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THE shadowy woods which skirt the lake shore
tell no tales of what they see, neither do the
mossy rocks, nor yet the plashing waves kissing
the pebbly beach, and so Dora was free to pour out her
griefs, knowing there was no listening human ear, and
forgetting for a time that there was an eye which kept
watch over her, as with her face upon the yielding
sand she moaned so piteously. She could not sit where
she and Richard sat, and so she chose the projecting
trunk of a fallen tree, and sat where her feet could
touch the water below if she should wish it so, as once
she did, dipping the tip of her thin slipper, and holding
it there till it was wet through to see what the feeling
was!

Dora did not try to pray. She never thought of that,
but only remembered how desolate, how miserable she
was, vainly imagining that to rest beneath the waters
lying so calmly at her feet was to end all the pain, the
misery, and woe.

The sun was going down the west now very fast, and

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out upon the bosom of the lake, at some distance from
the shore, it cast a gleam like burnished gold, and Dora,
gazing wistfully upon it, fancied that if she could but
reach that spot, and sink into that golden glory, it would
be well with her. No thoughts of the hereafter crossed
her disordered mind, and so she sat and watched the
shining spot, until there came to her a memory of the
night when Robin died, and the time when the sunshine
round Anna's picture looked like the bed of fire upon
the lake.

“They are in heaven,” she said; adding mournfully,
“and where is that heaven?”

“Not where they go who take their lives in their own
hands,” seemed whispered in her ear, and with a shudder
she woke to the great peril of her position.

“Save me, O God!” she sobbed, as she moved cautiously
back from her seat upon the tree, breathing freer
when she knew that beneath her there was no dark, cold
water into which she could dip her feet at pleasure.

She had dipped them there until both hose and slippers
were dripping wet, but this she did not heed, and
once off from the tree, she sat down where Richard sat,
and tried to look the present calmly in the face,—to see if
there were not some bright, happy spots, if she would but
accept them. With her head bowed down, she did not
hear the footstep coming through the woods, and drawing
near to her; but when a strange voice said

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interrogatively, “Miss Freeman?” she started and uttered a nervous
cry, for the face she saw was the face of a stranger.
And yet it was so like to Dr. West, that she looked
again to reassure herself.

“I am Robert West,” the man began, abruptly. “I
am Richard's brother. He sent me here,—he sent me to
his Dora, and you are she.”

For an instant a tumultuous throb of joy shot through
Dora's heart, but it quickly passed, as she answered
Robert:

“You are mistaken, sir. I am to be Squire Russell's
wife to-morrow.”

Sitting down beside her, Robert repeated rapidly a
part of what the reader already knows, telling her of
Anna, of his own sin, and exonerating Richard from all
blame. Then he told her of the meeting in California,
of his long illness,—of Richard's anguish when he heard
that she was to be married,—of the reaction when that
letter so long in coming was received,—of his haste to
embark for home, and his illness during the voyage,—
illness which made him so weak that he was brought
from New York on pillows, and partly in his brother's
arms.

“But he has reached here in safety,” Robert continued.
“He arrived perhaps an hour ago. He is at
his old boarding-place, Miss Markham's, and mother is
there with him. He knows you are not married yet, and

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would have come to you himself, but for his illness,
which made it impossible, and so he sent me to say that
even as he loves you, so he believes that you love him,
and to beg of you not to sacrifice your happiness to a
mistaken sense of duty. You could not be found when
I inquired for you, but a servant said she saw you going
towards the lake, and as she pointed me the way, I came
on until I found you. Miss Freeman, you know my
brother, and know that there lives no better, more upright
man, or one who will make you happier as your
husband. You have heard my errand, and now what
word shall I take back to Richard, or will you go yourself
and see him?”

Dora had sat like one stunned as Robert told his
story; hope, joy, and despair alternately succeeding each
other in her heart as she listened. At a glance, too, she
took in all the difficulties of her position, and saw how
impossible it was for her to overcome them. This was
in her mind when Robert asked if she would go to Richard,
and with a bitter moan she answered:

“No, no; oh no! he has come too late. I cannot
break my word to John, and he trusting me so fully.
Tell Richard it might have been, but cannot be now.”

Again Robert West pleaded for his brother, and for
the poor heart-broken girl beside him, but her answer
was just the same:

“It might have been, but cannot be now.”

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At last as it grew darker around them, and the night
dew made Dora shiver, Robert gave up the contest, and
said:

“You must go home, Miss Freeman. It is imprudent
to stay here longer in the damp night air. I am
satisfied that you do not know what you are saying, and
so I shall see Squire Russell, and acquaint him with the
whole.”

In an instant Dora was on her knees, begging that her
betrothed might be spared this pain.

“Think of the sorrow, the disappointment, the disgrace,—
for to-morrow morning early is the wedding, and
everybody knows. Why, our passage to Europe is secured,
and we must go.”

“Not if I have the power to prevent it,” was Robert's
reply, as he led her across the fields, still insisting that
he should see Squire Russell.

At last, when she saw how much in earnest he was, she
said, “I will tell him myself; I can do it more gently,
and it will not hurt so much. Don't go to him, but
leave it with me.”

