University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
ARTHUR BLAGUE AWAKES FROM A PLEASANT DREAM.—SO DO
MR. AND MRS. RUGGLES.

It will be seen that there was a good deal of discipline
going on among the better characters engaged in
our story, during the season. Dr. Gilbert had received
a very decided shock, and was taught that a strong will
is not omnipotent. The struggle was not so nearly finished
as it appeared when he closed his memorable interview
with Mary Hammett, but it was covered from
observation. He visited her school as usual, insisted on
her appearing at his table, met her in the street, and,
by dint of dogged determination, wore out his disappointment—compelled
himself to bow to the decision
that forever placed her beyond his possession. It hurt
him, but it humanized him.

Mary Hammett herself was not without trials. It
was a trial to meet Dr. Gilbert, and it had become so
much a trial to encounter Arthur Blague, that she endeavored
to shun him. She would give him no private
opportunity to speak to her. She constantly feared the
introduction of a subject that could result only in pain

to him and to her. Her quiet had been disturbed more
than once during the summer by the intrusion of Mr.
Dan Buck, who insisted on her paying him more
money. He had drawn around him a circle of dissolute
companions in the village, with whom he spent whole
nights of carousal, and, by threats of an exposure which
Mary could not face, succeeded in compelling from her
all her hard earnings.

Fanny Gilbert's discipline did not entirely cease
with the disappointment consequent upon the failure of
her book. When she had decided for the time to relinquish
her schemes for the acquisition of fame, and to
mingle with the life around her, she did not find that life
ready to receive and minister to her. Her old companions
had become offended with her protracted exclusiveness,
and, conceiving that she felt herself above
them, shunned her. Many of them had read her book,
and, with the meanness characteristic of their small
natures, had ridiculed it—adopted in irony its phrases
—talked and laughed about it on every occasion of their
meeting. They received the volume as an assertion on
the part of the authoress, of superiority. They felt
that they had no defence but by combining, either to
put her down, or to set themselves up, by ignoring her
altogether. She was not invited to their social gatherings.
Many passed her in the street without seeing
her. While she was engaged in her labor, she had voluntarily
isolated herself from them; now that she was
ready for their society, and longed for their sympathy,
they avoided her as if she were a tainted woman. This
was one of the penalties of seeking for public praise
which she had not anticipated at all. She had expected

to be courted by those who knew her, and was disappointed.
Their unreasonable jealousy made her angry,
and, alas! hardened her. Many an evening Fanny
walked her chamber alone, and revolved her trials.
“They shall court me,” said Miss Gilbert, stamping her
slippered foot upon the floor. “I'll make them. It's
in me, and I'll make them. I'm not a bankrupt yet,
thank God!”

The life of Arthur Blague, after Mrs. Ruggles'
“valuable accusation” to the society of Hucklebury Run
made his appearance, was one of hard labor and constant
annoyance. The proprietor and his family, and
the plausible villain who had obtained a sort of mastery
over all of them, lost no opportunity to insult him.
Oftentimes he was tempted to angry resentment, but
self-control gave him victory as often over them and his
own indignant spirit. Had he not been at work for
others—had he not subordinated his life to the comfort
and support of those whom Providence had placed in
his care—he would have fled. For himself, he would
have endured nothing; but evermore there rose before
his eyes the pale face of his dependent mother, and the
helpless little hands of his brother, and he said to himself,
“For these, I endure.”

Besides, Arthur had one all-absorbing subject of
thought. It pervaded, purified, and elevated his whole
nature. When he opened his eyes in the morning, one
sweet face and form seemed hovering over his pillow.
When he closed them at night, the same angel came to
comfort him, and to walk with him into the realm of
dreams. In the full possession of one pure spirit, his
life seemed to himself a charmed one. He felt released

from the power of temptation, lifted above all low aims
and mean resentments, stimulated to faithful and unremitting
toil, softened into sympathy with all the sorrow
and trouble around him.

As he became more thoroughly absorbed by his
passion for Mary Hammett, did he become more afraid
of her. Her presence was almost painful to him. He
detected this tendency in himself, and felt urged to almost
desperate efforts to counteract it. The more he
loved her—the more essential to his life she seemed to
him—the more unapproachable did she appear. He
could not love her more without plunging himself into
absolute despair. At length, he came to feel that it
was wrong for him to indulge in a passion that must
wreck him forever, if its object could not be won; and
he summoned all the strength of his nature to meet the
decision of the great question before it should be too
late.

