Half Brothers. Stretton Hesba
possessed—a charm altogether apart from her personal loveliness. He could fancy her an old woman with white hair, and dim eyes, and faded-face, and yet retaining an indescribable attraction. She would be as beautiful in his eyes when she was seventy as she was now. He felt he could be a good man indeed if she was always at his side.
Day after day he went up to the City and transacted his business, keeping the threads of his world-wide enterprises in his own hand, and directing them with a clear, shrewd head. But he was waiting through all the long hours for the letter which would contain his doom. Trevor was to write to him the first certain information he gathered, and to keep him acquainted with his progress from day to day. At last the letter with the Austrian postmark came, and he fastened the door of his office, giving orders that he was to be interrupted for no one.
It was but a few lines, but it told him that Trevor had seen the grave where Sophy had lain for more than seven years. Sidney had prepared himself, as he believed, for any news that might reach him, and yet it came upon him like a thunderbolt. Poor Sophy! Still, what a relief it was to know she would never trouble him again! And she had been dead all these years, during which he had lived in deadly suspense and terror, as of one over whom a sword was hanging. How foolish he had been! If he had only had the courage to make this simple investigation before how free and joyous the years he had lost would have been. But he had lost these seven years of his youth as a penalty for his early error, and now the punishment was over.
He had intended at first to spend this evening alone, in memory of Sophy and her sad fate. But, before an hour had passed he grew accustomed to the knowledge that she was dead, and felt as if he had known it all these years. It had the dimness of an old sorrow. Seven years in the grave! He did not feel that it would be any shock to himself, or slight to Sophy's memory, if he yielded to his passionate longing to hurry away to Margaret.
It was already evening when he rode swiftly across Wimbledon Common, but it was an hour or two before his usual time, and Margaret was not waiting for him at the open door. He was shown into the library, where he had awaited her first appearance to him, now nearly a year ago. He had loved her from the first moment he saw her, he said to himself; and every day had increased his love. Would to God he was more worthy of her! From the height of his love to her he looked down on the low and foolish infatuation he had felt for Sophy. How could it be possible that, even as a boy, he could have wasted his affections in such a way? When Margaret opened the door, and came in softly, with a pale face, and eyelids a little red with weeping, looking as she did when he first saw her, he felt that she was even dearer to him than he had been fancying.
"Sidney!" she said, meeting him with both hands outstretched, "we have missed you more than I can tell. Why have you stayed away so long? My father is so ill!"
"Margaret!" he cried stammering. He could not utter a word of all that was in his heart, for he had resolved that, if possible, she should never know of Sophy's existence. There would be no need for the world to know, and he could make it worth while to Trevor to keep the secret. For, after all, it was not a secret involving any important issues; and if the worst came to the worst, he could tell Margaret when she was his wife, and it did not signify to any other person, excepting Margaret's father. He held her hands fast in a strong grasp as he looked at her; and the color came and went on her face, and her eyes fell before his gaze.
"I love you," he said, at length, with parched lips. He had always thought it would be a moment of too great happiness when he could say these words to Margaret, but it was one of heaviness and confusion of soul. He wished now that he had waited a little longer, until he could get rid of the haunting memory of Sophy.
"Yes," answered Margaret, in a very low, sweet tone, "and I love you, Sidney!"
She spoke with the open simplicity of a child, but her lips quivered, and the tears stood in her eyes. He folded her in his arms, and for a minute or two they were both silent. The heaviness and bewilderment of his soul passed away in the sense of present gladness. All the trouble of his old folly was over; there was no harvest of bitterness to reap. He was as free as if he had never fallen into any unworthy entanglement. And the pure, sweet, true heart of this girl was as much his own as if he had never known any other love. He declared to himself he never had.
"I have never loved any woman but you," he exclaimed aloud, as if he challenged his dead wife to contradict him.
"And I," she said, looking up into his face with a smile, "never thought of loving any man but you."
He stooped down and kissed her. It was impossible to echo her words.
"Let us go and tell my father," she said, after a few minutes had passed by; "he is ill, and we must not leave him too long alone. He is very fond of you, Sidney."
He followed Margaret to the door of her father's room, but she passed on, beckoning to him to go in alone. Colonel Cleveland lay on his invalid couch, looking more worn than he had done the week before.
"Welcome back again, Sidney," he cried out, with a faint smile. "I was afraid I had scared you away by my imprudence. And I cannot get along without you, my friend."
"No, no," he answered; "I stayed away because I could not trust myself with Margaret, after what you said."
"Not trust yourself with Margaret!" repeated Colonel Cleveland.
"You told me she loved me," he replied joyously, "and I love her as my own soul. But I could not feel worthy of her. I will confess all to you, but I do not wish her to know. While I was yet a mere lad, I contracted a secret and most unsuitable marriage; but the girl died seven years ago. I could not all at once ask Margaret to become my wife after that."
"Are there any children?" inquired Colonel Cleveland.
"No; oh, no!" he answered. "How could such a matter be kept secret if there had been any child?"
But, as he spoke, a dread flashed across his mind. Was it not possible that Sophy had died in giving birth to her child, and the child be still alive? But, if so, Trevor must have heard of it when he heard of her death, and he would have added this most important item of information in his letter. No, Sophy and her child lay together in the lonely grave of the Ampezzo cemetery. He felt a strange, confused sense of sadness in the thought, mingling with the gladness of being sure that Margaret loved him.
"And you have lived with this secret all these years," said Colonel Cleveland with a grave face. "It would have made a difference with my old friend if he had known it."
"Yes," said Sidney frankly; "he would probably have disinherited me."
Colonel Cleveland looked keenly into the grave, but ingenuous face of the young man, and Sidney bore his gaze with an air of honest regret. He felt penitent, and his penitence sat well upon him. If a past wrong could be blotted out forever, Sidney was ready to perform any penance that would free himself from its consequences. He looked imploringly at Colonel Cleveland.
"Don't let Margaret know," he entreated. "I want her to be happier with me than any woman ever was with any husband. Only one man knows it, and he will keep the secret faithfully. What good would it do for her to be told of my boyish infatuation? If it was an important matter, I would not keep it from her. But, just now, she looked into my face and said: 'I never thought of loving any man but you.' I would have given half my worldly goods to be able to say the same."
"Then you have spoken to Margaret?" said her father.
"The moment before I came to you," he answered.
"And she loves you?" he continued.
"Yes," said Sidney.
"God bless my Margaret!" cried Colonel Cleveland, in tremulous tones.
"Amen!" said Sidney. "God make me worthy of her love!"
There was a slight pause before Colonel Cleveland spoke again.
"I think it may be as you wish," he said. "Most young men have some folly to confess; and this, though it seems more serious, was only a folly, not a crime. The worst part of it is keeping it a secret all these years. Seven years, did you say? But it is all over now,