University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

The night following this triumphant acquittal, which not only
set the prisoner free, and sent him on his way rejoicing, but so
changed the whole aspect of the mysterious affair, as to fill the
public heart — if the public may be supposed to have a heart —
with admiration and sympathy for the accused, and for all the
sufferers connected with him, was a night of prayer, a night of
weeping and of joy, never to be forgotten. The very newspapers
underwent a change. They were full of regrets and
explanations and acknowledgements, and for three successive
days, at the end of which time, the whole case, if not entirely forgotten,
had come to be regarded as an old story — almost antediluvian
— by the newsmongers and gossips of New York, nothing
was to be heard but the praises of Mr. Pendleton, the great London
banker, the large-hearted princely American. His unruffled
serenity — his magnanimous bearing under the terrible accusation
— his behavior in court, his calm, patient, self-sacrificing, self-denying
temper, and amazing forbearance, continued month after
month, under a crushing load of obloquy, for the sake of the
widow and the fatherless, when, by a single word — by just turning
his hand over, as it were, he might have cleared himself; and
his calm, steadfast, unchangeable trust in the faithfulness of his
heavenly Father, were favorite themes for a while among the
wealthiest brokers and best business men of the day; and were
mentioned in all the prayer-meetings, where it was now rememberd,
that he had been met with occasionally; and while his
praises were in every mouth, and the newspapers were busiest,
the pulpit and the platform took fire and went far ahead of the
reporters, and special correspondents, and telegraphs; one after
another, “taking up the wondrous tale,” and making the most of

it, until months after the circumstances were all forgotten at
New York, where the signal was first given, and the long roll of
thunder was first heard, growing louder and louder for three
days, and then dying away like the roar of cannon, after a
beleaguered city has capitulated — the reverberations might be
heard among the mountains and hills of New England, along the
shores of the great western wilderness, and wherever the press
had a gun planted, east, west, north or south, from the Atlantic to
the Pacific.

There was undoubtedly much truth in all this, to begin with;
but alas, for the best intentions of the worthiest men, who have
a great purpose in view, there was also a great deal of exaggeration
and embellishment, before the story was finished; so that
sometimes the Major would feel his cheeks tingle and his ears
burn, and he would start up from his chair, and pace the floor
with a tread that shook the whole house, on meeting with a pargraph
copied from a distant village paper into some of the New
York mammoth journals. But there was no help for it. Contraction
would have only made the matter worse. If he denied
any part of the story, under his own signature, that would be
just what they wanted; for they would secure a correspondent,
and whatever he failed to contradict, would be taken for truth,
of course; and if he withheld his name, they would flare up, and
refuse to correct any error, however momentous, and however
obvious, at the suggestion of what, peradventure, they would call
an anonymous scribbler — an acknowledged nobody.

On the morrow, when the household gathered for breakfast, it
was evident enough they had not overslept themselves; and they
were all so very serious, and so silent — for they talked together
in such very subdued tones, and ate so little, that a stranger
would have thought something very unpleasant had happened,
or was about to happen. Looking at their faces, and hearing the
little they had to say, it would never have entered his head that
they were too happy to eat — or too happy to appear so. Yet
such was the fact. Their hearts were too full; and they were not
sufficiently recovered from their amazement, and from the sudden
change in their feelings, to understand their deliverance aright.
After breathing a ponderous blackness, day after day, for a whole

month — and all afraid to acknowledge their misgivings — to
find the sky no longer overcast, and the sunshine of God's love
working through their hearts, and literally flooding their pathway
— as they drew a long breath, and looked up — what was
there in this world worth talking about, or worth eating?

“A word with you, Uncle George,” said Charles, pushing
away the only emptied cup to be seen upon the table, — “an
explanation is due to you, for a —”

“No, no, not here, if you please, my dear fellow,” said the
Major, rising as he spoke, — “let us go by ourselves, where
there may be no danger of misunderstanding, or interruption.”

