CHAPTER I. A PRACTICAL JOKE.
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ON a cloudy December morning, a gentleman,
two ladies, and a boy, stepped down from the
express train at a station just above the Highlands
on the Hudson. A double sleigh, overflowing with
luxurious robes, stood near, and a portly coachman
with difficulty restrained his spirited horses while
the little party arranged themselves for a winter
ride. Both the ladies were young, and the gentleman's
anxious and almost tender solicitude for one
of them seemed hardly warranted by her blooming
cheeks and sprightly movements. A close observer
might soon suspect that his assiduous attentions
were caused by a malady of his own rather than
indisposition on her part.
The other young lady received but scant politeness,
though seemingly in greater need of it. But
the words of Scripture applied to her beautiful companion,
“Whosoever hath, to him shall be given,
and he shall have more abundance.” She had been
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surfeited all her life with attention, and though she
would certainly have felt its absence, as she would
the loss of wealth, life-long familiarity with both led
her to place no special value upon them.
Therefore, during the half-hour's ride her spirits
rose with the rapid motion, and even the leaden sky
and winter's bleakness could not prevent the shifting
landscape from being a source of pleasure to her
city eyes, while the devotion of her admirer or lover
was received as a matter of course.
The frosty air brought color into her companion's
usually pale face, but not of an attractive kind,
for the north-east wind that deepened the vermilion
in the beauty's cheek could only tinge that of the
other with a ghastly blue. The delicate creature
shivered and sighed.
“I wish we were there.”
“Really, Bel, I sometimes think your veins are
filled with water instead of blood. It's not cold to-day,
is it, Mr. De Forrest?”
“Well, all I can say with certainty,” he replied,
“is that I have been in a glow for the last two hours.
I thought it was chilly before that.”
“You are near to `glory' then,” cried the boy,
saucily, from his perch on the driver's box.
“Of course I am,” said Mr. De Forrest in a low
tone, and leaning toward the maiden.
“You are both nearer being silly,” she replied
pettishly. “Dan, behave yourself, and speak when
you are spoken to.”
The boy announced his independence of sisterly
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control by beginning to whistle, and the young lady
addressed as “Bel” remarked:
“Mr. De Forrest is no judge of the weather
under the circumstances. He doubtless regards the
day as bright and serene. But he was evidently a
correct judge up to the time he joined you, Lottie.”
“He joined you as much as he did me.”
“Oh, pardon me; yes, I believe I was present.”
“I hope I have failed in no act of politeness,
Miss Bel,” said De Forrest, a little stiffly.
“I have no complaints to make. Indeed I have
fared well, considering that one is sometimes worse
than a crowd.”
“Nonsense,” said Lottie petulantly; and the
young man tried not to appear annoyed.
The sleigh now dashed in between rustic gate-posts
composed of rough pillars of granite, and proceeding
along an avenue that sometimes skirted a
wooded ravine, and again wound through picturesque
groupings of evergreens, they soon reached a
mansion of considerable size, which bore evidence
of greater age than is usual with the homes in our
new world.
They had hardly crossed the threshold into the
hall before they were hospitably received and welcomed
by a widow lady, whose hair was slightly
tinged with gray, and by her eldest daughter.
The greetings were so cordial as to indicate ties
of blood, and the guests were shown to their rooms,
and told to prepare for an early dinner.
In brief, Mrs. Marchmont the mistress of the
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mansion, had gratified her daughter's wish (as she
did all her fancies), by permitting her to invite a
number of young friends to spend with them the
Christmas holidays. Both mother and daughter
were fond of society, and it required no hospitable
effort to welcome visitors at a season when a majority
of their friends had fled from the dreariness of
winter to city homes. Indeed, they regarded it as
almost an honor that so prominent a belle as Charlotte
Marsden had consented to spend a few weeks
with them at a time when country life is at a large
discount with the fashionable. They surmised that
the presence of Mr. De Forrest, a distant relative of
both Miss Marsden and themselves, would be agreeable
to all concerned, and were not mistaken; and to
Miss Lottie the presence of a few admirers—she
would not entertain the idea that they were lovers—
had become an ordinary necessity of life. Mr. De
Forrest was an unusually interesting specimen of the
genus—handsome, an adept in the mode and etiquette
of the hour, attentive as her own shadow,
and quite as subservient.
His method of making love and his toilet would
equal each other in elegance. All would be delicately
suggested by touch of hand or glance or eye,
and yet he would keep pace with the wild and wayward
beauty in as desperate a flirtation as she would
permit.
Miss Lottie had left her city home with no self-sacrificing
purpose to become a martyr for the sake
of country relatives. She had wearied of the familiar
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round of metropolitan gayety; but life on the Hudson
during midwinter was an entire novelty. Therefore,
as her little brother had been included in the
invitation, they started on what was emphatically a
frolic to both.
Bel Parton, her companion, was another city
cousin of the Marchmonts, with whom they were in
the habit of exchanging visits. She was also an
intimate of Lottie's, the two being drawn together
by the mysterious affinity of opposites.
She was indeed a very different girl from Lottie
Marsden, and many would regard her as a better
one. Her face and character are only too familiar to
close observers of society. She was the beginning
of several desirable things, but the pattern was in no
instance finished, and always raveling out on one
side or the other. She had the features of a pretty
girl, but ill-health and the absence of a pleasing
expression spoiled them. She had a fine education,
but did not know what to do with it; considerable
talent, but no energy; too much conscience, as she
had not the resolution to obey it. Her life was
passed mainly in easy-chairs, chronic dyspepsia, and
feeble protest against herself and all the world.
Lottie often half-provoked but never roused her
by saying, “Bel, you are the most negative creature
I ever knew. Why don't you do something or be
something out and out? Well, `'tis an ill wind
that blows nobody any good.' You make an excellent
foil for me.”
And gloriously rich and tropical did Lottie
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appear against the colorless background of her
friend. Bel felt that she suffered by the comparison
so frankly indicated, but was too indolent and irresolute
to change for the better or avoid companionship
with one whose positive and full-blooded nature
seemed to supplement her own meagre life.
When all appeared in the dining-room the shades
and contrasts in character became more evident.
At the head of the table sat a gentleman as yet not
introduced, Mr. Dimmerly by name, a bachelor
brother of Mrs. Marchmont who resided with her.
He was a quaint-appearing little man, who in a
greater degree than his age required, seemed to
belong to a former generation. His manners were
too stately for his stature, and embarrassed his elaborate
efforts at politeness as too ample garments
might his movements.
Both he and his sister were representatives of one
of the “old families” of the State, and, like their
mansion, reminded one of the past. Indeed they
seemed to cherish, as a matter of pride and choice,
their savor of antiquity, instinctively recognizing
that their claims upon society were inherited rather
than earned.
Old families do not always appear to accumulate
the elements of greatness until there is an increasing
and almost irresistible impetus of force and
genius. Successive generations are not necessarily
born to a richer dower of mind and morals. Too
often it would seem that the great qualities that in
the first place launched a family on a brilliant career
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expend themselves, until the latest scion, like a spent
arrow, drops into insignificance.
Mrs. Marchmont was regarded by society as an
elegant woman, and she was, in all externals. The
controlling principle of her life was precedent.
What had been customary, and still obtained among
the “good old families,” had a flavor of divine right
in it.
Alas for the Marchmont family, for the young
lady of the house seemed inclined to maintain and
perpetuate nothing save her own will, and had no
special development in any respect, save a passion for
her own way. Still she was one of those girls whom
society calls a “pretty little thing,” and was predestined
to marry some large, good-natured man who
would imagine that she would make a nice little pet,
a household fairy, but who might often learn to
his dismay that the fairy could be a tormenting elf.
She would not marry the young gentleman with
whom her name was at present associated by the
gossips, and who had driven over that morning to
help her entertain the expected guests. Mr. Harcourt
and Miss Marchmont understood each other.
He was a distant relative of her mother's, and so
under the disguise of kinship could be very familiar.
The tie between them was composed of one part of
friendship and two parts of flirtation. He had
recently begun the practice of law in a neighboring
town, and found the Marchmont residence a very
agreeable place at which to spend his leisure. It
was Miss Marchmont's purpose that he should form
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one of the gay party that would make the holiday
season a prolonged frolic. He, nothing loath,
accepted the invitation, and appeared in time for
dinner. To many he seemed to possess a dual
nature. He had a quick, keen intellect, and, during
business hours, gave an absorbed attention to his profession.
At other times he was equally well known
as a sporting man, with tendencies somewhat fast.
Mrs. Marchmont's well-appointed dining-room
was peculiarly attractive that wintry day. Finished
off in some dark wood on which the ruddy hickory
fire glistened warmly, it made a pleasing contrast to
the cold whiteness of the snow without. A portly
colored waiter in dress coat seemed the appropriate
presiding genius of the place, and in his ebon
hands the polished silver and crystal were doubly
luminous.
And yet the family, with its lack of original force,
its fading traditions of past greatness, would make
rather a dim and neutral tint, against which such a
girl as Charlotte Marsden would appear as the living
and glowing embodiment of the vivid and intense
spirit of the present age. Her naturally energetic
and mercurial nature had been cradled among, and
rocked by, the excitements of the gayest and giddiest
city on the continent. A phlegmatic uncle had
remarked to her, in view of inherited and developed
characteristics:
“Lottie, what in ordinary girls is a soul, in you is
a flame of fire.”
As she sat at the table, doing ample justice to the
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substantial viands, she did appear as warm and glowing
as the coals of hard-wood, which had ripened in
the sunshine, upon the hearth opposite.
The bon-vivant, Julian De Forrest, found time
for many admiring glances, of which Lottie was as
agreeably conscious as of the other comforts and
luxuries of the hour. But they were all very much
upon the same level in her estimation.
But De Forrest would ask no better destiny than
to bask in the light and witchery of so glorious a
creature. Little did he understand himself or her,
or the life before him. It would have been a woful
match for both. In a certain sense he would be like
the ambitious mouse that espoused the lioness.
The polished and selfish idler, with a career devoted
to elegant nothings, would fret and chafe such a
nature as hers into almost frenzy, had she no escape
from him.
There would be fewer unhappy marriages if the
young, instead of following impulses and passing
fancies, would ask, How will our lives accord when
our present tendencies and temperaments are fully
developed? It would need no prophetic eye to
foresee in many cases, not supplemental and helpful
differences, but only hopeless discord. Yet it is
hard for a romantic youth to realize that the smiling
maiden before him, with a cheek of peach-bloom and
eyes full of mirth and tenderness, can become stubborn
or shrewish as Xantippe herself. And many a
woman becomes stubborn and acid, rather than sweet,
by allowing herself to be persuaded into marrying the
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wrong man, and then by not having the good sense
to make the best of it.
Alas! experience also proves that, of all prosaic,
selfish grumblers, your over-gallant lover makes the
worst. And yet, while the world stands, multitudes
will no doubt eagerly seek the privilege of becoming
mutual tormentors.
Lottie thought Mr. De Forrest “very nice.”
She liked him better than any one she had met and
flirted with since her school-days, during which period
of sincerity and immaturity she had several acute
attacks of what she imagined to be the “grand passion.”
But as the objects were as absurd as her
emotions, and the malady soon ran its course, she
began to regard the whole subject as a jest, and think,
with her fashionable mother, that the heart was the
last organ to be consulted in the choice of a husband,
as it was almost sure to lead to folly. While her
heart slept, it was easy to agree with her mother's
philosophy. But it would be a sad thing for Charlotte
Marsden if her heart should become awakened
when her will or duty were at variance with its cravings.
She might act rightly, she might suffer in
patience, but it would require ten times the effort
that the majority of her sex would have to make.
Her mother thought that the elegant and wealthy
Mr. De Forrest was the very one of all the city for
her beautiful daughter, and Lottie gave a careless
assent, for certainly he was “very nice.” He would
answer as well as any one she had ever seen, for the
inevitable adjunct of her life. He had always united
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agreeably the characters of cousin, playmate, and
lover, and why might he not add that of husband?
But for the latter relation she was in no haste. Time
enough for that in the indefinite future. She loved
the liberty and year-long frolic of her maiden life,
though in truth she had no idea of settling down on
becoming a matron. In the meantime, while she
laughed at De Forrest's love-making she did not
discourage it, and the young man felt that his clear
understanding with the mother was almost equal to
an engagement to the daughter. He welcomed this
country visit with peculiar satisfaction, feeling that it
would bring matters to a crisis. He was not to be
mistaken.
By the time they were sipping their coffee after
dessert, the promise of the leaden sky of the morning
was fulfilled in a snow-storm, not consisting of
feathery flakes that fluttered down as if undecided
where to alight, but of sharp, fine crystals that
slanted steadily from the north-east. The afternoon
sleigh-ride must be given up, and even the children
looked ruefully and hopelessly out, and then made
the best of in-door amusements.
Miss Marchmont gathered her guests around the
parlor fire, and fancy work and city gossip were in
order. The quiet flow and ripple of small-talk was
suddenly interrupted by her petulant exclamation:
“Oh! I forgot to tell you a bit of unpleasant
news. Mother, without consulting me, has invited a
poor and poky cousin of ours to spend the holidays
with us also. He is from the West, green as a
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gooseberry, and, what's far worse, he's studying for
the ministry, and no doubt will want to preach at us
all the time. I don't know when I've been more
provoked, but mother said it was too late, she had
invited him, and he was coming. I fear he will be a
dreadful restraint, a sort of wet blanket on all our fun,
for one must be polite, you know, in one's own house.”
“I am under no special obligation to be polite,”
laughed Lottie. “Mark my words. I will shock
your pious and proper cousin till he is ready to write
a book on total depravity. It will be good sport till
I am tired of it.”
“No, Lottie, you shall not give such a false impression
of yourself, even in a joke,” said Bel. “I
will tell him, if he can't see, that you are not a sinner
above all in Galilee.”
“No, my manner-of-fact cousin, you shall not tell
him anything. Why should I care what he thinks?
Already in fancy I see his face elongate, and his eyes
dilate in holy horror at my wickedness. If there is
one thing I love to do more than another, it is to
shock your eminently good and proper people.”
“Why, Miss Lottie,” chuckled De Forrest, “to
hear you talk one would think you were past praying
for.”
No, not till I am married.”
“In that sense I am always at my devotions.'
“Perhaps you had better read the fable of the
Frogs and King Stork.”
“Thank you. I had never dared to hope that
you regarded me as good enough to eat.”
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“No, only to peck at.”
“But listen to Miss Addie's proposal. If I mistake
not, there is no end of fun in it,” said Mr.
Harcourt.
“I've thought of something better than shocking
him. These Western men are not easily shocked.
They see all kinds out there. What I suggest would
be a better joke and give us all a chance to enjoy the
sport. Suppose, Lottie, you assume to be the good
and pious one of our party, and in this character
form his acquaintance. He will soon be talking
religion to you, and, like enough, making love and
wanting you to go with him as a missionary to the
Cannibal Islands.”
“If you go, Oh, that I were king of them?”
broke in De Forrest.
“You mean you would have Lottie for dinner, I
suppose,” continued Miss Marchmont. “She would
be served up properly as a tart.”
“No,” he retorted, “as sauce piquante. She
could make a long life a highly seasoned feast.”
“You evidently are an Epicurean philosopher;
all your thoughts seem to run on eating,” said Lottie,
sharply.
“But what say you to my suggestion?” asked
Addie Marchmont. “I think it would be one of
the best practical jokes I ever knew. The very
thought of such an incorrigible witch as you palming
yourself off as a demure Puritan maiden, is the
very climax of comical absurdity.”
Even Lottie joined heartily in the general laugh
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at her expense, and the preposterous imposition she
was asked to attempt, but said dubiously:
“I fear I could not act successfully the rôle of
Puritan maiden, when I have always been in reality
just the opposite. And yet it would be grand sport
to make the attempt, and a decided novelty. But
surely your cousin cannot be so verdant but that he
would soon see through our mischief and detect the
fraud.”
“Well,” replied Addie, “Frank, as I remember
him, is a singularly unsuspicious mortal. Even as a
boy his head was always in the clouds. He has not
seen much society save that of his mother and an
old-maid sister. Moreover, he is so dreadfully pious,
and life with him is such a solemn thing, that unless
we are very bungling he will not even imagine such
frivolity, as he would call it, until the truth is
forced upon him. Then there will be a scene. You
will shock him then, Lottie, to your heart's content.
He will probably tell you that he is dumbfounded,
and that he would not believe that a young woman
in this Christian land could trifle with such solemn
realities—that is, himself and his feelings.”
“But I don't think it would be quite right,” protested
Bel, feebly.
Mr. Harcourt lifted his eyebrows.
“Nonsense! Suppose it is not,” said Lottie
impatiently.
“But, Addie,” persisted Bel, “he will be your
guest.”
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“No he won't. He's mother guest, and I feel
like punishing them both.”
“Very well,” said Lottie, lightly; “if you have
no scruples, I have none. It will be capital sport,
and will do him good. It would be an excellent
thing for his whole theological seminary, if they
could have a thorough shaking up by the wicked
world, which to him, in this matter, I shall represent.
They would then know what they were preaching
about. What do you say, Julian?”
“When did I ever disagree with you?” he replied
gallantly. “But in this case I really think we owe
Miss Addie a vote of thanks for having hit upon a
joke that may enliven the greater part of our visit.
This embryo parson seems a sort of a scriptural
character—and why should he not blindly, like Samson,
make sport for us all?”
“I fear you do not understand your own scriptural
allusion,” sneered Bel. “Like Samson, he may
also pull everything down about our ears in a most
uncomfortable manner.”
“I hope you won't spoil everything by telling
him or mother,” said Addie, petulantly.
“Oh, no! Since you are determined upon it, I
will look on and see the fun, if there is any. But,
bah! He will find you all out in a day. As for
Lottie palming herself off as a goodish young woman
to whom any sane man would talk religion—the very
thought is preposterous!”
“Don't be too confident, Miss Bel,” said Lottie,
put upon her mettle. “If you all will only sustain
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me and not awaken his suspicions with your by-play
and giggling, I will deceive the ingenuous youth in a
way that will surprise you as well as him. Good
acting must have proper support. This is something
new—out of the rut, and I am bound to make it a
brilliant jest that we can laugh over all our lives.
So remember, Julian, you will disconcert me at your
peril.”
“No fears of me. So long as your jest remains a
jest, I will be the last one to spoil the sport.”
With a chime of laughter that echoed to the attic
of the old mansion, Lottie exclaimed:
“The idea that I could ever become in earnest!”
“But the young clergyman may become dead in
earnest,” said Bel, who seemed the embodiment of
a troublesome but weak conscience. “You know
well, Mr. De Forrest, that Lottie's blandishments
may be fatal to his peace.”
“That is his affair,” replied the confident youth,
with a careless shrug.
Having arranged the details of the plot and been
emphatically cautioned by Lottie, they awaited their
victim.
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CHAPTER II. THE VICTIM.
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FRANK HEMSTEAD was expected on the
evening train from the north, so that the conspirators
would not have long to wait. To pass the
brief intervening time Lottie went to the piano and
gave them some music like herself, brilliant, dashing,
off-hand, but devoid of sentiment and feeling. Then
she sprang up and began playing the maddest pranks
on languid Bel, and with Addie was soon engaged in
a romp with De Forrest and Harcourt, that would
have amazed the most festive Puritan that ever
schooled or masked a frolicsome nature under the
sombre deportment required. The young men
took their cue from the ladies, and elegance and
propriety were driven away in shreds before the gale
of their wild spirits. Poor Bel! buffeted and helpless,
half-enjoying, half-frightened, protested, cried,
and laughed at the tempest around her.
“I mean,” said Lottie, panting after a desperate
chase among the furniture, “to have one more spree,
like the topers before they reform.”
Though these velvety creatures, with their habits
of grace and elegance could romp without roughness,
and glide where others would tear around, they could
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not keep their revel so quiet but that hurrying steps
were heard. Bel warned them, and before Mrs.
Marchmont could enter, Lottie was playing a waltz,
and the others appeared as if they had been dancing.
The lady of precedent smiled, whereas if she had
come a moment earlier she would have been horrified.
But the glow from the hearth, uncertain enough
for their innocent deeds of darkness, had now to fade
before the chandelier, and Mrs. Marchmont, somewhat
surprised at the rumpled plumage of the young
ladies, and the fact that Mr. De Forrest's neck-tie
was awry, suggested that they retire and prepare
for supper, whereat they retreated in literal disorder.
But without the door their old frenzy seized them,
and they nearly ran over the dilatory Bel upon the
stairs. With sallies of nonsense, smothered laughter,
a breezy rustle of garments, and the rush of swift
motion, they seemed to die away in the upper halls
as might a summer gust. To Mrs. Marchmont they
had vanished like a suppressed whirlwind.
“The young people of my day were more decorous,”
soliloquized the lady complacently. “But
then the De Forrests have French blood in them,
and what else could you expect? It's he that sets
them off.”
The approaching sound of sleigh-bells hastened
the young people's toilets, and when they descended
the stairs, this time like a funeral procession, a
tall figure, with one side that had been to the windword
well sifted over with snow, was just entering
the hall.
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Mrs. Marchmont welcomed him with as much
warmth as she ever permitted herself to show. She
was a good and kind lady at heart, only she insisted
upon covering the natural bloom and beauty of her
nature with the artificial enamel of mannerism and
conventionality. During the unwrapping process
the young people stood in the back-ground, but Lottie
watched the emergence from overcoat and muffler
of the predestined victim of her wiles with more than
ordinary curiosity.
The first thing that impressed her was his unusual
height, and the next a certain awkwardness and
angularity. When he came to be formally presented,
his diffidence and lack of ease were quite marked.
Bel greeted him with a distant inclination of her
head, De Forrest also vouchsafed merely one of his
slightest bows, while Harcourt stood so far away
that he was scarcely introduced at all; but Lottie
went demurely forward and put her warm hand in
his great cold one, and said, looking up shyly:
“I think we are sort of cousins, are we not?”
He blushed to the roots of his hair and stammered
that he hoped so.
Indeed, this exquisite vision appearing from the
shadows of the hall, and claiming kinship, might
have disconcerted a polished society man; and the
conspirators retired back into the gloom to hide
their merriment.
As the stranger, in his bashful confusion, did not
seem to know for the moment what to do with her
hand, and was inclined to keep it, for in fact it was
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warming, or rather, electrifying him, she withdrew it,
exclaiming:
“How cold you are! You must come with me
to the fire at once.”
He followed her with a rather bewildered expression,
but his large gray eyes were full of gratitude for
her supposed kindness even if his unready tongue
was slow in making graceful acknowledgment.
“Supper will be ready in a few moments, Frank,”
said his aunt, approaching them and rather wondering
at Lottie's friendliness. “Perhaps you had better
go at once to your room and prepare. You will
find it warm,” and she glanced significantly at his
rumpled hair and general appearance of disorder, the
natural results of a long journey.
He started abruptly, blushed as if conscious of
having forgotten something, and timidly said to
Lottie:
“Will you excuse me?”
“Yes,” she replied sweetly, “for a little while.”
He again blushed deeply and for a second indulged
in a shy glance of curiosity at the “cousin” who
spoke so kindly. Then, as if guilty of an impropriety,
he seized a huge carpet-bag as if it were a lady's
reticule. But remembering that her eyes upon him,
he tried to cross the hall and mount the stairs with
dignity. The great leathern bag did not conduce to
this, and he succeeded in appearing awkward in the
extreme, and had a vague, uncomfortable impression
that such was the case.
Mrs. Marchmont having disappeared into the
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dining-room, the young people went off into silent
convulsions of laughter, in which even Bel joined,
though she said she knew it was wrong.
“He is just the one of all the world on whom to
play such a joke,” said Lottie, pirouetting into the
parlor.
“It was capital!” chimed in De Forrest. “Lot
tie, you would make a star actress.”
“He has an intelligent eye,” continued she, a
little more thoughtfully. “He may be able to see
more than we think. I insist that you all be very
careful. Aunt will suspect something, if he doesn't,
and may put him on his guard.”
Mr. Hemstead soon appeared, for it was plain
that his toilets were exceedingly simple. The elegance
wanting in his manners was still more clearly
absent from his dress. The material was good, but
had evidently been put together by a country tailor,
who limped a long way behind the latest mode.
What was worse, his garments were scarcely ample
enough for his stalwart form. Altogether he made
in some externals, a marked contrast to the city
exquisite, who rather enjoyed standing beside him
that this contrast might be seen.
To Lottie he appeared excessively comical as he
stalked in and around, trying vainly to appear at
ease. And yet the thought occurred to her, “If
he only knew what to do with his colossal proportions—
knew how to manage them—he would make
an imposing looking man.” And when De Forrest
posed beside him just before they went out to tea,
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
even this thought flashed across her, “Julian seems
like an elegant mannikin beside a man.” If De Forrest
had only known it, the game of contrasts was
not wholly in his favor.
But poor Mr. Hemstead came to grief on his way
to the supper room. Miss Marchmont tried to disguise
her diminutive stature by a long trailing dress.
Upon this he placed his by no means delicate foot,
as she was sweeping out with Mr. Harcourt. There
was an ominous sound of parting stitches, and an
abrupt period in the young lady's graceful progress.
In his eager haste to remedy his awkwardness, he
bumped up against Mr. Dimmerly, who was advancing
to speak to him, with a force that nearly overthrew
that dapper gentleman, and rendered his
uncle's greeting rather peculiar. Hemstead felt, to
his intense annoyance, that the young people were
at the point of exploding with merriment at his expense,
and was in a state of mingled indignation at
himself and them. His aunt and Mr. Dimmerly, who
soon recovered himself, were endeavoring to look
serenely unconscious, but with partial success. All
seemed to feel as if they were over a mine of discourteous
laughter. The unfortunate object looked
nervously around for the beautiful “cousin,” and
noted with a sigh of relief that she had disappeared.
“I hope she did not see my meeting with uncle,”
he thought. “I was always a gawk in society, and
to-night seem possessed with the very genius of
awkwardness. She is the only one who has shown
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
me any real kindness, and I don't want her to think
of me only as a blundering, tongue-tied fool.”
He would not have been reassured had he known
that Lottie, having seen all, had darted back into
the parlor and was leaning against the piano, a quivering,
and for the moment, a helpless subject of suppressed
mirth. Mr. Dimmerly was always a rather
comical object to her, and his flying arms and spectacles
as he tried to recover himself from the rude
shock of his nephew's burly form, made a scene in
which absurdity, which is said to be the chief cause
of laughter, was preeminent.
But the paroxysm passing, she followed them
and took a seat opposite her victim, with a demure
sweetness and repose of manner that was well-nigh
fatal to the conspirators.
As Mr. Hemstead was regarded as a clergyman,
though not quite through with his studies, his aunt
looked to him for the saying of grace. It was a trying
ordeal for the young fellow under the circumstances.
He shot a quick glance at Lottie, which
she returned with a look of serious expectation, then
dropped her eyes and veiled a different expression
under the long lashes. But he was sorely embarrassed,
and stammered out he scarcely knew what.
A suppressed titter from Addie Marchmont and the
young men was the only response he heard, and it
was not reassuring. He heartily wished himself
back in Michigan, but was comforted by seeing Lottie
looking gravely and reproachfully at the irreverent
gigglers.
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
“She is a good Christian girl,” he thought,
“and while the others ridicule my wretched embarrassment,
she sympathizes.”
Hemstead was himself, as open as the day and
equally unsuspicious of others. He believed just
what he saw, and saw only what was clearly apparent.
Therefore Lottie, by tolerably fair acting,
would have no difficulty in deceiving him, and she
was proving herself equal to very skilful feigning.
Indeed she was one who could do anything fairly
that she heartily attempted.
A moment after “grace”—Harcourt made a poor
witticism, at which the majority laughed with an
immoderateness quite disproportionate. Mrs. Marchmont
and her brother joined in the mirth, though
evidently vexed with themselves that they did.
Even Hemstead saw that Harcourt's remark was but
the transparent excuse for the inevitable laugh at
his expense. Lottie looked around with an expression
of mingled surprise and displeasure, which
nearly convulsed those in the secret. But her aunt
and uncle felt themselves justly rebuked, while wondering
greatly at Lottie's unwonted virtue. But
there are times when to laugh is a dreadful necessity,
whatever be the consequences.
“Mr. Hemstead,” said Lottie, gravely, beginning,
as she supposed, with the safe topic of the weather,
“in journeying East have you come to a colder or
warmer climate?”
“Decidedly into a colder one,” he answered,
significantly.
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
“Indeed, that rather surprises me!”
“Well, I believe that the thermometer has
marked lower with us, but it has been said, and
justly I think, that we do not feel the cold at the
West as at the East.”
“No matter,” she said, sweetly. “At the East,
as in the West, the cold is followed by thaws and
spring.”
He looked up quickly and gratefully, but only
remarked, “It's a change we all welcome.”
“Not I, for one,” said Mr. Harcourt. “Give me
a clear, steady cold. Thaws and spring are synonymous
with the sloppy season or sentimental stage.”
“I, too, think steady cold is better in the season
of it,” remarked Mr. Dimmerly, sententiously.
“But how about it out of season, uncle?” asked
Lottie.
“Your hint, perhaps, is seasonable, Lottie,”
quietly remarked her aunt, though with somewhat
heightened color. “I trust we shall keep the steady
cold out of doors, and that all our guests will find
only summer warmth within.”
“Really, auntie, you put me in quite a melting
mood.”
“No need of that, Lottie, for you are the month
of June all the year round,” said her aunt.
“The month of April, rather,” suggested Bel.
“I should say July or August,” added Mr. Dimmerly,
laughing.
“Would you not say November?” asked Lottie
of Mr. Hemstead.
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
“Yes, I think so,” he replied, with a blush, “for
Thanksgiving comes in that month.”
There was a general laugh, and Mr. Dimmerly
chuckled, “Very good, you are getting even, Frank.”
“I hardly understand your compliment, if it is
one,' said Lottie, demurely. “Is it because you are
so fond of sermons or dinners that Thanksgiving
glorifies the dreary month of November?”
“Neither a sermon nor a dinner is always a just
cause for Thanksgiving,” he replied, with a pleasant
light in his gray eyes.
“Then where is the force of your allusion?” she
said, with a face innocently blank.
“Well,” replied he, hesitatingly, and blushing
deeply, “perhaps my thought was that you might be
an occasion for Thanksgiving if both sermon and
dinner were wanting.”
Again there was a general laugh, but his aunt
said, “Frank, Frank, have you learned to flatter?”
Lottie shot a quick look of pleased surprise at
him, and was much amused at his evident confusion
and flaming cheeks. To be sure his words were
part of the old complimentary tune that she knew
by heart, but his offering was like a flower that had
upon it the morning dew. She recognized his grateful
effort to repay her for supposed kindness, and
saw that, though ill at ease in society, he was not
a fool.
`Would it not be better to wait till in possession
before keeping a Thanksgiving?” said De Forrest,
satirically.
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
“Not necessarily,” retorted Hemstead quickly,
for the remark was like the light touch of a spur.
“I was grateful for the opportunity of seeing a fine
picture at Cleveland, on my way here, that I never
expect to own.”
Lottie smiled. The victim was not helpless.
But she turned, and with a spice of coquetry said:
“Still I think you are right, Mr. De Forrest.”
Then she noted that Mr. Hemstead's eyes were
dancing with mirth at her hint to one who was evidently
anxious to keep “Thanksgiving” over her
any month in the year.
“I'm sure I am,” replied De Forrest. “I could
never be satisfied to admire at a distance. I could
not join in a prayer I once heard, `Lord, we thank
thee for this and all other worlds.'”
“Could you?” asked Lottie of Hemstead.
“Why not?”
“That is no answer.”
Hemstead was growing more at ease, and when
he only had to use his brains was not half so much
at a loss as when he must also manage his hands and
feet, and he replied laughingly:
“Well, not to put too fine a point upon it, this
world is quite useful to me at present. I should be
sorry to have it vanish and find myself whirling in
space, if I am a rather large body. But as I am
soon to get through with this world, though never
through with life, I may have a chance to enjoy a
good many other worlds—perhaps all of them—
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
before eternity is over, and so be grateful that they
exist and are in waiting.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Lottie. “What a
traveller you propose to be. I should be satisfied
with a trip to Europe.”
“To Paris, you mean,” said Bel.
“Yes,” replied Mr. Hemstead, “until the trip was
over.”
“Then I trust she will be content with New
York,” insinuated De Forrest; “for Mr. Hemstead
speaks as if the stars were created for his especial
benefit.”
“You are enjoying some honey, Mr. De Forrest?”
said Hemstead, quietly.
“Yes.”
“Did the flowers grow and the bees gather for
your especial benefit?”
“I admit I'm answered.”
“But,” said sceptical Mr. Harcourt, “when
you've got through with this world how do you
know but that you will drop off into space?”
“Come,” said Addie, rising from the table, “I
protest against a sermon before Sunday.”
They now returned to the parlor, Hemstead
making the transition in safety, but with no little
trepidation.
-- 041 -- p668-046
CHAPTER III. PUZZLED AND INTERESTED.
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
ON the way to the parlor Lottie hovered near
Mr. Hemstead. Unlike Micawber, she was
not one to wait, but purposed that something should
“turn up. The two other young ladies, and Harcourt
and De Forrest, sat down to a game of whist.
In pursuance of instructions from Lottie, De Forrest
was not to be over-attentive, though it was evident
that he would give more thought to her than his
game. Her demure mischief amused him vastly,
and, knowing what she was, the novelty of her Puritan
style had a double fascination. Making personal
enjoyment the object of his life, he felicitated
himself on soon possessing the beautiful and piquant
creature, who, when she came to devote herself to
him, would spice his days with endless variety.
The thought that this high-spirited, positive, strong
minded American girl might crave better and more
important work than that of an Eastern houri or a
Queen Scheherezade, never occurred to him. He
blundered, with many other men, in supposing that,
if once married, the wayward belle would become
subservient to his tastes and moods as a matter of
course. In his matrimonial creed all his difficulty
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
consisted in getting the noose finally around the fair
one's neck; but this accomplished, she became a
ministering captive. Many a one has had a rude
awakening from this dream.
Although from Addie Marchmont's description
he believed that he had little cause to fear a rival in
Hemstead, still he awaited his coming with a trace
of anxiety. But when the seemingly overgrown,
awkward student stepped upon the scene, all his
fears vanished. The fastidious Lottie, whose eye had
grown so nice and critical that she could refuse the
suit of many who from their wealth and position
thought it impossible to sue in vain, could never
look upon this Western giant in a way other than
she proposed—the ridiculous subject of a practical
joke. True, he had proved himself no fool in their
table talk, but mere intellectuality and moral excellence
counted for little in De Forrest's estimation
when not combined with wealth and external elegance.
The thought that the “giant” might have a
heart, and that Lottie's clever seeming might win it,
and the consequent mortification and suffering, did
not occasion a moment's care. Unconsciously De
Forrest belonged to that lordly class which has furnished
our Neros, Napoleons, and tyrants of less
degree, even down to Pat who beats his wife, that,
from their throne of selfishness, view the pain and
troubles of others with perfect unconcern. Therefore
believing that his personal interests were not
endangered by so unpromising a man as Hemstead,
even Lottie did not look forward to the carrying out
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
of the practical joke with more zest than he. If the
unsuspicious victim could only be inveigled into
something like love, its awkward display might
become comical in the extreme. Therefore he gave
but careless heed to his game, and keen glances to
Lottie's side-play. But as the other conspirators
were acting in much the same manner, he was able
to hold his own.
Hemstead looked grave, as cards were brought
out, but without remark he sat down with his aunt
at a table on the opposite side of the hearth. Lottie
perched on a chair a little back of them, so that
while she saw their side faces they must turn somewhat
to see her. When they did so she was quietly
stitching at her fancy work, but the rest of the time
was telegraphing with her brilliant eyes all sorts of
funny messages to the party opposite, so that they
were in a state of perpetual giggle, not in keeping
with whist.
Mr. Dimmerly soon bustled in and, looking wistfully
at the game in progress, was about to propose
that they form one likewise at their table, for an
evening without cards was to him a mild form of
purgatory. But Lottie anticipated him. Giving a
signal to the others and drawing down her face to
portentous length, she said to Hemstead:
“I fear you do not approve of cards.”
“You are correct, Miss Marsden,” he replied,
stiffly.
As he turned away, she glanced at the card players
with a look of horror, as if they were committing
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
sacrilege, and Harcourt had to improvise another
poor joke to account for their increasing merriment.
But Mr. Dimmerly looked at his nephew in dismay,
and some irritation. “What under heaven car.
I now do, this long evening,” he thought, “but gape
and talk theology?”
But Lottie, in the purpose to draw out and quiz
her victim, continued:
“Really, Mr. Hemstead, you surprise me. Cards
are the staple amusement of a quiet evening in New
York. I fear I have been doing wrong all my life
without knowing it.”
“If you did not know you were wrong, you were
not very guilty,” he replied, smiling.
“Yes, but now I do know, or at least from one
who will be an authority on such matters—pardon
me—who is one now, I am assured that this old
custom is wrong. In questions of right and wrong,
I suppose a minister should guide.”
“No, Miss Marsden, that is not Protestantism.
Your conscience, instructed by the Bible, should
guide.”
“But I see no more harm in whist than a sleigh
ride.”
“Perhaps your conscience needs instruction.”
“Oh, certainly, that is it! Please instruct it.”
He turned quickly, but saw a face serious enough
for an anxious seat in an old-time revival.
“Yes,” said Mr. Dimmerly, testily. “My conscience
needs instruction also. What harm is there
in a quiet game of whist?”
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
“Well, I do not know that there is anything
wrong in a `quiet game of cards,' `per se,” commenced
Hemstead, didactically.
“`Per' who?” asked Lottie, innocently.
Just then the party at the other table seemed to
explode, but they made the cause to appear as if
coming from themselves.
“Yes, yes, nephew, speak English. You may
find some reasons in Latin, but none in English, the
only language of sound sense.”
“Well,” resumed Hemstead, somewhat confused,
“I do not know that a quiet game such as you would
play here would be wrong in itself. But the associations
of the game are bad, and your example might
be injurious.”
“The associations bad!” said Lottie, lifting her,
eyebrows. “Cards are associated in my mind, with
father, mother, and quiet home evenings.”
“I have chiefly seen them played by rough characters,
and in questionable places,” he replied quickly
“I'm sorry you visit such places,” she replied in
a tone of rebuke.
Even Mr. Dimmerly and his sister laughed at
this remark, as coming from Lottie, while the others
were almost convulsed. Bel managed to gasp out, as
a blind:
“Mr. Harcourt, if you don't behave yourself and
play fair, I'll throw down my hand.”
But straightforward Hemstead increased difficulties
by saying, a little stiffly:
“I hope, Miss Marsden, that you do not suppose
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
that one of my calling would frequent places of
improper resort.”
“No, indeed,” she replied quickly, “and therefore
I was the more surprised when you spoke of
witnessing something in `questionable places.'”
He turned to her with a look in which perplexity
and annoyance were mingled, and said hastily:
“It is different with a man from a lady. A man
is more out in the world, and no matter how careful,
cannot help catching glimpses of the evil substratum
of society. One cannot help passing through
a smoking-car occasionally, or—”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Lottie, as if startled.
“Is a smoking-car a `questionable place?'
Mr. De Forrest,” she continued sharply, “did
you not spend half an hour in the smoking-car
coming up?”
“Yes,” he replied faintly.
“You surprise me, sir,” she said severely. “Mr
Hemstead declares it is a `questionable place.' I
hope hereafter you will have more regard for your
reputation.”
“Please do not mistake me,” said Hemstead with
increasing annoyance; “I did not mean to assert
any moral qualities of smoking-cars, though with
their filth and fumes, there would be no question in
your mind about them whatever, Miss Marsden.
What I meant to say, was, that in such places as
smoking-cars, hotel lobbies, and through the open
doors of saloons, are caught glimpses of a life which
we all would unite in condemning and loathing; and
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
what I have seen has always led me to connect cards
with just that kind of life. Moreover, gambling—
that fearful and destructive vice—is almost inseparable
from cards.”
“How experiences differ,” said Lottie, reflectively.
“I have had but few glimpses of the life you
describe so graphically. With the bits of paste-board
that you have seen chiefly in course, grimy
hands, I associate our cosy sitting-room at home,
with its glowing grate and `moon-light lamp,' as we
call it, for father's eyes are weak. Even now,” she
continued, assuming the look of a rapt and beautiful
sibyl, that was entrancing to Hemstead as well as
De Forrest—“even now I see papa and mamma and
old-fashioned Auntie Jane, and poor invalid Jennie,
all gathered at home in our sacred little snuggery
where father permits no visitors to come.”
The look she had assumed became genuine, and
her eyes suddenly moistened as the scene called up
became real and present to her. With all her faults
she had a warm heart, and loved her kindred sincerely.
But this touch of truth and feeling served her
mischievous purpose better than she thought, for it
convinced the honest-minded Hemstead that she was
just what she seemed, and his sympathy went out to
her at once as a well-meaning, true-hearted girl.
He was a little taken aback, however, when Lottie,
ashamed of her feeling, said brusquely:
“As to gambling with cards, we no more thought
of it than sending to a corner grocery for a bottle
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
of whisky, and taking from it a drink all around
between the games.”
“Oh, Lottie,” laughed her aunt, “what an
absurd picture you suggest. The idea of your
stately mother taking a drink from a bottle of
whisky!”
“It is no more strange to me,” persisted Lottie,
gravely, “than Mr. Hemstead's associations. Of
course I know that bad and vulgar people play
cards, but they also drive horses and walk the streets,
and do other things which it is perfectly proper for
us to do.”
“I admit, Miss Marsden, that education and custom
make a great difference. I have always been
taught to look upon cards with great abhorrence.
What may be right for you, would be wrong for me.”
“No,” said positive Lottie, “that will not satisfy
me. A thing is either right or wrong. If you can
prove to me that a quiet game of cards is wrong, I
won't play any more—at least I ought not,” she
added hastily. “Because some vulgar and fast people
gamble with them is nothing. You will take a
sleigh-ride with us to-morrow, and yet loud jockeys
bet and gamble over horses half the year.”
Hemstead sprang up. His ungainliness disappeared,
as was ever the case when he forgot himself
in excitement.
“Miss Marsden,” he said, “what you say sounds
plausible, but years ago I saw the mangled corpse of
a young suicide. He was an adept at cards, and for
aught I know had learned the game as your brother
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
might, at home. But away among strangers at the
West, that knowledge proved fatal. He was inveigled
into playing by some gamblers, staked all his own
money, then that committed to his trust. Having
lost everything but life, he threw that also down the
abyss. He might have been living to-day if he had
known as little about cards as I do.”
His manner was so earnest, the picture called up
so sad and tragic, that even Lottie's red cheek paled
a little, and the gigglers became quiet. She only
said:
“He was very weak and foolish. I can't understand
such people.”
“But the world is largely made up of the weak
and foolish, who need safe-guards rather than temptations.
And history would seem to prove that even
the wisest and best are at times `weak and foolish.'
I think the knowledge of card-playing can result in
no harm to you, shielded as you will be, but it might
to your brother. Miss Marsden,” asked he abruptly,
“do you know how many professional gamblers there
are in the world?”
“No.”
“I do not remember the estimated number accurately,
but it is very large. They often revel in
wealth, but they do not make it out of each other.
It is from the unwary, the `weak and foolish' who
think they can win money by playing a fair game.
They are permitted to win just enough to turn their
heads, and then are robbed. Remorse, despair, and
suicide too often follow. Cards are the usual means
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
employed in these great wrongs. I should be sorry
to see a young brother of mine, who was soon to
face the temptations of the world, go away with a
knowledge that has been the ruin of so many.”
This was bringing the question home to Lottie
in a way that she did not expect. Her heedless,
wilful, impulsive brother, the dear torment of her
life, was just the one an artful knave could mislead.
For a moment or two she sat silent and thoughtful.
All awaited her answer save Mr. Dimmerly, who,
without his whist, had dropped off into a doze as was
his wont. Then her decided character asserted
itself, and she spoke sincerely for the moment.
“I do not believe in the safety of ignorance. If
a young man is weak and bad enough to gamble, he
will do it with something else, if not cards. From
what I hear, men bet and gamble with all uncertainties.
The most innocent things are carried to
vulgar and wicked excess. You can't shield one
from without if lacking the will and power to say
No! I think it will be safer and wiser in the end,
if a thing is right per se, as you say, to do it, and
if wrong not to do it. To me, a game of cards
is no more than a game of checkers, or a stroll in a
garden.”
In his eagerness to reply, Hemstead took a step
forward and trod upon, not a lady's dress this time,
but the tail of Mrs. Marchmont's pet dog. As may
be imagined, his tread was not fairy-like, and there
was a yelp that awoke the echoes. Mr. Dimmerly
started out of his sleep, with a snort like the blast
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
of a rams horn before Jericho, and pushing his gold
spectacles to the top of his bald head, stared in
bewilderment at the forms convulsed with merriment
around him.
Even Hemstead joined in the laugh, though
inwardly inclined to anathematize his big feet. Lottie
retreated from further discussion by saying:
“I have heard that theologians were inclined to
be dogmatic in controversy, and I fear that you are
no exception, Mr. Hemstead. So, since I have had
the last word, with your permission, I retire `of the
same opinion still.'”
“I submit,” he rejoined, good-naturedly. “In
any case my answer would have been curtailed.”
“Ha, ha!” chimed out Lottie's laugh. “That
is better than your logic.”
“Frank! that you should call this dear little
creature a cur!” said Mrs. Marchmont, comforting
her still whining pet.
“What discourtesey!” said Lottie.
“What is the matter with you all?” asked Mr.
Dimmerly, rising. “From talking Latin you have
got on something that I understand as well as Choctaw.
Lottie, I hope you are not argued out of one
of our best old English customs. I have inherited
whist from a dozen generations. So, nephew, with
your leave or your frown, I must have my game.”
“I cannot say, uncle, that Mr. Hemstead has
argued very much, but two very painful tales have
been presented in an impressive manner. You see
how moved auntie and Fido are still over one of
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
them. But come, Mr. Hemstead, you have discharged
your duty. If they play whist all night and
commit suicide in the morning, your skirts are clear.
Shake off the dust of your feet at them, and take a
promenade in the hall with me. Cousin Julian”
(with emphasis on the word cousin), “your conscience
is as tough and elastic as Mr. Hemstead's is
tender. You haunt smoking-cars and other questionable
places; so, without serious moral harm, you
can gratify uncle.”
Mrs. Marchmont, who had listened with polite
weariness to the latter part of the discussion, now
took part in the game as quietly as she would pour
tea at the head of the table. The aunt and nephew
had lived in such different atmospheres that they
could scarcely understand each other, and both harbored
thoughts that were hardly charitable, as is
usually the case in regard to those actions which
have no moral qualities in themselves, and after all
must be decided by each one's conscience. To Mrs.
Marchmont, with her antecedents, a game of whist
was one of the most innocent acts of her life.
But Hemstead was too well pleased with Lottie's
arrangement to grieve deeply over what, to his conscience,
was wrong, and soon forgot uncle, aunt, and
cousin, and even the unlucky lap-dog, whose dismal
howl had so discomfited him a moment before.
Just such a luminary as Lottie Marsden had never
appeared above his horizon, and her orbit seemed so
eccentric that as yet he could not calculate it; but
this element of uncertainty made observation all the
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
more interesting. The wide old hall, without the
embarrassment of observant eyes, was just the place
to learn something more definite of one who thus
far had dazzled and puzzled, while she strongly
gained his interest. True, Addie and Mr. Harcourt
were walking before them, but they seemed so
absorbed in each other as not to notice them. He
felt a curious thrill when a little hand lighted, like a
snow-flake, upon his arm, but soon increased its
pressure with a sort of cousinly confidence. He
looked inquiringly into the face turned up to him as
they passed under the lamp, and thought, “In its
guileless beauty it reminds me of the clear mountain
lakes that I have seen in this region.”
His figure was true, but not as he understood it;
for Lottie's face, like the lake, would then reflect
anything that happened upon the margin of her
thoughts, while her heart remained hidden. He
thought he saw herself, but in truth only false and
vanishing images. Still, like the mirroring water,
her skilful feigning could make the images seem very
real. Hemstead, with his boundless faith in woman
believed all he saw, and hoped still more.
-- 054 -- p668-059
CHAPTER IV. A LITTLE PAGAN.
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
THE joke had now taken a phase that De Forrest
did not relish. While Lottie's by-play
was present, and she was telegraphing him with her
brilliant eyes, it was excellent. But to sit with
his back to the door leading into the hall, vis-à-vis
to Mr. Dimmerly's puckered face, and give close
attention to the game, was a trying ordeal to one
who only consulted his own pleasure. And yet he
feared he would offend Lottie, did he not remain at
his post. She was a despotic little sovereign, and he
felt that he must use all address, until she was safely
brought to the matrimonial altar. He comforted himself,
however, with the thought that she was generous,
and when he acted the rôle of martyr she usually
rewarded him with a greater show of kindness, and
so got through an hour with indifferent grace.
But this purgatorial hour to him, was keenly
enjoyed by Lottie and Hemstead, though by each
for different reasons.
“I fear you think me a giddy wayward girl,'
said Lottie gently.
“In frankness, I hardly know what to think,'
replied Hemstead.
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
“Frank is your name, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“It seems appropriate. I hope you won't judge
me too harshly.”
“The danger is the other way, I fear,” he said
laughing.
“Well, one of your profession ought to be charitable.
But I might naturally expect to be disapproved
of, by one so good and wise as you are.”
“Why do you think me `good and wise'?”
“Because you are a minister, if for no other
reason.”
“I am also a man.”
“Yes,” she said innocently. “You are quite
grown up.”
He looked at her quickly; her demure face puzzled
him, and he said:
“I fear you think I am overgrown.”
“And I fear you don't care what I think. Men
of your profession are superior to the world.”
“Really, I shall think you are sarcastic, if you
talk that way any more.” But she looked so serious
that he half believed she was in earnest.
“Are ministers like other men?” she asked, with
a spice of genuine curiosity in her question. The
venerable pastor of the church which she attended in
New York had not seemed to belong to the same
race as herself. His hair was so white, his face so
bloodless, his life so saintly, and his sermons so
utterly beyond her, that he appeared as dim and
unearthly as one of the Christian Fathers. A young
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
theologian on the way to that same ghostly state
was an object of piquant interest. She had never
had a flirtation with a man of this character, therefore
there was all the zest of novelty. Had she been
less bold and fearless, she would have shrunk from it,
however, with something of the superstitious dread
that many have of jesting in a church, or a graveyard.
But there was a trace of hardihood in her
present course that just took her fancy. From lack
of familiarity with the class, she had a vague impression
that ministers differed widely from other men,
and to bring one down out of the clouds as a fluttering
captive at her feet, would be a triumph indeed.
A little awe mingled with her curiosity as she sought
to penetrate the scholastic and saintly atmosphere
in which she supposed even an embyro clergyman
dwelt. She hardly knew what to say when, in reply
to her question, “Are ministers like other men?”
he asked:
“Why not?”
“That is hardly a fair way to answer.”
“You do not find me a mysterious being.”
“I find you very different from other young men
of my acquaintance. What to me is a matter of
course, is dreadful to you. Then you ministers have
such strange theological ways of dividing the world
up into saints and sinners, and you coolly predict
such awful things for the sinners (though I confess
the sinners take it quite as coolly). The whole thing
seems professional rather than true.”
The tone of deep sadness in which the young
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
man next spoke, caused her to look at him with a
little surprise.
“I do not wonder that this mutual coolness perplexes
you. If we believe the Bible, it is the
strangest mystery in existence.”
“You may well put that in. Do the generality
of people believe the Bible? But as I was saying,
from the very nature of your calling you come to
live far away from us. Our old minister knows more
about dead people than the living. He knows all
about the Jews and Greeks who lived eighteen centuries
ago, but next to nothing of the young of his own
church. My motives and temptations would be
worse than Sanscrit to him—harder to understand
than the unsolved problems of mathematics. What
does such a man know about the life of a young lady
in society? That which influences me would seem
less than nothing to him.”
“I think you misjudge your pastor. If you
became well acquainted with him, you might find a
heart overflowing with sympathy.”
“I can no more get acquainted with him than if he
dwelt on Mount Olympus. If I were only a doctrine,
he might study me up and know something about
me. But there is so much flesh and blood about me
that I fear I shall always be distasteful to ministers.”
“I assure you, Miss Marsden, I find you more
interesting than some doctrines.”
“But you are young. You are on a vacation, and
can for a time descend to trifles, but you will grow
like the rest. As it is you speak very guardedly, and
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
intimate that I would be as nothing compared with
other doctrines.”
“What is a doctrine, Miss Marsden?”
“Oh, bless me, I don't know exactly; a sort of
abstract summing up of either our qualities or God's
qualities. The only doctrine I even half understand
is that of `total depravity,' and I sometimes fear it's
true.”
“I think you are a great deal more interesting
than the `doctrine of total depravity,'” said Hemstead,
laughing.
“Perhaps you will come to think I am synonymous
with it.”
“No fear. I have seen too much of you for that
already.”
“What redeeming features have you seen?”
He looked at her earnestly for a moment, and
she sustained his gaze with an expression of such
innocent sweetness that he said, a little impulsively:
“All your features redeem you from that
charge.”
“Oh, fie!” she exclaimed, “a pun and flattery in
one breath!”
“I do not mean to flatter. Although in some
respects you puzzle me, I am very clear and positive
as to my feeling of gratitude. While my aunt feels
kindly toward me, she is formal. It seemed to me
when I came out of the cold of the wintry night, I
found within a more chilling coldness. But when
you gave me your warm hand and claimed something
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
like kindred, I was grateful for that which does not
always accompany kindred—genuine kindness. This
feeling was greatly increased when instead of making
my diffidence and awkwardness a theme of ridicule,
you evinced a delicate sympathy, and with graceful
tact suggested a better courtesy to others. Do you
think then, that, after this glimpse down such a beautiful
vista in your nature, I can associate you
with `total depravity'? It was plain to you, Miss
Marsden, that I had seen little of society, but you
acted as if that were my misfortune, not fault. I
think the impulse that leads one to try to shield or
protect another who for the time may be weak or
defenceless, is always noble.”
If Lottie had shown a little before that she had
a heart, she now became painfully aware that she
had a conscience, and it gave her some severe twinges
during this speech. For a moment she wished she
deserved his commendation. But she was not one to
do things by halves, and so, recklessly throwing
aside her qualms, said laughingly:
“I don't think a gentleman of your inches at all
an object of pity. You are big enough to take care
of yourself.”
“And I mean to as far as I can. But we all need
help at times. You know a mouse once served a
lion.”
“Thank you. Now you have counterbalanced
all your fine speeches and compliments. `A mouse
serving a lion!' Well, roar gently if you please.”
“I'm afraid I appear to you like another animal
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
that once donned a lion's skin, but whose ears, alas
protruded.”
“That is rather a skilful retreat; but I imagine
that you think yourself a veritable lion.”
“If you insist on my being a lion, I must refer
you to ancient mythology, where one of these overrated
beasts is held a crouching captive by Diana.”
“Well, that is quite a transition. First compared
to a mouse, and then to the moon. I fear
that if you did not visit `questionable places' you
have permitted your mind to dwell on the `questionable'
myths of the past.”
“Oh, that was in the regular order of things,” he
replied. “Before coming to the study of theology,
we are put through mythology; that is, under the
guidance of reverend professors we make the acquaintance
of a set of imaginary beings who had they veritably
lived, and in our day, would have soon found
their way to the penitentiary.”
“At the door of which the `lion' and `Diana'
would part company, and so I would lose my gentle
`captive' and become as disconsolate as auntie
would have been had you trodden on the reverse
extremity of her pet.”
“Oh, pardon me, but Diana was an exception to
the rest.”
“Better or worse?”
“Better, of course. She was a trifle cruel though
was she not?”
“You have been proving me very tender-hearted.”
“So every woman should be.”
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
“I doubt whether you know much about us.”
“I cannot imagine a being—not even an angel,
more pure, unselfish, and true than my mother; and
she is a woman.”
“Miss Lottie,” here broke in De Forest, “I've
played whist to the utmost limit of my conscience.
You will not keep me on the rack any longer.”
“Oh, no, Cousin Julian,” she replied, sotto voce,
“only on the sofa with our dear cousin Bell. See,
she sits there alone. Good-by,” and she swept by,
with a malicious twinkle in her eyes at his blank
expression.
But Belle saw and understood the scene. With
a cynical smile she went to the piano, and commenced
a brilliant waltz. Under its spell Addie and Mr.
Harcourt came whirling up the hall, and Lottie, who
had been under restraint so long, could not resist the
temptation of letting De Forrest carry her off also.
“It's only with my cousin, you know,” she whispered
apologetically to Hemstead.
He stood in the door-way for a few moments and
watched her graceful figure with a strange and growing
interest. Whether saint or sinner, this being so
emphatically of flesh and blood was exceedingly fascinating.
The transition from the cloister-like
seclusion of his seminary life to this suburb of the gay
world was almost bewildering; and Lottie Marsden
was one to stir the thin blood and withered heart
of the coldest anchorite. The faint perfume which
she seemed to exhale like a red rose-bush in June,
was a pleasing exchange for the rather musty and
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
scholastic atmosphere in which he so long had dwelt
As she glanced by as lightly as a bird on the wing
she occasionally beamed upon him with one of her
dangerous smiles. She then little thought or cared
that his honest and unoccupied heart was as ready
to thaw and blossom into love as a violet bank facing
the south in spring. He soon had a vague consciousness
that he was not doing just the prudent thing,
and therefore rejoined his aunt and uncle. Soon
after, he pleaded the weariness of his journey and
retired. As he was about to mount the stairs Lottie
whirled by and whispered:
“Don't think me past praying for.”
The slang she used in jest came to him, with his
tendencies and convictions, like an unconscious appeal
and a divine suggestion. He was utterly unconventional,
and while readily unbending into mirthfulness,
life to him was an exceedingly serious thing.
As the eye of artist and poet catches glimpses of
beauty where to others are only hard lines and plain
surfaces, so strong religious temperaments are quick
to see providences, intimations, and leadings.
Hemstead went to his room with steps that deep
thought rendered slower and slower. He forgot his
weariness, and sat down before the fire to think of
one known but a few brief hours. If there are
those who can coolly predict “awful things” of the
faithless and godless, Hemstead was not one of them.
The young girl who thought him a good subject for
jest and ridicule, he regarded with profound pity.
To his mind, accustomed to Bible figures, it was as
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
if a lamb had strayed from the fold, and was sporting
while the sunlight lasted in a wilderness where it
would shrink cower and die in terror amid the horrors
of coming night. Her utter unconsciousness of
danger had to him the elements of deepest pathos.
While perplexed by contradictions in her manner
and words, he concluded that she was what she
seemed, a girl of unusual force of mind, frank and
kindly, and full of noble impulses, but whose religious
nature was but slightly developed. He at that
time would have been shocked and indignant if he
had known the truth. Her natural tendencies had
been good. Her positive nature would never waver
weakly along the uncertain boundary of good and
evil, as was the case with Belle Parton. She was one
who would be decided and progressive in one direction
or the other, but now was clearly on the sinister
side of truth and moral loveliness. Surrounding
influences had been adverse. She had yielded to
them, and they had carried her farther astray than
one of a cautious and less forceful temperament.
While therefore full of good impulses, she was also
passionate and selfish. Much homage had made her
imperious, exacting, and had developed no small degree
of vanity. She exulted in the power and preeminence
that beauty gave, and often exerted the former
cruelly, though it is due to her to state she did not
realize the pain she caused. While her own heart
slept, she could not understand the aching disquiet
of others that she toyed with. That it was good
sport, high-spiced excitement, and occupation for her
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
restless active mind was all she considered. As she
would never be neutral in her moral character, so she
was one who would either do much harm or good
Familiarity with the insincerities of fashionable life
had blurred her sense of truthfulness in little things,
and in matters of policy she could hide her meaning
or express another as well as her veteran mother.
And yet there were great possibilities of good in
her character. She had a substratum of sound common
sense. A wholesome averseness for meanness,
cowardice, and temporizing. Best of all, she was
not shallow and weak. She could appreciate noble
action, and her mind kindle at great thoughts if presented
clearly and strongly.
She could scarcely be blamed severely for being
what she was, for she had only responded to the influences
that had ever surrounded her, and been
moulded by them. Her character was rapidly forming,
but not as yet fixed. Therefore her best chance
of escaping a moral deformity as marked as her
external beauty was the coming under an entirely
different class of influences.
However earthly parents may wrong their children
by neglect, or by permitting in themselves characters
that react ruinously upon those sacredly
intrusted to their training, the Divine Father seems
to give all a chance sometime in life for the achievement
of the grandest of all victories, the conquest of
self. Whatever abstract theories dreamers may
evolve secluded from the world, those who observe
closely—who know humanity from infancy to age—are
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
compelled to admit, however reluctantly, that the
inner self of every heart is tainted and poisoned by
evil. The innocence of childhood is too much like
the harmlessness of the lion's whelps. However
loftily and plausibly some may assert the innate goodness
and self-rectifying power of humanity, as Tom
Paine wrote against the Bible without reading it, not
having been able at the time to procure one in infidel
Paris, those who take the scientific course of
getting the facts first, shake their heads despondingly.
It is true that parents discover diversities in
their children. Some are sweeter-tempered than
others, and seemed pointed horizontally, if not heavenward,
in their natures. Many bid fair to stand
high, measured by earthly standards. But the approving
world can know nothing of the evil thoughts
that haunt the heart.
What mother has not been almost appalled as she
has seen the face of her still infant child inflamed
with rage, and the passionate desire for revenge.
The chubby hand is not always raised to caress, but
too often too strike. As mind and heart develop,
darker and meaner traits unfold with every natural
grace. There is a canker-worm in the bud, and
unless it is taken out, there never can be a perfect
flower.
But Mr. and Mrs. Marsden thought of none of
these things. The mother received her estimate of
life, and her duty, from current opinion on the
Avenue. She complacently felicitated herself that
she kept up with the changing mode quite as well, if
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
not better than most women of wealth and fashion.
She managed so well that she excited the admiration
of some, and the envy of more; and so was content.
As for Mr. Marsden, between his business, his newspaper,
whist, and an occasional evening at the club
or some entertainment or public meeting that he
could not escape, his life was full and running over.
He never had time to give a thought to the fine
theories about his children, nor to the rather contradictory
facts often reported from the nursery.
But as year after year he paid the enormous and
increasing bills for nurses, gouvernantes, Italian
music masters, and fashionable schools, he sincerely
thought that few men did as much for his children
as he.
Of course, a lady from whom society expected so
much as from Mrs. Marsden, could not give her time
to her children. In the impressible period of infancy
and early childhood, Lottie and her brother, and an
invalid sister older than herself, had been left chiefly
to the charge of servants. But Mrs. Marsden's conscience
was at rest, for she paid the highest prices for
her French and German nurses and governesses, and
of course “had the best,” she said. Thus the children
lived in a semi-foreign atmosphere, and early
caught a “pretty foreign accent” which their mamma
delighted to exhibit in the parlor; and at the same
time they became imbued with foreign morals, which
they also put on exhibition disagreeably often. When
through glaring faults the stylish nursery-maid was
dismissed, the obliging keeper of the intelligence office
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
around the corner had another foreign waif just
imported, who at a slightly increased sum was ready
to undertake the care, and he might add the corruption,
of the children in the most approved style.
She was at once engaged, and to this stranger and
alien the children were committed almost wholly,
while Mrs. Marsden would tell her afternoon visitors
how fortunate she had been in obtaining a new nurse
with even a “purer accent.” The probabilities were
that her doubtful accent was the purest thing about
her. Sometimes, as the results of this tutelage grew
more apparent, even Mrs. Marsden had misgivings.
But then her wealthiest and most fashionable neighbors
were pursuing the same course with precisely
the same results; and so she must be right.
If Lottie had been born pellucid as a drop of
dew, as some claim, she would not have remained so
long, even in the nursery, and as she stepped out
farther and faster in the widening sphere of her life,
surrounding influences did not improve.
Her extreme beauty and grace, and the consequent
admiration and flattery, developed an unusual
degree of vanity, which had strengthened with years;
though now she had too much sense and refinement
to display it publicly. While generous and naturally
warm-hearted, the elements of gentleness and patient
self-denial for the sake of others, at this time could
scarcely have been discovered in her character.
Indeed this beautiful girl, nurtured in a Christian
land, a regular attendant upon church, was a pagan
and belonged to a pagan family. Not one of her
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
household worshipped God. Mr. and Mrs. Marsden
would have been exceedingly shocked and angered
if they had been told they were heathens. But at
the time Paul found among the multitudinous altars
of Athens one dedicated to the “Unknown God,”
there were many Grecian men and women more
highly cultivated than these two aristocrats of to-day.
But in spite of external devoutness at church,
it could easily be shown that to this girl's parents the
God of the Bible was as “unknown” and unheeded
as the mysterious and unnamed diety concerning
whose claims the Apostle so startled the luxurious
Athenians. Like the ancient Greeks, all had their
favorite shrines that, to a greater or less degree,
absorbed heart and brain.
Lottie was a votress of pleasure, and the first,
and about the only article of her creed was to make
everything and everybody minister to her enjoyment.
She rarely entered on a day with a more definite
purpose than to have a “good time;” and in the
attainment of this end we have seen that she was by
no means scrupulous.
She was as cruel a little pagan, too, as any of
her remote Druidical ancestors, and at her various
shrines of vanity, pleasure, and excitement, delighted
in offering human sacrifices. She had become accustomed
to the writhing of her victims and soothed
herself with the belief that it did not hurt them so
very much after all. She considered no farther than
that flirtation was one of the recognized amusements
of the fashionable. What the “ton” did was
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
law and gospel to her mother; and the same to
Lottie, if agreeable. If not, there was no law and
gospel for her.
She had no more scruple in making a victim of
Hemstead, than a Fiji Island potentate would, in
ordering a breakfast according to his depraved and
barbarous taste. And when even society-men had
succumbed to her wiles, and in abject helplessness
had permitted her to place her imperious foot
upon their necks, what chance had a warm-hearted,
unsophisticated fellow, with the most chivalric ideas
of womanhood?
Quick-witted Lottie, on seeing Hemstead and
hearing his table-talk, had modified Addie Marchmont's
suggestion in her own mind. She saw that,
though unsuspicious and trusting in his nature, he
was too intelligent to be imposed upon by broad
farce. Therefore, a religious mask would soon be
known as such. Her aunt also would detect the
mischievous plot against her nephew and guest, and
thwart the whole thing. By appearing as a well-meaning
unguided girl, who both needed and wished
an adviser, she might more safely keep this modern
Samson blindly making sport for her and the others,
and at the same time not awaken the troublesome
suspicions of her aunt and uncle. In the character
of one who was full of good impulses—who erred
through ignorance, and who wished to be led and
helped to better things, she was nearer the truth,
and could act her part more perfectly.
But what could Frank Hemstead, coming from a
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
home in which he had breathed the very atmosphere
of truth and purity, know of all this? To him Lottie
was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen,
and in his crystal integrity, he would have deemed
it a foul insult to her, to have doubted that she was
just what she seemed. To his straightforward
nature, believing a woman the opposite of what she
seemed was like saying to her:
“Madam, you are a liar.”
The world would be better if women did more to
preserve this chivalric trust.
“Past praying for!” His creed taught him to
pray for all the world, and already a subtle, unrecognized
impulse of his heart led him to plead before
the Divine Father for one who seemed, in outward
grace, already fitted for heavenly surrroundings.
When a block of unusually perfect marble falls
under the eye of a true sculptor, he is conscious of a
strong impulse to bring out the exquisite statue that
is distinctly visible to his mind. Hemstead was an
enthusiast in the highest form of art and human
effort, and was developing, as the ruling motive of
his life, a passion for moulding the more enduring
material of character into moral symmetry and loveliness.
Humanity in its most forbidding guise interested
him, for his heart was warm and large and
overflowed with a great pity for the victims of evil.
In this respect he was like his Master, who had
“compassion on the multitude.” His anticipation
of his life-work was as non-professional as that of a
mother who yearns over the children she cannot help
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
loving. Lottie appeared strong and lovely by nature.
It seemed to him that the half-effaced, yet still lingering
image of God rested upon her beautiful
face more distinctly than he had ever seen it elsewhere.
The thought of that image becoming gradually
blurred and obliterated by sin—of this seemingly
exquisite and budding flower growing into a
coarse, rank weed, was revolting to his mind.
There is a phase of depravity that leads some to
delight in alluring and debasing the innocent and
pure. The reverse of this malign spirit was the
motive that led Hemstead toward the ministry, that
he might employ all his energies in fostering every
germ of good, and in sowing the seed of truth where
otherwise there would be hopeless barrenness.
-- 072 -- p668-077
CHAPTER V. PLAIN TALK.
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
AT last the sound of mirth and laughter ceased
and the house became quiet.
Lottie sat warming her feet at the glowing coals
in her room, before retiring. A dreamy smile played
upon her face, coming and going with passing
thoughts, even as the firelight flickered upon it.
She was in an unusually amiable mood, for this
affair with Hemstead promised richly. If he had
been an ordinary and polished society man, the flirtation
would have been humdrum—like a score of
others. But he was so delightfully fresh and honest,
and yet so clever withal, that her eyes sparkled with
anticipating mirth as she saw him in various attitudes
of awkward love-making, and then dropping
helplessly into the abyss of his own great, but empty
heart, on learning the vainness of his passion.
“He finds me `more interesting than some doctrines,
' indeed! I'll put all his dry doctrines to rout
in less than a week. I'll-drive text-books and professors
out of his head, and everything else (save
myself), out of his heart, for a little while. But after
he gets back to Michigan, the doctrines will come
creeping back into their old place, and he will get
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
comfortably over it like the rest. In the meanwhile,
as substantial and useful results, I will have my
rare bit of sport, and he will know more about the
wicked world against which he is to preach. By and
by he will marry a pious Western giantess, whose
worst dissipastion is a Sunday-school picnic, and will
often petrify her soul with horror and wonder by
describing that awful little pagan, Lottie Marsden.”
“And a heathen I am in very truth. Where are
missionaries needed more than in Fifth Avenue?
They had better not come though; for if we would
not eat them, we would freeze them.”
“What are you thinking about, Lottie, that you
are smiling so sweetly?” asked her room-mate, Bel
Parton.
“In truth, it was a sweet thought,” said Lottie,
her laugh awakening sudden echoes in the still house,
and sounding as oddly as a bird's song at night. “I'm
glad Frank Hemstead doesn't know. If he did, I
would appall instead of fascinating him.”
“I think your plot against him is very wrong—
wicked, indeed. He is such a sincere, good young
man, that I like it less and less. I couldn't do such
a thing.”
“Still you can look on and enjoy the fun, and
that is all you have to do. Poor Bel, you are
always in need of an M. D.'s or a D. D.'s care. I
have foresworn both.”
So spoke Lottie in the arrogance of her perfect
health and abounding beauty, and then (such are
the seeming contradictions of character) she knelt,
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
and appeared as a white-robed saint at her devotions.
But the parrot-like prayer that she hastily mumbled
was of no possible value to any one. She had continued
the habit from childhood, and it was mainly
habit. The other motive was something like the
feeling of a careless Catholic, who crosses himself,
though he cannot explain what good it does him.
A moment later she might have been taken as a
model of sleeping innocence.
This world is evidently sadly out of joint. We
all know of the most gentle, lovely, unselfish spirits,
beautiful to Heaven's eye, that are enshrined in painfully
plain caskets. In the instance of Lottie Marsden,
the casket was of nature's most exquisite
workmanship, but it held a tarnished jewel.
It was with some misgivings that Hemstead
looked forward to meeting his “cousin,” on the following
morning. Would she be as radiantly beautiful,
as piquant, and withal as kindly and frank as on
the previous evening? Even his limited experience
of the world had shown him that in the matter-of-fact
and searching light of the morning, many of the
illusions of the night vanished. He had noted with
no little surprise that ladies seemingly young and
blooming had come down to breakfast looking ten
years older; so he had said to himself:
“She dazzled me last night. I shall see her as
she is to-day.”
Being an early riser he entered the cheerful breakfast-room
considerably before the others, and in a moment
was entranced by the view from the windows.
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The severe north-east storm had expended itself
during the night, and its fine, sharp, crystals had
changed into snow-flakes. As an angry man after
many hard cutting words relents somewhat and speaks
calmly if still coldly, so nature, that had been stingingly
severe the evening before, was now quietly
letting fall a few final hints of the harsh mood that
was passing away. Even while he looked, the sun
broke through a rift over the eastern mountains and
lighted up the landscape as with genial smiles. It
shone, not on an ordinary and prosaic world, but
rather one that had been touched by magic during the
night and transformed into the wonder-land of dreams.
The trees that in the dusk of the previous night
had writhed and groaned and struck their frozen
branches together as despairing anguish might gesticulate,
now stood serene, and decked more daintily
than June would robe them. Whiter even than the
pink-tinged blossoms of May, was the soft wet snow
that encased every twig, limb, and spray. The
more he looked, the more the beauty and the wonder
of the scene grew upon him. The sun was dispersing
the clouds and adding the element of splendor to
that of beauty. It became one of the supreme
moments of his life when in the vanishing beauty
of an earthly scene he received an earnest of the
more perfect world beyond.
“With the exception of the broad dark river,”
he thought, “this might be the Millennial morn,
and nature standing decked in her spotless ascension
robes, waiting in breathless expectancy.”
-- 076 --
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But his musings were unexpectedly interrupted,
for just at this moment Lottie Marsden put her
hand lightly on his arm and said:
“Cousin Frank—pardon me—Mr. Hemstead,
what is the matter? You look as rapt as if you saw a
vision.”
He turned and seemed as startled as if he had,
for standing by him and looking inquiringly into his
face was a being that, with her brilliant eyes and
exquisitely clear and delicate complexion, seemed as
beautiful, and at the same time as frail and ready to
vanish, as the snow-wreaths without.
She saw the strong admiration and almost wonder
depicted on his open face, though she seemed so
innocently oblivious of it, and for a moment left him
under the spell, then said:
“Are you so resentful at my desertion last evening
that you won't speak to me?”
“Look there,” he replied, and he pointed to the
airy land without.
Lottie's wonder and delight were almost equal to
his own, for she had never witnessed such a scene
before.
“I am so glad I came,” she said, “we see nothing
like this in the city. Look at those snowy mountains.
How vast and white they are!”
“And look at that little tree with its red berries
gleaming against the snowy foil. They look
like those ruby ear-rings against the whiteness of
your neck.”
She looked at him quickly and humorously,
-- 077 --
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asking, “Where did you learn the art of complimenting?”
“I had no thought of trivial compliment in the
presence of a scene like this,” he answered gravely;
“I was awed by the beauty I saw, and it seemed as
if the Great Artist must be near. I wished to call
your attention to the truth that, like all His work,
the least thing is perfect. That little tree with its
red berries is beautiful as well as the mountain. I
now am glad too that you came, though I dreaded
any one's coming before, and the necessity of returning
to commonplace life. But suddenly, and as
silently as one of those snow-flakes, you appear, and
I am startled to find you in keeping with the scene
instead of an intrusion.”
“And do I seem to you like a snow-flake—as
pure and as cold?” she asked, bending upon him her
brilliant eyes.
“Not as cold, I trust, and if you were as pure you
would not be human. But your beauty seemed to
me as marvellous as that of the scene I had been
wondering at. I am not versed in society's disguises,
Miss Marsden, and can better express my thoughts
than hide them. You know you are very beautiful.
Why should I not say so as well as involuntarily
express the fact in my face as I did a moment ago,
and as every one does, I suppose, who meets you.
There is nothing brought to your attention more
often, and more pressed upon you. It must be so.
Does not your beauty cause you much anxiety?”
“What a funny question!” laughed Lottie.
-- 078 --
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“Your frankness is certainly as transparent as those
snow-crystals there. I cannot say that it does.
Why should it, even granting that it exists independently
of your disordered imagination?”
“It exposes you to a temptation very hard to
resist. Such beauty as yours should be but the
reflex of character. I once saw, in an art gallery of
New York, a marble face so white, pure, and sweet,
that it has ever remained in my memory as an
emblem of spiritual beauty. Suppose every one that
came in should touch that face, and some with coarse
and grimy fingers, what a smutched and tawdry
look it would soon have. You cannot help the
admiring glances, flattering words, and the homage
that ever waits on beauty, any more than the marble
face the soiling touch of any Vandal hand; but you
can prevent your soul from being stained and
smirched with vanity and pride.”
“I never had any one to talk to me in this way,”
said Lottie, looking demurely down. “Perhaps I
would have been better if I had. I fear you think
me very vain and conceited.”
“I should think it very strange if you were not
somewhat vain. And yet you do not act as if you
were.”
“Supposing I am vain. What difference does it
make, if no one knows it?” she asked abruptly.
“There are two who always will know it.”
“Who?”
“God and yourself. And by and by all masks
must be dropped and all the world see us as we are.”
-- 079 --
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“Do you believe that?” she asked, a little
startled at the thought.
“I know it,” he replied, in a tone of quiet confidence
that carries more conviction than loud assertion.
“Moreover, your beauty involves a heavy
burden of responsibility.”
“Really, Mr. Hemstead, if you keep on you will
prove beauty a great misfortune, whether I possess
it or not.”
“Far from it.”
“Granting for sake of argument your premise,
how am I burdened with responsibility?”
“Would it not almost break your heart, if your
honorable father were misappropriating money intrusted
to his care.”
“Don't suggest such a thing.”
