CHAPTER XIX.
The day came on which Bates was to go home. He had had a week's petulant struggle with his malady since he last passed through the door of Trenholme's house, but now he had conquered it for the hour, and even his host perceived that it was necessary for him to make his journey before the weather grew colder.
His small belongings packed, his morose good-byes said, Alec Trenholme drove him to the railway station.
Both the brothers knew why it was that, in taking leave of them, Bates hardly seemed to notice that he did so; they knew that, in leaving the place, he was all-engrossed in the thought that he was leaving the girl, Eliza Cameron, for ever; but he seemed to have no thought of saying to her a second farewell.
The stern reserve which Bates had maintained on this subject had so wrought on Alec's sympathy that he had consulted his brother as to the advisability of himself making some personal appeal to Eliza, and the day before Bates started he had actually gone on this mission. If it was not successful, hardly deserved that it should be; for when he stood in front of the girl, he could not conceal the great dislike he felt for her, nor could he bring himself to plead on behalf of a man who he felt was worth a thousand such as she. He said briefly that Bates was to start for home the next day, and by such a train, and that he had thought it might concern her to know it.
"Did he tell you to tell me?" asked Eliza, without expression.
"No, he didn't; and what's more, he never told me how you came here. You think he's been telling tales about you! You can know now that he never did; he's not that sort. I saw you at Turrifs, and when I saw you again here I knew you. All I've got to say about that is, that I, for one, don't like that kind of conduct. You've half killed Bates, and this winter will finish him off."
"That's not my fault," said Eliza.
"Oh? Well, that's for you to settle with yourself. I thought I'd come and tell you what I thought about it, and that he was going. That's all I've got to say."
"But I've something more to say, and you'll stay and hear it." She folded her arms upon her breast, and looked at him, a contemptuous, indignant Amazon. "You think Mr. Bates would thank you if you got me to go away with him because I was afraid he'd die. You think"—growing sarcastic—"that Mr. Bates wants me to go with him because I'm sorry for him. I tell you, if I did what you're asking, Mr. Bates would be the first to tell you to mind your own business and to send me about mine."
She relapsed into cold silence for a minute, and then added, "If you think Mr. Bates can't do his own love-making, you're vastly mistaken."
It did not help to soothe Alec that, when he went home, his brother laughed at his recital.
"She is a coarse-minded person," he said. "I shall never speak to her again."
This had happened the day before he drove Bates to the station.
It was a midday train. The railway platform was comparatively empty, for the season of summer visitors was past. The sun glared with unsoftened light on the painted station building, on the bare boards of the platform, upon the varnished exterior of the passenger cars, and in, through their windows, upon the long rows of red velvet seats. Alec disposed Bates and his bundles on a seat near the stove at the end of one of the almost empty cars. Then he stood, without much idea what to say in the few minutes before the train started.
"Well," said he, "you'll be at Quebec before dark."
As they both knew this, Bates did not consider it worth an answer. His only desire was that the train should be gone, so that he might be left alone. He was a good deal oppressed by the idea of his indebtedness to Alec, but he had already said all on that head that was in him to say; it had not been much.
An urchin came by, bawling oranges. They looked small and sour, but, for sheer lack of anything better to do, Alec went out of the car to buy a couple. He was just stepping in again to present them when, to his surprise, he became aware that one of the various people on the platform was Eliza Cameron. When he caught sight of her she was coming running from the other end of the train, her face red with exertion and her dress disordered. She looked in at the windows, saw Bates, and entered where Alec had intended to enter, he drawing aside, and she not even seeing him.
The impetus of his intention carried Alec on to the outer porch of the car, but his consideration for Bates caused him then to turn his back to the door, and gaze down the long level track, waiting until Eliza should come out again.
The prospect that met his gaze was one in which two parallel straight lines met visibly in the region of somewhere. He remembered learning that such two lines do, in truth, always meet in infinity. He wondered drearily if this were a parable. As he saw his life, all that he desired and all that was right seemed to lie in two tracks, side by side, but for ever apart.
The advent of Eliza had sunk into less significance in his mind by the time he heard the engine's warning bell. He turned and looked into the car. There sat the man whom he had left, but not the same man; a new existence seemed to have started into life in his thin sinewy frame, and to be looking out through the weather-beaten visage. This man, fond and happy, was actually addressing a glance of arch amusement at the girl who, flushed and disconcerted, sought to busy herself by rearranging his possessions. So quickly did it seem that Bates had travelled from one extreme of life to another that Alec felt no doubt as to the kindly triumph in the eye. Explanation he had none. He stepped off the jolting car.
