One evening when I returned from a long walk, Esmerelda gave me a letter directed in the most fashionable style of ladies' handwriting. I was a good deal surprised at receiving a letter through such a source, especially as Esmerelda whispered me to secrecy. I had no time to break the seal, for callers were waiting; and when they left, Mr. Winthrop summoned me to the study for a review of the week's reading. This was a custom he had some time before instituted, and I was finding it increasingly interesting. He selected my course of reading, and a very strong bill of fare I was finding it, some of the passages straining my utmost power of brain to comprehend. He had, as yet, confined me chiefly to German literature, mainly Kant and Lessing, with a dip into Schiller now and then, he said, by way of relaxation. He seemed gratified at the interest I took in his efforts to develop my intellectual powers, and sometimes he sat chatting with me, after the lesson was ended, by the firelight, until we were summoned to dinner. His mind appeared like some rich storehouse where every article has its appointed place; and while it held many a treasure from foreign sources, its own equipment was equal to the best. I could not always follow him. He gave me credit, I believe, for much greater brain power than I possessed; but what I could not comprehend made me the more eager to overcome the impediment of ignorance and stupidity. In these hours in his own study, where very few, save myself, were permitted to enter, he laid aside all badinage and severe criticism. I blundered sadly, at times, over the meaning of some specially difficult passages; but he helped me through with a quiet patience that amazed me. I mentioned it one day to Mrs. Flaxman, expressing my surprise that he should so patiently endure my ignorance, and stupidity.
"It is just like him. He has a world of patience with any one really trying to do good work. I think he begins to understand you better. He is prejudiced against our sex in the mass. He thinks we are more fond of pleasure than of anything else in the world; but if he once finds his mistake, his atonement is complete."
"Why is he so prejudiced?" I asked, hoping Mrs. Flaxman would continue the story Thomas had begun.
"He has had good reason. He is not one to rashly condemn one."
"But is it not rash to misjudge the many for the wrong doing of the single individual? It does not prove all are alike."
"Have you ever heard anything, Medoline?" She asked anxiously.
"Merely a hint, but I have built many a story on that."
"You must not trust servants or ignorant folks' gossip. I hope your Mill Road friends do not talk about your guardian."
"They scarcely mention his name. Mrs. Blake certainly expressed surprise, a long time ago, when we gave those vegetables away, that such a thing should take place at Oaklands. I would not permit any one to speak unkindly of Mr. Winthrop in my hearing," I said, proudly.
"That is right; he is not easy to understand, but one day you will find he is true as steel."
She left the room abruptly. I fancied she was afraid I might ask troublesome questions. Now as I sat in the study, I began to listen and dream together, wondering what sort of woman it was he could love and caress, and how she could lightly trample on his love. The tears came to my eyes as I looked and listened, picturing him the central sun of a perfect home, with wife and children enriching his heart with their love. When those deep gray eyes looked into mine, my drooping lashes tried to conceal from their searching gaze, my mutinous thoughts. Strange that this particular evening, while I sat with the half forgotten letter in my pocket, imagination was busier than ever, while I found it more than usually difficult to comprehend Lessing's ponderous thoughts; and the desire seized me to leave these high thinkers, on their lonely mountain heights, and, with my guardian, come down to the summer places of everyday life.
He noticed my abstraction at last, for he said abruptly:
"Are you not interested in to-day's lesson, Medoline?"
I faltered as I met his searching eye.
"I am always interested in what you say, Mr. Winthrop; but to-day my thoughts have been wandering a good deal."
"Where have they been wandering to?"
My face crimsoned, but I kept silent.
"I would like to know what you were thinking about?" he said, gently.
"A young girl's foolish fancies would seem very childish to you, after what you have been talking about."
"Nevertheless, we like sometimes the childish and innocent. I have a fancy for it just now, Medoline."
"Please, Mr. Winthrop, I cannot tell you all my thoughts. They are surely my own, and cannot be torn from me ruthlessly."
"What sort of persons are you meeting now at your Mill Road Mission?"
He suddenly changed the conversation, to my intense relief.
"The very same that I have met all along, with the exception of the Sykes family—they are a new experience."
"Were you thinking of any one you know there just now, that caused your inattention?"
"Why, certainly not, Mr. Winthrop. I do not care so very much for them as that."
He was silent for a good while, in one of his abstracted moods; and, thinking the lesson was over for that day, I was about to leave the room. He arose, and, going to the window, stood looking out into the night—I quietly watching him, and wondering of what he was so busily thinking. Presently he turned, and, coming to the table where I was sitting, stood looking down intently at me.
"Medoline, has it ever occurred to you that you are an unusually attractive bit of womanhood?"
I drew back almost as if he had struck me a blow. He smiled.
"You are as odd as you are fascinating," he said.
He went to his writing-desk. I watched him unlock one of the drawers and take out two envelopes. He came back and stood opposite me at the table.
"I received, a few days ago, a letter from my friend Bovyer, in which he enclosed one for you, which I was at liberty to read. Probably I should have submitted it to you earlier, but——"
He did not finish the sentence, and stood quietly while I read the letter. The hot blood was crimsoning my neck and brow, and, without raising my eyes, I pushed the letter across the table, without speaking. He handed me another. A strong impulse seized me to fly from the room, but I had not courage to execute my desire. The second letter was fully as surprising as the first. It was from another of Mr. Winthrop's friends, who had frequented our hotel in New York. I recalled his face readily, and the impression his manners and conversation had made on my mind. He had fewer years to boast than Mr. Bovyer, but more good looks. I finished his letter, and, still holding it in my hand, unconsciously fell to recalling more distinctly my half-forgotten impressions of his personality. I remembered he could say brilliant things in an off-hand way, as if he were not particularly proud of the fact. I remembered, too, that he had genuine humor, and had often convulsed me with a merriment I was ashamed to betray; but, strange to say, of all those who had haunted Mr. Winthrop's parlors in those two weeks, not one had paid me so little attention as this Maurice Graem; and now both he and Mr. Bovyer had written, asking my guardian's permission to have me as life-long companion and friend.
"What shall it be, Medoline? You cannot say yes to both of them."
The question startled me.
"Are you very anxious for me to leave Oaklands?" My lips quivered as I spoke.
"Why, child, that is my trouble just now. I am not willing ever to lose you—certainly not so soon as these impetuous youths desire."
"Mr. Bovyer is not young," I said, with a lightened heart.
"What shall I say to them, then?"