“Only for the sake of illustration. Suppose he
had the qualities and position which led a great many
to place their means in his hands; would that not
increase his responsibility?”
“Yes, if he accepted such trusts.”
“Are there not more valuable possessions than
dollars, stocks, and bonds? Every one is more or
less fascinated, drawn, and won by beauty, and to
the beautiful, the most sacred thoughts and feelings
of the heart are continually intrusted. History and
biography show that beautiful women, if true, gentle,
and unselfish, have great power with their own sex,
and almost unbounded influence over men. Your
power, therefore, is subtle, penetrating, and reaches
the inner life, the very warp and woof of character.
-- 080 --
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If a beautiful statue can ennoble and refine, a beautiful
woman can accomplish infinitely more. She can
be a constant inspiration, a suggestion of the perfect
life beyond and an earnest of it. All power brings
responsibility, even that which a man achieves or
buys; but surely, if one receives Heaven's most exquisite
gifts, bestowed as directly as this marvellous
beauty without, and so is made pre-eminent in power
and influence, she is under a double responsibility to
use that power for good. That a woman can take the
royal gift of her own beauty, a Divine heritage, one
of the most suggestive relics of Eden still left among
us, and daily sacrifice it on the poorest and meanest
of altars—her own vanity, is to me hard to understand.
It is scarcely respectable heathenism. But
to use her beauty as a lure is far worse. Do we
condemn wreckers, who place false, misleading lights
upon a dangerous coast? What is every grace of a
coquette, but a false light, leading often to more sad
and hopeless wreck?”
No man had ever told Lottie more plainly that
she was beautiful, than Hemstead, and yet she disliked
his compliments wofully. Her face fairly grew
pale under his words. Had he learned of her plot?
Had he read her thoughts, and been informed of her
past life? Was there quiet satire and denunciation
under this seeming frankness? She was for the moment
perplexed and troubled. Worse still, he compelled
her to see these things in a new light, and her
conscience echoed his words.
But her first impulse was to learn whether he was
-- 081 --
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speaking generally, or pointedly at her; so she asked
in some little trepidation:
“Has any naughty girl tried to treat you so badly,
that you speak so strongly?”
He laughed outright at this question. “No one
has had a chance,” he said; “and I do not think
there are many who would take it. Moreover, I
imagine that one of your proud belles would not even
condescend to flirt with a poor awkward fellow like
me. But I am not a croaking philosopher, and look
on the bright side of the world. It has always
treated me quite as well as I deserved. I often
think the world is not as bad as described, and that
it would be better, if it had a chance.”
“Have you seen much of it, Mr. Hemstead?”
“I cannot say that I have. I have read and
thought about it far more than I have seen. On
account of my limited means and student life, my
excursions have been few and far between. I have
already proved to you what an awkward stranger I
am to society. But in thought and fancy I have
been a great rambler, and like to picture to myself
all kinds of scenes, past and present, and to analyze
all kinds of character.”
“I hope you won't analyze mine,” she said, looking
at him rather distrustfully. “I would not like
to be dissected before I was dead.”
“I wish all were as able to endure analysis as
yourself, Miss Marsden. In any case, you have no
reason to fear a severe critic in me.”
“Why not?”
-- 082 --
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“Because you have been so lenient toward me.
I have received more kindness from you, a stranger,
than my own kindred.”
“You are very grateful.”
“Shakespeare declares ingratitude a `marble-hearted
fiend.'”
“You evidently are not `marble-hearted.'”
“Though possibly a fiend. Thank you.”
“I wish there were no worse to fear.”
“You need not have occasion to fear any.”
“Well, I can't say that I do very much. Perhaps
it would be better for me if I did.”
“Why so?”
“Then I would be more afraid to do wrong. Miss
Parton cannot do wrong with any comfort at all.”
“Well, that would be a queer religion which consisted
only of being afraid of the devil and his imps.”
“What is religion? I am foolish in asking such
a question however, for I suppose it would take you
a year to answer it and they will all be down to
breakfast in a few moments.”
“Oh no, I can answer it in a sentence. True
religion is worshipping God in love and faith, and
obeying Him.”
“Is that all?” exclaimed Lottie, in unfeigned
astonishment.
“That is a great deal.”
“Perhaps it is. You theologians have a way of
preaching awfully long and difficult sermons from
simple texts. But I never got as simple an idea of
religion as that from our minister.”
-- 083 --
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“I fear you think I have been preaching for the
last half hour. My friends often laugh at me, and
say that I literally obey the Scripture, and am `instant
in season and out of season.' Perhaps I can
best apologize for my long homilies this morning, by
explaining. When an artist is in his best mood, he
wishes to be at his easel. The same is true of every
one who does something con amore. When I saw
the transfigured world this morning, it was like a
glimpse into heaven, and—”
“And a naughty little sinner came in just at that
moment, and got the benefit of your mood,” interrupted
Lottie. “Well, I have listened to your sermon
and understand it, and that is more than I can
say of many I have heard. It certainly was pointed,
and seemed pointed at me, and I have heard it said
that it is proof of a good sermon for each one to go
away feeling that he has been distinctly preached at.
But permit me as a friend, Mr. Hemstead, to suggest
that this will not answer in our day. I fear from my
little foretaste, that people will not be able to sit
comfortably under your homilies, and unless you
intend to preach out in the back-woods, you must
modify your style.”
“That is where I do intend to preach. At least
upon the frontiers of our great West.”
“Oh, how dismal!” she exclaimed; “and can
you, a young, and I suppose, ambitious man, look
forward to being buried alive, as it were, in those
remote regions?”
“I assure you I do not propose to be buried
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
alive at the West, or spiritually smothered, as you
hinted, in a fashionable church at the East. I think
the extreme West, where States and society are forming
with such marvellous rapidity, is just the place
for a young, and certainly for an ambitious man. Is
it nothing to have a part in founding and shaping an
empire?”
“You admit that you are ambitious, then.”
“Yes.”
“Is that right?”
“I think so.”
“Our minister inveighs against ambition, as if it
were one of the deadly sins.”
“He means the ambition that is all for self
That is as wrong and contemptible as the beauty
that is miserable without a looking-glass. An ardent
desire to obtain my Divine Master's approval, and to
be worthy of it—to be successful in serving a noble
cause—cannot be wrong.”
She looked at his earnest face and eyes, that
seemed to glow with hidden fire, almost wistfully;
and said with a tinge of sadness:
“You will feel very differently I fear, twenty
years hence. Enthusiasm is a rare thing in the city,
and I imagine it is soon quenched everywhere.”
“So it is; it needs constant rekindling.”
Just then Mrs. Marchmont and Mr. Dimmerly
appeared, and soon after they all sat down to a late
breakfast.
-- 085 -- p668-090
CHAPTER VI. A SLEIGH-RIDE AND SOMETHING MORE.
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
LOTTIE assumed an unusual degree of gayety
during the early part of the meal, but her flow
of spirits seemed unequal, and to flag toward the last.
She had sudden fits of abstraction, during which her
jetty eyebrows contracted into unwonted frowns.
Her practical joke did not promise as well as on
the evening before. That unexpected half-hour's
talk had shown some actions in a new light. She
did not mind doing wicked things that had a spice
of hardihood and venturesomeness in them. But to
do what had been made to appear mean and dishonorable
was another thing, and she was provoked
enough at Hemstead for having unconsciously given
that aspect to her action and character, and still
more annoyed and perplexed, that her conscience
should so positively side with him. Thus it will be
seen that her conscience was unawakened, rather than
seared and deadened.
As she came to know Hemstead better, she found
that he was different from what she had expected.
The conventional idea of a theological student had
dwelt in her mind; and she had expected to find a
rather narrow and spiritually conceited man, full of
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
the clerical mannerisms which she had often heard
laughed at. But she saw that Hemstead's awkwardness
would wear away, through familiarity with
society, and that when at ease, he was simple and
manly in manner. She also perceived that this
seclusion from the world, which was the cause of his
diffidence, had been employed in training and richly
storing his mind. Moreover, to one so accustomed
to the insincerity of society, his perfect frankness of
speech and manner was a novelty, interesting, if not
always pleasing. She read his thoughts as she would
an open page, and saw that he esteemed her as a
true, sincere girl, kind and womanly, and that he had
for her the strongest respect. She feared that when
he discovered her true self, he would scorn her to
loathing. Not that she cared, except that her pride
would be hurt. But as she was more proud than
vain, she feared this honest man's verdict.
But soon her old reckless self triumphed. “Of
course what I am doing will seem awful to him,”
she thought; “I knew that before I commenced.
He shall not preach me out of my fun in one half
hour. If I could make him love me in spite of what
I am, it would be the greater triumph. After all, I
am only acting as all the girls in my set do when
they get a chance. It's not as bad as he makes out.”
Still that was an eventful half hour, when they
looked out upon a transfigured world together; and
while she saw nature in her rarest and purest beauty,
she had also been given a glimpse into the more
beautiful world of truth, where God dwells.
-- 087 --
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But as the morning advanced, good impulses and
better feelings and thoughts vanished, even as the
snow-wreaths were dropping from branch and spray,
leaving them as bare and unsightly as before. By
the time the sleigh drove up to the door she was as
bent as ever upon victimizing the “Western giant,”
as the conspirators had named him. She was her
old, decided, resolute self; all the more resolute,
because facing, to her, a new hindrance—her own
conscience, which Hemstead had unwittingly awakened;
and it said to its uncomfortable possessor,
some rather severe things that day.
If Lottie were Bel Parton, she would have been
in a miserably undecided state. But it was her
nature to carry out what she had begun, if for no
other reason than that she had begun it, and she was
not one to give up a frolic at any one's scolding; not
even her own.
As she tripped down the broad stairs in a rich
cloak trimmed with fur, she reminded Hemstead
of some rare tropical bird, and De Forrest indulged
in many notes of admiration. Lottie received these
as a matter of course, but looked at the student with
genuine interest. His expression seemed to satisfy
her, for she turned away to hide a smile that meant
mischief.
It was quietly arranged that Hemstead should
sit beside her, and he felicitated himself over their
artifice as if it were rare good fortune.
Though the sun and the rising breeze had shaken
off the clustering snow to a great extent, the
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
evergreens still bent beneath their beautiful burdens,
some straight cedars reminding one of vigorous age,
where snowy hair and beard alone suggest the flight
of years.
Though the face of nature was so white, it was
not the face of death. There was a sense of movement
and life which was in accord with their own
spirits and rapid motion. Snow-birds fluttered and
twittered in weedy thickets by the way-side, break-fasting
on the seeds that fell like black specks upon
the snow. The bright sunlight had lured the fox-squirrels
from their moss-lined nests in hollow trees,
and their shrill bark was sometimes heard above the
chime of the bells.
“There goes a parson crow,” cried Addie Marchmont.
“How black and solemn he looks against the
snow!”
“Why are crows called parsons, Mr. Hemstead?”
asked Lottie, as a child might.
“Indeed, I don't know. For as good a reason, I
suppose, as that some girls are called witches.”
She gave him a quick keen look, and said, “I
hope you mean nothing personal.”
“I should never charge you with being a witch,
Miss Marsden, but I might with witchery.”
“A distinction without a difference,” she said,
seeking to lead him on.
“He means,” explained De Forrest, “that you
might be bewitching if you chose.”
“Hush, Julian, you leave no room for the imagination,”
said Lottie, frowningly.
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
“Look at that farm-yard, Miss Marsden,” said
Hemstead, “the occupants seem as glad that the
storm is over as we are. What pictures of placid
content these ruminating cows are under that sunny
shed. See the pranks of that colt which the boy is
trying to lead to water. I wish I were on his back,
with the prairie before me.”
“Indeed, are you so anxious to escape present
company?”
“Now I didn't say that. But we have passed by,
and I fear you did not see the pretty rural picture to
which I called your attention. Were I an artist I
would know where to make a sketch to-day.”
“I think you will find that Miss Marsden's taste
differs very widely from yours,” said De Forrest,
“that is, if you give us to understand that you would
seek your themes in a barn-yard, and set your easel
upon a muck-heap. Though your pictures might not
rank high they would still be very rank.”
Even Lottie joined slightly in the general and
not complimentary laugh at Hemstead which followed
this thrust, but he, with heightened color, said:
“You cannot criticise my picture, Mr. De Forrest,
for it does not exist. Therefore I must conclude
that your satire is directed against my choice of place
and subjects.”
“Yes, as with the offence of Denmark's king,
they `smell to heaven.'”
“I appeal to you, Miss Marsden, was not the
scent of hay and the breath of the cattle as we caught
them passing, sweet and wholesome?”
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
“I cannot deny that they were.”
“You have judicial fairness and shall be umpire
in this question. And now, Mr. De Forrest, there is
a celebrated and greatly admired picture in a certain
gallery, representing a scene from the Roman Saturnalia.
You do not object to that, with its classic accessories,
as a work of art?
“Not at all.”
“And yet it portrays a corruption that does in
truth `offend heaven.' Your muck-heap, which did
not enter into my thought at all, and would not have
been in my picture, could I paint one, would have
been wholesome in comparison. Have I made a
point, Judge Marsden?”
“I think you have.”
“Finally, Mr. De Forrest, what are we to do with
the fact that some of the greatest painters in the
world have employed their brushes upon just such
scenes as these, which perhaps offend your nose and
taste more than they do heaven, and pictures such as
that farm-yard would suggest, adorn the best galleries
of Europe?”
“What artists of note have painted barn-yard
scenes?” asked De Forrest, in some confusion.
“Well, there is Herring, the famous English
artist, for one.”
“`Herring' indeed. You are evidently telling a
fish story,” said De Forrest, contemptuously.
“No, he is not,” said Lottie. “Herring is a
famous painter, I am told, and we have some engravings
of his works.”
-- 091 --
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
“And I have read somewhere,” continued Hemstead,
“that his painting of an English farm-yard is
the most celebrated of his works. Moreover, Judge
Marsden, I must ask of you another decision as to
the evidence in this case. I affirm that I did not
call your attention to the farm-yard itself, but to its
occupants. Is not that true?”
“I cannot deny that it is.”
“We all know that many eminent artists have
made the painting of animals a specialty, and among
them such world-renowned names as Landseer and
Rosa Bonheur. Moreover, in the numerous pictures
of the Nativity we often find the homely details of
the stable introduced. One of Rubens' paintings of
this sacred and favorite subject, which hangs in the
gallery of the Louvre, represents two oxen feeding
at a rack.”
“Come, Julian, hand over your sword. It won't
do for you or any one to sit in judgment on such
painters as Mr. Hemstead has named. You are
fairly beaten. I shall admire barn-yards in future,
through thick and thin.”
“That is hardly a fair conclusion from any testimony
of mine,” said Hemstead, “a barn-yard may
be all that Mr. De Forrest says of it, but I am sure
you will always find pleasure in seeing a fine frolicsome
horse or a group of patient cattle. The homely
accessories may and sometimes may not, add to the
picture.”
“How do you come to know so much about pictures?
Theology has nothing to do with art.”
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
“I dissent from Judge Marsden's decision now,
most emphatically,” replied Hemstead. “Is not
true art fidelity to nature?”
“Yes, so it is claimed.”
“And where does nature come from? God is
the Divine Artist, and is furnishing themes for all
other artists. God is the author of landscapes,
mountains, rivers, of scenes like that we saw this
morning, or of a fine face and a noble form, as truly
as of a chapter in the Bible. He manifests himself
in these things. Now, fine paintings, statuary, and
music, bring out the hidden meanings of nature, and
therefore more clearly God's thought. Theology, or
knowledge concerning our Creator, is a science to
which everything can minister, and surely the appreciation
of the beautiful should be learned in connection
with the Author of all beauty.”
“I never thought of God in that light before,”
said Lottie. “He has always seemed like one watching
to catch me at something wrong. Our solemn
old Sunday-school teacher used to say to us children
just before we went home, `Now during the week
whenever you are tempted to do anything wrong,
remember the text, “Thou, God, seest me.'” When
wasn't I tempted to do wrong? and I had for a long
time the uncomfortable feeling that two great eyes
were always staring at me. But this isn't sleigh-riding
chit-chat,” and she broke into a merry little
trill from a favorite opera.
Hemstead, with his strong love of the beautiful,
could not help watching her with deepening interest
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
The rapid motion, the music of the bells, the novel
scenery of the sun-lighted, glittering world around
her, and chief of all, her own abounding health and
animal life, combined to quicken her excitable
nature, into the keenest enjoyment. From her red
lips came ripples of laughter, trills from operas, sallies
of fun, that kept the entire party from the thought
of heaviness, and to honest-minded Hemstead, were
the evidences of a happy, innocent heart.
With secret exultation, she saw how rapidly and
unconsciously the unwary student was passing under
the spell of her beauty and witchery.
One must have been cursed with a sluggish, half-dead
body and a torpid soul, had he not responded
to the influences under which our gay party spent
the next few hours. Innumerable snow-flakes had
carried down from the air every particle of impurity,
and left it sweet and wholesome enough to seem the
elixir of immortal youth. It was so tempered also,
that it only braced and stimulated. The raw, pinching
coldness of the previous day was gone. The
sun, undimmed by a cloud, shone genially, and eaves
facing the south were dripping, the drops falling
like glittering gems.
Now and then a breeze would career down upon
them, and catching the light snow from the adjacent
fence, would cast it into their faces as a mischievous
school-boy might.”
“Stop that!” cried Lottie to one of these sportive
zephyrs. “Do you call that a gust of wind? I declare
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
it was a viewless sprite—or a party of snow elves,
playing their mad pranks upon us.”
“I prefer fairies less cold and ethereal,” said De
Forrest, with a meaning look at the speaker.
“What do you prefer, Mr. Hemstead?” she
asked. “But where we people of the world speak of
fairies, sprites, and nymphs, I suppose you permit
yourself to think only of angels.”
“Were it so,” he replied, “I should still be of the
same mind as Mr. De Forrest, and be glad that you
are not an angel.”
“Why so?”
“You might use your wings and leave us.”
“Were I one, I would not leave you after that
speech. But see how far I am from it. I weigh one
hundred and fifteen pounds.”
“I wish you were no farther off than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“It's not our weight in avoirdupois that drags us
down. But I am not going to preach any more to-day.
Listen to the bells—how they echo from the hill-side?”
“Yes, Julian,” listen to Bel, “said Lottie to De
Forrest, who was about to speak. “I'm talking to
Mr. Hemstead. See those snow crystals on my
muff. How can you account for so many odd and
beautiful shapes?”
“To me all the countless forms in nature,” said
Hemstead, “prove an infinite mind gratifying itself.
They are expressions of creative thought.”
“Nonsense! God doesn't bother with such little
things as these.”
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
“We do not know what seems small or great to
Him. The microscope reveals as much in one direction
as the telescope in another, and the common
house-fly, in size, seems midway in animal life.”
“And do you believe that the Divine hand is
employed in forming such trifles as these?”
“The Divine will is. But these trifles make the
avalanche and the winter's protection for next year's
harvest.”
“What is that?” asked Harcourt from the front
seat, where he was driving.
“Do you know,” cried Lottie, “that Mr. Hemstead
thinks that everything we see, even to nature's
smallest trifles, an `expression of the Divine creative
thought.'”
“Is that scene such an expression,” asked Harcourt,
with a sneering laugh, in which the others
joined.
By the road-side there was a small hovel, at the
door of which a half-fed, ill-conditioned pig was
squealing. When they were just opposite, a slatternly,
carroty-headed woman opened the door, and
raised her foot to drive the clamorous beast away.
Altogether, it was as squalid and repulsive a picture
as could well be imagined.
“Yes,” replied Lottie, looking into his face with
twinkling eyes, “was that sweet pastoral scene an
expression of creative thought?”
“The woman certainly was not,” he answered,
reddening. “A thought may be greatly perverted.”
“Whatever moral qualities may be asserted of
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
her manners, costume, and character,” said Harcourt,
“she is not to blame for the cast of her features and
the color of her hair. I scarcely know of an artist
who would express any such thought, unless he
wished to satirize humanity.”
“You can call up before you the portrait of some
beautiful woman, can you not, Mr. Harcourt?”
“Let me assist you,” cried De Forrest, pulling
from his inner pocket a photograph of Lottie.
“Hush, Julian. I'm sorry you do not appreciate
this grave argument more; I'll take that picture from
you, if you don't behave better.”
“Well, I have a picture before me now, that satisfies
me fully,” said Mr. Harcourt, turning to Lottie
with a smiling bow.
“Now, suppose that you had painted just such a
likeness and finished it. Suppose I should come
afterwards, and without destroying your picture
utterly, should blend with those features there, the
forbidding aspect of the woman we have just seen,
would you not say that your thought was greatly
perverted?”
“I should think I would.”
“Well, Mother Eve was the true expression of
the Divine Artist's creative thought, and the woman
we saw was the perversion of it. You can trace no
evil thing to the source of all good. Perfection is
not the author of imperfection.”
“Who does the perverting, then?” asked Lottie.
“Evil.”
“I don't think it fair that one face and form
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
should be perverted into hideousness, and another
left with something of the first perfection.”
“Evil is never fair, Miss Marsden.”
“But is it only evil? I have heard plain children
told when resenting their ugliness that it was wicked,
for they were just as God made them.”
“Can you think of a better way to make a young
girl hate God than to tell her that?”
“But suppose it's true.”
“I am sure it is not. Just the opposite is true.
The ugly and deformed are as evil has marred them,
and not as God has made them. By seeking the
Divine Artist's aid more than the humanity's first
perfection can be regained. It is possible for even
that wretched creature we saw to attain an outward
loveliness exceeding that of any woman now living.”
“That passes beyond the limit of my imagination,”
said Harcourt.
“Absurd!” muttered De Forrest.
“I fear you are not orthodox,” said Bel.
“That means you do not agree with me. But
please do not think that because I am a minister you
must talk upon subjects that are rather grave and
deep for a sleighing party.”
“That's right, Cousin Frank,” said Addie. “Dr
Beams will want you to preach for him next Sunday
I advise you to reserve your thunder till that occasion,
when you may come out as strong as you please.”
“`Chinese thunder' at best,” whispered Harcourt
to Addie; but all heard him.
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
Hemstead bit his lip and said nothing, but Lottie
spoke up quickly:
“No matter about the `thunder,' Mr. Harcourt.
That is only noise under any circumstances. But
suppose there is the lightning of truth in what Mr.
Hemstead says?”
“And suppose there is not?” he replied, with a
shrug.
Hemstead gave Lottie a quick, pleased look, which
Bel and De Forrest smilingly noted, and the conversation
changed to lighter topics.
As they were passing through a small hamlet
some miles back from the river, a bare-headed man
came running out from a country store and beckoned
them to stop, saying:
“We're going to give our Dominie a donation
party to night. Perhaps Mrs. Marchmont will do
somfin for us, or likely you'll all like to drive over
and help the young folks enjoy themselves.”
“Capital!” cried Lottie; “I've always wanted to
attend a country donation. Do you think we can
come, Addie?”
“Oh, certainly, if you wish, but I fear you won't
enjoy it. You will not meet any of our `set' there.”
“I don't wish to meet them. I want to meet the
other `set' and have a frolic.”
“It will be moonlight, and we will have the drive,
which will be the best part of it you will find,” said
Harcourt. “Yes, we will come.”
“Them folks thinks that they's made of different
flesh and blood from the other `set' as they call us,
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
and that pretty young woman wants to come as she
would go to a menagerie,” muttered the man as he
went back to the store. “No matter, let 'em come,
they will help us make up the salary.”
“Of course, Mr. Hemstead, you will enter upon
this expedition with great zeal, as it will be to the
advantage of one of your fraternity.”
“I think, with Mr. Harcourt, that the ride will
be the best part of it.”
“Oh, for shame! Can it be true that two of even
your trade can never agree?”
“Long ages of controversy prove that,” said Harcourt.
“I think your profession has done more to keep
the world in hot water than ours, Mr. Harcourt.”
“We at least agree among ourselves.”
“All the worse, perhaps, for the world.”
“That's rather severe if you refer to the proverb
`When rogues fall out, honest men get their dues,'”
said Lottie.
“I supposed we were talking in jest, I was.”
“You evidently belong to the church militant,
since you strike back so hard even in jest,” said Harcourt.
“Very well, since you are so able to take care
of yourself I shall have no compunctions in regard to
your fate.”
Hemstead did not understand this remark, but
the others did, and significant glances were exchanged.
He turned inquiringly to Lottie, feeling that in a
certain sense he had an ally in her, but she seemed
looking away abstractedly as if she had not heeded
-- 100 --
[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
the remark. She was too quick to be caught easily
and the conviction grew upon him that while the
others from his calling and difference in views and
tastes had a natural aversion, she was inclined to be
friendly. What was better still, he believed her
mind was unprejudiced and open to the truth, if he
could get chances to present it to her. And yet she
puzzled him not a little at times, as now for instance,
when she turned and said:
“I suppose there are a great many nice young
men at your seminary.”
“I never heard them called `nice young men,'”
he replied, looking at her keenly.
“Oh, I beg your pardon—good, pious, devotional
young men, I mean.”
“All ought to be that; do you not think so?”
“Well, yes, I think so, since they are to become
ministers.”
“But not otherwise?”
“I didn't say that. There's a hint for you,
Julian.”
De Forrest's reply was a contemptuous shrug and
laugh. It would be anything but agreeable to him
to be thought “good, pious, and devotional”—equalities
not in demand at his club, nor insisted on by
Lottie, and entirely repugnant to his tastes.
“Do they all intend to be missionaries as well as
yourself?” she continued.
“Oh no, some no doubt will take city churches,
and marry wealthy wives.”
“Would that be wrong?”
-- 101 --
[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
“I am not the judge. It's a matter of taste and
conscience.”
“Would you not marry a lady of wealth?”
“I would marry the woman I loved—that is, if I
could get her.”
“Well added,” said De Forrest.
“Yes, sir, I agree with you. Every man had better
add that.”
“Indeed they had,” said Lottie, with a mischievous
twinkle in her eyes.
“There is always a chance for a man who will
never take `no' for an answer,” said De Forrest with
a light laugh, but with a significant glance at Lottie.
“Do you think so?” she said, lifting her eye-brows
questioningly. “I agree with Mr. Hemstead
It's a matter of taste and conscience.”
“Do you intend to be a missionary, Mr. Hem
stead?” asked Bel Parton.
“I hope so,” he replied, quietly.
“Yes,” said Lottie, “just think of it. He is going
away out to the jumping-off place at the West, where
he will have the border ruffians on one side and the
scalping Indians on the other. You said you would
marry the woman you loved, if you could. Do you
think any real nice girl would go with you to such a
horrible place?”
“I'm sure I don't know. If the one I want won't
venture, I can go alone.”
“Do you think she'll go?” asked Lottie so innocently
that the others had no slight task in controlling
their faces.”
-- 102 --
[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]
“Who will go?” said Hemstead quickly.
“The one whom you said you wanted to?”
“Now I'm sure I did not mention any one,” said
Hemstead, blushing and laughing.
“Well, you did not exactly speak her name.”
“No, I should think not, since I don't know it
myself.”
“How provoking?” pouted Lottie. “I thought
we were going to have a nice little romance.”
“It's a pity I've nothing to tell, in view of my
sympathizing audience,” he replied, with a glance at
the gigglers on the other seats.
“But I have been told,” said Lottie, “that in
emergencies, committees have been appointed to
select wives for missionaries, and that there are
excellent women who are willing to sacrifice them
selves for the sake of the cause.”
An explosion of laughter followed these words,
but she looked at the others in innocent surprise.
“That's a funny speech for you to make so
gravely,” said Hemstead. “I fear you are quizzing
me. Your missionary lore certainly exceeds mine in
regard to the `committees.' But there will be no
emergency in my case, and I should be sorry to have
any woman, excellent or otherwise, sacrifice herself
for me.”
“I have certainly heard so,” said Lottie, positively.
“I fear you have heard more to the prejudice of
missionaries and their works, than aught in their
favor,” he said somewhat gravely.
-- 103 --
[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
“But I am willing to hear the other side,” she
whispered in his ear.
“Now I protest against that,” said De Forrest.
“I'll give you the privilege of whispering to Bel,”
said Lottie, sweetly.
“Oh, thank you,” replied De Forrest with a
shrug.
“You can also help me out,” she continued, as
the sleigh stopped at Mrs. Marchmont's door.
As he did so he whispered in her ear, “Capital,
Lottie, you are a star actress, and always my bright
particular star.”
“Don't be sentimental, Julian,” was her only
response.
At this moment, Lottie's brother Dan fired a
snow-ball that carried off Mr. Hemstead's hat; at
which all laughed, and expected to see the young
theologian assume a look of offended dignity. He
disappointed them by good-naturedly springing out
after his hat, and was soon romping with the boy and
Mrs. Marchmont's two younger children. This was
too tempting to Lottie, who joined the frolic at once.
Hemstead laughingly allowed himself to be their
victim, and skilfully threw great snow-balls so as just
to miss them, while they pelted him till he was
white, and, as if utterly defeated, he led them a
breathless chase up and down the broad path. Their
cries and laughter brought half the household to the
doors and windows to watch the sport.
De Forrest ventured down from the piazza with
the thought that he could throw a spiteful ball or
-- 104 --
[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
two at one he already disliked a little, as well as despised.
But Hemstead immediately showed what a
self-sacrificing victim he was to Lottie and the children
by almost demolishing De Forrest with a huge
snow-ball that stung his ear sharply, got down his
neck, spoiling his collar, and necessitating such a
toilet that he was late for dinner.
His plight took Lottie out of the field also, for
she sank on the lower step of the piazza, her hand
upon her side, helpless with laughter.
Hemstead retreated to a side door, where he
shook himself as a polar bear might, and escaped to
his room
-- 105 -- p668-110
CHAPTER VII. ANOTHER SPELL THAN BEAUTY'S.
[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
DE FORREST tried to laugh at his discomfiture
when he appeared at the dinner-table, but
he was evidently annoyed and vexed with its author.
“It was very nice of you, Mr. Hemstead,” said
Lottie, “to permit yourself to be pelted by us. You
evidently did not think us worthy of your steel.
But I fear you gave Julian a strong compliment.”
“I only returned one of his.”
“But he did not hit you.”
“He meant to. We form our most correct judgment
of people sometimes from what they intend,
rather than what they do.”
“Well, I thank you for my share of the sport.”
“And I thank you for mine.”
“What occasion have you to thank me, when I
almost put your eyes out with snow?”
“You did not so blind them but that I could see
a face aglow with exercise; that made a pleasing contrast
to the cold white snow.”
“Frank, Frank, you will make Lottie vain,” said
Mrs. Marchmont. “I did not know that complimenting
was permitted to you.”
“That is all right, sister,” said Mr. Dimmerly
-- 106 --
[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]
“That's where he shows his good blood and connection
with an old family. He is gallant to the ladies.
They can't get that out of him, even at a theological
seminary.”
Hemstead's blushing confusion increased the
laught at this speech.
“Oh, mother,” exclaimed Addie, “we are all going
on a frolic to-night. You know that poor, forlorn,
little minister at Scrub Oaks, who has six children,
and gets but six hundred a year? Well, they are
going to give him a donation to-night, so a dilapidated
pillar of the church told us. We were invited
to come, and Lottie wants to go.”
“Very well, my dear, since you and our guests
wish it.”
“Now, auntie, that's very sweet of you to answer
so,” said Lottie. “I want to see the queer, awkward
country people who go to such places. They amuse
me vastly; don't they you, Mr. Hemstead?”
“They interest me.”
“Oh, it wouldn't be proper for you to say
`amuse.'”
“Nor would it be exactly true.”
“Why, Lottie,” said Addie, “you know that
ministers only think of people as a sad lot that must
be saved.”
“We'll help make a jolly lot there, to-night,”
said Lottie, with a swift glance at Hemstead's contracting
brows. “Moreover, auntie, I want to see
what a minister that lives on six hundred a year
looks like. We give our pastor ten thousand.”
-- 107 --
[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
“You need not go so far for that purpose, Miss
Marsden,” said Hemstead quietly; “that is all I shall
get.”
“What!” she exclaimed, dropping her knife and
fork.
“That, in all probability, will be my salary at
first. It may be but five hundred.”
“Is that all they pay you for going out among
the border ruffians?”
“That is the average.”
“I wouldn't go,” she said indignantly.
“You may rest assured I would not, for the
money.”
“Frank will change his mind before spring,” said
his aunt; “or a year at least among the `border ruffians'
as you call them, will cure him, and he will
be glad to take a nice church at the East.”
“What do you say to that, Mr. Hemstead?”
“Perhaps I had better answer by my actions,”
he replied.
“But I can see from the expression of your eyes
and mouth, a very plain answer to the contrary.
Mr. Hemstead, you could be a very stubborn man if
you chose.”
“I hope I could be a very resolute one.”
“Yes, so we explain ourselves when we will have
our own way. I think Aunt Marchmont's suggestion
a very good one.”
“If we go to the donation we shall have to take
something,” said Bel.
“Oh, yes,” exclaimed Addie “I am told all sorts
-- 108 --
[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]
of queer things are brought. Let us take the oddest
and most outlandish we can think of. Uncle, there
is your old blue dress-coat; we will take that for the
minister. Wouldn't he look comical preaching in it.
And mother, there is your funny low-necked satin
dress that you wore when a young lady. I will take
that for his wife.”
“I understand everybody brings pies to a donation,”
said Harcourt. “I shall be more pious than
any of them, and bring over fifty from town this
afternoon. I will buy all the bake-shops out, in my
zeal, enough to give the parson and all his people the
dyspepsia for a month.”
“If he lives on six hundred, nothing could give
him the dyspepsia save his own sermons, I imagine,”
said De Forrest. “My young lady friends have
half filled one of my bureau drawers with smokingcaps.
I have one with me, and will give it to the
minister.”
“You vain fellow,” laughed Lottie. “I never
gave you one.”
“Rest assured, no minister,—even were he a
minister to the Court of St. James—should get it, if
you had.”
“What will you take, Mr. Hemstead?” asked
Lottie, noting his grave face.
“I shall not go.”
“Why not? You spoke as if you would, this
morning.”
“I cannot go under the circumstances.”
“Why not?” asked Addie, rather sharply.
-- 109 --
[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]
“Could we take such gifts to a gentleman and
lady, Cousin Addie?”
“Well, I suppose not,” she answered, reddening.
“I see no proof that this clergyman and his wife
are not, in the fact that they are compelled to live on
six hundred a year. Besides, I have too much respect
for the calling.”
“Don't you see,” said De Forrest to Addie, in a
loud whisper, “`Our craft is in danger.'”
“Your explanation is more crafty than true, Mr.
De Forrest,” said Hemstead, looking him straight in
the eyes.
“Come,” cried Lottie, “my party is not to be
broken up. Mr. Hemstead, you need not look so
serious or take the matter so much to heart. As
you declared once before to-day, we were only `talking
in jest.' You cannot think we would willingly
hurt the feelings of your brother clergyman. Surely,
if you thought they were serious, it was good of
you to stand up for him. We will all give money:
that must be the thing the poor man needs most
sorely.”
“I will give twenty-five dollars if you will, Mr.
Hemstead,” said De Forrest, with a malicious twinkle
in his eye.
“That's liberal of you, Julian. That's action in
the right direction,” said Lottie; and she turned to
Hemstead, expecting a prompt response. But the
moment she saw his face, she surmised the truth and
De Forrest's motive in making the offer, and what
had appeared generous, was now seen to be the
-- 110 --
[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]
reverse. But she determined that Julian should give
the money, nevertheless. Still she did not at once
interfere, but watched with no little curiosity, to see
how Hemstead would extricate himself.
The young man was much embarrassed. He had
an innate horror of seeming niggardly, and the course
he had taken made his position more delicate. But
his simplicity and truthfulness came to his aid, and
he said firmly, although with a crimson face:
“I am sorry I cannot accept your generous proposition,
but I will give in accordance with my ability.
I can give only five dollars.”
“Mr. Dimmerly and Mrs. Marchmont looked
annoyed, while Addie gave utterance to an audible
titter, Bel laughed, and then looked as if she had
done wrong.
But Lottie, with graceful tact, which was still
only good acting, said:
“And that I am sure, is all that can be asked of
Mr. Hemstead or of any one. But the poor man
shall not lose the money, Julian, for I will supply
Mr. Hemstead with what is lacking.”
“Pardon me, Miss Marsden, I cannot take it.”
“Not even for this needy minister with his six
children?”
“I cannot sacrifice my self-respect for any one,”
he said. “Why cannot Mr. De Forrest give what
he wishes, without imposing a condition which leaves
it doubtful whether he is to give at all.”
“Oh, yes; he is to give,” said Lottie promptly.
“I take your offer, Julian. It's delightful to have
-- 111 --
[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]
such a genuine object of charity as a minister living
on six hundred a year.”
This was spoken very innocently, but was in
reality a keen thrust at Hemstead, who had so
recently stated his prospective income at that sum.
That the others understood it as such, was shown by
their significant glances, as they rose from the table.
Hemstead could not discover from Lottie's face
whether she meant a covert allusion to himself or not.
Harcourt drove over to town, promising to be
back in time. The other young people said that the
long drive had made them drowsy, and retired to
their rooms for a nap. Hemstead went to the parlor
and tried to read, but his thoughts wandered
strangely. The beautiful face of Lottie Marsden
haunted him, and the puzzling contradictions of her
words and manner, kept rising in his mind for solution.
After a prolonged reverie, he came to the
conclusion:
“I have left nothing ambiguous about myself. If
she is friendly after this, she knows just who and
what I am. It's plain the others think me no addition
to their company, and I'm almost sorry I accepted
aunt's invitation. However, I can shorten
the visit if I choose;” and he turned resolutely to
his book.
Instead of donning her wrapper, as did Bel, Lottie
sat down before the fire, and, as was often her
custom, commenced half-talking to her friend and
familiar, and half-thinking aloud to herself.
“Well, he is the frankest and most transparent
-- 112 --
[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]
man I ever saw. I have been acquainted with him
but a few hours, and I feel that I know him better
than Julian, with whom I have been intimate so
many years.”
“He's sincerely, honestly, good, too,” said Bel.
“I think it's too bad, Lottie, that you all treat him
so. It's really wicked.”
“Yes,” said Lottie, meditatively. “It's a good
deal more wicked than I thought it would be.”
“Then you will give it up.”
“No indeed. I haven't said that.”
“How can you do it, Lottie, when you know it
is wrong?”
“I knew it was wrong when I commenced. I
only know now that it is a little more wrong. Why
should I give up my fun on that account? I might
as well die for an old black sheep, as a speckled
lamb.”
Bel yawned at the rather peculiar and tragic
ending that Lottie suggested for herself, and was
soon dozing on a lounge. But either a restless spirit
of mischief, or a disturbed conscience, prevented
Lottie from following her example.
It would at times seem true that, when engaged
in something that conscience forbids, the
very opposition incites and leads to the evil. The
conflict between inclination and the sense of right
creates a feverish unrest, in which one cannot settle
down to ordinary pursuits and duties. If principle
holds the reins, and the voice of conscience is clear
and authoritative, the disturbed mental and moral
-- 113 --
[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]
state will end in the firm choice of duty, and consequent
peace and rest. But if, as in the case of Lottie
Marsden, impulse rules in the place of principle,
and conscience is merely like a half-dreaded, reproachful
face, this unrest is the very hour and opportunity
for temptation. Some escape from self and solitude
must be found—some immediate excitement must
engross the thoughts, and the very phase of evil,
against which conscience is vainly protesting, has at
the same time the most dangerous fascination.
So Lottie ran away from her own self-reproaches
as a naughty child might from a scolding and
was soon at the parlor entrance with a noiseless
tread, a grace of motion, and a motive that suggested
the lithe panther stealing on its prey. The door was
ajar, and a hasty glance revealed that the object of
her designs was alone. Her stealthy manner changed
instantly, and she sauntered into the room with quiet
indifference, humming an air from Faust.
“Oh, you are here,” she exclaimed, as if suddenly
becoming aware of his presence. “Why do you not
take a nap like the others? I hope you are not
troubled by a bad conscience.”
“What suggested a bad conscience, Miss Marsden?”
“Your sleeplessness.”
“I am glad it was not your own. Why are you
not taking a nap? I thought you started for one.
“So I did, but found I did not want it. But you
are not a Yankee that you must answer my question
-- 114 --
[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]
with another. What are you reading? Won't you
read it to me?”
“I would rather not read this book to you; but
I will any other that you wish.”
“You must learn human nature better, Mr.
Hemstead. Don't you know that you have said
just enough to make me wish that book and no
other? What is it about?”
“I feel sure that it will have no interest for you.
It is one of the latest infidel attacks upon the
Bible.”
“Oh, you are afraid to have me read it.”
“Yes; but not for the reasons implied in your
tone.”
“Don't you see that you are taking the very
course to awaken my curiosity, and to make me wish
to hear just that book? If you had said, `Certainly
I'll read it to you, but you won't like it, for it's only
a dry, heavy book upon a heavy subject,' I would
never have looked into it, but would have asked for
something else.”
“That would hardly be true, Miss Marsden.
Though I regard it as an evil and dangerous book,
it is exceedingly clever, and well written, and it is
quite popular in some circles. I suppose it has been
sent up to Aunt Marchmont with other new books
of note.”
“I must certainly read it, since you won't read it
to me. Forbid a child to do a thing, you know, and
you have given the strongest motive for doing just
that thing.”
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[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]
“You are not a child, Miss Marsden.”
“What am I, then?”
“I hardly know; but you are capable of realizing
one's best ideal, almost.”
“Almost! thank you.”
“Perhaps my language is stronger than you
realize. The woman who could answer to my ideal
would be nearly perfect.”
“And do you think such a paragon would go out
among the border ruffians with you?”
“No, nor anywhere else with me. I was speaking
of my ideal.”
“You do not expect to marry your ideal
then?”
“I suppose love transfigures the one we love, and
that this is the only way we can ever meet our ideal
in this life. But sometimes we see one who it seems
might approach even the ideal of our unbiassed
fancy.”
“It is well that you admire these exquisite creatures
at a distance,” she said, dryly. “I can't see
why men will always be so foolish as to think pretty
women are good women. But if I am not a child
why may I not read that book? You intimate that
it will not shake my belief.”
“I do not think it would—at least I hope it
would not.”
“You are not sure.”
“I'm sure it will not shake the Bible. Every age
has teemed with infidel books. Yet God's Word
stands to-day as strong and serene as that mountain
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yonder to which the setting sun has given a crown
of light.”
“Your figure is pretty, but unfortunate. The
sun is indeed `setting,' and soon the mountain will
lose its crown of light and vanish in darkness.”
“But does it vanish,” he asked quickly, “in the
transient darkness like a cloud tipped with light?
Such a cloud is a fit emblem of this brilliant book,
and of multitudes like it that have preceded, but
which, like lurid vapors, have vanished from men's
thought and memory. Even with my immature
mind I can detect that this clever work is but an airy
castle, soon to fall. What infidel book has ever
gained or kept a lasting hold upon the popular heart?
Let the darkness swallow up the mountain there.
If we go where it is at midnight, we shall find it
intact, and just as firm as when the sun is shining
upon it. The searching light of every day, from year
to year and age to age, will find it there just the
same. The long night of moral darkness which culminated
in the 15th century, though it hid the
Bible, did not destroy it. Luther at last found and
brought it out into the broad light of general study
and criticism. For generations, it has been assailed
on every side, but it stands in the calm unchanging
strength that yonder mountain would, were it surrounded
by children shooting against it with arrows.
Believe me—I do not fear for the Bible. If all the
light of human knowledge were turned upon it in
one burning focus, it would only reveal more clearly
its intrinsic truth; and if superstition, as it has in the
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past, or infidelity, as was the case in France, creates
temporary darkness, the moment that, in the light of
returning reason, men look for the Bible, they find it
like a great solemn mountain, that cannot be moved
while the world lasts, just where God has placed it.”
“Mr. Hemstead, don't you know that young
gentlemen do not talk to young ladies as you do
to me?”
“You know very well that I am not a society
man.”
“Oh, I'm not complaining. I rather like to be
talked to as if I had some brains, and was not a
doll. If you are so sure about the Bible, why do you
fear to have me read arguments against it?”
“I am not so sure about you. If I should listen
to a plausible story against you, without knowing
you or giving you a fair hearing, I might come to be
prejudiced—to believe you very unworthy, when the
reverse would be true. So the minds of many, from
reading books of this nature, and not giving the Bible
a fair hearing, become poisoned and prejudiced.”
“Then why do you read it?”
“For the same reason that a physician would
study a disease, not that he may catch it, but
understand and know how to treat it. This book
is a mental and moral disease, and I do not wish
you to run the risk of catching it, though I do not
think it would prove fatal, if you did. Your own
heart and experience would probably correct the
error of your head. Such books as these won't
answer in times of illness or deep trouble. We turn
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from them as instinctively and certainly as we do
from noise, glare, and gayety.”
The mountain without was now in the shadow.
The early twilight of the December evening had
darkened the wintry landscape; but the ruddy glow
of the hickory fire revealed how beautiful Lottie's
face could be, when composed into womanly truth
and thoughtfulness.
“I have never had a serious sorrow or illness,
and I wonder what I would do if I had?” she queried
musingly, as these sombre events, which sooner or
later must come into every life, rose up before her.
“I know well what you will do when they come,
as come they will to us all,” said Hemstead gently.
“As surely as you would cling to a strong arm were
you sinking in deep waters, just so surely you will
turn to the Bible, and to Him who said, `Let not
your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.'”
The truth, if given a hearing, is ever powerful—
the truths of our own sad experience—the answering
and remedial truth of God. Unexpectedly and
unintentionally on her part, both these phases of
truth had gained the ear of Lottie Marsden. The
sorrowful and suffering days of the future threw
back their shadows upon her, and her heart sank at
their prospect; and with the certainty of intuition
she recognized the answering truth, and felt that she
would indeed be glad to cling to One who had the
right and power to utter such tender, reassuring
words as Hemstead had quoted.
Of all spells, that of truth is the strongest. Under
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it the impulsive girl buried her face in her hands and,
with a quick sob, cried:
“Oh, that I were better!”
Then springing up, she gave Hemstead a strange,
earnest look through her tears, as if she would read
his soul. But she saw only honest sympathy.
He was about to speak again, but she abruptly
left the room.
-- 120 -- p668-125
CHAPTER VIII. FINDING ONE'S LEVEL.
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LOTTIE met De Forrest on the stairs, and he
was about to apologize for his long sleep, but
she rushed by him like a summer gust. A moment
later she burst into her room and startled indolent
Bel out of her last luxurious doze, by dropping into
a chair by the fire and indulging in what girls call
a “good cry.”
“What is the matter?” asked Bel, anxiously.
Lottie's tears were the only answer.
“What has happened?” cried Bel, rising hastily.
“Let me call Auntie or Julian.”
“If you call either you are no friend of mine,”
said Lottie, springing to the door, locking it, and
taking the key.
“Why Lottie, I don't understand—”
“There is no need that you should. Nothing is
the matter—only I'm blue—I've been thinking of
awful things. I was in one of my moods this afternoon,
now I'm in one of my tenses.”
“Unusually intense, I should think. I have not
seen you so moved since Tom Wellesly threatened
to blow out his brains for you.”
“He hadn't any to blow out,” snapped Lottie,
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“or he wouldn't have thought of doing it for such a
girl as I am.”
“Well,” sighed Bel, who at times was one of Job's
comforters, “I've heard he has never been the same
since.”
“I hope he has been wiser, then. How can men
be such stupid owls as to fall in love with me! Can't
they see I'm a wicked little heathen?”
“That is just the kind men like,” sneered Bel,
misanthropically. “You expect to captivate (and
of course you will) this sincere and saintly young
minister. He already thinks that you are by far the
best of our party, and has some of the first symptoms
that your victims usually manifest.”
Lottie sprang up, dashed away her tears, and
commenced restlessly pacing the room.
“Bother on the men!” she exclaimed. “Why
will they be so silly! The world's a perfect jumble,
and we are all lunatics and fools, crying for what is
not good for us, and turning our backs upon what is.
I'm disgusted with everybody, and myself in particular.
Now if this great overgrown student makes a
fool of himself, like the others, I shall lose faith in
mankind, and I know there is nothing to hope from
woman-kind.”
“I should think you were having a mood and a
tense at the same time this evening,” said Bel, looking
with some surprise at her friend. “What has
stirred you up so? Have you and Julian had a
quarrel?”
“We shall have plenty more, I foresee,” said
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Lottie, seizing on the suggestion to hide the truth.
Bel smiled satirically. All these harsh words were
but the harmless lightnings of a summer gust that
was passing away.
“It's only a lover's tiff,” she thought, “and now
the billing and cooing are to come.”
“Oh, well,” said Bel, soothingly, “you and Julian
will soon make up, and then you and all the world
will change for the better.”
“We have made up,” said Lottie faintly finding,
like many another sinner in this line, that the first fib
requires the second to cover it up.
“Well, well, get over your mood quickly, for the
supper bell will ring in a moment, and you are not
ready to come down.”
What emergency of life can obliterate from the
mind of a pretty woman the necessity of a toilet, and
to Bel, Lottie seemed to come to her senses at once
as she sped to her bureau and commenced brushing
her rumpled hair. But the languid maiden was quite
startled as Lottie wheeled suddenly upon her, declaring,
while she brandished the hair-brush in the most
tragic and impressive manner:
“If that Hemstead makes a fool of himself he
may, but he shall do it with his eyes open; I will not
deceive him any more.”
Thus conscience, that had been skirmishing all
day, appeared to gain one point of advantage, and
Lottie, having made this virtuous resolve, gained in
mental sereneness, while the mirror that reflected
her fair face helped to bring back her complacency.
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“Bel,” said Lottie, as they were leaving their
room, “not a whisper of all this to anyone, as you
value my friendship.”
But before they reached the supper-room, her
resolution failed, as is often the case when one acts
from impulse rather than principle. She found that
she could not so lightly throw away Hemstead's
good opinion. She had been admired, loved, and
flattered to her heart's content, but the respect,
esteem, and trust of a sincere true man formed a
new offering, and it was so attractive that she could
not bring herself to turn from it at once. Then her
strong pride cast its weight into the scale, and she
thought:
“He talks to me and treats me as if I were a
woman of heart and mind, and I'm going down to
show him I'm a wicked fool. I shall not do it, at
least not now. Little fear but that the disagreeable
truth will come out soon enough.”
“But it is wrong to deceive him,” whispered
conscience.
“Suppose it is,” answered the wayward will, “I
am all wrong myself and always have been.”
“You promised to show him your real self,” still
urged conscience.
“Well, I will, some other time.”
With conscience thwarted and unsatisfied, sereneness
vanished again, and instead of being reckless
and trivial at the table, as she intended, she was
rather silent, and a trifle sullen, as one often is even
when vexed with one's self.
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Hemstead was expecting a subdued and thoughtful
young lady to appear, whose pensive manner
would indicate a nature softened and receptive.
While her bearing was not what he anticipated, it
was somewhat akin, and showed, he thought, that
the truth was not without effect.
De Forrest was still more puzzled; but soon concluded
that Lottie was provoked that he had slept
so long instead of devoting himself to her. True,
she had just come from the parlor, where he found
Hemstead standing by the window, looking out into
the gloom, but she had found him, no doubt, so
heavy and stupid, that she had rushed to her room
in a fit of vexation. This theory was entirely reconcilable
with his vanity, and therefore conclusive; and
he tried to make amends by excessive gallantry,
which only annoyed Lottie. This he ascribed to her
resentment for his neglect, and only redoubled his
unwelcome attentions.
While Hemstead's heart was in a tumult of joy
and thankfulness that so early in his acquaintance,
and so unexpectedly, he had been able to speak to
her as he wished and with such seeming effectiveness,
he had the good taste and tact to indicate by
no words or sign that anything unusual had occurred
between them. He sought to draw the others, and
even De Forrest, into general conversation, so that
Lottie might be left more to herself.
With a mingled smile and frown, she recognized
his purpose, and with a reckless laugh in her own
soul, thought:
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[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]
“He imagines I am near conversion, when I never
felt so wicked before in my life.”
But catching a glimpse of Bel's surprised face, and
seeing that her abstraction was noted by the others,
she speedily rallied, and assumed the manner that
she had maintained throughout the day.
“It is so delightful to see his large gray eyes turn
toward me wistfully and trustingly, that I cannot undeceive
him yet;” and so conscience was dismissed,
as history records was often the case with some honest
old counsellor in a foolish and reckless court.
The prospective sleigh-ride and donation party
were the prominent themes, and they hastened
through the meal that they might start early.
Upon this occasion De Forrest managed to get
the seat by Lottie, in his eagerness to make amends,
and Hemstead sat opposite with Bel. As far as he
could gather in the uncertain moonlight, Hemstead
thought that De Forrest's attentions were not particularly
welcome, and though he scarcely knew why,
was glad. He would probably explain by saying that
De Forrest was not worthy of her.
Lottie's periods of depression never lasted long,
and again the frosty air and quick motion set her blood
tingling with life. In order to escape De Forrest's
whispered sentimentalities, she commenced singing.
Her naturally good voice had been somewhat injured
by straining at difficult music, under superficial
instruction, instead of thorough training for it, but
within a moderate compass and in simple music, was
sweet and strong.
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De Forrest was enthusiastic in his encores of
selections that were beyond her abilities. Though
most of the airs were unfamiliar to Hemstead, he was
satisfied that they were incorrect, and certain that
the music was not over good. Therefore he was
silent. This piqued Lottie, for one of her purposes
in the choice of what she sang, was to impress him,
from the barbarous West, with the idea of her superior
culture. At last she said:
“I fear you do not like operatic and classical
music very much, Mr. Hemstead?”
“We do not often hear such music very perfectly
rendered, in our part of the West. There are airs
from the opera that are very pretty,” and he suggested
one that was simple.
The truth began to dawn on the quick-witted
girl, but De Forrest said, patronizingly:
“It requires a cultivated taste to appreciate such
music as you were singing, Miss Lottie.”
“It is not with the music probably, but my rendering
of it, that Mr. Hemstead finds fault.”
“Two of the airs were new to me, and the other
I have heard but seldom,” said Hemstead evasively.
“How about that one?” asked De Forrest.
“Well, in sincerity then, I think Miss Marsden
does herself injustice by attempting music that would
tax the powers of a prima donna.”
“The boor!” whispered De Forrest to Lottie.
After a moment she said firmly, “Mr. Hemstead
has only said plainly what you thought, Julian.”
“Oh, Miss Lottie—” he began to protest.
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[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]
“I'm not a fool,” she continued, “so please don't
waste your breath. You have heard all the prima
donnas, and know how ridiculously far beneath them
I fall, when I try to sing their music. I think you
might have told me. It would have been truer kindness
than your hollow applause. Why our teachers
make us the laughing-stock of society, by keeping
us upon these absurd attempts at music beyond us,
to the exclusion of everything else, is something
that I can't understand. My ear is not over nice,
but I have always had a suspicion that I was executing
in the sense of murder, the difficult arias that
the old weazened-faced Italian professor kept me at
till brother Dan said in truth, that I was turning
into a screech-owl. But no one, save he and Mr.
Hemstead, has been honest enough to tell me the
truth. Thus, on many occasions, I have taxed the
politeness of people to the utmost, no doubt, and
been the cause of innumerable complimentary fibs,
like those you have just been guilty of, Julian. Perhaps,
Mr. Hemstead, you think a style of music like
this more suited to my powers;” and she struck into
a well-known plantation song.
“No,” said he, laughing, “I think you do yourself
still greater injustice.”
“You probably think I cannot sing at all.”
“On the contrary, I think you have an unusually
good voice. I wish you would sing that air that you
were humming when you came into the parlor this
afternoon. I liked that, and imagine it is suited to
your voice.”
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[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]
“What was it? Oh, I remember. An air from
Faust, that Marguerite sings at her spinning-wheel
I think I can give that pretty decently.”
She sang it sweetly, with taste and some power.
Hemstead's encore was hearty, and she knew it was
sincere.
“Now that you have done me such good service,”
she said laughing, and shown that mediocrity is my
musical position, let us have some old-fashioned ballads,
and all sing them together in sleigh-riding style.”
“Pardon me, Miss Marsden, I assign you to mediocrity
in nothing.”
“Oh, no, not you—my own abilities place me
there. But come, each one sing;” and she commenced
a ballad, well known to the others, but not
to him.
It sounded very well indeed, only Harcourt's bass
was much too light for the other voices.
“Why don't you sing?” asked Lottie of
Hemstead.
“I do not know the air or words.”
“Shall we try Old Hundred?” asked De Forrest.
“Ahem! The long metre doxology.
“`Praise God from whom all blessings flow.'”
Addie and Harcourt joined in laughingly. Bel
commenced with them, but stopped when she saw
that Lottie did not sing.
“Do you believe that `all blessings flow' from
God?” asked Hemstead of De Forrest.
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[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]
“I suppose so, according to Old Hundred,” he
said lightly.
“You don't `suppose so' at all, Julian. You
know it, as we all do, however we may act,” said
Lottie with emphasis.
“With such a belief, I would at least treat Him
with respect,” said Hemstead quietly. “I should
be sorry to be under deep and continued obligations
to One toward whom I failed in ordinary courtesy.”
“I knew it was wrong,” muttered Bel, “but—”
“I have no such belief,” said Harcourt, “so your
sharp homily does not apply to me.
“Where do your blessings come from?” asked
Hemstead.
“Well, those I don't get out of my clients, from
where this snow does—the laws and forces of nature.”
“Your faith is like the snow, I think, very
cold.”
“If it's cold in winter, it's warm in summer,”
retorted he, flippantly; and Addie giggled approvingly,
for the reason that it sounded flippant and
smart.
They had now reached the hamlet of Scrub
Oaks, in the centre of which was a small house that
seemed bursting with light and noise. Whenever
the door opened it appeared to fly open from a
pressure within.
De Forrest acted as escort to the ladies, while
Hemstead accompanied Harcourt in his effort to find
a sheltered place for the horses. This pleased the
young lawyer, and he said, good-naturedly.
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[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]
“Don't think, Mr. Hemstead, that I do not
respect your honest convictions, and I meant no slur
upon them. You take things too seriously.”
“I suppose we all ought to make more allowance
for what is said in mere sport and repartee,”
said Hemstead. “But what to you is law and force,
is to me a personal God and Friend. You know that
there are some names—like that of mother and wife—
that are too sacred for jest.”
“Thus people misjudge and misunderstand each
other, simply because they see things from different
points of view,” replied Harcourt. “De Forrest
provokes me, however. He has no doubts worthy
of the name, for he reads nothing save the sporting
news and fashionable literature of the day, and yet
he likes to give the impression that he is in with us,
who read books and think.”
“If you will only read fairly, Mr. Harcourt, I
have no fears but that in time you will think rightly.
An honest jury must hear both sides and have no
prejudices.”
The young men now sought the rest of the party,
who had squeezed their way into the little parsonage
that seemed so replete with life and bustle, that
it appeared like a social bomb-shell, with effervescing
human nature as an explosive material, and might
burst into fragments any moment.
-- 131 -- p668-136
CHAPTER IX. “THE OTHER SET. ”
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THE minister and his wife were scarcely host and
hostess on this occasion, as a self-appointed
committee of ladies had taken upon themselves the
duty, but, like all corporations, this committee had
no soul and a very indefinite body. No one knew
just who they were, or where to find them, and some
of the members, in the bewilderment of unaccustomed
official position and honors, seemed to have
lost themselves, and bustled all over the house about
as aimlessly as decapitated hens. The more staid
and practical sisters of the committee were down in
the kitchen, breathlessly setting tables which were
almost as speedily cleared, by people whose appetites
were as keen as the winter night without.
“I do declare—” ejaculated Mrs. Gubling, as
one devastating tableful rose lingeringly from the
repast and another flock began to gather in hungry
expectancy at the door—“I do declare, I'm near
beat out. Is this a starvin' community? At this
rate they'll eat up all there is in the house, and the
minister and his wife and babies into the bargain.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Rhamm, conveying the last
bit of corned beef which had been reluctantly left
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[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]
upon the plate as “manners,” to a rather capacious
mouth, “if they would eat up some of the babies it
wouldn't be so bad. I don't see why poor ministers
will have so many babies.”
“The Lord takes care of 'em. We don't,” suggested
Mrs. Gubling.
“We all do our part I 'spose. The worst of it is,
that it makes it oncomfortable for a church to give a
small salary.”
“I wish our church was more uncomfortable
then. It's a shame we give Mr. Dlimm only six hundred.
But come, if we don't git another table set
they'll eat us up.”
“I'd like to see 'em,” said Mrs. Rhamm, with a
disdainful sniff.
“Well, you be a bit old and tough,” chuckled
Mrs. Gubling.
With the solace of this sally, which seemed true,
if not true wit, these hard-featured mothers in Israel
set about their tasks with the deftness that long
experience gives.
At the time De Forrest conveyed the ladies into
the hall, the upstairs members of the committees were
buzzing around somewhere else, for there was no one
to receive them. They were gradually hustled or
carried into the parlor or main room, and here Hemstead
and Harcourt found them in characteristic
conditions. Addie's and De Forrest's elegant noses
were decidedly retroussé; Bel appeared both disgusted
and frightened, while Lottie's face wore an
expression of intense and amused curiosity. She was
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[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]
seeing “the other set” to her heart's content, and
all was as new and strange as if she had visited another
land.
Harcourt joined Addie, and they commenced
whispering satirical criticisms on the remarks and
manners of those around. Hemstead's interest mainly
centred in watching Lottie, and in noting the effect
of her contact with plain and uncultured people.
He was glad he did not see the repulsion of a little
mind and a narrow nature, as was the case with most
of the others. Though it was evident that she had
no sympathy with them, nor for them, there was intelligent
interest and wide-awake curiosity. While
the others were encasing themselves in exclusive
pride, she was eager to investigate and get en rapport
with this new phase of humanity. But trammelled
by her city ideas, she felt that she could not speak
to any one without the formality of an introduction.
But the ice was broken for her unexpectedly. Feeling
her dress pulled, she turned and found a very
stout old lady sitting near her, who asked in a loud
whisper:
“Been down to supper yet?”
“No,” said Lottie, “I don't wish any.”
“I do, but I'm afeard I won't get none. You
see I'm big and clumsy any way, and now I'm so
lame with the rheumatiz, that I kin hardly move.”
“It's too bad,” said Lottie pathetically, but with
a swift comical glance at the others.
“Yes, it's kinder orful to be so helpless,” said the
old woman with a complacent sigh, delighted at
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[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]
having a sympathetic auditor. I'm dreadfully afeard I
won't git no supper. I'm like the withered man at
the pool of Bethesdy. Whenever they are ready for
a nuther batch `while I'm a comin' another steppeth
down before me.'”
“Well, you're not very much withered, that's one
comfort to be thankful for,” said Lottie.
“I'd like to be thankful for my supper, if I could
ony git a chance,” persisted the old woman.
“You shall have a chance. When is the pool
troubled? When shall we put you in?”
“There! now is the time,” said her new acquaintance,
dropping her affected and pious tone, and
speaking with sharp eagerness. “See, one batch is
comin' up, and 'nuther is going down.”
“Mr. Hemstead, will you assist me in escorting
this old lady to the supper-table?”
Hemstead's face was aglow with approval, and he
instantly complied, while the others, understanding
Lottie better, were convulsed with laughter.
It was no easy thing for them unitedly to manage
the hobbling mountain of flesh. When they came
to the steep, narrow stairway, matters were still more
serious.
“You shall go first,” whispered Lottie to Hemstead,
“for if she should fall on me—good-by, Lottie
Marsden.”
Hemstead patiently, carefully, and with the
atmost deference, assisted the helpless creature
down the stairs.
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[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]
`You're as polite to her as if she were a duchess,'
said Lottie, in a low tone.
“She is more than a duchess. She is a woman,”
he replied.
“Lottie gave him a quick, pleased look, but said,
“Such old-fashioned chivalry is out of date, Mr.
Hemstead.”
“He's right, miss,” said the old woman, sharply.
“I'm not Dutch.”
Lottie dropped behind to hide her merriment at
this speech, and Hemstead appeared, with his charge
clinging to his arm, at the kitchen door, which her
ample form nearly filled.
“My sakes o' lives! Auntie Lammer, how did
you get down here?” said Mrs. Gubling. “We
hain't ready for you yet.”
“No matter,” said Mrs. Lammer, “I thank the
marcies I've got down safe, and I'm goin' to stay
till I git my supper.”
“Can I help you?” asked Lottie, glancing
curiously around the room.
They looked with even more curiosity at her;
and a strange contrast she made, in her rich and
tasteful costume and rare beauty, with those plain,
middle-aged, hard-working women, and the small
dingy room.
For a moment they stared at her without reply,
then gave each other a few suggestive nudges; and
Mrs. Rhamm was about to speak rather slightingly
when good-natured Mrs. Gubling said:
“You are very kind, miss, but you don't look
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[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]
cut out for our work. Besides, my dear, it's an orful
dangerous place down here. I'm afraid we'll git eat
up ourselves before the evening is over. I'm sure
you would be, if you stayed. I wouldn't mind taking
a bite myself,” and the good woman and her assistants
laughed heartily over this standing joke of the
evening, while Auntie Lammer, seeing that Mrs.
Gubling was the leading spirit of the supper-room,
quivered in all her vast proportions with politic and
propitious mirth.
All this was inexpressibly funny to Lottie, who
had the keenest sense of the absurd, and with a sign
to Hemstead she drew him away, saying:
“This exceeds any play I ever saw. I didn't
know people who were not acting could be so queer
and comical.”
“Well, Miss Lottie,” he said, as they ascended
the stairs, “I admit that humanity everywhere often
has its ridiculous side, but I have been laughed at
too much myself to enjoy laughing at others.”
“And why should you be laughed at so much?”
“I suppose it is the fate of overgrown, awkward
boys, who have a tendency to blurt out the truth on
all occasions.”
“Such a tendency as that will always make you
trouble, I assure you.”
“It hasn't with you, yet.”
“Our acquaintance has been very brief.”
“And yet I seem to know you so well. I would
not have believed it possible in one short day.”
“I think you are mistaken. But you have ceased
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to be a stranger to me. I have remarked before to-day,
that I knew you better than some I have seen
from childhood.”
“I am happy to say that I wish to conceal nothing.”
“Few can say that.”
“Oh, I don't mean that I am better than other
people, only that it's best to appear just what we
are. People should be like coin, worth their face—”
“I was in search of you,” interrupted De Forrest,
as they stood talking a moment near the head of the
stairs in the hall. “We did not know but that the
sylph you escorted away, had made a supper on
Hemstead, with you as a relish. Have you seen
enough of this bear-garden yet?”
“No, indeed,” said Lottie; “I'm just beginning
to enjoy myself.”
From openly staring at and criticising the party
from Mrs. Marchmont's, the young people began to
grow aggressive, and from class prejudices, were inclined
to be hostile. There were whispered consultations,
and finally one well-known habitué of the store
and tavern thought he could cover himself with glory
by a trick, and at the same time secure a kiss from
Lottie, the prettiest. The conspiracy was soon
formed. A kissing game in one of the upper rooms
was suspended for a moment, and one of the tall girls
accompanied him down as if they were a delegation,
and on the principle that in designs against a woman
a female confederate is always helpful in disarming
fear and suspicion.
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He approached Lottie with the best manners he
could assume, and said:
“We are having some games up stairs. Perhaps
you would like to join us. We'd like to have you.”
“Do come,” added the tall girl, “they are real
nice.”
“Certainly,” said Lottie, who was now ready for
another adventure. “Come; let us all go.”
“The others need'nt come unless they want to,”
said the young man, for he didn't relish the lawyer's
presence, whom he knew by reputation, nor the
searching look of the tall stranger whom he did not
know.
“Mr. Hemstead, you and Julian come,” said
Lottie, and as they ascended the stairs, she studied
this new specimen of Scrub Oaks, who was a loafer
of the village as De Forrest was an idler of the town.
They both belonged to the same genus, though the
latter would have resented such a statement as the
foulest insult.
The manners and the smart, loud finery of her
new acquaintance, amused Lottie very much. When
they reached the room, they found it full of whispering,
giggling young people.
The tall girl, as instructed, said, “Now let us
form a ring with our hands on this rope.”
This having been done, she said, “Now, Mr.
Shabb, you must go inside first;” and then, with a
nudge to Lottie, she explained, “He'll try to hit our
hands with his, and if he hits your hands you will
have to go inside the ring.”
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What else he would do, she left to be disclosed
by action.
Then he of the flaming neck-tie and bulging cheek
took his place with a twinkling eye that meant mischief.
De Forrest and Hemstead declined to play,
but the latter slipped forward and stood near Lottie.
He was not sure, but dimly remembered seeing this
game before, when it was not played so innocently
as the tall girl had described.
The young rustic made extravagant but purposely
vain efforts to strike the hands of others, and Lottie
watched the scene with laughing curiosity. Suddenly
he wheeled round and struck her hands sharply; and
to her horrified surprise, it seemed but a second later
that his repulsive face was almost against her own.
But something came between, and starting back, she
saw the baffled youth imprint a fervent kiss on the
back of Hemstead's hand.
There was a loud laugh at him from those who
expected to laugh with him. He swaggered up to
Hemstead, and said threateningly:
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean?” asked Lottie, confronting
him with blazing eyes. “It is well this gentleman
interposed. If you had succeeded in your insult I
should have had you punished in a way that you
would not soon forget.”
“It's only part of the game,” muttered he,
abashed by her manner.
“Part of the game?”
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“Yes,” giggled the tall girl, faintly; “it's a kissing
game.”
“Did you know it was such?” asked Lottie,
indignantly, of De Forrest and Hemstead.
“Indeed I did not,” said De Forrest, “and if you
say so, I'll give this fellow the flogging, anyway.”
“Come right out, and do it now,” was the pert
response.
“All I can say is, Miss Marsden,” explained
Hemstead, “that I suspected something wrong, and
took means to prevent it. How these nice-looking
girls can allow this fellow to kiss them, is more than
I can understand.”
“No lady would,” said Lottie, as she swept disdainfully
out; and under the withering influence of
these remarks, kissing games languished the rest of
the evening; only young children, and a few of the
coarser natured ones, participating. But soon the
absurdity of the whole scene overcame Lottie, and
she laughed till the tears stood in her eyes.
As they were slowly descending the stairs a faded
little woman said:
“I'm glad to see you enjoying yourself, Miss
Marchmont. It was very kind of you and your party
to come so far.”
“I am not, Miss Marchmont,” said Lottie,
“though I came with her.”
“Well, as the minister's wife, I would like her
and all her party to know of our grateful appreciation.”
“You thank us beyond our deserts. But are you
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the minister's wife? I am glad to make your
acquaintance;” and she held out her hand, which
Mrs. Dlimm seemed glad to take.
At this moment there came the cry of an infant
from one of the upper rooms.
“Oh, there goes my baby,” said Mrs. Dlimm,
I thought I heard it before,” and she was about to
hasten on.
“May I not go with you and see the baby?”
asked Lottie.
What mother ever refused such a request? In a
moment Lottie was in the one small room in which,
on this portentous occasion, the three younger children
were huddled, the others being old enough to
take part in what, to them, was the greatest excitement
of their lives, thus far.
Lottie looked curiously around, with the quick
appreciative eye by which ladies seem to gather
accurately at a glance the effect of a costume and
the style and character of an apartment and its
occupants. But she politely, and from a certain
innate interest, gave such attention to the baby as to
win the mother's heart. It was but an ordinary
baby, although the fattest and sturdiest member of a
rather pinched household, but Lottie wonderingly
saw that to the faded mother it was a cherub just
from heaven.
Lottie could not understand it. A perfumed
baby, in lace and muslin, might be a nice pet if the
nurse were always within call, but the sole care of
this chubby-cheeked Molock, that would sacrifice its
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mother as unconsciously and complacently as the
plant absorbs moisture, seemed almost as prosaic and
dreadful as being devoured alive.
“Does no one help you take care of that child?”
asked she.
“Well, my husband and the elder children help
some.”
“Haven't you a nurse for all these children?”
“No, indeed. It's as much as we can do to
clothe and feed them.”
“Don't you keep any servants at all?”
“Yes, we have a girl in the kitchen, but she's
almost as much bother as she is worth.”
“How do you get along?”
“I hardly know—somewhat as the birds do out
of doors.”
“Are you happy?”
“I've hardly time to think. I think I am though;
happy as most people. Some days bright, some
days cloudy, and now and then a storm. That's the
way it is with all, I imagine. We all have our crosses
you know, but by and by all will come right.”
“I should be cross enough, with all your crosses.”
“They might make you patient. The crossest
people I know are those who shun all crosses.”
“Now I think of it, I'm inclined to believe that's
true,” said Lottie reflectively. Then she whispered,
as she walked softly to the mother's side, “Baby is
going to sleep, isn't it?”
With different expressions, they both peered into
the full-moon face, two features of which, the eyes,
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were becoming obliterated by the white, drooping
lids Lottie looked as if she were examining a zoological
specimen. Mrs. Dlimm gazed with a smile
of deep content and tenderness.
The undisturbed rest of the child upon her bosom
was a type of her own mind at that moment. She
was nature's child, God's child, and the babe was hers.
To the true and simple children of nature, who,
without thought of self or the public eye, are quietly
doing their duty in their own little niches, these
moments of peace with strange thrills of joy are constantly
coming. If this worn mother could look
down upon the child, and her plain, pale face grow
beautiful with spiritual light, how must the God who
inspires all love—who is the source of tenderness—
have regarded her?
The expression of this woman's face puzzled Lottie
beyond measure. It was so incongruous, irreconcilable
with the burdens, the weary cares, and ceaseless
toil and anxiety of her lot. It was so out of
keeping with the noisy throng and confused bustle
that filled the house, and it dimly suggested to the
proud belle a condition of mind before undreamt of
in her philosophy.
Some new and curious thoughts stole into her
heart as she watched the mother slowly rocking backward
and forward, uttering a low, crooning lullaby—
the gentlest sound that ever falls on mortal ears.
For some reason there came into her soul a sudden
loathing of her own selfishness and callousness.
After the child had been laid in the cradle, she
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asked, “What did you mean when you said, `It will
all come right some day?'”
“Well, I suppose I meant that God's little children
often get sorely perplexed with their cares and
troubles in this world, but when we get home and
sit down to rest and think it all over, it will then
seem right.”
“Home?”
“Yes, home in our Heavenly Father's house.
That's the only real home we have. We only `stop,'
as the Irish say, here and there for a little while in
this world.”
“And do you think of heaven as a pleasant
home and rest after what seems to me your very
hard life?”
“Certainly; how do you think of it?”
“Well, to tell the truth, I have not thought much
about it.”
Before Mrs. Dlimm could reply, there came anything
but a heavenly interruption. It was as if Moses
and Aaron were within the cool and shadowy tabernacle
feasting on spiritual manna, and there came a
delegation from the Hebrew camp, clamoring for the
“leeks and onions of Egypt.”
Though the congregation often said, “It's a pity
Mrs. Dlimm is such a meek and quiet little woman,”
and though the self-appointed committee of ladies
was so large, and the minister himself was down stairs,
yet when the first real emergency of the evening arose,
the upstairs members of the committee were helpless,
and the best thing Mrs. Gubling, the leading spirit
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down stairs, could do, was to “slick up,” as she said,
and “go tell the Parson's wife.” But seeing Mr.
Dlimm on the way, she beckoned him aside with a
portentous nod. He, poor man, heard her tidings
with dismay. He had fallen into the habit of taking
all his difficulties either to the Lord or his wife, and
in this case he felt that both must come to his aid.
With Mrs. Gubling he at once hastened to the
nursery, and entered rather abruptly.
Mrs. Dlimm raised her finger impressively, then
pointed to the cradle.
“But, my dear—” began her husband, rather
impatiently.
“Hush,” said the wife in a low tone, “whatever's
the matter don't wake the baby, for then I can't do
anything.”
“Mrs. Dlimm,” said Mrs. Gubling, “they've eat
up about everything there is down stairs, 'cept me,
and there's three tables yet. It's such a fine night,
and the sleighing's so good, that lots more have
come than we expected. I don't know how much
money they brought, but they hain't brought provisions
enough.”
“What shall we do?” asked Mr. Dlimm nervously.
“If it takes the last penny we have in the world,”
said his wife, with grave dignity, “no one shall leave
our house hungry. You must step over to the store,
Mr. Dlimm, and buy enough to satisfy every one.”
“I feel just as you do, my dear,” he said, with
the air of one who sees duty clearly, though it is far
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from being agreeable. “Just give me our poor little
hoard from your bureau drawer, and I'll go at once.”
Lottie witnessed the scene with mingled amusement
and indignation, and then with her face aglow
with a sudden purpose, sped away also.
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CHAPTER X. HUMAN NATURE.
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THE dismal tidings from the lower regions, that
the larder had been stripped and that scarcely
even a pie remained, soon became an open secret,
about which every one was whispering and commenting.
The supperless wore a defrauded and injured
air. The eyes of many who had not left so important
a duty to the uncertainties of the future, but,
like Auntie Lammer, had availed themselves of the
first opportunity, now twinkled shrewdly and complacently.
They had the comfortable consciousness
of taking care of themselves. But the greater number
were honestly indignant and ashamed that such
a thing should have happened. This feeling of mortification
was increased when the committee reported
but a small sum of money handed in as yet. The
majority were provoked at others, and a few at themselves,
for having brought so little. As the situation
became clearer, all began to act characteristically,
some preparing to slink away and escape a disagreeable
state of things, and others putting their heads
together in the wish to remedy matters. Some giggled,
and others looked solemn. Some tried to
appear resigned, as if it were a dispensation of
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Providence, and others snarled about “them mean Joneses
and Rhamms.”
