University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

The weather had now grown oppressive and sultry, and there
was no sleeping, and no living, far away from the rattling brooks,
and whispering leaves, and changeable herbage of the country
— the weltering landscape — and the blue sparkling sea, all
astir with the coming breeze.

Nothing artificial — not even the rejoicing fountains of the
city, with their bright tumbling waters, in the midst of real trees
and real turf, green with a perpetual baptism, could satisfy the
cravings or instincts of people, who had not entirely forgotten
what it was to breathe a living air, wholesome and pleasant, free
from dust, and uncontaminated with city associations, as if constantly
winnowed by the wings of angels; to lie half-awake on
the slope of a hill, hour after hour, toward sunset, listening to
the drowsy anthem of a far off sea-breeze, or to the everlasting
pulses of the ocean, moaning in its sleep.

The stillness of earth and air after nightfall, in the neighborhood
of the cottage, was wonderfully soothing to the troubled
hearts and over-busy imaginations in that household of hope and
trust; and now that the heavy cloud was lifted — and the bitterness
of death all over — and the sorrow and fear and anguish of
suspense — and that dreadful sinking of the heart, with which
they had so long been familiar, was well-nigh forgotten, they
would lie awake hour after hour, in the silent watches of the
night, with a prayer upon their lips, or a new song in their
hearts, or in the daytime, stretched upon the sofas, or lolling
about in the large, deep easy-chairs, with the blinds closed, and
the curtains pushed aside, either half-asleep, or dreaming, till the
slamming of a door, the rattle of wheels, the shout of Charley,
or the clamorous bark of his playfellow, would bring them all
to their feet, with a suddenness infinitely amusing — to others.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Archibald, little Edith, and Charley and the
dog, had been persuaded to come over and rest themselves for a
month or two, while the weather was growing hotter and hotter
every day, and were already looked upon as part of the family;
Mr. Bayard was a constant visitor, on the best possible terms
with himself, and with everybody else, and growing handsomer
and younger every day of his life. Mr. Fay dropped in occasionally,
to the gratification of all parties — even of Arthur and
Charles, who roomed together, in a neighboring cottage, built for
the gardener, but for a long while unoccupied — and so far as
one might judge by looks and appearances, no one of the whole
had anything to complain of, or to be sorry for.

Charles and Arthur were making arrangements for a copartnership,
and just when they had reached a point where nothing
seemed to be wanted, but immediate, instead of prospective capital,
there came a letter through the penny-post, informing Mr.
Pendleton that he would receive, on application to Willoughby &
Co., bankers, a certificate of deposit for £10,000, which the
writer, who did not give his name, desired to be credited to a
certain transaction with Herbert & Co., of London; adding that,
hereafter, if circumstances were favorable, and the “dupe” continued
patient, something more might be hoped for.

The Major was not a little astonished — and though somewhat
suspicious, and shy, and slow to believe — yet as he could see no
possible danger or mischief, in ascertaining the truth, he called
at once upon the bankers mentioned, and found a certificate of
deposit from Peabody & Co. to his credit, for the amount mentioned,
without a word of explanation. This looked well — and
though the Major had given up the whole amount for a dead
loss, and was in a condition to do so without embarrassment, still
it was a comfortable and a pleasant thing to find that loss taking
so different a shape; and now that fifty per cent. was paid —
and more promised, if circumstances were favorable — what
might not be hoped for, in the progress of time, if the wrongdoers,
who had escaped to parts unknown, should continue to
thrive?

On his return to the cottage, buoyant with new hope, and not
only breathing sunshine, but looking sunshine, the Major saw

Mr. Fay's light carriage ahead of him, but too far off to be overtaken,
before it drew up in somewhat of a hurry, and that gentleman
sprang out, and ran up the steps and rang the bell with
such unseemly haste, as to startle the Major for a moment; nor
was he much relieved, when, as he followed, Mr. Fay turned
upon him suddenly, with a pale, serious face, and greeted him
with a look, which might have troubled him sorely — as “coming
events cast their shadows before” — but for what followed.

