7 ^ 
 



IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
IN THE DISTANCE 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS 
 1885 
 
lOAN STACK 
 
 Copyright, 1882, 
 BY GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. LOOKING TOWARDS A MOUNTAIN ... 7 
 
 II. THRKE LOVERS ....... 18 
 
 III. " ENTHUSIASM " 30 
 
 IV. EDITF S BLUE-ROOM 39 
 
 V. ARCHDALE 5^ 
 
 VI. TRAGIC MEMORIES 58 
 
 VII. SAVAGE S. AN ODD ENCOUNTER . . 68 
 
 VIII. RUDYARD 85 
 
 IX. A DRIVE. THE DESERT. FOOTSTEPS 97 
 
 X. WHISPERINGS IN THE RAIN. . . . . 109 
 
 XT. A CHILD OF NIGHT 128 
 
 XTI. WHITCOT BEGINS ENGINEERING . . . 138 
 
 XIII. NOTHING PARTICULAR; HENCE, IMPOR 
 
 TANT 147 
 
 XIV. SUNDRY ARRIVALS . 157 
 
 XV. IDYLLIC DAYS K53 
 
 XVI. THE TRIAL-SERMON, AND WHAT FOL 
 LOWED 180 
 
 XVII. A FRIENDLY ENEMY 195 
 
 XVIII. REINP^ORCEMENTS .... 211 
 
 XIX. HOW BURLEN SURPRISED ARCHDALE 220 
 
 38 
 
vi CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XX. A MEETING IN THE DESERT .... 232 
 
 XXL THE CROWN OF MONADNOC . ... 247 
 
 XXII. TREACHERY 266 
 
 XXIII. MORTIS FORMIDINE ET IRA .... 280 
 
 XXIV. DISCOVERY OF A MURDER . . . . 291 
 XXV. UNDER ARREST 308 
 
 XXVI. PREPARING FOR A STRUGGLE . . . 318 
 
 XXVII. THE CRISIS IN COURT 326 
 
 XXVIII. REUNION AND SEPARATION .... 340 
 
 XXIX. CERTAINTIES AND UNCERTAINTIES . . 351 
 
 XXX. THE RAINBOW . 367 
 
THE DISTANCE. 
 
 LOOKING TOWARDS A MOUNTAIN. 
 
 THE Cleft a rugged gully breaking from the 
 roadside, and tearing a long, descending seam 
 in the wooded hill, about midway of the route from 
 "Willowbridge to Marie was a silent place always. 
 The hush that brooded over it seemed to be prepar 
 ing the mind for events of importance. As if it were 
 the primeval atmosphere, it-was charged with a sense 
 of profound beginnings. 
 
 Beginnings usually imply hope ; but about this place 
 there was something sad, austere, and minatoiy. A 
 new life, a new scheme, a new passion, even in the 
 midst of its hopefulness, carries with it a shadow of 
 coming struggle and the pathos of possible failure. 
 It was this shadow, this pathos, which seemed to 
 pervade the spot, in the full leafy vigor of the June 
 day to which we now look back. 
 
 What gave to the Cleft its most suggestive quality, 
 aiding the sense of something about to happen, was 
 the glimpse one here commanded of Monadnoc moun- 
 
8 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 tain, rising in New Hampshire, seventy miles to the 
 northwestward, lonely, vast, and mute, as if it were 
 the image of a dim futurity. Seventy miles away, 
 yet, like a lofty character not fully comprehended by 
 those who are nearest, it asserted its integrity, sub 
 lime and intact when seen from the Cleft, though 
 invisible at many places within easy approach. 
 
 In the universal stillness at this time, the day 
 appeared to be resting. No houses were to be seen ; 
 the chirring of insects in the fields was barely notice 
 able, scattering itself like a mere seed of sound on 
 the air. The birds had come to a long rest in their 
 plain-song score ; the very trees, in the pauses of the 
 wind, had a hushed and hermit-like aspect. Monad- 
 noc a well marked but faint blue shape, making 
 the light blue sky behind it look still paler, and seem 
 ing, in its mysterious power, almost to create the 
 distance intervening on the hither side took the 
 place of action in the landscape. It impressed 
 the mind like a deep strain of music ; yet this im 
 pression only intensified the surrounding silence. 
 . Throughout the wide scene, the only sign of stir 
 ring life was a pure white butterfly balancing himself 
 on the yellow blossom of a hawk weed. 
 
 Suddenly the creak of a wheel was heard ; then, 
 for a few seconds, nothing more. The noise was soon 
 repeated, together with other sounds implying that 
 some vehicle was in motion along the ascent from 
 Willowbridge. Voices came up from that direction, 
 a girl s laugh, with sundry heavier masculine notes 
 dragging after it. The white butterfly winged a veer- 
 
LOOKING TOWARDS A MOUNTAIN. 9 
 
 ing flight and left the hawkweed a-tremble ; at the 
 same instant there started up from the grass-hung 
 edge of the gully the figure of a young man, strong 
 and slender. He appeared to meditate flight. 
 
 But again that faint, cheery sound of voices came 
 floating up towards him, and changed his purpose. In 
 such a solitude, the intrusion of human tones, though 
 so pleasantly pitched, was almost ghost-like ; but the 
 listener knew the voices : the} r were those of persons 
 whom he had just been thinking about. 
 
 What inner meaning did you catch, Robert Burlen, 
 in those few half-musical sounds? No strain of 
 mournful destiny, no signal of antipathy, one would 
 say; for these were the persons you were almost 
 wishing } T OU might meet. 
 
 Whatever it was, something inclined the young 
 man to get out of sight ; but it was too late to escape 
 completely. The fall of the Cleft was too steep for 
 him to go that way. Looking down the rounded sur 
 face of the road, he saw the ears of two horses rising 
 above its upward slope towards him, and at this he 
 made haste to get behind some black birches that 
 fringed the fence beside the ragged cleft. The ears, 
 with a jerk forward, were developed into heads, bring 
 ing into view behind them a section of dull-red roof 
 belonging to a stage-coach. In like manner the 
 driver was enlarged from a dingy bust of himself 
 into a full-length figure, slighth doubled up as to his 
 knees, from his position on the box ; and with him 
 appeared three young people, Miss Edith Arch- 
 dale, daughter of the theological professor of that 
 
10 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 name in the college at Marie ; Mr. Ravling, lawyer ; 
 and Richard Whitcot, civil engineer. 
 
 Tired and struggling horses, a dusty old coach, 
 and four figures on the top of it, these need not, it 
 should seem, strike the young man as fraught with 
 any special importance or romantic potency. Yet it 
 was a fact of some significance that he now saw those 
 four individuals for the first time together, and three 
 of them had just held a place in his revery. Look 
 ing out from his birch covert at the coach with its 
 passengers, he was really confronting in these objects 
 the elements of his future. 
 
 The wheels of the GENERAL SCOTT (so the coach 
 was inscribed in large letters on its side) paused 
 gratefully at the crest of the hill, close by a watering- 
 trough on the inner side of the road. 
 
 " How good it is to see the mountain again ! " 
 cried Miss Archdale, with a spontaneity that made 
 the three } oung men who heard her think it surpris 
 ingly well worth while to be in a position to inspect 
 that venerable piece of geolog3 T . 
 
 Ravling and Whitcot turned their attention to 
 Monadnoc with a readiness bordering on the obsequi 
 ous. It might have been thought that each believed 
 he could come to some private understanding with 
 the mountain to favor himself and choke off the other, 
 in any contemplated advances towards the young 
 lady who had spoken. 
 
 The Iaw3 cr, whose pride it was to appear as little 
 like a lawyer as possible (an endeavor in which he 
 met with gratifying success), ruffled his short, dark, 
 
LOOKING TOWARDS A MOUNTAIN. H 
 
 outward-carving beard with one hand. " How much 
 pleasure you will get out of it when you re up there 
 this summer," he said rather moodily. "I wish I 
 were going to get awa} , like the rest of you." 
 
 "You re really not going to take a vacation, 
 then?" Whitcot inquired, with undue cheerfulness. 
 The light-gray clothes which he affected gave him 
 at any time an air of fresh expansiveness ; but in 
 making this inference he grew more than usually 
 elastic. 
 
 Ravling continued to ruffle his beard, and made 
 no answer. To soothe him, Miss Archdale delivered 
 a few words of formal regret, which mortified him by 
 their coldness. She went on presently with more 
 freedom: "Are you sure, Mr. Ravling, that it s 
 wise, even looking at it for self-interest, to slave so 
 steadily at your profession? When you look at that 
 mountain, far off as it is, you find the simple sight of 
 it refreshing; don t you?" (Whitcot, though not ap 
 pealed to, here tried another glance at Monadnoc ; 
 but, not finding it especially refreshing, gave it up 
 again.) " So I should think," Edith went on to 
 Ravling, " that for the good of your work " 
 
 He interrupted, rather bitterly : " Don t appeal to 
 my self-interest, at any rate, Miss Archdale. I m 
 well enough furnished -with motives of that kind, 
 don t you think? If you d only try me," he went 
 on, smiling oddly, " with some higher motive ! See 
 if I can t rise to it at least part way." 
 
 It is to be hoped no one is going to sum up Ravling 
 by this curt speech, for it hardly did him justice. 
 
12 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 1 What motive ? " asked Edith, gayly. What shall 
 I try? It s terribly perplexing. But if } T OU want a 
 high one, Monadnoc itself I should think would do." 
 For all this, she was displeased with him. Fearing, 
 too, that she had gone too near suggesting a wish for 
 his company during the summer, she withdrew her 
 notice from him, and fixed it once more on that su 
 preme mountain slope which closed in the vista. 
 She longed to be close under it, at once : certainly 
 not an unpleasant longing ; yet she blamed Ravling 
 for prompting it in her. 
 
 Meanwhile Marshall Stubbs, the driver, dismount 
 ing to water the horses, had thrown the reins to 
 Whitcot. " Pretty hot day," observed that young 
 gentleman, as if it did not much concern him, but 
 might interest Stubbs. He then scowled parentheti 
 cally at Ravling. 
 
 " Starts the juice out some," admitted Stubbs, un- 
 checking his lean but sweating steeds. 
 
 Whitcot smiled to himself, and scanned the old 
 man to see if he also gave signs of "juice." He 
 discovered none. The driver, with his hard red-and- 
 tan face, was as diy and impermeable as his stage. 
 It struck Whitcot that Stubbs would have looked 
 upon perspiration as an unwarrantable extravagance. 
 After another quick glance of disapproval at Ravling, 
 he resumed : " Rather a lucky thing that you Ve got 
 this trough at the top of such a hard hill." 
 
 "Ain t much luck about it," was the answer. 
 " Why, you know } oung Burlen down at the college, 
 don t you? It s his doing: he got it up." Stubbs 
 
LOOKING TOWARDS A MOUNTAIN. 13 
 
 said this as if he were reciting a covert injury done 
 to himself, 
 
 " Oh, yes : Burlen ! So it was ; I think I was told 
 before. Thoughtful of him, though, was n t it? Idea 
 was to have people stop, I suppose, where they could 
 see this view." 
 
 " Exactly what I s posed," said Stubbs, intimating 
 by his tone that the thoughtful act had been an un 
 worthy piece of hypocrisy. During the entire halt 
 he carefully avoided looking off at the mountain. It 
 was incumbent on him to show that one person at 
 least could not be inveigled into admiring it. 
 
 Whitcot was reflecting with a certain satisfaction 
 on Stubbs s obvious hostility to Burlen, when a dis 
 covery startled him. "Hullo!" he cried, with a 
 harshness that may have been only the jarring of 
 any sudden exclamation in a nook so calm. i There s 
 Burlen himself! Is n t that you, Burlen ? Come out 
 and accept my apology if I m mistaken." 
 
 Every one looked around towards the birches, and 
 Burlen came forward with a smile : a little abashed 
 at being found in hiding, so that his brown face 
 colored up more than usual ; but with a swift, hon 
 est light in his eyes, and a readiness of movement 
 showing that he meant to make the best of it. A 
 slight laugh escaped him. He had n t said a word, 
 and yet they all felt that he had greeted them 
 sufficient!} 7 , 
 
 "Well, you might have found an easier walk for 
 such a hot day, Mr. Burlen," said Edith. "But I 
 suppose you ve found your reward." She made a 
 
14 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 brief, light gesture towards the long valley and the 
 far-off looming mountain. 
 
 "Yes, I ve found my reward," Burlen answered, 
 with a double meaning that roused the ire of the two 
 young men on the coach. He smiled. It was not 
 the smile of a saint or an ascetic, though it was by 
 no means rollicking. A roguish glimmer stole over 
 his strong, repressed lips and small chin, while his 
 eyes pleaded for lenienc} if he had said anj tlring too 
 pointed. It is safe to assume that Edith forgave 
 him. 
 
 "Lucky accident 3*011 should meet us or we 
 you," remarked Whitcot, without much ardor. 
 
 "Yes yes." Burlen always spoke too quicklj-. 
 He had to pause an instant. " The fact is, I walked 
 this way unconsciously, and was sitting here thinking, 
 when I I heard you. Upon my word, it startled 
 me so I tried to get out of the way. I don t know 
 what made me." He looked at them all in child-like 
 surprise at himself. 
 
 "I m sorry 3*011 were n t with us ; we ve had the 
 most lovely drive ! " said Edith, impulsively. 
 
 "You walked?" Ravling inquired, adding with 
 legal adroitness : " Then of course you ve got to go 
 back all the way on foot. Well, I don t envy you ! " 
 
 " Sorry there is n t room here," said Whitcot, fol 
 lowing him up. 
 
 Miss Archdale flushed a little. Burlen was eying 
 the coach, especially the top in her neighborhood. 
 
 Then there occurred a mysterious dispensation. 
 Whitcot made no move to enlarge the available 
 
LOOKING TOWARDS A MOUNTAIN. 15 
 
 space ; a couple of mail-bags occupied the lower 
 bench next to Stubbs, and Ravling contrived to be 
 too abstracted to notice that anything was going on. 
 But in spite of these facts a space silently, unac 
 countably opened between Edith and Ravling, and 
 with an air of casual surprise she said: "If you 
 really want to get on, Mr. Burlen, I m sure we can 
 make room." 
 
 The student of theolog}^ straightway reconciled 
 faith with science, by climbing up and occupying the 
 seat which to the eye of reason alone looked impos 
 sible ; whereupon Whitcot, obedient to ctynamic laws, 
 had to slide down and arrange himself on the mail- 
 bags. 
 
 " Is n t it wonderful? " said Edith, unconsciously ; 
 but she explained herself by continuing "that 
 Monad noc should always impress me so strongly, 
 man} times as I ve seen it? What do you suppose 
 makes it?" 
 
 When Burlen was happy, a warm, generous light 
 filled his tender, brown eyes, as if the spirit within 
 him were trying to communicate its brightness to 
 others. This was the case now, as he answered. 
 " I find the same thing with myself," he said ; " and 
 so I was thinking of it a little while ago, here. I 
 wonder if you remember that essay of Hazlitt s : at 
 an} T rate, one sentence from it came into my mind. 
 It s like this : Passion is lord of infinite space, and 
 distant objects please because they border on its 
 confines. That s what he says. So a mountain on 
 the horizon excites strong feeling and fancies that 
 
16 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 like to go roaming through space. It seems to Lave 
 got to the goal before them, and leads them on. 
 Is n t there something in that?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " cried the girl. " It s the truth itself. 
 Such an insight as that is as beautiful as the thing 
 that suggested it." 
 
 There was silence among them for an instant. 
 
 " I should prefer to have it stated more simply," 
 said Whitcot, with an air of immense intellectual 
 exertion. 
 
 "I agree with you, Miss Archdale," Ravling an 
 nounced, "that it s a charming explanation. I m 
 not certain, though, that it suffices. But b} the 
 way, Burlen, I hope you re not going to fall into that 
 modern trick of saying your best things in other 
 men s words. It will play the deuce with your origi 
 nality in the pulpit, 3-011 know. The popular preach 
 ers now-a-days are always calming their language 
 down to a glassy level, and then the} skip a lot of 
 nice rounded quotations over the surface, to make a 
 splash ; but however amusing it may be, it is n t dig 
 nified, you know." 
 
 Burlen looked serious, apparently willing to admit 
 that he might fall juitQ error. But before he had said 
 anything, Stubbs, who had been prowling along the 
 edge of the gully, came back declaring in a loud 
 voice: "Guess shall have to talk to County Com 
 missioners a mite bout this hole. Tain t hardly 
 safe. There d ought to be a stone wall right along 
 and some trees planted un neath, to hold the soil. 
 Guess that \\ spoil the show ; hoy? " lie addressed 
 
LOOKING TOWARDS A MOUNTAIN. 17 
 
 himself with gloomy playfulness to Burlen, as the 
 one most likely to suffer and deservedly from 
 any injuiy to the view. 
 
 Then with a leap he took his seat and the reins. 
 The GENERAL SCOTT creaked, rattled, and started on 
 its way. In a moment or two it was on the descent 
 to Marie. A departing whip-crack resounded ; the 
 noise of hoofs grew more distant ; then a light dust- 
 cloud raised by the coach drifted away, and stillness 
 settled upon the hill again. The elements of Bur- 
 len s future had met him, taken him up and borne 
 him along ; leaving the silence and mystery of the 
 Cleft to germinate new episodes. 
 
18 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 II. 
 
 THREE LOVERS. 
 
 THE ride to Willowbridge had at first been con 
 templated by Edith alone. 
 
 A friend of hers, Miss Viola Welsted, of Boston, 
 had arrived at the village of the willows by a route 
 which did not take her through Marie ; and as Edith 
 was going away in a few days to spend the vacation 
 near Monadnoc, the two girls were overpowered by 
 a whirlwind of eagerness to see each other. They 
 hadn t anything very particular to impart; but 
 women weigh their mutual relations with such senti 
 mental scrupulousness leaving only a small residu 
 um of feeling in regard to the pangs they may inflict 
 in their relations with men that the obligation upon 
 these two to effect a meeting appeared to be a sacred 
 one. 
 
 The 3 oung men, by attaching themselves to this 
 solemn mission, instantly gave it a worldly, frivolous, 
 and amatory turn. 
 
 Ravling had come from Boston to look up the 
 title to some lands near Marie, as he explained ; an 
 errand which required an astonishingly protracted 
 sta} T , without in the least preventing him from seeing 
 a good deal of Edith. So, when he heard she was 
 going over to Willowbridge, he remembered that he 
 
THREE LOVERS. 19 
 
 ought to inquire about rooms there for his aunt, 
 "Mrs. Withers, you know," he specified. " I ex 
 pect her to leave me most of her money, and that 
 makes me veiy attentive." 
 
 In saying this he gratified an eccentric fondness 
 for underrating his own motives, familiar to his 
 friends. 
 
 "I wonder, then," said Edith, taking up the bitter 
 jest, "that she dares to let you choose a place for 
 her to live in." 
 
 "It is surprising," Ravling answered, with pre 
 tended satisfaction. " But then, it s only for a few 
 weeks. And she puts more confidence in me than 
 you do, I m afraid." 
 
 Composure was a strong characteristic in Miss 
 Archdale, but it failed her a little as she replied : 
 " You have no reason to say that of me." Which 
 referred to the fact that, having once rejected the 
 lawyer as a lover, she had retained him as a friend. 
 "But there is a better reason for your going to 
 Willowbridge," she resumed. "You know Viola 
 Welsted, don t you?" 
 
 " Oh, yes." Ravling wrinkled his forehead. 
 
 " Of course. I remember she has often spoken of 
 you." 
 
 The young man s interest increased. " Has she 
 ever said any good of me?" he laughingly asked. 
 
 " As to that I don t think I could say positively. " 
 Edith laughed, too, smoothing her dress absently 
 with her hand and looking away. "But I cer 
 tainly got the idea that you were on good terms, 
 unusually good." 
 
20 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 "Perhaps } T OU think I have a hungry vanit} r ," he 
 began more seriously. " That is n t it, but I m tor 
 mented by a fear. I don t know how to express it. 
 Yes I do, though. I wonder sometimes whether I m 
 entirely selfish. That s the fear I mean. But then 
 it seems to me there s a kind of selfishness in people 
 with professedly great aims, too." It was tolerably 
 clear to Edith that he had Burlen in mind. " They 
 take or reject what they want, no matter what the 
 cost may be to others ; yet they re not blamed for 
 it. Now I don t know that I have an} r great aim in 
 the world that would pass for such ; but I m trying 
 to do my best. There appears to be a place for me, 
 and I want to fill it to the best advantage. For that 
 I need a number of things, knowledge, friends, a 
 quantity of money ; in fact all the things that give 
 power. Because I bend my energies to getting 
 these, people think me selfish; and it s natural 
 enough that I should have got to thinking myself 
 so in consequence." 
 
 It was unusual for him to speak so much at 
 length about himself. Edith s carelessly distant 
 manner gave place to a more earnest one as she 
 listened. Her chin sank a trifle, bringing her face 
 forward in a level, concentrated gaze. " Those peo 
 ple with great aims that you speak of," she asked 
 " does n t it make all the difference that they have a 
 high purpose?" 
 
 " Perhaps," he assented slowly. "Yet it s hard 
 to say why the same desire on the part of two con 
 scientious people can be selfish in one and unselfish 
 in the other." 
 
THREE LOVERS. 21 
 
 " What desire ?" she was surprised into demand 
 ing. 
 
 Ravling waited. Then, "It might be hard," said 
 he, "to find a suitable example." They were both 
 aware, however, that the desire he referred to was 
 that which Buiien and himself were supposed to 
 share, of winning Edith. She drew back; a 
 scarcely perceptible change of attitude, but it im 
 mediately put a barrier between them. "But sup 
 pose," Ravling continued, "that one is born without 
 the capacity for grand purposes ? " 
 
 "I wonder if that s possible," she mused. They 
 were already beginning to speak more to themselves 
 than to one another. " Well, if one were like that 
 ah, here is Mr. Burlen ! " 
 
 The lawyer rose and shook hands with the student 
 as he entered. He remained standing, with an inde 
 terminate annoyance in his manner, and holding his 
 hat. 
 
 It turned out that Burlen could not go with them, 
 as had been proposed, to Willowbridge. He was 
 obliged to give the day to finishing and memorizing 
 the address which he was to deliver on graduating. 
 
 " What s your subject?" inquired Ravling, with a 
 fatigued assumption of politeness. 
 
 " Enthusiasm," answered Burlen, very gravely ; 
 and then he directed a glance at Edith, as if to find 
 out how she took the announcement. 
 
 "A broad field," murmured the other man, ab 
 stractedly, as he gazed out into the village street, 
 through the windows. He was saying to himself, 
 
22 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 " This fellow s like all undergraduates. He thinks 
 it in the last degree important." 
 
 "That s good!" exclaimed Edith. "You ll 
 have to put a great deal of that quality into the 
 essay ; but then it s natural to you, is n t it?" 
 
 " I don t know," said Burlen. " Am I an enthu 
 siast?" 
 
 " Yes ; I think 3-011 are." 
 
 "At any rate I m not cynical," he affirmed, look 
 ing at the lawyer. Possibly there was some antago 
 nism in his look. "I believe in the possibility of 
 accomplishing good aims." 
 
 "You re young, too," Ravling vouchsafed equiv 
 ocally. 
 
 " Yes, and I hope to remain so," was the retort. 
 Suspecting that he had given offence, Ravling took 
 his leave, and Burlen likewise went away a moment 
 after. 
 
 As for Whitcot, his duties were at no time very 
 rigorous. Nominally he was a civil engineer, a pro 
 fession which, in its earliest stages, has often been 
 noticed to consist in travelling promiscuously, taking 
 long and agreeable vacations, eating heartily, wear 
 ing the handiwork of fashionable tailors, smoking 
 expensive cigars, and doing the civil while some 
 one else does the engineering. It was, therefore, 
 directly in the line of his work to take a box-seat 
 on the GENERAL SCOTT at the same time that Edith 
 did so. 
 
 Burlen might without much difficulty have neg 
 lected the work of which he had made an excuse ; 
 
THREE LOVERS. 23 
 
 but it struck him that the other two had already 
 overdone matters a little, and he preferred not to 
 put himself in the same position. When they were 
 gone, he went to his barren-looking room in the dor 
 mitory, glanced over his manuscript correctively, 
 and began drilling himself in recitation and appro 
 priate gestures. But the picture of Edith absent 
 with Ravling and Whiteot kept coming between him 
 and his imaginar} audience. It annoyed him to 
 think that he had so easily given his rivals an advan 
 tage, by keeping in the background. "Bah! what 
 rubbish this is ! " he exclaimed, breaking off in the 
 midst of a flowery sentence. " Why should I make 
 a regulation puppet of nryself ? " 
 
 He walked swiftly across the room, seized the 
 manuscript from the table, tore some of the sheets in 
 two, and flung the whole roll into a corner. 
 
 The flutter of the outraged sermon-paper as it fell 
 had scarcely ceased, before he brought himself up 
 sharply with disgust at his slight irascibility. 
 
 "This is ungoverned anger," he said to himself 
 in a cold tone, and with a severity which would have 
 surprised any one hearing him. Leaving the room, 
 he went on that long walk which ended by bringing 
 him to the Cleft ; and there he meditated until roused 
 by the returning coach. 
 
 While he sat musing, Whiteot and Ravling had 
 had him in their thoughts. After leaving Edith at 
 Miss Welsted s lodging door, they had started on a 
 stroll together through the Willowbridge woods. 
 
 "Doesn t it strike you as rather a queer plan," 
 
94 W THE DISTANCE. 
 
 asked the engineer, " young Burlen going up to Sav 
 age s Mills to board at the same place with Miss 
 Archdale and her aunt, this summer?" 
 
 " Probably I should n t think so if I were Burlen." 
 
 "Oh! I see you re not quite so much interested 
 in that quarter as I thought." 
 
 " Are 3 r ou sure? " interposed Ravling. 
 
 4 You certainly intimate," Whitcot returned, "that 
 it s all one to } ou whether this preacher-boy or 
 boy-preacher is near her or not." 
 
 " Not at all. I simply think he has a right to go 
 where he pleases ; arid as the} have n t any minister 
 settled over one of their churches up there, it s 
 proper enough that he should go and be sampled." 
 
 " But he needn t be at the same house with Miss 
 Archdale," objected the other. " It is n t a fair thing." 
 
 " One would suppose," said Ravling, smiling un 
 der his glossy beard, " that you were the selfish one, 
 instead of me. I m willing to give Burlen all the 
 chances he can get. / should want them all if I 
 were in his place. But as to fairness, you know no 
 one could start on equal terms with him. He has 
 been constantly near Miss Archdale for three years, 
 and is a special favorite with her father." 
 
 "Why he should be is more than I can fathom," 
 said Whitcot, pettishly. " He s a man of no origin. 
 Half the people in Marie are afraid to have much 
 to do with him, because they suspect something dis 
 creditable in his life." 
 
 " There s a deep shadow of some kind on him, I 
 know," Ravling confessed. "That isn t for me to 
 
THREE LOVERS. 25 
 
 explain. But Archdale is a theoretical old gentle 
 man. I think he s taken Burlen under his protec 
 tion from a sense of duty, just because the boy has 
 no other friends." 
 
 " Boy ! I wish he were," muttered the young man 
 in the gra} suit. 44 I insist it s unreasonable that a 
 girl like that should be thrown with him, at the risk 
 of entangling herself." 
 
 Ravling turned on him with exasperation. " Miss 
 Archdale," he said "if we are speaking of her 
 may be trusted to meet the requirements of the sit 
 uation. And my opinion is that she would be as 
 happy if she chose to marry a young country parson 
 well, perhaps not so happ} T , but certainly as dig 
 nified as if she were to take a brilliant place in 
 society, for which she s also fitted." 
 
 It was unusual that two 3 oung men devoted to the 
 same woman should stand there discussing the fact 
 indirectly, by talking over their common rival. But 
 people are in the habit of doing unusual things. 
 Having now got enough of it, they went back to find 
 Edith. 
 
 She, meanwhile, had been deeply absorbed. 
 
 "Dear, dear Viola !" 
 
 44 Edith, it s an age since I ve seen you." 
 
 This was the not unusual opening of the talk be 
 tween the two girls. 
 
 44 My dear, I want you to come over to Marie." 
 
 44 Impossible, Edith." 
 
 44 But we re to have a Commencement party. 
 Dick Whitcot, my old schoolfellow, has got back 
 
26 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 from German) , and 3*011 must see him. Besides, Mr. 
 Ilavling s going to be there." 
 
