At sunrise, in that Coniston hill-country, it is the western hills which
are red; and a distant hillock on the meadow farm which was soon to be
Eden's looked like the daintiest conical cake with pink icing as Cynthia
surveyed the familiar view the next morning. There was the mountain, the
pastures on the lower slopes all red, too, and higher up the dark masses
of bristling spruce and pine and hemlock mottled with white where the
snow-covered rocks showed through.
Sunrise in January is not very early, and sunrise at any season is not
early for Coniston. Cynthia sat at her window, and wondered whether that
beautiful landscape would any longer be hers. Her life had grown up on
it; but now her life had changed. Would the beauty be taken from it,
too? Almost hungrily she gazed at the scene. She might look upon it
again--many times, perhaps--but a conviction was strong in her that its
daily possession would now be only a memory.
Mr. Satterlee was as good as his word, for he was seated in the stage
when it drew up at the tannery house, ready to go to Brampton. And as
they drove away Cynthia took one last look at Jethro standing on the
porch. It seemed to her that it had been given her to feel all things,
and to know all things: to know, especially, this strange man, Jethro
Bass, as none other knew him, and to love him as none other loved him.
The last severe wrench was come, and she had left him standing there
alone in the cold, divining what was in his heart as though it were in
her own. How worthless was this mighty power which he had gained, how
hateful, when he could not bestow the smallest fragment of it upon one
whom he loved? Someone has described hell as disqualification in the
face of opportunity. Such was Jethro's torment that morning as he saw
her drive away, the minister in the place where he should have been, at
her side, and he, Jethro Bass, as helpless as though he had indeed been
in the pit among the flames. Had the prudential committee at Brampton
promised the appointment ten times over, he might still have obtained it
for her by a word. And he must not speak even that word. Who shall say
that a large part of the punishment of Jethro Bass did not come to him
in the life upon this earth.
Some such thoughts were running in Cynthia's head as they jingled away
to Brampton that dazzling morning. Perhaps the stage driver, too, who
knew something of men and things and who meddled not at all, had made
a guess at the situation. He thought that Cynthia's spirits seemed
lightened a little, and he meant to lighten them more; so he joked as
much as his respect for his passengers would permit, and told the news
of Brampton. Not the least of the news concerned the first citizen
of that place. There was a certain railroad in the West which had got
itself much into Congress, and much into the newspapers, and Isaac D.
Worthington had got himself into that railroad: was gone West, it was
said on that business, and might not be back for many weeks. And Lem
Hallowell remembered when Mr. Worthington was a slim-cheated young
man wandering up and down Coniston Water in search of health. Good Mr.
Satterlee, thinking this a safe subject, allowed himself to be led into
a discussion of the first citizen's career, which indeed had something
fascinating in it.
Thus they jingled into Brampton Street and stopped before the cottage of
Judge Graves--a courtesy title. The judge himself came to the door and
bestowed a pronounced bow on the minister, for Mr. Satterlee was honored
in Brampton. Just think of what Ezra Graves might have looked like, and
you have him. He greeted Cynthia, too, with a warm welcome--for Ezra
Graves,--and ushered them into a best parlor which was reserved for
ministers and funerals and great occasions in general, and actually
raised the blinds. Then Mr. Satterlee, with much hemming and hawing,
stated the business which had brought them, while Cynthia looked out of
the window.
Mr. Graves sat and twirled his lean thumbs. He went so far as to say
that he admired a young woman who scorned to live in idleness, who
wished to impart the learning with which she had been endowed. Fifteen
applicants were under consideration for the position, and the prudential
committee had so far been unable to declare that any of them were
completely qualified. (It was well named, that prudential committee?)
Mr. Graves, furthermore, volunteered that he had expressed a wish to
Colonel Prescott (Oh, Ephraim, you too have got a title with your new
honors!), to Colonel Prescott and others, that Miss Wetherell might take
the place. The middle term opened on the morrow, and Miss Bruce, of the
Worthington Free Library, had been induced to teach until a successor
could be appointed, although it was most inconvenient for Miss Bruce.