"That I do not want to leave Oaklands. I am so happy here."
He made me no reply, but turned again to his writing-desk, and was locking the letters safely away when I left the room. Then I bethought me of the letter still unopened in my pocket, and was hastening to my room, when Mrs. Flaxman intercepted me.
"Won't you come into my room, Medoline, just for a few minutes?"
I followed her with some reluctance; for Mrs. Flaxman's few minutes, I imagined, might extend into a good many, if she got to talking.
"I want to show the presents Mr. Bovver has sent us from New York—one for each of us."
She lifted the cover from a box on her stand, and handed me the most superbly-bound book I had ever seen.
"Yours is the prettiest," she said, admiringly, as I turned over the leaves, looking at the engravings.
"Don't you like it, dear?" she asked, surprised that I was so silent over my prize.
"Yes—if it had not come from Mr. Bovyer."
"Why, Medoline! not like a gift coming from one so kind and true as he is?"
"I wish I had never seen him." I threw down the book and burst into tears.
"Surely, Medoline, you have not fallen in love with him? I should be so sorry, for he is not a marrying man."
"No, indeed," I cried, indignantly; "but——" And then I stopped; for what right had I to tell his secret?
"Oh, Mrs. Flaxman, is it not dreadful to be young? Men are such a trouble."
"Why, my child, what is the matter? You act so strangely I do not understand you."
"No? Well, I cannot explain. But won't you ask Mr. Winthrop, please, if I must keep this book?"
"Why, certainly you must keep it. It would be rude to return Mr. Bovyer's gift."
"But you will ask?"
"Oh, yes, if you insist; but he will only smile, and say it is one of Medoline's oddities."
I went to my room. But the traces of my tears must be removed, and the dinner-bell was already ringing. However, at the risk of being late, I broke the seal of my letter. I was getting terrified lest it might be another proposal of marriage from some unexpected quarter; for, I reflected, when misfortunes begin to come they generally travel in crowds; but this was not a love-letter. It read:
"Dear Miss Selwyn:—I have been informed of your kindness of heart and sympathy for all who are in distress, and therefore am emboldened to come to you for help. If you would call on me to-morrow, at 3 P. M., at Rose Cottage, Linden Lane, you would confer a lasting favor on a sorrowing sister. I am yours, very respectfully,"Hermione Le Grande."P. S.—I must ask for perfect secrecy on your part, and that no mention whatever of my name, or letter, be made at Oaklands. I trust to your honor in the matter.H. L.
"Dear Miss Selwyn:—I have been informed of your kindness of heart and sympathy for all who are in distress, and therefore am emboldened to come to you for help. If you would call on me to-morrow, at 3 P. M., at Rose Cottage, Linden Lane, you would confer a lasting favor on a sorrowing sister. I am yours, very respectfully,
"Hermione Le Grande."
P. S.—I must ask for perfect secrecy on your part, and that no mention whatever of my name, or letter, be made at Oaklands. I trust to your honor in the matter.
H. L.
I locked the letter up in my drawer and hastened to the dinner that certainly would not be kept waiting for me. I was hoping that the question about Mr. Bovyer's book would be asked and answered in my absence; but was disappointed; for just as Mr. Winthrop arose from the table, at the close of dinner, Mrs. Flaxman mentioned the arrival of the books, and whence they came.
"It is quite profitable, chaperoning young ladies, you will find;" he said, dryly.
"But, Medoline does not wish to keep hers. She acted quite strangely about it; and insists that I must ask you, if she shall keep it."
"Mr. Bovyer would feel aggrieved if we returned his present. I think you must keep it," he said, turning to me.
"Most young ladies I have known are proud to get keepsakes from your sex."
"I hope Medoline is not going to be a regulation young lady."
"Why, Mr. Winthrop, what has caused you to change your mind? You used to condemn me for being so very unconventional."
"I have made the discovery that you have something better in its stead," he said, quietly. I looked up quickly to speak my thanks, but kept silent.
"Yes, Medoline is the only one of us that tries to do her duty by others. She has helped the poor more in the few months she has been here, than I have done in nearly twenty years."
"But she confines her benefits to the poor and bereaved solely. She seems to forget the prosperous may be heavy-hearted," Mr. Winthrop suggested with a smile.
"I do not intermeddle with that which lies beyond my skill to relieve. Any person can relieve poverty if they have money."
"Possibly you are wise to confine your helpfulness to the simpler cases of sorrow."
"I think the griefs of the rich are mostly imaginary and selfish. In this beautiful world, if we have our freedom, and health, and plenty of money, we are simply foolish to be down-hearted; only when death takes away our dear ones; and after a time the pain he gives ceases to smart."
"You are very practical, Medoline, and look through spectacles dipped in sunshine."
"Well, I believe she is right," Mrs. Flaxman said, with an air of sudden conviction. "We are not half thankful enough for our blessings and persist in wearing the peas in our shoes for penance, when we might as well soften them like that wise-hearted Irishman. It would be a blessing if Medoline had medicine for other griefs than those poverty causes."
I saw her cast a meaning look at Mr. Winthrop, which brought the color to my cheek, and set me to soberly thinking if I might not bring him surcease from bitter thoughts, and then it occurred to me, with all this commendation was there not grave danger of my getting uplifted unduly?
"It seems to me that you and Mr. Winthrop go to extremes in your estimate of me. First, you keep me so low in the valley of humiliation that I well nigh lose heart, and then you hoist me on a pedestal, making me grow dizzy with conceit. I suggest that we pass a law not to talk about each other at all."
"But you cannot hope to be perfect unless wise friends point out your foibles," Mr. Winthrop assured me.
"I have never expected to reach such a height. It would be so lonely for me, you know—no society of my own kind, save here and there a poor and humble soul," I said, wickedly.
"Nevertheless, one should make the effort to stand on the top round of the ladder of human excellence."
"It is a long ladder, and the climb is wearisome, and death soon interposes and ends our ambition," I said, wearily.
"But you have such perfect assurance respecting the to-morrow of death, you must believe that excellence gained here will be so much capital to carry with you into that life; but you implicit believers very often voice your faith rather than live it," Mr. Winthrop remarked, with a touch of his accustomed sarcasm.
"Mr. Bowen lives his quite as well as he talks it, but he is the nearest perfection of any human being I ever expect to meet."
"That is hard on our set, Mrs. Flaxman. Medoline, it seems, has fished out of the slums a veritable saint, and handsome as he is good. If I remember right he is a widower."
