Democratic Sentinel, Volume 8, Number 30, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 August 1884 — WRITTEN IN LETTERS OF GOLD. [ARTICLE]

WRITTEN IN LETTERS OF GOLD.

BY ELLA DURAND.

CHAPTER I. “I hope your father’s friend will come soon,” said the landlady, glancing toward the bed, and shaking her head ominously, “or he’ll be too late, as Dr. Mayfair said.” The girl whom she addressed glanced at the sleeper, whose span of life the doctor’s fiat had limited to hours, moved restlessly, and answered: “He cannot live long now.” There was silence again in that sick chamber, only a small, back bedroom in a dingy London lodging house, broken only by the subdued sobbing of the beautiful, regal girl, whom the sick man called daughter, and the labored breathing of the dying man. Lavater would have at once marked out the tall, slender form, and strangely high bred beauty of Edith Fontenov, as an index of a wild, wayward spirit, full of faults, impulsive, of a proud, passionate nature, full of noble instincts, impossible to drive, only to be won and controlled by a very strong hand. Her father had never been able to read her nature aright; and, having been left with his motherless girl at an early age, spoiled her by humoring her, when he should have been firm and obstinate, when he should have reasoned. The landlady opened the door softly, •which aroused the sleeper, when he asktd eagerly, in a faint whisper, “Oh, has he come ?” “No, papa!” exclaimed the girl softly, “but it is near train time now-, and he must soon be here. ”

No necessity for that, however, for even as she ceased speaking, a Brougham dashed up the street and stopped before the door. Steps were heard springing up the stairs, and the landlady’s voice designating the room. The door opened and a tall commanding figure, in a soldier’s cape and military cap, came into the room. “Oh, Eric, Eric! is it you—you at ‘last? Oh, God, I thank thee.” And the sick man threw himself into the extended arms of his friend. “Oh Marshall, Marshall, why did you not let me know of this ? I should have helped you long ago!” said the other, a ring of deep reproach in his tones. “I felt ashamed to! You see it was lost by a little speculation, calculated to add to my daughter’s store, when I should be no more. For you know, Erie! when I and you parted in India, I received a wound yrhich, at the time, was not considered fatal, but which the surgeons said, might prove serious, if care was not taken to prevent its opening again. Well, I dell from my horse last week and you see the result. This is my daughter Eric, of whom I have written you so much, concerning.” Edith acknowledged the introduction with a little frigid bow, and immediately left the room, retiring to a small room adjoining the bedroom, and throwing herself wearily upon a stool at one of the windows, gave herself up to reflection. Was this, then, the friend whom her father had thought so much of, and of whom she fiad begun to imagine must be above the ordinary standard of mortals? Her large, violet eyes seemed gazing on space, and her fair, jeweled hands were locked together in her lap. “I am dying, Eric,” he resumed, “and, ere I go, I have one great request to make of you.” He paused, exhausted in his efforts, and, quickly springing to the table, Eric Lennox seized the reviving drops and held them to his lips. The dying man swallowed them with difficulty, and, after a moment’s delay, reassured by the pressure of his friend’s hand, he said: “I have sufficient confidence in you, my dear Eric, from our intimacy in former days, to entrust, unhesitatingly, to you a family secret, but with the request that you are not to disclose your knowledge of it to Edith, or she would never forgive me. My daughter is now 19 years of age, and at the early age of 16 met the first love of her youth, one Earnest Balfour. I greatly disapproved, and strove every way in my power to seek to convince her that it was only fancy, the foolish fancy of youth upon both sides, and I thought that I succeeded. But ah, I fear that after I am dead and gone, he may come back again and overpersuade my poor Edith, blinded by love, and she will, doubtless, lead a very unhappy life.” Erio Lennox did not interrupt his old comrade, but kept his face slightly averted. “Yes, Eric, old friend, I am dying, and what will become of my poor! innocent, inexperienced darling? Will you promise, my dear friend, to take charge of her, ans keep her from the wolf, who will be sure to seek her? My precious lamb, my darling child!” OoL Lennox did not answer immediately, but sat pondering over the case, and turning the probability over in his mind of taking charge of a young girl but ten years younger than himself. His silence and averted face were unintvrpreted by the anxious parent for re-

j fusal, and he said, bitterly and despairI ingly: “You start, turn aside, do not | answer. Oh, Eric; he will come again j when I am dead, and persuade her that ! the fancy of 16 was love, and marry her jto break her heart. Oh, Eric, take I care of my child; take her awav from j here.” After a slight pause, continued: “I j have asked too much, and—and—oh, I God! This is bitterness of death in- ; deed. I thought—l hoped ” “Hush, Marshall; don’t mistake me | so cruelly!” Low' and stern came the words, as if | one crushing down a wild tempest ; within, and Col. Lennox walked to the j mantel-piece ar.d stood there moments, seemingly hours, to the dying man, who had not dared, after ail, to express the greatest desire of his heart. Eric took his former seat at the bedside of bis dying comrade, and said, as he stifled back a pang of pain from bis heart : “My dear Marshall, you know ; not what you ask! Consider one ! moment, and read the imprudent and improper step, in the eyes of Mrs. Grundy, which you are beseeching me to take in behalf of your child. But are you quite sure that the love affair was a mere saucy ? Are you confident that she did not think more of him than you dream—a handsome, young fellow of but one vear her senior?”