Could Miss Wetherell start in at once, provided the committee agreed?
Cynthia replied that she would like nothing better. There would be an
examination before Mr. Errol, the Brampton Superintendent of Schools.
In short, owing to the pressing nature of the occasion, the judge would
take the liberty of calling the committee together immediately. Would
Mr. Satterlee and Miss Wetherell make themselves at home in the parlor?
It very frequently happens that one member of a committee is the brain,
and the other members form the body of it. It was so in this case. Ezra
Graves typified all of prudence there was about it, which, it must be
admitted, was a great deal. He it was who had weighed in the balance
the fifteen applicants and found them wanting. Another member of the
committee was that comfortable Mr. Dodd, with the tuft of yellow beard,
the hardware dealer whom we have seen at the baseball game. Mr. Dodd
was not a person who had opinions unless they were presented to him
from certain sources, and then he had been known to cling to them
tenaciously. It is sufficient to add that, when Cynthia Wetherell's name
was mentioned to him, he remembered the girl to whom Bob Worthington
had paid such marked attentions on the grand stand. He knew literally
nothing else about Cynthia. Judge Graves, apparently, knew all about
her; this was sufficient, at that time, for Mr. Dodd; he was sick and
tired of the whole affair, and if, by the grace of heaven, an
applicant had been sent who conformed with Judge Graves's multitude of
requirements, he was devoutly thankful. The other member, Mr. Hill, was
a feed and lumber dealer, and not a very good one, for he was always in
difficulties; certain scholarly attainments were attributed to him,
and therefore he had been put on the committee. They met in Mr. Dodd's
little office back of the store, and in five minutes Cynthia was a
schoolmistress, subject to examination by Mr. Errol.
Just a word about Mr. Errol. He was a retired lawyer, with some means,
who took an interest in town affairs to occupy his time. He had a very
delicate wife, whom he had been obliged to send South at the beginning
of the winter. There she had for a while improved, but had been taken
ill again, and two days before Cynthia's appointment he had been
summoned to her bedside by a telegram. Cynthia could go into the school,
and her examination would take place when Mr. Errol returned.
All this was explained by the judge when, half an hour after he had left
them, he returned to the best parlor. Miss Wetherell would, then, be
prepared to take the school the following morning. Whereupon the judge
shook hands with her, and did not deny that he had been instrumental in
the matter.
“And, Mr. Satterlee, I am so grateful to you,” said Cynthia, when they
were in the street once more.
“My dear Cynthia, I did nothing,” answered the minister, quite
bewildered by the quick turn affairs had taken; “it is your own good
reputation that got you the place.”
Nevertheless Mr. Satterlee had done his share in the matter. He had
known Mr. Graves for a long time, and better than any other person in
Brampton. Mr. Graves remembered Cynthia Ware, and indeed had spoken to
Cynthia that day about her mother. Mr. Graves had also read poor William
Wetherell's contributions to the Newcastle Guardian, and he had not read
that paper since they had ceased. From time to time Mr. Satterlee had
mentioned his pupil to the judge, whose mind had immediately flown to
her when the vacancy occurred. So it all came about.
“And now,” said Mr. Satterlee, “what will you do, Cynthia? We've got
the good part of a day to arrange where you will live, before the stage
returns.”
“I won't go back to-night, I think,” said Cynthia, turning her head
away; “if you would be good enough to tell Uncle Jethro to send my trunk
and some other things.”
“Perhaps that is just as well,” assented the minister, understanding
perfectly. “I have thought that Miss Bruce might be glad to board you,”
he continued, after a pause. “Let us go to see her.”
“Mr. Satterlee,” said Cynthia, “would you mind if we went first to see
Cousin Ephraim?”
“Why, of course, we must see Ephraim,” said Mr. Satterlee, briskly. So
they walked on past the mansion of the first citizen, and the new block
of stores which the first citizen had built, to the old brick building
which held the Brampton post-office, and right through the door of the
partition into the sanctum of the postmaster himself, which some one had
nicknamed the Brampton Club. On this occasion the postmaster was
seated in his shirt sleeves by the stove, alone, his listeners being
conspicuously absent. Cynthia, who had caught a glimpse of him through
the little mail-window, thought he looked very happy and comfortable.
