University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
SAINT AND SINNER.

AT the accustomed hour the Bishop's son, in no
very devout frame of mind, came forth from his
house, and turned mechanically in the direction
of his religious duties.

Presently, as he picked his way among the
dusty fennel and thistles that fringed the road-side, there
came to his ear a low, dolorous cry, mingled with exclamations
so strange and incongruous, that he at once stood still
and looked about him.

The voice was that of a child, but there was something,
more especially in the tone of the exclamations, that seemed
not to belong to childhood. A bitterness, wildness and
barbarity, as well as utterness of desolation.

The cart of a travelling hunter had broken down by the

way, and there lay the poor old mare that had drawn it for
hundreds of miles, kicking and struggling in her torn and
tangled harness, her head flat on the ground, and her hind
legs high in the air.

The cart lay on its side somewhat like a dead fish; one
tire was knocked square off, and the wheel belonging to it
lay in the gutter a dozen yards distant, with half the spokes
wrenched out. The cover was stove in, the tail-board
splintered, the coupling pole split asunder, and the couplingbolt,
nobody knew where.

The ground was strewed with the hunter's accumulated
treasures, for he was coming home from a tramp through
the wild woods and over the prairies of the West, laden
with a variety of skins, horns, robes and antlers, when it
happened to him to drive his mare into a pile of loose stones,
and so upset his cart and smash things generally. It happened
to him because it had previously happened to him to
take a drop too much from the brown jug stowed so carefully
away in the bundle of “coon-skins.” It was a
pitiable heap of ruins altogether, and he, with his shock
head stuck through a hole in the cover, looked the saddest
ruin of all. His red shirt was gaping wide and showing a
bosom as rough and hairy as one of the dried skins in his
cart.

He was swearing like a trooper and almost drowning the
dolorous cry that at first attracted Mr. Lightwait's attention,
and his scowling face, red almost as his shirt, had in it,
as he turned it this way and that and twisted it in shape
and out of shape, that comical expression of imbecility and
wisdom that characterizes a certain stage of drunkenness.

“Look-a-here, stran-n-ger,” he called nodding wisely to
Mr. Lightwait, “look-a-here! I say, kante yer here nothink!
Want ter tell yer sir, t' I'm a genl'm'n, an' uv you
are as I take yer tow be, by yer clothes, yer wonte notice
that anythink is outer sorts with me — kaze a real genl'm'n
never does.

“I'm from ole Kanetuck, sir, born an' raised thar, an' marred
thar, tow, fur that matter — used to nigger waiters, sir,
an' the tiptoppest Bourbon and tobaccer, an' that's a fac',
by — sir.

D' you har, sir, and d' you understan t' I'm a genl'm'n, born
an' raised in ole Kanetuck, sir; now as one genl'm'n 's always

proud an' happy to serve another genl'm'n, yer wonte think
it quaar t'I ask a favor o' yer, specially when I tell yer t'I
propose tow stan' a treat.

“What's yer drink, sir? Bourbon 's mine, by —! an'
thar's nothink better'n ole Bourbon — I tell yer that, on
the honor uv a Kanetuck genl'm'n! D'you har, sir! I
reckon you've got the instinck of a genl'm'n, kaze you've
got a genl'm'n's clothes onter yer, an' yer wouldn't mind
to cut a switch an' whirp my ole mar' fur me, an' top o' that,
guv my little cuss uv a boy thar, a lick or two. Kaze, sir,
I'm a real Kanetuck genl'm'n, as is in orful trubulation —
the most qualified o' genl'm'n yer know, sir, has trubulation
come ontow 'em sometimes, an' for no fault o' tharn
nuther. I kante bar to ask favors, sir, I want brung up ter
it, but that ar mar' mus' be whirpt, and that little cuss that
yer see thar onter the ground must be whirpt, tow, kaze,
sir, 'twas the boy, fust off, an' the mar' next that fotch me
inter this trubulation. I'm a genl'm'n, sir, an' my wife's a
rael lady, I'll swear ter that, an' I'll whirp any genl'm'n
that dar say the contrary. She smokes the best o' tobaccer,
sir, intow her pipe, an' all Kanetuck kante perduce a finer
player onter the fiddle than what she is; she'll geste play
yer a tune, sir, that'll farly make yer har stan' on end, an
that's a fac' by —, sir!

“Got that ar swirtch yit, sir? Mind, I tell yer, I propose
to stan' a treat, when you've giv the licks! I'm a genl'm'n,
sir, but yer see, I'm onfitted to do my own whirpin' as it
orter be done, an as fur the cause that onfits me, uv your a
genl'm'n, as yer close indercates yer tow be, yer wonte
enquire nothink about it.”

“I have no need to inquire my poor friend,” says Mr.
Lightwait, “but why should you ask me to whip, either
your boy, or your horse? It seems to me they are both in
trouble enough already.”

“Go ter h—l with yer!” says the Kentuckian. “Kaze
uv yer had the fus instinck uv a genl'm'n you'd know that
the only satisfaction inter cases like this was the whirp,
laid onter somebody!”

And with this, the shock head sunk down out of sight,
the wise look changed to one of scorn.

By this time the two or three men who had been attracted
by the disaster, were engaged in extricating the horse and

gathering up the plunder. Mr. Lightwait, therefore, gave
his attention to the boy, designated by his parent as little
cuss, and who was, perhaps, the pitifulest object of all.
“Never mind my lad,” he says, placing one hand on his
shoulder, “your father isn't hurt, and we'll have you all
right, directly. So, wipe up your eyes and be a man!”

Meanwhile the boy kept on sobbing and moaning, and
being near him, Mr. Lightwait first became aware that his
sobs and groans were interlarded with such profane exclamations
as never came out of the head of a boy before, let
us hope.

“It ain't dad 't I'm cryin' about,” says he, “it's a h—l-fired
sight wuss'n that — it's my dorg! he's got his leg
broke! O, Bull, yer beautiful ole devil, you, how kin I
guv yer up!”

He had the great clumsy head of the dog in his bosom,
hugging it close and closer as he swayed himself to and fro,
in his agony of grief.

Then he broke out afresh, turning his indignation upon
Mr. Lightwait. “Dad indeed! yer mus' be a purty cuss,
now — thar's a heap o' men kin whirp him, an half try, an
thar's a heap o' better hunters tow, but as fur a bull pup
like this! he kante be matched in all Kanetuck, nor no
whars else! O, damnation! O, damnation, its tow tarnal
bad!”

And this profanity was all through pure ignorance — he
seemed to have no thought of any wickedness in the matter,
but just to swear desperately as the natural way of expressing
his heartfelt trouble.

“O, my dorg! O, dad's whiskey jug! its tow devilish
bad — I swar, its tow devilish bad!”

“Bring your lantern this way, my friend,” says Mr.
Lightwait, motioning to one of the men who had by this
time got the mare upon her feet.

“Bless my soul!” cries the man turning the light full
upon the dog and boy, both squat upon the ground, and
both whining together — “what's to pay here?”

“Heaven help us!” says Mr. Lightwait, involuntarily
standing back.

He was startled thus, both by the human expression in
the face of the dog, and the animal look of the boy — the
latter was a round, clumsy creature, all the way of a size,
like a cut-worm, and as brown as that.

Hair, face, clothes, legs and feet, hands and eyes were
of one dull butternut color, and both skin and clothing
were so rough and shaggy, withal, as to make him seem
more like an image moulded of sand, than a living human
being. His jacket and trowsers were so torn and diminished
by shrinkage and wear, as to cover only half his body,
and what with freckles and sunburn and small-pox, the skin
differed so little from the clothing as to make all seem of a
piece. The hands resembled claws, and the nails were
broken and black, and some of them were grown into the
finger-ends, causing various discolorations and protuberances
that were anything but agreeable to look upon.