What should he do? He could not go to Mary
Hammett, and tell her to her face that he loved her.
He could not fall upon his knees, and confess that his
life and happiness were in her hands. He was deeply
conscious that his fate was doubtful, and he could never
take denial from her lips. He would write her a letter
—resort of timid lovers from time immemorial. Oh!
blessed pen, that will not stammer! Oh! brave ink,
that will not faint and fade in the critical moment of destiny!
Oh! happy paper, that cannot blush! Oh! faithful
cup, that bears one's heart's blood to the lips one loves,
and spills no precious drop!

Of the letters Arthur wrote and tore in pieces, we
present no record. One was too cool and self-contained,

and so was sacrificed. One was too warm and demonstrative,
and that was destroyed. But, on a certain
Monday morning, as he was leaving his home for a week
of labor at the Run, he thrust a note into Mary's hand
without a word, and left her. In it he had poured out,
like wine upon an altar of sacrifice, his whole heart.
He told her how, from the first moment of their meeting,
he had begun to love her; how from that time onward
she had grown upon his heart, until he felt that
life without her would become not only valueless, but
miserable; how she had absorbed his thoughts, become
an inspiring power in his life, grown to be his purifier;
how, for her, he was willing to brave toil and poverty,
and even death itself. He deplored his own unworthiness
of her, and pledged himself to a whole life—nay,
a whole eternity—of effort, to make himself one whom
she would not be ashamed to call her lover and her
husband.

During the week which followed the delivery of his
letter, Arthur walked and worked like one in a dream.
Abstracted, he saw and heard nothing that was going on
about him. He went mechanically through his labor,
ate his meals as if he were a machine, and retired to
bed at night and rose in the morning in obedience to
blind routine. When Mrs. Joslyn gave her signal,
“Sh-h-h-h!” he repeated it, under a vague impression
that she was scaring chickens out of the house. When
Cheek inquired what time it was, he replied that he was
very well indeed—never better, in fact. He surprised
the proprietor one morning by shaking his hand, and
inquiring, with great apparent interest, for his health.
On being told testily that he was half-dead, Arthur

thanked him for the information, and declared further
that he was very happy to hear it—hoped he would
continue so.

Saturday night came again, and he started as usual
for Crampton. He had received no reply to his letter,
but he knew that before he should return to the Run,
his fate would be decided. He dreaded to enter his
home, for he felt that it held, and would soon reveal,
the secret of his fate. He looked haggard and pale, as
if he had worked and watched for a month. His mother
met him with many anxious inquiries—wondered what
had wrought such a change in him, and wept to think
that her boy was killing himself for her. Miss Hammett
was frightened when she read the lines which one
long week of anxiety had engraved upon his face. She
was calm, sober, and reserved. She had a sisterly
affection for the young man, such as she felt for no
other, and it pained her beyond expression to be deprived
of the privilege of sympathizing with him. She felt almost
guilty for being the cause of his pain. She would
have been glad to throw herself upon her knees before
him, and ask him to forgive her for something—she
knew not what—to lay her hand upon his forehead, and
whisper words of consolation to him.

The Sabbath passed away, and Arthur received no
reply to his letter. She hardly spoke to him during
the day, but confined herself to her room. His mother
was conscious that there was some momentous secret
between them, but did not guess its nature. On Monday
morning, just as Arthur was opening the door to
leave his home for another week, he heard steps upon
the stairs, and, turning around, saw Mary Hammett descending.

He stood, uttered no word, received from
her hand a folded note, and left the house.

Did he open the note the moment he was out of the
village? Not at all. He felt that he had a great work
to do before it would be proper for him to read one word.
As he trod the accustomed walk, there was a voice in his
soul that said: “Young man, the decision of your destiny
is in the hand of no woman, however angelic. It
is in your own. If your life is lost, it will be lost because
you are weak.”

