University of Virginia Library

9. IX.
HECTOR AND CHARLOTTE.

The light of a new morning has dawned upon Charlotte's life.
The past lies behind her like a night of troubled dreams. A few
clouds of doubt and fear still chase each other across her sky; but
the thick darkness is gone, and the young day is fresh and calm,
and full of promise.

Not only has the catastrophe of the buggy served to throw
open at once a wide door of sympathy between her and her new
friends, but it furnishes a fruitful and exhilarating theme for familiar
discussion. Hector makes epigrams upon a certain leaden-hued
contusion under Charlotte's eye; upon his own lameness, and
the cut in his lip; and upon other pleasing results of the disaster.
Then, to enliven a dull company of evening visitors, who have
called in honor of his return to Huntersford, he announces that he
will deliver an entertaining and instructive lecture on the subject,
accompanied with music by his mother, and illustrated by original
pen-and-ink sketches. The lecture proves a capital burlesque, and
elicits tremendous applause. The eloquence of the speaker is
equalled only by the originality of the diagrams. The first of
these represents “Corny whittling;” received with roars of
laughter. Next, “Corny brings Jerry to the door.” Then, various
stages of the catastrophe are portrayed, until “Mr. Crumlett”
is introduced to the audience. At this point, Mr. Dunbury, who
has preserved his gravity all along, forgets his dignity, and shakes
with democratic fun. Mrs. Dunbury joins in the general merriment,
— more quietly than any of the rest; but her pride in
Hector makes her very happy. Charlotte's soft eyes glisten; and

Phœbe Jackwood, throwing herself upon her friend's shoulder in
a paroxysm of mirth, declares that she “shall die!”

Hector limps three weeks with his bruises; and Charlotte carries
the dark-colored mark under her eye for nearly the same
length of time. They condole with each other, and laugh at each
other, until one would judge them to be friends of years' standing.

The invalid's health gradually improves. Hector is a good
physician, Charlotte a capital companion and nurse. But, notwithstanding
all their care, Mrs. Dunbury's mind frequently
relapses into despondency, and she believes death inevitable,
unless the discarded doctor is recalled.

It is scarcely possible for her to abandon the stimulus of drugs.
She would be true to her promise, and abide by Hector's treatment;
but daily, by mere infirmity of will, she finds herself transgressing
his commandments. She carries magnesia in her pocket,
and eats it by stealth. She chews rhubarb-root, and calls it sweetflag.
She swallows pills in her apple-sauce. She entertains salts
and a teaspoon in a drawer, concealed beneath numerous strata of
folded apparel, and indulges in furtive doses of the same, ever and
anon.

Hector perceived something of this, and, going to his mother,
by the very force of his simple and earnest dealing, compelled a
confession. One by one she abandoned all her hidden drugs to his
mercy, reserving only a modest lump of rhubarb, and a couple of
favorite pills.

“But what can I do?” she cried.

“When you think medicine absolutely required, call on me.”

That morning she ate the last of the rhubarb; the next, she
swallowed one of the pills, and in the afternoon sent the other to
keep that company; and, on the third day, in great extremity,
she had recourse to Hector.

Hector cruelly ordered a pitcher of warm water; and, from
that time, emetics of that simple nature were the sole consolation
he would afford her, when she hungered and thirsted after drugs.
But nothing could be more effective than this treatment; she
recovered her appetite, and soon her greatest anxiety was to have

something delicate and nice for dinner. This, indeed, became, for
a time, the chief care and study of her life.

“Fie, mother!” cried Hector, one fine morning, at the breakfast-table,
— “these trifles are unworthy of us. We are too much
like a celebrated old woman —

For my part, I believe we should live upon something besides
victuals and drink, notwithstanding so venerable an example.”

“Hunger,” said Mr. Dunbury, “knows no philosophy.”

“Nor is genuine hunger troubled about many things. It receives
its daily bread, and is thankful. In this artificial life, we
have no conception what simple and humble fare is all-sufficient to
the natural man. What if I should tell you I know a family that
eats worms?”

