University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

At the end of a whole hour after Arthur had entered his little
chamber, and flung himself into the old arm-chair, he found that
he had not even begun the preparations for sleep, — not a button
had been detached, not even his cravat had been loosened;
and there he sat, leaning upon both elbows, with his hands covering
his face, and the pocket Bible his mother had given him,
when he first went abroad, lying untouched before him, though
he had faithfully kept the promise he then made her, always to
read at least one chapter in it, every day of his life.

The more he thought of all that had happened within the last
few days, and especially on that long, overcrowded, dismal day,
the more dissatisfied he was with himself. His cheek burned, —
his very breathing changed, — and he could hardly sit still, when
he reviewed the transactions of the evening, and thought of his
own behavior, and called to mind the dignified and courteous
bearing of the man he could not help acknowledging to himself
that he almost hated; the trouble of poor Julia, and the sorrowful
astonishment he had more than once detected in the loving
eyes of that dear mother he had refused to communicate with.

He wanted to get up and walk the floor, — but was afraid of
betraying himself and disturbing the house; he wanted to steal
away to the bedside of that sleeping mother, and fall upon his
knees to her, and acknowledge his waywardness and folly, and
entreat her forgiveness; or to go forth into the midnight storm
and hearken to the voices of the night — the far off thunder —
the rattling hail — the great wind wrestling with the tree-branches,
and the dull, ponderous, uninterrupted roar of the sea; and but
for the drenching rain, and the fear that explanations might be
called for, which would be mortifying to himself, just in proportion

as they might be satisfactory to others — to Mr. Fay, and
perhaps to Julia — he would have done so, and walked the neighborhood,
at least till he was tired enough to go to sleep without
rocking.

How like a great lubberly boy he had behaved, to be sure,
about the verses! and how unworthy of himself, and of what his
mother and Julia, and even Mr. Fay must have expected of him,
— to be so out of temper with everybody and everything, hour
after hour, — and so unreasonable — and so childish! — and this,
too, just when, if he had any proper respect for himself, or consideration
for his mother, to say nothing of Julia, he would sooner
have thrust his hand into the fire, than have so betrayed the innermost
workings of his whole nature to that Mr. Fay. Oh, how
bitterly he reproached himself, and how ashamed he felt, for having
shown his hatred and spite, by capping verses, — and such
verses! Why! what must Julia think of him, after what had
happened at Mrs. Archibald's, where he had volunteered those
feats of strength, of which he was so heartily ashamed, within
the next hour, under the gentle ministering of sister Julia.

Poor Arthur! Almost beside himself with vexation and remorse,
and out of all patience with Julia and Mr. Fay, when he
recalled the mysterious and pitiful annoyances they had so lately
gone through with; he began to take himself to task, and severely
too, upon another and much more painful subject. Not only had
he been moved by that unworthy jealousy which set Oliver Goldsmith
breaking his shins over the chairs and tables, on hearing a
monkey overpraised for similar feats, by a mischievous fellow;
but he had forgotten that Mr. Fay was their guest, the friend of
that Uncle George he so much reverenced and loved; that they
were all under the greatest obligations to him, — and that he was
there “in double trust,” — and yet how had he been dealt with?
How had these obligations been met, or acknowledged?

More and more grieved and astonished at himself, the more
he thought of all these things, it was in vain for him to think of
sleeping. He saw no encouragement, no ground of hope; he
felt that he had been unjust, — that he had wronged the best
friend of the family, by unworthy suspicions; for, after all, what
business of his was it, if Julia did like Mr. Fay? Was she not

her own mistress, and free to choose for herself? And who,
after all, had a higher claim upon the best feelings and best
offices of the whole family?

Having reached this point, he began to breathe more freely,
and felt happier, and at last, after another short struggle, to
acknowledge to himself, though somewhat unwillingly, that Julia
was not only the best judge, but the only judge of what would be
likely to promote her own happiness, — that Mr. Fay was unexceptionable,
to say the least; and that, however troublesome he
might be at times, he was one of the most accomplished men,
and one of the truest gentlemen he had ever met with, — high-bred,
— self-possessed, — open-hearted, so far as he could judge,
— and never to be taken by surprise, or caught napping.