"Yes, certainly, he is the one she got the suit of clothes for when she was in New York."
He turned to me abruptly and asked,
"How old is he?"
"I have never asked him," I said mischievously, "but he looks older than you."
"Medoline, what are you saying? He was a grandfather years ago."
"And I am afraid that is an honor which Mr. Winthrop will never attain," I tried to say sympathetically.
Mrs. Flaxman cast him a startled look; but he smiled very calmly as if the words had merely amused him.
I was impatient for the appointed hour to come when I was expected at Rose Cottage. I had tried to get further information from Esmerelda respecting Mrs. Le Grande; but she seemed unwilling to say much about her, leaving me more mystified than ever.
"You will know all pretty soon from her own lips, Miss, and it would cost me my place if Mr. Winthrop knew I was meddling with what didn't concern me."
"Mr. Winthrop is not a severe master. I think he interferes very little with our household matters."
"But this is different; and please, Miss Selwyn, don't let on to a soul that I gave you that letter. Mrs. Le Grande said if I didn't take it some one else would; and it was an easy way to earn a trifle."
"But if there is anything wrong in the matter it is the hardest way in the world to get money," I said, perplexed at her words.
Linden Lane lay back from Oaklands a mile or more, and led me on a road I had never traversed before, although I had often planned to take it on some of my exploring journeys. But it led away from the sea shore, and that probably was the reason I had hitherto neglected it. There was a strip of woodland belonging to the Oaklands estate through which a part of the road lay. There had been a recent fall of snow and this was still clinging heavily to the trees, especially to the spruce and hemlocks, bringing strangely to mind the muffled, mysterious figures of the Sisters of Charity and Nuns, as I used to see them gliding about the streets of the old world cities. Here and there interspersed with the evergreens were beech, and maple, and other hardwood growths, with their graceful leafless branches stretching up like dumb pleading hands toward the pitiful sky. I grew so interested seeking out specially picturesque forest growths, and glimpses into the still woodland depths under the white snow wraith which I might come again to study more closely, and put on my canvas, that I so far forgot the business of the hour as to find myself a half hour after the appointment at still some distance from Linden Lane. Shutting my eyes resolutely on the rarest bits of landscape caught now and then through a chance opening in the trees, I walked at my best speed along the drifted road. Esmerelda had described the cottage so minutely that I had no trouble in recognizing it. Once past the strip of woodland, a bend in the road brought me at once into a thick cluster of houses with a few linden trees bordering the street that had given to it its rather poetical and alliterative name. One house much more pretentious than the rest, I at once recognized to be Rose Cottage. I rang the bell and was so quickly admitted, I concluded the tidy looking little maid had been posted at the door on the lookout for me. I gave her my card and inquired for Mrs. Le Grande; a formality quite unnecessary, as she assured me she knew who I was and that the lady was already waiting for me.
"Just come this way. She has a parlor upstairs; and my! but its a stunner."
I received the information in perplexed silence. But the little maid apparently did not look for encouragement, for she continued chattering until the door of the "stunning" apartment was closed behind her. A bright fire was burning in the grate at my left. In the swift glance with which I took in all the appointments of the room I acknowledged that the girl's description was correct. The walls were lined with pictures which I could see were gems; rich Turkish rugs concealed the common wood floor; while on brackets and stands were ornaments of rarest design and workmanship. I had only a few moments, however, to gratify my curiosity; for aportièreat the farther end of the room was lifted, and a vision of female loveliness met my view such as I had never seen before. Probably the surroundings, and the unexpected appearance of this beautiful woman, heightened the effect.
She paused and looked at me intently. Instinctively I shrank into myself. She seemed to be in some swift, clear-sighted way taking my measure, and labeling the visible marks of my personality. Then she came graciously forward, her step reminding me, in its smooth, gliding motion, of some graceful animal of the jungle that might both fascinate and slay you.
Her eyes were of that dark, velvety blue, that under strong emotion turns to purple, and when she chose could melt and appeal like a dumb creature's, whose only means of communicating their wants is through their eyes. The lashes were long and curved; her complexion delicate as a rose leaf, with a fitful color vanishing and re-appearing in the peachy cheek apparently as she willed it. Her hair, a rare tint of golden auburn was wreathed around her head in heavy coils that reminded me of the aureoles the old masters painted about the beautiful Madonna faces. Her mouth, I concluded, was the one defect in the otherwise perfect face. The teeth were natural and purely white, but long, and sharp, reminding one in a disagreeable way of the fangs of an animal of prey; the lips, a rich scarlet, were too thin, and tightly drawn for a judge of faces to admire; the chin was clear-cut and firm—a face on the whole, I decided, that might drive a man, snared by its beauty, to desperation. There was passion and power both lurking behind the pearl-tinted mask.
Her attitudes were the perfection of grace—apparently, too, of unstudied grace, which is the mark of the highest art in posing. She sat in a purple velvet easy-chair, whose trying color set off her fine complexion perfectly. Her voice was low and well modulated, but it had no sympathetic chords; and therefore I could not call it musical or pleasing. She thanked me in very exaggerated terms for having responded to her appeal.
I exclaimed, rather impulsively, in reply—
"I expected to find the author of that pathetic letter in great distress, and came, hoping to relieve; but I cannot be of any service here." I glanced around the luxuriously appointed room, and then let my eyes rest on her elaborate costume.
She smiled, "You are young, and have not yet learned that rags and poverty seldom go hand in hand with the bitterest experiences of life."
"That is the only kind of trouble I am sufficiently experienced to meddle with. For imaginary or abstract woe you should seek some older helper. I would suggest Mrs. Flaxman. She has more patience with refined mourners than I."
"Mrs. Flaxman could do me no good."
Tears stood in her eyes, making them more beautiful than ever, and quite softening my heart.
"Won't you lay aside some of your wraps? I shall feel then as if you will not desert me at any moment. The room is warm, and they are only an incumbrance."
I complied, and removed my hat and fur cloak, which were beginning to make me uncomfortably warm. She wheeled another easy-chair and bade me take that; my eyes, grown suddenly keen, took in the fact that the velvet covering was suited to my complexion.
"What artistic taste you must have when you are so fastidious about harmony in colors," I said, admiringly.
"One might as well get all the possible consolation out of things. The time for enjoying them is short, and very uncertain."
She drew a low ottoman and sat down close to me. "I have a long, sad story to tell you, and I want to be within touch of your hand. You will perhaps be too hard on me."