“My dear Sir,” said he, taking the Major's hand between both
of his, just as the door opened, “I hope you are not going out
again, before dinner — I may want to see you after I have got
through my business with another party.” And then turning
to the waiter, he asked if Miss Parry was at home.

The waiter bowed, and stepped further back to let him pass;
and just then, the farthest parlor-door opened a few inches, of
itself, and the Major led the way into the front drawing-room,
and begged Mr. Fay to be seated, while the waiter carried up
his card.

The room was all in shadow; and the fresh wind blowing
through the woodbines and clambering roses at the open windows,
filled the air with a delicious fragrance, while not a ray of
straggling sunshine was able to creep through the closed blinds.

“You'll excuse me,” said the Major, after he had seen Mr.
Fay disposed of, “and when you get through with your business
I shall be happy to have a talk with you — I have something
to communicate, which I think you will find rather out of the
common way, and rather pleasant withal.”

Mr. Fay bowed — but without opening his mouth, or appearing
to understand a syllable of what the Major had been saying
to him.

After a few minutes, Julia, who never kept anybody waiting,
and was always in trim for such occasions, appeared at the
door, and coming forward with girlish eagerness, and with both
hands outstretched before her, met Mr. Fay with such an expression
of cheerfulness and trust, that he stopped for a moment,
and still keeping her hands in his, turned her toward the light of
the nearest window, as if to satisfy himself that he had nothing
to fear, and then led her to the sofa. On the way, Julia reached

out her hand, as they passed the window, to push open the nearest
blind, but he prevented her.

“Excuse me,” said he, touching her hand as he spoke, and
retaining it for a moment so naturally, and with so little of apparent
calculation, that Julia, poor thing! was entirely thrown
off her guard.

“There — will that do?” he added, after pushing open the
blind, and letting a part of the transparent, snowy curtain, fall
between her face and the afternoon light, all breathing of roses,
and trembling with delicious warmth.

A minute or two of deep silence followed — there was a sound
of low breathing, and then of a hurried beating, which by the
end of another minute or two, became a downright throbbing
— till the deathlike stillness grew absolutely painful, and poor
Julia's girlish eagerness, and cheerful, unembarrassed manner
disappeared altogether; and Mr. Fay began to lose heart, and,
for the first time in all his life, perhaps, to feel that he had undertaken
too much — or that he was not altogether prepared — nor
quite so sure of himself, nor of her, as he had believed. In
short, he wanted more “assurance.”

At last he spoke — but oh! with how changed a voice! Julia
would not have known it, so unlike were the cadences to any
that she had ever heard — so mournful — so deeply felt — and
so full of gentleness and humility.

She was moved to the innermost depths of her nature, before
she well understood what he was saying; and a tear fell upon
the large, shapely hand in which her own was nestling and trembling
— all unconsciously of course — for how could it be otherwise?

“My dear young friend,” said he, — and then he faltered and
stopped, and half rose from the chair, and Julia caught away
her hand, with a sudden impulse, and waited for him to finish,
with her eyes fixed upon a distant door, which appeared to be
opening and shutting of itself.

Mr. Fay's attention had been attracted by the same appearance,
and after satisfying himself that the door was really shut,
and that the soft stepping he heard in the passage-way was not
likely to interfere again, at least for the present, he returned to

the chair by the window — but with a sinking of the heart, and
a trembling of the joints which, as he afterwards acknowledged,
he had never felt before in all his life, nor had any belief in.

“My dear young friend!” he repeated, in a firmer, though still
tremulous tone, “I have long waited for this opportunity, wondering
at myself that I should so greatly desire it, and still be so
much afraid of the possible consequences. You tremble, I see —
and you are very pale — and it may be therefore — indeed it
must be that you are already somewhat prepared; but — ” and
here he came to another full stop, and then, after a sharp, inward
struggle and two or three vain attempts, he found voice enough
to continue in a very low, subdued tone, which went straightway
to the heart of poor Julia, and obliged her to turn away her face,
and look out of the window in a hurry.