Straightway, he felt every power within him summoned
to a great effort. His head was as clear as the
heaven above him; his heart as calm as the early morning
landscape. Out before his imagination ran two
paths. In one, he saw himself walking alone. Thorns
were under his feet, clouds were over his head; feeble
men and women and children were begging on either
side for help; great hills and rocks rose in the distance;
but far off the path climbed to the sky, and faded into a
heavenly light. In the other, he walked with an angel
in sweet converse, forgetful, in his bliss, of all the woes
beneath the sun. Broad trees stretched their shadows
over him, silver brooks murmured in the sunshine, and
birds filled all the air with music. But the path was
level, and by its side sat a feeble woman, with a babe
upon her knee, imploring him not to forget her and the
little one left to his protection. At the parting of the
paths stood two figures with folded hands, waiting to
hear the decision which the letter contained, and ready
to conduct him—Duty and Inclination—equally eager
to be his escort.

All this seemed to Arthur like a heavenly vision.

Perhaps it was—perhaps it was no more than the result
of a profoundly moved imagination. The task to which
he felt summoned had called in the aid of every external
spiritual force around him. Shall we doubt that toward
an insufficient soul, that, in a great emergency, throws
itself wide open to God's spiritual universe, spiritual
forces rush, as a million miles of conscious atmosphere
leap to fill a vacuum?

From whatever source the vision came, it impressed
Arthur like a reality. He saw these two paths as distinctly
as if they had been presented in very materiality
to his vision; and he stopped where they parted from
each other. Then he drew forth the letter, broke the
seal, kissed it as if there were a soul in it, and read it
through, every word. He kissed the name that subscribed
the revelation, and two big tears bathed the
page while he did it. Then he commenced at one side
of the sheet, and slowly tore the whole into ribbons,
then tore the ribbons into squares, and sowed them
upon the wind. He stood for a minute like one entranced,
gazing into vacancy, and then the sound of a
distant bell recalled him to consciousness. He turned,
as if expecting to see the two paths still, and ready to
give his hand to Duty, but only the old familiar path to
the Run lay before him—marvellously like the rugged
passage of his vision, with the glorious morning sun
blazing upon the mountain-top that stood far off against
the sky.

He could not account for the strange strength that
filled him—the strange joy that thrilled him. Uncertainty,
that had brooded with uneasy and harassing
wings over his heart, had flown. Doubt, that like a

heavy cloud had clung around his head, had been drunk
up by the morning light. Fear, that had haunted him
night and day like a ghost, had fled. It was a relief to
know that all his precious hopes were blasted. He
realized, for the first time, how his blind love had debilitated—almost
paralyzed him; how, forgetful of God
and men, and all his youthful purposes and aims, he had
allowed his passion to quench the fire of his young
manhood. He walked onward to recommence his daily
labor, feeling that a great burden had been lifted from
his shoulders, content that the question had been decided
against him. The possibilities of his life had
never seemed so great as now. He had never felt so
free. If there was sorrow in his cup, there was exultation
also.

One by one the expressions of Mary's letter came
up, and passed before his mind, and he gained new
strength from each. “Arthur Blague, I admire you.
Would God I could tell you with how strong a sisterly
affection I love you. Be a man. Overcome this
passion of your youth. Do not let me be disappointed
in you. Do not compel me to sacrifice my admiration
and love for you, by any weak repinings over your disappointment.
Deal in a manly way with the trials of
the present, and the future will not fail to be generous
to you.” Then there were other words, that gave him
deeper thought than these, words burnt into his memory,
legible then not only, but through all his after-life;
words, too, into whose full meaning his after-life introduced
him. “You tell me that I, a poor, imperfect
woman, obliged to kneel and beg daily for the pardon
of my sins, have become to you a purifier—nay, you

use that higher word which you should not use in such
an unworthy connection—your sanctifier. You tell me
that your love for me has given you freedom from
temptation, and compelled you to look with aversion
and disgust upon all sordid and sensual things—that it
has softened your heart, and elevated your life. If this
is all true—and I will not doubt you, though what you
say sadly humbles me, conscious, as I must be, of my
own unworthiness—what would as strong a love for One
who is altogether lovely do for you? If I have had
this influence upon you, through your love for me, what
shall be the influence of Him who has room in his heart
for all the hearts that have ever throbbed, or ever shall
throb, in the world? I would not obtrude upon you a
thought like this, in a letter like this, did I not feel that
in it lies the cure of greater disappointments, if such there
be, than that which this letter will give you. Receive
it, Arthur Blague. Think upon it, and God grant that
it may lead you into a wealth of blessedness such as
earthly love can never bestow!”

