After a brief pause of silent waiting she continued:
"But is the turmoil of the world a far-away sound, like the sullen roar of angry waves beating on a shore that rises high and enduring, securing us safety and rest? Beyond the deep disquietude of the world at large is the deeper unrest of the human heart. No life can be so secluded and sheltered but that anxieties, doubts, fears, and foreboding will come with all their disturbing power. Often sorrows more bitter than death are hidden by smiling faces, and in our quiet country homes there are men and women carrying burdens that are crushing out hope and life: mothers breaking their hearts over wayward sons and daughters; wives desperate because the men who wooed them as blushing maidens have forgotten their vows, and have become swinish sots; men disheartened because the sweet-faced girls that they thought would give them a home have become vile slatterns, busybodies, shrill-tongued shrews, who banish the very thought of peace and rest, who waste their substance and eat out their hearts with care. Oh, the clouds of earth are not those which sweep across the sun, but those which rise out of unhappy hearts and evil lives. These are the clouds that gather over too many in a leaden pall, and it seems as if no light could ever break through them. There are hearts to whom life seems to promise one long, hopeless struggle to endure an incurable pain. Can there be peace for such unhappy ones? To just such human hearts were the words spoken, 'Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you.'"
Then came one of those little pauses that were quite as impressive as the preceding words. Although my interest was almost breathless, I involuntarily looked toward one whom I now associated with every thought.
"O God!" I exclaimed mentally, "can that be the aspect of a maiden happy in her love and hope?" Her face had become almost white, and across the pallor of her cheeks tear followed tear, as from a full and bitter fountain.
"Never, in all this evil world," the speaker resumed, "was there such cruel, bitter mockery as these words would be if they were not true—if He who spake them had no right to speak them. And what right would He have to speak them if He were merely a man among men—a part of the world which never has and never can give peace to the troubled soul? How do we know these words are true? How do we know He had a right to speak them? Thank God! I know, because He has kept His word to me. Thank God! Millions know, because He has proved His power to them. The scourged, persecuted, crucified disciples found that He was with them always, even unto the end. Oh, my friends, it is this living, loving, spiritual Presence that uplifts and sustains the sinking heart when the whole great world could only stand helplessly by. 'Not as the world giveth, give I unto you.' Yes, thank thee, Lord, 'not as the world.' In spite of the world and the worst it can do, in spite of our evil and the worst it can do, in spite of our sorrows, our fears, our pains and losses, our bitter disappointments, thou canst give peace; thou hast given peace. No storm can harm the soul that rests on the Rock of Ages, and by and by He will say to the storm, 'Peace, be still,' and the light of heaven will come. Then there shall be no more night. 'God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed away.'"
The light and gladness of that blessed future seemed to have come into her sweet, womanly face. I looked out of the window to hide tears of which I was fool enough to be ashamed.
When she spoke again her voice was low and pitiful, and her face full of the divinest sympathy. "Dear friends," she said, "it was not merely peace that he promised, but his peace. 'My peace I give unto you.' Remember, it was the man of sorrows who spoke; remember that he was acquainted with grief; remember that years of toil and hardship were behind him, and that Gethsemane and Calvary were before him; remember that one would betray him, and that all would desert him. When he spoke, the storm of the world's evil was breaking upon him more cruelly and remorselessly than it ever has on any tempted soul. He suffered more because more able to suffer. But beneath all was the sacred calm of one who is right, and who means to do right to the end, cost what it may. The peace that he promises is not immunity from pain or loss, or the gratification of the heart's earthly desires. His natural and earthly desires were not gratified; often ours cannot be. His peace came from self-denial for the good of others, from the consciousness that he was doing his Father's will, and from the assurance that good would come out of the seeming evil. Suffer he must, because he was human, and in a world of suffering; but he chose to suffer that we might know that he understands us, and sympathizes with us when we suffer. To each and to all he can say, I was tempted in all points like unto thee. When we wander he goes out after us; when we fall he lifts us up; when we faint he takes us in his arms and carries us on his bosom. O great heart of love! thy patience never tires, never wearies. Thou canst make good to us every earthly loss; thy touch can heal every wound of the soul. Even though life be one long martyrdom, yet through thy Presence it may be a blessed life, full of peace.
"Because our Lord was a man of sorrows, was he in love with sorrows? or does he love to see storms gathering around his people? No. It was not withhissorrows, but withoursorrows, that he was afflicted. He so loved the world that he could not be glad when we were sad. It is said that there is no record that Jesus ever smiled; but those little children whom he took in his arms and blessed know that he smiled. I doubt whether he ever saw a flower but that, no matter how weary from the hot day's long journey, he smiled back upon it. The flowers are but his smiles, and the world is full of them. Still he is naturally and very justly associated with sorrow; for when on earth he sought out those in trouble, and the distressed and the suffering soon learned to fly to him. What was the result? Were the shadows deepened? Was the suffering prolonged? Let the sisters of Bethany answer you; let the widow of Nain answer you. Let the great host of the lame, blind, diseased, and leprous answer. Look into the gentle, serene eyes of Mary Magdalene, once so desperate and clouded by evil, and then know whether he brings sorrow or joy to the world. Just as the sun follows the night that it may bring the day, so the Sun of Righteousness seeks out all that is dark in our lives that he may shine it away. Gladness, then, should be the rule of our lives. Nothing to him is so pleasing as gladness, if it comes from the heart of pilgrims truly homeward bound; but if sorrow comes, oh, turn not to the world, for the best thing in it can give no peace, no rest. Simply do right, and leave the results with him who said, even under the shadow of his cross, 'My peace I give unto you.' Accept this message, dear friends, and 'Let not your hearts be troubled, and neither let them be afraid.'" And she sat down quietly and closed her eyes.
There was here and there a low sob from the women, and the eyes of some of the most rugged-featured men were moist. The hush that followed was broken by deep and frequent sighs. Mr. Yocomb sat with his face lifted heavenward, and I knew it was serene and thankful. The eyes of Reuben, who was beside me, rested on his mother in simple, loving devotion. As yet she was his religion. Adah was looking a little wonderingly but sympathetically at Miss Warren, whose bowed head and fallen veil could not hide her deep emotion. The banker, too, looked at her even more wonderingly. At last the most venerable man on the high seat gave his hand to another white-haired Friend beside him, and the congregation began slowly and quietly to disperse.
"Come, Reuben," I said, in a whisper, "let us get away, quick."
He looked at me in surprise, but in a few moments the old meeting-house was hidden behind us among the trees. Dapple's feet scarcely touched the ground; but I sat silent, absorbed, and almost overwhelmed.
"Didn't—didn't thee like what mother said?" Reuben asked, after a while, a little hurt.
