I came in to breakfast with Reuben, feeling that Dapple had been more of a gentleman than I had, for he had treated the maiden with gentleness and courtesy, while I had thought first of myself. She looked up at me as I entered so humbly and deprecatingly that I wished that I had bitten my tongue out rather than have spoken so harshly.
Straightforward Reuben went to the girl, and, holding out his hand, said:
“Emily, I want to ask thy forgiveness. I've been like a bear toward thee. Thee's the bravest girl I ever saw. No country girl would have dared to do what thee did. I didn't need to have Richard lecture me and tell me that; but I thought thee was kind of down on Richard, and I've a way of standing by my friends.”
With a face like a peony she turned and took both of the boy's hands as she said warmly:
“Thank you, Reuben. I'd take a much greater risk to win your friendship, and if you'll give it to me I'll be very proud of it. You are going to make a genuine man.”
“Yes, Reuben, thee'll make a man,” said his mother, with a low laugh. “Thee is as blind as a man already.”
I looked at her instantly, but she dropped her eyes demurely to her plate. I saw that Mr. Hearn was watching me, and so did not look at Miss Warren.
“Well,” said he irritably, “I don't like such escapades; and Emily, if anything of the kind happens again, I'll have to take you to a safer place.”
His face was flushed, but hers was very pale.
“It won't happen again,” she said quietly, without looking up.
“Richard,” said Mr. Yocomb, as if glad to change the subject, “I've got to drive across the country on some business. I will have to be gone all day. Would thee like to go with me?”
“Certainly. I'll go with you to the ends of the earth.”
“That would be too far away from mother. Thee always pulls me back very soon, doesn't thee?”
“Well, I know thee comes,” replied his wife. “Don't tire Richard out; he isn't strong yet.”
“Richard,” said Mr. Yocomb, as we were driving up a long hill, “I want to congratulate thee on thy course toward Emily Warren. Thee's a strong-minded, sensible man. I saw that thee was greatly taken with her at first, and no wonder. Besides, I couldn't help hearing what thee said when out of thy mind. Mother and I kept the children away then, and Doctor Bates had the wink from me to be discreet; but thee's been a sensible man since thee got up, and put the whole thing away from thee very bravely.”
“Mr. Yocomb, I won't play the hypocrite with you. I love her better than my own soul.”
“Thee does?” he said, in strong surprise.
“Yes, and I ought to have gone away long ago, I fear. How could I see her as she appeared this morning, and not almost worship her?”
The old gentleman gave a long, low whistle. “I guess mother meant me when she said men were blind.”
I was silent, not daring, of course, to say that I hoped she meant me, but what I had heard and seen that morning had done much to confirm my hope.
“Well,” said the old gentleman, “I can scarcely blame thee, since she is what she is, and I can't help saying, too, that I think thee would make her happier than that man can, with all his money. I don't think he appreciates her. She will be only a part of his great possessions.”
“Well, Mr. Yocomb, I've but these requests to make. Keep this to yourself, and don't interpose any obstacles to my going next Monday. Don't worry about me. I'll keep up; and a man who will have to work as I must won't have time to mope. I won't play the weak fool, for I'd rather have your respect and Mrs. Yocomb's than all Mr. Hearn's millions; and Miss Warren's respect is absolutely essential to me.”
“Then thee thinks that mother and—and Emily know?”
“Who can hide anything from such women! They look through us as if we were glass.”
“Mother's sermon meant more for thee than I thought.”
“Yes, I felt as if it were preached for me. I hope I may be the better for it some day; but I've too big a fight on my hands now to do much else. You will now understand why I wish to get away so soon, and why I can't come back till I've gained a strength that is not bodily. I wouldn't like you to misunderstand me, after your marvellous kindness, and so I'm frank. Besides, you're the kind of man that would thaw an icicle. Your nature is large and gentle, and I don't mind letting you know.”
“Richard, we're getting very frank, and I'm going to be more so. I don't like the way Mr. Hearn sits and looks at Adah.”
“Oh, you needn't worry about him. Mr. Hearn is respectability itself; but he's wonderfully fond of good things and pretty things. His great house on Fifth Avenue is full of them, and he looks at Miss Adah as he would at a fine oil painting.”
“Thee speaks charitably of him under the circumstances.”
“I ought to try to do him justice, since I hate him so cordially.”
“Well,” said the old gentleman, laughing, “that's a new way of putting it. Thee's honest, Richard.”