Lottie hastily summoned her party together, and
told them of the dire emergency, as Mrs. Gubling
had stated it.
“Now,” said she, “if you gentlemen have got
any wit worth the name, you must hit on some way
of helping the parson out of his scrape, for I have
taken a great interest in him, or rather his wife. She
is the queerest little woman I ever saw. I shouldn't
wonder if she were an angel in disguise.”
“As you are undisguised,” whispered De Forrest.
“Oh, be still, Julian. That compliment is as delicate
as Auntie Lammer's appetite. But see, some
of these mean `locusts of Egypt,' after eating their
minister out of house and home, are preparing to go.
We must get a collection before a soul leaves the
house. Julian, you lock the back door, and Mr.
Hemstead, you stand by the front door; and now,
Mr. Harcourt, you are a lawyer, and know how to
talk sharply to people: you give these cormorants to
understand what we expect them to do, before they
leave.”
Hemstead obeyed with alacrity; for the effort to
help the overburdened pastor of Scrub Oaks meet
the rigors of winter seemed about to end in disastrous
failure. He had noticed, with satisfaction, that
many of the people shared his regret, and wished to
do something, but through lack of leadership the
gathering was about to break up, each one
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blaming some one else, and all secretly mortified at the
result.
Harcourt thought a moment, and then stepping
to a position where he could be seen through open
doors and heard from the upper story, clapped his
hands loudly to secure silence, and draw attention
to himself.
“Do you know where your pastor has gone?”
he asked. “He is out now buying provisions with
his own money to feed a crowd who came here
under the false pretence to give a donation, but in
truth, seemingly to eat him out of house and
home.”
Flushes of shame and anger flashed into nearly
every face at these stinging words, but Harcourt
continued remorselessly:
“You know who I am, and I thought I knew
something about you. I had heard that the people
back in the country were large-handed, large-hearted,
and liberal, but we must be mistaken. I think this
the quintessence of meanness, and if you break up
to-night without a big collection, I will publish you
throughout the land. I want you to understand
that your minister has nothing to do with what I
say. I speak on my own responsibility.”
“Capital!” whispered Lottie. “That was redhot
shot, and they deserved it. If that don't drain
their pockets, nothing will.”
But she was not a little surprised and disgusted,
when a stalwart young farmer stepped out, and with
a face inflamed with anger, said in harsh emphasis:
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“I was sorry and ashamed to have this affair end
as it promised to, and was going to come down
handsomely myself, and try to get some others to,
but since that sprig of the law has tried to bully and
whip us into doing something, I won't give one cent.
I want you to understand, Tom Harcourt, that whatever
may be true of the people back in the country,
you, nor no other man, can drive us with a horsewhip.”
The young man's words seemed to meet with
general approval, and there were many confirmatory
nods and responses. They were eager to find some
one to blame, and upon whom they could vent their
vexation; and this aristocratic young lawyer, whose
words had cut like knives, was like a spark in powder.
Many could go away and half persuade themselves
that if it had not been for him they might
have done something handsome, and even the bestdisposed
present were indignant. It would seem
that the party would break up, before the minister
returned, in a general tumult.
The young farmer stalked to the front door, and
said threateningly to Hemstead:
“Open that door.”
“No, don't you do it,” whispered Lottie.
He threw the door open wide.
“Oh, for shame!” she said aloud; “I did not
think that of you, Mr. Hemstead.”
Without heeding her he confronted the young
farmer and asked:
“Do you believe in fair play?”
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“Yes, and fair words, too.”
“All right, sir. I listened quietly and politely to
you. Will you now listen to me? I have not
spoken yet.”
“Oh, certainly,” said the young farmer, squaring
himself and folding his arms on his ample chest.
“Let every dog have his day.”
Hemstead then raised his powerful voice, so that
it could be heard all through the house, and yet he
spoke quietly and calmly.
“The gentleman who last addressed you, now in
the spirit of fair play offers to listen to me. I ask
all present, with the same spirit of candor and politeness,
to hear me for a few moments. But the door
is open wide, and if there are any who don't believe
in fair play and a fair hearing all around, they are at
a liberty to depart at once.”
No one moved. And the young farmer said,
with the sternness of his square face greatly relaxing:
“You may shut the door, sir. We will all listen
when spoken to in that style. But we don't want to
be driven like cattle.” Then yielding farther to the
influence of Hemstead's courtesy, he stepped forward
and shut the door himself.
“Thank you, sir,” said Hemstead heartily, and
then continned:
“I am a stranger among you, and am here to-night
very unexpectedly. My home is in the West,
and like yourselves, I belong to that class who, when
they give, give not from their abundance, but out of
their poverty. There has been a mistake here
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[figure description] Page 152.[end figure description]
to-night. I think I understand you better than my
friend Mr. Harcourt. From the pleasantness of the
evening more are present than you looked for. There
are many young people here whom I suspect have
come from a distance, unexpectedly, for the sake of
a ride and frolic, and were not as well prepared as if
their households had known of it before. Long
drives and the cold night have caused keen appetites.
When the result became known a few moments ago,
I saw that many felt that it was too bad, and that
something ought to be done, and no one was more
decided in the expression of this feeling than the
gentleman who last spoke. All that was needed
then, and all that is needed now, is to consider the
matter a moment and then act unitedly. I ask you
as Christian men and women, as humane, kind-hearted
people, to dismiss from your minds all considerations,
save one—your pastor's need. I understand
that he has six little children. A long, cold
winter is before him and his. He is dependent upon
you for the comforts of life. In return, he is serving
the deepest and most sacred needs of your natures,
and in his poverty is leading you to a faith that will
enrich you forever. It is not charity that is asked.
A church is a family, and you are only providing for
your own. How could any of you be comfortable
this winter if you knew your minister was pinched
and lacking? The Bible says that the laborer is
worthy of his hire. You have only to follow the
impulse of your consciences, your own better natures,
and I have no fears. A few moments ago your
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[figure description] Page 153.[end figure description]
pastor had a painful surprise. You can have a very
agreeable one awaiting him by the time he returns.
You can make his heart glad for months to
come, and so make your own glad. Though I am a
stranger, as I said, and a poor man, yet I am willing
to give double what I proposed at first, and if
some one will take up a collection, will hand in ten
dollars.”
“Give me your hand on that,” said the young
farmer heartily, “and there's ten dollars more to
keep it company. When a man talks like that, I
am with him, shoulder to shoulder. Will some one
bring me the dominie's hat?'
One was soon forthcoming.
“And now,” said the young man, stepping up to
Lottie, “you seem to take a sight of interest in this
matter, miss. I think you can look five dollars out of
most of the young chaps here. I'll go around with
you, and see that each one comes down as he or she
ought. If any body ain't got what they'd like to give,
I'll lend it to 'em, and collect it, too,” he added, raising
his strong hearty voice.
Thus through Hemstead's words and action the
aspect of the skies changed, and where a desolating
storm had threatened, there came a refreshing shower.
What he had said commended itself to so many
that the mean and crotchety found it politic to fall
in with the prevailing spirit.
Amid approving nods, whispered consultations
and the hauling out of all sorts of queer receptacles
of money, the graceful city belle and the blunt,
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[figure description] Page 154.[end figure description]
broad-shouldered farmer started on an expedition
that, to the six little Dlimms, would be more important
than one for the discovery of the North Pole.
“No coppers now!” shouted the young man.
Lottie, fairly bubbling over with fun and enjoyment
of the whole thing, was all graciousness, and
with smiles long remembered by some of the rustic
youth, certainly did beguile them into generosity
at which they wondered ever after.
The result was marvellous, and the crown of the
old hat was becoming a crown of joy indeed to the
impoverished owner, who now had the promise of
some royal good times.
That fast filling hat meant nourishing beef occasionally,
a few books for the minister's famishing
mind, a new dress or two for the wife, and a warm
suit for the children all around.
No one was permitted to escape, and in justice it
could now be said that few wished to, for all began
to enjoy the luxury of doing a good and generous
deed.
When, having been to nearly all, Lottie said to
her now beaming companion:
“Go and get Mrs. Dlimm, and seat her in the
large rocker in the parlor.”
The poor little woman having witnessed all the
earlier scenes from the stairs with strong and varying
feelings, had, during the last few moments, seen
Lottie pass with such a profusion of greenbacks in her
husband's hat, that in a bewildering sense of joy and
gratitude she had fled to the little nursery sanctuary,
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and when found by some of the ladies was crying
over the baby in the odd contradictoriness of feminine
action. She was hardly given time to wipe her
eyes, before she was escorted on the arm of the
now gallant farmer, to the chair of state in the
parlor.
Then Lottie advanced to make a little speech,
but could think of nothing but the old school-day
formula; and so the stately introduction ended
abruptly but most effectively, as follows:
“As a token of our esteem and kindly feeling, and
as an expression of—of—I—we hereby present you
with—with the reward of merit;” and she emptied
the hat in the lady's lap.
Instead of graceful acknowledgement, and a
neatly worded speech in reply, Mrs. Dlimm burst
into tears, and springing up threw her arms around
Lottie's neck and kissed her, while the greenbacks
were scattered round their feet like an emerald
shower. Indeed the grateful little woman, in her
impulse, had stepped forward and upon the money.
The city belle, to her great surprise and vexation,
found that some spring of her own nature had been
touched, and that her eyes also were overflowing.
As she looked around deprecatingly, and half-ashamed,
she saw that there was a prospect of a
general shower and that many of the women were
sniffling audibly, and the brusque young farmer
stood near, looking as if he could more easily hold a
span of runaway horses than he could hold it
himself.
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At this moment Hemstead stepped forward, and
said:
“My friends, we can learn a lesson from this
scene, for it is true to our best nature, and very suggestive.
Your pastor's wife standing there upon
your gift that she may kiss the giver (for in this
instance Miss Marsden but represents you and your
feeling and action), is a beautiful proof that we value
more and are more blessed by the spirit of kindness
which prompts the gift, than by the gift itself. See,
she puts her foot on the gift, but takes the giver to
her heart. The needs of the heart—the soul, are
ever greater than those of the body, therefore she
acknowledges your kindness first, because with that
you have supplied her chief need. She does not
undervalue your gift, but values your kindness more.
Hereafter, as you supply the temporal need of your
pastor, as I believe you ever will, let all be provided
with the same honest kindness and sympathy. Let
us also all learn from this lady's action, to think of
the Divine Giver of all good, before his best earthly
gifts.”
Mrs. Dlimm had recovered herself sufficiently by
this time to turn to the people around her and say,
with a gentle dignity that would scarcely have been
expected from her:
“The gentleman has truly interpreted to you my
very heart. I do value the kindness more even than
the money which we needed so sorely. Our Christian
work among you will be more full of hope
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[figure description] Page 157.[end figure description]
and faith because of this scene, and therefore more
successful.”
Then, as from a sudden impulse, she turned and
spoke to Hemstead with quaint earnestness:
“You are a stranger, sir, but I perceive from
your noble courtesy and bearing—your power to
appreciate and bring out the best there is in us,
that you belong to the royal family of the Great
King. Your Master will reward you.”
Poor Hemstead, who thus far had forgotten himself
in his thought for others, was now suddenly and
painfully made conscious of his own existence, and
at once became the most helpless and awkward of
mortals, as he found all eyes turned toward him. He
was trying to escape from the room without stepping
on two or three people, to Lottie's infinite
amusement, though the tears stood in her eyes as
she laughed, when Mrs. Gubling, ignorant of all that
had happened, appeared from the kitchen, and created
a diversion in his favor.
The good woman looked as if pickles were the
only part of the donation supper, in which she had
indulged, and in a tone of ancient vinegar, said:
“Them as hasn't eaten, had better come and take
what they can git now.”
A roar of laughter greeted this rather forbidding
invitation. But before any one could reply, Mr.
Dlimm, red and breathless from his exertions, also
entered and with a faint smile and with the best
courtesy he could master under the trying circumstances,
added:
-- 158 --
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“I am sorry any of our friends should have been
kept waiting for supper. If they will now be so kind
as to step down, we will do the best we can for them.”
The good man was as puzzled as Mrs. Gubling
had been by a louder explosion of mirth. The stout
farmer whispered something to Lottie, and then he,
with an extravagant flourish, offered his arm to Mrs.
Gubling.
“Go 'long with you,” she said, giving him a push,
but he took her along with him, while Lottie brought
the parson to where his wife stood surrounded by
greenbacks like fallen leaves, which in the hurry of
events had not been picked up. The good man stared
at his wife with her tearful eyes, and Mrs. Gubling
stared at the money, and the people laughed and
clapped their hands as only hearty country people
can. Lottie caught the contagion, and laughed with
them till she was ashamed of herself, while the rest
of her party, except Hemstead, laughed at them and
the “whole absurd thing” as they styled it, though
Harcourt had a few better thoughts of his own.
Mrs. Rhamm's lank figure and curious face now
appeared from the kitchen in the desire to solve the
mystery of the strange sounds she heard, and the
unheard of delay in coming to supper. Lottie's coadjutor
at once pounced upon her, and escorted, or rather
dragged her to where she could see the money.
She stared a moment, and then, being near-sighted,
got down on her knees that she might look more
closely.
“She is going to pray to it,” cried the farmer
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and the simple people, aware of Mrs. Rhamm's devotion
to this ancient god, laughed as if Sidney
Smith had launched his wittiest sally.
“Mrs. Gubling,” continued the young man, “if
you are not chairman of the committee, you ought
to be, for you are the best man of the lot.”
“I'd have you know I'm no man at all. It's no
compliment to tell a woman she's sumpen like a
man,” interrupted Mrs. Gubling, sharply.
“Well, you've been a ministering angel to us all,
this evening; you can't deny that, and I now move
that you and the dominie be appointed a committee
to count this money and report.”
It was carried by acclamation.
“Now while the iron is hot, I'm going to strike
again. I move that we raise the dominie's salary to
a thousand a year. We all know, who know anything,
that he can't support his family decently on
six hundred.”
In the enthusiasm of the hour this was carried
also by those, who at the same time were wondering
at themselves and how it all came about. Strong
popular movements are generally surprises, but the
springs of united and generous action are ever within
reach, if one by skill or accident can touch them.
Even perverted human nature is capable of sweet
and noble harmonies, if rightly played upon.
-- 160 -- p668-165
CHAPTER XI. A POSSIBLE TRAGEDY.
[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]
WHILE the money was being counted, Lottie
led Mrs. Dlimm into the hall, and introduced
her to Hemstead, saying:
“This is the magician whose wand has transformed
us all.”
“You are the wand then,” he said, laughing.
“What is the wand without the magician?” she
asked, shyly watching the effect of her speech.
His quick blush bespoke the sensitive nature that
it was becoming her delight to play upon, but he
said:
“According to legends, magic power was exerted
in two ways, by a magician, as you suggested, and
by ordinary mortals who happened to find a wand or
spell or some potent secret by which they and any-one
could perform marvels. Now, I assure you that
I am the most ordinary of mortals, and without my
wand I could not conjure at all.”
Lottie gave him a look at this point which
heightened his color, but he continued:
“Miss Marsden, in her generosity, shall not give
to me the credit for events which I trust will add a
little sunlight to your life this winter, Mrs. Dlimm.
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It is to be shared chiefly by herself and that manly
young fellow there, who is a member of your church,
I suppose. It was Miss Marsden who brought us
the tidings of the evil out of which this good has
come. She not only took up the collection with such
a grace that no one could resist, but she suggested
the collection in the first place.”
“What do you know about my irresistible grace?
You haven't given me anything.”
“You will place me in an awkward dilemma if
you ask anything, for I have given you all the money
I have with me,” he said, laughing.
“Perhaps he would give himself,” said simple,
innocent Mrs. Dlimm, who, from Lottie's coquetry
and the expression of Hemstead's eyes, imagined
that an understanding or an engagement existed
between them.
Lottie laughed till the tears came, at Hemstead's
blushing confusion, but said after a moment:
“That would be a graceless request from me.”
“I don't think you would have to ask twice,”
whispered Mrs. Dlimm.
“Did you ever hear of the man who was given a
white elephant?” asked Lottie in her ear.
“No, what about him?” said Mrs. Dlimm,
simply.
Lottie laughed again, and putting her arm around
the little lady said, aloud:
“Mrs. Dlimm, you and your baby could go right
back to the Garden of Eden, and I rather think Mr.
Hemstead could be your escort.”
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“I trust we are all going to a far better place,'
she replied quickly.
“I fear I'm going the other way,” said Lottie,
shaking her head. But she was surprised at the
expression of honest trouble and sympathy that came
out upon the face of the pastor's wife.
“Miss Marsden does herself injustice,” said Hemstead
quickly. “You have seen her action. All that
I have seen of her accords with that.”
“But you have not known me two days yet altogether,”
said Lottie.
“No matter. The last time I was in a picturegallery,
I spent most of the time before one painting.
I did not require weeks to learn its character.”
“I shall judge you by your action, Miss Marsden,”
said Mrs. Dlimm, gratefully. “My creed forbids
me to think ill of any one, and my heart forbids
me to think ill of you. Those tears I saw in your
eyes a short time since, became you better than any
diamonds you will ever wear. They were nature's
ornaments, and proved that you were still nature's
child—that you had not in your city life grown
proud, and cold, and false. It is a rare and precious
thing to see outward beauty but the reflex of a
more lovely spirit. Keep that spirit, my dear, and
you will never lose your beauty even though you
grow old and faded as I am. I wish I could see you
again, for your full sunny life has done me more
good than I can tell you.”
Again, Lottie's warm heart and impulsive nature
-- 163 --
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betrayed her, and, before she thought, exclaimed in
sincerity:
“I wish I deserved what you say, and I might be
better if I saw more of such people as you and Mr.
Hemstead. If he will drive me over to-morrow, I
will come and see you. I think he will, for I havn't
told you that he is a minister, and would, no doubt
like to talk to your husband.”
“I might have known it,” said the little woman,
stepping forward and shaking Hemstead's hand most
cordially. “I congratulate you, sir. You have chosen
a princely calling—a royal one rather, and can tread
directly in the steps of the Son of God. I predict
for you success—the success a true minister craves.
You have the promise within you of winning many
from evil.”
“Believe me,” said he earnestly, “I would rather
have that power than to be a king.”
“You may well say that, sir,” she replied, with a
dignity that Lottie did not think her capable of.
“Any common man may have kingly power, and the
meanest have cursed the world with it. But the
power to win men from evil is godlike, and only the
godlike have it.”
Lottie looked curiously at the object of her practical
jest. The words of the pastor's wife seemed to
have drawn his thoughts away from the speaker and
herself, and fixed them on his future work and its
results. It is in such moments of abstraction—of
self-forgetfulness, when one's mind is dwelling on
life purposes and aims, that the spirit shines through
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the face, as through a transparency, and the true character
is seen. Lottie saw Hemstead's face grow so
noble and manly, so free from every trace of the
meanness of egotism and selfishness, that in the
depths of her soul she respected him as she had
never any man before. Instinctively she placed Julian
De Forrest, the rich and elegant idler, beside this
earnest man, self-consecrated to the highest effort,
and for the first time her soul revolted from her
cousin with something like disgust.
What she had imagined, became real at that moment,
and De Forrest appeared, looking bored and
uneasy.
“I have found you at last,” he said; “we became
so wedged in the parlor, that there was no getting
out, but now they have completed the laborious task
of counting a sum that a bank clerk would run over
in two minutes, and it is to be announced with a
final flourish of trumpets. Then the stingy clodhoppers
that you have inveigled into doing something
that they will repent of with groanings that
cannot be uttered to-morrow, will go home resolving
to pinch and save till they make good what they
have given.” He then added carelessly to Mrs.
Dlimm, not waiting for an introduction, “I am surprised
that you and your husband are willing to stay
among such a people.”
Before she could answer, he said to Lottie,
“Are you ready to go home? Harcourt and Addie
say we ought to start at once.”
Lottie was provoked at his rudeness, and
-- 165 --
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furtively watched Mrs. Dlimm's face, to see what impression
he made upon her. Indeed her face was a
study for a moment as she measured De Forrest's
proportions with a slow, sweeping glance, which he
thought one of admiration. But instead of turning
contemptuously or resentfully away, her face was
pitiful.
They were now summoned to hear the result, but
Lottie found opportunity to whisper to Mrs. Dlimm:
“What do you think of him?”
“I don't know what to think. It is painfully
evident that he is not a man.”
Mrs. Dlimm's verdict had a weight with Lottie
that she would hardly have believed possible a few
hours before. There was a quaint simplicity and
sincerity about her, an unworldliness, that gave her
words something of the authority of the other world.
The abstraction that had been on Hemstead's
face passed to Lottie's, and she heard with inattentive
ear the young farmer say with hearty emphasis:
“We present you, as an expression of our goodwill,
with two hundred and fifty dollars.”
She heard, but still did not heed the pastor's
grateful reply. De Forrest whispered to her often,
but her brow only contracted at his interruption to
her busy thought. Suddenly, she noted Hemstead's
eye resting on her with a questioning expression.
Then with a seeming effort she came out of her
reverie, and tried to be her old self again.
When Mr. Dlimm ceased, the farmer called out
heartily:
-- 166 --
[figure description] Page 166.[end figure description]
“Good for you, dominie. Now I call for a vote
of thanks to the stranger who showed us a way out
of our scrape. I understand that his name is the
Rev. Mr. Hemstead. Also a vote of thanks to such a
young lady as the city doesn't often send us, who, if
she will permit a country compliment, is like the rose,
good enough for a king, yet sweet to all. I call on
both for a speech.”
Lottie, blushing and laughing, declared that she
was one who believed “that a woman should keep
silence in meeting,” and requested Hemstead to
answer for both.
“Miss Marsden does not need words,” said Hemstead.
“She has a better kind of eloquence, and
speaks to us through good and kindly deeds. My
part in the happy results of this evening is slight. It
is comparatively easy to suggest good and generous
action, but it is harder to perform. It is one thing to
preach, and quite another to practise. You have
had the hard part—the practising, and yet have done
it as if it were not hard, as duty seldom is when performed
in the right spirit; and therefore deserve the
greater credit. If what you have done from generous
impulse to-night, you will henceforth do from steady
principle, you will all have cause to remember this
evening gratefully. That `it is more blessed to
give than receive' is true, not only because the
Bible declares it, but because human experience
proves it.”
Loud applause followed these words, and then
the farmer said:
-- 167 --
[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]
Now, Mr. Harcourt, you are welcome to publish
all you have seen at Scrub Oaks to-night.
At this Harcourt stepped forward and said:
“Although not called on for a speech, I shall
make a short one. I have learned a thing or two
this evening. When I make a blunder I am not
ashamed to acknowledge it. Mr. Hemstead and I
both wished to bring about the same thing, only I
went about it the wrong way, and he the right.
What I then said as a threat, I now say as a promise.
I shall write for our county paper a report of
this meeting, and it will be greatly to your credit.
I take back my former harsh words. I congratulate
you on your action, and commend you for it.”
“Give me your hand on that,” cried the farmer.
“Three cheers for Tom Harcourt. If you are ever
up for office, sir, you may count on the vote of Scrub
Oaks.”
Thus with cheery laughter and mutual good feeling,
the eventful donation party broke up, leaving a
happier family in the little parsonage than ever dwelt
there before.
In a few moments the party from Mrs. Marchmont's
were on the road, though it proved difficult
to hold the chilled and spirited horses long enough
for them to get seated. De Forrest again took his
place by Lottie, but she determined to make the
conversation general.
“I've had a splendid time,” she exclaimed, “and
am very much obliged to you, Addie and Mr. Harcourt,
for bringing me.”
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“I'm glad you enjoyed yourself,” said Addie,
“and hope that you have now had enough of the
`other set,' as you call them. I don't see how you
can endure them.”
“Nor I either,” said Bel, “although I suppose we
ought to mingle with them occasionally. But I am
tired to death.”
“I was disgusted with them from first to last,”
said De Forrest; “the uncouth, ill-bred crew. I
couldn't endure to see you, Miss Lottie, going around
with that clod-hopper of a farmer, and worst of all,
how could you touch that great mountain of flesh
they called Auntie Lammer?”
“Many men of many minds,” trilled out Lottie;
but she thought of Hemstead's treatment of the
poor old creature in contrast.
“Whoa there, steady now,” cried Harcourt to
the horses; and Hemstead, though sitting with his
back to him, noted that he was too much engrossed
with their management to speak often, even to Addie
who sat beside him.
“Mr. Hemstead said that Auntie Lammer was
more than a duchess,” added Lottie laughing.
“True, she's a monster. But what did Mr. Hemstead
call her?”
“He said she was a `woman,' and was as polite
as if paying homage to universal womanhood.”
“I think,” said De Forrest satirically, “that Mr.
Hemstead might have found a better, if not a larger
type of `universal womanhood' to whom he could
have paid his homage. I was not aware that he
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[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]
regarded bulk as the most admirable quality in
woman. Well, he does not take a narrow view of
the sex. His ideal is large.”
“Come, Mr. De Forrest,” said Hemstead, “your
wit is as heavy as Mrs. Lammer herself, and she
nearly broke my back going down stairs.”
“Oh, pardon me. It was your back that suffered.
I thought it was your heart. How came you to be
so excessively polite then?”
“I think Miss Marsden is indulging in a bit of
fun at my expense. Of course a gentleman ought
to be polite to any and every woman, because she is
such. Would it be knightly or manly to bow to a
duchess, and treat some poor obscure woman as if
she was scarcely human? Chivalry,” continued he,
laughing, “devoted itself to woman in distress, and
if ever a woman's soul was burdened, Aunt Lammer's
must be. But how do you account for this, Mr.
De Forrest? It was Miss Marsden that took pity
on the poor creature and summoned me to her aid.
She was more polite and helpful than I.”
“I have just said to her that I do not understand
how she can do such things save in the spirit of
mischief,” he replied, discontentedly. “It really
pained me all the evening to see you in contact with
such people,” he added tenderly, aside to Lottie.
“Well, I can understand it,” said Hemstead,
emphatically.
“I suppose Mr. Hemstead believes in the brotherhood,
and therefore the sisterhood of the race. I
was, in his estimation, taking care of one of my little
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[figure description] Page 170.[end figure description]
sisters;” and Lottie's laugh trilled out upon the still
night.
“Whoa now, steady, steady. I tell you,” cried
Harcourt; and all noted that at Lottie's shrill laugh
the horses sprang into a momentary gallop.
After a moment Hemstead replied, “You are
nearer right than you think. In weakness, helplessness,
and childish ignorance, she was a little sister.”
“Well, so be it. I have had enough of Mrs.
Lammer, and undeserved praise. Now all join in
the chorus.
“Three fishers—” and she sang the well-known
song, and was delighted when Hemstead, for the first
time, let out his rich musical bass.
But before they had sung through the first stanza,
Harcourt turned and said:
“You must be still, or I can't manage the
horses.”
In fact, they were going at a tremendous pace,
and Hemstead noted that Harcourt was nervous and
excited. But no one apprehended any danger.
“How cold and distant the stars seem on a
winter evening,” said Lottie, after a moment's
silence “It always depresses me to come out into
the night after an evening of gayety and nonsense.
There is a calm majesty about the heavens which
makes my frivolity seem contemptible. The sky to-night
reminds me of a serene, cold face looking at me
in silent scorn. How fearfully far off those stars are;
and yet you teach, do you not, Mr. Hemstead, that
heaven is beyond them?”
-- 171 --
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“But that Limbo,” added De Forrest, with a
satirical laugh, `is right at hand in the centre of
the earth, and therefore handy.”
“The real heaven, Miss Marsden,” said Hemstead
gently, “is where there are happy, trusting
hearts. Where the locality is I do not know. As
to that nether world, if you know its location you
know more than I do, Mr. De Forrest. I don't propose
to have anything to do with it. Prisons may
be a painful necessity, but we don't fear them nor
propose to go to them. On the same principle
we need not trouble ourselves about God's prison
house.”
At this moment, from an adjacent farm-house, a
large dog came bounding out with clamorous barking.
The excited horses were ready at the slightest
provocation to run, and now broke into a furious
gallop. Harcourt sawed on the bits and shouted to
them in vain. He was slight in build, and not very
strong. Moreover, he had grown nervous and chilled
and had lost his own self-control, and of course could
not control the powerful creatures that were fast
passing from mere excitement into the wild terror
which is akin to a panic among men when once they
give way before danger.
“Good God!” exclaimed Harcourt, after a moment.
“I can't hold them, and we are near the top
of a long hill with two sharp turnings on the side of
a steep bank, and there's a bridge at the bottom.
Whoa! curse you, whoa!”
But they tore on the more recklessly. Bel and
-- 172 --
[figure description] Page 172.[end figure description]
Addie commenced screaming, and this increased the
fright of the horses. Hemstead looked searchingly
for a moment at Lottie, and saw with a thrill that
her white face was turned to him and not to De
Forrest.
“Is there danger?” she asked, in a low tone.
“Good God!” exclaimed Harcourt again, “I
can't hold them.
Hemstead rose instantly, and turning with care in
the swaying sleigh braced himself by planting one
foot on the middle of the seat. He then said
quietly:
“Will you give me the reins, Mr. Harcourt? I
am well braced and quite strong. Perhaps I can
manage them.”
Harcourt relinquished the reins instantly.
“Hush!” Hemstead said sternly to Addie and
Bel, and they became quiet, the weaker minds submitting
to the roused and master mind.
Fortunately the trouble had occurred where there
was a straight and level road, and a little of this still
remained. The question with Hemstead was whether
he could get control of the rushing steeds before they
reached the hill.
-- 173 -- p668-178
CHAPTER XII. MISS MARSDEN ASKS SOMBRE QUESTIONS.
[figure description] Page 173.[end figure description]
LOTTIE MARSDEN, although greatly alarmed
by their critical situation, was naturally too
courageous to give way utterly to fear, and not so
terrified but that she could note all Hemstead did;
and for some reason believed he would be equal to
the emergency. His confidence, moreover, communicated
itself to her. She saw that he did not jerk or
saw on the reins at first, but bracing his large powerful
frame drew steadily back, and that the horses
yielded somewhat to his masterful grasp.
“Pull,” cried Harcourt excitedly; “you can hold
them.”
“Yes, jerk their cursed heads off,” shouted De
Forrest, in a way that proved his self-control was
nearly gone.
“Hush, I tell you,” said Hemstead in a low
tone. “I might break the lines if I exerted my
whole strength. Then where would we be? I don't
wish to put any more strain upon them than I must.
See, they are giving in more and more.”
“But the hill is near,” said Harcourt.
“You must let me manage in my own way,” said
Hemstead. “Not another sound from any one.”
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[figure description] Page 174.[end figure description]
Then in a firm tone, strong but quiet like his
grasp upon the reins, he spoke to the horses. In
three minutes more he had them prancing with many
a nervous start, but completely under his control
down the first descent of the hill.
“Will you take the reins again?” he said to
Harcourt.
“No, hang it all. You are a better horseman
than I am.”
“Not at all, Mr. Harcourt. I am heavier and
stronger than you probably, and so braced that I had
a great advantage. You had no purchase on them,
and were chilled by long driving.”
“Where did you learn to manage horses?”
asked Lottie.
“On our Western farm. We had plenty of them.
A horse is almost human—you must be very firm
and very kind.”
“Is that the way to treat the `human,'” said
Lottie, her bold and somewhat reckless spirit having
so far recovered itself as to enable her to laugh.
“Yes, for a man, if he attempts to manage at all;
but I suppose the majority of us are managed, if we
would only acknowledge it. What chance has a
man with a coaxing, clever woman?”
“Look there,” said Harcourt, as they were turning
the first sharp angle in the road to which he had
referred. “Where would we have been if we had
gone round this point at our speed when I held the
reins?”
The steep embankment, with grim rocks
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[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]
protruding from the snow and gnarled trunks of trees, was
anything but inviting.
“Come, De Forrest,” continued Harcourt, “brush
up your mathematics. At what angle, and with
what degree of force, would we have swooped down
there on a tangent, when the horses rounded this
curve.”
“O-o-h!” exclaimed Lottie, looking shudderingly
down the steep bank at the bottom of which brawled
a swift stream among ice-capped rocks. “It's just the
place for a tragedy. We were talking about heaven
and the other place when the horses started, were
we not? Perhaps we were nearer one or the other
of them than we supposed.”
“Oh hush, Lottie,” cried Bel, still sobbing and
trembling; “I wish we had remained at home.”
“I echo that wish most decidedly,” muttered
De Forrest. “The whole evening has been like a
nightmare.”
“I am sorry my expedition has been a source of
wretchedness to every-one,” said Lottie coldly.
“Not every-one, I'm sure,” said Hemstead. “Certainly
not to me. Besides, your expedition has made
a pastor and a whole parish happy, and I also dimly
foresee a seat in Congress for Harcourt as a result.”
“Very dimly indeed,” laughed Harcourt. “Still,
now that our necks are safe, thanks to Mr. Hemstead,
I'm glad I went. Human nature lies on the surface
out at Scrub Oaks, and one can learn much about it
in a little while. Come, little coz, cheer up,” he said
to Addie, drawing her closer to him. “See, we are
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[figure description] Page 176.[end figure description]
down the hill and across the bridge. No danger of
the horses running up the long hill before us, and by
the time they reach the top they will be glad to go
the rest of the way quietly.
“You had better take the reins again, Mr. Harcourt,”
said Hemstead.
“Oh, Mr. Hemstead, please drive,” cried the ladies
in chorus.
“No,” said he; “Mr. Harcourt is as good a driver
as I am. It was only a question of strength before.”
“The majority is against me,” laughed Harcourt.
“I won't drive any more to-night. You take my
place.”
“Well, if you all wish it; but there's no need.”
“Let me come over, too, and sit between you and
Bel,” said Addie eagerly.
“No, she can sit with Julian,” said Lottie, “and
I will go to Mr. Hemstead. He shall not be left
alone.”
“Oh, Miss Lottie, please forgive me, pleaded De
Forrest; “I did not mean what I said a moment
since.”
“Well, I'll forgive you, but shall punish you a
little. Stop the horses again, Mr. Hemstead, that is,
if you don't object to my company.”
The horses stopped very suddenly.
“Please don't leave me,” said De Forrest.
“It's only carrying out the mischief we plotted,
you know,” she whispered.
“Well, I submit on that ground only,” he replied
discontentedly, and with a shade of doubt in his
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[figure description] Page 177.[end figure description]
mind. It seemed very strange even to him, that
Lottie could coolly continue to victimize one who
had just rendered them so great a service. But the
truth was, that she, in her desire to escape from him,
had said what she thought would be apt to quiet his
objections without much regard for the truth. She
hardly recognized her own motive for wishing to sit
by Hemstead, beyond that she was grateful, and
found him far more interesting than the egotistical
lover, who to-day, for some reason, had proved him
self very wearisome.
Hemstead heard nothing of this, and was much
pleased when Lottie stepped lightly over and took
her place sociably at his side.
“It's very kind of you,” he said.
“I didn't come, out of kindness,” she replied, in a
low tone for his ear alone.
“Why then?”
“Because I wanted to.”
“I like that reason better still.”
“And with good reason. Will you take me again
over this awful road to see Mrs. Dlimm?”
“With great pleasure.”
“But it's such a long drive. You will get cold
driving.”
“Oh, no, not if you will talk to me so pleasantly.'
“I won't promise how I'll talk. In fact I never
know what I'll do when with you. You made me act
very silly this afternoon.”
“Is a flower silly when it blooms?”
“What do you mean?”
-- 178 --
[figure description] Page 178.[end figure description]
“You wished you were better.”
“Oh, I see; but suppose I would like to remain—
for awhile at least—a wicked, little, undeveloped
bud?”
“You can't. The bud must either bloom or
wither.”
“Oh, how dismal! Were you afraid, Mr. Hemstead,
when the horses were running! I was.”
“I was anxious. It certainly was a critical
moment with that hill before us.”
“How queer that we should have been talking of
the future state just then. Suppose that, instead of
sitting here cosily by you, I were lying on those
rocks over there, or floating in that icy stream bleeding
and dead?”
He turned and gave her a surprised look, and she
saw the momentary glitter of a tear in his eye.
“Please do not call up such awful pictures,” he
said.
She was in a strangely excited and reckless mood,
and did not understand herself. Forces that she
would be long in comprehending were at work in
her mind.
Partly for the sake of the effect upon him, and
partly as the outgrowth of her strange mood, she
continued, in a low tone which the others could
not hear:
“If that had happened, where would I have been
now? Just think of it, my body lying over there in
this wild gorge, and, I myself, going away alone this
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wintry night—where should I have gone—where
would I be now?”
“In paradise, I trust,” he replied, bending upon
her a searching look. Either his imagination or her
thoughts gave her face a strange expression as seen
in the uncertain moonlight. It suggested the awed
and trembling curiosity with which she might have
gone forward to meet the dread realities of the unknown
world. A great pity—an intense desire to
shield and rescue her—filled his soul.
“Miss Marsden,” he said, in a tone that thrilled her
in connection with the image called up, “your own
words seem to portray you standing on the brink of
a fathomless abyss into which you are looking with
fear and dread.”
“You understand me perfectly,” she said; “that
is just where I stand, but it is like looking out into
one of those Egyptian nights that swallow up everything,
and there is nothing but a great blank of
darkness.”
“It must be so,” said Hemstead, sighing deeply.
“Only the clear eyes of faith can see across the
gulf. But you are a brave girl to stand and look into
the gulf.”
“Why should I not look into it?” she asked, in a
reckless tone. “I've been brought face to face with
it to-night, and perhaps shall soon be again. It's
always there. If I had to go over Niagara, I should
want to go with my eyes open.”
“But if you were in the rapids above the falls,
would you not permit a strong hand to lift you out?
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Why should you look down into the gulf? Why not
look up to heaven. That is `always there' just as
truly.”
“Do you feel sure that you would have gone to
neaven if you had been killed to-night?”
“Yes, perfectly sure.”
“You are very good.”
“No; but God is.”
“A good God ought to prevent such awful things.”
“He did, in this case.”
“No; you prevented it.”
“Suppose the horses had started to run at the
top of the hill instead of where it was level; suppose
a line had broken; suppose the horses had taken the
bits in their teeth—I could not hold two such powerful
animals. Do you not see that many things
might have happened so that no human hand could
do anything, and that it would be easy for an all-powerful
being to so arrange and shape events that
we would either escape or suffer, as He chose, in
spite of all that we could do. I am glad to think
that I can never be independent of Him.”
“If it was God's will that they should stop, what
was the use of your doing anything?”
“It is ever God's will that we should do our best
in all emergencies. He will help only those who try
to help themselves. He calls us his children, not
his machines. The point I wish to make is, that
when we do our best, which is always required of us,
we are still dependent upon Him.”
“I never had it made so plain before. The fact
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is, Mr. Hemstead, I don't know much about God,
and I don't half understand myself. This day seems
like an age. I have had so many strange experiences
since I stood with you in the breakfast-room
this morning, and have been near, perhaps, still
stranger experiences for which I feel little prepared,
that I am excited and bewildered. I fear you think
very poorly of me.”
“You do often puzzle me very greatly, Miss
Marsden,” he replied. “But I think you are prone
to do yourself injustice. Still that is far better than
hypocritical seeming. Whatever your fault is, you
proved to me last night, and most conclusively again
this evening, that you have a kind generous heart.
More than all, you have shown yourself capable of
the noblest things.”
Lottie made no reply, but sat silent for some
time; and, having reached the level once more, Hemstead
gave his attention to the horses, till satisfied
that they recognized their master and would give no
further trouble.
“Won't you sing again?” he asked.
“Yes, if you will sing with me.”
“I would rather listen, but will accept your condition
when I can.”
She would only sing what he knew, and noted
in pleased surprise that his musical culture was by
no means trifling.
“How could you take time from your grave theological
studies for such a comparatively trifling thing
as music?” she asked.
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“Some practical knowledge of music is no trifling
matter with me,” he replied. “In view of my prospective
field of work, next to learning to preach,
learning to sing is the most important. I shall have
to start the hymns, as a general thing, and often sing
them alone.”
“How can you look forward to such a life?”
“I can look forward in grateful gladness. I only
wish I were more worthy of my work.”
“Did I not know your sincerity I should say that
was affectation.”
“Who was it that preached to the `common people,
' and in the obscure little towns of Palestine eighteen
centuries ago? Am I better than my Master?”
“You are far better than I am. No one has ever
talked to me as you have. I might have been different
if they had.”
“Miss Marsden,” said Hemstead earnestly, as
they were driving up the avenue to the Marchmont
residence, “when you stood beside me this morning
I pointed you to a world without, whose strange and
marvellous beauty excited your wonder and delight.
You seem to me on the border of a more beautiful
world—the spiritual world of love and faith in God,
If I could only show you that, I would esteem it the
greatest joy of my life.”
“That is a world I do not understand; nor am
I worthy to enter it,” she said in sudden bitterness,
“and I fear I never will be; and yet I thank you
all the same.”
A few moments later they were sitting round
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the parlor fire, recounting the experiences of the
evening.
Before entering the house Lottie had said:
“Let us say nothing about runaway horses to
aunt and uncle, or they may veto future drives.”
To Hemstead's surprise Lottie seemed in one of
her gayest moods, and he was reluctantly compelled
to think her sketch of the people at the donation a
little satirical and unfeeling. But while she was
portraying Hemstead as the hero of the occasion, she
had the tact to make no reference to Harcourt. But
he generously stated the whole case, adding with a
light laugh, that he had learned once for all that
coaxing and wheedling were better than driving.”
“Appealing to their better natures, you mean,”
said Hemstead.
“Yes, that is the way you would put it.”
“I think it's the true way.”
“Perhaps it is. Human nature has its good side
if one can only find it, but I'm satisfied that it won't
drive well.”
“I think work among such people the most hopeless
and discouraging thing in the world” said Mrs.
Marchmont, yawning.
“It don't seem to me so, aunt,” said Hemstead.
“On the contrary, are not people situated as they
are peculiarly open to good influences? Next to
gospel truth, I think the influence of refined, cultured
families could do more for the people at Scrub Oaks
than anything else. If they did not alienate the
plain people by exclusiveness and pride, they would
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soon tone them up and refine away uncouthness and
unconscious vulgarity in manners. Let me give you
a practical instance of this that occurred to-night. I
asked a pretty young girl why she and the little
group around her had given up the kissing games,
and she replied that `Miss Marsden had said that no
lady played such games, and she wouldn't any more.'
Young people are quick and imitative, and I noticed
that they watched Miss Marsden as if she were a
revelation to them, and many, no doubt, obtained
ideas of lady-like bearing and manner that were
entirely new to them, but which they will instinctively
adopt. I think she would be surprised if she
could foresee how decided and lasting an influence
this brief visit of one evening will have on many that
were present.”
“But refined people of standing cannot meet
with such a class socially,” replied his aunt with
emphasis. “Such a mixing up would soon bring
about social anarchy. Lottie is a little peculiar, and
went there as a stranger upon a frolic.”
“Now, auntie, that designation `peculiar' is a
very doubtful compliment.”
“I didn't mean it for one, my dear, though I
meant no reproach in it. You get too many compliments
as it is. Frank, like all young, inexperienced
people, has many impractical ideas, that time
will cure. Young enthusiasts of every age are going
to turn the world upside down, but I note it goes on
very much the same.”
“I think evil has turned the world upside down,”
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said Hemstead. “The wrong side is up now, and it
is our duty to turn the right side back again. We
can't carry exclusiveness beyond this brief life.
Why, then, make it so rigid here? Jesus Christ
lived the model life for all the world, and though
chief of all, he was the friend of all.”
“Oh, well,” said Mrs. Marchmont in some confusion,
“we can't expect to be like Him. Then
what is appropriate in one place and age is not in
another.”
“No, indeed, Mr. Hemstead,” said Lottie, with
twinkling eyes. “I'd have you to understand that
the religion appropriate to our place and age is one
that pleases us.”
“I didn't say that, Lottie,” said Mrs. Marchmont
with some irritation.
“Very true, auntie, but I did! and as far as I
can judge, it's true in New York, whatever may be
the case in the country. But come, we've had supper,
and have kept you and uncle up too late already.
Kiss your saucy niece good-night; perhaps I'll be
better, one of these days.”
“If kissing will make you better, come here to
me,” said Mr. Dimmerly. “I wouldn't mind doing
a little missionary work of that kind.”
“No, indeed,” laughed Harcourt; “we'll all turn
missionaries on those terms.”
“Yes,” said De Forrest, “I'll promise to be a
devoted missionary all my life.”
“There, I said that you would have a religion
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you liked,” retorted Lottie, pirouetting to the dining-room
door. “But I'm too far gone for any such
mild remedies. There's Bel, she's trying to be good.
You may all kiss her;” and with a look at Hemstead
he did not understand, she vanished.
-- 187 -- p668-192
CHAPTER XIII. A LOVER QUENCHED.
[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]
BEL followed her friend to their room, full of
irritable reproaches. But Lottie puzzled her
again, as she had before that day. Gayety vanished
from the face as light from a clouded landscape,
and with an expression that was even scowling
and sullen she sat brooding before the fire, heeding
Bel's complaining words no more than she would the
patter of rain against the window.
Then Bel changed the tune; retaining the same
minor key, however.
“I suppose now that you will give up your
shameful plot against Mr. Hemstead, as a matter of
course.”
“I don't know what I'll do,” snapped Lottie.
“Don't know what you'll do! Why he about
the same as saved our lives this evening.”
“He saved his own at the same time.”
“Well,” said Bel exasperatingly, “I wish Mr.
Hemstead and all who heard the fine speeches about
your `kind, generous heart' could hear you now.”
“I wish they could,” said Lottie recklessly.
“They couldn't have a worse opinion of me than I
have of myself.”
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“But what do you intend to do about Mr. Hemstead?”
“I don't intend to do anything about him. I
half wish I had never seen him.”
“That you can trifle with him after what has
happened to-night, is something that I did not think,
even of you, Lottie Marsden.”
“I haven't said I was going to `trifle with him.
He's a man you can't trifle with. The best thing I
can do, is to let him alone.”
“That is just what I think.”
“Very well then, go to sleep and be quiet.”
“How long are you going to sit `mooning
there?”
“Till morning, if I wish. Don't bother me.”
“After coming so near having your neck broken,
you ought to be in a better frame of mind.”
“So had you. Neither breaking my neck nor
coming near it will convert me.”
“Well, I hope you will get through your moods
and tenses to-day. You have had more than I ever
remember within so short a time;” with this comforting
statement, Bel left her friend to herself, who
sat staring into the fire, in the most discontented
manner.
“`Capable of the noblest things,' indeed,” she
thought. “I would like to know who is capable of
meaner things. And now what do you intend to do,
Lottie Marsden? Going on with your foolish, childish
jest, after the fun has all faded out of it? If you
do, you will make a fool of yourself instead of him.
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He is not the man you thought he was, at all. He
is your superior in every respect, save merely in the
ease which comes from living in public instead of
seclusion, and in all his diffidence there has been
nothing so rude and ill-bred as Julian's treatment of
Mrs. Dlimm. Julian indeed! He's but a well-dressed
little manikin beside this large-minded man,” and
she scowled more darkly than ever at the fire.
“But what shall I do? I can't be such a Christian
as Bel is. I would rather not be one at all.
What's more, I cannot bring my mind to decide to
be such a Christian as Mr. Hemstead is. I would
have to change completely, and give up my old self-pleasing
and wayward life, and that seems like giving
up life itself. Religion is a bitter medicine that I
must take some time or other. But the idea of
sobering down at my time of life!”
“But you may not live to see age. Think what
a risk you ran to-night,” urged conscience.
“Well, I must take my chances. A plague on
that Hemstead! I can't be with him ten minutes but
he makes me uncomfortable in doing wrong. All was
going smoothly till he came, and life was one long
frolic. Now he has got my conscience all stirred up
so that between them both I shall have little comfort.
I won't go with him to Mrs. Dlimm's to-morrow.
He will talk religion to me all the time, and I, like a
big baby, will cry, and he will think I am on the eve
of conversion, and perhaps will offer to take me out
among the border ruffians as an inducement. If I
want to live my old life, and have a good time, the
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less I see of Frank Hemstead the better, for somehow
or other, when I am with him I can't help seeing
that he is right, and feeling mean in my wrong. I
will just carry out my old resolution, and act as badly
as I can. He will then see what I am, and let me
alone.”
Having formed this resolution, Lottie slept as
sweetly as innocence itself.
To Hemstead, with his quiet and regular habits,
the day had been long and exciting, and he was
exceedingly weary; and yet thoughts of the brilliant
and beautiful girl, who bewildered, fascinated, and
awoke his sympathy at the same time, kept him
awake till late. Every scene in which they had been
together was lived over in all its minutiæ, and his conclusions
were favorable. As he had said to her, she
seemed “capable of the noblest things.” And the
fact that she appeared so open to the truth and so
impressible, inspired the strongest hope.
“She never has had a chance,” he thought. “She
never has given truth a fair hearing, probably having
had slight opportunity to do so. From the little I
have seen and heard, it seems to me that the rich
and fashionable are as neglected—indeed it would
appear more difficult to bring before them the simple
and searching gospel of Christ, than the very poor.”
Hemstead determined that he would be faithful
and would bring the truth to her attention in every
possible way, feeling that if during this holiday visit
he could win such a trophy for the cause to which he
had devoted himself, it would be an event that would
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[figure description] Page 191.[end figure description]
shed a cheering light down to the very end of his
life.
It was a rather significant fact, which did not
occur to him, however, that his zeal and interest were
almost entirely concentrated on Lottie. His cousin
Addie, and indeed all the others, seemed equally in
need.
It must be confessed that some sinners are much
more interesting than others, and Hemstead had
never met one half so interesting as Lottie.
And yet his interest in her was natural. He had
not reached that lofty plane from which he could
look down with equal sympathy for all. Do any
reach it, in this world?
Lottie had seemed kind to him when others had
been cold and slightly scornful. He had come to see
clearly that she was not a Christian, and that she was
not by any means faultless through the graces of
nature. But she had given ample proof that she had
a heart which could be touched, and a mind capable
of appreciating and being aroused by the truth. That
her kindness to him was only hollow acting, he never
dreamed, and it was well for her that he did not
suspect her falseness, for with all her beauty he would
have revolted from her at once. He could forgive
anything sooner than the meanness of deception. If
he discovered the practical joke, it would be a sorry
jest for Lottie, for she would have lost a friend who
appeared able to help her; and he, in his honest indignation,
would have given her a portrait of herself that
-- 192 --
[figure description] Page 192.[end figure description]
would have humiliated her proud spirit in a way that
could never be forgotten.
But with the unquenchable hope of youth in his
heart, and his boundless faith in God, he expected
that, at no distant day, Lottie's remarkable beauty
would be the index of a truer spiritual loveliness.
But, as is often the case, the morning dispelled
the dreams of the night, to a degree that quite perplexed
and disheartened him. Lottie's greeting in
the breakfast-room was not very cordial, and she
seemed to treat him with cool indifference throughout
the whole meal. There was nothing that the
others would note, but something that he missed
himself. Occasionally, she would make a remark
that would cause him to turn toward her with a look
of pained surprise, which both vexed and amused
her; but he gave no expression to his feelings, save
that he became grave and silent.
After breakfast Lottie said nothing to him about
their visit to Mrs. Dlimm, from which he expected so
much. Having waited some time in the parlor, he
approached her timidly as she was passing through
the hall, and said:
“When would you like to start upon our proposed
visit?”
“Oh, I forgot to say to you, Mr. Hemstead,” she
replied rather carelessly, “that I've changed my
mind. It's a very long drive, and, after all, Mrs.
Dlimm is such an utter stranger to me, that I scarcely
care to go.”
But under her indifferent seeming, she was
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[figure description] Page 193.[end figure description]
watching keenly to see how he would take this
rebuff. He flushed deeply, but to her surprise, only
bowed acquiescence, and turned to the parlor. She
expected that he would remonstrate, and endeavor to
persuade her to carry out her agreement. She was
accustomed to pleading and coaxing on the part of
young men, to whom, however, she granted her
favors according to her moods and wishes. While
she saw that he was deeply hurt and disappointed,
his slightly cold and silent bow was a different expression
of his feeling than she desired. She wanted
to take the ride, and might have been persuaded into
going, in spite of her purpose to keep aloof, and she
was vexed with him that he did not urge her as
De Forrest would have done.
Therefore the spoiled and capricious beauty went
up to her room more “out of sorts” than ever, and
sulkily resolved that she would not appear till dinner.
In the mean time, Hemstead went to his aunt
and informed her that he would take the morning
train for New York, and would not return till the
following evening.
“Very well, Frank,” she replied; “act your pleasure.
Come and go as you like.”
The good lady was entertaining her nephew more
from a sense of duty than anything else. From
their difference in tastes, he added little to her
enjoyment, and was sometimes a source of discomfort;
and so would not be missed.
Lottie had a desperately long and dismal time
of it. Either the book she tried to read was stupid,
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[figure description] Page 194.[end figure description]
or there was something wrong with her. At last she
impatiently sent it flying across the room, and
went to the window. The beautiful winter morning
aggravated her still more.
“Suppose he had talked religion to me,” she
thought, “he at least makes it interesting, and anything
would have been better than moping here.
What a fool I was, not to go! What a fool I am, anyway!
He is the only one I ever did act toward as a
woman might and ought—even in jest. He is the
only one that ever made me wish I were a true
woman, instead of a vain flirt; and the best thing
my wisdom could devise after I found out his beneficent
power, was to give him a slap in the face, and
shut myself up with a stupid novel. `Capable of
noble things!' I imagine he has changed his mind
this morning.
“Well, what if he has? A plague upon him! I
wish he had never come, or I had stayed in New
York. I foresee that I am going to have an awfully
stupid time here in the country.”
Thus she irritably chafed, through the long hours.
She would not go down stairs as she wished to,
because she had resolved that she would not. But
she half purposed to try and bring about the visit to
Mrs. Dlimm in the afternoon, if possible, and would
now go willingly, if asked.
At the first welcome sound of the dinner bell she
sped down stairs, and glanced into the parlor hoping
he might be there, and that in some way she might
still bring about the ride. But she only found De
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[figure description] Page 195.[end figure description]
Forrest yawning over a newspaper, and had to endure
his sentimental reproaches that she had absented
herself so long from him.
“Come to dinner,” was her only and rather prosaic
response. But De Forrest went cheerfully, for
dinner was something that he could enjoy under any
circumstances.
To Lottie's disappointment, Mr. Dimmerly mumbled
grace, and still Hemstead did not appear. For
some reason she did not like to ask where he was,
and was provoked at herself because of her hesitancy.
The others who knew of his departure, supposed she
was aware of it also. At last her curiosity gained
the mastery, and she asked her aunt with an indifference,
not so well assumed but that her color heightened
a little:
“Where is Mr. Hemstead?”
“He went down to the city,” replied Mrs. Marchmont
carelessly.
The impulsive girl's face showed her disappointment
and vexation, but she saw that quick-eyed Bel
was watching her. She wished her friend back in
New York; and, with partial success, sought to appear
as usual.
“Oh, dear,” she thought, “what shall I do with
myself this afternoon. I can't endure Julian's mooning.
I wish Mr. Harcourt was here, so we could get
up some excitement.” Without excitement Lottie
was as dull and wretched as all victims of stimulants,
left to their own resources.
But the fates were against her. Harcourt would
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[figure description] Page 196.[end figure description]
not be back till evening and she did not know when
Hemstead would return. Addie and Bel vanished
after dinner, and De Forrest offered to read to her.
She assented, having no better prospect.
She ensconced herself luxuriously under an afghan
upon the sofa, while the persistent lover, feeling that
this would be his favored opportunity, determined to
lay close siege to her heart, and win a definite promise,
if possible. For this purpose he chose a romantic
poem, which, at a certain point, had a very tender
and love-infused character. Here he purposed to
throw down the book in a melodramatic manner,
and pass from the abstract to reality, and from the
third person to the first. He was more familiar with
stage effects than anything else, and had planned a
pretty little scene. As Lottie reclined upon the
sofa, he could very nicely and comfortably kneel,
take her hand, and gracefully explain the condition
of his heart: and she was certainly in a comfortable
position to hear.
A man less vain than De Forrest would not have
gathered much encouragement from Lottie's face,
for it had a very weary and bored expression as he
commenced the rather stilted and very sentimental
introduction to the “gush” that was to follow.
She divined his purpose as she saw him summoning
to his aid all his rather limited elocutionary
powers, and noted how he gave to every line, that
verged toward love, the tenderest accent.
But the satirical side-gleam from her eyes, as she
watched him, was anything but responsive or
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[figure description] Page 197.[end figure description]
conducive to sentiment; and finally, as she became satisfied
of his object, the smile that flitted across her face
would have quenched the most impetuous declaration
as effectually as a mill-pond might a meteor.
But Julian, oblivious of all this, was growing
pathetic and emotional; and if she escaped the scene
at all, she must act promptly.
She did so, for in five minutes, to all intents and
appearances she was asleep.
At first, when he glanced up to emphasize a peculiarly
touching line, he thought she had closed her
eyes to hide her feelings; but at last, when he reached
the particular and soul-melting climax that was to
prepare the way for his own long-desired crisis, having
given the final lines in a tone that he thought
would move a marble heart, he laid the book down
to prepare for action, the dreadful truth dawned upon
him. She was asleep!
What could he do? To awaken her, and then go
forward, would not answer. People were generally
cross when disturbed in their sleep; and he knew
Lottie was no exception. He was deeply mortified
and disappointed.
He got up and stalked tragically and frowningly
to the hearth-rug, and stared at the apparently
peaceful sleeper, and then flung himself out of the
room, very much as he was accustomed to when a
spoiled and petulant boy.
After he was gone, Lottie quivered with laughter
for a few moments; then stole away to her room,
where she blotted out the weary hour with sleep
unfeigned, until aroused by the supper-bell.
-- 198 -- p668-203
CHAPTER XIV LOTTIE A MYSTERIOUS PROBLEM.
[figure description] Page 198.[end figure description]
AFTER a brief toilet, Lottie came down to tea
looking like an innocent little lamb that any
wolf could beguile and devour. She smiled on De
Forrest so sweetly that the cloud began to pass from
his brow at once.
“Why should I be angry with her?” he thought;
“she did not understand what I was aiming at, and
probably supposed that I meant to read her asleep,
and yet I would have thought that the tones of my
voice—well, well, Lottie has been a little spoiled by
too much devotion. She has become accustomed to
it, and takes it as a matter of course. When we are
married, the devotion must be on the other side of
the house.”
“I thought Mr. Hemstead would be back this
evening?” she said to her aunt.
“No, not till to-morrow evening. You seem to
miss Frank very much.”
Then Lottie was provoked to find herself blushing
like a school-girl, but she said, laughingly:
“How penetrating you are, auntie. I do miss
him, in a way you cannot understand.”
But the others understood the remark as
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[figure description] Page 199.[end figure description]
referring to her regret that he had escaped from her wiles
as the victim of their proposed jest, and Bel shot a
reproachful glance at her. She could not know that
Lottie had said this to throw dust into their eyes, and
to account for her sudden blush, which she could not
account for to herself.
Before supper was over, Harcourt came in with
great news, which threw Addie into a state of
feverish excitement, and greatly interested all the
others.
“Mrs. Byram, her son, and two daughters, have
come up for a few days to take a peep at the country
in winter, and enjoy some sleigh-riding. I met Hal
Byram, and drove in with him. Their large house is
open from top to bottom, and full of servants, and to-morrow
evening they are going to give a grand party.
There are invitations for you all. They expect most
of their guests from New York, however.”
Even languid Bel brightened at the prospect of
so much gayety; and thoughts of Hemstead and
qualms of conscience vanished for the time from
Lottie's mind. The evening soon passed, with cards
and conjectures as to who would be there, and the
day following, with the bustle of preparation.
“I don't believe Frank will go to a such party,”
said Addie, as the three girls and De Forrest were
together in the afternoon.
“Let us make him go by all means,” said Lottie.
“He needn't know what kind of a party it is, and it
will be such fun to watch him. I would not be surprised
if he and Mrs. Byram mutually shocked each
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other. We can say merely that we have all been
invited out to a little company, and that it would be
rude in him not to accompany us.”
Mrs. Marchmont was asked not to say anything
to undeceive Hemstead.
“It will do him good to see a little of the world,”
said Lottie; and the lady thought so too.
The others were under the impression that Lottie
still purposed carrying out her practical joke
against Hemstead. At the time when he had saved
them from so much danger the evening before, they
felt that their plot ought to be abandoned, and as it
was, they had mainly lost their relish for it. Hemstead
had not proved so good a subject for a practical
joke as they expected. But they felt that if Lottie
chose to carry it on, that was her affair, and if there
were any fun in prospect, they would be on hand to
enjoy it. The emotions and virtuous impulses inspired
by their moment of peril had faded almost
utterly away, as is usually the case with this style
of repentance. Even Bel was growing indifferent to
Lottie's course. Harcourt, who with all his faults
had good and generous traits, was absent on business,
and had partially forgotten the design against
Hemstead, and supposed that anything definite had
been given up on account of the service rendered to
them all.
Lottie was drifting. She did not know what
would be her action. The child of impulse, the
slave of inclination, with no higher aim than to enjoy
the passing hour, she could not keep a good resolve,
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if through some twinges of conscience she made one.
She had proposed to avoid Hemstead, for while he
interested, he also disquieted and filled her with self-dissatisfaction.
And yet for this very reason he was fascinating.
Other men admired, flattered, and bowed to her in
unvarying and indiscriminating homage. Hemstead
not only admired but respected and esteemed her
for the good qualities that she had simulated, and
with equal sincerity and frankness had recognized
faults and failures. She had been admired all her
life, but respect and esteem from a true, good man
was a new offering, and even though obtained by
fraud was as delightful as it was novel. She still
wished to stand well in his estimation, though why,
she hardly knew. She was now greatly vexed with
herself that she had refused to visit Mrs. Dlimm.
She was most anxious that he should return, in order
that she might discover whether he had become disgusted
with her; for, in the knowledge of her own
wrong action, she unconsciously gave him credit for
knowing more about her than he did.
She had no definite purpose for the future.
Instead of coolly carrying out a deliberate plot, she
was merely permitting herself to be carried along
by a subtle undercurrent of interest and inclination,
which she did not understand, or trouble herself to
analyze. She had felt a passing interest in gentlemen
before, and which proved but passing. This
was no doubt a similar case, with some peculiar and
piquant elements added. A few weeks in New York
-- 202 --
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after her visit was over, and he would fade from
thought and memory, and pass below the horizon as
other stars that had dazzled for a time. The honest
old counsellor, conscience, recklessly snubbed and dismissed,
had retired, with a few plain words, for the
time, from the unequal contest.
She met Hemstead at the door on his return, and
held out her hand, saying cordially:
“I'm ever so glad to see you. It seems an age
since you left us.”
His face flushed deeply with pleasure at her words
and manner. Expecting a cool and indifferent reception,
he had proposed to be dignified and reserved
himself. And yet her manner on the morning of his
departure pained him deeply, and disappointed him.
It did not fulfill the promise of the previous day, and
he was again sorely perplexed. But his conclusion
was partly correct.
“She is resisting the truth. She sees what
changes in her gay life are involved by its accepttance;
and therefore shuns coming under its influence.”
He deeply regretted her action, but felt that only
the Divine Spirit could awaken a docile interest, and
give a receptive heart, and frequently had appealed
to Heaven in her behalf during his absence.
What a strange power this is that God has bestowed
upon us! There is some one that we long to
influence and change for the better. That one may
know our wish and purpose, recognize our efforts, but
quietly baffle us by an independent will that we can
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no more coerce and control than by our breath softer,
into spring warmth a wintry morning. We can look
pleadingly into some dear one's eyes, clasp his hands
and appeal with even tearful earnestness, and yet he
may remain unmoved, or be but transiently affected.
Though by touch or caress, by convincing arguments
and loving entreaty, we may be unable to shake the
obdurate will, we can gently master it through the
intervention of another. The throne of God seems
a long way round to reach the friend at our side—
for the mother to reach her child in her arms, but it
usually proves the quickest and most effectual way.
Where before there was only resistance and indifference,
there comes, in answer to prayer, strange
relentings, mysterious longings, receptivity, and sometimes,
in a way that is astonishing, full acceptance
of the truth.
“The wind bloweth where it listeth,” were the
words of the all-powerful One, of the beautiful and
mysterious emblem of his own mysterious and transforming
presence.
Again he said, “How much more shall your
Heavenly Father give the holy Spirit to them that
ask Him.”
Here is a power, a force, an agency, that the materialist
cannot calculate, weigh, or measure, nor
laugh scornfully out of existence.
As upon a sultry night a breeze comes rustling
through the leaves from unknown realms of space
and cools our throbbing temples, so the soul is often
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stirred and moved by impulses heavenward, that are
to their subjects as mysterious as unexpected.
To a certain extent, God gives to the prayerful
control of Himself, as it were, and becomes their
willing agent; and when the time comes when all
mysteries are solved, and the record of all lives is
truthfully revealed, it will probably be seen that not
those who astonished the world with their own powers,
but that those who quietly, through prayer, used
God's power, were the ones who made the world
move forward.
While Hemstead would never be a Mystic or a
Quietest in his faith, he still recognized most clearly
that human effort would go but little way in awakening
spiritual life, unless seconded by the Divine
power. Therefore in his strong and growing wish
that he might bring the beautiful girl, who seemed
like a revelation to him, into sympathy with the
truth that he believed and loved, he had based on
hope on what he alone could do or say.
But her manner on the previous morning had
chilled him, and he had half purposed to be a little
distant and indifferent also.
It did not occur to him that he was growing sensitive
in regard to her treatment of himself, as well
as of the truth.
He readily assented to Lottie's request that he
should accept Mrs. Byram's invitation, and found a
strange pleasure in her graciousness and vivacity at
the supper-table.
His simple toilet was soon made and he sought
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the parlor and a book to pass the time while waiting
for the others. Lottie was a veteran at the dressingtable,
and by dint of exacting much help from Bel,
and resting content with nature's bountiful gifts—that
needed but little enhancing from art—she, too, was
ready considerably in advance of the others, and in
the full undress which society permits, thought to
dazzle the plain Western student, as a preliminary
to other conquests during the evening.
And he was both dazzled and startled as she
suddenly stood before him under the chandelier in
all the wealth of her radiant beauty.
Her hair was arranged uniquely in a style peculiarly
her own, and powdered. A necklace of pearls
sustained a diamond cross that was ablaze with light
upon her white bosom. Her arms were bare, and
her dress cut as low as fashion would sanction. In
momentary triumph she saw his eye kindle into
almost wondering admiration; and yet it was but
momentary, for almost instantly his face began to
darken with disapproval.
She at once surmised the cause; and at first it
amused her very much, as she regarded it as an evidence
of his delightful ignorance of society and ministerial
prudishness.
“I gather from your face, Mr. Hemstead, that I
am not dressed to suit your fastidious taste.”
“I think you are incurring a great risk in so
exposing yourself this cold night, Miss Marsden.”
“That is not all your thought, Mr. Hemstead.”
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“You are right,” he said gravely, and with
heightened color.
“But it's the style; and fashion, you know, is a
despot with us ladies.”
“And like all despots, very unreasonable; and
wrong at times, I perceive.”
“When you have seen more of society, Mr.
Hemstead,” she said, a little patronizingly, “you
will modify your views. Ideas imported in the Mayflower
are scarcely in vogue now.”
He was a little nettled by her tone, and said with
a tinge of dignity:
“My ideas on this subject were not imported in
the Mayflower. They are older than the world, and
will survive the world.”
Lottie became provoked, for she was not one to
take criticism of her personal appearance kindly, and
then it was vexatious that the one that she chiefly
expected to dazzle should at once commence finding
fault; and she said with some irritation:
“And what are your long-lived ideas?”
“I fear they would not have much weight with
you were I able to express them plainly. I can only
suggest them, but in a way that you can understand
me in a sentence. I would not like a sister of mine
to appear in company as you are dressed.”
Lottie flushed deeply and resentfully, but said, in
a frigid tone:
“I think we had better change the subject. I
consider myself a better judge of these matters than
you are.”
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He quietly bowed and resumed his book. She
shot an angry glance at him and left the room.
This was a new experience to her—the very
reverse of what she had anticipated. This was a
harsh and discordant break in the honeyed strains
of flattery to which she had always been accustomed,
and it nettled her greatly. Moreover, the criticism
she received had a delicate point, and touched her to
the very quick; and to her it seemed unjust and
uncalled for. What undoubtedly is wrong in itself,
and what to Hemstead, unfamiliar with society and
its arbitrary customs, seemed strangely indelicate,
was to her but a prevailing mode among the ultra
fashionable—in which class it was her ambition to
shine.
“The great, verdant boor!” she said in her anger,
as she paced restlessly up and down the hall. “What
a fool I am to care what he thinks, with his back-woods
ideas. Nor shall I any more. He shall learn
to-night that I belong to a different world.”
De Forrest joined her soon and somewhat reassured
her by his profuse compliments. Not that
she valued them as coming from him, but as a society
man, she felt that he was giving the verdict of society
in distinction from Hemstead's outlandish ideas.
She had learned from her mother—indeed it was
the faith of her childhood, earliest taught and thoroughly
accepted, that the dictum of their wealthy
circle was final authority, from which there was
no appeal.
Hemstead suffered in her estimation. She tried
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to think of him as uncouth, ill-bred, and so ignorant
of fashionable life—which to her was the only life
worth naming—that she could dismiss him from her
mind from that time forth. And in her resentment
she thought she could and would. She was very
gracious to De Forrest, and he in consequence was
in superb spirits.
As they gathered in the parlor, before starting,
De Forrest looked Hemstead over critically, and
then turned to Lottie and raised his eye-brows significantly.
The answering smile was in harmony
with the exquisite's implied satire. Lottie gave the
student another quick look and saw that he had
observed their meaning glances, and that in consequence
his lip had curled slightly; and she flushed
again, partly with anger and vexation.
“Why should his adverse opinion so nettle me?
He is nobody,” she thought, as she turned coldly
away.
Though Hemstead's manner was quiet and distant,
he was conscious of a strange and unaccountable
disappointment and sadness. It was as if a
beautiful picture were becoming blurred before his
eyes. It was more than that—more than he understood.
He had sense of personal loss.
He saw, and sincerely regretted his cousin Addie's
faults; but when Lottie failed in any respect in fulfilling
the fair promise of their first acquaintance,
there was something more than regret.
At first he thought he would remain at home
-- 209 --
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and not expose himself to their criticism and possible
ridicule; but a moment later determined to go and,
if possible, thoroughly solve the mystery of Lottie
Marsden's character: for she was more of a mystery
now than ever.
-- 210 -- p668-215
CHAPTER XV. HEMSTEAD SEES “OUR SET. ”
[figure description] Page 210.[end figure description]
THEY soon reached Mrs. Byram's elegant country
house, which gleamed afar, ablaze with
light. The obsequious footman threw open the door,
and they entered a tropical atmosphere laden with
the perfumes of exotics. Already the music was
striking up for the chief feature of the evening. Bel
reluctantly accepted of Hemstead's escort, as she had
no other resource.
“He will be so awkward!” she had said to Lot
tie, in irritable protest.
And at first she was quite correct, for Hemstead
found himself anything but at home in the fashionable
revel. Bel, in her efforts to get him in the presence
of the lady of the house that they might pay
their respects, reminded one of a little steam yacht
trying to manage a ship of the line.
Not only were Lottie and De Forrest smiling at
the scene, but also other elegant people, among whom
Hemstead towered in proportions too vast and ill-managed
to escape notice; and to Addie, her cousin's
lack of ease and grace was worse than a crime.
Bel soon found some city acquaintances, and she
and her escort parted with mutual relief. Hemstead
-- 211 --
[figure description] Page 211.[end figure description]
drifted into the hall, where he would be out of the
way of the dancers, but through the open doors
could watch the scene.
And this he did with a curious and observant
eye. The party he came with expected him to be
either dazzled and quite carried away with the scenes
of the evening, or else shocked and very solemn
over their dissipation. But he was rather inclined
to be philosophical, and study up this new phase of
life. He would see the crême de la crême, who only
would be present, as he was given to understand.
He would discover if they were made of different
clay from the people of Scrub Oaks. He would
breathe the social atmosphere, which to Addie, his
aunt, and even to Lottie, he was compelled to fear
was as the breath of life. These were the side
issues: but his chief purpose was to study Lottie
herself. He would discover if she were in truth as
good a girl—as full of promise—as he had been led
to believe at first.
Of course he was a predestined “wall-flower” upon
such an occasion. Addie had said to Mrs. Byram,
in a tone hard to describe but at once understood:
“A cousin from the West, who is studying for the
ministry;” and Hemstead was immediately classed
in the lady's mind among those poor relations who
must be tolerated for the sake of their connections.
He was a stranger to all, save those he came with,
and they soon completely ignored and forgot him,
save Lottie by whom he was watched, but so furtively
that she seemed as neglectful as the rest.
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It was one of the fashions of the hour—a phase
of etiquette as ill-bred as the poorest social slang—
not to introduce strangers. Mrs. Byram and her
daughters were nothing if not fashionable, and in
this case the mode served their inclination, and
beyond a few formal words they willingly left their
awkward guest to his own resources.
He could not understand how true courtesy permitted
a hostess to neglect any of her guests, least
of all those who from diffidence or any cause seemed
most in need of attention. Still, in the present
instance, he was glad to be left alone.
The scenes around him had more than the interest
of novelty, and there was much that he enjoyed
keenly. The music was good, and his quick ear
kept as perfect time to it as did Lottie's feet. He
thought the square dances were beautiful and perfectly
unobjectionable, a vast improvement on many
of the rude and often stupid games that he had
seen at the few companies he had attended, and Lottie
appeared the embodiment of grace, as she glided
through them.
But when a blasé-looking fellow, in whose eye
lurked all evil passions and appetites, whirled her
away in a waltz, he again felt, with indignation, that
here was another instance where fashion—custom—
insolently tramped on divine law and womanly
modesty. He had seen enough of the world to know
that Lottie, with all her faults, was too good to touch
the fellow whose embrace she permitted. Could she
-- 213 --
[figure description] Page 213.[end figure description]
—could the others be, ignorant of his character when
it was indelibly stamped upon his face?
But he soon noticed that his attentions were
everywhere received with marked pleasure, and that
Mrs. Byram and her daughters made much of him as
a favored guest. In anger he saw how sweetly Lottie
smiled upon him as they were passing near. She
caught his dark look, and interpreting it to mean
something like jealousy, became more gracious toward
her roué-looking attendant, with the purpose of
piquing Hemstead.
A little later Bel came into the hall, leaning upon
the arm of a gentleman. Having requested her
escort to get her a glass of water she was left alone a
few moments. Hemstead immediately joined her
and asked:
“Who is that blasé-looking man upon whose arm
Miss Marsden is leaning?”
“And upon whom she is also smiling so enchantingly?
He is the beau of the occasion, and she is
the belle.”
“Do you know anything about him? I hope his
face and manner do him injustice.”
“I fear they do not. I imagine he is even worse
than he looks.”
“How, then, can he be such a favorite?”
She gave him a quick, comical look, which intimated,
“You are from the back country,” but said:
“I fear you will think less of society when I tell
you the reasons. I admit that it is very wrong, but
so it is. He has three great attractions: he is
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[figure description] Page 214.[end figure description]
brilliant; he is fast; he is immensely rich—therefore
society is at his feet.”
“Oh no, not society, but a certain clique who
weigh things in false balances,” said Hemstead
quickly. “How strange it is that people are ever
mistaking their small circle for the world.”
Bel gave him a look of some surprise, and thought,
“I half believe he is looking down upon us with better
right than we upon him.”
After a moment Hemstead added, “That man
there is more than fast. I should imagine that Harcourt
was a little fast, and yet he has good and noble
traits. I could trust him. But treachery is stamped
upon that fellow's face, and the leer of a devil gleams
from his eye. He is not only fast, he is bad. Does
Miss Marsden know his character?”
“She knows what we all do. There are hard
stories about him, and, as you say, he does not look
saintly; but however wrong it may be, Mr. Hemstead,
it is still a fact that society will wink at almost everything
when a man is as rich and well connected as
he, that is, as long as a man sins in certain conventional
ways and keeps his name out of the papers.”
Here her escort joined her and they passed on;
and Hemstead stood lowering at the man, the pitch
of whose character began to stain the beautiful girl
who, knowing him somewhat, could willingly and
encouragingly remain at his side.
True, he had seen abundant proof that she had a
heart, good impulses, and was capable of noble things,
as he had told her; but was she not also giving him
-- 215 --
[figure description] Page 215.[end figure description]
equal proof that the world enthralled her heart, and
that senseless and soulless fashion, rather than the will
of God, or the instincts of a pure womanly nature,
controlled her will?”
He had no small vanity in which to wrap himself
while he nursed a spiteful resentment at slights
to himself. It was a tendency of his nature, and a
necessity of his calling, that he should forget himself
for the sake of others. Lottie awoke his sympathy,
and he pitied while he blamed.
But he desponded as to the future, and feared
that she would never fulfil her first beautiful promise.
He realized, with a vague sense of pain, how far apart
they were, and in what different worlds they dwelt.
At one time it seemed as if they might become
friends, and be in accord on the chief questions of
life. But now that she was smiling so approvingly
upon a man whose very face proclaimed him villain,
he saw a separation wider and more inexorable than
Hindu caste—that of character.