His ears were as brown as dead leaves, and looked dry
and withered as if indeed they would rustle or snap off, if
you were to touch them, and to make them the more conspicuous,
they were ornamented with gold rings. The
shoulders had rubbed themselves through the shirt, but
showed only like patches of a sleeker cloth.

A rifle, as brown, and twice as long as himself, lay on
the ground beside him, and crouching between his legs, lay
his brindle dog, looking dreadfully like his own brother. His
eyes had in them almost a human beseeching, the blood was
oozing from his nose, and his crop ears and stump of a tail
twitched constantly, as he whined in unison with his young
master.

“What are you boo-hoo-in' for, you little rascal!” says
the man with the lantern, pulling the lad by one of his leaf-like
ears, and at the same time, giving the dog a kick with
his boot — “this here dorg has got just as sound legs as
you have, if he was a mind to stand onto 'em!”

“Tarnal thunder!” cries the boy, springing to his brown
feet, and rubbing a brown fist in either brown eye, “don't
yer tetch my dorg, uv yer know what's good for yer!”

The dog was on his feet too — his black jaws snapping
and his back up, like a hyena.

“Don't yer bite him, ole feller!” says the boy, wrapping
his hand all up in the loose skin about the dog's throat, and
pulling him back; “don't yer bite — the cuss ain't wurth
it!”

“Heaven help us!” Mr. Lightwait exclaimed again; and
pausing only to glance at the old mare as she stood before
the broken-down cart, her scrawny neck thrust far through

her straw-stuffed collar, her ears set back, and her warty legs
quivering, passed sadly on, musing as he went to the effect
that he would for the time to come be worthier of his high
calling. While we have such heathen at our very doors,
he said, we ought to cry aloud and spare not; and so with
all his heart stirred, and with all his mind solemnized, he
joined his class and set to work with such interest and zeal
as he had scarcely manifested until that evening. How
long his good resolution held, we shall presently see.

Of course, the occasion was one of great interest to all
present, for when the pastor happened to have his heart in
his work, he was always interesting, and somehow the
forms and formation with which he had come in contact that
night, had grated off some of the crust of his indifference
and careless indolence just for the time.

So, as before stated, the occasion was interesting to all,
unless indeed we should except Mrs. Fairfax, who had left
Margaret sick at home, and who had failed to meet Doctor
Allprice there as she had expected to do. She was a good
deal disquieted in her mind, chiefly with reference to the
doctor's absence, who since her over-tender demonstrations
at Mrs. Whiteflock's, had been offish, and then too, she did
not quite like to be seen walking home all alone — not that
she was afraid — but how would it look!

Mr. Lightwait's reading of the Scriptures was something
wonderful that night, they said who heard it; then he sang
with all his soul, and when the concluding prayer was ended
there was hardly a dry eye in the house. Everybody must
shake hands with him and congratulate him on his eloquence
and themselves on having so good a pastor. Those who
dare make so bold shook both his hands; among these was
Mrs. Fairfax.

“And how is our little Margaret?” he said, “I am
pained not to see her here, but trust it is nothing serious
that has kept her from among us.”

Then Mrs. Fairfax said it was something serious — that
Margaret had been ailing sadly ever since their drive to
town that day — the heat, or the night air, or both together,
had been too much for her, she was afraid. She knew that
she was speaking falsely, and that it was Margaret's disappointment
that had been too much for her, and the pastor
knew it too, and his conscience smote him insomuch that he

said he would come very soon and see her. “And suppose
you walk home with me to-night,” says Mrs. Fairfax, seizing
upon the happy suggestion, “it will do the dear child
good to see you, and be a charitable act besides, for I am
quite alone.” So she turned her defeat into a triumph, and
carried him off, he going all the more willingly, perhaps,
from the twinges in his conscience.

Margaret was waiting at the open window, her face not
freshly red like a rose, but deeply like an autumn flower,
and her eyes flashing with strange fiery light.

“O, mother, guess what has happened,” was her first
eager exclamation of delight, as running forward she fell
upon her mother's neck and kissed her in her joy.

“My little darling must not suffer even joy to stir her
thus; we must be careful of her, if she will not be careful
of herself.” And putting one arm about her waist, Mr.
Lightwait led her back to the sofa and seated himself beside
her, retaining her hand, and caressing it softly. She was
carried so far beyond him, just then, in the enthusiasm of
her joy, that is not unlikely she did not even know he had
her hand.

And here it may be said that Mr. Lightwait had not designed
to see her, even when he had consented to accompany
her mother home; he was fully resolved, in fact, to
turn back from the gate, and to call upon her the following
day, but seeing her bright face at the window he felt constrained
to go forward and speak with her — he would not
stop a moment — not a single moment — he had got the
better of the tempter, and he would keep him where he
was, behind him. So he came to the door and passed
inside, and here he was on the sofa beside her, her white
dress fluttering across his knees, and her little hand in his.
He had forgotten all about the tempter, so much the worse
for him.

The good news that made Margaret's cheeks so red was
all about Samuel, of course. “O, don't you think he has
got a rich relative come to take him out of that bad place
he is in, and he is going to be rich too — and I don't know
how rich! But he has had a great fortune left him by somebody
that is dead, and I am so glad to think it should turn
out so after all — ain't you glad, mother? And ain't you
glad, Mr. Lightwait?” And she got her hand out of his

and clapped the two together, laughing and crying at once
in a frenzy of delight.

“Pray, moderate your joy, my dear,” says Mr. Lightwait.
“I should, indeed, be heartily rejoiced if this were proven
true, but there are so many wild rumors concerning the
young man Samuel that one does not dare to credit even
the good ones.”

He spoke sadly, coldly, almost, his eyes fixed upon
Margaret with that dark, dubious, intensified gaze that is
sad to see.

She did not read the look aright; how could she read
anything aright just then? but made haste to say, leaning
quite upon his knee in her innocent gentleness, and looking
up in his face, “O, but you may believe it, every word,
because Mr. Hoops has been here, and he has seen the
man that has come after Samuel, and he told me all about
it, and the man is at the Eagle Hotel now; he came to-night
on the coach, and all the village is talking of it. O, I wish
it was to-morrow!”

“Humph!” says Mr. Lightwait, leaning his head thoughtfully
on his hand; “are you quite sure about this, my
child?”

“O, sure as I can be!” and she ran on, repeating what
she had already said, over and over, with only slight variations
of form.

Mrs. Fairfax expressed at first the most disdainful doubt,
but the reported fortune outweighed every other consideration,
and she presently turned a somersault, — an easy thing
for her to do, — and came up quite on the side of Samuel.
A nice young man he always was, and she had always said
so, and if she had had her way the other day she would
have contrived to see him somehow; she would be the first
to do so now, that she would. As for his little derangement
of mind, it was a misfortune, and that was the worst
that could be said of it; some of the best people she ever
knew had been subject to such fits. She would go immediately
and write him a letter of congratulation; he should
know that he had not been deserted by everybody. Would
Brother Lightwait excuse her? just for a few minutes! She
must write the letter while the mood held.

“O, do, dear mother! it is so good of you to think of it!
and you will write to-morrow, or else go and see him yourself,
won't you, dear Mr. Lightwait?”

“I will go, darling, if you wish it; I will do anything
you wish, however painful to myself.”