“If I wasn't I'd have no business in your society.”
“I'm worried about Emily,” broke out my companion. “She was a little thin and worn from her long season of work when she came to us lately; but the first week she picked up daily. While thee was so sick she seemed more worried than any one, and I had much ado to get her to eat enough to keep a bird alive; but it's been worse for the last two weeks. She has seemed much brighter lately for some reason, but the flesh just seems to drop off of her. She takes a wonderful hold of my feelings, and I can't help troubling about her.”
“Mr. Yocomb, your words torture me,” I cried. “It is not my imagination then. Can she love that man?”
“Well, she has a queer way of showing it; but it is one of those things that an outsider can't meddle with.”
I was moody and silent the rest of the day, and Mr. Yocomb had the tact to leave me much to myself; but I was not under the necessity of acting my poor farce before him.
The evening was quite well advanced when we reached the farmhouse; but Mrs. Yocomb had a royal supper for us, and she said every one had insisted on waiting till we returned. Mr. Hearn had quite recovered his complacency, and I gathered from this fact that Miss Warren had been very devoted. Such was his usual aspect when everything was pleasing to him. But she who had added so much to his life had seemingly drained her own, for she looked so pale and thin that my heart ached. There were dark lines under her eyes, and she appeared exceedingly wearied, as if the day had been one long effort.
“She can't love him,” I thought. “It's impossible. Confound him! he's the blindest man of us all. Oh that I had her insight, that I might unravel this snarl at once, for it would kill me to see her looking like that much longer. What's the use of my going away? I've been away all day; she has had the light of his smiling countenance uninterruptedly, and see how worn she is. Can it be that my hateful words hurt her, and that she is grieving about me only? It's impossible. Unselfish regard for another could not go so far if her own heart was at rest. She is doing her best to laugh and talk and to seem cheerful, but her acting now is poorer than mine ever was. She is tired out; she seems like a soldier who is fighting mechanically after spirit, courage, and strength are gone.”
Mr. Hearn informed Mr. Yocomb that important business would require his presence in New York for a few days. “It's an enterprise that involves immense interests on both sides of the ocean, and there's to be quite a gathering of capitalists. Your paper will be full of it before very long, Mr. Morton.”
“I'm always glad to hear of any grist for our mill,” I said. “Mrs. Yocomb, please excuse me. I'm selfish enough to prefer the cool piazza.”
“But thee hasn't eaten anything.”
“Oh, yes, I have, and I made a huge dinner,” I replied carelessly, and sauntered out and lighted a cigar. Instead of coming out on the piazza, as I hoped, Miss Warren bade Mr. Hearn good-night in the hall, and, pleading fatigue, went to her room.
She was down to see him off in the morning, and at his request accompanied him to the depot. I was reading on the piazza when she returned, and I hastened to assist her from the rockaway.
“Miss Warren,” I exclaimed, in deep solicitude, “this long, hot ride has been too much for you.”
“Perhaps it has,” she replied briefly, without meeting my eyes. “I'll go and rest.”
She pleaded a headache, and did not come down to dinner. Mrs. Yocomb returned from her room with a troubled face.
I had resolved that I would not seek to see her alone while Mr. Hearn was away, and so resumed my long rambles. When I returned, about supper time, she was sitting on the piazza watching Adela and Zillah playing with their dolls. She did not look up as I took a seat on the steps not far away.
At last I began, “Can I tell you that I am very sorry you have been ill to-day?”
“I wasn't dangerous, as country people say,” she replied, a little brusquely.
“You look as if Dapple might run over you now.”
“A kitten might run over me,” she replied briefly, still keeping her eyes on the children.
By and by she asked, “Why do you look at me so intently, Mr. Morton?”
“That's not answering my question.”
“Suppose I deny that I was looking at you. You have not condescended to glance at me yet.”
“Well, then, to tell you the truth, as I find I always must, I was looking for some trace of mercy. I was thinking whether I could venture to ask forgiveness for being more of a brute than Dapple yesterday.”
“Have your words troubled you very much?”
“Well, they've troubled me too. You think I'm heartless, Mr. Morton;” and she arose and went to her piano.
I followed her instantly. “Won't you forgive me?” I asked; “I've repented.”
“Oh, nonsense, Mr. Morton. You know as well as I do that I'm the one to ask forgiveness.”
“No, I don't,” I said, in a low, passionate tone. “I fear you are grieving about what you can't help.”
“Can't help?” she repeated, flushing.
