_ IT had been Dora's intention to return to Iowa immediately after
leaving Sunshine in charge of her own friends; but Mrs. Legrange
insisted so urgently upon her remaining with them for some weeks at
least, and the parting with the dear child she had so loved and
cherished seemed so cruel as it drew nearer and nearer, that she
finally consented to remain for a short time, and removed to the
Neff House, where Mrs. Legrange had engaged rooms until the first of
October.
To other natures than those called to encounter it, the relation
between these three might, for a time at least, have been painful
and perplexing; but Mrs. Legrange was possessed of such exquisite
tact, Sunshine of such abounding and at the same time delicate
affections, and Dora of such a noble and generous temper, that they
could not but harmonize: and while 'Toinette bloomed, flower-like,
into new and wonderful beauty bathed in the sunlight of a double
love, Mrs. Legrange never forgot to associate Dora with herself as
its source. And Dora joyed in her darling's joy; and, if her heart
ached at thought of the coming loneliness, the pain expressed itself
no otherwise than in an added tenderness.
"That is a noble girl, Fanny," said Mr. Burroughs one day. "How
different from our dear five hundred friends at home! Put Mary
Elmsly, or Lizzy Patterson, or Miss Bloomsleigh, or Marion Lee, in
her place, and how would they fill it?"
"She is, indeed, a noble girl," replied his cousin warmly. "I never
shall forget the tender and wise care she has taken of Sunshine in
this last year. She has strengthened heart and principle as I am
afraid I could never have done."
"Paul is coming out for you, isn't he?" pursued Mr. Burroughs after
a pause.
"Yes: he will be here by the 20th. Why did you ask?"
"Because Dora cannot travel home alone, and I think of accompanying
her. I may stay a while, and study prairie life."
Mrs. Legrange looked at him in surprise a moment; and then a merry
smile broke over her face, for such a smile was possible now to her.
"Capital!" exclaimed she. "I never thought of it. But why not?"
"Why not spend a few weeks in Iowa? Well, of course, why not?" asked
Mr. Burroughs a little grimly, and presently added,--
"That is a pernicious custom of yours Fanny,--that rushing at
conclusions."
"Men never rush at conclusions, do they?"
"No: of course not."
"Very well, then: arrive at your conclusion as leisurely as you
like. It is none the less certain."
"Pshaw!" remarked Mr. Burroughs; and as his cousin laughingly turned
to bend over Sunshine, and help her read her story-book, he took his
hat and went out, turning his steps toward the glen.
Not till he reached its deepest recesses, however, did he find Dora;
and then he stood still to look at her, himself unseen. But what a
white, dumb look of anguish upon the sweet face! what clouds, heavy
with coming showers, upon the brow! what rainy lights in the
upturned eyes! what a resistless sorrow in the downward curve of the
lips, ordinarily so firm and cheerful! Even the shapely hands,
tightly folded, and firmly set upon the knee, told their story,--even
the rigid lines and constrained attitude of the figure. Mr.
Burroughs's first impulse was artistic; and he longed to be a
sculptor, that he might model an immortal statue of Silent Grief.
The second was human; and he longed to comfort a sorrow at whose
cause he already guessed, and yet guessed but half. The third was
less creditable, but perhaps as probable, in a man of Mr.
Burroughs's temperament and education; for it was to study and
dissect this new phase of the young girl's character. He quietly
approached, and seated himself beside her with a commonplace
remark,--
"A very pretty bit of scenery, Dora."
"Yes," replied she, struggling to resume her usual demeanor.
"I am afraid, however, it does not satisfy your eye, accustomed to
the breadth of prairie views. Confess that you are a little weary of
it and us, and longing for home."
"I shall probably set out for home to-morrow," said Dora, turning
away her head, and playing idly with the grass beside her.
"I thought you were homesick. I am sorry we have so ill succeeded in
contenting you."
"Oh, don't think that! I have been so happy here these two weeks!
That is the very reason I ought to go."
"How is that? I don't see the argument."
"Because this is not my home, or the way I am to live, or these the
people I am to live with; and the sooner I am away, the better."
She did not see all the meaning of her words, poor child! but her
companion did, and smiled merrily to himself as he said,--
"You mean, we do not come up to your standard, and you cannot waste
more time upon us; don't you?"
Dora turned and looked at him, her suspicions roused by a mocking
ring beneath the affected humility of his tone; and, looking, she
caught the covert smile not yet faded from his eyes.
"It is not kind, Mr. Burroughs, to laugh at me, or to try to confuse
me in this way," said she steadily. "No doubt, you know what I mean;
and why do you wish to force me into saying, that the more I see of
the life and thoughts and manners of such people as Mrs. Legrange
and you, and even my own little Sunshine, now so far away from me,
the less fit I feel to associate with them? And, just because it is
so pleasant to me, I feel that I ought to go back at once to the
home and the duties and the people where I belong. I am but a poor
country-girl, sir, hardly taught in any thing except the love of
God, and the wish to do something before I die to make my
fellow-creatures a little happier or more comfortable than I find
them. Let me go to my work, and out of it I will make my life."
Perhaps never had the self-contained heart of the young girl so
framed itself in words; certainly never had Mr. Burroughs so fully
read it: and when she finished, and, neither turning from him nor
toward him, steadfastly set her eyes forward, as one who sees mapped
out before him the path he is to tread through all the coming years,
he took her hand in his with a sudden impulse of tenderness,--
"Dora, you will love some one yet; and love will make you happy."
"I have loved two people, and lost them both. I do not mean to love
any one else," said Dora, quietly withdrawing her hand.
Mr. Burroughs stared at her in astonishment; and, with a directness
more natural than conventional, exclaimed,--
"You have loved twice already!"
