University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

After pacing the floor awhile, stopping now and then to lean
his throbbing head against the wall, and then throwing himself
upon the sofa, and covering his face with his hands, while the
hot tears trickled through his fingers, and fell drop by drop on
the pillow, Arthur began to take a different view of the case
under consideration, and to ask himself what he had to complain
of. “Had he ever betrayed himself to Julia? Had he ever
acknowledged — even to himself — that he had no hope in life,
no wish, no desire unassociated with her? Was she not her own
mistress, — above concealment, and wholly incapable of misleading
him? And if so, how boyish — how childish — how unreasonable
— for me to lie here!” he cried, springing to his feet,
and beginning to walk the floor with a stronger, steadier, and
more patient tread. “Am I, of a truth, but a poor sick girl, —
a broken-hearted, helpless, hopeless, disappointed thing, ready
for a cry at every change of the wind? Am I —

No, — never!” and he straightened himself up, and threw out
his well-proportioned chest, and breathed manfully, as he continued
pacing the room, to and fro, until he caught a glimpse of
a pale, haggard face, with wet lashes — red eyes — and tumbled
hair — in the lighted mirror. Blushing with shame and vexation,
he caught up a towel, dipped it into the pitcher, and began
sopping his hot cheeks, and cooling his forehead, with the passionate
impatience of a school-girl, heated in a chase after butterflies.

By the end of another half-hour, his mind was made up — the
controversy with himself ended; and after glancing at the mirror
once more, to see if he was in fact presentable, down stairs he

went, fully determined to carry it off handsomely, — to brave the
worst, — and see what they had to say for themselves below.

As he opened the door, he saw Julia sitting by his mother,
with her eyes fixed upon Mr. Fay, who was talking in that low,
smooth voice which Arthur had begun to be afraid of, with the
large Bible open before him, and his right hand lying reverently
upon the page.

Arthur took a seat in silence, where he could watch Julia,
who looked up and nodded as he entered; but very much as if
he had not been missed.

“Have the goodness to read the passage, Mr. Fay,” said Aunt
Elizabeth. “I remember the substance, — but I never thought
of the application before.”

“And yet, Madam, if you call to mind the character of the
Czar, — the condition of the world, — the confederacy of kings,
— and the strangeness and suddenness of his death, — and what
might have been the consequences, if he had not been hurried
away, I think you and your brother will acknowledge the startling
sublimity of the application.” And saying this, he read from
the fourteenth of Isaiah, the following verses: —

“He who smote the people in wrath with a continual stroke,
he that ruled the nations, is persecuted and none hindereth.

“The whole earth is at rest, and is quiet; they break forth into
singing.

“Hell from beneath is moved for thee to meet thee at thy coming:
it stirreth up the dead for thee, even all the chief ones of
the earth: it hath raised up from their thrones all the kings of the
nations.”

The voice of the man grew deeper, and thrilled their very
blood, as he continued; Arthur was carried away with astonishment;
and his mother looked up, as if she had never understood
the passage before, and he saw by Julia's eyes that she felt every
vibration of that strange, low, sweet voice in her heart.

“All they shall speak and say unto thee, Art thou also become
weak as we? Art thou become like unto us?

“Thy pomp is brought down to the grave, and the noise of thy
viols. The worm is spread under thee, and the worms cover
thee!

“How art thou fallen from Heaven, O Lucifer, Son of the
morning! How art thou cut down to the ground, which didst
weaken the nations!

“They that see thee shall narrowly look upon thee, and consider
thee, saying, — Is this the man that made the earth to tremble,
— that did shake the kingdoms?”

“There!” said Mr. Fay, as he finished, without looking up, —
“there, my friends! if there be anything in the Bible worthier of
God — more awful in itself — more overwhelming to the imagination,
I should be glad to know it. We may see the buried kings
of all the nations of the earth, rising up from their thrones of
darkness, to question the dread Assyrian, — `Art thou also become
weak as we? Art thou become like unto us?'”

The Major was the first to break the long deep silence that
followed. Arthur was afraid to look at Julia; but he saw
that his mother was spell-bound, — that his uncle was much
moved, and that Mr. Fay had got possession of all three, so that
he, himself, was on the point of acknowledging that he had never
heard in all his life — anywhere — on the stage, or off — in the
pulpit, or out — any reading to be compared with it; so unpretending,
so scriptural, and so earnest; so undramatic and so natural,
— so altogether unconventional. This, indeed, was what
he had always wanted to hear, — audible thought, — articulate
individuality, — the voice of the soul, — the sound of prophecy.