 "Ravling? Good gracious! he s everywhere, 
 positively everywhere ! " 
 
 " Are you tired of him? " Edith asked. " I don t 
 believe he s tired of you." She took hold of Viola s 
 necklace and began to examine it minutely. 
 
 " Don t chatter," said Miss Viola, airily. " How 
 can }*ou possibly know whether he s tired of me or 
 not?" 
 
 " I don t," said her friend. 
 
 Then they unexpectedly kissed each other, as if 
 some disclosure of great and tender importance had 
 passed between them. " I don t care," asserted 
 Miss Viola somewhat vaguely : "you re perfectly 
 charming." 
 
 " And can t you really come to the party?" Edith 
 inquired again, after a pause. " M) r aunt wants 
 you to." 
 
 " Do give my love to Mrs. Savland," was the 
 answer. "No, I don t believe I possibly can. I 
 have some reading to do : I m deep in my German." 
 
 "Are you writing anything?" 
 
 "I can t tell you a word about it at present," 
 Miss Viola answered, with rnystciy. She was not 
 an authoress, but it was supposed by her friends, as 
 it is of so many Boston girls, that she might become 
 one. They were anxious to be apprised of it at the 
 earliest moment, possibly for fear that it would 
 otherwise never be known. She had the customary 
 appurtenance of a father and mother ; but they knew 
 
THREE LOVERS. 27 
 
 their place, and allowed her to go away in summer 
 to where she could find solitude and receive the 
 influences of Nature. 
 
 When the young men returned, and the final par 
 oxysm of parting was in progress : " I shall see you 
 Thursday, then," said Viola. Thursday was the day 
 fixed for the party. 
 
 "Yes, dear; I m so glad you re coming," said 
 Edith, accepting the decision instantly as if it had 
 been made for hours. "You ll stay all night with 
 us, of course." 
 
 Somehow, she herself during the whole conversa 
 tion had n t once mentioned Burlen. 
 
 It was almost a part of the curriculum at Made 
 for undergraduates to entertain a more or less hope 
 less passion for Archdale s daughter. Hence it was 
 not surprising that she should be serenely aware of 
 the admiration which Burlen and Whitcot felt for 
 her. Ravling, though she had met him for the first 
 time during her visit in Boston the previous winter, 
 had already committed himself. Nevertheless, the 
 situation annoyed her at times. She never took her 
 aunt, Mrs. Savland, into her confidence, and being 
 motherless had no one else to consult. As } r et, 
 however, she was not considering possibilities of 
 choice between her three lovers. Like all young 
 people she saw her life far off, in advance, notwith 
 standing the intensity of every present feeling ; but 
 whatever her future was to be, she felt that it would 
 be something firm and unalterable, dim with dis 
 tance now, like Monadnoc, but as solid when she 
 
28 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 should reach it as the mountain itself. Therefore 
 she was in no haste to fix it irrevocably. 
 
 Whitcot, who had always lived in Marie and had 
 been to school with her, had a kind of local advan 
 tage in her mind. He was not in himself a novelty, 
 but it was a novelty to find the boy who had lately 
 teased her grown into a man, returning from foreign 
 studies in garments of a dimly remote origin, with a 
 new blond mustache waving boldly above his lips and 
 an insidious attachment for her in his heart. Rav- 
 ling, on the other hand, was not familiar ; and a de 
 velopment of devotion in his quarter, so opposite to 
 that of Whitcot, was so unexpected that it pressed its 
 way gently into her moods of absent half-thoughts, 
 unwilling though she was to figure as a possible 
 thwarter of poor Viola s sentiment for him. Burlcn s 
 hold upon her fancy came from a blending of the 
 near and the distant. His presence was an accus 
 tomed thing, from his having been three j ears in the 
 college ; yet he was a stranger, too. She knew less 
 of his history than she did of Ravling s. But it was 
 an interesting point about him that, although he was 
 an undergraduate, she had noticed him. 
 
 None of the three felt any confidence as to his 
 chances, excepting Whitcot. He was pleased at 
 finding himself enslaved to Edith, whom he had 
 known so long. He fancied it a stroke of origi 
 nality on his part, which must prove as delightful to 
 her as it was to him. When Biirlen mounted the 
 stage-coach at the Cleft, he was momentarily eclipsed ; 
 but a glance at the mirror as he was going to bed 
 
THREE LOVERS. 29 
 
 reassured him. "It s a pity Bnrlen is so brown 
 and solemn," he remarked aloud, after getting this 
 view of himself. "And then," with a touch of 
 commiseration, " breeding and associations must 
 tell, in the end. The man is too much of an enigma 
 socially." 
 
 The consoling power of these reflections was so 
 great, that Whitcot permitted himself one more 
 cigarette before winding up the experiences of the 
 day. The cigarette burned briskly, and it seemed 
 to him that his heart, enkindled by a fond passion, 
 was almost if not quite as glowing and fragrant as 
 the lighted end of this small roll at his lips. 
 
30 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 III. 
 
 " ENTHUSIASM." 
 
 back to his mutilated manuscript, Bur- 
 len gave only one glance at its torn and 
 crumpled pages, and then tossed it into a drawer. 
 After that he devoted the remaining time to going 
 over the subject in thought, recalling the best of 
 what he had written, trying to go deeper, to strike 
 out more directly, and to get rid of the conscious 
 graces of oratory which he had planned. 
 
 When at last the crucial moment came, and he 
 emerged upon the platform to face a subdued flutter 
 of fans and dresses and many rows of heads planted 
 in the pews of the old chapel, his address met with 
 applause and a surprised appreciation. He had re 
 solved to put forth a strength which should convince 
 his hearers as well as himself. The blow rang. 
 The frigid walls echoed his emphatic tones with a 
 startled sound ; his class listened to him in surprise ; 
 Archdale s lucid spectacles were fixed upon him with 
 a brightness that seemed to signalize his intent ap 
 proval ; and the main body of fluttering listeners 
 found that it had got something to flutter about in 
 earnest. 
 
 He began with combating Locke s declaration that 
 enthusiasm is no divine inspiration, but merely the 
 
" ENTHUSIASM." 31 
 
 result of overheated imagination ; following with 
 examples from the lives of heroes and martyrs, and 
 an argument on their results to show that under the 
 flames of imagination there had been a solid and 
 exhaustless substance of more than ordinary reason, 
 a persistent inspiration which was true enthusi 
 asm. This quality had been confused with mere 
 fanaticism in books, and he tried to point out in his 
 own way how the two things should be distinguished. 
 He dwelt much on the nobility of self-denial and 
 self-sacrifice for conviction s sake ; the special need 
 of them, too, at the present day in eas} -going, suc 
 cess-loving America. Near the end he drew a pic 
 ture of the drilling of a tunnel through a mountain, 
 to illustrate the union of a calm endurance with 
 enthusiasm. "Inspiration," he said, "may con 
 stantly be providing the instant, explosive power 
 essential to the work ; but unless the heading is in 
 order, and the cold, steely points of the drill are in 
 place, the work will never advance. 
 
 " The persistence, the cold mechanism," he went 
 on, " where shall we find it? That is the task of 
 a lifetime, to which we must never, during a single 
 waking moment, cease to address ourselves. But 
 the inspiration," here his voice became a soft, 
 fluid fire, and he gazed out over the people with a 
 commanding s}*mpathy that swept them all into one 
 current, " oh, believe that it is in }-ou, in me ! " 
 Involuntarily his hands went with a quick gesture 
 to his breast, and fell again. " Believe that a new 
 force goes out into the world from us, to-day, which 
 
32 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 is not our own, jet for which we are responsible. 
 This is enthusiasm ! " 
 
 It was not a performance that he had set before 
 them, but a fact ; a fresh utterance from a fresh 
 heart. He scarcely knew when he had ended. The 
 ceasing of his voice startled his hearers even more 
 than its resonance had done ; and when all was 
 over, forgetting to make a conventional bow, he 
 bent his head for an instant with an effect of mingled 
 benediction on those who sat below him and prayer 
 to some higher power. As he withdrew to his place 
 he seemed to pass back into his ordinary self, for 
 the first time since beginning to speak. If there had 
 been an atom of self-consciousness in what he had 
 said and done, the whole might perhaps have crum 
 bled ; but there had not been, and it stood. 
 
 "He is a born orator!" people murmured. 
 "What a wonderful effort!" said they, of a thing 
 which was remarkable by its absence of effort. But 
 the phrase was meant for high tribute. 
 
 In one hour he had dissolved the cloud of preju 
 dice which had hung over him for three years. At 
 the party for the graduates, that evening, in Arch- 
 dale s capacious gambrel-roofed house and old-fash 
 ioned garden, to which Whitcot and llavling and 
 many townsfolk came, he was in great demand. He 
 looked a little awkward, however, in his frock coat 
 and white tie, and showed a tendenc} r to get into the 
 background ; not being fully aware of his triumph. 
 Still throbbing with the desire which had been on 
 him to say something true, and feeling that the time 
 
"ENTHUSIASM." 33 
 
 for saying it had gone, he even felt some depres 
 sion. 
 
 But he was happy in looking at Edith among the 
 bus} talkers, and watching the smiles and passing 
 lights on her face. Blooming at the surface of her 
 two-and-twenty }-ears, she was like some miraculous 
 water-flower that rested on the pausing tide of time 
 in solifcaiy perfection. Eveiywhere she went, she car 
 ried with her, like Milton s Eve, a pomp of winning 
 grace. Her largely moulded arms were bare, and 
 from a soft turbulence of white lawn her calm, full 
 throat emerged with an effect of girlish stateliness. 
 From one shoulder a chain of airily wrought flowers 
 trailed, curving with a novel grace far down on the 
 front of her dress, so unobtrusive and so cleverly ar 
 ranged that the} seemed to be clinging there simply 
 by aid of her motion as she walked. 
 
 She was a very different sort of person from her 
 father and Mrs. Savland. From her mother she had 
 inherited a more opulent nature than theirs, and it 
 showed in all the details of her sumptuous beauty. 
 Her eyebrows were very dark and almost straight, 
 though their delicate arch prevented any undue flat 
 ness ; and her under-lip was so full as to curl per 
 ceptibly as if from pure abundance of natural power. 
 Underneath her eyes was a soft line of shading, and 
 the lids except when she looked directly into an 
 other face concealed perhaps half the eye. This 
 gave her a certain unaffected queenliness which de 
 sign could hardly have bestowed. The softly curling 
 lip and the coolness which reigned over her beauty 
 
34 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 were sometimes taken to indicate cynicism. If they 
 did, a surrounding of susceptible undergraduates 
 might have accounted for it. Besides, during the 
 winter she had been in Boston, seeing people whose 
 riches were greater than themselves, and going about 
 in a self-appreciating circle where, by contrast, she 
 had been forced to discover some of her own 
 strength. 
 
 Burlen, at all events, had no fear of its being a 
 real cynicism that evening. He was standing on one 
 side of a doorway when from the other he heard Rav- 
 ling s voice, measured and urbane, discussing with a 
 thoughtful young lady (who believed she was making 
 an impression on him) it was Miss Viola Welsted, 
 by the way the discourse of the morning. " That 
 closing simile about the drill and so on," said the 
 lawyer, "was good. Yes, as things go, the whole 
 production was very fair. But there was one point 
 he failed to bring out ; which is, that enthusiasts are 
 perpetually mistaking for divine motives and general 
 principles what are really abnormal schemes sug 
 gested by their own personal whims or misfortunes. 
 I should say he would have to look out not to fall 
 into that error himself." 
 
 The graduate flushed as he listened, conceiving a 
 sudden contempt for this man, his opponent in love, 
 who appeared to be adroitly disparaging him behind 
 his back. But at that instant he saw Edith making 
 a slight imperative gesture for him to cross the room 
 to her. Ravling s remark fled from his mind, and 
 he made haste to obey ; passing by Archdale, who 
 
" ENTHUSIASM." 35 
 
 was talking gravely with a bon} -cheeked graduate 
 about "speculative neologists" and "rationalizing 
 sceptics." 
 
 44 Why haven t } T OU been near me before?" asked 
 Edith, with the most generous flatter} a young wo 
 man can give to the man who, she knows, is already 
 consumed with delight at being in the same room 
 with her. "I haven t had a single chance to tell 
 you how much I liked 3"our oration or whatever we 
 ought to call it. Is oration a large enough word ? " 
 
 " Too large," said Burlen. " Take the first letter 
 alone : that describes it." 
 
 "A naught? No, no! You sha n t speak of it 
 that waj . What you said was a great help to me. 
 It set me thinking so, gave me such ideas." 
 
 The young man s sombre face broke into a ra 
 diance delightful to sec. " I could hardly have 
 believed that possible." he murmured. 
 
 " But 3-011 would have been sure of your power if 
 you had ever talked to me before in anything like 
 that strain. Oh, dear!" she continued with uncon 
 cealed but not very contrite humilit3 , "it makes 
 me so ashamed to think what you ve been learning 
 all the time you Ve been here, while I ve made so 
 little progress ! " 
 
 " You ! " he exclaimed, in astonishment. Then 
 with an air of trouble he added: "I ve never been 
 able to say much of what I felt before. There s 
 been a weight on me all these 3 ears. And then to 
 3 ou, especially " 
 
 " Did you think me so especially unable to under- 
 
36 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 stand?" she broke in, her pretty cynicism gathering 
 force. " I m even worse than I thought, then." 
 
 "It isn t that." Burlen blushed. "But I had 
 a horror of forcing my profession on any one in 
 conversation." 
 
 " After 3 our oration to-day," said Edith frankly, 
 with a smile, "I don t feel it to be your profession 
 that you speak seriously on a great subject. It s 
 simply yourself." 
 
 How could he reply to this ? It was clear that she 
 spoke without flattery, and to thank her for what 
 she said would be vanity, compared with her inno 
 cent candor. He looked at her earnestly, with lips 
 slightly apart, like a person who listens for the repe 
 tition of a sound he is not quite sure of; then his 
 eyes fell. "You encourage me," he said, in a deep 
 voice. 
 
 It is singular that in this world people can hardly 
 titter a direct truth, even the kindest, without im 
 mediately feeling something like shame for it. Are 
 we so accustomed to evasions that the soul recoils 
 before its own honesty, when occasionally revealed, 
 as if it were disgraceful? Whatever the reason, 
 these two succumbed to the usual embarrassment, 
 after their brief exchange of cordial sincerity. 
 
 " I must n t keep you here," said Edith vivaciously, 
 in a moment. "I only wanted to thank you for 
 y 0ur vour sermon; and there are some friends 
 waiting, who want me to present you. Come." 
 
 As they went together Burlen asked if he might 
 take her in to supper, afterward. She assented, and 
 
" ENTIIUSIA SM." 37 
 
 then he was formally made known to a pair of elderly 
 ladies, old connoisseurs in 3 outhful preachers, who 
 basked most embarrassingly in the transient splendor 
 of his success. 
 
 Whitcot passed three hours of fierce discomfort 
 at the party, and when supper came he nobly perse 
 vered in a savage resolution he had made not to eat 
 anything, not even an ice-cream. Stung by the 
 progress Burlcn seemed to be making with Edith, he 
 projected a still more terrible step. Mrs. Savland 
 had asked him to take the same train with them to 
 Savage s, and of course he had entered warmly into 
 the plan. But he now determined to inflict on Edith 
 the blow of going thither by another route. He was 
 jealous, and she might as well know it. 
 
 When he took his leave, he said, " I find I must 
 bid you good-by for several days, unless I should 
 see }*ou before we get to Savage s." 
 
 She looked surprised. "Are you prevented from 
 going up with us ? " 
 
 "I shall go I have decided to go," he said, at 
 tempting to throw a grieved meaning into his manner 
 " by the other route." 
 
 " I dare say you 11 find that better," she returned 
 calmly, with no appearance of regret. "Good-by, 
 then." 
 
 Half an hour later. Whitcot would have given 
 any moderate fortune, not his own, to resume the 
 arrangement he had just broken. 
 
 Ravling went to the little house where he was 
 to room for the night, full of an excitement that 
 
38 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 hovered around him and penetrated him like the 
 searching and exquisite scent of the grape-blossoms 
 in Dr. Archdale s garden, which he had just been 
 inhaling. Sedate as he was, he could not evade 
 the influence of the party, with its bright lights, its 
 pretty-faced girls in fresh dresses, the hum of talk 
 and light spurts of laughter, the sight of groups and 
 couples straying in and out of the house and about 
 the roomy lawn and garden full of delicious latter- 
 June perfumes. The young girls, and the little men 
 in black coats and white ties just turned out of the 
 theological mould prepared to adjust the destinies 
 of these or other damsels, had all been stirred by 
 visions of coming possibilities. There was an aroma 
 of anticipation about the whole company. "Why 
 shouldn t I have my fresh young hopes as well?" 
 Ravling queried. He said to himself that the fact 
 of having been refused once ought not to discourage 
 him permanently ; in fact, his two competitors had 
 not even got as far as that. 
 
 But, remembering Burlen s ascendanc} during the 
 whole day, he felt that he must make a move on his 
 own behalf before Edith took her departure. 
 
EDITH S BLUE-ROOM. 39 
 
 IV. 
 
 EDITH S BLUE-ROOM. 
 
 MEN do not commonly make their surroundings 
 respond sympathetically to their own charac 
 ter. When they try it, the result as a rule is frag 
 mentary and without permanence. But a woman s 
 nature will often melt into her dwelling-place, color 
 ing it and becoming part of it. 
 
 I am thinking chiefly not of the general proposi 
 tion, but of Edith Archclale in particular. It was 
 so with her. The room which saw most of her, and 
 therefore told most of her, was her own "blue- 
 room " in the upper story of Archdale s house, where 
 the gambrel bending like a woman s finger about 
 to measure cloth vaulted in a cosey apartment, 
 with four dormer windows looking on the evergreens 
 in front and part of the garden on the side. 
 
 To enter here was to breathe a clearer air and to 
 encounter a fresh serenity. On the sill of one of the 
 windows bloomed a miniature parterre of flowers in 
 a flat tiled box, breaking the vividness of the out 
 door glare, as it passed in among the pale-blue and 
 straw tints, the lavender and harmonious brown of 
 the interior. There were lambrequins of muslin 
 plaited on the edge with blue, and lined with it; 
 dotted and plaited muslin, again worked with blue 
 
40 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 silk and bordered with trembling lace, covered the 
 maiden pillow on the small, neat bed. And so the 
 spots of robin s-egg color and pearl were carried from 
 point to point about the room, often in articles that 
 bore trace of the sweet girl s own patient!}- obscure 
 handiwork. The jewel-case on the toilet-table had 
 blue satin in it which her fingers had fitted there. 
 Mats which she had crocheted and trimmed in keep 
 ing with everything else lay about in the proper 
 places. On a small writing-table near another dor 
 mer was a feathered pen which she had painted, and 
 opposite that stood a screen on which passing fancies 
 of birds and tall, waving grasses and a gaunt, white 
 moon had been impressed by her brush. But there 
 was not much in the room of this purely a?sthetic na 
 ture ; and the needle-work, though showing originality 
 and graceful judgment, was of the nameless domestic 
 school our mothers and grandmothers formed. 
 
 " I like the Kensington work, too, and Japanese 
 things," Edith would say ; " but true art is free, and 
 means fine enjoyment in many different ways. So 
 wh} r should I be tied down to one way, like my Bos 
 ton friends?" (Miss Viola, for example, was always 
 grieved into silence by any ornamentation which 
 did not conform to the canons of the Embroidery 
 School.) 
 
 The large glass in an old-time twisted frame, 
 tipped saucily back on the toilet-table, took in these 
 objects and man}* others, grouping them all effective 
 ly, the soft hush of the meek window-hangings, the 
 curve of a graceful cup on a bracket, and the broken 
 
EDITH S BLUE-ROOM. 41 
 
 shadow of pictures in dull-wood frames. A tall Ve 
 netian vase of opalescent glass, with a leaf-twined 
 stem, stood near it, tremulous with as many smoth 
 ered gleams of color as there were waves of emo 
 tion in Edith s heart every da} . Was there powder 
 in the powder-box? I fear there was, and that Edith 
 was not above using a little, sometimes. As to the 
 perfume bottles but we must not pry too curiously. 
 I suspect if they contained anything, it must have 
 been the fragrance of maidenly innocence itself. 
 
 It was in this room that Edith sat, the afternoon 
 after the part} , working with blue tambo-cotton, in 
 satin-stitch, a pretty initial on a small linen bag. As 
 she worked, she smiled. She was thinking of Whit- 
 cot and his farewell. She knew he had taken offence, 
 but it was impossible to think of it seriously. Even 
 now he hovered before her recollection as a man with 
 a smiling face. She always thought of him in that 
 way. Whitcot was too light a weight to play trage 
 dy in real life, unless the tragedy all came from other 
 persons. He was interesting while he remained 
 volatile and active, but repose and gloom neutralized 
 him. We all of us, however, assume parts and yield 
 to moods without much reflection as to whether our 
 complexions and temperaments fit us for them ; and 
 so this mistaken youth was continually taking a line 
 of action very disadvantageous to him. 
 
 She could n t think long about one of her admirers 
 without including glimpses of the other two. They 
 obtruded themselves on the field of mental vision like 
 friends who by mistake may have got within range 
 
42 /-iV THE DISTANCE. 
 
 of a camera intended to photograph only one sit 
 ter. The3 T appeared in fragments ; they were out 
 of proportion, and would have been horribly dis 
 concerted if they had known that the} r were being 
 looked at in this manner ; but such, 1113- dear young 
 men who insist on getting in the way of the female 
 camera, is the fate in store for all of 3*011 ! Burlen 
 had beyond doubt gained much in her appreciation 
 during the last twenty-four hours. She had never 
 looked up to him before : she did now. Edith was 
 a girl to whom this kind of change appealed. She 
 had never looked up to any man near her own age, 
 until now. Yet Ravling came close after Burlen, 
 at least, in commanding this regard. There was a 
 fitness about him which she had never seen in an3 r 
 one else. His manner corresponded exacth to him 
 self and his mode of thought. He never, like Whit- 
 cot, tried to be something which he could n t be, and 
 perhaps he was rather less fitful than Burlen. 
 
 So she went on making dissolving-views of these 
 several young men, while her needle twinkled through 
 the linen and left its little azure trail there ; until 
 Mrs. Savland appeared at the threshold and told her 
 that Ravling was below, wishing to see her. 
 
 "I m going back to Boston to-night," said he, 
 when she came into the long sitting-room, attired in 
 a sand3*-tinted dress belted with blue, and looking 
 veiy bright and composed. "It s such a lovely 
 afternoon that I thought 3 T ou might possibly be in 
 clined for a walk." 
 
 If he had seemed more eager, she might not have 
 
EDITH S BLUE-ROOM. 43 
 
 gone ; but here his self-possession, so effective with 
 her, stood him in good stead. " Will you wait," she 
 asked, " till I get on my bat? " 
 
 The hat was an unpretentious covering of straw, 
 trimmed simply with a blue that matched her belt. 
 But as they went down through the garden and into 
 the fields, the lawyer was smitten with wonder at find 
 ing that a dress of sandy-colored thin cloth, and a pale 
 straw-hat, could become such captivating objects. 
 
 "Shall we get some water-lilies, at the lake?" 
 asked the wearer of the blue belt. " Or what shall 
 we do?" 
 
 " Whatever you like," said he. " M} T notion was 
 to go along the hill just above the lake and into that 
 hollow where you said the blue gentians grow." 
 
 "Yes, that s a nice walk," she agreed. "But 
 you know we don t get gentians till autumn." 
 
 "Don t 3 ou? I suppose not." It didn t seem 
 to be a crushing disappointment to him. 
 
 "I know where moccasin-flowers grow, too," said 
 she. "But for them it may not be early enough. 
 They come and go in a breath." 
 
 "Then I m both too early and too late," he re 
 joined. " Never mind : we shall have the walk." 
 
 " And no water-lilies?" 
 
 "Why should I consent to take them, when I 
 wanted gentians," he laughed. "I m set upon get 
 ting what I wanted, or nothing." 
 
 He had n t meant to lead up to the subject of his 
 suit by this remark ; but its appositeness struck them 
 both, and Edith blushed. 
 
44 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 " That, or nothing?" she asked, hastily. u Then 
 the poor water-lilies must be resigned, I suppose. 
 But, honestly, don t }*ou think you re too haughty? 
 No, I won t tell you any more of your faults ; 
 I m afraid it embitters you." 
 
 I should be glad to take your criticisms less 
 seriously," said he ; which was true, but flattered her 
 as much as if it had been an invention. 
 
 They moved in silence along a narrow path which 
 began unaccountably in the midst of the grass-field 
 and stole up a slope among the pines. There they 
 saw the white, creeping glimmer of the lake just to 
 the north. In a thicker copse beyond the piny hill 
 vireos were singing swiftly, but just around them the 
 wood was very still. A moment before, they had 
 been in sight of the clustered roofs, the spires and 
 belfry of Marie, its tall shade-trees and cultivated 
 fields ; but, by a transition peculiar to American 
 scenerj", a few steps seemed to have carried them 
 out of the reach of civilization. Here Ravling laid 
 down a light shawl for Edith. " Let s sit a moment 
 where we can see the lake," he proposed. 
 
 44 There s a boat on it," said Edith, taking the 
 place. It was discernible at the other end of the 
 pond, skimming over the water like a huge white 
 butterfly. 
 
 " How restless it looks," observed Ravling, idly. 
 "It s really absurd! Judging from the motion, I 
 should say that whoever s in that boat must be in a 
 disturbed state of mind. But I dare sa c y he s per 
 fectly comfortable. Appearances deceive." They 
 
EDITH S BLUE-ROOM. 45 
 
 both listened to the wind sighing louder and fainter 
 in the pines above them. " That s the way with 
 people," he continued. " There are others who look 
 perfectly comfortable and are very uneasy. I ve 
 half resolved to run up to Savage s, Miss Archdale, 
 some time while you re all there." 
 
 "I think Miss Welsted may come, too," she sug 
 gested. 
 
 " Do you put that forward as an inducement?" 
 
 "Not as an obstacle, certainly." 
 
 "There are other inducements that would be still 
 more powerful," he returned. " If I could only 
 know that 3*011 would think again of what I once 
 asked you, and think in such a way as to give me 
 hope."" 
 
 Edith kept her eyes on the darting boat, without 
 at once replying. "Do you think it s quite fair," 
 she asked, finally, " to bring that up again, after my 
 trusting so completely in 3- our silence?" 
 
 " I can only throw myself on 3 our mercy," he an 
 swered, strenuously. " A woman s merc3 r is more to 
 be. trusted than a man s silence. We were speak 
 ing the other day about great aims. Is n t my aim 
 great enough ? " 
 
 He paused, and she glanced up to ask, "What 
 aim? " as she had recently asked, " What desire ? " 
 But the burning earnest in his eyes made the question 
 impossible. The conventional man had disappeared : 
 it was a whole-souled devout ardor that faced her, 
 in his guise. "I ve put the problem to nryself in 
 many wa3 T s," he went on, "but I cannot leave 3 r ou out 
 
46 IX THE DISTANCE. 
 
 of it, try as I may. You are my aim, Miss Archdale. 
 I can find no higher one. I know I seem cold and 
 self-centred enough ; but if I have n t the power to 
 lose myself in any other hope or ambition than the 
 one 3 ou have roused in me, is it my fault? Selfish 
 or not, I must declare to you this, that my life is 
 empt}* and uninviting without 3*011. It leads nowhere. 
 Am I never to hope that it can receive its purpose 
 from 3*011 ? " 
 
 When the last word had escaped him, the wind 
 that was ruffling the lake struck more vehemently up 
 into the trees, and filled the wood with a gradual, 
 bewildering roar. The wind beat into Edith s face, 
 too ; and as she sat there amid the breez3 tumult, 
 with the sense of waving boughs and unsteady sun 
 light around her, and Ravling standing fixed and 
 determined in the commotion, there was an illusion 
 in her mind of Nature s having taken part with him 
 against her. To her amazement she felt a moment 
 ary impulse to yield ; at least to give him a distant 
 hope. 
 
 " Can it be that I am realty so necessa^ in 3-0111 
 thoughts ? " she asked, without meeting his gaze. 
 
 "I have told you how necessar3 T ," he returned 
 steadily. " I dreaded to speak of it again. I had 
 hardly made up my mind to, when we came out. 
 But I want something to hold by, something to work 
 for : can t you tell me that you will think of it this 
 summer ? " 
 
 "It would be wrong," she said; "for then 3~ou 
 would expect more. Oh, ivhy have 3-011 brought this 
 
EDITH S BLUE-ROOM. 47 
 
 up again?" She had risen, and was walking towards 
 the lake slowly, but turned with an appealing look. 
 
