Making Haste to Be Rich! CHAPTER 4.
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As month after month, and year after year went by, and yet the day of her marriage with Riddell seemed no nearer, Anne Bradford lost much of the lightness of spirits which made her, at one time, a pleasant companion to all. In company she was absent-minded, and at home, more inclined to dwell in the seclusion of her own chamber, than mingle with the family. Still, her heart was true to the sun of its love; and she strove to keep firm in the belief, that her betrothed knew best when the rite that was to make them one, should be celebrated. At last, however, something in the manner of Riddell, added to the fact that his visits were becoming less and less frequent, awoke the painful suspicion that he was growing indifferent. From that moment darkness fell, like a pall, over her heart. When her lover came, she would rally herself with a strong effort, and strive to appear as of old, but the disguise assumed did not conceal all. He was colder and more formal, and, evidently, under a certain degree of restraint in her presence.
One evening he called, and met Anne with a manner more than usually cordial. He spoke of the length of time they had waited, and said that the period long looked for was not now, he hoped, far distant. Gradually he grew more and more fond and familiar in his words and manner — more so, in fact, than he had ever been — and ended in venturing to take an insulting immoral liberty, that was resented by the outraged maiden, in a prompt and indignant order for him to leave her presence. He instantly obeyed.
"Free, and by her own word!" said the young man, exultingly, as he turned from the house. He had calculated with accuracy, and gained a desired result. But the thoughts that forced themselves upon his mind, soon took away all the pleasure which a sense of freedom gave.
He felt the baseness, the dishonor, the cruelty of what he had done, and, before the act was an hour old, sat with a burning cheek brooding over his shameful betrayal, and cursing the heartlessness which could prompt to such a deed.
This was the first result. But oblivious self-love soon came to his relief; and the great good to be gained by the sacrifice, came looming up before him, and making his spirit light with pleasant anticipations. A weight that had been bearing him down, was removed. He could now pursue the great end of his life without a trammel. The world was wide before him.
Poor Anne Bradford! How suddenly was her cup dashed to the earth! After her false-hearted lover retired, she had barely strength to go up to her room, where she sank upon the bed, insensible. On the next morning, she did not appear at the usual breakfast hour, and when her mother went to her chamber to ascertain the reason — she found her very ill. But as to the cause of the illness, or its nature, she could learn nothing. Her daughter's countenance was exceedingly pale, and had a look of great suffering. Her eyes, she did not once open, although she was awake, and made low, brief replies, in a sad voice, to the eager questions that were asked; but the wet eyelids showed, too plainly, that she had been weeping.
"I will send Edward for the doctor immediately," said Mrs. Bradford, moving away from the bedside, after having in vain tried to get at some knowledge, were it but remote, of her daughter's ailment. But no sooner was this intention declared, than Anne raised up quickly, and called after her mother, in a low, trembling voice .
"Oh, no, no! Don't send for the doctor — he will do me no good."
Mrs. Bradford turned, and went back to the bedside.
"My dear child," she said, with earnest tenderness, "tell me the cause of this sudden and strange illness. What does it mean? What has happened?"
Anne sank forward, and hid her face in her mother's bosom.
"Speak, Anne! Conceal nothing from me."
But the heart-sick girl gave no reply, except in tears. There was a silence of many minutes.
"Say, my daughter? What has happened? Confide in me; you know that I am your best and truest friend," Mrs. Bradford at length said.
A deep, shuddering sigh passed through the frame of the unhappy girl. But no sound came from her tightly closed lips.
"Anne!" The mother spoke in a calm distinct voice, and in a tone that plainly said, "My child must answer me."
"Anne" she repeated, still firmly, but tenderly.
The daughter did not speak, but there was a plain indication that she heard.
"Will you not confide in me?"
"Mother," murmured the suffering girl, "I can say nothing now. I feel as if it would kill me to speak. But do not send for a physician; he can do me no good. Leave me to myself for a little while. It may be that my heart will grow stronger."
As desired, Mrs. Bradford left Anne alone. In an hour she returned, and found that she had arisen and dressed herself. She was sitting near the window, her eyes upon the floor, and her face composed, though exceedingly pale.
"Do not withhold from me, any longer, my daughter, the cause of this deep affliction," said the mother, sitting down by her side, and taking her hand.
With a steady voice, Anne related the occurrence of the preceding evening, and ended by saying:
"I have been cruelly deceived. How tenderly, how truly, how devotedly I loved him, none can know; and yet he has proved himself unworthy. I could have seen him estranged through higher attractions than I possess, without the crushing sense of pain that I now feel, in knowing that his heart is base, and corrupt enough to meditate wrong against one who so truly loved him."
Her voice trembled and choked, but she recovered herself, and added —
"Let me beg, mother, that nothing be said of this beyond the circle of our own family. I do not wish to injure him, as unworthy as he is, and as deeply as he has wronged me. As far as strength is given me to do so, will I endeavor to bear, patiently, my suffering."
As she said, so did Anne strive to do. But the wound had been struck too deeply, and the life-blood flowed steadily, though concealed. For a time she seemed to be herself again; but in a few months, it was too evident to those who knew her best and loved her most — that she was failing. Naturally, she had a delicate constitution, in which had been sown, at birth, the seeds of early decay. These seeds were vivified by the painful shock she had received. Scarcely a year passed, before the stricken one fell to the earth.
"Consumption, like a worm in the bud,
Fed on her damask cheek."
So it was said. There were those who knew better. But she slept as sweetly as if no pang had ever torn her heart; and it was as well.
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