“But you were speaking of other, and yet more wonderful
things, Mr. Fay,” said Aunt Elizabeth; “and really, if you have
no objection, I do not see how we could better pass what remains
of the evening, than in hearing you read any other passages that
may occur to you. The storm rages fearfully, you see, — and
with a long night before us, and little prospect of sound sleep, —
for a tempest that begins with thunder and lightning so early in
the year, is not likely to abate for a long while — there seems to
be an especial fitness in scripture reading.”

“With all my heart, Madam,” said Mr. Fay, — seeing Julia's
countenance light up, and Arthur, himself, nodding assent to his
mother.

“We were talking of the Prodigal Son, you remember; of Job,
of Ruth and Boaz, of Joseph and his brethren, and of the prodigious

dramatic power to be found in the Bible; and you went
so far as to say that there were tragical passages and incidents
generally overlooked, which, in their solemn strength, were both
Hebraic and Shakspearian — if I understood you rightly.”

“Very true, my dear Sir, and I was thinking of David and of
Junius Brutus, — and then of Saul and Macbeth, and then, of
Mordecai, I dare say. Brutus feigns madness you know; but
just look here,” — turning to 1 Sam. ch. xxi. — where the behavior
of Achish, king of Gath, toward the outcast Hebrew warrior
is recorded, and see if there is anything to be compared with
the passage, where David, beginning to be sore afraid of Achish,
`changed his behavior before them, and feigned himself mad in
their hands, and scrabbled on the doors of the gate, and let his
spittle fall down upon his beard:' and then, too,” he continued,
after a pause, which enabled him to see the effect he had produced,
— “just look at the account of Saul's interview with the
witch of Endor, and at his death, on the top of Gilboa, and compare
it with the death of Shakspeare's hero, and with his meeting of
the witches upon the blasted heath, — and see how weak and childish
are both in comparison with what we have here,” — reading
passage after passage in a way that held them breathless. “Both
are doomed, and both know it, — and both battle to the last with
unabated energy. `To-morrow shalt thou and thy sons be with
me!' said the Spirit of Samuel; and yet, although he knew that
the awful prophecy had been accomplished — that he was forsaken
of God — that his hour had come, you see him standing
up, and leaning on his spear, and bleeding to death, as the tumult
of battle comes surging up through the morning mist of Gilboa;
and then, without a sign of weakness or faltering, he throws himself
upon his sword, like Cato, and dies in his golden harness.
Compare that death, and all its foreshadowings, with the death
of him who had been cheated by the `juggling fiends' into a
belief that he bore a charmed life, until he cries `Lay on, Macduff!'
and then say which is the mightier and the more awful,
as a catastrophe!”

Another deep silence followed, and then, feeling that he was
understood, he took up the story of Mordecai, and traced it, step
by step, through all the successive unfoldings, — as if it were

only a drama — reading passage after passage — and so presenting
the hatred and jealousy of Haman, as to make all his
listeners wonder why they had never understood the story
before.

A look of unqualified admiration from Julia satisfied Arthur,
poor fellow! that however it might be with his uncle and mother,
Julia was in for it, and no mistake.

After dwelling upon the mortification of Haman, as if he had
been a witness of the whole transaction, he finished by saying,
“There, just imagine Mordecai, the Jew, whom he had so hated
and loathed, lifted into the saddle by one of the noblest princes
of the land, — that prince being no other than Haman himself,
the acknowledged favorite of Ahasuerus, — clothed with the
king's apparel, and wearing his crown; and Haman going before
him, afoot, and proclaiming aloud in the ears of the multitude
who well knew the history of both, — `Behold the man whom
the king delighteth to honor!' and then just think of the gallows,
fifty cubits high, which he had set up for the abominable
Jew, only to perish thereon himself; and then say, if there was
ever a more appalling, or a more natural retribution. He and his
whole household perish miserably; and yet from the beginning
to the end, there is no picturing, no embellishment, no exaggeration;
and as we see the awful catastrophe unfolding, up to the
moment when they `covered his face' and hurried him away
from the banquet hall, and the presence of the queen, to the gallows,
we are all ready to acknowledge that his hatred of the
poor man at the gate, who refused to do him reverence, when all
the rest of the people, even the mightiest, were crawling in the
dust before him, in the plentitude of his power, was not only the
cause, but the only cause, of all the calamities that followed, step
by step, as a predetermined, inevitable destiny. Talk of the simplicity
and strength of the old Greek Drama! I know of nothing
there — nothing anywhere — nothing in any language, to be
compared with it, — unless, to be sure, the Danish Duvika, or
Joanna Bailie's terrible De Montfort, written for the very purpose
of illustrating the passion of envy, may be thought worth
mentioning.”