“But, although you may foresee the result, and must, in the
nature of things be prepared for it — since, do what I may, and
say what I will, everything must depend upon you — I have
only to assure you that I find myself” — taking her hand into
his — “after months of preparation, wholly unprepared.”

Julia caught her breath — and struggled to withdraw her hand,
as if she plainly foresaw the catastrophe; but he persisted in
retaining it, and she submitted — of course.

“Nay, nay, — why should you not allow me to keep this little
hand for a few moments longer, Julia, — dear Julia!”

What could the poor little thing do! To snatch it away, under
all the circumstances of the case, would be at least unfriendly,
if not cruel, and might seem to savor of coquetry; for how many
times had she put both hands into his, without mincing the matter,
and lived through it!

Mr. Fay grew more and more serious, and after another brief
struggle, obtained such a mastery of himself, that he began to be
understood.

“You must have long foreseen this — I am sure you must —
although you are so agitated now, as if wholly taken by surprise.”

No answer.

“Well, then — let us come to the point, my dear young
friend — my friend forever, come what may of this interview!

— I have no experience in these matters. I know little of
women, and less of what they expect from us, when we are profoundly
in earnest, but” — pressing her hand to his heart, and
trying to look into her averted eyes — “but, in a word, I love
you, dear Julia, — I love you, with all my heart and soul, and
with all my strength —”

Julia started up from the chair, as if she had been suddenly
wakened from a long, delicious dream, by a thunder-clap, and
she stretched forth the little hand she had liberated in her
abruptness, and tottered toward the bell-rope —

Mr. Fay sprang forward and touched the bell just as she sank
down upon the sofa, and covered her face with her hands.

“Gracious God!” he exclaimed, as the door opened of itself,
and very much as if somebody had been waiting outside
for the signal — “what have I said! what have I done, poor
child, that you should be so frightened! Speak to me, Julia —
in mercy, speak to me!”

“Air! air! I must have air!” she whispered, — making a
motion with her hand, which brought the servant-girl up to her
side — “open the window, please! —”

The girl stared with astonishment; for the window was wide
open and the fresh wind blowing upon her.

“Water! quick, quick!” said Mr. Fay.

The girl disappeared for a few moments, but soon returned
with a tumbler, looking very much frightened, and blushing up
to the eyes.

A single glance at the poor creature satisfied Mr. Fay that
she had been listening.

After Julia took the tumbler, the girl turned to go, in obedience
to a look from Mr. Fay — but stopped two or three times
before she reached the open door, as if expecting to be recalled;
another look from that gentleman, accompanied by a slight motion
of the hand, brought her to her senses, and she flung out of the
room with a toss of the head, not to be mistaken, and with something
that sounded very like a half-smothered giggle.

But Julia, who sat with her hand over her eyes, pale and trembling,
and speechless for a time, saw nothing of all this.

“Forgive me, dear child, I pray you,” said Mr. Fay, at last,

pushing away the drapery from the nearest open window, and
then taking a low chair, and seating himself just in front of her.
“I have terrified you, I see, by the startling abruptness of the disclosure
— but really if you could look into my heart, I am sure
you wouldn't wonder at my vehemence” — vehemence! — he
might as well have said passionate enthusiasm, or utter self-abandonment
— for he was guilty of neither; and after the first
faltering and trembling, had been as much master of himself, as
if he were managing the case for another.

Twice poor Julia tried to speak, in reply — and twice no
sound issued from her half-opened lips; but her chest heaved,
and her breathing was that of a sleeper laboring to awake.

At last she recovered so far as to see that Mr. Fay had got
possession of her hand once more, and was looking very much
as if he meant to keep it. Gently, but firmly, the hand was
withdrawn, just as he was about lifting it to his lips, and then,
fixing her large, clear, though troubled eyes upon him, with a
look he never could think of afterward without a shiver, she
said, in a low, but very distinct whisper, — “Mr. Fay, — you
are deceived.”

