It was certainly affinity that led Miss Lucretia to choose the rosewood sofa
of a bygone age, which was covered with horsehair. Miss Lucretia's features
seemed to be constructed on a larger and more generous principle than those of
women are nowadays. Her face was longer. With her curls and her bonnet and her
bombazine,—which she wore in all seasons,—she was in complete harmony with the
sofa. She had thrown aside the storm cloak which had become so familiar to
pedestrians in certain parts of Boston.
"My dear Miss Penniman," said Mrs. Merrill, "I am delighted and honored. I
scarcely hoped for such a pleasure. I have so long admired you and your work,
and I have heard Cynthia speak of you so kindly."
"It is very good of you to say so, Mrs. Merrill" answered Miss Lucretia, in
her full, deep voice. It was by no means an unpleasant voice. She settled
herself, though she sat quite upright, in the geometrical centre of the
horsehair sofa, and cleared her throat. "To be quite honest with you, Mrs.
Merrill," she continued, "I came upon particular errand, though I believe it
would not be a perversion of the truth if I were to add that I have had for a
month past every intention of paying you a friendly call."
Good Mrs. Merrill's breath was a little taken away by this extremely
scrupulous speech. She also began to feel a misgiving about the cause of the
visit, but she managed to say something polite in reply.
"I have come about Cynthia," announced Miss Lucretia, without further
"About Cynthia?" faltered Mrs. Merrill.
Miss Lucretia opened a reticule at her waist and drew forth a newspaper
clipping, which she unfolded and handed to Mrs. Merrill.
"Have you seen this?" she demanded.
Mrs. Merrill took it, although she guessed very well what it was, glanced at
it with a shudder, and handed it back.
"Yes, I have read it," she said.
"I have come to ask you, Mrs. Merrill" said Miss Lucretia, "if it is true."
Here was a question, indeed, for the poor lady to answer! But Mrs. Merrill
was no coward.
"It is partly true, I believe."
"Partly?" said Miss Lucretia, sharply.
"Yes, partly," said Mrs. Merrill, rousing herself for the trial; "I have
never yet seen a newspaper article which was wholly true."
"That is because newspapers are not edited by women," observed Miss Lucretia.
"What I wish you to tell me, Mrs. Merrill, is this: how much of that article is
true, and how much of it is false?"
"Really, Miss Penniman," replied Mrs. Merrill, with spirit, "I don't see why
you should expect me to know."
"A woman should take an intelligent interest in her husband's affairs, Mrs.
Merrill. I have long advocated it as an entering wedge."
"An entering wedge!" exclaimed Mrs. Merrill, who had never read a page of the
"Yes. Your husband is the president of a railroad, I believe, which is
largely in that state. I should like to ask him whether these statements are
true in the main. Whether this Jethro Bass is the kind of man they declare him
Mrs. Merrill was in a worse quandary than ever. Her own spirits were none too
good, and Miss Lucretia's eye, in its search for truth, seemed to pierce into
her very soul. There was no evading that eye. But Mrs. Merrill did what few
people would have had the courage or good sense to do.
"That is a political article, Miss Penniman," she said, "inspired by a bitter
enemy of Jethro Bass, Mr. Worthington, who has bought the newspaper from which
it was copied. For that reason, I was right in saying that it is partly true.
You nor I, Miss Penniman, must not be the judges of any man or woman, for we
know nothing of their problems or temptations. God will judge them. We can only
say that they have acted rightly or wrongly according to the light that is in
us. You will find it difficult to get a judgment of Jethro Bass that is not a
partisan judgment, and yet I believe that that article is in the main a history
of the life of Jethro Bass. A partisan history, but still a history. He has
unquestionably committed many of the acts of which he is accused."
Here was talk to make the author of the "Hymn to Coniston" sit up, if she
hadn't been sitting up already.
"And don't you condemn him for those acts?" she gasped.