I felt at once that he misunderstood my silence, and I put my arm around his neck as I said, "Reuben, love and honor your mother the longest day you live. She is one among a million. 'Liked!' It mattered little whether I liked it or not; she made it seem God's own truth."
"And to think, Richard, that if it hadn't been for thee—"
"Hush, Reuben. To think rather that she waited on me for days and nights together. Well, I could turn Catholic and worship one saint."
"I'm glad she's only mother," said the boy, with a low laugh; "and, Richard, she likes me to have a good time as much as I do myself. She always made me mind, but she's been jolly good to me. Oh, I love her; don't thee worry about that."
"Well, whatever happens," I said, with a deep breath, "I thank God for the day that brought me to her home."
"So do I," said the boy; "so do we all; but confound Emily Warren's grandfather! I don't take to him. He thinks we're wonderfully simple folks, just about good enough to board him and that black-eyed witch of his. I do kind of like her a little bit, she's so saucy-like sometimes. One day she commenced ordering me around, and I stood and stared at the little miss in a way that she won't forget."
"She'll learn to coax by and by, and then you'll do anything for her,Reuben."
"P'raps," he said, with a half smile on his ruddy face.
On reaching the farmhouse I went directly to my room, and I wished that I might stay there the rest of the day; but I was soon summoned to dinner. In Miss Warren's eyes still lingered the evidences of her deep feeling, but her expression was quiet, firm, and resolute. The effect of the sermon upon her was just what I anticipated in case my hope had any foundation—it had bound her by what seemed the strongest of motives to be faithful to the man who she believed had the right to her fealty.
"Well," I thought bitterly, "life might have brought her a heavier cross than marrying a handsome millionaire, even though considerably her senior. I'm probably a conceited fool for thinking it any very great burden at all. But how, then, can I account—? Well, well, time alone can unravel this snarl. One thing is certain: she will do nothing that she does not believe right; and after what Mrs. Yocomb said I would not dare to wish her to do wrong."
Mrs. Yocomb did not come down to dinner, and the meal was a quiet one. Mr. Yocomb's eyes glistened with a serene, happy light, but he ate sparingly, and spoke in subdued tones. He reminded me of the quaint old scripture—"A man's wisdom maketh his face to shine." Whatever might be said against his philosophy, it produced good cheer and peace. Adah, too, was very quiet; but occasionally she glanced toward Miss Warren as if perplexed and somewhat troubled. Mr. Hearn seemed wrought up into quite a religious fervor. He was demonstratively tender and sympathetic toward the girl at his side, and waited on her with the effusive manner of one whose feelings must have some outlet. His appetite, however, did not flag, and I thought he seemed to enjoy his emotions and his dinner equally.
"Mr. Morton," he said impressively, "you must have liked that sermon exceedingly."
"Indeed, sir," I replied briefly, "I have scarcely thought whether I liked it or not."
Both he and Miss Warren looked at me in surprise; indeed all did exceptReuben.
"I beg your pardon, but I thought Mrs. Yocomb expressed herself admirably," he said, with somewhat of the air of championship.
"She certainly expressed herself clearly. The trouble with me is that the sermon is just what Mrs. Yocomb would call it—a message—and one scarcely knows how to dodge it. I never had such a spiritual blow between the eyes before, and think I'm a little stunned yet."
A smile lighted up Miss Warren's face. "Mrs. Yocomb would like your tribute to her sermon, I think," she said.
"What most bewilders me," I resumed, "is to think how Mrs. Yocomb has been waiting on me and taking care of me. I now feel like the peasant who was taken in and cared for by the royal family."
"I think our friend Mr. Morton is in what may be termed 'a frame of mind,'" said Mr. Hearn a little satirically.
"Yes, sir, I am," I replied emphatically. "I believe that adequate causes should have some effects. It does not follow, however, that my frame of mind is satisfactory to any one, least of all to Mrs. Yocomb."
"Your contact with the truth," said Mr. Hearn, laughing, "is somewhat like many people's first experience of the ocean—you are much stirred up, but have not yet reached the point of yielding to the mysterious malady."
I was disgusted, and was about to reply with a sarcastic compliment upon the elegance of his illustration, when a look of pain upon Miss Warren's face checked me, and I said nothing. Lack of delicacy was one of Mr. Hearn's gravest faults. While courtly, polished, and refined in externals, he lacked in tact and nicety of discrimination. He often said things which a finer-fibred but much worse man would never have said. He had an abundance of intellect, great shrewdness, vast will force, and organizing power, but not much ideality or imagination. This lack rendered him incapable of putting himself in the place of another, and of appreciating their feelings, moods, and motives. The most revolting thought to me of his union with Miss Warren was that he would never appreciate her. He greatly admired and respected her, but his spiritual eyes were too dim to note the exquisite bloom on her character, or to detect the evanescent lights and shades of thought and feeling of which to me her mobile face gave so many hints. He would expect her to be like the July days now passing—warm, bright, cloudless, and in keeping with his general prosperity.
"They will disappoint each other inevitably," I thought, "and it's strange that her clear eyes cannot see it when mine can. It is perhaps the strongest evidence of her love for him, since love is blind. Still she may love and yet be able to see his foibles and failings clearly; thousands of women do this. But whether the silken cord of love or the chain of supposed duty binds her to him now, I fear that Mrs. Yocomb's sermon has made her his for all time."
Her manner confirmed my surmise, for she apparently gave me little thought, and was unobtrusively attentive and devoted to him. He had the good taste to see that further personal remarks were not agreeable; and since his last attempted witticism fell flat, did not attempt any more. Our table-talk flagged, and we hastened through the meal. After it was over he asked:
"Emily, what shall we do this afternoon?"
"Anything you wish," she replied quietly.
"That's the way it will always be," I muttered as I went dejectedly to my room. "Through all his life it has been 'anything you wish,' and now it would seem as if religion itself had become his ally. There is nothing to me so wonderful as some men's fortune. Earth and heaven seem in league to forward their interests. But why was she so moved at the meeting-house? Was it merely religious sensibility? It might have been we were all moved deeply. Was it my imagination, or did she really shrink from him, and then glance guiltily at me? Even if she had, it might have been a momentary repulsion caused by his drowsy, heavy aspect at the time, just as his remark at dinner gave her an unpleasant twinge. These little back eddies are no proof that there is not a strong central current.