"Is she coming out?" he asked the conductor.
"No, she ain't," said a Chellaston man who stood near at hand. "She's got her trunk in the baggage car, and she's got her ticket for Quebec, she has. She's left the hotel, and left old Hutchins in the lurch—that's what she's done."
The train was moving quicker. The conductor had jumped aboard. Alec was just aware that all who were left on the platform were gossiping about Eliza's departure when he was suddenly spurred into violent movement by the recollection that he had absently retained in his possession Bates's ticket and the change of the note given him to buy it with. To run and swing himself on to the last car was a piece of vigorous action, but once again upon the small rear porch and bound perforce for the next station, he gave only one uncomfortable glance through the glass door and turned once more to the prospect of the long level track. Who could mention a railway ticket and small change to a man so recently beatified?
The awkwardness of his position, a shyness that came over him at the thought that they must soon see him and wonder why he was there, suggested the wonder why he had desired that Bates should be happy; now that he saw him opulent in happiness, as it appeared, above all other men, he felt only irritation—first, at the sort of happiness that could be derived from such a woman, and secondly, at the contrast between this man's fulness and his own lack. What had Bates done that he was to have all that he wanted?
It is an easier and less angelic thing to feel sympathy with sorrow than with joy.
In a minute or two it was evident they had seen him, for he heard the door slide and Bates came out on the little platform. He had gone into the car feebly; he came out with so easy a step and holding himself so erect, with even a consequential pose, that a gleam of derision shot through the younger man's mind, even though he knew with the quick knowledge of envy that it was for the sake of the woman behind the door that the other was now making the most of himself.
Alec gave what he had to give; it was not his place to make comment.
Bates counted the change with a care that perhaps was feigned. If he stood very straight, his hard hand trembled.
"I'm sorry ye were forced to come on with the cars; it's another added to all the good deeds you've done by me." He had found a tongue now in which he could be gracious.
"Oh, I shall soon get back," said Alec.
"I suppose ye've seen"—with attempted coolness—"that my young friend here, Eliza Cameron, is going back with me."
"So I see." If his life had depended upon it, Alec could not have refrained from a smile which he felt might be offensive, but it passed unseen.
"When she saw ye out here, she asked me just to step out, for perhaps ye'd be so kind as to take a message to a young lady she has a great caring for—a Miss Rexford, as I understand."
"All right." Alec looked at the rails flying behind them, and stroked his yellow moustache, and sighed in spite of himself.
"I'd like ye to tell Miss Rexford from me that we intend to be married to-morrow—in the city of Quebec; but Sissy, she would like ye to say that she'd have gone to say good-bye if she'd known her own mind sooner, and that she prefairred to come" (he rolled the r in this "preferred" with emphasis not too obvious) "—ye understand?"—this last a little sharply, as if afraid that the word might be challenged.
Still looking upon the flying track, Alec nodded to show that he challenged nothing.
"And she wishes it to be said," continued the stiff, formal Scot (there was a consequential air about him now that was almost insufferable), "that for all I've the intention in my mind to spend my life in the old place, she thinks she'll very likely break me of it, and bring me to live in more frequented parts in a year or two, when she'll hope to come and see her friends again. 'Tis what she says, Mr. Trenholme" (and Alec knew, from his tone, that Bates, even in speaking to him, had smiled again that gloriously happy smile), "and of course I humour her by giving her words. As to how that will be, I can't say, but"—with condescension—"ye'd be surprised, Mr. Trenholme, at the hold a woman can get on a man."
"Really—yes, I suppose so," Alec muttered inanely; but within he laid control on himself, lest he should kick this man. Surely it would only make the scales of fortune balance if Bates should have a few of his limbs broken to pay for his luxury!
Alec turned, throwing a trifle of patronage into his farewell. Nature had turned him out such a good-looking fellow that he might have spared the other, but he was not conscious of his good looks just then.
"Well, Bates, upon my word I wish you joy. It's certainly a relief to me to think you will have someone to look after that cough of yours, and see after you a bit when you have the asthma. I didn't think you'd get through this winter alone, 'pon my word, I didn't; but I hope that—Mrs. Bates will take good care of you."