Mrs. Dunbury, with a beseeching look: “Don't, I pray — at
the breakfast-table, Hector!”

Corny, grinning over his muffin: “A family 't eats worms!”

Charlotte: “I think I know the same family.”

Mrs. Dunbury: “Not in this region — not among civilized
people!”

Hector, gravely: “Our nearest neighbors, mother. In faith, it
is a family of young robins in the tree before my window. You
should see them once! It really looks quite human — the beautiful
care the old ones take of their young. The best of us might
learn a lesson of them. The love, and joy, and gratitude, they
manifest, seem to say, much more plainly than our hollow words,
— especially when our faithless lives belie them, — `Give us each
day our daily bread.'”

Mrs. Dunbury: “Do you ever hear of young birds repaying
the care of their parents, by feeding them, in return, when they
become too old and infirm to feed themselves?”

“That 's a simple duty, mother, which I think no well-bred and
affectionate robins would shrink from performing.”

“Will you be so good, then, as to imagine some pretty example
of the kind, and, drawing your lesson from it, go down the meadow,

this morning, and catch the famous pickerel your father saw in
the river, yesterday? I would like fish for dinner.”

“I don't know, mother. The last time I went a-fishing, I
hooked a cruel hook through the backs of little fish, and let them
swim around in the water, in untold anguish, to bait their big
brothers who came to eat them. In the excitement of the sport,
— I believe men call it sport, — I had not one merciful thought
to bestow upon the innocent little folk that had been so unfortunate
as to be caught out of their native brook in my basket.”

Corny, stoically: “I don't mind it 's hurtin' 'em. I like to
see 'em wiggle!”

Hector: “That 's all very nice, without doubt; but how do
you suppose you and I would feel with great iron hooks through
our backs, — let down into a city of hungry lawyers, for instance,
— with some big giant swinging us from the end of a
long pole?”

Corny, incredulously: “They c-a-n-'t!”

Mrs. Dunbury: “You can catch the pickerel with a snare.
That will be no greater cruelty than that practised upon the
worms by the worthy family you speak of, and which you thought
so pretty and commendable.”

Hector: “I 've no answer to make. I 'm going out to show
the men how to mow, this forenoon; and, if I think of it, I will
catch your pickerel.”

At nine o'clock, Mrs. Dunbury looked out of her window, and
saw the mowers in the meadow, with Hector at their head, cutting
into the tall grass with uniform strokes, and laying the swaths in
even lines behind them.

“He has quite forgotten the pickerel,” she said to Charlotte.
“If you should go to the meadow, and carry him his fishing-pole,
I am sure he would ask no better excuse to throw down that
dreadful scythe.”

Charlotte set out with a light heart to do the errand, — imagining
herself a native-born country-girl, rustic, happy, and free
from care, and singing snatches of merry songs as she went.

She crossed the rotting timbers of the bridge, and approached
the mowers under cover of the willows that grew around a bend

in the stream. Birds fluttered and chattered in the bushes; the
waters rippled and gleamed, and leaped, with low, gurgling laughter,
over their pebbly bed; and the summer wind swept gently across
the grass, playing among the leaves, and blowing with grateful
coolness on her brow and in her hair. O, she was made for such
happiness; she felt that the good God loved her then, and that
birds, and stream, and breeze, and even the soft haze that brooded
over the valley, and lay in translucent purple banks all around
upon the mountain heights, sympathized in the pure joy that overflowed
her heart.

Charlotte trod quickly along the shaven turf, until she could see
the mowers carrying back their scythes along the level swaths.
Hector marched at their head, singing a negro melody. Corny
brought up the rear, whittling his snath with a jacknife. Mr.
Dunbury and two day-laborers formed the body of the force. Not
far off was Bridget, shaking out the new-mown grass with a fork,
tossing it wildly about her ears, or flinging it in great wads, here
and there, over the meadow.