 "Because I have no art, but only a consuming 
 need." 
 
 The words made her wonder if she knew what she 
 was doing in so persistently refusing Ravling s devo 
 tion. How strange that when so much power of 
 expression is given to human eyes and speech, so 
 much significance to the shaping of a hand, the heart 
 should often be so dumb and uncertain ! But the 
 image of Viola suddenly presented itself to her, and 
 decided her. 
 
 " Please don t say anything more," she said, 
 abruptly. " Perhaps instead of too little purpose 
 you have too much : you want your own will to pre 
 vail over everything." 
 
 "Ah, I see," he retorted, " you don t really com 
 prehend my feeling. You are still living in the future. 
 I am older, and have begun to live in the present. 
 Soon I shall have only the past left to live in. Well, 
 with your advantage, 3^011 .can afford to be chilling." 
 
 " I m not chilling ! " she cried, with a flash of in 
 consistent displeasure. " But if you think me so, 
 why do you insist upon wanting my love? " 
 
 "From the fascination that anything unattainable 
 has, perhaps." 
 
 "Are we to reproach everything that s unattain 
 able, then? That s unreasonable. Suppose that 
 some one were attached to you, some girl you 
 did n t care for. We can imagine such a thing, can t 
 we ? " The shadow of scorn in her lower lip here 
 
48 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 became a little more distinct. He was vaguely con 
 scious that she might be referring to Viola. She 
 continued : " You would seem to her far-off and un 
 feeling ; and yet perhaps it might not be your fault." 
 
 " I only know," he said, despairingly, " that you 
 are the highest and best in my life." 
 
 It was not strange that when the pungent spice 
 of the pines and the triple downward trill of the 
 vireos, floating in with the sandal-wood color of 
 the sunlight which divided the round shadows of the 
 boughs, gave her pleasure, these words should also 
 thrill her. But she only said : " That s another fact 
 about the unattainable it is easy to exaggerate it. 
 Whatever you feel about me, Mr. Ravling, keep it 
 intact. It s all that I m able to give 3*011 ; and if 
 we discuss it any more, you 11 be sure to lose even 
 that." 
 
 They had been so preoccupied that the} did not 
 notice until now how the restless sail had borne down 
 towards the point where they stood, a few feet above 
 the water. By this time it was so close that they 
 could recognize the occupant. It was Whitcot. He 
 had in fact been trying to relieve the agitation of his 
 mind by sailing rapid ly around the lake, with innu 
 merable tacks and jibs. 
 
 4 Won t you come out with me?" he asked, cor 
 dially. " I 11 take 3*ou to the other end, and you can 
 walk back that way." 
 
 " Thanks," said Edith. " If Mr. Ravling " She 
 glanced at him to sec if he also would accept that 
 means of escape ; and, fancying that he would, 
 
EDITH S BLUE-ROOM. 49 
 
 stepped into the boat from the beach. He supported 
 her arm as she did so ; then drew back and lifted 
 his hat. 
 
 " I must make quick time to the village," he said. 
 " I m going to take an earl} train." 
 
 " Shall vou be up again?" asked the helmsman. 
 
 " No ; not this summer." 
 
 " But } ou think we may see }*ou at Savage s," said 
 Edith, in a friendly way. She hoped, on Viola s ac 
 count, that he would come. 
 
 " Possibly," he replied, in a tone more gentle than 
 was usual with him. He sought her eyes, and they 
 exchanged a brief glance, which told him nothing. 
 
 Then the boat was pushed off, and he went swiftly 
 back into the wood. The same aromatic odor saluted 
 him, as before, and the distant birds were still sing 
 ing ; but everything that gave the spot life for him 
 was gone. All at once he came upon the forgotten 
 shawl on which Edith had rested, and picked it up 
 eagerly. 
 
 Whitcot seized his opportunity in the boat, to try 
 to recede gracefully from the plan of going alone to 
 Savage s, but Edith, out of pure mischief, parried 
 his efforts, and he gave them up. When she reached 
 her house, she found the shawl and a bunch of water- 
 lilies awaiting her, from Ravling. She interpreted 
 the flowers as a poetical sign of surrender to hoi- 
 wishes, which was in fact what he had meant to indi 
 cate in gathering them. 
 
 This little performance detained him until a later 
 train. Dusk had come ; he seated himself as far as 
 4 
 
50 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 possible from any lamp, and wished that a cold, 
 pelting rain would descend, by way of giving him a 
 frigid sympathy in his wretchedness. But as the 
 night insisted on being fine, he closed his eyes and 
 imagined the delights of plunging through some 
 broken culvert or over a bad embankment. His 
 whole life seemed shattered, and he thought it might 
 as well end. Then, remembering the calm which he 
 so successfully kept up amid all these pangs, a 
 grotesque fancy struck him that he was like a piece 
 of stone destined for a grave, which waits unmoved 
 for the record of irreparable loss to be traced upon 
 it, and goes on staring cheerfully for years at the sun 
 which lights up its dreary inscription. 
 
ARCPIDALE. 51 
 
 V. 
 
 ARCHDALE. 
 
 ON the same evening that Edith found the water- 
 lilies left for her, Archtlale was approached by 
 his sister, Mrs. Savland, in a short talk of a confi 
 dential nature. 
 
 Mrs. Grace Savland was a lady who was undenia 
 bly growing old ; but she did it so cleverly that her 
 face, instead of being seamed with visible wrinkles, 
 acquired an increasing though deceptive smoothness. 
 How this happened I cannot say ; but to the casual 
 and uninitiated ej e it would appear that sand-paper 
 was delicately employed to secure such a result. 
 She was frail in figure ; her whole aspect was dainty ; 
 and whatever sorrows she had had, they found, it 
 might have been fancied, a balm in that judiciously 
 scented handkerchief which she was always taking 
 out, and with which she stanched her occasional 
 tears. 
 
 "I wish, Thomas," she said, coming into his 
 study soon after the lamp was lighted, "that you 
 could be with us at Savage s. Would n t the change 
 do you good ? 
 
 Elderly people carry their own climate in their 
 bones, an equipoise of the heat and cold of many 
 years. So Archdale was not eager for change. 
 
52 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 Besides, he knew from something in his sister s 
 manner and the enforced patience with which she 
 had folded the handkerchief in her hand, that this 
 proposed benefit could not be her real object in 
 speaking. 
 
 " You don t want me on my account," he said, in 
 his gentle voice, which had about it the mellowness 
 of candle-light and old books. 
 
 " No not entirely," said Mrs. Savland, demurely. 
 "I ll tell you why." 
 
 " I will listen," consented her brother. " But," 
 he continued with a kind of cheerful petulance, " } ou 
 know beforehand, of course, that for me to go with 
 you would upset all my plans for the summer. I in 
 intending to make a special review of Justin and 
 the other Apologists, and I can only do it here with 
 all my books about me." Then, the interest of the 
 theme presenting itself: " You know, Grace, that in 
 the middle ground they occupied between Christianity 
 and Pagan philosophy, they are objects of particular 
 notice for us now. In these days we see the same 
 sort of characters " 
 
 "Then why," interrupted Mrs. Savland, with her 
 unwrinkled smile and an air of happy discovery, 
 " why go back so far to study them?" 
 
 The old theologian, with his hands at his coat- 
 front, tapped his thumbs together in mild annoyance. 
 " How can you be so absurd, Grace? The reflection 
 of our own traits in the blurred mirror of a former 
 age, the tracing of the resemblance there " 
 
 Mrs. Savland, cool and comfortable in her lilac- 
 
ARC II DALE. 53 
 
 muslin gown, was not to be heated or carried away 
 by a sentence from one of his well-worn lectures. 
 "Nothing could be truer, Thomas," she hastened 
 to assure him. "I quite agree with you about the 
 blur. But what I came to speak about was Edith 
 and our stay at Savage s, this summer." 
 
 " Edith? " echoed Archdale. He had already for 
 gotten how the conversation began. 
 
 "Yes. Haven t you seen how greatly young 
 Burlen s interest in her increases?" 
 
 " I hardly think I ve observed it." 
 
 "Is that because he s not an Apologist?" Mrs. 
 Savland asked, feeling wicked. "It s true, any 
 way, that his interest is growing ; and what is more, 
 Edith gives a great deal of thought to him." 
 
 Archdale began to look bothered, but attentive, 
 a sign hailed with joy by his sister. "That is 
 strange," he remarked with precision; "especially 
 when she knows so little about him." 
 
 "No, Thomas. The very circumstance that his 
 history is obscure, and that she feels there is some 
 thing in his past which calls for sympathy and kind 
 ness, is in his favor. It rouses sentiment without 
 her knowing it." In this Mrs. Savland, if otherwise 
 superficial, showed herself more penetrating than 
 Archdale. 
 
 The perception of that fact vexed him, and so he 
 immediately opposed her at hazard. " Really, even 
 if } ou are right about all this," he said, " I don t see 
 why I should object to it. Burlen is a fine fellow in 
 every way." He hesitated a little, then went on. 
 
54 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 li If Edith realty cares for him, why should n t I " 
 There was a longer pause, but Mrs. Savland allowed 
 him to accomplish his own ruin without interruption 
 "Yes; why shouldn t I trust her happiness to 
 him?" But he had spoken with such increasing 
 slowness, and at last peered so timidly through his 
 glasses at Grace, that instead of the sentence com 
 ing out as a triumphant vindication of his wisdom, 
 it was really a confession of weakness. 
 
 Content with this victon r , Mrs. Savland gave him 
 a chance to surrender at discretion. " Of course," 
 said she, " if }*ou have already thought it over and 
 are perfectly prepared for the emergence*, I have 
 nothing more to sa}*." 
 
 Archdale, as he had just shown, was not prepared ; 
 and he knew that she had discovered this. Hence, 
 beguiled by masculine pride, he answered in a con 
 clusive way : u I certainly sha n t change my schemes 
 on this account. Interference at present would hardly 
 be justified, and you can watch affairs up there just 
 as well as I could. Indeed " he smiled with pleas 
 ure at his own generosit t y in making the admission 
 "I may almost sa} r you will do it better." 
 
 Grace regretted her magnanimity. Good night," 
 she said, with tender reproach, as she rose and went 
 to the door. Only her formal curls, the stiffness of 
 her muslin, and her averted eyes expressed the full 
 force of her injured severity. But when she got to 
 her room she touched the corners of her eyes with 
 the scented handkerchief. 
 
 The moment the door closed upon her, Archdale 
 
ARCHDALE. 55 
 
 became a prey to anxious reflection. All his thoughts 
 were fixed upon what she had just referred to ; and 
 before long he rose, rang the bell, and sent off by 
 the servant a brief note directed to Burlen. It was 
 plain, from his inaction after the servant had gone, 
 that he was waiting for the young man to come to 
 him. He sat perfectly silent. The lamplight shone 
 on his polished head, scantily adorned with dark- 
 gray hair that still grew thick where it grew at all, 
 and revealed the clear, pure outline of his mouth and 
 chin between the dogmatic side-whiskers whiter than 
 the hair. 
 
 He was a man the very set of whose lips was so 
 scholarly, that to look at them made one feel like 
 consulting a Greek dictionary off-hand. There was 
 a peculiar orderliness about him, reflecting the na 
 ture of his mind. His learning and his thinking 
 were clean and starched. He read a classic as he 
 would comb his hair (what was left of it), because 
 it made him feel neat and presentable. Between the 
 whiskers his face was shaven with particular smooth 
 ness and completeness ; and so even were his nerves, 
 that, though his own hand held the razor, I do not 
 think he had been known to cut himself with it once 
 in twenty years. 
 
 Such precision was natural in a man whose ances 
 tors for several generations had been exact in divin 
 ity. A hundred and fifty years before this particular 
 evening, his great-grandfather had also sat in a New 
 England pastor s study, under the fainter rushlight 
 glimmer of his da} T , with sacred and solid books 
 
56 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 around him. The great-grandfather was of course a 
 sturdy Calvinist ; but as a softer and broader illumi 
 nation began to steal over the religious horizon, his 
 son took his stand with the milder section of the 
 church known as u Hopkinsians." By the time this 
 son had grown to manhood and had two boys of his 
 own, the liberal Arminians had begun to doubt the 
 vicarious atonement and Christ s divinity ; in a word, 
 were becoming Arian, or Unitarian. One son chose 
 the new path and went with the Liberals. The other 
 retained the " Hopkinsian " Calvinist views of his 
 sire ; and this one was the father of Thomas Arch- 
 dale. Even before their emigration from England 
 the family had been a clerical one ; and though 
 Thomas alone now kept up the tradition, there tingled 
 in his veins a sense of caste. He represented one of 
 the few kinds of hereditary aristocrac}^ that receive a 
 careless, grudging recognition in America. And it 
 was with something like the pride of a waning aris 
 tocracy that for many years he had written, taught, 
 and preached, dreaming of the restoration of his 
 Pilgrim forefathers faith to its ancient power. 
 
 On Burlen, more than on any one else whom he 
 had helped to educate, he had come to rety as the 
 apostle who should go into Boston, battle with the 
 doubters, convince the thinkers w r ho were growing 
 looser and looser, more and more secular, and bring 
 back multitudes to a strait and solid belief. How 
 was this new complication, this possible affection 
 between the young man and Edith, going to influence 
 
ARCHDALE. 57 
 
 that prospect ? Archdale thought he could see how 
 such a factor might be made to help it ; and yet 
 the door opened while he was in the midst of his 
 speculations, after a light rap which he did not 
 observe, and Burlen came in. 
 
58 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 VI. 
 
 TRAGIC MEMORIES. 
 
 " XT OU wished to see me, sir?" asked the young 
 -*. man, looking, as Archdale thought, vaguely 
 excited. 
 
 "Yes. Sit down, Robert; I want to talk with 
 you." 
 
 Burlen took a stiff chair that stood near. Feeling 
 that something momentous impended, "May I ask 
 you " he began. 
 
 " You wonder at m} r sending for } ou now," inter 
 rupted Archdale. "Yes. Well, it is of decided im 
 portance, the subject I wish to address } r ou upon. 
 You remember how, soon after the beginning of 
 your studies here, when 3*011 appeared weighed down 
 with sadness, I asked you if it would n t make you 
 easier to tell me the cause of your depression ? " 
 
 The student s eyes kindled. " Surely. It s 3 our 
 S3 mpathy, then, that has kept me up ever since, and 
 given me courage." 
 
 "And yet 3*011 remember, too," the Doctor went 
 on, without pausing to recognize his warmth, " that 
 3 T ou reallj- told me almost nothing. Be3 ond the 
 statement that your life had been full of darkness 
 and misery, for which 3 ou were not to blame, 3*ou 
 gave me no insight." 
 
TRAGIC MEMORIES. 59 
 
 "But it was the kindness you showed, and your 
 willingness to judge me only from what I was, that 
 helped me. So many have made me feel that my 
 want of well-known antecedents was a disgrace." 
 
 " I promised you that I would never allow such a 
 want to make any difference with me, Robert. It 
 was the barest charity in me to do that." 
 
 " And you don t repent, sir?" demanded Burlen, 
 with some alarm. 
 
 " No, my boy. But you hinted that sometime you 
 would tell me more. It seems to me that the period 
 has arrived for a full confidence." 
 
 The graduate looked down, pressing his fingers 
 tight into his palms, and said nothing for a moment. 
 " Do you insist upon this?" he then asked, meeting 
 his instructor s eyes, but with deep pain in his 
 
 own. 
 
 " I would rather have you insist for me," said the 
 older man in his gentlest tone. " What do you think 
 is just and right?" 
 
 " I suppose I must tell 3*011," Burlen answered, in 
 a low voice, hoarse with trouble. " You are entitled 
 by your great patience " He broke off, and moved 
 his seat to a spot more in shadow. " My father was 
 a blacksmith," he suddenly announced. A shock of 
 fastidious revolt at the fact went through Archdale. 
 " But that is nothing," continued the other in a tone 
 between defiant independence and bitter mortifica 
 tion. "He was a low, coarse man, who drank to 
 excess, and was cruel to my mother. God forgive 
 me ! Is it a wrong, a sacrilege, for me to tell you so, 
 
60 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 Dr. Archdalc ? Now you can see at least one thing 
 that has sealed my lips, the agon} of saying this 
 about my own father. I I can t go on with it ! " 
 
 "Take time," said Archdale. But if his voice 
 ordinarily called up the image of mellow candle-light, 
 one would have said now that there was a flicker in 
 the flame. " You will find it easier, in a moment," 
 he suggested. 
 
 " It s not my disgrace that troubles me," returned 
 the graduate. "Plow am I to blame? Yet it s all 
 so black and horrible ; it is so utterly unnatural that 
 I should have to suffer this, without having been 
 able to prevent anything ! And it s monstrous that 
 I should have to recite the wickedness and disgrace 
 of those who should have been my pride and love." 
 
 " Is your father living? " Archdale, racked by pity 
 and apprehension, managed to ask. 
 
 "No. Dead!" was the answer. Burlen s voice 
 seemed to descend into that absent, unknown grave 
 which the words implied, so deep and sorrowful it 
 was. But presently he resumed : All my memories 
 seem to centre on one dreadful day, the da} when 
 /struck him, my father ! " 
 
 " Ton!" exclaimed Archdale, with horror. 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes ! I whom you have loved, perhaps 
 had a respect for! Yes, I did that. It s the one 
 thing I have to repent of, and I have never ceased to 
 feel the terror of myself, the disgust, that I felt then. 
 But you have n t heard it all. There is some excuse. 
 I 11 tell you how it happened." 
 
 He paused, to nerve himself. Archdale, looking 
 
TRA GIC MEMORIES. 61 
 
 at him, was amazed at the change that had come over 
 his face. It was like that of a man engaged in gallant 
 contest, the lines and expression strained from their 
 usual bent to an overpowering intensity of struggle. 
 A strong impulse of kindliness got the better of 
 Archdale s distaste for the ugly revelation. But he 
 waited and listened. 
 
 "He had been violent that da} , and had abused 
 my mother. I must tell you why ; and this is the 
 worst of all. I had a sister " Burlen s voice 
 broke. "The misery of it is, I have her still; at 
 least I ve never learned that she is not living, and 
 the thought of what her life may be haunts me like a 
 dream of hell. My sister was older than I." As he 
 proceeded, his voice rose higher and swung along in 
 a tone like that of some melancholy chant heard at 
 a distance. "When I was about fourteen and she 
 nineteen, she disappeared. I did not fully under 
 stand it, but my poor mother was nearly insane with 
 despair. My father took it upon himself to get into 
 a rage. He insisted that my sister had been sent 
 away to get her bejxwd reach of our wretched home ; 
 and he demanded to know where she was. Of course 
 my mother could n t tell him. And then he struck 
 her cruelly." The speaker bowed his head in his 
 hand for a moment, desperate with the recollection. 
 " I had- seen him do so before ; but something, that 
 time, because I was getting older I suppose, 
 made it unendurable. A shooting fire seemed to go 
 from my heart through all my veins and sinews. I 
 was almost blind with anger. 
 
62 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 "I sprang upon him and hit him with all my 
 might. It seemed as if I should fasten upon him 
 and choke him ; but he shook me off as I was shout 
 ing in his ear, If you strike her again, I ll kill 
 you ! When he had thrown me off he glared at me 
 strangely enough, but he didn t lift a finger to touch 
 me. He was sobered and cowed. When I saw 
 that, " and for the first time since he had begun, 
 Burlen looked straight into Archdale s eyes, his face 
 hollow with anguish, "when I saw that, it was 
 more terrible than anything that had happened to 
 me before. I turned and ran away from my own 
 triumph, it was so unnatural and wrong. I went and 
 hid in the woods, shattered with the recoil of my 
 own passion and the awfulncss of what I had done. 
 Not for days and months did I recover. It was 
 exactly as if that inner fire that had swept over me 
 had left me singed and black, like a field that has 
 been burnt over, and the innocent music of the grass 
 silenced and driven out of it." 
 
 "This is very terrible," said Archdale ; but the 
 words fell upon his own ear as if they were merely 
 something that he was repeating after another per 
 son. 
 
 "It was better for a while, after that day," the 
 young man continued, quietly. "But still, the old 
 troubles came back." He remained thinking so long 
 that Archdale asked, 
 
 "What was the end?" 
 
 "End? There s none: there was none ! It s all 
 with me now, the whole story. It s a part of me. 
 
TRAGIC MEMORIES. 63 
 
 My mother died in two years more, never having 
 heard a word from Thyrsa, my sister. Then I 
 told my father I should go ; and I left him, to try to 
 support myself. It was a hard path, but I began to 
 have hope. I remember well one night, not long 
 before mother died, how I walked out alone in the 
 starlight, almost crushed by the sorrow and degrada 
 tion I had been through. On the top of a small, bare 
 hill I stopped, and then I felt the sweet breezes com 
 ing towards me like messengers. I smelt the wild, 
 fresh perfumes from the woods. First I wondered 
 wh}~ such perfumed breezes blew, and I so unhappy. 
 Then they lifted m} heart up, and 1 had a sudden 
 vision of a brighter world this side of heaven ; a life 
 of exuberant freedom and purity. That was really, 
 I think, the beginning of my aspiration towards the 
 ministry." 
 
 "Did you begin to carry it out?" asked his 
 listener. 
 
 " No ; I could n t begin at once afterward. And 
 then, when I had studied somewhat by myself, it 
 seemed to me that my first duty was to find my 
 sister, that I shouldn t be prepared for my work, 
 without. I tried the few clews I had. I got em 
 ployment in Boston, and searched for her there. Ah, 
 what a search ! The places and people that m} T first 
 clews led me to, I m sure you never have seen any 
 thing like them. What women ! Worse in their 
 desperate ruin, they are, than the most brutal man 
 I ve ever encountered. And it was from them I was 
 trying to find out something about Thyrsa ! I never 
 
64 IX THE DISTANCE. 
 
 found out anything with certainty ; I fancied I had 
 got upon her track, sometimes, but it led away from 
 Boston again, I did n t know where to. Finally I 
 gave it up, or postponed it. I regarded it as my 
 mission ; but, with my bread to win, it was hopeless. 
 So I looked for a place in a country store, and 
 worked and studied there till I had saved enough 
 to begin my course here." 
 
 "And the rest I know," said Archdale, with 
 returning composure. Nothing more was said for 
 several minutes, and Burlen walked away into the 
 darker part of the room. 
 
 His gray-haired friend gazed after him with a 
 sentiment approaching awe. Into that young brain 
 and that slender frame of manhood had been packed 
 an amount of experience, of mental and spirit 
 ual torture, which made Archdale feel himself the 
 younger of the two. 
 
 "It is far better that 3*011 have told me the whole," 
 said he, presently. "I understand 3*011 better for it; 
 I may say I appreciate you better." At this Burlen 
 turned with a swift look of gratitude, and came for 
 ward a step towards the light again. "You will 
 find, too," the good Doctor went on, "that 3-011 
 are better off for it. Sympathy gives one freedom. 
 You have mine, fully; and you mustn t brood mor 
 bidly over any act of 3 our own in the past, like that 
 which 3*ou have described." 
 
 Burlen approached still nearer. "I can t thank 
 3 ou for this," he said, 3*6 1 in a voice that vibrated 
 with thanks. "It is too good. You understand, 
 
TRAGIC MEMORIES. 65 
 
 now, what has been weighing on me, and how the 
 dread of my life, since I was fourteen, has been that 
 a fiendish wrath, such as my father excited in me, 
 might sometime sweep me away again. Any unus 
 ual sensation of anger has made my conscience burn 
 me like a hot iron. But I hope I have beaten out 
 the roots of the evil temper. At any rate, I am much 
 more hopeful now that I have spoken with 3*011." 
 
 But there was a reserve in Archdale, which checked 
 the speaker. 
 
 In a republic, like the United States, the instinc 
 tive recoil or inherited prejudice of certain people 
 in the presence of unpleasant social conditions, acci 
 dents of birth or fortune which they regard with dis 
 favor, is often as strong as in the Old World. They 
 may be able to recognize theoretically the existence 
 of the highest qualities in people of the humblest 
 origin, and generally do recognize them after suc 
 cess and public honor have emphasized them. But 
 the crude facts, when they are suddenly confronted 
 with these in their own associations, are still dis 
 tasteful ; and they throw every obstacle they can in 
 the way of the supposed inferior. Class distinctions, 
 in spite of optimistic theory, are maintained with 
 acrimonious vigilance, though the classes are defined 
 on a different plan and vary more in outline than 
 those of Europe. The observers of these distinc 
 tions, having no fixed safeguard arranged for them 
 by law and by the servility of inferior orders, are 
 made all the more sensitive by constant irritations 
 to their dignity. Hence American class prejudice 
 6 
 
66 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 is alert and sometimes singularly unconquerable. 
 Arcbdale s sense of ancestral superiority, aided by 
 long, secluded commerce with the cultivated and re 
 spectable, rose against the fact of Burlcn s vulgar 
 lineage. He had never expected anything so ap 
 palling to be revealed, because he had viewed him 
 always solely in an intellectual light. The young 
 candidate was conscious of a drawing back on his 
 preceptor s part, and noticed that he was brooding. 
 
 " Does what I have told you about my origin and 
 my family make you feel different towards me ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 Archdale fixed his studious lips with a trifle more 
 exactness than common, and appeared to reflect. 
 " Frankly," he replied, " it does. It is a great sur 
 prise, and it is all very painful. But I promised you 
 long since that I would judge you by yourself. I re 
 newed the promise this evening, as it chanced, before 
 you began. I am going to act upon it, Burlen." 
 
 The young man sighed. There was an air of con 
 strained justice about this answer which depressed 
 him. He wished, too, that the Doctor had called 
 him " Robert," and that he had offered him his hand. 
 " There is one thing more, sir," he said finally. " I 
 forgot to speak of it before I began my story. It 
 is" Archdale turned his spectacles up to him in 
 quiringly " that you won t tell any of it at present 
 to Mrs. Savland, or to Miss Edith." 
 
 4 Is it not better to be open about it?" sug 
 gested Archdale, with his neatest and most punctual 
 accent. 
 
TRAGIC MEMORIES. 67 
 
 Burlen answered promptly: " Not at the risk of 
 great injustice to m}"self. Even you find it difficult 
 to take me as I am, now that you know all about 
 me. I ask you simply to wait about telling the la 
 dies, who are almost iny only friends, and I am to 
 pass the summer with them, until there has been 
 time to adjust it more fully in your mind." 
 
 On being recalled to the projected close neighbor 
 hood of Edith and Burlen, Archdale experienced a 
 keen distress. Why had he not listened to his sister, 
 who would probably have been able even to have 
 devised an adroit change of plan ? But it was too 
 late now, and he felt himself bound. " You cer 
 tainly have a right to be considered in your wish on 
 this subject," he declared, without betraying his 
 trouble. " I consent. But I think you ought, on 
 j-our part, to agree to one thing." 
 
 " Willingly, if I can. What is it ? " 
 
 "That you will not take well, take advantage, 
 I was going to sa}* in any way, of my reserve." 
 
 The clear brown in Burlen s cheeks turned to red. 
 " I will promise," he said. " But perhaps, if you 
 think me capable of that, I had better take leave of 
 you all." 
 
 " Don t be hurt, my boy ! " cried Archdale, startled 
 out of his constraint. "I didn t mean to do you 
 wrong. I see ; I see. Yes, Robert, I trust you." 
 Sa}ing which, he held out his hand. 
 
 Burlen took the hand, pressed it, and went away 
 with a slow step. 
 
68 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 VII. 
 
 SAVAGE S. AN ODD ENCOUNTER. 
 
 FROM a point directly over it, in the air, Monad- 
 noc, towering high above a chain of lower 
 ridges, would take on the semblance of a gigantic 
 arrow-head, mapped upon the lower country in ribs of 
 rock and earth, and with the point turned southward. 
 It was this point which had thrown its bold, blue pro 
 jection into the farthest gap of the landscape which 
 Edith and the three young men had contemplated 
 from the Cleft. 
 