“Yes, my being here makes you unhappy. If I knew it, I'd go to-night.”
“And you think that out of sight would be out of mind,” she said, with a strange smile.
“Great God! I don't know what to think. I know that I would do anything under heaven to make you look as you did the first night I saw you.”
“You look as if you might take wings and leave us at any moment.”
“Then I wouldn't trouble you any more.”
“Then my trouble would be without remedy. Marry Mr. Hearn; marry him to-morrow, if you wish. I assure you that if you will be honestly and truly happy, I won't mope a day—I'll become the jolliest old bachelor in New York. I'll do anything within the power of man to make you your old joyous self.”
Now at last she turned her large, glorious eyes upon me, and their expression was sadness itself; but she only said quietly:
“Then tell me, what can I do?”
“Come to supper;” and she rose and left me.
I went to my old seat by the window, and the tumult in my heart was in wide contrast with the quiet summer evening.
“You are mistaken, Emily Warren,” I thought. “You have as much as said that I can do nothing for you. I'll break your chain. You shall not marry Gilbert Hearn, if I have to protest in the very church and before the altar. You are mine, by the best and divinest right, and with your truth as my ally I'll win you yet. From this hour I dedicate myself to your happiness. Heavens, how blind I've been!”
“Come, Richard,” said Mrs. Yocomb, putting her head within the door.
Miss Warren sat in her place, silent and apathetic. She had the aspect of one who had submitted to the inevitable, but would no longer pretend she liked it. Mr. Yocomb was regarding her furtively, with a clouded brow, and Adah's glances were frequent and perplexed. I felt as if walking on air, and my heart was aglow with gladness; but I knew her far too well to show what was in my mind. My purpose now was to beguile the hours till I could show her what truth really required of her. With the utmost tact that I possessed, and with all the zest that hope confirmed inspired, I sought to diffuse a general cheerfulness, and I gradually drew her into the current of our talk. After supper I told them anecdotes of public characters and eminent people, for my calling gave me a great store of this kind of information. Ere she was aware, the despondent girl was asking questions, and my answers piqued her interest still more; at last, quite late in the evening, Mr. Yocomb exclaimed:
“Look here, Richard, what right has thee to keep me out of my bed long after regular hours? I'm not a night editor. Good people, you must all go to bed. I'm master of this house. Now, don't say anything, mother, to take me down.”
Finding myself alone with Miss Warren a moment in the hall, I asked:
“Have I not done more than merely come to supper?”
She turned from me instantly, and went swiftly up the stairway.
But the apathetic, listless look was on her face when she came down in the morning, and she appeared as if passively yielding to a dreaded necessity. I resumed my old tactics, and almost in spite of herself drew her into the genial family life. Mr. Yocomb seconded me with unflagging zeal and commendable tact, while Mrs. Yocomb surpassed us both. Adah seemed a little bewildered, as if there were something in the air which she could not understand. But we made the social sunshine of the house so natural and warm that she could not resist it.
“Reuben,” I said, after breakfast, “Miss Warren is not well. A ride after Dapple is the best medicine I ever took. Take Miss Warren out for a swift, short drive; don't let her say no. You have the tact to do the thing in the right way.”
She did decline repeatedly, but he so persisted that she at last said:
“There, Reuben, I will go with you.”
“I think thee might do that much for a friend, as thee calls me.”
When she returned there was a faint color in her cheeks. The rapid drive had done her good, and I told her so as I helped her from the light wagon.
“Yes, Mr. Morton, it has, and I thank you for the drive very much. Let me suggest that Reuben is much too honest for a conspirator.”
“Well, he was a very willing one; and I see by his face, as he drives down to the barn, that you have made him a happy one.”
“It doesn't take much to make him happy.”
“And would it take such an enormous amount to make you happy?”
“You are much too inclined to be personal to be an editor. The world at large should hold your interest;” and she went to her room.
At the dinner-table the genial spell worked on; she recognized it with a quiet smile, but yielded to its kindly power. At last she apparently formed the resolution to make the most of this one bright day, and she became the life of the party.
“Emily,” said Mrs. Yocomb, as we rose from the table, “father proposes that we all go on a family picnic to Silver Pond, and take our supper there. It's only three miles away. Would thee feel strong enough to go?”
Mrs. Yocomb spoke with the utmost simplicity and innocence; but the young girl laughed outright, then fixed a penetrating glance on Mr. Yocomb, whose florid face became much more ruddy.
