University of Virginia Library

23. XXIII.
THE MORNING AFTER.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 731EAF. Page 343. In-line Illustration. Image of four men standing outside talking. The landscape is full of trees and covered with snow, there is a big house in the background.]

WHEN Martin awoke, the light
of day was streaming through
the windows of his quiet chamber.
He started up in some
surprise, not knowing at first
where he was; but presently
recollection dawned upon him.
He remembered the antique bureau,
with its many drawers
and quaint brass handles; the
little round stand, with a neat white
cloth and a big Bible upon it; the windows,
with their old-fashioned sashes and white curtains; the rag-carpet,
blue chairs, and biblical pictures which set off the floor and
the walls, — all which he had observed the night before. At
the same time, his adventure, with all its dependent circumstances,
rushed like a flood upon his memory, and he was broad
awake in an instant.

On arising, Martin found a bowl and pitcher of water, covered
with towels, at his chamber-door. Some careful hand had set

them in there that morning, without disturbing his slumber; he
seemed to recognize Martha in the act, and thanked her for it.
He conveyed the apparatus to one of the blue chairs; but, before
washing, curiosity impelled him to look out of the window. The
storm was over; the fury of the tempest was spent; only now
and then could the sighing wind be heard wandering about the
house; and the scene without was peacefully picturesque. The
sky was cloudy, and the daylight was white and cold. Everywhere
the effects of the storm were apparent, from the fantastic
carved-work of snow which festooned the windows, to the drifts
which rolled up, smooth and beautiful, with exquisite delicacy of
curves, in every spot sheltered from the broad sweep of the storm.
Martin saw the tall Jared shovelling a path through hard embankments
to the barn, — an exhilarating sight, which made the
farmer's life look romantic and attractive in his eyes.

On going down stairs, Martin found his hostess engaged in preparing
breakfast. Her countenance lighted up at sight of him,
and she hastened to inquire how he had passed the night. The
same goodness of face, and the same exquisite mellowness of
voice, awakened the sympathies of her guest; for the impression
came to him now, with singular clearness and force, that she was
one whose nature, through much suffering, had been thus purified
and softened.

“What a pleasant location you have here!” said he, enjoying
a view from the front windows for the first time. “In summer
these trees must set off your house finely. You are on a
more elevated spot than I had any idea of, last night. I like
those hills and woods.”

“O, yes; I think we are in a delightful spot,” returned
Martha. “I should be laughed at, if I told how much I am

attached to it. Yet you see our house is not much to boast of.
It is an old-fashioned, weather-beaten thing; but I don't know
but we are as happy in it as we should be in a much finer one
At all events, we are quite contented here.”

“Well you might be!” cried Martin, heartily.

“Would you be contented in so humble a home?”

“More than contented!”

“Leaving all your ambition — your love of the world — behind
you?”

“I don't know,” said Martin, with a smile, and a shake of the
head. “Every day I feel how false and unsatisfactory this
world-worship is; but there is a fascination in it.”

“I know there is — to one so young as you, especially,” returned
Martha, with earnest feeling. “But, O, there is a peace
that passeth understanding! If you could feel that!”

“I have had glimpses of it. In my better moments I have
seen the awful beauty of the soul; I have been ravished by it;
I have said, Give me this, and take away all things else; give me
this, with poverty and mean raiment, and take away all things
less bright and pure. At such times I feel that I stand upon the
eternal Rock. The waves of worldly strife roll beneath me. How
turgid they look! I breathe the mountain airs of joy and peace.
But the first returning tide sweeps me from my foothold, and I
struggle in the great deep.”

“There is hope for you yet!” exclaimed Martha, quite overpowered
by her emotions. “Seek that Rock again; seek it continually,
and you will soon be able to stand there, and brave the
waters.”

She wept freely, but her face shone bright and happy through
her tears.

“I am so glad to hear you speak so!” she went on, after a
pause. “Some things you said last night made me fear for
you. I thought you did not reverence religion as you ought;
yet I remember, it was only the counterfeit you spoke slightingly
of. But the thing itself — the religious principle — I
know you reverence that.”

“More than everything else,” added Martin, fervently; “and
the great Representative of that principle, — my reverence for
Him makes the heroes and philosophers of history shrink into
insignificance.”

Martha could not suppress the joy the hearty expression of this
sentiment stirred within her breast. But the entrance of Jared
about this time diverted the conversation to other subjects.

“I saw you shovelling snow,” said Martin, “and thought perhaps
you were hunting for my hat, which is supposed to be buried
somewhere in this region. My conscience told me that I ought
to assist you; in fact, I was about going to offer my services.”

“If you would like a little exercise before breakfast, I can lend
you a hat until yours comes to light,” cried the farmer.