"Can it be that she was sorrowful in the meeting-house for my sake only? I've had strong proof of her wonderful kindness of heart. Well, God bless her anyway. I'll wait and watch till I know the truth. I suppose I'm the worst heathen Mrs. Yocomb ever preached to, but I'm going to secure Emily Warren's happiness at any cost. If she truly loves this man, I'll go away and fight it out so sturdily that she need not worry. That's what her sermon means for me. I'm not going to pump up any religious sentiment. I don't feel any. It's like walking into a bare room to have a turn with a thumb-screw; but Mrs. Yocomb has hedged me up to just this course. Oh, the gentle, inexorable woman! Satan himself might well tremble before her. There is but one that I fear more, and that's the woman I love most. Gentle, tender-hearted as she is, she is more inexorable than Mrs. Yocomb. It's a little strange, but I doubt whether there is anything in the universe that so inspires a man with awe as a thoroughly good, large-minded woman."
I could not sleep that afternoon, and at last I became so weary of the conflict between my hope and fear that I was glad to hear Miss Warren at the piano, playing softly some old English hymns. The day was growing cool and shadowy, but I hoped that before it passed I might get a chance to say something to her which would give a different aspect to the concluding words of Mrs. Yocomb's sermon. I had determined no longer to avoid her society, but rather to seek it, whenever I could in the presence of others, and especially of her affianced. They had returned from a long afternoon in the arbor, which I knew must occasion Miss Warren some unpleasant thoughts, and the banker was sitting on the piazza chatting with Adah.
I strolled into the parlor with as easy and natural a manner as I could assume, and taking my old seat by the window, said quietly: "Please go on playing, Miss Warren."
She turned on me one of her swift looks, which always gave me the impression that she saw all that was in my mind. Her color rose a little, but she continued playing for a time. Then with her right hand evoking low, sweet chords, she asked, with a conciliatory smile:
"Have you been thinking over Mrs. Yocomb's words this afternoon?"
"Not all the time—no. Have you?"
"How could I all the time?"
"Oh, I think you can do anything under heaven you make up your mind to do," I said, with a slight laugh. The look she gave now was a little apprehensive, and I added hastily: "I've had one thought that I don't mind telling you, for I think it may be a pleasant one, though it must recall that which is painful. The thought occurred to me when Mrs. Yocomb was speaking, and since, that your brother had perfect peace as he stood in that line of battle."
She turned eagerly toward me, and tears rushed into her eyes.
"You may be right," she said, in a low, tremulous tone.
"Well, I feel sure I'm right. I know it, if he was anything like you."
"Oh, then I doubt it. I'm not at all brave as he was. You ought to know that."
"You have the courage that a veteran general most values in a soldier. You might be half dead from terror, but you wouldn't run away. Besides," I added, smiling, "you would not be afraid of shot and shell, only the noise of a battle. In this respect your brother, no doubt, differed from you. In the grand consciousness of right, and in his faithful performance of duty, I believe his face was as serene as the aspect of Mr. Yocomb when he looked at the coming storm. As far as peace is concerned, his heaven began on earth. I envy him."
"Mr. Morton, I thank you for these words about my brother," she said very gently, and with a little pathetic quaver in her voice. "They have given me a comforting association with that awful day. Oh, I thank God for the thought. Remembering what Mrs. Yocomb said, it reconciles me to it all, as I never thought I could be reconciled. If Herbert believed that it was his duty to be there, it was best he should be there. How strange it is that you should think of this first, and not I!"
"Will you pardon me if I take exception to one thing you say? I do not think it follows that he ought to have been there simply because he felt it right to be there."
"Why, Mr. Morton! ought one not to do right at any and every cost? That seemed to me the very pith of Mrs. Yocomb's teaching, and I think she made it clear that it's always best to do right."
"I think so too, most emphatically; but what is right, Miss Warren?"
"That's too large a question for me to answer in the abstract; but is not the verdict of conscience right for each one of us?"
"I can't think so," I replied, with a shrug. "About every grotesque, horrible act ever committed in this world has been sanctioned by conscience. Delicate women have worn hair-cloth and walked barefooted on cold pavements in midnight penance. The devil is scarcely more cruel than the Church, for ages, taught that God was. It's true that Christ's life was one of self-sacrifice; but was there any useless, mistaken self-sacrifice in it? If God is anything like Mrs. Yocomb, nothing could be more repugnant to him than blunders of this kind."
She looked at me with a startled face, and I saw that my words had unsettled her mind.
"If conscience cannot guide, what can?" she faltered. "Is not conscience God's voice within us?"
"No. Conscience may become God's worst enemy—that is, any God that I could worship or even respect."
"Mr. Morton, you frighten me. How can I do right unless I follow my conscience?"
"Yes," I said sadly, "you would, in the good old times, have followed it over stony pavements, in midnight penance, or now into any thorny path which it pointed out; and I believe that many such paths lead away from the God of whom Mrs. Yocomb spoke to-day. Miss Warren, I'm a man of the world, and probably you think my views on these subjects are not worth much. It's strange that your own nature does not suggest to you the only sure guide. It seems to me that conscience should always go to truth for instructions. The men who killed your brother thought they were right as truly as he did; but history will prove that they were wrong, as so many sincere people have been in every age. He did not suffer and die uselessly, for the truth was beneath his feet and in his heart."
"Dear, brave, noble Herbert!" she sighed. "Oh, that God had spared him to me!"
"I wish he had," I said, with quiet emphasis. "I wish he was with you here and now."
Again she gave me a questioning, troubled look through her tears.
"Then you believe truth to be absolutely binding?" she asked, in a low voice.
"Yes. In science, religion, ethics, or human action, nothing can last—nothing can end well that is not built squarely on truth."
She became very pale; but she turned quietly to her piano as she said:
"You are right, Mr. Morton; there can be no peace—not even self-respect—without truth. My nature would be pitiful indeed did it not teach me that."
She had interpreted my words in a way that intensified the influence of Mrs. Yocomb's sermon. To be false to the trust that she had led her affianced to repose in her still seemed the depth of degradation. I feared that she would take this view at first, but believed, if my hope had any foundation, she would think my words over so often that she would discover a different meaning.
And my hope was strengthened. If she loved Mr. Hearn, why did she turn, pale and quiet, to her piano, which had always appeared a refuge to her, when I had seemingly spoken words that not only sanctioned but made the course which harmonized with her love imperative? Even the possibility that in the long days and nights of my delirium I had unconsciously wooed and won her heart, so thrilled and overcame me that I dared not trust myself longer in her presence, and I went out on the piazza—a course eminently satisfactory to Mr. Hearn, no doubt. I think he regarded our interview as becoming somewhat extended. He had glanced at me from time to time, but my manner had been too quiet to disturb him, and he could not see Miss Warren's face. The words he overheard suggested a theological discussion rather than anything of a personal nature. It had been very reassuring to see Miss Warren turn from me as if my words had ceased to interest her, and my coming out to talk with Adah confirmed the impression made by my manner all along, that we were not very congenial spirits. It also occurred to me that he did not find chatting with Adah a very heavy cross, for never had she looked prettier than on that summer evening. But now that Miss Warren was alone he went in and sat down by her, saying so loudly that I could not help hearing him, as I stood by the window:
"I think you must have worsted Mr. Morton in your theological discussion, for he came out looking as if he had a great deal to think about that was not exactly to his taste; but Miss Adah will—" and then his companion began playing something that drowned his voice.