“Evidences of guilt clearly apparent,” she said, “and Mr. Morton, too, looks very conscious. 'The best laid schemes of mice and men'—you know the rest. Oh, yes, I'd go if I had to be carried. When webs are spun so kindly, flies ought to be caught.”
“What is the matter with you all?” cried Adah.
“Miss Adah, if you'll find me a match for my cigar you'll make me happy,” I said hastily, availing myself of the first line of retreat open.
“Is that all thee needs to make thee happy?”
“Well, one thing at a time, Miss Adah, if you please.”
As the day grew cool, Reuben came around with the family rockaway. Mrs. Yocomb and Adah had prepared a basket as large as their own generous natures. I placed Miss Warren beside Mrs. Yocomb on the back seat, while I took my place by Adah, with Zillah between us. Little Adela and Reuben had become good friends, and she insisted on sitting between him and his father.
As we rolled along the quiet country roads, chatting, laughing, and occasionally singing a snatch of a song, no one would have dreamed that any shadows rested on the party except those which slanted eastward from the trees, which often hung far over our heads.
I took pains not to feign any forced gayety, nor had I occasion to, for I was genuinely happy—happier than I had ever been before. Nothing was assured save the absolute truth of the woman that I loved, but with this ally I was confident. I was impartial in my attentions to Adah and Zillah, and so friendly to both that Adah was as pleased and happy as the child. We chaffed the country neighbors whom we met, and even chattered back at the barking squirrels that whisked before us along the fences. Mr. Yocomb seemed almost as much of a boy as Reuben, and for some reason Miss Warren always laughed most at his pleasantries. Mrs. Yocomb looked as placid and bright as Silver Pond, as it at last glistened beneath us in the breathless, sunny afternoon; but like the clear surface fringed with shadows that sank far beneath the water, there were traces of many thoughts in her large blue eyes.
There was a cow lying under the trees where we meant to spread our table. I pointed her out to Miss Warren with humorous dismay. “Shall we turn back?” I asked.
“No,” she replied, looking into my eyes gratefully. “You have become so brave that I'm not afraid to go on.”
I ignored her reference to that which I intended she should forget for one day, believing that if we could make her happy she would recognize how far her golden-haloed lover came short of this power. So I said banteringly, “I'll wager you my hat that you dare not get out and drive that terrific beast away.”
“The idea of Emily's being afraid of a cow, after facing Dapple!” cried Reuben.
“Well, we'll see,” I said. “Stop the rockaway here.”
“What should I do with your hat, Mr. Morton?”
“Wear it, and suffer the penalty,” laughed Adah.
“You would surely win it,” retorted the girl, a little nettled.
“I'll wager you a box of candy then, or anything you please.”
“Let it be anything I please,” she agreed, laughing. “Mr. Morton, you are not going to let me get out alone?”
“Oh, no,” and I sprang out to assist her down.
“She wants you to be on hand in case the ferocious beast switches its tail,” cried Adah.
The hand she gave me trembled as I helped her out, and I saw that she regarded the placid creature with a dread that she could not disguise. Picking up a little stick, she stepped cautiously and hesitatingly toward the animal. While still ridiculously far away, she stopped, brandished her stick, and said, with a quaver in her threatening tone, “Get up, I tell you!”
But the cow ruminated quietly as if understanding well that there was no occasion for alarm.
The girl took one or two more faltering steps, and exclaimed, in a voice of desperate entreaty, “Oh, please get up!”
We could scarcely contain ourselves for laughter.
“Oh, ye gods! how beautiful she is!” I murmured. “With her arm over Dapple's neck she was a goddess. Now she's a shrinking woman. Heaven grant that it may be my lot to protect her from the real perils of life!”
The cow suddenly switched her tail at a teasing gadfly, and the girl precipitately sought my side.
Reuben sprang out of the rockaway and lay down and rolled in his uncontrollable mirth.
“Was there anything ever so ridiculous?” cried Adah; for to the country girl Miss Warren's fear was affectation.
At Adah's words Miss Warren's face suddenly became white and resolute.
“You, at least, shall not despise me,” she said to me in a low tone; and shutting her eyes she made a blind rush toward the cow. I had barely time to catch her, or she would have thrown herself on the horns of the startled animal that, with tail in air, careered away among the trees. The girl was so weak and faint that I had to support her; but I could not forbear saying, in a tone that she alone heard:
“Do we ever despise that which we love supremely?”