“Excuse me, Uncle George — what I have to say, I should
like to say here — just here — in the presence of witnesses, that
my acknowledgment may be remembered, and the atonement
correspond with the offence.”

“What offence, my dear Charles? I am not aware of any
offence on your part, nor of any misunderstanding between
us, worthy of a moment's consideration.”

“You bear me no grudge, I know, dear uncle; but as I have
long borne you a grudge — a deadly grudge — forgive me, dear
mother, and you, dear sister, I pray you, and bear with what
you cannot understand, nor forgive, till I get through; and as I
once declared in my wrath, good uncle, that I could never forgive
you, and that I would follow you to the ends of the earth,
to avenge myself — didn't I Julia? — I don't wonder you shudder,
poor child! — I am anxious to relieve her terrors, and to
do you and myself justice, by acknowledging that I was altogether
wrong, and you altogether right, Uncle George; and
that I wholly misunderstood your character and purposes — and
that, being now in my right mind, as I hope, and sitting at the
feet of Jesus —”

“Merciful Father! what does he mean?” cried Julia, as her
aunt Elizabeth turned toward her brother, and lifted both hands
in astonishment —

“Just what I have said, Julia. God has brought me to my
senses, I believe — no matter how — no matter where — all
that we may talk about hereafter; but my purpose now is to

acknowledge before you all, that I have wronged our good
uncle, and then to beg his forgiveness —”

“With all my heart!” said the Major; “and without caring
to know in what way you have wronged me, my dear nephew,
you have my full and free forgiveness, not only for what you
may have said or done — but for whatever you may have intended
or threatened to do; and may the All-Merciful forgive
you, as freely as I do! There is my hand! — both of my hands,
dear Charles! and now I hope you are satisfied; and the young
people may be left to finish their breakfast in peace.”

“Not so fast, Uncle George! It is but fair that you should
know in what way I have wronged you.”

“If you insist upon it —”

“I do. Have you forgotten that dreadful night, when you
tracked me to a den of thieves —”

“Charles! are you mad?”

“Almost, dear uncle, when I review that portion of my life.
I had it on my mind to go to the opera; but the nest of gamblers,
with whom I had been associated for a while, headed me
off, and I was foolish enough to go with them, although aware
that they were in danger of an attack from the police, who had
been upon the watch for nearly a month. While we were engaged
in play, there was a loud knocking at the outside door, —
the lights were instantly extinguished — the stakes withdrawn,
— the instruments of gambling disposed of — and our weapons
of death snatched up from the tables and chairs; and we all
rushed to the windows, where the first person I saw by the street
lamp was you, my dear uncle, and the first word spoken was by
you, encouraging a policeman to mount a ladder set up against
the window where I stood. Long before this, I had been told
that you had set spies upon me, and that I was watched by a
detective employed by you — and I was now assured that you
were at the bottom of this whole affair, and were leading the
attack.”

The Major nodded.

“Transported with ungovernable rage, I flung off the ladder,
while the man was on it, and just as he was reaching to grasp
the sill of the window, to check his fall; there were two or three

pistol shots fired in quick succession — a ball struck the window
near me — and I saw you lying upon the sidewalk, overthrown
by the falling ladder, I believe — was it so?”

“It was even so, my dear nephew.”

“What followed, you are already acquainted with. If not, I shall
be happy to own up, in every particular, at some future period.
That I escaped, and by the skin of my teeth, I dare say, you know;
but you do not know, perhaps, that in addition to all these provoking,
and rather troublesome interpositions, you must acknowledge
— or I will for you — I had good reason for believing that
you had interfered between me and poor little Edith, and that
but for you, she would have consented to a runaway match with
me.”

“Well — have you finished?”

“For the present, I have.”

“And how much of all this did you believe at the time, dear
Charles?”

“Every word of it! And that was the reason why I swore
to follow you, as I did — by night and by day — and to the ends
of the earth — like the avenger of blood. Don't be frightened,
Julia! nor you, Aunt Elizabeth — for, as I have told you before,
I have come to my senses now, and acquit my good uncle here
of all blame. What he did, I thank him for, with all my heart;
and for what he did not, I forgive him!”