“Will you tell him all and ask to be released?” Robert
said, making her stand still while she replied, “I'll
tell him all, how I love Richard best; but I shall not ask
to be released.”

Robert was satisfied, for from what he had heard of

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Squire Russell he believed he would never require of
Dora so great a sacrifice.

“I shall be here with the early dawn,” he said, as he
left her at the gate.

Dora did not reply, but stood with her eyes riveted
upon the house across the street, where she knew was
Dr. West. There was a light shining from the windows
of the upper room, while the figure of a woman wearing
a widow's cap was occasionally seen passing to and fro.

“That is Richard's room,” she whispered, feeling an
intense desire to fly at once to his side and assert her
right to stay there.

Then, remembering her promise to Robert, she walked
slowly to the house, meeting in the door with Johnnie,
who, wild with excitement, exclaimed, “Hurrah, guess
who has come! Dr. West,—and I have been in to see
him. He's whiter than a ghost, and what is funny, his
chin fairly shook when I told him I was to have a new
mother to-morrow, and what do you think, that woman,
his mother, put me out of the room and said too much
talking hurt him. Did you know he was here?”

“Yes, I knew, Johnnie; where's your father?” Dora
asked, feeling that if she waited longer her courage would
give way.

“Father's in the library, and he's ordered us youngsters
to keep out. I guess he's expecting you, for he
asked lots of times where you was, and nobody knew.

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Jessie's over there,” and Johnnie jerked his shoulder in
the direction of the doctor's window.

Very slowly, as if going to her grave, Dora walked on
till she came to the library door. It was shut, and as
she stood there trembling, she caught the sound of a voice
praying within, a voice which trembled with happiness
and gratitude as John Russell thanked the God who had
given to him Dora.

“I can't; oh, I can't,” Dora sighed, as, faint and
sick, she leaned against the wall, while that prayer proceeded.

Then, when it was finished, still feeling that she could
not talk with him that night, she went up to her room,
and in the garments all damp and stained with night dew,
and the slippers wet with the waters of the lake, she sat
down by the open window and watched the light across
the way, until she heard Jessie coming and knew that
Robert was with her. They were talking, too, of her,
for she heard her name coupled with Dr. West's, while
Jessie said, “It's dreadful, and I do so pity Squire Russell,—
he is such a nice, good man.”

And Jessie did pity him and Dora, too, hardly knowing
what was best, or what she ought to advise. She
had been present when Robert returned from his interview
with Dora, and as Richard could not wait till she
was gone she came to know the whole, expressing great
surprise, and wounding Richard cruelly by saying, “It

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has gone so far that I do not believe it can be prevented.”

But Robert thought differently, and repeated Dora's
promise to talk with Squire Russell that night.

“Then he will give her up,” Jessie exclaimed, “he is
so generous and so wholly unselfish. Oh, how I do pity
him!” and in the heat of her great pity Jessie would almost
have been Dora's substitute, if by that means she
could have saved the Squire from pain.

She did admire and like him, and appreciated his kind,
affable, pleasant ways, all the more because they were so
exactly the opposite of her father's quick, brusque, nervous
manner. The door of the library was open now,
and she saw him sitting there as she passed, and longed
so much to go and comfort him if the blow had fallen, or
prepare him for it if it had not. I'll see Dora first, she
thought, and she hastened up to Dora's door, but it was
locked, while to her whispered question, “Have you told
him yet?” Dora answered, “No, no, not yet; I can't
to-night. Please leave me, Jessie; I want to be alone.”

It was the queerest thing she ever heard of, Jessie
thought, as she turned away,—queerer than a novel ten
times over. Then, as she spied Johnnie in the parlor,
the little meddlesome lady felt a great desire to see if he
suspected anything; but Johnnie did not, and only
talked of Europe and the grand things he should see.
Not a hint or insinuation, however broad, would he take,

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and mentally styling him stupid and dull, Jessie left him
in disgust, and walked boldly into the library, apologizing
for her call by saying she had been to see Dr. West,
and thought the Squire might wish to hear directly from
him. The Squire was very glad to hear, and glad also to
see Jessie, who amused and interested him.

“I have been thinking of calling myself, with Dora,
but have not seen her this evening. Where is she?” he
said.

“Locked in her room,” Jessie replied, as she took the
chair he offered her, and continued: “Dora acts queerly,
but I suppose that is the way I shall do the night before
I am married. Wouldn't I feel so funny, though! Do
you know you and Dora seem to me just like a novel, in
which I am a side character; but to keep up the romance
some tall, handsome knight ought at the last
minute to appear and carry her off.”

“And so make a tragedy so far as I am concerned,”
the Squire said, playfully, as he smoothed the little black
curly head moving so restlessly.

“Oh, I guess you would not die,” Jessie replied; “not
if Dora loved the knight the best. You would rather
she should have him, and some time you would find another
Dora who loved you best of all.”

Jessie was growing very earnest, very sympathetic,
very sorry for the unsuspecting bridegroom, and as his
hand still continued to smooth her curls, she suddenly

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caught it between her own, and giving it a squeeze
darted from the room, leaving the Squire to wonder at
her manner, and to style her mentally “a nice little girl,
whom it would not be hard for any man to love.”

p605-231

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