And yet with his intense love of beauty it seemed
like sacrilege—the profanation of a beautiful temple—
that such a girl as Charlotte Marsden should permit
the associations of that evening. It was true that he
could find no greater fault with her dress, her manners,
and her attendants, than with many others—
not as much as with his own cousin. But for some
reason that did not occur to him, it was peculiarly a
source of regret that Lottie should so fall short of
what he believed true and right.
His thoughts gave expression to his face, as in
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[figure description] Page 216.[end figure description]
momentary abstraction he paced up and down the
hall. Suddenly a voice that had grown strangely
familiar in the brief time he had heard it, said at his
side:
“Why, Mr. Hemstead, you look as if at a funeral.
What are you thinking of?”
Following an impulse of his open nature, he
looked directly into Lottie's face, and replied:
“You.”
She blushed slightly, but said with a laugh:
“That is frank;” but added, meaningly, “I am
surprised you cannot find anything better to think
about.”
“I agree with Mr. Hemstead,” said Mr. Brently,
the young man whose face had seemed the index of
all evil. “Where could he find anything better to
think about?”
“Mr. Hemstead's compliments and yours are
very different affairs. He means all he says. Mr.
Hemstead, permit me to introduce to you Mr. Brently
of New York. I wish you could induce him to be a
missionary.”
The young rake laughed so heartily at this idea,
that he did not notice that Hemstead's acknowledgment
was frigidly cold and slight; but Lottie did.
“How absurdly jealous!” she thought; yet it
pleased her that he was.
“I shall never be good enough to eat, and so cannot
be persuaded to visit the Cannibal Islands in the
rôle of missionary.” Brently was too pleased with
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[figure description] Page 217.[end figure description]
his own poor wit, and too indifferent to Hemstead, to
note that the student did not even look at him.
“I expect that you will lecture me well for all
my folly and wickedness to-morrow,” said Lottie
with a laugh.
“You are mistaken, Miss Marsden,” Hemstead
answered coldly. “I have neither the right nor the
wish to `lecture' you;” and he turned away, while
she passed on with an unquiet, uncomfortable feeling,
quite unlike her usual careless disregard of the
opinions of others.
At that moment a gentleman and lady brushed
past them on their way to the drawing-rooms, and
he heard Lottie whisper:
“There are Mr. and Miss Martell after all. I
feared they were not coming.”
A moment later he saw a tall and beautiful girl
entering the parlors, upon the arm of a gentleman
who was evidently her father. Mrs. Byram received
them with the utmost deference, and was profuse in
her expressions of pleasure that they had not failed
to be present. Having explained their detention,
they moved on through the rooms, receiving the
cordial greetings of many who knew them, and
much attention from all. They were evidently people
of distinction, and from the first Hemstead had
been favorably impressed with their appearance and
bearing.
From the gentleman's erect and vigorous form it
would seem that his hair was prematurely gray.
His face indicated intellect and high-breeding, while
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[figure description] Page 218.[end figure description]
the deep-set and thoughtful eyes, and the firm lines
around his mouth, suggested a man of decided
opinions.
The daughter was quite as beautiful as Lottie,
only her style was entirely different. She was tall
and willowy in form, while Lottie was of medium
height. Miss Martell was very fair, and her large
blue eyes seemed a trifle cold and expressionless as
they rested on surrounding faces and scenes. One
would hardly suppose that her pulse was quickened
by the gayety and excitement, and it might even be
suspected that she was not in sympathy with either
the people or their spirit.
And yet all this would only be apparent to a close
observer, for to the majority she was the embodiment
of grace and courtesy, and as the Lanciers were
called soon after her arrival, she permitted Harcourt
to lead her out as his partner. They took their stations
near the door where Hemstead was standing
at the moment; Lottie and Mr. Brently stood at
the head of the parlor, and Hemstead thought he
had never seen two women more unlike, and yet so
beautiful.
While he in his isolation and abstraction was
observing them and others in much the same spirit
with which he was accustomed to haunt art galleries,
Harcourt, seeing him so near, unexpectedly introduced
him to Miss Martell, saying good-naturedly.
“You have one topic of mutual interest to talk
about, and a rather odd one for a clergyman and a
young lady, and that is—horses. Miss Martell is one
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[figure description] Page 219.[end figure description]
of the best equestriennes of this region, and you, Mr
Hemstead, managed a span that were beyond me—
saved my neck at the same time, in all probability.”
The young lady at first was simply polite, and
greeted him as she naturally would a stranger casually
introduced. But either from something in
Harcourt's words, or in Hemstead's appearance as
she gave him closer scrutiny, her eye kindled into
interest, and she was about to speak to him when
the music called her into the graceful maze of the
dance. Hemstead was as much surprised as if a
portrait on the wall had stepped down and made his
acquaintance, and in his embarrassment and confusion
was glad that the lady was summoned away,
and he given time to recover himself.
Lottie had noted the introduction, and from her
distance it seemed that Miss Martell had treated him
slightingly, and that she had not spoken but merely
recognized him by a slight inclination; so, acting upon
one of her generous impulses, the moment the first
form was over and there was a brief respite, she went
to where he stood near Miss Martell, and said kindly,
but a little patronizingly:
“I'm sorry you do not dance, Mr. Hemstead.
You must be having a stupid time.”
He recognized her kindly spirit, and said, with a
smile:
“A quiet time, but not a stupid one. As you
can understand, this scene is a quite novel one to me—
a glimpse into a new and different world.”
“And one that you do not approve of, I fear.”
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[figure description] Page 220.[end figure description]
“It has its lights and shadows.”
Lottie now turned to speak to Miss Martell, and
evil-eyed Brently, her partner, had also been standing
near, waiting till Harcourt should cease to occupy
her attention so closely.
The young lady was polite, but not cordial, to
Lottie; she did not vouchsafe a glance to Brently.
But he was not easily abashed.
“Miss Martell,” he said suavely, “will you honor
me for the next waltz?”
“You must excuse me, sir,” she said coldly.
“Well then, some time during the evening, at your
own pleasure,” he urged.
“You must excuse me, sir,” she repeated still
more frigidly, scarcely glancing at him.
“What do you mean?” he asked insolently, at
the same time flushing deeply.
She gave him a cold, quiet look of surprise, and
turning her back upon him, resumed conversation
with Harcourt. Lottie was a little indignant and
perplexed at this scene; but noted with a feeling of
disgust, that her partner's face, in his anger, had the
look of a demon.
But her own reception had been too cool to be
agreeable, and this, with the supposed slight to Hemstead,
caused Miss Martell to seem to her, for the
time, the embodiment of capricious pride.
Harcourt said:
“Brently does not seem in your good graces,
Miss Martell; and that is strange, for he is the lion
of the evening”
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“I can well imagine that he belongs to the cat
species,” she replied. “I have no personal grievance
against Mr. Brently, but I do not consider him
a gentleman. My father knows that he is not one,
and that is enough for me.”
Harcourt flushed with both pleasure and shame,
and as the next form just then required that he
should take his companion's hand, he did so with a
cordial pressure, as he said:
“Men would be better—I would be better—if all
young ladies showed your spirit, Miss Martell.”
At the next pause in the dance she said, in a
low tone, “Come, let us have no `ifs.' Be better
any way.”
She detected the dejection which he tried to mask
with a light laugh, as he replied:
“I often wish I were, but the world, the flesh,
and the devil, are too much for me.”
“Yes, and always will be for you. Who can
fight such enemies alone? Besides, you are reading
and thinking in the wrong direction. You are going
out into the desert.”
“Well, it's kind of you to care,” he said, with a
look that deepened the faint color of her checks.
“I am not inhuman,” she replied quietly. “Is it
a little thing that a mind should go astray?”
He looked at her earnestly, but made no reply.
Soon after, Lottie saw with surprise, during one
of the intervals between the forms, that Miss
Martell turned and spoke freely and cordially to
Hemstead. Her surprise became something akin to
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annoyance, as, at the close, she took his arm and
commenced walking up and down the wide hall,
evidently becoming deeply interested in his conversation.
She soon shook off moody Brently, who
could think of nothing but the slight he had received,
and taking De Forrest's arm, also commenced promenading
in the hall. She noted, with satisfaction,
that Hemstead was not so occupied with his new and
fascinating acquaintance as to be oblivious of her
presence.
Soon after Mr. Martell joined his daughter, and
was introduced to Hemstead; and they went out to
supper together.
Lottie managed that she and De Forrest should
find seats near them in a roomy angle, where, being
out of the crush, Mr. Martell and his little party
could season Mrs. Byram's sumptuous viands with
Attic salt. And the flavor of their wit and thought
was so attractive that they soon had a group of the
most intelligent and cultured of the company around
them, and Lottie saw that Hemstead, who had been
neglected by his own party, was becoming appreciated
by the best people present. Miss Martell, with
the tact of a perfect lady, had the power of putting
him at his ease and drawing him out. Hemstead's
mind was no stagnant, muddy pool, but a living fountain,
and his thought sparkled as it flowed readily
on the congenial topics that Mr. and Miss Martell
introduced. The freshness and originality of his
views seemed to greatly interest them and others;
but what pleased him most was that Lottie, who sat
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near, was neglecting her supper and De Forrest's
compliments in her attention to the conversation
Her face showed a quick, discriminating mind, and as
the discussion grew a little warm on a topic of general
interest, he saw from her eager and intelligent
face that she had an opinion, and he had the tact to
ask her for it just at the right moment. Though a
little embarrassed at his unexpected question, she
expressed her thought so briefly and brightly that
the others were pleased, and she was at once taken
into the circle of their talk, which of course became
more animated and spicy with her piquant words
and manner added. It was evident that she was
enjoying this employment of her brain more than she
had that of her feet. The lower pleasure paled
before the higher; and she was grateful to Hemstead
for having drawn her within the charmed circle.
De Forrest did not grieve over Lottie's absorption,
as it gave him more time for the supper table and
champagne; and to the latter he and a good many
others were so devoted that they were hardly their
poor selves the rest of the evening. In Brently's
case it was most marked after the ladies had retired.
He began to talk quite loudly and boisterously of
his slight, and at one time was about to seek Miss
Martell, and demand an explanation, but was prevailed
upon by his friends to be quiet.
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CHAPTER XVI. HOW WOMAN MAKES OR MARS.
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IN the changes that occurred after leaving the
supper-room, Miss Martell took Harcourt's arm
and said in a low tone:
“I was glad to see that you did not take any
wine.”
“And I am glad you cared to see. But how
could I, after your gentle hint? I know my
weakness. If I had indulged in one glass I might
have taken too many, as I am sorry has been the
case in more instances than one to-night.”
“You admit, then, that it is a weakness?” she
said gently, fixing her eyes, that were no longer cold
and expressionless, upon him.
“In truth, I must admit that I have many weaknesses,
Miss Martell.”
“You certainly possess one element of strength,
in that you recognize them Knowledge of danger
is often the best means of safety. But how is it that
you are so ready to acknowledge weakness of any
kind? I thought that men scoffed at the idea that they
could be weak or in danger from any temptation.”
“If they do, they either do not know themselves,
or they are not honest. I do know myself, to my
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sorrow, and it would seem like sacrilege to me not
to be truthful and sincere with you. And yet it is
when I am with you that I most despise myself.”
“How, then, can you endure my presence?” she
asked, with a shy, half-mischievous glance.
He flushed slightly, and tried to disguise a deeper
meaning with a slight laugh, as he said:
“If I were shut out of Eden, I should often be
tempted to look over the hedge.”
She did not reply at once, nor lift her eyes to his,
but the color deepened upon her cheek; and if he had
seen the expression of her averted face, his might
have appeared more hopeful.
After a moment she turned and said, with a smile,
“I think the fact that you would like to look over
the hedge, a very promising sign. It proves that
you regret our lost Eden purity, and would like to
possess it again. If you will only let your wishes
develop into right action, instead of looking wistfully
over the hedge, you may be welcomed within the
gate of the better Paradise.”
He looked at her searchingly, but she again
turned away her face, and would not meet his eye.
After a moment, he said:
“I do not think you used the pronoun `our,' correctly.
There is nothing akin between my moral
state and yours.”
“Yes there is,” she replied earnestly. “If you
struggle as hard to do right as I do, you are trying
very hard indeed.”
With a quick glance of surprise he said, “It has
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ever seemed to me that you were developing as naturally
and inevitably as a moss-rose.”
“Nonsense!” she answered, a little abruptly.
“I am as human as you are. I have doubtless had
advantages over you in being more sheltered and
less tempted. But in a world like ours, and with
natures like ours, everyone must struggle hard if
they would live good lives. Even then we need
Divine help.”
They had now passed into quite a large conservatory,
where they supposed they were alone. He
took her hand and said, with a manly sincerity that
made his face almost as noble as hers was beautiful:
“Miss Martell, you are holier than I am. You
are as much above me as heaven is above the earth.
And yet, because you have not said to me, `Stand
aside, for I am holier than thou'; because you have
made a claim, which I can scarcely understand, of
kindred weakness—of like need of effort to do right—
you have given me a little hope that possibly at
some distant day I may find a way out of my doubts
and weaknesses. I would like to be a true and
believing man.”
“Please do not think that I have it in my heart
to say `Stand aside' to any one. Such a spirit is
most unchristian, and in me would be most unwarranted.
Do not think I meant that when I repulsed
Mr. Brently. He has forfeited every right to the
title of gentleman. I believe he is utterly bad, and
he shows no wish to be otherwise; and I was disgusted
by the flattering attentions he received from
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those with whom he had no right to associate at all.
When will society get beyond its vulgar worship of
wealth! But, Mr. Harcourt, please don't talk about
a `possible way out of your doubts and weaknesses
at some distant day.' You paid me the highest compliment
in your power, when you refrained from wine
at supper to-night. I am going to ask a personal
favor. Won't you let it alone altogether? Mr. Harcourt,”
she added, her eyes filling with tears, “I
cannot bear to think of a nature like yours becoming
a slave to such an appetite and it does seem to master
those who are naturally the noblest.”
He turned away to hide his own feeling, while
she, with clasped hands, stood looking at him, as his
good angel might. When he turned to her, he spoke
calmly, and almost humbly:
“I will not protest too much, Miss Martell. I
will make no loud and absolute promises, but it
seems to me, while I stand here in your presence, I
could not do a mean or ignoble thing again. But in
that degree that I revere you, I distrust myself.
But I pledge you my honor, that I will try to do
what you ask, and more.”
“You give me just the kind of promise I like
best,” she said, giving him her hand with a happy
smile. “But I cannot tell you how much I wish you
could seek God's help, as simply, as believingly, as
I do.”
“Ah, there is the trouble,” he replied, in deep
dejection. “My mind is tossed upon a sea of doubt
and uncertainty.” Then, as from a sudden impulse,
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he said, “But I could worship you. You are the
most beautiful woman here to-night, but instead of
making your beauty the slave of contemptible vanity,
and employing it, like Miss Marsden and others,
merely to win flattery and attention, you turn from
all, and forget yourself and your own pleasure, that
you may keep a man that is hardly worth saving,
from going to the devil. If I go, after your kindness
to-night, it will be because I ought.”
Here her father called her from the door. The
character of the entertainment was becoming such
that he was anxious to get away. As they left the
conservatory, she said in a low, hasty tone:
“I am not so unselfish as you think; for it would
make me very unhappy, if you did not become what
you are capable of being.”
“Since you care personally what becomes of me,
you have given me double incentive,” he answered
eagerly, as they passed out.
As they disappeared, Lottie Marsden stepped out
from behind a large lemon tree, with an expression
upon her face quite as acid as the unripe fruit that
had helped to conceal her. How she came to witness
the scene described, requires some explanation.
As they left the supper-room, she shook De Forrest
off for a time, and when Miss Martell parted from
Hemstead, she joined him. After the attention he
had received, she was not in as patronizing a mood
as before.
“Are you willing to take a short promenade with
such a guy as I am, Mr. Hemstead?” she asked.
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“Yes, if you are willing to link yourself with so
much awkwardness.”
“I wish I had your grace of mind, Mr. Hemstead.'
“You have no occasion to find fault with nature's
gifts to you.”
“I fear you think I should find much fault with
myself, if not with nature. But I can hardly find
fault with you after your kindly tact in the supper-room.
I wanted to join your breezy, sprightly chat,
and you gave me a chance so nicely.”
“Because I wished you to join it. It was not a
deed of charity, and you well repaid me. Indeed, I
saw so much thought in your face, that I wanted
more of the same kind.”
“I think you see more than we give you credit
for,” she said, looking doubtfully at him.
“`We,' who are `we'? Yes, I am seeing a good
deal here to-night. As you went to see the `other
set' a few evenings ago, I also am seeing some new
phases of character.”
“And some new phases in one that you had a
pretty good opinion of that night. I imagine you no
longer consider me `capable of the noblest things.'”
“I have not changed my mind on that point at
all, but—” and here he hesitated.
“But you are discovering that I am also capable
of just the reverse.”
He flushed, but said gravely, “You put my
thought too strongly, Miss Marsden. It would be
nearer the truth, if you care for my opinion at all,
to say that I do not understand you.”
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She also flushed, but said a little coldly, “I am
not surprised, I scarcely understand myself.”
“I find you full of puzzling contradictions,” he
added:
“Since I cannot contradict you, I will seek
some fallible creatures like myself;” and she vanished,
leaving him as uncomfortable and puzzled as ever he
had been in his life.
She had scarcely entered the parlor, before both
De Forrest and Brently sought her hand for a waltz.
The latter had disgusted her before, and now he was
too typsy for even the willing blindness of girls like
Addie Marchmont, so she escaped with De Forrest,
but soon found that his step was out of tune with
the music, or her own mind so preöccupied that
their feet made discord with the notes. Therefore
she led her subservient attendant into the conservatory,
and got rid of him for a time by the following
ruse.
“I dropped something in the supper-room.
Please find it, and look till you do.”
De Forrest's ideas were too confused to ask what
she had lost; and once in the supper-room again, the
champagne was so inviting, that he with Brently
and others, finished another bottle.
With thoughts dwelling on Hemstead's words,
she strolled to the farther end of the walk, and around
into another aisle, wishing to be alone for a few moments.
It was then that Harcourt and Miss Martell
entered, and before she was aware, she heard the
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uncomplimentary reference to herself, and understood
the significance of the unexpected scene.
“That is what Mr. Hemstead thinks me capable
of, she thought with tingling cheeks—“making my
`beauty, the slave of contemptible vanity,' and employing
it merely to win flattery and attention for
myself. You put it very plainly, Mr. Harcourt. I
know what your opinion of me certainly. I wish
I cared as little what Mr. Hemstead thinks; and why
I should care any more, I'm sure I don't know.
Yes I do, too. He's a true, good man, and is the
first one that ever treated me as if I were a true,
good woman. But now I have made it clear to him,
as well as to Harcourt and Miss Martell, what I
really am. I knew what Brently was as well as the
rest, and yet I smiled upon him because the others
did. By this time, both of my most ardent admirers
are tipsy. What is their admiration worth?”
As she entered the parlors she saw at a glance
what would be the character of the remaining
hours. The sensuous spirit of wine would inspire
the gayety and intensify the natural excitement of
the ocasion. Heretofore she could join in a fashionable
revel with the keenest zest, but she could not
to-night. Unconsciously Miss Martell had given her
a stinging rebuke. She had been shown how a beautiful
woman might employ the power of her fascinations
to lure men into purer and nobler life, as Hemstead
had suggested the morning after his arrival
As she remembered that she had used her beauty
only to lure men to her feet, that she might enjoy a
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momentary triumph soon to be forgotten in other
conquests, she was already more than dissatisfied with
herself—an unusual experience with Lottie Marsden.
She refused half-a-dozen invitations to dance, and
was about ascending to the dressing-room, when
Harcourt met her in the hall and said:
“I think I had better send De Forrest home
Hemstead will go with him.”
“What is the matter with Julian?”
“Well, they say he mistook a decanter of brandy
for wine. At any rate he is under the table `looking
for something of yours,' he says; though what
he does not say or does not know. What's more, we
can't get him up, for he says you told him not to
leave the dinning-room till he found it. I fear we
will have to use force, unless you can manage him.”
Then, with a burning flush of shame she remembered
how, in her wish to be alone, she had sent him
into temptation, instead of trying to shield and protect,
as had Miss Martell in the case of Harcourt,
whose abstemiousness had excited the surprise of
more than one. But without a word she went
directly to the supper-room; and there witnessed a
scene that she never forgot.
The elegant De Forrest was crawling about the
floor, uttering her name continually in connection
with the most maudlin sentiment, and averring with
many oaths that he would never rise till he had found
what she had lost.
Brently, almost equally drunk, sat near, convulsed
with laughter, saying with silly iteration:
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“He's looking for Miss Marsden's heart.”
Mrs. Byram and her son stood helplessly by, their
manner showing that their wish to be polite was
almost mastered by their disgust. Hemstead, who
was trying to get De Forrest up, had just given a
stern rebuke to one of the giggling waiters as Lottie
entered.
It did not take her over a moment to comprehend
all. While her face was crimson, she acted
decidedly and with a certain dignity. Going directly
to De Forrest she said:
“Julian, I have found what I lost. Get up and
come with me.”
His habitual deference to her wishes and words
served him now. Her tone and manner were quiet
but very firm and positive, and he at once sought to
obey. Hemstead and Harcourt helped him to his
feet.
“I am going home, Julian, and wish you to go
with me,” she continued in the same tone.
“Certainly (hic) my dear (hic) I'll do anything
(hic) in the world (hic) or any where else for you.”
A look of intense disgust flitted across her face,
but she turned, and said emphatically to the others:
“I am more to blame for this than he. I sent
him here some time since, when I knew, or ought to
have known, that he should have been kept away
from temptation. May I trespass so far upon your
kindness as to ask all present to remain silent in
regard to this scene.”
“I know little of etiquette,” said Hemstead
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“but surely any one would fail utterly in true cour
tesy, did they not acceed to that request.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hemstead,” said Lottie, with a
look he did not soon forget. “Will you order the
sleigh to the door. Mr. Harcourt, will you get Mr.
De Forrest's hat and coat?”
The door leading into the parlor had been closed
and locked as soon as the trouble commenced, and
thus the guests were ignorant of the disgraceful
scene.
“Julian, I wish you to sit quietly here till I
return,” said Lottie, in the most decided manner.
He had sense enough left to know that something
was wrong, and that his safest course was to
yield to her. So, muttering, maudlin, and dishevelled,
he sat almost helplessly in the chair where he was
placed, with not a trace of his former elegance left.
Lottie looked at him a second, with a strange
expression, then taking Mrs. Byram one side, asked:
“Will you be so kind as to have the doors of the
parlors leading into the hall closed, as if accidentally,
when we pass out?” Adding, “I think if Mr.
Byram can get Mr. Brently to his room now, it
would also be well.”
Mrs. Byram commenced many professions of
regret, but Lottie merely said:
“I cannot think about it now. I can only act,”
and she hastened away to prepare for the drive
home.
A moment later De Forrest was steadied through
the hall and helped into the sleigh.
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“Shall I sit by him?” asked Harcourt.
“No,” said Lottie, in the same decided voice
“I will take care of him. I was the cause of his
trouble, and will not leave him till he is safely home.
You will greatly oblige me if you will remain with
Addie and Bel, and disarm their suspicion and that
of others. Mr. Hemstead will accompany me, and
we will send the sleigh back immediately.”
“Miss Marsden,” said Harcourt, “you are a
noble-hearted girl. I will do whatever you wish.”
“Thank you for what you have done. That is
all.”
“The horses are restless, I will sit with the coachman,”
said Hemstead, surmising that Lottie would
desire all the seclusion possible under the circumstances.
He was correct, for as Harcourt retired she
said in a low tone:
“You are right. I would be glad to escape now
even from your eyes, that are friendly, I trust.”
“Yes,” he replied with an emphasis that did her
good, “most friendly”; and they drove away through
the cold white moonlight and colder and whiter
snow, and to Lottie, with her burdened conscience
and heavy heart, the calm night seemed more than
ever like a face regarding her with cold and silent
scorn.
-- 236 -- p668-241
CHAPTER XVII. MIDNIGHT VIGILS.
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THERE were indeed four strangely assorted
characters in that sleigh as they were carried
beyond the sounds of music and gayety, which, to
Hemstead and Lottie Marsden at least, were little
less than mockery. There was the stolid coachman,
who, whatever were his thoughts, had been trained
to appear oblivious to everything save his duty, and
to be but an animate part of the “establishment.”
He was much like the horses he drove, living his
narrow material life in the passing hour, knowing little
and caring less about the past or the future.
Hemstead, in contrast, had a mind as ethereal as
faith could make it, and a fancy enriched by wide
reading. Heretofore he had lived chiefly in the
past and future, his studies making him at home
in the one, and his hopes leading him forward into
the other. But now a silent form near him had a
strange power to concentrate his thoughts on the
present. The man who had speculated and reasoned
about sinners in the abstract, and who had classified
and divided them up into well-defined shades and
degrees, was now sorely puzzled over two of them,
that, in a certain sense, were under his charge. What
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[figure description] Page 237.[end figure description]
was also odd, his deepest sympathy and desire to
help did not appear drawn toward the greatest sinner.
Indeed for the tipsy youth he had hardly a
sentiment other than contempt. Broad, impartial
rules of action and feeling seemed perfectly correct
in the seminary. He forgot that he was not carrying
them out. It did not occur to him that he was
like a physician who stepped by the sickest patient
to a better and more promising one. In justice it
must be said that he would have put himself to any
personal inconvenience, and have made any effort in
his power, were the question brought to an issue, in
order to work a transformation in De Forrest's character.
But for some reason it was so perfectly natural
to take an absorbing interest in Lottie's moral
state, that he never asked himself why he had not a
similar solicitude for Addie or Bel Parton.
Rigid and impartial rules are very well till fallible
men come to apply them to their most fallible fellow-creatures.
Only God can mercifully apply a perfect law
to imperfect humanity, and if He had a “beloved
disciple,” might not Hemstead have a favorite
snner?
And an oddly related couple were those two
young people whom all supposed destined for a
union, that in the judgment of friends would be so
fitting, but that in truth would be unnatural and
productive of wretchedness. Though Hemstead's
mind dwelt unwaveringly upon them, he never once
locked back during the drive. He would have seen
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a strange sight if he had—a beautiful woman with a
face looking almost spirit-like in the pale moonlight,
with her arm, for the first time, around a man whom
she was beginning in the depths of her soul to almost
loathe. No embrace of affection was that, but a
mechanical act prompted by a stern and remorseful
sense of duty. She shrank from the man whose
swaying form she steadied. It was settled that
night in her own soul, as if by a decree of fate, that
she would never marry Julian De Forrest. And yet
it was one of the good traits in her character, that
while she drew back in shuddering aversion from any
close personal relation to him, she at the same time
had generous, regretful pity, and, if she could be kind
to him at a distance, would be a very faithful
friend.
But why did her eyes turn so often and so wistfully
up to the tall great-coated form before her?
She did not know. She did not even ask herself.
Are we ever guided by reason, will, deliberate
choice? Are there not often strong half-recognized
instincts that sway us more profoundly, even as the
plant unconsciously turns its leaves and blossons
toward the sun, and sends its roots groping uneringly
to the moisture?
So absorbed was she in looking at the square,
burly form before her, that the sleigh suddenly
stopped at Mrs. Marchmont's door, and Hemstead
looked around and caught her eye. What was more
he saw her apparently loving embrace of De Forest.
He was not sufficiently versed in the conditions of
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[figure description] Page 239.[end figure description]
intoxication, nor did he realize that De Forrest was
so far gone as to make the act necessary. But he
could see her blush, even in the moonlight.
Without a word he assisted her out, but had some
difficulty with De Forrest, who, from the fumes of
liquor and the cold air, had grown very drowsy. But
Hemstead's grasp was so strong and masterful, that
while he roused, he also steadied and supported him
up the steps. Lottie said to the coachman:
“Mr. De Forrest is not well, so we came home
earlier. You may now return for the others.”
The man heard her with a stolid face that might
have been mahogany, but when by himself it relaxed
into a grim smile as he chuckled:
“I've seen people have such spells afore; but if
you was my darter, miss, I'd make you give that
chap the mitten, 'cause sich bad spells is wonderful
apt to grow on a feller.”
Mrs. Marchmont and Mr. Dimmerly had retired,
and the rather dull servant who admitted them was
too sleepy to note anything. Lottie promptly dismissed
her, and told her she would wait for the
others.
Hemstead saw De Forrest to his room. He had
become so stupid that he did mechanically what was
urged, and the student soon left him sleeping
havily.
But Hemstead's heart was strangely burdened.
He had come to the conclusion that under all her coquetry
and cousinly freedom with De Forrest, she
had hidden a real attachment, and that perhaps an
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[figure description] Page 240.[end figure description]
engagement, or at least an understanding, existed between
them. He did not think at the time why this
relation should so depress him. He would probably
explain it by his natural regret that such a girl should
be mismated to such a man. But it might well have
been doubted whether his heart would have become
suddenly like lead, had he discovered that his own
cousin was engaged, even to Brently, however sincere
might have been his regret. But he descended to
the parlor with the unselfish purpose and wish to
bring her mind again under the spell of truth, if possible,
hoping that the events of the evening would
suggest the need of a better philosophy than she
had learned in the past.
But he would have no little difficulty in maintaining
his disinterestedness and general missionary spirit
in the interview that awaited him.
For a young man but a few years past his majority,
with an impressible nature and warm heart, to
watch through the witching hour of midnight with a
maiden like Lottie Marsden, and all the time have
no other thought than her moral improvement, is
perhaps asking too much of human nature. With
the very best intentions and with the absolute conviction,
as he supposed, that the young lady could
only be a subject for his missionary zeal, uncosciously
the beautiful picture she made with the firelight
flickering upon her face, and the snowy opera
cloak thrown around her, stole into his heart that
was large and empty, waiting for an occupant.
“I have drawn a chair close up to the fire,” she
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said, “for you must be cold after riding on that high
seat with the coachman.”
“I am not cold, but I thank you all the same.”
“You have been kinder to me than I deserved,
Mr. Hemstead.”
Truly Lottie's gratitude would be a dangerous
thing to any man, as she expressed it then, and the
disinterested student was conscious of a strange thrill
at heart. But he said, with a flush of pleasure:
“I do not know that I have. At any rate friends
should not keep a debit and credit account with
each other.”
“And can you still feel friendly to me after this
evening?”
“Do I look savagely hostile?” he asked smilingly.
“I feared you would despise me. I certainly
despise myself.”
“In the fact that you so evidently blame yourself
I am less disposed to blame.”
“But you rightly think me most worthy of
blame.”
“Do you honestly care what I think, Miss Marsden?
My opinions have been formed in what must
seem a plain and homely world to you, quite devoid
of the elegance and fashion to which you have been
accustomed.”
“I begin to think it is a better world than mine,
and to-night I am sick of elegance and fashion. Yes,
I honestly do care now what you think. I have
been flattered and lied to all my life, and you are the
first man who told me the unvarnished truth.”
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He rose and paced thoughtfully up and down
the room; then looked dubiously at her. She was
so exquisitely beautiful, and seemed in such a kindly
mood, that he was greatly tempted to temporize and
say smooth things, lest he should offend and drive her
away. But conscience whispered, “Now is your opportunity
to speak the `unvarnished truth,' whatever
be the consequences,” and conscience with Hemstead
was an imperative martinet. She waited in curious
and quiet expectancy. This sincere and unconventional
man was delightfully odd and interesting to
her. She saw the power and fascination of her
beauty upon him, and at the same time perceived
that in his crystal integrity he would give her his
honest thought. She interpreted his hesitancy; and
said:
“You fear that I will be offended?”
“Yes.”
“I promise you to listen patiently—yes, gratefully,
to the severest things you can say.”
“I may test your promise severely. I am a plain
and awkward man. Will you permit a plain and
homely illustration of my thought?”
“I'm in a mood for plain words to-night. They
will be in keeping with the former events of the
evening, which were plain enough.”
“Well, then, were it possible that I could be the
fortunate possessor of a statue by Phidias, I would
not use it as a hat stand. If I possessed a painting
by Rubens, I would not turn it into a firescreen.”
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He hesitated, as he saw the hot blood mount to
her face; but she said quietly:
“Go on. I think I understand you.”
He continued in a tone that was gentle as his
words seemed harsh. “Believe me, I am speaking
in kindness, and only because you are brave
enough to give me leave. As Phidias might embody
beauty itself in marble, so God has bestowed
it on you. When I was looking upon that marvellous
scene—that transfigured world—the morning after
my arrival, you appeared and seemed a part of it.
Do you remember what I said then? I have reluctantly
thought to-night that you could wear your
coronet of beauty, not only as a benignant queen, but
as a petty tyrant—that you could put it to ignoble
uses, and make it a slave to self. It seemed at times
that you only sought to lead men to bow in admiration
to you, instead of inspiring them to stand erect
in true manhood, with their faces heavenward. A
woman endowed as you are can always do with a
man one of two things: either fascinate him with her
own personality, so that his thought is only of her; or
else through her beauty and words and manner, that
are in keeping, suggest the diviner loveliness of a
noble life and character. I am satisfied that one
could not be in Miss Martell's society without being
better, or wishing to be better. You might have the
same influence, and to a greater degree, because you
naturally have more force and quicker sympathies.
There is more magnetism in your nature, and you
could understand and help, if you chose, a wider
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range of character than she. I doubt very much
whether Miss Martell could make herself much at
home among the plain country folk that you quite
carried by storm the other evening. God has given
you the power and beauty. Will you let me ask, in
the spirit of kindness, not criticism, Are you using
these gifts for Him, or yourself?”
Lottie's eyes were moist, but her brow was contracted
into a thoughtful frown, as she sat lowering
at the fire. After a few moments' silence, she said,
in a tone of bitterness:
“As I feel and see things to-night, I should say,
for neither God nor myself, but solely and expressly
for the sake of the Evil One. What good, what
happiness, do all the compliments, all the attention
I ever received, secure to me to-night? I thought I
was using all for my own benefit. That was my only
purpose and aim, but every flattering thing that I can
remember is only a burden to think of now. I am
the worse for my beauty, as you regard it. I cannot
think of any one that I have made better; but many
that I have made worse. I seem to have been
receiving all my life, and yet to-night I feel as if I
had nothing but a burden upon my heart.”
Hemstead's words were not reassuring. Indeed,
Lottie thought them a trifle harsh, though spoken
so kindly.
“You cannot feel otherwise, Miss Marsden.
“You have been seeking to keep and use for yourself,
what God meant you should use for Him. You feel
very much as you would, did you take a large sum
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of money, left in your hands as a sacred trust, and go
on a pleasure trip with it. He has intrusted to you
the richest and rarest gifts, and every day that you
have misappropriated them is a burden upon your
conscience. You will feel the same after a long life
of adulation, in which every whim was gratified.
Believe me, Miss Marsden, it is a very sad thing to
come to the end of one's life with no other possession
than a burdened conscience and a heavy, guilty
heart. I long to save you from such a fate. That
would be a wretchedly poor result of a life-time for
one endowed as you are.”
“Your words are very severe, Mr. Hemstead,”
she said in a low tone, burying her face in her hands.
“Faithful are the wounds of a friend,” he replied.
“I never thought I could permit any one to speak
to me as you have, nor would I endure it from you,
did I not recognize something like sympathy in the
voice with which you speak such cutting words.
But I fear they are true, after all. A burdened conscience
and a guilty heart seem all there is of me
to-night.”
He was about to reverse the picture, and portray
in strong and hopeful terms what she might be, and
what she could accomplish, when the sleigh-bells
announced the return of the rest of the party. She
sprang up and said hastily:
“I do not wish to meet them to-night, and so
will retire at once. As physician of the `mind diseased'
you clearly believe in what is termed the
heroic treatment.' Your scalpel is sharp, and you
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cut deeply. But as proof that I have kept my word,
and am not offended, I give you my hand.”
He took it in both of his, but did not speak.
She looked up at him through the tears that still
lingered, and was touched to see that his eyes were
as moist as hers; giving his hand a cordial pressure,
she said as she left him:
“You cannot look at me in harsh criticism,
through tears of sympathy. Your face is kinder
than your words. I am glad you do not despise me.”
Hemstead admitted Harcourt and the young
ladies into the shadowy hall, and then bade them
good night. He, too, was in no mood for Addie's
gossip or Bel's satire. They had also found Harcourt
strangely silent and preoccupied.
The evident influence of Miss Martell over Harcourt,
and their intimate relations, requires some
explanation. He was an orphan, and his father had
been a friend of Mr. Martell. During the last illness
of the elder Mr. Harcourt, he had asked his
friend to take some interest, and when possible, to
give his son friendly counsel. To a man like Mr.
Martell, such a request was like a sacred obligation;
and he had sought to do more than was asked. He
wrote the young man almost fatherly letters, and
often invited him to his house. Thus it came about
that the influence of Mr. Martell and his daughter
did more to restrain the wayward tendencies of young
Harcourt than all other things combined; and it
must be confessed that the little blue-eyed girl had
more influence than the wise old father. She seemed
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to take almost a sisterly interest in him, and occasionally
wrote such a sweet little letter, that he would
reform his college life for a week thereafter. But he
seemed to have a dash of wild blood that would
break out only too often into indiscretions, the
rumors of which filled his kind friend Mr. Martell
with anxiety. But Clara, his daughter, ever insisted
that he would “come out all right.”
“Tom has a good heart, father,” she would say;
and so, with woman's faith, she hoped where her
father feared.
If Harcourt could have been continually under
their influence he would undoubtedly have developed
into a far better man. But between absence at college
and the law school, and some travel during
vacations, he saw less and less of them. Clara also
was kept very steadily at school, and during the last
two years of her studies they had missed each other
in vacations, and met but seldom.
But something more than maidenly modesty and
pride made Clara shy and reserved when with Harcourt.
She would think more about him, but talk
less to him than to others when in company. She was
a peculiarly sensitive, diffident girl, and instinctively
shrank from the man who had for her the strongest
interest.
On completing her studies her father had taken
her abroad, and they had spent two or three years in
travel. The extraordinary graces of her person were
but the reflex of her richly cultivated mind. Even
abroad she had many admirers; but with tact,
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firmness, and inimitable grace, she ever sought to prevent
false hopes, and so had fewer offers than an ordinary
coquette. But many who soon learned that they
could never establish a dearer relation, became strong
friends, and also better men; for Clara Martell seemed
to have the power of evoking all the good there was
in a man, and of putting him under a kind of sacred
obligation to be true and manly, as the result of her
acquaintance. However deep and lasting regret
may have been, no man ever left her presence in
harsh and bitter contempt for the very name of
woman, as too often had been the case with Lottie
Marsden. Those who knew her least, said she was
cold, and those who knew her true, womanly heart
best, wondered at her continued indifference to every
suit. And sometimes she wondered at herself—how
it was, that all the attention she received scarcely
ever quickened her pulse.
But when after long absence she returned and
met the friend and playmate of her childhood—the
wayward youth to whom she was accustomed to give
sisterly counsel—her pulse was so strangely quickened,
and the blood so quick to mount to her face at
his every word and look, that she began to understand
herself somewhat.
They had but recently returned to their residence
on the banks of the Hudson; and Harcourt was
made a welcome visitor.
Having completed his professional studies, the
young man had succeeded largely to the practice of
his deceased father, and was doing well in a business
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point of view. He had inherited enough property
to secure a good start in life, but not enough to rob
him of the wholesome stimulus which comes from the
need of self-exertion. He had an acute, active mind.
Abundance of intellect and fire flashed from his dark
eyes, and we have seen that he was not without good
and generous traits. But in his spiritual life he had
become materialistic and sceptical. His associates
were brilliant, but fast men; and for him also the
wine cup was gaining dangerous fascination.
Mr. Martell, in the spirit of the most friendly
interest, soon learned these facts after his return, and
also the gossip, which brought a sudden paleness to
his daughter's cheek, that he was engaged, or the
same as engaged, to Addie Marchmont.
While Clara therefore was kind, she seemed to
avoid him; and he found it almost impossible to be
alone with her. She had always dwelt in his mind,
more as a cherished ideal, a revered saint, than as an
ordinary flesh-and-blood girl with whom he was fit to
associate, and for a time after her return her manner
increased this impression. He explained the recognized
fact that she shunned his society, by thinking
that she knew his evil tendencies, and that to her
believing and Christian spirit, his faithless and irregular
life was utterly uncongenial. For a short time
he had tried to ignore her opinion and society in
reckless indifference; but the loveliness of her person
and character daily grew more fascinating, and his
evil habits lost in power as she gained. For some
little time before Mrs. Byram's company, he had been
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earnestly wishing that he could become worthy
of at least her esteem and old friendly regard, not
daring to hope for anything more. It never occurred
to him that gossip had coupled his name with his
cousin Addie, and that this fact influenced Miss
Martell's manner as well as his tendencies toward
dissipation. He laid it all to the latter cause, and
was beginning to feel that he could live the life of an
ascetic, if this lovely saint would only permit his
devotion.
And Clara, so sensitive where he was concerned,
thought she saw a change in him for the better, and
in the spirit of womanly self-sacrifice was resolving
to see more of him than was prudent for her peace
of mind, if by so doing she could regain her old
power to advise and restrain.
With gladness she recognized her influence over
him at Mrs. Byram's company, and as we have seen,
made the most of it. But with surprise and some
strange thrills at heart, she noted that he and Addie
Marchmont did not act as an engaged couple naturally
would; and observed, with disgust, that Miss Marchmont
seemed more pleased with Brently's attentions
than Lottie Marsden had been.
That a man of Harcourt's force and mind should
be captivated by such a girl as Miss Marchmont, had
been a mystery; and she thought, when seeing them
together in Mrs. Byram's parlors:
“They take it more coolly than any people I
ever saw.”
Addie appeared engrossed with the attentions of
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others, and Harcourt not in the least jealous or
annoyed. In brief, they acted like cousins, and not
in the least like lovers.
But in the sensitive delicacy of her character she
would not permit her mind to dwell on the problem
of their relations, and bent all her thoughts upon her
effort to win Harcourt to a better life.
And she had moved him that evening more deeply
than she could know. Neither she, nor any finite
power, could plant righteous principle within his soul
and transform his character; but she had created, for
the time at least, an utter distaste for all low and
sensual pleasures, and an honest and absorbing wish
to become a true, good man. He felt that he could
not be in her society, and breathe the pure atmosphere
of her life and be his old self.
Never did a man return from a fashionable revel
in a more serious and thoughtful mood, and equally
with Lottie and Hemstead he was glad to escape the
trifling chat and gossip of Addie and Bel Parton, to
the welcome solitude of his own room.
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CHAPTER XVIII. HEMSTEAD'S HEAVY GUN AND ITS RECOIL.
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THE “day after the ball” has its proverbial character,
and Saturday was so long and dismal to
several of the revellers, that it occurred to them that
their pleasure had been purchased rather dearly. It
seemed an odd coincidence, that those who had been
bent on securing all the pleasure possible, with no
other thought, suffered the most. Bel and Addie
could scarcely endure their own company, they were
so weary and stupid; and they yawned through the
day, irritable and dishevelled, for it was too stormy
for callers.
De Forrest did not appear until dinner, and then
came down moody and taciturn. The young ladies
had heard of his illness the evening before, with significant
glances, and Mrs. Marchmont partly surmised
the truth, but politely ignored the matter, treating
it only as a sudden indisposition; and so the affair
was passed over, as they usually are in fashionable
life, until they reach a stage too pronounced for polite
blindness.
De Forrest but dimly recollected the events of
the preceding evening. He was quite certain, however,
that he had been drunk, and had made a fool
of himself.
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Though his conscience was not over tender upon
this subject, and though such occurrences were not
so exceedingly rare in fashionable life as to be very
shocking, he still had the training and instinct of a
gentleman, to a sufficient degree to feel deep mortification.
If he had become tipsy among those of his own
sex, or while off on a fishing excursion, he would
have regarded it as a light matter; but even in his
eyes, intoxication at an evening company, and before
the girl in whose estimation he most wished to stand
well, was a very serious matter. He could not
remember much after going a second time to the supper-room
in compliance with Lottie's request, but
had a vague impression that she and Hemstead had
brought him home. He was left in torturing uncertainty
how far he had disgraced himself, because it
was a subject concerning which he could not bring
himself to make inquiries. That those he met at
the dinner-table treated him with their usual quiet
politeness proved nothing. Human faces mask more
thoughts than are expressed. Hemstead's grave
silence was somewhat significant; but De Forrest
cared so little for his opinion that he scarcely heeded
the student's manner.
Lottie Marsden was the one he most wished, and
yet most dreaded to see. But Lottie did not appear.
Whether it was true, as she believed, or not, that
she was the most guilty, she certainly was the greatest
sufferer, and that Saturday became the longest
and dreariest period of pain, that she ever
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experienced. She awoke in the morning with a nervous
headache, which grew so severe that she declined
leaving her room during the day. Bel, Addie, and
her aunt, all offered to do anything in their power;
but she only asked to be left alone. She was so
unstrung, that even words of kindness and solicitude
jarred like discord.
It was torture to think, and yet her brain was
unnaturally active. Everything presented itself in
the most painfully bare and accurate manner. The
glamour faded out of her gay young life, and she saw
only the hard lines of fact. Hemstead's words kept
repeating themselves over and over again, and in
their light she questioned the past closely. It was
not in keeping with her positive nature and strong
mind to do things by halves. With fixed and steady
scrutiny she reviewed the motives of her life, and
estimated the results. They were so unsatisfactory
as to startle her. Although the spent years had
been filled with continuous and varied activity, what
had she accomplished for herself or any one else?
Were not all her past days like water spilled on barren
sands, producing nothing?
As she had before intimated, she had been receiving
homage, flattery, and even love, all her life, and
yet now her heart had no treasures to which she
could turn in solid satisfaction, nor could memory
recall efforts like that she saw Miss Martell making
in behalf of Harcourt. The adulation received was
now empty breath and forgotten words, and nothing
substantial or comforting remained.
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But if memory could recall little good accomplished,
it placed in long and dark array many
scenes that she would gladly have forgotten.
What can be worse—what need we fear more—
than to be left alone forever with a guilty and accusing
conscience, and no respite, no solace? What
perdition need a man shrink from more than to go
away alone from his earthly life, to where memory—a
pale and silent spectre—will turn the pages of his
daily record, and point to what was, and what might
have been?
A shallow-minded girl would have been incapable
of this searching self-analysis. A weak, irresolute
girl like Bel Parton would have taken a sedative, and
escaped a miserable day in sleep. But with all her
faults, Lottie abounded in practical common sense;
and Hemstead's words and her own experience suggested
that she might be doing herself a very great
wrong. She felt that it was no light matter to make
one's whole life a blunder, and to invest all one's
years and energies in what paid no better interest
than she had received that day. Her physical pain
and mental distress acted and reacted upon each
other until at last, wearied out, she sobbed herself to
sleep.
Both De Forrest and Hemstead were greatly in
hopes that she would be at the supper-table, but they
did not see her that day. The former, with his aching
head and heavy heart, learned, if never before,
that the “way of the transgressor is hard.” But
though the latter could not be regarded as a
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transgressor, his way was hard also that long day, and he
whom Lottie, in the memory of his severe words
regarded somewhat as her stern accuser, was more
than ready to take all her pains and woes upon himself,
could he have relieved her.
He now bitterly condemned himself for having
been too harsh in the wholesome truth he had
brought home to the flattered girl. It was rather
severe treatment; still she was vigorous, and would
be all the better for it. But now her faithful physician,
as he heard how ill and suffering she was, almost
wished that he had but faintly suggested the truth
in homœopathic doses.
At the same time he supposed that her indisposition
was caused more by her shame and grief at the
conduct of De Forrest, than from anything he had said.
The impression that she was attached or engaged
to De Forrest was becoming almost a conviction.
Though Lottie had never, by a word, bound herself
to her cousin, yet her aunt and all the household
regarded her as virtually engaged to him, and
expected that the marriage would eventually occur.
With Hemstead, they regarded her illness and seclusion
as the result of her mortification at his behavior,
and underneath their politic politeness were very
indignant at his folly. But they expected that the
trouble would soon blow over, as a matter of course.
The mantle of charity for young men as rich and
well-connected as De Forrest, is very large. And
then this slip could be regarded somewhat in the
light of an accident; for when it became evident that
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Bel understood the nature of De Forrest's “spell,”
as the coachman called it, Lottie had taken pains to
insist that it was an accident for which she was chiefly
to blame; and had also said as much to Mrs. Marchmont.
Thus they all concluded that her relations
with De Forrest would not be disturbed.
Harcourt was the happiest of the party; but it
must be confessed that, clearer than any law points, he
saw still among blooming exotics a being that seemed
far more rare and beautiful, who stood before him
the whole day with clasped hands and entreating eyes,
whose only request was, “Be a true man.” Under
the inspiration of her words and manner he began
to hope that he might eventually grant her request.
As far as Lottie's intruding image would permit,
Hemstead concentrated all his energies on the
great sermon, the elaborate effort of many months,
that he expected to preach on the morrow. He
hoped Lottie, and indeed that all, would be there,
for it seemed that if they would only give him their
thoughtful attention he would prove beyond a shadow
of a doubt that they were in God's hands, and that
it would be worse than folly not to submit to His
shaping and moulding discipline.
At last Sunday morning came. It was a cold,
chilly, leaden day, and even a glance from the windows
gave one a shivering sense of discomfort.
The gloom of nature seemed to shadow the faces
of some of the party as they gathered at a late breakfast;
and of none was this more true than of Lottie
Marsden, as pale and languid she took her wonted
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[figure description] Page 258.[end figure description]
place. Her greeting of De Forrest was most kindly,
and he seemed greatly reassured and brightened up
instantly. But Lottie's face did not lose its deep
dejection.
To the others she appeared to take very little
notice of Hemstead; but he thought that he observed
her eyes furtively seeking his face, with a questioning
expression. Once he answered her glance with
such a frank, sunny smile that her own face lighted
up. As they were passing into the parlor he said, in
a low tone:
“I wished a hundred times yesterday that I could
bear your headache for you.”
“That is more kind than just. It is right that I
should get my deserts,” she replied, shaking her head.
“Heaven save us from our deserts,” he answered
quickly.
Before she could speak again, De Forrest was by
her side and said, “Let me wheel the lounge up to
the fire, and I will read anything you wish this
morning.”
“Oh no, I'm going to church.”
“Miss Lottie, I beg of you do not go. You are
not able.”
“Yes, I am; the air will do me good. It's the
Sunday before Christmas, Julian, and we both ought
to be at church.”
“Oh, certainly, I'll go if you wish it.”
“I hope your sermon will do me good, Mr. Hemstead.
I'm wofully blue,” she said, as she left the
room to prepare for church.
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“I think it will,” he replied, “for I have prepared
it with a great deal of care.”
The building was a small but pretty gothic structure,
and its sacred quiet did seem to Lottie somewhat
like a refuge. With an interest such as she
had never felt in the elegant city temple, she waited
for the service to commence, honestly hoping that
there might be something that would comfort and
reassure.
But Hemstead went through the preliminary services
with but indifferent grace and effect. He was
embarrassed and awkward, as is usually the case with
those who have seldom faced an audience, and who
are naturally very diffident. But as he entered upon
his sermon, his self-consciousness began to pass
away, and he spoke with increasing power and effect.
He took as his text words from the 11th chapter
of St. John, wherein Jesus declares to his disciples
in regard to the death of Lazarus.
“I am glad, for your sakes, that I was not there
to the intent that ye may believe.”
The importance of faith—believing—as the source
of Christian life, and the ground of man's acceptance
with God, was his subject, from which he wandered
somewhat—a course often noted in the ministerial
tyro.
He presented his views strongly, however, but
they were partial and unripe, giving but one side of
the truth, and therefore calculated to do injury
rather than good. He did not—he could not—overestimate
the importance of faith, but he unwittingly
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misrepresented God, in his efforts to inspire this
faith, and the Christian life resulting; and he under
valued our earthly state and its interests.
He sketched in strong outlines the experience of
the little family at Bethany, portraying with vivid
realism the suffering of the man whom Jesus loved,
the anxiety of the sisters when Lazarus became ill—
this anxiety passing into fear, dread, sickening certainty,
and despair—the anguish of bereavement,
the loneliness and heart-breaking sorrow of four
days, and that most agonized wrench of the heart
when the beloved form is left alone to corrupt in the
dark and silent sepulchre.
Having presented this picture in such true and
sombre colors that the gloom was reflected from the
faces of all his hearers, they being reminded that this
would be their lot ere long, he passed suddenly from
the painful scenes of Bethany to Bethabara, beyond
Jordan, where was sojourning the mysterious Prophet
of Nazareth, who had so often proved his power to
heal every disease. He enlarged upon the fact that
Jesus, seeing and knowing all the fear and suffering
at Bethany which he could change by a word into
gladness, did not interfere, but decreed that the terrible
ordeal should be endured to the bitter end.
From this he reasoned that the transient sorrows
and passing pains of the household at Bethany were
of little moment, and that God, in the advancement
of his own glory and the accomplishment of his great
plans, would never turn aside because his human
children in their short-sighted weakness would stay
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[figure description] Page 261.[end figure description]
his heavy hand if they could. He knew all that was
occurring at Bethany, but quietly and calmly permitted
it to take place, and in this case it was the
same as if he had willed it.
He then proceeded to show that the Divine purpose
had not only a wide and general sweep, embracing
the race, and extending through all time, but
that there was a minute providence encompassing
each life. If there were any good in us, God would
bring it out, nor would he spare us in the effort.
The preacher, unfortunately and unconsciously to
himself, gave the impression that God acted on the
principle that he could accomplish far more with
the rod of affliction than anything else, and that
when he fully set about the task of winning a soul
from sin, his first step was to stretch it upon the
rack of some kind of suffering. He also intensified
this painful impression, by giving the idea that God
thought little of the processes which might be so
painful to us, but fixed His eye only on the result.
If people became sullen, rebellious, or reckless under
His discipline, they were like misshapen clay, that
the potter must cast aside. The crude ore must go
into the furnace, and if there was good metal in it
the fact would appear.
“Sooner or later,” he said, “God will put every
soul into the crucible of affliction. Sooner or later
we shall all be passing through scenes like that of the
family at Bethany. We may not hope to escape.
God means we shall not. As Christ firmly, while
seeing and knowing all, left events at Bethany to
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their designed course, so he will as surely and steadily
carry out the discipline, which he, as the unerring
physician of the soul, sees that each one of us
requires. Does the refiner hesitate to put the crude
ore into the crucible? Does the sculptor shrink
from chiselling the shapeless block into beauty? Does
not the surgeon, with nerves of steel and pulse unquickened,
cut near the very vitals of his agonized
patient? He sees that it is necessary, in order to
save from greater evil, and therefore he is as remorseless
as fate. If to cure some transient, physical
infirmity, man is justified—nay more, is compelled—
to inflict so much suffering upon his fellow-creatures,
how much more is God justified in his severest moral
discipline, which has as its object our eternal health?
Though we shrink from the sorrow, though we writhe
under the pain, though our hearts break a thousand
times, he will not waver in his calm, steadfast purpose.
He sees eternity, the present is as nothing to him.
He will break our grasp from all earthly idols, even
though he tear our bleeding hearts asunder. If we
are trusting in aught save Him, that upon which we
are leaning will be snatched away, even though we
fall at first into the depths of despairing sorrow.
What he makes us suffer now is not to be considered,
in view of his purpose to wean us from the
world and prepare us for the next. Christ, as we
learn from our text, is as inflexible as fate, and does
not hesitate to secure the needful faith by remaining
away, even though the message of the sisters was an
entreaty in itself. Nay more, he distinctly declares
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to his disciples, `I was glad for your sakes I was not
there, to the intent that ye may believe.'
“In conclusion, we assert that we ought to rise
above our human weakness and co-work with God.
Instead of clinging so to the present, we ought to
think of the eternal future, and welcome the harshest
discipline which prepares us for that future. We
should mortify ourselves, trample our earthly natures
under our feet. To that degree that we can bring
ourselves to think less of earth—we shall think more
of heaven. Our business, our earthly hopes and
plans, our dearest ties, may be fatal snares to our
souls. The husband may make an idol of his wife—
the mother of her child. God jealously watches; we
should watch more jealously. The sisters may have
been loving their brother and trusting to his protection
more than in Christ. We should hold all
earthly possessions in fear and trembling, as something
not our own, but only committed for a brief
time to our trust. We should remember that the
one great object of this life is to secure that faith
which leads to preparation for the life to come. The
harsher our experiences are here, the better, if they
more surely wean us from earth and all earthly things,
and make eternity the habitation of our thoughts. We
see how stern and resolute God is in his great purpose
to stamp out unbelief from the world. Jesus
would not save the family at Bethany that he loved—
the family that freely gave hospitality and love in
return when nearly all the world was hostile. Do
not think, then, that he will spare us. Let us
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therefore, not spare ourselves, but with remorseless hands
smite down every earthly object that hides from our
view the wide ocean of eternity. As the wise men
from the East travelled steadily across arid wastes with
eyes fixed only on the strange bright luminary that
was guiding them to Bethlehem, so we should regard
this world as a desert across which we must hasten
to the presence of our God.”
As Hemstead forgot himself, and became absorbed
with his theme, he spoke with impressiveness and
power; and everywhere throughout the audience was
seen that thoughtful contraction of the brow and
fixed gaze which betoken deep attention. But upon
the faces of nearly all was the expression of one
listening to something painful. This was especially
true of Miss Martell and her father, while Harcourt's
face grew cold and satirical. Lottie looked pale and
sullen, and De Forrest was evidently disgusted. Mr.
Dimmerly fidgeted in his seat, and even complacent
Mrs. Marchmont seemed a little ruffled and disturbed,
while her daughter Addie was in a state of irritable
protest against both preacher and sermon. Poor Bel
was merely frightened and conscience-stricken, her
usual condition after every sermon to which she
listened.
As, during the brief remnant of the service,
Hemstead dropped down into consciousness of the
world around him, he felt at first, rather than saw,
the chill he had caused, instead of a glow answering
to his own feelings. As he looked closer, he imagined
he detected a gloomy and forbidding expression on
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the faces turned toward him. The Gospel—the message
of good news that he had brought—appeared
to shadow the audience like a passing cloud.
After dismission, the people aroused themselves
as from an oppressive dream. The few greetings
and congratulations that he received as he passed
down the aisle seemed formal and constrained, and,
he thought, a little insincere. He was still more
puzzled as he overheard Miss Martell say to Harcourt
at the door:
“I am sorry you heard that sermon.”
“I am, too,” he replied, “for it seemed true.”
“It's only a half truth,” she said earnestly.
“The Lord deliver me, then; this half is more
than I can stand.”
Lottie scarcely spoke during the drive home, and
Hemstead noted, with pain, that her face had a hard,
defiant look. It occurred to him that he had not
seen any who appeared as if they had enjoyed the
service.
There were long pauses at the dinner-table, and
after one of the longest, Mr. Dimmerly abruptly
remarked, in his sententious manner:
“Well, nephew, I suppose you gave us a powerful
sermon this morning. It has made us all deucedly
uncomfortable, anyhow. But I've no doubt the old
rule holds good, the worse the medicine is to take
the more certain to cure.”
Lottie's response to this remark was a ringing
laugh, in which the others, in the inevitable reaction
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from the morbid gloom, joined with a heartiness that
was most annoying to the young clergyman.
“You must excuse me, Mr. Hemstead,” said she,
after a moment, “I have had the blues all day, and
have reached that point where I must either laugh
or cry, and prefer the former at the dinner-table.”
Hemstead stiffly bowed as his only response. He
was too chagrined, puzzled, and disappointed, to venture
upon a reply, and after this one lurid gleam of
unnatural mirth, the murky gloom of the day seemed
to settle down more heavily than before.
After dinner De Forrest tried to secure Lottie's
society for the afternoon. The refusal was kind, not
careless as was often the case formerly. Indeed her
whole manner toward him might be characterized as
a grave, remorseful kindness, such as we might show
toward a child or an inferior that we had wronged
somewhat.
De Forrest, finding that Lottie would persist in
going to her room, went to his also, and took a long,
comfortable nap.
Bel wanted to talk about the sermon, but as Lottie
would not talk about anything, she too, soon for
got her spiritual anxieties in sleep.
But Lottie sat and stared at her fire, and Hemstead,
deserted by all, stared at the fire in the parlor
and both were sorely troubled and perplexed.
-- 267 -- p668-272
CHAPTER XIX. THE PREACHER TAUGHT BY THE PAGAN
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WE have said that Lottie Marsden was a pagan.
That is not necessarily a reproach. Socrates
was a pagan. But Lottie, in the main, was a
very ordinary pagan, not better than the average.
Her only superiority over other idolaters, and many
nominal Christians, it might be added, was her practical
common sense. The more she thought, the more
unsatisfactory Hemstead's sermon grew, and the
more sure she became that there was a wrong somewhere:
in him, or her, or in religion itself.
Her whole nature revolted at the idea of God
given that morning.
In her vivid fancy, she saw an unrelenting, unimpassioned,
and yet all-powerful Being, from whom
there was no escape, calmly subjecting one human life
after another to the severest crucial tests. If one
could endure it, all might be well. If, in the composition
of one's character, there existed good metal, it
would come out of the furnace fine gold perhaps; but
if, as she feared might be true of herself, there was
only dross, then the fiery trials awaiting would be
as useless as cruel.
“Why couldn't an all-powerful God find a
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pleasanter and surer way of making us good?” she asked
in bitterness. “I know there is something wrong in
what Mr. Hemstead preached this morning. He is
different from his own doctrines, and to my mind
a great deal better. He was severe upon me, but
not calmly and stonily severe. He looked as if he
felt for me deeply, and would even, at cost to himself,
give me aid if I tried to do right. If he had
shown me my faults in the calm cold distance of
immeasurable superiority which he ascribed to God,
I would not have listened to a word. But his voice
was gentleness itself, and it evidently pained him to
give me pain; but when he came to show our relations
to God, I seemed to come in the presence of
stony-hearted, stony-faced fate. If this is the real
God that ministers preach about, little wonder that
they have such a hard time of it in persuading us to
love Him. Little wonder that people forget Him as
long as they can. But Mr. Hemstead seems to want
us to think of these awful things nearly all the time;
and, what's worse, to begin torturing and mortifying
ourselves, even before God is ready to commence.
No, I thank you. No such religion for me. If I must
go into the fiery furnace, I won't go till I must.”
She sprang up, and restlessly paced the room.
“He's a very cheerful apostle of such a gloomy
gospel,” she thought. “Gospel! I thought gospel
meant good news. I never heard worse than he told
us this morning. If what he preached is true religion,
he's a very inconsistent professor of it, and I
would like to tell him so.
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“What's more, I will if I can find him;” and
acting upon the impulse she left the room.
The “miserable sinners,” as the prayer-book has
it, and whom Hemstead had in fact made quite miserable
for a time, grew more comfortable after dinner;
and by three P. M., so far from employing hair-cloth
and scourgings, or even the mildest form of a crusade
against the weaknesses of the flesh, were all dozing
and digesting in the most luxurious manner. Lottie
was the only “sinner” who remained “miserable”;
but she was not more “out of sorts” than the
one who, ex officio, as the world is prone to believe,
ought to have been calm and serene upon his theological
height above the clouds.
As she entered the parlor with her velvet-like
tread, she paused a moment to observe the Boanerges—
the thunderer of the morning. As he sat alone
before the fire, with his elbows upon his knees and
his face buried in his hands, he looked more like a
weak mortal than a “son of thunder.” He did not
look a bit like one, who with face as firm and inflexible
as God's purpose, was anxious to step into the
fiery furnace before it was ready.
She drew a few steps nearer, and stood over him
with a curious expression on her face, which could
so well mask or reveal her thought as she chose.
She had come down stairs in a state of irritable and
defiant protest against his doctrines, and with no
little vexation at him for being their mouth-piece.
If she had found him calmly pacing the floor, pondering
on human frailty and folly, or if he had been
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reading judicially a semi-sceptical work, that he might
demolish the irreverent author, she would have made
an onslaught whose vigor, if not logic, would have
greatly disturbed his equanimity and theological
poise. But when she saw his attitude of deep dejection,
and when twice he sighed long and heavily, her
woman's nature was disarmed, and she began to think
that his doctrines were as hard upon him as the rest.
Instinctively she took his part against God, whose
formative hand appeared too heavy for them both.
Therefore, instead of the hard, bitter words that
she intended to speak, she said, with a little quaver
in her voice:
“Mr. Hemstead, I almost believe that you feel as
badly as I do.”
When he looked up she was sure he felt worse.
But he seemed to try to forget his own trouble as he
said kindly:
“I'm sorry you feel badly.”
“Well,” said Lottie, sitting down on the opposite
side of the hearth, while the fire, on which Hemstead
had thrown some damp green wood, smoked dismally
between them, “I do think you are a little sorry.”
“Can I help you in any way? I wish you knew
how gladly I would do so.”
“Yes, I believe that, too. You don't look a bit
as if you would like to throw me into a fiery furnace,
and see if I would come out a lump of gold or a good-for-nothing
cinder.”
His only reply was a look of perplexed inquiry,
but his gray eyes were so kind and yet withal so
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full of dejection that she again thought, “He is
dreadfully inconsistent with his doctrines”; and she
said, with a trace of archness in her tone:
“I think you look as if you needed a little help
and comfort yourself.”
He turned away his face, but after a moment
said,
“You never spoke truer words, Miss Marsden.”
Then Lottie, who before had felt in such need of
cheer herself, forgot this need in her wish to help
the great desponding man before her, whose mingled
weakness and strength was a growing surprise. In a
tone that would have softened flint she said:
“I wish I were good enough to help you.”
Then he perplexed her by saying, with sudden
energy, “And I wish you were bad enough.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Pardon me,” he said hastily. “My words were
figurative, and exaggerated by deep feeling. I meant
that I wished you, or some one, could be human and
charitable enough to understand me, and help me to
triumph over my weakness without condemning too
severely.
“Well,” said Lottie, with a little sigh of satisfaction,
“I think I'm bad enough. I'm very human, any
way, and I think I'm in a mood to be charitable to-day;
for, if my conscience tells me the truth, I'm
awfully in need of charity myself.”
He looked up quickly and hopefully as he said.
“Then my sermon did you some good after all.”
“Not a bit of it. I can have plenty of charity
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for you, but not a particle for your sermon—no more
than I would for a thumb-screw of the Inquisition.”
This unmeasured condemnation of the pet child of
his brain—a part of himself as it were—of which he
had been so proud, cut to the quick, and he flushed
deeply and almost resentfully at first. But he made
no reply, and sat lowering at the smoky hearth
while he sank into a lower depth of despondency.
Preaching was his chosen life-work, and yet this was
the verdict against his first great sermon.
Lottie looked hopelessly at him, not knowing
what to say or do next, and regretting that she had
spoken so hastily and harshly.
At last he sighed. “I don't understand it. I
had spent months over that sermon. I fear I have
mistaken my calling.”
“Well,” said Lottie rather brusquely, “I wouldn't
feel so forlorn and miserable over that. I don't think
it's much of a calling any way.”
“Oh, Miss Marsden!” he ejaculated, in a shocked
tone.
“I'm sincere in what I say,” she continued earnestly.
“Please don't misunderstand me. As far as
I am a judge I think your sermon was well written,
and it certainly was delivered effectively; for though
none of us liked it, we couldn't help listening. But
its strongest effect was to make me wish I was an
infidel and, like Mr. Harcourt, did not believe in
anything. I honestly think that it will be a very
poor calling to go out among the poor people on the
frontier and preach such a gospel as you gave us this
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morning. In the name of pity, haven't they enough
to contend with now? In addition to the scalping
Indians, the border ruffians, the grasshoppers, and
grinding poverty, are you going to give them a religion
in which the furnace of affliction and the crucible
of trial flames as the centre? Poor creatures!
I suppose they are in hard and hot places most of
the time, but don't make them think that God puts
them there, and that there is no chance to get out
till He is through with them. I can tell you before-hand,
that people are not going to get into the fiery
furnace and commence having a miserable time of it
before they must. Let us be as comfortable as we
can, while we can. If you feel that you have mistaken
your calling—and I hope you have—I'm sure
that father, at my request, will find you a better one
in New York.”
Poor Hemstead was as satisfied as Luther had
been that this was a temptation of the devil; but
before him was no such apparition as that against
which the great reformer could hurl his ink-horn
without leaving a spot.
With the lurid flash of Lucifer as he fell from
heaven, the thought passed through his disquieted
mind, “And in New York I might win the hand and
heart of this beautiful girl.” But every quality of his
soul frowned so darkly on this thought, which held
out Lottie Marsden as a bribe, that it soon skulked
away. His mind reverted to the main difficulty,
and he said:
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“Surely, Miss Marsden, I did not preach such a
religion as you suggest.”
“You surely did, Mr. Hemstead, as I could soon
prove to you. I am glad you are so inconsistent a
professor of your religion.”
“Am I an inconsistent professor?” he asked
sadly.
“Indeed you are,” she replied; and both mischief
and kindness lurked in her eyes. “You don't live
up to your doctrines at all.”
“Little wonder, then,” he exclaimed, in bitter
self-condemnation, “that all turn from my teaching.”
She looked at him with a curious smile, as she
thought, “What a child he is! He is but wax in
my hands. If he should marry a cold-hearted, selfish
woman, with a spice of petty, teasing malice in
her nature, she could sit down quietly at his hearth
and torture to death this overgrown man, with
whole libraries in his brain. I could wring his soul
now, by making him think that he had lived so unworthily
that we could not listen to his most
unworthy sermon.”
She led him out of his strong self-condemnation
into equal perplexity, by saying, “Unlike most of
the world, you are so much better than your creed as
to be utterly inconsistent.”
He came and sat down near her, with such an
appealing, helpless look, that she laughed outright.
“Please don't laugh at me,” he said, with the
glimmer of a smile, “because this to me is a more
serious matter than you or any one can understand.”
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“I don't laugh unfeelingly, I assure you,” she
said earnestly. I never was more sincere in my life
than I was this afternoon, but I am one of those
ridiculous mortals who cannot take things coolly, and
as I said at dinner, there are times when I must
either laugh or cry. I never passed a more miserable
day in my life than yesterday. You, terrible
magician, whom I have scarcely known for a week,
have awakened in my heart a giant; and yesterday
and to-day he has been shaking my soul with his
mutterings and threatenings. I could always manage
my conscience before, and snub it into quietness
when it became unruly. But as I said, from a whining
child it has suddenly grown into a threatening
giant, more harsh even than you the other evening.
I went to church this morning, hoping to
find some comfort, some remedy, but bad as is the
disease, the remedy seems far worse. I came down
stairs this afternoon in no amiable mood with you or
your theology, but was disarmed by seeing you in as
bad a plight as myself. I fear your medicine will
kill both doctor and patient. During the past
week you have been a strong, genial man, with a
human, genuine enjoyment of our every day life. If
you were a little blue and puritanical, it was in a
common-sense way that I could understand, and your
criticism of myself I think in the main was just.
Any way, you made me wish I was a better girl,
and I was thinking how to commence: then came
this awful Sunday, and your awful sermon, which
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made me both fear and hate God, and want to keep
away from Him as far and as long as I can.”
“Your words perplex and sadden me beyond
measure,” said Hemstead. “You belong to the
very class that I had hoped to benefit,—those who
admit that they are without faith, but who are not
so averse to the truth but that they may be won by
it. And yet you say that the whole force of my sermon
is to make you wish that you could be an infidel.
I cannot understand it. If I have mistaken my calling
I could not make you nor any one comprehend
the depth of my sorrow, or the bitterness of my disappointment.
In the calling of the ministry it has
ever seemed to me that I could work a century with
enthusiasm. But in any other work I should be but
a drudge, for my heart would not be in it. You
know how young men often feel about these things.
One has a natural bent for the law, another for medicine,
and another for business or science. I had
fondly hoped that I was a predestined minister, and
this hope has strengthened with years and become
inwrought with every fibre of my soul. I was willing
to commence in a very humble way, and anywhere
that God would set me to work; but if the
effect of my preaching is to drive people away from
Him, the sooner I give it all up the better.”
“How different our tastes and plans for life are!”
said Lottie musingly. “It appears strange that you
should have set your heart so strongly on what
is so dismal to me. And yet such is the evident
depth of your regret that I do feel for you very much.”
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Hemstead rose and took a few abrupt turns up
and down the room. Lottie watched him with in
creasing interest. He had shown her his weakness
and she perceived that he would also show his
strength. After a moment he learned on the mantel
before her, and said in quiet, decisive tones:
“Miss Marsden, I have given you the right to
speak to me very plainly. I honestly wish light on
this subject, and intend to settle this question at the
earliest moment possible. God knows I do not wish
to thrust myself unbidden into the sacred office.
If I am not worthy of the calling, then the sooner I
find it out the better, and so try to content myself
with some humbler work. Not only from what you
have said, but from the remarks and aspect of
others, I am satisfied that my effort this morning
was worse than a failure. You have a mind of
unusual vigor, and a good faculty in expressing your
thought. Won't you give me a keen, truthful analysis
of the whole service? It is to the world I am to
preach; and I wish to know just how what I say
strikes the world. I know that Christian doctrines
have ever been unpalatable, but if there is something
in my presentation of them that is going to make
them tenfold more so, then I will be dumb. I would
rather hide in a desert than drive one soul from God,
as you intimated. You were brave enough to let
me speak to you, almost harshly I fear; now see if I
have not equal courage. Say the very worst things
that you believe true, and you may help me very
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much toward coming to the most important decision
of my life.”
“Oh dear,” said Lottie. “I'm not fit to counsel
a downy chicken. I wish you didn't take this matter
so to heart. You look as if I might be your
executioner.”
“You can be my faithful surgeon and do some
wholesome cutting.”
“Well,” said Lottie dismally. “I'd rather give
you ether or laughing-gas first.”
“That is more kind than wise,” he replied, smiling;
“in moral and mental surgery the patient should
have all his faculties.”
“There!” she exclaimed with animation, “we
are illustrating by contrast my chief complaint against
your preaching, When you told me my faults you
did so gently, and appeared pained in giving me
pain; and now I am honestly sorry to say words that
I know will hurt you. And I know my words will
hurt and discourage you, for if the trouble were in
you it might be remedied, but it is in what you teach,
and of course you teach what you believe, and won't
say smooth things as I fear other ministers do sometimes.
You represented God calm and unchangeable
as fate, as unrelenting and unimpassioned. In this
spirit you portrayed Him taking up one life after
another and putting it into the furnace of affliction,
to see what he can make of it. You illustrated his
manner of doing this by the sculptor with his cold
unfeeling marble, by the refiner with crude ore, and
by the surgeon, and you forgot to say that the last
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stupefies his patients before cutting. You gave me
the impression that as soon as God set about making
us better we would find ourselves in trouble, and that
like certain school masters of the old régime, He
had faith in nothing save the rod. You know the
natural feeling of children toward such pedagogues.
How can we help feeling in the same way toward God?
Then you presented God as full of inflexible purposes,
but the oftener you told us that we could not help
ourselves, and that there was no use of resisting, the
more I felt like resisting. The idea of cutting and
carving character out of quivering human hearts as
if they were marble! The idea of putting one, like
a lump of ore, into a crucible, and then coolly sitting
by to see what becomes of it. I'm not a lump of
ore, and if I need harsh treatment I want it done
sympathetically, feelingly, or I will become a Tartar
instead of a saint. The tears in your eyes the other
night, Mr. Hemstead, did me more good than all your
wise words.”
Hemstead looked as if a light were dawning upon
him.
“You spoke of this life,” continued Lottie, “as
if it were nothing, and that God didn't care—indeed
approved of our having a hard time here, that we
might be more sure of a good time hereafter. You
spoke of God as jealously watching, lest we should
love earthly friends more than Him, and that he was
bound to be first, if he had to snatch away everything
that we loved most. Therefore, even the
mother must keep chilling her natural love for her
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child, or else God will make the innocent little thing
suffer and die, just to give the mother a lesson.
You said that we should hold all earthly possessions
in fear and trembling, and that the harsher our experiences
were, here, the better, if they only wean us
from earth. If this is true, we had better have no possessions
and form no ties. The monks and nuns are
right. Let us shut ourselves up, and wear hair-cloth
instead of merino, and catch our death of cold by
moping around bare-foot at all unseasonable hours
All you said may be good religion, but it's mighty
poor sense, and very unnatural.”
Hemstead shaded his burning face with his
hands.
“There, I knew I would hurt you—no doubt I
seem very irreverent, but you have no idea how I am
restraining myself for your sake. I'm just that provoked
and indignant—well, well, what's the use? As
you said, we can't help ourselves, and into the fiery
furnace Lottie Marsden will go before long; only
there will be nothing left of me but a little cinder.
Why couldn't the Being you call all-wise and all-powerful,
devise some nicer way, one more in accordance
with the nature he has given us? Suppose heaven
is a grander place than this world, that is no good reason
for hating the world. This earth is our present
home, and it looks sensible that we should make the
most of it, and enjoy ourselves in it. Suppose my
father should say, `Lottie, I want you to hate and
despise your present home, because in five years I'm
going to give you a palace; and if you can only fall
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down stairs once or twice, and have a fit of illness so
as to get weaned from it, I shall be glad.'
“How strangely and monstrously unnatural all
that kind of talk is when you come to put it into
plain English,” proceeded Lottie after a moment,
tapping the floor impatiently with her foot. “If you
must preach such doctrines as you did this morning,
I am sorry for you; and if they are true, I am sorry
for the world, myself included. The trouble is not
in you. I am sure you can make almost an orator in
time, if you can get a theme that won't give men
the shivers, and set their teeth on edge. I never
understood religion and never liked it; and now that
I do begin to understand it, I like it less than ever.”