“Magnanimous indeed!” whispered Arthur.

“And pray, nephew, how much of all this do you believe
now?”

“Well,” — after a short pause — “I believe that you did watch
me — that you did set spies upon me, and employ a detective
to follow me — and that you did have something to do with that
attack upon the nest of gamblers; but I wholly acquit you of all
interference between little Edith and myself.”

“There, my dear boy, you wrong me!” said the Major.

“How! — I do not understand!”

“It was owing to my interference, dear Charles, that Edith
refused to marry you.”

“No such thing, Uncle George! You were never more mistaken
in your life. She told me so herself.”

“But she did not know of my interference, nephew. I cautioned
the mother, and she employed William Bayard to follow
up the inquiry; and between them both, she was well persuaded,
that unless you changed your habits of life — and gave up the
associates we found you so much with — it would be unsafe to
marry you.”

“And you were right, uncle! But, strange as you may think
it, neither your interference, nor that of Mr. Bayard, nor the entreaties
of her mother would have prevented the marriage, had
I been otherwise what I should be. Nay more — had I been
wholly free from the dangerous habits you complained of, and
warned her against, she would never have consented to a marriage
with me.”

“I do not understand you,” said Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle
George; both speaking together.

“But I do!” said Julia — her eyes filling with tears of joy
and thankfulness. “Go on, brother!”

“What was the difficulty between you, then?” said his aunt
Elizabeth. “What hindered the marriage?”

“`An evil heart of unbelief,' dear aunt. Poor little Edith was
a Christian — a devout and humble Christian; and she would
neither marry me, nor trust me, nor take my word, without
proof, that if I was not altogether a Christian, I had not at
least put it out of my power ever to become a Christian, by
allowing a low appetite to obtain a mastery over my understanding
and my affections, and my love and hope.”

“Heroic child!” whispered Aunt Elizabeth.

“Generous creature!” exclaimed Uncle George.

“`Be but a believer!' said she, `and God will take care of
the rest. But, dear Charles,' she added — and I never shall
forget her look — `though you should reform to-morrow, and
continue for a twelvemonth to lead a sober life, it would by no
means follow that you would become, what you must be, if we
are to be happy together — a believer!'”

Here Charles covered his face with his hands — leaned forward
with both elbows on the table, and sat for several minutes
without speaking or moving.

Julia waited until she could wait no longer; and stealing up

to him, and throwing her arms about his neck — and smoothing
his abundant hair with her little hand — as a young mother
would caress her babe, she whispered something in a low voice,
which nobody heard but her brother.

“I do not know,” said he, at last, after a sharp struggle, and
lifting his head as he continued, so that Julia saw, for the first
time in her life, the eyes of that dear brother brimming with
moisture and just ready to overflow — “I dare not answer for
myself, not having experienced anything of that sudden joy —
that uplifting of the spirit — or that inward illumination, which
so many have had. Otherwise, dear Julia, I might speak more
decidedly; and perhaps, I ought to say to you, Aunt Elizabeth,
and to you, Uncle George, that, although I believe God has been
merciful to me, and that our blessed Saviour has answered my
prayer, and that I have almost heard in the watches of the night,
and especially in the midst of a terrible storm which threatened to
send us all to the bottom, the whisper of power, `Peace, be still!'
— and again, at another time, after the storm had passed away,
and the tumult was over, and the heaving sea went down at his
bidding — I heard, or thought I heard, as at my very ear, a whisper
of encouragement and hope, saying, `Thy sins are forgiven
thee!' — still, notwithstanding all this, for all this may have
been, and probably was, a delusion — I must acknowledge that I
have been greatly disappointed.”

“Disappointed, brother! — how so?”

“I have found no such peace in believing as I had been promised
by you and others, and as I expected.”