“Great Tecumseh!” he cried,--an exclamation he reserved for
extraordinary occasions, “if it hain't Cynthy!”
He started to hobble toward her, but Cynthia ran to him.
“Why,” said he, looking at her closely after the greeting was over, “you
be changed, Cynthy. Mercy, I don't know as I'd have dared done that if
I'd seed you first. What have you b'en doin' to yourself? You must have
seed a whole lot down there in Boston. And you're a full-blown lady,
too.”
“Oh, no, I'm not, Cousin Eph,” she answered, trying to smile.
“Yes, you be,” he insisted, still scrutinizing her, vainly trying to
account for the change. Tact, as we know, was not Ephraim's strong
point. Now he shook his head. “You always was beyond me. Got a sort
of air about you, and it grows on you, too. Wouldn't be surprised,” he
declared, speaking now to the minister, “wouldn't be a mite surprised to
see her in the White House, some day.”
“Now, Cousin Eph,” said Cynthia, coloring a little, “you mustn't talk
nonsense. What have you done with your coat? You have no business to go
without it with your rheumatism.”
“It hain't b'en so bad since Uncle Sam took me over again, Cynthy,” he
answered, “with nothin' to do but sort letters in a nice hot room.” The
room was hot, indeed. “But where did you come from?”
“I grew tired of being taught, Cousin Eph. I--I've always wanted to
teach. Mr. Satterlee has been with me to see Mr. Graves, and they've
given me Miss Goddard's place. I'm coming to Brampton to live, to-day.”
“Great Tecumseh!” exclaimed Ephraim again, overpowered by the yews. “I
want to know! What does Jethro say to that?”
“He--he is willing,” she replied in a low voice.
“Well,” said Ephraim, “I always thought you'd come to it. It's in the
blood, I guess--teachin'. Your mother had it too. I'm kind of sorry
for Jethro, though, so I be. But I'm glad for myself, Cynthy. So you're
comin' to Brampton to live with me!
“I was going to ask Miss Bruce to take me in,” said Cynthia.
“No you hain't, anything of the kind,” said Ephraim, indignantly. “I've
got a little house up the street, and a room all ready for you.”
“Will you let me share expenses, Cousin Eph?”
“I'll let you do anything you want,” said he, “so's you come. Don't you
think she'd ought to come and take care of an old man, Mr. Satterlee?”
Mr. Satterlee turned. He had been contemplating, during this
conversation, a life-size print of General Grant under two crossed
flags, that was hung conspicuously on the wall.
“I do not think you could do better, Cynthia,” he answered, smiling.
The minister liked Ephraim, and he liked a little joke, occasionally.
He felt that one would not be, particularly out of place just now; so he
repeated, “I do not think you could do better than to accept the offer
of Colonel Prescott.”
Ephraim grew very red, as was his wont when twitted about his new title.
He took things literally.
“I hain't a colonel, no more than you be, Mr. Satterlee. But the boys
down here will have it so.”
Three days later, by the early train which leaves the state capital at
an unheard-of hour in the morning, a young man arrived in Brampton. His
jaw seemed squarer than ever to the citizens who met the train out of
curiosity, and to Mr. Dodd, who was expecting a pump; and there was a
set look on his face like that of a man who is going into a race or a
fight. Mr. Dodd, though astonished, hastened toward him.
“Well, this is unexpected, Bob,” said he. “How be you? Harvard College
failed up?”
For Mr. Dodd never let slip a chance to assure a member of the
Worthington family of his continued friendship.
“How are you, Mr. Dodd?” answered Bob, nodding at him carelessly, and
passing on. Mr. Dodd did not dare to follow. What was young Worthington
doing in Brampton, and his father in the West on that railroad business?