Martin said that he would like nothing better, and, a hat being
found to fit him, he went out with Jared. The latter could afford
him no time to shovel snow, however. He wanted to show him
his premises, which had a very interesting and picturesque appearance
that morning. All around the barn and sheds lay the
drifts; and the patient sheep, huddled under their shelter,
appeared to look out with quiet wonder upon the effects of the
storm. The farmer, at his approach, was greeted with peaceful
bleats, and one or two ambitious animals attempted to climb the
steep banks, as if to remind him that their race still existed, and
depended upon his bounty for fodder. The hens seemed equally

loth to leave the shed. They hopped about on the mangers, the
roosts, and the backs of the sheep, until, the barn-door being
thrown open, and a few handfuls of corn scattered on the floor,
they flew in, one by one, cackling, and began to pick and scratch
and cluck, industriously. After this, Mr. Doane went up by a
ladder into a loft over the shed, and threw down fodder for the
sheep. He then cleared the snow away from a watering-trough
in the yard, chopped open the ice, primed the pump with water
Amos brought out in the milking-pail, and led out the horses to
drink. The novelty and beauty of these scenes Martin enjoyed
much. He assisted in foddering the sheep, feeding the hens, and
watering the horses; but Amos would not let him milk either of
the cows in the stable, — wisely warning him that, if he wasn't
used to it, he would spatter himself all over, and spoil his clothes.

Martha's breakfast was late that morning, and her guest was
blessed with an excellent appetite by the time it was ready. The
whole family sat down together, as on the night before; Jared
said grace, and the meal passed very pleasantly. They were
still at table, when the door was suddenly burst open, and in
walked a figure covered from head to foot with snow.

“Junius!” exclaimed Martha, arising.

“Don't get up,” cried the young man. “I can help myself to
a seat.”

“Have you been to breakfast?” asked Mr. Jared.

“I hope so, at this time of day!” replied Junius, shaking his
cap. “I believe I 've seen some snow-drifts between here and
the parson's,” he added, regarding himself with pleasant humor.
“If you 'll come out and sweep me, Amos, I 'll do as much for
you, some time.”

The operation of sweeping was performed, and Junius, returning

to the sitting-room, was introduced to “Mr. Merrivale.” The
young men shook hands, looking each other full in the eye.
Martha watched them with interest, studying the deep expression
of Junius' face with especial solicitude, as if anxious to know how
he liked her guest.

“Now talk, young fellows, — talk,” cried Jared, gayly.
“Here 's Mr. Merrivale, an ambitious youth from the city, and
Mr. Murray, a contemplative country boy, — you should make a
good team for a little while, it seems to me. Come — compare
notes; measure your experiences; see how your philosophies
agree.”

Martin blushed, and told Mr. Doane that he had adopted the
best means he could think of for shutting his mouth.

“What shall we talk about?” asked Junius. “Shall I tell
Mr. Merrivale how many fools we have to one sensible person in
our parish? Shall I inform him how very pious we are in all
the externals of religion, and how faint and few are the genuine
sparks of faith among us? Shall I let him into the secrets of our
village gossip, and tell him what matches have been recently
made, what broken off, and what are still in a nebulous state of
formation? In return, I suppose he could warn me that the
town is artificial and false, — that it exults in shows and shams,
— but which of us would be the wiser when we were done talking?
Human nature is the same everywhere, and we know
enough of the mere facts of human nature already. But, if Mr.
Merrivale has a thought which will help me to solve this riddle
of life, then talking will be worth while. I would take forty
tramps through the snow for such an object. Or, if I have any
little ray to shed upon his soul, so much the better. It is good to
receive; but it is a thousand times better to give.”

“And true souls may both give and receive in silence,” replied
Martin. “Much is often said when no word is spoken.”

“Good!” exclaimed Junius. His clear features and deep
hazel eyes radiated the thoughts which streamed in upon him.
“I am glad you think so, for it is true. Then let us be contented
to sit still, when no language comes uppermost. True words are
like sparks from the anvil of our souls. There is a time to heat
the iron as well as to beat it, — a silent operation that, accompanied
with much blowing of the bellows;” and Junius expanded
his lungs by way of illustration.

“You do not disdain a pun, I see,” said Martin.

“O, but I am no punster!” cried the parson's son. “Martha
will tell you that; Jared, too, will bear witness; and grandfather,
here, will add his testimony.”

Old Mr. Doane, who sat listening to the conversation with
childish attention and delight, declared, unconditionally, that he
had never known either Junius or the parson, his father, to be
guilty of a pun.

“Not a decided pun, perhaps,” added Martha, with quiet
humor; “but both are ingenious in finding odd analogies between
things spiritual and temporal.”

“Ingenious? It requires no ingenuity to find such analogies.
Only open your eyes and you will see them,” said Junius, “for
they exist. Things correspond to thoughts universally, — so beautifully
that I often think they have no other substantial use.”

The ship of conversation, thus set afloat, sailed finely. Martin
and Junius steered out boldly on the broad ocean of thought;
nor did Mr. Jared and Martha fail to keep in speaking distance.
At length Martin took an observation, — in plain words, looked
at the clock, — and suddenly put his helm hard aport. He felt

the necessity of making his way through the drifts to his uncle's
house thus early, in order to return to Boston, if possible, that
night. Both Martha and Jared counselled him earnestly to wait
till after dinner, when the latter promised to take him over in his
sleigh.

“There are no tracks broken yet, and you will find the trip no
slight undertaking,” insisted Mr. Doane.

“You need not be alarmed,” said Junius. “I will act as
his pilot. We will go up to Summer Hill right merrily, over the
fences and through the drifts. What do you say, Mr. Merrivale?”