Mrs. Yocomb was soon at our side with a flask of currant wine, and Adah laughed a little bitterly as she said, “It was 'as good as a play'!” Miss Warren recovered herself speedily by the aid of the generous wine, and this was the only cloud on our simple festivity. In her response to my ardent words she seemingly had satisfied her conscience, and she acted like one bent on making the most of this one occasion of fleeting pleasure.
Adah was the only one who mentioned the banker. “How Mr. Hearn would have enjoyed being here with us!” she exclaimed.
Miss Warren's response was a sudden pallor and a remorseful expression; but Mr. Yocomb and I speedily created a diversion of thought; I saw, however, that Adah was watching her with a perplexed brow. The hours quickly passed, and in the deepening shadows we returned homeward, Miss Warren singing some sweet old ballads, to which my heart kept time.
She seemed both to bring the evening to a close, and sat down at the piano. Adah and I listened, well content. Having put the children to bed Mrs. Yocomb joined us, and we chatted over the pleasant trip while waiting for Mr. Yocomb and Reuben, who had not returned from the barn. At last Mrs. Yocomb said heartily, as if summing it all up:
“Well, Richard, thee's given us a bright, merry afternoon.”
“Yes, Richard,” Miss Warren began, as if her heart had spoken unawares—“I beg your pardon—Mr. Morton—” and then she stopped in piteous confusion, for I had turned toward her with all my unspeakable love in my face.
Adah's laugh rang out a little harshly.
I hastened to the rescue of the embarrassed girl, saying, “I don't see why you should beg my pardon. We're all Friends here. At least I'm trying to be one as fast as a leopard can change his spots and the Ethiopian his skin. As for you, a tailor would say you were cut from the same cloth as Mrs. Yocomb.”
But for some reason she could not recover herself. She probably realized, in the tumult of her feeling, that she had revealed her heart too clearly, and she could not help seeing that Adah understood her. She was too confused for further pretence, and too unnerved to attempt it. After a moment of pitiful hesitation she fled with a scarlet face to her room.
“Well,” said Adah, with a slight hysterical laugh, “I understand Emily Warren now.”
“Pardon me, Miss Adah, I don't think you do,” I began.
“If thee doesn't, thee's blind indeed.”
“Be assured I'm not any longer,” and with a deep angry flush she, too, left us.
I turned to Mrs. Yocomb, and taking both of her hands I entreated, “As you have the heart of a woman, never let Emily Warren marry that man. Help me—help us both!”
“My poor boy,” she began, “this is a serious matter—”
“It is indeed,” I said, passionately; “it's a question of life and death to us both.”
“Well,” she said, thoughtfully, “I think time and truth will be on thy side in the end; but I would advise thee not to do or say anything rash or hasty. She is very resolute. Give her time.”
Would to God I had taken her advice!
I scarcely could foresee how we should get through the following day. I both longed for and dreaded it, feeling that though it might pass quietly enough, it would probably be decisive in its bearing on the problem of my life. Miss Warren would at last be compelled to face the truth squarely, that she had promised a man what she could not give, and that to permit him to go on blindly trusting would be impossible. The moment she realized fully that she had never truly loved him, and now never could, she would give up the pretence. Then why should she not see that love, duty, and truth could go together? That she had struggled desperately to be loyal to Mr. Hearn was sadly proved by her thin face and wasted form; but with a nature like hers, when once her genuine love was evoked, the effort to repress it was as vain as seeking to curb a rising tide. I now saw, as I looked back over the past weeks, that her love had grown steadily and irresistibly till it had overwhelmed all save her will and conscience; that these stood, the two solitary landmarks of her former world. And I knew they would stand, and that my only hope was to stand with them. Her love had gone out to me as mine had to her, from a constraint that she could not resist, and this fact I hoped would reveal to her its sacred right to live. With every motive that would naturally bind her to a man who could give her so much, her heart claimed its mate in one who must daily toil long hours for subsistence. It would be like her to recognize that a love so unthrifty and unselfish must spring from the deepest truths and needs of her being rather than from any passing causes. She would come to believe as I did, that God had created us for each other.
But it seemed as if the whole world had changed and gone awry when we sat down to breakfast the next morning. Adah was polite to me, but she was cool and distant. She no longer addressed me in the Friendly tongue. It was “you” now. I had ceased to be one of them, in her estimation. Her father and mother looked grave and worried, but they were as kind and cordial to me as ever. Reuben and the little girls were evidently mystified by the great change in the social atmosphere, but were too inexperienced to understand it. I was pained by Adah's manner, but did not let it trouble me, feeling assured that as she thought the past over she would do me justice, and that our relations would become substantially those of a brother and sister.