It was in vain to deny it! Notwithstanding the unqualified,

though serious and thoughtful admiration which Arthur saw in
all the countenances about him, and felt so provoked with; and
notwithstanding his great dislike of the man, and a lurking suspicion
that he was at best only a player, he could not help
acknowledging that he himself had been quite carried away
by his great conversational power, his quiet, unobtrusive boldness,
and the startling originality of his language and manner.

“Now to you, my young friend, a born poet!” continued Mr.
Fay, turning his large, clear eyes upon Arthur, as if he saw
through and through him, and pitied the uneasiness he betrayed,
and well knew how to make him, if not happier, at least more
comfortable, — “to you, overflowing with the molten ore of true
poetry as you are, the sunshine of a happy heart, on every tolerable
occasion, — there, there, don't take the trouble to deny
it! and pray don't blush so, like a great overgrown girl! — this
book must be a treasure indeed.”

Arthur started up, half beside himself with vexation; and
yet, he could not help showing that he had been reached at last,
— even he! — although he had no confidence in the “straightforwardness,”
or “downright honesty” of the man, the very qualities
for which he was most admired by the Major; and though
he didn't half like the smile that trembled about Julia's mouth,
who sat listening in the shadow, with lips apart, and her dainty
little hand playing nervously with the pieces upon a chess-table
at her side; and so he sat more upright, and stiffened himself,
and, bowing to Mr. Fay, waited for him to finish.

“You must have been delighted, I am sure,” continued that
gentleman, “and oftentimes astonished, at the self-arranging
power of the language in our translation, — the Scriptural
rhythm, the old-fashioned Hebrew tolling of many a passage
to be found here, — having a voice of its own, like underground
music, which could not be changed for the better; as where Job
speaks of going `where the wicked cease from troubling, and
the weary are at rest;' and, by the way,” — turning suddenly
upon Arthur, — “why not try your hand upon that very passage,
and do it into English verse? That you have an astonishing
readiness in that way, my young friend, I happen to know,
and if —”

Arthur could bear this no longer. “What on earth do you
mean, Mr. Fay?” said he.

“What do I mean! Why just this, and neither more nor less.
I mean that you have a wonderful gift, which you are trying to
smother; I have heard much of it from others,” glancing at
Julia, “and have not wholly forgotten — have you? — what
happened in the carriage, when we were alone together for the
first time, and after writing half a dozen lines in your memorandum-book,
you repeated a part of them, unconsciously.”

Arthur had now lost all patience; and seeing, as he thought,
a determined purpose at work, and signs of intelligence passing
between Mr. Fay and Julia, and his dear mother looking troubled
and perplexed, he gathered himself up for mischief, and as he
drew forth a little memorandum-book, and began rummaging over
the loose papers, he added, in a low, quiet voice, “I understand
you now, my dear Sir. I have a foolish habit of talking to myself
sometimes in company, and I well remember — now that
you have mentioned it — (Have a care, Arthur!) that on our
ride into town the other day, you overheard me, and were obliging
enough to signify as much. Ah! here's the paper now;
I'll read it, if you please.”

“By all means.”

Whereupon Arthur read with great significance, —

“Most beautiful and touching! And to my mind,” said Mr.
Fay, with a look of sincere admiration, “quite enough to show
that you have not been misunderstood, nor overrated — by any
of us.”

What could be the matter with Julia! A sudden paleness
overspread her face, and a richly carved queen dropped from
her trembling hand upon the marble hearth, and lay there completely
shattered. Stooping hurriedly to gather up the fragments,
poor child! she overthrew another, and then another,
with her sleeve, and at last, in her nervous trepidation, the table
itself; and then, to finish the matter, she grew so red in the

face, and seemed so terribly distressed, that Mr. Fay took it
upon himself to hitch up a little nearer, and taking her hand, as
if altogether unconscious of what he was doing, and that all eyes
were upon him, he began to soothe and comfort her, with a low
murmuring sound, which nobody understood but poor Julia, who
snatched away her hand somewhat pettishly, and turned from
the searching eyes of Arthur, toward her aunt, with an impatient
fling that astonished them all; and then her eyes filled, and
Arthur's blood tingled, and the Major was all at sea, and Aunt
Elizabeth speechless with amazement.