Martin could have desired no better arrangement. It was a
great relief to think of mitigating the awkwardness of his visit by
an introduction. Accordingly, having promised to call on the
Doanes again before he returned to Boston, he took leave of them,
and set out with his new friend for Summer Hill.

“I have not yet been able to learn what my uncle's malady is,”
Martin said to his companion, as they tramped across the fields.
“There seems to be some mystery about it.”

“Mystery there certainly is,” replied Junius. “One day the
colonel was among us, strong and hearty as ever, full of business,
full of life; and the next morning the news spread through the
town that he was dying — that he was dead. Some said a shock
of apoplexy had destroyed him. Others held to the belief that
he had fallen from his horse, — that he had been kicked; others,
that he had been assailed by a robber, who had perforated him
with wounds. Nobody knew anything definite about it, however.
Dr. Pinworth, the family physician, was called; but he was considered
unequal to the emergency, and straightway a surgeon was
sent for from a neighboring town. My father, the parson, had

been summoned during the night; also, I think, the colonel's lawyer
was consulted. But all beyond this favored circle — the family,
of course, excepted — were in the dark.”

“But the Doanes told me you were intimate with the family;
you should know something definite concerning the tragedy.”

“Perhaps I know as much as any one. But not even the parson,
my father, has penetrated to the heart of the mystery. I can
tell you, however, that the colonel has had no apoplexy; that he
has neither been flung from his horse, nor kicked, nor robbed.”

“Nor poisoned?”

“Nor poisoned. Yet — I may as well tell you this in advance,
for it will be kept no secret from you — he has been assailed and
stabbed — stabbed in a dozen places, — literally cut to pieces, as
the phrase is. To avoid scandal, as much as anything, but professedly
to trace out the assailant with as little ado as possible,
the affair has been shrouded in mystery.”

“And the assailant has not yet been discovered?”

“Not yet; nor do I see any progress made towards that end.
Perhaps the colonel knows his enemy, although he will not confess
that he does. He was suddenly set upon in the dark, near
his own door, — first knocked senseless, as it appears, then
chopped and whittled with a murderous instrument, of the dagger
family, afterwards found on the spot, and left, apparently, for
dead.”

“He was found in that state?”

“Yes, — by Mr. Milburn.”

“Mr. Milburn!” exclaimed Martin.

“I should have spoken of him before,” Junius went on, seating
himself on the top of a wall, to which he had climbed, over the
drifts. “I included him in the family when I mentioned those

who were in the secret. He is, in fact, engaged — to use the
vulgar expression — to your most charming and delectable cousin
Louise.”

“Go on,” said Martin, agitated; “I am dying to know all
about this matter.”

“You will die, then, for all me,” laughed Junius; “for I have
told you nearly all I have to tell. This Mr. Milburn — he had
come out in the evening train from Boston. The stage left him,
as he states, at the foot of the colonel's avenue, and, as he walked
up the hill, he saw a dark figure flit past him. He thought nothing
of it, until, approaching the house, he discovered the colonel
in his blood.”

“I wonder that the whole neighborhood were not instantly
alarmed.”

“Yes, — but Theodore Milburn is not one of your excitable
and indiscreet gentlemen. He was cool and decided. He said,
“Confusion and notoriety must be avoided. Call in your physician
with the utmost secrecy and despatch.” He himself was swift and
silent in action; and it is owing to his exertions, probably, that
the colonel's life was saved.”

The young men had by this time come in sight of Summer Hill,
— which, as the reader will readily suppose, looked wintry
enough, that morning, to deserve a somewhat different name. It
seemed half a mile off, — white with snow, and still and cold as
an iceberg. The smoke from the chimneys trailing off over the
plain was the only visible sign of life up there among the dead-looking
trees. On a nearer approach, the young men discovered
laborers shovelling snow at the foot of the avenue. Having
reached the scene of their operations, and stopped a moment to
inquire how the colonel was, they went up by the path which had

already been made, communicating between the mansion and the
road.

The visitors were shown into a comfortable little family parlor,
where there was a pleasant wood-fire blazing on the hearth. They
were left alone for some minutes; and the anxious Martin endeavored
to divert his mind from the doubts and misgivings so natural to
his situation, by inspecting the volumes of an elegant book-case in
the corner.

Junius sat drying his feet by the fire, when suddenly a graceful
girl of eighteen entered, almost noiselessly, and took him playfully
by the ear.

“Nobody but you, is it?” she cried, her handsome features
lighting up, as she made that pleasant demonstration of friendship.

“Nobody but me? I am of no consequence, then; and my
ear — that is of no consequence, either! Leave it with me, however,
if you please.”

“O, excuse me!” The young lady patted the abused ear
compassionately, and carefully covered it with her visitor's long,
dark curls — pulling them, of course, during the operation. “I
thought, from what Maria said, that a stranger had come. I
should n't have stopped to fix my hair for you.”

“Were you expecting anybody?”

“Why, yes; it seems so. The stage-driver sent up a valise
last night, which he said belonged to a passenger who was to have
been left here. But the passenger had gone to chase his hat
across the country, and nobody knew what had become of him.”

“And you haven't seen or heard of him yet?”

