A mile from town, where the angry wind could be seen at work tearing
the purple rainclouds into rags and tatters, through which the hidden
sun shot long rays of pale splendor, Wesley Elliot was walking rapidly,
his head bent, his eyes fixed and absent.
He had just emerged from one of those crucial experiences of life,
which, more than the turning of the earth upon its axis, serve to age a
human being. For perhaps the first time in the brief span of his
remembrance, he had scrutinized himself in the pitiless light of an
intelligence higher than his own everyday consciousness; and the sight
of that meaner self, striving to run to cover, had not been pleasant.
Just why his late interview with Andrew Bolton should have precipitated
this event, he could not possibly have explained to any one—and least
of all to himself. He had begun, logically enough, with an illuminating
review of the motives which led him into the ministry; they were a
sorry lot, on the whole; but his subsequent ambitions appeared even
worse. For the first time, he perceived his own consummate selfishness
set over against the shining renunciations of his mother. Then, step by
step, he followed his career in Brookville: his smug satisfaction in
his own good looks; his shallow pride and vanity over the vapid
insincerities he had perpetrated Sunday after Sunday in the shabby
pulpit of the Brookville church; his Pharisaical relations with his
people; his utter misunderstanding of their needs. All this proved
poignant enough to force the big drops to his forehead.... There were
other aspects of himself at which he scarcely dared look in his utter
abasement of spirit; those dark hieroglyphics of the beast-self which
appear on the whitest soul. He had supposed himself pure and saintly
because, forsooth, he had concealed the arena of these primal passions
beneath the surface of this outward life, chaining them there like
leashed tigers in the dark.... Two faces of women appeared to be
looking on, while he strove to unravel the snarl of his self-knowledge.
Lydia’s unworldly face, wearing a faint nimbus of unimagined
self-immolation, and Fanny’s—full of love and solicitude, the face
which he had almost determined to forget.
He was going to Lydia. Every newly awakened instinct of his manhood
bade him go.
She came to him at once, and without pretense of concealment began to
speak of her father. She trembled a little as she asked:
“He told you who he was?”
Without waiting for his answer she gravely corrected herself.
“I should have said, who _we_ are.”
She smiled a faint apology:
“I have always been called Lydia Orr; it was my mother’s name. I was
adopted into my uncle’s family, after father—went to prison.”
Her blue eyes met his pitying gaze without evasion.
“I am glad you know,” she said. “I think I shall be glad—to have every
one know. I meant to tell them all, at first. But when I found—”
“I know,” he said in a low voice.
Then because as yet he had said nothing to comfort her, or himself; and
because every word that came bubbling to the surface appeared banal and
inadequate, he continued silent, gazing at her and marveling at her
perfect serenity—her absolute poise.
“It will be a relief,” she sighed, “When every one knows. He dislikes
to be watched. I have been afraid—I could not bear to have him know how
they hate him.”
“Perhaps,” he forced himself to say, “they will not hate him, when they
know how you— Lydia, you are wonderful!”
She looked up startled and put out her hand as if to prevent him from
speaking further.
But the words came in a torrent now:
“How you must despise me! I despise myself. I am not worthy, Lydia; but
if you can care—”
“Stop!” she said softly, as if she would lay the compelling finger of
silence upon his lips. “I told you I was not like other women. Can’t
you see—?”
“You must marry me,” he urged, in a veritable passion of self-giving.
“I want to help you! You will let me, Lydia?”
She shook her head.
“You could not help me; I am better alone.”
She looked at him, the glimmer of a smile dawning in her eyes.
“You do not love me,” she said; “nor I you. You are my friend. You will
remain my friend, I hope?”
She arose and held out her hand. He took it without a word. And so they
stood for a moment; each knowing without need of speech what the other
was thinking; the man sorry and ashamed because he could not deny the
truth of her words; and she compassionately willing to draw the veil of
a soothing silence over his hurts.
“I ought to tell you—” he began.
But she shook her head:
“No need to tell me anything.”
“You mean,” he said bitterly, “that you saw through my shallow
pretenses all the while. I know now how you must have despised me.”
“Is it nothing that you have asked me—a convict’s daughter—to be your
wife?” she asked. “Do you think I don’t know that some men would have
thanked heaven for their escape and never spoken to me again? I can’t
tell you how it has helped to hearten me for what must come. I shall
not soon forget that you offered me your self—your career; it would
have cost you that. I want you to know how much I—appreciate what you
have done, in offering me the shelter of an honest name.”
He would have uttered some unavailing words of protest, but she checked
him.
“We shall both be glad of this, some day,” she predicted gravely....
“There is one thing you can do for me,” she added: “Tell them. It will
be best for both of us, now.”
It was already done, he said, explaining his motives in short,
disjointed sentences.
Then with a feeling of relief which he strove to put down, but which
nevertheless persisted in making itself felt in a curious lightening of
his spirits, he was again walking rapidly and without thought of his
destination. Somber bars of crimson and purple crossed the west, and
behind them, flaming up toward the zenith in a passionate splendor of
light, streamed long, golden rays from out the heart of that glory upon
which no human eye may look. The angry wind had fallen to quiet, and
higher up, floating in a sea of purest violet, those despised and
flouted rags of clouds were seen, magically changed to rose and silver.