Mrs. Yocomb appeared at supper, serene and cheerful; but she was paler than usual, and she still looked like one who had but just descended from a lofty spiritual height. No reference whatever was made to the morning. Mrs. Yocomb no longer spoke on religious themes directly, but she seemed to me the Gospel embodied, as with natural kindly grace she presided at her home table. Her husband beamed on her, and looked as if his cup was overflowing. Reuben's frank, boyish eyes often turned toward her in their simple devotion, while Zillah, who sat next to her, had many a whispered confidence to give. Adah's accent was gentle and her manner thoughtful. Miss Warren looked at her from time to time with a strange wistfulness—looked as if the matron possessed a serenity and peace that she coveted.
"Emily," said Mr. Yocomb, "thee doesn't think music's wicked, does thee?"
"No, sir, nor do you either."
"What does thee think of that, mother?"
"I think Emily converted thee over to her side before she had been here two days."
"Thee's winked very hard at my apostasy, mother. I'm inclined to think thee was converted too, on the third or fourth day, if thee'd own up."
"No," said Mrs. Yocomb, with a smile at her favorite, "Emily won my heart on the first day, and I accepted piano and all."
"Why, Mrs. Yocomb!" I exclaimed—for I could not forego the chance to vindicate myself—"I never considered you a precipitate, ill-balanced person."
Miss Warren's cheeks were scarlet, and I saw that she understood me well. I think Mrs. Yocomb guessed my meaning, too, for her smile was a little peculiar as she remarked demurely, "Women are different from men: they know almost immediately whether they like a person or not. I liked thee in half a day."
"You like sinners on principle, Mrs. Yocomb. I think it was my general depravity and heathenism that won your regard."
"No, as a woman I liked thee. Thee isn't as bad as thee seems."
"Mr. Yocomb, I hope you don't object to this, for I must assure you most emphatically that I don't."
"Mother's welcome to love thee all she pleases," said the old gentleman, laughing. "Indeed, I think I egg her on to it."
"Good friends," said Miss Warren, with her old mirthful look, "you'll turn Mr. Morton's head; you should be more considerate."
"I am indeed bewildered. Miss Warren's keen eyes have detected my weak point."
"A man with so stout a heart," Mr. Hearn began, "could well afford—" and then he hesitated.
"To be weak-headed," I said, finishing his sentence. "I fear you are mistaken, sir. I can't afford it at all."
"Thee was clear-headed enough to get around mother in half an hour," said the old gentleman again, laughing heartily. "It took me several months."
"Thee was a little blind, father. I wasn't going to let thee see how much I thought of thee till I had kept thee waiting a proper time."
"That's rich!" I cried, and I laughed as I had not since my illness. "How long is a proper time, Mrs. Yocomb? I remember being once told that a woman was a mystery that a man could never solve. I fear it's true."
"Who told you that?" asked Mr. Hearn; for I think he noticed my swift glance at Miss Warren, who looked a little conscious.
"As I think of it, I may have read it in a newspaper," I said demurely.
"I'm not flattered by your poor memory, Mr. Morton," remarked Miss Warren quietly. "I told you that myself when you were so mystified by my fearlessness of Dapple and my fear of the cow."
"I've learned that my memory is sadly treacherous, Miss Warren."
"A man who is treacherous only in memory may well be taken as a model," remarked Mr. Hearn benignly.
"Would you say that of one who forgot to pay you his debts?"
"What do you owe me, Mr. Morton?"
"I'm sure I don't know. Good-will, I suppose Mrs. Yocomb would suggest."
"Well, sir, I feel that I owe you a great deal; perhaps more than I realize, as I recall your promptness on that memorable night of the storm."
"I was prompt—I'll admit that," I said grimly, looking at the ceiling.
"Mr. Yocomb, how long would it have taken the house to burn up if the fire had not been extinguished?" Mr. Hearn asked.
"The interior," replied Mr. Yocomb very gravely, "would all have been in flames in a very few moments, for it's old and dry."
"Ugh!" exclaimed Adah, shudderingly. "Richard—"
I put my finger on my lips. "Miss Adah," I interrupted, "I'd rather be struck by lightning than hear any more about that night."
"Yes," said Miss Warren desperately, "I wish I could forget that night forever."
"I never wish to forget the expression on your face, Miss Warren, when we knew Zillah was alive. If that didn't please God, nothing in this world ever did."
"Oh, hush!" she cried.
"Emily, I think you cannot have told me all that happened."
"I can't think of it any more," she said; and her face was full of trouble. "I certainly don't know, and have never thought how I looked."
"Mr. Morton seems to have been cool enough to have been very observant," said the banker keenly.
"I was wet enough to be cool, sir. Miss Warren said I was not fit to be seen, and the doctor bundled me out of the room, fearing I would frighten Zillah into hysterics. Hey, Zillah! what do you think of that?"
"I think the doctor was silly. I wouldn't be afraid of thee any more than of Emily."
"Please let us talk and think of something else," Miss Warren pleaded.
"I don't want to forget what I owe to Richard," said Reuben a little indignantly. I trod on his foot under the table. "Thee needn't try to stop me, Richard Morton," continued the boy passionately. "I couldn't have got mother out alone, and I'd never left her. Where would we be, Emily Warren, if it hadn't been for Richard?"
"In heaven," I said, laughing, for I was determined to prevent a scene.
"Well, I hope so," Reuben muttered; "but I don't mind being in mother's dining-room."
Even Mrs. Yocomb's gravity gave way at this speech.
As we rose from the table, Zillah asked innocently:
"Emily, is thee crying or laughing?"
"I hardly know myself," she faltered, and went hastily to her room; but she soon came down again, looking very resolute.
"Emily," said Mr. Yocomb, "since thee and mother doesn't think music's wicked, I have a wonderful desire to hear thee sing again, 'Tell me the Old, Old Story,' as thee did on the night of the storm."
In spite of her brave eyes and braver will, her lip trembled.
I was cruel enough to add, "And I would be glad to listen to theTwelfth Nocturne once more."
For some reason she gave me a swift glance full of reproach.
"I will listen to anything," I said quickly.
Mr. Hearn looked a little like a man who feared that there might be subterranean fires beneath his feet.