“No; is n't it singular?”

“But you must have been alarmed.”

“I was, at first,” replied Louise, seating herself in a rocking-chair,
with her back towards Martin. “For, of course, the first
person I thought of was Mr. Milburn. But he would n't be so
silly as to chase his hat in a storm such as we had last night!”

Junius glanced pleasantly at Martin, who, from being quite
pale with excitement, colored to the roots of his hair.

“Then again,” Louise went on, “there were the initials `M.
M.' on the valise — not T. M. What it can all mean, I don't
know. The affair has worried father exceedingly. I think he
scarcely slept at all, last night. And this morning he has
directed that inquiries and search should be made for the young
man who has gone off in chase of his hat. You need not laugh,”
said Louise, laughing herself the while. “It is a very serious
affair. It seems very comical, though; and I 'm burning with
curiosity to see the owner of the mysterious valise.”

“Shall I draw his portrait for you?”

“Have you seen him?”

“It is not always necessary to see a person, to form an idea
how he looks, — is it?” asked Junius.

“I remember you described Mr. Milburn to me, before you ever
saw him, and told me more about his disposition than I knew myself,
— or thought you did, at least; but, of course, I was n't
foolish enough to believe you.”

“Very well; you 'll find out, one of these days. When I came
to see Mr. Milburn, I was confirmed in my opinion. You have n't
seen him yet.”

“I have n't!” Louise laughed incredulously. But the searching
eye of Junius was upon her, and suddenly her countenance
changed. A shadow clouded her fair brow, and she bit her lip
with impatience. “Perhaps you are right,” she added, in a low,

unquiet tone. “But it can't be helped now. My fate is decided
— and I am glad of it. I hope I shall have some peace from
mother's persecutions.”

“We 'll leave that subject for the present, if you please,” said
Junius. “I described Mr. Milburn from one or two hints you
threw out concerning him; his whole image arose before me.
Now, let me see what I can make of the young man who chases
his hat over an unknown region of country in such a storm as
that of last night. I see him before me.”

The speaker looked directly over Louise's shoulder at Martin,
who stood a perfect picture of embarrassment and surprise, and
began his description, — which was not a very flattering one to
the subject in some particulars, yet strikingly correct. When
he came to traits of character, he astonished Martin by his wonderful
power of reading human nature. Some of our hero's most
intimate thoughts and feelings were brought to light, and displayed
before the eyes of the interested but unbelieving Louise.

“I 'd like to know what all that amounts to,” she said, when
the portrait was finished. “If I could only imagine there was
anything in it! At any rate, I 'd give a good deal to see such a
person as you describe. It 's a splendid portrait!”

“Just look behind you, then, and compare it with the original,”
replied Junius, with a quiet smile.

Louise turned, glancing carelessly over her shoulder, and
uttered a faint scream.

“Shall I have the pleasure of introducing the owner of the
valise, `M. M.' — the gentleman who was so silly as to chase his
hat some furlongs out into chaos, — the original of the portrait I
have just had the honor to draw?”

Louise had covered her face from sight; but Junius took her

hand, and, after a brief struggle, she arose, red-blushing, and
smiled on the stranger. But the next moment she turned upon the
parson's son, shook her beautiful head menacingly, and, still red
and smiling, declared that she would never forgive him. Her full
form and exquisitely rounded features, together with her charm
of manner and expression, produced an electric effect on Martin.
His heart fluttered; in his cheek the blood ebbed and flowed
tumultuously; he stood transfixed before his lovely cousin.

Louise received an additional shock of surprise when informed
who Martin was. But it was an agreeable shock. She had
heard of such a cousin; she had longed and longed, she said, to
see him; and now she could give him her hand with a hearty
welcome to Summer Hill.

Martin, elate with joy, took the hand, and a kiss with it. His
own audacity frightened him; but the fair Louise was too much
enraptured with her new-found cousin to be at all disturbed.

The two were soon on excellent terms with each other, and the
conversation became spirited. Junius was a silent observer.
Martin was giving a humorous account of his adventures between
Boston and Summer Hill, when a fourth person — a tall, fine-looking
woman — entered the room.

The enthusiastic Louise hastened to introduce her mother. But
her mother did not appear quite so enthusiastic on the occasion.
She was courteous, but cold. The hand she gave to Martin was
as ice. He felt it, and was chilled. And the strange expression
which flashed into her face with the surprise of the meeting — it
had not gone unobserved. There was hatred and jealousy, and a
mighty towering up of pride and will, in that look; and, swiftly
as it was quelled, it left a lasting impression on her guest.

Conversation was frozen. Louise looked angrily at her mother,

and bit her lips, while the hot blood mantled on her brow. The
impassive face of Junius became as marble. He opened not his
mouth from that time forward. He seemed scarce conscious
where he was; yet those deep, dark eyes of his searched the souls
of the actors in that little drama, and saw far into the machinery
of the play.

Martin forced his way through the barrier of reserve his aunt's
spirit threw up before him, — it was worse than breaking through
snow-drifts, — and inquired about his uncle. Her answer was
not wanting in politeness; and she offered to carry the news of
his arrival to the sick chamber, and learn when a visit from him
would be agreeable to the invalid. Martin thanked her, and she
withdrew.