“Deceived! — how?”

“In some way, I know not how, you have been misled.”

“What mean you, Julia!”

“I mean this, and only this. While I have been regarding
you as a friend — as the dearest friend I have on earth, out of
my own family, — I see now that you have misunderstood my
feelings, and that, O God forgive me!” covering her face with
her hands, and bursting into a passion of tears — “while I have
been watching and studying your character, with all the earnestness
and sympathy of the tenderest friendship, and with the deepest
thankfulness, for what you have done for us — oh, I fear, I
do indeed fear, that I have been too unguarded — unwomanly,
perhaps —”

“Julia! — Miss Parry! —”

“Nay, nay — do not be angry with me! Do not look at me
so, or you will break my heart!” and here she caught his hand
to her lips, in what he mistook for a transport of tenderness —
and then, as if suddenly recollecting herself, let it fall, with an

impatient cry, and moved farther off, and would have risen,
and left the room perhaps, if he had not prevented her.

“One moment, my dear young friend. You think I am
deceived, — you reproach yourself with deceiving me, but —
Julia — hear me! I am not deceived, though I believe you
are.”

Julia trembled violently.

“Little as I am acquainted with that greatest of all mysteries,
a woman's heart — I am sure I cannot be mistaken, dear child,
in what I am now going to say.”

Julia waited in breathless expectation for what was to follow.

“I must be plain with you, dear child. You are a woman
of high principle — of deep religious earnestness; you are no
trifler — you mean all you say, and sometimes more; and your
actions are of a piece with your words; your behavior with your
speech.”

A short pause, during which he appeared to be collecting himself.

“You are by nature, both serious and reserved — haughty
perhaps, and I have seen you, when I thought you both unreasonable
and imperious; — forgive me, I pray you, if I have misunderstood
you, upon these points — and believe me, on my
word, that I would not wrong you for my life.”

Julia sat up, and faced him, with her head thrown a little back,
as if wondering what he would say next.

“Now — whatever you may think, or say — I feel sure, as
sure as I now do that I am talking with you, face to face — absolutely
sure, that your feelings toward me are not as you are trying
to persuade yourself and me — those of mere friendship. I
do not say what they are. They may not amount to what is
called love, in the story-books of the day — but that they are
something more than friendship, I believe — and in fact I know;
deny it, if you dare, Julia — deny it, if you can!”

Julia was silent, but a sudden flush overcame the distressing
paleness, which had continued till now, and there was a look of
embarrassment, and a gentle heaving of the bosom, as he continued,
which, on the whole, rather encouraged him.

“Now, as I have said before, while I am satisfied — satisfied,

beyond the possibility of a doubt, as we say at the bar — that you
have long entertained feelings toward me, tenderer than mere
friendship — forgive me, Julia, for speaking so very plainly — I
have not been satisfied that they were such as you would certainly
feel for the man you should choose out of all the world for everlasting
companionship — no, no, Julia — however presumptuous
I may have been up to the point I have mentioned — I have
not been at any time, and I am not now, so presumptuous as to
feel certain of your love.”

Julia sat more upright, with her eyes fixed upon the distant
landscape, and grew calmer.

“What might have come of the feeling you call friendship,
had I been a little more patient — and waited a few months
longer, I do not pretend to foresee; but I cannot bear suspense
— I am suffering both in body and mind — so that I am unable
to discharge the duties of my profession, as I ought — my health
is failing — I cannot sleep — I have no appetite — I am growing
unreasonable and peevish, and am constantly reminded of
what I used to hear about your uncle George.”

“Oh, Mr. Fay! — how can we ever be sufficiently thankful
to you, for your friendship toward that dear uncle!” exclaimed
poor Julia, in the hope of turning him aside from what now appeared
to be a settled purpose.