"I will not promise more than to be chorister to-night," she said, sitting down to the piano with her back toward us. "Let us have familiar hymns that all can sing. Miss Adah has a sweet voice, and Mr. Morton, no doubt, is hiding his talent in a napkin. There's a book for you, sir. I'm sorry it doesn't contain the music."
"It doesn't matter," I said; "I'm equally familiar with Choctaw."
"Adela and Zillah, you come and stand by me. Your little voices are like the birds'."
We all gathered in the old parlor, and spent an hour that I shall never forget. I had a tolerable tenor, and an ear made fairly correct by hearing much music. Mr. Hearn did not sing, but he seemingly entered into the spirit of the occasion. Before very long Miss Warren and I were singing some things together. Mr. Hearn no doubt compared our efforts unfavorably with what he had heard in the city, but the simple people of the farmhouse were much pleased, and repeatedly asked us to continue. As I was leaning over Miss Warren's shoulder, finding a place in the hymn-book on the stand, she breathed softly:
"Have you told them you are going to-morrow?"
"No," I replied.
"Can you leave such friends?"
"Yes."
"You ought not. It would hurt them cruelly;" and she made some runs on the piano to hide her words.
"Ifyousay I ought not to go, I'll stay—Ah, this is the one I was looking for," I said, in a matter-of-fact tone; but she played the music with some strange slips and errors; her hands were nervous and trembling, and never was the frightened look that I had seen before more distinctly visible.
After we had sung a stanza or two she rose and said, "I think I'm getting a little tired, and the room seems warm. Wouldn't you like to take a walk?" she asked Mr. Hearn, coming over to his side.
He arose with alacrity, and they passed out together. I did not see her again that night.
The next morning, finding me alone for a moment, she approached, hesitatingly, and said:
"I don't think I ought to judge for you."
"Do you wish me to go?" I asked, sadly, interpreting her thought.
She became very pale, and turned away as she replied, "Perhaps you had better. I think you would rather go."
"No, I'd rather stay; but I'll do as you wish."
She did not reply, and went quickly to her piano.
I turned and entered the dining-room where Mrs. Yocomb and Adah were clearing away the breakfast. Mr. Yocomb was writing in his little office adjoining.
"I think it is time I said good-by and went back to New York."
In the outcry that followed, Miss Warren's piano became silent.
"Richard Morton!" Mrs. Yocomb began almost indignantly, "if thee hasn't any regard for thyself, thee should have some for thy friends. Thee isn't fit to leave home, and this is thy home now. Thee doesn't call thy hot rooms in New York home, so I don't see as thee has got any other. Just so sure as thee goes back to New York now, thee'll be sick again. I won't hear to it. Thee's just beginning to improve a little."
Adah looked at me through reproachful tears, but she did not say anything. Mr. Yocomb dropped his pen and came out, looking quite excited:
"I'll send for Doctor Bates and have him lay his commands on thee," he said. "I won't take thee to the depot, and thee isn't able to walk half way there. Here, Emily, come and talk reason to this crazy man. He says he's going back to New York. He ought to be put in a strait-jacket. Doesn't thee think so?"
Her laugh was anything but simple and natural.
As she said "I do indeed," Mr. Hearn had joined her.
"What would thee do in such an extreme case of mental disorder?"
"Treat him as they did in the good old times: get a chain and lock him up on bread and water."
"Would thee then enjoy thy dinner?"
"That wouldn't matter if he were cured."
"I think Mr. Morton would prefer hot New York to the remedies that Emily prescribes," said Mr. Hearn, with his smiling face full of vigilance.
"Richard," said Mrs. Yocomb, putting both her hands on my arm, "I should feel more hurt than I can tell thee if thee leaves us now."
"Why, Mrs. Yocomb! I didn't think you would care so much."
"Then thee's very blind, Richard. I didn't think thee'd say that."
"You cut deep now; suppose I must go?"
"Why must thee go, just as thee is beginning to gain? Thee is as pale as a ghost this minute, and thee doesn't weigh much more than half as much as I do. Still, we don't want to put an unwelcome constraint on thee."
I took her hand in both of mine as I said earnestly, "God forbid that I should ever escape from any constraint that you put upon me. Well, I won't go to-day, and I'll see what word my mail brings me." And I went up to my room, not trusting myself to glance at the real controller of my action, but hoping that something would occur which would make my course clear. As I came out of my room to go down to dinner, Miss Warren intercepted me, saying eagerly:
"Mr. Morton, don't go. If you should be ill again in New York, as Mrs.Yocomb says—"
"I won't be ill again."
"Please don't go," she entreated. "I—I shouldn't have said what I did.Youwouldbe ill; Mrs. Yocomb would never forgive me."
"Miss Warren, I will do what you wish."
"I wish what is best for you—only that."
"I fear I cloud your happiness. You are too kind-hearted."
She smiled a little bitterly. "Please stay—don't think of me."
"Again, I repeat, you are too kind-hearted. Never imagine that I can be happy if you are not;" and I looked at her keenly, but she turned away instantly, saying:
"Well, then, I'll be very happy, and will test you," and she returned to her room.
"Mrs. Yocomb," I said quietly at the dinner-table, "I've written to the office saying that my friends do not think I'm well enough to return yet, and asking to have my leave extended."
She beamed upon me as she replied:
"Now thee's sensible."
"For once," I added.
"I expect to see thee clothed and in thy right mind yet," she said, with a little reassuring nod.
"Your hopeful disposition is contagious," I replied, laughing.
"I'd like to see thee get to the depot till we're ready to let thee go," said Reuben, emphatically.
"Yes," added Mr. Yocomb, with his genuine laugh, "Reuben and I are in league against thee."
"You look like two dark, muttering conspirators," I responded.
"And to think thee was going away without asking me!" Zillah put in, shaking her bright curls at me.
"Well, you all have made this home to me, true enough. The best part of me will be left here when I do go."
At these words Adah gave me a shy, blushing smile.
"Mr. Morton, will you please pass me the vinegar?" said Miss Warren, in the most matter-of-fact tone.
"Wouldn't you prefer the sugar?" I asked.
"No; I much prefer the vinegar."
Mr. Hearn also smiled approvingly.
"Don't be too sure of your prey," I said, mentally. "If she's not yours at heart—which I doubt more than ever—you shall never have her." But she puzzled me for a day or two. If she were not happy she simulated happiness, and made my poor acting a flimsy pretence in contrast. She and the banker took long rides together, and she was always exceedingly cheerful on her return—a little too much so, I tried to think. She ignored the past as completely as possible, and while her manner was kind to me she had regained her old-time delicate brusqueness, and rarely lost a chance to give me a friendly fillip. Indeed I had never known her to be so brilliant, and her spirits seemed unflagging. Mr. Yocomb was delighted and in his large appetite for fun applauded and joined in every phase of our home gayety. There was too much hilarity for me, and my hope failed steadily.