“And what then?” whispered Arthur. “You were never the
man to give up what you had once undertaken.”

“What! You, too, Cousin Arthur!” cried Charles, with a
look of astonishment. “Can it be possible!”

“I will not affect to misunderstand you, dear Charles; but
while I acknowledge that I have learned to look upon life, and
the blessings, and sorrows, and trials of life, within a few months,
as I never did before — and as I never expected, nor even wished
to do before, if I know my own heart — still, I am so far from
being satisfied with myself, that I should be utterly discouraged,
but for my trust in God's love and faithfulness.”

“You have reached the same point I see, dear Arthur — but
by a different path; and now I ask you what you are waiting
for? what you are hoping for? what you intend to do?”

“To hold on — to persevere, with God's help — and if I perish,
I perish!”

“Give us your hand, my brother!” cried Charles. “Come
what may, we must fight this battle together, and side by side!
We have enlisted for life. And it may be that salvation itself —
like many other blessings that we are called upon to labor for, and
toil after — if it could be had for the asking, would not be worth
having.”

“Brother Charles!”

“Don't be frightened, Julia! — by that, I mean, that if it were
to be had for the asking, it would be undervalued.”

“But is it not to be had for the asking, dear brother?”

“Yes — but coupled with it are conditions that must not be
overlooked. We are to strive — we are to seek — we are to
labor — we are to `work out our own salvation with fear and
trembling;' and after all is accomplished, we are to `rejoice with
trembling!'”

“Very true, dear brother — I give up — I dare not hold an
argument with you upon any subject, and least of all, upon this.
I am afraid of you — and of myself.”

“Let us leave the young people together awhile,” said Uncle
George to Aunt Elizabeth. “I want half an hour with you by
yourself; and as they appear to be in a fair way of understanding
one another, and of renewing their acquaintance, on a very
pleasant footing, and are not likely to need our help, nor even
to miss our company, what say you to a short drive? — I have
ordered the `Rockaway.'”

“With all my heart; it would refresh me, I am sure — and I
have no doubt, strengthen you.”

The Major rang the bell, and ordered the carriage round to
the back piazza.

While waiting for Mrs. Maynard to equip herself — he turned
toward the nearest wall, and throwing up his locked hands in a
sudden gush of thankfulness — high up — as high up as he could
reach, and leaning his hot forehead against the cool plastering,

breathed a hurried prayer, that he might be forgiven for all
the secret murmuring, and impatience, and unthankfulness he had
given way to; and for the want of faith he had manifested, month
after month; notwithstanding his earnest and repeated professions
to the contrary, while striving to reassure Elizabeth and Julia —
and Arthur — and himself; wondering, as he reviewed the past, in
silent prayer, that he did not feel happier now, and altogether more
thankful than he was; and utterly astonished, that the dread
calamity, which, while impending, appeared so tremendous, and
so awful, now that it had been averted by God's mercy, should
seem so much less terrible. A common trick of the great Adversary,
which he was but just beginning to see through. The coming
evil is exaggerated, that we may be disheartened, and almost
afraid to pray; but once over, it is undervalued, that we may not
be troublesome in our acknowledgments, nor over-thankful.

The Major was interrupted by the rustle of drapery and a low
sob.

As he withdrew his hands from the wall, and turned toward
the sound, he saw his beloved sister standing near him, with her
hands clasped, and large tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Oh, my brother!” she cried, — “my dear brother! — what
can I say to you for all your goodness and forbearance, throughout
this terrible affair! I have been afraid to speak to you — and
even now — I tremble to think, how dreadfully we misunderstood
you, for a moment! Can you forgive me?”

“Forgive you, dear sister! I have nothing to forgive. I
know what you refer to — I foresaw it, like the bitterness of
death — and I meant to prepare you for it, on the morning of
the last day, when I begged you to believe in me, whatever
might happen.”