“I am repaid ten thousand times over, let me tell you, in that
man's whole-hearted friendship, and that of his womanly sister,
to say nothing of yours — and Arthur's — for all I had it in my
power to do for him.”

A sudden change of countenance in Julia, as he uttered the
name of Arthur, made him pause, and look at her for a moment,
with an expression of surprise.

“In a word, therefore,” he continued — with many pauses,
and much embarrassment, and great humility of manner, and in
a much lower voice — “I have made up my mind at last, to have
the question settled — a question of life or death for me, whatever
it may be for you — and now, having offered you my heart,
full to overflowing with such love, as a woman like you would
wish to inspire, a deep, reverential, and tender affection — devout
and serious — I wait your answer.”

Julia made no reply. Her eyes were brimful, and so was her
heart, and her lips moved; but no sound escaped them.

“Well,” said he, somewhat gloomily, at last, after waiting a
reasonable time, without receiving a word of reply — “I will not
insist on your answering in words — your silence ought to be
enough to satisfy me — and I ought to have understood you from
the first — but,” he added, after a short pause — “but, although
I cannot bear suspense, almost any certainty being better than
suspense to people of my character, I can bear hope; and I beg
of you therefore” — taking the little hand once more, between
both of his — “before I say farewell, it may be forever, Julia,
for I cannot bear to see you as I have, without some hope —
nor can I be satisfied with a second place where I have aspired
to the first — I beg of you, dearest of women, to signify to me in
some way — I care not how — by some word or look of encouragement,
or by the silent pressure of the dear hand I am now
holding to my heart — if it be possible, I mean — that I may be
allowed to hope — that there is, in fact, no repugnance on your
part, no insurmountable hindrance.”

“I have sometimes thought,” he added, after a little hesitation;
“but no, I will not so wrong you — I will not so affront
your generous nature, as to believe such a thing possible.”

“What mean you, Mr. Fay?” murmured poor Julia, looking
up with an expression of surprise.

“Nothing, Julia.”

“But you did mean something, dear friend,” laying her hand
upon his arm, “and I must beg of you to deal plainly with me,
as you promised — and I will be as frank with you.”

“Upon such conditions — with all my heart! May I be
allowed to ask, dear friend, if you are under any interfering engagement?”

“None whatever.”

“One word more — may I be allowed to hope?”

Julia tried to answer — but her strength was all gone — she
could not articulate — her stately carriage gave way — she sank
into the chair — hesitated, and grew more and more embarrassed
— the longer she hesitated.

“In other words, dear Julia — is there any insurmountable
hindrance in my way?”

“My friend, I must answer you — I must, and I will! You
talk of loving a creature of God with all your heart and soul,
and with all your strength — you have reminded me of what you
yourself call the everlasting companionship, that a woman should
look for in marriage.”

“Well.”

“And yet, my friend — my dear friend! — you are not a religious
man!”

Mr. Fay started up, and began walking the floor; but soon
stopped.

“Where then, with my views, would be that everlasting companionship,
which you do me no more than justice in believing
I should hope for — if I ever marry?”

“If you ever marry, Julia!”

“You may be surprised — you may smile — to hear a young
woman like me, with so many inducements to marriage, declare,
as I do now, in all seriousness, that I do not believe in marriage!”

“Not believe in marriage!”

“That is, I do not believe that marriage is a condition absolutely
indispensable for the happiness of woman, or for the development
of true womanhood; nay, more — I do not believe that
I shall ever be married. I would rather live, and rather die, in
such single blessedness as I have sometimes heard of, and once
or twice known of, than be the companion of the greatest and
best man that ever breathed, if — on account of our different
religious views, I had reason to fear that our separation at the
death-bed of either, would be an everlasting separation! And
therefore — do not misunderstand me, I beseech you!”

The poor girl was entirely overcome, and a passionate burst
of tears and sobbing followed, and she covered her face with her
hands, and tried — and tried — but all in vain, to recover the
self-possession she had lost, before it was too late.