“And sometimes,” continued Mr. Fay, just as if nothing had
happened, “we find the language running not only into rhythm,
but into rhyme; as where the Saviour says of them that do his
will, `The same is my mother, my sister and brother;' but enough,”
drawing out his watch, and fixing his eyes upon Julia, who sat
a little behind her aunt, looking very pale once more, and twitching
nervously at the embroidered handkerchief in her lap, which
had been undergoing all sorts of transformations within the last
half-hour.

“We are to have prayers, Mr. Fay, and if you have no objection,”
said the Major, as that gentleman rose to go, “will have
them now, before we say good-night.”

“Certainly! with all my heart,” said Mr. Fay, seating himself
once more, and somewhat farther from Julia, where he
might watch the changes of her countenance, without being observed
by others.

“Will you read, sister?” asked the Major, as he pushed the
great Bible toward her.

She assented, and turning to Job, looked for the passage referred
to, and then read, in her own sweet, mournful, quiet way,
and to the evident surprise of her guest, whose reading but a
little time before had so nearly disheartened them all, and made
her especially shy of her accustomed modulations, about that
other world, “where the wicked cease from troubling, and the
weary are at rest.”

While his mother was reading, Arthur, who had a pencil in
his hand, with a bit of paper lying before him, so far forgot himself,
that Mr. Fay supposed him to be sketching, for he appeared

lost in thought, and very busy, and the touches were hurried,
slight and free, and for that reason were likely to be both significant
and spirited.

“Will you lead in prayer, or follow me?” asked the Major,
as Aunt Elizabeth finished the chapter, and shutting the book,
turned away from the light, and Julia, covering her face with
one hand, leaned her forehead against the high back of her aunt's
easy-chair, and Arthur covered his eyes, and stooped reverently
forward.

A bow was the only reply.

The Major fell upon his knees; and but for the presence of a
stranger, and the fear of being called Methodists, all the others
would have knelt with him — perhaps.

Having finished, the Major waited for the voice of Mr. Fay,
without rising; but, on looking up, he found that gentleman
already on his way to the door, as if he had not well understood
what was wanted of him.

“Arthur,” said his mother — not a little astonished at what
she saw — “will you take a lamp and show Mr. Fay to his
room?”

Arthur wanted to say something about poor Human, and that
abominable Jew, whom he had been obliged to wait upon — with
all the honors — but he was in such a terrible humor, that he durst
not hazard a pleasantry; and so he took the offered lamp, and
bowing to Mr. Fay, with a little stiffness, it must be acknowledged,
went before him, as if just ready to cry out, “Behold the
man whom the king delighteth to honor!” when a sudden puff
of wind blowing the smoke from the chimney and scattering the
ashes all over the carpet, took the paper which Arthur had been
toying with, and sent it fluttering toward the half-open door,
where he stood with his hand upon the lock. Mr. Fay called
his attention to it, and was stooping to pick it up, when Julia,
leaning forward, anticipated him, and almost snatched it from
the floor, in her impatient eagerness.

“Oh!” exclaimed Arthur, coloring to the eyes, and taking
the paper from Julia's outstretched hand, “it is only a set of
bout rimés. I was thinking of the rhymes for rest, when mother
read the passage Mr. Fay had been speaking of, where it is said,

`the wicked cease from troubling,' — with great significance of
manner, and something of bitterness, — `and the weary are at
rest;' and so I wrote as you see here,” — holding up the paper,
— “the words rest, oppressed, and breast, and crest; overlooking
two of the best, which have just occurred to me, guest and chest.”

“Very good! — but some of the lines I see are finished,” said
Mr. Fay, glancing first at Julia, and then at the paper in Arthur's
hand.

“What are they, Sir? — please read them,” said Julia, in a
beseeching tone, which Arthur didn't half like, when addressed
to another, and that other a comparative stranger.

“With all my heart,” exclaimed Mr. Fay, looking over Arthur's
shoulder and reading with a great show of enthusiasm.

“Excuse me!” said Arthur, — turning away from the strange
face that seemed to be overlooking his very heart, as from a
higher atmosphere, — “You must excuse me, Julia; and you,
too, Mr. Fay.”