Colonel Merrivale was sitting up in bed, reading his favorite
political paper, when his wife entered the room. At the opening
of the door, he turned his head with visible eagerness; but, perceiving
who the comer was, he resumed his reading with an
expression of countenance not remarkably flattering to her
presence.

“I have good news for you,” she said, with cutting sarcasm.
“The person whose valise came here last night —”

She paused. The colonel started, lowered his newspaper, and
gave her his attention.

“You knew who it was, it seems,” she resumed. “There was
reason for your anxiety. Your feelings were natural and commendable.”

Mrs. Merrivale spoke with forced calmness. But her self-control
was not perfect; passion was fast getting the mastery, and
her voice trembled.

“You can spare your comments,” said the colonel, turning his

white face upon her with a look full of something quite the opposite
of conjugal tenderness. “I do not wish to hear them.”

“But hear them you shall!” burst forth the lady, sweeping
across the room, and standing proudly erect before his bed. Her
blue eyes shot forth rays of red light; her face, so fair at forty,
put on dark defiance like a veil; and in her lofty gestures there
was determination and power. “This insult is too much. You
sent for that young man, or he would not be here.”

“I sent for him, it is true,” muttered the invalid. “Shall I
apologize? My excuse is a fair one, madam. Will you exercise
a little of your exemplary Christian charity and patience, and
listen to it? Or shall I be silent?”

“If there can be any excuse for breaking a solemn oath, —
if there is any apology for dishonor, — let me hear it.”

Colonel Merrivale's white face bleached out whiter still, and
his brow knotted up with anger. He appeared to be choked, for
it was near a minute before his voice could be heard.

“All oaths that ever bound us together were broken so long
ago, that I supposed I might, in an emergency, be free to act,” he
said, at length. “The oath I made was on condition that you
should be my wife. My wife! If you ever were, hatred divorced
us, years ago.”

“And whose fault was it? I never had your heart. Another
had it, and consumed it, and you brought me the ashes! Nothing
but pride ever led you to ask my hand.”

“No more! I plead guilty to the charge. I have sinned —
and I repent.”

The veins swelled upon the lady's forehead as if they would
burst. The colonel, weak as he was, appeared stronger than
she.

“Excuse me for using plain language,” he said, severely,
whilst she was struggling to speak. “When steel strikes flint,
there are sparks. I am sorry you forced the words from me;
for our marriage is a subject it were better never to broach. Let
us leave it where it is. Now for my apology. I lay on my
death-bed, as I supposed. Was it unpardonable that I should
desire to see that luckless boy? Mr. Murray, your minister, whom
you so much reverence and admire — he told me it was my duty
to see him. So I thought the case was clear. A letter was
written under his directions, calling the boy to my bed-side. I
cannot guess what has occasioned his delay; but, since he has
arrived, — as I suppose he has, — I think I will not let him go
away without seeing him.”

The colonel coolly reached forth and rang a bell that stood
upon the table at his bed-side. An attendant appeared.

“My nephew, Mr. Merrivale, — he is below. Show him up.”

Somewhat pale, and with a tremor of apprehension in his
nerves, Martin appeared, and advanced to his uncle's bedside. At
sight of that white face, and the kindly smile it wore, his heart
became quite softened, and he greeted the invalid not without
glistening eyes.

“I 'm in rather a helpless condition, it is true,” said the colonel,
in answer to his expression of regret at finding him in such
a state. “But there has been a decided improvement in my
case during the past two days. Until yesterday, my head
troubled me strangely. I had fainting-fits nearly every hour, —
in consequence of injuries received in my stomach. Have you
heard about the catastrophe that brought me here?”

“Mr. Murray told me something of it, as we came over from
Mr. Doane's.”

“From Mr. Doane's?”

“Yes, sir, — where I passed the night. I have had a strange
adventure, sir! Had it not been for the hospitality of Miss
Doane —”

The young man was checked in the midst of his sentence by an
alarming change in the colonel. The latter had suddenly fallen
forward with his head upon his breast, like a dying man. Martin
hastened to support him.

“Don't be alarmed,” said Mrs. Merrivale, bathing her husband's
brow, with perfect composure. “This is nothing uncommon.”

The colonel recovered presently, and, opening his eyes, looked
up with a faint smile at Martin, from his pillow.

“Another of those horrible fainting-fits! I hoped I had
experienced the last of them,” he said, in a feeble voice. “Some
drink!”

Mrs. Merrivale helped the colonel to a glass of water, then
abruptly left the room. He followed her with his eyes, and
smiled again as the door closed behind her.

“You understand now why I never brought you here before,”
said he, drawing Martin towards him.

Intelligent and sympathetic, Martin gave his uncle's hand a
warm pressure. Then ensued a long and confidential talk. Confidential
on one side, at least; for the young man, betrayed by his
feelings, and quite thrown off his guard, was ready to open his
heart, and yield everything, for the moment, to the pale and helpless
invalid. As for the latter, he was less confidential than diplomatic;
his heart overflowed with kindness, promises and excuses
— a fruitful source of perplexity to poor, dissatisfied
Martin.

Fire came into Louise Merrivale's eyes and cheeks as her
mother reëntered the room, and her small foot drummed impatiently
upon the rug.