Arrived at the edge of the field, the men rested their scythes
upon the ground, and began to whet them, having first wiped
them with wisps of grass. The cheerful ring of the stone upon
the metal beat a measured accompaniment to Hector's singing, —
only Corny striking occasionally a little out of time. Charlotte
paused involuntarily. What trouble came up out of the past, at
that happy hour, to tyrannize over her spirit? She stood hesitating
in the meadow, when Hector ceased singing, and called out
to her with a cheery welcome, as he threw down his scythe.

“Le' me go'n ketch the pickiril, if you do' wanter,” drawled
Corny.

Hector: “Would you quite as lief do that as mow?”

Corny, earnestly: “I druther!”

“I have no doubt of it; how refreshing it is to hear you speak
the truth!”

And Hector coolly walked off with the fishing-pole, leaving the
chagrined Corny to stare at him, with perplexed and disappointed
looks, over his scythe.

“You shall go with me, Charlotte.” Hector stepped to the

young girl's side, as she was returning towards the stream. “The
fields are so sweet and beautiful to-day, how can you shut yourself
up in the house?”

The glance of his eye and the gentle tones of his voice stirred
a strange and happy emotion in her heart; and she had no power
to resist the influence that drew her to his side.

“Your pickerel,” said Hector, “is the very attorney of fishes.
He locates his office in some eligible spot, often among the brown
river-grass, at the mouth of some little brook; and I have no
doubt but, if we understood the fishes' language, or rather their
signs, we should be able to read over his door, `Pike Pickerel,
Attorney and Counsellor at Law.' There, day after day, he
awaits his clients, who, never suspecting what a scaly fellow he is,
run into the very jaws of danger, and are taken in by him, before
they know it. Some of the little brook-people are too cunning
and quick even for his sharp practice, and escape in spite of his
teeth; but generally, when he darts into a school, he seizes at
least one out of it, and, to make a long tail short, finishes him at
a bite. Those that run away may be called flying-fishes, while
those that are taken become swallows. And so our lawyer flourishes,
until his line of business is interrupted by a line of a different
nature, and some avenging power, by hook or by crook,
puts a stop to his proceedings with an attachment, — such as I
am about to try, in the case of our neighbor under the bushes,
here.”

Hector entertained his companion with this sage dissertation
upon the character and habits of the pickerel, as they walked
along by the willows and crossed the bridge together. On the
other bank of the creek, they followed the old wagon track up
stream, until they arrived at the confluence of a brook that came
down from the eastern hills. Here, in a quiet nook, overhung
with bushes, the attorney of fishes was found. Hector's eyes
sparkled, as he arranged the fatal snare.

“A royal pickerel, upon my word! Not so large as a shark,
but he 'll do. Look, Charlotte, how neatly and comfortably I
slip the noose —”

“I see!” laughed Charlotte, as the fish deliberately took his

nose out of the wire loop, and with one stroke of his tail propelled
himself into a knot of grass.

“The snare is a vulgar and inartistic contrivance!” exclaimed
Hector. “But I am bound to see fins out of water, at some rate!
He 's a little shy, a little conservative, — quite a prosperous and
cautious fish; but — there 's his nose, and there swings the wire
under it.”

At this crisis, Charlotte could not help reminding him of what
he had preached, that morning, to Corny.

“How would you like it yourself, if some superior power should
make a man-snare of the north-pole and the equinoctial line —”

“Don't speak of such disagreeable things just at this time!”
interrupted Hector. “In three seconds you may laugh, then we
will talk about cruelty to fishes; but now; — look out for your
head!”

A sudden pull, — snap went the pole, — and away darted the
pickerel up stream, with the wire jerked tightly under his gills,
and the line streaming after him through the water. He was out
of sight in an instant; but the tip of the spruce pole, to which the
line was attached, swimming on the surface, served as a buoy to
mark his course.

“So much for a short line and a brittle pole!” exclaimed
Hector.

“Your mother thought that line might not answer, and gave
me another, — I had quite forgotten it,” said Charlotte. “Here
it is.”

