The sin of Edith Dean

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EDITH DEAN.

Chapter I

The mellow sunlight of a sweet May morn Gleamed on the snowy blossoms of the thorn, Kissed the uprising, dew-wet blades of corn And lay, a golden glory, where the breeze Was tossing growing grainhelds " into seas."

Though just above the hill-top shone the sun, 'Die farmer's day of toil was well begun.

Slow-stepping oxen, patient and sad-e^yed, Moved in obedience at their master's side, While going forth to drag a heavy plow, Preparing land for later crops ; and now, Released from farm-yards, here and there, a cow Went lowing down a path or lane, to say To her companions, she was on the way And soon would join them at the meadow brook; Bat each and all, without a backward look, Though pausing, now and then, to nip the grass, Which offered tempting morsels hard to pass

Yet touch not; trudged along, no thought in

mind Of an} 7 mate that lowing came behind.

The smooth-phi med pigeons circled in the air, With full intent to gain an ample share Of yellow grain, which little Marguerite Was scattering around for fowls to eat.

A farm-yard, barn and stable, were in view ; And at the' bars, a horse was looking through, Mouth watering, while asking more supplies By the mute language of his wistful eyes. Beyond, a' garden, half-neglected, grew — A tangled mass, which little order knew, Though here and there were flowers wet with

dew ; And quite a colony of busy bees Were making music in the lilac trees.

A rambling country-house, cool, plain and neat Looked out upon a dull, suburban street, Or rather road, where weeds were thick and

green, And even stumps and bushes could be seen. But to the west a thriving cit} 7 lay — Not large, yet had its railroads, hydrants, gas And all the other comforts of that day.

Twice every week, a stage coach had to pass The house just mentioned, while upon its way 'Twixt Summerville and Clyde, a weary road Of fifty miles. (A hundred, with a load ; At least, so thought the travelers, before The tiresome ride of ten long hours was o'er.)

Upon the porch, beneath a wild sweet-brier, Which, having gained the roof, was climbing

higher, Two women stood : — one young and very fair, A wealth of beauty in her dark brown hair, Which lay in massive rings upon her brow,

From thence caught back by pins, well to allow A free sweep of the queenly neck, just seen Above a snowy fichu's filmy sheen, Worn with a traveling dress of gray cashmere. Long lashes drooped o'er laughter-loving eyes, Just now bedimmed, each by a single tear. One thought them black, but found with some

surprise That they were blue, and deep e'en as a well Whose depths, by passing shadows, none can tell. Her ears were small — likewise her hands and

feet.

Her bow-shaped mouth was loving, red and

sweet.

A well-cut nose gave beauty to a face Where rose and lily struggled for a place. Tall, willowy, her form was one of grace, And every movement of refinement told.

The other woman was a trifle old, And " silver threads " were seen " among the

gold "

Of her abundant hair. Careworn and pale, Her face, which told the sad unwritten tale Of life that was not all a dream of bliss.

Alas ! the woes of living, none may miss ; And since each year must bring its weight of care, Who longest lives must have the largest share. " Lucinda," thus the elder spoke, " my heart Is filled with sorrow that we thus should part ! If you were going home, it would be well. Though I would miss you, I should not rebel ; Your mother has a prior claim to show. But I am vexed and sad to see you go Out in the world to earn a livelihood — You who life's mildest storms have not withstood, Since you were ever sheltered from each blast. Why, why, if you will not dependent be

And take your living with my love from me, Return you not to her who gave you birth, Whose love for you is best of all the earth?" " Aunt Esther," cried the girl, with sudden

zest A pale hand pressing to her throbbing breast, " You know not all that brought me to the west. God knows I love my own New Hampshire hills, Her fertile valleys and her sparkling rills ; And sacred on the altar of my heart," My mother's memory has place and part, Beside that of the sister I adore ! I long for them— but there is something more ! I love with all my soul's idolatry, A man who most devoutly worships me !

" We two were once betrothed. An evil hour Caused one dark cloud of jealousy to low'r Which, growing, filled my soul with direful

dread, Then burst, a blast of fury, on my head!

" His mother had a friend — a fair young maid Whom he had wed, at once, had lie obeyed His parent's stern commands. That couple laid A subtle scheme — I was their witless aid. In my mad jealousy, I set him free And told him he was nothing more to me. Then, while the wound was deep, she, soothing

came Full of regretful love, and begged the blame Might all be hers — that she might intercede With wilful me ; yet joyed that he was freed. " But he was proud and maddened with the

pain ; And, goaded by their pit}^ grew insane For one brief hour — the saddest in his life. Alas ! for me, who was his promised wife ! She loved him, too, and with a woman's art

She set her snares to trap my Ronald's heart — At least, his hand ; and well did she succeed ! She soothed him in his loneliness and need, And, ere his reason had regained its throne, He was her husband — yes, her very own !