It was only less brutal to hurl the man's weakness at him than it would have been to hurl him off the train. Yet Alec did it, then jumped from the car when the speed lessened.
He found himself left at a junction which had no interest for him, and as there was a goods train going further on to that village where he had stopped with Bates on their first arrival in these parts, he followed a whim and went thither, in order to walk home by the road on which he had first heard Sophia's voice in the darkness.
Ah, that voice—how clear and sweet and ringing it was! It was not words, but tones, of which he was now cherishing remembrance. And he thought of the face he now knew so well, hugged the thought of her to his heart, and knew that he ought not to think of her.
Everywhere the trees hung out red and yellow, as flags upon a gala day. He saw the maples on the mountain rise tier above tier, in feathery scarlet and gold. About his feet the flowering weeds were blowing in one last desperate effort of riotous bloom. The indigo birds, like flakes from the sky above, were flitting, calling, everywhere, as they tarried on their southward journey. Alec walked by the rushing river, almost dazzled by its glitter, and felt himself to be, not only an unhappy, but an ill-disposed man.
"And yet—and yet—" thought he, "if Heaven might grant her to me—": and the heaven above him seemed like brass, and the wish like a prayer gone mad.
CHAPTER XX.
Sophia had lived on through a few more quiet days; and now she knew that the problem to which she had set herself was not that one pleasantly remote from her inmost self, as to where her duty lay in helping on an ideal social state, but another question, that beside the first seemed wholly common and vulgar, one that tore from her all glamours of romantic conception, so that she sat, as it were, in a chamber denuded of all softness and beauty, face to face with her own pride. And so lusty was this pride she had deemed half-dead that beside it all her former enthusiasms seemed to fade into ghostly nothings.
At first she only determined, by all the chivalrous blood that ran in her veins, to continue her kindness to the Trenholmes. She foresaw a gust of unpopularity against them, and she saw herself defending their interests and defying criticism. In this bright prospect the brothers were humbly grateful and she herself not a little picturesque in generous patronage. It was a delightful vision—for an hour; but because she was nearer thirty than twenty it passed quickly. She touched it with her knowledge of the world and it vanished. No; social life could not be changed in a day; it would not be well that it should be. Much of the criticism that would come in this case would be just; and the harsher blows that would be dealt could not be stayed nor the unkindness defied; even in the smaller affairs of life, he who would stand by the wronged must be willing to suffer wrong. Was she ready for that? The longer she meditated, the more surely she knew that Alec Trenholme loved her. And when she had meditated a little longer—in spite of the indignation she had felt at the bare suggestion—she knew that she loved him.
The fine theories of universal conduct in which she had been indulging narrowed themselves down to her own life and to sternest, commonest reality. Christianity is never a quality that can be abstracted from the individual and looked upon as having duties of its own.
She fought against the knowledge that she liked him so well; the thought of being his wife was the thought of a sacrifice that appalled her. A convent cell would not have appeared to her half so far removed from all that belongs to the pride of life; and lives there anyone who has so wholly turned from that hydra-headed delight as not to shrink, as from some touch of death, from fresh relinquishment? Her pulses stirred to those strains of life's music that call to emulation and the manifold pomps of honour; and, whatever might be the reality, in her judgment the wife of Alec Trenholme must renounce all that element of interest in the world for ever. Our sense of distinction poises its wings on the opinion of men; and, as far as she had learnt this opinion, a saint or a nun (she knew it now, although before she had not thought it) had honourable part in life's pageantry, but not the wife of such as he. The prospect in her eyes was barren of the hope that she might ever again have the power to say to anyone, "I am better than thou."
It did not help her that at her initiation into the Christian life she had formally made just this renunciation, or that she had thought that before now she had ratified the vow. The meaninglessness of such formulas when spoken is only revealed when deepening life reveals their depths of meaning. She asked, in dismay, if duty was calling her to this sacrifice by the voice of love in her heart. For that Love who carries the crown of earthly happiness in his hand was standing on the threshold of her heart like a beggar, and so terrible did his demand seem to her that she felt it would be easy to turn him away.
"I," she said to herself, "I, who have preached to others, who have discoursed on the vanity of ambition—this has come to teach me what stuff my glib enthusiasm is made of. I would rather perjure myself, rather die, rather choose any life of penance and labour, than yield to my own happiness and his, and give up my pride."
