"Now say: 'The engagement between us is broken off. It is my fault,
not yours.'"
"I won't write that."
"Yes, you will, my pious friend. Now, Ann Eliza, you've got a nice
face; when a man once gets in love with you he can't quite get out.
I suppose I will feel tender toward you when we meet to part no more,
down below. I was in love with you once."
"Who are you?"
"O, that don't matter! I was going to say that if I hadn't been in
love with your blue eyes once I wouldn't have taken the trouble to
come forty miles to get you to write this letter. I was only a mile
away from Brother Goodwin, as you call him, when I heard that you had
victimized him. I could have sent him a note. I came over here to
save you from the ruin you deserve. I would have told him more than
the people in Pennsylvania ever knew. Come, my dear, scribble away
as I say, or I will tell him and everybody else what will take the
music out of your love-feast speeches in all this country."
With a tremulous hand Ann Eliza wrote, reflecting that she could send
another note after this and tell Brother Goodwin that a highwayman
who entertained an insane love for her had met her in a lonely spot
and extorted this from her. She handed the note to Pinkey.
"Now, Ann Eliza, you'd better ask God to forgive this sin, too. You
may pray and shout till you die. I'll never say anything--unless you
open communication with preacher Goodwin again. Do that, and I'll
blow you sky-high."
"You are cruel, and wicked, and mean, and--"
"Come, Ann Eliza, you used to call me sweeter names than that, and
you don't look half so fascinating when you're mad as when you are
talking heavenly. Good by, Miss Meacham." And with that Pinkey went
into a thicket and brought forth his own horse and rode away, not on
the road but through the woods.
If Ann Eliza could have guessed which one of her many lovers this
might be she would have set about forming some plan for circumventing
him. But the mystery was too much for her. She sincerely loved
Morton, and the bitter cup she had given to others had now come back
to her own lips. And with it came a little humility. She could not
again forget her early sins so totally. She looked to see them start
out of the bushes by the wayside at her.
After this recital it is not necessary that I should tell you what
Lewis Goodwin told his brother that night as they strolled in the
woods.
At midnight Lewis left home, where he could not stay longer with
safety. The war with Great Britain had broken out and he joined the
army at Chillicothe under his own name, which was his best disguise.
He was wounded at Lundy's Lane, and wrote home that he was trying to
wipe the stain off his name. He afterward moved West and led an
honest life, but the memory of his wild youth never ceased to give
him pain. Indeed nothing is so dangerous to a reformed sinner as
forgetfulness.
_CHAPTER XXXVI._