Arthur's cheeks glowed; but he was not quite sure of himself;
nor whether Mr. Fay was laughing at him, or not; for the gentleman's
manner was not only respectful, but serious; and yet,
sooth to say, there was a something which he did not altogether
relish in the intonation of his voice. It did not sound like pleasantry,
— nor was there anything offensive in it, or provoking, —
but still Arthur was dissatisfied, and not only with Mr. Fay, but
with himself; and so he made up his mind to be very patient,
and on the morrow, if the storm should continue, and Mr. Fay
should be embargoed, to have an explanation with him — if he
could do so without making a fool of himself.

“But, I say, though, Mr. Maynard, why not fill up these
blanks, and see what you can make of the rhymes?”

Arthur now began to see the man's real object, and was resolved
to disappoint him. If Mr. Fay did not believe in the
astonishing facility he had just given him credit for; and if, in a
word, the request was either a challenge or a sneer, now was the
time to answer it, as it well deserved to be answered.

“Nothing can be easier, I assure you, Mr. Fay,” said Julia.

“Cousin Arthur often amuses himself, and astonishes everybody
in this way, as I have told you.”

“`As I have told you!' hey? Then,” said Arthur to himself,
— taking out a pencil and beginning to fill up the lines as fast
as he could scribble, — “then, what the fellow knows of me, he
knows from Julia herself — hang him!”

Within five minutes, he handed the paper to Mr. Fay, who
read it aloud, and in such a way that Arthur had nothing to
complain of, absolutely nothing; for he read with great simplicity
and sweetness, and so dwelt upon the rhymes, without spoiling
the sense, that they became obvious to the ear, without being
obtrusive.

“Pooh, pooh!” said Arthur, catching the paper out of his
hand.

“Very sweet and simple!” exclaimed Mr. Fay, with a look
of such sincere and unqualified pleasure, that Arthur, who was
far from being satisfied with the verses, began to be ashamed of
his suspicions, and to forget the “abominable Jew.”

“Very beautiful, to be sure,” murmured Julia, just loud enough
to reach her cousin's ear as he withdrew, lamp in hand, poor fellow,
and afoot, with Mr. Fay following hard after him — on
horseback — as if his right to the saddle was now acknowledged,
even by Arthur himself.

Had flattery wrought this wonderful change in Arthur? or
was it only, that for the first time since they had been fairly
pitted against each other in the presence of Julia — on that new
field of the cloth of gold — he had reason to be pretty well satisfied
with himself?

No time was lost by Arthur in disposing of Mr. Fay, and

getting back to the room below, where he might follow up the
investigation, however distressing and humiliating it might prove,
which he and Julia had undertaken together. But how was he to
manage? How were they to question each other, and compare
notes, under the change of circumstances? And then, too, when
he found them all sitting there silent and speechless, — Julia leaning
her forehead against the back of his mother's chair, with her
eyes shut, and looking very pale; his mother sitting with her
hands clasped in her lap; and the Major leaning on both elbows,
with his hands covering his face; — all buried in thought, and no
one of the whole three willing to speak first, — he felt strongly
inclined to steal back to his chamber without opening his mouth;
but, as he reached his hand for a lamp, Julia looked up with a
troubled and reproachful expression, which he could not bear, —
and he hesitated.

“How very strange!” said the Major, at last, drawing a long
breath, and uncovering his face, — “I cannot understand it!”

“Cannot understand what, brother?”

“I cannot understand Mr. Fay.”

“You are disappointed, I see?”

“No, sister, I can hardly say that, — perhaps it would imply
too much; but I am both grieved and astonished; — grieved by
what has just happened, and astonished at his familiarity with
Scripture.”

“Though not always accurate, Uncle George,” added Arthur,
in a subdued, though somewhat of a questioning tone.

“Very true, Arthur; but having myself a wretched memory
for words, I am always willing to make large allowance for
another.”

“But why grieved, Uncle George?”

Here Julia began to grow uneasy, and after a moment she
withdrew still farther into the shadow, where she sat for a long
while, without speaking or moving, as the conversation went on.

“For several reasons, Arthur. I do not think he misunderstood
me, when I asked him if he would follow me in prayer, —
I saw his look, — and I am satisfied that whatever else he may
be, our beloved guest is not a man of prayer.”