“Yes,for she has since led me to believe as much. But I fear he might possibly have some influence over her if they were to meet again. ” “Has she ever seen him, or met him since she was 16?” “No, never; Edith’s is a nature to openly dare, not deceive me.” Eric bent a little nearer the sinking man, and said: “Marshall, you ask me to take care of your daughter, but, do it what way you will, the world w ill talk. She young, handsome, and, you say, quite penniless; I—well, not too old, even for 40.” “Eric, Eric, they dare not—they ” “They dare do anything. They dare slander the name of purity itself. Now, my friend,” he said, while the blood almost stopped circulating around his heart, “there is but one way in which I can, prudently, take care of your child!” “And that is ” “Cannot you guess? Make her my wife at once, and then defy the world!” “Eric 1” He actually started up in bed in bis frantic joy and relief. “Make my darling your wife! Oh Leaven, I thank thee! It is all that I have ever hoped for from her birth; that she might become noble Eric’s wife before I died. Great God be praised. And now—and now—fetch her.” “Marshall, be calm! I must tell her —speak to her myself first. ”

CHAPTER 11. Such deeds of valor strong Tiia: neither history cr song Can count them all. “Where is she?” he quickly asked. “You will fiind her in the little room next to this, and all we have,” replied the sick man in a feeble tone of voice. Edith was sitting before the fireless grate, lost in thought. Her large blue eyes appeared much darker than they really were, with the intensity of her revery; her hands were clasped listlessly in her lap; her face was pale almost to ghastliness; her hair hung in careless neglige over her shoulders, and strayed in little wilfull tendrils of gold over her smooth, chaste brow. She was a picture for an artist to c#vet, all unconscious as she was of it all. A light, soft tap came at the door. Her calm and indifferent “Come in,” was followed by the entrance of her father’s idolized' friend, Eric Lennox. He noiselessly strode to the opposite side of the grate from which she was sitting, and calmly folding his arms waited for her to break the silence. “How is my father, now?” she asked, in a strangely calm tone, lifting her magic eyes to his face as she spoke. “Not any better, poor child!” he said in pitying tones, answering the wistful, soulful look.

“And he will die, my father!” she exclaimed, tearlessly. “Ah! what, then, will become of me?” “Do not despair,” he said, while his look, his tone, were as tender as a woman’s to a suffering child. “I have left him to speak to you, for you have it in your power to make his death-bed very, very happy.” “I, Col. Lennox!” the great sorrowful eyes were turned upon him, now filled with amazement. “It is only you, your coming, could do that. ” “Partly, Edith; he has told me his circumstances, and for your future he is grieving, and surely breaking his heart.” What a shy, half appealing expression stole into the beautiful eyes. How the heart beat, and how restless the hands became, as she said: “Oh, no, no, not for me—he must not. I can earn my own living. ” “In what wav, Edith? You are highly educated, and accomplished, I am well aware from the letters I have received from your dear father; but if you think of teaching ” “Yes, I can teach ” “Firstly, my child,” said the soft eloquent voice, his very soldier’s soul touched by her innocent inexperience, “teaching is very laborious work, and very unsatisfactory; also, very hard to get to do, even by experienced teachers, and you would starve —literally starve, before you could earn a penny. Secondly—beg pardon, my dear, but I am considerably older than you, and this is no time for mere ceremony—your very youth and beauty stand dead in your way. No one having daughters would take you to rival them; and no one having sons would want you.” The girl crimsoned to her brow and shrank back, with a sort of fear coming into her eye, for she knew that the words spoken so friendly were but too true. She covered her face, almost cowering. It was cruel—cruel of him to force all of that on her now. “Why do you bother me so? I have time enough to think of the impossibilities when I am left alone.” “Poor little one! ” Col. Lennox said, bending forward and taking the two little quivering hands in his strong clasp. “You know not what you are saying; you forget what I began to say; and remember this, my child* what is