She arrayed before her all possible arguments for maintaining the existing social order; but conscience answered, "You are not asked to disturb it very much." Conscience used an uncomfortable phrase—"You are only asked to make yourself of no reputation." She cowered before Conscience. "You are not even asked to make yourself unhappy," continued Conscience; and so the inward monitor talked, on till, all wearied, her will held out a flag of truce.
Most women would have thought of a compromise, would have, said, "Yes, I will stoop to the man, but I will raise him to some more desirable estate"; but such a woman was not Sophia Rexford. She scorned love that would make conditions as much as she scorned a religion that could set its own limits to service. For her there was but one question—Did Heaven demand that she should acknowledge this love? If so, then the all-ruling Will of Heaven must be the only will that should set bounds to its demand.
In the distress of her mind, however, she did catch at one idea that was, in kind, a compromise. She thought with relief that she could take no initiative. If Alec Trenholme asked her to be his wife—then she knew, at last she knew, that she would not dare to deny the voice at her heart—in the light of righteousness and judgment to come, she would not dare to deny it. But—ah, surely he would not ask! She caught at this belief as an exhausted swimmer might catch at a floating spar, and rested herself upon it. She would deal honourably with her conscience; she would not abate her kindliness; she would give him all fair opportunity; and if he asked, she would give up all—but she clung to her spar of hope.
She did not realise the extent of her weakness, nor even suspect the greatness of her strength.
CHAPTER XXI.
Robert Trenholme had not told his brother that he had made his confession when he took tea with all the women. He knew that in such cases difference and separation are often first fancied and then created, by the self-conscious pride of the person who expects to be slighted. He refrained from making this possible on Alec's part, and set himself to watch the difference that would be made; and the interest of all side-issues was summed up for him in solicitude to know what Miss Rexford would do, for on that he felt his own hopes of her pardon to depend.
When he found, the day after Bates's departure, that Alec must seek Miss Rexford to give Eliza's message, he put aside work to go with him to call upon her. He would hold to his brother; it remained to be seen how she would receive them together.
That same afternoon Sophia went forth with Winifred and the little boys to gather autumn leaves. When the two brothers came out of the college gate they saw her, not twenty yards away, at the head of her little troop. Down the broad road the cool wind was rushing, and they saw her walking against it, outwardly sedate, with roses on her cheeks, her eyes lit with the sunshine. The three stopped, and greeted each other after the manner of civilised people.
Trenholme knew that the change that any member of the Rexford family would put into their demeanour could not be rudely perceptible. He set no store by her greeting, but he put his hand upon his brother's shoulder and he said:
"This fellow has news that will surprise you, and a message to give. Perhaps, if it is not asking too much, we may walk as far as may be necessary to tell it, or," and he looked at her questioningly, "would you like him to go and help you to bring down the high boughs?—they have the brightest leaves."
"Will you come and help us gather red leaves?" said Sophia to Alec.
She did not see the gratitude in the elder brother's eyes, because it did not interest her to look for it.
"And you?" she said to him.
"Ah, I" (he held up the cane with which he still eased the weight on one foot), "I cannot walk so far, but perhaps I will come and meet you on your return," and he pleased himself with the idea that she cared that he should come.
He went into his house again. His heart, which had lately been learning the habit of peace, just now learned a new lesson of what joy might be. His future before him looked troublous, but the worst of his fears was allayed. He had loved Sophia long; to-day his love seemed multiplied a thousandfold. Hope crept to his heart like a darling child that had been in disgrace and now was forgiven.
The others went on down the road.
Alec told his news about Eliza as drily as facts could be told. If he touched his story at all with feeling, it was something akin to a sneer.
"She'll get him on to the track of prosperity now she's taken hold, Miss Rexford," said he. "Mr. and Mrs. Bates will be having a piano before long, and they will drive in a 'buggy.' That's the romance of a settler's life in Canada."
When they had left that subject Sophia said, "Now he is gone, are you going away?"
"Yes; in a day or two. I've fixed nothing yet, because Robert seems to have some unaccountable objection to getting rid of me just at present; but I shall go."
"It is very fine weather," she said.
"There is too much glare," said he.
"You are surely hard to please."