"Ah," said Mrs. Merrill, thinking of her own husband. Yesterday she would
certainly have condemned. Jethro Bass. But now! "I do not condemn anybody, Miss
Miss Lucretia thought this extraordinary, to say the least.
"I will put the question in another way, Mrs. Merrill," said she. "Do you
think this Jethro Bass a proper guardian for Cynthia Wetherell?"
To her amazement Mrs. Merrill did not give her an instantaneous answer to
this question. Mrs. Merrill was thinking of Jethro's love for the girl, manifold
evidences of which she had seen, and her heart was filled with a melting pity.
It was such a love, Mrs. Merrill knew, as is not given to many here below. And
there was Cynthia's love for him. Mrs. Merrill had suffered that morning
thinking of this tragedy also.
"I do not think he is a proper guardian for her, Miss Penniman."
It was then that the tears came to Mrs. Merrill's eyes for there is a limit
to all human endurance. The sight of these caused a remarkable change in Miss
Lucretia, and she leaned forward and seized Mrs. Merrill's arm.
"My dear," she cried, "my dear, what are we to do? Cynthia can't go back to
that man. She loves him, I know, she loves him as few girls are capable of
loving. But when she, finds out what he is! When she finds out how he got the
money to support her father!" Miss Lucretia fumbled in her reticule and drew
forth a handkerchief and brushed her own eyes—eyes which a moment ago were so
piercing. "I have seen many young women," she continued; "but I have known very
few who were made of as fine a fibre and who have such principles as Cynthia
"That is very true," assented Mrs. Merrill too much cast down to be amazed by
this revelation of Miss Lucretia's weakness.
"But what are we to do?" insisted that lady; "who is to tell her what he is?
How is it to be kept from her, indeed?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Merrill, "there will be more, articles. Mr. Merrill says so.
It seems there is to be a great political struggle in that state."
"Precisely," said Miss Lucretia, sadly. "And whoever tells the girl will
forfeit her friendship. I—I am very fond of her," and here she applied again to
"Whom would she believe?" asked Mrs. Merrill, whose estimation of Miss
Lucretia was increasing by leaps and bounds.
"Precisely," agreed Miss Lucretia. "But she must hear about it sometime."
"Wouldn't it be better to let her hear?" suggested Mrs. Merrill; "we cannot
very well soften that shock: I talked the matter over a little with Mr. Merrill,
and he thinks that we must take time over it, Miss Penniman. Whatever we do, we
must not act hastily."
"Well," said Miss Lucretia, "as I said, I am very fond of the girl, and I am
willing to do my duty, whatever it may be. And I also wished to say, Mrs.
Merrill, that I have thought about another matter very carefully. I am willing
to provide for the girl. I am getting too old to live alone. I am getting too
old, indeed, to do my work properly, as I used to do it. I should like to have
her to live with me."
"She has become as one of my own daughters," said Mrs. Merrill. Yet she knew
that this offer of Miss Lucretia's was not one to be lightly set aside, and that
it might eventually be the best solution of the problem. After some further
earnest discussion it was agreed between them that the matter was, if possible,
to be kept from Cynthia for the present, and when Miss Lucretia departed Mrs.
Merrill promised her an early return of her call.
Mrs. Merrill had another talk with her husband, which lasted far into the
night. This talk was about Cynthia alone, and the sorrow which threatened her.
These good people knew that it would be no light thing to break the faith of
such as she, and they made her troubles their own.
Cynthia little guessed as she exchanged raillery with Mr. Merrill the next
morning that he had risen fifteen minutes earlier than usual to search his
newspaper through. He would read no more at breakfast, so he declared in answer
to his daughters' comments; it was a bad habit which did not agree with his
digestion. It was something new for Mr. Merrill to have trouble with his
There was another and scarcely less serious phase of the situation which Mr.
and Mrs. Merrill had yet to discuss between them—a phase of which Miss Lucretia
Penniman knew nothing.