But I was puzzled and alarmed beyond measure by Miss Warren's manner and appearance, and my feelings alternated between the deepest sympathy and the strongest fear. She looked as if she had grown old in the night, and was haggard from sleeplessness. Her deep eyes had sunken deeper than ever, and the lines under them were dark indeed, but her white face was full of a cold scorn, and she held herself aloof from us all.
She looked again as if capable of any blind, desperate self-sacrifice.
Simple, honest Mr. Yocomb was sorely perplexed, but Ms wife's face was grave and inscrutable. If I had only gone quietly away and left the whole problem to her, how much better it would have been!
I tried to speak to Miss Warren in a pleasant, natural way; her answers were brief and polite, but nothing more. Before the meal was over she excused herself and returned to her room. I felt almost indignant. What had I—most of all, what had her kind, true friends, Mr. and Mrs. Yocomb—done to warrant that cold, half—scornful face? Her coming to breakfast was but a form, and she clearly wished to leave us at the earliest possible moment. Adah smiled satirically as she passed out, and the expression did not become her fair face.
I strode out to the arbor in the garden and stared moodily at the floor, I know not how long, for I was greatly mystified and baffled, and my very soul was consumed with anxiety.
“She shall listen to reason,” I muttered again and again. “This question must be settled in accordance with truth—the simple, natural truth—and nothing else. She's mine, and nothing shall separate us— not even her perverse will and conscience;” and so the heavy hours passed in deep perturbation.
At last I heard a step, and looking through the leaves I saw the object of my thoughts coming through the garden, reading a letter. My eyes glistened with triumph. “The chance I coveted has come,” I muttered, and I watched her intently. She soon crushed the letter in her hand and came swiftly toward the arbor, with a face so full of deep and almost wild distress that my heart relented, and I resolved to be as gentle as I before had intended to be decisive and argumentative. I hastily changed my seat to the angle by the entrance, so that I could intercept her should she try to escape the interview.
She entered, and throwing herself down on the seat, buried her face in her arm.
She started up with a passionate gesture. “You have no right to intrude on me now,” she said, almost sternly.
“Pardon me, were I not here when you entered, I would still have a right to come. You are in deep distress. Why must I be inhuman any more than yourself? You have at least promised me friendship, but you treat me like an enemy.”
“You have been my worst enemy.”
“I take issue with you there at once. I've never had a thought toward you that was not most kind and loyal.
“Loyal!” she replied, bitterly; “that word in itself is a stab.”
“Miss Warren,” I said, very gently, “you make discord in the old garden to-day.”
She dropped her letter on the ground and sank on the seat again. Such a passion of sobs shook her slight frame that I trembled with apprehension. But I kept quiet, believing that Nature could care for her child better than I could, and that her outburst of feeling would bring relief. At last, as she became a little more self-controlled, I said, gravely and kindly:
“There must be some deep cause for this deep grief.”
“Oh, what shall I do?” she sobbed. “What shall I do? I wish the earth would open and swallow me up.”
“That wish is as vain as it is cruel. I wish you would tell me all, and let me help you. I think I deserve it at your hands.”
“Well, since you know so much, you may as well know all. It doesn't matter now, since every one will soon know. He has written that his business will take him to Europe within a month—that we must be married—that he will bring his sister here to-night to help me make arrangements. Oh! oh! I'd rather die than ever see him again. I've wronged him so cruelly, so causelessly.”
In wild exultation I snatched a pocketbook from my coat and cried:
“Miss Warren—Emily—do you remember this little York and Lancaster bud that you gave me the day we first met? Do you remember my half- jesting, random words, 'To the victor belong the spoils'? See, the victor is at your feet.”
She sprang up and turned her back upon me. “Rise!” she said, in a voice so cold and stern that, bewildered, I obeyed.
She soon became as calm as before she had been passionate and unrestrained in her grief; but it was a stony quietness that chilled and disheartened me before she spoke.