“I am sorry to hear you say so, brother,” said Aunt Elizabeth,

glancing at Julia with a troubled look, “and yet, I must acknowledge,
that from the first, I have had my misgivings. Do you
remember what he said just before Arthur joined us, about the
strange folly of those who put off the great question, because they
do not know when they are to die? as if that very uncertainty
were not the best possible reason that could be urged for immediate
preparation?”

“Yes, and I must acknowledge that I was very much struck
with his way of presenting the question; it was altogether new
to me.”

“What was it, Uncle George?” asked Arthur, with a trembling
eagerness of manner, which might have betrayed the deep
workings of his innermost nature to Julia, if she had happened
to look up.

“It was to this effect, Arthur, — I cannot give the words, I
only give the substance. He argued, that this very uncertainty
was intended to keep us ever on the alert, and always prepared;
just as it would be with a beleaguered garrison, if, instead of
knowing the very day and hour of an assault, it were left uncertain.
Would they be found sleeping on their posts, merely
because they knew not when their adversary would be upon
them?”

“Excellent!” said Arthur, growing earnest and magnanimous,
while a change in Julia's breathing, as Aunt Elizabeth laid her
hand upon the poor child's head, and smoothed her beautiful hair,
with more than a mother's gentleness, betrayed the fact, that,
although her eyes were shut, she was far from being asleep.
“Excellent! so far as it goes, but what followed?”

“Illustration after illustration; you know how abundant they
are,” continued the Major, “and how happy, when he wakes up,
and grows very earnest and persuasive, as in talking to Julia.”

Julia made no reply; but Arthur saw, or thought he saw, a
slight change of position, as the shadow shifted, and the caressing
hand of his mother slipped after it, over the glossy hair.

“For example,” continued the Major, “if we knew that we
were to die on a certain day, at a certain hour, a month hence,
or a twelvemonth, and not before, how diligent we should be in
preparation! how the glories and the terrors of the upper world,

as we drew nearer and nearer to it, would loom upon us; growing
more and more awful and astonishing every hour, till they
filled the universe. And yet, just because the day is not fixed,
— or not revealed to us — and for aught we know, it may be
to-morrow instead of a twelvemonth hence, or the very next
hour, we put aside all inquiry, postpone all preparation, and run
for luck.”

“Upon my word, brother George, you must never be allowed
to complain of your bad memory again, while you breathe; for
you have not only given the substance, but the very language of
Mr. Fay, as I now remember, though I could not have repeated
a single phrase myself, had my life depended on it, — hasn't he,
Julia?”

A slight murmur from the deep shadow was the only reply;
but there was another change of attitude, and a little foot was
hurriedly withdrawn from the edge of a cricket, on which Arthur's
eyes were intently fixed; almost pettishly indeed, as if
she felt the look resting there.

“Well, my dear sister, and what then? You had your misgivings
from the first, you say; and you called my attention to
what we have just been talking about, as if, in some way or
other, it had settled the question with you.”

“No, no, — not altogether; I would not be rash in my judgment
of others, and certainly not of Mr. Fay; but I must acknowledge
— a — a” — hesitating — “upon my word, my dear brother,
I am almost afraid to say what I think.”

Arthur began to grow impatient; he was burning to say “Out
with it, mother!” but the remembrance of what he had seen but
a little time before with his own eyes, and the fear of being misunderstood,
or of betraying himself to his mother, if he did not
to Julia, withheld him.

“Afraid, Elizabeth! afraid to say what you think of that remarkable
man!”

“Well then, to tell you the truth, from the first moment Mr.
Fay laid his hand upon that Book, and began to talk so beautifully,
and so eloquently, of the grandeur and beauty to be found
in it, and of the wonderful dramatic power, which he went on
illustrating, as you remember, I felt sure that if he was a Christian

at all, he was not a meek and lowly Christian; there was
too much of display, too much of a controversial spirit; in a
word, brother, he talked altogether too well, to satisfy me.”

Arthur wanted to jump about his mother's neck, and hug her
to his heart. How entirely had she justified him, for the uncomfortable
suspicions he had been struggling with, and trying to get
rid of, hour after hour. He durst not look at Julia, and would
not have had her see what there was at work within his heart
just then, for the whole world.

“Upon my word, Elizabeth! I never knew you so uncharitable;
never so harsh in your judgment, never so rash, I might
say; and yet, as I live, my dear sister, when I looked up, after
all he had been saying so beautifully and so truly, and saw him
just ready to leave the room, instead of following me in prayer
as I expected, I not only came to the conclusion that he was not
a man of prayer, — and if so, not a Christian, — but that he was
unacquainted with Christian usages and courtesies, or he would
not have been guilty of such behavior.”