By this time, Arthur had begun to feel somewhat sleepy, and
much better satisfied with himself, at any rate; and while he was
yearning for an opportunity, which he hoped to have on the morrow,
of saying as much to his mother and uncle, if not to Mr.
Fay himself, or Julia, — his eye fell once more upon the Bible,
and he reached out his hand with a feeling of thankfulness, that
he had not forgotten to read the promised chapter.

On opening at the mark, which he had left there the night before,
the first words that met his eye were the following: —

“If any man lack wisdom, let him ask of God, who giveth liberally,
and upbraideth not.”

Struck with them, as he had never been before, he read them
over and over, and then a thought of prayer entered his heart,
like a spirit from the upper world. If any man lack wisdom, he
has only to ask of God, — Ask, and ye shall receive, — Seek, and
ye shall find, — Knock, and it shall be opened unto you, — Ye
have not, because ye ask not.

All these passages came up before him, slowly at first, and as
if all linked together, and then more swiftly, till they were like
flashes of light, and the hair of his flesh rose; and he began to
whisper to himself “what hindereth?” Were not the conditions
reasonable? were they not easy? were they ever likely to be
easier? would they ever be changed? Instead of requiring a
great sacrifice, or doing some great thing, we have only to ask.
And that we must do, — for if I read these promises aright, our

heavenly Father does not say, it shall be opened to you without
knocking, — or that ye shall find without seeking, — that ye
may enter without striving, — or that you shall receive, though
you refuse to ask.

By this time the wretched young man — for he was wretched,
and heart-broken for the first time in all his life; and for the first
time he felt poor, and naked, and blind, and miserable — had
slipped out of the chair upon his knees; and covering his face
with his hands, he was trying to pray — only trying, not praying,
as he thought — poor fellow! as if trying were not always
praying — trying in humble, though almost hopeless faith, and
without the help of language. What he wanted most, however,
that wisdom of which God giveth liberally and upbraideth not,
he was able to ask for; and the cry went up, and was heard and
answered, though for a long time he knew it not; and with that
wisdom from above, there came, at last, that peace in believing,
that peace which the world cannot give, nor take away; that
peace which passeth all understanding, that peace which Christ
promised, with the Comforter, to all who might ever be led to
think it worth asking for.

While he was yet struggling in wordless, though not voiceless
prayer, and the Holy Spirit was pleading with him, and for him,
“with groanings that could not be uttered,” there was a tap on
the door.

Springing to his feet with a new feeling of embarrassment,
and almost of shame, he opened it, and there stood his mother in
her night-clothes, weeping for joy.

Abashed and frightened at her look, as it wandered from the
dressing-gown that lay on the floor to the untumbled bed, and
then to the open Bible, he turned away; but she followed him,
and throwing her arms about his neck, sobbed out, “Oh, my son!
my son Arthur!” as if her heart would break; and then falling
upon her knees, and drawing him down to her side, she broke
forth like Miriam, not with a wail of sorrow, not with an exceeding
great and bitter cry like Esau, but with a song of triumph
and thanksgiving.

Unable to sleep, though she did not go immediately to bed,
after she had parted from her boy, — partly on account of the

storm, and the trembling of the house, — and partly on account
of her anxiety for him, — she had crept softly to his door and
listened, again and again, at long intervals, hoping to find him
asleep, or at least preparing for sleep; and after waiting awhile,
she would steal back to her chamber, until at last, finding how much
of the night had worn away, and fearing he might fall asleep in his
chair, she had resolved to speak with him, and try to prevail upon
him to go to bed. But while she stood listening at the door, with
her hand lifted, and just ready for the signal, something within
the chamber — a sound of weeping, she thought — and then, as
of one talking to himself, — and then! could it be possible! a
sound like that of earnest, humble, heart-broken prayer was
heard, — which kept her silent and breathless, till she could bear
it no longer, and with a cry of transport, she had entered and
flung herself upon the bosom of her child; feeling that her
prayers were answered at last, even though he, himself, might
continue for a while in darkness. And what more could she ask
for? What was there left under heaven, worth agonizing for, now
that her dear boy, the only son of his mother, and she a widow,
was in the way of salvation!