The day before Miss Sadler's school was to reopen nearly a week before the
Harvard term was to commence—a raging, wet snowstorm came charging in from the
Atlantic. Snow had no terrors for a Coniston person, and Cynthia had been for
her walk. Returning about five o'clock, she was surprised to have the door
opened for her by Susan herself.
"What a picture you are in those furs!" she cried, with an intention which
for the moment was lost upon Cynthia. "I thought you would never come. You must
have walked to Dedham this time. Who do you think is here? Mr. Worthington."
"I have been trying to entertain him, but I am afraid I have been a very poor
substitute. However, I have persuaded him to stay for supper."
"It needed but little persuasion," said Bob, appearing in the doorway. All
the snowstorms of the wide Atlantic could not have brought such color to her
cheeks. Cynthia, for all her confusion at the meeting, had not lost her faculty
of observation. He seemed to have changed again, even during the brief time he
had been absent. His tone was grave.
"He needs to be cheered up, Cynthia," Susan went on, as though reading her
thoughts. "I have done my best, without success. He won't confess to me that he
has come back to make up some of his courses. I don't mind owning that I've got
to finish a theme to be handed in tomorrow."
With these words Susan departed, and left them standing in the hall together.
Bob took hold of Cynthia's jacket and helped her off with it. He could read
neither pleasure nor displeasure in her face, though he searched it anxiously
enough. It was she who led the way into the parlor and seated herself, as
before, on one of the uncompromising, straight-backed chairs. Whatever inward
tremors the surprise of this visit had given her, she looked at him clearly and
steadily, completely mistress of herself, as ever.
"I thought your holidays did not end until next week," she said.
"They do not."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because I could not stay away, Cynthia," he answered. It was not the manner
in which he would have said it a month ago. There was a note of intense
earnestness in his voice—now, and to it she could make no light reply.
Confronted again with an unexpected situation, she could not decide at once upon
a line of action.
"When did you leave Brampton?" she asked, to gain time. But with the words
her thoughts flew to the hill country.
"This morning," he said, "on the early train. They have three feet of snow up
there." He, too, seemed glad of a respite from something. "They're having a
great fuss in Brampton about a new teacher for the village school. Miss Goddard
has got married. Did you know Miss Goddard, the lanky one with the glasses?"
"Yes," said Cynthia, beginning to be amused at the turn the conversation was
"Well, they can't find anybody smart enough to replace Miss Goddard. Old Ezra
Graves, who's on the prudential committee, told Ephraim they ought to get you. I
was in the post-office when they were talking about it. Just see what a
reputation for learning you have in Brampton!"
Cynthia was plainly pleased by the compliment.
"How is Cousin Eph?" she asked.
"Happy as a lark," said Bob, "the greatest living authority in New England on
the Civil War. He's made the post-office the most popular social club I ever
saw. If anybody's missing in Brampton, you can nearly always find them in the
post-office. But I smiled at the notion of your being a school ma'am."
"I don't see anything so funny about it," replied Cynthia, smiling too. "Why
shouldn't I be? I should like it."
"You were made for something different," he answered quietly.
It was a subject she did not choose to discuss with him, and dropped her
lashes before the plainly spoken admiration in his eyes. So a silence fell
between them, broken only by the ticking of the agate clock on the mantel and
the music of sleigh-bells in a distant street. Presently the sleigh-bells died
away, and it seemed to Cynthia that the sound of her own heartbeats must be
louder than the ticking of the clock. Her tact had suddenly deserted her;
without reason, and she did not dare to glance again at Bob as he sat under the
lamp. That minute—for it was a full minute—was charged with a presage which she
could not grasp. Cynthia's instincts were very keen. She understood, of course,
that he had cut short his holiday to come to see her, and she might have dealt
with him had that been all. But—through that sixth sense with which some women
are endowed—she knew that something troubled him. He, too, had never yet been at
a loss for words.
The silence forced him to speak first, and he tried to restore the light tone
to the conversation.