“Farewell! — I am satisfied — there is no hope, I see plainly,”
said Mr. Fay. “I thank you with all my heart” — pressing his
lips to her forehead, before she could prevent him — and catching
up his hat, and pulling it down over his eyes, he hurried away
without stopping to look behind him, though he afterwards remembered,

as he thought over the whole interview, and recalled
incident after incident with a flash of resentful impatience and
mortification — and then, with somewhat of self-reproach, and a
feeling of amazement, that he should have been so carried away
by a preposterous hope — that, on opening the door suddenly, a
shadow fell athwart his way — and there was a faint distant rustling,
and the sound of retreating footsteps, through a passage
that lay in shadow, and led to a distant wing of the cottage —
a row of apartments occupied by the Major and Arthur before
Charles came — a sort of addition, or afterthought, such as you
often meet with in the rambling incoherency of country-seats,
where the owners are constantly changing; but he paid no attention
to all this at the time, nor did he remember what he had said
to the Major, as they met, until he heard a voice calling after
him, just as the carriage turned off into the highway.

The coachman drew up — and the Major appeared all out of
breath, and looking not a little astonished.

“Why! what is the meaning of all this, my dear Sir?” said
he. “I thought you wanted to see me — and we supposed you
secured for dinner, at least; and now” — looking up, and seeing
the face of Mr. Fay, he stopped suddenly as if the whole truth
had flashed upon him, all at once, with overwhelming conviction.

The change he saw was awful. There was a death-like pallor,
— perspiration about the mouth, — and a damp chillness when
their hands met, which sent a shiver through all his arteries.

“No, my dear friend, — no, no,” said Mr. Fay, — “I have
no business with you now; though I did hope to have — and my
engagements elsewhere will not allow me to dine with you to-day,
however much I might desire it — under other circumstances.”

The last words were breathed, rather than spoken; and the
good Major had no heart for further investigation. Pressing the
hand he held between both of his, he added, with deep emotion,
— “God strengthen you!”

Mr. Fay returned the pressure in silence — drew back into
the furthest corner of the carriage — and the coachman, at a
look from the Major, started off, on a good round trot, leaving

him just where he stood, in the middle of the dusty highway,
with his arms folded upon his chest, and looking after the carriage,
as if not quite certain whether he was awake or asleep.

“Well, upon my word, Uncle George!” said Charles, coming
up behind him, and touching him on the shoulder — “I hope
you have not lost yourself.”

“Not altogether, my dear Charles; but really, I am half-disposed
to think there would be an advantage sometimes, in losing
ourselves entirely, as we do in our sleep.”

“Well — what has happened? You look troubled — was
not that Mr. Fay in the carriage I saw yonder?”

“Yes — we have just parted.”

“No bad news, I hope?”

“I don't know, Charles — I hardly know what to think.
That I am grieved, and greatly disappointed, I acknowledge,
for I believe I had set my heart upon what I now see was a
foolish and presumptuous hope.”

Charles turned a questioning look toward his uncle, but said
nothing.

“The truth is, my dear nephew — and I may as well make
a clean breast of it — I have long been troubled about your
sister.”

“About my sister! — and how, pray?”

“Well — the fact is, I want to see her well married.”

Charles threw up his head with a look of astonishment, and
then, seeing how profoundly in earnest his uncle was, he checked
a smile, which was just beginning to show itself about his mouth,
and grew very serious.

“And what says Aunt Elizabeth?”

“I hardly know — women have their own views about marriage,
you know.”

“So I should be apt to believe, uncle.”

“And we have our notions, too — and it so happens, that
while I have no doubt she would be glad to see Julia well married
and settled for life, as glad as I should be, yet somehow or
other we have never interchanged a word upon the subject, but
once — and that was in relation to Mr. Fay.”

“Have you ever said anything to Julia about Mr. Fay?”

“Not a syllable.”

“Has Aunt Elizabeth, do you know?”

“Never a word, I am quite sure.”

“Anything by either of you, on the subject of marriage?”

“Never — but why do you ask?”