As they sat together, — she, with her arms about her beloved
boy, and he leaning his head upon her shoulder, — their hearts
overflowing with solemn joy and thankfulness, they were both
reminded at the same instant of the prayer that had been offered
by Uncle George at the Fulton Street meeting; and then, of that
venerable man who had prayed for Charles with so much earnestness
and fervor; and when his mother acknowledged that she
had been haunted at times, ever since the meeting, with the recollection
of that stranger's countenance and voice, until she had
grown almost nervous in her anxiety to know more of him — as
if he were the apparition of some old acquaintance or very dear
friend, among the loved and lost — Arthur could forbear no longer.

“Mother,” said he, gently detaching her arms and facing her
as he spoke, — “dear mother, have you really no idea who that
stranger was?”

“No, indeed; but why do you ask?”

“Have you never heard my father speak of an old and very
dear friend by the name of Bayard — William Bayard?”

Had a spectre started forth from the shadow of the curtains, —
had the apparition of William Bayard himself — or of any other
among the loved and lost — stood before them, with outstretched
arms and burning eyes, the mother could not have been struck
speechless and pale as death, more suddenly.

“Water, water!” said she, gasping for breath, and trying
to rise from the chair, and stretching her hands about in every
direction, as if blind with terror, and groping for somebody in the
darkness of midnight.

Arthur's first thought was to ring the alarm-bell, as soon as he
had sprinkled her with water, and then to call for Julia or Uncle
George, but his mother prevented him; and after rocking to and
fro in the chair for several minutes, with her hands clasped tightly
over her forehead, she grew calmer, the fixedness of her eyes
abated, she drew a long breath, and then laying her hand gently
and lovingly upon her boy, she whispered, — “Wait a few minutes,
Arthur, and you shall know all.”

“Mother, dear mother,” he answered, falling upon his knees
and catching her hand to his lips, “I have no desire to know all,
— no wish to know anything, if there be any mystery here, —
in the name of our blessed Lord and Saviour, I pray you not to
answer me!”

“Excuse me, dear Arthur. I care not how you have been
prompted to this. I care not how much, nor how little you know;
but I have always intended to tell you, some day or other, when
I should think it proper, and circumstances would justify me,
what, in the providence of our heavenly Father, it would seem
that He wishes you to know this very day — this very hour —
just when you are rising up from the first prayer you ever
breathed in your life, perhaps, as He would have you pray.
See that the door is fast, — throw that shawl over me, — put on
your dressing-gown, and seat yourself on that cricket, where I
can see your face, and you mine.”

“Yes, mother; but oh, in mercy, do not speak to me with
that voice! do not look at me so! I tremble to think of what
I have said; my heart is dying away within me, and the strength
I had but a few minutes ago is all gone. Do not believe, dear
mother, I pray you, that I have any unhallowed curiosity, any

unworthy desire to look into what you may choose to withhold
from me.”

“Thank you, my son; but I have no choice left. You have
questioned me, and I must answer. Unhallowed or untimely, it
matters not, — God will have it so; and I see his leading so
clearly, that I dare not delay the answer. But first, allow me to
ask, if you know Mr. Bayard?”

“Yes, mother.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Ever since that unpleasant affair of which you have heard
Julia speak, when the gold chain was snatched from her neck,
near Burton's theatre. He followed me to the St. Nicholas, and
there he told me that my father was the dearest friend he ever
had on earth, and that he had known me from the first, on seeing
me with my hat off and hair flying, by my resemblance to
you; and then he said something about the past, which I did not
quite understand; — you look troubled, mother, and your eyes
are full of anguish and sorrow.”

“Go on, Arthur; let me know the worst.”

“The worst, mother! what do you mean? I have told you
the worst, already. He appeared so deeply moved when he
spoke of you, that I was afraid to question him further; and
when he talked in a strange, rambling, mysterious way, about
having watched over my father, and promised to watch over me
in the same way, after satisfying himself upon two or three
points, I began to have my misgivings.”

“Misgivings! Of what nature, pray?”

“Well, dear mother, to tell you the truth, I began to fear he
might be a little touched.”

“A little touched! I understand you, son; and that is just
what I have always feared. There lies the dreadful mystery
which drove your father abroad, — an outcast and a wanderer,
as you have heard him say more than once, to my knowledge.”