Busy with his thoughts, and revolving the words of
the wonderful letter he had read, Arthur had nearly
reached the hill that overlooked the factory at Hucklebury
Run, when a horse's head made its appearance
over the brow, and, following it, the familiar travelling
establishment of the proprietor. As he met the carriage,
he raised his eyes to see who could be setting out
so early, and recognized Mr. Dan Buck and the proprietor's
daughter, Leonora. From the evening of his
parting with Leonora, she had not recognized him as an
acquaintance, and he and Dan Buck were on no friendly
terms of intercourse. He expected some insult, and

was greatly surprised when that young man drew rein,
and greeted him with a very polite “good morning.”

“I wish you would look round and see to things a
little to-day,” said Dan Buck. “The old man is under
the weather.”

“What is the matter with him?” inquired Arthur.

“Well, between you and me, I think he's got the
pip,” replied Dan Buck, nudging Leonora with his
elbow, and thereby setting her to giggling.

Arthur did not smile. He was in no mood for it.
Neither the man nor his weak and vain companion had
ever seemed so contemptible to him before. So, without
noticing his reply, he asked him where he was
going.

“Oh! we are only going to have a little drive over
to Littleton. I've got some business to do there, and
Leonora thought she'd take a ride with me. We are
going to make a day of it, and if the old man raises a
row, you can tell him that we shall not be back till
late.” Then Mr. Buck turned to the horse, hit him a
stinging blow with the whip, and yelling, “Let out the
links,” drove off at a furious rate.

Arthur paused, and looked after the departing pair.
There had been something in Dan Buck's manner and
in Leonora's appearance, that impressed him with peculiar
apprehension. Something, he was sure, was not
right. He tried to analyze his impressions, but they
were too vague for analysis. He was only conscious of
a conviction that there was mischief on foot, and that
there was a mutual understanding of its nature between
Dan Buck and Leonora. Arriving at the factory, he
went about his labor as usual, and nothing occurred until

mid-afternoon to recall the meeting of the morning. At
that time the wife of the proprietor came sailing into
the mill, carrying her usual quantity of canvas and
bunting, and meeting Arthur, inquired with a great deal
of dignity whether Dan Buck had returned. On being
answered in the negative, she asked if he had informed
any one before leaving how long he should be gone.
Arthur told her of his meeting Buck and her daughter
on the hill, and of the statement of the former, that
they should make a day of it.

“Father'll be awful pervoked,” said Mrs. Ruggles,
with a very solemn look.

“Mr. Ruggles is not well, I believe?” said Arthur
interrogatively.

“No; he's been kind o' down t' the heel for some
time—its a rising of the vitals, I tell him. He was
dreadful bad in the night, and Mr. Buck said he'd got
some stuff that would settle his stomach for him, but it
didn't seem to work the way he wanted to have it, and
he can't keep nothin' down at all now.”

“You can tell Mr. Ruggles that every thing is going
on right in the mill,” said Arthur; and the ponderous
lady set her sails for the voyage homeward. She had
proceeded but a short distance when she turned back, to
inquire of Arthur if Mr. Buck had informed him where
he was going. Arthur replied that he spoke of going
to Littleton on business. “What business can he have
at Littleton!” exclaimed Mrs. Ruggles, and then she
moved off again.

Evening came, but Mr. Buck did not come with it.
Again and again did the wife of the proprietor visit the
mill, to inquire if any thing had been seen or heard of

him. The hours of labor closed, and one after another
the lights of the village were extinguished, yet no sound
of horse's feet upon the bridge brought relief to the
anxiously waiting ears in the house of the proprietor.
On the following morning, at the break of day, there
came a violent rapping at the door of Big Joslyn.
Arthur heard it, and hearing his own name pronounced,
dressed hurriedly, and found awaiting him the anxious
face of Mrs. Ruggles.

