FullReads

“Miss Oliver, I want to see that letter you received the other evening. Oh”–as she started with surprise–“I know about it–Emily told me. Who wrote it?”

“There was no name signed to it,” she faltered.

“Just as I thought. Well, you must let me see it.”

“I cannot–I burned it.”

“Then tell me what was in it. You must. This matter must be cleared up–I am not going to have our beautiful friendship spoiled by the malice of some coward. What did that letter say?”

“It said that everybody in your congregation was talking about your frequent visits here–that it had made a great scandal–that it was doing you a great deal of injury and would probably end in your having to leave Rexton.”

“That would be a catastrophe indeed,” said Alan drily. “Well, what else?”

“Nothing more–at least, nothing about you. The rest was about myself–I did not mind it–much. But I was so sorry to think that I had done you harm. It is not too late to undo it. You must not come here any more. Then they will forget.”

“Perhaps–but I should not forget. It’s a little too late for me. Lynde, you must not let this venomous letter come between us. I love you, dear–I’ve loved you ever since I met you and I want you for my wife.”

Alan had not intended to say that just then, but the words came to his lips in spite of himself. She looked so sad and appealing and weary that he wanted to have the right to comfort and protect her.

She turned her eyes full upon him with no hint of maidenly shyness or shrinking in them. Instead, they were full of a blank, incredulous horror that swallowed up every other feeling. There was no mistaking their expression and it struck an icy chill to Alan’s heart. He had certainly not expected a too ready response on her part–he knew that even if she cared for him he might find it a matter of time to win her avowal of it–but he certainly had not expected to see such evident abject dismay as her blanched face betrayed. She put up her hand as if warding a blow.

“Don’t–don’t,” she gasped. “You must not say that–you must never say it. Oh, I never dreamed of this. If I had thought it possible you could–love me, I would never have been friends with you. Oh, I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

She wrung her hands piteously together, looking like a soul in torment. Alan could not bear to see her pain.

“Don’t feel such distress,” he implored. “I suppose I’ve spoken too abruptly–but I’ll be so patient, dear, if you’ll only try to care for me a little. Can’t you, dear?”

“I can’t marry you,” said Lynde desperately. She leaned against a slim white bole of a young birch behind her and looked at him wretchedly. “Won’t you please go away and forget me?”

“I can’t forget you,” Alan said, smiling a little in spite of his suffering. “You are the only woman I can ever love–and I can’t give you up unless I have to. Won’t you be frank with me, dear? Do you honestly think you can never learn to love me?”

“It is not that,” said Lynde in a hard, unnatural voice. “I am married already.”

Alan stared at her, not in the least comprehending the meaning of her words. Everything–pain, hope, fear, passion–had slipped away from him for a moment, as if he had been stunned by a physical blow. He could not have heard aright.

“Married?” he said dully. “Lynde, you cannot mean it?”

“Yes, I do. I was married three years ago.”

“Why was I not told this?” Alan’s voice was stern, although he did not mean it to be so, and she shrank and shivered. Then she began in a low monotonous tone from which all feeling of any sort seemed to have utterly faded.

“Three years ago Mother was very ill–so ill that any shock would kill her, so the doctor Father brought from the lake told us. A man–a young sea captain–came here to see Father. His name was Frank Harmon and he had known Father well in the past. They had sailed together. Father seemed to be afraid of him–I had never seen him afraid of anybody before. I could not think much about anybody except Mother then, but I knew I did not quite like Captain Harmon, although he was very polite to me and I suppose might have been called handsome. One day Father came to me and told me I must marry Captain Harmon. I laughed at the idea at first but when I looked at Father’s face I did not laugh. It was all white and drawn. He implored me to marry Captain Harmon. He said if I did not it would mean shame and disgrace for us all–that Captain Harmon had some hold on him and would tell what he knew if I did not marry him. I don’t know what it was but it must have been something dreadful. And he said it would kill Mother. I knew it would, and that was what drove me to consent at last. Oh, I can’t tell you what I suffered. I was only seventeen and there was nobody to advise me. One day Father and Captain Harmon and I went down the lake to Crosse Harbour and we were married there. As soon as the ceremony was over, Captain Harmon had to sail in his vessel. He was going to China. Father and I came back home. Nobody knew–not even Emily. He said we must not tell Mother until she was better. But she was never better. She only lived three months more–she lived them happily and at rest. When I think of that, I am not sorry for what I did. Captain Harmon said he would be back in the fall to claim me. I waited, sick at heart. But he did not come–he has never come. We have never heard a word of or about him since. Sometimes I feel sure he cannot be still living. But never a day dawns that I don’t say to myself, ‘Perhaps he will come today’–and, oh–“