“But my snare is gone.”

“I can give you a wire out of my bonnet.”

The new snare was scarcely rigged, when the pickerel, having
got clear of his encumbrance, reäppeared in his favorite haunt,
looking very impudent, as if he had returned in a spirit of litigation,
to learn what it was all about. Hector, accordingly, proceeded
to demonstrate the matter, by adroitly slipping a second
noose over his gills.

“What an expression of countenance! It says plain as talking,
`Do that again, and I 'll prosecute!' And, I presume, if
he could speak, or if we understood the Finnish dialect, which

pickerels may be supposed to use, he would be laying down points
of law to us.”

Another pull, — and his pickerelship, leaping with a sudden
splash out of the water, slipped from the snare and fell flouncing
in Charlotte's lap, as she was sitting on the grass. She flung him
off, with a scream; and the next moment he was threshing the
shallow water in a small stone basin below, when Hector seized
him, and cast him upon dry land.

“Have ye cotcht him? have ye cotcht him?” cried the
excited Bridget, rushing into the bushes on the opposite bank.
“Kape 'im! hould 'im! and I 'll be afther wading acrost to
yez!”

Nobody observed her until, taking her shoes under her arm,
and carefully holding her dress, she stepped down into the water
and commenced fording.

“Go back, you ridiculous creature!” cried Hector. “What
are you going to do? What do you want?”

“It 's the big floppin' fish I 'd be havin'!” said Bridget. “An'
it 's br'il 'im for dinner I will.”

“Come around by the bridge, then, and be respectable,” said
Hector. “You 're a fright, Bridget! You look like a Gothic
cottage!”

“An' where 's the harm, sure? Nobody tould ye to be lookin'.
Ye might be kapin' yer eyes to home, jist!”

“But you 'll be drowned, Bridget! You are not amphibious;
you 're not a duck, dear; I can take my oath you 're not web-footed!”

At that moment Corny's grinning red face made its appearance
among the willows behind her.

“Go it,” he cried; “'t an't deep!”

“Dape?” echoed Bridget. “No more it is n't! I 've waded
this creek a dozen o' times, an' niver a bit did I get drownded,
yit!”

“But you never waded in this spot,” said Hector. “There 's a
deep place right before you.”

Bridget, doubtingly: “Miss Charlit, is it the truth he 's tellin',
noo?”

Charlotte: “Can't you see?”

Bridget: “Faith, an' how should I be seein', wid the sun in
the wather dazzlin' the eyes of me out o' me head inthirely?”

Corny, vociferously: “Water-snakes, Bridget!”

“Och, be jabbers, where?”

“Right behind ye, here, streakin' it arter ye like blazes!”

Bridget, in a fluster: “It 's lyin' ye are, noo!”

Corny: “I hope to die! There 's one big enough to swaller
ye! He 's got teeth like a pitchfork!”

Bridget, dropping skirts and shoes: “S'int Pathrick, hilp! Is
there a snake, Misther Hector?”

Corny, throwing a slab of flood-wood into the creek: “There
he is! he 'll have ye by the heels in no time! Scooter,
Bridget!”

The panic-stricken Bridget plunged forward, — and downward,
— and under. For a moment nothing of her was visible but a
whirlpool of skirts and a floating sun-bonnet; then up rose her
face like a sea-nymph's, covered with weeds and hair, and dripping
profusely.

Corny, yelling and clapping his hands: “Swim! Put in!
He 's arter ye!”

Bridget: “O, bloody murther!” — blowing water out of her
mouth, and struggling for sight and breath. “It 's drownded I 'll
be! I 'se kilt intirely!”

Hector, extending his fish-pole: “Catch this!”

She grasped it eagerly, and Hector drew her to the bank. After
a deal of struggling and stumbling, she got up, with the heavy
water pouring from her clothes, and looked around.

“Faix,” said she, “who is it that 's kilt? Quit yer laughin',
wid ye, ye botherin', lyin' spalpeen of a Carny! There 's niver
such a baste as a wather-snake anywheres in the crick; and
d' ye s'pose I did n't know that? It 's makin' belave skeert I was,
ahl the time!”