“But it can't possibly be painful to you to see another
come to good fortune! Why, it makes me so happy, so
very happy!”

“I would it did not make you quite so happy, my pretty
one.”

He drew her to him as he said this, and kissed her hair
with a sort of reverent pity.

“And why, dear Mr. Lightwait, would you have me less
happy?”

She was leaning on his knee as he had drawn her to him,
and looking up in his face with tenderest entreaty.

He tightened the clasp of his arm upon her waist to a
long, yearning pressure, slowly shook his head and sighed
deeply.

Directly he said, “You called me dear just now; and if
it had not been for Samuel's sake you said it, it would have
been very sweet to hear.”

Margaret drew away from him — “You do not answer
my question?” she said.

“I do not dare, my child; I am already misunderstood,
I perceive.”

He was silent a moment, and then he said, “There is no
creature loves me, and if I die no soul will pity me.”

He said this in a tone of profoundest melancholy, and
Margaret, half ashamed, gave him back her hand.

“I ventured,” he said presently, “to open my heart to
my sister Kate this very day, and she thrust it back upon
itself just as you do now; when I would be true I am
hindered.

“Heaven forbid that I should hinder you,” Margaret
said, her white fingers nervously, rather than tenderly,
playing in the palm of his hand.

“And yet you, my darling, more than any one in the
world, seal my lips.” He had lifted her hand as he commenced
speaking and pressed it against his mouth, so that
every word he uttered was a kiss upon it.

“In what way? I do not in the least understand you!”

“And I fear you never will — never, my child, never.”

“I certainly try with all my poor little skill, but it sometimes
seems to me as if you took pleasure in making a
mystery of yourself.”

“I am unfortunately situated, and not wilfully mysterious,
my dear, and if you only believed in me so that I could
speak out plainly once for all, how rejoiced I should be!”

Then Margaret said she did believe in him, and entreated
him to speak out once for all, but she did not believe in him,
and was frightened at her own entreaty.

“Well, then, it is about Samuel I would speak.”

“Very well, sir, go on.”

Her tone and manner changed in a moment, and she sat
upright, cold and white as a marble column.

Mr. Lightwait was quick to perceive this — “We will
talk no more about him — not to-night,” he said.

“And why not, pray?”

“Because, darling, I am not prepared to say, nor you to
hear, what I must say if I spoke out fully and fairly all my
fears; let me only say I have hopes as well as fears, but for
the present prefer to suspend judgment, and keep silence.
Are you satisfied at that?”

“No, not in the least — if you have anything to say
against Samuel, say it out; if you have not, say that, and
in either case I shall be satisfied.”

“I begin to suspect that some of my fears, at any rate,
are true, and more than this I must not, and dare not say —
not, certainly, till you are in another frame of mind.”
Then he said they must pray and wait, and hope all they
could.

Margaret was lost, bewildered, half angry, and her heart
a little touched withal. She knew not how she felt, nor
how she ought to feel. It seemed to her much as if her
pastor held her death-warrant in his hand, and out of kindness
to her could not read it; but at the same time there
was underlying the tears and the gratitude, a distrust, and
a troubling sense of displeasure. He read her heart: “I
see I have said too much already,” he whispered, and then
for a time nothing was said by either of them, Margaret
pulling the flower she wore in her belt all to pieces in her
pretty agitation.

He took the hand and the poor broken flower together.
“Silent so long, my darling?” he said, “do I deserve so
terrible a reproof? Punish me some other way; pronounce
some penance — there is nothing I will not do — go into

retreat, fast, flagelate myself, abstain from, or perform anything
you shall impose; only speak!”

“I have nothing to say,” replied Margaret, her brow all
tied to a frown.

He covered his eyes with her hand. “That frown will
distract me,” he said, “and then you will have two mad
lovers!” There was no lightness of tone to take from the
meaning of the words, but all was intensely serious.

“Two mad lovers, indeed!” If you refer to Samuel,
allow me to say I have not even one; he is no more mad
than you are, sir; not so much!”

“It is the most charitable intepretation that can be put
upon his conduct, certainly, but, be that as it may, your
zeal in his behalf does your pure nature honor, and makes
me love you all the more.”

“You have mistaken your word,” interposes Margaret,
looking straight in his face.

“Pardon me, but you did not allow me to finish my sentence.
I was just going on to say, if a pastor might be
permitted to use such a word toward his child! Nay, do
not deny me your hand, my little one; I am not, and could
not be, presumptuous in any circumstances, but at the
same time I desire most fervently to promote your highest
temporal and eternal welfare. Ah, but I will keep your
hand! it is my right. Why, my pretty one, I have twice
your years on my shoulders, and they, surely, to say nothing
of my sacred calling, should insure me against your
distrust, even if they failed to inspire you with the confidence
which I have taken for granted, and upon which I
have unwarrantably drawn, it seems.”

Still Margaret was silent, and he went on: “I am not
blaming you, my dear; I could not blame you for anything;
it is my misfortune, and not your fault, that I fail to make
myself understood; but, even against your will, I shall persist
in my efforts to ward off threatening evils, of whatever
sort, to shield and guard you in all ways, trusting to time
and the purity of my motives to place me before you in my
own proper light.”

The fingers of the hand he held twitched a little, but the
hand was not withdrawn, and, holding it caressingly against
his cheek, he went on: “Yes, my darling child, I shall still
strive with all my might to win your confidence, your love,

and it is quite right that you should understand clearly
upon what authority I seek these high privileges; let me
say, then, once for all, that by my instalment here I am for
the time being constituted your shepherd; an unworthy
one, little Puritan, I own, but striving all the while to be
worthier, and you are my innocent lamb, — pardon me if I
say wayward lamb, — liable at any moment to stray from
the true pasture. If, therefore, seeing the temptation you
do not see, I should at any time gather you up in my bosom
and bear you to safer and greener fields, I trust you will
not think you have a right to rebel, and so thwart your own
best interests.”

Margaret hung her head in bashful and baffled confusion,
and her pastor continued: “If I seem obtrusive in my
guardianship, shall not the circumstances, the motive, plead
my excuse? tell me, my child, my darling.”

She only hung her head a little lower, and he continued:
“My duty may sometimes oblige me to cross your will, in
which case I know I shall seem to be a hard master, rather
than a tender, generous friend, but if such case should arise,
as is liable always, in relations like ours, let me now bespeak
your forbearance, your pity; for, believe me, whatever
cross may be imposed upon you, your part will not yet be
so painful as mine; remember that I have set myself the
task of a Christian minister, and that its duties will permit
of no temporizing and no evasion.” And all the while he
was saying this he bent tenderly over her, caressing her
hair, her neck, her cheek, and now and then passing her
hand along his face, or against his mouth, and by this means
forcing her as it were to caress him. His words had indeed
been the words of a pastor, but his manner had been the
manner of a lover.

Margaret was more and more bewildered and surprised
by these strange contradictions. She was not accustomed
to analyze motives or examine conduct very closely. She
was not accustomed to think for herself at all, in fact, but
to look to her superiors in years and in wisdom for guidance
and instruction in all things; and she felt constrained now
from the habit of her life, and against her instinct, to take
him at his word, and accept his spiritual fathership without
further question or demur. It was all owing to her stupidity
and ignorance that she failed to understand him, and

to be comforted by his assurances of guardianship and protection.

His worldly wisdom and worldly ways were far above
her simple wisdom and rustic ways. She thought, and she
thought clearly, nothing more. She felt, however, that she
was not comforted.