 The flanks of the mountain are the flanges of the 
 arrow-head, one longer than the other; and deep 
 between them is scooped a vast ravine across 
 which it takes a powerful bird some minutes to fly 
 descending to an exquisite lake at the north, ringed 
 round with smaller hills, among which it sparkles 
 like a diamond of unearthly size, but meek, peace 
 ful, and unpretentious in its setting of young wild- 
 wood trees. And this, although it has the distinction 
 of harboring a species of trout which Agassiz pro 
 nounced unique in the whole country. From the 
 lake, and still more precipitously from the serrated 
 crown of the mountain, the land falls quickly away 
 on either side, into valleys rolling on to other lines 
 of lesser altitude. Below the naked summit, a thick, 
 
SA VA GKS. -AN ODD EN CO UNTER. 69 
 
 elastic covering of trees mats the broad sides and 
 robust spurs as they descend ; brooks tinkle and 
 pour from steep to steep, hidden under the green 
 ery ; black-brown rivers chafe angrily at the base, or 
 draw from a distance tributary rills into their silver- 
 reflecting circuits through rich meadow-lands. Farm 
 houses creep up daringly in the glades or on the 
 breezy buttress-lines of the enormous primeval 
 mound, sometimes a deserted farm being swallowed 
 up in the ever-waiting forest, its orchard choked by 
 encroaching maple, beech, and oak ; at other times 
 a new settler audaciously chopping out timber for 
 winter hauling, and keeping his fields cultivated in 
 the midst of the wood. A village clings to one side 
 of the range, like a collection of rice-grains. Lower 
 down, other villages crop out under every variety of 
 adverse condition ; some of them swell into little 
 towns ; church steeples spring up like some curious 
 form of pointed mushroom growth ; a railroad pene 
 trates ; woollen mills get triumphantly astride of the 
 rivers, in fine, the reign of man asserts itself, and 
 is completely overshadowed by the reign of the ma 
 jestic hills. 
 
 One form of its assertion, at the time of which I 
 write, was Savage s Mills, a thriving village, long 
 established ; energetic in the matter of flannels and 
 roller-cut cloth, famous for its wagons ; taking re 
 venge upon the frightful winter climate by manu 
 facturing unerring and deadly thermometers, and 
 abounding in consumptives, several of whom annu 
 ally ceased being consumptives or indeed anything 
 
70 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 else in deference to the river- fogs of summer and 
 the thaws of Januaiy. By a curious yet natural co 
 incidence, the aborigines had been supplanted by a 
 race of white Savages. The Savage family bore the 
 chief hereditary honors in a pure local democracy, 
 and gave the place its name. Having a certain tra 
 ditionary leadership, and being, according to the re 
 gion, rich, they would have been detested by all the 
 other citizens as feudal aristocrats, obnoxious to the 
 well-being of the nation, if the} had not studiously 
 kept up the shabby manners and mild semi-illiteracy 
 of their ancestors. These, to be sure, were their 
 birthright, and the pride they took in even such an 
 order of family distinction might have been deemed 
 perilous to society. But the community was willing 
 to pass that over. 
 
 The present representatives were "Mother" Sav 
 age, who dwelt in an over-correct white house, with 
 green blinds and a long piazza ornamented by a 
 scalloped wooden cornice, assisted by her three 
 sons. Dressed in a faded bed-gown that made her 
 look like an exhumed specimen of some lost order 
 of insects, she did her own household work, and 
 spent her leisure hours wholly in bed, smoking a 
 short pipe and reading novels. Her eldest son 
 Absalom, a big, red-bearded person with a dull ex 
 pression (as if for some years he had been trying to 
 grow deaf and could not quite succeed), had become 
 the owner of the woollen-mill. Epenetus B., ner 
 vous and black-haired, and possessing a face like a 
 disturbed shadow, was interested in thermometers 
 
SA VAGE S. AN ODD ENCOUNTER. 71 
 
 and continually drove a restless buggy through the 
 adjacent country, in search of small chances to 
 speculate. The third son was Serious Savage. He 
 kept the hotel, nominally, though his brisk, pale wife 
 really managed the business. His chief accomplish 
 ment was the facility with which he drummed on his 
 teeth with his fingers during conversation, and while 
 listening to the wants of his patrons ; though I am 
 bound to say that the village folk never saw any 
 thing remarkable in this. They were more impressed 
 by his unbroken languor, which they mistook for 
 thought. 
 
 On an early day of July and near the hour of 
 noon, Serious and a group of his friends were seated 
 in the brick-floored portico at the front of the hotel, 
 trying to persuade themselves that they were en 
 gaged in conversation. The portico appeared to 
 have been added to the establishment for the con 
 venience of flies and loafers, its sole occupants, and 
 was provided with thin, white, wooden columns of 
 much the same form and dignity as bed-posts, an 
 architectural feature that perhaps flattered Serious 
 with a suggestion of his mother s luxurious habits. 
 After one of the frequent intervals of silence which 
 reduced their conversation to a mere illusion, a sort 
 of mental mirage created by the intense, settled heat 
 of the daj , one of the group hit upon a fresh subject. 
 This successful personage was Breck the jeweller. 
 
 " Has Tarbox struck water yet, with that well of 
 his n he s diggin ?" he asked, wearily. 
 
 The query was put forth as common property ; but 
 
72 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 Major Brown at once acted on his well-known pre 
 scriptive right to answer any question that might be 
 asked in the village. " No, he hain t," said the 
 Major, contemptuously; "and what s more, he s 
 losin five cents every foot he goes down, cordin t 
 his con trac -price. Fact is, you may say he s put 
 his foot in it to the tune of a five-cent piece." 
 
 The others acknowledged the wit of this remark 
 by a unanimous but indolent and husky giggle. 
 
 The Major s position, as he tilted his chair at a 
 sharp- angle against the boards of the hotel wall, 
 brought into mournful relief against the w T hite paint his 
 dented stove-pipe hat, the rim of which was bound 
 with a narrow ribbon of stained and faded blue, and 
 caused his brown nankeen legs to dangle towards 
 the pavement in a forgetful manner. A number of 
 fawning flies were engaged in worshipping his boots ; 
 five others were delightedly traversing the brown 
 nankeen, and two, more ambitious than the rest, 
 promenaded on his hat-brim. Otherwise, except 
 for the more guarded adulation of the men around 
 him, there was nothing to indicate his importance as 
 sheriff of the county and owner of the last remaining 
 stage-line to Savage s. 
 
 Time had been, before the incursion of railroads, 
 when Major Brown had ruled over various lines of 
 coach-travel ; but those palmy da3*s were over, and 
 he had now adopted, as the survivor of a better era, 
 a tone of ponderous dissatisfaction and nameless 
 regret, which he thought becoming to him. As for 
 the flies, he no longer cared, since railroads had come 
 
SA V AGE S. A N ODD ENCO UNTER. 7 3 
 
 into vogue, whether dipterous insects continued to 
 exist or not ; and as for men, he accepted their 
 homage in much the same spirit. 
 
 " Tarbox ain t no artesian any way," observed 
 James Wadkin, the village barber, continuing the 
 subject of the well. ; He tries his hand too free 
 in different kinds of work." Then he gave utterance 
 to an original economic maxim which he was proud 
 of: "A man shouldn t do but a little of anything 
 only what he s calculated for." 
 
 " H m," muttered Serious, opening his lips and 
 looking as if about to drum on his teeth ; which, 
 however, he failed to do. 
 
 " Guess it s pretty much about so," stated the 
 Major, conclusively. 
 
 Another tribute was paid to his authority, in the 
 form of a subdued murmur. The remaining member 
 of the company was young Card, who had lately 
 taken advantage of a small local feud to establish a 
 new hardware store at Savage s ; and Card testified 
 his support of the Major by a well-modulated cough. 
 He was sure it had helped him along a step or two 
 in the path of prosperity. 
 
 All were silent for a minute, after this. It was a 
 triumph that anything should have been said at all, 
 and they basked in the glow of it. 
 
 " I und stand," said Breck, fixing his one earnest 
 eye on Serious (it had the look of having been 
 photographed, and so rendered unable to change its 
 expression, while the other was perfectly listless), 
 " I und stand that Tarbox is goin to take to takin 
 summer-boarders, too." 
 
74 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 "So?" exclaimed Waclkin, disdainfully. 
 
 There was another silence, and Serious was about 
 to reopen the well, with as much interest as if truth 
 lay at the bottom, when Card, looking off, startled 
 them by saying, "There s a stranger coming, 
 Ser ous ! " 
 
 "Where?" was the chorus of all but the proprie 
 tor, who was able to give his renowned apathy re 
 doubled effect, b3* paying no attention. 
 
 "I kn see him," said the Major, as if nothing 
 more were necessary. "He s on the east hill, 
 comin down the road. Don t you know him, 
 Waddy?" 
 
 "No," said the barber; and Breck and Card 
 could n t refrain from asking the Major, " Do 3*011?" 
 
 To this he deigned no reply. He turned towards 
 the hotel-keeper. "Who you expectin , Ser ous?" 
 
 " Most anybod3 ," was the answer, in a melanchol3 r 
 tone. 
 
 Waddy at this point developed a sudden super 
 ciliousness towards the approaching pedestrian. 
 "Where can a man come from," he queried suspi 
 ciously, " that goes traipsing a- foot through the coun- 
 tr3 r with a bag on his hip, like that?" 
 
 " Some shack, most likely," said Major Brown, 
 severel} T ; meaning a tramp. 
 
 Breck and Card saw with grief the mistake the3 
 had made in barely hinting that such a character 
 might be known to the Major. Card cast about for 
 means to retrieve himself. "It s pootty near time 
 for the stage," he ventured. " Do you s pose, Major, 
 
that he s walked all the way from Medoosic, or has n t 
 he rode on the stage and is just promenarding 
 ahead?" 
 
 This theory somewhat mollified the autocrat, 
 though he respected himself too much to let it appear 
 that he had not already thought of it. "That s 
 reasonable," he said, affably, "if it was you or me. 
 But some of these folks from Boston have queer idees 
 of how to enjoy themselves. Why, Ser ous," he con 
 tinued, turning to that individual, " do you remem 
 ber John E. Barker?" 
 
 " I don know but I do." 
 
 "Your father would have rec lected. John E. 
 Barker was cousin to R. V. Swift. You know 
 that?" 
 
 Serious was leaning against the railing at the end 
 of the porch, and swung his chair dexterously on one 
 leg, as a pivot, far enough to give his head without 
 other effort a brief, affirmative bob. But this did n t 
 quite satisfy the Major s notions of proper explicit- 
 ness, and he persisted until Savage admitted that he 
 knew both men. It might be supposed that when 
 one man sa} s to another, "You know John E. 
 Barker, or R. V. Swift?" and the second man sa} T s 
 "Yes," that this would be enough. But it is not. 
 It is always necessary that the first speaker should 
 next go on to explain with great minuteness who 
 John E. Barker and R. V. Swift are or were ; what 
 was their personal appearance ; what they do or did ; 
 and what their parents were in the habit of doing. 
 While Major Brown was following out all these 
 
76 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 branches of his subject, the stranger having disap 
 peared from the east hill was advancing by a lower 
 part of the road ; and before the foundations of the 
 sheriff s reminiscence had been laid, footsteps min 
 gled with his utterance. 
 
 " Sorry to interrupt you," said the new-comer, 
 without any appearance of regret, "but I want to 
 find out where Mr. Tarbox s house is. Can any of 
 you tell me?" 
 
 " Guess could, if we tried," Serious responded; 
 intending no offence, but wishing to put himself on 
 an equality with his interrogator by adopting a tone 
 of easy, familiar humor. Thereupon he shut his 
 teeth and beat a tattoo on them. 
 
 By this time it was clear that the traveller, who 
 wore a light-gray suit, with gray gaiters over his 
 dusty shoes, Richard Whitcot, in short, could 
 not have come by the stage, which in that case would 
 have passed him on the descent into the town. The 
 Major addressed him accordingly. " Come by the 
 stage," said he, "and you d ha been taken right to 
 the door." 
 
 "I ll go right to it now," said Whitcot, tartly, 
 " if you 11 tell me where it is." Whereat the Major 
 rose grandly and walked into the hotel. Card 
 didn t dare to give any information, after this; 
 Waddy followed the Major; and Breck fixed his 
 earnest eye on Whitcot, in silence. 
 
 " T ain t much of a walk," said Serious, in a cas 
 ual way. Stop for dinner ? " 
 
 " It seems I m likely to," returned Whitcot, " if I 
 wait for you to tell me the way to Tarbox s." 
 
SAVAGE S. AN ODD ENCOUNTER. 77 
 
 " Oh," observed the landlord, with the surprise of 
 a mind superior to strife, " I didn t s pose you was 
 in any partic lar hurry. It s right up street here 
 third house be-j and the Second Church." 
 
 "The second one, eh?" And the gray gaiters 
 resumed their march along the rough dirt-sidewalk. 
 
 " There s the first church, not far ahead," reflected 
 their wearer, as he advanced. He soon came abreast 
 of it, a brick edifice, belfry-crowned and set back 
 behind a grass-plot which was surrounded by crazy 
 wooden posts, chained together as if in danger of 
 falling if left to themselves. 
 
 No other church was in sight, but as the road took 
 an upward turn to the right, he moved on briskly, 
 thinking he should soon pass the one that was to 
 serve him as a landmark. His thoughts ranged fast 
 and wide as he went along, and he did not at first 
 notice that the houses became less frequent in the 
 direction he was taking. By and by the discovery 
 that he was continually ascending, and had gone 
 some distance, caused him to look about again. He 
 found that he had nearly reached the top of a small, 
 round hill overlooking the village, and that the road 
 ran on into the country with no accompaniment of 
 dwellings. In vain he looked for a second spire ; 
 the only two visible besides the one he had just 
 passed lay in quite other quarters of the glen 
 below. 
 
 " Confound them ! " he exclaimed, shaking his 
 fist at the top of the inoffensive hotel. "They ve 
 misdirected me, maliciously." Then he remembered 
 
78 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 what had been said about Burlen s possibly becoming 
 the pastor of the " Second Church;" and his error 
 dawned upon him. " At least I shall be able to 
 show him the wa}% when he comes." he laughed. 
 
 At that moment the scream of a locomotive rose 
 from the valle} . He heard the dull hum of the cars, 
 and saw a long web of smoke weaving itself above 
 the trees and unravelling itself again while the front 
 of it worked towards the village. Under the web he 
 knew that Edith and Burlen were being borne along 
 to their destination. He decided to go down and 
 meet them at the hotel. 
 
 Before he had gone six steps some one crossed 
 the road in front of him, and seemed to take a foot 
 path leading down the hill. It was an energetic, 
 bareheaded young woman with a dark face rather 
 striking in outline as it flitted by. "Whitcot took her 
 to be a farmer s daughter or a factory-girl ; but her 
 spirited bearing interested him for the moment, and 
 he conceived the notion of going after her, to ask 
 the wa}~ to Tarbox s. 
 
 "Hold on!" he cried, gesticulating, as he came 
 up to where he could see her following the short-cut. 
 
 The girl turned to look ; became alarmed, as it 
 seemed, and began to run. " Fury ! " he muttered, 
 stopping short. " This is the most extraordinary 
 place I ever got into. Uncommunicative, decidedly. 
 No one appears to want me here." And in a far 
 from good humor he retraced his way down the 
 hill. 
 
 All the morning Edith, Mrs. Savland, and Burlen 
 
SA VA GE S. AN ODD ENCOUNTER. 79 
 
 had been making their way by steam from the lower 
 levels of Massachusetts into the rough entanglement 
 of the Monadnoc region. They got into a narrow 
 valley ; the train dropped one car after another, as 
 if to quicken its flight ; then a dark, foamy river 
 made its appearance, going in the same direction, 
 and entered into a race with the engine. They 
 crossed it, were headed off by it, caught up with it 
 again ; all the time passing through breadths of deep 
 wood-shadow or shooting out into broad sunshine 
 that flooded the car, so that some great green cur 
 tain seemed to be alternately drawn and flung back 
 between them and the light. At length the engine 
 slacked its speed, and the river, growing quieter, ran 
 still and glass} T towards the mill-dams : there was 
 just room enough for the track, the current, and a 
 turnpike between the two steep ridges that banked 
 in the village. As the}^ glided over this last stretch 
 Edith broke into delighted exclamations at the bold, 
 fresh scenery that trended upward to the sky on 
 either hand. Savage s Mills was forced into pictur- 
 esqueness by its very situation. She laughed out 
 right at the "cunning" appearance of the small 
 abodes nestled along the acclivities like amplified 
 bird-boxes, prim and hard in their outlines, but often 
 brightened by some touch of beauty, a clustering 
 vine, a blooming oleander, or a body-guard of quaint, 
 yellow-collared sun-flowers. 
 
 " I feel as if I could put my hand out of the win 
 dow," she said, "and pat these little cottages on 
 their roofs, without their being offended." 
 
80 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 "I think," said Burlen, on an impulse, "they 
 might bear it from you." During the short jour 
 ney he had made more than a geographical progress. 
 
 Arrived, they were carried in an officious open 
 cart to the hotel, a few rods away, and there, clatter 
 ing up a flight of iron-bound steps, were led into 
 small, pantry-like rooms provided with meagre ap 
 paratus for sleeping and washing. Burlen had just 
 got his head into a bowl of water, when a terrifying 
 clangor echoed through the halls from a gong, in 
 tended to express the emotions with which mankind, 
 in that localit} r , received the announcement of dinner. 
 Lifting his head in showery haste, he heard a knock 
 at the door, and the voice of Serious saying dream 
 ily : u Dinner s read} , Mister." 
 
 4 Is there any hurry? "he asked in some alarm, 
 knowing the momentarj and rapacious character of 
 the feast in American rural hotels. 
 
 "No," returned the unseen Serious, in a disap 
 pointed tone. He believed himself to have executed 
 matters in the " city style," and found the effort un 
 appreciated. 
 
 He was partially compensated, however, by find 
 ing Whitcot returned upon his hands for dinner. 
 
 While the engineer was putting the last touch to a 
 hasty toilet in a small room behind the office-counter, 
 he looked through a window into the roomy cobble- 
 stoned court enclosed by the hotel and its stables. 
 The lumbering, old, j ellow stage-coach had arrived 
 and stood drawn up in one corner, like a disabled 
 wasp, on the grass-grown pavement. Suddenly 
 
SAVAGE S. AN ODD ENCOUNTER. 81 
 
 against this yellow background there appeared the 
 figure of a }~oung woman in a fresh flowered calico, 
 a shapely girl, with something unusually effective 
 in the style of her dress, and a striking quality in her 
 handsome, browned face. She had just issued from 
 a side-door, and in a moment passed on to the sta 
 bles. Whitcot saw that it was the same girl he had 
 encountered on the hill, and, concluding that she 
 would come back presentl}*, he strolled around into 
 the court-yard, moved by a curiosity to scan her 
 more closely. As he entered it through the cov 
 ered driveway from the front, she was returning from 
 her message to the stables. It was obvious that she 
 was emplo3 ed in the inn. 
 
 Despite her physical vigor and a degree of bold 
 ness in her features, there was a tinge of delicate 
 melancholy in her expression. It was something 
 twilight-like and strange ; a sadness, a remorse, a 
 grieving memory perhaps ; something that might have 
 been the faint wave-mark of ancestral sorrow or sin, 
 or slavery of some kind. Very evasive it was, and 
 yet it impressed Whitcot at once. With this impres 
 sion there came to him a vaguely defined premonition 
 of danger, unusual in his experience, a spontane 
 ous conviction that the touch of her life to another 
 life might, under given circumstances, be full of ex 
 traordinary peril. 
 
 "Look here," he said, benevolently, "didn t I 
 see you just now, up on the hill?" 
 
 She looked at him with some appearance of think 
 ing that he intruded. " Perhaps you did, if I was 
 6 
 
g2 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 there," she returned carelessly, and was moving 
 away. 
 
 44 Wait a minute," he persisted. " I want to know 
 why you ran off when I called to you. Why did 
 
 you?" 
 
 "I was afraid," said the girl, abruptly; yet her 
 smile was by no means timorous. 
 
 "Afraid ! That s very singular. I had been mis 
 directed, and wanted to ask you the way. Afraid of 
 me ? This is really a very peculiar place." 
 
 "Oh, I wasn t afraid of you. I thought" 
 she nodded towards the interior of the hotel "I 
 thought you were some one else." 
 
 41 That was it, eh ? Another man like me? " 
 
 44 Yes; or you re like him," she said, rather sau 
 cily. 
 
 4 4 In there ? In the hotel ? " 
 
 44 Pro bly he s in there now." 
 
 She made a move to pass on ; but it struck Whit- 
 cot as a slightly sensational incident that so resolute 
 and competent-looking a girl should be afraid of 
 some man who resembled him. "You said you 
 were n t afraid of me," he continued, rather piqued 
 that the other individual should be more powerful 
 than himself. "Did you mean you couldn t, any 
 way, be afraid of me?" 
 
 She laughed ; perhaps suspecting his small vanity. 
 Then, becoming serious, she raised her searching 
 eyes and looked him all over, as if she were some 
 creature of the dark, who could see without being 
 seen, and therefore had no hesitation in scrutinizing 
 
SAVAGE S. AN ODD ENCOUNTER. 83 
 
 another person. "Well, no," she said, reflectively. 
 " I suppose I might possibly, if you were to benave 
 badly enough. I don t see what it is to you, any 
 way. I must go in to the dinner now." 
 
 " I must have a look at my double, too," said he, 
 half to himself. " By the way, what s his name? " 
 
 She threw herself back a little, from the waist up, 
 and with an odd gesture pointed a half-bent arm 
 towards the house. "His name? Ask him." 
 
 For some reason Whitcot found it easy to talk 
 freely with this n^sterious young woman, and he 
 took advantage of the fact to put an impertinent 
 question. " I should like to know wh} r 3*011 re 
 afraid of him," he said. " Is he your husband ? " 
 
 The giii shook her head with a dark smile, in 
 which a hidden scorn lurked, like the bitter dregs 
 in wine. "No. He has n t got anything to do with 
 me. But I m afraid of people sometimes. Every 
 body is, if they ve a mind to be." 
 
 "Well, I should say he had no good reason to 
 make you uncomfortable," Whitcot remarked. 
 
 "No, nor bad one either," the strange girl an 
 swered, keenly. 
 
 Seeing that he had been drawn much further than 
 he intended, and not liking the situation, the engineer 
 was glad to have this peculiar .colloquy close. But 
 just as they were turning to separate, a shutter in 
 the upper story of the hotel was flung back, with a 
 flat sound, from a window looking directly down 
 upon them. Their eyes were attracted sharply 
 
g4 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 upward by it, and there they both saw Edith, who 
 paused for an instant after opening the shutter, hav 
 ing caught sight of Whitcot ; apparently surprised 
 at seeing him there side by side with so unwonted a 
 companion. 
 
RUDYARD. 85 
 
 VIII. 
 
 RUDYARD. 
 
 TT7DITH immediately withdrew from the window 
 JL-< again, but Richard was vexed that she should 
 have happened to observe him at that moment. He 
 reproached himself for his blundering curiosity in 
 coming out to speak to the unknown young woman. 
 But, " I only wanted to ask her a simple and reason 
 able question," he thought ; and hereupon he became 
 indignant that Miss Archdale should have looked 
 surprised. 
 
 The girl noticed his annoj^ed air. u You are sorry 
 that lady saw you here," was her comment, given in 
 a way that made it something between taunt and 
 triumph. 
 
 Being nettled, he replied without dignity- : " Well, 
 you would be sorry too, I presume, if your who 
 ever he is your alarming man in there should see 
 you talking to me." 
 
 u Poll ! " cried she, snapping her fingers. " What 
 do I care ? But }*ou know you re sorry : you just 
 said so." She displa} ed an impish satisfaction at 
 the idea. 
 
 " I did n t say so," declared Whitcot, weakly. 
 
 4 Well, I hope you ve kept me here long enough 
 to suit you," she said, and tripped away through the 
 
86 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 side-door ; leaving the young man rather dazed at 
 his own folly in having placed himself on a footing 
 with a woman in her station, and getting into dispute 
 with her on a point connected with Edith, before he 
 even knew who she was. 
 
 The dining-room of Savage s Hotel was a bare, 
 ugly, scrupulously clean apartment filled with narrow 
 tables, at which a variety of individuals were seated, 
 all eating with a sad kind of energy as Whitcot en 
 tered. The dinner grouped together, almost with 
 the swiftness of instantaneous photography, a thin, 
 scalding pea-soup, beef roasted to the clryness of a 
 mumnyy, some vegetables, and a rhubarb pie, 
 accompanied by cups of green tea so strong and 
 maddening that an army served with it before 
 battle would have been in a fair way to come out 
 victorious. 
 
 The dark-faced girl whom he had just left was 
 waiting at one of the tables. Whitcot took his place 
 at another, with Mrs. SavlancTs party. 
 
 Besides Card, Waddy, and Major Brown, the 
 company comprised the usual broad, overgrown, 
 good-natured man with jet-black hair, redundant 
 beard, jaws and lip blue from the dense bristles of 
 shaven whiskers, and cheeks full-colored and clear, 
 a prize-product of fast growth and excessive vitalit}*, 
 to be found in most American villages, and causing 
 j ou to look him over in vain for the " First Premium " 
 card which you imagine the agricultural committee 
 must have awarded him. There were also several 
 premature, self-satisfied, nondescript youths, and two 
 
RUDYARD. 87 
 
 women marked by that restless, withered, and vaguely 
 ambitious t} T pe of countenance which comes from 
 protracted hotel-life. Besides these there was a 
 travelling salesman, who fancied that he had acquired 
 the polished ease of the best society, but turned out 
 not to be quite the genuine article. He was rather 
 a cheap adulteration of urban dandyism, supplied in 
 any desired (or undesired) quantity to "the trade," 
 and at a liberal discount. 
 
 Finding no conceivable resemblance to himself in 
 any of these, Whitcot was obliged to look for it in a 
 3 oung man dressed, like himself, in gray, and wear 
 ing a light-hucd mustache. He was a good deal sun 
 burned, and had on a very clean white shirt ; but no 
 necktie. Whitcot certainly did not feel flattered by 
 the supposed resemblance ; yet the young fellow 
 was not bad-looking, and at a distance well, they 
 might have been mistaken for one another b} a 
 person crossing the road in haste. Involuntarily, 
 the engineer sent an inquiring glance towards the 
 waitress as she passed behind this presumed double, 
 and he thought her look in reply meant " yes." 
 
 " But why should she fear this harmless-looking 
 fellow?" he asked himself. "There is something 
 
 o 
 
 strange about it." 
 
 Against his better judgment he kept thinking about 
 these two individuals, with whom so far as he knew 
 he had no personal concern, nor ever could have. 
 He stared at the young man, a mechanic, appar 
 ently, and speculated in regard to him. He tried 
 talking with Mrs. Savland and looking in other 
 
88 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 directions ; but his attention always swung back as 
 rigidly as a pendulum. 
 
 At last the cravatless young man, whose gaze had 
 been concentrated on his plate, felt his observer s 
 scrutiny, and in a motionless sort of way brought 
 his e} es warily up so as to command the engineer. 
 They were clear, dark-gray eyes, in which a stilly 
 fire glowed. They seemed to meet Whitcot s with 
 instantaneous, dogged enmity. 
 
 A most singular, unaccountable gaze ! Perhaps 
 the man himself was not fully aware of its deliberate, 
 knife-like penetration ; but it was so unexpected to 
 Whitcot that he flinched before it. Careless, super 
 ficial, unaccustomed to alarm, he none the less felt a 
 chilly shock on meeting those firm gray orbs. His 
 own eyes fell ; an instinctive horror touched his 
 mind, and he began to understand the sad-faced 
 girl s dread. After this he ignored the gray-clad 
 mechanic, who shortly left the room ; but he was 
 unable to eat another mouthful. 
 
 "Shall you stay at the hotel?" Mrs. Savland 
 asked him, looking around with a silent criticism 
 that would have embittered Serious, had he seen it. 
 She had come to dinner with her bonnet on, in token 
 of protest against the martjrdom of receiving daily 
 bread in such a room. 
 
 "I sha n t stay if I can help it," said Whitcot. 
 " I ve got a room at Mr. Tarbox s, but have n t been 
 able to find it. And where is this place you re 
 going to ? " 
 
 "A Mr. Pride s. It s a farm, you know." 
 
RUDYARD. 89 
 
 Whitcot, with some liveliness, narrated his attempt 
 to get directed to his boarding-place. When he came 
 to the part about the young woman fleeing before him, 
 " I felt as if I belonged to a menagerie and had just 
 broken out of my cage," he asserted. But Edith did 
 not laugh as much as he had hoped she would. 
 "By the way," he added, "it was this very girl 
 that s waiting at the other table. I saw her in the 
 courtyard just now, and went out to identify her as a 
 curious specimen. Now she evolutes all at once 
 into a waitress. That s my species: I m a waiter 
 for Tarbox s. By and by I shall naturally select 
 myself into a fully developed boarder." 
 