"What I call fine weather is something a man has something in common with. If one were a little chap again, just leaving school for a holiday, this would be a glorious day, but—what man has spirits equal to" (he looked above) "this sort of thing."
His words came home to Sophia with overwhelming force, for, as they went on, touching many subjects one after another, she knew with absolute certainty that her companion had not the slightest intention of being her suitor. If the sunny land through which she was walking had been a waste place, in which storm winds sighed, over which storm clouds muttered, it would have been a fitter home for her heart just then. She saw that she was to be called to no sacrifice, but she experienced no buoyant relief. He was going away; and she was to be left. She had not known herself when she thought she wanted him to go—she was miserable. Well, she deserved her misery, for would she not be more miserable if she married him? Had she not cried and complained? And now the door of this renunciation was not opened to her—he was going away, and she was to be left.
Very dull and prosaic was the talk of these two as they walked up the road to that pine grove where the river curved in, and they turned back through that strip of wilderness between road and river where it was easy to be seen that the brightest leaf posies were to be had.
Nearest the pines was a group of young, stalwart maple trees, each of a different dye—gold, bronze, or red. It was here that they lingered, and Alec gathered boughs for the children till their hands were full. The noise of the golden-winged woodpecker was in the air, and the call of the indigo bird.
Sophia wandered under the branches; her mind was moving always. She was unhappy. Yes, she deserved that; but he—he was unhappy too; did he deserve it? Then she asked herself suddenly if she had no further duty toward him than to come or go at his call. Did she dare, by all that was true, to wreck his life and her own because she would not stoop to compel the call that she had feared?
Humility does not demand that we should think ill of ourselves, but that we should not think of ourselves at all. When Sophia lost sight of herself she saw the gate of Paradise. After that she was at one again with the sunshine and the breeze and the birds, with the rapture of the day and the land, and she ceased to think why she acted, or whether it was right or wrong. The best and worst hours of life are in themselves irresponsible, the will hurled headlong forward by an impulse that has gathered force before.
And what did she do? The first thing that entered her mind—it mattered not what to her. The man was in her power, and she knew it.
When the children's arms were full and they had gone on homeward down a pathway among lower sumac thickets, Alec turned and saw Sophia, just as stately, just as quiet, as he had ever seen her. So they two began to follow.
Her hand had been cut the day before, and the handkerchief that bound it had come off. Demurely she gave it to him to be fastened. Now the hand had been badly cut, and when he saw that he could not repress the tenderness of his sympathy.
"How could you have done it?" he asked, filled with pain, awed, wondering.
She laughed, though she did not mean to; she was so light-hearted, and it was very funny to see how quickly he softened at her will.
"Do not ask me to tell you how low we Rexfords have descended!" she cried, "and yet I will confess I did it with the meat axe. I ought not to touch such a thing, you think! Nay, what can I do when the loin is not jointed and the servant has not so steady a hand as I? Would you have me let papa grumble all dinner-time—the way that you men do, you know?"
The little horror that she had painted for him so vividly did its work. With almost a groan he touched the hand with kisses, not knowing what he did; and looking up, frightened of her as far as he could be conscious of fear, he saw, not anger, but a face that fain would hide itself, and he hid it in his embrace.
"Oh," cried he, "what have I done?"
Stepping backward, he stood a few paces from her, his arms crossed, the glow on his face suddenly transcended by the look with which a man might regard a crime he had committed.
"What is it?" she cried, wickedly curious. The maple tree over her was a golden flame and her feet were on a carpet of gold. All around them the earth was heaped with palm-like sumac shrubs, scarlet, crimson, purple—dyed as it were, with blood.
"What have I done?" He held out his hands as if they had been stained. "I have loved you, I have dared, without a thought, without a thought for you, to walk straight into all the—the—heaven of it."
Then he told her, in a word, that about himself which he thought she would despise; and she saw that he thought she heard it for the first time.
Lifting her eyebrows in pretty incredulity. "Not really?" she said.
"It is true," he cried with fierce emphasis.
At that she looked grave.
He had been trying to make her serious; but no sooner did he see her look of light and joy pass into a look of thought than he was filled with that sort of acute misery which differs from other sorrows as acute pain differs from duller aches.
"My darling," he said, his heart was wrung with the words—"my darling, if I have hurt you, I have almost killed myself." (Man that he was, he believed that his life must ebb in this pain.)
"Why?" she asked. "How?"