dear to you is equally dear to Eric Lennox; what is his wish is mine. He has had one wish all of your life which you and yon alone now can grant, and which will give him peace and happiness.” “I would do anything for my father,” she answered, the tears swelling into her eyes. “Oh, why has he not told me of this wish before? What is it, Col. Lennox ? ” “The wish is that you are left under my guardianship,” said Eric, slowly, “and in my care, in the only way in which it can be done.” Did she have any vague suspicion of what was meant, that she blushed so painfully—that she looked so startled?” “And that one way is—is ” “Under the shadow of mv name—my wife.” Every drop of blood seemed to leave, drop by drop; tlio beautiful face; even the hands which he held grew cold and bloodless, as she sank cowering, a figure of supplication at bis feet, releasing her hands as she did so. Passionate tears and sobs shook her slight frame, while bitter, reproachful words broke out from proud, wounded womanhood. “No, no, yonr generous pity, your noble heroism, strive to veil the truth of my shame—yes, mine, mine,” she sprang to her feet exclaiming wildly. “For I know tnat in his blind love for me my father forgot my womanhood, and offered me —heaven! how can I say it!—forced me upon you.” “Hush, Edith!” he exclaimed, sternly. “He did not, as heaven is my witness. He did not intimate to me anything of the kind until I broached the subject myself. Then only did be betray to me that that had been the one passionate wish of his life, of eighteen years, to see his daughter the wife of ldwdoved and trusted friend, before he died- I ask the honor at your own hands, my dear, and if you wish will now return to yonr father, and thus give you time to make up your mind whether you will accept or reject. In a short time I will return for my answer.” This was all, and Edith was once more alone. Alone to think while her brain was in a whirl, and her heart seemed almost pulseless. He was knightly to the core, gentlemanly to a fault, and, oh, so regardful of her feelings. She walked the floor of the narrow room, like a young wild deer, longing for a larger field to scatter her sorrow

The door opened softly, and she gave a violent start as she stopped suddenly in her walk, and shrank back a little as Col. Lennox entered the room. He crossed the floor and paused at a small table, bending his head over it, no acting in the whole attitude of dignified deference, and sweet, grave voice and manner; it was only simple nature in this chivalrous gentleman to take the role of suppliant to this girl, whom he was forced to woo in this strange manner. Thoughts rapid and humiliating were chasing each other through the brain of Edith as she stood there with folded hands, and the color coming and going in her beautiful face. Some thought, some memory of Cyril Balfour, pride, womanhood desperately wounded by tfie very pity, the generosity which she knew, despite all he could say, had dictated the offer. She thought he must despise her for being mercenary, and all too soon as a burden forced on him for life. And yet, through it all, stood out in letters of fire that it was her father’s dying w’ish, one hope, that—that he was lying now in the next room in agony of suspense for her answer; and how could she, how could she—cost her what it might—embitter his last moments ? What could be worse than the remorse that must then haunt her evermore? “Is my answer what IJmay dare hope ? Is it—my wife?” The blood mounted to the fair face and back again, leaving it deathly white, and she tried to speak, but only a voiceless whisper quivered over the trembling lips. “Forgive—bear with me—l will try to —to ” One step forward and she was enfolded in ms arms, and the warm lips pressed a kiss—a grave kiss on her brow—not a lover’s clasp, not a lover’s kiss, but it scarcely needed the added language of those lips, steadfast lowspoken words, as her tears fell fast and heavy on his breast. “Heaven helping me, I will try to do my duty by this young life thus given to me, and make good every vow my lips must so soon speak for her.” “Hush, my child!” Once more he touched her brow, and gently loosed her. “Go to your father, for I must go at once to Dr. Morton’s, and to the Clergy-House of St. Alphage.” S he knew what for, and moved toward the door, which he held open for her to pass through.

CHAPTER in. AN ORPHAN. “My darling, is that you?” the dying man exclaimed. “Bless you for this hour.” Edith, wound her arms around her father’s neck, her tears falling thick and fast, her heart like lead in her bosom. The Colonel passed the landlady on the stairs, as he. was descending, and spoke something in a low tone to her, which set her heart to fluttering, and caused her to hasten to her wardrobe to don her Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. The sick-room door opened softly, but Edith was all unconscious, until a light hand upon her shoulder aroused her from her intense grief. “Are you ready? A clergyman awaits in the next room. Shall I call to him now?” asked the anxious voice of Eric Lennox, as he perceived the great change about to take place with the dying man. “Yes, I am quite ready,” Edith said with assumed calmness. A few words only, but, ah, Edith Fontenoy was no more, while Edith Lennox had just began to exist. Scarcely was the ceremony performed when, extending his arms toward his best loved ones on earth, the dying man exclaimed : “Edith, Eric, I am going! God—-bl-ess—you—bo ” Eric Lennox had caught the form of his dying friend and comrade to his heart, and he diod in his arms.