She sat, her face turned partly from me, gazing intently into the fire. Perhaps she had a natural dread of going over a chapter in her life she might wish had never been written.
Meanwhile the wonder kept growing on me why this exquisite woman should come to me for sympathy. A feeling of pride, too, began swelling my heart to think that I could be of use to others than the hungry and naked, while I thought of the surprising account I should have to give at the dinner-table that evening, of my adventure. My self-complacency was destined to a rude shock. She turned to me suddenly, and asked, "How old would you take me to be?" I looked my surprise, no doubt, but began directly to examine critically the face before me. "I want you to tell me the truth. We don't value flattery from our own sex; at least, I do not."
I could see no trace of time's unwelcome tooth in that smooth, ivory skin, as unwrinkled as a baby's face, while the rounded outlines and dimples would have graced a débutanté.
"You are a long time deciding," she said, playfully—the color coming fitfully under my scrutiny.
"I will hazard twenty, but you may be older."
"You think not any younger than that?" The curving lashes drooped and an entirely new expression swept over the charming face.
"Now you look almost a child," I exclaimed with surprise. "You are a mystery to me, and I won't try to guess any more, for it is pure guess work."
She laughed merrily. "You are greatly mistaken. I was twenty-six yesterday." I may have looked incredulous, and she was very keen to read my thoughts.
"You do not believe me. Did you ever hear of a woman over twenty making herself out older than she was?"
"My experience is but limited." I still believed that for some reason of her own she was deceiving me respecting her age.
"When you hear my story your surprise will be that I do not look six and thirty, instead of a decade younger."
Her next question was more startling than the first. "How do you like Mr. Winthrop?"
I replied guardedly that I liked him very well.
"Excuse me, but that is not a correct reply. No one that cares for him at all does so in that moderate fashion. They either love or hate him."
"Have you ever known him intimately enough to be able to say how he is liked, or deserves to be?"
She answered me by a low ripple of laughter. My perplexity was increasing, but I quite decided this Hermione Le Grange, as she called herself, had not a very sad heart to get comforted.
"Do you find Mr. Winthrop very amiable, in fact would you call him a lady's man?"
I paused to think carefully what answer I should give. "If he were a lady's man, probably before this he would have taken one for a wife."
"You have only answered half of my question," she said so gently I could not resent it.
"My guardian is very patient and indulgent with me. If he were more so I should find it hard to leave him some day."
"You mean when the day of marriage comes?"
"I have not thought anything of marriage yet. I mean, not seriously. Every young girl has her dreams, I suppose; but mine as yet are very vague and unreal. At twenty-one I am my own mistress. Then probably my life of ease will come to an end."
"Ah, you have dreams of a career. From what my servants tell me I concluded you were not one of our regulation, conventional young ladies."
My cheeks flushed; for this was a tender place for her to touch.
"Is Mr. Winthrop pleased that you are so thoughtful of the poor, and so generous in your impulses?"
"Really, Mrs. Le Grande, you would make an excellent lawyer. I do not think I have had so many personal questions since I came to America. School girls forget themselves sometimes, when they are of a very inquisitive disposition."
She looked me fully in the eyes as she said: "You have been wonderfully patient and very circumspect. I am sure in his heart Mr. Winthrop respects you even if he is at times a trifle cavalier in his behavior." Her eyes were still upon me with the innocent, childlike expression on her face I was beginning to understand and fear. I said very calmly: "He can be exceedingly fascinating when he chooses, and if he really cared for one, I cannot imagine anything he would hesitate to do for them, provided it was honorable. I could not conceive him stooping to a mean or unworthy action."
"Mr. Winthrop will be flattered when I repeat your words."
"Then you know him?"
"You will think so when you hear my story."
"Did you ever hear that Mr. Winthrop was within one day of being married?"
My surprise at first rendered me speechless; but at last I murmured, "No."
"Then you have never heard the tragedy of his life. You have heard that for some reason he was embittered against our sex."
"A mere hint."
"So I should judge, or the rest would also have been told. Your acquaintance have been remarkably guarded. Well, I will tell you all about it."
"I do not wish you to tell me. I think Mr. Winthrop desires I should never know the particulars of that circumstance, else Mrs. Flaxman would have told me."
"You are very sensitive about your guardian. Women cannot afford such fine sense of honor. Men do not treat us in that way. If they find we have a skeleton concealed somewhere, they will not rest until it is brought out into the glaring light, for every evil eye to gloat on."
"Not every man. Many of them would help us to conceal what gave us pain. I believe Mr. Winthrop is one of them. Then should I listen to what he wishes buried in oblivion?"
"It may be for his happiness that you should, dear; and my story and his are, for awhile, the same."
I had risen to put on my hat and cloak to get away from the temptation she pressed upon me; but at her last words I sank back into the chair.
"Can you be the woman he loved and was to marry?"
"Would it surprise you very much if I said Yes?"
"It would, and it would not."
"Your words are ambiguous. I was told you were exceedingly frank and impulsive, but one cannot always believe the public verdict."
I was silent. I recognized I had a clever woman to deal with, and for some reason she wished to use me for her own purpose, I was assured. She arose, and crossing the room disappeared through the tapestry portière. I watched her as she moved gracefully away, her long silken robe seeming to give additional height to her already tall figure. She presently returned, bringing a richly bound album, and laid it, open, on my knee. I glanced at it, and saw my guardian's pictured face looking at me, brighter, happier than it had ever done in reality.
"Does he look like that now?"
I studied the picture before I answered.
"His face looked nobler as I watched it last night while he was talking of some of his favorite authors. It is stronger now, though. Noble thoughts have matured the lines that were then only imperfectly formed."
"Does he admit you to his study and converse on his favorite themes?" she asked, the childlike expression vanishing suddenly from her face.
"Yes."
"Do you understand and enjoy what he says?"
"I do not understand all he says. I am trying to lift myself to a nearer level with him."
"Ah, you aim to be learned. His tastes must have greatly changed, if he admires such females." Her eyes fell, but I fancied there was a gleam in them not altogether pleasant to behold. I remained silent, not caring to explain it was Mr. Winthrop's wish that I should continue, to some extent, the work that had occupied so many years of my life. She turned the leaf of the album, and her own face looked out at me, not any more beautiful than now, but still as perfect as a poet's dream.
"We had these taken the same day!"
She turned still another leaf and they sat together, she looking sweetly at me, but his eyes, I could fancy resting on her with a look in them I had never seen.