“Arthur, you must come right up to the house, just
as quick as you can,” said the breathless woman.
“We're afraid something dreadful has happened to
Leonora. We haven't seen hide nor hair of neither of
'em yet, and they must have tipped over coming home
in the night. Oh! I'm so worried that it seems as if I
should die. If Leonora should be brung home a corpse,
it would just about finish me off. Oh! I'm so phthysicky!”
The poor woman sat down on the door-step,
and held her hands against her heart in genuine distress.

Arthur seized his cap, and ran for the house, leaving
Mrs. Ruggles to come at her convenience. Arriving at
the door of the proprietor, he knocked, and was told
feebly to “come in.” Before him, half-dressed, and
looking terribly haggard and miserable, sat Mr. Ruggles.
Apprehension and anger struggled for predominance
in the expression of his jaundiced features.

“Do you remember where the key of the safe used
to be kept?” inquired Mr. Ruggles of Arthur.

“Certainly.”

“Do you remember my little tin trunk, with a padlock
on it?”

“Certainly.”

“Open the safe, take out the trunk, lock the safe
again, and bring the key to me—quick!”

There was something in this speech so full of suspicious
impatience, that Arthur sprang to do the old
man's bidding as if it had stung him. He was gone
but a minute, when he returned, and informed the proprietor
that the key was neither in its accustomed place
of deposit, nor in the lock of the safe. The veins swelled
rigidly and painfully upon the brow of the proprietor,
and notwithstanding his feebleness, he rose and walked
the room, his lips pressed together, and every muscle
of his face as tense as if braced to master a terrific spasm
of pain.

“Look for that key again,” said Mr. Ruggles fiercely,
“and if you cannot find it, get a crowbar and open the
safe, if you have to break it in pieces. Don't come
back here without the trunk.”

Off sprang Arthur again, fully possessed now of the
master's impatient spirit. He sought for the key, but
he could not find it. At this time, the workmen were
beginning to come into the mill. The machinist of the
establishment was among them, and Arthur bade him
bring his strongest tools and open the safe in the quickest
way, even if he should ruin it. It was a difficult
task. Bars and chisels and sledges were called into
active requisition. The operatives gathered round in
wonder to watch the strange movements, and were full
of speculations as to their cause. At length an impression
was made. A plate was loosened—bolt-heads
were knocked off—a huge bar had got a bite at some
vulnerable point—hinges were burst, and the contents

of the safe were revealed. Bidding a man to keep guard
over the contents of the safe, Arthur seized the little
trunk in which the manufacturer kept his most important
papers, and was about to start upon a run with it to
the house, where he was awaited so anxiously, when he
discovered that the hasp was broken. A closer examination
showed that it had been carefully filed off.
He called those around him to witness the fact, and
then ran to the house of the proprietor as swiftly as his
feet could carry him. The moment he opened the door,
old Ruggles yelled, “What the devil have you been
doing all this time?”

“Breaking the safe in pieces, as you bade me,” replied
Arthur, upon whose face the beaded perspiration
hung plentifully.

“You didn't look for the key, you hound!” said old
Ruggles savagely, fumbling at the same time in his
pocket for the key of the trunk.

“I think you'll be able to open that without any
key,” replied Arthur with bitterness. The old man
took hold of the parted hasp, and lifting it, said, “Who
did this?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“You lie!”

“Half the hands in the mill are witnesses that the
trunk was broken when the safe was opened.”

“You lie!” growled the old man, hesitating to lift
the lid of the trunk, and striving to resist his convictions
of the truth by abusing Arthur.

“Mr. Ruggles,” said Arthur, with such calmness as
he could command, “you are in trouble. If you want
any help from me, you must not treat me like a dog.

If others have been untrue to you, it is no reason why
you should abuse me.”

The old man looked up into Arthur's face vacantly,
still hesitating to open the trunk. Finally he lifted the
lid, moaning, “My God! my God! If he has done it!”
He took up paper after paper, and file after file, and
ran them over and examined them. Then he examined
them again, as if unwilling to admit, even to himself,
that he had been robbed. At length he leaned back in
the chair, and groaned, and wrung his hands in agony.
After giving vent to his feelings, his excitement faded,
and he said: “Arthur, don't be mad with me. You
must stick to me now, and help me through. This
damnable villain has poisoned me and robbed me. Now
you must take one of the team-horses, and drive to the
Littleton Bank, and inquire if a draft of mine for five
thousand dollars has been cashed there. If it has, Dan
Buck is a robber, and has run away. Find Leonora,
and bring her back. She has plenty of friends in Littleton,
and very likely you will meet her on the way
home.”