“What is the trouble now?” asked the irritated woman.

“I shall be glad when I am married!” exclaimed Louise.

“You will not be the only one glad!” replied the mother, with
a sarcastic curl of the lip.

“You are the worst woman I ever saw!” Louise went on,
rocking far back in her chair. “I don't believe any one else
could be so hateful, without trying hard; but it comes natural to
you.”

“I am used to such talk as this!” said her mother, bitterly.
“It does not trouble me much. But I am ashamed that Junius
should hear you.”

“He has heard me before. He knows how bad I am, — and
there is no use trying to hide my faults. He knows what makes
me so, too. Your disposition is enough to spoil an angel. If I
like a person, you are sure to dislike him. You are the most
jealous woman that ever lived. You used to think Mr. Milburn
was a saint, — you kept sounding his praises in my ear till I was
sick of hearing his name, — but, the moment I consented to have
him, you turned right around, and began to sneer and be sarcastic
whenever he was spoken of. You are afraid I will love
somebody better than I love you! Merely because I showed myself
pleased with Cousin Martin, just now, you had to put on one
of your hateful ways. There!” exclaimed Louise, spitefully,
throwing down a book she had taken up, “I have said all I am
going to. I can't begin to express my feelings. I shall go distracted,
if I try.”

It was a wonder how Mrs. Merrivale could endure her daughter's

speech and conduct as she did. But, jealous and self-willed
as she was, her love for that beautiful but perverse child was the
ruling passion of her heart. And perhaps she was self-convicted
of the charge brought against her; perhaps she saw how, with
her own hand, actuated by some such blind and selfish love as the
wild beast feels for its young, she had poisoned her daughter's
nature. So, with only a few chiding words, let fall like drops of
rain from a thunder-cloud, she passed out of the room, leaving
the atmosphere oppressed and sultry behind her, as when the
summer-storm moves sullenly down the sky without breaking.

Then Junius took the hand of Louise, and talked to her as no
mortal had ever talked to her before. He told her of her faults
freely and plainly; but he also told her that she had a soul superior
to them all, as the sunlight is superior to clouds. He
breathed into her ear whisperings of that sweet peace which
springs from patience, long-suffering and charity. He painted a
picture of the spirit's bright progression; portrayed the loveliness
of that life into which the Christian graces flow; streamed into
her mind a light by which the dark deformities of her temper
looked hideous.

“I am a wicked, ugly creature, and I know it!” she exclaimed.
“I wonder that you can bear to come near me.”

“Ah, Louise!” said Junius, with deep tenderness, “you don't
know how I love you — how my soul loves your soul! O, if
you would but come out from among the rocks and briers! Death
stands between us now, — that spiritual death which is colder
and darker than the grave. Come out, — come out into the
light of life; leave your falsities behind you; put on the white
raiment of purity and truth. If, in the midst of all the trials and
temptations which surround you, you would but stand erect —”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Louise, flinging his hand from her, and
bursting into a scornful laugh.

The conduct of that perverse creature seemed incomprehensible.
It was plain that she loved Junius; her mother knew it; he was
not ignorant of the fact. He loved her, too, as he had a hundred
times, half-playfully, yet all in earnest, declared. Yet he took his
stand so nobly upon the mountain-peaks of truth, and said to her,
so serenely, “Come up hither!” that, blind to the high moral
principle which was his motive and his strength, she felt a wilful
pride in answering him with mockery. And now, before she was
aware how much she yielded to him, she had become completely
softened under his influence. A moment more, and a crisis might
have been passed for which she would have rejoiced in all future
years; but sudden shame surprised her, and she flung back his
hand, and laughed him to scorn, as we have seen.

Grieved at the heart, Junius arose and walked the room. Poor
Louise would have given much to draw him back. Already she
bitterly regretted the hasty word which repelled him from her;
she even made an effort to recall it, — but pride laid its finger on
her lips and sealed them. And so the gulf between her and
Junius, which had been so nearly overpassed, looked wider and
deeper from that day.

The shadow that swept over the young man's spirit quickly
passed. The expression of his fine features became serene, as
once more he approached Louise. She trembled with expectancy.
A ray of hope, all faint and quivering, stole down into the
troubled waters of her soul.

“Where is John, this morning?” he asked. “Does he know
I am here? I should like to see him.”

The ray was extinguished in gloom. A chill fell upon the
heart of Louise.

“I will speak to him,” she replied, coldly.

She arose and left the room. Junius smiled sadly. Well he
knew how wretched, how utterly desolate, her feelings were; and
mayhap he was not sorry that it was so.

He was pacing to and fro in contemplative mood when John
— a younger brother of Louise — entered the apartment. John
was a pale, consumptive boy; disease had eaten his flesh and
drank his blood; yet at sight of Junius his step became elastic,
and his attenuated face flushed with a glow of pleasure.

“I am so glad to see you!” said he, with glistening eyes. “I
am only sorry that Margaret did not come with you. I miss you
so much.”

“You have been a little low-spirited, I see,” returned Junius,
pressing his thin, cold hand.