After a long pause, and a struggle which alarmed poor Arthur
even more than all she had said before, she grew calmer; and
turning to him, with a countenance full of motherly tenderness,
and high religious hope, she said, —

“Listen! That William Bayard is one of the best men I ever

knew, or ever heard of; one of the most faithful to every obligation
of life. His father's family and mine were neighbors; and
though he was much the elder, we were playfellows from my
earliest childhood. At last — I cannot stop long enough to go
into particulars — our childish friendship underwent a surprising
change, and before we well knew where we were, ripened into
something holier. In short, we were engaged to be married. I
was very young — a mere child in years — and my father and
mother insisted on what I myself must acknowledge was but a
reasonable delay. Bear with me for a moment.”

Here she pointed to the tumbler, which Arthur handed her;
after wetting her lips, and wiping her eyes, with a very unsteady
hand, she continued, —

“Meanwhile, I became acquainted with your father. He had
been brought to our house and introduced to me by Mr. Bayard.
They were like two brothers; and though belonging to the society
of Friends, and wearing the garb of that sect, were acknowledged
for the two handsomest men of their day, and among the
best educated and most highly accomplished. But your father
was a fashionable man, — showy, adventurous, and far from being
peaceable; in fact, although he was a member of the society,
and greatly esteemed, he would not have been suspected to
belong to them, but for the single-breasted coat he wore. In
everything else, — from neckcloth to shoe-buckle, and in speech,
also, he was a man of the world. We were very intimate, —
like brother and sister; and I had no idea of any lurking preference
for him, until a few days before the time fixed for my marriage
with Mr. Bayard, when something happened, which, but
for God's mercy, would have driven me distracted. A friend of
my mother told her, that, in the family of Mr. Bayard, there was
an hereditary taint of madness, which, for three generations, had
never failed to show itself soon after marriage.

“My mother was frightened; and my father lost no time in
satisfying himself. The story was true; but somehow or other,
he was led to believe it had been greatly exaggerated; and that,
in two or three cases, the insanity had proved to be inoffensive
and harmless, and passed with strangers for nothing worse than a
little oddity, — a sort of whimsical temper, such as we are always

ready enough to bear with, or overlook, unless alarmed with the
fear of something behind, like a predisposition.

“I grew very unhappy. I could neither eat nor sleep. I
knew it would break the noble, generous heart of poor Bayard, if
he should ever come to a knowledge of these facts; most of which
had been always kept from him, while others were so represented
and so softened, that he, as I had reason to believe, had never
understood their true character.

“While I was debating with myself, and trying to make up
my mind — for I was determined never to marry him, with this
awful fear upon me — it occurred to me, as my only brother
was abroad — your uncle George — to ask your father what he
knew of the family, and what he had reason to believe. He
refused to answer, at first, and treated the question very lightly;
until I declared to him, that, until satisfied beyond a reasonable
doubt, upon the point, I would never marry his friend; and if
driven to it, I should tell him so myself, though I would rather
die. Then, seeing that I was not to be moved, he acknowledged
that, although there might be some exaggeration, the substantial
facts were not to be questioned; and that the heritage of woe
had been bequeathed from father to son, or rather from mother
to son, — for the infirmity was on the side of the mother, — had
continued through several generations, and in the last, — of
which he had reason to believe his friend William knew nothing,
— had been greatly aggravated. Originating at first with the intermarriage
of cousins, it had gone on and on” —

Arthur turned pale; but so managed, that his mother did not
observe his emotion, as she continued, —

“On and on, till it had assumed an aspect much more alarming
than it had been with the last generation; so that, instead of
a quiet melancholy, or a trembling apprehensiveness, it had assumed
the character of decided hallucination.

“This, you will acknowledge, my dear boy, was enough, or
ought to have been enough to satisfy me; but it did not. Disregarding
all your father's remonstrances and entreaties, and
expostulations, and afraid to trust my father and mother with
the power of deciding what I was bound, by every principle of
duty, to decide for myself, I insisted on seeing the family physician

of the Bayards; after which I meant to be governed by
circumstances.