Filled with curiosity, Mr. Dodd forgot his pump, but Bob was already
striding into Brampton Street, carrying his bag. If he had stopped for
a few moments with the hardware dealer, or chatted with any of the dozen
people who bowed and stared at him, he might have saved himself a good
deal of trouble. He turned in at the Worthington mansion, and rang the
bell, which was answered by Sarah, the housemaid.
“Mr. Bob!” she exclaimed.
“Where's Mrs. Holden?” he asked.
Mrs. Holden was the elderly housekeeper. She had gone, unfortunately,
to visit a bereaved relative; unfortunately for Bob, because she, too,
might have told him something.
“Get me some breakfast, Sarah. Anything,” he commanded, “and tell Silas
to hitch up the black trotters to my cutter.”
Sarah, though in consternation, did as she was bid. The breakfast was
forthcoming, and in half an hour Silas had the black trotters at the
door. Bob got in without a word, seized the reins, the cutter flew down
Brampton Street (observed by many of the residents thereof) and turned
into the Coniston road. Silas said nothing. Silas, as a matter of fact,
never did say anything. He had been the Worthington coachman for five
and twenty years, and he was known in Brampton as Silas the Silent.
Young Mr. Worthington had no desire to talk that morning.
The black trotters covered the ten miles in much quicker time than Lem
Hallowell could do it in his stage, but the distance seemed endless to
Bob. It was not much more than half an hour after he had left Brampton
Street, however, that he shot past the store, and by the time Rias
Richardson in his carpet slippers reached the platform the cutter was in
front of the tannery house, and the trotters, with their sides smoking,
were pawing up the snow under the butternut tree.
Bob leaped out, hurried up the path, and knocked at the door. It was
opened by Jethro Bass himself!
“How do you do, Mr. Bass,” said the young man, gravely, and he held out
his hand. Jethro gave him such a scrutinizing look as he had given many
a man whose business he cared to guess, but Bob looked fearlessly into
his eyes. Jethro took his hand.
“C-come in,” he said.
Bob went into that little room where Jethro and Cynthia had spent so
many nights together, and his glance flew straight to the picture on the
wall,--the portrait of Cynthia Wetherell in crimson and seed pearls, so
strangely set amidst such surroundings. His glance went to the portrait,
and his feet followed, as to a lodestone. He stood in front of it for
many minutes, in silence, and Jethro watched him. At last he turned.
“Where is she?” he asked.
It was a queer question, and Jethro's answer was quite as lacking in
convention.
“G-gone to Brampton--gone to Brampton.”
“Gone to Brampton! Do you mean to say--? What is she doing there?” Bob
demanded.
“Teachin' school,” said Jethro; “g-got Miss Goddard's place.”
Bob did not reply for a moment. The little schoolhouse was the only
building in Brampton he had glanced at as he came through. Mrs. Merrill
had told him that she might take that place, but he had little imagined
she was already there on her platform facing the rows of shining little
faces at the desks. He had deemed it more than possible that he might
see Jethro at Coniston, but he had not taken into account that which he
might say to him. Bob had, indeed, thought of nothing but Cynthia,
and of the blow that had fallen upon her. He had tried to realize the
multiple phases of the situation which confronted him. Here was the man
who, by the conduct of his life, had caused the blow; he, too, was her
benefactor; and again, this same man was engaged in the bitterest
of conflicts with his father, Isaac D. Worthington, and it was this
conflict which had precipitated that blow. Bob could not have guessed,
by looking at Jethro Bass, how great was the sorrow which had fallen
upon him. But Bob knew that Jethro hated his father, must hate him now,
because of Cynthia, with a hatred given to few men to feel. He thought
that Jethro would crush Mr. Worthington and ruin him if he could; and
Bob believed he could.
What was he to say? He did not fear Jethro, for Bob Worthington had
courage enough; but these things were running in his mind, and he felt
the power of the man before him, as all men did. Bob went to the window
and came back again. He knew that he must speak.
“Mr. Bass,” he said at last, “did Cynthia ever mention me to you?”
“No,” said Jethro.
“Mr. Bass, I love her. I have told her so, and I have asked her to be my
wife.”