Hemstead sat down in his chair—indeed he sank
into it, and the face he turned toward her was white
and full of pain.
“Miss Marsden,” he said slowly, “I fear I have
given you, and all who heard me, a very false impression
of God and Christianity; and yet I thought I
was speaking the truth.”
“Oh, I knew you were honest. There isn't a
dishonest fibre in your nature; but I wish you were
all wrong. Oh, how delighted I should be if you
were a heretic without knowing it, and we could find
out a religion that wouldn't make one's blood run
cold to think of it.”
“But my religion does me good, Miss Marsden.
It cheers, sustains, and strengthens me.”
“Now you see how inconsistent you are. You
preach one thing, and feel and act another”
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“I begin to see how I was misled in my sermon,
and why what I said was so repugnant to you; and
yet my mind is confused. It still appears to me, that
I developed the thought of the text. Christ said, “I
am glad I was not there to the intent that ye may
believe.” These words would seem to show that he
regarded our transient pains as of very secondary
importance compared with the accomplishment of his
great purposes. Why did he not go to Bethany at
once, if it were not so?”
“Well, it's an awful text, or you give it an awful
interpretation. Let me take the thought out of the
realm of theology or religion, and bring it down to
practical life. Suppose you go to New York to-morrow
and remain a few days, and to-morrow night the
house burns up, and I with it. Would your first
thought be, I am glad I was not there to put out
the fire or to rescue that naughty girl, Lottie Marsden,
because her sudden death, for which she was all
unprepared, will be a warning to many, and result in
great good? I may be wrong, Mr. Hemstead, but I
think you would get pretty well scorched before you
would permit even such a guy as I am to become a
warning to other naughty girls.”
“I can't imagine myself leaving you in danger,'
said Hemstead in a low tone, and a look that brought
the blood into Lottie's face.
“I thought you would feel so,” she continued
heartily. “You can preach awfully against sinners,
but when you come to put your doctrines in practice,
you would say as you did to me, `I wish I could
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bear all for you.' “Heaven knows I'm selfish enough,
but I can at least understand and appreciate generous
and kindly sympathy and could be won by it. But this
cool and inflexible elaboration of character, where
only the end is considered, and all our timid shrinking
and human weakness ignored—this austere asceticism
which despises the present world and life, is to
me unnatural and monstrous. I confess I never read
the Bible very much, and have not listened when it
was read. I have half forgotten the story of Lazarus.
You left off where Lazarus was in his grave,
and Christ was glad he was not there to prevent his
death. But that was not all the story. I think, if I
remember rightly, Christ raised him to life. Come,
get a Bible, and let us read the whole story, and see
if we cannot find something that will not make the
word `gospel' a mockery.”
“Won't you read it?” asked Hemstead humbly,
handing her the Bible.
“Yes, if you wish me to, though it seems very
funny that I should be reading the Bible to you.”
“I begin to have a hope that you will teach me
more than I ever learned from it before,” he replied
earnestly.
As in sweet, unaffected, girlish tones she read the
ancient story of human suffering and sorrow, the
scenes passed in seeming reality before the student.
He was intensely excited, though so quiet. When
one with a strong mind recognizes that he is approaching
a crisis in life, there is an awe that calms
and controls. Lottie, with her intense vitality, could
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arouse even a sluggish nature. But to earnest Hemstead,
with his vivid fancy and large faith, this beautiful
but erratic creature reading the neglected Bible, to
find for him a sweeter and sunnier gospel than he had
preached, seemed a special providence that presaged
more than he dared to conjecture; and he listened as
one who expected a new revelation.
Indeed his darkness was losing its opaqueness.
Rays of light were quivering through it. Her plain
and bitter words of protest against his sermon had
already shown him, in a measure, that he had exaggerated,
in his first crude sermonizing, one truth, and
left out the balancing and correcting truth. Familiar
with all the story of Lazarus, his mind travelled
beyond the reader, and with mingled joy and self-condemnation
he already began to see how he had
misrepresented the God of love. With intense
eagerness he watched and waited to see the effect of
the complete story on Lottie's mind.
When she came to the words, “Jesus said unto her,
I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth
on me, though he were dead yet shall he live:
“And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall
never die”—she stopped and said:
“This is very remarkable language. What does
it mean?”
“Read on; read to the end,” he urged.
She caught his eager expectancy, and read with
an absorbing interest, the truth that now seemed
stranger than any fiction.
When she reached the words—“He groaned in
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spirit, and was troubled,” she raised her eyes in a
quick glance of inquiry.
“Read on,” said Hemstead, in breathless interest.
A moment later, the shortest verse in the Bible
was upon her lips. Then she ceased reading aloud,
and the student saw her eyes hastily, as if she were
unable to endure the momentary delay of pronunciation,
scanning the story to its end.
“Mr. Hemstead,” she asked excitedly, “why did
Jesus weep and groan, when in a few moments Lazarus
would be alive, and the scene of mourning
changed to one of joy?”
With tears in his eyes, he replied, “There is One
gauiding you—guiding us both—who can answer that
question better than I.”
“We believe that Jesus Christ is God, do we
not?” she half-mused, half-questioned; her brows
contracting with intense thought.
“Yes,” he said reverently.
“Why, Mr. Hemstead, don't you see—don't you
see? This Being who is so keenly sympathetic, so
tenderly alive to a scene of sorrow that he weeps
and groans, though knowing that joy is coming in a
moment, is not the calm, passionless, inflexible God
you chilled our hearts with this morning. Why, this
is the very extravagance of tender-heartedness.
This is a gentleness that I can scarcely understand.
What mother, even, would first weep with her children
over a sorrow that she was about to remove with
a word! And yet this all-powerful Jesus, who can
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raise the dead to life, seems to cry just because the
others do—just as if he couldn't help it—just as
dear good Auntie Jane's eyes moisten when she
hears of any one in trouble. Mr. Hemstead, there is
surely a mistake somewhere. How do you reconcile
this Christ with the one you presented this morning.”
“I don't, and cannot.”
“And yet he did say to his disciples, `I am glad
I was not there,'” continued Lottie in deep perplexity.
Hemstead paced the room excitedly a few minutes,
and then exclaimed:
“It's growing as clear and beautiful as the light.”
“It seems to me flat contradiction,” said Lottie,
dejectedly. “There are the words, `I am glad I was
not there;' and there is the fact that he let Lazarus
die; and there also are the facts of his weeping and
raising Lazarus: and now I think of it, he performed
many miracles equally kind, and helped and encouraged
all sorts of people.”
“Certainly He did,” cried Hemstead. “Blind
idiot that I was in developing a crude theological
idea of my own, instead of simply presenting the God
of the Bible. I can never thank you enough, Miss
Marsden, for your strong good sense that has dissipated
my fog-bank of words. I think I see the way
into light. You have placed a clew in my hands
which I trust will lead not only me, but others into
peace I fear I did present to you a calm, unimpassioned
inflexible Being this morning, a God of purposes
and decrees, and remorseless will; and I have
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felt before that this was the god of theology and religious
philosophy, rather than the God of the Bible.
Your words have shown me that I gave you a crude
and one-sided view. Thoughts are thronging so upon
my mind that I am confused, but it comes to me with
almost the force of an inspiration that Christ's tears
of sympathy form the key to the whole Bible.”
“Well,” said Lottie, in a low tone, “I can see
how they might become the key to my heart. Come,
Mr. Hemstead, I have been a heathen up to this
time; and I hope you have been a heretic. If you
can explain the Bible in accordance with Christ's
tears, as he wept, when the kindest man living would
have smiled, in view of the change so soon to occur—
then preach by all means. That is the kind of gospel
we want. If I could believe that God felt with,
and for, his creatures as tenderly as that, it seems to
me that I could go to Him as naturally as I ever
went to Auntie Jane in my troubles.”
Hemstead was pacing the room, as was his custom
when excited. His face was aglow with earnest,
elevating thoughts. His ungainliness had utterly vanished;
and Lottie acknowledged that she had never
seen a nobler looking man. She felt that perhaps
they were both on the threshold of a larger and
richer life than they had ever known before. She
saw dimly, as through a mist, that which her heart
longed to believe—the truth that God does care
about his earthly children—that he was not to her a
mere shaping force or power, but a tender,
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gentle-hearted helper. Therefore she waited eagerly and
hopefully for Hemstead to speak.
But he felt that the glad tumult in his mind rendered
him unfit to be her guide just then, and therefore
said:
“Miss Marsden, I want to think calmly and carefully
over what you have said. I want to take this
briefest of all texts, `Jesus wept,' as a lamp in my
hand, and with it explore the rest of the Bible.
Already it seems as if it might be like carrying a light
into a treasure vault; and that where before was
darkness, gems and riches now will glitter.”
“And I, who have had the good fortune to strike
the light for you, am in the meantime to sit outside
of the `treasure vault,' and perhaps neither see nor
get any of the `gems.' I don't agree at all to your
gloating alone over what may be discovered.”
“And can you think I would wish to `gloat
alone'?” said Hemstead reddening. “It will be my
chief joy to bring back all I find to you.”
“I'm not that kind of a girl,” said Lottie with a
little, emphatic gesture. “If I wanted something
from the top of a mountain, I would not send a man
for it, but would go with him after it. This helpless
waiting, or languid looking on, while men do everything
for us, is as absurd in one direction as the
Indian custom of making the squaw do all the hard
work in another. I don't see why we can't take this
genial little lamp of a text, and do some exploring
together. I will hold the lamp, and you do the
looking. Here is the Bible, and there is your seat
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beside this dismal, smoking fire. I fear you have
treated it as you did us this morning—put on green
wood.”
“I think you are right in both cases,” he said, his
tell-tale color again suddenly rising.
“No matter, it was good wood in both cases, as
you will see when it becomes ripe and dry.”
“It will never do for me to become dry as a
preacher, Miss Marsden.”
“Yes, it will in my sense, for then you will kindle
more easily, and therefore kindle others. But come,
I am holding the lamp, `Jesus wept.' Everything you
can find in the Bible that will confirm the hope of
God's sympathy—that he cares for us as we are, with
all our faults and weaknesses, will be most welcome.”
Lottie was so positive and determined, and her
manner so irresistible, that Hemstead had no other
thought, save that of compliance. She had that
piquant imperiousness, to which men are willing
slaves when manifested graciously, and by a pretty
woman. He was like a ship caught in a gale, and
there was nothing to do but scud before it. At the
same time, it seemed that she was driving him swiftly
toward the haven and rest of a better and broader
faith.
Therefore he sat down by the dismal, smoky
hearth, but turned expectantly to her face that, in
contrast, was all aflame with hope and interest.
“The impression grows upon me,” he said, “that
you are being guided, and therefore you shall guide
me.”
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“I want to settle the question,” she replied
“whether I can love and trust God; or whether,
as I feared this morning, I must dread and almost
hate Him. It seems to me that the only thing
religion does for Cousin Bel is to make her uncomfortable.
If what you told us, and what she experiences,
is true religion, then I shall ignore it and forget
all about it as long as I can—till God commences
with me, and puts me by way of trial into the fiery
furnace of affliction. I fear only a cinder would be
the result. But if the natural explanation of these
two words, `Jesus Wept' is true, then God is kinder,
gentler, and more sympathetic than any human
friend. Prove to me that the One who, out of pure
tender-heartedness, cried just because others around
him were crying, though even about to remove the
cause of their sorrow, is the God of the Bible, and I
will thank you, with lasting and unmeasured gratitude.
Then your teaching will be a gospel—good
news in very truth. You say the Old and New Testaments
both make one Bible, do you not?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it is the Old Testament that I most dread.
It is so full of wars and bloodshed, and strange,
stern rites. And then the old Prophets say such
awful things. Still, I admit that it's all very vague
and dim in my mind. Can you find anything in the
Old Testament that corresponds with the words
`Jesus Wept'?”
The student rapidly turned the leaves of the large
Bible upon his lap, and read:
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“Like as a father pitieth his children, so the
Lord pitieth them that fear Him.
“For he knoweth our frame: He remembereth
that we are but dust.”
“That fits like light to the eye,” exclaimed Lottie,
with exultation. “What becomes of your sermon,
Mr. Hemstead, in view of such texts? Truth
is not contradictory.”
“You shall see in a moment, Miss Marsden, what
becomes of my sermon,” and he hastily left the room.
While Lottie was wondering at his action, he
returned and threw the manuscript on the hearth.
But while the green wood had been smoking so
dismally, it had also dried and kindled; and Hemstead's
heavy sermon, so far from quenching the rising
flame, seemed just the encouragement needed to
develop a cheerful blaze, in the midst of which it
perished, like a narrow, sour, but sincere, well-meaning
old martyr of former days.
In committing this unripe fruit of his brain—his
heart had dictated but little of it—to the flames, Hemstead
would have felt, a few hours earlier, as a Hindu
mother might when casting her child to the crocodiles
of the Ganges. Now he saw it shrivel, as its teachings
had within his own mind a little before, with exultation.
“Like as a father pitieth his children” was a better
gospel than “like as a sculptor chisels his marble,”
or “like as a surgeon cuts remorselessly with pulse
unquickened, though the patient writhes.”
Preacher and pagan stood together by the hearth
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and saw perish the Gospel of Fear—of gloomy asceticism—
which for so many centuries, in dim, damp
cloisters and stony cells has chilled the heart and
quenched the spirit.
And yet, to-day, in the broad light of Bible
lands, and in the midst of the wholesome and suggestive
duties of family life, do not many, under false
teachings like that of Hemstead's sermon, find spiritual
paths as dark and painful as those of ascetics
who made self-mortification the business of life.
Christ speake truly when he said, “Men love darkness
rather than light.” We fill the service of the Author
of Light with gloom. The hermit thought he could
best serve God in the chill and dimness of a cave;
and the anchorite's cave has been the type of our
shadowy, vault-like churches, and the experience of
the worshippers ever since.
Lottie Marsden was one who would naturally be
repelled by a religion that was merely a chill of
restraint and a paralysis of fear; and should she come
to believe that God sought chiefly by harsh discipline
to scourge her into ways of righteousness, she would
rush all the more recklessly into the paths of evil.
But God is too wise and good to teach a religion
utterly repugnant and contradictory to the nature
He has given us. A child's hand may lead a multitude;
but a giant's strength can drive but few.
Christ's tears had fallen on the ice in Lottie's
heart, and melted it away. It was now tender,
receptive, ready for the seeds of truth. Hemstead's
sermon had only hardened it.
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Like the Hebrew mothers with their little children,
she had pushed her way through frowning doctrines
and stately attributes that appeared to encompass
God, as did the rebuking disciples of old their gentle
Master; and there seemed One before her who, like
Jesus, was ready to take her in his arms and lavish
upon her tenderness without limit.
The glow of the burning sermon lgihted up the
face of the Preacher, and one, who could no longer be
called a Pagan, for she stood before the altar of “the
unknown God,” and was strongly inclined to place her
heart upon it. She believed, though as yet she did
not trust. She understood but little of Bible truth,
but it was no longer a repellant darkness, but rather
a luminous haze against which Jesus stood distinctly,
tearful from sympathy, where the best and kindest
would have smiled, anticipating the joy soon to come.
As the obnoxious sermon sank into ashes, Hemstead
turned and took Lottie's hand with a pressure
that made it ache hours after, and said:
“Now you have seen what has become of my sermon
and many of my old beliefs. The furnace of
God's discipline shall no longer, as you have said,
flame the lurid centre of my Gospel; but Jesus
Christ, as you have discovered Him, the embodiment
of love and sympathy, shall be its centre.”
With a smile upon her lips, but with tears in her
eyes, Lottie replied:
“And such a gospel would win even the border
ruffians. Yes,” she added hesitatingly, “I half
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believe it might win even such a little pagan as Lottie
Marsden.”
Just then a broad ray of light glinted into the
room, and illuminated Lottie's face into such marvellous
beauty, that Hemstead was spell-bound.
He was too intent on watching her to be aware that
the ray rested on him also; but she exclaimed:
“Oh, Mr. Hemstead, you don't know how your
face is lighted up by the setting sun. If I believed
in omens, I should know that your successful work
will be out on the frontier—in the West, from whence
comes, after this dreary day, such a beautiful light,
and which suggests, I hope, the fame and glory you
are to win there.”
“This light from the West falls equally upon
you,” he said impulsively.
There was a sudden crimson in her face, deeper
than that caused by the setting sun.
She gave him a quick, shy glance to gather his
meaning, but said:
“Omens are only half truths, I have heard.”
Under a vague, but strong impulse he had spoken
foolishly, he thought; and suggested that, in seeking
to change her character, his motive in part
might be a presumptuous hope of his own. Therefore
a deeper flush crimsoned his face; but he said
quietly:
“I believe that, in our day, omens are will-of-the-wisps
of the imagination. What need is there of
such fitful lights, when the sun of God's truth is
shining in this Bible. Shall we explore farther?”
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Again they sat down and sought to reconcile the
apparently conflicting truths of God's mercy and justice—
of his severity and unutterable tenderness.
Proofs of both were found upon the page of inspiration
“as thick as leaves in Valombrosa.” It was
clearly evident that God would make no terms with
sin, whatever he might do for the sinner. But the
Divine, man as he stands between justice and the
erring, appeared to solve the problem. And if God's
discipline were at times severe, and Christ was glad
when faith-inspiring sorrow came, it was also seen
that he could weep with the weak human children
who cried under the rod, though Heaven might
result from the transient pain.
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CHAPTER XX. THE DAWNING LIGHT.
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SOME little time before the supper bell rang, De
Forrest sauntered in, and witnessed a scene that
both surprised and puzzled him. And yet a lover
would scarcely have found in the quiet and pretty
picture that the parlor and its occupants made, any
ground for jealousy. Hemstead was at the centre
table, under the now lighted chandelier, reading
aloud from the Bible. Lottie sat by the hearth, the
fire-light playing upon an unusually grave and
thoughtful face.
“Well,” he exclaimed, “you look for all the
world like an old married couple keeping Sunday
together.”
Of course Hemstead flushed. But why should
Lottie's color grow richer than the ruddy fire-light
warranted? She knew she was blushing, and the
fact puzzled her, for it was a new experience to find
the blood flying into her face, and her heart in a sudden
flutter.
She was also excessively annoyed at De Forrest's
intrusion, for such it seemed, though he had an
equal right to the parlor with herself. We usually
judge unjustly, in proportion as we feel strongly.
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But the habit of her old, insincere life swayed her,
and she said lightly:
“If, instead of dozing away the whole afternoon,
you would follow Mr. Hemstead's example and read
the Bible, you would be the better for it.”
“I would have read to you all the afternoon, if
you had given me a chance, and even from the Bible
if you had asked for it,” De Forrest replied, with an
injured air.
“Well, you see Mr. Hemstead is a predestined
missionary, and he no doubt thought, and correctly,
too, that he would never find a truer object of missionary
effort than myself; so I have obtained a better
knowledge of the Bible this afternoon, than ever
before.”
They were now joined by others, and the conver
sation became general. Soon after they went out to
supper.
The depression of the sermon appeared to have
passed from the rest, as well as from Lottie and
Hemstead, though for different reasons. The latter
had gone out of themselves toward God, and had
found Him the source of light and cheer. The others
had forgotten Him, and still remained in the dim,
chill grottos of their unbelief, illumining their darkness
by such artificial and earth-lit tapers as the
occasion offered. Mrs. Marchmont's apartments were
cosy and elegant, the supper inviting, the ruddy wood
fire and easy-chairs suggested luxurious comfort; and
why should they not be comfortable, and quietly
forget their dismal thoughts about God, and the
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[figure description] Page 298.[end figure description]
self-denial of the Cross? The current of ordinary and
worldly life, which Hemstead's sincere but mistaken
words had rudely interrupted, now began to flow on
as quietly and smoothly as before.
But with Lottie it was very different, and the
tides of her life seemed seeking new channels.
Bel, and to a certain extent the others, noted peculiarities
in her manner and that of Hemstead. Her
moodiness was gone, but in its place was not her
old levity. When Moses came down from the presence
of God, his face shone so that he was compelled
to veil its brightness; and it has ever seemed true
that nearness to God and his truth gives spiritual
light and attractiveness to the plainest features.
Lottie was more than beautiful that evening. She
was radiant. Like a sunrise in June, two forms of pure
ennobling love were dawning in her heart; and the
first, faint, unrecognized emotions illumined her face
strangely at times. Her manner was unusually gentle
and while responding to the general conversation, she
had many moments of abstraction, and was evidently
carrying on a chain of thought very different from
that appearing upon the surface of their table-talk.
But all remembered that Lottie abounded in
moods, and that she was what the common-place
call “an odd girl.”
But why Hemstead, after his gloom and chagrin
at dinner, should now be beaming, was not so clear.
Bel thought—
“The poor moth! Lottie has been dazzling him
with her dangerous smiles. It's a shame.”
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After supper Harcourt appeared, and sacred
music was in order. Even De Forrest and Addie
joined in this with considerable zest. It was the
proper, and about the only thing that could be done
on a Sabbath evening. The most irreligious feel
better for the occasional indulgence of a little religious
sentimentality. When the esthetic element is
supreme and thorny self-denial absent, devotion is
quite attractive to average humanity. Moreover the
dwarfed spiritual nature of the most materialistic
often craves its natural sustenance; and Sabbath
evening at times suggests to the worldly that which
alone can satisfy. The “Sun of Righteousness”
sheds a pale, reflected ray upon them; but this is
better than utter darkness, and may lure forward
where the Divine smile will beam fully upon them.
Do not let us undervalue Sunday evening sentiment
and sacred music, even though occurring where there
was a dance yesterday, and where there will be a revel
to-morrow. There must always be a first support on
which the grovelling vine can commence climbing
heavenward.
Though sentiment, like pale moonlight, causes
no ripe and wholesome growth, it is better than
darkness, and is proof that the vivifying light is shining
somewhere.
In the case of Hemstead, however, the words of
praise and prayer composing the hymns sung were
the intelligent utterances of a believing heart to the
natural object of its faith and devotion.
Lottie was not much given to sentiment, even in
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[figure description] Page 300.[end figure description]
religion, and the sacred words, a week before, would
have come from her lips only, while she thought of
other things; but now she was surprised to find how
her heart was stirred by them, and how, from being
empty phrases, they were growing full of beautiful
meaning.
That was a memorable Sabbath evening to her
It seemed as if within her old, earth-born, material
life, a subtle spiritual one had been kindled, which
illumined and glorified everything.
She felt as if endowed with a new sense, by
means of which she was becoming dimly conscious
of a new and different world. She was more than
happy. She was thrilling with strange and mysterious
joy, and was elated beyond measure, as if
Christian principle and heaven were already won;
as many a pilgrim is happier before the quickly
coming fall into the “slough of despond,” than ever
again until within the gates of the Celestial City.
Lottie's flame-like spirit was not prone to take
anything coolly; and now that her soul was kindled
by fire from heaven, and in addition her whole nature
awakened by the as yet unrecognized, but strongest
of earthly forces, the natural love of her heart for
the one to whom only had been given the power to
inspire it, little wonder that her but half-suppressed
excitement was surprising both to herself and others—
little wonder that she was more radiant than ever
she had been upon the gayest and most brilliant
occasions.
There was nothing unnatural in her experience
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She had looked upon the face of Him who is the
light and life of the world. Let her enjoy the brief
ecstasy. Never chill the soul, that is thrilling with
the first strong pulses of spiritual life, by discouraging
doubts. Remind them, if you will, that now, as
with the disciples of old, the moments on the Mount
of Transfiguration are few, and the days of works and
self-denial on the lowly plain many. But do not fail
to close your homily with the assurance that the
work and self-denial are of earth, while the illumined
mount is the type of an eternal heaven.
The evening was passing. While devotion burned
more brightly, sentiment was flickering out. The
others were growing weary. Hemstead had the tact
to see this, and he also wished to be alone that he
might think over the bewildering experiences of the
day. Therefore he suggested that they close with
Ray Palmer's beautiful hymn, that from the first moment
of faith, until faith's fruition, is the appropriate
language of those who accept of God's remedy for
evil.
“My faith looks up to Thee
Thou Lamb of Calvary,
Saviour Divine.
Now hear me while I pray,
Take all my guilt away,
Oh let me from this day
Be wholly Thine.”
He hoped that with Lottie, it might crown the
teachings of the day, and fix her thoughts on the
true source of help.
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This hope found a richer fulfilment than he
he expected, for to her awakened spirit the lines
seemed inspired to express her deepest need. As
the last words trembled from her lips the rush of
feeling was too strong for repression, and she impetuously
left the room.
-- 303 -- p668-308
CHAPTER XXI. MISUNDERSTOOD.
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LOTTIE was conscious of a strange lightness of
heart when she awoke on the morrow. It
seemed as if her life had been unexpectedly enriched.
She could not understand it, nor did she seek to,
being contented with the fact that she was happy.
She had always been seeking her own enjoyment, and
now she was happier than ever before. She was not
a philosopher who must analyze everything. She
widely differed from some prudent people who must
take an emotion to pieces, and resolve it into its
original elements, and thus be sure that it is properly
caused and wholesome before enjoying it. Many
seem to partake of life's pleasures, as did the members
of the royal family, of their feasts, in the days of the
ancient Roman empire, when it was feared that poison
lurked in every dish.
We have seen, however, that Lottie was not morbidly
conscientious. She had gathered honey everywhere,
and often in spite of conscience's protest. But
now, for a rarity, conscience appeared with, and not
against her. She was satisfied with the fact that
she felt better than ever before; and the majority
of even quite experienced Christians ask, as their
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ground of confidence, not “What is truth?” “What
has God promised?”—but, “How do I feel to-day?”
Little wonder then, if inexperienced Lottie, with
everything to learn, was content with being happy.
She had always looked upon religion as a painful
necessity, at some remote and desperate emergency
of the future; but after the hours spent with Hemstead,
it seemed a source of joy beyond all the pleasures
of her highly favored life. She was like one who
had been living in the glare of artificial light, brilliant
enough it is true, but who had suddenly come
out into the natural sunshine, and found it warmer
sweeter—in brief, just what she craved and needed.
The distrust of these exalted and emotional states
is general, and often well-founded, especially when
experienced by such mercurial temperaments as that
of Lottie Marsden. And when it is remembered
that her knowledge and ideas of true religion were
of the vaguest kind, the conservative will think,
“Whatever may take place in a book, the morning
dew would be the type of all this feeling in real
life.
And this would be true—alas, it is true of multitudes—
had she been stirred by merely human causes,
as sympathetic excitement, or appeals to her feelings
or fears. But, as we have said before, she had
looked upon the face of the Son of God. Circumstances,
and the story of Lazarus, had concentrated
her mind on Jesus Christ, as in that old and touching
record he stands before the world in one of his most
winning attitudes. She did not understand how she
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connected the hope and happiness she felt, with Him.
She was no doubt like many who, eighteen centuries
ago, knew little of Christ, but in the midst of their
pain and anguish suddenly felt His healing touch,
and exulted with great joy, forgetting that only one
disease had been cured, or one trouble banished, and
that they still remained in a world where pain and
trouble threatened to the very end. But here was the
ground of hope for those whom Jesus touched, as
well as for Lottie. In curing one evil, He had proved
His power and willingness to remove every evil, and
when pain of body, and the suffering of guilt again
oppressed, the true source of help was known, and
so Christ eventually became their Good Physician
intrusted with the entire care of their spiritual
health.
No doubt at the time of Christ, many a heart was
stirred and borne heavenward on the wings of strong
emotion, by the eloquence of some gifted rabbi, by
a gorgeous ceremonial in the Temple, or the chantings
of the multitudinous priests. But the emotions
passed away, as they do now; and men and women
relapsed into their old, material, selfish lives. They
may have looked back upon the ecstasy that once
thrilled them, with regret, and wished that it could
always have been maintained; but they found this
impossible. So now, the emotion goes and the combinations
that once produced it never return, or fail
to inspire it again. Looking to themselves and their
own feelings — to inadequate means of help, they are
of course disappointed; and so gradually grow hard
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and legal, or apathetic and unbelieving. When in
trouble—when the natural springs of life begin to
fail, there seems no real and practical help.
If human experience proves anything it is that
every life needs the personal and practical help—the
direct touch and word of one who is Divinely powerful
and Divinely patient.
Many days of folly—of sin, sorrow, and deep
despondency are before Lottie still; but she has seen
her God weeping from sympathy with weak humanity,
and a moment later rescuing from the hopeless
extremity of death and corruption. Here is not
some vague thing like a half-forgotten emotion or
an exalted religious experience in which to trust,
but One who, instead of being a vanished, half-forgotten
sensation, a philosophy, or even a sound
creed and a logical doctrine, is a living personal and
powerful Friend, who can put forth His hand and sustain,
as He did the timid Apostle who was sinking
in the threatening waves.
The temple of Lottie's faith was yet to be built,
but she had been so fortunate as to commence with
the true “corner stone.”
During the morning hours she was the object of
considerable and perplexed thought on the part of
several of the household. There was in her face the
sweet spiritual radiance of the evening before, and
the same gentleness and considerateness of manner
marked her action.
Mrs. Marchmont and her daughter said, “It is one
of Lottie's moods.” Bel surmised that she was a
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little sentimental over Hemstead, and was indignant
that she should indulge herself, and awake in the
student feelings that she believed, on Lottie's part,
would end with the visit.
As for De Forrest, he was thoroughly puzzled.
The idea that Hemstead could be anything to her
was perfectly preposterous; and as for religion, that
was a decorous thing of form and ceremonial pertaining
to Sunday, and this was Monday. And yet, from
some cause, Lottie seemed changed and different
from her old self.
He could not complain, however, for she had never
been kinder to him; and if her eyes did seek Hemstead's
face rather often, she could see nothing there
which for a moment could compare with his own
handsome features. He also concluded that it was
a “mood;” but liked the new and gentle Lottie
quite as well as the piquant, and often rather brusque
girl of other days.
But to Hemstead, as with chatting and reading
they whiled away the morning hours around the
parlor fire, Lottie was the bright particular star as
truly as the one the Wise Men followed across the
deserts. Her face, now transfigured in its spiritual
light, captivated his beauty-loving soul; while her
words and manner suggested the hope that she, with
himself, had found her way into the Holy of Holies,
where the God of love dwells. If this could ever be
true, he felt that he could go to his work in the western
wilds, content and grateful, and that a long
and toilsome life would be illumined by this dear
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memory. He, too, like Lottie, was on the Mount,
but both would soon have to come down to the plain
where the “multitude” was, and some of them
“lunatic”; and when in the plain they would be
very much like the multitude.
After dinner, in compliance with an invitation
from Dr. Beams, they all went over to the church, to
aid in decorating it with evergreens. They found
Miss Martell and quite a number of ladies at work.
There were also a sprinkling of gentlemen and a few
young men who were on the border line between
boys and beaux, and who were frequently passing
from one character to the other.
Miss Martell greeted Hemstead more cordially
than any of the others in the party from Mrs. Marchmont's;
and seemed slightly surprised at Lottie's
gentle and cordial salutation.
De Forrest remained closely at the latter's side,
but Hemstead noted with deep and secret satisfaction
that there was nothing responsive to his constant
and lover-like attention in her grave kindness.
Her brow often contracted, as if his sentiment
annoyed her, and she treated him more as one who,
for some reason, must be borne with patiently.
“She is probably engaged, but is ceasing to love
him,” he thought. “She never could have respected
him, and now he has forfeited whatever affection she
may have had. Still she feels that she is chained to
him, and must endure the life-long martyrdom of an
illmated marriage” and his heart overflowed with a
great pity.
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It did not occur to him that he was a miracle of
disinterestedness when Lottie was concerned; and
that her troubles moved him more than the woes of
all the world. Like many another life-voyager, with
hand upon the helm, he thought that he was directing
his course, when in fact, a strong and subtle current
was sweeping him he knew not whither.
He and Lottie did not have much to say to each
other, but their eyes often met, and at times, in his
frank impulsiveness, he looked at her so earnestly and
sympathetically that she would turn away to hide
her heightened color. She was becoming conscious,
with a secret wonder, that he, as no other man ever
before, had the power to cause her blood to ebb and
flow in the most unaccountable manner.
A short time after their arrival he wandered over
to the side of the chapel where Miss Martell was
working, and she seemingly fascinated him. They
apparently became so absorbed in each other's words
as to think of no one else, and Lottie grew pale and
quiet, feeling, in the meantime, an unreasonable resentment
toward Miss Martell. If Lottie has received
a little grace, she is, and ever will be, the natural
possessor of abundance of human nature. Is this
pale and silent girl the same as when, a little before,
her cheeks were aflame and every nerve tingling with
the most unwonted sensations, and for no better reason
apparently than that Hemstead had seen her
tugging at a fibrous spray of hemlock, and had severed
it with his knife. That was all the others had
seen; but there was a great deal more, for in the act
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their hands had touched, and both had seemed in a
positive state in the power to give, and in the negaative
in readiness to receive, a subtle influence,
compared with which electricity is a slow and material
agent. And he had lifted his large gray eyes to
hers full of—he did not realize what, nor did she—
but the cause was there, and the effect followed.
But now, with secret uneasiness, Lottie notes that
he seems oblivious of her in his eager talk with Miss
Martell.
Soon after joining the latter, Hemstead had said,
in his straight-forward manner, “You intimated to
Mr. Harcourt yesterday that you were `sorry he heard
my sermon.'”
With a little embarrassment she replied, “I do
not think that Mr. Harcourt was in the right condition
of mind to be benefited with your line of thought.”
“Do you think that any one could be benefited
by it?”
She was a little puzzled. Was he, like some
young clergymen she had known, eager for a few
crumbs of praise for his first crude efforts. She was
not one to give any faint and hollow commendation,
and yet she did not wish to hurt his feelings. But
her reply had a tinge of satire in it, for she had no
patience with the weakness of vanity.
“I will hardly venture an opinion. You, who
have given so much time and thought to these subjects,
ought to be a better judge than I.”
He felt, rather than saw, the delicate barb, and
flushed slightly as he replied, “I admit that perhaps
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I ought, but whether I am or not, is quite another
question. I am quite sure that your views upon the
subjects treated yesterday are far truer than mine
were. The wretched, heretical sermon that I inflicted
upon you yesterday has already justly suffered
an auto da fé. Before the day was over I saw
that instead of preaching the Gospel I had been
elaborating from a partial premise, a crude view of
my own. I shall no longer preach, that is, if I preach
at all, as if human nature were the raw material which
God intended to work up without any regard to the
process, or how much refuse there was, or what
became of it. Is not Christ weeping from sympathy
at the grave of Lazarus a true manifestation of God's
feeling toward us?”
“Mr. Hemstead,” Miss Martell exclaimed, “I
cannot tell you how glad I am to know your change
of views. Most emphatically I say Yes to your question.
God is seeking to develop my character; only
He is more patient and gentle than my good, kind
father. But why do you say, `If I preach at all?'”
His head bowed in honest humility, as he replied,
in a low tone, “I often doubt whether I am worthy—
whether I am called.”
She now saw that she had misjudged him, and
was eager to reassure and confirm his purpose for
life; and the converse that followed had grown so
absorbing as to cause Hemstead to forget for the
time one, who by some right, divine or otherwise,
had suddenly taken possession of his thoughts with
a despotism as sweet as absolute. They soon found
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that so far from being strangers and aliens, they were
members of the same household of faith, and that,
upon the deepest and most vital questions, they were
in perfect accord. “The tie that binds our hearts
in Christian love” was recognized; and they became
better acquainted in that brief half hour, than he
ever would be with Bel Parton, whom he saw daily.
But while Miss Martell was speaking most earnestly
to Hemstead, she saw some one enter the chapel
door. Her color came and went. The sentence
upon her lips faltered to a lame conclusion, and
though she became deeply absorbed in the process
of twining the fragrant cedar with the shiny laurel,
she did not work as deftly as before. Looking
round to see the cause, Hemstead caught one of
Lottie's reproachful glances, and was soon at her
side with a sense of almost guilty neglect.
Addie Marchmont found work of any kind, even
preparation for the Christmas festival, stupid and
tiresome; therefore she welcomed the diversion of
Harcourt's coming with double zest; and with extravagant
exclamations of delight summoned him to
her side. Miss Martell stood at some distance away,
and had turned her back toward them. Harcourt
did not see her at first, but the quest of his restless
eyes indicated his hope that she was there. In the
meantime he laughed and jested with Addie, in
something of his old time style.
Lottie Marsden, like many of her young American
sisters, could be decidedly pronounced at times;
but a certain amount of grace and good taste
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characterized her manner. Addie had never been taught
restraint of any kind, and to her a church was just
the place for a little wild nonsense, and all present
were compelled to feel that both her words and manner
were beyond the limits of good taste, to say the
least. To Harcourt, in his present state of mind, they
were so annoying as to be almost offensive, and
thinking that Miss Martell was not present, he was
about to leave the church in order to escape.
But Miss Martell, with her back toward them,
could not know but that Harcourt was encouraging
Addie, and that her freedom with him was warranted
by their relations.
“I have an engagement,” said Harcourt abruptly;
and he was about to hasten away, when between intervening
groups his eye caught a glimpse of a figure
rising for a moment out of one of the high-backed
pews, that suggested to him the object of his
thoughts. As he stepped over to speak to Lottie,
his eye lingered in that direction. Instead of going
directly out, he strolled to the farther end of the audience
room, speaking and bowing to one and another,
but not permitting his eyes to wander long from the
bent figure of a lady who sat with her back toward
him, apparently wholly absorbed in wreathing evergreens.
She felt that he was coming toward her—she
heard his voice, and soon knew that his eyes were
scanning her downcast face, but she would not look
up till he spoke.
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“Won't you deign me even a glance, Miss Mar
tell?” he asked.
The color deepened somewhat in her cheeks, but
she looked him full in the face, and said quietly:
“Why use the word `deign,' Mr. Harcourt?”
“I suppose because my conscience suggests that
from you I deserve glances of dis-dain.”
“Such `glances' are not becoming from any one,
and certainly not from me. Besides,” she added, a
little bitterly, at the thought of such a brainless,
frivolous girl as Addie Marchmont enchaining a man
like Harcourt, “people do not get their deserts in this
world.”
“You certainly will not.”
“How is that?” she asked quickly, not taking
his meaning.
“The world is not rich enough to give it you.”
Her brow contracted into a sudden frown, and
she said, a trifle coldly, “I do not enjoy that style of
compliment, Mr. Harcourt.”
“Is there any that you do enjoy?”
Her head bent over her work; her thoughts were
swift and many, and in the quiet moment that
Harcourt waited for an answer to his commonplace
question, she fought and won a battle which, if never
known on earth, would never be forgotten in heaven.
For the victors in such battles, the brightest
crowns of glory are reserved.
She mastered self and selfishness, in the very citadel
of their strength. Fierce though brief was the
struggle that took place beneath that gentle, calm
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exterior, for the human heart is ever the same—wilful,
passionate. With many it is often like the wild
storm that will spend itself to the end, no matter
how much wreck and ruin is wrought. With such as
Miss Martell, it is like the storm which, at its height,
heard the words of the Divine Master—“Peace, be
still.”
“Let him marry Addie Marchmont if he will,”
she concluded. “I will be kind and gentle to him
all the same, and cost me what it may, I will still see
him, and seek to make him a true, good man.”
So with woman's tact she turned his question,
which savored only of sentimental gallantry, to good
account, and said quietly:
“You know the only `style of compliment' that
I like, and you enriched me with it at Mrs. Byram's
company—the promise you made me.”
Harcourt sighed involuntarily. She seemed too
angelic—too far above and beyond him. As with a
ministering spirit from heaven, her only thought was
to win him from evil. Her face was pale from the
hidden conflict which had cost her more dearly than
he would ever know. Her eyes beamed upon him
with a gentle, yet sweet, strange, spiritual light. She
scarcely appeared flesh and blood. But he was very
human, and his heart craved from her human love
and earthly solace. Though now, as at other times,
this seemed as presumptuous to him as if some devotee
had sacrilegiously fallen in love with his fair
patron saint, still he felt a sudden and strong irritation,
that they should be so far apart.
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She misunderstood his sigh, and added, “Am I
a hard task-mistress?”
He shook his head, but there was dejection in
his tone as he replied, “There have been many forms
of idolatry in the world, but I have thought that
those who worshipped the stars must have become a
little discouraged at times—they are so far off.”
Her face had the pained expression of one misunderstood,
but who cannot well explain. She said
only: “Idolatry is ever profitless.” She meant to
hint, he thought that his worship of her certainly
would be.
He was chilled at heart. His quick, impetuous
spirit prompted him toward recklessness; she saw
that he was about to leave abruptly. As she played
to win him, not for herself, but heaven, she saw that
she had made a mistaken move, though she could
not understand his manner. In her maidenly pride
and delicacy, she would have let him go if she had
thought only of herself; but conscious of her other
motive, she could seek to detain him, and asked:
“What did you mean, Mr. Harcourt, by your
fanciful allusion to star-worship?”
“I meant,” he replied bitterly, “that to ordinary
flesh and blood, kneeling in the cold before a distant
star, be it ever so bright, is rather chilling and discouraging.
The Greeks were shrewder. They had
goddesses with warm, helping hands, and with a little
sympathetic human imperfection.”
It hurt her cruelly that he so misjudged her; and,
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in her confusion, she again said that which he interpreted
wrongly.
“It is folly, then, to worship anything so cold
and distant.” She was about to add plainly, “I am
neither a star nor a goddess, but a sincere human
friend—human as yourself.” She was about to make
some delicate allusion to the time when he often
sought her sisterly advice.
But he, in the blindness of strong feeling, saw in
her words only rebuke for the presumption of his
love, and he harshly interrupted her.
“No doubt it is, but let me remind you of a fact
often true in missionary experience. After the poor
devils have been bereft of the objects of their fond
and credulous worship, by proof that their deities are
indifferent, they cease to have any faith at all;” and
with a cold and rather formal bow he left her side
and also left the church.
Miss Martell's head bent lower than ever over her
work, and it was a long time before she lifted it or
spoke to any one. But the others were occupied
with themselves, and no one had noted this little
side scene save Addie, who pouted that Harcourt
had remained, but not at her side, after his expressed
intention of leaving. No one surmised that two who
had been present were sorely hurt. When we
receive our slight cuts and bruises through life, there
is usually out-cry and abundant sympathy. But
when we receive our deep wounds that leave scars,
often only God knows; and it is best so, for He can
heal, but the world can only probe.
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CHAPTER XXII. “YOU MUST WAIT AND SEE. ”
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“HOW can you leave Miss Martell?” asked Lottie,
as Hemstead approached propitiatingly
with a large armful of the choicest evergreens.
“Well, I can,” he replied with a smile.
“As yet, but the next time you will stay longer,
and the next, longer still.”
“That depends. I would not remain at her side,
nor at any one's, if I thought they were tiring of me
a little.”
“Oh, she got tired of you.”
“Well, yes; a little, I think. She suddenly
seemed to lose her interest in the conversation.
Still she was very good to talk to me as long and as
kindly as she did. She is a very superior woman.
It has never been my good fortune to meet just such
a lady before.”
“Make the most of your rare `good fortune.'”
“I have.”
“And now that she is tired of you, you come
back to me as a dernier ressort.”
“Coming back to you,” he said with heightened
color, “is like coming back home, for you have given
me the only home-like feeling that I have had during
my visit.”
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The language of coquetry was to Lottie like her
mother tongue, and she fell into it as naturally as
she breathed. Only now, instead of suggesting the
false hope that he had been missed and she had
cared, it expressed her true feeling, for she did care.
De Forrest now returned from a momentary absence,
and were it not for his garrulity the little
group would have been a rather silent one. Both
young men sought to supply Lottie with the sprays
of green that she was twining. She took the evergreens
chiefly from De Forrest's hands, but gave her
thoughts and eyes to Hemstead. He, with man's
usual penetration, thought De Forrest the favored
one, and was inclined to reverse his half-formed opinion
that she was destined to pathetic martyrdom,
because bound by an engagement to a man whom
she could not love.
“He can't think much of me,” thought Lottie
with a sigh, “or he couldn't speak so frankly. She,
too, was losing her wonted quick discernment.”
Only lynx-eyed Bel Parton partially surmised the
truth, and suspected that Lottie was developing a
genuine, though of course a passing interest, in the
student that at first she had purposed to beguile in
mere reckless sport.
During the remainder of the afternoon and evening,
De Forrest was Lottie's shadow, and she could
escape him and be with Hemstead, only by remaining
with all the others. She was longing for another
of their suggestive talks, when, without the restraint
of the curious and unsympathetic, they could
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continue the theme that De Forrest had interrupted
Sunday afternoon.
She was thinking how to bring this about, when
the old plan of visiting Mrs. Dlimm occurred to her,
and she adopted it at once.
Getting a moment aside with Hemstead, by being
down to breakfast a little before the others, she said:
“After my naughty behavior in regard to our
visit to Mrs. Dlimm, will you still take me there?”
“I wish you would give me a chance,” he answered
eagerly.
“Well, I will, at ten this morning. But please
say nothing about it. Drive to the door in the cutter,
and I will be ready. If the matter is discussed,
there may be half a dozen other projects started.
Hemstead ate but an indifferent breakfast, and
there was also a faint glow of expectant excitement
in Lottie's face.
Hemstead promptly sought his aunt, and asked
if he might have a horse and the single sleigh.
“I hope another time will answer,” said Mrs.
Marchmont carelessly, “Addie wishes the horses this
morning, but I believe proposes taking you all out.”
But Hemstead was not to be baffled, and acted
with more energy than prudence perhaps. Lottie
from her window saw him posting with long strides
toward the village, and exultingly surmised his
object. At ten he drove up to the door, with a neat
little turnout from the livery stable; and she tripped
down and took a seat at his side, and they were off
before the rest of the household realized their purpose
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They all looked at each other questioningly, as a
few moments later they gathered in the parlor for a
a general sleigh-ride.
Mr. Dimmerly, who had quietly watched proceedings,
broke out into his cackling laugh, as he
chuckled:
“He shows his blood. A dozen seminaries could
not quench him utterly.”
Mrs. Marchmont frowned. She rigidly applied
the rules of propriety to all save her own children,
and she justly thought that both Hemstead and
Lottie had failed in courtesy to her and her guests,
by stealing away, as it were, without any explanations.
But people of one idea often fail in more
than mere matters of courtesy; and Hemstead and
Lottie were emphatically becoming people of one
idea. And they both had misgivings and a sense
of wrong-doing as they drove away without a word
of explanation.
Mrs. Marchmont was still more puzzled, when
Addie exclaimed petulantly:
“I thought the agreement was that Lottie should
carry out the joke when and where we could all
enjoy it.”
The lady was led to suspect that there was something
on foot that might need her investigation, and
she quietly resolved to judiciously use her eyes and
ears. She well knew that her proud and fashionable
sister, Lottie's mother, would hold her to strict
account, if Lottie did anything foolish.
Bel merely shrugged her shoulders cynically
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She had a certain kind of loyalty to her friend, and
said all her harsh things to Lottie herself, and not
behind her back.
De Forrest had no other resource than to believe
that Lottie was carrying out the practical joke; but
a sorry jest he found it that morning, during which
he scarcely spoke to any one.
They drove over to town for Harcourt, but he
greatly provoked Addie by pleading that his business
would not permit absence. During the rest of
the drive they all might have formed part of a funeral
procession.
But the snow crystals did not sparkle in the sun-light
more brightly than Lottie's eyes, as she turned
to her companion, and said:
“I am so delighted that we are safely off on our
drive.”
“Oh, it's the `drive' you are thinking of. That
is better than I hoped. I thought we were visiting
Mrs. Dlimm.”
“So we are, and I want to see her too,” said
Lottie, with a sudden blush.
“Well, I'm glad you don't dread the long, intervening
miles, with no better company than mine.”
“It's a good chance to learn patient endurance,”
she replied, with a look delightfully arch. “So
please drive slower.”
The horse instantly came to a walk.
“That is the other extreme,” she continued; “you
always go to extremes, as for instance, your Quixotic
purpose to go out among the border ruffians.”
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“Honestly, Miss Marsden,” said Hemstead, his
laughing face suddenly becoming grave, “you do not
now think, in your heart, my purpose to be a home
missionary `Quixotic.'”
“I don't know much about my heart, Mr. Hemstead,
except that it has always been very perverse.
But I now wish I had a better one. You have disturbed
the equanimity with which I could do wrong
most wofully. I even feel a little guilty for leaving
them all this morning, with no explanations.”
“It was hardly right, now I think of it,” said
Hemstead; reflectively.
“Have you just thought of it? How preoccupied
you have been. What have you been thinking
about. Yes, it was wrong, but as it is the first
wicked thing I have caught you in I am quite comforted.
I have been hoping all along that you would
do something just a little bit encouragingly wicked.”
“How little you understand me. My wickedness
and consequent twinges of conscience have been my
chief sources of trouble thus far.”
“Oh, well, your conscience is like Aunty Jane.
A speck of dust gives her the fidgets where other
people would not see any dust at all. If your conscience
had to deal with my sins there would not be
ashes and hair-cloth enough for you.”
“What good can ashes, hair-cloth, or any kind of
self-punishment, or even self-condemnation, do us?'
“Well, we ought to be sorry, at least.”
“Certainly, but there must be more than that.
Many a wrong-doer has been sincerely sorry, but has
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been punished all the same. I cannot tell you, Miss
Marsden, how much good you did me on Sunday
afternoon. My mind had been dwelling on the attributes
of God—upon doctrines as if they were things
by themselves and complete in themselves. I almost
fear that I would have become, as I fear some are, the
disciple of a religious system, instead of a simple and
loyal follower of Christ. But you fixed my eyes
on a living personality, who has the right to say `I
forgive you,' and I am forgiven; who has the right
to say `I will save you,' and I am saved. If He is
the Divine Son of God, as He claims to be, has He
not the right?”
“Yes. He must be able to do just what is pleasing
to Him,” said Lottie in a low tone.
“Then look upon Him as you saw Him at the
grave of Lazarus, the very embodiment of sympathy.
Suppose, that in sincere regret for all the wrong you
have ever done, and with the honest wish to be
better, you go to such a being and cry, Forgive. Can
you doubt his natural, inevitable course toward you?
If pardoning love and mercy should encircle you at
once, would it not be in perfect keeping with His
tears of sympathy?”
“And is that all I have to do to get rid of the
old, dark record against me? Oh, how black it looked
last Saturday.”
“That is all. What more can you do? Who
was it that said, `Be of good cheer, thy sins be
forgiven thee'?”
“Mr. Hemstead,” said Lottie, in a low tone, “I
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have felt very strangely—differently from any time
before in all my life, since last Sunday afternoon. I
seemed to look upon Christ as if he were before me,
and I saw the tears in his eyes, as I saw them in yours
the evening you said such plain things to me, and I
have felt a peculiar lightness of heart ever since.
That hymn we sang on Sunday evening expressed so
exactly what I felt that I was overpowered. It appeared
written for me alone. Do you think I
can be a Christian? Do you think that I have
been converted?”
Hemstead's eyes glistened, and his heart bounded
at the thought; but he felt that he was in a grave
and responsible position, and after a moment's
thought answered wisely:
“I can base no safe and positive answer on your
feeling. I have already learned from my own experience
and that of others, that religious feeling is
something that comes and goes, and cannot be
depended upon. The test question is, How will
you treat this Jesus whom you have seen, and who has
proved Himself both worthy to win and keep your
trust? A little strong feeling and sentiment in
regard to Him cannot do you much good. What
practical relation do you intend to hold toward him?
No doubt many that saw him weep, and then raise
Lazarus after he had been four days dead, were profoundly
moved, but the majority went on in their old
ways all the same. You abound in strong, common
sense, and must see that more than even sincere, deep
feeling is necessary. What do you propose to do?
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Are you willing to take up your cross and become
His faithful follower?”
“That involves a great deal,” said Lottie, with a
long breath.
“It does indeed,” he replied earnestly. “I would
give my life to make you a Christian, and yet I
would not seek to win you for Him by false pretences,
or hide any part of the rugged path of self-denial.
Count well the cost. But believe me, Miss
Marsden,” he added, in a tone that brought a sudden
paleness to her cheek, “not following Him involves
far more that is sad and terrible.”
Tears stood in Lottie's eyes. She was silent a few
moments, and was evidently thinking deeply. The
young clergyman was desperately in earnest and
fairly trembled in the eagerness of his expectation.
He hoped that Lottie would come to a solemn and
half-heroic and formal decision. But he was both
puzzled and disappointed by the sudden and brusque
manner with which she turned upon him as she said:
“Where is the heavy cross that I must take up?
Show it to me, and I will think about it. Where is
the rugged path? This one that leads to Mrs. Dlimm
is very pleasant. I don't see anything very awful
in being a Christian now-a-days. Of course I will
have to give up all my old nonsense and flirt— Well,
I suppose I might as well say it out. But there
are no Inquisitions, with thumb-screws and racks
any longer. Come, Mr. Hemstead, you are a
Christian. What heavy cross are you bearing? I
hope you are not in the rugged path of self-denial this
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morning, while taking me to Mrs. Dlimm's. I don't
know any one who appears to enjoy the good things
of life more than you. I don't know what answer to
give to your solemn and far-reaching questions. I
haven't much confidence in what Lottie Marsden
will do. All I know is that I feel as I imagine one
of those children did whom Jesus took in his arms
and blessed.”
“But suppose,” urged her anxious spiritual
guide, who felt that she was giving a reason for her
faith that would hardly satisfy the grave elders of
the church, “suppose that at some future time He
should impose a heavy cross, or ask of you painful
self-denial, would you shrink?”
She turned her dewy eyes upon him with a look
of mingled archness and earnestness that he never
forgot, and said significantly, “I do not remember
the New Testament story very perfectly, but when
the last, dark days came, women stood by their Lord
as faithfully as the men—didn't they?”
Hemstead bowed his head in sudden humility,
and said in a low tone:
“You are right. It was not woman who betrayed,
nor did woman desert or deny Him. Still I
treasure the suggestion of your answer beyond all
words.”
The tears stood thick in Lottie's eyes, and she
was provoked that they did. Her strong feelings
were quick to find expression, and Hemstead seemed
to have the power, as no one else ever had, to
evoke them. But she had a morbid dislike of
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showing emotion or anything verging toward sentiment:
therefore she would persist in giving a light
and playful turn to his sombre earnestness.
“I did not mean,” she said, “to be so hard upon
the men, nor to secure so rich a tribute to my sex.
I imagine we all stand in need of charity alike.
Only do not expect too much of me. I dare not
promise anything. You must wait and see.”
“Though you promise so little, you inspire me
with more confidence than many whom I have heard
make great professions;” and the light of a great joy
and a great hope shone in his eyes.
“You look very happy, Mr. Hemstead,” said Lottie
gratefully. “Would you be very glad to have
me become a Christian?”
He looked at her so earnestly that the rich blood
mounted to her very brow. After a moment he
replied, in a low, trembling tone:
“I scarcely dare trust myself to answer your question,
and yet I do not exaggerate when I assure you
that if I could feel that you were a Christian before
I go away, it seems as if I could never see a dark
day again. O Miss Marsden, how I have hoped and
prayed that you might become one.”
Her head bowed low in guilty shame. She compared
her purpose toward him with his toward her
Before she thought, the words slipped out:
“And for all my wrong to you, you seek to give
me heaven in return.”
He looked at her inquiringly not understanding
her remark; but after a moment said, “It would be
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heaven to me on earth, even in my lonely work in
the West, if I could remember that, as a result of our
brief acquaintance, you had become a Christian.”
“Well,” she said emphatically, “our acquaintance
does promise to end differently from what I expected;
and it is because you are different. You
are not the kind of a man that I expected you
would be.”
“But I understood you from the first,” remarked
Hemstead complacently. “My first impression when
you gave me your warm hand, and the only true welcome
I received, has been borne out. Though at
times you have puzzled me, still, the proof you gave—
on the evening of my arrival—of a true, generous,
and womanly nature, has been confirmed again and
again. It has seemed to me that your faults were
due largely to circumstances, but that your good
qualities were native.”
Again Lottie turned away her burning cheeks in
deep embarrassment. Should she tell him all? She
felt she could not. To lose his good opinion and
friendship now seemed terrible. But conscience
demanded that she should be perfectly frank and
sincere with him, and her fears whispered:
“He may learn it from the others, and that would
be far worse than if I told him myself.”
But her moral strength was not yet equal to the
test. The old, prevailing influences of her life again
swayed her, and she guided the conversation from
the topic as a pilot would shun a dangerous rock.
“I will tell him all about it at some future time,
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she thought; “but not yet when the knowledge
might drive him away in anger.”
She seized upon one of his words, which, when
spoken, had jarred unpleasantly upon her feeling.
“Why do you speak of our acquaintance as brief?
Are we to be strangers again after this short visit is
over?”
“I most positively assure you that you can never
be a stranger to me again,” he said eagerly. “But
in a few days you will go to New York, and I thousands
of miles in another direction. If I should
tell you how you will dwell in my thoughts like an
inspiration I fear you would think me sentimental.
But in your absorbing city life I fear that I shall
soon become as a stranger to you.”
“Well,” said Lottie, again blushing, “I don't
think I'll promise you anything this time either.
You must wait and see. But is that dreadful frontier
life of yours a foregone conclusion?”
“Yes,” he said, with quiet emphasis.
“There are plenty of heathen in New York, Mr.
Hemstead. You found one of them in me, and see
how much good you have done; at least, I hope you
have.”
There are also plenty of Christians in New York
to take care of them. I commend some of the
heathen to you.”
“I fear that they will remain heathen for all that
I can do.”
“No indeed, Miss Marsden. Please never think
that. No one has a right to say, `I can do nothing,
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and you least of all. Apart from your other gifts,
you abound in personal magnetism, and almost instantly
gain control of those around you.”
“How mistaken you are. I have no control over
you.”
“More than you think, perhaps,” he said, flushing
deeply.
It was his heart that spoke then, and not his will,
instructed by deliberate reason.
She too blushed, but said laughingly, `What are
words! Let me test my power. Take a church in
New York instead of a thousand miles out of the
world.”
“You are not in earnest,” he said, a little sadly.
“You would not seek to dissuade me from what I
regard as a sacred duty?”
“But is it `a sacred duty'? There are plenty of
others—less cultivated, less capable of doing good, in
the refined and critical East.”
“That is not the way a soldier reasons. Some one
must go to the front of the battle. And what excuse
can such a vigorous young fellow as I am have for
hanging back?”
As he turned his glowing face upon her she
caught his enthusiasm, and said impulsively:
“And in the front of the battle I would be, if I
were a man, as I often wish I were.”
“The line of God's battle with evil is very long,
Miss Marsden. I think you can find the front in
New York as truly as I in the West. In this fight
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woman can often do as much as man. Won't you
try?”
“I shall not promise you anything,” she said.
“You must wait and see.”
They were now before the parsonage in the hamlet
of Scrub Oaks. The sound of the bells brought
Mrs. Dlimm's faded face to the window, and on
recognizing them she clapped her hands for joy, as
one of her own children might have done; and a
moment later was smiling upon the little porch, the
very embodiment of welcome.
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CHAPTER XXIII. A RATIONALIST OF THE OLD SCHOOL.
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“I KNEW you would come,” said Mrs. Dlimm, taking
both of Lottie's hands with utter absence
of all formality. “Husband said I needn't look for
you any more, but I felt it in my bones—no, my
heart—that you would come. When I feel a thing is
going to take place it always does. So you are here.
I am very glad to see your—Mr. Hemstead—
too. This is splendid.” And Mrs. Dlimm exultantly
ushered Lottie into the room that, when last seen,
was crowded with such a motley assembly. Hemstead
meanwhile drove the horse to an adjacent shed.
“But he isn't my Mr. Hemstead,” said Lottie,
laughing.
“Well, it seems as if he were related, or belonged
to you in some way. When I think of one, I can't
help thinking of the other.”
“O dear,” exclaimed Lottie, still laughing, blushing,
and affecting comic alarm, “being joined together
by a minister's wife is almost as bad as by the
minister himself.”
“Almost as good, you mean. You would have
my congratulation rather than sympathy if you
secured such a prince among men.”
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“How little you know about him, Mrs. Dlimm
He is going to be a poor, forlorn home missionary;
and your husband's increased salary will be royal
compared with his.”
“He will never be forlorn; and how long will he
be poor?”
“All his life possibly.”
“That's not very long. What will come after?
What kind of a master is he serving?”
“Do you know,” said Lottie, lowering her tone,
and giving her chair a little confidential hitch toward
the simple-hearted lady with whom formality and
circumlocution were impossible, “that I am beginning
to think about these things a great deal.”
“I don't wonder, my dear,” said Mrs. Dlimm,
with a little sigh of satisfaction; “no one could help
thinking about him who saw his manly courtesy and
tact the evening you were here.”
“Oh no,” said Lottie, blushing still more deeply,
“I did not mean that. Please understand me. Mr.
Hemstead is only a chance acquaintance that I have
met while visiting my aunt, Mrs. Marchmont. I
mean that when I was here last I was a very naughty
girl, but I have since been thinking how I could be
a better one. Indeed, I would like to be a Christian, as
you are.”
In a moment the little lady was all tender solicitude.
She was one who believed in conversion;
and to her, being converted was the greatest event
of life.
But just then Hemstead entered, and she had
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enough natural, womanly interest—not curiosity—to
note the unconscious welcome of Lottie's eyes, and
the quick color come and go in her face, as if a fire
were burning in her heart and throwing its flickering
light upon her fair features.
“Chance acquaintance, indeed,” she thought.
“Why, here is this city-bred girl blushing as I
once did about Mr. Dlimm. Whether she knows
it or not, her blushes must tell the same story as
mine.”
But though Mrs. Dlimm was so unconventional,
she had tact, and turned the conversation on the
subject of the donation party.
“See here,” she exclaimed exultantly, tugging a
bulky commentary, “this is one of the results of
your coming the other evening. Mr. Dlimm has
been wanting this book a long time, and now he
pores over it so much that I am getting jealous.”
“The opinions expressed in such a ponderous
volume ought to have great weight, surely,” said
Hemstead, smiling.
“And do you know,” she continued, in an aside
to Lottie, “that each of the children has had a new
warm winter suit, and, wonderful to tell, I have
bought myself a dress right from the store, instead
of making over something sent me by brother Abel's
wife from New York.”
Lottie's eyes moistened, and she said in half soliloquy,
“I didn't know it was so nice and easy to
make others happy.”
“Ah! depend upon it, you are learning lots of
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[figure description] Page 336.[end figure description]
things,' said Mrs. Dlimm, significantly. “When God
begins to teach, then we do learn—and something
worth knowing, too.”
“I thought that God's lessons were very hard
and painful,” said Lottie to Hemstead, with a spice
of mischief in her manner.
“Mrs. Dlimm is a better authority than I was,”
he replied, with a quick flush. “Do you know,” he
continued, addressing their hostess, “that Miss
Marsden has done more to teach me how to preach
than all my years at the seminary.”
“Surely,” exclaimed Mrs. Dlimm, “that's a rather
strong statement. I can understand how Miss Marsden
can do a great deal for one. We have had very
nice experience in that direction; but just how
she should teach you more than all the grave
professors and learned text-books is not clear at
once.”
“Well, she has,” he maintained stoutly. “I
doubt whether your husband gets as much light upon
the Bible from that huge commentary there as Miss
Marsden gave me in one afternoon.”
Mrs. Dlimm turned her eyes inquiringly toward
Lottie, who said, laughingly:
“It would seem, last week, that I was a heathen
and Mr. Hemstead a heretic.”
“And what are you now?”
“Oh, he's all right now.”
“And not you?”
“I fear I always will be a little crooked; but I
hope I am not exactly a heathen any longer.”
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“Miss Marsden was a heathen as Nathaniel was
a shrewd and dishonest Jew,” said Hemstead.
“What kind of a Jew was Nathaniel?” asked
Lottie innocently.
“Christ said, when he first saw him,” replied
Mrs. Dlimm, smiling, “`Behold an Israelite indeed,
in whom is no guile.'”
Then both were puzzled at Lottie's sudden and
painful flush, but they ascribed it to her modesty;
and Hemstead, to give her time to recover herself,
gave a brief sketch of his sermon, and how, in the
afternoon, while reading, at Lottie's suggestion, the
complete story of Lazarus, they both had seen the
unspeakable sympathy of Christ for those He sought
to save.
“Oh, dear,” thought Lottie, “when shall I escape
the consequences of my foolish jest? `Without
guile,' indeed!”
Mr. Dlimm now appeared, and he and Hemstead
were soon discussing the rendering of an obscure
passage, upon which the big commentary gave the
conflicting opinions of a dozen learned doctors.
Mrs. Dlimm carried Lottie off to her sanctum, the
nursery—the fruitful source of questions and mysteries
the learned doctors would find still more difficult
to solve.
“And you are contented with this narrow round
of life?” asked Lottie, curiously, as Mrs. Dlimm finished
the narration of what seemed to her very tame
experience.
“Narrow!” said Mrs. Dlimm reproachfully, “my
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[figure description] Page 338.[end figure description]
life and work are not narrow. I have six little immortals
to train. A million years hence they will
either bless or reproach me. What consideration in
fashionable life is equal to that? Besides, my husband
is engaged in the same kind of work that
brought the Son of God from heaven to earth. It is
my privilege to help him. Scrub Oaks is as much of
a place as many of the villages in which He preached
and I am grateful that I can take part in so royal a
calling.”
“Mrs. Dlimm,” said Lottie, with sudden animation,
“I wouldn't wonder if you and your husband
were very great people in heaven.”
“Oh!” cried the little lady laughing. “We
never think of that. Why should we? But I know
there will be a nook there for us, and the thought
makes me very happy.”
“And you really and truly have been happy in all
your toil and privations.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Dlimm, with a strange, far-away
look coming into her large blue eyes; “when everything
on earth has been darkest I have been most
happy, and this has confirmed my faith. Little
children are sources of great joy, but they also cause
much pain and anxiety. Yet when I have been
suffering most—when the wardrobe has been scanty
and the larder almost bare, God has taken me to His
heart as I clasp this child here, and comforted by
assuring me, `Never fear, my child I will take care
care of you and yours. See how He keeps His word.
He sent you here, with your bright, sunny face. He
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[figure description] Page 339.[end figure description]
sent Mr. Hemstead here; and between you both we
shall make a long stage of our homeward journey
most pleasantly.”
“I never heard any one talk like you before,” said
Lottie, musingly. “You seem to believe all the
Bible says, as if it were actually right before you.”
“Believe! Why not? The idea of God not
keeping his word!”
“And is faith just the certainty that God will
keep His word?”
“That is just faith; and though this great world—
for little bits of which people lose their souls—shall
pass away, God's word shall stand until His least
promise is fulfilled.”
“That is not our creed on Fifth Avenue,” said
Lottie sadly. “The world first, God last. But you
sometimes, surely, wish that Mr. Dlimm was rich,
and that you could have for him and the children
and yourself all that heart could wish?”
“I used to feel so occasionally, but I have got
past that now. God loves my husband and children
better than I do, and He will provide what is best for
us all. I simply try to rest in His arms as this child
does in mine.”
“How strange it all is,” said Lottie thoughtfully.
“Why strange? Your earthly father provides for
you the best he can; and if our Heavenly Father
provides for us in the same way, surely will not His
be the better provision? What an absurd, unnatural
thing it is to suppose there is anything better than
what God will give his own dear children. Are not
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[figure description] Page 340.[end figure description]
both earth and heaven His? and He has promised
the best of both to us.”
“I can scarcely realize it all yet,” said Lottie, with
tears in her eyes. “I suppose it is because you are
so natural and true that you seem so odd to me, who
have been brought up among those that I fear look
at things in false lights.”
“I think I understand you, my dear,” said Mrs.
Dlimm, hopefully. “A child's penny toy will hide a
great mountain if held too near the eyes. It is thus
the eyes of the worldly are blinded by trifles till I
fear some will never see God or heaven. But He
is teaching you better. As long as you follow His
gentle leadings, and the pure impulses of your own
heart, all will be well. But as soon as you begin to
take counsel of the world and its self-seeking spirit,
you will find yourself in trouble. If we wish to prosper
and be happy in God's world, we must do His
will. This is good, sound, common sense, which the
experience of every age has borne out. It often
seems hard at first, my dear, as you will find out. The
scourging was very hard to bear; but Paul and Silas,
singing in prison, with their feet made fast in the
stocks, were better off than their jailor, who was about
to kill himself and the magistrates, who, no doubt,
were in mortal fear because of the earthquake. We,
too, can sing, whatever happens, as long as God and
conscience are upon our side.”
It will thus be seen that Mrs. Dlimm was a
rationalist as well as a believer, though not of the
new school.
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For some reason, her philosophy was peculiarly
acceptable to Lottie, and though scarcely conscious
why, the exhortation to follow the impulses of her
own heart seemed especially natural and right; but
her fashionable mother would have been alarmed indeed,
if she had known that her beautiful daughter
was becoming the disciple of Mrs. Dlimm.
Though their call was by no means a short one, it
passed all too quickly. The memory of it would
never fade from Lottie's mind; and it became another
link in the chain by which God was seeking to bind
her to a better future than her friends could dream
of in their earthly ambition.
“I am very glad I made this visit,” Lottie said, as
they were hastening home lest they should be late to
dinner. “It was very kind of you to take me so far.”
He turned and lifted his eye-brows comically.
“What do you mean by that?” she asked.
“To hear you, one would think that I had been a
martyr for your sake, while, in truth, I never enjoyed
myself more.”
“Yes,” said she, “but you welcome afflictions and
trials of your patience.'
“Would that I might be ever thus afflicted!” he
exclaimed impulsively. Then, suddenly becoming
conscious of the natural suggestion of his words, he
blushed deeply; but not more so than Lottie, who
turned away her face to hide her flaming cheeks. He,
misinterpreting the act, thought that she meant a
hint that such remarks were not agreeable, and was
thinking how to remedy what he now regarded as a
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[figure description] Page 342.[end figure description]
very foolish speech, when she, with woman's tact, led
the conversation to unembarrassing topics, and before
they were aware the horse stopped at Mrs. Marchmont's
door.
Lottie disarmed both suspicion and censure to a
considerable extent by saying, “I had promised Mrs.
Dlimm to come and see her again, and wished to
keep my word. I knew no one would care to go
there save Mr. Hemstead, so I took him to see
the parson while I visited the parson's wife. I enjoyed
my call very much, too; and as Mr. Hemstead
and Mr. Dlimm had a great argument over a knotty
theological point, I suppose he feels somewhat repaid
also.”
This put matters in quite another light. That
one should go to see a parson's wife, and the other to
discuss theology with the parson, was very different
from stealing off for an indefinite ride with the purpose
of being alone together. De Forrest was quite
comforted, and was even inclined to regard Lottie as
rather considerate in not asking him to accompany
her when visiting such undesirable people as the
Dlimms. Though why she should wish to visit them
herself was a mystery. But then, he thought, “Lottie
is odd and full of queer moods and whims. Let
her indulge them now, because, as my wife, they will
scarcely be the thing.”
He was still more comforted by noting that she
did not have a great deal to say to Hemstead—indeed,
that she rather avoided him.
“She has had enough, and too much, of his heavy
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stupid company,” he thought, “and finds that even
the carrying out of the practical joke is too hard
work. If I can only get another good opportunity,
I won't wait till she goes to sleep before bringing the
question to an issue.”
But Lottie give him no opportunity, and while
kind and gentle toward him, adroitly managed that
they should never be alone.
And Hemstead also, who had found their private
tête-á-têtes so delightful and productive of good results,
was equally unable to be alone with her—not
that Lottie was averse, but because she saw that
lynx-eyed Bel was watching her; and again for the
hundreth time she wished her cynical friend back in
the city.
Lottie's manner and apparent reserve were so
marked at one time, that Hemstead began to grow
troubled, though why he scarcely knew. There was
no cause, save the peculiar sensitiveness of one whose
sunshine is beginning to come, not from the skies,
but the changing features of a fellow mortal.
Lottie quickly saw his shadowed face, and surmised
the cause. Soon after, when his eyes were
questioningly seeking hers, she gave him such a
sunny genial smile as to assure him that whatever
might be the cause of her somewhat distant manner,
it did not result from any estrangement from him.
Heretofore when Lottie liked a gentleman, she
had been frank in showing that preference within the
limits of lady-like bearing. But, for some reason, she
began to grow excessively shy in manifesting any
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interest in Hemstead the others could note. The
reason, with which she satisfied herself, but partially
explained her feeling.
“They will think I am still trying to carry out
my wicked, foolish joke.”
But she did long for another unrestrained talk
with him, and watched keenly to secure it without
exciting remark. De Forrest did all he could to prevent
this, however, and Bel unconsciously became his
ally. With woman's quick perception, she saw that
Lottie was indulging in something more than a
“mood,” and felt that it was a duty she owed to her
friend to prevent mischief.
Thus Monday and Tuesday passed away, Lottie
being too circumspect to give Bel sufficient cause for
speaking plainly.
Dan and Mr. Dimmerly were the only ones of
the household who regarded the change in Lottie
with unmixed satisfaction. Not giving a thought
to the cause, they were pleased with the gentleness
and attention which resulted.
“Lottie,” said her brother Dan, as she kissed him
good-night, after telling a marvellously good story,
“what has come over you? You make me think of
Aunty Jane.”
“I must be growing good indeed, if I remind any
one of Auntie Jane,” thought Lottie exultantly.
-- 345 -- p668-350
CHAPTER XXIV. THE TERROR OF A GREAT FEAR.
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LONG before Harcourt reached his law-office, he
was satisfied that he had blundered foolishly
and done Miss Martell great injustice. Her right to
refuse his unwelcome love was most perfect, and
her manner of doing so, as he understood her, had
been most delicate, even in his estimation. At the
same time she had never given him the slightest
ground for his implied aspersion that in her pure,
Christian life she shone down upon him with the cold
distance of a “star.”
He recalled her words and bearing in Mrs. Byram's
conservatory, and the degree in which his unreasonable
passion had blinded him grew more apparent.
“Why should I expect her to love me?” he
asked himself in bitterness. “It is a hundred-fold
more than I deserve, or had a right to hope, that
she should put out her hand to save me.”
He was on the point of returning twenty times,
and asking her pardon for his folly, but that bane of
our life—that hindrance to more good and happiness
than perhaps any other one cause—pride, deterred,
and Monday evening passed, an unhappy one to the
object of his thoughts as well as himself.
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On Tuesday pride was vanquished, and as soon as
his business permitted he repaired to the Martell
mansion, eager to ask forgiveness. To his deep disappointment,
he learned that Mr. Martell and his
daughter had driven up town, crossed on the ferry-boat,
and were paying some visits on the other side
of the river.
He now purposed to call again as soon as they returned,
but was unexpectedly detained until quite late
in the evening. He approached the familiar place
that now enshrined, to him, the jewel of the world, in
both a humble and an heroic mood. He would not
presume again, but in silence live worthily of his love
for one so lovely. He would be more than content—
yes, grateful—if she would deign to help him climb
toward her moral height.
As he stood on the piazza, after ringing the doorbell,
he was in greater trepidation than when he made
his first plea in court, and was so intent in trying to
frame his thoughts into appropriate language, that he
did not note for the moment that no one answered.
Again he rang, but there was no response. There
were lights in the house, and he knocked upon the
door quite loudly. A housemaid soon after appeared,
with a scared and anxious face.
“Is Miss Martell home?” he asked, a sudden
boding of evil chilling his heart.
“Indade an' she is not. Would to God she
was.”
“What do you mean?”
“Faix, an' I'm sure I'm glad ye's come, Misther
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Harcourt. The coachman is down at the shore, and
he'll tell ye all.”
Harcourt dashed through the snow and shrubbery,
over rocks and down steeps that gave him
one or two severe falls, that he might, the nearest
way, reach Mr. Martell's boat-house. Here he
found the coachman peering out upon the dark
waters, and occasionally uttering a hoarse, feeble
shout, which could scarcely be heard above the surf
that beat with increasing heaviness upon the icy
beach.
The man seemed nearly exhausted with cold and
anxiety, and was overjoyed at seeing Harcourt; but
he told the young man a story which filled him with
deepest alarm. It was to this effect:
“Mr. and Miss Martell had been delayed in leaving
a friend's house on the opposite side of the river
until it was too late to reach the boat on which it was
their intention to cross. They were prevailed upon
by their hospitable host to send their sleigh up to a
later boat, while they remained for an early supper,
and then should cross in a boat rowed by an experienced
oarsman, who was a tenant on the gentleman's
place.
“It was quite a bit after dark when I got back,
but Mr. Martell and the young lady hadn't come over
yet. I first thought they was goin' to stay all night,
and that I should go arter them in the mornin'; but
the woman as sews says how she was sittin' at one of
the upper winders, and how she sees, just afore night,
a light push out from t'other side and come straight
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across for a long while, and then turn and go down
stream. I'm afeared they've got caught in the ice.'
“But what became of the light?” asked Harcourt,
half desperate with fear and anxiety.
“Well, the woman as sews says it went down and
down as long as she could see.”
A faint scream from the house now arrested their
attention, and hastening up the bank they heard the
servants crying from the upper windows of the mansion,
“There it comes! there it comes again.”
Harcourt rushed to the second story of the house.
A door leading into an apartment facing the river was
open, and without a thought he entered and threw
open the blinds. Away to the south, where the river
enters the Highlands, he saw a faint light, evidently
that of the lantern carried in the boat. Familiar with
the river, the whole thing flashed upon him. In the
last of the ebb tide their boat had become entangled
in the ice, but had been carried down to no very
great distance. Now that the tide had turned, it
was coming back, with the mass of ice in which it
had become wedged.