“It does indeed seem as if the truth between us could never be hidden,” she said, bitterly. “You have now very clearly shown your estimate of me. You regard me as one of those weak women of the past whom the strongest carry off. You have been the stronger in this case —oh, you know it well! Not even in the house of God could I escape your vigilant scrutiny. You hoped and watched and waited for me to be false. Should I yield to you, you would never forget that I had been false, and, in accordance with your creed, you would ever fear—that is, if your passion lasted long enough—the coming of one still stronger, to whom in the weak necessity of my nature, I again would yield. Low as I have fallen, I will never accept from a man a mere passion devoid of respect and honor. I'm no longer entitled to these, therefore I'll accept nothing.”
She poured out these words like a torrent, in spite of my gestures of passionate dissent, and my efforts to be heard; but it was a cold, pitiless torrent. Excited as I was, I saw how intense was her self- loathing. I also saw despairingly that she embraced me in her scorn.
“Miss Warren,” I said, dejectedly, “since you are so unjust to yourself, what hope have I?”
“There is little enough for either of us,” she continued, more bitterly; “at least there is none for me. You will, no doubt, get bravely over it, as you said. Men generally do, especially when in their hearts they have no respect for the woman with whom they are infatuated. Mr. Morton, the day of your coming was indeed the day of my fate. I wish you could have saved the lives of the others, but not mine. I could then have died in peace, with honor unstained. But now, what is my life but an intolerable burden of shame and self- reproach? Without cause and beyond the thought of forgiveness, I've wronged a good, honorable man, who has been a kind and faithful friend for years. He is bringing his proud, aristocratic sister here to-night to learn how false and contemptible I am. The people among whom I earned my humble livelihood will soon know how unfit I am to be trusted with their daughters—that I am one who falls a spoil to the strongest. I have lost everything—chief of all my pearl of great price—my truth. What have I left? Is there a more impoverished creature in the world? There is nothing left to me but bare existence and hateful memories. Oh, the lightning was dim compared with the vividness with which I've seen it all since that hateful moment last night, when the truth became evident even to Adah Yocomb. But up to that moment, even up to this hour, I hoped you pitied me—that you were watching and waiting to help me to be true and not to be false. I did not blame you greatly for your love—my own weakness made me lenient—and at first you did not know. But since you now openly seek that which belongs to another; since you now exult that you are the stronger, and that I have become your spoil, I feel, though I cannot yet see and realize the depths into which I have fallen. Even to-day you might have helped me as a friend, and shown me how some poor shred of my truth might have been saved; but you snatch at me as if I were but the spoil of the strongest. Mr. Morton, either you or I must leave the farmhouse at once.”
“This is the very fanaticism of truth,” I cried, desperately. “Your mind is so utterly warped and morbid from dwelling on one side of this question that you are cruelly unjust.”
“Would that I had been less kind and more just. I felt sorry for you, from the depths of my heart. Why have you had no pity for me? You are a man of the world, and know it. Why did you not show me to what this wretched weakness would lead? I thought you meant this kindness when you said you wished my brother was here. Oh that I were sleeping beside him! I thought you meant this when you said that nothing would last, nothing could end well unless built on the truth. I hoped you were watching me with the vigilance of a man who, though loving me, was so strong and generous and honorable that he would try to save me from a weakness that I cannot understand, and which was the result of strange and unforeseen circumstances. When you were so ill I felt as if I had dealt you your death-blow, and then, woman-like, I loved you. I loved you before I recognized my folly. Up to that point we could scarcely help ourselves. For weeks I tried to hide the truth from myself. I fought against it. I prayed against it through sleepless nights. I tried to hide the truth from you most of all. But I remember the flash of hope in your face when you first surmised my miserable secret. It hurt me cruelly. Your look should have been one of dismay and sorrow. But I know something of the weakness of the heart, and its first impulse might naturally be that of gladness, although honor must have changed it almost instantly into deep regret. Then I believed that you were sorry, and that it was your wish to help me. I thought it was your purpose yesterday to show me that I could be happy, even in the path of right and duty, that had become so hard, though you spoke once as you ought not. But when I, unawares, and from the impulse of a grateful heart, spoke your name last night as that of my truest and best friend, as I thought, you turned toward me the face of a lover, and to-day—but it's all over. Will you go?”
“Are Mr. and Mrs. Yocomb false?” I cried.
“No, they are too simple and true to realize the truth. Mr. Morton, I think we fully understand each other now. Since you will not go, I shall. You had better remain here and grow strong. Please let me pass.”