“Come, Edith, my wife; arise, or you j will be sic k. Yonr dear father is happy, ! and at rest. Come, my child!” the Col- | onel said in a choking voice. “His form of clay alone is here, his spirit ban departed to the God who gave it.” CHAPTER IV. CONCLUSION. One year later from the date on which | our story opens, Mr. and Mrs. Col. Lennox were the invited guests of the wealthy and respected Lady Morton !of Westchester. Once only iad Edith j met Cyril Balfour, and that was as she was awaiting her husband’s return from a distant city, where he had been on business. She bad driven herself in her carriage to the station, and was standing on the little platform awaiting the incoming train. The fii'st passenger to alight was Cyril Bafour, who, catching j a glimpse of her face, gave a slight j start, and retraced his steps to her | side. “Ah, Edith, is that indeed you, after ! so many years of cruel separation ?” ihe said, dofling his hat. “How glad I am to see you, and alone, too; how fortunate. ” “How could I have ever thought of him in a stronger light than a mere friend?” she asked herself. “My tastes have changed vastly, ” she mentally concluded. “Mr. Balfour, you are now addressing Mrs. Lenox,” she saifl, drawing herself up with dignity. “Indeed! I had almost forgotten the fact of your being married,” be had said, with a sneer. “However, you did not show much regard for my feelings after your betrothal to me, and your vows of eternal constancy.” “It is false! I never engaged myself to you,” exclaimed Edith, with heightened color, “and if you please, Mr. Balfour, I desire to pass, as lam expecting my husband every minute.” He went on, muttering about deathbed marriages and the colonel of’dragoons. Nothing exceedingly complimentary, however. As Edith recognized the stalwart, manly form of the Colonel approaching now, she felt safe from further annoyance. A couple of weeks later, as Edith was sitting nursing a severe headache, and gazing from her chamber window. Eric came bounding in' with, “Come, Edith, love; we are going to have a ramble, and I want you for my partner.” * ‘ L Edith pleaded a headache, and told him to not mope at home with her, as she wished him to enjoy himself with the rest. He went with them, against his will, Edith gazing after them as they disappeared among the foliage of the trees. “What a capital idea it would be,” she said to herself, “to meet her husband when he would be returning, and claim his partnership the rest of the way home. ” She tied on her hat, ran lightly down the steps, and was soon hurrying along the lane toward the babbling brook, where she determined to await him. She had not been sitting there long, whefi she heard his familiar step, accompanied by another lighter one. Being screened by a huge oak from the path, she could not see any one passing by without arising to her feet, and being exposed to the others’ observation. He was talking earnestly, answered at intervals by a sweet, silvery voice. As they drew nearer, and she was about to make her presence known, she was rooted to the spot by hearing her own name spoken, and this ’’ is what she heard: “Eric Lennox! Ah, heaven! I saw you yesterday. I knew you at once. And you—oh, you have not, cannot have forgotten your love, Alice Rutland!” came in joyous, dulcet fones from the lips of the beautiful Lady Alice Yandeleur. “I remember Lady Alice Vandeleur.” The mellow voice of Eric Lennox quivered with the strong emotion so suddenly called into life, which he was sternly controlling—pain, anguish, pity, for her, for himself, the phantom, and the phantom only, of the past. But w'hat wonder that the miserable listener utterly mistook it all! Then Lady Alice’s voice came again: “Why do yon torture me so? Yon knew a month ago that I was free, for I sent you that paper. Yes, Eric, I dared to bridge the gulf which I knew you would be too proud to cross, and I knew that we both loved still, and ” “Alice! Alice! In pity, for honor’s sake, spare us both!” he said, hoarsely. “It comes ten years too late. I am married!”

There was a sharp, bitter cry from Alice, then Edith heard her husband say, sadly: “For honor’s sake, farewell, Alice;” but she did not hear him add: “I love my wife too well to wrong her in any wav.” Edith fell with her tall, slender figure at full length upon the grass. She did not faint, but lay moaning and writhing in humiliated agony. “To think that he had married her out of pity, and loved another all that time!” And now comes the sequel. Edith was sitting that evening upon the hearth-rug, gloomy and despondent, when her husband entered the room. She shrank involuntarily from his caresses, which he attributed to the only cause that he could think of, the . meeting with Cyril Balfour. “Edith,” he said, in a tone of anguish, “I was in hopes, until to-day,that you would learn to love me. But if you still regret having married me I will go away, and you will then be free.” “Oh, no, no! that would break my heart. It is at the thought of your not loving me which tortures me so!” Then she related to him what she had overheard. “My darling! my wife!” he exclaimed, huskily, “it is you, and you alone, whom I love!” The Hungarians have a national, dance the “esardus ” intended to represent the unquiet course of true love. We have never seen the dance, but presume the greater part consists Of an elderly gentleman kicking a man off the front steps.