 "We re here till further orders, too," laughed 
 Burlen. "Mr. Pride s got to come and carry us 
 up his hill, everybody lives on a hill here, and 
 he hasn t yet appeared. It s about two miles out, 
 didn t you say, Mrs. Savland?" 
 
 " Yes. You," she added to Whitcot, " must come 
 up there often." 
 
 The invitation was very cordial. He thanked her, 
 and his spirits rose again. 
 
 Strolling into the office afterward, he lit a cigar 
 and contemplated Serious Savage, who was nibbling 
 an orange-wood toothpick in a dejected manner. 
 "Is that your daughter," he asked bluntly, "who 
 waits on the longest table ? " 
 
 "I don know," said the proprietor, listlessly. 
 "I guess not," he added, with an air of carefully 
 weighing the probabilities. "I hain t got any 
 daughter." 
 
90 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 4 Who is it, then?" 
 
 " One o the gals, I p sume." 
 
 "I discovered that for myself. But what s her 
 name? Fine-looking she is ; dark something like 
 a g .YP s 3Y said Whitcot ; it just occurring to him that 
 there was a hint of the Romany about her. 
 
 "Oh," said Serious, "I guess you mean Idy, 
 don t A ou? Idy Hiss. Yes, she s one o my gals." 
 
 " You mean you employ her?" 
 
 " Certin." 
 
 "Then what has she got to do with that young 
 fellow who was in there at dinner? man with a 
 light mustache, dressed in gray, and looks like" 
 AVhitcot stopped short, with disrelish, and changed 
 his phrase. "That s to say, he s about my size, 
 you know." 
 
 Instead of answering, Serious put his head on one 
 side, and asked as if for information : " Look here, 
 3 oung man, ain t you consid able cur ous?" 
 
 " Ain t you ?" retorted the civil engineer, mimick 
 ing him slightly. 
 
 The landlord appeared to enjoy this hugely. 
 Laughing behind his closed teeth, he retreated 
 around the office-counter, pretended to examine his 
 accounts, and then said: "You mean Riutyard. 
 Yes, j es. Well, how sh d I know what he s got 
 to do with Idy? Ask him. Or ask her. Or ask 
 Timothy Pride." 
 
 4 Pride ? Hullo ! That s the name of the people 
 where these Prides live about two miles from here, 
 up the hills, don t they?" 
 
RUDYARD. 91 
 
 44 Thereabouts." 
 
 Whitcot drew his cigar into a glow again and 
 betook himself to the brick-floored porch, in a 
 thoughtful fit. The coincidence of one of the Prides 
 being thus mentioned as interested in the girl Ida 
 struck him as exceedingly odd, and he believed that 
 quite by accident he had stumbled upon some un 
 usual complication which it would be amusing to 
 watch during his stay. More and more curious 
 to know what it could be, he made up his mind to 
 accost Rudyard if he should see him again. That 
 disagreeable glance which he had received now 
 seemed of less consequence than at first ; perhaps 
 because the victory-giving tea at dinner had braced 
 his nerves. 
 
 While he was meditating, a wagon drove up to 
 the portico, from which a long-limbed woodsman 
 dismounted. 
 
 "Do } ou know an}*thing about a man named 
 Burlen, in there? " he asked shyly, holding his shabby 
 whip in one hand and pulling at the lash with the 
 other. He e} ed Whitcot, as if suspecting that he 
 was the person in question. 
 
 44 Yes, I know a good deal about him. He s in 
 side, with the two ladies. Do } ou want to see him ? " 
 
 "Then you ain t him?" said the man, relieved to 
 find that Whitcot was merely an impersonal stranger. 
 
 "No. Are you Mr. Pride ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir; that s my name." He became shy 
 again, on being identified. 
 
 44 And where s Timothy ? " asked Whitcot. 
 
92 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 Pride grinned with pleased astonishment. "Do 
 you know Tirn thy ? " 
 
 " You can t think how much I want to see him ! " 
 exclaimed Richard, feigning the delight of an old 
 comrade. " Mr. Pride, I d like to shake hands with 
 you." 
 
 The farmer suspected some recondite joke, but 
 extended his long, leathery palm for the other s 
 fingers to close upon. 
 
 "Let s see; what s your name?" he asked, with 
 that air of having momentarily forgotten something 
 familiar as the month or year, which his class flatter 
 ingly assume towards a stranger, when they wish to 
 be on their guard. Receiving Richard s answer, he 
 remarked : " Guess twould be full as well for me to 
 go and look for Mr. Burlen ; " and thereupon strode 
 slowly into the hallway, with a peculiar gait formed 
 by long habit in walking over rising or uneven 
 ground. It consisted of a deliberate step, beginning 
 with a general dip downward of that side of the per 
 son which was advancing, followed by a brief pause 
 to recover equilibrium, and an economical bringing 
 up of the hinder leg. 
 
 The ladies and Burlen were soon read} . Whitcot 
 helped them bestow their small parcels in the wagon, 
 and waited to see them off. "You ll come and 
 look at our place to-morrow or next da} ," Edith 
 said pleasantly, taking it for granted; "so it s 
 hardly a good -by." He watched them disappear 
 over the upland road. 
 
 When he stepped into the hall again, the door of 
 
RUDYARD. 93 
 
 the vacant dining-room was open, and Rudyard was 
 standing at the threshold with Ida Hiss. Remem 
 bering his decision to speak to the man, Whitcot 
 said, without embarrassment : " Perhaps you can tell 
 me just where Tarbox s house is. I ve tried to find 
 it once, but I did n t succeed ; got way out into the 
 fields beyond, in fact. Then I saw this this young 
 lady " the word, in such ultra-democratic appli 
 cation, cost him an effort, and he stopped as he indi 
 cated Ida. 
 
 Rudyard instantly turned upon her in fierce jeal 
 ousy. " What were you doing up there, I d like to 
 know?" he demanded. 
 
 For a moment she seemed cowed. Then with a 
 careless confidence surprising to Whitcot after her 
 declaration of fear: "What s that to you?" she 
 replied ; going on with disproportionate passion : 
 " I almost wish there was some secret about it, see 
 ing you re so masterful. You d never find it out, 
 if there was ; no not if you killed me ! " And she 
 set her teeth hard, so that between her half-parted 
 lips the}- shone with a determined gleam. 
 
 The witness of this outburst between the two was 
 made extremely uncomfortable by it, and again 
 regretted that he had come into the girl s neighbor 
 hood. But, once more to his surprise, Ida s vehe 
 mence rather pleased her rude admirer. He smiled 
 almost approvingly, and turned his attention back 
 to the engineer. 
 
 " I m going up past there nryself," he said. " It s 
 on the way to the woollen-mill where I work ; and 
 
94 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 I ll show you the house." Whitcot, rather bewil 
 dered, accepted the offer and began to wonder at his 
 first horror of the man. That cold, rigid enmity was 
 no longer discernible in his eyes, though there was 
 still something repellent about them. 
 
 A brief walk brought Richard to his goal, a neat, 
 low house with projecting eyebrows of mossy-shingled 
 eaves, set up on a bank and approached by a flight 
 of rickety steps under the shade of a catalpa-tree. 
 Mounting the steps he knocked at the door, but got 
 no answer. He then went along the grassy bank a 
 few paces and halted opposite a window hung with 
 white side-curtains, between which he could look in. 
 It was a low-ceiled, antique room that he surveyed. 
 Its dusky walls, its old, gilded, wooden clock, its 
 stained what-not displaying china ornaments, and its 
 colored prints in frames of varnished pine-cones, all 
 had so obsolete and confined a look that he could 
 almost smell its musty flavor through the glass. In 
 the centre stood a dinner-table, at which a man sat, 
 with his back to the light. The back was covered 
 with a faded waistcoat, from which the arms pro 
 jected in shirt-sleeves, and was moreover perfectly 
 motionless. The man had either dropped asleep or 
 was thinking hard. 
 
 He turned when Whitcot tapped on the pane, 
 presenting a middle-aged, dusty face. The front 
 of his head was bald, and he looked as obsolete as 
 the room itself. He might have sat there for j^ears, 
 letting the dust gather in his wrinkles and the hair 
 gradually fall from his forehead. And there he 
 
RUDYARD. 95 
 
 appeared likely to remain sitting, for at first he made 
 no show of responding to Whitcot s pantomimic 
 references to the door. Finally, however, he rose ; 
 apparently got lost somewhere in the interior, and 
 found himself again just in time to meet Whitcot at 
 the threshold. 
 
 44 You re Mr. Tarbox, I take it? " 
 
 "Yes. Be you the young man from the city ? " 
 
 Happy distinction, practised in the country, of 
 conferring on one individual the dignity of an entire 
 population ! 
 
 "Well, no," said Richard, "I come from Marie. 
 But then I m the young man." 
 
 " Excuse me ; I forgot you were coming. I was 
 thinking just now. It sort of gets over me, times." 
 
 There was a gravit} in Tarbox s manner which 
 prevented Richard s smiling at this remark. The 
 man passed his hand over his forehead confusedly 
 to remove some of the dust of the } T ears, perhaps. 
 
 " Well, you see I remembered I was coming, luck 
 ily," said the engineer, in his off-hand way. 4 Is 
 my room ready ? " 
 
 Just then Mrs. Tarbox, a buxom housewife, came 
 to his relief. "Time for you to go to work, Titus," 
 said she to her husband, "and don t forget to put 
 3 our coat on." Having thus dismissed him, she 
 showed Whitcot to his apartment. " My husband 
 gets sort of far-away some days," she apologized. 
 "He s thinkin about his son our boy that we 
 lost." 
 
 " Lately?" asked the young man, with sympathy. 
 
96 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 " Fifteen years ago, it was. He died of consump 
 tion." 
 
 " And your only son? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 It may have been a desolate-looking photograph in 
 one corner, it may have been something in the wo 
 man s manner, that prompted Whitcot s question : 
 u Was this your son s room? " 
 
 She made answer affirmatively with her head. 
 " He was very fond of the prospect from that win 
 dow." 
 
 Reluctantly he glanced at the view. It was a long, 
 broken stretch of woodland, ending with a glimpse 
 of Monadnoc, which presented itself in one of the 
 hundred different phases that a mountain shape 
 takes, from different points. Looked at from here, 
 and under the shadow of the grief to which he had 
 been so abruptly introduced, it assumed a tragic, 
 threatening look to the engineer s eye. For an in 
 stant he seemed to trace in his own person the sen 
 sations of the dying 3*outh, as this scene faded from 
 before him the last of earth. Then he began to 
 busy himself unpacking his belongings. 
 
 "It s aivything but a cheerful welcome, though," 
 he reflected. " I might as well spend my vacation 
 in a tomb." 
 
A DRIVE. 97 
 
 IX. 
 
 A DRIVE. THE DESERT. FOOTSTEPS. 
 
 MR. PRIDE S open wagon carried its occupants 
 along into a deepening solitude. After get 
 ting up one hill, it descended a little, rolling with 
 delusive swiftness over a bridge that spanned the 
 long-slanting plash of a brook released from the weir 
 of the old red grist-mill hard by ; and then the horse 
 relapsed into his habitual decrepitude as. he began to 
 plod up the next ascent. Suddenly swinging around 
 a curve, they beheld, some distance back and hud 
 dled far down in the valley, the village, from the 
 chimneys of which smoke was floating dreamily in 
 the afternoon light. Another bend disclosed Mo- 
 nadnoc. The atmosphere was like crystal, but the 
 mountain was far enough away to be robed in stately 
 blue. 
 
 " Every time I see it, it is like a fresh surprise 
 as if I d never seen it before," declared Edith. 
 
 Again, a broad screen of forest or a ridge of the 
 highland would shut it out as completely as if it had 
 existed only in fanc} r ; but the travellers found a 
 clew to its position in the windings of the Contoo- 
 cook, glinting blue and white reflected lights from its 
 brown current deep in the trough of the land. Al 
 ways up, always higher, toiled the wagon ; a house 
 7 
 
98 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 was seldom passed ; the surroundings became more 
 unkempt. It arrived at a small, abandoned farm 
 house, rapidly going to ruin, which was noticeable 
 for two heart-shaped openings cut in the faded green 
 door ; and here Mr. Pride diverged from the high 
 way, taking a smaller road that struck off at right 
 angles into a glen more secluded than anything they 
 had yet seen. As the horse slowly drew them up 
 the arduous track, the three friends luxuriated in 
 half-lit vistas of the woods and ardent perfumes that 
 came thronging from hidden wild-flower coverts and 
 the hearts of the gummy pines. They listened to the 
 greenlet s fluting in the recesses of interlaced foli 
 age, always silenced when the softly-crunching wheels 
 came anywhere near, and resumed with tantalizing 
 serenity as soon as they drew fairly away again. 
 In this glen the air was cool and exhilarating ; so 
 unworn and beautiful did everything look, that it 
 shared, seemingly, the heightened vitality which the 
 new-comers felt in the sublimed and delicate air. 
 The small, knotty oaks in a roadside hollow, tough 
 as they were, threatened to snap in twain with re 
 pressed energy; the birch saplings on the yellow, 
 sandy bank rustled with a quick, light accent befit 
 ting the thin and shifting soil in which they rooted. 
 Farther on, a line of young beeches, thriving lustily 
 upon the slope at the lower side of the road, thrust 
 their flat, leafy branches under the lowest fence-rail, 
 and laid them fairly on the road, beneath the horse s 
 feet. They paid, thus, an unconscious homage to 
 Edith, strewing her path with green. 
 
THE DESERT. 99 
 
 " T ain t onty but a short while ago I moved up 
 to the old house," Pride explained; "end s folks 
 mostly go reound by t other road, the trees kinder 
 get it all their own way here." 
 
 Mrs. Savland felt the force of this observation, for 
 at that moment a bough, leaning out from above, 
 came near shearing off some of the elderly adorn 
 ments of ribbon from her bonnet. Indeed, they all 
 had to bob about a good deal, and put their heads 
 down, to avoid untimety decapitation. But as they 
 came out from this labyrinth on to a more open 
 stretch, they were confronted with the chief surprise 
 of the drive. The glen, into which they could now 
 look freely, was full of irregular boulders and clumps 
 of whortleberry, the central depression being marked 
 by a grass-hung brook which had a trouty look ; but 
 the opposite acclivity showed a space of fifteen or 
 twenty acres, covered with bare, unbroken sand. 
 
 " A real desert ! " cried Edith, in amazement. 
 
 " And here in the midst of New England moun 
 tain coimtiy ! " Burlen added. " I never heard of 
 such a thing, and should hardly believe it. How did 
 it come there, Mr. Pride? How do you explain it, I 
 mean?" 
 
 It was really a startling sight, this great barren 
 spot lying dry and hopeless amid an immensity of 
 flourishing green life. A few yards from the brook 
 it ceased abruptly, at a line on one side of which was 
 meadow, and on the other that crawling mound of 
 dead and inert dust, pausing for a while in its ad 
 vance. Encircling it, too, at the crest of the steep was 
 
100 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 a noble forest-growth, along which some white birch 
 es, cased in their white-satin bark, stood in exquisite 
 contrast with the cool, dark verdure behind and the 
 tawny glare of the Sahara patch in front. 
 
 "Don know s it needs much explaining* 1 said 
 Pride, who had grown less and less sli3 T in propor 
 tion as he got farther from the haunts of men. " It 
 come jest from sheer neglect. I ain t so veiy fear 
 ful old, but I kin remember of when that sand-heap 
 wa n t more n a little teeny piece the size of this 
 wagon." 
 
 " How long ago was that? * 
 
 " Maybe twenty year." 
 
 "Then it might have been stopped, 3-011 think?" 
 
 " Sartain. All they (I ve had to do was to plant 
 small firs on it to keep it from spreadin ; or put on 
 some sile and grass it down." 
 
 " I can t understand such carelessness, then," said 
 Burlen, energetically. " It was the owner s interest 
 to save that land for pasture." 
 
 "Yep; he d ought t have done it," Pride admit 
 ted. "But I ve got beout all the pastur and 
 mowin I kin tend to, now." He gave a yawn at 
 the mere thought. 
 
 "Oh, it was your land then, was it?" queried 
 Burlen, taken aback. 
 
 " M} T uncle s. It s mine now, or anybody s that s 
 a mind to take it. He d ought t have done suthin 
 beout it, that s sure." Outwardly, Pride allowed 
 himself to appear abandoned to a disgraceful in 
 difference ; but the next moment he made a keen 
 
THE DESERT. 101 
 
 observation, showing like other Yankee farmers an 
 alert and serious intelligence under that mask of dull 
 stupor which generations of crafty dickering have 
 bequeathed them. "Only shows," he said, "how 
 much harm comes from a little mite of evil, if 3^011 
 let it be. There s plenty of other deserts spreading 
 in this country, a good deal more dangerous than 
 that, when you come to look at it." 
 
 They had now advanced far enough to discover in 
 one corner of the desert a strange, gray object about 
 six feet high. 
 
 " What on earth is that?" inquired Mrs. Savland, 
 peremptorily. 
 
 Burlen, who was near-sighted, said it looked like 
 a man s figure. "No, it s not a figure; it s too 
 motionless and too wild," he continued. "But" 
 here their point of view was slightly changed 
 "see! It does look strangely like a group of two 
 people, cut in stone, a man and a woman." 
 
 "I think it may have been the trunk of a tree 
 once," said Edith, clearer-eyed and less fanciful. 
 "But it s all hollow and withered now. The roots 
 are bare, and stand out like claws." 
 
 "You ve hit it!" exclaimed Pride, with a pro 
 digious wink at the other two, designed to hint that 
 there was nothing like the sagacity of the youthful 
 feminine mind. "That s just what it is," he con 
 cluded. " I rec lect the tree that stood right thar. 
 The sand come squeezing up round it, and choked 
 it and killed it; and since then every bit of it s 
 dropped away and gone clean out of sight, only 
 the stump t you see thar." 
 
102 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 "Still, there s a resemblance. Don t you see it, 
 Miss Archclale? " persisted Burlen. " It looks like a 
 man in some wild costume, holding a young girl in 
 his arm and bidding her a long farewell." 
 
 The farmer could not refrain from a furtive smile 
 at this touch of imagination. 
 
 "Yes, I can see something of it," Edith replied, 
 in a self-possessed manner. 
 
 Her aunt, however, considered the suggestion 
 highly improper. People in real life might embrace 
 when saying farewell, but any reference to the fact 
 was, in her view, very bad taste ; especially when 
 applied to a tree-stump. 
 
 She proceeded to change the topic by asking, with 
 a purely disinterested and intellectual intonation : 
 "What s the name of that mountain over there, 
 Mr. Pride ? " She made a lunge with her parasol, 
 directed against a rounded outline off beyond the 
 desert and the woods. 
 
 "Well, some call it Pack Monadnoc Mounting, 
 and some call it other ways." He added with a 
 confidential chuckle: "But the mountings reound 
 here, the} 11 answer to most any name you give 
 em. They stay right there, all the time." 
 
 In a few moments they came in sight of a house 
 black with age, and overgrown with wild June-roses. 
 4 Is that the place?" Mrs. Savland inquired, with 
 abstract resentment. 
 
 "No, there ain t no one lives there," said Pride, 
 blandly. It was merely one of those deserted homes 
 which give to many New England districts an air of 
 
THE DESERT. 103 
 
 premature decay ; the land around them has been 
 wastefully exhausted and the places have been for 
 saken, given over to primitive wildness again before 
 the surrounding countiy has even had time to form a 
 history. Two hundred years of industry, and then 
 death and desertion ! 
 
 <k That s our home for the summer, up there, I 
 think," said Edith, looking towards another and 
 larger square edifice on a grassy knoll. 
 
 "Right again," Pride ejaculated, with redoubled 
 respect for her acumen. " Such as it is, that s the 
 place. All I can say is, I hope you won t wish t 
 was another afore you git through." 
 
 Pride s house, dating from the Colonial period, was 
 finely placed, and even in its decline looked exceed 
 ingly inviting to our friends. There were shade-trees 
 in front, and a thick maze of wild raspberry-bushes 
 had half-buried the fence and gate. Behind the 
 house, on still higher ground, white-tufted bobolinks, 
 wheeling around the scattered apple-trees that held 
 their nests, uttered a wild carol, half outcry and 
 half song, with untiring sweetness; and on the 
 nearer side a row of slim upspringing locusts threw 
 their ethereal leafage against the sky so ligktty and 
 so high up on the slender trunks, that they acquired 
 a likeness to cocoa-palms, and lent a faint aroma of 
 the Orient to the surroundings. 
 
 Meanwhile poor Richard, not finding his room at 
 the Tarboxes inspiriting, set out for a solitary walk 
 when the afternoon began to cool. Natural^, he 
 
104 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 took the direction towards Pride s hill. He was 
 tired with his tramp from Medoosic, but he fancied 
 he should sleep better if he could hover for a few 
 moments in Edith s neighborhood, even without see 
 ing her. He pushed along slowly, stopping now and 
 then to sit dejectedly under a convenient tree and ask 
 himself, without profit, who it was that might be held 
 responsible for his present depression. His arrival 
 in the vicinity of the mountain, which looked so fair 
 from the Cleft, had been very unlike what he had 
 expected, and he was inclined to blame some one 
 for the disappointment. When he got near the 
 big, comfortable-looking house on the hill, it was 
 sunset. He stood not far away, watching the day 
 fade, until lights began to warm the windows of the 
 dwelling here and there, and the huge barn at a 
 little distance, beyond some elms, began to look like 
 a square block of night-darkness dropped upon the 
 grass. By this time, two or three cows came up the 
 narrow road which had brought him thither. As 
 the leader passed the raspberry-bushes at the fence, 
 the fading glow threw upon her chestnut flank the 
 shapes of the leaves in a rich, lace-like pattern. 
 While Richard was looking at them, a young man in 
 leather breeches and a blue cotton blouse made his 
 appearance as the ostensible driver of the cows, car 
 rying a goad ; but his real occupation consisted in 
 humming aloud to himself a song, some of the notes 
 of which did not go quite right : 
 
 " I d ra-ther be with Ro-sa-bel, 
 A-swing-ing in the lane ! " 
 
FOOTSTEPS. 105 
 
 The engineer looked once more at the house. Be 
 hind it the sky was clear, pale, and golden-green, to 
 the height of the roof; but above that line hung a 
 long black cloud, moving from the south. Off to the 
 westward Monadnoc, now growing indistinct, waited 
 for the cloud, read} to wrestle with it. There was a 
 pervasive solemnity in the evening, which Wbitoot 
 felt without being able quite to understand it. 
 Chilled by it in mind and body, he turned to go 
 back to Savage s. 
 
 A few rods brought him face to face with another 
 man. " Hullo ! " he exclaimed, recognizing Rud- 
 yard. " You re out walking, too, eh? By-the-by, 
 is that Pride s house, just up here?" 
 
 " You know it is," answered Rudyard, unamiably. 
 " Have n t } ou just been there? " 
 
 "And the young chap driving some cows, who 
 just passed me, must be Timothy, I suppose?" con 
 tinued Richard, quite unperturbed, but eying the 
 other narrowly. 
 
 " Think likely." Rudyard nodded. 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 Richard went on his way. He felt more easy and 
 companionable, after this semi-hostile encounter, and 
 moved briskly through the gathering dusk, while the 
 storm-cloud, now invisible, advanced with a roll of 
 thunder upon Monadnoc. But in passing the deserted 
 house with heart-shaped door-lights, at the junction 
 of the roads, he thought he heard some one walk 
 ing behind him, not unpleasantly near, perhaps, 
 but enough so to give him the notion of quietly 
 
106 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 slipping in through the door of the house, which he 
 observed was ajar, and waiting inside. At first he 
 heard no more steps, but presently they began again. 
 In another moment a form passed by, which he took 
 to be Rudyard s, and was again lost in obscurity 
 along the road. 
 
 "I d rather have that villain in front of me than 
 behind me, any time," said Richard aloud, needlessly 
 indulging his habit of audible self-communion. 
 
 He was about to pass out again, when a hand 
 grasped his arm from behind, in the dark of the in 
 terior. "What, in the devil s name!" he began. 
 But a woman s voice responded. It was only a whis 
 per, but he knew it for the voice of Ida Hiss. 
 
 " Wait ! wait ! " she said, eagerly. " It s danger 
 ous. He s looking for me, and I think he s dogging 
 you, too. Don t go out." 
 
 " Well, upon my word ! " said Whitcot, in an un 
 dertone suited to the darkness, but recovering from 
 his first astonishment. "That s a cool request! 
 Do 3 ou expect me to pass the night in this hovel ? 
 Will you tell me what I ve got to do with you and 
 with this unpleasant Mr. Rudyard, that should make 
 me hesitate to walk about after dark if I choose to? 
 If anybod} T is to be intimidated on this occasion, I 
 rather think it won t be nryself." Though his tone 
 was cool, the elaborate length of this speech betrayed 
 that he was excited. 
 
 " Well, do as } ou like," whispered the girl, who 
 had removed her hand. "I don t want you to get 
 into trouble. That sail." 
 
FOOTSTEPS. 107 
 
 Whitcot s curiosity began to revive. "Now I 
 think of it," he asked, " what has Timothy Pride got 
 to do with this extraordinary mess that you all seem 
 to be in? I saw him just now, up the road." 
 
 "Hush!" answered the girl, who, unseen in the 
 darkness, spoke with a direct earnestness she had 
 not shown during their odd conversation at the hotel. 
 " Rudyard is spying on him, too." 
 
 " That s what I suspected," said the engineer, be 
 coming disgusted with his position, as soon as his 
 curiosity was satisfied. "As far as I m concerned, 
 though, you can count me out. If Rudyard says a 
 word to rne, we shall come to an understanding very 
 promptly, I promise 3 ou." 
 
 Hereupon he slipped out from the cottage again 
 and started towards the village once more, with a 
 short, internal laugh of scorn. If it had not been so 
 peculiarly silent and lonely up here, he assured him 
 self, he would never have taken the ridiculous pre 
 caution of stepping into such a doubtful shelter and 
 meeting so very dubious a fellow-hider there. 
 
 His sense of security did not last long. Once 
 more the footsteps from behind fell upon his ear, this 
 time fainter and more cautious. Riutyard had ap 
 parently missed him, waited in concealment, and was 
 again on his track. Whitcot was soon able to verify 
 this guess ; for as he reached a rise in the road and 
 looked back, straining to discover something, a 
 flash of lightning from the impending storm lit up 
 the part he had just traversed. Full in the glare, 
 standing still as if afraid that the light would be- 
 
108 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 tray him, Ruydard was revealed, not twenty yards 
 away. 
 
 Whitcot s first impulse was to hail him and insist 
 upon an explanation of his singular conduct. But 
 this would perhaps lead to a useless quarrel, or at 
 best would intimate some apprehension on his part. 
 "Besides, how do I know that he isn t an incipient 
 maniac?" he asked himself. Wheeling around, 
 therefore, he prosecuted his walk more rapidly. 
 
 Try as he would, he could not prevent that cold- 
 burning glance, which the mechanic had given him 
 at dinner, from coming out of the dark and facing 
 him. A quick step, a vigorous exercise of the bodj , 
 he felt sure would dissipate this hallucination. Rain 
 began to fall, and he began to run; the pattering 
 drops drowning the sound of his footfalls. 
 
 He was glad to arrive at the Tarboxes , and quite 
 satisfied with his room, despite its associations. His 
 supper of hot biscuit, mince-pie, cheese, and strong 
 tea was not the best preparation for sleep, but he 
 was so tired that he slept deeply. Nevertheless he 
 dreamed heavily that night, and in his dreams he was 
 pursued, sometimes by Rudyard, but quite as often 
 by Ida Hiss, and always with the same effect of 
 terror. 
 
WHISPERINGS IN THE RAIN. 109 
 
 X. 
 
 WHISPERINGS IN THE RAIN. 
 
 THE storm which began on the night of the arrival 
 at Pride s lasted several d&ys. 
 
 Even on that evening the searching damp of the 
 rain so filled the house that Mrs. Pride a nervous, 
 knotty little woman, all bone and sinew, but with an 
 expression of determined cheerfulness carved upon 
 the stiff muscles of her face insisted on lighting 
 a wood-fire on the hearth of the parlor assigned to 
 Mrs. Savland and her niece. Timothy came in with 
 an armful of brush, smiling and awkward ; but his 
 cheeks were too ruddy with health to show the blush 
 that was pricking him under the skin. The brush 
 was followed b} a miscellany of sticks, dead 
 apple-boughs picked tip from a neglected orchard 
 near at hand, bits of maple, locust, and ash, with one 
 shining piece of birch and a couple of stout oak-logs. 
 The fireplace was ample enough to hold them all. 
 But as the first sparks flew up the chimney, a loud 
 throbbing and whirring sound came through the 
 wall ; and strange squeaks and sharp notes of dis 
 tress rose, muffled, somewhere within the brickwork. 
 