There was no need, indeed, to have told Jethro this. The shock of that
revelation had come to him when he had seen the trotters, had been
confirmed when the young man had stood before the portrait. Jethro's
face might have twitched when Bob stood there with his back to him.
Jethro could not speak. Once more there had come to him a moment when
he would not trust his voice to ask a question. He dreaded the answer,
though none might have surmised this. He knew Cynthia. He knew that,
when she had given her heart, it was for all time. He dreaded the
answer; because it might mean that her sorrow was doubled.
“I believe,” Bob continued painfully, seeing that Jethro would say
nothing, “I believe that Cynthia loves me. I should not dare to say it
or to hope it, without reason. She has not said so, but--” the words
were very hard for him, yet he stuck manfully to the truth; “but she
told me to write to my father and let him know what I had done, and not
to come back to her until I had his answer. This,” he added, wondering
that a man could listen to such a thing without a sign, “this was
before--before she had any idea of coming home.”
Yes, Cynthia, did love him. There was no doubt about it in Jethro's
mind. She would not have bade Bob write to his father if she had not
loved him. Still Jethro did not speak, but by some intangible force
compelled Bob to go on.
“I shall write to my father as soon as he comes back from the West, but
I wish to say to you, Mr. Bass, that whatever his answer contains, I
mean to marry Cynthia. Nothing can shake me from that resolution. I tell
you this because my father is fighting you, and you know what he will
say.” (Jethro knew Dudley Worthington well enough to appreciate that
this would make no particular difference in his opposition to the
marriage except to make that opposition more vehement.) “And because you
do not know me,” continued Bob. “When I say a thing, I mean it. Even if
my father cuts me off and casts me out, I will marry Cynthia. Good-by,
Mr. Bass.”
Jethro took the young man's hand again. Bob imagined that he even
pressed it--a little--something he had never done before.
“Good-by, Bob.”
Bob got as far as the door.
“Er--go back to Harvard, Bob?”
“I intend to, Mr. Bass.”
“Er--Bob?”
“Yes?”
“D-don't quarrel with your father--don't quarrel with your father.”
“I shan't be the one to quarrel, Mr. Bass.”
“Bob--hain't you pretty young--pretty young?”
“Yes,” said Bob, rather unexpectedly, “I am.” Then he added, “I know my
own mind.”
“P-pretty young. Don't want to get married yet awhile--do you?”
“Yes, I do,” said Bob, “but I suppose I shan't be able to.”
“Er--wait awhile, Bob. Go back to Harvard. W-wouldn't write that letter
if I was you.”
“But I will. I'll not have him think I'm ashamed of what I've done. I'm
proud of it, Mr. Bass.”
In the eyes of Coniston, which had been waiting for his reappearance,
Bob Worthington jumped into the sleigh and drove off. He left behind him
Jethro Bass, who sat in his chair the rest of the morning with his
head bent in revery so deep that Millicent had to call him twice to his
simple dinner. Bob left behind him, too, a score of rumors, sprung full
grown into life with his visit. Men and women an incredible distance
away heard them in an incredible time: those in the village found an
immediate pretext for leaving their legitimate occupation and going
to the store, and a gathering was in session there when young Mr.
Worthington drove past it on his way back. Bob thought little about the
rumors, and not thinking of them it did not occur to him that they might
affect Cynthia. The only person then in Coniston whom he thought
about was Jethro Bass. Bob decided that his liking for Jethro had not
diminished, but rather increased; he admired Jethro for the advice he
had given, although he did not mean to take it. And for the first time
he pitied him.
Bob did not know that rumor, too, was spreading in Brampton. He had his
dinner in the big walnut dining room all alone, and after it he smoked
his father's cigars and paced up and down the big hall, watching the
clock. For he could not go to her in the school hours. At length he
put on his hat and hurried out, crossing the park-like enclosure in the
middle of the street; bowed at by Mr. Dodd, who always seemed to be on
hand, and others, and nodding absently in return. Concealment was not
in Bob Worthington's nature. He reached the post-office, where the
partition door was open, and he walked right into a comparatively full
meeting of the Brampton Club. Ephraim sat in their midst, and for once
he was not telling war stories. He was silent. And the others fell
suddenly silent, too, at Bob's entrance.