"He had the artist destroy the negative, but I secured this one, he fancies the flames have swallowed them all. You will have no further scruples listening to his story?"
"Yes, I have scruples. Much as I would like to hear it, I desire you to tell me nothing but what you feel certain he would be willing for me to hear. Otherwise I cannot look into his eyes without a feeling of guilt."
"I did not think there was such a ridiculously conscientious woman on the earth. Believe me, you are formed after a very unusual pattern. But you must at least hear my story; otherwise you cannot help me."
"I have been waiting with what patience I could command for the last hour to hear it. I must be home before nightfall, and it is now approaching sunset."
She turned partly away, thereby giving me the better opportunity to admire the perfect contour of face and neck, with the color coming and going fitfully as she talked.
"Like you," she said, "I was an orphan, and like you I was very rich."
I started with surprise. She looked at me in her keen, intuitive way.
"What! did you not know you were an heiress?"
"I have never had the curiosity to ask. Mr. Winthrop will explain everything at the proper time."
"An old-fashioned woman, truly, patterned after the immortal Sarah, who called Abraham her lord," she said, with a soft little laugh that angered me exceedingly.
"The beginning of our destiny has been something alike—both orphans, and both rich beyond our utmost need. I too was educated on the other side of the sea, first in a quiet little English town, Weston-Super-Mer, where my grandmother lived, and afterward in Paris. If I had never gone to the latter place, I might not be sitting here compelling a scrupulous listener to hear my story."
She was silent awhile, a half-suppressed sigh escaping her, over these bygone memories. She continued her story:
"I was quick to learn, soon acquiring the accomplishments necessary for a woman of the world to know; and, finding my guardian easy to manage, I escaped from the restraints of the school-room much earlier than is usual, and plunged into the gayeties, first of Parisian, and afterward of New York society. I became a belle from my first ball, and was soon almost wearied with conquests that caused me no effort. One evening I met Mr. Winthrop. My chaperone, the following day, gave me a detailed history of himself and fortune, and recommended me to secure him for a husband. I resolved to bring him to my feet, reserving the privilege of accepting or not, as I chose. I subsequently found, in order to meet him, it was necessary for me to forsake, occasionally, the ball-room, and to frequent, in its stead, the concert and lecture hall. By degrees I gained his notice, and the very difficulty of winning him made the task all the more congenial. Like you, I developed a fondness for literature, and, in order the more quickly to gain the desired knowledge, I consulted dictionaries, encyclopædias, and hired private tutors to cram me with poetry, history, and information generally of art and its manufacturers. At first I could see he was more amused than fascinated at my shallow acquirements. But gradually my personal charms, rather than mental, conquered his proud reserve, and the glance of his eye came to express more than mere amusement at my exhibitions of knowledge, or cold admiration for the beauty I strove more than ever to heighten. If I found him hard to conquer, the exultation when my task was achieved was correspondingly great, while I knew his judgment rebelled against giving his love to one his inferior in those things he best esteemed. But, to skip a long bit of the story, we were engaged and the marriage day set; but as our intimacy ripened, the conviction grew upon me that I should have a master as well as husband; and I made the discovery, before very long, that the greater part of our time was to be passed at Oaklands, since the solitude best suited his literary tastes. I knew very well that he would soon get absorbed in those pursuits from which I had been able to draw him for a brief time, and then I would be compelled to satisfy myself with the mild excitement of conjugal affection, housekeeping, and the insipid tea-drinkings for which Cavendish has been noted. Not very long after our engagement, I met, at a grand society ball, George Le Grande. He professed to have fallen in love with me at first sight, and his wooing had all the passionate ardor of a Southern nature; for he was born in the Sunny South, his father being a wealthy French planter. After my betrothed's somewhat Platonic love, his passionate worship was acceptable, and, as the hour of my pastoral life at Cavendish drew near, my fancy turned, irresistibly, towards the free, gay life Le Grande offered me. We had grown so intimate I confessed to him my repugnance to the mild joys awaiting me. Here I made my great mistake; for, with his brilliant imagination, he drew charming pictures of what our life might be, tied to no particular spot, but free to roam, citizens of all lands. My trousseau was nearly completed; but the choosing and trying on of fine garments did not still the mutinous thoughts seething in my brain. One evening—shall I forget it in a thousand years?—while Mr. Winthrop was at Oaklands, overseeing some special preparations to do honor to the home-coming of his bride, I met Le Grande at a ball. He danced superbly, and he was my partner that evening in so many dances that my chaperone began to look darkly at me; while I saw many a meaning glance directed at us. But I was fancying myself more in love with my gay partner than ever, and once, in a pause of the dances, when he whispered, 'If to-night would only last forever, with you at my side, I should be content.'
"I came swiftly to the conclusion that life without George Le Grande would be tasteless, and resolved then and there to yield to his entreaties and fly from my solemn bridegroom. But my mind was wavering, and I kept putting it off until the very night before my marriage morn that was to be. We left the city by a midnight train, and after travelling until morning we stopped at a country village—really I forget the name, if I ever knew it—and were married in a little country church by a dull, old minister who regarded us suspiciously all the time he was performing the ceremony. I was sure he thought us a runaway couple, but that did not trouble me so much as that obscure marriage with a heavy-looking pair brought in from a cottage near at hand to witness the ceremony. I kept contrasting it with the stately ceremony that was to have taken place nearly at the same hour, in old Trinity, with the organ pealing forth the wedding march, the rush of guests and sight-seers, orange blossoms and perfumes, and all the bewildering vanities of a fashionable wedding. Before I had signed my maiden name for the last time, I began to regret my rash step, and ere the month was ended the thorns of my ill-advised sowing were springing up around me. We were neither of us so constituted as to make the best of a bad bargain, and our married life had scarce begun when we began magnifying each other's failings, and soon our brief passion had burnt itself out. Ah, me! with what regret I used to look back to this quiet town, and the stately calm of Oaklands, after one of our vulgar quarrels. I learned too soon that my husband was a gambler, and that my fortune had been a more coveted prize than myself; but fortunately, neither of us could touch anything but the interest until my eldest child should come of age. So often in my free-hearted days we had made merry over my father's ridiculous will! Now how I thanked him for his wise forethought while my husband stormed because it was so far beyond his reach! We might have lived in all my accustomed style on the interest if my husband had been just; but now, instead of sumptuous apparel I had to make the best of garments bought before my marriage, while cheap hotels took the place of my former elegant surroundings. My one passionate desire was to be free from this hated union and many a time, no doubt, I was a murderess in my heart in my longing to see him dead. At last my wish was granted. He was brought home to me one night, a pistol-shot through his heart, received in a low gambling hell. I did not trouble to inquire the particulars. He has been dead a year. I have returned to America—for, at the time of his death, we were in Europe. I have waited a decent time; and now, can you guess what has brought me to Cavendish?"