"Cousin Ephraim gave me a piece of news," he said. "Ezra Graves got it, too.
He told us you were down in Boston at a fashionable school. Cousin Ephraim knows
a thing or two. He says he always callated you were cut out for a fine lady."
"Bob," said Cynthia, nerving herself for the ordeal, "did you tell Cousin
Ephraim you had seen me?"
"I told him and Ezra that I had been a constant and welcome visitor at this
"Did, you tell your father that you had seen me?"
This was too serious a question to avoid.
"No, I did not. There was no reason why I should have."
"There was every reason," said Cynthia, "and you know it. Did you tell him
why you came to Boston to-day?"
"Why does he think you came?"
"He doesn't think anything about it," said Bob. "He went off to Chicago
yesterday to attend a meeting of the board of directors of a western railroad."
"And so," she said reproachfully, "you slipped off as soon as his back was
turned. I would not have believed that of you, Bob. Do you think that was fair
to him or me?"
Bob Worthington sprang to his feet and stood over her. She had spoken to a
boy, but she had aroused a man, and she felt an amazing thrill at the result.
The muscles in his face tightened, and deepened the lines about his mouth, and a
fire was lighted about his eyes.
"Cynthia," he said slowly, "even you shall not speak to me like that. If I
had believed it were right, if I had believed that it would have done any good
to you or me, I should have told my father the moment I got to Brampton. In
affairs of this kind—in a matter of so much importance in my life," he
continued, choosing his words carefully, "I am likely to know whether I am doing
right or wrong. If my mother were alive, I am sure that she would approve of
Having got so far, he paused. Cynthia felt that she was trembling, as though
the force and feeling that was in him had charged her also.
"I did not intend to come so soon," he went on, "but—I had a reason for
coming. I knew that you did not want me."
"You know that that is not true, Bob," she faltered. His next words brought
her to her feet.
"Cynthia," he said, in a voice shaken by the intensity of his passion, "I
came because I love you better than all the world—because I always will love you
so. I came to protect you, and care for you whatever happens. I did not mean to
tell you so, now. But it cannot matter, Cynthia!"
He seized her, roughly indeed, in his arms, but his very roughness was a
proof of the intensity of his love. For an instant she lay palpitating against
him, and as long as he lives he will remember the first exquisite touch of her
firm but supple figure and the marvellous communion of her lips. A current from
the great store that was in her, pent up and all unknown, ran through him, and
then she had struggled out of his arms and fled, leaving him standing alone in
It is true that such things happen, and no man or woman may foretell the day
or the hour thereof. Cynthia fled up the stairs, miraculously arriving unnoticed
at her own room, and locked the door and flung herself on the bed.
Tears came—tears of shame, of joy, of sorrow, of rejoicing, of regret; tears
that burned, and yet relieved her, tears that pained while they comforted. Had
she sinned beyond the pardon of heaven, or had she committed a supreme act of
right? One moment she gloried in it, and the next upbraided herself bitterly.
Her heart beat with tumult, and again seemed to stop. Such, though the words but
faintly describe them, were her feelings, for thoughts were still to emerge out
of chaos. Love comes like a flame to few women, but so it came to Cynthia
Wetherell, and burned out for a while all reason.
Only for a while. Generations which had practised self-restraint were strong
in her—generations accustomed, too, to thinking out, so far as in them lay, the
logical consequences of their acts; generations ashamed of these very instants
when nature has chosen to take command. After a time had passed, during which
the world might have shuffled from its course, Cynthia sat up in the darkness.
How was she ever to face the light again? Reason had returned.
So she sat for another space, and thought of what she had done—thought with a
surprising calmness now which astonished her. Then she thought of what she would
do, for there was an ordeal still to be gone through. Although she shrank from
it, she no longer lacked the courage to endure it. Certain facts began to stand
out clearly from the confusion. The least important and most immediate of these
was that she would have to face him, and incidentally face the world in the
shape of the Merrill family, at supper. She rose mechanically and lighted the
gas and bathed her face and changed her gown. Then she heard Susan's voice at
"Cynthia, what in the world are you doing?"