“I know it! I know it, brother! and I did believe in you —
and we all believed in you — but oh, my brother! it was the
most awful, and the sorest trial for a few minutes, that I ever
went through with in all my life. I felt as if my last hope on
earth had been shipwrecked — and forever — as if God himself
had forsaken us — and that even my brother, my own dear
generous brother, had lost sight of the widow and the fatherless,
and cared for nothing but himself. Oh! can you forgive me?”

“To be sure, I can! It was no more than I expected — and
had reason to expect — and was fully prepared for. It was not
in human nature for you to see the end from the beginning, as I
did — though I was rather in the dark upon some points, and so
indeed was Mr. Fay — owing to the strange, mysterious management
of our friend William.”

“Not a word against him, I beseech you, dear brother!”

“No, indeed! not for my life. There were times, to be sure,
when I thought him wilful and crotchetty; and but for Mr. Fay,
who had the greatest confidence in his judgment and foresight,
I should have taken the whole business into my own hands at
one time.”

“What a mercy you did not!”

“A mercy indeed, Elizabeth; for now, that it is all over, I
see that if I had had my way, and Charles had not been forthcoming
so opportunely, though I might have been set free, a
cloud of suspicion might have rested for ever and ever upon the
departed. Even to this hour, I do not understand how he managed
to obtain the very evidence I needed, and for which we
wanted another continuance — but never mind! we shall know
in good time, I dare say, and we cannot be thankful enough,
now, that your friend William, with his Quaker guns, drove
that fast-anchored Mr. Fay from his moorings. If the Court
had refused to continue the case, and we had been obliged to go
to trial without the living testimony of Charles, there is no telling
what might have been said of the papers furnished by Mr.
Bayard. But come — the carriage is waiting, and I have a
matter of great importance to settle with you on the way.”

“With me!”

“Come, come! jump in, and after we are out of hearing, I
will endeavor to satisfy you that it is with you, and with nobody
else.”

After they had passed the gate, and entered upon the broad
thoroughfare, the Major drew up, and let the horse walk.

“Elizabeth,” said he, coming to the point like a man whose
heart was too full for circumlocution, or roundaboutness, which
is the better word by far, “have you any reason to believe that
Arthur and Julia understand each other?”

“Understand each other — how?”

“Does Julia understand that Arthur loves her? — that's what
I mean.”

“But does he love her, brother George?”

“That is not answering my question, Elizabeth. Be frank
with me — I am willing to make large allowances for a mother
— but we are entering upon a very serious business, and I am
anxious to see my way clear.”

“Well!”

“Well — Arthur loves Julia, and you know it, Elizabeth,
although I sometimes think the poor boy hardly knows it himself
— but does Julia know it?”

“It could not well be otherwise, if your supposition is true —
for Julia is not wanting, believe me, in this, the most beautiful
and sure of womanly instincts. Do not misunderstand me,
brother, I pray you; there was a time, I believe, when my
poor boy was madly in love with Julia, though too sensitive and
too proud to acknowledge it; and Julia may have seen — must
have seen — day after day, and month after month, enough to
satisfy her of all this; but he kept the secret, and so did she.”

“Did you ever mention the subject to her?”

“No, indeed — I knew her too well.”

“Ah!”

“And love her too much.”

“Why, what would have happened, think you, if you had
mentioned it?”

“An immediate separation. I must have sent Arthur away,
or found another home for Julia — and we could not well spare
either you know, dear brother.”

“No, indeed! what would have become of me? and what of
you, my dear sister, but for the comfort and consolation we have
had in the society of these dear children? But — between ourselves
— what think you Julia would have answered, if you had
mentioned the subject?”

“I hardly know — she might have silenced me forever, by
fixing her large eyes upon me — full of tears — and saying not
a word in reply; or by walking out of the room, without lifting
her eyes from the floor.”

“Elizabeth.”

“Well.”

“Do you think Julia loves Arthur now? or that she ever did
love him?”

