7. CHAPTER VII.
WITHIN AND WITHOUT.
IF the gentleman is not born in a man, it can not
be bred in him. If it is born in him, it can not be
bred out of him. August Wehle had inherited from
his mother the instinct of true gentlemanliness. And
now, when Andrew relapsed into silence and abstraction,
he did not attempt to rouse him, but bidding him goodnight,
with his own hands threw the rope-ladder out the window
and started up the hollow toward home. The air was sultry
and oppressive, the moon had been engulfed, and the first thunder-cloud
of the spring was pushing itself up toward the zenith,
while the boughs of the trees were quivering with a premonitory
shudder. But August did not hasten. The real storm was
within. Andrew's story had raised doubts. When he went
down the ravine the love of Julia Anderson shone upon his
heart as benignly as the moon upon the waters. Now the light
was gone, and the black cloud of a doubt had shut out his
peace. Jule Anderson's father was rich. He had not thought of
it before! But now he remembered how much woodland he
owned and how he had two large farms. Jule Anderson
would not marry a poor boy. And a Dutchman! She was not
sincere. She was trifling with him and teasing her parents. Or,
if she were sincere now, she would not be faithful to him
against every tempting offer. And he would have to drive on
the rocks, too, as Andrew had. At any rate, he would not
marry her until he stood upon some sort of equality with her.
The wind was swaying him about in its fitful gusts, and he
rather liked it. In his anguish of spirit it was a pleasure to
contend with the storm. The wind, the lightning, the sudden
sharp claps of thunder were on his own key. He felt in the
temper of old Lear. The winds might blow and crack their
cheeks.
But it was not alone the suggestions of Andrew that aroused
his suspicions. He now recalled a strange statement that
Samuel Anderson made in discharging him. “You said what
you had no right to say about my wife, in talking to Julia.”
What had he said? Only that some woman had not treated
Andrew “just right.” Who the woman might be he had not
known until his present interview with Andrew. Had Julia
been making mischief herself by repeating his words and giving
them a direction he had not intended? He could not have
dreamed of her acting such a part but for the strange influence
of Andrew's strange story. And so he staggered on, wet to the
skin, defying in his heart the lightning and the wind, until he
came to the cabin of his father. Climbing the fence, for there
was no gate, he pulled the latch-string and entered. They were
all asleep; the hard-working family went to bed early. But
chubby-faced Wilhelmina, the favorite sister, had set up to wait
for August, and he now found her fast asleep in the chair.
“Wilhelmina! wake up!” he said.
“O August!” she said, opening the corner of one eye and
yawning, “I wasn't asleep. I only—ah—shut my eyes a minute.
How wet you are! Did you go to see the pretty girl up at Mr.
Anderson's?”
“No,” said August.
“O August! she is pretty, and she is good and sweet,” and
Wilhelmina took his wet cheeks between her chubby hands
and gave him a sleepy kiss, and then crept off to bed.
And, somehow, the faith of the child Wilhelmina counteracted
the skepticism of the man Andrew, and August felt the
storm subsiding.
When he looked out of the window of the loft in which he
slept the shower had ceased as suddenly as it had come, the
thunder had retreated behind the hills, the clouds were already
breaking, and the white face of the moon was peering through
the ragged rifts.