“How do you do, Mr. Prescott?” he said, as Ephraim struggled to his
feet. “How is the rheumatism?”
“How be you, Mr. Worthington?” said Ephraim; “this is a kind of a
surprise, hain't it?” Ephraim was getting used to surprises. “Well, it
is good-natured of you to come in and shake hands with an old soldier.”
“Don't mention it, Mr. Prescott,” answered honest Bob, a little abashed,
“I should have done so anyway, but the fact is, I wanted to speak to you
a moment in private.”
“Certain,” said Ephraim, glancing helplessly around him, “jest come out
front.” That space, where the public were supposed to be, was the
only private place in the Brampton post-office. But the members of the
Brampton Club could take a hint, and with one consent began to make
excuses. Bob knew them all from boyhood and spoke to them all. Some of
them ventured to ask him if Harvard had bust up.
“Where does Cynthia-live?” he demanded, coming straight to the point.
Ephraim stared at him for a moment in a bewildered fashion, and then a
light began to dawn on him.
“Lives with me,” he answered. He was quite as ashamed, for Bob's sake,
as if he himself had asked the question, and he went on talking to cover
that embarrassment. “It's made some difference, too, sence she come.
House looks like a different place. Afore she, come I cooked with a
kit, same as I used to in the harness shop. I l'arned it in the army.
Cynthy's got a stove.”
It was not the way Ephraim would have gone about a love affair, had he
had one. Sam Price's were the approved methods in that section of the
country, though Sam had overdone them somewhat. It was an unheard-of
thing to ask a man right out like that where a girl lived.
“Much obliged,” said Bob, and was gone. Ephraim raised his hands in
despair, and hobbled to the little window to get a last look at him.
Where were the proprieties in these days? The other aspect of the
affair, what Mr. Worthington would think of it when he returned, did not
occur to the innocent mind of the old soldier until people began to
talk about it that afternoon. Then it worried him into another attack of
rheumatism.
Half of Brampton must have seen Bob Worthington march up to the little
yellow house which Ephraim had rented from John Billings. It had four
rooms around the big chimney in the middle, and that was all. Simple as
it was, an architect would have said that its proportions were nearly
perfect. John Billings had it from his Grandfather Post, who built
it, and though Brampton would have laughed at the statement, Isaac D.
Worthington's mansion was not to be compared with it for beauty. The
old cherry furniture was still in it, and the old wall papers and the
panelling in the little room to the right which Cynthia had made into a
sitting room.
Half of Brampton, too, must have seen Cynthia open the door and Bob walk
into the entry. Then the door was shut. But it had been held open for
an appreciable time, however,--while you could count twenty,--because
Cynthia had not the power to close it. For a while she could only look
into his eyes, and he into hers. She had not seen him coming, she had
but answered the knock. Then, slowly, the color came into her cheeks,
and she knew that she was trembling from head to foot.
“Cynthia,” he said, “mayn't I come in?”
She did not answer, for fear her voice would tremble, too. And she could
not send him away in the face of all Brampton. She opened the door a
little wider, a very little, and he went in. Then she closed it, and for
a moment they stood facing each other in the entry, which was lighted
only by the fan-light over the door, Cynthia with her back against the
wall. He spoke her name again, his voice thick with the passion which
had overtaken him like a flood at the sight of her--a passion to seize
her in his arms, and cherish and comfort and protect her forever and
ever. All this he felt and more as he looked into her face and saw the
traces of her great sorrow there. He had not thought that that face
could be more beautiful in its strength and purity, but it was even so.
“Cynthia-my love!” he cried, and raised his arms. But a look as of
a great fear came into her eyes, which for one exquisite moment had
yielded to his own; and her breath came quickly, as though she were
spent--as indeed she was. So far spent that the wall at her back was
grateful.
