LOYAL.
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 she 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 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 a 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 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 really 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 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 cruelly 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 solution.
To the surprise of every one, she appeared at the breakfast table,
very pale, but quiet, and perfectly self-possessed. Her bearing,
however, had a dignity and a decision 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
had 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 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,
like the dove bringing 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 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 a 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. Anyway, 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 than 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 mean time 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 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,--she was false--he
was 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
his duty to act the part of a man and a Christian, whatever the
truth might be.
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 puzzled
him 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 from her
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 condemn himself
bitterly 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 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 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 had 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 Frank Hemstead's unselfish manhood told him plainly that he
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, except that
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-situated 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 like a superstitious Romanist,--not
reverencing the emblem, however, 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.