These directions were given with comparative calmness,
but it was the calmness of weakness—the speaker
gasping at every sentence. His excitement had been
too much for him, and he leaned back in the chair utterly
overcome. Arthur left him with his wife, who,
only half-comprehending the state of affairs, was busying
herself with arranging the breakfast-table.

Without stopping for breakfast or change of apparel,
Arthur harnessed a horse, and drove him to the Littleton
Bank, a distance of five or six miles, and reached it
as the clerk was taking down the shutters. Arthur

made his inquiry concerning the draft, and found that
the fears of the proprietor were realized. It had been
cashed nearly twenty-four hours before, at the moment
of opening the bank, and Dan Buck, with the proprietor's
daughter, had immediately driven out of the village.
Of this latter fact, Arthur took further means of satisfying
himself. Dan Buck and Leonora, both, were
known to many people in Littleton, and several of the
villagers had seen them on their leaving the town. The
horse, they testified, had been cruelly driven; but as
they knew the young man to be “fast,” they had not
thought of the matter further. The road by which they
left was that leading to the Connecticut River, and as
there was no considerable town upon the way, Arthur
suspected at once that they had taken the shortest
road to the New York stage-lines, and that they were
already far on their way to the city.

The young man lost no time, but drove directly
back to Hucklebury Run, as rapidly as his clumsy
horse could carry him. During his absence, Mr. Ruggles
and his wife had made some discoveries. They
found that, by some means, Leonora had managed to
take away with her her choicest dresses, all her jewelry,
and such necessary articles of apparel as it was possible
to carry in a small space. The horrible suspicion that
she was a participator in the robber's guilt, and had fled
with him, had fastened itself upon both father and
mother; and bitter were the maledictions which the
former visited upon the head of the latter. In his
terror he raved like a man insane; and in his anger he
cursed his wife for the encouragement she had given not

only Dan Buck, but every young man who had visited
the house.

Arthur drove up to the door, almost as deeply excited
as those who awaited his coming. There were
but few questions asked. Both the proprietor and his
wife showed in their faces the terrible anguish and a
prehension that held them in possession. Arthur ga
a simple detail of what he had heard—the fact that the
draft had been cashed, that both Buck and Leonora left
Littleton together on the road leading to the river, and
that the horse had been cruelly driven.

The confirmation of the old man's fears was accompanied
by demonstrations of feeling the most pitiful that
can be conceived. The theft of his money, by the ungrateful
hands of his clerk, was a great trial, but it was
accompanied by a calamity so much greater, that it was
lost sight of altogether. That his petted Leonora, his
only child, on whom he had lavished all the affection
there was in his nature—whose desires had been his
law, and whose indulgence his delight—should become
either the mistress or the wife of a wretch like Dan
Buck, was more than he could bear. He wept, he
whined, he cursed by turns. He blasphemously called
upon God to tell him what he had done, that he must
be thus forsaken to disgrace and madness. Arthur
listened in horror, till he saw that the proprietor's emotions
were such as to destroy his power of action, and
then he suggested that there should be a pursuit.

The old man rose from his chair, and tottering on
his way across the room, came up to Arthur and leaned
heavily upon his shoulder. The young man felt awkward
under this demonstration of dependence, and still

more embarrassed when the weak and half-crazed proprietor
put his arms around him, and sobbed and whined
in his helpless grief.

“Arthur, I've been hard on you, but you musn't
mind it. You're the best friend I've got in the world,”
said he, in his whimpering voice. “Do what you can
to get Leonora back. Oh! if you'll only bring her back
safe, I'll give a thousand dollars; and just as soon as
you're twenty-one, I'll make you a partner in my business.”

Arthur shrank from the embrace of the proprietor,
as if he had been a snake. He pitied him certainly,
but he despised him still. The idea that money, or advancement
in business, would be a more powerful motive
than simple humanity, or neighborly kindness, in
securing his good offices in the emergency of the hour,
disgusted him. He put off the old man's hands, and
standing away from him, said: “What I do for you,
I do for a man in trouble, Mr. Ruggles. My good
will is not in the market. Keep your offers for other
times.”