“No!” she said; “no--you must not--you must not--you must not!” Again
and again she repeated the words, for she could summon no others. They
were a mandate--had he guessed it--to herself as to him. For the time
her brain refused its functions, and she could think of nothing but the
fact that he was there, beside her, ready to take her in his arms. How
she longed to fly into them, none but herself knew--to fly into them as
into a refuge secure against the evil powers of the world. It was not
reason that restrained her then, but something higher in her, that
restrained him likewise. Without moving from the wall she pushed open
the door of the sitting room.
“Go in there,” she said.
He went in as she bade him and stood before the flickering logs in the
wide and shallow chimney-place--logs that seemed to burn on the very
hearth itself, and yet the smoke rose unerring into the flue. No stove
had ever desecrated that room. Bob looked into the flames and waited,
and Cynthia stood in the entry fighting this second great battle which
had come upon her while her forces were still spent with that other one.
Woman in her very nature is created to be sheltered and protected; and
the yearning in her, when her love is given, is intense as nature itself
to seek sanctuary in that love. So it was with Cynthia leaning against
the entry wall, her arms full length in front of her, and her hands
clasped as she prayed for strength to withstand the temptation. At last
she grew calmer, though her breath still came deeply, and she went into
the sitting room.
Perhaps he knew, vaguely, why she had not followed him at once. He had
grown calmer himself, calmer with that desperation which comes to a man
of his type when his soul and body are burning with desire for a woman.
He knew that he would have to fight for her with herself. He knew now
that she was too strong in her position to be carried by storm, and the
interval had given him time to collect himself. He did not dare at
first to look up from the logs, for fear he should forget himself and be
defeated instantly.
“I have been to Coniston, Cynthia,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I have been to Coniston this morning, and I have seen Mr. Bass, and I
have told him that I love you, and that I will never give you up. I
told you so in Boston, Cynthia,” he said; “I knew that this this trouble
would come to you. I would have given my life to have saved you from
it--from the least part of it. I would have given my life to have been
able to say 'it shall not touch you.' I saw it flowing in like a great
sea between you and me, and yet I could not tell you of it. I could not
prepare you for it. I could only tell you that I would never give you
up, and I can only repeat that now.”
“You must, Bob,” she answered, in a voice so low that it was almost a
whisper; “you must give me up.”
“I would not,” he said, “I would not if the words were written on all
the rocks of Coniston Mountain. I love you.”
“Hush,” she said gently. “I have to say some things to you. They will be
very hard to say, but you must listen to them.”
“I will listen,” he said doggedly; “but they will not affect my
determination.”
“I am sure you do not wish to drive me away from Brampton,” she
continued, in the same low voice, “when I have found a place to earn my
living near-near Uncle Jethro.”
These words told him all he had suspected--almost as much as though he
had been present at the scene in the tannery shed in Coniston. She knew
now the life of Jethro Bass, but he was still “Uncle Jethro” to her. It
was even as Bob had supposed,--that her affection once given could not
be taken away.
“Cynthia,” he said, “I would not by an act or a word annoy or trouble
you. If you bade me, I would go to the other side of the world
to-morrow. You must know that. But I should come back again. You must
know, that, too. I should come back again for you.”
“Bob,” she said again, and her voice faltered a very little now, “you
must know that I can never be your wife.”
“I do not know it,” he exclaimed, interrupting her vehemently, “I will
not know it.”
“Think,” she said, “think! I must say what I, have to say, however it
hurts me. If it had not been for--for your father, those things never
would have been written. They were in his newspaper, and they express
his feelings toward--toward Uncle Jethro.”
Once the words were out, she marvelled that she had found the courage to
pronounce them.
“Yes,” he said, “yes, I know that, but listen--”
“Wait,” she went on, “wait until I have finished. I am not speaking of
the pain I had when I read these things, I--I am not speaking of the
truth that may be in them--I have learned from them what I should have
known before, and felt, indeed, that your father will never consent
to--to a marriage between us.”
“And if he does not,” cried Bob, “if he does not, do you think that I
will abide by what he says, when my life's happiness depends upon you,
and my life's welfare? I know that you are a good woman, and a true
woman, that you will be the best wife any man could have. Though he is
my father, he shall not deprive me of my soul, and he shall not take my
life away from me.”
