WITHIN AND WITHOUT.
If the gentleman is not born in a man, it can not be bred in him. If it
is born in him, it can not be bred out of him. August Wehle had
inherited from his mother the instinct of true gentlemanliness. And now,
when Andrew relapsed into silence and abstraction, he did not attempt to
rouse him, but bidding him goodnight, with his own hands threw the
rope-ladder out the window and started up the hollow toward home. The
air was sultry and oppressive, the moon had been engulfed, and the first
thunder-cloud of the spring was pushing itself up toward the zenith,
while the boughs of the trees were quivering with a premonitory shudder.
But August did not hasten. The real storm was within. Andrew's story had
raised doubts. When he went down the ravine the love of Julia Anderson
shone upon his heart as benignly as the moon upon the waters. Now the
light was gone, and the black cloud of a doubt had shut out his peace.
Jule Anderson's father was rich. He had not thought of it before! But
now he remembered how much woodland he owned and how he had two large
farms. Jule Anderson would not marry a poor boy. And a Dutchman! She was
not sincere. She was trifling with him and teasing her parents. Or, if
she were sincere now, she would not be faithful to him against every
tempting offer. And he would have to drive on the rocks, too, as Andrew
had. At any rate, he would not marry her until he stood upon some sort
of equality with her.
The wind was swaying him about in its fitful gusts, and he rather liked
it. In his anguish of spirit it was a pleasure to contend with the
storm. The wind, the lightning, the sudden sharp claps of thunder were
on his own key. He felt in the temper of old Lear. The winds might blow
and crack their cheeks.
But it was not alone the suggestions of Andrew that aroused his
suspicions. He now recalled a strange statement that Samuel Anderson
made in discharging him. "You said what you had no right to say about my
wife, in talking to Julia." What had he said? Only that some woman had
not treated Andrew "just right." Who the woman might be he had not known
until his present interview with Andrew. Had Julia been making mischief
herself by repeating his words and giving them a direction he had not
intended? He could not have dreamed of her acting such a part but for
the strange influence of Andrew's strange story. And so he staggered on,
wet to the skin, defying in his heart the lightning and the wind, until
he came to the cabin of his father. Climbing the fence, for there was no
gate, he pulled the latch-string and entered. They were all asleep; the
hard-working family went to bed early. But chubby-faced Wilhelmina, the
favorite sister, had set up to wait for August, and he now found her
fast asleep in the chair.
"Wilhelmina! wake up!" he said.
"O August!" she said, opening the corner of one eye and yawning, "I
wasn't asleep. I only--uh--shut my eyes a minute. How wet you are! Did
you go to see the pretty girl up at Mr. Anderson's?"
"No," said August.
"O August! she is pretty, and she is good and sweet," and Wilhelmina
took his wet checks between her chubby hands and gave him a sleepy kiss,
and then crept off to bed.
And, somehow, the faith of the child Wilhelmina counteracted the
skepticism of the and Andrew, and August felt the storm subsiding.
When he looked out of the window of the loft in which he slept the
shower had ceased as suddenly as it had come, the thunder had retreated
behind the hills, the clouds were already breaking, and the white face
of the moon was peering through the ragged rifts.