“Because, Uncle George, whatever may be your reasons, or
Aunt Elizabeth's, for wishing my dear sister well married, if she
could find a man worthy of her, I am quite satisfied that she has
about made up her mind, conscientiously and deliberately, never
to run the risk of marriage.”

“Poh, poh, Charles! I hope you do not believe in such things
— there, there! don't be angry — your sister is one of a thousand,
I acknowledge, and wholly incapable of saying what she
does not mean; but I have heard so much of these young women,
highly gifted, and every way qualified for happiness in the married
state, who have made up their minds, again and again, I
dare say, never to marry, that I confess to you I have no great
faith in their resolution, if the right man falls in their way.
Stop, Charles — don't answer till you have heard me through —
I have an example, which has come to my knowledge within the
last eight-and-forty hours. What think you of Miss Webb —
Sallie Webb?”

“What do I think of her! Why, that she is a great, showy,
beautiful, overgrown, saucy —”

“That'll do, Charles! — that's enough! — I understand you.
You think of her very much as we all did six months ago — but
we have changed our opinions of late.”

“Ah! — indeed! — We!”

“Yes — and notwithstanding her oddities, and her extravagances,
we have come to the conclusion — all of us, my boy —
that she has a heart — a large and generous heart — and that
her understanding and her education are of the best.”

“Well.”

“Well — not long ago, this very woman, as I have been assured
by those who have always known her — her aunt Wentworth
and Mr. Bayard among the rest — had not only made up
her mind that marriage was all a mistake, or, as she called it, a
humbug, and that nineteen times out of twenty, the woman who

leaves a comfortable home in her father's house, to take up with
a stranger, is only jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire —
I use her own language — but that she had fully made up her
mind never to marry.”

“Well — and what then?”

“Why then, Charles — I have only to say —”

Charles thought he saw signs of embarrassment in the good
Major, as he proceeded.

“I have only to say,” repeated the Major, “that within the
last eight-and-forty hours, this very woman — this high-spirited
and most determined enemy of marriage — as I have good
reason to believe — has begun to reconsider the question, and
to betray symptoms of change.”

“Ah, my good uncle — are you there!”

The Major laughed — but refused to explain himself.

“And now, Charles,” he added, “I hope you do not encourage
your sister in this thing?”

“She does not need encouragement, Uncle George. You
know Julia — and you know she is not a woman to shift about
with every wind that blows.”

“But how do you know that she has about made up her mind,
as you say, never to marry?”

“Because, after Edith and I had come to a right understanding
upon the subject, they had many a serious talk about marriage,
and the dangers, and trials, and the responsibilities of marriage,
under the most favorable circumstances; and just as Edith had
refused to couple her fate with mine, so long as I continued `without
God and without hope in the world' — Julia declared, that
however dear any human being might be to her, and however
decided her admiration for him, nothing would induce her to
enter into the relationship of marriage with him, not only so long
as he might be a man of the world — a self-righteous man — a
careless unbeliever — but so long as there was any great essential
difference in their religious views; and on the whole, therefore,
said she to Edith, `as I do not believe in marriage, as a
necessity — nor even as a “consummation devoutly to be wished”
or greatly desired; as I do not believe that the unmarried are
obliged to be unhappy, while I know the married often are — I

have about made up my mind never to marry.' But, I say,
Uncle George, what meant you just now, when I woke you out
of your brown-study, and you confessed you were disappointed
and troubled, and then brought up Mr. Fay?”

“It is but fair, Charles — and the sooner you know what I
suppose to be the simple truth of this affair, the better. You
have understood, of course, that Mr. Fay was a great admirer of
Julia, and was likely to offer himself one day or another?”

“Yes — I have had a hint from Edith; and ever since the
trial, I suppose Arthur and you and Aunt Elizabeth have considered
it a settled thing?”

“Pretty much.”

“And what has happened now? Has he offered himself?”

“I think so.”

“And with what result, pray?”