" Aunt Esther, well I know my eyes are bright, My face is full and healthy, pink and white ; But, God keep you from grief like mine that

night When came the news that he was lost to me Through all this life, perhaps Eternity !

" I had not seen his bride except as she, In passing, had been pointed out to me ; For she had been at Ronald's home a guest, There, for a season only, seeking rest ; And there I called not, since his mother's hate Had closed on me both door and garden-gate ; But now I had an insane wish to know If he had any share in my great woe ! — A longing, once, and only once, to see The woman, who had taken him from me !

" The house was all alight — the folks within. (A quiet, tourless wedding, it had been ; For, married in hot haste, no time had they To make much preparation for the day.) Like any thief, hid by night's sable pall, I passed the gate, crept softly to the wall, ' And looked in at a window. He was there, His head bowed low upon an easy chair, As if his life knew only blank despair ; While she, fair, golden-haired, and robed in

white, Flashed on my vision like a thing of light.

" ' My husband and my love,' I heard her say, ' God pity me, if you regret this day.' And on his drooping head a hand she laid, With mute caress, yet seeming half afraid

That some repulse, or bitter word, perchance Would come from him to meet her fond advance.

" But, no. He drew her quickly to his breast ; And, while her fair head nestled there in rest, His grief found vent in agonizing tears, Such as are seldom wept in manhood's years.

" Alas ! I could endure to see no more, My woe was greater than it was before I knew what suffering had come to him.

" I left them thus. But memory grows dim Regarding all that happened from that day Till weeks — yes, months, of shadows passed away.

" I vainly thought I could be strong and brave, But fever brought me very near the grave, And I did little else than moan and rave, And wish for death to set my spirit free.

" But such release was not in store for me.

" Slowly, yet surely, health to me returned ; But ere it did so, my poor Ronald learned Lucinda's heart was aching like his own, With wounds to be endured with wordless moan.

" We met at last. Kind Heaven, can I tell Our bitter anguish when we said farewell !

" One instant, he was begging me to flee With him to some far land across the sea, Pledging his life and love to me till death, Then changed his tone, before another breath, Entreating me, with tears, to help him do . His duty, and to his marriage vow be true !

" Yet, thrice he sought me — thrice, we said farewell, For love had cast on both its witching spell ! What might have happened — ah ! I dare not

think.

Full well I know I stood upon the brink Of infamy and ruin. So I fled —

At midnight's hour, crept softly from my bed, And, ere the morning dawned, was miles away From those I loved, and where I longed to stay.

"Aunt Esther, years have passed since that sad day, And yet my soul goes out with longing cry To my lost love ! With him to live or die Is more than Heaven is to sinful me !

" Now, feeling thus, should I return, or flee Still farther from the tempter's luring voice, At sound of which my spirit would rejoice, In sprte of all the teachings of my youth, And innate love of purity and truth ? "

Lucinda paused. She could no longer speak. A tear dropped softly down on either cheek. She clasped the pillar, where the brier grew, And turned her mournful face away from view.

" My darling child," the other gently said, " Three years are in the past since here you fled, And, until recently, you seemed content In this your voluntary banishment. Why grow you restless now ? I am the same As when for refuge to my heart you came. Indeed, your thoughtful care has made you

dearer, And to my life each year has brought you nearer.

" Our home is not a grand one, it is true, But it can well sustain and shelter you; And I can gratify your girlish pride In dress and books, nor need you leave my side. Can take you little journeys now and then, And let you rest when we are home again. Now, why refuse to share my ample purse And go to Clyde to be a servant-nurse, Or reader (sure I know not which is worse) To some capricious invalid, who knows Naught of another mortal's ills or woes ?

Where you will never rest by night or day, And where you only go that you may say That you are independent on your pay ? "

" No, aunt ; it is the demon of unrest That has, at last, found lodging in my breast, Which causes me to yearn for something new ! But I, perhaps, will soon return to you, Quite thankful that I have a friend, so true ! I feel a danger waiting very near, And that is why I wish to go from here To where I am unknown. A low estate Will not fulfill the dreams which come of late."

" What dreams, Lucinda ? " Esther asked.