"Now that her conscience is clear in regard to me—now that I have remained in the country, and am getting well—her spirits have come up with a bound," I reasoned moodily. I began to resume my old tactics of keeping out of the way and of taking long rambles; but I tried to be cheerfulness itself in her presence.
On Wednesday Miss Warren came down to breakfast in a breezy, airy way, and, scarcely speaking to me as I stood in the doorway, she flitted out, and was soon romping with Zillah and Adela. As she returned, flushed and panting, I said, with a smile:
"You are indeed happy. I congratulate you. I believe I've never had the honor of doing that yet."
"But you said that you would be happy also?"
"Am I not?"
"No."
"Well, it doesn't matter since you are."
"Oh, then, I'm no longer kind-hearted. You take Reuben's view, that I'm a heartless monster. He scarcely speaks to me any more. You think I propose to be happy now under all circumstances."
"I wish you would be; I hope you may be. What's the use of my acting my poor little farce any longer? I don't deceive you a mite. But I'm not going to mope and pine, Miss Warren. Don't think of me so poorly as that. I'm not the first man who has had to face this thing. I'm going back to work, and I am going next Monday, surely."
"I've no doubt of it," she said, with sudden bitterness, "and you'll get over it bravely, very bravely;" and she started off toward the barn, where Reuben was exercising Dapple, holding him with a long rope. The horse seemed wild with life and spirit, and did I not know that the beautiful creature had not a vicious trait I should have feared for the boy. Just at this moment, Dapple in his play slipped off his headstall and was soon careering around the dooryard in the mad glee of freedom. In vain Reuben tried to catch him; for the capricious beast would allow him to come almost within grasp, and then would bound away. Miss Warren stood under a tree laughing till the boy was hot and angry. Then she cried:
"I'll catch him for you, Reuben."
I uttered a loud shout of alarm as she darted out before the galloping horse and threw up her arms.
Dapple stopped instantly; in another second she had her arm around his arched neck and was stroking his quivering nostrils. Her poise was full of grace and power; her eyes were shining with excitement and triumph, and, to make her mastery seem more complete, she leaned her face against his nose.
Dapple looked down at her in a sort of mild wonder, and was as meek as a lamb.
"There, Reuben, come and take him," she said to the boy, who stared at her with his mouth open.
"Emily Warren, I don't know what to make of thee," he exclaimed.
Never before had I so felt my unutterable loss, and I said to her almost savagely, in a low tone, as she approached:
"Is that the means you take to cure me—doing the bravest thing I ever saw a woman do, and looking like a goddess? I was an unspeakable fool for staying."
Her head drooped, and she walked dejectedly toward the house, not seeming to think of or care for the exclamations and expostulations which greeted her.
"Why, Emily, were you mad?" cried Mr. Hearn above the rest; and now that the careering horse was being led away he hastened down to meet her.
"No, I'm tired, and want a cup of coffee," I heard her say, and then I followed Reuben to the barn.
"She's cut me out with Dapple," said the boy, with a crestfallen air.
Already I repented of my harshness, into which I had been led by the sharpest stress of feeling, and was eager to make amends. Since the night of the storm honest Reuben had given me his unwavering loyalty. Still less than Adah was he inclined or able to look beneath the surface of things, and he had gained the impression from Miss Warren's words that she was inclined to make light of their danger on that occasion, and to laugh at me generally. In his sturdy championship in my behalf he had been growing cold and brusque toward one whom he now associated with the wealthy middle-aged banker, and city style generally. Reuben was a genuine country lad, and was instinctively hostile to Fifth Avenue. While Mr. Hearn was polite to his father and mother, he quite naturally laid more stress on their business relations than on those of friendship, and was not slow in asking for what he wanted, and his luxurious tastes led him to require a good deal. Reuben had seen his mother worried and his father inconvenienced not a little. They made no complaint, and had no cause for any, for the banker paid his way liberally. But the boy had not reached the age when the financial phase of the question was appreciated, and his prejudice was not unnatural, for unconsciously, especially at first, Mr. Hearn had treated them all as inferiors. He now was learning to know them better, however. There was nothing plebeian in Adah's beauty, and he would have been untrue to himself had he not admired her very greatly.
It was my wish to lead the boy to overcome his prejudice against MissWarren, so I said:
"You are mistaken, Reuben; Dapple is just as fond of you as ever. It was only playfulness that made him cut up so; but, Reuben, Dapple is a very sensible horse, and when he saw a girl that was brave enough to stand right out before him when it seemed that he must run over her, he respected and liked such a girl at once. It was the bravest thing I ever saw. Any other horse would have trampled on her, but Dapple has the nature of a gentleman. So have you, Reuben, and I know you will go and speak handsomely to her. I know you will speak to her as Dapple would could he speak. By Jove! it was splendid, and you are man enough to know it was."
"Yes, Richard, it was. I know that as well as thee. There isn't a girl in the county that would have dared to do it, and very few men. And to think she's a city girl! To tell the truth, Emily Warren is all the time making game of thee, and that's why I'm mad at her."
"I don't think you understand her. I don't mind it, because she never means anything ill-natured; and then she loves your mother almost as much as you do. I give you my word, Reuben, Miss Warren and I are the best of friends, and you need not feel as you do, because I don't."
"Oh, well, if thee puts it that way, I'll treat her different. I tell thee what it is, Richard, I'm one that sticks to my friends through thick and thin."
"Well, you can't do anything so friendly to me as to make everything pleasant for Miss Warren. How is her favorite, Old Plod?" I asked, following him into the barn.
"Old Plod be hanged! She hasn't been near him in two weeks."
"What!" I exclaimed exultantly.
"What's the matter with thee, Richard? Thee and Emily are both queer. I can't make you out."
"Well, Reuben, we mean well; you mustn't expect too much of people."
I came in to breakfast with Reuben, feeling that Dapple had been more of a gentleman than I had, for he had treated the maiden with gentleness and courtesy, while I had thought first of myself. She looked up at me as I entered so humbly and deprecatingly that I wished that I had bitten my tongue out rather than have spoken so harshly.
Straightforward Reuben went to the girl, and, holding out his hand, said:
"Emily, I want to ask thy forgiveness. I've been like a bear toward thee. Thee's the bravest girl I ever saw. No country girl would have dared to do what thee did. I didn't need to have Richard lecture me and tell me that; but I thought thee was kind of down on Richard, and I've a way of standing by my friends."
With a face like a peony she turned and took both of the boy's hands as she said warmly:
"Thank you, Reuben. I'd take a much greater risk to win your friendship, and if you'll give it to me I'll be very proud of it. You are going to make a genuine man."