She managed to thank him some how. She hardly knew
how, for his great condescension and kindness to her, and
to express her unworthiness of such affectionate interest,
and then she folded her hands away from him, in her lap,
and waited in silence.

He understood very well that she waited, understood that
he was dismissed, and that he owed it to her and to himself
to go at once, and yet, knowing and feeling this, he did
not go.

On the contrary, he drew her quite within his arms, and
kissed her forehead, her cheek, her mouth, exclaiming as he
did so, “I am so happy that my little pet is not displeased
with the warmth of my interest.” She drew herself up,
looking at him with wonder and surprise.

“What, not understand me yet?” All his enthusiasm,
all his spirit dropped into what seemed a surrender of hope,
of everything.

“No!” said Margaret, braving her trembling heart, and
fainting courage, “I certainly do not understand you, and
I would rather you would not come to see me any more!”
And with this, she hid her face in her hands, not daring to
look at him.

He was not offended, nor disconcerted, nor in the slightest
degree moved, so far as appeared. “Bless you, my child,
bless you,” he said, laying his hand on her head so lightly
that he scarcely touched her. Then he said, “You are on
the very verge of a precipice, my darling, trembling, tottering,
going over!” Here he caught her in his arms again,
“and how can I help gathering you to my bosom? O,
Margaret, dear, dear Margaret, my very soul yearns over
you, and yet I dare not speak.”

Margaret felt too plainly that all this was somehow
pointed at Samuel, and with more zeal than discretion she
began talking of him again in a rambling, disjointed sort of
fashion, ending with a declaration of belief in his virtues,
and the general elevation and nobleness of his character, at

which her listener simply lifted his eyebrows. Thus irritated
she went on to say that he was a martyr withal, but
that she thanked Heaven that the time of his deliverance
was at hand, and of the utter confusion of his enemies.

To this Mr. Lightwait replied quietly that a man might be
a martyr in a bad cause, but that he hoped the young man
in question might be proven as good as she believed him,
but, begging her pardon, he had not quite her confidence.

Then he said, patting her cheek playfully, “but we will
talk no more of this, my dear — not to-night.”

“Let it be to-night, or never,” cried Margaret, putting
down her rising fears with all the strength of her will.

He still hesitated, and endeavored with coaxing and
caressing to pacify her, or make it seem as if he thus
endeavored, while in reality he fretted and worried her into
angry and open defiance.

“You don't know anything,” she said, “and dare not
say anything to his prejudice.”

There was a sort of fierceness in her defence of Samuel,
which was the result, in part at least, of her own faithlessness
to him — her anger had burned hot against him at
one time, and time and time again she had seen visions and
dreamed dreams that were not in accordance with the single
truthfulness she exacted of him. For the hour she half
despised herself and half despised him for whose sake she
had been thus unfaithful, and yet, through all, his fascination
lost none of its power — nay, it had gained power just
in the proportion he had professed to resign hope.

He spoke now in the dangerous vein — “If I keep my
good resolution and maintain the silence I imposed upon
myself in the beginning of our conversation to-night,” he
said, “you must bear with me, my dear child. I know I
have not much of your regard to lose, but reduce that little
to the least, and I would not lose it for the world, as I fear
I should, if I failed to hold my peace, even in the face of
your challenge. You cannot know, my darling, how terrible
your frown is to me — all the more terrible because I
am not young enough nor worthy enough to hope for your
favor. The youth of the heart outlives the youth of the
form and face — more's the pity; I know I have nothing to
love but the angels, nothing to hope this side of heaven,
but heart and soul and all that is within me yearn on the

same; though I have lost the power of pleasing, I have all
the capacity of being pleased I ever had, and all the
capacity of suffering too. Think as kindly as you can of
me, then; I shall take some comfort even in your pity.”

His voice grew tremulous as he finished speaking, and he
hid his eyes away from her, not uncovering them even when
she played the time to a tender little tune with her finger
on his knee. At last he said, smiling faintly, “What has
your young life to do with my sad years and solemn reflections?
God forbid that I should darken a moment of your
sunshine with my shadows. I was selfish to speak of them;
forgive me, my child; I must and will disassociate you
from my vain thoughts and go my way alone.”

Now he is in a tenderer mood, thought Margaret, he will
take back all that he has so darkly implied against Samuel,
and stimulated by that hope, she once more made mention
of him. “I am sorry you will not talk of him,” she said.
“To be sure, I don't care what is said against him; that
is, it could not change my opinion of him; it might pain
me, perhaps, but I am not afraid to hear the worst — not I!”

She said this just because of her fear, for how could her
confidence in him be perfect when he had spoken to her the
words he had, and when she had seen him lift his hand
against the life of a fellow creature! She was in that most
tormenting experience that ever comes to woman — she
loved without confidence. Nor was she much better off in
her relation with her pastor; she trusted him without confidence.

“And so you are sorry I will not talk of Samuel?” he
said, when at last her rambling defence was ended, and then
he went on, more in soliloquy than as if speaking to her,
“I dare say you are right, and that what is or might be
said would only pain you, without at all altering the estimation
in which you hold this young man; therefore, on all
accounts it were better to leave matters to time and chance
— himself must either be justified past all doubt before
long, and his accusers brought to confusion, or the contrary;
he trusted the former. And then he said no man
was ever more loth to credit evil reports of a neighbor than
he, still it was well to bear in mind that Samuel was a comparative
stranger among them, that very little was really
known of him, and that that little was certainly not all to

his credit, so that it would be the part of wisdom not to
confide too much. If the attempt upon a life had been the
effect of a temporary fit of insanity, he would be the first
to receive back the poor fellow with open arms, although
the life attempted had been his own.

Here Margaret interrupted him — “he never did attempt
your life,” she said, “how could he have done so when you
yourself acknowledged that you did not cross the meadow,
at all? Your story does not hang together, at one time you
make as though Samuel saw nothing, and must have been
insane, and then again you talk as if he had almost murdered
you.”

“What I believe is this,” says Mr. Lightwait; “he was
insane, and his insanity conjured up something that he took
to be me, therefore, his intent being murder, he is as guilty
as though he had committed murder.”

Margaret was silent. He then said, he regretted to say,
however, that there were those — persons, too, whose judgment
was not to be gainsayed, who neither believed that he
either was now or ever had been insane — that was, in the
true sense. Then he said, “But you are making me do
violence to my better judgment all the time; let us say no
more.”

He had said just enough to arouse the uneasy anxiety of
Margaret, and doubtless desired her to do just what she
did — insist upon the bringing out of whatever he surmised,
or had heard.

No, no, he must not say another word, for in spite of all,
he had still strong hopes of Samuel. “We may yet see
him a useful member of the community and of the church!”
he said. “Heaven grant it!”

Directly he said he was sorry that Sister Whiteflock, the
very stoutest of Samuel's champions, had been obliged to
admit an unfortunate liability on his part.

“O, Mr. Lightwait!” cried Margaret, catching his hand,
as one in desperation catches at a straw. “What is it you
would say?” There she stopped, her imploring eyes saying
plainly, “do not speak it — I cannot hear it, after all.”

“What is it that is said? Well, darling, since you will
hear, and since I know you are not afraid to hear, this is
what is said, that the imputed insanity was nothing more
nor less than a fit of delirium tremens.”

The fingers that had clutched his hands relaxed, the eager
eyes lost their intense expression, and the whole attitude
of the girl changed, as though half the life had gone out
of her.

He must have seen this, and yet he went pitilessly on.
“The sheep-shearers protest that on shearing day Samuel
emptied more bottles than he sheared sheep.”