“I dare not say; there was a time, perhaps, a year or two
ago, when they were no longer brother and sister, and she had
begun to feel shy of his brotherly attentions, and used to tremble
and grow pale, if he came in her way abruptly — when, perhaps,
the affections of her girlhood — her sisterly affection for Arthur
— might have undergone a change, with a little proper encouragement;
but Arthur was a boy, and thoughtless, and foolish
— and she was often troubled with his levity about serious
things, and there grew up on her part, and very slowly, a sort
of alienation — a want of sympathy on his, which resulted, after
a few months, in a sorrowful estrangement.”

“Very well. I am satisfied. And now to business. What
think you of Mr. Fay?”

“Of Mr. Fay! Why do you ask, brother? You know that
I have the highest opinion of Mr. Fay. I look upon him as not
only one of the best informed, and most remarkable, but one of
the best men I ever knew.”

“So far, so good; but do you know what Julia thinks of
him?”

“Very much as I do, I believe.”

“You have seen them together — and by themselves — and
you are a woman, with what you call the instincts of a woman;
and I ask you now plainly and directly, if you think Julia has
any other feeling toward Mr. Fay, than that of sincere friendship?”

“And almost unbounded admiration, perhaps?”

“And deep thankfulness, on our account?”

“I am unable to answer, as I would wish, dear brother. Julia
is no trifler — she was never a flirt — and sometimes, when I
have seen her watching the play of his fine countenance, with
tears in her eyes, and trembling from head to foot, if he but
touched her hand — or drew up his chair by her side — that
she must feel, though she might never acknowledge it, even to
herself, something more than friendship — a lurking tenderness

perhaps, which only needed cherishing, to become a lasting and
holy manifestation of that strange, elective affinity which we call
love.”

“As I hoped, Elizabeth! — as I have long thought! — Well,
should you have any objection to Mr. Fay, if he were to offer
himself to Julia?”

Mrs. Maynard hesitated.

“Well — what say you?”

“I have but one, dear brother.”

“And what is that?”

“Mr. Fay is not a religious man.”

The Major was thunderstruck. He had never thought of this
before.

“Well, my dear sister — you may as well understand the case.
For the last month, Mr. Fay has been resolved to offer himself
to Julia the moment my affair was decided — unless we should
object.”

“Has he ever said anything to her, do you know? — but I
need not ask, for I saw enough at the trial yesterday, to satisfy
me that he could not have mentioned the subject to her; otherwise,
her behavior toward him could be reconciled to the calm
propriety of her whole past life, only upon the supposition that
they were secretly betrothed — and that would be impossible with
her. No, no — she would have been too much embarrassed
— and under too much restraint yesterday, to take his hand as
she did — or to speak of him, and to him, as she did, if he
had ever mentioned the subject of marriage to her.”

“You do Mr. Fay no more than justice, my dear Elizabeth.
He has not offered himself to her — and he will not, he says,
even though he should have our free consent, until quite sure of
being accepted.”

“What!”

The Major repeated Mr. Fay's declaration, with a smile.

“Indeed! — he will not offer himself then, till quite sure of
being accepted! Let Mr. Fay beware! He has wholly mistaken
the dear child's character; and if this should come to her
knowledge, there would be no hope for him.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. Julia Parry is not a woman to betray herself in
advance; and he who counts upon her admiration, or gratitude
— or tenderness, if you will — to this extent, will find himself
most wofully disappointed, I promise you!”

“Would it not be well for you to sound Julia upon the subject,
before we answer Mr. Fay?”