"Yes, Reuben, thee'll make a man," said his mother, with a low laugh."Thee is as blind as a man already."
I looked at her instantly, but she dropped her eyes demurely to her plate. I saw that Mr. Hearn was watching me, and so did not look at Miss Warren.
"Well," said he irritably, "I don't like such escapades; and Emily, if anything of the kind happens again, I'll have to take you to a safer place."
His face was flushed, but hers was very pale.
"It won't happen again," she said quietly, without looking up.
"Richard," said Mr. Yocomb, as if glad to change the subject, "I've got to drive across the country on some business. I will have to be gone all day. Would thee like to go with me?"
"Certainly. I'll go with you to the ends of the earth."
"That would be too far away from mother. Thee always pulls me back very soon, doesn't thee?"
"Well, I know thee comes," replied his wife. "Don't tire Richard out; he isn't strong yet."
"Richard," said Mr. Yocomb, as we were driving up a long hill, "I want to congratulate thee on thy course toward Emily Warren. Thee's a strong-minded, sensible man. I saw that thee was greatly taken with her at first, and no wonder. Besides, I couldn't help hearing what thee said when out of thy mind. Mother and I kept the children away then, and Doctor Bates had the wink from me to be discreet; but thee's been a sensible man since thee got up, and put the whole thing away from thee very bravely."
"Mr. Yocomb, I won't play the hypocrite with you. I love her better than my own soul."
"Thee does?" he said, in strong surprise.
"Yes, and I ought to have gone away long ago, I fear. How could I see her as she appeared this morning, and not almost worship her?"
The old gentleman gave a long, low whistle. "I guess mother meant me when she said men were blind."
I was silent, not daring, of course, to say that I hoped she meant me, but what I had heard and seen that morning had done much to confirm my hope.
"Well," said the old gentleman, "I can scarcely blame thee, since she is what she is, and I can't help saying, too, that I think thee would make her happier than that man can, with all his money. I don't think he appreciates her. She will be only a part of his great possessions."
"Well, Mr. Yocomb, I've but these requests to make. Keep this to yourself, and don't interpose any obstacles to my going next Monday. Don't worry about me. I'll keep up; and a man who will have to work as I must won't have time to mope. I won't play the weak fool, for I'd rather have your respect and Mrs. Yocomb's than all Mr. Hearn's millions; and Miss Warren's respect is absolutely essential to me."
"Then thee thinks that mother and—and Emily know?"
"Who can hide anything from such women! They look through us as if we were glass."
"Mother's sermon meant more for thee than I thought."
"Yes, I felt as if it were preached for me. I hope I may be the better for it some day; but I've too big a fight on my hands now to do much else. You will now understand why I wish to get away so soon, and why I can't come back till I've gained a strength that is not bodily. I wouldn't like you to misunderstand me, after your marvellous kindness, and so I'm frank. Besides, you're the kind of man that would thaw an icicle. Your nature is large and gentle, and I don't mind letting you know."
"Richard, we're getting very frank, and I'm going to be more so. I don't like the way Mr. Hearn sits and looks at Adah."
"Oh, you needn't worry about him. Mr. Hearn is respectability itself; but he's wonderfully fond of good things and pretty things. His great house on Fifth Avenue is full of them, and he looks at Miss Adah as he would at a fine oil painting."
"Thee speaks charitably of him under the circumstances."
"I ought to try to do him justice, since I hate him so cordially."
"Well," said the old gentleman, laughing, "that's a new way of putting it. Thee's honest, Richard."
"If I wasn't I'd have no business in your society."
"I'm worried about Emily," broke out my companion. "She was a little thin and worn from her long season of work when she came to us lately; but the first week she picked up daily. While thee was so sick she seemed more worried than any one, and I had much ado to get her to eat enough to keep a bird alive; but it's been worse for the last two weeks. She has seemed much brighter lately for some reason, but the flesh just seems to drop off of her. She takes a wonderful hold of my feelings, and I can't help troubling about her."
"Mr. Yocomb, your words torture me," I cried. "It is not my imagination then. Can she love that man?"
"Well, she has a queer way of showing it; but it is one of those things that an outsider can't meddle with."
I was moody and silent the rest of the day, and Mr. Yocomb had the tact to leave me much to myself; but I was not under the necessity of acting my poor farce before him.
The evening was quite well advanced when we reached the farmhouse; but Mrs. Yocomb had a royal supper for us, and she said every one had insisted on waiting till we returned. Mr. Hearn had quite recovered his complacency, and I gathered from this fact that Miss Warren had been very devoted. Such was his usual aspect when everything was pleasing to him. But she who had added so much to his life had seemingly drained her own, for she looked so pale and thin that my heart ached. There were dark lines under her eyes, and she appeared exceedingly wearied, as if the day had been one long effort.
"She can't love him," I thought. "It's impossible. Confound him! he's the blindest man of us all. Oh that I had her insight, that I might unravel this snarl at once, for it would kill me to see her looking like that much longer. What's the use of my going away? I've been away all day; she has had the light of his smiling countenance uninterruptedly, and see how worn she is. Can it be that my hateful words hurt her, and that she is grieving about me only? It's impossible. Unselfish regard for another could not go so far if her own heart was at rest. She is doing her best to laugh and talk and to seem cheerful, but her acting now is poorer than mine ever was. She is tired out; she seems like a soldier who is fighting mechanically after spirit, courage, and strength are gone."
Mr. Hearn informed Mr. Yocomb that important business would require his presence in New York for a few days. "It's an enterprise that involves immense interests on both sides of the ocean, and there's to be quite a gathering of capitalists. Your paper will be full of it before very long, Mr. Morton."
"I'm always glad to hear of any grist for our mill," I said. "Mrs.Yocomb, please excuse me. I'm selfish enough to prefer the cool piazza."
"But thee hasn't eaten anything."
"Oh, yes, I have, and I made a huge dinner," I replied carelessly, and sauntered out and lighted a cigar. Instead of coming out on the piazza, as I hoped, Miss Warren bade Mr. Hearn good-night in the hall, and, pleading fatigue, went to her room.
She was down to see him off in the morning, and at his request accompanied him to the depot. I was reading on the piazza when she returned, and I hastened to assist her from the rockaway.
"Miss Warren," I exclaimed, in deep solicitude, "this long, hot ride has been too much for you."
"Perhaps it has," she replied briefly, without meeting my eyes. "I'll go and rest."
She pleaded a headache, and did not come down to dinner. Mrs. Yocomb returned from her room with a troubled face.
I had resolved that I would not seek to see her alone while Mr. Hearn was away, and so resumed my long rambles. When I returned, about supper time, she was sitting on the piazza watching Adela and Zillah playing with their dolls. She did not look up as I took a seat on the steps not far away.