“Your father yielded at last, and I saw no less than three of
the faculty, apart first, and then together, for I was both wilful
and conscientious; and the result was, that all my worst fears
were confirmed, and every doubt removed. But why had the
unhappy man himself been kept in ignorance of what so many
others knew? The answer was, that, inasmuch as the malady
had not been developed in him, and there was nothing to complain
of in his behavior, beyond a little oddity of manner, great
earnestness, or enthusiasm, and great fixedness of purpose in
whatever he undertook, — which, in another, would have been
called steadfastness, and but for the suspicions entertained, and
the watchful anxiety of near friends, might have been thought
heroic and worthy of the highest praise, — they were unwilling to
run the risk of a revelation; for should he be suddenly enlightened,
and just now, when about to enter into marriage, the disease
might be fearfully exasperated, and break forth in some
new and terrible shape, instead of dying out — as they hoped it
would — under the influence of a young, devoted wife, in its own
deep, mysterious, unvisited lurking-places. Their opinions had
weight with me, I acknowledge, but they failed to satisfy. It
was no longer possible to think of marriage with him, and as
the day fixed upon was very near, what excuse could I give?
Would anything but the simple truth answer my purpose, or
avail with such a generous, loving, noble-hearted man? Was I
to steal away from the fulfilment of a promise made in perfect
faith, and, I may add, in perfect love, and allow him to regard
me forever, as changeable and capricious, or it might well be,
as a wayward, heartless, unprincipled flirt? For I had openly
acknowledged, not only my admiration for William Bayard,
wherever it was proper and becoming to do so, but my sincere
affection for him.

“Your father saw my purpose, and after expostulating with
me, and using every argument he could think of, to dissuade me
from what he foresaw I intended to do, he lost all patience with
my wilfulness, and we quarrelled and parted; and his last words
were — I never shall forget them — nor the look with which

they were accompanied, as he turned back for a moment, after
he had reached the door, and said to me, `You little know what
a tremendous accountability you are taking upon yourself, — you
do not understand the case, nor even the character of poor William,
— and I see that nothing we can say will change your desperate
purpose; but mark me! if you give the true reason,
without qualification or concealment, one of two things will
certainly follow: —' `What are they?' said I, beginning to
feel a most uncomfortable suspicion of bad faith stealing into my
heart, I hardly knew why, for Harper Maynard was the last man
alive to be suspected of treachery; but so it was — and I only
mention the fact — and when it flashed upon me all at once, while
his burning eyes were fixed on me, and he was holding both
my hands between his, and trembling from head to foot, as if on
trial for his life — that all the satisfying evidence I had upon the
subject had been furnished by him, or through him, I lost all
command of myself, and repeated the question, `What are they?'

“He let my hands drop, and slowly answering, said, `Tell
him, Elizabeth, when you begin, to set his house in order; for, as
the Lord liveth! what you are determined to say will either
drive him mad upon the spot, or kill him outright.'

“`I don't believe a word of it, Harper Maynard!' said I,
`and come what may, he shall know the truth, and the whole
truth before I sleep!' You shudder, my dear son — you are astonished
at my presumption, — and so, indeed, am I; — it was
little better than madness to do what I had threatened, but I did
not so well understand your father's character then, as I did
afterward, or I might have been more manageable, or at any
rate, more reasonable; and, but for the dreadful suspicion I had
begun to entertain, I should have consulted my mother, and perhaps
my father, and have taken more time for consideration.
But my temper was impatient; I was both headstrong and imperious,
and the moment your father left me, I despatched a servant
with a note for Mr. Bayard. He happened to be on his
way to see me, — and within a few minutes we were sitting together
by ourselves, and talking together, face to face; but I cannot
pretend to give you an idea of what followed. There were
times during the interview, when I felt as if the last words of

your father were about to be fulfilled, — that I had wronged him
beyond all hope of reconciliation or forgiveness, — that the judgment
of God was upon me, and a retribution so terrible, for my
rashness, that either William Bayard or I must go mad upon the
spot.”

“Compose yourself, dear mother! You frighten me; why
not defer the explanation till to-morrow?”

“No, no! — if I do not finish it now, I never shall have the
heart to do so; and even to-morrow may be too late. Bear with
me a few minutes;” — and then she resumed, —