" Dreams that I met my Ronald ; that I basked In the full sunlight of his happy face And on his bosom found a resting-place. Aunt Esther, keep me not. I am not strong. If he should seek me, it might lead to wrong. I know I should be powerless to flee If lie should come as in my dreams to me ; For I am far less reconciled to-day To my sad fate than when I came away.

" O, I have thought of him these weary years, Grief-bowed and weeping bitter, scalding tears ! As one grows tender to a wounded dove, So martyrdom has added to my love, And all my soul goes reaching out to him."

" Hush ! hush ! my child, that is a sinful whim,"

Returned Aunt Esther. " It is brooding long That leads you to conclusions which are wrong. This Ronald seeks you not; hence it is plain That he has now accepted all the pain That parting brought. Perhaps has ceased to

yearn, Or even care, my child, for your return. For, fickle man can well accommodate

Himself to any path, marked out by fate. Only we, women, poor duped creatures, grieve For buried love, and we alone believe That such love is immortal — lives again Beyond this world of pain. 'Tis seldom men Sigh for the happiness that they have missed, And constancy for them does not exist.

"Advice is seldom heeded; yet I say, 'Tis sinful thus to wear your life away, Mourning for what can never be your own. Nor need you always walk your path alone. The world has many Ronalds — men as true As he, who, in revenge, has wounded you. You think you suffer, dear, and yet the wife That is unloved has far the saddest life. And I had such a thankless fate as that, With all the desolation it begat."

" What ! " cried Lucinda. " You, Aunt Esther, you For whom I thought its sweetest flowers grew?"

" Yes, even I ! I was an unsought bride. But love with me was greater far than pride. Your uncle wooed and won me, ere he knew That later love, which upward springing threw Its clinging tendril round his fickle heart. He asked release, and begged that we might part.

" I could not, would not, let him go from me ; The very thought was intense misery. And so I held him firmly to his vow — God only knows how I regret it now! For never did his wounded pride unbend. He was my husband, yet was not my friend.

"I lived my life alone, and learned to hide My misery when he was by my side.

" Indifference, my child, is worse than hate.

" He took the burden up, not very late ; And soon its weight he did not seem to mind.

" God keep you, dear, from pining, as I pined, For love and sympathy — one little word Of true devotion that I never heard ! In fact, his tone and look were seldom sweet, With loving care, to even Marguerite. He was a toiler ; but his only aim Was to acquire a literary fame ; And faithfully he labored to that end. He often saw the night with day-light blend Before he thought to lay aside his pen, And in an hour was at his work again.

" Reward of labor was to him denied ; For he was stricken down in manhood's pride. All loveless he had lived — and thus he died.

" But while upon his brow the death-dews lay, The shadows from his soul were swept away. He saw how hopeless my young life had been And felt a deep repentance for the sin Of having rendered it so valueless ; Regretting that he could not make redress.

" Among his letters, when they came to view, Was one which I would like to read to you.

" It is an hour before the stage is due ; — If you would hear it, come into my room. It tells of one who rose above life's gloom, And hid a buried love with fragrant bloom. Her brave example ought to make you strong To do the right and to reject the wrong."

Lucinda followed dumbly. Such despair As hers, she thought, no other heart could share.

The letter had no date or even head ; Nor was it signed ; and thus is how it read :

" Why bring back the dead past, when its struggles are o'er ?

It is only a corpse, and is silent and cold ! Far better to rest in its grave evermore !

Far too sacred its story to be even told !

We have met and have loved, as a thousand have

done ; We have met and have parted, as thousands maydo; We have known all the joy that by loving is

won; We have felt all the pain that despair ever

knew. ^Time, the healer, has watered the grave of our

love, And in silence it sleeps 'neath the emerald sod. It was born of the angels — its home is above ! 'Twas a love such as spirits may give to their

God!

It is dead, yet immortal — the earthly at rest In its grave, never more to be rosy and warm ; But its spirit will live in the realms of the blest, And will watch, from its haven, the mouldering

form.

" I knew not when 1 met you, your honor was

pledged To another ; nor asked — so the fault was my own. Our two souls by our friendship securely seemed

hedged And how love took possession by neither is

known.

Then I dared not to ask, lest the answer might

blight All my hopes of the future, most dazzlingly fair; But chose rather to dream in Love's beautiful

light, And thus laid for my soul a temptation and

snare.

" And this might, in a manner, excuse me from

blame — But the error was mine, and still mine let it be.

I will bear all my portion of sorrow and shame, If a shame, in our past, the great Father may

see !