And could that faint glimmer indicate the presence
of the one who never before had been so dear?
Could Miss Martell, the child of luxury, so beautiful
and yet so frail and delicate, be out in the darkness
and cold of this winter night, perishing perhaps, with
the lights of this her elegant home full in view?
Then, for the first time, he recognized that the
room he was in must be Miss Martell's sleeping
apartment. Though the light was low and soft, it
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revealed an exquisite casket, in keeping with the jewel
it had once, but might no more enshrine. On every
side were the evidences of a refined but Christian
taste, and also a certain dainty beauty that seemed
a part of the maiden herself, she having given to the
room something of her own individuality.
It would be hard to describe Harcourt's sensations
as a hasty glance revealed the character of the
place. He felt somewhat as a devout Greek might,
had he stumbled into the sacred grotto of his most
revered goddess.
But this thought was uppermost in his mind.
“Here is where she should be; yonder—terrible
thought—is where she is. What can I do?”
Again he dashed back to the shore, calling the
coachman to follow him. When the man reached
the water's edge, he found that Harcourt had broken
open the boat-house, and was endeavoring to get out
the boat.
“Ye'll gain nothing there, wid that big boat,”
said the coachman. “The master has been away
so long that it's all out o' order. The water can get
in it as soon as yerself. The young lady's little
scollop—the one as is called Naughty Tillus—is sent
away for the winter.”
“Stop your cursed croaking,” cried Harcourt
excitedly, and help me out with this boat. “If I
can't save her, I can at least drown with her.”
“Divil a lift will I give ye. It will do the
master and young lady no good, and I'll not have
your drownding on my conscience.”
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Harcourt soon found that he could not manage
the large boat alone, and the matches he struck to
guide him, revealed that the man spoke truly, and
that the craft was in no condition for the service
he proposed.
“Great God,” he cried, “is there no way to save
her?”
He sprang upon the boat-house, and there, away
to the south, was the dim light coming steadily up
the stream. The moon had not yet risen, the sky
was overcast with wildly flying clouds; the wind was
rising, and would drive and grind the ice more fiercely.
It was just the night for a tragedy, and he felt that
if he saw that light disappear as a sign that the boat
had been crushed and its occupants swallowed up by
the wintry tide, the saddest tragedy of the world
would have taken place.
He groaned and clenched his hands in his impotent
anguish.
“Oh God,” he cried, “what can I do to save
her?”
He clasped his throbbing temples, and tried to
think. It soon occurred to him that Mrs. Marchmont's
boat might be in better condition. Hemstead
was strong and brave, and would assuredly join him
in the effort to rescue them. Without a word he
rushed up the bank, sprang into his cutter, gave his
spirited horse a cut from the whip, which caused
him at once to spring into a mad gallop, and so
vanished from the eyes of the bewildered and terrified
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servants, who were left alone to their increasing
fears.
“Save her—save her,” muttered the coachman,
as stiff and numb with cold he followed Harcourt
more slowly to the house. “It's kind o' queer how
he forgits about the old man.”
-- 352 -- p668-357
CHAPTER XXV. A TRUE KNIGHT.
[figure description] Page 352.[end figure description]
AS the dusk deepened into night upon this memorable
evening, Hemstead stood at the parlot
window, and looked out so long and intently that
Lottie joined him at last, and asked:
“What can you see without, and in the darkness,
so much more attractive than anything within?”
“Do you see that faint light out there upon the
river?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I've been watching it for some time, and
it troubles me. I noticed this afternoon that there
was ice coming down with the tide. Is it possible
that some one, in crossing with a small boat, has
been caught in the ice and carried downward?”
“Why should you think that? Nothing is more
common than lights upon the river at night.”
“Yes, but not of late. Since the last severe cold
I have noticed that the river was almost deserted, and
the papers state that it is freezing north of us. But
it is the peculiarity in the movement of the light that
perplexes me. When I saw it first, it appeared as if
coming across the river. Suddenly, when quite over
toward this side, it seemed to stop a moment, then
turn directly down the stream.”
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“Uncle,” cried Lottie, “you know all about the
the river. How do you account for what Mr. Hemstead
has seen?” and she explained.
“Lights are very deceptive at night, especially
upon the water,” said Mr. Dimmerly sententiously.
“It's probably a hardy water-rat of a boatman dropping
down with the tide to a point opposite to where
he wishes to land.”
“Yes, that is it, Mr. Hemstead, so dismiss your
fears. Your brow is as clouded as that murky sky
there.”
“That comparison is quite oriental in its extravagance,”
he said, his anxious face relaxing into a
sudden smile. “But then you are a bit tropical
yourself.”
“Well, you can't complain if I remind you of the
tropics this dreary winter night; so I'll bear out your
fanciful conceit. Your face, a moment since, was like
a burst of sunshine.”
“Your figure now is incorrect as well as extravagant,
for whatever light my face has it is but the
reflection of your kindness.”
“I hope you do not mean to suggest that you
have any tendency toward `mooning'?”
“`Mooning' is the indulgence of sickly sentiment,
is it not—a diluted moonlight kind of feeling?”
“Very well defined. Does experience give you
such accuracy?” said Lottie, laughingly.
“I can honestly say No; and most surely not in
your case.”
“I'm glad to hear it,” said Lottie, blushing at his
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[figure description] Page 354.[end figure description]
earnestness. “I should be sorry to think that cold,
diluted moonlight was the type of any of my friends'
regard.”
“You may rest assured,” he replied impulsively,
“there is nothing `cold or diluted' in my regard for
you—”
“There is the supper-bell,” interrupted Lottie
hastily.
“What are you looking at?” asked De Forrest,
uneasily noting the fact of their standing together
within the shadowy curtains. He had just descended
from the toilet which, with him, was a necessity before
each meal.
“Mr. Hemstead has seen a light upon the river,
and bodes from it some vague danger to some
vague, indefinite people. Come, Mr. Hemstead,
come away, or before we know it you will be off on
the Quixotic attempt to rescue what uncle calls a
`hardy water-rat,' that all the water of the river could
not drown.”
“Oh, I see,” sneered De Forrest; “Mr. Hemstead
wishes to get cheaply, standing here within
and in good company, the credit of being willing to
attempt a perilous rescue.”
“You are jumping to conclusions very rapidly,
Julian, and not very charitable ones either,” said
Lottie reproachfully.
“Come, Mr. De Forrest,” said Hemstead quietly,
“we will test this question of cheapness. I will go
with you to investigate that light.”
“Nonsense,” replied the exquisite. “As Miss
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[figure description] Page 355.[end figure description]
Marsden suggested, Don Quixote may be your
model knight, but he is not mine.”
“Now I didn't suggest any such thing,” said
Lottie, decidedly vexed.
“Come, young people, tea is waiting,” called
Mrs. Marchmont.
“Well, I did,” said De Forrest to Lottie, aside,
“and what's more, I believe it's true,” and he placed
her reluctant hand upon his arm, and drew her to
the supper-room.
But Hemstead lingered a moment to watch the
light, with increasing uneasiness. In his silent abstraction
at the table it was evident to Lottie that
his mind was dwelling upon the problem of the mysterious
glimmer far out upon the river. Before the
meal was over, he abruptly excused himself, but
soon returned as if relieved, and said:
“It is no more to be seen.”
“I told you how it was,” said Mr. Dimmerly.
“The man floated down as far as he wished, and now
has pulled ashore.”
The explanation fully satisfied the rest, and
sounded plausibly to Hemstead; and the evening
promised to pass quietly and uneventfully away.
Mrs. Marchmont's parlor was a picture of cosey elegance.
Bel, and Addie with her mother and uncle,
made a game of whist at one table; while Hemstead
in subdued tones read the latest magazine at another.
De Forrest was half-dozing in his chair, for the article
was rather beyond him; and while Lottie's fair face
was very thoughtful, it might be questioned whether
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[figure description] Page 356.[end figure description]
the thought was suggested by the reader or by what
he read. But the article was finished, and for the
relief of change, Hemstead paced the room a few
moments, and then half-aimlessly went to the window
and looked out toward the river. His abrupt
exclamation startled them all.
“There is that light again!”
A moment later he stood, bare-headed, out upon
the piazza, straining his eyes out into the darkness.
“I feel impressed that there is something wrong—
that some one is in danger,” he said to Lottie, who
had followed him.
“You will take cold standing here without your
hat,” she said.
“So will you. Where is your hat that you should
talk prudence to me?”
But the others were more thoughtful of themselves,
and were well wrapped and protected as they
now also came out upon the piazza.
“Well, it is a little queer,” said Mr. Dimmerly.
“I suppose some one ought to go and see what it
means,” said Bel, hesitatingly. “But then there are
those better able to go than any-one from here.”
“Hush!” said Hemstead.
Far and faint there seemed to come a cry for
help across the darkness.
“That is enough,” he cried; “some one is in distress
and danger. Come, Mr. De Forrest. The case
has lost all its Quixotic elements, and you may now
emulate the Chevalier Bayard himself.”
“Oh, please don't go, gentlemen,” cried Lottie.
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[figure description] Page 357.[end figure description]
See, the night is very dark, the wind is rising; the
water must be very rough. You may just throw
away your own lives in the vain attempt to save
utter strangers.”
“Miss Marsden is correct,” said De Forrest, as if
greatly relieved. “The attempt is perfectly fool-hardy,
and I am not a fool. If some one is in a boat
that is fast in the ice, he has only a few more miles
to drift, before coming opposite a large town, where
there are many better able to help than we are.”
“Hush!” cried Hemstead, “do you hear that?'
Faint and far away, as a response to De Forrest's
words, came again more clearly the cry for help.
“That is enough,” again said Hemstead excitedly,
and he started for his hat.
Lottie laid her hand upon his arm, and said with
seeming earnestness:
“Surely, Mr. Hemstead, you will not be guilty
of the folly of going alone upon such a desperate
attempt as this?”
“I surely will; and you surprise me greatly that
you seek to detain me,” he said, almost sternly.
“But you alone can do nothing.”
“As I am a man I will try. Where can I get the
key of the boat-house?”
“If the young gentleman will go, I will go with
him,” said a voice from the darkness beyond the
piazza, and which they recognized as that of Mrs.
Marchmont's coachman; “I've been to sea in my
day, and am not afraid of a little water, salt or
fresh.”
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[figure description] Page 358.[end figure description]
“Good for you, my fine fellow. I'll be with you
at once,” cried Hemstead.
“I've got the key of the boat-house, a lantern,
and an axe to cut the ice, so you have only to put on
your coat and hat.”
“There,” said Hemstead to Lottie, “a way is
provided already. How could you wish to keep me
back?” and without waiting for an answer he hastily
seized his hat and coat from the hall rack.
But before he could spring down the piazza steps
she again stopped him a moment, as she said, in a
low, husky tone:
“I did not wish to detain, but to test you. I
wish you to go. I am proud of you, though my
heart trembles at your peril. But you shall not go
till you are protected and equipped. See, your hands
are bare; they will become numb, and so, useless.
Where are your gloves? The wind will carry your
hat away. Here, you shall be my knight upon this
occasion, and if you will, may wear my colors;”
and she snatched the ribbon from her hair, and tied
his hat firmly down.
In a low, thrilling tone, meant only for her, he
said, “Now you are the Lottie of my ideal; now
you are yourself again, and your words have given
me tenfold my former courage and strength. Good-by,”
and ere she was aware, he had seized her hand
and pressed a kiss upon it, in true, old, knightly
style.
“God bring you back safely,” she said, with a
quick sob.
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Heaven heard the prayer, he did not—for he
was off with a bound; and the darkness swallowed
him up as he followed the stout-hearted ex-sailor.
Lottie stood where he left her, unconscious that
the wintry wind was blowing her unconfined hair
wildly about.
“Miss Lottie,” said De Forrest, approaching her
humbly.
She raised her hand deprecatingly.
“Really, Miss Lottie,” he persisted, “I would
have gone if you had wished me to.”
`Hark!” she said, in a low tone. “Can you
hear them?”
Lynx-eyed Bel, standing unnoticed in the shadow,
had witnessed and comprehended the scene more
fully than the others, and speedily brought Lottie to
her senses by whispering in her ear:
“Come, don't make a goose of yourself. If Mr.
Hemstead is your `knight,' he has not gone to fight
a dragon, but to row a boat, and rescue a fisherman
in all probability. Your hair is down and blowing
about your eyes, and you look like a guy generally.”
Even Lottie, in her high-wrought state, was not
proof against such bald prose as this; and she turned
and hastened to her room.
Bel followed, proposing now, at last, to open
Lottie's eyes to her folly. Her first words of wisdom
were, as Lottie, with wet eyes, stood binding up
her hair:
“What a fool you are beginning to make of yourself
over this Western student.”
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[figure description] Page 360.[end figure description]
“Hush!” said Lottie, imperiously.
“There it is again. You haven't been yourself
since he came. If your mother knew what was going
on—”
“Bel,” said Lottie, in a tone that quite startled
that nervous young lady, “do you value my friendship
at all?”
“Certainly; and that is why I wish to prevent
you from drifting into trouble; and it's not right for
you to get him into—”
Lottie's warning gesture was so emphatic that
Bel paused.
“Has it ever occurred to you,” Lottie continued,
in a tone that Bel never heard her use before, “that
I am not a child, and that you are not my natural
guardian? Not another word, please, about Mr.
Hemstead, or we are strangers;” and she quietly finished
her toilet and left the room.
She had hardly reached the lower hall before
there was a furious ring at the door. Before it could
be opened Mr. Harcourt burst in, and called:
“Where is Mr. Hemstead?”
At the first sound of his voice Addie rushed out
and clung to his arm, crying hysterically:
“What is the matter?”
He drew back, with an impatience akin to disgust,
and repeated his question:
“Where is Mr. Hemstead? Why don't some one
speak?”
“Mr. Harcourt,” said Mrs. Marchmont, in offended
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dignity, “I think you might, at least, have answered
Addie's question and told us what the trouble is.”
“Trouble enough, God knows. Mr. and Miss
Martell have been caught in the ice, out in an open
boat, for hours. Do you see that light there? Good
heavens! there is another light shooting out toward
it—”
“Yes,” cried Lottie, in a sudden ecstasy of delight,
“there goes my brave, true knight to the rescue,
and he will save them, too; see how he gains
upon them. That is Mr. Hemstead's voice. I know
it well. He is shouting encouragement to them.
Hear the feeble answering cry.”
“That's a woman's voice,” Harcourt cried, after
listening a moment as if his life depended on what
he heard. “Thank God, she has not perished with
cold;” and he dashed away toward the river bank.
Addie and her mother looked at each other.
They too, as the coachman, had been struck with
Mr. Harcourt's choice of pronouns.
But the prudent lady did not forget herself or her
duty a moment. She made them all come in from
the bleak piazza, and had the light turned down
in the parlor, so that they could see through the
window just as well—a more comfortable point of
observation.
But De Forrest quite ostentatiously muffled himself
up to his eyes that he might go down and “help.”
Approaching timidly, he said to Lottie as she
stood at the window:
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[figure description] Page 362.[end figure description]
“Can you not take another knight into your
service this evening?”
“O yes, Julian,” she replied good naturedly, “a
regiment in so good a cause as this. Hasten to the
shore. You may be of some possible help;” and
with a gesture of dismission, she turned again to
her watch.
De Forrest slowly departed, feeling that this was
a very different farewell from that bestowed on Hemstead,
of which he had caught an aggravating glimpse.
While the others were eagerly talking and surmising,
and the servants bustling about, preparing for
those who would soon be brought in, chilled and wet
with spray, Lottie stood at her post motionless,
oblivious of all around, and as intent upon Hemstead's
light as if she were to be rescued instead of
Miss Martell.
-- 363 -- p668-368
CHAPTER XXVI. ON A CRUMBLING ICE-FLOE
[figure description] Page 363.[end figure description]
THE plan suggested by their host, of sending
their sleigh home by the ferry, while they
crossed in a boat, just suited Miss Martell, and she
proposed having a good vigorous pull at the oars
herself. She had always been fond of out-of-door
sports, a taste which her father had judiciously
encouraged; and thus had saved her, no doubt, from
the life of an invalid, for she had inherited the delicacy
of a feeble mother, who years before, in spite of all
that wealth could do to prevent it, had passed away.
Just at this time Miss Martell was waging that
pathetic war with her own heart which so many
women must fight out in silence, and she welcomed
eagerly any distraction of thought—anything that
would so weary the body that the mind could rest.
She dreaded the long, monotonous ride home, and
so warmly seconded the new plan, that her father
yielded, though somewhat against his judgment.
Through the little delays of a hospitality more
cordial than kind, they were kept until the early
December twilight was deepening into dusk. But
the oarsman lighted his lantern, and was confident
that he could put them across most speedily. The
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[figure description] Page 364.[end figure description]
boat was stanch and well built, and they started
with scarcely a misgiving, Miss Martell taking an
oar with much zest. Their friends waved them off
with numberless good wishes, and then from their
windows watched till the boat seemed quite across,
before drawing the curtains and concluding that all
was well.
At first they did not meet much ice, and everything
promised a safe and speedy passage, but, when
well past the middle of the river, two dark masses
were seen just before them. There appeared to be
a wide opening between them, through which they
could see the water ripple.
“I think we can shoot through,” said the oarsman,
standing up a moment; “perhaps it will be the
safest course, for we don't know what's above.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Martell, “I will steer you
as well as I can. Pull strongly till we are again in
clear water.”
Miss Martell bent her supple form to the oar,
and her strokes counted as well as those of the
strong, practised man, and the boat sped, all too
quickly, into what afterward seemed the very jaws
of destruction.
The opening narrowed instead of widening. The
ice above, for some reason, appeared to gain on that
below.
In growing alarm, Mr. Martell saw that they
were becoming shut in, and pointed out the fact to
the oarsman.
“Shall we turn around?” he asked, excitedly.
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The man stood up again, and instantly decided.
“No, we have not time, the tide is running very
swiftly. The ice would close on us before we could
get around. Our best chance is to push through. I
can see water beyond.” They bent to their oars
again with the energy which danger inspires.
But there was not time. The opening closed
too rapidly, suddenly the bow struck the upper
cake, and being well out of the water ran up on
the ice, causing the boat to take in water at the
stern. For a second it seemed that they would be
overturned and drowned at once.
But just at this moment the upper cake struck
the lower ice, and the boat, being well up on the
first cake, was not crushed between the two masses,
as would have been the case had the ice closed
against its sides while they were deep in the water.
For a moment they were saved, while the upper and
lower floes crunched and ground together under
the keel, lifting the light craft still further above the
tide and throwing it over on one side. Without a
second's pause, the now consolidated field of ice
swept downward, carrying with it the wedged and
stranded skiff.
The lantern gleamed on the pale faces of those
who realized that they had just passed through a
moment of supreme peril, and perhaps had before
them as great if not equally imminent dangers.
The oarsman hastily examined the boat, and
found that it had been injured, though to what
extent he could not tell. Water was oozing in
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slowly from some point near the keel, but they were
too high out of the water to know whether more
dangerous leaks had been made. They tried to
break their way out, but found that the two cakes
had become so joined together as to form a solid
mass, upon which they could make no impression.
They called aloud for help, and Miss Martell's
plaintive cry was blended again and again with the
hoarse, strong shoutings of the men. But the river
was wide; the tide swept them out toward its
centre, and then nearer the less peopled eastern
shore. The evening was cold and bleak, and few
were out, and they so intent upon reaching warm
firesides that they never thought of scanning the dark
waste of the river; and so, to all their cries for aid
there was no response, save the gurgling water, that
sounded so coldly as to chill their hearts, and the
crunching of the ice as the rushing tide carried them
downward, and away from the gleaming lights of
their own loved home—downward and past the
lights from Mrs. Marchmont's mansion, where, even
in her peril, poor Alice Martell could picture Harcourt
at Addie's side, and she forgotten. As the
imagined scene rose vividly before her, the wild
thought passed through her mind.
“Since it must be so, perhaps I can find more
rest beneath these waters than in my home yonder.
It may be for the best, after all, and God designs
mercy in what at first seemed so terrible.”
As people saw Miss Martell's quiet and rather
distant bearing in society, as many admired her
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chiselled and faultlessly refined features, they little
imagined that, as within snowy mountains are
volcanic fires, so within her breast was kindling as
passionate a love as ever illumined a woman's life
with happiness, or consumed it with a smouldering
flame.
But death is stern and uncompromising, and
snatches away all disguises—even those which hide
us from ourselves. In bitterness of heart the poor
girl learned, while darker than the night the shadow
of death hovered over her, how intense was her love
for one that she believed loved another. If, but a
hand's breadth away, beneath the rushing tide,
there was a remedy for the pain at her heart, why
need she fear?
“My child,” said a tremulous voice.
Then, with a natural and remorseful rush of love
for one who had been as tender toward her as
a mother since that mother commended her to his
care, she put her arms around him and whispered:
“I am not afraid, father. Mother and heaven
may be nearer than we think.”
“Thank God, my child, thank God you are not
afraid. I was trembling for you—not myself. You
are young, and I trusted that there was a happy life
before you. But the home where mother is promises
me far more than the one yonder, whose lights
are growing so faint.”
“I am not afraid, dear father. I am content, if
it's God's will, to go to that better home and be with
you and mother.”
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“God bless thee, my child, and blessed be the
God of mercy who has given you so true a faith.
It would be terrible to me beyond words, if now you
were full of hopeless dread.”
But the poor oarsman had no such faith—only the
memory of his dependent wife and children, and his
material life, which never before had seemed so
sweet and precious. He kept shouting for aid until
exhausted, and then despairingly sat down to await
the result.
Mr. Martell, in the true Christian spirit, sought to
impart to his humble companion in peril some of
his own confidence in God's mercy and goodness,
but in vain. An intelligent, sustaining faith cannot
be snatched like a life-preserver in the moment of
danger; and the man appeared to scarcely heed
what he said.
Downward and past the twinkling lights of many
comfortable homes the remorseless tide still swept
them, until the huge outlines of the two mountains
at the portal of the Highlands loomed out of the
darkness.
“If we get down among the mountains, we might
as well give up,” said the oarsman sullenly. “We
might as well be cast away at sea as down in that
wild gorge; though for that matter it seems, to-night,
as if one's neighbors wouldn't step out of doors to keep
a body from drowning. Why no one has heard us is
more than I can understand, unless it is accordin' to
the old sayin,' `None's so deaf as them as won't hear.'”
But there was nothing strange in the fact that
-- 369 --
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they had been unnoted. The north wind blew their
voices down the river. There was a noisy surf upon
the shore, and those who chanced to see the light
supposed it to come from some craft hastening to its
winter quarters near the city. So fate seemed against
them, and they drifted down and down until the
black shadow of “Storm King” swallowed them up.
But now they became conscious that their motion
was growing less steady and rapid. A little later and
the floe apparently paused in its downward progress,
and there was only some slight movement caused by
the increasing gale.
Then came what seemed interminable hours of
weary waiting under the sombre shadow of “Cro'
Nest' mountain. The strange and almost irresistible
drowsiness that severe cold induces began to creep
over Miss Martell, but her father pleaded with her to
to fight against it; and, more for his sake than her own,
she tried. They each took turns in endeavoring to
break the ice around them with the boat-hook. The
exercise kept their blood in circulation, but was of
little avail in other respects. The ice was too heavy
and solid for their feeble strokes.
At last the tide turned, and the dreary monotonous
waiting in their hopeless position was exchanged
for an upward movement that would soon
bring them above the mountains again, where, from
the thickly peopled shores, there would be a better
chance of being seen and rescued.
There was no certainty that they would be missed,
and therefore sought for, as the coachman, not find
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ing them on his return, might conclude that they had
been prevailed upon to remain all night with the
friend they were visiting.
But any exchange from the black, rayless shadows
that surrounded them would be a relief; and it was
with a faint feeling of hopefulness that they recognized
their movement northward, which slowly increased
in speed as the tide gained mastery of the
slight natural current of the river.
The strengthening northern gale had thrown up
quite a “sea,” and the experienced oarsman soon
saw that the ice-field by which they were surrounded
was breaking up under the influence of the waves.
This might at last bring relief, or increase their
danger. If the ice should all break up around them
and leave their boat tight and sound, they could row
ashore. If the boat had been, or should become so
injured as to leak badly, it might fill with water
before they could reach land. Thus, in any case,
their peculiar position was aggravated by a terrible
uncertainty and suspense.
As they emerged from the Highlands into the
broad waters of Newburgh Bay, their worst fears
seemed about to be realized. Here, for many miles, the
north wind had an unrestrained sweep, and the waves
grew larger and more violent. Under their increasing
force the ice-floe crumbled around them rapidly, until
at last little was left save the mass of double thickness
caused by the union of the two large cakes between
which the boat had been caught. This, at
last, began to give under the weight of the boat, and
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let it more deeply into the water. Then, to their
dismay, they saw that the seams of the boat had been
so wrenched apart that the water came in rapidly.
They tried to keep it down by baling. The
frosty gale tossed Mr. Martell's white hair, while
with his hat he worked, with pathetic earnestness, for
the sake of his daughter; but in spite of all that he
and the oarsman could do, the water gained on them,
wetting their feet and creeping up their legs with the
icy chill of death.
Every moment or two the man would pause in
his work, and send forth a cry of such terrible power
and earnestness, that it would seem some one must
hear.
Again Alice Martell saw the distant lights of her
own home, but she turned from them to those that
that gleamed from the nearer residence of Mrs.
Marchmont. Was he there, safe and happy, looking
love into the eyes of Addie Marchmont, while every
moment she sank lower into the cold river? The
thought sent a deeper chill to her heart than the icy
tide from which she could no longer keep her feet.
“God and man is agin us,” said the oarsman
savagely. “What is the use of trying any longer!
The sooner it's over the better;” and he was about to
give up in despair. Alice, with equal hopelessness of
any earthly aid, was about to turn her eyes from the
faint rays from Mrs. Marchmont's windows, which,
barbed with the thoughts suggested above, pierced
her heart like arrows, when the throwing open of the
hall door by Hemstead let out such a broad
-- 372 --
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streaming radiance that her attention was attracted to it
By calling the attention of the others to it also, a
faint hope was inspired.
But when, soon after, the door was closed, and the
lights had their usual appearance, the flicker of hope
sank down into a deeper darkness.
Alice turned to her father, and in close embrace
and with a oneness of spirit and hope that needed
not outward expression, they silently lifted their
thoughts from the dark earth to the bright heaven
where they soon expected to be.
Just then a voice from earth recalled them to
earthly hope, and the prospect of human help. It
was Hemstead's shout of encouragement from the
shore. Then they saw the glimmer of a lantern
moving hither and thither; a moment later it became
stationary, then shot out toward them.
With cries of joy they recognized that they had
been seen, and that an attempt to rescue them was
being made.
In the apathy of their despair the water had
gained dangerously; but, with the energy of hope that
is ever greater than that of fear or despair, they set
to work anew. Again the wintry winds tossed Mr.
Martell's white hair, as for want of something better
he baled with his hat, and Alice's little numb
hands were lifted every moment as if in pathetic
appeal, as she dipped them in the ice-cold water at
her feet, and threw out a tiny cupful, which the gale
carried away in spray.
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“Come quick. We can't keep afloat much
longer,” cried the oarsman.
“Ay, ay,” shouted the ex-sailor, in a voice as
hoarse as the winds in the cordage of his old ship.
“Courage!” cried Hemstead; and his tones, in
contrast, rang out like a bugle, inspiring hope in the
chilled hearts of those who, a little before, had despaired,
and also sending an almost equal thrill of
delight to the heart of Lottie Marsden, as, with the
half-phrensied Harcourt, she stood in Mrs. Marchmont's
open door.
How terribly in earnest now are some who
thought that their acquaintance would commence and
end with a heartless jest!
The sailor-coachman was a good oarsman, and
Hemstead pulled fairly. Both were very strong, and
they drove the boat through the short chopping
waves rather than over them, reckoning not how
much water was shipped.
A little later came the shout, “Quick, quick
The ice is giving under us, and the boat sinking.”
“Oh, come—save my father,” cried Alice Martell,
in a tone that might have moved the very ice around
her to pity.
“My child, my child!” came the agonized voice
of the father; “never think of me, if you can save
her.”
Thus in the darkness of the night, parent and child
revealed, clear and luminous, the image of God upon
their souls—the image of Him who thought not of
Himself—who sought not to save Himself but others.
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Unselfish love inspired their appeals, and unselfish
love is God.
Homestead's nature was anthracite, and now
glowed at white heat in his grand excitement. He
was no longer a man, but a giant, and would have
ruined everything, snapped his oars, dragged the oarpins
from their sockets, thus rendering his massive
strength utterly useless, had not the cool, wary ex-sailor
taken command of the little craft, and insisted
on seamanship. Under his skilful direction the
student was like a powerful engine, with a steady,
measured stroke, and the boat fairly flew, until their
oars struck floating ice, and then they had to slacken
up, for to strike a mass of ice at their speed would be
to sink at once.
“Steady now,” cried the ex-sailor. “You pull,
I will stand and steer.”
Their boat was roughly grazed several times,
but glided through without serious injury.
“Now or never,” cried the oarsman; “we're
sinking.”
Alice hid her face on her father's breast. Life
had grown strangely sweet during the brief time
since, at Hemstead's voice, hope had revived; and
it seemed a bitter thing to perish almost within the
grasp of rescuing hands.
“Oh come,” groaned her father. “Great God,
this is hard.”
With a despairing cry she heard the water rush
and gurgle around her, and closed her eyes, not
expecting to open them again in this world. But
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strong hands grasped, and lifted her drenched,
helpless form tenderly into the boat.
With mingled hope and fear she looked up, and
by the lantern's light recognized Frank Hemstead.
“My father,” she gasped.
“Safe, my darling, thank God,” said Mr. Martell,
taking her into his arms; “and they have pulled our
stout oarsman in, too. So we are all safe.”
“Well, I hope so,” said the ex-sailor, with a little
depressive dubiousness. “We shipped a sight o' water
comin' out. There's good deal of ice runnin', and
so chopped up one can skerce see it. I must be skipper
and all, mind, if we are to come safe out. Here,
Mr. Hemstead, you bale; and you, too, messmate, if
yer hain't shipped too much water yerself. I'll sit well
up toward the bow, where I can see and pull around
the ice. Besides, with this cargo, we've got to cross the
waves kind o' easy and keerful, or they'll swamp us.”
Thus in this instance the ex-sailor appeared a
special providence, and gradually took them out of
the ice-strewn tide in the centre of the river to
smoother, clearer water nearer the shore. Soon
after, drenched and half-frozen, they reached Mrs.
Marchmont's boat-house.
Miss Martell's powers of endurance were nearly
exhausted; and when the lantern, held aloft, revealed
Harcourt's pale face, when she knew that it
was his arms that received her in her helplessness,
and she heard him murmur, “I now believe that there
is a good and merciful God, and I thank Him,” in the
strong reaction of feeling she became unconscious.
-- 376 -- p668-381
CHAPTER XXVII. THE MEETING AND GREETING.
[figure description] Page 376.[end figure description]
MR. MARTELL'S garments were frozen upon
him, and he was so stiff and numb with cold,
that with difficulty he made his way up the bank
with the support of De Forrest and the gallant
coachman, who had suddenly blossomed out into
quite a hero. Harcourt and Hemstead formed
with their hands what is termed a “chair,” and bore
the apparently lifeless form of Miss Martell swiftly
toward Mrs. Marchmont's residence. The poor
oarsman was so glad to be on solid ground once
more that he was able to hobble along at a good
pace by himself.
The wind again played mad pranks with Lottie's
hair as she at last stood impatiently on the piazza,
and then dashed off through the snow to meet them.
“Oh, thank God, you are safely back. He has
heard my prayer. But Miss Martell—she, is not—
she is not—”
“Don't suggest such a thing,” groaned Harcourt.
“Of course she has only fainted.”
Hemstead could not speak, even to Lottie. With
white face and set teeth he sought to keep up to
the end. The effort he was now putting forth was
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[figure description] Page 377.[end figure description]
less that of muscle than the sheer force of will. As
with Miss Martell, he, too, was reacting from the
tremendous strain that the last hour had brought.
He trembled with almost mortal weakness as he
slowly mounted the piazza steps. He staggered
under his share of their burden as he crossed the
hall. Lottie, puzzled by his silence, now saw his
deathly pallor with alarm, and instinctively stood
at his side.
“You had better take Miss Martell directly to
her room,” said Mrs. Marchmont.
“In here, quick,” gasped Hemstead; he tottered
to the nearest sofa, and, a second later, lay
unconscious at Miss Martell's feet.
At this moment Alice again became conscious.
Hemstead's condition did more to revive her than
all restoratives; for, woman-like, she thought of
him more than herself. She sat up and exclaimed
faintly:
“Oh, can't something be done for him? Quick.
It looks as if he had given his life for us;” and she
looked around, not far enough to see the expression
of Harcourt's face as he welcomed her back to
consciousness, but only to see Addie clinging to
his arm, repeatedly asking to be assured that he was
not hurt.
“Thank heaven you are safe,” he bent down and
whispered.
“Don't think of me. Look at Mr. Hemstead.”
Again he misunderstood her, and with bitterness
thought, “After all my anguish on her account, she
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gives me not even a thought, and her first words are,
`Don't think of me';” and he felt that fate had been
very cruel in sending Hemstead to her rescue instead
of himself.
Mrs. Marchmont now appeared upon the confused
scene, and proved that she was equal to the
occasion. It was a sad pity that she had not imparted
to her daughter a little of her own capability.
She bade De Forrest, and the still stout and hearty
ex-sailor, carry Hemstead at once to his room, while
she and one of the maids assisted Miss Martell to
hers. No opportunity whatever was given for any
romantic and affecting scenes.
Lottie had stood for a second in dismay, after
seeing her “true knight” sink on the floor, and then,
like a sensible girl, instead of going off into hysterics,
went like a flash to her aunt's wine closet for
brandy. But before she could find it, Mrs. Marchmont
had caused both the rescued and the rescuer
to be conveyed to the privacy of their own rooms,
where they could at once receive the prosaic treatment
that their condition required.
The room which a moment before had presented
a scene which she would never forget, was empty,
Harcourt having gone for a physician.
She met Mr. Dimmerly on the stairs, who took
the brandy from her, saying:
“That's sensible. We'll rub him down with it,
inside and out, and he'll be all right in the morning.
Now you see how blood tells. Making a parson of
him can't change the fact of his coming from an old
-- 379 --
[figure description] Page 379.[end figure description]
family. He has been as brave to-night as the Dimmerlys
were a thousand years ago.”
But Lottie was not a bit interested in the millennial
Dimmerlys, and putting, her arms around
her uncle's neck in a way that surprised that ancient
fossil, she coaxed:
“Won't you promise me, uncle, that as soon as
he is safe you will come out and let me know?”
“Safe! He's safe now. Whoever heard of even
a half-blooded Dimmerly dying from a mere faint?
Old age is the only disease that runs in our family,
my dear. But I will let you know as soon as he is
comfortably asleep.” “I am going to make my proper
parson nephew almost drunk, for once in his
life; and you needn't expect to see him much before
ten o'clock to-morrow.”
Lottie, finding her services were not needed in
Miss Martell's room, went down to the kitchen,
where she found the half-frozen oarsman—now rigged
out in the dress-coat and white vest of the colored
waiter—and the brave coachman who had put his old
sea-craft to such good use. They were being royally
cared for by the cook and laundress. The poor fellow
who out in the boat had thought that the hearts
of even his neighbors were as cold and hard as the
ice that was destroying them, had now forgotten his
misanthropy, and was making a supper that, considering
the hour, would threaten to an ordinary mortal
more peril than that from which he had escaped.
She drew from him—especially the coachman —the
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[figure description] Page 380.[end figure description]
narrative of their thrilling experience, and every
moment Hemstead grew more heroic in her eyes.
“Bless you, miss,” said the bluff ex-sailor, his
tongue a little loosened by the whiskey he had
taken as an antidote for the cold and wet, “there's
stuff enough in him to make a hundred such as
t'other young gentleman as wouldn't go. Sudden
spells, like that he had t'other night, is all he'll ever
be 'stinguished for, I'm a-thinking. But I ax you
pardon, miss.”
“I can forgive you anything to-night, my brave
fellow,” said Lottie, blushing; “though you have
given Mr. Hemstead so much credit, he will give
you more to-morrow. Take this and get something
to remember this evening by;” and she slipped a
twenty-dollar bank note into his hand.
“Now bless your sweet eyes,” exclaimed the man
ducking and bobbing with bewildering rapidity; “its
your kindness that'll make me remember the evening
to my dying day.”
“How could you speak so of Mr. De Forrest,
when the young leddy is engaged to him?” said the
cook reproachfully, after Lottie had gone.
“No matter,” said the ex-sailor stoutly, “I've
had it on my conscience to give her a warnin'. I
hadn't the heart to see such a trim little craft run
into shallow water, and hoist no signal. If she was
my darter, she'd have to mitten that lubber if he was
wuth a million.”
As Lottie passed through the hall with silent
tread, she saw that De Forrest was in the parlor, and
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[figure description] Page 381.[end figure description]
to escape him continued on up to her room, musing
as she went:
“What a strange blending of weakness and
strength Mr. Hemstead is. Well, I would like that.
I would like a man to be as strong as Samson generally,
but often so weak that he would have to lean
on me.”
Whom did Lottie mean by that indefinite word
“man”? It did not occur to her that there was a
very definite image in her mind of one who was
pale and exhausted, and whom it would now be a
dear privilege to nurse back into strength and vigor.
She met her uncle and the physician in the
upper hall, and the latter said:
“Mr. and Miss Martell are doing as well as could
be expected, when we consider the fearful ordeal
they have passed through. As far as I can foresee, a
few days' rest and quiet will quite restore them.”
“And Mr.—Mr. Hemstead?” faltered Lottie, the
color mounting into her face that anxiety had made
unwontedly pale.
“The brave fellow who rescued them? Now he
is the right kind of a dominie—not all white choker
and starch. No fear about him, Miss Marden. He's
made of good stuff, well put together. A night's
rest and a warm breakfast, and he will be himself
again;” and the old doctor bustled away.
“What delightful prose,” thought Lottie, and
she tripped lightly to her room and kissed the sullen
and offended Bel good night; and, very grateful and
at peace with all the world, soon fell asleep.
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But she had a disagreeable dream. Again she saw
Hemstead at Miss Martell's feet; but now, instead
of being pale and unconscious, his face was flushed
and eager, and he was pleading for that which the
king cannot buy. She awoke sobbing, called herself
a “little fool,” and went to sleep again.
But in the morning the dream lingered in her
mind in a vague uncomfortable way.
She was early down to breakfast, for she was
eager to speak to Hemstead, and tell him how she
appreciated his heroism. But either his exhaustion
was greater than the physician had believed, or
his uncle's sedatives were very powerful, for he did
not appear.
There was nothing better for her than to endure
De Forrest's explanations why he had not gone, and
his assurances that if he had “only known, etc.”; to
which she gave an impatient hearing, quite unlike
her gentleness of the two preceding days. There
were little things in her manner which indicated a
falling barometer, and suggested that the day might
not pass serenely.
She learned from her aunt and uncle that Mr.
and Miss Martell were feeling better than might
have been expected, and that Hemstead was still
sleeping.
“Sleep was all he wanted,” said Mr. Dimmerly;
“and I made it my business he should get it.”
Quite early in the forenoon, Mr. Martell and his
daughter felt equal to coming down to the parlor,
and after dinner it was their intention to return
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[figure description] Page 383.[end figure description]
home. A luxurious lounge was wheeled near the
blazing wood fire, and on this Miss Martell was ten
derly placed by her father, who, in joyful gratitude,
could scarcely take his eyes from her pale face.
Beyond the natural languor which would follow so
terrible a strain, she seemed quite well.
Both father and daughter appreciated Mrs.
Marchmont's courtesy greatly; and Miss Martell's
effort to be cordial, even to Addie, was quite pathetic,
when it is remembered that she felt that her
supposed rival would harm her more than could the
cold river.
Lottie made frequent errands to her room, and
lingered in the hall all she could without attracting
notice, in the hope of seeing Hemstead a moment
alone. The impulsive girl's warm heart was so full
of admiration for what he had done that she longed
to show him her appreciation without the chilling
restraint of observant eyes and critical ears.
But he was so blind to his interests as to blunder
into the parlor when she was there and every one
else also.
Though it cost her great effort, Alice Martell
rose instantly, and greeted him so cordially as to
bring the deepest crimson into his pale face. Mr.
Martell also pressed to his side, speaking words
which only a grateful father could.
When, for any cause, Hemstead was the object
of general attention, the occasion became the very
hour and opportunity for his awkward diffidence to
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[figure description] Page 384.[end figure description]
assert itself, and now he stood in the centre of the
floor, the most angular and helpless of mortals.
De Forrest looked at him with disdain, and
thought, “I would like to show him how a gentleman
ought to act under the circumstances.”
De Forrest would have been equal to receiving
all the praise, and as it was, in view of his readiness
to have saved Miss Martell if he “had only known,”
could have accepted, with graceful complacency, a
gratitude that quite overwhelmed the man of deeds.
Hemstead's confusion was so great as even to
embarrass Miss Martell for a moment, and her face,
from reminding one of a lily, suddenly suggested
an exquisite pink rose.
But before he was aware, she had ensconced him
in an easy chair at her side, and with a tact peculiarly
her own, had rallied his panic-stricken faculties
into such order that he could again take command
of them.
But as Lottie saw them grasping each other's
hands and blushing, her dream recurred to her with
the force of an ominous prophecy. Hemstead, in
his severe attack of diffidence, had not greeted any
one on his entrance, but had fallen helplessly into
Miss Martell's hands, and had been led to his chair
like a lamb to the slaughter. But Lottie took it as
much to heart as if he had purposely neglected to
speak to her. And when, a little later, Mr. Dimmerly
commenced a formal eulogy, Hemstead with an expression
of intense annoyance raised his hand deprecatingly,
and pleaded that no one would speak of
-- 385 --
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what he had done again, she feared that all the
glowing words she meant to say would be unwelcome
after all.
Everything had turned out so differently from
what she had anticipated that she was disappointed
above measure, and before he could collect his
scattered wits she left the room.
“And so it all ends,” she thought bitterly, as she
chafed up and down the hall. “I sent him out last
night as my own `true knight,' wearing my colors,
and he rescues another woman. When I see him
again he brushes past me to speak to the one who,
owing him so much of course will be grateful.
With eyes for her alone he wears my colors in his
face, and she raises the same blood-red signal. I was
looking forward to the pleasure of giving him a welcome
that he might value on his return, and he
has not even spoken to me. After our parting last
night could anything have turned out more flat and
prosaic?”
Just at this moment Harcourt, who was another
victim of circumstances, entered, and Lottie, too
annoved to meet any one, fled to her own room.
He had already called early in the morning, to
inquire after the invalids; and now, in the hope of
seeing Miss Martell, had driven over again.
But Miss Martell did not know this, and his
coming now seemed a little late and dilatory considering
all they had passed through. Deep in her
heart there was disappointment that he had not
come to her rescue instead of Hemstead. Was he
-- 386 --
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one to stand safely on the shore while others took
risks from which true manhood would not have
shrunk? Could he have dreamt that she was in
peril, and still have let Hemstead go without him
to her aid? These were thoughts that had distressed
her during part of a sleepless night and
all the morning.
Moreover when he entered, Addie had pounced
upon him in her usual style, as if she had in him
certain rights of possession.
Addie's manner, together with her thoughts, gave
an involuntary tinge of coldness to her greeting
which he was quick to recognize, while her cordiality
to Hemstead suggested to him, as to Lottie, that she
might be very grateful.
Mr. Martell was more than slightly distant. He
was stiff and formal. As circumstances then appeared
to him he thought that Harcourt had acted a
very unworthy part. Mr. Martell naturally supposed
that both Harcourt and De Forrest were at Mrs.
Marchmont's, but that only Hemstead had been
willing to venture to their assistance. To De Forrest
he gave scarcely a thought, having estimated that
superficial youth at his own light weight. But that
Harcourt, the son of his old and dear friend, should
have so failed in manly duty, was a bitter trial. As
he saw him and Addie together, he thought contemptuously:
“They are well mated, after all. How strange
that my peerless daughter can have such a regard
for him!”
-- 387 --
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He had become aware of his daughter's preference,
though, out of delicate regard for her feelings
he had feigned blindness.
Even had Harcourt known how greatly they
misjudged him, in his sensitive pride he would have
made no explanations; and he was the last one in
the world to tell them, as would De Forrest, how he
meant to go to their aid, etc.
His manner puzzled Alice. She could not help
noting with a secret satisfaction, that while polite,
he was annoyed at Addie's demonstrativeness; and
at times she thought his eyes sought her face almost
as if in appeal. But her own and her father's manner
had evidently chilled him, and he soon took his
leave. His face, in which pride and dejection contended
for mastery, haunted her like a reproach.
“If Mr. Harcourt had only arrived a little earlier
last evening, Miss Martell,” said De Forrest complacently,
“you would have had three to thank
instead of one. I'm sure if I had known that you
and your father—”
“How is that?” asked Mr. Martell quickly.
“Was not Mr. Harcourt spending the evening
here?”
“Oh no. It was from him we first learned of
your peril. He came tearing over like mad, a few
moments after the coachman and Mr. Hemstead had
gone; then he dashed off to the shore, where I soon
joined him. I thought at one time,” continued De
Forrest, glad to say anything that would dim Hemstead's
laurels, “that he would start out into the
-- 388 --
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river with no better support than a plank, so eager
was he to go to your aid. If we could only have
found another boat we would have both gone. As
it was, it was well I was there to restrain him, for he
seemed beside himself.”
The rich color mounted to Miss Martell's face as
she gave her father a swift glance of glad intelligence,
and he drew a long breath of relief, as if some heavy
burden had been lifted.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Marchmont quietly, but at
the same time fixing an observant eye on the
young lady, “I never saw Mr. Harcourt so moved
before.”
Conscious of Mrs. Marchmont's object, Alice
mastered herself at once, and with equal quietness
answered:
“It would be strange if it were otherwise. We
have been acquainted from childhood.”
Nevertheless, the experienced matron surmised
danger to the match which she would gladly bring
about between her daughter and Harcourt, and instead
of fearing, as was the case with the latter and
Lottie, she hoped that Miss Martell would be very
grateful to Hemstead.
And so she appeared to be, for she talked to him
so enchantingly, and for a time absorbed him so
completely that Lottie entered unobserved, and remained
so a few moments. Then his eyes, that from
the moment he gained composure had seemed in
quest of something, lighted on her as she sat a little
back of him, absorbed in her fancy work, apparently,
-- 389 --
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He wanted to speak to her, and yet what could he
say before them all.
The tell-tale color was again in his face, and his
wretched diffidence returned. Neither courtesy nor
his heart would permit him to ignore her, and continue
his conversation with Miss Martell. And yet
it had seemed easier to go in a boat out among the
ice, than to think of any proper way to recognize
the presence of one, in whose eyes he had a morbid
anxiety to appear well.
Lottie saw his dilemma, and while she too commenced
blushing absurdly, would not help him, and
her head bent lower than ever over her work.
“Serves him right,” she thought. “If he had
only met me in the hall, I might—well, I wouldn't
have been an icicle.”
At last Hemstead concluded that he could safely
say “good morning”; and he did so in a very awkward
manner over his shoulder.
“Did you speak to me?” asked Lottie, as if suddenly
aroused.
“Yes,” he replied, under the painful necessity of
repeating something that had sounded very flat in
the first place, “I said Good-morning.”
“Oh, excuse me. As it is so late I bid you good
afternoon.”
Her manner as well as her words so quenched
poor Hemstead, that he did not venture another
word; and thus Lottie and her “true knight” had the
meeting to which, in remembrance of their parting
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both had looked forward with strange thrills of expectation.
But in the light of their flaming cheeks, Miss
Martell caught a glimpse of their hearts; and Mrs.
Marchmont was again led to fear that more was
going on than should be permitted by so good a
manager as herself.
The dinner-bell soon brought welcome relief to
all, breaking the spell of awkward constraint.
-- 391 -- p668-396
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE TRAIL OF LOVE.
[figure description] Page 391.[end figure description]
MISS MARTELL improved visibly, for a most
depressing fear had been removed. Though
Harcourt might not return her love, he had not
proved himself unworthy of it, by unmanly regard
for personal ease, if not by actual cowardice. It
would also appear that more than general philanthropy
must have spurred him on, or he could not
have acted as if “beside himself.”
The hungry heart will take even the crumbs of
regard that fall from the hand which alone can satisfy.
The thought that her old friend and playmate had
been far from indifferent to her fate, was like a subtle
exhilarating wine to Miss Martell.
Her rising spirits, and wish to show appreciation
of Mrs. Marchmont's courtesy, made her as brilliant
as beautiful at the dinner table, while Lottie, in contrast,
was silent and depressed. The new-fledged
little saint soon became conscious that for some
reason she was very jealous and very envious—emotions
for which she seldom had even imagined cause
to cherish toward any of her sex.
Nor were Mrs. Marchmont and her daughter disposed
to be very friendly and responsive to Miss
-- 392 --
[figure description] Page 392.[end figure description]
Martell's genial mood; but the young lady was possessed
of that strength of mind and high-bred courtesy
which enabled her to ignore the weaknesses and
infelicities of those around her, and to shine with her
own pure light on all objects alike.
Hemstead again was charmed with her—a fact
that his frankness made plainly evident. Her bright
thoughts elicited corresponding ones from him, and
Lottie was reluctantly compelled to admit to herself
that she had never before known Mrs. Marchmont's
viands to be seasoned with Attic salt of such
high flavor.
For the first time the proud and flattered belle
felt, in the presence of another woman, a humiliating
sense of her own inferiority. She clearly recognized
that Miss Martell was far in the advance of her.
How could the student fail in being fascinated.
Her mind was the equal of his in force, and as highly
cultivated. They were congenial in their views and
feelings, and of course she would be very grateful.
Lottie's manner had puzzled Hemstead greatly.
He was even more disappointed than she had been
over their prosaic meeting. In his honest modesty,
broad eulogy from the others was exceedingly distasteful;
and yet one of his chief incentives the
evening before had been the hope of a welcome back
from Lottie, in which her eyes, if not her tongue,
would suggest the reward his heart craved. But he
had said “good morning,” and she a little coldly
responded “good afternoon.” Moreover, she was
strangely silent and depressed. What could it mean,
-- 393 --
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and what the cause? That it was himself, never entered
his mind.
Her bearing toward De Forrest, which was anything
but genial, finally led him to believe that she
was again deeply mortified by her lover's lack of
manhood, and that she was depressed because of
her relation to one who had failed so signally, the
evening before, in those qualities that women most
admire.
While lingering over the dessert, Mr. Martell's
sleigh was announced.
“It was my purpose to send you home,” exclaimed
Mrs. Marchmont; “indeed, I had ordered
my horses to be at the door within half an hour.”
“I appreciate your kindness,” said Mr. Martell,
“but after the heroic efforts of your amphibious coachman
last night, I should feel guilty if we broke in
upon his rest to-day.”
“I'm glad you recognize his merit,” said Hemstead
quickly; “you owe far more to him than me”;
and he launched out into the most hearty eulogy of
the ex-sailor.
Then, for the first time, Lottie's old, mirthful
laugh was heard, as she said:
“Well, in one respect, Mr. Hemstead, you and
the coachman are birds of a feather, and rare birds
at that. He gives you all the credit of the rescue,
and you insist that you had nothing to do with it,
but only went along for company, as it were. But I
think we all surmised the truth, when you fainted
from exhaustion at Miss Martell's feet. That was a
-- 394 --
[figure description] Page 394.[end figure description]
very happy chance, and so it all turned out as well
as any knight of old could have desired.
This sudden speech from Lottie bewildered Hemstead
more than ever. What could she mean? But
Miss Martell understood her better, and gave a keen
thrust in return as she smilingly answered:
“With the only exception that Mr. Hemstead
fainted at the feet of the wrong lady.”
This unexpected retort threw both Hemstead and
Lottie into disastrous confusion, which Mrs. Marchmont
was not slow to observe, and which was not
allayed by Mr. Dimmerly's cackling laugh, as he
chuckled, “A well-flown arrow.”
“Well,” said Hemstead, trying to laugh it off,
“all I can say in self-defence is, that in either case
my faint could not be spelled with an e. It was the
first, and I hope it will be the last time I ever do
anything so melodramatic.”
“Mr. Hemstead must be an ideal knight, as we
learn from his phrase `in either case,'” said Lottie.
He would have us believe that he is entirely impartial
in his homage to our sex. And, now I think of
it, he was more polite to old Aunty Lammer than
ever he has been to me.”
“Now Miss Marsden,” said Hemstead, reproachfully,
“you are again indulging in Orientalism.”
“Certainly,” chimed in De Forrest; “that
sylph so filled his eye that she became his ideal, as
you told us, Miss Lottie.”
“I told you?” she answered in sudden annoyance;
“your memory is better than mine.”
-- 395 --
[figure description] Page 395.[end figure description]
Soon after, Mr Martell and his daughter took
their departure, with many sincere and graceful
acknowledgments of the kindness they had received.
Many were the words of force and wisdom that
Miss Martell had read and heard, but never had
any made so profound an impression upon her as
the vain vaporings of De Forrest, as he insisted on
claiming all the credit he could for his action the
evening before.
“Did he exaggerate?” she asked herself a hundred
times, “when he said, `It was well I was there;
for Mr. Harcourt was beside himself, and was ready
to venture out upon a plank to my aid?' I fear he
did.”
Her father surmised something of her thoughts,
and said gently, “I fear we have done Mr. Harcourt
injustice.”
“Yes, father,” she answered, in a low tone, “I
think we have.”
“Well,” he said, after a moment, “I never had a
pleasanter duty than the amends I purpose making.
It cut me to the heart to think the son of my old
friend had permitted a stranger to come to our
rescue.”
“I feel sure that Mr. Harcourt would have come
also, had it been in his power,” she said, with quiet
emphasis.
“You always stood up for Tom,” said her father
gently.
But she made no answer.
-- 396 --
[figure description] Page 396.[end figure description]
Mr. Martell then questioned his coachman some
what.
“Indade, sir, we was all putty nigh crazy when
Mr. Harcourt druv in late last night and said you
were safe. He told me to come over this morning
and get your orders, and to have the house ready
for yes.”
“Now that was considerate. I feel, my daughter,
that we owe Mr. Harcourt an apology. Do you feel
equal to entertaining him at supper?”
“I will try, father.”
“Drive right on up town,” said Mr. Martell, a little
later, from the steps of his piazza, “and present
my compliments to Mr. Harcourt, and ask him if he
will favor us with his company at supper.”
Alice gave him a shy, grateful glance, and then
sought her room.
As she was unwrapping herself before her mirror,
she noted that a pane of glass in the window near
was badly cracked, and that the lace curtain above
was torn partially from its fastening.
As her maid entered she asked how it happened.
The woman in evident confusion answered;
“Indeed, miss, I meant to mend the curtain this
morning, but I've not had me head straight since
last evening.”
“But how did it happen?” persisted Alice;
“who could have been so rough and careless?”
“Well,” said the maid hesitatingly, “it must
have been Mr. Harcourt.”
“Mr. Harcourt!”
-- 397 --
[figure description] Page 397.[end figure description]
“Well, you see, miss, he came last night to see
you, for one of the girls said he asked for you, and
when he found you was out on the river he just
seemed beside himself. We was a lookin' out up
stairs and we first saw the light a-coming up after
the tide turned, and we screamed to him and the
coachman, and Mr. Harcourt he came up stairs like
a gust o' wind. Your door stood open, and in he
rushed in a way that I thought he'd break everything.”
“There, that will do; I understand. You need
not mend the curtain. You must be tired after all
your fright, and can rest awhile this afternoon, as I
shall.”
A beautiful color dawned in Alice's face. She
was recovering from her languor and weakness with
marvellous rapidity. It was not strange, for no elixir
was ever distilled so potent as that which now
infused its subtle spirit into heart and brain.
But a few hours before, the wayward but good-hearted
companion of her childhood, the manly
friend of the present and future—she would permit
herself to think of him in no other light—seemed
lost to her forever; to have had in fact no real existence;
for if Harcourt had been content to act De
Forrest's part the evening before, Alice Martell
would have soon shaken off even his acquaintance.
But De Forrest's words had suggested that the Harcourt
of her dreams still existed. She had seen another
trace of manly, considerate feeling, in his
thoughtfulness of the servants' fears, and of their
-- 398 --
[figure description] Page 398.[end figure description]
comfort. And now the torn curtain and broken glass
suggested the impetuous action of one who thought
of her peril rather than the trifles around him.
Twice now she had been told that Harcourt was
“beside himself,” and yet never had madness
seemed so rational; and her eyes dwelt on the
marks of his phrensy before her with unmixed satisfaction.
If he had been cool then, her heart now
would be cold.
She could not rest, and at last thought that the
frosty air would cool the fever in her cheeks, and so
wrapped herself for a walk upon the broad piazza.
Moreover, she felt, as Lottie had, that she would be
glad to have no eyes, not even her father's, witness
their meeting. She felt that she could act more
naturally and composedly if alone with him, and at
the same time show the almost sisterly regard through
which she hoped to win him to his better self.
As she paced up and down the piazza in the
early twilight, her attention was attracted to a spot
where some one, instead of going deliberately down
the steps, had plunged off into the piled up snow,
and then just opposite and beyond the broad path
were tracks wide apart, as if some one had bounded
rather than run toward the river.
She ceased her walk, and stood as one who had
discovered a treasure. Did these foot-prints and
the torn curtain belong together? She felt that it
could not be otherwise. There was, then, no cold-blooded,
cowardly Harcourt, and traces of the real
man grew clearer.
-- 399 --
[figure description] Page 399.[end figure description]
“But how could he reach the river in that
direction without risking his neck?” and she indulged
in quite a panic as she remembered the intervening
steeps. She longed yet dreaded to see him,
that she might ask an explanation of the traces she
had found; for, having done him injustice, she generously
meant to make him full amends.
But to her great disappointment the sleigh now
returned without him.
“I left the message, miss,” said the coachman,
“but they told me that Mr. Harcourt had a sudden
business call to New York.”
Alice sought to draw the man out a little, and it
was also her habit to speak kindly to those in her
employ; so she said:
“I fear, Burtis, you will be a little jealous of Mrs.
Marchmont's coachman. If it had not been for him
we could not have escaped, I think.”
“Well, thank God, I'm not much behind him.
If he stopped two funerals, I stopped one.”
“Why how is that, Burtis?”
“Faix, miss, an' do ye see thim tracks there?
They go straight to the river, and it was Misther
Harcourt as made them. He was jist one second on
the way after he saw the light, and by rinnin' an'
rollin' an' tumblin' he was at the boat-house in a wink.
When I gets there, a-puffin' an' a-blowin', he's unlocked
the door by breakin' it in, and is a haulin' at
the ould boat; and because I wouldn't lend a hand
in gettin' out the crazy ould craft that wouldn't float
a hundred foot, he swears at me in the most
-- 400 --
[figure description] Page 400.[end figure description]
onchristian manner, and tries to get it out alone. But ye
know, miss, how he couldn't do that, and soon he
gives it up and falls to gnawin' his nails like one
beside himself, an' a-mutterin' how he must either
`save her or drown with her.' Then he dashed up
the bank agin' and he and his black hoss was off like
a whirlwind. If the Naughty Tillus, or any other
thing as would float was here, ye'd had no need of
Mrs. Marchmont's coachman. But I thought he'd
off wid me head because I wouldn't help out wid
the ould boat.”
Not a word or sign did Alice place in the way
of the man's garrulity, but rather her breathless interest
as with parted lips she bent forward encouraging
him to go on.
Was he not reciting an epic poem of which she
was the heroine and Harcourt the hero? The true
epics of the world are generally told in the baldest
prose.
“There was one thing I didn't like,” continued
the man, gathering up his reins, “and I've thought I
ought to speak of it to ye or ye's father. All his
talk was about savin' yerself, and not a whisper of
the ould gentleman, who has been so kind to him all
his life. It sounded kinder onnatteral like.”
“All right, Burtis, you have done your duty in
speaking to me, and so need not say anything to
Mr. Martell about it. I rather think you have prevented
a funeral, and perhaps I owe you as many
thanks as Mrs. Marchmont's coachman. At any
-- 401 --
[figure description] Page 401.[end figure description]
rate you will find on Christmas that you have not
been forgotten.”
So the man drove to the stable with the complacent
consciousness of having done his duty, and
warned his mistress against a “very onnatteral feelin”
in the young man.
The moment he disappeared around the corner,
Alice stood undecided a moment, like a startled deer,
and then sped down the path to the boat-house.
The snow was tramped somewhat by the big lumbering
feet of the coachman, but had it not been,
Alice now had wings. The twilight was deepening,
and she could not wait till the morrow before following
up this trail that led to the idol of her heart.
She paused in the winding path when half-way
down the bank, that she might gloat over the mad
plunges by which Harcourt had crossed it, straight
to the river. She followed his steps to the brink of
a precipice and saw with a thrill of mingled fear and
delight where he had slid and fallen twenty feet or
more.
“How cruelly I have misjudged him,” she
thought. “When he was here eager to his risk his
life for me, my false fancy pictured him at Addie
Marchmont's side. And yet it was well I did not
know the truth, for it would have been so much
harder to have looked death in the face so long, with
this knowledge of his friendship. How strangely he
and Addie act when together; but come, that is no
affair of mine. Let me be thankful that I have not
lost the friend of my childhood.”
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A little later she stood at the boat-house. The
door hung by one hinge only, and the large stone
lay near with which he had crashed it in. She
entered the dusky place as if it were a temple. Had
it not been consecrated by a service of love by the
costliest offering that can be made—life? Here he
said he would save or perish with her; here he had
sought to make good his words.
She picked up one of the matches he had
dropped, and struck it, that she might look into the
neglected boat. Never was the utter unseaworthiness
of a craft noted with such satisfaction before.
“While I vilely thought he would not venture to
our aid at all, he strained every nerve to launch this
old shell. Thanks to obstinate Burtis, who would
not help him.”
She struck another match, that she might look
more closely; then uttered a pitiful cry.
“Merciful heaven, is this blood on this rope? It
surely is. Now I think of it, he kept his right hand
gloved this morning, and offered his left to Mr. Hemstead
in salutation. Father and I, in our cruel wrong,
did not offer to take his hand. And yet it would
seem that he tugged with bleeding hands at these
ropes, that he might almost the same as throw away
his life for us.
“I can scarce understand it. No brother could
do more. He was braver than Mr. Hemstead, for he
had a stanch boat, and experienced help, while my
old playmate was eager to go alone in this wretched
-- 403 --
[figure description] Page 403.[end figure description]
thing that would only have floated him out to deep
water where he would drown.
“Ah, well, let the future be what it may, one cannot
be utterly unhappy who has loved such a man.
If he is willing to give his life up for me, I surely can
get him to give up his evil, wayward tendencies, and
then I must be content.”
She now began to experience reaction from her
strong excitement, and wearily made her way back
to the house.
Her father met her at the door, and exclaimed,
“Why Alice, where have you been? You look
ready to sink!”
“I have been to the boat-house, father,” she
replied, in a low, quick tone, “and I wish you to go
there to-morrow, for you will there learn how cruelly
we have misjudged Mr. Harcourt.”
“But my child, I am troubled about you. You
need quiet and rest after all you have passed
through;” and he hastily brought her a glass of wine.
“I needed more the assurance that my old friend
and playmate was not what we thought this morning,”
she said, with drooping eyes.
“Well, my darling, we will make amends right
royally. He will be here to-morrow evening, and
you shall have no occasion to find fault with me.
But please take care of yourself. You do not realize
what you have passed through, and I fear you are
yet to suffer the consequences.”
But more exhilarating than the wine which her
father placed to her lips was the memory of what
-- 404 --
[figure description] Page 404.[end figure description]
she had seen. Her's was one of those spiritual natures
that suffer more through the mind than body. She
encountered her greatest peril in the fear of Harcourt's
unworthiness.
Letters in the evening mail summoned her father
to the city on the morrow, and he left her with many
injunctions to be very quiet. It was evident that his
heart and life were bound up in her.
But as the day grew bright and mild she again
found her way to the boat-house. With greater
accuracy she marked his every hasty step from
the house to the shore. Harcourt little thought
in his wild alarm that he was leaving such mute
but eloquent advocates.
Poor fellow! he was groaning over their harsh
judgment, but vowing in his pride that he would
never undeceive them. He did not remember that
he had left a trail clear to dullest eyes, and conclusive
as a demonstration to the unerring instinct of a
loving heart.
He had gone to the city and accomplished his
business in a mechanical way. He returned with the
first train, though why he scarcely knew. He felt
no inclination to visit at Mrs. Marchmont's any more,
for since he had come more fully under Miss Martell's
influence, Addie had lost the slight hold she
had upon him, and now her manner was growing unendurable.
He also felt that after Mr. Martell's
coldness he could not visit there again, and he doggedly
purposed to give his whole time to his business
till events righted him, if they ever did.
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[figure description] Page 405.[end figure description]
But his stoical philosophy was put to immediate
rout by Mr. Martell's message, which he received
on his return. Five minutes later he was urging his
black horse toward the familiar place, at a pace but a
little more decorous than when seeking Hemstead's
assistance on the memorable evening of the accident.
“Miss Martell is out,” stolidly said the woman
who answered his summons.
As he was turning away in deep disappointment,
Burtis appeared on the scene, and with a complacent
grin, remarked:
“She's only down by the boat-house, a-seein' how
I saved ye from drownding.”
Harcourt slipped a bank note into his hand, and
said, “There's for your good services now if not
then,” and was off for the water's edge with as much
speed as he dare use before observant eyes.
“They must have found out from the old coachman
that I was not the coward they deemed me,'
he thought. “If so, I'll see he has a merry Christmas.”
He saw Alice standing with her back toward him,
looking out upon the river, that now rippled and
and sparkled in the sunlight as if a dark, stormy
night had never brooded over an icy, pitiless tide.
The soft snow muffled his steps, until at last he
said, hesitatingly:
“Miss Martell.”
She started violently, and trembled as if shaken
by the wind.
“Pardon me,” he said hastily. “It was very
-- 406 --
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stupid in me to thus startle you, but you seemed so
intent on something upon the river that I thought
you would never see me.”
“I—I was not expecting you,” she faltered.
“Then I have done wrong—have been mistaken
in coming.”
“Oh, no, I did not mean that. I thought you
were in New York. We expected you this evening.”
“Shall I go away then, and come back this
evening.”
“Yes, come back this evening, but do not go
now—that is, just yet. I have something to say to
you. Please forgive my confusion. I fear my nerves
have been shaken by what I have passed through.”
And yet such “confusion” in one usually so
composed did puzzle him, but he said hastily, feeling
that it would be better to break the ice at once:
“I came here not to `forgive,' but to seek your
forgiveness.”
“You seeking my forgiveness!” she said in unfeigned
surprise.
“Yes,” he replied, humbly bowing his head.
“Heaven knows that I am weak and faulty enough,
but when I have wronged any one, I am willing to
make acknowledgment and reparation. I cannot tell
you how eager I have been to make such acknowledgment
to you, whom I revere as my good angel. I
acted like a fool in the chapel last Monday afternoon,
and did you great injustice. You have never
shone on me `coldly and distantly like a star,'
but again and again have stooped from the height
-- 407 --
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of your heavenly character that you might lift me
out of the mire. It's a mystery to me how you can
do it. But believe me, when I am myself, I am
grateful; and,” he continued slowly, his square jaw
growing firm and rigid, and a sombre, resolute light
coming into his large dark eyes, “if you will have
patience with me, I will yet do credit to the good
advice, written in a school-girl's hand, which I keep
troasured in my room. Weak and foolish as I have
been, I should have been far worse were it not for
those letters, and—and your kindness since. But I
am offending you,” he said sadly, as Alice averted
her face. “However the future may separate us, I
wanted you to know that I gratefully appreciate all
the kindness of the past. I sincerely crave your forgiveness
for my folly last Monday. For some reason
I was not myself. I was blinded with — I said
what I knew to be untrue. Though you might with
justice have shone on me as `coldly and distantly as
a star,' you have treated me almost as a sister might.
Please say that I am forgiven, and I will go at once.”
Imagine his surprise when, as her only response,
she said abruptly:
“Mr. Harcourt, come with me.”
His wonder increased as he saw that her eyes
were moist with tears.
She took him to the bluff, back of the boat-house,
where in the snow were the traces of one who had
slid and fallen from a perilous height.
“What do these marks mean?” she asked.
-- 408 --
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“It didn't hurt me any,” he replied with rising
color.
“Did you stop to think at the time whether it
would or not? Have you thought what a chain of
circumstantial evidence you left against you on that
dreadful night? Now come with me into the boat-house,
and let me tell you in the meantime that a
lace curtain in my room is sadly torn, and one of my
window-panes broken.”
While he yet scarcely understood her, every
fibre of his being was beginning to thrill with hope
and gladness; but he said deprecatingly:
“Please forgive my intrusion. In my haste that
night I blundered into a place where I had no right
to be. No doubt I was very rough and careless, but
I was thinking of another kind of pain—the pain of
cold and fear—which you were suffering. I would
gladly have broken that to fragments.”
“Oh, I am not complaining. The abundant
proof that you were not deliberate delights me. But
come into the boat-house, and I will convict both
you and myself, and then we shall see who is the
proper one to ask forgiveness. What is this upon
these ropes, Mr. Harcourt, and how did it come
here?”
“Oh, that is nothing; I only bruised my hand a
little breaking in the door.”
“Is it nothing that you tugged with bleeding
hands at these ropes, that you might go alone in this
wretched shell of a boat to our aid? Why, Mr. Harcourt,
it would not have floated you a hundred
-- 409 --
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yards, and Burtis told you so. Was it mere vaporing
when you said, `If I cannot save them, I can
at least drown with them'?”
“No,” he said impetuously, the blood growing
dark in his face, “it was not vaporing. Can you
believe me capable of hollow acting on the eve, as I
feared, of the most awful tragedy that ever threatened?”
“Oh, not the `most awful!'”
“The most awful to me.”
“No, I cannot. As I said before, I have too
much circumstantial evidence against you. Mr. Harcourt,
true justice looks at the intent of the heart.
You unconsciously left abundant proof here of what
you intended, and I feel that I owe my life to you
as truly as to Mr. Hemstead. And yet I was so
cruelly unjust yesterday morning as to treat you
coldly, because I thought my old friend and playmate
had let strangers go to our help. With far
better reason I wish to ask your forgive—”
“No, no,” said Harcourt eagerly, “circumstances
appeared against me that evening, and you only
judged naturally. You have no forgiveness to ask,
for you have made amends a thousand-fold in this
your generous acknowledgment. And yet, Miss
Martell, you will never know how hard it was that I
could not go to your rescue that night. I never
came so near cursing my destiny before.”
“I cannot understand it,” said Alice in a low
tone, turning away her face.
“It's all painfully plain to me,” he said with a
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spice of bitterness. “Miss Martell, I am as grateful
to Hemstead as you are, for when he saved you, he
also saved me. If you had perished, I feel that I
should have taken the counsel of an ancient fool,
who said, `Curse God and die.'”
She gave him a quick look of surprise, but said
only, “That would be folly indeed.”
He took her hand, and earnestly, indeed almost
passionately continued. “Miss Alice, I pray you
teach me how to be a true man. Have patience
with me, and I will try to be worthy of your esteem.
You have made me loathe my old, vile self. You
have made true manhood seem so noble and attractive
that I am willing to make every effort, and suffer
any pain—even that of seeing you shine upon
me in the unapproachable distance of a star. Make
me feel that you do care what I become. Speak to
me some times as you did the other evening among
the flowers. Give me the same advice that I find in
the old yellow letters which have been my Bible, and
believe me, you will not regret it.”
Alice's hand trembled as he held it in both of his
as a frightened bird might, and she faltered:
“I never had a brother, but I scarcely think I
could feel toward one differently—” and then the
truthful girl stopped in painful confusion. Her love
for Harcourt was not sisterly at all, and how could
she say that it was?
But he, only too grateful, filled out the sentence
for her, and in a deep, thrilling tone answered:
“And if my love for you is warmer than a
-- 411 --
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brother's—more full of the deep, absorbing passion
that comes to us but once, I will try to school it
into patience, and live worthily of my love for her
who inspired it.”
Again she gave him a quick look of startled surprise,
and said hastily:
“You forget yourself, sir. Such language belongs
to another.”
“To another?”
“Yes, to Miss Marchmont.”
“Miss Marchmont can claim nothing from me,
save a slight cousinly regard.”
“It is reported that you are engaged.”
“It's false,” he said passionately. “It is true,
that before you returned, and while I was reckless
because I believed you despised me, I trifled away
more time there than I should. But Miss Marchmont,
in reality, is as indifferent toward me as I
toward her. I am not bound to her by even a gossamer
thread.”
Alice turned away her face, and was speechless.
“And did you think,” he asked reproachfully,
“that I could love her after knowing you?”
“Love is blind,” she faltered after a moment,
“and is often guilty of strange freaks. It does not
weigh and estimate.”
“But my love for you is all that there is good in
me. My love is the most rational thing of my life.”
She withdrew her hand from his, and snatching
the rope that was stained with his blood, she kissed
it and said:
-- 412 --
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“So is mine.”
“Oh, Alice, what do you mean?' and he trembled
as violently as she had done when he startled
her on the beach.
She shyly lifted her blue eyes to his and said:
“Foolish Tom, surely your love is blind.”
Then to Harcourt the door of heaven opened.
When Mr. Martell returned, he saw by the fire-light
in his dusky study, that his daughter had made
such ample amends that but little was left for him
to do; but he did that right heartily.
Then the Christian man said, “Alice, compare
this with the shadow of `Storm King,' and the grinding
ice. Let us thank God.
She gently replied, “I have, father.”
“But I have more reason to thank Him than
either of you,” said Harcourt, brokenly, “for had
you perished I would have been lost, body and
soul.”
“Then serve Him faithfully, my son—serve Him
as my old friend your father did.”
“With His help I will.”
-- 413 -- p668-418
CHAPTER XXIX. HEMSTEAD'S ADVICE, AND LOTTIE'S COLORS.
[figure description] Page 413.[end figure description]
SOON after the departure of Mr. Martell and his
daughter, Hemstead pleaded headache, and
retired to his room. Lottie, to escape De Forrest,
had also gone to hers, but soon after, at her brother's
solicitation, had accompanied him to a neighboring
pond to make sure that the ice was safe for him.
But though she yielded to Dan's teasing, her compliance
was so ungracious, and her manner so short
and unamiable, that with a boy's frankness he had
said:
“What is the matter with you, Lottie? You are
not a bit like Aunty Jane to-day. I wish you could
stay one thing two days together.”
As may be imagined, these remarks did not conduce
to Lottie's sereneness. She did not understand
herself; nor why she felt so miserable and out of
sorts. She had fallen into the “slough of despond,”
and was experiencing that depression which usually
follows overwrought emotional states, and — her
knight had disappointed her.
Having learned that the ice was firm, and assisted
her little brother in putting on his skates, instead of
returning at once to the house, she sat down in a
-- 414 --
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little screening clump of hemlocks, and gave way to her
feelings in a manner not uncommon with girls of her
mercurial temperament.
Now it so happened that Hemstead, gazing listlessly
from his window, saw their departure, and soon
afterward it occurred to him that the fresh air would
do his head ache more good than moping in his
room. By a not unnatural coincidence, his steps
tended in the same direction as theirs, and soon he
found Dan sprawling about the pond in great glee
over his partial success in skating; but Lottie was
nowhere to be seen. But a sound from the clump
of evergreens soon gained his attention, and a moment
later he stood at the entrance of her wintry
bower, the very embodiment of sympathy, and wondering
greatly at her distress.
A stick snapped under his tread, and Lottie
looked up hastily, dashing the tears right and left.
“What did you come for?” she asked brusquely.
“Well, I suppose I must say in truth — I wanted
to. I hope you won't send me away.”
“You ought to have given me a little warning,
and not caught me crying like a great baby as
I am.”
“I wish I were your friend,” he said humbly.
“Why so.”
“Because you would then tell me your trouble,
and let me try to comfort you.”
“I haven't any trouble worth naming. I've just
been crying like a foolish child because I was out of
sorts There, don't look at me so with your great
-- 415 --
[figure description] Page 415.[end figure description]
kind eyes, or I will cry again, and I am ashamed of
myself now.”
“Something is troubling you, Miss Marsden, and
I shall be very unhappy if you send me away without
letting me help you.”
“You would think me a fool if I told you,” she
faltered.
“No one will ever charge you with being that.”
She gave him another of her quick, strange looks,
like the one she fixed upon him when he first moved
her to tears by weaving about her the “spell of
truth.” It was a look akin to that of a child who
learns by an intuitive glance whom it may trust.
After a moment, she said:
“If you were less kind, less simple and sincere, I
would indeed send you away, and not very amiably
either, I fear. And yet I would like a few crumbs
of comfort. I scarcely understand myself. Monday
and yesterday I was so strangely happy that I seemed
to have entered on a new life, and to-day I am as
wicked and miserable a little sinner as ever breathed.
The idea of my being a Christian—never was farther
from it. I've had nothing but mean and hateful
thoughts since I awoke.”
“And is this not a `trouble worth naming'?
In my judgment it is a most serious one.”
“Do you think so?” she said gratefully. “But
then I'm provoked that I can be so changeable. Dan
just said `I wish you could be the same two days
together,' and so do I.”