"Yes. Three times, indeed. I loved my mother and Picter, and they
are both dead. I loved Sunshine and she is lost to me. O my little
Sunshine! who was all to me, and who, I thought"--
And then-oh rare result of all these days of suffering, and hidden
bitterness, and a lingering relinquishment of the sweet and tender
hope of her future life!-Dora gave way all at once, and, covering
her face with her hands, burst into a passion of tears; such tears
as women seldom weep; such tears as Dora herself had shed but two or
three times in her short life.
Mr. Burroughs sat for a moment, looking at her with a yearning
tenderness in his eyes, and then folded her suddenly in his arms,
whispering,--
"Dora, Dora Darling! I love you, and I will be to you more than all
these; and no time nor chance shall rob you of my love, if only you
will give me yours instead."
But Dora repulsed him vehemently, sobbing, "No, no, no! you shall
not say it! I will not hear it!"
"Not say it? Why not? It is God's truth; and you must have known it
before to-day."
"No: it is only pity, because you think I want to stay, and because--
No, I will not have it! I will not hear it! You are quite wrong, Mr.
Burroughs: you do not know"--
She stopped in confusion. She had done sobbing now; but she did not
uncover her face, or look up. Mr. Burroughs regarded her with a
strange expression, and then, taking her hand, said softly,--
"Dora, I have not dared, as you fear that I have, to fancy that you
cared for me. A moment ago, I should not have dared to ask you as I
now do; and remember, Dora, that I ask for the solemn truth,--do you
love me?"
Dora tore away her hand indignantly, and attempted to rise. She had
not spoken, or looked at him. Over the pale face of the lover shot a
gleam of triumph. But he only said,--
"Dora, it will not be like you to leave me in this way. It is unjust
and untrue."
"It is you who are unkind and ungenerous," said the girl
passionately.
"Why, Dora? Why is it ungenerous to ask for a confession of your
love, when I have already told you that all my heart is in your
hands?"
"You fancied that I-that I-liked you; and you knew I did not want to
go home, and you pitied me: and I won't have it, sir. I do not need
pity, and I do not"--
Her voice died away, killed by the falsehood she could not speak.
Mr. Burroughs no longer pressed for an answer to the question he had
asked, but grasped at a new argument.
"Pity and kindness!" sadly repeated he. "Dora, if you only knew how
much more I stand in need of your pity than you of mine, if you only
knew what kindness your life has already done mine, you would not
treat me in this manner."
"You need my pity!" exclaimed Dora, forgetting herself, and turning
to look at him in na‹ve astonishment; "and for what?"
"For a purposeless and weary life; for an empty heart and a corroded
faith," said her lover bitterly; "for an indifference to men,
amounting almost to aversion; for a trifling estimate of women,
amounting almost to contempt; for wasted abilities and neglected
opportunities,--for all these, Dora, I need your pity, and have a
right to claim it: for it is only since I loved you that I have
recognized my own great needs and deficiencies. Complete the work
you have unconsciously begun, dearest. Reverse the fairy fable, and
let the beautiful princess come to waken with her kiss the slothful
prince, who else might sleep forever."
"How can you know so soon that I am the princess?" asked Dora shyly.
"So soon! I felt the truth stirring blindly in my heart that first
night, now a year ago, when I saw you in the old home, and read your
candid eyes, and heard your clear voice, and marked your steady and
serene influence upon all about you. I hardly knew it then; but,
when I was away from you, I was myself surprised to find how vivid
your impression upon my mind remained. When my cousin asked me to
accompany her here, I silently resolved, that, before I returned
home, I would see you again; would study as deeply as I might the
character I already guessed. Then, Dora, when I saw you, as I have
seen you in these last weeks, struggling so nobly to render complete
the sacrifice you came hither to make; when I saw the sweetness, the
power, the loftiness, and the divine truth, of your nature, shining
more clearly day by day, and yourself the only one unconscious of
the priceless value of such a nature,--then, Dora, I came to know for
truth what I tell you now, God hearing me, that you are the woman of
all the world whom I love, honor, and undeservingly long to make my
own. Once more, Dora,--and you cannot now refuse to answer me at
least,--once more I ask, do you or can you love me?"
He grasped her hands in both his own, and his keen eyes read her
very soul. She raised hers as steadily to meet them; and, though the
hot blush seemed to scorch her very brow, she answered,--
"I did not know it, quite, until to-day; but I believe-I think-I
have cared about you ever since a year ago. That is, not love; but
every one else seemed less than they had been: and since I knew you
here, and since I thought I must go home, and never see you any
more, it was"--
She faltered and stopped, drooping her head before the tender
triumph of his glance. Truth had asserted herself, as with Dora she
must have done in any stress, but now of a sudden found herself
silenced by a timidity as charming as it was new in the strong and
well poised temperament of the girl who, a moment before so brave,
now stood trembling and blushing beneath her lover's gaze.
He drew her to his breast, and pressed his lips to hers.
"Dora, my own wife!" whispered he. "God so deal with me here and
hereafter as I with you, the best gift in his mighty hand!"
And Dora, hiding her face upon his breast, whispered again,--
"I was so unhappy an hour ago! and now, as Sunshine, says, I have
come to heaven all at once!"
Her lover answered by a mute caress; for there are moments when
words are all too weak for speech. And so he only clasped her closer
in his arms, and bent his head upon her own; while all about them
the hundred voices of the summer noon whispered benediction on their
joy; the eddying stream paused in its whirl to dimple into laughter
at their feet; the sunlight, broken and flecked by the waving
branches, fell in a shifting golden shower upon their heads; and
Nature, the great mother, through her myriad eyes and tongues,
blessed the betrothal of her dearest child. _