At this Margaret burst out with: “The sheep-shearers,
to be sure! and are you driven to a low set of fellows like
that?”

He held up his white hand — “My impetuous darling,”
he said, “wait a little.”

“No, I will not wait!” cried Margaret, “I hate all lies
and liars.”

“And does your own memory suggest no misgiving as
to this paragon of yours?”

“No!” said Margaret, braving it through, nor once
staggering.

“My child! my child!”

He said no more, but it was enough; the blood in her
cheek whirled up to her brain and seemed to set it on fire,
and she turned upon him all the more fiercely that she felt
her strength to be nothing but weakness.

“Yes, I hate lies, and I hate insinuations,” she said;
“if one man has anything to say against another, let him
say it manfully out, or if he is too much of a coward for
that, let him keep his tongue from hints, that are, after all,
the basest calumnies.”

“There are those who are bold enough, my little impetuosity.”

“Name them, if you can!”

“The sheep-shearers, if you will suffer me to name them
again.”

“Since you are driven so low, I suppose I must suffer it,
but the accusations of such fellows will not weigh much
with me, I forewarn you! Go on though.”

“A low set of fellows, as you say, my dear, but was not
this Samuel one of them?”

“No, — he happened to be among them, — he was not
one of them.”

“And did he happen to lift his hand against the life of his
pastor too?”

“If he did lift his hand it was bravely done and not to
strike in the back.”

This was a home thrust, but Mr. Lightwait kept his tone
down to the same low level, as he went on, “You are fortunate
in heing able to regard their accusations so lightly,
for they do say that when he had emptied more bottles than
he had sheared sheep, he turned his back upon his sweetheart;
but what he said of her thereafter is of such a
nature that even your commands shall not force it out of
me, though I would gladly obey you in all things.”

Margaret could not stand out against this; her own
bitter remembrance went against her, with the rest, and
throwing herself down upon the arm of the sofa, she hid
her face from him, and cried as if her heart were fit to break.

Having bruised the heart, it was time for the binding to
begin; besides, he had not perhaps intended to wound so
deeply, and was, in some sort, repentant.

“Now Heaven forgive me, and you, too, my precious
lamb,” he cried. “I did not intend to have this cruel thing
wrenched out of me by any process. I was in the wrong,
my poor, pretty one, altogether in the wrong; say you
forgive me, for I cannot forgive myself. O, miserable man
that I am!”

It happened to this man, sometimes, that his own impassioned
utterances produced strange effects upon himself,
and this proved a case in point; and as he caressed the low
head with a hand that in its motions was almost reverential,
the tears actually fell from his eyes till they lay glistening
thick upon her hair like the dew upon some dark flower.

“You will never trust me more — never believe in me
more,” he said, “and I am undone; I looked to you for
counsel, and helpful wisdom; for light and strength. Surely
it is not in the power of man to direct his steps, else he
would not strike into the paths he does and dash his hopes
to ruin. O, Margaret, dear Margaret! Look at me and
show me that at least you do not hate me, for I am become
hateful to myself. It is I that should lie prostrate, at your
very feet, and with my mouth in the dust. I have insulted
you in your sorrow, and made you justly my enemy. O,
Margaret, that is what cuts me to the heart. I could bear
to be degraded in the eyes of the world — even in my own
eyes; but not in yours, Margaret!”

His voice was all broken to a tremulous whisper, and
lifting her tenderly up, and looking so gently in her face
with his tear-dimmed eyes, he went on, “Ah, you see now
how weak I am, and what pitiful need I have of you. Nay,
my darling, do not turn away, but for mercy's sake, if not
for mine, smile once more and bid me live, for I am as one
dead. Feel my hands; they are like ice. It is your coldness
that freezes the blood in my veins, dear Margaret; but
I do not blame you; no, no. I only blame myself.”

He was so humble, so penitent, so pained and so ready to
condemn himself, how should Margaret find it in her heart
to condemn him; she was an artless, confiding child, and
he a man of strong will and adroit management, and when
he sought to dry her tears, she, like the rest of her sex,
forgot that he had caused them.

He thanked her for the sweet confidence and confession
she had given him through her unrestrained emotion; nothing
in the world should have wrung from him the harsh
words he had uttered, he said, if he had but guessed the
extent and liveliness of her interest in Samuel; he saw it
all now, and had really been dull to stupidity not to see it
sooner. Why had not his sweet little pet come to her
stupid old pastor and told him all about it? he had a great
mind to box her ears for her obstinacy. And here he made
a little pretence of boxing her ears that ended in a very
lover-like caress. It was all in consequence of her lack of
faith in him that he had come to deal so cruelly with the
gentlest, tenderest, truest and most loving little heart in all
the world. Would and could his darling child truly forgive
him down to the very bottom of her innocent heart? No,
he would not wrong her generous nature by asking the
question. She would contradict all her sweet life to do
otherwise.

For her sake he would suspend judgment; he had been
quite too hasty, that he owned; indeed it was not unlikely
that the sheep-shearers had taken a little too much themselves
to permit of their rendering an honest verdict; he
was ashamed that he had not allowed their gossip to go at
its worth; but poor human nature was fallible, and his
with the rest.

It was not rating Samuel out of all mercy that would
further his own interest just then; that he understood well

enough from the first; and but for the news of his good
fortune which pointed to his becoming a more formidable
rival than ever, and but for the unfavorable comparison
Margaret had drawn between them with reference to the
open shot and the hitting in the back, he would certainly
not have been betrayed into so deep a denunciation, and it
is quite possible he would have spoken only in Samuel's
praise. But what was done was done, and he must get over
the mistake somehow, that was all.

It may have happened to you sometime, to see a man feeling
his way along the ice before boldly venturing his entire
weight; now backing, now zigzagging, and now cautiously
advancing so as in the main to gain ground — thus this
bishop's son felt his way; now inciting hope, now fear,
now encouraging and now discouraging, with all the time a
watchful eye upon his own safety, and just steadying Margaret
up with praise enough to enable her to bear some new
detraction.

At one time he said, “He is wonderfully handsome, this
Samuel of ours; do you know I quite envy his manly
breadth of chest, and those shapely legs upon which he
stands so sturdily, to say nothing of the resolute cheerfulness
he carries about with him! Why it is just like breathing
the freshness of some primeval forest, to be near him.
And then the shining glory of his beard! Woe's me, but I
am continually shamed and fain to hide my womanish face
in his presence.”

Margaret was delighted and smiled; too bright a smile,
it may be, to please him, for he made haste to say it was
very sad to think of that symbol of perfect manhood all
dim with dust and entangled with straws! he wished he
had not the horrible picture in his mind — wished that his
hopes did not so much enkindle his fears.

It was Margaret's turn to be displeased now. It
seemed strange, she said, that he should return again and
again to a picture that was so very horrible; and then she
gathered her brows into a frown and looked out into the
moonlight.

He apparently did not see the displeasure, but said, as
he carefully wrapped the lace of the curtain about her
shoulders to protect her from the evening air, that he would
endeavor to conjure up a fairer picture, and so displace the

actual one. “We will imagine these pearly fingers a
comb,” he said, “to clear away the dust and disentangle
the straws, and bring back the degenerate symbol to its
original brightness.”

And then he said the fairest maid of all the parish might,
without doing any violence to her modesty, thus transform
her pretty fingers, if only the favorable turn he hoped for
came about.