“I wish you had dealt me my death-blow. It were a merciful one compared with this. No, you don't understand me at all. You have portrayed me as a vile monster. Because you cannot keep your engagement with a man you never truly loved, you inflict the torments of hell on the man you do love, and whom Heaven meant you to love. Great God! you are not married to Gilbert Hearn. Have not engagements often been broken for good and sufficient reasons? Is not the truth that our hearts almost instantly claimed eternal kindred a sufficient cause? I watched and waited that I might know whether you were his or mine. I did not seek to win you from him after I knew—after I remembered. But when I knew the truth, you were mine. Before God I assert my right, and before His altar I would protest against your marriage to any other.”
She sank down on the arbor seat, white and faint, but made a slight repellent gesture.
“Yes, I'll go,” I said, bitterly; “and such a scene as this might well cause a better man than I to go to the devil;” and I strode away.
But before I had taken a dozen steps my heart relented, and I returned. Her face was again buried in her right arm and her left hand hung by her side.
I took it in both of my own as I said, gently and sadly:
“Emily Warren, you may scorn me—you may refuse ever to see my face again; but I have dedicated my life to your happiness, and I shall keep my vow. It may be of no use, but God looketh at the intent of the heart. Heathen though I am, I cannot believe he will let the June day when we first met prove so fatal to us both: the God of whom Mrs. Yocomb told us wants no harsh, useless self-sacrifice. You are not false, and never have been. Mrs. Yocomb is not more true. I respect and honor you, as I do my mother's memory, though my respect now counts so little to you. I never meant to wrong you or pain you; I meant your happiness first and always. If you care to know, my future life shall show whether I am a gentleman or a villain. May God show you how cruelly unjust you are to yourself. I shall attempt no further self-defence. Good-by.”
She trembled; but she only whispered:
“When I forget you—when I fail in loving loyalty to you, may God forget me!” I replied, and I hastened from the garden with as much sorrow and bitterness in my heart as the first man could have felt when the angel drove him from Eden. Alas! I was going out alone into a world that had become thorny indeed.
As I approached the house Mrs. Yocomb happened to come out on the piazza.
I took her hand and drew her toward the garden gate. She saw that I was almost speechless from trouble, and with her native wisdom divined it all.
“I did not take your advice,” I groaned, “accursed fool that I was! But no matter about me. Save Emily from herself. As you believe in God's mercy, watch over her as you watched over me. Show her the wrong of wrecking both of our lives. She's in the arbor there. Go and stay with her till I am gone. You are my only hope. God bless you for all your kindness to me. Please write: I shall be in torment till I hear from you. Good-by.”
I watched her till I saw her enter the arbor, then hastened to the barn, where Reuben was giving the horses their noonday feeding.
“Reuben,” I said, quietly, “I'm compelled to go to New York at once. We can catch the afternoon train, if you are prompt. Not a word, old fellow. I've no time now to explain. I must go, and I'll walk if you won't take me;” and I hastened to the house and packed for departure with reckless haste.
At the foot of the moody stairway I met Adah.
“Are you going away?” she tried to say distantly, with face averted.
“Yes, Miss Adah, and I fear you are glad.”
“No,” she said, brokenly, and turning she gave me her hand. “I can't keep this up any longer, Richard. Since we first met I've been very foolish, very weak, and thee—thee has been a true gentleman toward me.”
“I wish I might be a true brother. God knows I feel like one.”
“Thee—thee saved my life, Richard. I was wicked to forget that for a moment. Will thee forgive me?”
“I'll forgive you only as you will let me become the most devoted brother a girl ever had, for I love and respect you, Adah, very, very much.”
Tears rushed into the warm-hearted girl's eyes. She put her arms around my neck and kissed me. “Let this seal that agreement,” she said, “and I'll be thy sister in heart as well as in name.”
“How kind and good you are, Adah!” I faltered. “You are growing like your mother now. When you come to New York you will see how I keep my word,” and I hastened away.
Mr. Yocomb intercepted me in the path.
“How's this? how's this?” he cried.
“I must go to New York at once,” I said. “Mrs. Yocomb will explain all. I have a message for Mr. Hearn. Please say that I will meet him at any time, and will give any explanations to which he has a right. Good-by; I won't try to thank you for your kindness, which I shall value more and more every coming day.”
For a long time we rode in silence, Reuben looking as grim and lowering as his round, ruddy face permitted.
At last he broke out, “Now, I say, blast Emily Warren's grandfather!”
“No, Reuben, my boy,” I replied, putting my arm around him, “with all his millions, I'm heartily sorry for Mr. Hearn.”