He went a step nearer her, but as it came to him every moment more clearly that he had deceived her, as he realised what he had gained and what he now thought to forego, his voice forsook him in his effort to speak. Words that he tried to say died on his lips.
But she saw that he had tried to say that because of it she should not marry him.
He tried again to speak and made better work of it. "This that has come to us—this love that has taken us both—you will say it is not enough to—to—"
She lifted up her face to him. Her cheeks were flushed; her eyes were full of light. "This that has come to us, Alec—" (At his name he came nearer yet) "this that has taken us both" (she faltered) "is enough."
He came near to her again; he took her hands into his; and all that he felt and all that she felt, passed from his eyes to hers, from hers to his.
He said, "It seems like talking in church, but common things must be said and answered, and—Sophie—what will your father say?"
"I don't know," she said; but happiness made her playful; she stroked the sleeve of his coat, as if to touch it were of more interest to her. "I will give him my fortune to make up, and come to you penniless."
"He won't consent," he urged.
There was still a honeyed carelessness in her voice and look. "At the great age to which I have attained," said she, "fathers don't interfere."
"What can I do or say," he said, "to make you consider?" for it seemed to him that her thoughts and voice came from her spellbound in some strange delight, as the murmur comes from a running stream, without meaning, except the meaning of all beautiful and happy things in God's world.
"What must I consider?"
"The shop—the trade."
"When you were a very young butcher, and first took to it, did you like it?"
"I wasn't squeamish," he said; and then he told her about his father. After that he philosophised a little, telling something of the best that he conceived might be if men sought the highest ideal in lowly walks of life, instead of seeking to perform imperfectly some nobler business. It was wonderful how much better he could speak to her than to his brother, but Sophia listened with such perfect assent that his sense of honour again smote him.
"Art thinking of it all, love?" he said.
"I was wondering what colour of aprons you wore, and if I must make them."
They began to walk home, passing now under the sumac's palm-like canopy, and they saw the blue gleam of the singing river through red thickets. Soon they came to a bit of open ground, all overgrown with bronzed bracken, and maidenhair sere and pink, and blue-eyed asters and golden-rod. So high and thick were the breeze-blown weeds that the only place to set the feet was a very narrow path. Here Sophia walked first, for they could not walk abreast, and as Alec watched her threading her way with light elastic step, he became afraid once more, and tried to break through her happy tranquillity.
"Dear love," he said, "I hope—"
"What now?" said she, for his tone was unrestful.
He trampled down flowers and ferns as he awkwardly tried to gain her side.
"You know, dear, I have a sort of feeling that I've perhaps just fascinated and entranced you—so that you are under a spell and don't consider, you know."
It was exactly what he meant, and he said it; but how merrily she laughed! Her happy laughter rang; the river laughed in answer, and the woodpecker clapped applause.
But Alec blushed very much and stumbled upon the tangled weeds.
"I only meant—I—I didn't mean—That is the way I feel fascinated by you, you know; and I suppose it might be the same—"
They walked on, she still advancing a few paces because she had the path, he retarded because, in his attempt to come up with her, he was knee-deep in flowers. But after a minute, observing that he was hurt in his mind because of her laughter, she mocked him, laughing again, but turned the sunshine of her loving face full upon him as she did so.
"Most fascinating and entrancing of butchers!" quoth she.
With that as she entered another thicket of sumac trees, he caught and kissed her in its shade.
* * * * *
And there was one man who heard her words and saw his act, one who took in the full meaning of it even more clearly than they could, because they in their transport had not his clearness of vision. Robert Trenholme, coming to seek them, chanced in crossing this place, thick set with shrubs, to come near them unawares, and seeing them, and having at the sight no power in him to advance another step or speak a word, he let them pass joyously on their way towards home. It was not many moments before they had passed off the scene, and he was left the only human actor in that happy wilderness where flower and leaf and bird, the blue firmament on high and the sparkling river, rejoiced together in the glory of light and colour.
Trenholme crossed the path and strode through flowery tangle and woody thicket like a giant in sudden strength, snapping all that offered to detain his feet. He sought, he knew not why, the murmur and the motion of the river; and where young trees stood thickest, as spearsmen to guard the loneliness of its bank, he sat down upon a rock and covered his face, as if even from the spirits of solitude and from his own consciousness he must hide. He thought of nothing: his soul within him was mad.