“After a whole hour, with much weeping on my part, and
praying on his — for he was a man of prayer — he acknowledged
that in his early boyhood, he himself had observed something
strange in the behavior of his mother; and at some time,
he could not say how long before, he had been greatly amused
at some of the stories told of his grandmother, and of relations
on the mother's side; but never, never had he been allowed to
suppose the taint hereditary, or allied to madness. `But,' said
he, after thanking me with a fervor and earnestness, wellnigh
overwhelming, and almost enough to change my purpose, if anything
on earth could have changed it, `you have done right,
Elizabeth. If it be as you say, — and I mean to know for myself,
and judge for myself, before I meet you again, — I shall but
love you all the more, and reverence you all the more, so long
as I breathe the breath of life, my dearest of earthly friends,
for your conscientiousness and generous openness. It would
have broken my heart, or driven me distracted, Elizabeth, had
you cast me off without justifying yourself. I might bear to give
you up — I might be willing to lose you — but I could not forgive
you, I fear, if you had concealed the truth. I could not
outlive your unworthiness, I know. To-morrow,' he added, `I
will see you again. Do not be away, I beseech you. Say nothing
to your father or mother, and be ready to see me whenever
I may call; and if it should be as you and I both have reason
to believe, why then — then, Elizabeth — my dear Elizabeth,
— although there must be an end to the pleasant dream of marriage,
and everlasting companionship, yet there will be no end
to our reverence and love — I hope. It will endure with me,
forever and forever!'

“`And with me,' said I, `for ever and ever!' And here we
parted.”

“Dear mother!”

“On the morrow, he returned, bringing with him your father.
He was very pale and serious, but gentle and self-possessed; and
I saw, the moment they entered the room, that the dreadful question
was decided — and forever. Both were so haggard — so
changed — and their countenances were so full of woe and hopeless
misery, that I wanted to hide myself in the holes of the
rocks.

“`Elizabeth,' said Mr. Bayard, taking my hand as he had
never taken it before, `you have deeply wronged poor Maynard,'
— your father would have interfered, but Mr. Bayard
put him gently aside, and continued, — `You have cruelly misunderstood
him. All that you have been told of my unhappy
predisposition, — of the awful abyss upon which our feet were
wandering but yesterday, as in the garden of the Lord, is true.
But my friend was faithful; and not only was he faithful to me,
but to you, dear Elizabeth; and though I thank our heavenly
Father from the bottom of my soul, my dear friend, that you
did not follow the counsel of others, but only the generous and
lofty impulses of your own loving heart, yet I cannot bear to
have you unjust, or my friend Harper misunderstood.'

“I was deeply affected. The solemnity of his look awed me;
and though I was half blinded with my tears, I went up to your
father, and offered him both hands. Forgive me! said I; —
make what allowances you can for me, and let us continue to be
friends.”

“`That is all I desire,' said Mr. Bayard. `Henceforth we are
to be friends — unchangeable, steadfast friends; — but so far
as we two are concerned, my poor Elizabeth, nothing more; all
other hope is ended. How it may be hereafter with you,' he
added, after a short choking pause, `I cannot foresee; for while
I forego what I have learned to look upon as the great purpose
of my life, and all that was worth living for, I am strengthened
for the sacrifice, by remembering that Harper Maynard is the
truest friend I ever had, Elizabeth, and in no way unworthy of
our love; that he has long understood your character, and that,

hereafter — but no, I will hazard no more prophecies — farewell,
dear Elizabeth! farewell, forever!' And the next moment,
after drawing me up to his heart, and kissing my forehead convulsively,
he was gone, and, perhaps, to death, — for I entreated
your father to follow instantly, and not lose sight of him, — and
I never saw William Bayard afterward.”

“Never, mother?”

“Never, to know him, Arthur.”

“Would you like to see him again, dear mother?”

“Most assuredly; for I have an idea that he has followed me
and mine from that day to this, like a guardian angel, working
wonders for our help, when your father was in trouble, and watching
over us abroad and at home, and taking a deep interest in
whatever concerned us, year after year, without betraying himself.”

“But why, dear mother, were you so unwilling to mention the
subject? What had you to reproach yourself with?”

“I hardly know, my son. Though upheld by my judgment,
and having a conscience untroubled, I was never quite satisfied
with myself; and when, at last, I married your father, and
soon after understood that this noble-hearted man took it very
hard, and shut himself up from the world, and that, when he
went abroad again, he was so changed that nobody knew him;
and that for many a long year, as he wandered over Europe with
his hair all white, and wearing the plainest of Quaker clothing,
he passed for a madman, or a visionary, I could not help reproaching
myself, not for having refused to marry him — for my
conscience never upbraided me for that, I assure you — but for
marrying your father so unexpectedly, and so soon; for that, I
see now, must have seemed heartless; and I have reason to believe
that he suffered more from that act, which he never understood
perhaps, than he ever had from our first separation; for he
left the country the very next day, and we knew not for many
years whither he had gone, though much inquiry was made by
ourselves and others; nor in fact, whether he was alive or dead,
until he suddenly reappeared, not in person, but by proxy, just
when he was most needed, and when, but for his timely interference,
your father would have been ruined forever, and might

have gone down to the grave with a blasted reputation; but of
this, hereafter.”