I shrank away from her when she turned towards me, a gracious smile on her face. "You are silent. Is it a hopeless errand I have come on, think you?"
"If you have come to seek Mr. Winthrop's pardon, I think it is——"
"You do not realize my influence over him. I could bend him to my will like the merest child."
I opened the album which still lay on my knee. "You must not expect to meet the same man you knew here. He has changed—matured since then—if I can judge from his face."
"His heart, I am convinced, is unchanged. He is not one to forget the one passion of his life. You have not gauged the depths of his character. Ah, me! that I should have flung such a man away!"
I made no reply, seeing she was convinced of her power; but, with all her maddening grace and beauty, I kept the hope still that she would fail. I could fancy Mr. Winthrop trampling ruthlessly on the strongest pleading of his heart sooner than stoop to the degradation of a second time asking her to be his wife.
"You have been thinking it all out, and have decided there is no chance for me."
"How do you know?" I asked, startled by her correct guess.
"Your face is a very open page. Be careful when you get to love a man, which as yet I do not think you have ever done, lest your secret may too easily be discovered. Men usually care very little for what costs them no trouble."
My face flushed hotly, but I made her no reply.
"I expected you to flash back that you were never going to fall in love. It is the way with most unsophisticated young people."
"If I should, and my love is returned, I will be faithful to any vows I may make."
"My dear friend, you are too inexperienced to make such rash promises. You do not know what mutinous elements are slumbering in your heart."
"God help me to have principle enough to smother them if they are there and get wakened."
I rose to go, as night was rapidly falling.
"I can stay no longer and so far as my helping you is concerned, I have been summoned uselessly," I said, coldly.
"No, indeed; I have heard that you were very pure minded, and see the public estimate of your character is correct. I want you to teach me to be like you, true and good."
She looked into my eyes with such a guileless expression that, for an instant, I thought she might be tired of her old, heartless life, and long to be better. I stood looking with some perplexity into the fire, scarce knowing what to say; but, turning my eyes suddenly, I saw a mocking gleam pass over her face.
"You would find it very tame patterning after me. I would advise you to seek some higher ideal—one more worthy your superior powers." I bowed and was turning towards the door.
"Just one moment longer—won't you come again? I have a favor to ask of you, but the moments have slipped away so rapidly I have not had time to say all I want. Tell me, do you not think I have sinned past all forgiveness, and should become an outcast from Oaklands and its master? Is that the old-fashioned Christianity the Bible teaches?"
"I cannot say that it is not."
"Do you not say every day 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us?'"
"Yes. But the one who has done the wrong is commanded to do his or her part also, to bring forth fruits showing their repentance."
"Am I not about to do that when I humble myself, as I shall do at the first suitable opportunity, to that proud man?"
"Are you not suing for more than that? Have you come here merely to be forgiven?"
"You must not turn inquisitor. I have not, however, offended against you, therefore you will come to see me again. Shall we say to-morrow? I seem to feel as if Oaklands and Mr. Winthrop were brought near to me when you are present."
"I cannot promise to come again this week, at least."
"Shall we say next Monday then? But it seems such a long time to wait. I was not trained to patience in childhood, and I find it a difficult task, learning it now."
"Unless something unforeseen should happen to prevent, you may look for me on Monday next." I promised, feeling a sort of pity for her in her lonely condition.
"Just one word more. Your guardian, they tell me, does not attend church regularly."
"Mr. Winthrop does not profess to be a religious man."
"Could you not influence him to a better life? Have you ever asked him to accompany you to church?"
"Certainly not. He is a better judge than I as to his duty in the matter."
"I do not think so. I fear he is drifting very far from his boyhood's teachings. His mother was a perfect woman, so far as I have been able to learn."
I looked my surprise; for I had not expected to hear such words from her lips.
"You must not judge me so harshly," she said, with gentle reproach. "I hope I am not quite so bad as you think."
"I am very glad you are interested in Mr. Winthrop, for other than selfish reasons," I said, bluntly.
She bowed her head meekly. "You will try to influence him then in the matter of church going and other pure endeavors—won't you?"
"I will try," I promised, rather uncertainly.
"And begin at once."
"Yes. I have given you the promise and usually keep my word."
"Then good-bye until next week."
The lamps were lighted when I passed along the oak walk that was my nearest approach home to Oaklands, and the fact that I had broken my promise to Mr. Winthrop never again to remain out alone after night filled me with alarm and self-reproach. I succeeded in gaining the house unperceived and was in abundant time for dinner, which I feared might have been served.
When I entered the softly illumined dining-room, I was surprised to find Mr. Winthrop standing near the fire, and gazing into it with a preoccupied expression. Mrs. Flaxman was sitting in her favorite corner, a book lying open on her knee, her eyes fixed on Mr. Winthrop somewhat anxiously. Instinctively I felt something unusual had disturbed their serenity—the sympathetic influences about me in the air which most of us know something about, acquainted me with the fact. I was almost beside Mr. Winthrop when he began to say, "Medoline must not know"—the sentence was left unfinished, for Mrs. Flaxman seeing me said, abruptly,
"Why, Mr. Winthrop, here is our runaway."
He turned towards me, a startled look in his eyes. "Have you been out?" he asked, with some surprise at her remark.
"Yes," I looked at him with a pathetic interest never felt before.
"Visiting your Mill Road pensioners?" he said, with a peculiar gesture, as if trying to rid himself of some unpleasant reflection.
"Not to-day, I do not go there every time I am out."
"No, indeed, Medoline does not confine her kindness to those poor folk alone," Mrs. Flaxman interposed.
"You do not seek for the sorrowful elsewhere, I hope?"
"The heavy-hearted are not confined to that locality alone, Mr. Winthrop."
"You include those also in your ministries of mercy," he said, with that rare smile which strongly reminded me of a bright gleam of sunshine falling on a hidden pool.
"I am not so vain as to think I can reach their case. After I have experienced the ministry of sorrow, I may touch sad hearts and comfort them."
"You are not anxious to suffer in order to do this. Remember, misery sometimes hardens."
"If we take our miseries to God, He can turn them into blessed evangels," I replied softly.