As Cynthia listened she thought that never had words sounded sweeter
than these--no, and never would again. So she told herself as she let
them run into her heart to be stored among the treasures there. She
believed in his love--believed in it now with all her might. (Who,
indeed, would not?) She could not demean herself now by striving to
belittle it or doubt its continuance, as she had in Boston. He was
young, yes; but he would never be any older than this, could never love
again like this. So much was given her, ought she not to be content?
Could she expect more?
She understood Isaac Worthington, now, as well as his son understood
him. She knew that, if she were to yield to Bob Worthington, his father
would disown and disinherit him. She looked ahead into the years as a
woman will, and allowed herself for the briefest of moments to wonder
whether any happiness could thrive in spite of the violence of that
schism--any happiness for him. She would be depriving him of his
birthright, and it may be that those who are born without birthrights
often value them the most. Cynthia saw these things, and more, for
those who sit at the feet of sorrow soon learn the world's ways. She saw
herself pointed out as the woman whose designs had beggared and ruined
him in his youth, and (agonizing and revolting thought!) the name of one
would be spoken from whom she had learned such craft. Lest he see the
scalding tears in her eyes, she turned away and conquered them. What
could she do? Where should she hide her love that it might not be seen
of men? And how, in truth, could she tell him these things?
“Cynthia,” he went on, seeing that she did not answer, and taking heart,
“I will not say a word against my father. I know you would not respect
me if I did. We are different, he and I, and find happiness in different
ways.” Bob wondered if his father had ever found it. “If I had never
met you and loved you, I should have refused to lead the life my father
wishes me to lead. It is not in me to do the things he will ask. I shall
have to carve out my own life, and I feel that I am as well able to do
it as he was. Percy Broke, a classmate of mine and my best friend, has
a position for me in a locomotive works in which his father is largely
interested. We are going in together, the day after we graduate; it is
all arranged, and his father has agreed. I shall work very hard, and
in a few years, Cynthia, we shall be together, never to part again. Oh,
Cynthia,” he cried, carried away by the ecstasy of this dream which he
had, summoned up, “why do you resist me? I love you as no man has ever
loved,” he exclaimed, with scornful egotism and contempt of those who
had made the world echo with that cry through the centuries, “and you
love me! Ah, do you think I do not see it--cannot feel it? You love
me--tell me so.”
He was coming toward her, and how was she to prevent his taking her by
storm? That was his way, and well she knew it. In her dreams she had
felt herself lifted and borne off, breathless in his arms, to Elysium.
Her breath was going now, her strength was going, and yet she made him
pause by the magic of a word. A concession was in that word, but one
could not struggle so piteously and concede nothing.
“Bob,” she said, “do you love me?”
Love her! If there was a love that acknowledged no bounds, that was
confined by no superlatives, it was his. He began to speak, but she
interrupted him with a wild passion that was new to her. As he sat in
the train on his way back to Cambridge through the darkening afternoon,
the note of it rang in his ears and gave him hope--yes, and through many
months afterward.
“If you love me I beg, I implore, I beseech you in the name of that
love--for your sake and my sake, to leave me. Oh, can you not see why
you must go?”
He stopped, even as he had before in the parlor in Mount Vernon Street.
He could but stop in the face of such an appeal--and yet the blood beat
in his head with a mad joy.
“Tell me that you love me,--once,” he cried,--“once, Cynthia.”
“Do-do not ask me,” she faltered. “Go.”
Her words were a supplication, not a command. And in that they were a
supplication he had gained a victory. Yes, though she had striven with
all her might to deny, she had bade him hope. He left her without so
much as a touch of the hand, because she had wished it. And yet she
loved him! Incredible fact! Incredible conjury which made him doubt that
his feet touched the snow of Brampton Street, which blotted, as with a
golden glow, the faces and the houses of Brampton from his sight. He saw
no one, though many might have accosted him. That part of him which was
clay, which performed the menial tasks of his being, had kindly taken
upon itself to fetch his bag from the house to the station, and to board
the train.
Ah, but Brampton had seen him!