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
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.
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
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
"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
"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
"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
"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
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
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
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
"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
"G-gone to Brampton—gone to Brampton."
"Gone to Brampton! Do you mean to say—? What is she doing there?" Bob
"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
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.
Bob got as far as the door.
"Er—go back to Harvard, Bob?"
"I intend to, Mr. Bass."
"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
"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
"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
"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
"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
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
"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
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.
"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
"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
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
"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
Once the words were out, she marvelled that she had found the courage to
"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
"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
"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!