Cynthia opened the door and the sisters entered. Was it possible that they
did not read her terrible secret in her face? Apparently not. Susan was busy
commenting on the qualities and peculiarities of Mr. Robert Worthington, and
showering upon Cynthia a hundred questions which she answered she knew not how;
but neither Susan nor Jane, wonderful as it may seem, betrayed any suspicion.
Did he send the flowers? Cynthia had not asked him. Did he want to know whether
she read the newspapers? He had asked Susan that, before Cynthia came. Susan was
ready to repeat the whole of her conversation with him. Why did he seem so
particular about newspapers? Had he notions that girls ought not to read them?
The significance of Bob's remarks about newspapers was lost upon Cynthia
then. Not till afterward did she think of them, or connect them with his
unexpected visit. Then the supper bell rang, and they went downstairs.
The reader will be spared Mr. Worthington's feelings after Cynthia left him,
although they were intense enough, and absorbing and far-reaching enough. He sat
down on a chair and buried his head in his hands. His impulse had been to leave
the house and return again on the morrow, but he remembered that he had been
asked to stay for supper, and that such a proceeding would cause comment. At
length he got up and stood before the fire, his thoughts still above the clouds,
and it was thus that Mr. Merrill found him when he entered.
"Good evening," said that gentleman, genially, not knowing in the least who
Bob was, but prepossessed in his favor by the way he came forward and shook his
hand and looked him clearly in the eye.
"I'm Robert Worthington, Mr. Merrill" said he.
"Eh!" Mr. Merrill gasped, "eh! Oh, certainly, how do you do, Mr.
Worthington?" Mr. Merrill would have been polite to a tax collector or a
sheriff. He separated the office from the man, which ought not always to be
done. "I'm glad to see you, Mr. Worthington. Well, well, bad storm, isn't it? I
had an idea the college didn't open until next week."
"Mr. Worthington's going to stay for supper, Papa," said Susan, entering.
"Good!" cried Mr. Merrill. "Capital! You won't miss the old folks after
supper, will you, girls? Your mother wants me to go to a whist party."
"It can't be helped, Carry," said Mr. Merrill to his wife, as they walked up
the hill to a neighbor's that evening.
"He's in love with Cynthia," said Mrs. Merrill, somewhat sadly; "it's as
plain as the nose on your face, Stephen."
"That isn't very plain. Suppose he is! You can dam a mountain stream, but you
can't prevent it reaching the sea, as we used to say when I was a boy in
Edmundton. I like Bob," said Mr. Merrill, with his usual weakness for Christian
names, "and he isn't any more like Dudley Worthington than I am. If you were to
ask me, I'd say he couldn't do a better thing than marry Cynthia."
"Stephen!" exclaimed Mrs. Merrill. But in her heart she thought so, too.
"What will Mr. Worthington say when he hears the young man has been coming to
our house to see her?"
Mr. Merrill had been thinking of that very thing, but with more amusement
To return to Mr. Merrill's house, the three girls and the one young man were
seated around the fire, and their talk, Merrill as it had begun, was becoming
minute by minute more stilted. This was largely the fault of Susan, who would
not be happy until she had taken Jane upstairs and left Mr. Worthington and
Cynthia together. This matter had been arranged between the sisters before
supper. Susan found her opening at last, and upbraided Jane for her unfinished
theme; Jane, having learned her lesson well, accused Susan. But Cynthia, who saw
through the ruse, declared that both themes were finished. Susan, naturally
indignant at such ingratitude, denied this. The manoeuvre, in short, was
executed very clumsily and very obviously, but executed nevertheless—the sisters
marching out of the room under a fire of protests. The reader, too, will no
doubt think it a very obvious manoeuvre, but some things are managed badly in
life as well as in books.
