Part 6 (1/2)
”Go now, mother. Don't wait a minute,” pleaded Ben, and Mrs. Van Vechten started for her brother's library.
She found him alone, and disclosed the object of her visit at once.
Rosamond had refused her son, who, in consequence, was nearly distracted, and threatened going to the Crimean war--a threat she knew he would execute unless her brother persuaded Rosamond to revoke her decision and think again.
Mr. Browning turned as white as marble, but his sister was too much absorbed in her own matters to heed his emotions, and she continued--
”Of course it will be mortifying to us all to have her in the family, and maybe Ben will get over it; but they must be engaged somehow, or he'll go away. I'll send her up to you immediately,” and she hurriedly left the room in quest of Rosamond. For a moment Mr. Browning sat like one stupefied; then, covering his face with his hands, he moaned, ”Must _this_ come upon me, too? Must I, who love her so madly, bid her marry another? And yet what does it matter? She can never be mine--and if she marries Ben I can keep them with me always, and that vile woman will have no cause for annoying me. She said Rosamond loved me, but I pray Heaven that may not be so.”
A light tread echoed in the hall, and with each fall of those little feet, Ralph Browning's heart throbbed painfully. Another moment and Rosamond was there with him--her cheeks flushed--her eyelashes wet with tears, and her whole manner betrayed an unusual degree of excitement.
”I understand from your sister,” said she, ”that you wish me to marry _Ben,_ or leave your house. I will do the latter, but the former-- never! Shall I consider our interview at an end?”
She turned to leave the room, but Mr. Browning caught her dress, exclaiming: ”Stay, Rosamond, and hear me. I never uttered such words to Mrs. Van Vechten. I do not wish you to marry Ben unless you love him. Do you love him, Rosamond? Do you love anybody?”
This was not what he intended to say--but he had said it, and now he waited for her answer. To the first question it came in a decided ”No, I do not love him,” and to the last it came in burning blushes, stealing over her cheek--her forehead--her neck, and speaking in her downcast eye. She had never believed that she did love her guardian, until told that he wished her to marry another, when it burst upon her in all its force, and she could no more conceal it now than she could stop the rapid beatings of her heart. He saw it all in her tell-tale face, and forgetting everything, he wound his arms around her, and drawing her to his side, whispered in her ear, ”Darling, Rosamond, say that you love me. Let me hear that a.s.surance once, and I shall be almost willing to die.”
”Ladies do not often confess an attachment until sure it is returned,”
was Rosamond's answer, and doubly forgetful now of all the dreary past, Ralph Browning poured into her ear hot, burning words of love-- hugging her closer and closer to him until through the open window came the sound of Mrs. Peters' voice calling to the stranger girl who had that morning entered service at Riverside as a waiting-maid in general. _Maria_ was the name, and as the ominous word fell upon Mr.
Browning's ear, he started, and pus.h.i.+ng Rosamond from him, turned his face away so she could not see the expression of mute despair settling down upon it. Sinking upon the lounge he buried his face in its cus.h.i.+ons while Rosamond looked curiously upon him, feeling sure that she knew what it was that so affected him. He had told her of his love--had said that she was dearer to him than his life, and in confessing this he had forgotten the dark shadow upon his life, and it was the dread of telling it to her--the pain of saying ”I love you, but you cannot be my wife,” which affected him so strangely. But she knew it all, and she longed to a.s.sure him of her sympathy. At last when he seemed to be more calm, she stole up to him, and kneeling at his side bent over him so that her bright hair mingled with his own.
”Mr. Browning,” she whispered softly, ”I _know your secret,_ and I do not love you less.”
”_You, Rosamond, you know it!_” he exclaimed, gazing fixedly at her.
”It cannot be. You would never do as you have done.”
”But I do know it,” she continued, taking both his hands in hers, and looking him steadily in the eye, by way of controlling him, should he be seized with a sudden attack, ”I know exactly what it is, and though it will prevent me from being your wife, it will not prevent me from loving you just the same, or from living with you either. I shall stay here always--and--and--pardon me, Mr. Browning, but when you get furious, as you sometimes do, I can quiet you better than any one else, and it may be, the world will never need to know you're a _madman!”_
Mr. Browning looked searchingly into her innocent eyes, and then, in spite of himself, he laughed aloud. He understood why she should think him a madman, and though he repented of it afterward, he hastened to undeceive her now. ”As I hope to see another day, it is not that,” he said. ”It is far worse than insanity; and, Rosamond, though it breaks my heart to say it, it is wicked for me to talk of love to you, and you must not remember what I said. You must crush every tender thought of me. You must forget me--nay, more--you must _hate_ me. Will you, Rosamond?”
”No--no--no! she cried, and laying her face in his lap, she burst into a pa.s.sionate flood of tears.
”Leave me,” he whispered, ”or I _shall_ go mad, for I know I am the cause of this distress.”
There was decision in the tones of his voice, and it stilled the tumult in Rosamond's bosom. Rising to her feet, she said calmly: ”I will go, but I cannot forget that you deceived me. You have wrung from me a confession of my love, only to throw it back upon me as a priceless thing.”
Not thus would he part with her, and grasping her arm, he began: ”Heaven knows how much more than my very life I love you--”
He did not finish the sentence, for through the air a small, dark object came, and, missing its aim, dropped upon the hearth, where it was broken in a hundred pieces. It was a vase which stood upon the table in the hall, and Ben Van Vechten's was the hand that threw it!
Impatient at the delay, he had come up in time to hear his uncle's last words, which aroused his Southern blood at once, and seizing the vase, he hurled it at the offender's head--then, rus.h.i.+ng down the stairs, he burst upon his mother with ”Great thunder! mother; Uncle Ralph is making love to Rosamond himself, and she likes it too. I saw it with my own eyes! I'll hang myself in the barn, or go to the Crimean war!” and Ben bounded up and down like an India-rubber ball.
Suddenly remembering that another train was due ere long, he darted out of the house, followed by his distracted mother, who, divining his intention, ran swiftly after him, imploring him to return. Pausing for a moment as he struck into the highway, he called out, ”Good-by, mother. I've only one choice left--WAR! Give my love to Rosamond, and tell her I shall die like a hero. You needn't wear black, if you don't want to. Good-by.”
He turned the corner--he had started for the _war_--and mentally resolving to follow him in the next train, Mrs. Van Vechten returned to the house, and sought her brother.
”Ralph,” she began, sternly, ”have you talked of love to Rosamond?”
Mr. Browning had borne so much that nothing startled him now, and returning her glance unflinchingly, he replied, ”I have.”
”How, then--is Marie dead?” the lady asked.