He had come out of his school not half an hour before, rejoicing more than any schoolboy going to play in the glorious weather. For him there was not too much light on the lovely autumn landscape; it was all a part of the peace that was within him and without, of the God he knew to be within him and without—for, out of his struggle for righteousness in small things, he had come back into that light which most men cannot see or believe. Just in so far as a man comes into that light he ceases to know himself as separate, but knows that he is a part of all men and all things, that his joy is the joy of all men, that their pain is his; therefore, as Trenholme desired the fulfilment of his own hopes, he desired that all hope in the world might find fruition. And because this day he saw—what is always true if we could but see it—that joy is a thousandfold greater than pain, the glory of the autumn seemed to him like a psalm of praise, and he gave thanks for all men.
Thus Trenholme had walked across the fields, into these groves—but now, as he sat by the river, all that, for the time, had passed away, except as some indistinct memory of it maddened him. His heart was full of rage against his brother, rage too against the woman he loved; and with this rage warred most bitterly a self-loathing because he knew that his anger against them was unjust. She did not know, she had no cause to know, that she had darkened his whole life; but—what a fool she was! What companionship could that thoughtless fellow give her? How he would drag her down! And he, too, could not know that he had better have killed his brother than done this thing. But any woman would have done for Alec; for himself there was only this one—only this one in the whole world. He judged his brother; any girl with a pretty face and a good heart would have done for that boisterous fellow—while for himself—"Oh God," he said, "it is hard."
Thus accusing and excusing these lovers, excusing and again accusing himself for his rage against them, he descended slowly into the depth of his trouble—for man, in his weakness, is so made that he can come at his worst suffering only by degrees. Yet when he had made this descent, the hope he had cherished for months and years lay utterly overthrown; it could not have been more dead had it been a hundred years in dying. He had not known before how dear it was, yet he had known that it was dearer than all else, except that other hope with which we do not compare our desires for earthly good because we think it may exist beside them and grow thereby.
There are times when, to a man, time is not, when the life of years is gathered into indefinite moments; and after, when outward things claim again the exhausted mind, he wonders that the day is not further spent. And Trenholme wondered at the length of that afternoon, when he observed it again and saw that the sun had not yet sunk low, and as he measured the shadows that the bright trees cast athwart the moving water, he was led away to think the thoughts that had been his when he had so lightly come into those gay autumn bowers. A swallow skimmed the wave with burnished wing; again he heard the breeze and the rapid current. They were the same; the movement and music were the same; God was still with him; was he so base as to withhold the thanksgiving that had been checked half uttered in his heart by the spring of that couchant sorrow? Then in the sum of life's blessings he had numbered that hope of his, and now he had seen the perfect fruition of that hope in joy. It was not his own,—but was it not much to know that God had made such joy, had given it to man? Had he in love of God no honest praise to give for other men's mercies? none for the joy of this man who was his brother? Across the murmur of the river he spoke words so familiar that they came to clothe the thought—
"We do give Thee most humble and hearty thanks for all Thy goodness and—loving kindness—to us—and to all men."
And although, as he said them, his hand was clenched so that his fingers cut the palm, yet, because he gave thanks, Robert Trenholme was nearer than he knew to being a holy man.
THE END.
THE ONE GOOD GUEST.
A NOVEL. By L.B. Walford
Author of "Mr. Smith," "The Baby's Grandmother," ETC., ETC. 12mo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1.00.
"It is a delightful picture of life at an English estate, which is presided over by a young 'Squire' and his young sister. Their experiences are cleverly told, and the complications which arise are amusing and interesting. There are many humorous touches, too, which add no slight strength to the story."—BOSTON TIMES.
"A charming little social comedy, permeated with a refinement of spontaneous humor and brilliant with touches of shrewd and searching satire."—BOSTON BEACON.
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BEGGARS ALL.
A NOVEL. By Miss L. Dougall.
Sixth Edition. 12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.00.
"This is one of the strongest as well as most original romances of the year…. The plot is extraordinary…. The close of the story is powerful and natural…. A masterpiece of restrained and legitimate dramatic fiction."—LITERARY WORLD.
"To say that 'Beggars All' is a remarkable novel is to put the case mildly indeed, for it is one of the most original, discerning, and thoroughly philosophical presentations of character that has appeared in English for many a day…. Emphatically a novel that thoughtful people ought to read … the perusal of it will by many be reckoned among the intellectual experiences that are not easily forgotten."—BOSTON BEACON.
