University of Virginia Library

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE LAST.

THE letter was deposited at the post-office immediately.
Charlton did not dare give his self-denying
resolution time to cool.

Isa was not looking for letters, and Mrs. Ferret
ventured to hint that the chance of meeting somebody
on the street had something to do with her walk. Of
course Miss Marlay was insulted. No woman would ever do
such a thing. Consciously, at least.

And after reading Charlton's letter, what did Isa do? What
could she do? A woman may not move in such a case. Her
whole future happiness may drift to wreck by somebody's mistake,
and she may not reach a hand to arrest it. What she
does must be done by indirection and under disguise. It is a
way society has of training women to be candid.

The first feeling which Isa had was a sudden shock of surprise.
She was not so much astonished at the revelation of
Charlton's feeling as at the discovery of her own. With Albert's

abrupt going away, all her heart and hope seemed to be
going too. She had believed her interest in Charlton to be
disinterested until this moment. It was not until he proposed
going away entirely that she came to understand how completely
that interest had changed its character.

But what could she do? Nothing at all. She was a
woman.

As evening drew on, Charlton felt more and more the bitterness
of the self-denial he had imposed upon himself. He
inwardly abused Mrs. Ferret for meddling. He began to hope
for all sorts of impossible accidents that might release him
from his duty in the case. Just after dark he walked out.
Of course he did not want to meet Miss Marlay—his mind
was made up—he would not walk down Plausaby street—at
least not so far as Mrs. Ferret's house. There could be no
possible harm in his going half-way there. Love is always
going half-way, and then splitting the difference on the remainder.
Isa, on her part, remembered a little errand she
must attend to at the store. She felt that, after a day of
excitement, she needed the air, though indeed she did not want
to meet Charlton any more, if he had made up his mind not
to see her. And so they walked right up to one another, as
lovers do when they have firmly resolved to keep apart.

“Good-evening, Isabel,” said Albert. He had not called her
Isabel before. It was a sort of involuntary freedom which
he allowed himself—this was to be the very last interview.

“Good-evening—Albert.” Isa could not refuse to treat him
with sisterly freedom—now that she was going to bid him
adieu forever. “You were going away without so much as
saying good-by.”

“One doesn't like to be the cause of unpleasant remarks
about one's best friend,” said Charlton.

“But what if your best friend doesn't care a fig for anybody's
remarks,” said Isabel energetically.

“How?” asked Albert. It was a senseless interrogatory,
but Isa's words almost took his breath.

Isa was startled at having said so much, and only replied
indistinctly that it didn't matter what people said.

“Yes, but you don't know how long such things might
cleave to you. Ten years hence it might be said that you had
been the friend of a man who was—in—the penitentiary.”
Charlton presented objections for the sake of having them
refuted.

“And I wouldn't care any more ten years hence than I do
now. Were you going to our house? Shall I walk back
with you?”

“I don't know.” Charlton felt his good resolutions departing.
“I started out because I wanted to see the lake
where Katy was drowned before I go away. I am ever so
glad that I met you, if I do not compromise you. I would
rather spend this evening in your company than in any other
way in the world—” Albert hadn't meant to say so much,
but he couldn't recall it when it was uttered—“but I feel
that I should be selfish to bring reproach on you for my own
enjoyment.”

“All right, then,” said Isa, laughing, “I'll take the responsibility.
I am going to the lake with you if you don't
object.”

“You are the bravest woman in the world,” said Albert
with effusion.

“You forget how brave a man you have shown yourself.”

I am afraid this strain of talk was not at all favorable to
the strength and persistence of Charlton's resolution, which,
indeed, was by this time sadly weakened.

After they had spent an hour upon the knoll looking out
upon the lake, and talking of the past, and diligently avoiding
all mention of the future, Charlton summoned courage to
allude to his departure in a voice more full of love than of
resolve.

