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Extract from Dora's Diary.

IS it I? Is it I? Oh, IS IT I, sitting here to-night
with this pressure on my brain, this tightness
about my eyes, this anguish in my heart, this
feeling of desperation urging me on to meet anything,
everything, even death itself? If he received Jessie's
letter, he did mine, of course, for they went together;
and why not answer me, instead of sending that cold,
mocking message? If people ever die of shame surely I
ought to die, for did I not almost beg of him to say
again what he said at Anna's grave,—to tell me that he
loved me and would save me? Yes, it all comes to me
now,—all that I wrote and what it meant. And he does
not respond. If he ever cared, he does not now, and he
spurns my offered love. He wishes me happiness; aye,
and why should I not be happy? Many a woman would
gladly be the mother of Margaret's six children; and
shall I, her sister, who promised so solemnly, refuse?
No, John; no, Johnnie; no, Margaret; I will grant
your wish. Dr. West, when he comes home, shall have

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no reason to believe that Dora Freeman ever thought of
him, or spoke of him, except in the `crisp, cross manner'
which Jessie has described. John must wait a year
from the time Margaret died, but I can give him my decision
now, and I will then go to Bell and Jessie, and ask
them to be my bridesmaids.”

There was a pause made in the diary, and leaning her
aching head upon her hands, Dora thought and thought
until the hardness softened, when, resuming her pen, she
wrote as follows:

“I believe it is my duty to be John's wife, and the
mother of Margaret's children. It is true I did not so
understand her, but that was what she meant, and I
promised solemnly. I can love John, or at least I can
keep myself from hating him, knowing how happy I
make him, and I do love his children, especially Johnnie.
O Johnnie, I should die if it were not for you!”

The pen dropped from the trembling fingers, and
again the face was buried in the hands, while Dora
nerved herself to do what she vainly imagined was her
duty. Squire Russell she knew was in the library, Bell
and Jessie in their room, Johnnie in the street, and the
other children in bed. There was nothing in the way,
and she would go at once, so that the worst might be
over as soon as possible. Without a moment longer in
which to consider, she rose, and gliding down the stairs,
knocked at the library door.

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“Come in,” the Squire said, his voice and manner
changing at once when he saw who his visitor was.

“O Dora, is it you?” he said, rising to his feet, while
his face glowed with pleasure.

“Yes, John,” and Dora spoke hurriedly. “It is most
seven weeks since I said you must wait for my answer.
I can give it now as well as any time. I will be your
wife.”

Not a muscle changed as she said this, neither did her
voice tremble, but rang out clear and decided, and it may
be a little sharp and unnatural. Dora was very calm,
far more so than the Squire, who, taken by surprise,
started, and trembled, and blushed, and stammered like
some guilty school-boy. This state of things, however,
lasted only for a moment, and then rousing himself,
Squire Russell drew the unresisting girl to his side, and
kissing her forehead, said tenderly:

“God bless you, Dora. You have made me very
happy. I was beginning to think it could not be, and
was learning to live without you, but that makes my joy
the greater. God bless my Dora, and show me how to
make her happy!”

Had the Squire followed the promptings of his nature
he would have caressed her lovingly, just as he did Margaret
when she stood thus beside him; but remembering
Johnnie's warnings, he desisted, and it was well he did,
else Dora had hated him. Now she suffered him to wind

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his arms around her, while he told her again how happy
she had made him, and blessed her for it.

“Dora,” he said, and now he smoothed her hair, “a
man of forty is not called old, and I am only that, but I
am fourteen years your senior, while my six children
make me seem older still, but my heart is young, and I
will try so hard to stay with you till you too are old.
I'll go with you wherever you wish to go, do anything
you like, and never frown upon the things which I know
young girls love. I will not be an ogre guarding my
girlish wife, but a proud, happy husband, doing that
wife's bidding.”

Dora could not repress her tears, he spoke so kindly,
so earnestly, and she knew he meant all he was saying,
while she was deceiving him. She did not think either
that she was doing very wrong in thus deceiving him.
It was her duty to be his wife, and it was not her duty
to analyze her feelings in his sight, unless he asked her
for such analysis, which he was not likely to do, for his
was not a mind quick to perceive, while suspicion was
something to which he was a total stranger. He had always
admired Dora, and latterly he had learned to love
her devotedly, feeling now that his affection was in part
returned, else she had not deliberately come to him and
said, “I will be your wife.” It made him very happy to
know she had said so, and in his happiness he failed to
notice the pallor of her face, the drooping of her swollen

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eyelids, and her apparent wish to get as far from him as
possible. Margaret had never been demonstrative, and
he hardly expected Dora to be different, so the poor, deluded
man was satisfied, and when Dora, who would have
everything settled at once, said to him:

“We will wait a year,—till next autumn,” he knew
what she meant, and answered readily.

“Yes, if you like, though Margaret said it did not
matter how soon, the earlier the better for the children's
sake.”