"A story of thrilling interest."—HOME JOURNAL.
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"It is more than a story for mere summer reading, but deserves a permanent place among the best works of modern fiction. The author has struck a vein of originality purely her own…. It is tragic, pathetic, humerous by turns…. Miss Dougall has, in fact, scored a great success. Her book is artistic, realistic, intensely dramatic—in fact, one of the novels of the year."—BOSTON TRAVELLER.
"'Beggars-All' is a noble work of art, but is also something more and something better. It is a book with a soul in it, and in a sense, therefore, it may be described as an inspired work. The inspiration of genius may or may not he lacking to it, but the inspiration of a pure and beautiful spirituality pervades it completely … the characters are truthfully and powerfully drawn, the situations finely imagined, and the story profoundly interesting."—CHICAGO TRIBUNE.
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KEITH DERAMORE.
A NOVEL. By the Author of "Miss Molly."
Crown 8vo, Cloth, $1.00.
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"The few important characters introduced are very clearly and well drawn; one is a quite unusual type and reveals a good deal of power in the author. It is a live story of more than ordinary interest."—REVIEW OF REVIEWS.
"A novel of quiet but distinct force and of marked refinement in manner. The few characters in 'Keith Deramore' are clearly and delicately drawn, and the slight plot is well sustained."—CHRISTIAN UNION.
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"The story is strong and interesting, worthy of a high place in fiction."—PUBLIC OPINION.
"Its development can be followed with great interest. It is well written and entertaining throughout."—THE CRITIC.
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A MORAL DILEMMA. By Annie M. Thompson.
Crown 8vo, Cloth, $1.00.
"We have in this most delightful volume … a new novel by a new author. The title is happily chosen, the plot is thrillingly interesting, its development is unusually artistic, the style is exceptionally pure, the descriptions are graphic. In short we have one of the best of recent novels, and the author gives great promise."—BOSTON TRAVELLER.
"A novel of rare beauty and absorbing interest. Its plot, which is constructed with great skill, is decidedly unconventional in its development, and its denouement, although unanticipated until near its climax, really comes as an agreeable surprise…. As a literary work, 'A Moral Dilemma' will take high rank."—BOSTON HOME JOURNAL.
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A WELSH IDYLL. By William Tirebuck,
Author of "Dorrie," "St. Margaret," ETC.
Crown 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.00.
"Very charming in its depiction of a simple country life giving several piquant studies of quaint and attractive character, and not wanting in the flavor of that romance which all good novels must possess—the romance of love…. The book is written with knowledge and power, and has the idyllic flavor."—BOSTON BEACON.
"It is an idyll, a lovely one, conceived by some one whose childhood has been happily impressed on him…. The reader lives amid the pastures and the orchards of Ty-Cremed, and eats the brown bread and drinks the milk there, and Auntie Gwen, with her white teeth, cracks filberts for him. This sweet, impulsive woman, with her blue eyes and her russet hair, bewitches you, as she does her little nephew, Martin. Mr. Tirebuck's literary faculties are of an exceptional kind. Those who love to read of child life will find here a perfect picture. There is, however, much more than this."—N.Y. TIMES.
"It is a vigorously told story of rural and child-life in Wales, and most tenderly, imaginatively, simply, it is done … has humor, pathos, fancy, courage, deep human feeling, and admirable descriptive power."—PROVIDENCE JOURNAL.
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DORRIE. By William Tirebuck,
Author of "St. Margaret," "Sweetheart Gwen," ETC.
Second Edition. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $1.50
O.
"A really notable novel. Dramatic and profoundly pathetic. A psychological study of great value."—GRAPHIC.
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"'Dorrie' is an extremely touching and realistic picture of Liverpool life. Mr. Tirebuck writes vigorously, and his story is certainly one of profound human interest."—G. BARNETT SMITH, in The Academy.
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"This story possesses unusual powers of attraction, and gives unmistakable evidence of genius."—MANCHESTER EXAMINER.
"She (Dorrie) seems to myself the most absolutely original, and, in her way, the most taking figure in recent fiction. She is unique. To one reader at least she remains among the friends of fiction, the beloved of dreams."—ANDREW LANG, At the Sign of the Ship.