“Let us look into this matter,” he said, sympa
-- 416 --
[figure description] Page 416.[end figure description]
thetically, sitting down in a companionable way on
the fallen tree beside her. “Let us try to disentangle
this web of complex and changing feeling.
As the physician treats the disordered body, you
know it is my cherished calling to minister to the
disquieted mind. The first step is to discover the
cause of trouble, if possible, and remove that. Can you
not think of some cause of your present feelings?”
Lottie averted her face in dismay, and thought
“What shall I do? I can't tell him the cause.”
“Because you see,” continued Hemstead, in the
most philosophical spirit, “when anything unpleasant
and depressing occurs, one of your temperament
is apt to take a gloomy, morbid view of everything
for a time.”
“I think you are right,” she said faintly.
“Now, I see no proof,” he continued, with reassuring
heartiness, “that you are not a Christian
because you are unhappy, or even because you have
had `hateful thoughts,' as you call them. You evidently
do not welcome these `hateful thoughts.'
The question as to whether you are a Christian, is
to be settled on entirely different grounds. Have
you thrown off allegiance to that most merciful and
sympathetic of friends that you led me to see last
Sunday as vividly as I now see you?”
Lottie shook her head, but said remorsefully,
“But I have scarcely thought of Him to-day.”
“Rest assured, He has thought of you. I now
understand how He has sympathy for the least grief
of the least of His children.”
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[figure description] Page 417.[end figure description]
“If I am one, I am the very least one of all,”
she said humbly.
“I like that,” he replied with a smile; “Paul said
he was the `chief of sinners' and he meant it too.
That was an excellent symptom.”
A glimmer of a smile dawned on Lottie's face.
“And now,” he continued hesitatingly as if
approaching a delicate subject, “I think I know the
cause of your trouble and depression. Will you
permit me to speak of it?”
Again she averted her face in confusion, but said
faintly:
“As my spiritual physician I suppose you must.”
“I think you naturally felt greatly disappointed
that Mr. De Forrest acted the part he did last evening.”
This speech put Lottie at ease at once, and she
turned to him in apparent frankness, but with something
of her old insincerity, and said:
“I confess that I was.”
“You could not be otherwise,” he said, in a low
tone.
“What would you advise me to do?” she asked
demurely.
It was now his turn to be embarrassed, and he
found that he had got himself into a dilemma. The
color deepened in his face as he hesitated how to
answer. She watched him furtively but searchingly.
At last he said, with sudden impetuosity as if he could
not restrain himself:
“I would either make a man of him or break
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with him forever. It's horrible that a girl like you
should be irrevocably bound to such—pardon me.”
Again Lottie averted her face, while a dozen rainbows
danced in her moist eyes.
But she managed to say, “Which do you think I
had better do.”
He tried to catch her eye, but she would not permit
him. After a moment he sprang up and said,
with something of her own brusqueness.
“You had better follow your own heart.”
“That is what Mrs. Dlimm said,” she exclaimed,
struck by the coincidence. “You and Mrs. Dlimm
are alike in many respects, but I fear the world would
not regard either of you as the best of counsellors.”
“Whenever I have taken counsel of the world, I
have got into trouble, Miss Marsden.”
“There, that is just what she said again. Are
you two in collusion?”
“Only as all truth agrees with itself,” he answered,
laughing.
“Well, perhaps it would be best to follow the
advice of two such sincere counsellors, who are richly
gifted with the wisdom of the other world, if not of
this. Your talk has done me more good than I could
have believed. How is it that it always turns out
so? I'm inclined to think that your pastoral visits
will do more good than your sermons.”
“Now have pity on me, in regard to that
wretched sermon. But I know of something that
will do you more good than either, in your present
depression. Will you wait for me ten minutes?”
-- 419 --
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“Yes, longer than that,” she said, with a little
emphatic nod.
He at once started for the house with great strides.
“My `depression' is not very great at the present
moment,” she chirped, and giving a spring she
alighted on the fallen tree as a bird might. “I
had `better follow my own heart,' had I? Was
there ever more delightful doctrine than that? But
bless me, whither is it leading? I dare not think,
and I won't think.”
And so to keep herself warm while waiting; she
balanced up and down on the fallen tree, trilling
snatches of song as a red-breasted robin might
twitter on its spray.
Soon she saw her ghostly adviser speeding toward
her in another guise. A stout rocking-chair was on
his shoulder and skates dangling from his hand, and
she ran to meet him with anticipating delight. A
little later, Dan, who had been oblivious of proceed
ings thus far, was startled by seeing Lottie rush by
him, comfortably ensconced on a rocking-chair and
propelled by Hemstead's powerful strokes. This was
a great change for the better, in his estimation, and
he hailed it vociferously. Hemstead good-naturedly
put the boy in his sister's lap, and then sent them
whirling about the pond, in a way that almost took
their breaths. But he carefully shielded them from
accidents.
“It's strange how you can be so strong, and yet
so gentle,” said Lottie, gratefully looking up at him
over her shoulder.
-- 420 --
[figure description] Page 420.[end figure description]
“I haven't the faintest wish to harm you,” he
replied, smiling.
“That I should ever have wished to harm him!”
she thought, with a twinge of remorse.
After a half-hour of grand sport, the setting sun
reminded them that it was time to return.
“How do you feel now?” he asked.
“My face must be your answer,” she said, turning
to him features glowing with exercise and happiness.
“A beautiful answer,” he said impulsively. “In
color and brightness it is the reflection of the sunset
there.”
“I admit,” she answered shyly, “that its brightness
has a western cause. But speaking of color
reminds me of something;” and her eyes twinkled
most mirthfully, as she caught a glimpse of something
around his neck. “What have you done with
my `colors,' that I gave you last night? I know you
wore them figuratively in your face this morning,
when Miss Martell so enchanted you; but where are
they, literally? Now a knight is supposed to be
very careful of a lady's colors if he accepts them.”
“I have been; and Miss Martell has never seen
your colors.”
“Oh, those so manifest this morning were hers.
I understand now. But where are mine?”
“I cannot tell you. But they are safe.”
“You threw them away.”
“Never.”
“Why. then, can't you tell me where they
are?'
-- 421 --
[figure description] Page 421.[end figure description]
“Because—because. Well — I can't; so you
need not ask me.”
“If you don't tell me, I'll find out for myself.”
“You cannot,” he said confidently.
“Mr. Hemstead, what is that queer crimson
fringe rising above your collar?”
He put his hand hastily to his neck, and felt the
ribbon that his stooping posture and violent exercise
had forced into a prominence that defined further
concealment; then turned away laughing, and, with
his face now vying with the sunset, said:
“You have caught one ostrich hiding with its
head in the sand.”
Her merry laugh trilled like the song of a bird,
as she exclaimed:
“O guilt, guilt, the western sky is pale compared
with thy cheeks.”
Then, taking his arm in a way that would have
won an anchorite, she added, with a dainty blending
of mischief and meaning, “I, too, am an ostrich to-night—
that is, in my appetite. I am ravenous for
supper.”
“`I, too, am an ostrich!' What did she mean by
that?'” and Hemstead pondered over this ornitho
logical problem for hours after.
-- 422 -- p668-427
CHAPTER XXX. AROUND THE YULE LOG.
[figure description] Page 422.[end figure description]
LOTTIE'S radiant face at supper, in contrast with
her clouded one at dinner, again puzzled certain
members of the household; and De Forrest, to
his disgust, learned that while he slept she had again
been with Hemstead. He resolved on sleepless
vigilance till the prize was secured, and mentally
cursed the ill-starred visit to the country over and
over again.
Bel was cool and cynical outwardly, but was really
perplexed as to what ought to be done. With all
her faults she had a sincere affection for her friend,
and was shrewd enough to perceive that this affair
with Hemstead promised to be more serious than
Lottie's passing penchants had been previously.
But with her usual weakness and irresolution she
hesitated and waited, Micawber-like, to see what
would “turn up.”
The impression grew on Mrs. Marchmont that
Lottie was fascinating her nephew; and yet, just
how to interfere she did not see. It was rather delicate
business to speak, with nothing more tangible
than what she had yet seen. That Lottie herself
was becoming sincerely attached to a young man of
-- 423 --
[figure description] Page 423.[end figure description]
Frank's calling and prospects, could not occur to a
lady of Mrs. Marchmont's ideas of propriety and fitness
of things. It was only Lottie's “inveterate
disposition to flirt.” As to Lottie's “moods and
emotions,” she smiled at them with cool indifference,
as far as she noticed them at all. “Young people
pass through such phases as they do the measles,”
she was accustomed to say.
Addie was too wrapped up in herself to think
much about others.
Save queer, little, chuckling laughs, which no one
understood, Mr. Dimmerly gave no sign that he
noted anything unusual going on.
Besides, Lottie was very circumspect when in the
presence of others, and Hemstead unconsciously followed
the suggestion of her manner. Thus even
lynx-eyed Bel could seldom lay her finger on anything
and say, Here is something conclusive.
But if ever there was an earthly elysium, Hemstead
and Lottie dwelt in it during the remainder of
that week. Not that they were much together, or
had much to say to each other by word of mouth.
Scarcely another opportunity occurred for one of
their momentous private talks, for De Forrest's vigilance
had become sleepless indeed.
Besides, Hemstead was shut up in his room most
of the time, engaged on another sermon. For Dr.
Beams was quite ill, and the student had been asked
to preach again. He gladly complied with the request,
for he was most anxious to correct the dreary
impression he had made the previous Sabbath.
-- 424 --
[figure description] Page 424.[end figure description]
Lottie, too, was much in her room, at work on something
which no one was permitted to see. But little
was thought of this, for the house was full of the
mystery that always prevails just before Christmas.
Every one was cherishing innocent, and often transparent,
little secrets, which were soon to be proclaimed,
if not on the “house-top,” on the tree-top
of the fragrant cedar that already had been selected
and arranged in the back parlor, suggesting to all, the
blessedness of both giving and receiving.
And yet, while seemingly separated, what moment
passed when they were not together? How
vain was De Forrest's vigilance—how futile Mrs.
Marchmont's precautions. Lottie was the muse that
sat at Hemstead's side; and every time he lifted his
eyes from the paper his vivid fancy saw her face
glowing like the sunset, and beaming upon him. She
inspired his sermon. Unconsciously, he wrote it for
her alone, letting her need and spiritual state color
the line of thought which his text naturally suggested;
and a fresh, hope-imparting, Christmas sermon it
promised to be — a veritable Gospel. He unconsciously
was learning the priceless advantage to a clergyman
of pastoral visitation; for, in discovering and
meeting the needs of one heart, nearly all are touched—
so near akin is humanity.
And as Lottie stitched away at an odd bit of fancy
work—very different from anything that had ever
taxed her dainty skill before—strange gleams flitted
across her face. At times her eyes would sparkle
with mirth as she lived over scenes in which the
-- 425 --
[figure description] Page 425.[end figure description]
student was ever the chief actor; and again she would
grow pale, and her breath come quick and short, as
her fancy portrayed him—when in the darkness he
could not have been seen by human eyes—far out
among the ice upon the river. Then again her face
would grow comically pitiful, as she murmured:
“I could have brought him to quicker than uncle.
I could have given him a stimulant more potent than
the forty-year-old brandy of which uncle is so proud.
I've found out my power over him.”
Then her face would light up with exultation as
she exclaimed, “Oh, it's grand to have such power
over a strong, richly-endowed man—to be able to
move and play upon him at your will by some mystic
influence too subtle for prying eyes to see. I can
lift him into the skies by a smile. I can cast him
into the depths by a frown. If I but touch his hand,
the giant trembles. He would be a Hercules in my
service, and yet I've got him just there”—and she
depressed her little thumb as confidently as a Roman
empress might to some gladiatorial slave.
Then her face would change in quick and piquant
transition to the expression of equally comic distress,
as she sighed, “But, alas! where am I? Right under
his big thumb, whether he knows it or not. How it
all will end I dare not think.”
When her jewelled watch indicated that the time
for dinner or supper was near, she would make the
most bewitching of toilets, and laugh at herself for
doing so, querying:
-- 426 --
[figure description] Page 426.[end figure description]
“What is the use of conquering one over and over
again, who is already helpless at your feet.”
And yet the admiration of Hemstead's beauty-loving
eyes was sweeter incense than all the flattery
she had ever received before.
And what hours of dainty, ethereal banqueting
were those prosaic meals in Mrs. Marchmont's dining-room.
The corpulent, colored waiter served the
others, but airy-winged love attended them, bearing
from one to another glances, tones, accents, of the
divinest flavor.
De Forrest noted and chafed over this subtle
interchange. Bel and Mrs. Marchmont saw it also,
and Mr. Dimmerly's queer chuckling laugh was
heard with increasing frequency. But what could be
done? Lottie's and Hemstead's actions were propriety
itself. Mrs. Marchmont could not say, “You
must not look at or speak to each other.” They
might as well have sought to prevent two clouds in
a summer sky from exchanging their lightnings.
Hemstead was in a maze. The past and future
had lost their existence to him, and he was living in
the glorified present. He no more coolly realized
the situation than would one in an ecstatic trance.
In one sense he verified the popular superstition,
and was bewitched; and, with the charming witch
ever near to weave a new spell a dozen times a day,
how could he disentangle himself? He was too innocent,
too unhackneyed, to understand what was going
on in his own heart. When the hitherto unknown
and ecstatic bliss of Paradise thrills the heart, will
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analysis be the first effort of the weary pilgrims
who at last have reached their rest?
The days and the hours fled away until Saturday—
the day before Christmas—came. By noon,
Hemstead had finished his sermon, and Lottie had
completed her mysterious fancy-work; and they
both were ready for the festivities of Christmas
eve.
Mr. Dimmerly was a great stickler for the old English
customs, and always had the Yule Log brought
in with great ceremony. With his own hands he
suspended the mistletoe from the chandelier in the
hall, which he always obtained from Dimmerly
Manor in England. Lottie, without thinking, stood
beneath, watching him, when, with a spryness not in
keeping with his years, he sprang down and gave her
a sounding smack in honor of the ancient custom.
“There,” said he, “that pays me for all my
trouble and expense. But you will get another kiss
here that you will like better, from some one else,
before I take the mistletoe down.”
“Well, uncle,” said Lottie, laughing and rubbing
her tingling cheek, “I hope it won't be such an explosion
as yours was, or it will alarm the household.”
“Be careful, or it may attract more attention than
mine;” and he departed with his queer, chuckling
laugh.
Lottie looked after him with sudden intelligence,
and asked herself, “Now, what does he mean by
that? Does he suspect anything?”
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At the dinner-table Mr. Dimmerly indulged in a
long homily on the importance of keeping up old
customs, and ended with a sly, significant glance at
Lottie which brought the color into her face. But
during the afternoon she foiled all the devices of De
Forrest to get her under the mistletoe bough, and
yet with such grace that, however disappointed,
he could not become angry. As for Hemstead, he
was far too diffident to attempt any such strategy,
much as he would like to solemnize the venerable
rite.
And so at last Christmas eve came; and with it a
few guests. Harcourt and Miss Martell had been
specially invited; for the fact of their engagement
had transpired at once, and Mrs. Marchmont hastened
to assure them, by this invitation, that she had
no regrets or resentment. Not for the world would
she have Miss Martell imagine that any maternal projects
had been frustrated.
Harcourt, grateful for all the kindness he had
received at Mrs. Marchmont's, induced Alice to
accept; and so their illumined faces were added to
the circle that gathered around the yule log in the
large dining-room that had been cleared for games
and dancing.
And in spite of the incongruous elements composing
that circle, it made, with the crackling fire playing
on happy faces and Christmas decorations, a
pretty picture—one that might convert a pagan into
willingness to honor the chief Christian festival.
After some old-fashioned country dances—through
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which even Hemstead had been induced to blunder, to
Lottie's infinite delight—they sat down to nuts, apples,
and cider. Billets of hickory were piled higher than
ever against the great yule log; and never did the
sacred flame light up fairer and happier faces than
those of Alice Martell and Lottie Marsden. And
yet they were as different as could be. One was the
lily, and the other the rose. Harcourt and Hemstead
also looked as if some angelic messenger had
brought them “tidings of great joy.”
Harcourt and Alice sat together; but Lottie, with
seeming perverseness, got as far away as possible. But
it was only seeming, for she sat where she could look
Hemstead full in the face, and, with her brilliant
eyes, indulge in love's mystic telegraphy without
restraint.
Now was the time for Mr. Dimmerly to shine out out,
and he proposed that some one should commence
a story, and carry it forward to a certain point, then
stop abruptly, while some one else took it up for a
brief time, when, in like manner, it would again be
dropped that another might continue it, so that each
one who was willing might have a chance to contribute.
“You commence, Mr. Harcourt,” said Mr. Dimmerly.
After a preface of hemming, the young man
said:
“Once upon a time, in a village in the south of
France, it was arranged that there should be a general
fête and dance on the village green the
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afternoon before Christmas. Little Ninon was a peasant's
daughter, and she was only fourteen. If she
were petite, she was also piquant and pretty—”
“Very good, very good,” cried a chorus of voices;
and a round of applause stimulated the narrator.
“But, until this occasion, Ninon had always been
kept at home as a child; but, after interminable coaxings,
she obtained her mother's permission to go to
the fête. Now her mother was a widow, and it so
happened that she could not go with her daughter,
and after she had given her consent, had not one
whom she could send with her child as a protector.
But Ninon was in such glee that her mother had
not the heart to take back her promise.
“`Now, mother, tell me what shall I say when the
boys, and perhaps some of the very young men, ask
me to dance with them?'
“`Say, I'm only a little child who have come to
see. Go thy ways.'
“`But suppose they don't go their ways,' pouted
Ninon.
“`Go thine then, and come home.'
“`Now, mother dear, am I not almost old enough
to have a lover?'
“`Lover indeed! Silly child, but yesterday I
rocked thee in the cradle there. I'm a fool to let
thee go.'
“Then Ninon, in fear, kept still, lest her mother
should change her mind, a thing which women sometimes
do, even in France—”
“Now, I protest against innuendoes,” cried Lottie.
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“It is the Frenchman, as it is man all over the world,
who changes his mind. Adam first said he wouldn't
eat the apple, and then he did!”
“Where's your authority for that?” said Harcourt.
“It's in the Bible,” answered Lottie stoutly; at
which there was a great explosion.
“Miss Marsden equals modern commentators in
amplifying the text,” laughed Hemstead.
“Well,” persisted Lottie, “if it isn't just so written,
I know enough of human nature to be sure
that was just how it happened.”
“On with the story,” cried Mr. Dimmerly.
“Come, Miss Martell.”
“The afternoon of the fête came,” said Alice,
and Ninon's mother was depressed with a boding of
evil.
“`Whom shall I send with thee, my child? My
heart fails me in sending thee alone.'
“`Little brother Pierre shall go with me,' said
Ninon. `He's an odd child, and talks to the saints
and angels more than to us. If he goes with me, the
saints will take care of us both.'
“This seemed to strike the mother as true, and she
was comforted; and the pale, little boy, with large,
spiritual eyes that appeared to look into the other
world, took his sister's hand without even a smile flitting
across his sad face; and they started for the fête.'
“Now, Miss Marchmont,” said Miss Martell, with
a graceful inclination to Addie.
“And the pale little boy, with big, owl-like eyes,”
continued Addie flippantly, “stalked along as if
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going to a funeral, while Ninon tripped and danced at
his side. But soon the young girl's steps grew slower
and slower, and her face thoughtful, and she began
to question her mother's words—that she was too
much of a child to have a lover; and, by the time she
reached the village green, she gave her pretty head
a toss as she said, `We'll see about this. Mother
doesn't know everything.'”
“Now Bel.”
“But poor little Ninon,” said Bel, “soon became
sadly bewildered, for there were so many people all
talking at once, and they pushed against and jostled
her as if she were very small and insignificant indeed,
and she began to think that her mother was right,
and that she was only a child; and she grew frightened
and wished herself home again. But she kept
fast hold of the hand of her brother whom the saints
loved, and felt that as long as he was with her she
was safe. Finally they were pushed and jostled to
a quiet nook on the edge of the green, under a tree,
and here they sat down. Soon the dancing commenced,
and Ninon amused herself by criticising the
people and making remarks to her brother about
their dress and manner. But he did not seem to
hear her, and his eyes were fixed on the sky, as if
he saw more that was wonderful there than she upon
the village green.”
“Mr. De Forrest, you next.”
“But as Ninon sat there smiling and talking more
to herself than to her queer little brother, who didn't
listen, the young men began to notice her, and to
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nudge each other and ask who she was; for in truth
she reminded every one of a half-blown rose. But
no one knew who she was, and no one had ever seen
her before. Then the handsomest young man in the
village—indeed he was the one at whom all the girls
were setting their caps—stepped forward and took a
deliberate survey, and soon was convinced that, among
all the village maidens, there was not a face as fair as
Ninon's. And while he looked at her, Ninon from
under her long lashes as intently watched him. At
last the young man made up his mind, and said to
himself, `I will be her lover for this afternoon,' and
in a manner that was the very embodiment of grace,
he stepped up to her and said:
“`My pretty maiden, wilt dance with me?'”
And De Forrest bowed to Lottie to continue.
It was strange how the foolish little story was
gaining the breathless interest of all present—all the
more so because each one was unconsciously coloring
their bit of the mosaic with his or her individuality.
Lottie's manner by no means tended to allay this
interest, as she began her part of the impromptu
tale. She was a natural actress, and, for the moment,
became little Ninon. The scene had become present
to her vivid fancy, and by some process that cannot
be explained, she impressed it upon the minds of the
others as real. They saw the crowded village green,
the petite little maiden and her weird brother sitting
upon its edge as she began.
“And Ninon shyly raised her dark eyes to the
face of the handsomest young man of all the village,
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at whom the girls were setting their caps, and said
a trifle coldly:”
“`I'm only a little child who has come to see.
Go thy ways.'
“And the handsome young man stalked away,
haughty and offended, and the youth of the village
nudged each other and smiled and wondered and
said, `She must be a princess in disguise, or she
would dance with him whom all the girls covet.' So
no one else would venture to speak to her. But
Ninon for awhile was content to be left alone to
watch all the funny people and their funny ways.
She didn't see any one that she wanted to dance
with.
“At last she became conscious that one who
seemed a stranger like herself was watching her, and
she began to look curiously at him. At first she did
not like his looks at all. His dress was very plain;
not a bit smart and gay like that of the other young
men. Besides, he was so tall and grave; and once,
when some one said a rude word to him, his eyes
were so fiery that Ninon was afraid of him. But a
moment later, when his eyes rested on her, they
became so kind and gentle that she wondered how
it could be. Then she began to grow sorry for him
because, like herself, he was a stranger and had no
one to talk to. But he seemed in quest of some one,
for he would look all around among the people; but
soon his eyes would come back and rest so wistfully
upon her face as if she were the one he was looking
for after all. This puzzled Ninon greatly and she
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asked herself, Now, can it be that I am the one he's
looking for? At last it seemed that the stranger
wished to speak to her, but hadn't the courage, and
this amused Ninon vastly. Twice he advanced, faltered,
and then retreated. Ninon was convulsed with
laughter and whispered:
“`Oh, Pierre, isn't this the funniest thing that
ever was in this great world. That big man there,
is afraid of me—little Ninon.'
“Then she saw that he thought she was laughing
at him, and that he had straightened himself up stiff
and haughty and had looked the other way. But
he couldn't keep looking the other way very long,”
Lottie said, with an indescribable air that brought
out a round of applause; “and when he timidly
glanced toward her again, she gave him such an encouraging
smile that he came at once to her side
and said:
“`Little sister, wilt walk with me?'
“A happy thought struck Ninon. Her mother
had said she was too young to have a lover, but nothing
had been said against her having another brother.
So, with conscience clear, she whispered, `Sit still
here till I come back;' and the little boy sat still
looking up into the sky, while Ninon let the tall
stranger take her hand and lead her away. But his
eyes were so gentle and true, she lost all fear and
asked:
“`Why do you call me sister?'
“`Perhaps you can tell me,' he said. `I came
here an utter stranger, and I looked all around
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among the people, and their faces were strange, and
it seemed to me that they ever would be strange;
but when I saw your face, you appeared to belong to
to me. I think we must be related.'
“`I never saw you before,' said Ninon, shaking
her head.
“`I've seen you in my dreams all my life,' he
replied, looking at her so earnestly that the color
deepened on her cheek.
“`I never heard anything so queer in all my
life,' said Ninon.
“`You have much to learn,' said the stranger.
“`Yes,' said Ninon humbly, `as mother says,
I'm only a little child.'
“`You are not a little child, you are a beautiful
maiden, Ninon,' said the stranger earnestly.
“`Nonsense,' she said blushingly. `I'll never be
that?' But she liked to hear him say it, nevertheless,”
Lottie added, with an accent that again brought
out a round of applause.
“I'm taking too much time,” Lottie said, deprecatingly.
“Go on, go on,” was the unanimous cry; and her
little brother Dan, who had dropped nuts and apples
and was leaning, opened-mouthed on her knees, said:
“Lottie, if you don't go on, I'll do something
dreadful.”
So Lottie continued. “And the tall stranger
smiled down upon her and said, `Violets are my favorite
flower, and you are a modest little violet.'
“`Now you are wrong again,' said Ninon; `
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violets are a pale blue flower, and my cheeks are burning
so oddly—I never had them do so before. I
know I look like the pionies in the curé's garden.'
“`You look like the sweetest rose in the curé's
garden.'
“`Is that the way big brothers talk to their little
sisters?'
“`That is the way I talk to you, and I'm in earnest.
'
“`How do little sisters treat a brother as big as
you are?'
“`Well, for one thing, they kiss them.'
“`That's queer,' said Ninon, innocently. `I
should think it would be just the other way.'
“`Now I think of it, you are right,' and the
stranger gave her a kiss that set every nerve tingling.
“`How odd,' she exclaimed, half-frightened, half-delighted.
`Pierre sometimes kisses me, but I never
felt that way before.'
“`And big brothers take their little sisters in their
arms and lift them over the rough places, as I do.'
“And he carried her over a low stone wall that
separated them from a shadowy grove.
“`Oh, how nice,' sighed Ninon, complacently,
`I've always had to get over the rough places by
myself before.'
“`You will no longer,' said the youth, as they
passed under the low branches of a sheltering tree
`Oh, Ninon, as innocent as beautiful, can you not see
that I am not your brother, but your lover:” and he
threw himself at her feet.
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“But Ninon clasped her hands in the deepest
distress, and cried, `Oh, why did you say that?
You might have been my brother as long as you
chose. But mother says I can have no lover—that I
am only a child;' and like a startled fawn she fled
from him, and, a few moments later, panting and
breathless, was sitting again beside her strange, little
brother, who was still looking into the sky as if he
saw a vision.
“The young stranger followed sadly, thinking how
he might still win her, and teach her that she was no
longer a child. Ninon soon became more composed,
and looked around as if she would like to see him
again. As from a distance he watched her from
under his bent eyebrows, a happy thought struck
him, and he said, `I'll teach her that she is a woman,
and stepping forward, he singled out a neglected village
maiden, who seemed ready for a little attention
from anybody, and whirled her into the dance.
Ninon, to her dismay, saw the arm of her whilom
brother and lover encircling another girl, while she,
apparently, was forgotten. She could scarcely believe
her eyes. She looked at him fixedly, the picture of
reproach, but he never seemed to look toward her.
Surprise, resentment, grief, followed each other
upon her fair face, like clouds passing of over a sunny
landscape. At last she buried her face upon little
Pierre's shoulder, and sobbed:
“`He may be my lover, or anything else, if he will
only leave that hateful minx to come to me once more.
“The tall stranger saw her drooping head, and
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quickly led his partner out of the dance and bowed
himself away, leaving her bewildered; so quickly
had he come and gone.
“Ninon looked up, but he was nowhere to be
seen, and the `hateful minx' stood alone. Suddenly
a voice that had grown strangely familiar said
at her side:
“`May I be thy lover now?'
“`Thou art false,' she said faintly.
“`Never to thee, Ninon. My thoughts were with
thee every moment since you so cruelly left me. Do
you not see why I sought another maiden? I wished
to teach you that you were no longer a child, but a
woman. I am your lover. Your heart has already
claimed me, and these jealous tears prove it.'
“`Well, then,' said Ninon, shyly smiling again,
`if my heart has gone to you, and I half believe it
has, I must follow my heart;' and she put her hand
in his.”
Loud and long was the applause that greeted
Lottie's conclusion. Dan executed a miniature breakdown
as an expression of his feelings, and it would
seem that Mr. Dimmerly's chuckling laugh would
never cease. De Forrest looked uneasy, and Hemstead
was in a trance of bewildered delight. Alice
and Harcourt exchanged significant glances, but upon
the faces of Mrs. Marchmont and Bel were traces of
disapproval.
“Now uncle,” cried Lottie, “it's your turn. I
have given you comedy; we shall expect from you
high tragedy.”
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The word “comedy,” as Lottie here used it
jarred unpleasantly on Hemstead's ear, and the
thought crossed Harcourt's mind, “Can she be leading
Hemstead on in heartless jest, as we proposed at
first? How I have changed since that day, and I
was in hopes that she had, too, somewhat.”
But Mr. Dimmerly had taken up the thread of
the narrative where Lottie had dropped it: “Ninon,”
he said, “lived a long while ago, and did not properly
refer the tall stranger to her mamma. A trysting
place and time were agreed upon, and the mysterious
stranger in green, who was a forester, seemingly,
said that he had a deer to kill before nightfall; and,
raising her hand to his lips, departed. Ninon sat a
long time, lost in a maze of thought, and then, in the
twilight, roused the rapt child from his visions, and
they started for their home. But villainous faces
had hovered on the outskirts of the village green, and
ill-omened eyes had marked the beauty of Ninon and
the spiritual face of her brother. At that time there
was in France a terrible monster, known as Giles de
Laval, whose emissaries were ever on the alert for
such victims. It was this cruel man who suggested
to Perrault his world-renowned story of Barbe-bleu,
the Blue-Beard that Dan there knows all about.
Well, when Ninon and her little brother were passing
a thicket but half-way home, two masked men sprang
out upon them, and stifling their terror-stricken cries,
carried them to a distance from the highway. They
then bound bandages firmly over their mouths, and
the villains lifted them on their horses and galloped
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away and away, till poor Ninon felt that she could
never find her way home again, even if she had a
chance. Soon the shadowy walls of a great castle
rose before them, with a single light in a lofty tower.
The feet of the iron-shod horses rang on the draw-bridge,
which rose after them, and then Ninon knew
they were prisoners. At first they were shut up in a
dungeon that was perfectly dark, for their cruel jailor
knew the overpowering effect of rayless darkness.
But strange little Pierre said that the place was
brighter than the sun, and that lovely faces were
smiling at him. Ninon, however, saw nothing, and
it was dark indeed to her, and she sobbed bitterly,
and called on her mother and lover for help.
But only stony-hearted Laval and his accomplices
heard her girlish voice. A bell in one of the towers
slowly tolled out eleven o'clock. A little later the
door of their cell opened, and light streamed in.
Two men in hideous masks seized them, and carried
them up and up, till Ninon, in horror, thought that
they were to be thrown from the top of the tower.
But worse than that awaited them: for soon they
entered a large circular room, in which, on a sort
of throne, sat a dreadful looking man, clad in sable.
He had human form and features, but reminded
one of the more disgusting kind of wild beasts.
His eyes were small, piercing, and malignant, but his
face was large, sensual, devilish, and poor Ninon lost
hope from the moment she saw him. She instinctively
felt that to sue for mercy from such a monster,
would be worse than vain. She had lost hope utterly
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She and her mother were mistaken. The saints cared
for neither little Pierre nor herself, and had left them
to fall into the clutches of this demon. She glanced
slowly around the room in the faint hope of escape,
or even for the chance of throwing herself from a
window, if it were needful, in order to escape from
that horrible man. But the walls were thick. No
light came from without, but only from a great furnace
that was strangely constructed and made her
shudder. For a long time there was perfect silence
in the dreadful place. The two masked men, grotesque
and horrible, stood near the furnace motionless
as statues. The sable monster on his black
throne watched them without moving a muscle in
his great, coarse face, only his small eyes seemed like
two scintillating sparks of infernal fire, as with a
fiendish kind of pleasure he marked the agony of
Ninon. The young girl instinctively gave up all hope
of life, and yet never had life seemed so sweet. Its
homeliest details now appeared precious, and their
poor, little cottage heaven, compared with this den of
infamy. She had just tasted the exquisite happiness
of a new and before unknown love, and now she was
to die. She thought of her mother growing gray in
loneliness and grief. She thought of her lover coming
eagerly to their trysting place, but when he came
on the morrow, Christmas day, what would she be—
where would she be? and in her anguish, she cried
aloud, and kneeling, stretched out her hands toward
the sable throne.
“Then for the first time the coarse, thick lips of the
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monster distorted themselves into a hideous grin,
but otherwise he did not move, and the awful silence
continued in that chamber of death.
“Ninon put her hands to her face, to hide his ugly
visage, and then sank down in the apathy of despair.
“There was nothing in Ninon's agony that disturbed
Laval. Scarcely a night passed but some
victim like herself writhed under his remorseless
eyes. Their mortal fear and sufferings were his
recreation before the sterner business of sorcery that
followed, and the more demonstrative they were in
their pain, the more high-spiced his pleasure. At
first Ninon's beautiful and expressive face kept his
whole attention, but after a time he began to note
the strangely-appearing little boy who accompanied
her. There was no fear in his calm, pale face. There
was no dread in his large spiritual eyes, that seemed
to look past the monster and his thick walls to some
rare vision beyond.
“`What does the little wretch see?' he queried,
for Laval, like his age, was very superstitious.
“But Ninon must be goaded out of her apathy, or
the night would be dull; so at last the thick lips open,
and the awful silence is broken by more awful words:
“`Girl, thou who art to lose body and soul, look
at me.'
“Slowly Ninon lifted her eyes to his brutal face,
and gazed fixedly as some poor little bird might
into the envenomed jaws of a serpent. The fascination
of fear was upon her. In a thick, guttural, monotonous
voice, the human beast continued, `The
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[figure description] Page 444.[end figure description]
devil has shown me that there is a potent charm in
thy young innocent heart, there are powerful spells
in thy warm young blood; and that with them I
may discover untold wealth. When the bell tolls
out the hour of midnight, I shall take your bleeding
heart out of your living body, and the heart of your
brother out of his body, that with them I may decoct
an essence in yonder furnace, that will transmute the
basest metal into gold. Midnight is the hour, and at
midnight you shall die. Only the spell will be far
more potent if you first give yourself to the foul
fiend. Therefore, repeat after me:
“`I give my soul and body to Satan.'
“Mechanically the terror-stricken girl began.
“`I give'—but little Pierre put his hand over her
mouth. `The saints forbid,' he said quietly.
“`Seize the child, tear out his staring eyes,
shouted the monster savagely.”
Mr. Dimmerly stopped, took off his spectacles,
and coolly wiped them as he said:
“I'm through, and my part of the story is true.
This Giles de Laval, or as he is better known in
French history, the Marshal de Retz, destroyed
hundreds of children, at ages varying from eight to
eighteen, and in ways far worse than I have described.
So Lottie, have you had enough of high
tragedy?”
“O uncle,” she exclaimed, with a little impatient
stamp of the foot, “You have told us a horrible
story. It must not break off in this way, or we
won't sleep a wink to-night. Mr. Hemstead, you
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[figure description] Page 445.[end figure description]
take up the story where uncle left off, and if possible,
complete it in a way that won't make our blood run
cold.”
Thus Hemstead was put upon his mettle, and
soon all present were hanging with breathless interest
on his rich, well-modulated tones.
“`When the monster from his sable throne,
uttered his merciless mandate to tear out the eyes
of little Pierre, the two grotesque and statue-like
apparitions sprang into life, and snatching hot irons
from the furnace, rushed toward the child. Ninon
gave a shriek of terror, and sought to shelter the boy
in her arms, crying, `Do what you will with me, but
spare him.' Thus again, more truly than before by
jealous tears, Ninon proved that she had become a
woman.”
At this sentence he was interrupted by a perfect
storm of applause, in which Harcourt led off again
and again. But Hemstead drew his inspiration from
Lottie's face, and noted with a thrill of joy that tears
stood in her eyes. This was a richer tribute than he
received from all the others, and with deeper and
more effective tones he continued:
“But just then the great bell began to toll out
the hour of twelve, and the demon, from his sable
throne, made a restraining gesture.
“`Naught,' he said, `must now interfere with our
high magic and solemn sorcery. At the last stroke
of the bell take their hearts out of their living bodies.”
“Ninon sank on the floor, murmuring like a dying
zephyr among the chords of an Æolian harp, `Fare
-- 446 --
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well, mother dear. Farewell, my lover true. I cannot
meet you to-morrow at the fallen tree,'” (and
here Hemstead glanced at Lottie, whose face was instantly
suffused) “and she bowed her head upon her
brother's shoulder, and sobbed aloud.
“Slowly and solemnly upon the silent night the
iron tongue told out the fateful moments.
“With increasing uneasiness the monster upon
his sable throne watched little Pierre, who, from first
to last, had not shown a trace of fear or trouble.
Among all his victims he had never seen a child like
this, and his guilty heart began to fail him wofully.
“`He surely sees something,' he muttered, as
the boy's large eyes dilated with a wondrous awe,
and his face grew luminous with a great joy.
“The heavy vibrations of the last stroke of the
bell resounded through the silent night.
“Suddenly, with a shrill, piercing voice that went
like an arrow to the guilty heart of Laval, little Pierre
exclaimed:
“`It is Christmas morn. O Ninon, look, there is
Jesu, the Christ-Child, and the Lord of all the saints.
See, He is coming toward us, bearing His cross—He is
here—He is placing His pierced hands upon our
heads—we are saved;' and the child knelt reverently
on the pavement and his sister knelt beside him.
“The monster tumbled off his sable throne and
lay grovelling and groaning upon the floor, while his
terror-stricken accomplices ran clattering down the
stairs.
“Far above the tower even. Ninon thought she
-- 447 --
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heard a burst of heavenly song, while little Pierre in
rapt ecstasy cried, `Listen.'
“Suddenly a clarion voice that Ninon heard most
plainly, and that thrilled her to the heart, rang up
from the earth beneath.
“`Harm but a hair of their heads and I will make
you suffer the tortures of the damned.'
“Even at their height they could hear the sound
of galloping steeds.
“A dozen brave fellows swam the moat, and a
moment later the draw-bridge fell heavily and the
clangor of a hundred hoofs rang upon it.
“Up the winding stair came the tramp of armed
men. There was a thud and a groan when any
resisted. The dethroned monster lay grovelling on
the floor, not daring to move.
“Little Pierre still looked heavenward. Ninon
looked toward the door. A moment later her lover
rushed in with drawn sword; and Ninon, unharmed
with a cry of joy, sprang to his heart.
“But the fire of a terrible anger burned in the
young man's cheek, and he raised his gleaming sword
against Laval, who now pleaded piteously for mercy.
“`What mercy would you have shown these children?
thundered the youth. `What mercy have
you shown to your other innocent victims?' and he
was about to run him through when Ninon caught
his arm and cried:
“`Stay, kill him not this Christmas morn in his
terrible guilt. It was Jesu who saved us; and does
He not ever say, Forgive—even our enemies?'
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“Slowly she drew down the raised arm of human
revenge. She took from his reluctant hand the
gleaming sword and returned it in its sheath.
“And now Ninon has become more than a woman—
she is a Christian.”
-- 449 -- p668-454
CHAPTER XXXI. UNDER THE MISTLETOE.
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INSTEAD of applause, there was the truer and
more appropriate tribute of silence when Hemstead
finished the mosaic of a story which, by the
various narratives, had been developed so differently
and yet characteristically. The eyes of more
than one were moist, and Lottie hastily left the
room.
Mr. Dimmerly was the first to recover himself,
and, after blowing his nose most vociferously, managed
to say:
“Well, Nephew, it was hardly the thing to get
a sermon off on us before Sunday, but, since it was
rather well done, I don't think we will complain.
I now suggest that you young people have some
games that will set your blood in motion. The
last hours of Christmas eve should ever be the merriest.
I will send Lottie back—the tender-hearted
little minx, who must take everything in earnest.”
His advice was followed, and Lottie soon returned,
becoming, as usual, the life of the company.
A breezy sound of voices and many a ringing laugh
took the place of the former hush, as games and
jests followed in quick succession.
Harcourt was good-naturedly on the alert to
-- 450 --
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serve Hemstead, and, in a game that required the
absence of two of the company from the room a
few moments, suggested the names of the Student
and Lottie Marsden. They, nothing loth, went
out together into the empty hall.
“Do you know,” said Hemstead, “I think it a
little strange I have not had a chance to speak to
you alone, since we were at the fallen tree in the
clump of hemlocks.”
“I did not know,” said Lottie, laughing and
blushing, “that the `fallen tree' was a trysting
place.”
“Well,” said he, eagerly, “I met a young lady
there once, whom I would gladly meet there or
anywhere else again.”
“To see whether she had taken your advice?”
“That depends. I doubt whether she can `make
a man' of a certain individual, and I fear she will
not take the other alternative.”
“She will probably do as Ninon did—follow her
heart.”
“If one could only know whither your heart
would lead you!” he said, blushing deeply, and looking
at her so wistfully that she, seeing through his
thin disguise, had it on her tongue to tell him. But,
instead, she took a few dancing steps away, and,
with no such intention whatever, stood just under
the mistletoe as she laughingly said:
“That reminds me of what father often says:
How nice it would be to speculate, if one only
knew every time how it would turn out.”
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“Miss Marsden!” he exclaimed, hurriedly, “you
are right under the mistletoe.”
She tried to spring away, but he snatched her
hand and detained her, while he stood hesitatingly
at her side, looking at her lips as if they were the
gates of Paradise.
“Well,” said she, laughing and blushing, “I
have nothing to do in the matter.”
“But I dare not take it unless you give it.”
“And I dare not give it unless you take it.”
If Hemstead did not emulate Mr. Dimmerly's
“explosion,” the ancient rite was nevertheless honored
in a way that Lottie would not soon forget.
Never did a kiss mean more, express more, or impart
more, upon any occasion that the ceremony
had been solemnized by her ancestors, back to the
times of the Druids.
But this moment of bliss was of short duration,
for Mrs. Marchment unexpectedly entered the hall,
and threw them both into disastrous confusion by
exclaiming, in unfeigned astonishment:
“Well, well! what does this mean?”
Of course, Lottie was the first to recover herself,
and managed to falter:
“You see, Auntie, by some accident—I assure
you it was an accident; I didn't mean to do it at
all—I got under that pesky mistletoe of uncle's,
and Mr. Hemstead, it would seem, had taken to
heart uncle's homily on the duty of keeping up
old customs. Mr. Hemstead, you know, is so conscientious,
and I suppose he felt that he must, poor
man: and so—and thus—”
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At this moment Harcourt's expedients of delay
failed, and they were loudly summoned back to the
dining-room.
“I hope there will be no more such nonsense,”
said Mrs. Marchment, severely.
“Oh, no, indeed, Auntie; it will never happen
again. Only the strongest sense of duty could
have impelled Mr. Hemstead to do such a thing;”
and they escaped to the dining-room only to be subjected
to a fire from another quarter. Their color
was so high, and they had such an air of general
confusion, that Harcourt cried, laughingly:
“I more than half believe that you have been
under the mistletoe.”
“Nonsense,” said Lottie; “with auntie in the
hall? If you think Mr. Hemstead is brave enough
for that, you greatly misjudge him.”
But De Forrest was wofully suspicious, and
had many uneasy thoughts about the “jest”
which Lottie must be carrying out; for surely it
could not be possible that she was becoming in
earnest.
Hemstead and Lottie made wretched work in
guessing the word required of them from the
nature of the game; for Mr. Dimmerly's prolonged,
chuckling laugh, which could be heard from the
parlor, did not tend to allay their confusion.
When Mrs. Marchment entered that apartment
she found her brother apparently in a convulsion,
but he was only vainly endeavoring to prevent his
merriment from developing into an outrageous
-- 453 --
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chuckle, for he too had seen Lottie under the mistletoe.
“This thing must be stopped,” said Mrs. Marchment,
most emphatically; at which her brother
chuckled louder than ever, and said:
“Stopped, indeed! As if it could be, or ever
had been `stopped,' since Adam and Eve first
cast sheep's eyes at each other in the Garden of
Eden.”
His sister left the room with a gesture of annoyance.
Suddenly the little man's queer, cackling laugh
ceased, and his wrinkled face grew sad and thoughtful
as he sighed:
“I'm the only Dimmerly who was ever
`stopped'—fool that I was. His mother, sister
Celia, would marry a poor man, and her life, in
spite of all her toil and privation, has been happier
than mine,” and he shook his head pathetically
over “what might have been.”
The marble clock on the mantel chimed out the
hour of twelve, and the young people came flocking
in from the dining-room, their noisy mirth hushed
as they remembered that the sacred hours of the
Christmas Sabbath had commenced.
“I have induced Miss Martell to give us a
Christmas hymn before parting,” said Harcourt; and
he led Alice to the piano, as if there had been some
preconcerted arrangement.
Lottie went to her uncle's side, and took his
arm in a sort of wheedling, affectionate way. She
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was beginning to instinctively recognize that she
had an ally and sympathizer in him. As he looked
down upon her fair face in its dewy freshness
and bloom, he vowed that, as far as it was in his
power, she should have her own way. Time and
the inevitable ills of our lot might dim that face,
but it should not become withered by a life-time
of vain regret.
“What were you laughing at so, uncle?” she
whispered.
“At my nephew's painful conscientiousness and
stern performance of duty. What a martyr he made
of himself, to be sure!”
“Now, uncle, I half believe you think I stepped
under your old mistletoe on purpose. It's no such
thing.”
“Oh, no, my dear. The mistletoe is haunted,
and has been for a thousand years or more, and
viewless elves draw under it those who are to receive
kisses—prophetic of many others from the
same lips.”
But here he found Lottie's hand upon his lips,
for a second, and then she stood at Miss Martell's
side, who was now playing a prelude. In some
surprise, Lottie noticed that, instead of there being
a printed sheet upon the piano-rack, both the words
and music were written by hand. As Miss Martell
sang, in a sweet but unfamiliar air, the following
words, her surprise and interest deepened:
At midnight, in Judean skies,
There dawned a light whose holy rays
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Not only cheered the shepherds' eyes,
But filled with hope all coming days.
At midnight, o'er Judea's plain
Was heard a song unknown before;
The echoes of that sweet refrain
Are reaching earth's remotest shore.
'Twas not the sun o'er Eastern hills,
That shed a transient radiance round;
Nor a feeble heir of earthly ills
The shepherds in the manager found.
Upon the darker midnight sky
Of human sorrow, care, and sin—
A night that broods at noontide high;
A dreary gloom all hearts within—
There rose a gentle, human face,
Whose light was love and sympathy—
The God of heaven, yet of our race—
The humblest of humanity.
The night of sorrow, sin, and care
Still shadows many hapless hearts;
But all who will, this light may share—
This hope which Christmas morn imparts.
Lottie's eyes were suffused with tears when the
simple hymn was finished, but they did not prevent
her from following Miss Martell's finger as she
turned to the title-page and pointed to the inscription:
“Music by Miss Martell.
“Words by Frank Hemstead.
“Dedicated to Miss Lottie Marsden.
“We wish you more than a `merry'—the happy Christmas, rather
of the Christian.”
Her first response was an impulsive kiss to
-- 456 --
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Alice. But when she looked around to thank
Hemstead, he had gone.
A little later, as he came stamping up the piazza
out of the snow, after assisting Harcourt and Miss
Martell away, the hall-door opened, and some one
darted out, and took his hand in a quick, thrilling
pressure. A voice that had grown as dear as familiar
said:
“Before we parted to-night I wanted to tell you
that I think Lottie Marsden, like Ninon, has become
more than a woman—a Christian.”
And she vanished, but left the night so luminous
about him that he could not, for a long time, enter
the house.
He felt, like the shepherds who kept watch centuries
ago, that an angel had brought him “tidings
of great joy.”
-- 457 -- p668-462
CHAPTER XXXII. THE CHRISTMAS SUNDAY.
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THIS Christmas Sabbath, though marked by no
unusual event, was destined to be a memorable
day in the lives of Frank Hemstead and Charlotte
Marsden. A chain of unforeseen circumstances
and experiences, and a sequence of emotions
still less understood, had lifted them higher and
higher, until this culminating day was scarcely one
of earthly existence.
Lottie, in her previous life, had been frivolous
and selfish; but her evil resulted from thoughtlessness
rather than the deliberate purpose to do
wrong. She was the type of multitudes of her
fair sisters, who, with sparkling eyes, look out upon
life in its morning to see only what it offers to
them, and not the tasks it furnishes them for
others. Only by experience—only by God's logic
of events do they find that their happiness is in
these tasks—in unselfish giving and doing.
The world had been at Lottie's feet. It had
offered her all that it could to a girl in her station;
but when, withdrawn from it by a day of suffering,
she had summed up her treasures, she found that
she had nothing but remorse. She had been receiving
all her life, and yet had nothing. She
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would then gladly have remembered that she had
given even one an impulse toward a truer and happier
life. But she could not. Apart from natural
impulses of affection toward kindred and friends,
her only thought in regard to all had been,—How
can I make them minister to me and my pleasure?
With tact and skill, enhanced by exceeding beauty,
she had exacted an unstinted revenue of flattery,
attention, and even love; and yet, when, in weakness
and pain, she wished the solace of some consoling
memory, she found only an accusing conscience.
This experience conveyed to the practical girl
a startling lesson. With all her faults, she did not
belong to the class that is hopeless, because so
weak and shallow. Though her handsome face
might often express much that was unlovely and
unwomanly, it ever expressed mind.
When she, in her turn, like hosts of others, came
to realize the limitations of her being, her weakness
and need, she looked around, instinctively, for
help and support. Human teaching presented a
God from whom she shrank in fear and dislike
The Bible revealed Jesus. When feeling most her
need, the Bible presented one whose eyes overflowed
with sympathy, and whose hand was omnipotent.
She instinctively felt, like Mary of old,
that, at “His feet,” there was rest and hope.
This feeling was not reached as a mathematician
solves an equation, or a theologian comes to a conclusion,
but more after the manner in which some
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women and most children will look at a person, and
say, “I like him; I'll trust him.”
There was nothing incongruous or unnatural in
the contemporary love growing up in her heart for
Hemstead at the same time, though it is possible
that some may so think. In some minds the ideas
of love and passion seem inseparable, and they
regard religion as something far removed. These
are but the right wing of that sinister class
who jumble their passions and religion together,
and, in pious jargon and spiritual double
entendre, half conceal and half convey the base
meaning of their hearts. In others, love, or what
with them goes by the name, is equally inseparable
from management and match-making,
trousseaus and settlements—concerns pertaining
to earth, and very earthy, it must be admitted.
No doubt many excellent, solid people would
regard Lottie's spiritual condition with grave suspicion,
and ask, disapprovingly, “What business
have two such different loves to be originating in
her heart at the same time?” But, in the term
“different,” they beg the question. Where is the
antagonism? Where is even the dissimilarity?
Are not these two impulses of the heart near akin,
rather; and does not a truer and deeper philosophy
of life teach that love for a human object may be
as certainly God's will as love towards himself?
Have these solid, excellent people aught to say
against the faithful devotion of a wife, or the patient
tenderness of a mother, which are
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corner-stones of the family, as the family is the corner-stone
of all true civilization? But what is the origin of
the wife's devotion and mother's tenderness? These
people, surely, are as wise as they are solid. They
would have the day without the dawn.
At any rate, it would appear that Heaven was
making the match between Hemstead and Lottie—
making it as the Spring comes on in northern
latitudes, subtlely, imperceptibly, and yet speedily.
Just how or when it came about, they did not know;
but when they met that Christmas morning, the
peace and gladness of an assured and reciprocal
love smiled from each other's eyes. They needed
no explanations. Frank Hemstead's face had ever
been as easily interpreted as his honest words; and
he now had taught Lottie's face to tell the truth.
A blessed truth it revealed to him that Christmas
day.
As he entered the pulpit that morning his face
was radiant with the purest human love, as well as
love to God. So far from being incongruous, the
one seemed to kindle and intensify the other.
Though his sermon was simplicity itself, he spoke
as one inspired. His message now was a gospel
and came to his hearers as the angel's announcement
(which was his text) to the shepherds.
But his closing words were searching, and sent
many of his hearers home thoughtful and conscience-smitten,
as well as cheered by the great
hope which Christmas day should ever bring to the
world.
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“I would gladly correct,” he said, “the impression
which I fear was made on some minds last Sabbath.
Christ is the embodiment of Christianity,
and His coming to the world was `tidings of great
joy;' His coming to every sinful heart should be
`tidings of great joy.' But I fear that I led some to
dread His coming, as they would purgatorial fires.
How did the All-powerful One come? As a little,
helpless child, that he might disarm our fears and
enlist our sympathy. How did He live? The
humblest among the humble, that no one on earth
should be too lowly to go straight to His side with
his griefs. How did He act? He took little children
in His arms, and blessed them. He laid His hand
on the loathsome leper from whom all shrank. He
looked into the glare of the demoniac's eyes—the
demons fled. Then, in meekness, He would offer to
enter the poor wretch's heart, and dwell in what
had been the foul abode of the foulest fiends. When
men wept, He, from sympathy, wept with them,
though His next breath changed their mourning
into joy. When man dishonored God, or wronged
his fellow-men, as did the Pharisees, with their unhallowed
traffic in the Temple, their robbery of the
widow and fatherless, their blocking up the way of
life with their senseless ceremonies, puerile traditions,
no knight in all the heroic past ever breathed
out a more fiery indignation. How did He die?
In a way that even the thief might be redeemed
and live eternally. He was an ideal man, as well
as perfect God. He was the servant of all, as well
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as King of Kings. Not from His throne did He
stoop to us. He stood at our side, and sustained
fainting humanity with His encircling arm, as a
brother. Little wonder, then, that the angel called
the announcement that God had thus visited His
creatures `Good tidings of great joy.'
“But there is a brief word of pointed and searching
significance in this message. The angel said,
`Unto you is born a Saviour.' Is that true of each
one of us? Is this Christmas day a mockery, reminding
us of a hope that is not ours—of a heaven in
which we have no right nor part? Does conscience
tell us to-day that we have looked upon the light
that shone at Bethlehem with apathetic eyes, and
heard the angel's message with unbelieving hearts,
so that practically no Saviour has been born unto
us? Why do you keep this day as a festival, my
hearer? I can tell you why you may. If you will
receive it, the angel's message is to you personally;
unto you is born a Saviour who will forgive your
past sin, and shield you from its consequences,—
who will ennoble your future life, and sustain and
comfort under the inevitable sorrow and suffering
awaiting,—and who will receive you into an eternal
and happy home at the end of your brief sojourn
here. May not this Christmas pass until each one
has received the abiding peace and joy of the
angel's message into the depths of his heart.”
After the service, Miss Martell, with glistening
eyes, said to Harcourt, “I am glad you heard that
sermon.”
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“I admit,” he replied, with bowed head, “that
it is better than my old philosophy. I think Hemstead
must have written it for me.”
As the young clergyman helped Lottie into the
sleigh, she whispered:
“You wrote that sermon for me.”
Both were right. Hemstead had preached
Christ, who is God's embodied truth, meant alike
and alike adapted to every human heart.
-- 464 -- p668-469
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE END OF THE “JEST”
[figure description] Page 464.[end figure description]
IT is a common impression that impending disasters
cast their shadows before; and especially in
the realm of fiction do we find that much is made
of presentiments, which are usually fulfilled in a
very dramatic way. But the close observer of real
life, to a large degree, loses faith in these bodings
of ill. He learns that sombre impressions result
more often from a defective digestion and
disquieted conscience than any other cause; and
that, after the gloomiest forebodings, the days pass
in unusual sereneness. Not that this is always
true, but it would almost seem the rule. Perhaps
more distress is caused by those troubles which
never come, but which are feared and worried over,
than by those which do come, teaching us, often,
patience and faith.
Does not experience show that disasters and
trials more often visit us, like the “thief in the
night,” unexpectedly?
At any rate, it so occurred to Hemstead and
Lottie on the dreary Monday that followed their
glorified Sunday. And yet, never did a day open
with fairer promise. There was a cloudless sky
and a crystal earth. The mystic peace of Christ
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[figure description] Page 465.[end figure description]
mas seemed to have been breathed even into bleak
December; for the air was mild and still, and the
shadows of slender trees crept across the snow as
steadily as that made by the sun-dial on the lawn.
Within doors all appeared equally serene. The
fire burned cheerily upon the hearth when Hemstead
came down to breakfast. What was of far
more importance, the light of love glowed as
brightly in Lottie's eyes, as she beamed upon him
across the table; and the spell which kept him, unthinking,
unfearing, in the beatified present, remained
unbroken.
But the darkest shadows were creeping toward
both.
To any situated as they were, and in their condition
of mind and heart, a mere awakening would
have been a rude shock. Some one had only to
show them, with the remorseless logic of this world,
what all their heavenly emotions involved, in order
to cause perplexity and almost consternation.
They could not long dwell, like the immortal gods,
on the Mount Olympus of their exalted feeling,
subsisting on the nectar and ambrosia of tones
and glances.
Lottie was the fashionable daughter of an ultrafashionable
mother and worldly father, in whose
eyes sins against the beau monde were the most irrationable
and unpardonable.
Hemstead was a predestined home missionary,
upon whom the Christian Church proposed to inflict
the slow martyrdom of five or six hundred a
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[figure description] Page 466.[end figure description]
year. Mrs. Marchmont but reflected the judgment
of the world when she thought that for two young
people, thus situated, to fall in love with each other,
would be the greatest possible misfortune. Therefore,
with the sincerest sense of duty, and the very
best intentions, she set about preventing it, after
all the mischief had been done.
Like a prudent lady, as she was, she first sought
to get sufficient information to justify her in speaking
plainly to both her nephew and niece. For
this purpose she drew Addie out on Sunday afternoon,
asking her if she had noticed anything peculiar
in the manner of Hemstead and Lottie toward
each other. Then, for the first time, and with just
indignation, to her credit be it said, she learned of
the practical joke of which her nephew was to be
the victim. She skilfully drew from her daughter
all the details of its inception and the mode in
which it had been carried out, for, to Addie's superficial
observation, Lottie was only indulging in one
of her old flirtations. She neither saw, nor was she
able to understand the change in Lottie's feelings
and character. She also wronged Lottie by giving
the impression that she had nothing to do with the
plot, with the exception that she had promised not
to interfere.
Mrs. Marchmont could scarcely believe what she
heard, but Addie referred her to Bel, who confirmed
her words and admitted that from the first
she had “known it was very wrong, but had not
believed that anything would come of it, until it
seemed too late.”
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“Besides,” she said, “Lottie told me that if I
said a word, or interfered in any way, she would
from that time treat me as a stranger, and she said
it in a way that proved she meant it. Therefore
whatever you do, please let it appear that I have no
part in it.”
“You surprise and shock me greatly,” said Mrs.
Marchmont, “with all of Lottie's wild nonsense
and fondness for flirting, I would not have thought
that she could be guilty of such deliberate and persistent
effort to trifle with one so sincere and good
as Frank. The most heartless coquette would
scarcely call him fair game. She puzzles me too,
for she does not seem like one who is acting, but
more like one in earnest. Besides, look at the interest
she is beginning to take in religion. She
surely could not employ such sacred things for the
purposes of mere flirtation.”
But Bel soon converted Mrs. Marchmont to her
way of thinking. Lottie had found Hemstead different
and more interesting than she had expected
and had foolishly and recklessly permitted a mere
sentiment for him to develop, which, in her case,
would end with the visit, and soon be forgotten in
the mad whirl of New York gayety. “But, with Mr.
Hemstead,” concluded Bel, “it will be a very different
affair. He is one of the kind that will brood over
such a disappointment and wrong to the end of life.”
So it was settled that Mrs. Marchmont should
“speak plainly” to her nephew, and warn him
against “Lottie's wiles,” as soon as possible.
-- 468 --
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But no opportunity occurred before Monday
morning, and then not till after Hemstead had received
some of the most blissful experiences that
he had yet enjoyed. For, immediately after breakfast,
all had flocked into the back parlor, where the
laden Christmas tree revealed the secrets that had
filled the air with mystery during the preceding
days.
All had been remembered, and Mr. Martell's
munificence toward the gallant coachman quite
took away his breath.
But Hemstead was overwhelmed and troubled
at first, when he opened an envelope, and found a
check for a thousand dollars, with the words, “We
send you this, not in any sense as compensation—
for we know enough of your character, to recognize
that you would have taken equal risks in behalf
of the penniless—but because we wish to be
remembered by you, whom we can never forget.
And we only request that you invest this sum toward
your library, so that, in coming years, the best
thoughts of your favorite authors, may remind
you of those whose best wishes, sincerest gratitude,
and highest esteem will ever be yours.
“(Signed.)
Herbert Martell,
“Alice Martell.”
“Now, Frank, what is the use of putting on
such airs?” said Addie. “You surely expected a
handsome present from Mr. Martell.”
“I assure you, I expected nothing of the kind,
he replied, a trifle indignantly “Why should I?
-- 469 --
[figure description] Page 469.[end figure description]
As it is, I am doubtful whether I ought to accept
of it.”
“Why should I?” Lottie echoed with a merry
laugh. “That's like you. But unless you wish to
hurt and wrong sincere friends very much, I advise
you to keep it and do as they say. You are so exceedingly
proud or humble—which shall I call it—
that I fear you neither expect, nor will take any
thing from me.”
“Here is a queer-looking parcel for Frank Hemstead,”
said Mr. Dimmerly, with his chuckling
laugh.
With intense delight Lottie saw the student
hesitate, and his hand tremble as he slowly began
to open it.
“It's not a torpedo, or infernal machine, that
you need be in such trepidation,” she whispered
“It won't go off.”
“Is it from you?”
“Look, and see.”
It was a sermon-holder, of rich, plain morocco
without, but within, most elaborately embroidered.
Most prominent among the rare and dainty devices
was a single oar.
The expression of his face repaid her, as he examined
it with a comical blending of reverence and
affection, as some devout Catholic might a relic.
In the blade of the oar was worked, with the most
exquisite fineness, the words, “A true Knight.”
Within an inner pocket, where they could not be
readily seen, were the words,
“With the thanks of Lottie Marsden.”
-- 470 --
[figure description] Page 470.[end figure description]
But his quick scrutiny soon discovered them
and he turned and said, with an emphasis that did
her good:
“I value this more than the check.”
“What folly!” she said, blushing with pleasure;
“it isn't worth five dollars.”
“I can prove that it is worth more than the
check,” he said, in a low tone.
“How?”
“We value that gift most which we receive
from the friend we value most. There; it is
proved in a sentence; but I can prove it over
again.”
“What delightful lessons in logic! But you
surely cannot prove it again.”
“Yes. If the gift from the friend we value
most contains evidence that thought and time have
been expended upon it—that gift, however slight
its market value, has a worth to us beyond price,
because showing that the friend we love supremely
thinks of us in our absence.”
“I did put a great deal of time and thought on
that little gift, but you have repaid me,” Lottie
answered, in a low tone.
Their brief but significant tête-à-tête was now
interrupted by De Forrest, who came forward to
thank Lottie for her costly gift to him—a gift
bought on Broadway. He had uneasily marked
the fact that she had given something to Hemstead,
but when he saw that it was only a sermon-cover, he
was quite relieved.
-- 471 --
[figure description] Page 471.[end figure description]
“Come here, Frank, and show me your present,”
said Mr. Dimmerly, a little later.
Hemstead good-naturedly complied, and the
old gentlemen looked at the single embroidered oar,
with a comical twinkle in his eye, and called again:
“Lottie, come here.”
She approached rather shyly and reluctantly,
not knowing what to expect.
“Now, Lottie,” said her uncle, reproachfully,
pointing to the oar, “I did not expect that from so
sensible a girl as you are. What is a man going to
do with one oar, unless he is to take a lonely scull
through life as I have? Did you mean to suggest
that to Mr. Hemstead?”
“Mr. Hemstead found out another meaning
than that,” she said, laughing, “and I'm not going
to stay here to be teased by you,” and she ran out
of the room, the picture of blushing happiness.
When Hemstead again saw her it was with a
great dread in his heart, and his tones were grave
and almost stern.
“O—h—h you found out another meaning, did
you?” said Mr. Dimmerly, looking both kindly
and quizzically over his spectacles at his nephew.
“Well, uncle, to tell you the truth I hardly understand
myself; my visit here is a great contrast
to my quiet seminary life, and I have been getting
deeper and deeper into a maze of happy bewilderment
every day. So much has happened, and I
am so changed, that, like many, in tales of enchantment,
I scarcely know whether I am myself.”
-- 472 --
[figure description] Page 472.[end figure description]
“I have seen the spell working,” said Mr. Dimmerly,
dryly, “and am thankful that the transformation
has not been of the nature that Shakspeare
portrayed in his Midsummer Night Fantasy. Your
head might have become turned over the wrong
girl, and you have reached the period when it is
bound to be turned over some one.”
“Uncle,” he said, fervently, “she is the noblest
and most beautiful being in existence.”
“Frank, I wish to see you,” said his aunt,
quietly; and he followed her to her own private
sitting-room.
Mr. Dimmerly indulged in his low, chuckling
laugh as he looked after them.
“Now she's going to `stop' it, he—he—In the
meantime I'll go out and stop the brook from running
down hill.”
“The time has come,” said Mrs. Marchmont to
her perplexed nephew, with the complacent superiority
with which the wise of this world enlighten
those whose “heads are often in the clouds.”—“The
time has come when I must speak plainly to you
of a matter as important as it is delicate. You are
my own sister's child, and I cannot see you wronged
or going blindly into trouble without warning you.
Are you not permitting yourself to become interested
in Miss Marsden to a degree that is not wise?”
“Why not wise?” he answered with burning
cheeks.
“Have you not realized that she is one of the
most fashionable young ladies in New York, and
-- 473 --
[figure description] Page 473.[end figure description]
belongs to one of the wealthiest and most fashionable
families? If you could but once see her mother
you would understand me.”
“But she herself has changed,” he urged, eagerly.
Mrs. Marchmont smiled incredulously and pityingly,
“How little you know the world,” she said,
“In what do you expect all your sentiment to end?
Only sentiment? You say you purpose being a
home missionary. Can you imagine for a moment
that one, situated as she is, would contemplate such
a life? Her parents would as soon bury her.”
Hemstead groaned under his aunt's remorseless
words, but said in a sort of blind desperation: “Her
parents! Is this Hindostan, that parents can treat
their daughters as merchandise? A girl of Miss
Marsden's force and nobility of character—”
“O Frank, hush! It absolutely makes me sick
to see one so easily deceived. `Nobility of character,
' indeed! Well, I didn't wish to speak of it.
I could not believe it even of Lottie, but nothing
less than the whole truth will convince you,” and
she told him of the plot in which Lottie purposed
to make him the ridiculous subject of a practical
joke, and intimated that all her action since was
but the carrying out of that plot.
At first Hemstead grew deathly pale, and his
aunt, thinking he was going to faint, began fumbling
for her salts. But a moment later the blood suffused
even his neck and brow, and he said passionately.
“I don't believe a word of all this; Miss Marsden
is not capable of such falsehood.”
-- 474 --
[figure description] Page 474.[end figure description]
“Whether, in your unreasoning passion, you will
believe it or not makes no difference,” said Mrs.
Marchmont, quietly. “It is true, as I can prove by
Addie and Miss Parton.”
He took a few hasty strides up and down the
room and muttered:
“I will take her word against all the world.
She shall answer for herself,” and he rang the bell.
When the servant appeared he said:
“Please ask Miss Marsden to come here at
once.”
Mrs. Marchmont regretted Hemstead's action
very much, but it was too firm and decided to be
prevented. She had planned that after his “eyes
had been opened to his folly” and Lottie's frivolity,
to say the least, her nephew would, with quiet
dignity, cease his attentions, and perhaps might
shorten his visit. She had a horror of scenes, but
feared that one was coming now.
Hemstead admitted Lottie with a silent bow
and gave her a chair.
When she saw his grave, pale face, her heart
misgave her strangely, and she trembled so that
even he noticed it, and also another fact—she did
not meet his eyes. He fastened his upon her, as if
he would read her soul, for he now felt that more
than life was at stake.
“Miss Marsden,” he said, in a low, deep tone,
“my aunt has made a strange charge against you,
but I said to her, and I now say to you, that I will
take your word against all the world. She asserts,
-- 475 --
[figure description] Page 475.[end figure description]
and she gives the names of her witnesses, that
your action—your kindness toward me from the
first, has been but the carrying out of a deliberate
and heartless jest. Is it true?”
Lottie's wonted quickness failed her. She had
been so happy, she had seemed to have got so far
beyond her old, false self, and so established in his
affection, that such a reverse did not appear possible.
But the evil that at one time she had feared
had now come in a form so unexpected and serious,
that, for a moment, she was stunned and bewildered,
and fell into helpless confusion. The nature
of the case aggravated her distress. How could
she explain? What could she say? In response
to his question she only trembled more violently
and buried her burning face in her hands.
He saw in this action confirmation of fears that
he at first would scarcely entertain, and regarded
her a moment with a strange expression upon his
face—anger and pity blended, and then silently left
the room.
The sleigh stood at the door, and the coachman
was just starting on an errand to Newburgh.
Mr. Dimmerly looked with surprise at his
nephew's pale face; a surprise that was greatly increased
as the young man seized his hat and coat,
and said in a husky tone:
“I am going to New York for some days,” and
he sprang into the sleigh and was driven away.
“Well,” said the old man, testily, “if she `stopped'
him as easily as that he deserves to lose her.”
-- 476 --
[figure description] Page 476.[end figure description]
And Mrs Marchmont, seeing Hemstead depart
so silently, congratulated herself that she had
escaped a scene after all, and complacently thought,
“These things can be `stopped' if taken in time,
notwithstanding brother's sentimental nonsense.”
As poor Lottie's mind emerged from its chaos
into connected thought, she speedily came to the
conclusion to tell Hemstead the whole truth, to
condemn herself more severely than even he could
in his anger, and ask his forgiveness.
But when she raised her tearful face to speak,
he was gone.
She heard the sound of bells. A sudden fear
chilled her, and she sprang to the window and saw
a vanishing form that she dreaded might be his.
Without a word to Mrs. Marchmont, she rushed
down to the lower hall, where she found Mr. Dimmerly
fuming about.
“Where is Mr. Hemstead?” she asked, eagerly.
“What the deuce is the matter? What have you
and sister been saying that Frank should come
down here white as a sheet?”
“But where is he?” she asked again, in a tone
that her uncle never heard her use before.
“Gone to New York for several days,” he said.
Lottie tottered a moment as if she had received
a blow. With one hand she steadied herself on
the balustrade of the stairs, while she passed the
other across her brow, then turned and wearily
climbed to her room.
-- 477 -- p668-482
CHAPTER XXXIV. LOYAL.
[figure description] Page 477.[end figure description]
BEL was startled at the pallor of Lottie's face
as she entered the room, and rose hastily to
offer assistance, but Lottie motioned her away.
Without a word she threw herself upon the bed and
signified her grief and despair by an act as old as
the oldest records of humanity—she “turned her
face to the wall.”
Bel knew that Mrs. Marchmont had “spoken
plainly,” and had seen Hemstead drive away. She
expected Lottie to come to her room in a towering
passion, and was prepared to weather the storm in
cynical endurance, assured that her friend would
eventually thank her for having had a hand in breaking
up the “whole absurd thing.”
But when Lottie entered, with the expression of
one who had received a mortal wound—when in
silence and despair she had turned her face from all
the world as if there were nothing left in it for
which she cared, the nervous young lady began to
fear that this affair might not pass away like an ordinary
“mood.”
She reasoned and remonstrated, but Lottie did
not heed, and scarcely heard her. Then she went to
Mrs. Marchmont, and disturbed even that lady's
-- 478 --
[figure description] Page 478.[end figure description]
complacency by her account of Lottie's appearance
and manner. But with approving consciences they
both said:
“It was time something was done.”
The dinner hour came, but Lottie silently shook
her head to all urging to come down. It was the
same at supper. Entreaty, remonstrance, the assumption
of hurt and injured tones were alike unavailing.
She lay motionless, like one stunned and
under partial paralysis.
Mrs. Marchmont lost her complacency utterly,
and Mr. Dimmerly proved but Job's comforter, as
he snarled,
“You have `stopped' it with a vengeance. It's
always the way when people meddle.”
Nervous Bel was in a perfect tremor of anxiety,
perplexity, and weak remorse; and she kept flitting
in and out of the room as pale and restless as a disquieted
ghost.”
De Forrest thought he ought to be “chief
mourner,” but no one seemed to pay much attention
to him.
As for Lottie, one ever present thought seemed
scorching her brain and withering heart and hope.
“He thinks me false—false in everything—false
in every glance and word to him—false even when
I spoke of sacred things, and he will despise me forever.”
Little wonder that she was so drearily apathetic
to all that could be said or done to rouse her. The
fall from the pinnacle of her religious hope and
-- 479 --
[figure description] Page 479.[end figure description]
earthly happiness was too far and great to permit
speedy recovery.
At last she rose, and mechanically disrobed for
the night; but no sleep blessed her eyes, for, on
every side, she saw, in flaming letters, the word
“false.” With increasing vividness her fancy portrayed
a pale, stern, averted face.
The next morning she was quite ill, and her
aunt, in alarm, was about sending for the physician,
but Lottie prevented her by saying, somewhat
coldly:
“What drug has the doctor for my trouble? If
you really wish me to get better, give Bel another
room, and leave me to myself. I must fight this
battle out alone.”
“Now, Lottie, how can you take a little thing
so greatly to heart?”
“Is it a little thing, that the one whom I most
honor and respect in all the world regards me as a
false coquette?”
“You surely cannot apply such language to my
nephew?”
“I do; and on the best grounds. If I am
young, I am somewhat capable of judging. He is
not the first man I have seen. You do not know,
and have never appreciated Mr. Hemstead.”
“But, Lottie, compare your station and prospects
with his.”
“There is scarcely any one with whom I would
not exchange prospects. I am sick of society's
artificial distinctions, in which true worth and
-- 480 --
[figure description] Page 480.[end figure description]
manhood—all that Heaven cares for—count for nothing.
What does Mr. Hemstead care about my
wealth, name, and position in New York. He
looks at me; and you, or, rather, my own senseless
folly, have made me appear a weak, false thing,
that, from the very laws of his being, he cannot
help despising. But it was cruel hard in you and
Bel, when you saw that I was trying to be a different,—
a better girl, to show him only what I was,
and give me no chance to explain. He will never
trust,—never even look at me again.” And, for the
first time, the unhappy girl burst into a passion of
tears, and sobbed so long and violently that Mrs.
Marchmont had a distressing consciousness that
her worldly wisdom was not equal to this case at
all. She would have telegraphed Hemstead to
return, if she had known where to address him.
She was often tempted to write to Lottie's mother,
but dreaded the reproaches of Mrs. Marsden for
permitting matters to reach such a crisis before
“stopping” them. And so, in anxiety and perplexity,
the day dragged slowly on, until, at last,
Lottie, wearied out, fell into the heavy sleep of
utter exhaustion, from which she did not wake till
the following morning.
But the respite from that most depressing of all
suffering, mental trouble, had given her a chance,
and her healthful nature began to recover.
She was a girl of too much force and character
to succumb long to any misfortune; and, as she
said to her aunt, she meant to fight this battle out
to some kind of a solution.
-- 481 --
[figure description] Page 481.[end figure description]
To the surprise of every one, she appeared at
the breakfast-table, very pale, but quiet, and perfectly
self-possessed. There was a dignity and decision
in her bearing, however, which would make
even Mrs. Marchmont hesitate before she “meddled”
again. De Forrest was half afraid of her, and began
to realize that she was not the girl he brought to
the country but a few weeks since.
After breakfast, she dismissed Bel, by saying
plainly, that she wished to be alone, and then sat
down, and, for the first time, tried to clearly understand
the situation. It grew more and more evident
how desperately against her were appearances.
She had been false at first, and, in a certain sense,
must appear false to the last, in that she had not
told him the truth. Besides, just when and
how she had become in earnest she could not remember.
The poor girl was greatly discouraged,
and again gave way to tears, as if her heart would
break.
But in the midst of her sore trouble, like a flash
of genial light, came the thought, “If Mr. Hemstead
will never look at me again, there is One who
will,” and she sprang up, and having found a Bible,
turned again to its shortest text, remembering, with
a quick sob, how she had first discovered it. With
almost the distinctness and reality of actual presence,
there rose up before her mind One who,
with bowed head, wept with men for men. Every
tear of sympathy appeared to fall on her bruised
heart: and hope, that she believed dead, began to
-- 482 --
[figure description] Page 482.[end figure description]
revive. She just clung to one simple thought:
“He feels sorry for me;” and it comforted her.
Then she began to turn the leaves back and forth
to find places where Jesus showed kindness and forgave,
and she soon found that this was His life—
His work in which He never wearied—kindness to
all, forgiveness for all. Then the thought stole into
her heart as the dove brought the “olive leaf”
from across a dreary waste, “If Mr. Hemstead is
like his Master he will forgive me.” Hope now
grew strong and steadily, and the impulsive, demonstrative
girl kissed the little Book, pressed it to her
heart, and caressed it as if it were a thing of life.