"Where did you learn that secret, Medoline?"
"It was Mr. Bowen who taught me. God left him in the darkness, and then gave him songs in the night—such grand harmonies, his life became like a thanksgiving Psalm."
"I hope you are not going to indulge in cant, Medoline. It does very well for poor beggars like them; but for the enlightened and refined it is quite out of place."
"The very noblest specimens of humanity who have climbed to the utmost peaks of intellectual excellence thought as Mr. Bowen does; as I hope to think—God helping me, as I do think," I said, with a strange gladness coming into my heart as if the old, hard heart had been suddenly changed and made clean for the Master's entrance.
"Poor little girl, I wish you had something more tangible than illusions to rhapsodize over."
My eyes filled with such happy tears as I lifted them to him, standing at his side. "If you could only trust God, believe in Him as Mr. Bowen does, you would find every other delight in life illusive, compared with the joy He would give you."
"Child, is that your own experience?"
"Yes," I murmured softly.
He turned and left the room abruptly. I went to Mrs. Flaxman, and, kneeling beside her, my head on her knee—a posture we both enjoyed—I anxiously asked: "Have I angered Mr. Winthrop?"
"No, dear, he was not angry, for I was watching him; but you did what I have not seen any one do to him for a good many years. You touched his heart; 'and a little child shall lead them,'" she murmured so softly, I scarce could catch the words.
"I am not a little child, Mrs. Flaxman," I remonstrated.
"Your are in some ways, darling. Your mother's prayers for her children have been answered. Those God has already taken are safe; and you are one of His little ones whose angel one day shall behold His face in joy."
"I am glad my mother prayed for us; God is so sure to answer a mother's prayers. I suppose it is because they are really in earnest. But did she ask anything special?"
"That you might be kept pure from the world's pollution, and get what was really for your good. Her letters to Mrs. Winthrop were full of this: They are all preserved among Mr. Winthrop's papers, and some day he will give them to you."
"She was a Christian, I think, like Mr. Bowen,—one who really had a hold on God."
"I never knew one so unspotted from the world. I too shall call her mother if I meet her in the Heavenly places; for it was she brought me to Jesus."
"Mrs. Flaxman, is it easy to come to Him,—to be His disciple?"
"So easy, the way-faring man, though a fool, need not find it too difficult."
"I believe Christ has said to me as He did to the Magdalene: 'Daughter, thy sins, which are many are all forgiven thee.' Is it not grand to be His child? There is nothing in the world I want so much as to do His will."
"You stepped out of your way, Medoline, to help others, and they have done more in return than you gave," she said, the tears filling her eyes.
"I might not have found Christ for years, but for Mr. Bowen—perhaps never," I added with a shudder.
The dinner bell ended our little fellowship meeting by the firelight. Mr. Winthrop came and we took our places at the table, the dinner going on in the same precise fashion as if there were no such thing as glad, or breaking hearts. There was very little conversation; and dinner ended, Mrs. Flaxman and I were left alone directly. I longed to ask what it was Mr. Winthrop decided I must not know; and the mere fact of his so wishing deterred me from asking. But I felt convinced it was in some way connected with Hermione Le Grande. Neither could I confess to Mrs. Flaxman that I had only an hour or two before heard from her own lips the terrible wrong she had done him, or her plainly expressed determination to win him back once more.
Usually an excellent sleeper, I lay that night finding sleep impossible, and counting the quarter hours as the great hall clock rang them out in the still space. I made the discovery, too, in the solemn hush of the night, when thought grows most active and intense, that notwithstanding his coldness and positive cynicism, I cherished for my guardian in the short time I had been with him an affection stronger than I had ever felt for any one since I had lost my two intensely-beloved parents—a loss that had embittered the otherwise happy period of girlhood. I had never realized until that night how much he was to me. Pity, perhaps, for the bitter pain that had so changed his whole nature, may have awakened me to the fact; but still there was an inexplicable charm about him that even merry-hearted, trifling Hubert felt, and forced his unwilling regard. I shrank with sudden pain from the mere thought of seeing him married to Hermione Le Grande; but instinctively feeling that his was one of those still, changeless natures which never outgrows a master passion, and recalling her beauty and grace, I could only commit him to the sure care of the God whom he affected to believe does not take cognizance of human joys or griefs. With this there came such a sense of peace and security, that my mind grew calm; and sleep, that soothes every heartache, brought its benison. The next day I felt certain both from Mrs. Flaxman's manner and Mr. Winthrop's, that some disturbing element was in the air; and finding Mrs. Flaxman more inclined to solitude than society, after my forenoon's work was ended—for what with the reading Mr. Winthrop appointed, and the time appointed by myself for painting, the entire morning until luncheon I found quite short enough. I started for Mrs. Blake's. I found her in a very happy mood.
The revival was still progressing in the Beech Street church, and Esmerelda, from day to day, had been telling me how happy Mr. Bowen was, and how some folks liked to hear him speak and pray better than any preacher in town. Now Mrs. Blake gave me particulars that the dress-loving Esmerelda had failed to note. "Dan'el and me have been oneasy about the way we've lived ever since Margaret died," she said, after we had been chatting a while about the meetings, and Mr. Lathrop, the pastor of Beech Street church, and its late ongoings. "Dan'el especially felt as if there wa'n't any chance for him; but since Mr. Bowen has got out to the meetings, he's been a powerful help. It seemed as if he jest knew how the Lord looked on us. Night afore last I went to meeting with my mind made up to stay there until I found if there was any mercy for me. I mind how I felt as I walked along the road. The snow was deep, and the night cold, and everything seemed that desolate—my! I wished I'd never been born. I don't know what made me, but I looked right up into the sky all at onct; the stars were shining bright, and I thought if God could keep all them hanging there on nothing, year after year, he could keep me in the place He wanted for me, if I'd only agree to let Him; and right there I stood stock still in the snow and said, 'Lord, I'm a poor unlarnt creatur', but I want you to keep me where you want me, the same as you do the stars. I'll take the poorest place in earth or Heaven, if you'll only adopt me as your own.' I meant what I said, and the Lord just then and there sealed the bargain; and my! but I went on to the meeting that happy I didn't know if I was on earth or up among the holy ones, who are forever praising God. Dan'el had got much the same blessing some time ago, and when we came home he took down the Bible and prayed. The preacher tells the heads of families if they want to keep their religion they must build an altar as the patriarchs did. Religion is the same now as then."
Mrs. Blake stopped only for want of breath.