 " Oh, what is that?" cried Edith, getting up from 
 the little corner-sofa where she had been watch 
 ing the fire-building. She was really alarmed, and 
 
HO IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 Burlcn felt a sweet, hidden pleasure at her turning 
 first to him. 
 
 Mrs. Savland, in a high-backed rocking-chair that 
 curved above her like the shrine of some weather- 
 beaten image, lifted her feet well up, and uttered a 
 pathetic cry of " Mice !" 
 
 Bashful Timothy smiled outright in broad deri 
 sion ; but his mother, from the kitchen-door, ex 
 claimed, pacifying!} : u The swifts ! It s so long, 3-011 
 see, there hain t been no fire in that chimbly. Did n t 
 you never hear cm gibbing like that, young lad}"?" 
 she said, referring to Edith. 
 
 " Gibbing r" queried Edith, not understanding that 
 Mrs. Pride had a way of catching at words that 
 suited her fancy, whether obsolete, accepted, or still 
 uncreated. 
 
 " Yes," said the woman ; " skrivverrting and 
 squeaking when they re frightened. It s birds, 
 you know." 
 
 " Chimney-swallows," said Burlcn. " That s it." 
 
 Mrs. Say-land s feet came clown, on the instant: 
 she looked as if she would have denied stoutly that 
 she had ever lifted them. 
 
 "Oh, yes, now I see!" said Edith, aglow with 
 pleasure. " We never had them, at home." There 
 was an almost childish glee about the young girl, as 
 she threw back one hand to emphasize her sudden 
 perception, and let her head sink for an instant 
 towards her shoulder. Timothy ceased grinning 
 and fell into hushed wonder, as he contemplated 
 her. But presently an unlooked-for solicitude shad- 
 
WHISPERINGS IN THE RAIN. 
 
 owed her happy face. " What will become of the 
 poor creatures, now that we ve driven them out into 
 the storm ? " she asked sadl} T , looking around at the 
 rest. 
 
 Then it was Buiien s turn to wonder. He thought 
 how strange it is that one beautiful woman can look 
 beautiful in so many different waj S. 
 
 But as the first flames jagged up through the brush, 
 scathing the wood, then vanished, and reappeared in 
 bodiless brightness above it, to be lost in the black 
 ness of the chimney- throat, the little birds grew still 
 and were forgotten. The blended flames danced 
 faster about the pile, and the mingled fragrance of 
 the various woods stole out into the long, spacious 
 room. Inspired by the glow and cheer, Burlen made 
 a sally into the raiiry night with Timothy, and came 
 back with some short branches of spruce, which 
 glittering and hissing with the illuminated drops 
 he flung upon the blaze. There was a gathering 
 of soft smoke, a sudden fresh spout of flame, with 
 much fiery snapping of the green wood ; after which, 
 the branches la} r subdued on the burning logs, with 
 their fringes turned to red-hot, scintillating points. 
 And then these faded, too, dropping into the deep- 
 red embers below. 
 
 The morning broke in showers, or rather came 
 into sight already shattered into hopeless drizzle ; so 
 that the fire was continued. Once the sun shot out 
 its ra} r s, and there was a promise of clearing. Then 
 delicate, elusive sounds began, so faint that it was 
 hard to tell whether they arose within the room or 
 
112 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 without; but soon they defined themselves as the 
 rustle of fresh drops on the trees, and then the 
 stead} T , quiet downpour recommenced. The two 
 young people with whom we are concerned, however, 
 did not find their imprisonment very hard to bear, 
 the drowsy purring of the fire gave such a sense of 
 comfort. There may have been other reasons for 
 their contentment. Yes, surely ; there was the 
 amusement afforded by exploring the quaintness of 
 the old house. 
 
 It retained the dignitj" of the da}*s when it was 
 built ; it was planned commodiously, for large fami 
 lies and hearty living. With fewer marked inequali 
 ties now, perhaps, than at that period, New England 
 country life has yet shrunk since the decline of 
 farming prosperity ; and the Prides illustrated this 
 shrinkage b} T occupying only a part of the roomy old 
 mansion. What had once been a smooth-floored 
 dining-hall where ma ivy a gay reel had been shuf 
 fled through, and many a jovial husking-party or 
 winter s night frolic had been held before a roaring 
 hearth, with cider and home-brewed ale, apples, 
 butternuts, and pop-corn was now used as the 
 kitchen ; the kitchen proper, with its enormous 
 chimney-place and rusty crane, being left empty and 
 cold, under a leaking roof. But Mrs. Pride kept the 
 present kitchen clean and shining, with shelves full 
 of pans, and of plates among which were some that 
 boasted the blue blood of the Mandarins. In the 
 planked ceiling were hooks on which strings of dried 
 apples would be hung in autumn, and a big spinning- 
 
WHISPERINGS IN THE RAIN. 113 
 
 wheel occupied one corner, at which the housewife 
 spun miles of yarn that she afterwards, at odd times 
 and even, knitted into stockings for Timothy and 
 her husband, and for various male relatives who had 
 migrated to the cities. " Guess they would n t walk 
 very easy through this mundacious life without em," 
 the old woman observed in her deluded pride ; not 
 knowing how carefully this foot-gear was laid away 
 and never worn after reaching her sophisticated city 
 kinsfolk. 
 
 The guests parlor was lined with a blue and buff 
 wall-paper, an early work of the present century, 
 depicting Washington s triumphal entry into New 
 York, which showed how very literally history re 
 peats itself ; for at every few feet along the sides of 
 the room, General Washington came cantering into 
 view on his mettlesome roan steed in precisely the 
 same posture as at his first appearance, with his 
 cocked hat held at exactly the same angle in his 
 hand, and accompanied by the identical blue and 
 buff troops who supported him at the entrance-door. 
 I grieve to say that the Continentals suffered occa 
 sionally by these historic transitions, the previous 
 stratum of incident sometimes lapping over and 
 cutting off their noses in the most unfeeling manner. 
 Even the General did not escape : one of the window 
 frames deprived the roan charger of his tail and one 
 leg. Edith preferred the garret, where there were 
 a few remains of handsome furniture, bits of old 
 costume in an ancient press, and a supply of leather, 
 with shoe-making tools, still used by Pride in domes- 
 8 
 
114 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 tic cobblery. The peculiarity of the cellar was that 
 it contained a nest of that sociable kind of snake, 
 the house- adder, spotted reptiles whom Mrs. Pride 
 called " checkered-adda s," who had taken up their 
 residence there while the house had been vacant, and 
 now declined to move. Mrs. Savland was in con 
 stant dread of being devoured by one of these small, 
 thin creatures, until assured that they had a consti 
 tutional dislike for parlors and bed-rooms, being 
 abandoned to a low taste for cellar-walls. 
 
 Old things interest young people because of their 
 own youth ; curious things because of their vivacious 
 curiosity. I don t think Miss Edith Archdale and 
 Mr. Robert Burlen would have found the antiquated 
 house so entertaining if they had been older. I am 
 sure they would not, if either of them had inspected 
 it alone. And because they were young and to 
 gether, other sources of agreeable occupation were 
 discovered. 
 
 During this sulky weather Monadnoc was out of 
 sight. The strong, watchful mountain, like a guar 
 dian above the surrounding country, had seen the 
 storm coming from afar ; had met and grappled with 
 it ; and now it was shrouded in the dense mist of the 
 conflict. 
 
 Yet Burlen was sensibly affected by the fact that 
 it was near him. Since coming to this place he had 
 been full of a new buoyancy, which appeared to grow 
 out of the knowledge that he was on high ground. 
 It was more than that. A new phase in his life had 
 begun. Something had been achieved: he was no 
 
WHISPERINGS IN THE RAIN. 115 
 
 longer a student simpty, but had risen to a higher 
 plane. From it he could see farther than he had 
 ever seen before, and his painful past lay in a deep, 
 overshadowed lowland whither he was never, he felt, 
 to return. On the night of coming to Pride s, a vis 
 ion of the mountain had risen upon him in his sleep, 
 and a voice had rolled in organ-tones upon his ear : 
 " It stands above all, like Fate or Providence, and 
 takes no share in human vicissitude. It will not 
 help us unless we help ourselves. But if we do that, 
 its dumb example, its skyward striving, will lift us 
 up and to what heights ! " 
 
 As for Edith, she also underwent some change of 
 mood. Men have definite aims and ambitions, which 
 are aided, modified, or ruined by some woman on 
 whom they have fixed their hopes. Women likewise 
 let the current of their lives take its trend from some 
 one man. There is this difference between them, 
 that the man intrusts his fixed purpose to the woman, 
 giving her a despotic power over it for help or harm ; 
 while she waits for him to define her purpose for her, 
 and then changes it as often as she pleases. Edith 
 was now waiting. She had a fine woman s instinct 
 for reading the points on her own compass by the 
 needle of a true man s character ; but it was a new 
 thing for her to be shut up, as now, with a young 
 enthusiast like Burlen, whom she had always taken 
 seriously. She regarded him more seriously, with a 
 closer attention than ever. There need be nothing 
 very personal, she thought, about this interest. She 
 said to herself that she would " study " Burlen ; and 
 
116 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 that convenient paraphrase set her mind at rest. 
 Still, this expectant rest was deceptive. 
 
 At first she did not seem to have a great deal of 
 leisure for his society. She displayed a fitful energy 
 in showing Mrs. Pride how to cook, under the guise 
 of practising ; she was busy in her own room ; she 
 must write to her father. Mrs. Savland also opened 
 a portable bureau of correspondence, and began to 
 whiten the air with useless letters, a mode she had 
 of emploj ing dull days. But she felt the mountain- 
 air. A mischievous spirit of sleep beset her, tripped 
 her pen, and began disrespectfull}* to make her head 
 nod ; so that she was forced to retire and seek a 
 systematic nap. Edith went with her, to see th.it 
 she was comfortable ; leaving the clerical candidate 
 alone in the parlor. He had brought a book or two 
 there, but when Edith disappeared he lost his interest 
 in these, and going to the window looked out at the 
 rain. Watching the dim gray lights of the abbrevi 
 ated vistas seen through the panes, he idly occupied 
 himself with the dull sparkle of the driving gouts as 
 they fell, and the gush of thin water-jets from the 
 leaf-points of lilac and raspberry that formed a hun 
 dred miniature gargoyles. The beads of moisture 
 stood so thick and white upon a field of seeded grass 
 across the road that it looked as if it were in flower. 
 Suddenly a robin, tired of waiting for fair weather 
 to return, sent his long note out Into the rain on a 
 venture, to see if that would hasten matters. But 
 beyond this there was no sound other than a splash 
 and dull beat of drops, mingling in the low, continti- 
 
WHISPERINGS IN THE RAIN. H7 
 
 ous, droning hum of the showers. Burlen listened 
 to it as if it could tell him something that he wished 
 to hear. 
 
 All at once Edith came demurely back from her 
 aunt s room, with some fancy-work and a paper 
 novel. She sat down by the fire. Not having heard 
 her enter, he was surprised by the rustling of the 
 pages, and immediately turned around. But as she 
 appeared intent on the book, he again fixed his e}-es 
 on the wet scene without. After a moment, laying 
 her book and work aside, she rose and tried to re 
 arrange the fire with the tongs. This brought him 
 across the room. 
 
 " Let me do that," he said. Noticing that she did 
 not at once resume the book, he added, experiment- 
 alh , giving a final prod to the fire: "A novel is 
 just the thing for this weather. You re fortunate to 
 have a fresh one." 
 
 " It does n t interest me," she returned, with that 
 disdainful coolness which, in her, seldom offended. 
 Burlen foolishly failed to see that if the novel did n t 
 interest her, he might. He began to move away. 
 " What were those books I saw you so busy at, a 
 little while ago?" she asked. 
 
 " Oh, some of my mill-wheels. Theological 
 things." 
 
 Edith brightened. "There might be some satis 
 faction in those," she said, with a somewhat sudden 
 and remarkable zest for serious reading. 
 
 "Would you like to see them?" He was de 
 lighted, not at her showing interest in the books 
 
118 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 because they were his, but at the discovery that he 
 could satisfy a wish of hers. He brought one of 
 the volumes and drew a chair to the hearth-stone. 
 " This," he said, " I think would interest you. most. 
 It s a book of monkish legends." 
 
 "Am I so very monkish?" she asked, with a gay 
 laugh. 
 
 "Monkish?" he repeated, in surprise. "Oh, I 
 see." And he passed over the small jest so easily 
 that Edith was crushed by a sense of having been 
 rather frivolous. "The reason I think you ll like 
 them is, they re odd and full of fancy. Some of 
 course are absurd, but now and then here s one, 
 for instance, I was reading just before you left the 
 room;" he opened at the page; " and I was going 
 to tell you a strange coincidence. The story is told 
 in the Monasticon Hibernicum by an old writer named 
 Mervin Archdall. Don t you see ? that s probably 
 the same name as Archdale. I should n t wonder if 
 your father s family were connected with this old 
 chronicler." 
 
 "How curious! Well, tell me the legend, do. 
 Is it a good one?" 
 
 "It mayn t strike you as it does me," he said, 
 fearing that she might laugh at him again if he grew 
 too much in earnest. " But I find a good symbolism 
 in it. It s about St. Patrick s staff, it was holy, 
 and had miraculous powers, you know. He got it 
 from an ascetic living on an island in the Tyrrhene 
 Sea. In that island the saint found some men in 
 the bloom of youth, and others aged and decrepit; 
 
WHISPERINGS IN THE RAIN. 
 
 but the singular part of it is that the old men were 
 the sons of those who appeared so young. Is n t 
 that suggestive?" 
 
 "It s very fantastic," said Edith, by no means 
 inclined to laugh. "I think it is suggestive, too. 
 But tell me what you make of it?" 
 
 He looked at her an instant, and then his gaze 
 went far off. He was absorbed in his own thoughts. 
 " I could almost write a sermon on a thing like 
 that ! " he burst out, suddenly ; once more facing 
 her. "The explanation given for the fable is, that 
 these fathers had been good men and served Christ. 
 One night he visited them in the guise of a pilgrim 
 stranger, and when he left them in the morning he 
 gave them a blessing that clothed them in enduring 
 youthfulness. Their sons, who were then young, 
 grew to be old and wrinkled ; but they, on the con 
 trary, kept their young looks. Well, that s merely 
 a symbol of what we often see, children prema 
 turely aging in graceless modes of life, while their 
 fathers and mothers seern to remain beautiful, be 
 cause of their right living and because they re faith 
 ful to high trusts." 
 
 " Why, that s a lovely thought," the girl re 
 sponded, with a pleasurable sigh. "And I don t 
 believe I should ever have got it out of such a story, 
 by myself." 
 
 " There s another way of looking at it, too," he 
 went on, ardently. " We can sa} T that the new gen 
 eration, the young, can command the old, if the} 
 serve God well. For if we use our knowledge wisely, 
 
120 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 getting new spiritual meanings out of what has gone 
 before, the past no longer controls us as a parent, 
 but we control it as we would a child. Sometimes 
 I think that we who are the youngest almost make 
 the past, which seems so much older than we. We 
 at any rate bring it to the light ; and our larger and 
 purer religious conceptions give it a new existence." 
 
 "You are turning me all around," said Edith, in 
 pretty distress. 
 
 " Well, after all, that notion may be too fanciful," 
 he confessed ; and this ready yielding to her instinct 
 was very agreeable to her. But she noted well the 
 mounting color in his face and that warm, stirring 
 light which always filled the rich brown of his eyes 
 when he was roused. "Here here would be the 
 main issue of the sermon," he continued, repeating 
 his words in the haste with which he rushed on to 
 his idea "the sermon if I were to make one. 
 This is the idea to be got out of it : that the relations 
 in life which seem established and unchangeable 
 and in mere physical fact are unchangeable do not 
 always correspond exactly to the spiritual relations. 
 Authority is chiefly vested in those who appear to 
 be the older and more venerable, but often it is the 
 seemingly young who exercise a control in spiritual 
 progress. When new truths are to be unfolded it is 
 the beardless inen who must take the lead, and act 
 as parents to the patriarchs. That s an important 
 principle ; and you see how picturesquely I could 
 illustrate it by this old legend, don t you? Then I 
 should make a great climax by bringing this home 
 
WHISPERINGS IN THE RAIN. 121 
 
 to the present generation, and asking whether 
 we shall be like those young men who had grown 
 old, or like the old men who were everlastingly 
 youthful." 
 
 He ended with a full gaze into those large, proud, 
 quiet eyes that were fixed upon him. He sought a 
 response to his own enthusiasm ; and it did not fail 
 him. 
 
 u Oh, Mr. Burlen, write it ! Write it ! I see now 
 what you could do with such a theme. It was good 
 of you to tell me all this. But you must tell others ! 
 Can t you preach that for your first sermon here 
 here at Savage s? " (She was already falling uncon 
 sciously into that way of his, of repeating words 
 when she grew interested.) 
 
 " If 3 ou think so," said he, rising and pacing 
 about with his head bent to meet the rush of mo 
 tives, thoughts, and hopes that came upon him like a 
 blast. " If you think so ! " There was the slightest 
 pressure of the voice on that now precious pronoun. 
 " Of course m} text would not be this superstitious 
 tale, but then I could use it. In connection with 
 that, there is the tradition of the saint having drawn 
 together by his miraculous staff all the venomous 
 creatures there were in Ireland, bringing them to the 
 top of a mountain, from. which he threw them into 
 the sea." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I ve heard that." 
 
 Burlen came back and leaned his elbow on the 
 old 3*ellowish mantle-piece, his face taking on some 
 thing of a visionary quality as he proceeded: " I 
 
122 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 don t know how to convey to you what I ve felt in 
 coming up here ; but there seems to be a positive 
 effect on my life in the ascent to this spot so much 
 farther up towards the sky. It seems to be lifting 
 me to the level of my life-work. Mountains are 
 places fit for solitude and thought and prayer, 
 places to work deeds in less miraculous than that 
 doubtful one of St. Patrick s, but just as useful ; 
 more so. It would at least be a good thing to begin 
 one s career in these high places." He gave a half- 
 smile. "Now I could connect all that I ve been 
 saying with this idea about mountains oh, it would 
 develop many fine meanings ! and reach the peo 
 ple s hearts by making it all centre around their 
 own Monadnoc." 
 
 Again he looked at her for some confirmatory 
 sign ; as if his plans, even his thoughts, were not 
 complete without her judgment. This time the re- 
 pi} was a silent approval : no words were needed. 
 
 After a moment s pause, Edith seemed about to 
 sa\ T something more, which should continue the 
 strain into which they had passed. She was on the 
 verge of that momentous act for a }*oung woman, 
 the revealing to a man who may be her lover some 
 hidden capacitj^ of her nature, some unexplored re 
 cess into which the glancing lights of casual inter 
 course have thrown no certain ray. 
 
 The shadowy lines on an azalea are merely a more 
 sensitive white ; and so, though this exquisite girl s 
 outward seeming did not change describably, Bur- 
 len detected in her expression a subtile difference, 
 
WHISPERINGS IN THE RAIN. 123 
 
 as of a gentle stir rising from depths which he had 
 believed belonged to her. 
 
 But the utterance did not come. 
 
 Fresh from her brief sleep, Mrs. Savland at this 
 juncture floated into the room. She came serene, 
 but her first glance at the two young people threw 
 her into commotion. With masterly swiftness she 
 concentrated her attention on the only resource for 
 effecting a diversion, and for relieving the embarrass 
 ment she knew she had caused. She flew forward, 
 she swooped, she bent over and picked up something 
 from the hearth. " Edith, what has happened to 
 your book?" she sternly demanded, holding up to 
 sight the charred corners of the paper novel, which 
 had slipped from her niece s lap without being ob 
 served. 
 
 Edith was not deceived by her aunt s agitation on 
 behalf of the neglected author. She knew that Mrs. 
 Savland had observed everything. In fact, the 
 elder lady had discovered upon the two young faces 
 a still but slightly tremulous light, which she was 
 aware could not proceed from the crumbling fire 
 alone ; and in that light she had read things of which 
 Edith herself was as yet only dimly conscious. 
 
 " Mr. Burlen," continued Aunt Grace, " if you 
 are going to your room, could you get us some wood 
 for our fire, first? I don t think Timothy is about." 
 
 Her niece listened to this speech with a disappro 
 val which Mrs. Savland saw clearly enough, but 
 calmly disregarded. Burlen, however, received her 
 light insolence in the simplest way ; brought a few 
 
124 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 birch-sticks, saying they were the best he could find ; 
 and then withdrew. 
 
 Edith took up her fancy-work, without further 
 noticing Aunt Grace s presence ; and Mrs. Savland 
 went to the writing-table, where her pen began to 
 squeak in an unconcerned manner. The rain outside 
 went on whispering. To the elder woman its tone 
 was ominous. She had meant to pla} T Whitcot to 
 the best of her ability against Burlen, until Ravling 
 should get into the field again. But the storm had 
 prevented Whitcot s effecting a junction with her, 
 so to speak ; and she had thus been deprived of 
 even this weak auxiliary. Meanwhile the enemy 
 Burlen was making rapid headwa} , and must 
 be checked. Perhaps she could divert his attention 
 by deploying another young woman. She laid down 
 her pen. 
 
 "I ve been thinking, Edith dear, that we shall 
 be rather too solitary up here, especially in bad 
 weather. Don t you feel it? " 
 
 Edith said, coldly, that she had not felt it. 
 
 "No, I dare say not 3~et ; you have been so 
 absorbed " After pausing a second or so, to let the 
 sting work in, Mrs. Savland glided on, innocently : 
 ."But if 3 ou re going to be a good deal taken up 
 by various interests, it s all the more reason why I 
 should have two companions to depend on, instead 
 of one. What do } ou think of getting Viola Welsted 
 to leave Willowbridge at once and come to make us 
 a visit now?" 
 
 "Let s write to her by all means," answered 
 
WHISPERINGS IN THE RAIN. 125 
 
 Edith with charming acquiescence ; seeing through 
 her aunt s feeble wiles without effort. 
 
 So she sat down, and with great readiness played 
 primo to her aunt s secondo, in a little epistolary 
 duet. 
 
 The rain went on whispering, day and night. 
 And what did it say to the young girl s heart? 
 Was it not an apt accompaniment to moods half 
 plaintive, yet sweet and refreshing like itself? She 
 had begun to wonder at the gently awakening influ 
 ence that Burlen exerted over her. The daughter of 
 a learned divine who had taught religion as many 
 3 T ears as she had lived, why had she always felt the 
 most of her father s doings and thinkings to be parts 
 of a system with which she had little concern, when 
 this comparatively untrained graduate, entering on 
 the same field, could so fire her with enthusiasm to 
 follow? Was there really all this difference between 
 the sympathy of youth and the sympathy of age? 
 Perhaps it had something to do with what Burlen 
 had been saying about youth and age. In short, 
 inquiring thoughts and dim, sweet premonitions that 
 she could not measure were borne in upon her mind 
 as the soft, persistent throbbings of the shower fell 
 upon her hearing and mingled with her pulse-beats. 
 
 The restless rain had something to sa} T to Burlen 
 as well, though it was only an echo of what was in 
 his own mind. After Mrs. Savland s hint that the 
 fire in the historical parlor was an exclusive prop 
 erty, he kept pretty closely to his own room. He 
 suffered intensely from any slight of this kind ; but 
 
126 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 he kept his annc^ance to himself. Nevertheless it 
 aided in importing into the refrain of the rainfall 
 many notes of doubt and gloom, gloom, when he 
 thought of his lost sister and the connection which, 
 through her, might even now exist between himself 
 and some unutterable shame ; doubt, when he won 
 dered whether a woman bred very differently from 
 himself, and with no dreary secrets in her heart, 
 could ever fuse her life happily with his. 
 
 At last, late one afternoon, the rain and fog passed 
 off. The sun, just disappearing, flung its light out 
 in that peculiar wan glare which does not fill the 
 whole atmosphere, but strikes hillsides and house 
 tops here and there, giving them a brief, dazzling 
 distinctness as of some bright apparition. The 
 patches of pine and the heavier woods of the valley 
 lay drenched and dark, like deep shadows in the 
 scene. But the pale orange splendor irradiated as 
 if with some strange chemical flame a large elm 
 between the house and barn, which had the peculi 
 arity of a great side-bough curving out from the 
 trunk and then running up so high and straight that 
 it gave the whole tree a rude likeness to a harp. 
 The leaves were still shining with the wet ; the hol 
 low drilling of a woodpecker was heard among the 
 upper branches, and then Burlen saw the black and 
 w r hite bird walking verticall} 7 up the trunk while 
 uttering a dank, reedy piping, which seemed to 
 have imbibed the quality of the recent rain. Mo- 
 nadnoc stood out clear and calm in the west ; full 
 of a deep blue color that gave it the character of a 
 
WHISPERINGS IN THE RAIN. 127 
 
 precious stone. Small birds chirped excitedty, dash 
 ing by the harp-shaped elm with .slim graj* breasts 
 glowing in the watery radiance. The swallows came 
 crowding back to the fireless chimney. And restless- 
 winged hopes came back to Burlen. 
 
128 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 XT 
 
 A CHILD OF NIGHT. 
 
 WHILE the rain had been murmuring its vague 
 responses to the reveries of Edith and Bur- 
 len, up on the hill, that empty house at the cross 
 roads, with its two quaint heart-shaped openings in 
 the door, that vacated residence whereof we have 
 already taken notice, which had fallen many degrees 
 below the " To Let " stage, became the scene of a 
 very peculiar interview. 
 
 Timothy Pride and Ida Hiss had met there, un 
 known to an} one. Those odd apertures in the door, 
 which had once helped to brighten the little home 
 within, now looked like crude mementoes of some 
 exiled pair, who in going hence had left the imprint 
 of their wedded love behind them. But through 
 them the cold wind rushed, and played mockingly 
 around the two young persons who had come to 
 a rendezvous in the desolate interior, where the 
 watery downpour dripped upon the decaying floors 
 and made such grotesquely sorrowful sounds about 
 the ruined eaves. 
 
 "Ugh! It s terribly cold here," ejaculated Ida, 
 drawing closer around her a coarse, brown cloak 
 which covered her down to the bottom of her short 
 skirts. 
 
A CHILD OF NIGHT. 129 
 
 " I suppose you d like me to put im r arm around 
 you, to keep the cold out, hey? Or mebbe dance a 
 jig with you?" was Timothy s boorish response, 
 made in a tone that was not alarming nor indicative 
 of impertinence, but showing that he was desirous to 
 satisfy a rough kind of psychological curiosity. 
 
 "Why do you always say such bold, rude things 
 to me?" asked the girl, with an air of hurt self- 
 respect that made him rather sorry for his remark. 
 Yet her eyes danced in a way that led him to believe 
 she was amused and satisfied. " Do you think I m 
 the kind of girl to like it?" 
 
 "I don t know what kind you mean, nor what 
 kind of girl }*ou are, nor what you like, any way," 
 complained Timothy. " I wish you would n t always 
 be so queer, and not let a fellow know what you re 
 after." 
 
 "But supposing I don t know, myself, what I m 
 after?" 
 
 "Then you oughtn t to fool with other folks," 
 said the boy, sullenty. " I don t see but what you 
 was well enough off before I knew you ; and so was 
 I. There s Rudyard would bet his eye-teeth on 3^0 , 
 and Ann Fernlow is good enough for me. Mother 
 expects me to go courtin her, and so does Ann s 
 mother, herself. Sides, she cares a sight more 
 about me n you do." 
 
 "Do you think so?" returned Ida, sneering. 
 Then her whole mien changed abruptly ; and, throw 
 ing aside her cloak, she thrust her face forward, ex 
 claiming ardently: "You don t know! You don t 
 9 
 
130 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 know ! Ah, Timothy Pride, how many girls would 
 brave what I do, to meet you in a lonely place like 
 this? Would Ann Ferulow come out here, I sh d like 
 to know? Why isn t she here now, then, stead of 
 me? And then there s Ructyard besides, almost 
 read} 7 to murder me if he knew. I think it s you 
 that s queer ! There ain t many men that would be 
 blind and deaf and dumb and everything, after 
 I d done so much." 
 