Saying this, the mother got up from the chair, and after straining
her boy to her heart once more, and bidding him go straightway
to bed, and there lie till he should be called to a late breakfast
on the morrow, she left him.

It was near daylight, and Arthur had no inclination for sleep.
Still, as the crowded occurrences of the day, so multiplied and so
strange, were not to be got rid of, he tumbled into bed; and notwithstanding
the wind, and sleet, and heavy rattling rain upon
the roof, and against the windows, he slept like an overwearied
child on the lap of its mother.

On the morrow they all met once more at a very late breakfast
— all but Julia, who complained of a sleepless night, and a
distracting headache.

The storm continued, but Mr. Fay did not. After wandering
hither and thither for a whole hour, and lounging about on the
sofa, looking at the papers of yesterday, and watching the
weather, and, seeing no signs of Julia, in spite of all the Major
could say or do, he ordered the carriage, and took his leave.

But Arthur had managed to atone for the deplorable misbehavior
he had been guilty of the night before; and now that his
eyes were opened, and he had begun to feel better satisfied with
himself, and Julia did not appear, and Mr. Fay had to go without
seeing her, he began to feel more kindly toward that gentleman,
and went so far, after he had been gone awhile, as to
acknowledge, in so many words, that he was not only one of the
most intelligent and accomplished, but one of the handsomest
men he had ever met with.

So much for a pleasant sleep! and so much, it may be, for a
word of prayer, after the troubled heart had cast off the great
burden of bitterness and sorrow.

But, strange as it may appear, Mr. Fay had not only grown
more intelligent and more accomplished, handsomer and more
gentlemanly, in the estimation of our young friend Arthur, from
that hour of patient self-examination, upon his knees, and in the
presence of God; but dignified and courteous, and so far from being
unreasonably tall, and awkward and shapeless, and repulsive

and crafty, as he had appeared from the first; but a well-proportioned
man, with a generous mouth, and the finest eyes in the
world — large, clear, and burning with inward light, and changeable
as the deep sea with clouds drifting over it, — with great
ease and strength of manner, which, if not graceful, was both impressive
and conciliatory; and then, too, the craft and coolness
of which he had complained so bitterly to himself, whenever he
thought of all that had happened between them, while they were
together, or with Julia, from the first, and with his uncle George,
— what were they, after all, but the outward signs of that inward
power which rendered him so desirable a friend in their present
circumstances, and which enabled him to take the position he
occupied at the bar, against half a hundred worthy competitors,
and to hold it against all the world? It was the quiet, unchangeable
steadfastness — the silent wilfulness — the perfect self-command
of Wallenstein, as pictured by Schiller in the great
battle of Leutzen. Such men are never to be taken by surprise,
come what may; and the knowledge of this fact deters their adversaries
from trying many a favorite stratagem, — for every
baffled stratagem is a converted spy; all the more dangerous to
one party, for being no longer dangerous to the other.

Of all that his mother had told him about her past life, and of his
father, nothing had troubled him so much, as the unpremeditated,
unintentional testimony she had borne against the intermarriage
of cousins. Although he had begun to think of Julia, as he had
never thought of her before, and kept saying to himself that no
man was worthier of her love, so far as he could judge, than Mr.
Fay himself; and though he believed in his heart, poor fellow!
not only that he was ready to give her up, if her happiness might
be promoted by the companionship of another, and that other the
very man he had almost hated a little time before; but that he
had given her up — and forever — without stopping to inquire
whether his conjectures were well founded or not, nor whether
her happiness would be promoted by such a companionship; yet,
notwithstanding all these magnanimous resolves, he felt unhappy,
— miserable — utterly discouraged, when he thought of this new
barrier in the way of all future hope and possibility, and wanted
to steal away and hide himself, he cared not how, nor where,
from the questioning eyes of his mother.