"And are you as happy now as you were that night?"
"Everybit; and so is Dan'el. It's something that stays with one; and the longer you have it, and the more you have, the better content you are. The night I got converted, when we come home from meeting, Dan'el sot talking more'n he usually does; for he's a powerful still man, and, at last, he says: 'If Marget had only lived till now, she might have got the blessing too;' and then he burst right out crying. But he's never mentioned her sence, only last night, in meeting, he said, if we had friends in the other world that we weren't sure were in glory, we mustn't let that keep us sorrowful, but jest work all the harder for them that was still in the world. I didn't think Dan'el could be so changed. I heard him try to sing this morning; but, dear, his singing is something ter'ble. He has no more ear than a cow. Maybe the Lord turns it into good singing—he looks at the heart, and perhaps it sounds better up among the angels than them great singers does that gets a forten for one night's singing."
"I am sure it does," I said, emphatically. "He will make splendid music by-and-by, when he stands with the Heavenly choir."
"I reckon he'll most stop then to hear his own voice, for he does dote so on singing, and feels so bad that he can't do better."
"Singing and making melody in your hearts. You can do that now, Mrs. Blake, and with God's help, I hope to be able to do the same."
"What! have you been thinking of these things too, Miss Selwyn?"
"Yes. For a good while I have been struggling with a burden of sin that sometimes nearly crushed me; but it is gone now. Last night the joy of pardon came just like a flash of light into my heart."
"Thank the Lord for that. There's been some praying very earnest for you. They'll be glad their prayers are answered."
"I can never repay what some of you people out here have done for me."
"Well, dear, you've done for us. The minister said, 'under God we were indebted to Mr. Bowen for this revival, and there's already nigh unto fifty converted.' He couldn't have come to the meetings if you hadn't clothed him; and now, you've done still more, and got him his eyesight, he's twice as useful. 'Twould have done you good to see him in meeting the first Sunday after he come back. He'd look up at the pulpit, and then he'd look at the people; and it seemed as if he could hardly sense where he was—he was that glad and happy. The preacher said, in the evening, we'd have a praise meeting after the sermon; and sure enough we had; for when Mr. Bowen got talking about what the Lord had done for him, and what he had been to him in sorrow and blindness, before I knew it, I was crying like a baby—me that had my eyesight, and health—and never thanked the Lord for them. When I got my eyes wiped I took a look around, and there sot Dan'el a blowing his nose, and mopping his face, as if it was a sweltering day in August; and then when I looked further, there was nothing much to be seen but pocket-handkerchiefs. That was the beginning of the revival; and if you hadn't got Mr. Bowen out to meeting, there mightn't have been any. So, after the Lord, I lay it all to you."
"No, Mrs. Blake. I was scarcely equal in this matter to those poor souls who helped Noah build the Ark and were drowning for want of its shelter. They labored harder than I; for what I gave was more from impulse, and it was a pleasure."
"I guess God don't make mistakes paying folks for what they do, and maybe it's jest as well not to have a great consait of yourself; but you're the first one I've heard comparing themselves to Noah's Ark builders."
I turned the conversation somewhat abruptly.
"What is Mr. Bowen doing now?"
"He's taken on in Belcher's Mill, working at the books."
"I suppose they are getting along nicely at Mrs. Larkum's now."
"Yes, indeed. She was complaining after meeting last night, she'd only seed you onct since her father got back, to have a good talk with you."
"Shall we go there now, for a little while?"
"I'd be glad to, and she'll be pleased to see us coming, I know."
Mrs. Blake was very soon in readiness, we started out into the dull, cold air, scarce noticing that the wind was blowing raw and chill from the east, and the soughing wind betokening a storm. While I sat in Mrs. Larkum's tidy room, listening to her voice, I kept contrasting her with the elegantly dressed, beautiful woman whose face and gestures I was studying the previous day. The one nurtured in the shady places of life, and inured to poverty and hardship; the other privileged with the best opportunities for culture, and high intellectual and social development; and yet with vision grown suddenly clear, I could detect a refinement of the soul, and true womanly honor in Mrs. Larkum that the other lacked. I was glad to notice that Mrs. Larkum's tears had ceased to flow so profusely. There was an occasional moistening of the eye from sheer joy; for she too had got her experience brightened of late. She was finding it easier to trust in the Lord, and be glad in Him now that she had got a stronger arm than her own to lighten her burdens. As we talked I found they were blessed with an honest independence of spirit that proved them a better class than many who receive help.
"Father has begun to lay by money to pay you," she announced, with evident pleasure.
"He has already paid me a thousand-fold. I never want any other recompense."
"I do not think he will be satisfied to let that debt go unpaid. He was always so particular to owe no man anything. In our worst poverty he would never let me go in debt."
"Then I can never repay him," I said, sorrowfully, "for I try, like him, to be independent; but I suppose there are blessings no money can ever repay."
"Why, every time he opens his eyes in the morning, he says his first thought is to thank the Lord, and his next is a prayer that you may get your reward."
"His prayer has been answered," I murmured, with tear-filled eyes.
"Poor father was always a great man for prayer ever since I can recollect. Sometimes I used to doubt if there was anything in religion when I saw how poorly his prayers were answered; but I have since learned that the Lord does hear prayer, and that He answers in the best possible way, though when we are suffering it seems hard to wait patiently His good time."
"But if it is hard for a little spell on earth, there's a long while to have our wants satisfied when we get where He is in Heaven," Mrs. Blake said, in her calm, strong way.
"Dear Miss Selwyn, Heaven seemed very close to us in our meeting last night. I thought of you, and wished so much you were with us."
"I wish your father would pray that I might have the opportunity to come. The difficulties in the way just now seem insuperable, but with God's help they could be removed."
"Yes, indeed. I've knowed folks that was a hurt to Christians took out of the world uncommon sudden," Mrs. Blake remarked, with a very meaning nod of her head.
"I do not want Mr. Winthrop to die," I said, with quick alarm. "If I had to choose, I think I would rather die myself."
"I didn't know you liked him that well. I reckoned he was hard to please."
"I acknowledge that he is; but then a word of praise from him is worth a great deal," I frankly replied.
"I believe you are in the way to win his approval. A pure, unselfish life must gain the respect of every honest soul, soon or late," Mrs. Larkum said, with gentle assurance.
There was no more said on the subject. But the thought that Mr. Bowen was praying for me made me feel more confident that everything would turn out best for me, and for those also in whom I was most interested.