At last I began, "Can I tell you that I am very sorry you have been ill to-day?"
"I wasn't dangerous, as country people say," she replied, a little brusquely.
"You look as if Dapple might run over you now."
"A kitten might run over me," she replied briefly, still keeping her eyes on the children.
By and by she asked, "Why do you look at me so intently, Mr. Morton?"
"I beg your pardon."
"That's not answering my question."
"Suppose I deny that I was looking at you. You have not condescended to glance at me yet."
"You had better not deny it."
"Well, then, to tell you the truth, as I find I always must, I was looking for some trace of mercy. I was thinking whether I could venture to ask forgiveness for being more of a brute than Dapple yesterday."
"Have your words troubled you very much?"
"They have indeed."
"Well, they've troubled me too. You think I'm heartless, Mr. Morton;" and she arose and went to her piano.
I followed her instantly. "Won't you forgive me?" I asked; "I've repented."
"Oh, nonsense, Mr. Morton. You know as well as I do that I'm the one to ask forgiveness."
"No, I don't," I said, in a low, passionate tone. "I fear you are grieving about what you can't help."
"Can't help?" she repeated, flushing.
"Yes, my being here makes you unhappy. If I knew it, I'd go to-night."
"And you think that out of sight would be out of mind," she said, with a strange smile.
"Great God! I don't know what to think. I know that I would do anything under heaven to make you look as you did the first night I saw you."
"Do I look so badly?"
"You look as if you might take wings and leave us at any moment."
"Then I wouldn't trouble you any more."
"Then my trouble would be without remedy. Marry Mr. Hearn; marry him to-morrow, if you wish. I assure you that if you will be honestly and truly happy, I won't mope a day—I'll become the jolliest old bachelor in New York. I'll do anything within the power of man to make you your old joyous self."
Now at last she turned her large, glorious eyes upon me, and their expression was sadness itself; but she only said quietly:
"I believe you, Mr. Morton."
"Then tell me, what can I do?"
"Come to supper;" and she rose and left me.
I went to my old seat by the window, and the tumult in my heart was in wide contrast with the quiet summer evening.
"You are mistaken, Emily Warren," I thought. "You have as much as said that I can do nothing for you. I'll break your chain. You shall not marry Gilbert Hearn, if I have to protest in the very church and before the altar. You are mine, by the best and divinest right, and with your truth as my ally I'll win you yet. From this hour I dedicate myself to your happiness. Heavens, how blind I've been!"
"Come, Richard," said Mrs. Yocomb, putting her head within the door.
Miss Warren sat in her place, silent and apathetic. She had the aspect of one who had submitted to the inevitable, but would no longer pretend she liked it. Mr. Yocomb was regarding her furtively, with a clouded brow, and Adah's glances were frequent and perplexed. I felt as if walking on air, and my heart was aglow with gladness; but I knew her far too well to show what was in my mind. My purpose now was to beguile the hours till I could show her what truth really required of her. With the utmost tact that I possessed, and with all the zest that hope confirmed inspired, I sought to diffuse a general cheerfulness, and I gradually drew her into the current of our talk. After supper I told them anecdotes of public characters and eminent people, for my calling gave me a great store of this kind of information. Ere she was aware, the despondent girl was asking questions, and my answers piqued her interest still more; at last, quite late in the evening, Mr. Yocomb exclaimed:
"Look here, Richard, what right has thee to keep me out of my bed long after regular hours? I'm not a night editor. Good people, you must all go to bed. I'm master of this house. Now, don't say anything, mother, to take me down."
Finding myself alone with Miss Warren a moment in the hall, I asked:
"Have I not done more than merely come to supper?"
She turned from me instantly, and went swiftly up the stairway.
But the apathetic, listless look was on her face when she came down in the morning, and she appeared as if passively yielding to a dreaded necessity. I resumed my old tactics, and almost in spite of herself drew her into the genial family life. Mr. Yocomb seconded me with unflagging zeal and commendable tact, while Mrs. Yocomb surpassed us both. Adah seemed a little bewildered, as if there were something in the air which she could not understand. But we made the social sunshine of the house so natural and warm that she could not resist it.
"Reuben," I said, after breakfast, "Miss Warren is not well. A ride after Dapple is the best medicine I ever took. Take Miss Warren out for a swift, short drive; don't let her say no. You have the tact to do the thing in the right way."
She did decline repeatedly, but he so persisted that she at last said:
"There, Reuben, I will go with you."
"I think thee might do that much for a friend, as thee calls me."
When she returned there was a faint color in her cheeks. The rapid drive had done her good, and I told her so as I helped her from the light wagon.
"Yes, Mr. Morton, it has, and I thankyoufor the drive very much.Let me suggest that Reuben is much too honest for a conspirator."
"Well, he was a very willing one; and I see by his face, as he drives down to the barn, that you have made him a happy one."
"It doesn't take much to make him happy."
"And would it take such an enormous amount to make you happy?"
"You are much too inclined to be personal to be an editor. The world at large should hold your interest;" and she went to her room.
At the dinner-table the genial spell worked on; she recognized it with a quiet smile, but yielded to its kindly power. At last she apparently formed the resolution to make the most of this one bright day, and she became the life of the party.
"Emily," said Mrs. Yocomb, as we rose from the table, "father proposes that we all go on a family picnic to Silver Pond, and take our supper there. It's only three miles away. Would thee feel strong enough to go?"
Mrs. Yocomb spoke with the utmost simplicity and innocence; but the young girl laughed outright, then fixed a penetrating glance on Mr. Yocomb, whose florid face became much more ruddy.
"Evidences of guilt clearly apparent," she said, "and Mr. Morton, too, looks very conscious. 'The best laid schemes of mice and men'—you know the rest. Oh, yes, I'd go if I had to be carried. When webs are spun so kindly, flies ought to be caught."
"What is the matter with you all?" cried Adah.
"Miss Adah, if you'll find me a match for my cigar you'll make me happy," I said hastily, availing myself of the first line of retreat open.
"Is that all thee needs to make thee happy?"
"Well, one thing at a time, Miss Adah, if you please."
As the day grew cool, Reuben came around with the family rockaway. Mrs. Yocomb and Adah had prepared a basket as large as their own generous natures. I placed Miss Warren beside Mrs. Yocomb on the back seat, while I took my place by Adah, with Zillah between us. Little Adela and Reuben had become good friends, and she insisted on sitting between him and his father.
As we rolled along the quiet country roads, chatting, laughing, and occasionally singing a snatch of a song, no one would have dreamed that any shadows rested on the party except those which slanted eastward from the trees, which often hung far over our heads.