 Without giving him time to recover from this 
 tirade, the girl retreated to a corner of the room ; 
 and there, the anger of the previous moment sub 
 dued, she quenched her feelings with tears and 
 stood sobbing. 
 
 "Grim thunder!" muttered Timothy, who had 
 his mother s gift for phrases. I s pose I am pootty 
 consid able of a fool ; specialty beout gals. How 
 come 3 ou to take a fancy to such a big fool as 
 me, any way?" he demanded, raising his voice as 
 if indignant at her lack of discrimination in this 
 respect. 
 
 She made no response, but continued leaning 
 against a tenant-post of the old house, sobbing. 
 
 Timothy drew nearer. "Now please don t take 
 on like that," he besought her, penitently. "Tell 
 me something I can do to make you feel better, Ida," 
 he went on, approaching still nearer and laying one 
 of his ros} -brown hands on her cloaked shoulder. 
 
 She stopped sobbing, and hearkened to the 
 changed, tender voice in which he addressed her. 
 To her restless nature, dwelling in an atmosphere of 
 
A CHILD OF NIGPIT. 131 
 
 sultry passion, this tone seemed like a fresh breeze 
 blowing down from clover-pastures. "Keep your 
 hand there, * she said, softl} T . "But you mustn t 
 put your arm round me, as you said just a minute 
 ago." 
 
 There was something commanding in her tone, 
 which caused Timothy to take even his hand away. 
 He perceived now, for the first time, that he was 
 dealing with a wild nature that none the -less had 
 compulsory laws of its own, and that he had done 
 her wrong by his previous trifling tone. An impetu 
 ous desire seized him to run a fresh risk ; to approach 
 her in a more serious waj . 
 
 " What ! " he exclaimed, recklessly, } et with a 
 more respectful manner than hitherto. "Don t you 
 want me to make love to you? Perhaps you think I 
 don t know how. Well, I swan it s so. I never 
 made love to any one yet. But I guess I could if I 
 tried." 
 
 The girl s tears had been unbidden, but they were 
 quite dried now. She looked at him with keen 
 humor, and then broke into a hearty laugh, holding 
 her hands on her hips. 
 
 "Try it," she said, abruptly. "But I tell you 
 beforehand that perhaps I sha n t listen to what 3 ou 
 say, at all." 
 
 "Oh, rough it!" he exclaimed. "Don t you 
 know I can t talk, if you start like that? It s like 
 tryin to whistle, when you re laughin . You see, 
 you take all the limber out of me, and make me feel 
 as dry as old harness-leather." 
 
132 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 " Don t tell me it s me that s throwing cold water 
 on you," she returned; "it comes in through the 
 roof." She pointed to the ragged little peep-holes 
 which the sky had made for itself through that cov 
 ering. " But then perhaps you had n t better go on, 
 anyhow. Don t you know your mother would be 
 angry if you made love to me?" 
 
 14 1 don t care if she is," he declared, not perceiv 
 ing her satire. "But what s the good of my mar 
 ry in you, when you come to look at it?" 
 
 " Hush ! " She gave this single syllable of scorn, 
 before retorting : " That s for you to find out what 
 good it is ! " She tapped one foot on the floor, w r ith 
 several rapid beats, and added; "And who said I d 
 ever marry you ? You talk as if you could settle it 
 in a minute." 
 
 The boy had a healthy instinct that this clandes 
 tine playing with fire was outside of the normal limits 
 of his life ; yet the interest in him which Ida had for 
 a long time shown was flattering. He was fascinated 
 by her ; yet, while half giving up to her spell, a timid 
 recoil would constantly draw him away, as a bold 
 swimmer in the sea, feeling sudden currents of cold, 
 thinks of drowning, and strikes out in haste for the 
 shore. " I won t ask you to marry me, nuther," he 
 announced firmly, "until I ve thought onto it some 
 more. I don t believe you d do it if I did ask. 
 Eudyard would n t like it." 
 
 "Rudyard?" echoed the girl, sarcastically. 
 "Who cares for him? Is he my master? I never 
 promised him anything. I ain t bound to him, and 
 
A CHILD OF NIGHT. 133 
 
 don t mean to have anything to do with him, unless 
 I please. See ! " She caught up a breadth of her 
 dress, as she spoke. "I d tear him up just like 
 that, if I chose." And, taking the stuff firmly in 
 both hands, she rent it without compunction. 
 
 44 If you could," put in Timotlry, pretending not 
 to be impressed, though secretly very much so; 
 44 Rudyard ain t to be torn as easy as women s 
 clothes. If it wasn t for him, though, I " 
 
 44 What?" asked Ida, carelessly. 
 
 44 Now tell me," he inquired methodically, looking 
 out of the corners of his eyes as if calculating 
 chances ; 44 would you marry me, if I asked you?" 
 
 44 1 sha n t tell }*ou. You 11 have to ask me first." 
 
 44 Well, then," he said, turning, -and speaking 
 with an intensity that surprised himself, 44 will you 
 marry me ? " 
 
 44 Yes," said Ida, quietly. 
 
 Timoth} 7 was rather stunned. 44 W r here should we 
 go to?" he asked, hesitatingly; feeling that, once 
 bound, they would stand completely alone. 
 
 "Wherever you like," she answered, in a docile 
 tone. 
 
 "Haven t you any folks?" he questioned. 
 44 Where s your real true home?" 
 
 The girl s head drooped : she had no answer. A 
 shiver passed through Timothy. Ida became in 
 stinctively aware of it, lifted her face again, and 
 came swiftly towards him. Ton would make me a 
 home," she said, earnestly. u I haven t any. I 
 can t tell 3*011 where I came from. But what does 
 
134 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 that matter? If 3*011 came straight out of the woods, 
 and I had never seen you before, I should like 3 ou 
 just as much as I do now. More, perhaps ! " she 
 ended, with a touch of her natural sauciness : at 
 which the young fellow breathed freer. 
 
 An idea occurred to him, which had its charm. 
 "Are 3*ou a g3 T psy, Ida?" he asked. "I knew a 
 little g3*pS3 T girl once long ago, when I was a 
 shaver. They came through here more, those times. 
 She was a ga3 T piece ; she had a dark skin, too, like 
 3*ours. I could show 3 ou the old road, over by the 
 desert, where the g3 p3 tent was. It s hidden in 
 the woods, most of the way from here to Canada ; 
 and the3 T came in a wagon with a white top." Tim- 
 oth3 was not romancing. G3*psies are found in the 
 most unexpected localities, Irj those who keep their 
 e3 es open ; and the existence of a well-known tribe 
 of them in New Hampshire, earlier in the present 
 century, is attested b3~ an anecdote in the memoirs 
 of Daniel Webster. 
 
 Timothy s eyes glowed, as he recalled that memory 
 of the Romany child, and Ida was quick to take 
 advantage of it. "Perhaps I m that same little 
 gypsy girl," she cried, gaily, "grown up to be a 
 woman ! And now I ve come back, you see." 
 
 " That ain t so," he returned, a shadow descending 
 upon his face. " I know it ain t so." 
 
 "Oh, you tire me all out," sighed Ida, "with 
 3 T our changings and choosings. I m afraid 3*011 
 won t make me a very good husband." 
 
 "I ain t a-going to try," Timotlry answered dog- 
 gedh*. " I did n t promise. I only asked 3*011." 
 
A CHILD OF NIGHT. 135 
 
 "All right," she said; "I don t want to talk to 
 you any more to-day. You must go home, now. 
 It s time." 
 
 He hesitated ; disliking to be ordered, and also re 
 penting of his apparent want of gallantly. 
 
 " Go ! " she reiterated, gloomily. " I must walk 
 back to Savage s ; and, before I start, you 11 have to 
 be out of the way." 
 
 " When am I going to see you again?" he in 
 quired, wistfully. 
 
 " How can I tell?" Ida assumed a tone of indif 
 ference. "Perhaps you won t ever see me again. 
 This storm s going away soon, but it ll come back. 
 If I go after it, I sha n t come back. I know the 
 paths in the woods, and the woods know me. May 
 be I shall turn gypsy." 
 
 "I d almost like to do that nryself," said the 
 foolish youth. " Wait till I have time to think. 
 You don know but I 11 go with you." 
 
 "You haven t got grit enough," she returned 
 scornfully. Yet there was a relenting accent in her 
 voice. 
 
 " Well, good-by ! " he exclaimed abruptly. 
 
 " Good-by, harness-leather. Old harness-leath 
 er ! " she cried. 
 
 He went out awkwardly, and the door closed be 
 hind him. She stood looking at it. How empty 
 and wretched those two little mimic hearts cut in the 
 woodwork looked now ! She clasped her hands 
 convulsively, the fingers straining at each other. 
 She was mortified ; but, besides that, she felt herself 
 
136 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 abandoned to a hopeless solitude, unless she could 
 hold the innocent-minded young woodsman who had 
 just left her, in the bonds of that admiration which 
 he had at times confessed. From such solitude there 
 could be no escape, save by some rough downward 
 path along which Rudj ard would most probably be 
 her unwelcome guide. His uncouth, savage nature 
 was but too well in accord with the slumbering wild- 
 ness in herself to make her willing to } ield to such a 
 fate. In her instinctive, inarticulate way she knew 
 that when once she had surrendered to him, his ir 
 reverent mastery would enclose her life as in an iron 
 cage. What would happen to her then, with this 
 burning, bursting desire that lay forever tossing at 
 the bottom of her heart for some sweeter, purer, and 
 higher existence than she had ever known? She 
 clung to the thought of Timothy ludicrous though 
 it may appear to sophisticated observers as her 
 only chance of being raised to a happier and truer 
 wa} T of life. His clean and supple youth, his un 
 spoiled freshness, attracted her overpoweringly. She 
 would have been willing to toil and suffer long as 
 life should last, for such a man. He represented to 
 her, in fine, her aspiration. 
 
 Yet to her he was as far away as Edith was from 
 Burlen, or the tip of Monadnoc from any one who 
 should stand gazing at it from the Cleft. Poor Ida s 
 striving must of course impress persons of fastidious 
 position and settled antecedents as a matter hardly 
 deserving of notice ; at the least, very unpleasant 
 to contemplate. But to her it was something quite 
 
A CHILD OF NIGHT. 137 
 
 different. Who can say what burden it was that 
 bore the girl down in her effort to rise .from that 
 quagmire of wrong and woe into which she had sunk? 
 Possibly the riddle of her strivings and her failures 
 had been propounded long before her birth, under 
 conditions for which she was not responsible. Be 
 ings like her cross our path at times, making us 
 reflect that the same life-bearing current which in 
 them goes so darkly on its way and ends in abysses 
 so abhorred, is connected with the tide of thought 
 and feeling in the most punctilious and irreproach 
 able of us, by numberless unseen ducts, which are 
 no less real for being unnoticed. 
 
 Such persons are creatures of mystery. To learn 
 their parentage tells us little. They are the children 
 of night and antiquity, reproducing always freshly 
 what is older than the earth. 
 
138 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 XII. 
 
 WHITCOT BEGINS ENGINEERING. 
 
 TO a young professional man without employ 
 ment it is consoling to gather about him a few 
 tokens of his craft, so that by looking at them he 
 may convince himself that he has really entered on 
 a career. 
 
 Accordingly Whitcot, on the rain} 7 morning after 
 his singular experience in returning from Pride s, 
 took out of his trunk his box of instruments, some 
 sheets of paper and a drawing-board, several elabo- 
 ratety technical pamphlets printed from discourses 
 read by successful engineers before meetings of other 
 less successful engineers, and a formidable row of 
 thick volumes bound in red and bearing the potent 
 name of Ramse} . Then, with the conscious recti 
 tude of a mind that has been well employed, he be 
 took himself to a novel by the elder Dumas, and 
 measured its innumerable paragraphs by means of 
 cigarettes smoked in regular succession ; balancing 
 the tobacco and the fiction with great nicety. This 
 interesting experiment in the relative strength of 
 materials he continued through nearly the whole of 
 that day, with short intermissions for eating. But 
 when he found the inclement weather settling itself 
 comfortably for a prolonged sta}^, he was obliged to 
 
WHITCOT BEGINS ENGINEERING. 139 
 
 throw himself on the native resources of the country. 
 He had almost given this up, as a bad job, and was 
 considering the advisability of flying to the sea 
 shore, when something transpired which gave him 
 new reasons for staying. 
 
 Finding Savage s Hotel to be the centre of public 
 life in the place, he dropped in there every day to 
 read the newspapers ; found Major Brown, Waddy, 
 and Breck congregated there at certain hours ; and, 
 having ingratiated himself by patronizing the bar, 
 fell into conversation with those worthies. Bad 
 weather and ennui had reduced his pride, and ren 
 dered him more companionable than on the day of 
 his arrival. His docility was rewarded by the Major 
 with unlimited gossip about the entire population of 
 the neighborhood. By and by it appeared that a like 
 courtesy was expected of him as regarded his friends 
 on the hill ; whereupon Whitcot talked of them at 
 some length without telling anything that he did n t 
 want to. 
 
 "That Mr. Burlen s goin to preach here for the 
 Second Church, ain t he?" Breck asked of Serious. 
 
 "Yep," said the landlord, confirmatively. 
 
 " Do you think he s likery to get the position?" 
 Richard inquired. He hoped Buiien would, for it 
 seemed to him improbable that Edith would consent 
 to share the obscure life of a minister at Savage s. 
 
 u Likely enough," Serious replied. " The s ciety 
 ain t in no hurry to choose, though." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Well, we ve got along for a year without a set- 
 
140 72V THE DISTANCE. 
 
 tied minister, and like it pootty well. You see we get 
 em on trial for notliin ; and then it s kind o spicy, 
 havin different ones all the time. Real spicy, t 
 is." Serious s eyes twinkled with sharp commercial 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Whitcot learned, further, that the Second Church 
 was Congregational, because the Unitarians in the 
 original church had been so strong as to capture it 
 and drive out the Orthodox members ; also, that the 
 last settled minister of the " Second" had retired 
 because of some financial operations which as the 
 local newspaper had said at the time " impaired 
 his usefulness in the pulpit." He had, in fact, orga 
 nized a bank, and induced people to deposit largely in 
 it ; after which the bank failed and the minister was 
 found to have avoided responsibility, so that he could 
 not be prosecuted. "But, some way or another," 
 Wacldy explained, as if he could n t imagine in what 
 way, "his wife turned out to own his house, and had 
 a lot of other proputty settled on her." 
 
 "Pretty bad work for a minister to be engaged 
 in," observed Whitcot, with an air of reluctant jus 
 tice. 
 
 " Yes," said the Major, " he was raythcr too smart 
 to be a preacher." Then all the men laughed, una 
 ble to repress their sneaking admiration for the skill 
 with which an innocent-seeming expounder of the 
 gospel had taken in the community. 
 
 " Fact is," put in Breck, screwing his earnest eye 
 anxiously around, to fix it on Major Brown, "these 
 pulpit-pounders, now-a-days, have got heaven down 
 
WHITCOT BEGINS ENGINEERING. 141 
 
 so fine, they pay a little more tention than they d 
 ought to to some other things." 
 
 Though not very sensitive on this subject, Whitcot 
 was rather startled at the tone of the discussion, and 
 congratulated himself that he was not in B mien s 
 8 l loes , a candidate for a sacred office among people 
 so lightly burdened with reverence for it. 
 
 The Major had apparently been turning something 
 over in his mind. "Burlen?" he reflected, audi 
 bly. " Where ve I heard that name ? Do you know 
 where he come from?" he asked the engineer. 
 
 Richard hati no hesitation in saying, with an air 
 of superiority, that he really knew nothing about 
 him. 
 
 " Didn t his father live down at Singapore?" the 
 sheriff continued, taking off his hat and examining 
 the blue-silk binding as if it were a form of note 
 book. The place he referred to so familiarly was not 
 situated in India, but was merely a small settlement 
 across the Massachusetts line, named by the inhabi 
 tants with a secure knowledge that the real Singapore 
 would never hear about it, and could therefore be 
 travestied with impunity. " I drove through there 
 once when I was a young man," Major Brown went 
 on reading from the hat-brim, " and had a horse 
 shoed at his forge." 
 
 " A blacksmith ! " cried Whitcot. " That could n t 
 have been his father." Yet he found himself a little 
 excited. 
 
 "Yes, I m sure of it, now I come to think," the 
 other insisted. " Le see, Ser ous, what was his 
 
142 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 wife s name? I must have told } ou once, but I seem 
 to have forgot it." 
 
 Serious could n t remember. 
 
 " Well, you rec lect R. V. Swift, don t you?" 
 
 The landlord, for perhaps the thousandth time, 
 acknowledged that he did. 
 
 The Major dropped into a musing tone. " Cousin 
 to John E. Barker, he was. Some wa}" that woman s 
 name s got somethin to do with Swift, but I can t 
 seem to place it. R. V. Swift was a pootty sharp 
 blade. What notes he did get off, sometimes ! Wiry, 
 Ser ous, he said to me one day, says he " 
 
 u But what makes 3*011 think that Burlcn was the 
 young preacher s father?" Whitcot broke in, getting 
 impatient. 
 
 "I m coming to that bimcby, young man," said 
 the Major, with awful dignity. 
 
 In this manner, after exploring several collateral 
 lines of relationship centring upon 11. V. Swift, and 
 pursuing a number of reminiscences which always at 
 the last moment escaped him, he gradually unfolded 
 enough of what he knew concerning the Burlens to 
 put Whitcot in possession of a good part of his rival s 
 unhappy story, including fragments as to the sister s 
 disappearance. 
 
 He returned to his room in a state of suppressed 
 excitement and triumph. He had never liked Bur- 
 len, and the sense that he was latterly becoming a 
 dangerous rival had deepened this dislike almost to 
 hatred. Now, however, possessed of information 
 which might be made very damaging to the young 
 
WHIT COT BEGINS ENGINEERING. 143 
 
 man, be began to feel generous and almost friendly 
 towards him. At least, he fancied that he did. 
 "Poor fellow!" he sighed, as he stood meditating 
 at his window, overlooking the road that led to 
 Pride s. " It must be very hard for him to think of 
 that sister of his as an outcast, straying round no 
 one knows where. What if she should come to light 
 suddenly? Whew!" He had put himself for a 
 moment in Burlen s position, and this exclamation 
 was extorted by a sense of the terrible embarrass 
 ment that such a reappearance of the girl would 
 bring. He continued thinking, on his own account : 
 u It would be curious to see her. Is she hand 
 some, I wonder? She may be, though Burlen" 
 he deliberated, flattering himself that he would be 
 perfectly just towards the adversary now in his 
 power "is not; no, certainly is not handsome. 
 I should like to see her, though." 
 
 As the thought spent itself, his eye was attracted 
 b} a moving object in the misty rain, a little way tip 
 the road. Slowty overcoming his abstraction, he 
 narrowed his gaze upon this object, which resolved 
 itself into a woman s brown cloak, disclosing at the 
 opening in front a bit of pink skirt. The woman s 
 head was concealed by a faded umbrella. As she 
 drew nearer, Whitcot noticed that the pink skirt had 
 been torn, for a bit of it hung down brokenly below 
 the cloak. He was struck by her elastic tread, how 
 ever, which showed her to be young. Presently she 
 shifted the position of the umbrella, and her face 
 became visible as a fresh-colored spot in the gray 
 
144 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 blur of the storm ; from which it rapidly advanced 
 into distinctness, like a picture just in process of 
 creation. 
 
 It was the face of Ida Hiss, who at that moment 
 was returning from her secret meeting with Timothy 
 Pride, already described. 
 
 The slight vibration in Whitcot s brain, caused by 
 that thought concerning Burlen s sister, had not 
 entirely ceased, when he became aware of Ida s 
 identity. If we could measure the action of an idea 
 on the mind, and then discover the connection be 
 tween this movement and some sensation produced 
 by the sound of a voice, a perfume, or the sight of 
 some person or place, we should see how delicate is 
 the mechanism of what we call Fate. Perhaps the 
 duration of a single second in this process may alter 
 the result of a lifetime. If the form and face of Ida 
 Hiss had not presented themselves to Whitcot at this 
 instant, his passing reflection about Burlen s sister 
 might have buried itself where it first came into 
 being, without ever taking any definite course. As 
 it was, a connection between it and the girl Ida was 
 immediately established. 
 
 Here was a mysterious girl, thrown peculiarly in 
 his way by what seemed to him now a chain of coin 
 cidences naturally leading to some important conclu 
 sion. In his talks with the hotel-loungers he had 
 cautiously tried to learn something about her, but 
 found that her origin and previous whereabouts were 
 shrouded in obscurity. Not even by aid of the all- 
 powerful R. V. Swift was the Major able to develop 
 
WH1TCOT BEGINS ENGINEERING. 145 
 
 any information on these heads. On the other hand 
 the history of Burlen s sister was to some extent 
 known in its beginning, but ended in uncertainty. 
 What could be more natural than to seek in the 
 present fact, Ida, the completion of that unfinished 
 history ? 
 
 She plashed on over the wet road, came directly 
 below the window, halted, and then mounted Mrs. 
 Tarbox s steps, under the dripping catalpa-tree. To 
 Whitcot, overwrought by the discoveries and specu 
 lations just then occupying him, it seemed as if she 
 must be coming to furnish him with corroboration of 
 his surmises ; and as she passed out of his view 
 under the branches of the catalpa, he even fancied 
 that he could detect in her browned complexion and 
 the subtile sadness diffused through her features a 
 striking resemblance to the young theologian. The 
 truth was, the girl had stopped merely to talk with 
 Mrs. Tarbox ; parti} 7 as a safeguard in case of per 
 tinacious questions from Rudyard. Whitcot soon 
 comprehended that he was letting his fancy carry 
 him awa} T . After all, what substantial ground had 
 he for assuming it to be even remotely possible that 
 this was Burlen s sister? 
 
 But the possibility kept coming back to him, in 
 the following daj s. Whoever she was, her singular 
 position with regard to Timothy Pride and Rudyard, 
 of which he had accidentally got an inkling, made 
 him inquisitive, and he sounded Mrs. Tarbox con 
 cerning her. All he could find out was that Rudj^ard 
 was supposed to be " courting" her, and, being of a 
 10 
 
146 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 ferociously jealous disposition, assumed a kind of 
 proprietorship in her, watching all her movements 
 with sullen vigilance ; while she, for the sake of de 
 fiance, Mrs. Tarbox thought, kept up a laborious 
 flirtation with Timothy. 
 
 Whitcot wondered what he had better do. " Per 
 haps," he reflected, " I ought to go and tell Burlen 
 what I think, and let him judge for himself who she 
 is." That would involve letting his rival know that 
 he had got hold of his family history ; which would, 
 he meditated with a pretence of compassion, be a 
 severe blow to him. No ; he would spare the unfor 
 tunate fellow for the present. He would " hold on" 
 a while. Having reached this decision, he applied 
 himself to his drawing-materials and soon convinced 
 himself that he was about to become a capital 
 engineer. 
 
NOTHING PARTICULAR. 147 
 
 XIII. 
 
 NOTHING PARTICULAR ; HENCE, IMPORTANT. 
 
 THE days of the world form a sort of cell-growth. 
 Each one repeats something that some previous 
 day has brought to pass, and contains within itself 
 the possibilit}- of almost eveiy conceivable mundane 
 event. It is individual, yet exists only as a part of 
 the great homogeneous structure of time. One day 
 is added to another, until the whole fabric of a } ear 
 or an age or a lifetime is completed, flowers and foils 
 awa}~, and the cell-building still goes on. For this 
 reason the days when nothing particular " occurs 
 to us are as significant as others in moving along the 
 great process of growth. 
 
 With the bright weather, Whitcot came cheerily 
 up to make a call, and was received with great 
 warmth by Mrs. Savland. 
 
 " I stopped at the post-office," he said, " and 
 found this letter waiting for you, Edith." 
 
 She opened it, and disclosed four pages of fashion 
 able chirograph}". "It s from Viola," she made 
 known. "It must have been waiting some time. 
 Let me see why, she 11 be here to-day ! " she 
 exclaimed, disentangling the fact from the maze 
 of writing. "How delightful!" 
 
148 IK THE DISTANCE. 
 
 Hereupon there was a good deal of small excite 
 ment. Mrs. Pride had to be notified, and arrange 
 ments must be made for meeting Viola at the station. 
 " I 11 attend to all that," said Richard, in his largest- 
 hearted manner. 
 
 "That s very good of you, Richard. But, no; 
 after all, she d never forgive me if I did n t go down 
 to meet her myself." 
 
 "We might possibly go together," he suggested, 
 archly. 
 
 44 Yes ; Mr. Pride will drive us." 
 
 " You must come back to dinner with us : I insist 
 upon it," Mrs. Savland declared. 
 
 All this time Burlen was sitting unconscious among 
 some wild-cherry trees that clustered around a large 
 granite boulder, forming a natural bower, a conve 
 nient out-door study, some distance from the house, 
 and was absorbed in reading. When he emerged 
 towards noon, he encountered Mr. Pride mowing. 
 
 " Hullo ! Did n t go down with the folks ? " asked 
 the farmer. 
 
 " Where? I did n t know they were gone." 
 
 Pride gave another sweep with his scythe, and 
 paused. "Seems the young lady s gone down to 
 meet her friend that s comin . Wanted me to drive 
 her, she did ; but then /couldn t, no more n fly. I 
 got too much to do." 
 
 " Wiry didn t you. tell me? I hope she hasn t 
 had to go alone." Burlen was irritated. 
 
 "Oh, no," said Pride, wiping his brow. "That 
 ar spruce young chap t was with } r ou folks the fust 
 
NOTHING PARTICULAR. 149 
 
 Whichcoat, or Turncoat, or whatever he s 
 
 called," he specified, revenging himself for the engi 
 neer s former facetiousness towards him: " he was 
 up here, and he s drove." 
 
 Burlen was more irritated than before. " Whitcot* 
 you mean," he corrected. "I wish you had told 
 me." 
 
 " Thought you was a busy man like me," returned 
 Pride. " Them young whipper-snappers hev got 
 time nough to run round with the gals, but farmin 
 and preachin takes too much work to leave a man 
 free." 
 
 " How does your farming go, now-a-days?" Bur 
 len asked, to change the subject. 
 
 "Well, it s consid able like the roads reound 
 aere a ii up-hill. Look at that grass, now." 
 "It s pretty short; that s true." 
 "Short? I guess tis. Wiry, I kin remember of 
 the time when it was up to here." Pride had on 
 enormous overalls extending as high as his chest, 
 and making his long legs look like stilts. He pointed 
 as he spoke to the straps of this garment, near his 
 arm-pit, as indicating the former height of the grass. 
 "Yes, sir," he proceeded; "that was when my 
 gran father was alive. Folks didn t hev mowin 
 machines, them days ; they raised a big fam ly of 
 boys instid, to do the mowin for em. Now the 
 crops are smaller, and the fam lies are smaller, too. 
 In my father s day the grass had got down to here" 
 Mr. Pride aimed a blow at himself in the region of 
 the waist, with the edge of his hand. " Now, you 
 
150 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 see, it ain t hardly up to my knee. All the while I 
 was growin* up, the grass was growin down." And 
 his lank person, encased in the overalls, did in fact 
 seem to supply a convenient measure for every stage 
 of decline in local prosperity. 
 
 " I should think you d get discouraged," remarked 
 his listener, sadly. 
 
 " Tell you," reiterated the man, warming to his 
 subject as he saw it was appreciated, " farmin s a 
 difficult business. Take a man s lifetime to learn 
 all the crooks and turnin s of it, t would. And then 
 he wouldn t know em, p raps, after all," he added, 
 feeling that his first climax was not strong enough, 
 and that he might as well make the case hopeless 
 while he was about it. 
 
 " Yes, I know the obstacles," said Burlen, thor 
 oughly interested. " I saw something of them while 
 I was a boy." 
 
 " I want to know!" exclaimed Pride, taking a 
 new view of him, as he rested one arm on his scythe. 
 "You mean to tell me you was brought up on the 
 hay?" 
 
 "Well, no; I was n t a farmer s son. But I ve 
 lived in the country." 
 
 " I m glad to hear that, now," the other declared. 
 "Ain t nothin like it, come to look at it; be 
 there ? " 
 
 " I have a leaning towards it," Burlen confessed. 
 " But I wish you d tell me, Mr. Pride, what s going 
 to become of all this countiy, now that it s getting 
 so hard for farmers to live ? " 
 
NOTHING PARTICULAR. 151 
 
 "My opinion is, it ll all jest grow np to timber 
 again. You see how many empty houses there be 
 a ready. Factories here and there, V a few villages ; 
 they # stay. But the rest won t be no better n a 
 wilderness. Everybody s goin West, or else down 
 to the cities." 
 