Hector: “And making believe dive, too, Bridget!”

Bridget, indignantly: “An' is 't that knocks such sights o' fun
out o' yez? D' ye think I care for a thrifle of a wet foot?”

“But you have lost your shoes!”

“Jist as if 't was n't an ould pair 't I have cast away twice this
marnin', an' picked up again out o' pity, jist! So I tha'ht I 'd be
afther lavin' 'em in the crick, an' that would be the last of 'em, bad
luck to 'em! Give us yer pole, an' I be fishin' up my bunnit,
noo!”

Hector: “I 'll get it for you.”

Charlotte, with tears in her eyes: “Don't wait for it, Bridget!
Run to the house! You should always exercise after a cold bath!”

Bridget: “I 'd be exercisin' that Carny, if I had hould of 'im
wonst! Ye 'll be gettin' yer pay, one day, ol' fello'!”

Hector, raising a drenched rag on the end of his fishing-pole:
“Here 's your bonnet!”

“An' is that my bunnit? Bad luck to it! it might bether 'ave
ghane doon strame! — Laugh, thin, ye owl of a Carny! — Where 's
yer pickerel, noo?”

“Here, take him and run.”

“Ouch! but he 'll be afther bitin' me with that floppin' tail of
his!”

“Put him in your bonnet.”

“An' do ye think I 'd be disgracin' an illigant arthicle, like this
same, wid his slippery carkiss? Here 's the thing that 'll do
beautifully. Wrap 'im up in it, Misther Hector.”

Corny, from over the creek: “Here! that 's my jacket!”

Having rolled the fish in the garment, — which was one of
several, belonging to Corny, left lying in the fields that summer, —
Bridget set out for the house, muttering to herself, and shaking
her head defiantly, her wet clothes clinging and flapping, and her
drenched, uncombed hair streaming down her back. Meanwhile
Mr. Dunbury was calling, impatiently, to Corny. Hector asked
the latter if he heard.

“Wal, I s'pose I do,” said that indifferent youth, seating himself
under the willows.

“Why don't you answer, then?”

“'Cos'; I s'pose I did n't think on 't. I was lookin' at her.”

Mr. Dunbury called again at the top of his lungs.

“W-a-a-a-l!” bellowed Corny, “I 'm comin'!” and, taking
out his knife, he began to whittle a dry stick.

Hector, severely: “Is that what you mean by coming?”

Corny: “What 's the thunderin' hurry, I 'd like to know?
Time enough! Say, why don't ye go up to Jackwood's bridge,
an' ketch some o' them suckers? I see a hull slew o' lunkin' big
fellers, up there, t' other day.”

Mr. Dunbury was calling again; and, with extreme reluctance,
young Master Boughton got up from the bushes, put his knife out
of sight, and returned, lazily, to his work.

“Come, Charlotte,” said Hector, “let us get away from the
hearing of this. It makes my soul sick. — Let us stroll up the
creek, and see about Corny's suckers. Will you come?”

The fields lay fragrant and fair before her; and to go out there,
alone with him, into the beauty and calm of the valley, seemed an
almost intoxicating happiness. Charlotte hesitated; but he said
“Come!” again, so winningly and kindly, that she could not
refuse.

“You must be responsible to your mother for taking me away.”

“Yes, yes,” returned Hector, with a strange fervor in his
tones, “I 'll be responsible, I 'll be anything for the sake of
your company.”

“My company?” repeated Charlotte, doubtingly.

Hector turned upon her a look so radiant and tender that it
thrilled her through and through.

“Aside from my mother,” said he, “you are the only person I
see in whose society I take any satisfaction; and you know it.”

“I know,” — Charlotte's heart fluttered, — “I know that you
are often dissatisfied and lonely. Your mother has observed it,
and it troubles her.”

“O, my mother does not understand me! And you do not,
Charlotte.”