And then he said there were some persons in the world so
very good that we could not help wishing all the time that
they were just a little better. Of his own personal knowledge
he could say nothing against Samuel he was so glad
that he knew nothing to say — in fact he had been and was
still his debtor for some obliging favors, and he had known
others to be so; but, after all, generosity was not incompatible
with great weaknesses of character, and, as Margaret
knew, Samuel had had neither educational nor social aids to
stay him up, and was therefore liable to be more importunately
beset by the emissaries of Satan than the man who
wore stronger armor.

Margaret only sighed, and he repeated that he knew
nothing of his own personal observation or experience; he
simply suggested possibilities, and he must beseech his
little darling, for the sake of her own peace, not to suffer
possibilities or even probabilities to weigh too heavily upon
her. “We will hope for the best,” he said; “ay, more,
we will do for the best, and one of these days we may have
our lost friend back among us, repentant, rebaptized in the
faith, a shining pillar in the church, and the husband of
one wife.”

Then, patting Margaret's cheek, he went on with a forced
playfulness: “Who knows but that I myself shall have the
pleasure of performing the rite?” adding quickly with a
half sigh,” “the melancholy pleasure.”

He remained looking at her so intently, so sadly, that she
felt the necessity of saying something; and so, in her innocence,
and for the want of anything better to say, asked
him if he disliked to perform the marriage ceremony.

“I should dislike to perform yours,” he said, putting one
arm across her neck under pretence of adjusting the lace
which he had converted into a shawl: “you must never
require it of me — promise me you never will, dear, dear

Margaret! I could not get through it — not without breaking
down in utter confusion and disgrace.”

“Certainly not against your will,” she replied, rather
coldly, the uneasy feeling that had been possessing her all
along, more distinctly defining itself; and then she said she
was sure she never expected to be married at all!

“Of course, Margaret, you will be married, sometime,
and I shall see it, and shall try with what strength I may,
to rejoice in it. It will be hard, but all my life has been
hard. Pray for me, Margaret; pray that this wild, restless,
yearning heart of mine may be stilled, stilled, stilled in
some way! Forgive me, Margaret, forgive me, as you
forgive the desire of the moth for the star — as you
would forgive any vain, unreasoning, frantic aspiration.”
He had wrought himself up into a fine frenzy, and as he
bent in a supplicating attitude before her, his eyes liquid
with that dew that is tenderer than tears; his hair, bathed
in the moonlight, falling in wavy slips about his forehead
and face; his hands clasped on her knees, and his sad,
sweet smile just hovering on the edge of things unspoken,
he made a glorious picture, to the mingled beauty, pathos
and power of which Margaret was by no means insensible.
Still she comprehended but imperfectly the full meaning of
the man, nor is it any wonder, inasmuch as it is not likely
that he fully and thoroughly comprehended himself. Having
launched himself upon a tide of feeling it sometimes bore
him beyond his own intent.

So there they were side by side, and face to face, alone,
the yellow moonlight falling over them, and the soft silence
of the hour, close upon midnight, consenting to whatever
their hearts might conceive. The wind came to help along,
and lifted the lace from the shoulder of the girl, and left
both enveloped in it as in the folds of a great bridal veil.
Then fell those silences upon the conversation which are so
dangerously expressive, with interludes of sweet trifles that
owe so much to sighs and glances, and that cannot in the
faintest degree be represented in words. Was the air too
chill? Should the moonlight be shaded a little? Was the
scent of the flowers too powerful? Would, in short, that
he could make for her another and a diviner world!

He said at last, coming from realms poetic to things
real and immediate, that, although he had not believed her

when she said she never expected to be married, he had
taken one thing for granted, and had been made very happy
thereby; he had taken for granted that she was not promised
to Samuel Dale!

Margaret was silent; in the first place she knew not how
to understand him, nor what she ought to say, and in the
second place she was half afraid of him, he was so much
older, so much wiser than she; the things that were pertinent
seemed to her impertinent; she was afraid, too, of
outraging propriety, so she remained silent.

With Samuel Dale she had always experienced a sense
of security and protection, of quiet comfort and satisfaction
with herself, but how different was it with this bishop's son.
Dazzled, disquieted, satisfied neither with herself nor with
him. Why then did she surrender herself to his influence?
it may be asked. Why does the moth fly into the flame of
the candle? I only know that it does.

“You do not answer, my sweet Margaret. Was I wrong?
And are you then promised to Samuel, after all?”

“And if I were,” she said, abruptly, disengaging herself
from the encircling arm, “what would it be to you?”

She had spoken without giving herself time to think, and
then, abashed at herself, hid her face in her hands, the hot
tears forcing their way through her fingers. Her heart was
choking her, and with childish impetuosity she contradicted
herself in her very thoughts — wished she could take back
what she had said — wished she had said twice as much!
wished he would go away — wished she had never seen him
— wished she could rise up and crush him with the force of
her moral superiority — and in the end sobbed on, and almost
wished she had never been born.

Do not blame her too harshly, my wiser reader, nor mingle
too much contempt with your pity. She was a child almost,
remember, ignorant in all that you know, perhaps, not yet
acquainted with her own womanhood, disconcerted by her
own emotions, at the mercy of circumstances, as it were,
being nearly as helpless in the present instance as the bird
in the hand of the fowler. She did not understand herself,
how then can you hope to understand her?

There are some persons in the world who cannot bear to
see the ripened rose worn by another, even when, if the
same flower were blooming in unadmired obscurity, they

would never think of reaching forth their hand to gather it.
And Margaret might perhaps have walked in and out of
church before the eyes of this man to the end of her life,
if she had walked only by the side of her mother, but to see
her eyes glancing away from him to rest on Samuel Dale,
filled him with jealous and uneasy thoughts. That rough
hand should never gather the fair rose at all events. He
would fain keep those wandering eyes fixed upon himself;
he would give direction to the soft fancies, his own being
free; he would bestow himself away in her heart, leading
her by the hand, the while. Some sort of ownership he
must have, but all his desires would probably have been
compassed by this sort of one-sided relation.

When he told Margaret, therefore, that it was a happiness
to him to know that she was not promised to Samuel Dale,
he did not misrepresent himself — it was a happiness, but
that he wished her to be promised to himself did not of
necessity follow.

“What would it be to me, my dear child?” he said, innocently
repeating her question, “Why, am I not your
shepherd, to be sure, and you the most precious of the
lambs of my flock? How, then, if there be a wolf in the
fold? shall it be as nothing to me?”

He took her cheeks between his palms and gazed tenderly
upon her, adding seriously, “No, no, I am not so heartless
a shepherd as that, I hope, but my simple duty would prompt
me to keep you in green and pleasant pastures, to say nothing
of higher and more Christian motives.”

He then said that he must express himself very inadequately,
or he could not possibly be so often and so sadly
misunderstood. A great deal more he said in the same
strain, disparaging himself, but somehow causing Margaret
to feel that she herself was all to blame.

“Our relation ought to be a very true and tender one,”
he said, stroking her hair with grave and clerical kindness,
“open, confidential, trustful, on your part, else I am only
your shepherd in name, and utterly disabled from guiding
you to any purpose. I felt, my child, that our relation was
clearly defined and understood, at last, and was, to myself,
justified in asking and expecting your confidence, and
surely I had no thought of overstepping the bounds of my
professional privilege.”

Margaret was overpowered with shame and confusion;
she felt instructed, corrected, humbled and cut to the heart,
all at once, and made no effort either to control or conceal
her emotions. Perhaps he understood her as nearly as she
understood herself, more nearly, it may be, but it suited
him just then to misinterpret her. He thanked her for the
confession and the confidence given him by this sufferance
of her heart to speak for itself, and proceeded to offer her
sympathy and consolation from the false basis upon which
he had placed her, repeating in substance much of what he
had already said in the favor of Samuel.