“No, brother, I dare not speak with Julia upon a matter of
such awful moment, unless invited by her to do so. You little
know her depth and strength of character; she herself, does not,
I verily believe. Again and again have I been astonished at
some new and beautiful revelation of her inward nature, when
I thought I knew her so well, that nothing she could ever do, or
say, would astonish me. I had watched her so long, and so
faithfully, year after year, by the help of others, and of late, for
myself, that I had come to believe I knew her well, and that I
could foresee not only her decision, but her very language and
behavior, under almost any conceivable circumstances; but her
self-possession — her steadfastness — her wonderful composure,
through all the trying scenes of the last few months, have
satisfied me that Julia Parry is not a woman to be prejudged,
even by those who know her best. You would have me talk
with her about Mr. Fay — but how can I do so, after what you
have said of his intentions? Until he has offered himself — or
satisfied us that he intends to do so, in good faith — how would
it be possible for me to confer with Julia upon the subject?
And if, by any chance, the dear child should come to a knowledge
of what he has communicated to you, in his foolish self-complacency
— or blind presumption — I care not which — there
would be no hope for him, whatever her secret inclinations might
have been before.”

“Well, well, dear sister, you are to judge for yourself, and act
for yourself; but perhaps you would be willing to have a word
with Charles?”

“With Charles! my dear brother? Are you mad! What
does Charles know of Mr. Fay? and how on earth could I manage
to inform a doting brother, in such a way as not to offend
him, that Mr. Fay felt a great admiration for his sister, and
after obtaining our consent, and his, if he met with proper encouragement

from the lady herself, he might be willing to go
further?”

“Well done, Elizabeth! I confess I did not see it in this light.
On the contrary, it seemed to me very generous and high-minded
to come to us first, before he had broached the subject to her, so
that if, for any reason, or no reason, we chose to object, there
would be an end of the matter, and Julia would never hear of it;
while, if we assented, as I am sure we should, there would be
nothing left for him, but to prevail upon the lady herself, should
he see any reasonable ground of hope.”

“Oh, that's another affair. I have no objection to his withholding
a declaration till he sees a reasonable ground for hope;
though I certainly have, and so would any other woman, with a
decent share of respect for herself, to his waiting for encouragement,
or assurance.”

“No, no, Elizabeth, —”

“No, no, brother! But I say, yes, yes! for if he is determined
to wait until quite sure of being accepted, what is that, I
pray you, but waiting for encouragement and assurance?”

“Oh, you women! — but being only a man, I do not pretend
to see clearly, nor to advise further; nor do I at all understand
the greatest of all mysteries to me — the mystery of womanhood.”

“Being a bachelor, dear brother — how should you? Were
you a husband and a father, having a woman child to get acquainted
with and watch over, I dare say you would soon be
enlightened.”

“I dare say, and so” — hesitating — “I shall take the matter
into serious consideration, I promise you, and without losing much
time, neither.”

What could he mean? Elizabeth looked at him with a puzzled
expression — and they continued their way in silence.

On their return to the cottage, at the end of a very slow and
rather serious drive, along by the blue sparkling sea, though the
weather was delightful, and the atmosphere charged with sunshine,
the breath of flowers, and the warmth of happy hearts, till
they overflowed with silent thankfulness, and the green earth, and
the blue sky, and the multitudinous leafing, half-way between

both, grew mysterious and sympathetic, and they were almost
tempted at one time to alight, and offer up a hymn of thanksgiving
and acknowledgment, in the hallowed stillness of the
hour, they found Miss Wentworth and her niece, and Mrs.
Archibald and little Edith, and Charles and Arthur, and at last,
that good man, William Bayard himself, all waiting for them,
and watching the distant highway through the windows, front
and back.

Here sat Julia, with her arm round the waist of Edith, and
clasping her little hands to her heart — with Charles leaning
over them, and supporting himself with his hand upon the wall,
and eyes nearly shut, as if in silent prayer; and the mother,
Mrs. Archibald, looking too happy for speech.

A little way off, sat Sallie on the sofa, with her veil flung aside
— a little bonnet, like a basket of flowers, tilted back on her shoulders
— both elbows resting on the top of a chair, watching Arthur
and Charles, and trying to make out the relationship of the parties
— or perhaps the meaning of the mysterious pantomime.

Yet farther off, and somewhat aloof, stood Arthur and Mr.
Bayard talking together in a low whisper, with their eyes directed,
now to the little group, where Edith sat on a low cricket, and all
in a heap at the time, and then at the lordly Charles, and then
at Sallie; Miss Wentworth meanwhile watching the window, and
listening for the noise of wheels, or the sound of hurrying steps.

