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It amuses her for a while, then she tires of it, she tires of everything of late, her old fever of restlessness comes back. This dull Sandypoint, with its inquisitive gapers and questioners, is not to be endured, even for her father's sake. She will return to New York. In the bustling life there the restless, ceaseless flow of humanity, she alone finds solitude and rest now.
"Sandypoint," he repeats; "Edith, do you recall what I said to you there? Have you ever wished once, in those three years that are gone, that I had never come to Sandypoint to take you away?" "I have never wished it," she answers truly; "never once.
At long intervals, down by-paths and across fields, there were some half dozen habitations, between Millfield and Sandypoint that was all. Faster, faster came the white whirling flakes; an out-and-out February snow storm had set in. Again should she turn back? She paused half a minute to debate the question. If she did there would be a sleepless night of terror for her nervous father at home.
He is in no way changed that she can see the very same Charley of three years before. "You knew I was here!" she asks. "Certainly, Lady Catheron. I read the morning papers, and always look out for distinguished arrivals. Like the scent of the roses, my aristocratic tastes cling to me still. I thought you would hardly endure a month of Sandypoint delightful, no doubt, as that thriving township is.
It's a burning shame that you should be buried alive down in that poky Sandypoint, with your cleverness, and your accomplishments, and good looks, and everything. If I marry the baronet, Dith, I shall take you with me to England, and you shall live happy forever after. "I set out to tell you of the De Rooyter ball, and see how I run on.
There was a great blank where Charley's handsome face had been, and all at once life seemed to lose its relish for this girl of sixteen. A restlessness took possession of of her. Sandypoint and all belonging to it grew distasteful. She wanted change, excitement Charley Stuart, perhaps something different certainly from what she was used to, or likely to get.
"No it was her desire you should not be told until until all was over," Trix answered with another burst of tears; "but I couldn't do that. She says we are to bury her at Sandypoint, beside her mother not send her body to England. She told me, when she was dead, to tell you the story of her separation from Sir Victor. Shall I tell it to you now, Charley?"
One raw February afternoon two years before this March morning, Edith Darrell set out to walk from Millfield, a large manufacturing town, five miles from Sandypoint, home. She had been driven over in the morning by a neighbor, to buy a new dress; she had dined at noon with an acquaintance, and as the Millfield clocks struck five, set out to walk home.
Impossible to tell where they were, but there, prostrate in a feathery drift, lay the dark figure of a man. The girl bent down in the darkness, and touched the cold face with her hand. "What is the matter?" she asked. "How do you come to be lying here?" There was just life enough left within him, to enable him to answer faintly. "I was on my way to Sandypoint the night and storm overtook me.
With the fine discrimination most men possess, he sent her, on her seventeenth birthday, a set of turquoise and pearls, which made her sallow complexion hideous, or, at least, as hideous as anything can make a pretty girl. That summer he ran down to Sandypoint for a fortnight's fishing, and an oasis came suddenly in the desert of Edith's life.
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