“Cheer up, my poor child, cheer up, I will go and visit
him again,” he said, “and perhaps bring him home to you,
if he is well enough; at any rate, you may rely upon my
doing all in my power for him.”

Then he talked of the prospective fortune.

“This man that has come among us inquiring for him is
a relative, you think.” And then: “Well, perhaps with
his influence and the money, — if there really be money, —
we shall put our young man through college, yet. He
would make a splendid fellow, with training.” There was
something in him beyond the common, that he had always
said, but even though he had failed to see it heretofore, he
must perforce see henceforth through Margaret's eyes.

He talked a good deal of her duty to her mother, who,
he was sorry had felt obliged to deny herself to him that
evening, but that she was acting most wisely he did not
doubt; her early congratulation would be a staff of strength
in the hands of Samuel. Would Margaret convey to her,
with his much love, the hope that the loss that he had sustained
that evening would shortly be made up to him!

He then recommended certain religious books to Margaret,
and intimated the hope that she would not forget in the
brief frivolities of time, the solemn truths of eternity, concluding,
with some allusion to Samuel and his hope concerning
him. She, his child, his lamb, must be patient, trustful
and obedient, for if she were otherwise he, being her shepherd,
he added, playfully, should take leave to toss her over
his shoulder and carry her whithersoever he would.

And with this charming finale he kissed her lightly on the
forehead and went away.

As she lay on her pillow that night, watching the golden

piece of moonlight that at first fell across her hands and
bosom and then so silently slipped down and down to her
feet, and from the counterpane to the floor, and from the
floor to the wall, farther and farther, till it vanished out of
sight, she thought and thought, going over all the details
of the evening, again and again; but the interview was as
little satisfactory in the review as in the experience. She
could make nothing out of it, nor is it any wonder. It
might have puzzled a wiser head than hers.

In vain she sought to fix as a central and settled fact
what she most desired to believe. He had defined himself
as her shepherd and spiritual guide, and had promised to be
a true friend to her and to Samuel. Why should she not
take him at his word? She could not answer this question.
She said to herself that she would, and must, and did, and
had; that she could not ask more, and would not ask more
than he had promised to be and was; and so she wore the
hours away, after the moonlight had slid out of her hands
and out of her sight, knowing in her heart that, after all,
and in spite of all, she did not and could not take him at
his word. To add to her uncomfort she was not quite at
one with herself. There had been times in her intercourse
with this man when she had not been faithful to Samuel, out
and out. True, she had rested herself on some sort of justification,
and an impeachment of her truthfulness could not
have been sustained, but all the while she accused herself,
and was far from feeling justified in her poor justifications.

All that she had said that night in Samuel's behalf did
not make amends to her conscience for all she had failed to
say heretofore. He had never openly declared his love till
their last wretched interview, be sure, and no faith had ever
been pledged between them, still they were lovers, and a
thousand declarations and pledges could not have fixed the
fact more undeniably. Hearts, I imagine, have generally
been exchanged before the possibility is hinted. He never
told me he loved me, and never asked me to love him, and
whatever I have thought or felt, said or done, I have been
free to say and do. This was what she said in her poor justifications,
but while she thus argued, she did not feel right
with herself, nor guiltless toward him. His own generous
confidence and unsuspecting honesty, together with the
solemn sacredness with which she knew he believed in her,

seemed to impose upon her a stronger obligation than any
promise she could have given. Besides, she knew the crime
of which he stood accused had been attempted for her sake,
and what will not woman forgive so long as she can say,
“His treachery is truth to me.”

Margaret's mother, meanwhile, was dreaming dreams,
both awake and in sleep. What with “The Complete
Letter-writer,” frequent recourse to the dictionary, and by
dint of using her mouth as well as her pen, she had indited
an epistle to Samuel Dale that gave her pure satisfaction.
This result was not achieved at the first effort; two unsuccessful
ones had preceded it. In the first she made haste
to congratulate him upon his happy inheritance, and to say
that she had no doubts of his speedy and honorable release,
that for her part she had never ceased to strive for it, nor to
defend him from the first. Doubtless he would have friends
enough now, but she trusted he in his great good sense
would discriminate between old and tried friends and the
shallow worldlings that were always dazzled by the glitter
of gold. She told him she had written letter upon letter to
him since the day he had been so wickedly forced from
among them, but she feared, inasmuch as she had received
no line in reply, that none of those ventures had ever come
to his hand. She knew, indeed, they could not have done
so, else his great, generous, truthful heart must have been
touched by the unreserved pouring out of her own.

Not satisfied with writing, and not repelled by his silence,
she had made constant efforts to communicate with him
personally, and had even succeeded at one time in obtaining
access to the asylum in which he was — odious prison, she
characterized it. There she put in some descriptive touches
that showed her, past cavil, to have been in the house. She
acknowledged having treated him with seeming coldness,
“But O, Samuel,” she said, “my poor heart was beating
with tenderness for you all the time.”

Then she told him that she loved him to distraction from
the first moment she had ever beheld him, and she proceeded
to remind him of certain early evidences of the
supposed fact. Did he not remember the flower she had
kept so long, and how she had always worn the ribbon he
had once admired?

Her apparent coldness had been all assumed in retaliation

for what seemed indifference on his part. “But O Samuel,”
she said, “I trust that seeming was not reality! The
thought is a dagger to my bosom! I hoped that time, that
pride, or at any rate that the devotion of other lovers, when
I came to have them, as I have, would wean me from my
foolish fondness for you; but all, all has been in vain, and
this hour and every hour your image is the sweet torment
of my life!”

This closing passage she quoted from one of Doctor Allprice's
letters to herself, and thought it very effective.

It may be stated here that since the engagement the
doctor's manner had undergone a remarkable change for the
cooler, a change so little agreeable to the widow that she
was resolved to cast about a little and see if she could not
better her prospects. Marriage was in her estimation but a
chance in a “grab-bag,” and she determined to get her
hand on something solid if possible.

On reading over this effusion it occurred to her that she
could better it materially by affecting utter ignorance of his
great inheritance — her letter would seem to fall into place
more naturally as making one of the pretended series.

She also added some tenderer touches, quoting largely
from the love letters of Doctor Allprice, and concluding
with some lines from Mrs. Hemans in which she characterized
him as her Guido of the fiery mien, and the dark eye
of the Italian shore!

This, for the moment, she regarded as a complete triumph;
but directly an emendation occurred to her — she would
state accidentally that Margaret was the same as engaged
to the bishop's son, and that, being as it were, thrown
altogether upon herself by this event, she could not longer
restrain her heart, but must give it expression somehow,
and where should she go if not to her own true love,
Samuel! With the completion of the third epistle, exhausted
nature gave out, and she went straight to bed, and
straight to sleep, as calmly, as self-satisfied, as though she
had performed the highest moral duty. She had not only
this one consummately happy achievement to reflect upon,
her daughter and the bishop's son had been once more
thrown together, and who knew what might come of it!

And so she fell asleep, neither seeing nor caring whether
the moonlight slipped away from her hands, away from the

bed and the room, or whether it stayed and illuminated all
with its glory, and her little ambitions went with her, and
wrought themselves into her dreams.

And what of Katherine Lightwait? and did the moonshine
gild her walls that night; or were they painted with
a yet more dazzling splendor, or were they dark and gloomy
and chill? Let us see!