She got out her portfolio and wrote:
“Mr. Hemstead, I sincerely ask your forgiveness
for my folly, which you cannot condemn as
severely as I do. Though unworthy, indeed, of your
friendship and esteem, can you believe that I am
not now the weak, wicked creature that I was when
we first met? But I have not the courage to plead
my own cause. I know that both facts and appearances
are against me. I can only ask you,
Who told His disciples to forgive each other,
`seventy times seven'?
“Yours, in sorrow and regret,
“Lottie Marsden.”
“I have now done the best I can,” she said,
“The issue is in God's hands.”
At the dinner-table she again perplexed the
mystified household. They, in their narrow worldliness,
had no key to such a problem as Lottie
-- 483 --
[figure description] Page 483.[end figure description]
Marsden had become. She was gentleness itself
The mystic tears falling from Divine eyes had
melted away all coldness and hardness, and the
touch of her words and manner, if we may so speak,
had in it a kindliness and regard for others to which
even the most callous respond. Patient self-forgetfulness
is the most God-like and the most winning
of all the graces.
After dinner, Mr. Dimmerly shuffled away by
himself, with a sound between a sniffle and his old
chuckle, muttering, “I don't believe it's `stopped,'
after all. Any way, I wish she were going to be a
home-missionary in my home.”
Lottie went with Dan again to the pond, and
then to the “fallen tree;” but she found no other
tryst there, save memories, that, in view of what
had happened, were very painful.
After her return, she no longer shunned the
others, but sat down and talked quietly with them,
as multitudes of men and women are doing daily,
giving no sign that in the meantime they are patiently
watching at the sepulchre of a buried hope,
which may, or may not, rise again.
As with Lottie at first, so with Hemstead, the
word “false” seemed to have the malignant power
to quench hope and happiness. If it is faith that
saves, it would seem that it is its opposite—distrust—
that most quickly destroys. In no way can we
deal more fatal and ruinous blows than to deceive
those who trust us.
And Hemstead felt, at first, that he had been
-- 484 --
[figure description] Page 484.[end figure description]
deceived and trifled with, in all that was sacred.
For hours, both faith and reason reeled in passion,
that grew and raged in the strong man's
breast, like a tropical storm. He plunged into the
streets, crowded with his unknowing, uncaring fellow
creatures, as he would lose himself in the
depths of a lonely forest, and walked hour after
hour, he knew not and cared not whither.
Two thoughts pursued him like goading phantoms,—
false—deceived.
At last, when the frenzy left him, weak and exhausted,
he found himself near a large hotel, and
he went in and slept almost as the dead sleep.
In his case also sleep proved “nature's sweet
restorer.” In the morning faith and reason sat together
on their throne, and he recognized the duty
that whatever the truth might be, he must act the
part of a man and a Christian.
He sat down at last and calmly tried to disentangle
the web. Second thoughts brought wiser
judgment, for, after going over every day and hour
of his acquaintance with Lottie, he could scarcely
resist the conclusion that if she had begun in falsehood
she was ending in truth. If she, in all her
words and manner, had been only acting, he could
never trust his senses again or be able to distinguish
between the hollow and the real.
Hour after hour he sat and thought. He held a
solemn assize within his own breast and marshalled
all he could remember as witnesses for and against
her. Much in her conduct that at first had
-- 485 --
[figure description] Page 485.[end figure description]
puzzled, now grew clear in view of her purpose to
victimize him, and even as late as Christmas eve
he remembered how her use of the word “comedy”
had jarred unpleasantly upon his ear. But on the
other hand there seemed even more conclusive
evidence that she had gradually grown sincere, and
come to mean all she said and did. Could the
color that came and went like light from an inner
flame—could tears that seemed to come more
from her heart than eyes—could words that had
sounded so true and womanly, and that had often
dwelt on the most sacred themes be only simulated?
“If so,” he groaned, “then there are only two
in the wide universe that I can ever trust—God and
mother.”
Moreover, in her trial, Lottie had an eloquent
advocate to whom even deliberate reason appeared
only too ready to lend an attentive ear—the student's
heart.
Therefore she finally received a better vindication
than the Scotch verdict “not proven,” and the
young man began to bitterly condemn himself for
having left so hastily, and before Lottie had time
to explain and defend herself.
His first impulse was to go back at once and
give her another hearing.
But almost before he was aware, he found a new
culprit brought to the bar for judgment—himself.
If the trial, just completed, had failed to prove
Lottie's guilt, it had most conclusively shown him
his love. He saw how it had developed and grown
-- 486 --
[figure description] Page 486.[end figure description]
while he was blind to its existence. He saw that
his wild agony of the preceding day was not over
falsehood and deception in the abstract, but over
the supposed falsehood of a woman whom he had
come to love as his own soul. And even now he
was exulting in the hope that she might have
passed as unconsciously as himself, into like sweet
thraldom. In the belief of her truthfulness, how
else could he interpret her glances, tones, actions,
and even plainly-spoken words?
But the flame of hope that had burned higher
and brighter, gradually sank down again as he recalled
his aunt's words, “How is all this sentiment
to end?—in only sentiment?”
He remembered his chosen calling. Could he
ask this child of luxury to go with him to the far
West and share his life of toilsome privation? He
had long felt that the work of a missionary was his
vocation. She had never had any such feeling. He
recalled her words, spoken but yesterday, it seemed:
“Do you imagine that any nice girl will go out with
you among the border ruffians?”
That is the way it appeared to her then. If
such a thing were possible, that she had become
attached to him, would it not be an unfair and almost
a mean thing to take advantage of her affection,
and, by means of it, commit her to a life for
which she was unfitted, and which might become
almost a martyrdom. The change from her luxurious
home to frontier-life would be too great. If
she had felt called of God to such a work—if she
-- 487 --
[figure description] Page 487.[end figure description]
laid herself as a sacrifice upon the Divine Altar,
that would be very different, for the Master would
give no task without imparting strength and patience
for its fulfilment. Besides, He had Heaven
to give in return.
But his unselfish manhood told him plainly that
he, Frank Hemstead, had no right to ask any such
sacrifice.
Incidentally, Lottie had mentioned the number
of her residence, and he hastily went up Fifth
Avenue, and saw her palace of a home. Every
stone in the stately abode seemed part of the barrier
between them.
An elegant carriage, with liveried coachman
and footman came around to the entrance, and a
lady, who had Lottie's features, only they had
grown rigid with pride and age, entered it, and
was driven away. As he saw her stately bearing,
and the pomp and show of her life, he could almost
believe his aunt, that this proud woman of
the world would rather bury the daughter of
whom she expected so much than marry her to an
obscure home missionary.
His heart grew heavy as lead, and he groaned:
“Even if she loves me I have lost her.”
Then came the supreme temptation of his life.
Why must he be a home missionary? Who was
there to compel such a sacrifice of himself? He
might come to this city, and win a place as high as
hers, as many poorer and more friendless than himself
had done. He might even seek some well-located
-- 488 --
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Eastern church. He might aim to be one of the
great popular preachers of the day; and so be
able to come to the door of that proud home, and
ask what it would be no condescension to grant.
Again he was out in the storm—again he was
in the thick of the battle; passionate longings and
love on one hand, stern, steady conscience on the
other. In painful pre-occupation he again walked
unknown distances. His aimless steps took him
away from the mansions of the rich down among
the abodes of the poor. As he was crossing a
street his troubled eyes rested upon a plain cross
over a lowly chapel door. He stopped before it as
a superstitious Romanist might, not reverencing
the emblem, but in vivid remembrance of Him who
suffered thereon. He recalled His self-sacrifice
and His words, “Whosoever doth not bear his
cross and come after me, cannot be my disciple.”
He bowed his head a moment, then turned,
quietly, and went back to his hotel.
The conflict was over—the temptation passed—
and he was loyal.
-- 489 -- p668-494
CHAPTER XXXV. MR. DIMMERLY CONCLUDES TO “MEDDLE. ”
[figure description] Page 489.[end figure description]
HEMSTEAD found some solace, the next
two days, in the selection of books for his
library. He did not expect to visit the East again
for many years, and made all his arrangements
accordingly. He wrote Mr. and Miss Martell a
letter, which they regarded as a model in its
expression of delicate appreciation and manly
modesty.
Toward the end of the week he returned to
Mrs. Marchmont's, by no means sure whether he
would find Lottie there or not, and quite certain
that the less he saw of her the better.
He walked from the depot, and went around
by the way of the pond. His resolution almost
failed him, as he looked at the “fallen tree,” especially
as he believed he saw evidence, from traces
in the snow, that Lottie had visited the place in
his absence.
Lottie looked forward to meeting him again with
a strange blending of hope and fear, and had portrayed
to herself every possible way in which she
imagined it could take place. But it happened, as
such things usually do, after the most prosaic
fashion possible. They were all sitting in the
-- 490 --
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parlor, after dinner, and Hemstead opened the door
and walked in.
Her face became scarlet, but his was so pale as
to remind her of the time when he carried Miss
Martell into that room. It was, indeed, the pallor
of one who was making a desperate moral effort.
But he was successful, and spoke to her, giving his
hand, in almost the same manner as he greeted his
aunt. His bearing toward even De Forrest was
most courteous. He then sat down composedly,
and commenced talking on ordinary topics.
Lottie's heart failed her. This was entirely different
from what she expected. His manner was
not in the least cold or resentful, but his words
seemed to come from a great distance, and his eyes
no longer sought her face, as if she only had for
him the true sunlight. Their old, quick, subtle interchange
of sympathy and thought appeared lost,
as completely as if a thick wall rose between them.
The warm-hearted girl could not act his part. She
was silent, and her head bent low over her work.
Bel and Mrs. Marchmont were greatly pleased,
and gave Hemstead credit for being a “very sensible
young man, who having been shown his folly,
could act like a gentleman and not make a fuss.”
Even De Forrest looked at the student quite
approvingly, especially as he had been to a city
tailor and was clothed in taste and in harmony with
his manly proportions. No amount of grace and virtue
could find recognition in De Forrest's eyes, unless
dressed in the latest mode.
-- 491 --
[figure description] Page 491.[end figure description]
Mr. Dimmerly, from behind his newspaper,
stared for a long time at Lottie and his nephew,
and then snarled abruptly:
“It's getting deuced cold. The brook will stop
running down hill to-night, I'm a thinking—freeze
up,” and he stirred the fire as if he had a spite
against it.
Lottie's head bent lower. She was beginning to
understand her crochety uncle. She, too, thought
that it was getting very “cold.”
After a while Hemstead quietly left them and
went to his room and did not appear again till they
were all at supper. He then, with a simple, yet
quiet, high-bred ease,—the bearing of a natural
gentleman—gave sketches of what he had seen in
New York, and the latest literary gossip. His
manner toward Lottie was, as near as possible, the
same as toward Bel and his cousin. He so completely
ignored all that had happened—all that had
passed between them that Lottie almost feared to
give him the note she had written. She could not
rally, but grew more and more depressed and silent,
a fact which De Forrest and her aunt marked uneasily.
After supper he remarked that he would go over
and say good-bye to Mr. and Miss Martell and
Harcourt.
With what a foreboding chill Lottie heard that
word “Good-bye!” Would he, indeed, go away
without giving her a chance to say one word of explanation?
She could endure it no longer. In
-- 492 --
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accordance with her impulsive nature, she went
straight to him, and said in a low tone:
“Mr. Hemstead, will you please read that?”
He trembled, but took the note, and said, after
a moment, “Certainly,” and was gone.
An hour passed, and another, still he did not return.
Lottie's head bent lower and lower over her
work. Mr. Dimmerly never played a more wretched
game of whist. At last he quite startled them all
by throwing down the cards and saying, in the most
snappish of tones:
“I wish the blockhead would come home.”
“Why, brother, what is the matter?” asked Mrs.
Marchmont, in a tone of surprise.
“I want to lock up,” said the old gentleman, in
some confusion.
“It's not late, yet.”
“Well, it ought to be. I never knew such an
eternally long evening. The clocks are all wrong,
and everything is wrong.”
“There, there, you have had bad luck over your
whist.”
But Lottie knew what was the matter, and she
gave him a shy, grateful look. But the old man
was still more incensed, when he saw that there
were tears in her eyes, and he shuffled away, muttering
something that sounded a little profane.
Lottie, soon after, left the room also, but as she
was passing through the hall she met Hemstead,
who had come in at a side door. He took her hand
in both of his, and said, gently:
-- 493 --
[figure description] Page 493.[end figure description]
I do forgive you, fully and completely, and I
have your forgiveness to ask for my hasty judgment.”
“And will you be my friend again?” she asked,
timidly, and in a way that taxed his resolution
sorely.
“You have no truer friend,” he said, after a moment.
“I think it was a little cruel, in so true a friend,
to leave me all this desperately long evening.”
“You are mistaken,” he said, abruptly, and
passed hastily up to his room, and she did not see
him again that night.
What could he mean? Had he recognized her
love, and not being able to return it fully, did he
thus avoid her and hasten through his visit? The
bare thought crimsoned her cheek. But she felt
that this could not be true. She knew he had loved
her, and he could not have changed so soon. It
was more probable that he believed that she was
totally unfit to share in his sacred work—that he
feared she would be a hindrance, and, therefore, he
was shunning, and seeking to escape from one who
might dim the lustre of his spiritual life and work.
In some respects, she had grown quite humble of
late, and feared he might be correct, and that she was
indeed utterly unfit to share in his sacred calling.
“But if he only knew how hard I would try!”
she said, with a touch of pathos in her tone, which
would have settled matters if he had heard it.
That he was sacrificing himself rather than ask
-- 494 --
[figure description] Page 494.[end figure description]
her to share in his life privation did not occur to
her.
Restless and unhappy, she wandered into the
dining-room, where she found Mr. Dimmerly standing
on the hearth-rug, and staring at the fire in a fit
of the deepest abstraction. Lottie was so depressed,
that she felt that even a little comfort from him
would be welcome; so she stole to his side and
took his arm. He stroked her head with a gentleness
quite unusual with him. Finally he said, in a
voice that he meant to be very harsh and matter
of fact:
“Hasn't that nephew of mine got home yet?
I feel as if I could break his head.”
“And I feel,” said Lottie, hiding her face on
his shoulder, “as if he would break my heart, and
you are the only one in the house who understands
me or cares.”
“Well, well,” said the old gentleman, after a
little, “others have been meddling, I think I will
meddle a little.”
Lottie started up in a way that surprised him,
and with eyes flashing through her tears said:
“Not a word to him, as you value my love.”
“Hold on,” said the little man, half breathlessly.
“What's the matter? you go off like a keg
of powder.”
“I wouldn't sue for the hand of a king,” said
Lottie, heroically.
“Bless you child, he isn't a king. He's only
Frank Hemstead, my nephew—bound to be a forlorn
home missionary he says.
-- 495 --
[figure description] Page 495.[end figure description]
“Well then,” she said, drawing a long breath,
if he can't see for himself, let him marry a pious
Western giantess, who will go with him for the sake
of the cause instead of himself.”
“In the meantime,” suggested Mr. Dimmerly,
“we will go back to New York and have a good
time as before.”
This speech brought to the warm-hearted girl
another revulsion of feeling, and again hiding her
face on her uncle's shoulder, she sobbed:
“I would rather be his slave on a desert island
than marry the richest man in New York.”
“And my wise and prudent sister thought it
could be `stopped',” chuckled Mr. Dimmerly.
“But remember, uncle, not a word of this to
him, or I will refuse him though my heart break a
thousand times. If he does not love me well
enough to ask me of his own accord, or if he does
not think I am fit to go with him, I would rather
die than thrust myself upon him.”
“Bless me, what a queer compound a woman
is! It won't do for you to go West. You will set
the prairies on fire. There, there, now don't be
afraid. If you think I can say anything to my
nephew—the thick-headed blunderbuss—which will
prevent his getting down on his knees to ask for
what he'll never deserve, you don't know the Dimmerly
blood. Trust to the wisdom of my gray
hairs and go to bed.”
“But, uncle, I would rather you wouldn't say
anything at all,” persisted Lottie.
-- 496 --
[figure description] Page 496.[end figure description]
“Well I won't, about you,” said her uncle in assumed
irritability. “I can get the big ostrich to
pull his head out of the sand and speak for himself,
I suppose. He's my nephew and I'm going to
have a talk with him before he leaves for the West.
So be off, I'm getting cross.”
But Lottie gave him a kiss that stirred even his
old, withered heart.
“Oh, good gracious,” he groaned after she was
gone, “Why was I ever `stopped?'”
The next morning, Hemstead appeared at
breakfast as calm, pale, and resolute as ever. His
manner seemed to say plainly to Lottie, “Our old
folly is at an end. I have remembered the nature
of my calling, and I know only too well that you
are unfitted to share in it.”
She was all the more desponding, as she remembered
how conscientious he was.
“If he thinks it's wrong, there's no hope,” she
thought, drearily.
After breakfast Mr. Dimmerly said, “Nephew,
I wish you would do a little writing for me, my
hand isn't as steady as it was,” and he took the student
off to his private study.
After the writing was finished, Mr. Dimmerly
gave a few awkward preliminary ahems, and then
said:
“So you go West next Monday?”
“Yes. I wish to get off on the first train.”
“You seem very anxious to get away.'
“I am sorry, now, I ever came,” the young man
said, in tones of the deepest sadness.
-- 497 --
[figure description] Page 497.[end figure description]
“Thank you.”
“Oh, it's no fault of yours. You and aunt have
been very kind, but —”
“But you are thinking of the `noblest and most
beautiful being in existence,' as you once referred
to my pretty little niece. You have, evidently,
changed your mind. Did you see some one in New
York you liked better?”
“I have not changed my mind. I have only
learned too well what my mind is. I wish that I
had learned it sooner. There is one thing that
troubles me greatly, uncle. I cannot speak of it to
aunt, because—well, I can't. Do you think that
Miss Marsden cares much for me? She will surely
forget me, will she not, in the excitement of her
city life? I do hope she has no such feeling as I
have.”
Mr. Dimmerly stared at his nephew as if he
thought him demented.
“Well,” said he, “I think you have been `enchanted,
and are no longer yourself.' You now
out-Bottom old Bottom himself. Do you mean
to say that you love such a gem of a girl as Lottie,
and yet hope she does not love you, and will soon
forget you?”
“Certainly I do. If I had my will, she would
not have another unhappy hour in her life.”
“Well, if you have the faintest notion that she
has any regard for you, why don't you get down on
your marrow-bones and plead for a chance to make
her happy? If I were in your place, and there was
-- 498 --
[figure description] Page 498.[end figure description]
half a chance to win a Lottie Marsden, I would
sigh like a dozen furnaces, and swear more oaths
than were heard in Flanders, if it would help matters
along any.”
“But would you ask her to leave a home of
luxury, her kindred, and every surrounding of culture
and refinement, to go out on a rude frontier, and to
share in the sternest poverty and the most wearing
of work?”
“O-h-h, that is the hitch, is it?”
“Yes. Before I was aware, I had learned to
love her. I trust she will never know how deeply,
for if she had half a woman's heart, she would be
sad from very pity. If, unconsciously to herself,
some regard for me has grown during our visit, it
would be a mean and unmanly thing to take
advantage of it to inveigle her into a life that
would be a painful contrast to all that she had
known before. It would be like a soldier asking a
woman to share all the hardships and dangers of a
campaign.”
Mr. Dimmerly stroked his chin thoughtfully,
while he regarded his nephew with a shrewd, sidelong
glance. “Well,” said he, suggestively, “there
is force in what you say. But is there any necessity
in your being a home missionary, and living
out among the `border ruffians,' as Lottie used to
call them? There are plenty of churches at the
East. Dr. Beams is old and sick; there may be a
vacancy here before long.”
“No, uncle,” said Hemstead, firmly, “I fought
-- 499 --
[figure description] Page 499.[end figure description]
that fight out in New York, and it was a hard one
I have felt for years that I must be a missionary,
and shall be true to my vocation. It 's duty,” and
he brought his clenched hand down heavily on the
table.
“My good gracious!” ejaculated Mr. Dimmerly,
giving a nervous hop in the air. “Between
the two, what will become of me? Yes, yes; I
see. You are like your mother. If she took it into
her head that anything was `duty,' all the world
couldn't change her. So, rather than give up being
a missionary, you will sacrifice yourself and
Lottie too?”
“I should have no hesitation in making the
sacrifice myself, but it would more than double my
pain if I knew she suffered. And it is this that
troubles me. But I must obey my orders, whatever
happens.”
“Well,” said Mr. Dimmerly, dryly, and with a
queer little twinkle in his eyes, “I cannot give you
much aid and comfort. I never meddle in such
matters. A third party never can. Of course you
can sacrifice yourself and your own happiness if
you choose. That is your own affair. But when it
comes to sacrificing another, that is very different.
Lottie is a warm-hearted girl with all her faults,
and if she ever does love, it will be no half-way
business with her. So be careful what you do.
Sacrificing her happiness is a very different thing
from sacrificing your own.”
“But do you think there is any danger of such
-- 500 --
[figure description] Page 500.[end figure description]
a thing?” asked Hemstead, in a tone of the deepest
distress.
“Bless me, boy, how should I know?” said his
uncle, in seeming irritability. “Do you think that
I am a go-between for you two? Why don't you
go and ask her like a man? How do you know but
she has a vocation to be a missionary as well as
yourself?”
Hemstead strided up and down the room, the
picture of perplexity. “Was ever a man placed in
so cruel a position?” he groaned. But after a
moment he became quiet and said:
“When a thing is settled, let it stay settled;
my course is the only right and manly one,” and he
left the room saying he would be out for a walk till
dinner.
But, as he entered the hall, Addie cried:
“Frank, you must go; we won't take no for
an answer.”
“Go where?”
“To West Point. It's a glorious day. We
want one more sleigh-ride before we break up; one
that shall exceed all the others. There is going to
be a cadet hop over there this afternoon, in the
dancing-hall, and a friend has sent for us to come.
I've set my heart on going, and so has Bel and
Lottie. Mother says that we can go, if you will go
with us and drive, for the coachman is ill. You
will see lots of grand scenery, and all that kind of
thing, which you like so much.”
“And have you set your heart on the `cadet
hop' also?” asked Hemstead of Lottie.
-- 501 --
[figure description] Page 501.[end figure description]
“I think I would appreciate scenery more at
present,” she said, with a quick blush.
“You'll go—say you'll go. He'll go, mother.
It's all settled. Let us have some lunch, and we'll
start at once;” and the spoiled, little beauty
already anticipated the conquest of a cadet or two
as a holiday episode.
So, in a single, breezy moment, it was arranged
Hemstead scarcely having a voice in the matter.
As he mounted to his room, reason told him that
this long drive in the society of the one whom he
believed he should avoid, for her sake as well as
his own, was anything but wise. But he tried to
satisfy himself with the thought that at no time
would he be alone with her, and his heart craved
this one more day of companionship, before a life-time
of separation.
As Lottie was about to ascend the stairs, she
heard, for the first time since that wretched Monday,
Mr. Dimmerly's queer, chuckling laugh. She
looked into the parlor, and seeing that he was alone,
went straight to him, and said:
“Now! what do you mean by that queer, little
laugh of yours?”
“Why do you think I mean anything?” he said,
staring at the ceiling.
“Because I haven't heard it since that dreadful
Monday, and before I always heard it when something
nice had happened between me and—and—'
“Some one told me last night to mind my own
business.”
-- 502 --
[figure description] Page 502.[end figure description]
“Now, uncle, you know something.”
“I should hope so, at my years, enough not to
meddle.” And he still stared high over her head.
“There,” said Lottie, with tears in her eyes,
“everybody in the house is against me now.”
The old man's eyes dropped to her flushed, disappointed
face, and his became almost noble in its
expression of tender sympathy. In a grave, gentle
tone, such as she never had heard him use before,
he said:
“Lottie, come to my private study, before you
go.”
While the others were discussing the lunch, she
glided, unseen, to the little study, that she might
receive some comfort to sustain her fainting heart
Her uncle's first words, however, seemed prosaic,
indeed, and very different from what she expected.
“How old are you, Lottie?”
“I was twenty-one last June,” she said, a little
proudly.
“So you are a June blossom, eh? Well, you
look like it.” But he puzzled her by his long,
searching glance into her face.
“Why do you ask?” he said.
“I want to be sure that you are old and
mature enough to decide a very important question.”
“Well,” said Lottie her breath coming quick,
“I intend to decide all questions which relate to
my own life and well-being.”
“Be careful, young Woman. You had better
-- 503 --
[figure description] Page 503.[end figure description]
follow the advice of old and wise heads like your
aunt's and mother's.”
“Uncle, what do you mean?” said she, impatiently.
“Well,” said Mr. Dimmerly, deliberately, looking
searchingly into her face all the time, “I have
sounded that thick-headed nephew of mine—there
you needn't start so; do you suppose a Dimmerly
would betray a woman's secret?—and what do you
think he most dreads to discover as true?—that you
love him a little.”
“It's something he never shall discover,” said
Lottie, almost harshly, springing up with flashing
eyes and scarlet face. “I will not go on this ride,
and he shall have no trouble in escaping my society.”
“Hold on, now,” expostulated Mr. Dimmerly,
“nitro-glycerine doesn't go off half so quick as you
of late. I haven't told you why he is afraid you
love him.”
“What other reason can he have save that he
doesn't love me, or thinks I am unfit to be a clergyman's
wife?”
“He has another reason—one that will devolve
upon you the necessity of deciding some very
important questions. Are you old and mature
enough?”
“O, uncle,” exclaimed Lottie, impatiently tapping
the floor with her foot. “You ought to be
made Grand Inquisitor General. You have kept
me upon the rack of suspense—it seems on hour.”
-- 504 --
[figure description] Page 504.[end figure description]
“Hold on, little fire-brand. Questions concerning
a life-time should not be decided in a moment.
You had better take a few years—certainly, a few
months—to think over what I am going to tell you.
Frank worships the ground you tread on. He does
not give you the little remnant of a heart that has
been left after dozens of flirtations with other girls.
You have the whole of his big, unworldly heart,
and from what I know of him, or rather, his mother,
you always will; but he is that unselfish—that unlike
the rest of us—that he won't ask you to exchange
your life of wealth and luxury for his life
of toil, poverty, and comparative exile. So, while
I believe he will idolize your memory all his days,
he is hoping that you won't suffer any, but will
soon be able to forget him. Of course, I feigned
profound ignorance, as to your feelings, and left
him in a pitiable state of distress. But he finally
concluded that even if you did love him a little, it
would be very unmanly to take advantage of your
feelings, to get you into the awful scrape of a
home-missionary's life.”
As Mr. Dimmerly proceeded in this last speech,
joy came into Lottie's face, like the dawn of a June
morning. Tears gathered slowly in her eyes, but
their source was happiness, not sorrow. By the
time he concluded, she had buried her burning face
in her hands.
“Well,” said her uncle, after a moment, “what's
to be done I hardly know. He is just like his
mother. If he thinks it isn't right to speak,
-- 505 --
[figure description] Page 505.[end figure description]
tortures could not wring a word out of him. I don't
see but you will have to propose yourself —”
“`Propose, myself'! Never,” she said, springing
to her feet.
“What will you do, then; sit and look at each
other, and fade away like two dying swans?”
“No, indeed;” said Lottie, dancing about the
room, and brushing the tears from her face, like
spray. “He shall propose to me, and very humbly,
too. I have the key to the problem, now. My
hand is now on the helm of this big ship of war,
and you shall see how I will manage. He shall do
just what I want him to, without knowing it. He
shall—”
“But, hold on,” said Mr. Dimmerly, breathlessly.
“You look like a rainbow run wild. Listen
to reason. Oh, my good gracious, the idea of her
being a home-missionary!”
“That is just what I am going to be—a home-missionary,
in his home; and all the principalities
and powers of earth shall not prevent it. And now,
you dear, precious, old meddler, good-bye. You
shall, one day, sit in the snuggest corner of as cosey
a little home in the West, as was ever made in the
East,” and she vanished, leaving the old gentleman
chuckling to himself:
“It doesn't look as if it would be `stopped'
after all. Perhaps sister will find out that I know
how to meddle a trifle better than she does.
-- 506 -- p668-511
CHAPTER XXXVI. A NIGHT IN THE SNOW.
[figure description] Page 506.[end figure description]
WHERE have you been?” exclaimed Addie
as Lottie came down dressed warmly, but
plainly. “We are all through lunch, and ready to
start.”
“I will not detain you, but will wrap up some
lunch and take it with me. May I sit with you?”
she said to Hemstead, a little later, as she came out
where he was standing on the piazza.
“You will be very much exposed to the cold
on the driver's seat, Miss Marsden,” he said, hesitatingly;
but she saw well enough what he wished,
though conscience was condemning him all the
time.
“So will you,” she answered.
“Yes, but I am a man.”
“And I am a woman,” she said, with something
of her old piquant style. “I do not like your
implied assertion of superiority, sir. I have as
good a right to expose myself to the cold as a
man.”
“I was not disputing your right, Miss Marsden,
but—”
“Oh, I understand. You are of those who
think so poorly of women, as to regard them
-- 507 --
[figure description] Page 507.[end figure description]
nerely as men's pets—the weaker sex you would
call us, who prefer to wait till everything is made
nice and comfortable, and then languidly step forward.
In your reading of history, I think you must
have skipped several chapters.”
“You do me injustice,” said Hemstead, warmly,
and falling blindly into her trap. “If I had
skipped all the chapters which treat of woman's
heroism, in doing and suffering, I should, indeed,
know little of history. She has proved herself the
equal, and at times, the superior of man.”
“Pardon me,” said Lottie, in a hurt and injured
tone, “I shall reach the unwelcome truth at last; it
is not woman in general who is weak, but Lottie
Marsden in particular. I am very sorry that you
have so poor an opinion of me, and I shall try to
change it somewhat, by enduring, on this drive, all
the exposure and cold that you can.”
As the sleigh just then came up, she settled
the question by springing in and taking her place
on the driver's seat.
Hemstead was perfectly nonplussed, and Mr.
Dimmerly, who had stood in the door and heard
what had been said, retreated rapidly, as he broke
out into the most irrepressible chuckle in which
he had yet indulged.
“Now, Miss Lottie,” whined De Forrest, coming
out muffled to his eyes, “are you going to sit
there?”
“Certainly. You have Addie and Bel to talk
to. Did you suppose that Mr. Hemstead was to be
-- 508 --
[figure description] Page 508.[end figure description]
treated like a coachman because he kindly consented
to drive us over?”
“Let me drive, then.”
“No, indeed,” cried Bel and Addie in chorus,
“We won't trust to your driving.” So De Forrest
with very poor grace, took his seat with them, and
with his back to those that he would gladly have
watched most suspiciously. He had grown desperately
jealous of Hemstead, and yet his vanity would
not permit him to believe it possible that Lottie
Marsden, of all others, could be won to such a life
as the predestined missionary would lead. Like
the narrow rationalists of this world, he was ever
underrating the power of that kind of truth with
which Hemstead was identified. To all of his ilk
the apparent self-sacrifice caused by love to God,
and its kindred flame, love (not a passion) for some
human object, has ever appeared both stupid and
irrational. He did not understand Lottie and could
only curse the wretched visit, and wish it over every
moment. When she returned, he believed, to old
scenes and life in New York, she would soon be
her old self.
Since he could not watch them, he tried to use
his ears as far as possible, but the noisy bells
drowned their voices, so that he could catch but
few words. He was somewhat comforted in the
fact that at first they did not appear to have very
much to say to each other.
Hemstead tried to introduce various topics remote
from the thoughts that were weighing
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both their hearts, but Lottie did not sustain his
effort. She maintained her hurt and injured air
until at last he could no longer endure her grieved,
sad face, and said, in a low tone:
“And could you imagine that I regard you, of
all others, as weak and unwomanly?”
“What else could I think from your words? I
admit I have given you cause to think very poorly
of me indeed. Still it's anything but pleasant to
be so regarded, by those whose esteem we value.”
“But I do not think poorly of you, at all,” said
Hemstead, half desperately, “How little you understand
me.”
“I understand you better than you do me. You
are a man. You have high aims, and have chosen
a noble calling. But you have the same as said
that I am only a woman, and a very ordinary one
at that, not capable of emulating the lives of my
heroic sisters. I must be shielded from the rough
wind, while you, in your superiority, can face it as a
matter of course. And your later words intimate
that so, figuratively, it will always be, in my case—
weak, womanly, shrinking, and cowering, ever
shielded by something or somebody. History, to
be sure, records what women may do, but that is
a very different thing from what Miss Marsden
will do.”
“You go to extremes, Miss Marsden, and infer
far more than the occasion warrants,” Hemstead
replied, in great perplexity. “Was it unnatural that
I wished you to be shielded from the cold?”
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“And was it unnatural,” she answered, “that
since one of our party must be exposed to the cold, I
should be willing to share in the exposure? But it
is to your later words that I refer, and not the
trifling incident that led to them. They, with your
manner, revealed, perhaps, more than you intended.
You once said I was `capable of the noblest things.'
I knew that was not true then, and to may lasting
regret, and I proved the fact to you. But I think
I have changed somewhat since that time. At least,
I hope I am no longer capable of the meanest
things.”
“Miss Marsden,” he said, impetuously, “you
now give me credit for knowing you better than at
that time—”
“Yes, and you have evidently revised your
opinion very materially. But, as I said before, I
can scarcely complain, when I remember my own
action. But you will never know how bitterly I have
repented of my folly. When that terrible charge was
made against me last Monday—it came when I was
so happy and hopeful, like a sudden thunderbolt—
I thought I would lose my reason. I felt that you
had gone away believing I was utterly false, and
had been insincere in everything, from first to last.
I was like one who had fallen from a great height,
and I scarcely spoke or moved for two days. I was
not like some girls, who imagine they can find a
remedy for their troubles in wealth and luxury and
attention from others. I have had these things all
my life, and know how little they are worth—how
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little they can do for one at such times No one
will ever know what I suffered. At first, when you
thought so well of me, I deserved your harshest condemnation.
But it did seem cruel, hard, when I
was honestly trying to be better—when, at last, my
life had become real and true, to be cast aside as a
false thing, that must, of necessity, be despised.
I dreaded, last night, that you were going away
without giving me any chance to explain and correct
my folly. I did mean that Monday to tell you
the truth, and would have done so, if you had given
me a chance. I would have condemned myself
then, and I do now, more severely than even you
could, who had such just cause for anger. But, Mr.
Hemstead, I have changed. In all sincerity I say
it, I wish to become a good, Christian girl, and
would do so, if I only knew how. I was not deceiving
you when I said last Christmas Eve that I
hoped I had become a Christian. I still think
I have, though for two days I was in thick darkness.
At any rate, I love my Saviour, and He has helped
and comforted me in this greatest trial and sorrow
of my life. I was led to hope that you would forgive
me, because He seemed so ready to forgive.
There! I have now done what I have been most
anxious to do—I have told you the truth. I have
said all that I can, justly, in self-defense. If I have
not raised your opinion of me very greatly, I cannot
help it, for, henceforth I intend to be honest,
whatever happens.”
Lottie had said the words she so wished to speak
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in a low tone, but with almost passionate earnestness,
and no one could have doubted their truth a
moment. The horses had been trotting briskly
over the level ground at the foot of the steep
mountain slope, and the noisy bells that made
musical accompaniment to her words, as heard by
Hemstead, disguised them from De Forrest and the
others. The student received each one as if it were
a pearl of great price.
But now the horses, mounting the steep ascent,
had come down to a walk, and the chime of the
bells was not sufficient to drown his words. If he
had answered as his feelings dictated, the attention
of the others would be gained in a very embarrassing
way. He could only say in a very low
tone, “I believe and trust you fully.”
But Lottie heard and welcomed the assurance.
The light of the sun, that had been too brilliant
upon the snow, was now becoming softened by an
increasing haze. The air was growing milder, and
the branches of bowed evergreens by the way-side
suddenly lifted themselves as the hold of the fleecy
burdens was loosened, and the miniature avalanches
dropped away. At times, they reached points
from which the magnificent and broadening landscape
could be seen to the best advantage, and as
Hemstead stopped the horses at such places to rest,
even Bel and Addie abounded in exclamations of
delight. The river had become a vast, white plain,
and stretched far away to the north. The scene
was one that would have filled Hemstead with
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delight upon any other occasion, but Lottie was now
well pleased to note that he gave to it hurried glances
and little thought.
His face was a study, and, more clearly than he
realized, betrayed the perplexity and trouble of his
mind. How could he give up the lovely girl at his
side, whose very imperfection and need won more
upon him than any display of conscious strength
and advanced spirituality? Her frankness, her humility
and severe self-condemnation appealed to
every generous trait of his large, charitable nature.
He now believed as never before, that she was “capable
of the noblest things,” and he began to suffer
from the torturing thought, that his course was
a mistaken one, and that he wronged her by acting
upon the supposition that her old surroundings of
luxury and culture were essential to her happiness.
Might it not be true that, in a nature like hers,
something far more profound was needed to create
and sustain true serenity of heart? Had she not
the same as plainly said, that she had fathomed the
shallow depths of luxury, wealth, and general flattering
attention? Had she not unconsciously given
him a severe rebuke? What right had he to assume
that he was any more capable of heroic
self-sacrifice than she? Only the certainty that he
was sacrificing himself for her happiness enabled
him to make the sacrifice at all, and now he began
to think that his course might be a wretched blunder
which would blight them both. The very possibility
of making such a mistake was agony. To
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have come so near happiness, and then to miss it
by as great a wrong to her as to himself, would be
more than fortitude itself could endure. His uncle's
words were ever present: “If Lottie loved, it
would be no half-way business. He had no right
to sacrifice her happiness.” It was her happiness
that he was thinking of, and if he could secure it
best by, at the same time, consummating his own, it
seemed to him that heaven would commence at once.
A trivial circumstance had enabled Lottie to intimate
plainly to him that he had the same as asserted
“I am a man, and can do that of which only
the noblest and most unselfish natures are capable.
You are not only a woman, but you cannot rise to
the level of many of your sisters, who have left on
history's page the heroic record of how they triumphed
over the supposed weakness of their sex.”
What he had not meant, but still had appeared to
hint from his language, was he not, in fact, practically
acting upon as true? While he had taken his
course in the spirit of the most generous self-sacrifice,
might he not, at the same time, be ignoring the
fact that she was as capable of self-sacrifice, and
noble consecration to a sacred cause, as himself.
If she had been sincere in her religious experiences,
and all her words and actions in that direction,
how could he help believing that she was
equally sincere in the language of tone and eye,
which had revealed her heart so plainly that even
he, who was the last in the world to presume, had
come to think that she loved him. And yet he
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was about to make his life and, perhaps, hers also,
one long regret, because he had quietly assumed
that she was one of those women whose life depended
on surroundings, and to whose soul mere
things could minister more than the love of her
heart and the consciousness of a heroic devotion to
a sacred cause. Lottie had skillfully and clearly
given the impression she sought to convey; and
this impression, uniting with the student's love,
formed a combination whose assaults caused what
he supposed an inflexible purpose to waver.
Lottie's quick intuition enabled her to see that
she had led him far enough at present, while they
were in such close proximity to jealous, observant
eyes, and attentive ears, and so, with equal tact, led
his thoughts to more tranquilizing topics. She was
employing all the skill and finesse of which she had
been mistress in the days of her insincerity and
heartless coquetry. These gifts were still hers, as
much as ever. But now they were under the control
of conscience, and would henceforth be used,
as now, to secure and promote happiness, not to
destroy it.
And she felt that she had need of tact and skill.
The situation was not so very peculiar. Many had
passed through just such experiences before, but
have all passed on to lives of consummated happiness?
She loved the man at her side devotedly,
and was perfectly aware of his love for her, and yet,
woman's silence was upon her lips. They were
soon to separate, not to meet again for many years,
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[figure description] Page 516.[end figure description]
if ever. She could not speak; if from any motive,
even the noblest, he did not speak, how could she
meet the long, lonely future, in which every day
would make more clear the dreary truth that she
had missed her true life and happiness—missed it
through no necessity that might in the end bring
resignation, but through a mistake; the unselfish
blundering of a man who wrongly supposed she
could be happier without than with him. It was
her delicate task to show him, without abating one
jot of woman's jealous reserve, that she was capable
of all the self-sacrifice to which he looked forward,
and that, as his uncle had told him, he had no
right to sacrifice her happiness.
He was one of those single-hearted, resolute
fellows, who have the greatest faculty for persistently
blundering under an honest but wrong impression.
But, in this case, his impression was
natural, and he was wrong, only because Lottie was
“capable of noble things”—only because she did
belong to that class of women to whom the love of
their heart counts for infinitely more than all externals.
If he had fallen in love with a very goodish
sort of a girl of the Bel Parton type, the course
he had marked out would have been the wisest and
best, eventually, for both, even though it involved,
at first, considerable suffering.
When a wife assures her husband, by word or
manner, you took advantage of my love and inexperience
to commit me to a life and condition that
are distasteful or revolting, and you have thereby
-- 517 --
[figure description] Page 517.[end figure description]
inflicted an irreparable injury, the man, if he be finefibred
and sensitive, can only look forward to a
painful and aggravated form of martyrdom. One
had better live alone as long as Methuselah, than
induce a small-souled woman to enter with him on
a life involving continual self-sacrifice. With such
women, some men can be tolerably happy, if they
have the means to carry out the “gilded cage”
principle. But woe to them both if the gilded cage
is broken or lost, and they have to go out into the
great world and build their nest wherever they can.
Providence had given to Lottie the chance to
live the life of ideal womanhood—the life of love
and devotion, and she did not mean to lose it.
Like the Marys of the Bible, who were loyal to the
lowly Nazarene, her awakened and renewed nature
was capable of consecration to what the world regarded
as a humble phase of Christian service, and
while her high spirit would often chafe with a little
wholesome friction, it would yet grow sweeter and
more patient under the trials of the hardest lot, if
they could only be endured at his side, to whom, by
some mystic necessity of her being, she had given
her heart.
It was, therefore, with unmingled satisfaction she
saw that she was sapping the student's stern resolution
not to speak. She would, by a witchery as
innocent as subtle, beguile him into just the opposite
of what he had proposed. As she had declared to
her uncle, he should ask her, in a very humble manner,
to become a home-missionary, and she, under
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[figure description] Page 518.[end figure description]
the circumstances, was more ready to comply than
to become Empress of all the Russias.
But, during the remainder of the ride, she made
the time pass all too quickly as she led him to
speak of his student life, his Western home, and
especially of his mother; and Lottie smiled appreciatively
over the enthusiasm and affection which
he manifested for one, concerning whom she had
ever heard Mrs. Marchment speak a little slightingly.
The genuine interest which she took in all
that related to Mrs. Hemstead touched the young
man very closely, and his whole nature was getting
under arms against what his heart was beginning to
characterize as a most unnatural and stupid resolution.
De Forrest was greatly relieved as he heard
Hemstead describing his humble, farm-house home
and toilsome mother, for the student softened none
of the hard outlines of their comparative poverty.
“The great fool!” thought the exquisite; “even
if Lottie were inclined to care for him somewhat,
he has repelled her now by revealing his common
and poverty-stricken surroundings.”
But as Lottie became satisfied that Hemstead
would not be able to go away in silence, a new
cause of trouble and perplexity claimed her attention.
Not that she had not thought of it often
before, since she had realized how irrevocably she
had given away her love, but other and more immediate
questions had occupied her mind. How
was she to reconcile her fashionable mother and
-- 519 --
[figure description] Page 519.[end figure description]
worldly father to her choice? She clearly recognized
that what to her seemed the most natural—
indeed, the only thing in life left for her—would
appear to one simply monstrous, and to the other
the baldest folly.
She loved her parents sincerely, for, with all her
faults, she had never been cold-hearted; and, while
she proposed to be resolute, it was with the deepest
anxiety and regret that she foresaw the inevitable
conflict awaiting.
But when she could think of nothing that could
be said which would soften the blow, or make her
course appear right or reasonable, as they would
look at it, a circumstance occurred which led, as
she then believed, to the solution of the problem.
After driving between two and three hours, they
reached West Point in safety, and, as they were
passing along by the officers' quarters, Lottie recognized
a young lady who was one of her most intimate
city friends, and who, she soon learned, was
making a visit in the country, like herself. Lottie
told Bel and Addie to go on to the dancing-hall,
while she called on her friend, saying, “I will soon
join you.”
The relations between Lottie and her friend
were quite confidential, and the latter soon bubbled
over with her secret. She was engaged to a cadet,
who would graduate the following June.
“But he is away down toward the end of his
class, and so, of course, will have to go out upon
the Plains,” she said, with a little sigh.
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“What will you do then?” asked Lottie, quickly,
a bright thought striking her. “You surely
will not exchange your elegant city home for barracks
in some remote fort, where you may be scalped
any night?”
“I surely will,” said the vivacious young lady,
“and if you ever become half as much in love as I
am, it won't seem a bit strange.”
“But what do your parents say to all this?”
“Oh, well, of course they would much prefer
that I should marry and settle in New York. But
then, you know, mother always had a great admiration
for the army, and it's quite the thing, in
fashionable life, to marry into the army and navy—
why, bless you, Lottie, nearly all the ladies on the
post have seen the roughest times imaginable on the
frontier, and they come from as good families, and
very many of them have left as good homes as mine.”
“But how are you going to live on a lieutenant's
pay? I have known you to spend more than
that on your own dress in a single year.”
“What are dresses compared with Lieutenant
Ransom? I can learn to economize as well as the
rest of them. You can't have everything, Lottie.
You know what an officer's rank is. It gives him
the entre with the best society of the land, and
often opens the way for the most brilliant career.
These things reconcile father and mother to it, but
I look at the man himself. He's just splendid!
Come, we'll go over to the hall, and I will introduce
you, and let you dance with him once—only once
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[figure description] Page 521.[end figure description]
you incorrigible flirt, or you will steal him away
from me after all. By the way, who was that
handsome man who drove? I fear you bewitched
him coming over the mountain, from the way his
eyes followed you.”
“How does he compare with your Lieutenant
Ransom?” asked Lottie.
“No one can compare with him. But why do
you ask? Is there anything serious?”
“Will you think so when I tell you that he
enters, next summer, on the life of a home-missionary
on the western frontier?”
“Oh, how dismal!” exclaimed the young lady.
“No, indeed! no danger of your giving him serious
thoughts. But you ought not to flirt with such a
man, Lottie.”
“I do not intend to, nor with any one else, any
more. But why do you say `How dismal!'? Your
lieutenant will have as rough a frontier life as Mr.
Hemstead, and, surely, the calling of the ministry
is second to none.”
“Well, it seems very different. Nobody thinks
much of a home-missionary. Why, Lottie, none
of our set ever married a home-missionary, while
several have married into the army and navy. So,
for heaven's sake, don't let your head become
turned by one who looks forward to such a forlorn
life. But here we are, and I will make you envious
in a moment.”
“Miss Marsden,” said Hemstead, stepping forward
as they were entering, “I do not like to
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[figure description] Page 522.[end figure description]
hasten you, but there is every appearance of a storm,
and the wind is rising. I wish you could induce
Addie to leave soon. I will go to the Trophy
room for a little while, and then will drive around.”
“You may rest assured I will do my best,” said
Lottie. “I am ready to start now.”
“Beware of that man,” said her friend; “his
eyes tell the same story that I see in Lieutenant
Ransom's.”
“You have become a little lady of one idea,”
said Lottie, laughing and blushing, “and all the
world is in love, in your estimation.”
When Hemstead drove to the door, the snow-flakes
were beginning to fly, and the wind had increased
in force. But Bel was not ready, and
Addie could not be persuaded to leave at all, nor
would she hear of their leaving till the hours set
apart for dancing were over. Even then she permitted
her cadet friends to detain her several minutes
longer.
As the others were, in a certain sense, her
guests, they did not like to urge her departure beyond
a certain point. Thus it happened that the
early December twilight was coming on, and the
air full of wildly-flying snow, as the last words were
said, and the horses dashed off for the mountains.
But the storm increased in violence every moment,
and the air was so filled with flakes that they
could not see twenty feet. What caused Hemstead
uneasiness was the fact that the sheltered
road that led from the Point along the southern
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base of the mountains for a long distance before
coming to any great ascent, was already somewhat
clogged with drifts. Above, on the mountain's
crest, he heard a sound as if the north wind were
blowing strongly.
He grew very anxious, and finally said, as they
reached the point where the road began to rise rapidly,
that he thought the attempt to cross that
night involved considerable risk. But Addie would
not hear of their returning. Her mother would go
wild about them, and would never let her come
again.
“It has not snowed very much yet, and if we
wait till to-morrow it may be very deep.”
“The drifts are what I fear,” said Hemstead.
“There were no bad drifts this afternoon,”
said Addie, “and surely they cannot be deep
yet.”
Since the following day was Sunday, and New
Year's also, it was agreed that they should push on,
as returning would involve much that was disagreeable
to the party, and create great alarm at Mrs.
Marchmont's.
“It will just result in their sending after us, this
dreadful night,” said Addie. “I don't see why it
must storm just when one most wishes it wouldn't.”
“We ought to have started sooner,” said Bel.
“I knew the delay was very wrong, but we were
having such a good time.”
De Forrest having vainly sought to get Lottie to
sit with him, had sulkily taken his seat just back of
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them, where he was the most sheltered of the party,
and not supposing there was any real danger, had
muffled himself up so that he was almost past
speaking or hearing. He had about the same
as sullenly resolved to let matters take their
course until the “cursed visit was over.” New
York, and not the barbarous, dreary country,
was the place where he shone; and when once there
again, he would soon regain his old ascendency
over Lottie, and she, of course, would forget this
Western monster. He had noticed, for the first
mile, that Hemstead and Lottie had scarcely spoken
to each other, and, as the storm increased, concluded
there was no danger of any one making love
when, if they opened their mouths to speak, the
wind would fill them with snow.
But Hemstead and Lottie scarcely needed language.
The old, subtle interchange of thought
and sympathy had been regained; every moment
she bravely sat with him facing the storm that wild
night seemed an assurance that she was both
able and willing to face every storm of life at his
side.
But as the wind grew more violent, and drove
the sharp crystals into their faces with stinging
force, he, out of regard for her comfort, said:
“Miss Marsden, it is both brave and kind of
you to sit here so patiently, but really the wind is
growing too severe. Even if I had had the impression
which you were so mistaken as to charge me
with, long before this it would have been banished
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[figure description] Page 525.[end figure description]
forever by your words and action. If you will
take the next seat, and sit with your back to the
wind, you will not feel it half so much.”
“Will you do the same?” she asked.
“I cannot.”
“Then neither can I. I shall keep my word,
Mr. Hemstead.”
“You are a brave girl, Miss Marsden.”
“Well, that is nothing. Why have I not as
good a right to be a brave girl as you to be a brave
man?”
“You also appear to have the ability.”
“Oh, I don't deserve any credit. I'm not a bit
afraid. Indeed, I rather enjoy it. I've plenty of
warm blood, and can make as good a fight against
the north wind as yourself. This isn't half as
hard as facing evil and unhappy thoughts before a
blazing fire, and I have had too much of that to do
of late to complain of this.”
“But it seems a miracle to me that one with
your antecedents can regard the situation in any
other way save that of unqualified disgust.”
“Do you regard the situation with `unqualified
disgust'?”
“Well, to tell the truth, were it not for my
anxiety about getting you all home safely, I was
never in a situation to enjoy myself more.”
“What two precious fools we must be, in the
world's estimation! We both have admitted that
we are enjoying ourselves under circumstances in
which only Mark Tapley, I think, could be `jolly';'
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[figure description] Page 526.[end figure description]
and the gale bore away her old mirthful laugh like
a shred from a silver flag.
“Oh, dear!” whined Bel and Addie; “it's perfectly
awful.”
And awful, indeed, it became, a few minutes
later; for, having passed over a steep but sheltered
section of the road, they came to a point where the
northeast wind struck them strongly. At the same
moment, the storm appeared to develop into tenfold
intensity, and to equal those terrible tempests
on the prairies, in which Hemstead remembered,
with a shudder, that strong men and horses had
perished within a few yards of shelter. They, alas!
were now a long way from any house, and in the
midst of the lonely mountains. It had also become
so dark that he had to leave the choice of the road
mainly to the horses.
At first, these sagacious animals stopped, and
refused to go any farther. Hemstead waited a few
moments, in hope that the gust or gale would expend
itself, and, in the mean time, instinctively put
his arm around Lottie, to keep her from being
blown off the seat.
“Miss Marsden,” he said, close to her ear, “pardon
me, but I fear this tempest will carry you
away. The horrible thought crossed my mind that
you might be caught in a sort of whirlwind and
spirited off in this thick darkness where I could not
find you.”
“Would it trouble you very much if you could
not find me?
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[figure description] Page 527.[end figure description]
“Oh, don't speak of it. I would give years of
my life if you were safe at home.”
“Don't be so reckless with your years. I am
very well content to be where I am.”
“But there is danger.”
“There is no more danger for me than for you.”
“Are you not afraid?”
“I am just about as much afraid as you are;”
and, to his amazement, he found her laughing.
“Well,” he exclaimed, “if you can laugh under
these circumstances, you exceed any woman I ever
read or heard of. We are in twice as much danger
as when I went out in the boat the other night.”
“Are you now satisfied that Lottie Marsden, in
particular, is not weak and cowardly, as compared
with her braver sisters?”
Before he could answer, De Forrest growled,
“Why don't you go on?”
Addie and Bel were cowering in the bottom of
the sleigh, and supposed he was merely giving the
horses a rest.
Just then there appeared a momentary lull in
the gale; so he merely said: “Forgive me for even
seeming to hint to the contrary,” and then urged
the horses forward.
The road now presented its side to the wind, and
so was filled with drifts, while its lower side was a
precipitous bank that shelved off into unknown
depths. The horses plunged with difficulty through
one drift, and the sleigh tipped dangerously. Addie
and Bel screamed, and De Forrest began, in trepidation,
to realize their situation.
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The poor beasts were soon floundering through
another drift. Suddenly there came a sharp crack,
as if something had broken, and one of the horses
appeared to have fallen. Worse still, the lower
runner of the sleigh seemed sinking in the snow to
that degree that a moment later they would be
overturned into the darkness that yawned in the
direction of the steep mountain slope.
Hemstead instantly sprang out on the lower
side, with the purpose of preventing the accident.
Lottie as quickly sprang out on the upper side, and
cried: “You push and I will hold;” and so it happened
that she did quite as much as he in saving
the party from disaster. Indeed, if the sleigh had
gone over, it would have carried him who was on
the lower side down with it.
The horses, in their wise instinct, keeping
still, Hemstead first came around to where Lottie
stood.
“Why, Miss Marsden!” he exclaimed, “you are
up to your waist in the snow.”
“Well, it won't drown me. This is a great deal
better than rolling down the mountain.”
“I could kneel at your feet,” said the student,
fervently.
“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Lottie. “You couldn't
find them.”
“This is no laughing matter,” said De Forrest,
at last aroused to their danger, and standing up for
the first time.
“Then get out and do something, like Miss
-- 529 --
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Marsden,” said Hemstead. “Come, right up the
sleigh while I look after the horses.”
A little later he came back to Lottie, and said:
“Miss Marsden, I scarcely dare tell you the truth.
The tongue of the sleigh and some of the most important
parts of the harness are broken. Besides, I
have been up the road a short distance, and there
are drifts that are up to the horses' necks. I fear we
can go no further. Oh, God,” he added in agony,
“what can I do for you? The idea of you perishing
with cold in this horrible place to-night.”
Lottie laid her hand upon his arm, and said
earnestly:
“Mr. Hemstead, please let there be no more
such talk. It's no worse for me than for you. Besides,
if we will trust God and use our wits, there is
no need of any one perishing. If we were out of the
wind it would not be so very cold. Why, there is
enough warmth in the big bodies of those horses
to keep us from freezing, if it comes to the worst.”
“There!” he exclaimed, “you have given me
hope and courage, and in a sentence. The coachman
was captain on my former occasion of danger, and
you shall be captain now. You have the clearest
and best head of the party. I am at your service.”
“Will you do as I bid you?”
“Yes.”
“Take care of yourself somewhat, then.”
“I can best do that by taking care of you.”
“You can do nothing pleasing to me, that will
bring harm to yourself,” she said. “We must get
-- 530 --
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out of the wind, and if nothing better offers, must
bury ourselves in the snow beside the horses. I
remember reading of such things. The sleigh robes
and the warmth of their bodies would keep us from
freezing; I'm not so very cold.”
Addie and Bel were crying bitterly, and De Forrest
groaning and cursing the whole affair from
where he stood, back of the sleigh.
“Come,” he shouted, “what's to be done?”
“I will go straight up the bank. I may find a
ledge, or some rocks, under which we may cower,”
said Hemstead.
“Don't go far,” said Lottie, eagerly. “I should,
indeed, lose hope, if you became separated from
us.”
He soon returned with the joyful news that a
little way up the bank was a high ledge, where they
would be completely sheltered from the wind.
Soon he had them all under it, and the respite
from the driving gale was welcomed by none more
than Lottie, who, in spite of her courage and sustaining
excitement, was beginning to suffer greatly.
De Forrest, being a smoker, had matches; but
in his impatience to light a fire, destroyed most of
them.
“Here, Julian, give them to me,” said Lottie,
most decisively.
Then, after all the dry material, which could be
collected by groping round in the dark, was gathered
in the most sheltered nook, she took from her
pocket a delicate lace handkerchief, and, by means
-- 531 --
[figure description] Page 531.[end figure description]
of that, lighted the sticks and leaves. Soon they
were warming their numb hands and chilled bodies
beside a cheerful blaze.
Hemstead watched Lottie with wondering and
increasing admiration. In securing a fire, all immediate
danger passed away, and she became as
cheery as if the disaster, which had threatened even
a fatal termination, were only an episode, and the
long, wintry bivouac, in that desolate place, but
a picnic in the woods.
“You are the queerest girl I ever knew, Lottie,”
said Bel.
“She means by that, you are the best,” Hemstead
added.
“Come, this is no time for compliments, but
work,” said Lottie, energetically, and she set De
Forrest at it also.
The robes were brought from the sleigh, the
snow trampled down and cleared away between the
fire and the ledge, and here they were spread.
Addie and Bel were, at first, terror-stricken at the
thought of spending the night in the mountains,
but were made so comfortable that, at last, they
ceased their tears.
“Our best hope is this brandy,” said De Forrest,
drawing a flask from his pocket.
“Nonsense,” said Lottie. “Our best hope is
keeping our senses and a good fire.”
But Bel and Addie were ready enough to take
the brandy, and were soon sleeping heavily from its
effects, combined with their exposure to the cold
-- 532 --
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wind. Lottie could not be prevailed upon to take
any.
“I want the use of my senses to-night, if ever,”
she said. “We must take turns in keeping awake,
and you shall have the first watch, Julian.”
Hemstead, at this time, was down getting the
horses out of the drift, that he might tie them near
the fire and also under the ledge. De Forrest set
to work very zealously under the stimulus of Lottie's
words and the brandy combined, and gathered
the brush-wood that lay near, and piled it on the
fire. Everything seemed to promise well, and the
wearied girl laid herself down by the side of Bel
and Addie, and was soon sleeping as naturally and
peacefully as if in her luxurious apartment at
home.
-- 533 -- p668-538
CHAPTER XXXVII. IN EARNEST.
[figure description] Page 533.[end figure description]
WHEN Lottie awoke the storm had passed
away. The moon, in her last quarter, was
rising in pale, unclouded light over eastern mountains,
and bringing into dusky outline many intervening
hills.
At first, bewildered, and not knowing where
she was, she rose up hastily, but after a moment
the events of the preceding evening came to her,
and she remembered, with gratitude, how they had
found partial shelter from the storm.
With something of a child's wonder and pleasure,
she looked around upon a scene more wild and
strange than any she had ever seen, even in pictures
of gypsy encampments. Bel and Addie were sleeping
by her side as soundly as if such a nightly
bivouac were an ordinary experience. In like heavy
stupor De Forrest lay near the fire, though the
music of his dreams was by no means sweet. He
had made his watch a very brief one, and having
piled the fire high with light brush-wood that would
soon be consumed, and leaving no supply on hand,
he had succumbed to the combined influence of
the cold and the brandy; and now, with the flames
lighting up his face, he looked like a handsome
bandit.
-- 534 --
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The patient horses stood motionless and shadowy
a little off one side. Above her head rose high,
rocky crags, from whose crevices clung bushes and
stunted trees with their crest of snow. And snow,
bright and gleaming near the fire, but growing
pale and ghostly, dull and leaden in the distance
stretched away before her, as far as she could see,
while from this white surface rose shrubs, evergreens,
and the gaunt outline of trees, in the hap-hazard
grouping of the wilderness. Where, before, the
storm had rushed, with moan and shriek, now
brooded a quiet which only the crackling of the
flames and De Forrest's resonant nasal organ disturbed.
But Hemstead was nowhere to be seen. She
was becoming very solicitous, fearing that he had
straggled off alone, in order to bring them relief,
when a sound caught her attention, and she saw
him coming with a load of cord-wood upon his
shoulder.
She reclined again, that she might watch him a
few moments unperceived. He threw his burden
down; put a stick or two more of the heavy wood
on the fire. Then Lottie noticed that the genial
heat no longer came from the quickly-consumed
brush, but from solid wood, of which there was a
goodly store on hand.
The student stood a few moments looking at the
fire then his eyes drooped, and he swayed back and
forth as if nearly overpowered by sleep and weariness.
Then he would straighten himself up in a
-- 535 --
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way that made Lottie feel like laughing and crying
at the same time, so great was his effort to
patiently maintain his watch. At last he tried the
expedient of going to the horses and petting them,
but, before he knew it, he was leaning on the neck
of one of them half asleep. Then Lottie saw him
come directly toward her, and half closed her eyes.
The student looked long and fixedly at her face, as
the firelight shone upon it; then drew himself up
straight as a soldier, and marched back and forth
like a sentinel on duty. But after a little while his
steps grew irregular, and he was evidently almost
asleep, even while he walked. Then she saw him
turn off abruptly and disappear in the shadowy
forest.
She sprang up, and, secreting herself behind an
adjacent evergreen, waited for his return. Soon
she saw him staggering back under another great
load of cord-wood.
He at once noticed her absence, and was wide
awake instantly. He seized a heavy stick for a club,
as if he would pursue an enemy who might have
carried her off, when her low laugh brought him to
her side.
“Don't you hit me with that,” she said, advancing
to the fire.
“I thank you very cordially for waking me
up so thoroughly,” he said, delighted at finding her
so bright and well, and in such good spirits, after
all her exposure. “I admit, to my shame, that I
was almost asleep, two or three times.”
-- 536 --
[figure description] Page 536.[end figure description]
“Here is another assertion of your masculine
superiority,” she replied, in mock severity. “I may
sleep, as a matter of course; but you, as a man, are
to rise superior, even to nature herself, and remain
awake as long as your imperious will dictates.”
“I am much afraid,” he said, ruefully, “if you
had not spoken to me, my imperious will would
soon have tumbled helplessly off its throne, and
you have found your watchman and protector little
better than one of these logs here.”
“Who has decreed that you must watch all
night, while the rest of us sleep? Come, it's my
turn now, and I will watch and protect you for
a little while.”
“Do you mean for me to sleep while you sit
here alone and watch?”
“Certainly.”
“I'll put my hand in the fire first, if in no other
way I can keep awake.”
“Didn't you call me `captain'? You will have
to obey your orders.”
“I'll mutiny in this case, rest assured. Besides,
I'm not sleepy any more.”
“Why, what's the matter?”
“Do you think I could sleep while you were
awake and willing to talk to me?”
“I slept a long time while you were awake.”
She pulled out her watch, and exclaimed: “Mr.
Hemstead! in ten minutes more we enter on a new
year.”
“How much may happen within a year, and
-- 537 --
[figure description] Page 537.[end figure description]
even a few days of a year,” he said, musingly. `It
seems an age since I tossed my books aside, and
yet, it was within this month. The whole world
has changed to me since that day.”
“I hope for the better,” said Lottie, gently.
“Yes, for the better, whatever may be the future.
That Sabbath afternoon, when you the same
as led to the One whom I was misrepresenting and
wronging, cannot fail to make me, and that little
bit of the world which I can reach, the better. I
feel that I shall owe to you my best Christian experience
and usefulness.”
“And I feel that I should never have been a
Christian at all if I had not met you,” she said,
looking gratefully up. “Whatever may be the future,
as you say, I trust God will never permit me
to be again the false, selfish creature that I was
when I first took your hand in seeming kindness.”
“I trust that God has been leading us both,”
said Hemstead, gravely and thoughtfully.
Lottie again took out her watch, and said, in
the low tone which we use in the presence of the
dying:
“Mr. Hemstead, the old year is passing; there
is but a moment left.”
He uncovered his head, and, bowing reverently,
said:
“May God forgive us all the folly and evil of
the past year, for the sake of His dear Son.”
Lottie's head bowed as low and reverently as
his own, and for several moments neither spoke
-- 538 --
[figure description] Page 538.[end figure description]
Then he turned, and took her hand as he said:
“Many have wished you a `happy new year
before, but I can scarcely think that any one ever
meant the words as I do. Miss Lottie, I would do
anything, suffer anything, and give up anything,
save honor and duty, to make you happy. You
have often laughed at me because I carried my
thoughts and feelings in my face. Therefore, you
know well that I love you with all the truth and
strength of which I am capable. But I have
had a great dread lest my love might eventually
make you unhappy. You know what my life will
be, and duty will never permit me to change.”
Her answer was very different from what he expected.
Almost reproachfully she asked: “Mr.
Hemstead, is earthly happiness the end and aim of
your life?”
“No,” he said, after a moment.
“What then?”
“Usefulness, I trust—the doing faithfully the
work that God gives me.”
“And must I of necessity differ from you in
this respect?”
“Miss Lottie, forgive me. I am not worthy of
you. But can it be possible that you are willing
to share in my humble, toilsome life? I fear you
have no idea of the hardships and privations involved.”
“I stood by you faithfully last night in the
storm, did I not?” she said, with a shy, half-mischievous
glance.
-- 539 --
[figure description] Page 539.[end figure description]
“It seems too good to be true,” he said, in a
low tone.
“Was there ever such a diffident, modest creature!”
she said, brusquely. “Mr. Hemstead, you
will never enter Heaven. The angels will have to
pull you in.”
“One angel has made a heaven of this dreary
place already,” he answered, seeking to draw her to
him.
“Wait a moment; what do you mean, sir? I
have made you no promises and given you no rights.”
“But I have made you no end of promises, and
given you absolute right over me. My every glance
has said, `Lottie Marsden, I am yours, body and
soul, so far as a man with a conscience can be.'”
“All this counts for nothing,” said Lottie, with
a little impatient stamp of her foot. “I promised
that dear old meddler, Uncle Dimmerly, that you,
in deep humility and penitence for having arrogantly
assumed that you could be a missionary and I
couldn't, should ask me to be a home-missionary;
and you have wasted lots of precious time.”
He caught her quaint humor, and, taking her
hand and dropping on one knee, said:
“Lottie Marsden, child of luxury, the prize
which the proudest covet, will you leave your elegant
home—will you turn your back upon the world
which is at your feet, and go with me, away to the
far West, that you may become a poor, forlorn home-missionary?”
“Yes, Frank, in your home—but never forlorn
-- 540 --
[figure description] Page 540.[end figure description]
while I have you to laugh at, and never poor while
I possess your big, unworldly heart.”
“Have I any rights now?” he exclaimed; and,
springing up, he exercised them to a degree that
almost took away her breath.
“Here, behave yourself,” she said. “The idea
of one who had plumed himself on his heroic self-sacrifice
acting so like an ordinary mortal! You
have had more kisses now than you ought in a
week. If we are to be so poor, we ought to commence
practicing economy at once.”
“You are the most beautiful and spicy compound
that nature ever fashioned,” he exultingly
replied, holding her off, devouring her with his
eyes. “I plainly foresee that you can fill the
poorest little home with light and music.”
“Yes, I warn you, before it's too late, that I
never can become a solemn, ghostly sort of a missionary.”
“Oh, it's too late now, I assure you,” he said;
“my mind is made up.”
“So is mine—that you shall take a long nap,
while I mount guard.”
“Nap, indeed!” he said, indignantly. “When
the gates of pearl bang after one with their musical
clangor, and shut out forever the misery of earth,
will one's first impulse on the threshold of heaven
be to take a nap?”
“What extravagant language! You ministers
talk much too familiarly of heaven, and such things.”
“No, indeed Lottie, dear! the more familiar
-- 541 --
[figure description] Page 541.[end figure description]
the thought of heaven is to us, the better. You
shall have a good home there, if a very humble one
here. But do you realize how much you are giving
up?”
“Yes,” she said, ruefully, “the worst heartache
I ever had. I don't believe you felt half so badly
as I did.”
“But when the hard and prosaic life comes, with
its daily cares and weary burdens, are you sure that
you will not regret your action—are you sure that
you will not wish yourself again the queenly belle,
with the world at your feet?”
“Who with right claims the higher rank,” Lottie
answered, her lovely face growing noble with
her thought, “a queenly belle with a false, selfish
heart, or a Christian woman? And what is that
world, which you say is at my feet? Where is it
to-night? Where was it when the tempest made
it doubtful whether we should ever see this new
year? Here I am in the solemn midnight, and
upon this desolate mountain. It is not the softness
of a summer night to which we are exposed; it is
mid-winter. And yet I am certain that there is
not a queen on the earth as happy as I am. But
what part has that world, to which you refer, had
in making me happy? I knew there was danger
last night. I had read of people perishing in the
snow almost at their own doors. I think I realized
that death might be near, but my heart was so
light and happy in the consciousness of your love
and God's love, that I could look at the grim old
-- 542 --
[figure description] Page 542.[end figure description]
fellow, and laugh in his face. But suppose that I
had had nothing better then to think of than this
vague world, about which you are making so much
ado? Once before, when the world was at my
feet, as you term it, I faced a sudden danger in
your company. Thanks to God's mercy and your
skill and strength, we were not dashed down into
that ravine when the horses ran away. What did
the world do for me then? Did it throw a ray of
light into that black gulf of death, which yawned
at every side? Oh, thank God!” she said with
passionate earnestness, “that I was not sent out of
life that night, a shivering ghost—a homeless wanderer
forever. But what could the world do to prevent
it? I know all about that glittering world,
Frank, to gain which so many are staking their all,
and I know it's more of a phantom than a reality.
It flattered me, excited and intoxicated me, but it
never made me one-hundredth part as happy as I
am to-night. And when I thought I had lost your
respect and your love, I no more thought of turning
to the world for solace and happiness, than I
would look in a coal-bin for diamonds. I knew all
about the world, and in the depths of my soul realized
that it was a sham. How far away it is to-night,
with these solemn mountains rising all around
us; and yet how near seem God and heaven, and
how sweet and satisfying the hopes they impart!
I have thought it all out, Frank. The time is coming
when illness or age, mortal pain and weakness
will shut me away, like these dark, wintry hills, even
-- 543 --
[figure description] Page 543.[end figure description]
from your love—much more from the uncaring,
heartless world; but something in my heart tells me
that my Saviour, who wept for sympathy, when no
one else would weep, will be my strong, faithful
friend through it all, and not for all the worlds
glittering there in yonder sky, much less for my
poor, little gilt and tinsel world in New York, will I
give up this assurance.”
“I am satisfied,” said Hemstead, in a tone of
deep content; “God wills it.”
They sat for a long time without speaking, in
the unison of feeling that needed no words.
At last, in sudden transition to one of her mirthful,
piquant expressions, Lottie turned to her companion
and said:
“Frank, you are on the mountain top of exalted
thought and sentiment. Your face is as rapt as if
you saw a vision.”
“Can you wonder?”
“Well, I'm going to give you an awful tumble—
worse than the one you feared last night when
the sleigh tipped. I'm hungry as any wolf that
ever howled in these mountains.”
“What a comparison!” said the student, laughing
heartily. Then, his face becoming all solicitude,
he queried, “What shall I do?” and he was about
to rise with the impression that he ought to do
something.
“Do as I bid you, of course; sit still while I tell
you what I shall do. I shall patiently endure this
aching void, as I trust I shall the other inevitable
-- 544 --
[figure description] Page 544.[end figure description]
ills of our lot. What could be more appropriate
than this prelude of hunger in one proposing to
marry a home-missionary?”
With an odd blending of delight and sympathy
in his face, Hemstead exclaimed:
“Lottie! you have received more compliments
than you could count in a year, but I am going to
give you one different from any that you ever had
before. You are what I should call a wholesome
woman.”
Thus, in playful and serious talk, they passed
the hours until the snow-clad mountains were
sparkling in the rising sun. Hemstead placed upon
Lottie's hand a plain seal-ring that had been his
father's, but she covered it with her glove, not wishing
the fact of her engagement to transpire until
they reached home.
At last the others awoke, and what they had
passed through seemed like a grotesque, horrible
dream. De Forrest looked suspiciously at Hemstead
and Lottie, but could gather nothing from
their quiet bearing toward each other.
Early in the day relief reached them, and, by
the middle of the forenoon, they were doing ample
justice to Mrs. Marchmont's sumptuous breakfast.
Then the tell-tale ring on Lottie's finger revealed
the secret, and there was consternation.
But poor De Forrest was so outrageously hungry
that he had to eat even in this most trying emergency.
And yet he had a painful sense that it was
-- 545 --
[figure description] Page 545.[end figure description]
not the proper thing to do under the circumstances,
and so was exceedingly awkward, for once in his
life.
Mr. Dimmerly chuckled all that Sunday with
“unbecoming levity,” his sister said.
Poor Mrs. Marchmont lost all confidence in herself
as a good manager, and was in a divided state
of indignation at her nephew and Lottie, and
dread of Mrs. Marsden's reproaches.
Bel tried to think that it was not her fault, and
Addie did not much care.
The holiday visit came to an end. The months
sped away. Lottie's purpose was severely tested.
Every possible motive, reason, and argument, was
brought to bear upon the brave girl. Worse than
all, she had to endure the cold, averted looks of
those she fondly loved. She pleaded her own
cause eloquently. She frequently quoted her
friend's example, who was about to marry the
army officer.
“But that was very different,” they said.
Only once she lost her temper. There was a
sort of family conclave of aunts and relatives, and
they had beset her sorely. At last she turned
upon them suddenly, and asked:
“Are you Christians? Do you believe there is
a God?”
“Why, certainly. Do you think we are heathen?”
“Why talk, then, like heathen, and act like
-- 546 --
[figure description] Page 546.[end figure description]
infidels? If it's the thing in the fashionable world to
marry a trusted servant of a human government,
how much better must it be to marry a servant of
the King of All! I honor my friend because she
marries the man she loves, and I shall marry the
one I love. I am of age—I have chosen my lot.
Mark my words! you will yet be proud of the one
whom you now so despise; while the one you wish
me to marry will cover his own and the names of
all connected with him with shame.” And she left
them to recover from this bombshell of truth, as
best they might.
But the patient gentleness which she usually
manifested at length won even their obdurate hearts.
Rer father was the first to relent, and was finally
brought, by Lottie's irresistible witchery, quite over
on her side. But, in her mother's case, it was only
partial resignation to a great but inevitable misfortune.
Mrs. Marsden was a sincere idolator of the
world for which she lived.
In Aunt Jane, Lottie had a staunch ally, and a
sympathizing and comforting helper.
But the postman, who brought, with increasing
frequency, letters that were big and heavy, like the
writer, was the man whom Lottie most doted on in
all the city.
With the whole energy of her forceful, practical
nature, she trained herself for her work, as Hemstead
was training himself for his. And, when, a year later,
she gave him her hand at the sacred altar, it was not
a helpless hand.
-- 547 --
[figure description] Page 547.[end figure description]
Years have passed. Mr. and Mrs. Hemstead
are the chief social, refining, and Christianizing influences
of a growing Western town. They have
the confidence and sympathy of the entire community,
and are people of such force that they make
themselves felt in every department of life. They
are shaping and ennobling many characters, and few
days pass in which Lottie does not lay up in memory
some good deed, though she never stops to count
her hoard. But, in gladness, she will learn in God's
good time that such deeds are the riches that have
no wings.
She made good her warning, and never became
a “solemn, ghostly sort of a missionary.” She was
usually as “wholesome” as the sunshine, or if the
occasion required, as a stiff north wind, and had
a pronounced little way of her own, when things
went wrong at home or in the church, of giving all
concerned the benefit of some practical common
sense. But she, also, in the main, kept her pledge
to endure patiently, as she did her hunger on
the mountain, the many privations and trials of
their lot.
While she sustained her husband's hands and
doubled his usefulness abroad, he generally found at
home a sunny philosopher who laughed him out of
half his troubles.
With increasing frequency he said, “Lottie, you
are so wholesome; there is not a morbid, unnatural
trait in you.”
And she inspired him to preach such a
-- 548 --
[figure description] Page 548.[end figure description]
wholesome, sunny Gospel that it won even the most prejudiced.
One evening, a feeble, aged man stepped down
from the train, and was borne off in triumph by
Hemstead to the warmest corner of his hearth.
Lottie gave him such a welcome that the old
gentleman cried out:
“Hold on. My goodness gracious! haven't you
sobered down yet?”
Then, with Frank standing near, with his hand
upon her shoulder, and looking down as proud of
her as a man could be, and with just such a blackeyed
cherub in her arms as she must have been herself
twenty odd years before, and with her face
aglow with health, happiness, and content, she
asked:
“Well, uncle, what do you think of your meddling
now?”
Mr. Dimmerly went off into one of his old-time
chuckles, as he said:
“This is one of the things which the world never
can `stop.'”
THE END.