" You were stronger, ah ! maybe, were better

than I ; For while I was in darkness, your duty was plain ; And you turned a deaf ear to your soul's longing

ciy, And your pleading to me, I thank God, not in

vain.

" Ah ! you took my two hands, white and cold

as the dead, In your own, not a whit the less icy and white, And, with tears in your voice, in hoarse accents

you said : ' O, my Bonnibel, help your poor Max to do right ; ' " I was weak at the moment — the words made

me strong ; And, although my racked spirit was writhing in

pain, Never soul, held in bondage by mine to the

wrong, Should cry out for its freedom and yet cry in

vain !

" You remember the parting — its woe and

despair !

At the last, I was stronger and braver than you. You had shown where we stood and what footfalls were there, And my pathway, though rugged, was plain to

my view.

" I was gone, ere you dreamed it, and miles

lay between.

Far away, among strangers, henceforth I would

roam.

Nevermore would I gaze on the beautiful scene

Of the land that I loved and the place I called

home !

" Oh how often I fainted, God only can know ! How I prayed I might die that my soul might be

free !

But my duty, a star, showed my feet where to go, And the angels kept guard and a watch over me ! " To the soul that has fought with temptation

and sin And has conquered, though wounded almost to

its death, Comes the angel of peace, and will hover within Till the wounds are all healed by her sweet,

loving breath.

" She has dwelt in my bosom this many a year, And I know that our parting has been for the

best; For we buried our love, while it still was so dear, And thus made it immortal, like souls that are

blest.

Had it died at our feet, of unkindness, neglect ; Had indifference wounded its heart to the core, And we buried it gladly, we could not expect It to live with the angels, in bliss, evermore.

" That is all of the story, known only to two, And its moral is clear as the light of the sun : Keep the star of your duty forever in view And sweet Peace will, at last, to your bosom be

won.

But 'tis only by sorrow such lessons are taught, And I doubt if our story, explicitly told, With our every struggle, temptation and thought, Would its moral to any weak mortal unfold. " Would it not, in its penning, be placing our

feet In the slippery paths, we have sought so to shun ; At a time, when a conquest o'er self is complete,

When the battle is fought and the victory won ? " Rather let us go down to our graves all unsung,

Let our story die with us, unknown to the world,

Than our souls by temptation again should be wrung,

And ourselves from the paths of strict duty be hurled."

The reading ceased. Lucinda raised her head, And trembled on her lips a wistful sigh.

'• The' story reads like mine," she softly said. " But she was truer, nobler, far than I ! "

Chapter II

A lumbering stage-coach, dirt-begrimed and old, Yet showing faded tints of red and gold, With dashing sweep, up to the farmhouse rolled ; The driver, grasping hard the reins, with " whoa!" In most decided tones, as if to show His lean and sad-eyed steeds were hard to hold.

" Good-bye, Lucinda," said a gentle voice. " If you find happiness, I shall rejoice. But if, as I much fear the case will be, The servitude but brings you misery, Remember love and welcome waits with me."

The other hoarsely said :

" Dear aunt, good-bye ! "

Yet this was uttered with a gasping sigh, Although her gratitude voiced no reply.

But swiftly down the garden path, she went, Fearing her unshed tears might find a vent, If she should utter but another word ; For, even then, her drooping eyes were blurred With moisture, as they sought the ground.

She gained the faded cushions with a bound,

The driver straightened up and made a dip Into the air, and nourish with his whip ; And forward sprang the horses with a will, Quite briskly trotting till they crossed the rill ; But slacked their pace before they reached the

hill, Then crept along, as stage-coach horses do, Until some town or city comes in view.

The glory of the spring was everywhere.

'Twas breathed forth in .the sweetness of the air; Reflected from the cloud-flecked skies of blue, And from the rippling water's deeper hue. It glistened in the thorn's sweet, snowy flowers; And in the may-blooms, falling down in showers, When stirred by gusts of wind, which bore along The blossom's fragrance and the wild birds' song.

The scene Was ever changing. Willows threw Their shadows where the yellow cowslips grew Beside the placid pools ; and near to these Were less adventurous oaks and other trees; And, here and there, were piles of maple keys. The dutchmen's-breeches bent above the rills; The pink arbutus trailed adown the hills ; And modest violets, both white and blue, Which everywhere in great abundance grew, Their sweet perfume upon the breezes threw.

Lucinda's gaze went roaming, on, and on, From hill to valley and from field to town ; From happy bird to faith-inspiring bloom; While she sat wondering if e'er the gloom Of her life's winter could be swept away, And on her hopeless j^outh, dawn blooming May.