“I know I do not: that is not for me.”

“Not for you, Charlotte?”

“No, — I feel so like a little child beside you, always! I am
glad when you are happy; I am sorry when you are sad; and
that is all: I never think of understanding you.”

“My heart craves to be understood, Charlotte; and you might
understand it, if you would!”

“I?” cried Charlotte, startled.

“You, better than any one. I could throw open all doors to
you, but you will not even look into the inner chambers.”

“It is because I have no right!”

Charlotte's voice was low and tremulous. Hector looked at her
inquiringly, then, walking near her side, took her hand; but she
withdrew it gently.

“Who and what are you?” he cried out, impulsively.

“A child — to you.”

“But children do not do so: children do not keep us at arm's
length: children are trusting and simple.”

“I cease to be a child when you would make me more than
that to you.”

“And why not more?”

“I am not worthy.”

“Not worthy!” Hector seized her hand again, and held it
clasped in his, in spite of her. “Not worthy! O, Charlotte, do
I not know your heart?”

“But you do not know my past!”

“That has been dark, I know. Although you have never told
me of it, I see something of what you have suffered. But think
of my past, Charlotte! 'T is I who am not worthy! O, the
rank weeds of passion I have trampled through! They lie rotting
behind me now, and memory is the wind that brings their
pestilent exhalations to my nostrils. It is this which makes me
sick of life.”

“It is that which is purifying your life: I have seen so much.”

“Perhaps, — for remorse is very busy, ploughing over those
weeds.”

“And perhaps the soil of your nature will be all the richer for
them,” added Charlotte, timidly.

“If they are ever subdued,” said Hector. “You have spoken
wise words, and they comfort me — a little. I try to believe that
my experience has been necessary and useful; but since I have
known you, I have seen myself so soiled and stained, that I have
thought there was not rain enough in the sweet heavens to wash
me clean.”

“If you had not aspirations above other men, you would not be
dissatisfied with yourself,” replied Charlotte.

“Your mantle of charity is broad, and very grateful to the back
of my offences! But why do I talk to you in this way? to you,
who, above all, I am anxious should think well of me! Is it not
because I want you to know me, — my weakness as well as my
strength, my dark side no less than my bright side, — in order
that I may have your sympathy?”

“Remember — reflect,” said Charlotte, troubled, — “I am but
your servant.”

“Servant! I hate the word! It sounds too much like slave!
There is no servitude to the soul but ignorance and passion; and
the soul in you is all I have to deal with. Had I found you in
the meanest capacity, in absolute bondage even, it would have
made no shade of difference; still something in your soul would
have spoken to something in mine, — would have called me
brother, and I would have recognized my sister!”

Hector spoke with a vehemence that appeared to alarm his
companion. Her cheek paled, and her hand quivered with agitation.

“So let me have no more of that!” he went on, smiling gently.
“We will put our feet upon the false partition between us. You
understand me, — I have no thought of falling in love with you;
that is as far from my heart as Jupiter from the sun.”

Charlotte laughed a sad and tearful laugh, and said there was
no need of telling her that.

“Of course not; you are a girl of sense. It is because I can
put this confidence in you, and know that you will not misinterpret
me, that I esteem you — that I choose you for a friend.”

“But you have so many old friends here, — friends so much
worthier than I!”

“I have not one such, Charlotte. I cherish but a shrivelled
respect for the best of them, — that you know.”

“And I know that they complain of you for that. They were
once your intimates; but now you are indifferent to them. And
it is you who have changed, they say, — they never change.”

“True: I have changed, I do change, I hope always to change.