“I'd rather it should be a year,” was Dora's quiet reply,
to which the Squire assented, and then, though he so
much wished her to stay, he opened the door for her to
pass out, as he saw that she desired it.

Half an hour later and Bell Verner, who was just falling
to sleep, was startled by a knock, and Dora asked
permission to enter.

“What is it? Who's come?” Jessie asked in a
dreamy tone, lifting her curly head from the pillow, just
as Bell unlocked the door, and Dora stepped into the
room.

She was very calm now and decided. The matter was
fixed now beyond recall, and she felt a great deal better.
Sitting down upon the foot of the bed, she said to Bell
and Jessie:

“I could not let you go home without telling you
something which may perhaps surprise you.”

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“Oh, I know. I can guess. You are going to marry
Mr. Russell,” Jessie cried, and Dora answered:

“Yes. It was Margaret's wish, expressed to both of
us, but that is nothing. I begin to feel old; oh, so old,”
and Dora shuddered as she said it. “John is good and
will make me a kind husband. It is true that once, when
a very young girl like Jessie, I had in my mind another
idea for a husband. All girls do in their teens, I guess,
but when we get to be twenty-six we begin to lose the
fancy man and look for something solid.”

This she said to Bell, as if expecting her concurrence
rather than that of madcap Jessie. But the contrary
was the fact, for Jessie approved the match far more than
her sister. Squire Russell was splendid, she said, and
would let a body do just as she had a mind, which was
a great deal nicer than a dictatorial, overbearing fellow of
twenty-eight. Yes, she'd give her consent, and she began
to whistle, “Come haste to the wedding,” as she
nestled back among the pillows, wondering how she
should feel to be engaged to Squire Russell. Bell on the
contrary saw things in their true light, and she merely
replied:

“I am somewhat surprised, I will acknowledge, but if
you love him that is all that is necessary.”

She was looking directly at Dora, but in the dim
moonlight the white, haggard face was not plainly discerned,
and Bell continued:

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“I did think you liked Dr. West, and was positive he
liked you.”

“Oh, fie,” and Jessie sprang up again, “Dora hates
him, while he,—well, I guess he likes all the girls,—that
is, likes to talk with and flatter them; any way, he has
said a great many complimentary things to me, and I
knew he meant nothing. They say his heart is buried in
that grave in Morrisville. I picked him out for Dora
once, you know, and that's all the good it did. Marry
the Squire, and let me be bridesmaid.”

“Will you?” Dora asked. “Will you and Bell both
officiate?”

Jessie assented eagerly, but Bell hesitated. She could
not make it seem real that Dora Freeman was to become
the wife of Squire Russell. Something would prevent it.
At last, however, as Dora urged a reply, she said:

“Perhaps I will, if when the time arrives you still
wish for two.”

The clock was striking eleven when Dora quitted the
apartment of the Misses Verner, but late as it was Johnnie
was waiting for her by her door. He had heard the
glad news from his father, and he caught Dora round the
neck, exclaiming:

“I know, I've heard,—the governor told me. You
are,—you are my mother. I never was so happy in my
life, was you?”

They were now in Dora's room, where the gas was

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burning, disclosing to Johnnie a face which made him
start with fear, it was so unnaturally white.

“Auntie,” he exclaimed, bending over her, as, reclining
upon the bed, she buried her head in the pillows, “what
makes you so white, when I'm so glad, and father, too?
I never saw him so pleased. Why, the tears danced in
his eyes as he told me, while I blubbered like a calf; and
you are crying, too, but not as father did, or I. O
my! what is it? This is so different. Auntie, Auntie,
you are in a fit!” and Johnnie gazed awe-struck upon
the little form which shook convulsively as Dora tried to
smother her deep sobs. “I'll go for father,” Johnnie continued,
and then Dora looked up, telling him to stay
there where he was.

“But, Auntie, what is the matter?” he asked. “Do
girls always cry so when they are engaged? What
makes your tears run so like rivers, and so big? It
must hurt awfully to be engaged. O dear, dear! I am
crying, too!” and then the excited boy wound both arms
around Dora's neck and drew her head upon his shoulder,
where it lay, while Dora's tears literally ran in rivers
down her cheeks.

But the weeping did her good, and she grew very quiet
at last, and listened while Johnnie told her how good he
was going to be, and how he would influence the others
to be good, too.

“We will all be so happy,” he said, “that mother, if

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she could look at us, would be so glad. Father will read
to us winter nights, or you'll play chess with him and
sing to us youngsters, and summers we'll go to lots of
places, and you shall have heaps of handsome dresses.
You're not so tall as mother, and it won't take so many
yards, so you can have more. I mean to buy one anyhow,
with some money I've laid up. I guess it will be
red silk, like Jessie's, and you'll have it made low-neck,
like hers, with little short sleeves. You've got nice,
pretty arms, whiter than Jessie's.”

Remembering how much his mother had thought of
dress, Johnnie naturally concluded it to be the Open
Sesame to every woman's heart, and so talked on until
she sent him away, for she would rather be alone with
her own tumultuous thoughts.

p605-183

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