“Yes, I have. I am not often so — but sometimes I can't help
it.” John's voice was tremulous, and his eyes filled. “I know I
ought to be cheerful — but —”

“I understand you,” said Junius, taking him to his heart, as
if he had been some sweet sister, just fitted for the angel world.
“It would be a miracle if you did not suffer sometimes. Yet
there is a consolation and a hope!”

“I feel it,” replied John, fervently. “I am willing to go. I
am sure that death is but a bright continuation of life. The
grave is only a place where we leave our masks and veils; and I
am ready to leave mine. But clouds of doubt will come!”

“If the soul had nothing to struggle against, where would it

ever get its strength? Ah, John! the strongest, purest spirit is
that which has suffered most, and triumphed over greatest temptations.”

“That is true. As you said the other day, every birth is
attended with pain, — even the birth of the spirit into new
truths.”

“Yet what an ecstasy follows the birth!” said Junius, his
countenance shining with a fine enthusiasm. “But we must never
stop. Progression is infinite. Every day and every hour we
must be born into newer and higher spiritual life, to be true children
of God. To pause, is to wither and decay. To-day I would
be dead to all the sins of yesterday; to-morrow I would wash
my hands from all the impurities of to-day; and so on, forever.
Up, up, continually, is the word, my brother!”

Poor John, inspired with an ineffable joy of spirit, wept on the
bosom of his friend.

“I should be happier if anybody understood me here,” he said,
at length. “They still try to make me think I shall get well.
Father talks to me about the future and ambition. He means
well; but what he says grates very harshly. I do not like to disappoint
him, but I know I shall. He will have no son to inherit
his wealth and position — no John Merrivale will go to Congress
in this generation!” added the boy, with the saddest smile. “I
wish he would give up these things — as I did, long ago.”

“He has many things to give up, which will wrench his soul at
parting,” returned Junius. “But all will yet be well.”

“And mother, — I grieve for her,” murmured John. “I am
almost sorry she belongs to the church; I am afraid she puts too
much confidence in the material facts of communion and baptism.
Of the real communion, of the baptism in love and truth, she

knows but very little. She, too, tries to divert me with worldly
trifles — with vain expectations of health and pleasure. She is
unwilling that any one should talk to me about dying.”

“Do you know,” answered Junius, with fervor, “that you may
become an instrument for softening her nature — for infusing the
fire of spirit into her heart? When she sees you go with a holy
light in your countenance, something shall whisper in her soul,
`The true life! — the true life! Seek it out!'”

“O, I pray that it may be so! It would be such a glorious
change for her — and for Louise. How sad it is to see my poor
sister growing up into the same unhappy spirit, under her influence!
I wish you would talk to her as you talk to me. You
have done me so much good! I feel as if you had delivered me
from death. If you could do the same for her!”

“She is not where you are, dear John. She walks proud and
strong in the dark path. But Death has approached very gently,
and loosened your hold from the idols of this world.”

“I am thankful for it,” said John, weeping peacefully. “I
am happy in the thought. My eyes have been turned upward, and
I see a glorious light, which I might not have seen had I gone on
rejoicing in the mere sensuous life I had. I feel that death is
kindly.”

Mrs. Merrivale entered in time to overhear this last remark,
and find John still in tears. Her brow darkened, and she drew
her son sternly from his friend's embrace.

“You know this does not please me,” she said, in a low, rapid
tone of voice. “It has a bad effect on John to talk about such
things.”

“You know, mother,” John interposed, “these talks with
Junius are my greatest consolation.”

“They make you gloomy and low-spirited. You think too much
about dying. You never will get well in this way. Life is what
you should think about. Junius, why can't you tell him something
to cheer him, to give him hope and strength?”

“I give him such hope and strength as I think he needs most,”
replied Junius.

“O, mother, he fills me so full!” exclaimed John, with
illuminated face turned upward. “He has been worth the world
to me.”

“He and I differ,” said Mrs. Merrivale, quickly. “And I am
surprised that he should do what he knows is contrary to my
wishes. That you should, John, is not so surprising. You are
my child,” she added, with bitter significance.

“Mother, I do not desire to displease you; I do not!” cried
John, with tearful earnestness.

“Then show some little regard for my feelings. Come!”

And Mrs. Merrivale led John sternly away.

“I am sorry to have offended you,” said Junius, mildly. “I
do not like to have you take John from me in this way. Let him
remain, and we will go into the large drawing-room, and play ball
or grace-hoop, if he likes.”

It did John more good to engage in sports with Junius than
with any one else. No other society to him was so precious.
His face brightened at the proposal, and Mrs. Merrivale, who
was aware how much physical strength he often derived from
Junius, gave a ready consent. The young man smiled, and took
John lovingly by the hand.

“You believe that I can impart vitality to his body, and permit
me to do so,” said he to Mrs. Merrivale. “But to his soul, of which
the body is but the shifting and perishable dress, — you are not

willing that I should impart any strength to that. Very well!
John's spirit is now alive. I saw it when it lay, as it were,
darkly in the egg. I watched that growth which finally broke
the shell. I fed it as I could, when it was new-fledged and helpless.
But now its wings have grown; it is taking its first joyful
flights; and I am not unwilling to leave it to itself. Come, my
boy! now for grace-hoop and ball!”