And it is because they never change, that the grass has grown
between our paths. There is Charles Hart, for instance: he was
the companion of my boyhood; there was sympathy and confidence
between us; and, in all my journeyings, I never forgot
him. On coming home, I anticipated scarce a greater pleasure
than that of meeting him. We would measure experiences, compare
philosophies, and learn so much of each other, I thought.
Well, I saw him. He was a withered bough; he bore no fruit
for me. His talk was of oxen. He delighted in reminiscences
of good horse-trades. He told all about Jim Weston's fat hogs.
Great stories he recounted of riding fractious colts, of breaking
stubborn steers, of running tilt against pugnacious rams. Conversation
agreeable enough in its way, but unsatisfactory on the
whole. In principles and truths that were the life of my spirit,
he confessed a total lack of interest. I spoke of my poetical
studies — he had had things of greater importance to attend
to. I advanced ideas on spiritual culture — he thought them
dangerous: he had done up his faith in the shroud of his creed,
folded his arms, and was waiting for a resurrection. When I
wished to lead his mind towards the miracles of life and growth,
he branched out on the subject of onions, and told what beds of
'em `me and father' raised, last year. He is but a sample of the
rest. I am not sorry that they find me changed.”

“But the young ladies,” said Charlotte; “they are not like the
men.”

“I hold not a very plump opinion of them, either. Some of
them are pretty and intelligent, I allow. I find real piety and
goodness in a few. But see how they have been educated! I
do not complain of what they have not learned, so much as of
what they have learned amiss. Conventionality and expediency
are their two hands. The principal use of their ears seems to be
to catch the answer to the important question `What will the
world say?' But the worst of all is, they have been taught by
their wise mothers to subordinate all their motives and aspirations
to a low matrimonial ambition. This is, in fact, the nose they
follow, — with one eye on convenience, the other on respectability.
They are so sharp in this practice, that it is dangerous for an

unmarried man to approach them. I have known brave exceptions,
but the rule applies pretty generally. What wonder, then,
that I neglect them for you? It is refreshing to find one sensible
girl, who has no thought of being fallen in love with!”

“That would be insane in me, indeed!” said Charlotte, smiling,
but with a strange emotion in her face.

“And yet,” cried Hector, “the idea is not so absurd as you
imagine! But do not fear! My days of fancy are passed.
Had I seen you no longer ago than when I was in the south,
there might have been danger; but there is none now.”

Charlotte drew a long breath. Her countenance was downcast
and troubled.

“That offends you, I see! It should not. Come, look up, —
smile.”

Charlotte raised her eyes. They were filled with tears.

“How have I grieved you?”

“You have not — it was nothing you said —”

“And yet,” insisted Hector, “I touched some chord that suffering
has made sensitive. How you distrust me!”

“I do not distrust you,” said Charlotte.

“If you did not, you would tell me of your sufferings. You
would lift that dark curtain which hides your heart.”

They had stopped; they were standing by a little runnel in the
meadow. Hector held her wrist and looked down earnestly in her
face. For a moment she struggled with herself; then spoke out,
hurriedly.

“Hector, you have been true to me, and I cannot deceive you.
Let me tell you this, then, once for all. If you knew my history,
you would put me from you. It is the consciousness of this that
shoots me through with pain, when I remember myself — you —
and the gulf between us!”

Hector became pale with apprehension.

“Show me that gulf,” he said, with an incredulous smile.

“No, — no, — I have warned you of the truth, — the fact I
can never speak.”

Hector's brow was overcast; but, seeing how strangely sad and
fair she looked, with her large eyes drooping under his searching

gaze, he placed his finger, playfully, under her chin, and met her
upward glance with a generous smile.

“Pardon me,” he said, in a low, musical tone. “I 'll try not
to ask again for what does not belong to me. Forget it all; and
we will see now what can be done for Corny's suckers, — for here
we are, close by the bridge, and the squirrels on the fence are
chattering at us.”

But Hector's heart was no longer in his sport. There were no
fish at the bridge worth catching, he said.

“Then let us go home,” Charlotte proposed.

He could not think of that; the charm of leading her through
those sweet solitudes was too pleasant to be broken.

“Do not be faint-hearted,” said he. “If we go a little further
we can pass by Mr. Jackwood's house, and, perhaps, get a glimpse
of Phœbe's bright face, on our way home.”

And Charlotte still had power to do only what he asked, and
follow where he led.