As the Major entered, following Mrs. Maynard, Sallie sprang
from the sofa in a transport, flung the chair aside, gave a sort of
nod to the mistress, with a word of cheer, and a ringing laugh,
and catching the startled Major — not round the neck to be sure
— but by both hands, and looking at him with eyes running over,
she assured him that he had not been out of her head for a moment,
since the good people at the court-house — the jury, she
believed they were called — had sent them all off about their
business, and so handsomely too! that she hadn't slept a wink —
nor eaten a mouthful — and that now, now, it was all over!
— and here she appealed to her aunt Maria — and plumped into
the nearest chair, and fell a-sobbing, as if her very heart would
empty itself in the overflow that followed.

Mrs. Maynard looked troubled and somewhat astonished; her

brother very much embarrassed — and Aunt Marie indignant —
and everybody else but Julia, amused; while Edith lifted her
head from Julia's lap and looked about from one face to another
in amazement, as if trying to make out the play.

“I know, good folks — I know I am a great simpleton,” said
Sallie, wiping her eyes with her knuckles, and then kicking her
feet, and flourishing her embroidered handkerchief, till her aunt
interfered, and offered her a fan; “and you are welcome to laugh
at me, just as much as ever you like — and I shan't blame you at
all, any of you — not even that little thing there,” — nodding at
Edith — “for I see she can't keep in much longer — no, indeed,
not I! — if you should laugh till you split yourselves!” — all
which was said in a hurry, as fast as she could speak, with continual
changes of tone, and with all sorts of accompaniments,
crying, and snuffling, and sobbing, and laughing, till those who
knew her best began to feel anxious.

“My dear child — recollect thyself,” said William Bayard,
coming up to her, and laying his fatherly hand upon her beautiful
hair, and smoothing it, as he spoke — “thee forgets there are
strangers about thee.”

“And what if there are!” cried Sallie, catching his hand
to her lips. “What care I for strangers! Haven't I been half
crazy for the last month! — and absolutely crazy for the last
eight and forty hours! — and would you have me look as if butter
wouldn't melt in my mouth, just because there are strangers
about me, after I have come to my senses!”

“Don't make a fool of yourself, Sallie Webb!” said her aunt.
“Why, what is the matter with you! I never saw you behave
so, in all my life!”

“I wish I knew, aunty. Overjoyed, I'm thinking.”

“Well, what o' that! We are all overjoyed, I dare say —
but we are not stark staring mad, I hope — we haven't quite lost
our senses!”

“Dear Sallie, forgive me!” said Julia, leaving Edith to the
care of her mother, and coming up to the poor girl, who, after a
passionate burst of weeping, had become suddenly pale — pale
as death — “I understand you, and I ought to have said so from
the first. You were dreadfully fatigued yesterday, standing so

much, and undergoing so much, while we were clinging together
and trying to comfort one another, in our selfishness, and forgetting
you altogether; and I might have known that you would
suffer for it, as you say — and pass a sleepless night, as we did
— and have no appetite for breakfast — any more than we had.
Compose yourself, I pray you — here, take my arm, and go up
with me to my chamber and rest yourself awhile, and you will
soon get over this. I know well enough what I am saying, dear
— I have had some little experience — and you must yield to
me, please!”

The poor girl took her arm, and tried to rise — but staggered
and tottered, and would have fallen perhaps, if the Major, who
happened to be nearest, had not sprung forward and caught her
— with his arms round her waist — and her rich wonderful hair,
and the little bonnet and ribbons and flowers, all afloat over his
shoulder, as he led her off — or rather, as he carried her off by
main strength — for her little dainty feet dragged along upon the
floor.

Julia led the way — and all the rest stood looking after them
in silence; Aunt Marie aghast — Arthur with a mischievous
smile, and his mother as if not quite certain whether she was
awake or asleep.