Jessie did pity him and Dora, too, hardly knowing what was best, or what she ought to advise. She had been present when Robert returned from his interview with Dora, and as Richard could not wait till she was gone she came to know the whole, expressing great surprise, and wounding Richard cruelly by saying, “It has gone so far that I do not believe it can be prevented.”

But Robert thought differently, and repeated Dora’s promise to talk with Squire Russell that night.

“Then he will give her up,” Jessie exclaimed, “he is so generous and so wholly unselfish. Oh, how I do pity him!” and in the heat of her great pity Jessie would almost have been Dora’s substitute, if by that means she could have saved the Squire from pain.

She did admire and like him, and appreciated his kind, affable, pleasant ways, all the more because they were so exactly the opposite of her father’s quick, brusque, nervous manner. The door of the library was open now, and she saw him sitting there as she passed, and longed so much to go and comfort him if the blow had fallen, or prepare him for it if it had not. I’ll see Dora first, she thought, and she hastened up to Dora’s door, but it was locked, while to her whispered question, “Have you told him yet?” Dora answered, “No, no, not yet; I can’t to-night. Please leave me, Jessie; I want to be alone.”

It was the queerest thing she ever heard of, Jessie thought, as she turned away,—queerer than a novel ten times over. Then, as she spied Johnnie in the parlor, the little meddlesome lady felt a great desire to see if he suspected anything; but Johnnie did not, and only talked of Europe and the grand things he should see. Not a hint or insinuation, however broad, would he take, and mentally styling him stupid and dull, Jessie left him in disgust, and walked boldly into the library, apologizing for her call by saying she had been to see Dr. West, and thought the Squire might wish to hear directly from him. The Squire was very glad to hear, and glad also to see Jessie, who amused and interested him.

“I have been thinking of calling myself, with Dora, but have not seen her this evening. Where is she?” he said.

“Locked in her room,” Jessie replied, as she took the chair he offered her, and continued: “Dora acts queerly, but I suppose that is the way I shall do the night before I am married. Wouldn’t I feel so funny, though! Do you know you and Dora seem to me just like a novel, in which I am a side character; but to keep up the romance some tall, handsome knight ought at the last minute to appear and carry her off.”

“And so make a tragedy so far as I am concerned,” the Squire said, playfully, as he smoothed the little black curly head moving so restlessly.

“Oh, I guess you would not die,” Jessie replied; “not if Dora loved the knight the best. You would rather she should have him, and some time you would find another Dora who loved you best of all.”

Jessie was growing very earnest, very sympathetic, very sorry for the unsuspecting bridegroom, and as his hand still continued to smooth her curls, she suddenly caught it between her own, and giving it a squeeze darted from the room, leaving the Squire to wonder at her manner, and to style her mentally “a nice little girl, whom it would not be hard for any man to love.”