John Hamlyn was no sooner out of the house than, betaking
herself to her chamber, she locked the door, and falling
on her knees, prayed for guidance and direction, but the
words of her petition varied little from the accustomed formula,
and the variations were all manufactured by her brain,
her heart had nothing whatever to do with it; truth is, it
was in such a state of strange and soft confusion as to be
only in part conscious of the mechanical action of her mind.

She had told her brother that she knew herself, and when
she arose from her knees, opening the blind facing the gate
and the sunset lights, no doubt had yet come to her. As
was her custom, she took up the Bible, and turned leaf after
leaf with external serenity, not doubting even yet, though
she received no meaning from the words she read, but that
she knew herself perfectly.

Twenty years her heart had been held beneath her will as
with an iron hand, and was it to slip from her control now
at the mere hint, the shadowy suggestion of one who had
been long ago repudiated, utterly and irretrievably displaced,
forgotten, almost? Ah, no; what was it to her
that the passing stranger reminded her in some way of the
girl's foolish dream! She was a woman now, and had put
away childish things, to be sure!

It did not occur to her that the hint, the shadow, had
already had its influence; else why had she stayed away
from the class; and why was she there alone with twenty
years between her eyes and the page they rested upon?
Why, indeed, was she saying, I have put away childish
things! Would she, if she had known herself as thoroughly
as she thought she did?

There come experiences to us sometimes that jostle us
out of our shallow complacences, and leave us high and
dry, to get acquainted with ourselves anew. One of these
was coming — coming, and would soon meet Katherine
Lightwait.

Now and then her heart, that did not speak often, spoke
out, as she read, in spite of her, spoke out, and said —
What if it should be he, Kate, after all!

And then she would answer boldly back. Well, if it
should be he, what were that to me, I should like to know!
I am what I am, and as I am I shall be till I die.

Then her heart would make a little sweet confusion, and
the iron will would fancy it had it all its own way.

Every passing footstep startled her, nevertheless, and at
length she changed her position so that she could no longer
see the high road nor the door-yard gate; I will maintain
my serenity, she says, against all odds, come what will. I
would not surrender to the reality, let alone to the shadow!
And so saying she changed her position, and in this much,
did surrender. It became too dusky to admit of further
reading, she said directly, and closed the book. She had
read later many a time, and when she had clasped the clasps,
she leaned her cheek upon her hand, a girlish trick, long
disused, and fell musing upon her old lover, and in her
thoughts she found herself calling him “Charley,” again
and again.

Twenty years were as nothing, and she was a girl again
leaning down to him from her midnight window, his rose
in her bosom, and the spell of his love, sweeter than the
rose, all about her. The color of his glove, the ribbon that
tied his hat, came back to her, and somehow, the things he
had worn seemed not like the things worn by another. She
could remember the very smell of the earth his hand had
digged one time when they sat together on the thyme-bed
of the garden, every tone of expression, all the pretty
pet names, she remembered them all; and as she counted
the latter like beads, her heart trembled deliciously, and her
pale cheek lighted itself out of long smothered fires.

A bird came fluttering into the bush beneath her window,
and she started up like some guilty thing that is caught
in its guilt, and with almost angry violence wrenched her
thoughts from all tender associations.

He deserted us basely, she says to her heart, when and
while our confidence was at the strongest and our love at
the ripest and the best. And shall we sit and muse thus
tenderly even after all these years, when in truth he never

deserved our tenderness at all! Nay, but I am ashamed
of it all!

Thus she yielded another point, and took her heart into
confidence, but even yet, she was not in the least aware of
the yielding; on the contrary, she still fancied herself firm,
through and through.

Suppose it was really he, and suppose he should have the
audacity to come to me! And with eager haste she rang
for her maid — rang energetically, furiously, almost.

“If any one should call for me to-night, especially if a
stranger should call, you must excuse me, my good Fanny,”
she says. “I have a headache, and am not well.”

The maid stared; she had never addressed her in that
soft tone before, and never in all her days before said my
good Fanny. What could her mistress mean? She must
be sick indeed. “Can I do anything for you, ma'am?”
“No.” And then she gave the required promise, and went
away; and when she was gone the mistress fell musing
again. If it were he, and if by any chance — Heaven avert
it! — I should be obliged to see him, why then, what should
I say?

And then she told herself she had imagined a vain thing,
that no such chance would, or could, or should intervene,
and then she said, even if it should, need I premeditate my
behavior? I trust my self-possession is not at the option
of so poor a creature! And having arrived at this conclusion,
she at once proceeded to compose a little speech that
was quite as cold and polished as a piece of ice. As for
her personal bearing, it should be equably, majestically
indifferent. She would not betray by an emotion that he
was anything to her, and indeed he was not. She knew
herself, she hoped; she was old enough to know, and she
had seen women make fools of themselves in love, often
enough to teach her a lesson.

And all this time the test, as to whether or not she knew
herself so well, was coming closer and closer.

It was just in the last edge of that sweet time that is
neither night nor day, the time when light and darkness
embrace and mingle into one, that the great test really met
her face to face. The lifting of the gate-latch startled her
like the battering of some besieging engine, and the tread
along the gravelled path thrilled her as it were the crushing

of a ploughshare along the graves of her dead. It was just
the old step; bold, buoyant, confident, nothing timid, or
hesitant, or asking about it.

She dare not stir; she almost held her breath, listening
and waiting. Directly comes Fanny. “An old friend, he
did not send his name,” she says.

“But didn't I tell you, Fanny, I would not see any one?
How could you?”

“Beg your pardon, ma'am, but you only said you would
not see a stranger, and I thought be sure you would see an
old friend.”

“Go back and say, Miss Lightwait very much regrets it,
but she is not able to see any one to-night.”

The maid hesitates, as though she would fain say something
in the stranger's interest, but at last leaves the room
with the air of one dreadfully imposed upon.

Presently she comes again — this time with a card.
Charles P. Gayfeather. “He said you would certainly see
him, ma'am, if you knew,” says the maid.

“It is quite impossible. Say so,” simply, replies the
mistress, and she tosses the card from her, compresses her
lips and settles back in her easy chair, anything but easy.
She had betrayed to her maid that she was discomposed.
and this added to her previous discomposure.

A great pressure was on her brain and blindness in her
eyes; she seemed to be sinking, and to experience the sensations
of a drowning person.

Still she said it was all the shock of a surprise, a momentary
weakness that she would get the better of presently.
Of course she would, she knew herself, and could trust
herself, in spite of this weakness of the flesh. So she arose
and walked to the window, but somehow there was a dizziness,
a trembling of the knees, and she tottered back and
sank down in her chair again.

Her heart gave a great leap with the light little knock
that fell upon the door; she was so sick and nervous, she
said, with everything else. This time the maid brought a
note, written in pencil on the blank half page of one of
Katherine's own letters to “Charley.”

“Do not deny yourself to me any longer,” it said, “dear
Kate, sweet Kate — always dear and sweet Kate — though
whatever else you do, for Heaven's sake send me back this

letter. But I pray you to send it with your leave for me to
come to you once, if only this once, dear Kate; and so
praying, I wait my doom of life or death.”

The letter was worn and torn as if it had been read a
thousand times, the paper yellow as old ivory, and the ink
faded to a dull brown; it came back to Katherine like the
very ghost of herself, and ere she had half read the pencilled
note, the dizzy blindness became black darkness, the
sinking, deathyl sickening, and with a helpless little moan
she sank to the ground, fainting dead away.

“O, my poor mistress! O, Lord have mercy!” cries
the maid, and with her arms above her head, she runs
screaming for help.

A moment, and “Charley” has his Kate in his arms!