The drawing-room — a spacious and elegant apartment — became
the scene of pleasant sports. The laughter of John and
his beloved friend blended musically. After a time, Louise
joined them; and at length Martin, flushed and abstracted, came
from the conference with his uncle, and sought to forget his
trouble in the hilarity of the morning. And quite well he succeeded.
He tried the grace-hoop with his charming cousin, who
was now as gay as ever; crowning was not infrequent, and sweet
debts, payable in the coin of kisses, were incurred. How prompt
Martin was to make a “tender,” as lawyers say, when the debt
was his! How eager to present his bill, when the forfeit was on
the other side! How ready, in either case, to compel justice with
gentle force of arms! Ah, constancy! where was Sophronia
then? — where Martin's vows and promises of love? Impertinent
thought! Louise was only his cousin.

How swift the morning passed! All too soon the dinner was
announced, and too soon over. The time arrived for Martin to
depart; all the urgent solicitations of Louise and John having
failed to alter his resolution, formed on leaving his uncle's
chamber.

“I want him to call at the parsonage a few minutes,” said
Junius. “Come, John, you and Louise shall go with us. The
ride will do you both good; and Margaret will be glad to see you.”

Martin's cousins were delighted with the proposition. Their
mother was less pleased. She was willing that John should go,
but Louise she opposed with considerable spirit. The young lady
was determined, however, and, after a private scene with her
mother up stairs, she appeared, looking decidedly cross, and
announced, with a forced smile, that she was ready to go.

Once on the road, she recovered her temper, and did much to
make Martin forget that he was taking leave for the first, and,
perhaps, for the last time, of Summer Hill. A good sleigh-track
was already broken on the village road. The colonel's horses
were spirited; the bells sang a merry tune; the weather was
mild, the day bright, and the snow-scenery magnificent. Junius
sat with John, and Louise entertained her cousin. It was a memorable
ride; the only fault Martin found with it was its
briefness.

Yet he was not sorry to arrive at the parsonage. Margaret,
who ran out joyously to greet her friends, appeared to him like a
new revelation of female loveliness. There was an indescribable
charm about her which filled him with a thrilling sense of beauty;
not so much in her form and face — which were fair indeed — as
in her manner, her expression, the light of her eyes, and the tones
of her voice.

When introduced to Martin, a blush and a smile flashed into
her features radiantly.

“I ought to recognize a fellow-traveller,” said she, extending
her hand.

Martin was wonder-struck and speechless. It is certain that
he never appeared so stupid in his life.

“I am hinting at a riddle, I perceive,” she added, laughing.
“Perhaps you will understand, when I tell you that I was in the
stage last night.”

“You!” articulated Martin.

“As you rode outside, I had no opportunity of thanking you
for giving up your place to me,” said Margaret, very sweetly.

“I — I never expected — I am surprised that you recognized
me!”

“O! I remember your voice perfectly well. Besides, I saw
you under circumstances not easy to forget.” Martin blushed
with pride and pleasure. “I felt conscience-stricken when you
lost your hat, and had such a chase through the snow, all on my
account!”

Martin blushed more violently than ever, — this time with mortification.

“You witnessed my ridiculous plight, then!”

“You never told me of this, Margaret,” cried Junius.

“It is because I had no opportunity to tell you,” replied
his sister. “Last night I had writing to do for father, you know;
and this morning you were off before I saw you. I trust Mr.
Merrivale did not suffer from his adventure.”

“On the contrary, I consider it a very fortunate one. For the
loss of my hat, I have been compensated with the acquaintance
of the Doanes, of your brother here, and, last and best of
all,” said Martin, gallantly, “of yourself.”

By this time the party was comfortably seated in the cosiest
of parlors, and Margaret, listening to the account of Martin's
adventures, removed John's tippet from his neck, and warmed his
cold hands in hers. Presently her whole attention was absorbed
in the young invalid. She appeared to regard him with more
than sisterly solicitude. So Martin thought; nor did he blame
her; for, as John sat by the fire, with his gentle eyes and calm
face turned towards her with a sweet smile, there was a spiritual

beauty in his expression rarely seen upon the face of mortals.
Her countenance, too, was illuminated, — transfigured, so to
speak, with a holy love, as she talked with him. The scene had
a strange effect on Martin. His features beamed with indefinable
aspirations, and tears came into his eyes.

Louise rallied him, and, apologizing for his abstraction, he
took a seat near her. A lively dialogue ensued. But how unsatisfactory
to Martin! The depths of his spirit had been stirred;
infinite longings had been awakened within him; he thirsted for
purest waters of the soul; and all his talk with the bright Louise
seemed painfully frivolous.

How strange, — how strange is this human heart! The moon
of beauty sways its impetuous tides, and the stars of spiritual
being shape its destiny — we know not how. When we
would look through this surface-life of the world, — when we
would fathom and explore the soul's abyss, — the awful realm of
mystery receives us; deep beyond deep, deep beyond deep, opens
unto us forevermore!

Then why attempt to account for the change which had come over
Martin? It was as if an angel hand had swept the hidden keys
of his heart, and drawn forth tones of ineffable sadness and sweetness
— so subtle was the influence that stole into the holiest
recesses of his nature.