“Especially after maintaining with perfect seriousness, that
all the established forms of politeness and high breeding are
but a counterfeit Christianity.”

Here the little foot reappeared, and Arthur was all attention.

“And I must acknowledge,” continued Mrs. Maynard, “that
his illustrations were very apt, and that he almost persuaded me
to a like belief.”

“And how, pray? I am really curious to hear, mother.”

“Well, he referred to Chesterfield, in proof; if we are well-bred,
we are to sympathize, with a look suited to the occasion;
we are to help others first, and to let others go before us, `in
honor preferring one another;' and we are to acknowledge ourselves
the humble servants, not only of our brethren, but of our
inferiors, &c. &c.”

“And all this,” added Uncle George, “only that we may seem
to love our neighbor as ourselves; that we may appear to do as
we would be done by; that we may be thought unselfish, and
considerate, and of a lowly temper!”

A long silence followed, and Arthur grew very thoughtful.

“On the whole, then, dear mother,” said he, at last, “I suppose

we may infer from what you said, that, notwithstanding all this,
you want faith in Mr. Fay?”

“As a Christian, a devout, humble Christian, I must answer
yes; though not as a man, and certainly not as a kind-hearted,
largely-gifted, and well-educated gentleman,” said Mrs. Maynard,
looking at her brother for confirmation.

“I am afraid you are right, Elizabeth; and the more's the
pity, for if he could but be persuaded, what a Christian he
might be! He seems to know about everybody worth knowing,
both at home and abroad; he has travelled much; he has written
for most of the leading journals of Europe; he is acquainted
with half a score of languages at least, and with all the learning
and literature of the age, to say nothing of past ages; and
they do say that his opinions upon music, and painting, and sculpture
and architecture are regarded as authority among the professors
themselves.”

“Not in music, I hope, after what we have heard him say
here,” suggested Arthur.

Uncle George smiled.

“But how happens it, Julia, that you have not opened your
lips for the last half-hour?” said he, laying his hand upon her
beautiful head, as he spoke; “do tell us what your opinion of the
gentleman is.”

“Not for the world, uncle!” catching his hand to her lips.
“I am too sleepy, and wretched; the day seems to me of a most
unreasonable length, and we have done so much, and suffered so
much, that, really, you must let me run off to bed. Good-night,
all! good-night!” And with these words, uttered in a hurried,
impatient, almost peevish manner, which filled poor Arthur with
amazement and consternation, so unlike was it to anything he
had ever known her to be guilty of before, she bid them all
good-night once more, without looking at him, and vanished.

A long silence followed, which nobody seemed willing to interrupt,
until the Major took a lamp, and seemed about to follow;
and then, after a moment's consideration, to give up the idea; for
he stopped short, and taking the hand of his “beloved sister,” as
he called her, he said, “perhaps you may understand all this,
my dear Elizabeth, but I must acknowledge that I do not;”
and saying this, he left her.

Arthur prepared to follow, looking as if afraid to be left alone
with his mother; for she knew him too well, she had seen too
much, and he trembled at the thought of being questioned by
her, after what had happened, though it were only with a look.

“I understand you, my dear Arthur,” said she, setting her
lips to his forehead; “but you have nothing to fear; Julia is
a woman, a proud, gentle, tender-hearted, loving woman; and
all such women are mysteries, even to themselves. I thought
I knew her well — I thought I understood her — and that, under
any circumstances, I could forsee what she would do, but I acknowledge
myself disappointed.”

“Disappointed, mother! in mercy, do not say so of Cousin
Julia.”

“Disappointed I mean, with regard to my knowledge of her
character; not with regard to her principles, her sincerity, her
unchangeable truthfulness; but we must bear with her; — we
must be very patient and hopeful, dear Arthur, and in due time
we shall reap, if we faint not; and, notwithstanding her waywardness
just now — forgive me, Arthur, if I have hurt your
feelings — I have no doubt we shall be satisfied at last, all of us,
you and I, and my dear brother, and poor Julia herself, that
`whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth,' until we acknowledge
that `it is good to be afflicted.'”

“What a day, — what an everlasting day, to be sure!” said
Arthur, as he turned away from his mother, and wiped his eyes,
with something of a broken-heartedness which he had never felt
before. “Good-night, mother, dear mother, good-night.”