She was the only passenger that day, And her wild thoughts had ample chance for play.

The long hours passed; but none too soon. A dinner at a country inn at noon Was all the incident, unless we add The change of horses, which was had.

As sunset neared, the hills became more steep : And the ravines proportionately deep. Then came a table-land, from which high plain Was seen, beyond the fields of growing grain, A winding river. On the other side, Arose the houses of the village Clyde, Which nestled in a valle}* ; and away Toward the west, a range of mountains lay.

The Edgeworth place was far the grandest there, The grounds were laid out with much taste and

care ; The house was large, and built for sun and air; And luxury apparent everywhere.

The sun still lingered in the glowing west, And hung suspended o'er a mountain's crest, When Jehu dashed up at a break-neck rate, And reined his steeds quite near a garden gate. Then to the one lone passenger, he cried, Or rather bawled out :

" This is Edgeworth, Clyde."

At last ! Lucinda caught her breath and sighed; Then she began to wonder at the freak, That led her thus in servitude to seek A home, where no one knew or cared for her. A feeling — almost shame began to stir Within her bosom at the very thought. She only as a servant had been sought At Edgeworth.

Once, urged on by discontent, She, reckless, answered an advertisement. A reader, nurse, companion — all In one, was wanted at the " Hall." A correspondence followed, at the end Resulting in her quitting her good friend, And going out with eager hope to find A happier and more contented mind.

She passed up to the house, through lilac-trees Which gave their spring-like odor to the breeze, And filled her with a longing for the farm — So quiet, and so sheltered from the harm That well she knew was waiting her outside— It might be in that very house at Clyde.

Lucinda Treverton was on her card.

A servant took it, looking at her hard, With something of a sneer upon his face, As if she sought to rise above her place.

He left her standing in the hall alone, The sun had set. Its light no longer shone In level beams of crimson and of gold Through transom windows. Never very bold, Lucinda now stood trembling in the gloom And ghostly twilight of the stifling room ; Wishing she might retrace her steps and flee Before another saw her misery.

A door unclosed. A sheen of golden hair And snow} 7- robes flashed out upon the air. A lady, fair and young, was standing there.

" My aunt is ill," in measured tones she said, "And I am here to answer in her stead. I am her niece — arrived but yesterda3 r Quite unexpected. Yet I know the way Up to her maid's apartment.

" So your name Is Treverton ! Familiar whence I came But not of the same family, I know."

Lucinda reeled, as if a sudden blow Were dealt her by some unknown, unseen foe. How well she knew that face ! It was the one By whom her happiness had been undone — There stood the wife of Ronald, — her own Ronald Dean !

Her sight grew dim, and lights of red and green Mixed with a midnight blackness, whirling, flew Across her vision, disappeared from view, And ghostly gloom enveloped her once more. Then, with a thud, she dropped down to the floor.

The other screamed ere taking time for thought

That such was the revenge that she had sought — Revenge because she found, to her heart's cost, That Ronald still was mourning for the lost.

Again the door unclosed, and Ronald Dean Quite suddenly appeared upon the scene, Heading a crowd of servants, all intent, On learning what that scream of terror meant.

" Lucinda Treverton ! " he hoarsely cried, And in an instant knelt him at her side ; Then raised and drew her head close to his breast, The place where he had hoped that it might rest.

" What means this, Edith ; whence and where and how Came she to be as we both see her now?"

Thus spoke up Ronald, and his flashing eyes Showed plainly that he would not list to lies Or to equivocations for a fact.

And so, to seem quite candid and exact, She frankly said :

" This girl is aunty's maid, Now just arrived. Housed, fed and paid She will be as the others were. Afraid Am I that she is ill. She spoke no word, Nor did she seem as if she even heard When I, at aunty's bidding, came to show Her to her room.

" Of course, I could not know She was the friend you loved so long ago. How could I dream Lucinda Treverton And aunty's unknown serving-maid were one ? Don't look at me as though I were to blame ! I knew not she was coming, till she came. I did hear aunty say a maid was hired, But at the time I felt so very tired, I gave the matter not a second thought — Nor do I really see just why I ought ! It was her card that first revealed her name,

24 THE SIX OF EDITH DEAN.

Though I could not believe she was the same Lucinda Treverton that you once knew."

Ronald responded not. His arms he threw About the girl with loving tenderness That might almost be called a mute caress, And bore her from the Stirling air and gloom, Straight to the large and airy drawing-room.