“Judging from appearances — for we have not interchanged a
word upon the subject — Mr. Fay has just left the cottage, a disappointed,
if not a heart-broken man.”

“I am glad of it, Uncle George!”

“Glad of it, Charles! You astonish me! Why, we all
thought you had the highest opinion of Mr. Fay.”

“And so I have, Uncle George — as a man — as a lawyer —
as a friend; but excuse me — not as the husband of my sister.”

“Well, nephew, I do not ask you why nor wherefore. I have
seen, as I thought, a want of sympathy between you; and it may
be that you have adopted some of Arthur's prejudices; and I am
well aware that we are not to be reasoned out of our dislikes, or
antipathies.”

“Dear uncle! do not misunderstand me. Arthur has never
spoken to me of Mr. Fay, but in the highest possible terms; and,
if I know myself, the repugnance I feel is not founded upon the
experience of others; but I acknowledge that I do feel a sort of
antipathy toward him — a dislike, which, but for what has just
happened, you would never have been the wiser for.”

“Can it be that you have so far adopted the opinions of Julia,
as to take into view the laxity of his religious notions?”

“No, it is not that, Uncle George. However greatly we may
differ in our religious views, I am afraid that my chief objection

would not lie there. Julia is right, I acknowledge — and so was
Edith, when she flung me off — but both are too sublimated for
me. I am not unreasonable in my exaltation; and to tell you
the truth, I don't believe men are ever so. Perhaps they count
more upon their influence after marriage, in bringing a wife to
her bearings.”

“May be so — at any rate, as a matter of fact, dear Charles, I
hold that women are much more conscientious than we are; and
altogether more self-denying and self-sacrificing.”

“To be sure they are, Uncle George! or how could they ever
hope to get through the world, as they do, under the trials and
afflictions of marriage?”

“Perhaps I am going too far, Charles; but, between ourselves,
I should like to know why you are glad of Mr. Fay's disappointment?”

“I cannot refuse a request so reasonable. My objection is
this — the man has no heart — no more heart than a grindstone.
At the best, he is only a wonderful actor!”

The Major started back, with astonishment — and seemed
greatly perplexed and troubled; and then, after walking a few
rods in silence, he stopped, and turning toward Charles, and laying
his hand upon his arm, he begged him never to breathe such
a thought again while he lived.

“Not that you are altogether wrong, dear Charles,” he said —
“for I must acknowledge to you that I have had a sinking of
the heart sometimes, when he has appeared most carried away
by a generous, or enthusiastic emotion — and have many times
had my secret misgivings, when he was holding forth upon great
themes, out of his profession — and far above it — as if inspired;
but still, if you had seen him as I did, half an hour ago, hiding
himself in the farther corner of the coach, with his hat pulled
down over his eyes — and pale as death — and trembling, with
a cold and clammy touch, that sent a chill through me — I think
you would have been forced to acknowledge, that he has a heart
— I never saw such a face, nor so sudden a change, in all my life.”

“Poor fellow! I hope we have not wronged him; but here
we are! and here comes Carlo! and Charley! and Arthur, and
the nursery maid.”

“And the nurse! — we must beware of that girl — I caught
her listening at the door, just now, while Mr. Fay was in conference
with Julia.”

“The jade! — poor Carlo!”

At this moment, up flew a distant window, and two or three
voices were heard screaming after the baby; and Carlo came
tumbling head over heels about the feet of his old master; and
the baby following afar off, with the Major's gold-headed cane
for a horse, and little Edith hurrying after him with her shawl
dragging after her along the gravel walk, and her hair flying loose,
and the pretty chambermaid, who had been lately converted into
a nurse, loitering on the way, and blushing and simpering, as if
somewhat afraid of coming too near the handsome gentleman who
had caught her at the keyhole, not long before, to say nothing of
Charles and Arthur, two of the finest-looking young fellows you
would wish to see anywhere.

“Dinner! dinner!” shouted Arthur, as he came near; and to
dinner they all went, without a word of objection.