Cynthia and Bob were left alone: left, moreover, in mortal terror of each
other. It is comparatively easy to open the door of a room and rush into a
lady's arms if the lady be willing and alone. But to be abandoned, as Susan had
abandoned them, and with such obvious intent, creates quite a different
atmosphere. Bob had dared to hope for such an opportunity: had made up his mind
during supper, while striving to be agreeable, just what he would do if the
opportunity came. Instead, all he could do was to sit foolishly in his chair and
look at the coals, not so much as venturing to turn his head until the sound of
footsteps had died away on the upper floors. It was Cynthia who broke the
silence and took command—a very different Cynthia from the girl who had thrown
herself on the bed not three hours before. She did not look at him, but stared
with determination into the fire.
"Bob, you must go," she said.
"Go!" he cried. Her voice loosed the fetters of his passion, and he dared to
seize the band that lay on the arm of her chair. She did not resist this.
"Yes, you must go. You should not have stayed for supper."
"Cynthia," he said, "how can I leave you? I will not leave you."
"But you can and must," she replied.
"Why?" he asked, looking at her in dismay.
"You know the reason," she answered.
"Know it?" he cried. "I know why I should stay. I know that I love you with
my whole heart and soul. I know that I love you as few men have ever loved—and
that you are the one woman among millions who can inspire such a love."
"No, Bob, no," she said, striving hard to keep her head, withdrawing her hand
that it might not betray the treason of her lips. Aware, strange as it may seem,
of the absurdity of the source of what she was to say, for a trace of a smile
was about her mouth as she gazed at the coals. "You will get over this. You are
not yet out of college, and many such fancies happen there."
For the moment he was incapable of speaking, incapable of finding an answer
sufficiently emphatic. How was he to tell her of the rocks upon which his love
How was he to declare that the very perils which threatened her had made a
man of him, with all of a man's yearning to share these perils and shield her
from them? How was he to speak at all of those perils? He did not declaim, yet
when he spoke, an enduring sincerity which she could not deny was in his voice.
"You know in your heart that what you say is not true, Cynthia. Whatever
happens, I shall always love you."
Whatever happens: She shuddered at the words, reminding her as they did of
all her vague misgivings and fears.
"Whatever happens!" she found herself repeating them involuntarily.
"Yes, whatever happens I will love you truly and faithfully. I will never
desert you, never deny you, as long as I live. And you love me, Cynthia," he
cried, "you love me, I know it."
"No, no," she answered, her breath coming fast. He was on his feet now,
dangerously near her, and she rose swiftly to avoid him.
She turned her head, that he might not read the denial in her eyes; and yet
had to look at him again, for he was coming toward her quickly. "Don't touch
me," she said, "don't touch me."
He stopped, and looked at her so pitifully that she could scarce keep back
"You do love me," he repeated.
So they stood for a moment, while Cynthia made a supreme effort to speak
"Listen, Bob," she said at last, "if you ever wish to see me again, you must
do as I say. You must write to your father, and tell him what you have done
and—and what you wish to do. You may come to me and tell me his answer, but you
must not come to me before." She would have said more, but her strength was
almost gone. Yes, and more would have implied a promise or a concession. She
would not bind herself even by a hint. But of this she was sure: that she would
not be the means of wrecking his opportunities. "And now—you must go."
He stayed where he was, though his blood leaped within him, his admiration
and respect for the girl outran his passion. Robert Worthington was a gentleman.
"I will do as you say, Cynthia," he answered, "but I am doing it for you.
Whatever my father's reply may be will not change my love or my intentions. For
I am determined that you shall be my wife."
With these words, and one long, lingering look, he turned and left her. He
had lacked the courage to speak of his father's bitterness and animosity. Who
will blame him? Cynthia thought none the less of him for not telling her. There
was, indeed, no need now to describe Dudley Worthington's feelings.
When the door had closed she stoke to the window, and listened to his
footfalls in the snow until she heard them no more.