“Well, do what you can, Arthur—do it your own
way;” and the proprietor sank into his chair again,
with a groan.

Arthur departed, telling the disconsolate pair that
he should probably be back at night. Going to his
boarding-house, he snatched a hasty meal, and procuring
a horse from a neighbor, he mounted him, and rode
rapidly off to the nearest stage-line station. It was a
ride of twenty miles, and it was mid-afternoon before
he reached it. On his way he met Dr. Gilbert, who
was out on a professional trip. Making known to him

the nature of his errand, and informing him of the condition
of Mr. Ruggles, he suggested that on his way
home he should call upon him, and do something for
his relief.

Arriving at the stage-house, he rode his horse directly
into the stable, and saw before him, standing in
a stall, the proprietor's horse with which Dan Buck had
absconded. Throwing his bridle to the hostler, and giving
him directions to feed and groom his horse, he sought
in the shed for the familiar wagon, and found it at once.
He had little doubt that Dan Buck had left the house, but
deemed it a proper precaution, before claiming the horse
and wagon, to make inquiries. At the office, he learned
that Dan Buck and Miss Ruggles had arrived there the
day before, just in time to take the downward day-coach,
and had gone to New York, leaving word to have
the horse and wagon taken care of until they should return.
The office clerk informed Arthur that the horse
had evidently been driven at the top of his speed, and
that he came in wet, trembling, and staggering. In fact,
the hostler had worked over him half of the night.
Arthur informed him of the facts in the case, paid him
for the keeping of the horse, and having fully satisfied
himself that Dan Buck and Leonora had fled together,
turned homeward, driving the lamed and jaded horse
of the proprietor, and leading the one he had ridden,
behind the wagon.

His passage homeward was slow, and he did not
reach the Run until nine o'clock. As he drove up to
the house, Mrs. Ruggles made her appearance, and came
out to the wagon. “Don't make any noise, Arthur,”
said the woman, “for father has made out to get to

sleep. The doctor has been here, and got down a portion
of laudlum, and says he musn't be disturbed.”

Arthur had left his saddle-horse on the way, where
he procured it in the morning, and driving on to the
barn, he took the harness from the much-abused animal
he had reclaimed, and put him in the stable. On his
way back, he found Mrs. Ruggles still at the door, with
a handkerchief over her head; and in a low tone he imparted
to her the particulars of his journey, and its results.

Mrs. Ruggles had her words of penitence to breathe
into the ear of the young man, and, further, she had
various matters to impart to him in confidence. She
had noticed for some time that Dan and Leonora had
been “uncommon thick,” but she supposed they were
going to be married—in fact, she had no doubt of that,
as it was. She wasn't, on the whole, inclined to regard
the case so hopelessly as her husband did. She had no
doubt that they would be back before a great while, and
she knew father would forgive Dan Buck, if he would
bring back Leonora. She was generous enough to say
to Arthur that she did not believe that Dan Buck would
make her daughter so good a husband as the young man
who stood before her, and was obliging enough to inform
him further that she shouldn't cry if there should
be a change now.

Arthur marvelled that the mother could be so obtuse,
as not to comprehend the fact that her daughter
was a hopelessly ruined woman, and left her, tired, sick,
and disgusted, with the promise to call early in the
morning.

Morning came, and Arthur was admitted at the

proprietor's door. To his surprise, he found Mr. Ruggles
up, and dressed for a journey. He was weak and
haggard, but the medicine and the sleep had restored to
him a measure of strength, and a degree of composure
and self-control. The old determination was in his face,
and his eye burned fiercely.

He put to Arthur a few questions, and then told him
he should follow the fugitives. He had already fed his
horse, and he bade Arthur throw the harness upon him,
and bring him to the door. When Arthur drove up,
he found the proprietor waiting, with his portmanteau
at his feet, and then received from him directions concerning
the management of affairs in the mill during his
absence.

“God only knows where I'm going, or when I shall
come back,” said the old man, as he feebly mounted the
wagon, and drove away without a word of farewell to
his wife, or even a passing look at his mill.