“Why do you go, Albert?” Isa said, looking down and
breaking a weed with the toe of her boot. They had called
each other by their Christian names during the whole interview.

“Simply for the sake of your happiness, Isa. It makes me
miserable enough, I am sure.” Charlton spoke as pathetically
as he could.

“But suppose I tell you that your going will make me as
wretched as it can make you. What then?”

“How? It certainly would be unmanly for me to ask you
to share my disgrace. A poor way of showing my love. I
love you well enough to do anything in the world to make
you happy.”

Isa looked down a moment and began to speak, but
stopped.

“Well, what?” said Albert.

“May I decide what will make me happy? Am I capable
of judging?”

Albert looked foolish, and said, “Yes,” with some eagerness.
He was more than ever willing to have somebody else
decide for him.

“Then I tell you, Albert, that if you go away you will sacrifice
my happiness along with your own.”

It was a real merry party that met at a petit souper at
nine o'clock in the evening in the dining-room of the City
Hotel some months later. There was Lurton, now pastor in
Perritaut, who had just given his blessing on the marriage of
his friends, and who sat at the head of the table and said
grace. There were Albert and Isabel Charlton, bridegroom and
bride. There was Gray, the Hoosier Poet, with a poem of nine
verses for the occasion.

“I'm sorry the stage is late,” said Albert. “I wanted
Jim.” One likes to have all of one's best friends on such an
occasion.

Just then the coach rattled up to the door, and Albert went
out and brought in the Superior Being.

“Now, we are all here,” said Charlton. “I had to ask
Mrs. Ferret, and I was afraid she'd come.”

“Not her!” said Jim.

“Why?”

“She kin do better.”

“How?”

“She staid to meet her beloved.”

“Who's that?”

“Dave.” Jim didn't like to give any more information
than would serve to answer a question. He liked to be
pumped.

“Dave Sawney?”

“The same. He told me to-day as him and the widder
owned claims as 'jined, and they'd made up their minds to

jine too. And then he haw-haw'd tell you could a-heerd him
a mile. By the way, it's the widder that's let the cat out of
the bag.”

“What cat out of what bag?” asked Lurton.

“Why, how Mr. Charlton come to go to the State boardin'-house
fer takin' a land-warrant he didn't take.”

“How did she find out?” said Isa. Her voice seemed to be
purer aud sweeter than ever—happiness had tuned it.

“By list'nin' at the key-hole,” said Jim.

“When? What key-hole?”

“When Mr. Lurton and Miss Marlay—I beg your pard'n,
Mrs. Charlton—was a-talkin' about haow to git Mr. Charlton
out.”

“Be careful,” said Lurton. “You shouldn't make such a
charge unless you have authority.”

Jim looked at Lurton a moment indignantly. “Thunder
and lightnin',” he said, “Dave tole me so hisself! Said she
tole him. And Dave larfed over it, and thought it `powerful
cute in her, as he said in his Hoosier lingo;” and Jim accompanied
this last remark with a patronizing look at Gray.

“Charlton, what are you thinking about?” asked Lurton
when conversation flagged.

“One year ago to-day I was sentenced, and one year ago to-morrow
I started to Stillwater.”

“Bully!” said Jim. “I beg yer pardon, Mrs. Charlton, I
couldn't help it. A body likes to see the wheel turn round
right. Ef 'twould on'y put some folks in as well as turn
some a-out!”

When Charlton with his bride started in a sleigh the next

morning to his new home on his property in the village of
“Charlton,” a crowd had gathered about the door, moved partly
by that curiosity which always interests itself in newly-married
people, and partly by an exciting rumor that Charlton
was not guilty of the offense for which he had been imprisoned.
Mrs. Ferret had told the story to everybody, exacting from
each one a pledge of secrecy. Just as Albert started his
horses, Whisky Jim, on top of his stage-box, called out to the
crowd, “Three cheers, by thunder!” and they were given
heartily. It was the popular acquittal.