CHAPTER V.
Four weeks elapsed ere Richard’s return. During his absence Mr. Bristed showed his sympathy for my lonely situation by many little attentions; sending up to the school-room, now and then, choice fruit from his hot-house, or a bouquet of conservatory flowers, and, several times in the early evening, he sent for me to read aloud to him.
I found him to be a quiet, polished gentleman; and I grew to like him, and to look for his tokens of kindness after my daily labors with growing interest, and, if they came not, to feel disappointed and unhappy. He had travelled much and could talk well, and under the influence of a sympathetic listener, his countenance lit up with kindly emotion, and the sad lines of his face disappeared beneath a happy smile.
But in the glowing midsummer his truant brother returned, and my new-born interest vanished like snow before the harvest sun.
Again Mr. Richard exerted his varied powers to fascinate and amuse me. Again I listened, and struggled, as formerly, against his wiles, and finally bent a too willing ear to his soft words of praise and admiration. With secret pleasure I reveled in his ardent language, hugging to my heart the belief that I was loved.
How that summer sped by on its golden wings! Time passed on, as in some delicious opium dream! And when the short clays and long nights of the Christmas holidays set in, I found myself secretly engaged in marriage to Richard Bristed.
Of our plans and attachment his brother was not at present to be informed: this stern brother who shut himself up apart from his species, and who, Richard told me, was of too cold a nature to sympathize with love.
“He will dismiss you, Agnes, if he hears of it,” he said. “Wait till I have settled up my affairs, and then he can do his worst.”
I believed this statement; I forgot all my former good impressions of Mr. Bristed, and listened to the tales that were told me of how he had wronged Richard. I learned to regard him as a robber, a hypocrite whose statements could not be relied on; a false, dark, bad man. As for Richard, he seemed a king in comparison; a noble, magnanimous being, whom some kind fairy had bestowed upon me.
But that cold, relentless Fate, which comes to tear off the painted wrappings of life, revealing the bare and ugly reality beneath, was fast pursuing me.
At the close of a cold, snowy day, I had retired early to my room, and having locked the door that I might be free from interruption, sat down to look over the dainty articles of dress which I had been shyly accumulating for my approaching marriage.
It was but a scanty outfit, but to me it appeared munificent as that of a princess. I could never weary of looking at these beautiful garments; I placed them in one light, and then in another; I folded and unfolded them, and finally ended by trying them on, and admiring in the mirror their perfect adaptation to my face and figure. A long time must have passed in this way, when the hall clock struck the hour of midnight. Astonished at the lateness of the night, I threw down the laces and ribbons which I was combining into some airy article of dress, and was preparing to remove my bridal attire, when I was amazed to hear a key turning in the lock of my door. Fear and surprise nailed me to the floor. The door glided softly open and in stepped Mr. Richard Bristed! He seemed surprised to see me thus.
“What! up and dressed?” he exclaimed, in a loud whisper. “O my beauty! my wife! I have come to claim you to-night. You shall be mine. No power on earth shall withhold us now!”
“How strangely you talk, Richard,” said I. “You forget it is so late. We cannot go to church at this hour.”
“Ah, dearest, this is church! See, I have brought you this ring. We will stand up before God and our own hearts, and I will marry you here. We need no other witnesses than ourselves and this ring!”
Though my youthful heart was blinded by love and passion, I was not prepared for this. Excitement and the strangeness of the proposition overcame me, and I broke forth into sobs.
He endeavored to soothe me, urging his request with a pleading force which I could scarcely withstand.
“I am not prepared, Richard,” said I, drying my tears; “this is so sudden, so unlooked for, I must have time for thought.”
But thought only revealed a gaping abyss, from which I must fly.
He continued to urge his plea; but seeing I would not yield, his countenance changed. The sweet, seductive smile vanished. He grew white as the moonbeam, and, clenching his hand and setting his teeth, bent over me, whispering huskily:
“Agnes, I shall not step from this room to-night. I have the key. You have promised to be mine. You shall keep that promise. To-night you shall keep that promise!”
If he was pale, I became paler. A cold chill crept over me. But I took my resolution, unyielding as death, not to grant his request.
A chasm seemed to yawn before me. The loneliness and friendlessness of my position were presented to my mind with terrific reality. A deadly swoon-like feeling ensued. To yield in this might seal my fate. I paced the floor rapidly, praying for help.
Help came suddenly. As I passed the door of my wardrobe, I remembered that the same key unlocked this and the door of my apartment. I drew it forth, and in the twinkling of an eye I was free.
The cool air from the outside passage, and the prospect of liberty, cooled my excited nerves, and revived me for the work I had to accomplish.
“Richard,” said I, my hand upon the latch, “you or I must leave.”
He made no reply, but violently rising from his chair, grasped something that lay near him, and tearing it to atoms, rushed by me without word or look, and reaching the stairs, hastened out of sight.
Mechanically I sat down, and with sad, straining eyes surveyed the wreck before me. My bridal wreath was shivered into fragments; its white petals, like fruit blossoms caught in an untimely blast, sprinkled the floor; my laces were in shreds like the riven mast of some shipwrecked vessel.
Of course there was no sleep for me that night. When worn out with thinking and weeping, I drew a large easy chair up to the door and sat there as guard, listening, with the hope which moment after moment grew fainter, that he would return and whisper in my willing ear a sweet demand for pardon, some word in extenuation for his unseemly conduct; but he came not.
Toward daybreak, I was aroused from the lethargy into which I had fallen from sheer exhaustion by the sound of excited voices and hurried movements in the room below. As these subsided and the gray morning broke, I was startled by the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the graveled walk.
A fearful foreboding possessed me; what could it mean? Somebody was riding away; who was it? Through the gate and down the avenue I heard the galloping steed.
I dragged my nerveless limbs to the window and peered forth. Clear against the horizon, now streaked with pale crimson rays of dawn, rising in bold relief I beheld the receding figure of Richard Bristed.
He was leaving me without word or sign. My head reeled; I grasped the window casement to steady myself, and sank insensible upon the floor.