 "There s something wrong about it," said the 
 young man, meditatively. " It ought not to be so." 
 
 "No," Pride agreed. "It hadn t ought." But 
 his conscience smiting him for his idleness, and his 
 back being rested, he now bent to his work again, 
 and the talk ended. 
 
 Burlen watched him for a moment dipping with 
 his scythe, fetching the steel with a cool "swish" 
 through the grass ; bobbing down again as if about 
 to disappear entirely in the engulfing overalls, and 
 then rising once more to prepare for another sweep. 
 After this the }"oung man went away to the house, 
 wondering whether something could not be done to 
 bring back the spirit of progress to this neighbor 
 hood, and to put some higher quality into the life of 
 the people. Ought he not to decide, that, instead 
 of acceding to Archdale s ambitious views for him, 
 he would devote his whole career to this object, if 
 they should choose him for their pastor ? It was a 
 momentary mood, yet it left an impression on him. 
 
 Meanwhile Whitcot had availed himself of his 
 solitary drive with Edith to venture upon an episode 
 of sentiment. 
 
 " I m awfully lonely," he began, " down there at 
 the Tarbox chateau. The old man and woman talk 
 
152 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 about their dead son all the time, and say that I 
 remind them of him. I should think I might, in my 
 present condition. I m already half dead with isola 
 tion, and Mrs. Tarbox evidently means to finish the 
 business, judging from the amount of hot biscuit and 
 pie and doughnuts she gives me to eat." 
 
 " Poor Richard ! I m really sorry for you ! Don t 
 you think you could manage to find a place up nearer 
 to us? There are several houses about, where I 
 think they might take a boarder/ 
 
 Thus encouraged, Richard became gloomy. He 
 always, with his mistaken taste for tragedy, be 
 came gloomy as soon as he thought Edith would be 
 affected by it. "I don t think I should be any bet 
 ter off at one of them," he said, " unless I could really 
 see a great deal more of you." And, to emphasize 
 his sadness, he launched a blow at Pride s horse with 
 the whip. 
 
 " Please don t do that again ! " Edith begged, see 
 ing that the effect on the horse nearly threw them off 
 the seat. "But I m sure I don t understand why 
 we should n t see a great deal of you, if you were 
 nearer." 
 
 "Oh, you would, I suppose," he returned, in a 
 melancholy manner. 
 
 "Ah, yes!" she said, imitating his tone; "that 
 would be very sad, wouldn t it?" 
 
 He threw off his gloom, and became extremely 
 business-like. " Look here, Edith ! " he said, " are 
 you making fun of me ? I don t think it s fair." 
 
 ! I did n t know that I was saying anything very 
 funny," she returned. 
 
NOTHING PARTICULAR. 153 
 
 "Well, you understand what I mean. I see, 
 though, that I m at a great disadvantage." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Well, you ve known me so long, you don t look 
 at me as } T OU do at others. Don t }*ou see that I 
 have feelings and am a man, like the others? " 
 
 " Of course. I never supposed you were more 
 than a man." 
 
 Richard gave vent to an impatient sound. " You 
 ma} r laugh at me as much as you please," he de 
 clared, with resignation. " I suppose I must sub 
 mit to that. I would submit to almost anything 
 from you, if only ." He ceased, and there was an 
 awkward interval. 
 
 " Well, I m listening ! " she announced. 
 
 " You must have noticed, Edith," he recom 
 menced, " Oh, I don t know how to begin ! You 
 take me in such a way : I m such an old fact to you. 
 But it does n t make any difference to me that we 
 were in school together, except that it makes it all 
 the more wonderful and fascinating. I really love 
 you, Edith." 
 
 "Really?" she asked, repeating his phrase with 
 almost a roguish twinkle in her eyes. Then this 
 look abruptly sobered. There was something strange 
 in Whitcot s avowal, though she had often felt that it 
 might be made ; and there was something sweet in 
 it, too. He was not, to her, a romantic person, but 
 she could not regard his declaration as altogether 
 prosaic. This light, smiling man, to place himself 
 all at once in so serious an attitude towards her! 
 
154 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 And then she knew him so well ; it came so easily 
 and so naturally ; it did not terrify her, as Ravling s 
 love-making had done. 
 
 He noticed the change that came over her. " Is 
 that all that you have to say ? " he asked, in a hesi 
 tating, half-hopeful manner. 
 
 It touched her that her old friend should thus be 
 hanging upon her words, his happiness in the bal 
 ance. "Oh, Richard ! " was all she could say for 
 an instant. Her voice had sunk to a lower key. 
 "It seems so strange, from you. Am 1 really to 
 take what 3 T ou say seriously? " 
 
 Whitcot was moved to petulance ; but he saw that 
 it would be out of keeping to give way to it. "I 
 don t know how you can take it any other way," he 
 said gravely, "nor why you should. I certainly 
 am very serious. And," he added, giving an uncon 
 scious commentary on his character, 1 1 feel as if I 
 had never been serious before, in my life ! " 
 
 Edith laughed, she could not help it, and yet 
 she had no thought of ridiculing his sentiment. " Is 
 it I who make you serious ? " she asked. 
 
 " I suppose so," he answered. " All I know is, 
 that everything else seems trifling beside what I feel 
 for you ; and since I came home to America and saw 
 you again, I have been hoping that some time you 
 would consent to marry me." 
 
 She appeared to be lost in rever} for a moment. 
 " I don t think I ever could," she said, simply, at 
 last. 
 
 " Why? " demanded he, with strong feeling. " I 
 
NOTHING PARTICULAR. 155 
 
 will do everything in my power to make you happy. 
 Only let me try ! I may be worth more than I seem, 
 than I seem to you or myself." 
 
 There was such humility in his presentation of the 
 case, despite his customary self-complaisance, that 
 Edith experienced a new feeling in regard to him. 
 "You mustn t think of this," she said, with some 
 disturbance. 
 
 "I can t help it," he returned. " How can you 
 expect me not to? " A rush of jealousy came over 
 him. " I know there are others who may have in 
 terested you ; is that the reason you discourage 
 me?" 
 
 She lifted her head and gave him a clear, cold 
 look. "What right have you to ask?" was her 
 retort. 
 
 "At any rate, you have no right to keep me in 
 doubt," he asserted. "I have told 3-011 what is in 
 my heart. You must not trifle with it." 
 
 "I don t trifle," said Edith. "I m not a co 
 quette. I said plainly I could never marry 3 T ou." 
 
 " And I shall hope, all the same, that }T>u will 
 think differently by and b m y," he replied, inwardly 
 congratulating himself on his spirited course. 
 
 " At least," she said frankl} , and with apparently 
 good humor, " } r ou can t hold me responsible for 
 what you think." 
 
 Whitcot made an effort. "I beg }*our pardon," 
 he said, with a startling relapse into humility ^ "if 
 I ve offended you. Are we friends still, Edith?" 
 
156 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 "I m sure we re nothing else," she answered, smi 
 ling most unconcernedly. " Why should we be ? " 
 
 And so this peculiar piece of courtship ended. 
 Nothing more was said with regard to it, on the drive 
 down or back. Yet, before she went to sleep that 
 night, Edith found herself asking why it was that 
 she did not feel offended with Whitcot, and whether 
 this every-day, common-place sort of proposal was 
 not after all the most natural and the most reason 
 able kind. Had she been asked what had been said 
 during that drive to Savage s, she would doubtless 
 have answered in good faith : " Nothing particular." 
 Yet that conversation had at least served, though 
 she might not know it, as a point of definition in 
 the several kinds of worship that encompassed her. 
 
SUNDRY ARRIVALS. 157 
 
 XIV. 
 
 SUNDRY ARRIVALS. 
 
 IT turned out that Archdale had come up by the 
 same train with Miss Viola, though not aware 
 that she was on board, with the intention of giving 
 his sister and daughter a little surprise. 
 
 " Why, papa, how you frighten me ! " cried Edith, 
 on discovering him at the station. And forthwith 
 she rushed forward to embrace the object of her 
 terror. 
 
 He, for his part, greeted Viola with equal aston 
 ishment, though with less effusion. "This is even 
 a better surprise than mine ! " he exclaimed gayly, 
 approaching to help her down from the platform of 
 the car where she stood. 
 
 She barely took time to alight with practised agil 
 ity before replying (for she prided herself on the 
 aptness of her quotations) , 
 
 " Prophets words are strange, I wis ; 
 
 But doubly strange are real occurrences/ 
 
 as Goethe says in the Weissagungen, you know. In 
 our case, the strangeness is literally double ; is n t 
 it, Doctor? You and I both!" 
 
 On their arrival at the house, the greetings were 
 renewed. "And is this your father, Miss Edith?" 
 
158 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 asked Mrs. Pride, who had spread herself expect 
 antly in the doorway as the wagon caine up. " The 
 Lord be thanked ! " 
 
 " Why, what has happened ? " Archdale exclaimed, 
 in some alarm. 
 
 "Ain t it right to be thankful?" retorted the 
 housewife, with pious asperity. 
 
 "Oh, most certainly," he admitted. 
 
 "I m very glad to see you, sir," Mrs. Pride went 
 on, placated. "And I hope ye 11 make yourself 
 right to home, and be suited. Thank Heaven!" 
 After which she fluttered away through various un 
 necessary doors to the kitchen, feeling a placid satis 
 faction in the devout tone of her welcome. 
 
 Mrs. Savland presented her face to be kissed, in 
 the manner of a child ; and as Archdale touched his 
 lips to her cheek she pressed his hand significantly, 
 whispering : " This is very good of you, Tom." She 
 regarded his coming as an act of obedience to her 
 warnings. "I do hope you re going to stay, now 
 you re here." 
 
 "I can stay only a few days," he said. "I 
 thought we would arrange to have Robert preach his 
 sermon while I m here, so that I can listen to it and 
 give him my my support and criticism." 
 
 Whitcot s mischance in his talk with Edith did not 
 prevent his remaining to dinner as had been pro 
 posed. He was as gay and restless as ever, and I 
 think she secretly admired his bearing. Mrs. Sav 
 land had put him next to her, placing Burlen on the 
 opposite side, with Viola. Whitcot inferred from 
 
SUNDRY ARRIVALS. 159 
 
 this that the aunt was an ally of his ; which added to 
 the secret elation he felt on thinking how surprised 
 ever} one else at the table would be, if they knew 
 what had passed between Edith and himself. Es 
 pecially did this reflection gratify him as he looked 
 at Burlen. Burlen, however, was equally pleased at 
 being put where he could survey Edith at ease, and 
 w r atch her every movement and expression. They 
 w r ere all in the best of spirits ; and Mrs. Pride hov 
 ered silently about them, occasionally communicating 
 with Mrs. Savland as to the needs of the table, but 
 in a hushed voice, as if she were at church. Towards 
 the end of the repast, Viola, who was never really 
 happy unless she could connect her own impressions 
 with something she remembered in literature or art, 
 a habit of looking at one s self in intellectual mir 
 rors, always gratifying to the looker, began quoting 
 Wordsworth, in connection with the scenery around 
 them. This drew out from Edith a glowing eulogy of 
 Emerson s " Monadnoc," " which, it seems to me," 
 she declared, u is the noblest mountain-poem ever 
 written. Do you remember, Viola, how at the end 
 he appeals to the mountain, as it looms up on the 
 horizon, to keep us wise and sane ? How does it 
 go? 
 
 " Of feasters and the frivolous " 
 
 " Let s read it aloud, this afternoon ! " Viola pro 
 posed, her eyes dancing. 
 
 " We are the feasters," said Whitcot. "Where 
 are the frivolous?" 
 
 The laugh he excited brought them down to prose 
 
160 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 again ; and Viola, who had transported her water- 
 colors and her Ruskin from Willowbridge, talked 
 about her plans for sketching. Whitcot had some 
 thing to say about drawing and color being a science 
 which would some time be practised with perfect 
 certainty, instead of by the uncertain aid of inspira 
 tion and instinct, as at present. But here Burlen 
 entered the lists actively against him, and the} all 
 got into a hot discussion regarding the scientific and 
 the artistic sides of Nature. 
 
 " All this," observed Archdale, interposing in a 
 sonorous voice, wherewith he had often quelled dis 
 pute among his pupils, "All this topic of the 
 mystical aspect of Nature and its relations to science 
 and poetry has been very nicely touched in a ser 
 mon delivered not long ago by " 
 
 At this instant Mrs. Pride rushed in, and, forget 
 ting the solemnity which she had decided upon as 
 proper to be maintained in the presence of a clergy 
 man, announced excitedly : " There s some one com 
 ing a-tenting in the field across the road ! " 
 
 "Tenting! What? Soldiers?" demanded Mrs. 
 Savland, nervously. 
 
 "Oh, no, it s a civil-man; just for fun, sort of," 
 the housewife returned, incoherently. 
 
 There was a general stampede to the windows, 
 Mrs. Savland leading. Only Edith was stopped for 
 a moment by Mrs. Pride, who with clasped hands 
 and agonized entreaty inquired if the raspberry pie 
 had tasted "all right." 
 
 "Yes, indeed," Edith answered her. "It was 
 excellent." 
 
SUNDRY ARRIVALS. 161 
 
 " The Lord be praised ! " gasped Mrs. Pride, with 
 unction, having recovered her religious balance. 
 
 What they saw from the windows was that a wag 
 on had driven up through the bars, into the opposite 
 field, from which two men had dismounted. They 
 took from the wagon a trunk, which they carefully 
 deposited. Then the} tossed out upon the grass two 
 or three large canvas bags, a number of short bits 
 of wood, and a spade. After this, one of them as 
 sumed author! t3 T and superintended the other as he 
 marked out a mysterious plan with the spade, and 
 drew out from one of the bags a quantity of wrinkled 
 and corded canvas. 
 
 44 It s Ravling ! " Whitcot exclaimed. 
 
 There was a flutter among the ladies. Even such 
 commotion is there pardon the homely compari 
 son! in a hen-coop, on the approach of food. 
 
 "What in the world is he about, then?" Mrs. 
 Savland asked, disguising her satisfaction under a 
 thin veil of disapproval. 
 
 It was seen that the easiest way to get this ques 
 tion answered would be to go out and repeat it to 
 Ravling himself. Accordingly, Archdale and his 
 sister being put in the van, the rest followed. 
 
 " Oh," said the law}*er, answering their rapid fire 
 of welcome and inquiiy, "I was looking over the 
 Law of Rivers one day, and it struck me that I 
 should like to see a real river up here in the moun 
 tains. I ve been editing a Digest too, you know ; 
 and I found, if I went on, that it would n t leave me 
 much chance of ever digesting anything else. That 
 11 
 
162 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 was my doctor s feeble joke, please observe : it was n t 
 mine. At any rate, he ordered me off for a rest. 
 Well, I went np to Willowbridge 3 esterda} r , Miss 
 Welsted, with this hired tent; and I found 3^011 had 
 deserted the place, so I thought it could n t be very 
 advantageous. I concluded to leave Mrs. Withers and 
 flock up here with all the other birds of my feather." 
 
 There was a gleefulness in Ravling s manner that 
 rather startled Edith. He seemed to have grown 
 younger, since that unfortunate colloqu} r of theirs in 
 the pinewood at Marie. Ma} r it not have been, also, 
 that she was a trifle piqued at his implying that it 
 was Viola s presence here which had attracted him? 
 
 "I came over from Medoosic," he said to Arch- 
 dale, "just now." 
 
 " Ah, that was the reason we didn t meet." 
 
 "Have you had dinner?" asked Mrs. Savland, 
 wreathed in smiles. 
 
 " Oh, yes, thanks ; at the hotel. I m going to be 
 my own commissary-general up here, though." 
 
 " That will never do," she declared. " You must 
 come over to the house for 3*0111 meals." 
 
 And, after parley with the Prides, it was agreed 
 that this should be done. Furthermore, in the course 
 of the afternoon, Whitcot made an arrangement with 
 Ravling to move up from Tarbox s and share his 
 humble canvas roof, together with the expenses 
 thereof. In this way it came about that the little 
 group of whom we first caught sight, as they were 
 looking off at the dim blue mountain from the Cleft, 
 were again gathered together almost under the wing 
 of Monad noc. 
 
IDYLLIC DAYS. 163 
 
 XV. 
 
 IDYLLIC DAYS. 
 
 SINGULARLY enough (as she thought), Mrs. 
 Savland s plan of getting Burlen and Viola 
 occupied with each other did not succeed. Even 
 the accession of Ravling did not result as she had 
 expected. The lawj er and Whit cot both devoted 
 themselves more to Viola than to Edith, during the 
 next few days ; leaving Burlen, as before, full oppor 
 tunity to converse with Archdale s daughter. 
 
 Now that all these young persons were collected 
 in and about the farm-house, there naturally pre 
 vailed a great informality and freedom in their asso 
 ciation. The} 7 organized parties for going to the 
 fields where wild strawberries grew and picking the 
 last of the fruit ; they made impromptu picnics in 
 the woods. The three young men would go off to 
 gether to bathe in a secluded pool which Burlen had 
 discovered in one of the tributaries of the Contoo- 
 cook, which tumbled over a ledge of rock in the 
 depth of the forest and then rested in a basin large 
 enough for swimming, under the branches of a big 
 black ash that clawed the bank with serpentine roots 
 and put its arms out over the amber stream, a 
 spot destined to become grimly memorable to Burlen, 
 afterward. They went out also with Timothy and 
 
1G4 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 Mr. Pride, to assist more or less languidly in the 
 operation of gathering ha} ; for the hilly ground 
 about the house was already overspread by that red 
 dish-purple hue wherewith the grass of this region 
 blushingly makes known its maturity. In these agri 
 cultural sallies they were sure to meet Ann Fernlow, 
 Timothy s intended bride and the daughter of a 
 neighboring farmer. She always came to the relief 
 of the workers under the hot sun, with a pitcher of 
 u swichel," a harmless, refreshing beverage com 
 pounded of vinegar, water, molasses, and grated 
 nutmeg. It was a pleasant sight, which the ladies 
 sometimes watched from under the apple-boughs, to 
 see Pride and his son pitchforking wreaths of hay 
 up from the ground on to the growing mound in the 
 4 k hay- rigging" (otherwise called wagon); the loose, 
 dried tufts changing from a glinting gray-green as 
 they rose, to a dark hue when seen against the bright 
 sky, as if they were fragments of tangible smoke. 
 
 Ann Fernlow, in her broad straw hat bound down 
 by a single ribbon, looked like a figure out of one of 
 Whittier s idylls, and was so timid that she would 
 hardly speak a word. Yet the} 7 all conceived the 
 greatest fondness for her, regarded her as an indis 
 pensable personage, and watched her relations with 
 Timothy with the minutest interest. 
 
 What triumphal entries, too, took place, when a 
 freshly piled load of hay was driven into the barn by 
 the approach from the high land above it, which 
 brought the team in on the second story ! Ann 
 seated on the front of the fragrant harvest like an 
 
IDYLLIC DAYS. 165 
 
 unconscious rustic goddess, and Viola and Edith 
 with the three young men picturesquely disposed on 
 the yielding mass, while Timothy, buried somewhere 
 down in front, his ruddy face fringed with dangling 
 straws, managed the horses ! 
 
 In this same barn, where Pride fortunately kept 
 no animals, the friends also got up some charades. 
 They even dramatized the house-adder ; Burlen writ 
 ing a ballad entitled " The Checkaddada ; or, The Ser 
 pent of the Cellar," which Whitcot gallantly recited 
 while attacking with a wooden sword a stuffed snake 
 manufactured by the ladies out of spotted cloth. This 
 formidable reptile was agitated by means of a line 
 attached to a fishing-pole, which Timothy manipu 
 lated from the hay-loft where he could not be seen. 
 The performance was a popular success, being wit 
 nessed by the Prides and some of their intimate 
 friends, democratically seated side by side with 
 Archdale and his sister, and a family from a villa 
 near Savage s, with whom Mrs. Savland discovered 
 that she had formerly had some acquaintance. The 
 audience was further strengthened by the Rev. 
 Franklin Bland, the youthful rector of a small Epis 
 copal church in the mill-village, and by the wife of 
 the Unitarian minister, Dr. Snowe, with several of 
 her children. 
 
 Dr. Snowe was a mild, white-haired gentleman, 
 submissive and politic in manner, as became a cler 
 gyman dependent on his flock and weighed down by 
 a very small salary and a very large family. The 
 Rev. Franklin Bland was a lucid-eyed bachelor, 
 
166 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 possessed of an independent income, a high white 
 forehead, and a still winter necktie, who was very 
 dogmatic and very prolific in ideas of ecclesiastical 
 reform, which he was resolved to earn- out before his 
 hair emulating his forehead and his necktie 
 should become as blanched as Dr. Snowe s. But as 
 yet he had only some two dozen communicants in 
 his little black- walnut-lined church. It resembled in 
 size and appearance a lady s work-box. Both these 
 gentlemen interested Burlen a good deal, as speci 
 mens of his professional fellow-creatures. Mr. Bland 
 frequently drove up to the farm in a shiny little 
 chaise, and brought into the house a mysterious black 
 case like a long, flat bottle, uncorking which, so to 
 speak, he allowed a violin to escape in a prolonged 
 flow of melody ; for he was a very good performer. 
 
 " How in the world did } ou happen to bury }-our- 
 self in this out-of-the-wa}" place?" Mrs. Savland 
 bluntly asked him, one evening, intending thereby a 
 gracious compliment. 
 
 " Well, I found no good opportunity for interring 
 myself anywhere else," he returned, in his airy, un- 
 clerical manner. "I wanted to be of use, and so 
 here I am ! One must make a beginning somewhere, 
 you know. Besides," he went on, "there is really 
 more here than you d think in the way of material, 
 I mean. Raw material it is, I confess ; very raw. 
 Still, now and then, you come upon a person who 
 has yearnings for art and culture and a civilized ex 
 istence ; and there ought to be some one here to help 
 them on a little." Saying which, Mr. Bland became 
 
IDYLLIC DAYS. 167 
 
 more lucid as to the eyes than ever, and his forehead 
 seemed to grow a little whiter, with the repressed 
 conviction that he was the man to help them, if any 
 one could. 
 
 Burlen was attracted by his honest good-will ; 
 though he afterwards learned from the gossip of the 
 neighborhood that a "fiddling minister" was re 
 garded bv most of the population as a doubtful ac 
 quisition. "I m glad you stick to it!" he said 
 warmly, feeling that he would like to share in the 
 work. "This region seems mournfully dead; but 
 then I know that there s a great intelligence in the 
 people. I find they read the magazines and papers, 
 and know what s going on in the world. That s the 
 secret of our power, that the country districts are 
 always producing vigorous men who rise above their 
 circumstances, go out and become powerful in affairs, 
 and bring fresh life into the cities. But sometimes 
 I wish more of them would rise all the same and just 
 stay where they are in the country, to make the life 
 there richer and nobler." 
 
 Mr. Bland seemed to have tired of the subject 
 alrcad} . " Yes, they re keen and quick," he said. 
 "I don t know about the people/ It s a senti 
 mental word. But there are exceptions among them 
 worth looking after. And then," he took up his 
 violin and began fingering the strings, "when it 
 comes to a crisis, I confess" he tucked the instru 
 ment under his chin "their hearts are generally 
 on the right side. Generally on the " here 
 he applied the bow, and was immediately lost in some 
 honeyed strains of Mendelssohn. 
 
168 IX THE DISTANCE. 
 
 " We ought to have a piano up here," Mrs. Sav- 
 land declared, when the}- were all excited by his 
 playing. " Don t you think we could, Tom?" 
 
 "I ve been in terror," Edith added, laughing, 
 "lest Mr. Pride should go off and borrow a melo- 
 deon, as he threatened to the other day." 
 
 " That must be prevented, if we perish in the at 
 tempt," said Archdale, who was wont to assume an 
 awkward playfulness when his sister called him 
 "Tom." And in half an hour he had forgotten all 
 about it. 
 
 "Do you play, Miss Archdale?" Bland asked, 
 his face lighting. 
 
 " Hardly. But Miss Welstecl does." 
 
 Four da3 s later a heavj^ wagon drove up to the 
 door-yard, containing what might have been taken 
 for the frame of a prepared hippopotamus kicking 
 his petrified joints into the air, under tarpaulin 
 wraps. This object turned out to be a piano, which 
 Hay ling had ordered by telegraph. Viola, at the 
 discovery, gave him a concentrated look of thanks ; 
 and indeed Edith perceived that Ravling s effort of 
 thoughtfulness might have been meant quite as much 
 to gratify Viola as to cany out her expressed wish. 
 
 Very pretty Viola looked, that evening, seated at 
 the keyboard with her pale-brown hair softly irradi 
 ated by the candle-light ; very riante and insouciante, 
 as she herself would probably have said, had she 
 seen the effect she made. Her delicate white dress 
 had about it some bits of glistening white Spanish 
 lace, enough to give it an air of reserved elegance, 
 
IDYLLIC DAYS. 169 
 
 yet perhaps also enough to make it too rich, in con 
 trast with the republican simplicity of Washington 
 and his troops, as they executed their motionless 
 manoeuvres on the wall-paper around her. The Rev. 
 Mr. Bland, however, was not disturbed by that ; and 
 he greatly admired the taste which had led her to 
 arrange a few pale-yellow flowers, from Mrs. Pride s 
 garden, on one side of her dress, near her neck. 
 The faint color in her face gave the last needed touch 
 to what was really a charming picture. The two 
 tried some pieces for piano and violin. In fact, 
 after this, their music gave them so much reason for 
 meeting that it began to look as if Mr. Bland found 
 other reasons, as well, for becoming more and more 
 attentive. Possibly this assisted Ravling in arriv 
 ing at the conclusion that Miss Viola was, after all, 
 much more attractive than he had formerly thought 
 her. 
 
 u How glorious it would be to hear a full orchestra, 
 of the best kind, among these hills ! " she suggested, 
 with a sudden fancy, turning half round in the piano- 
 chair. 
 
 Edith clapped her hands with delight. " Oh, yes ! 
 That grand symphony, The Highlands, that we heard 
 last winter. Niels Gade s : do you remember? " 
 
 u It ought to be something of that school," Viola 
 assented: " something Wagneresque, weird, vague, 
 you know. By the way," she added, directing her 
 words to Burlen, " there s something in the scenery 
 up here that makes me think of Ossian. Don t you 
 think so? Don t you feel the solemnity ? " 
 
170 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 " I feel it, but I don t know Ossian," he confessed 
 modestly. 
 
 Viola, rose to cross the room, which she did with 
 a light, rhythmical, cultivated step peculiar to her. 
 Her eyes encountered Kavling s, with a sort of appeal 
 as if to sa} : " You re read Ossian ?" 
 
 "I hadn t thought of it," he answered, as she 
 took a place near him. 4t One little thing in Ossian 
 I ve always remembered ; and that is the beautiful 
 Agandccca, whose steps were 4 like the music of 
 songs. " 
 
 There was a gentle buzz of conversation among 
 the others at this instant, so that the remark be 
 came Viola s sole property, and assumed the value 
 of a very pointed compliment. She blushed ; and 
 Ravling, with whom this turn of the thing had been 
 quite unpremeditated, found himself attacked by 
 some confusion, too. 
 
 Other diversions made the time pass pleasantly. 
 Sometimes there would be an amateur botanical 
 foray upon the woods, under Viola s lead ; at other 
 times there was archery, or an out-door reading in 
 the bobolink-haunted orchard, where a couple of 
 hammocks had been swung in the shade at a spot 
 from which the whole group could get views dow r n 
 the widening valley towards Savage s, with its coro 
 net of mountain-peaks at the north, and the great 
 bulk of Monadnoc s watchet-blue wall on the left. 
 Another da} T they made a trip to Dublin Lake, that 
 sparkling sheet lodged upon the heights just behind 
 the arrow-head of the mountain, and spent an hour 
 
IDYLLIC DAYS. 171 
 
 or two there, sifting the clean sand at the water s 
 edge, in which multitudes of little garnets are found, 
 that were ground out of garnet-bearing rock, ages 
 ago, by the slow trituration of natural forces. And 
 there was sharp rivalry among the young men in 
 collecting these minute stones for Edith, and Viola, 
 with a view to future necklaces and ear-rings which 
 the two girls planned enthusiastically. 
 
 Altogether, the days at this time were as idyllic 
 and pastoral as could be wished. Everything was 
 going on very much as they had dreamed of it when 
 looking forward to their happy leisure here ; and no 
 one of the party had the smallest apprehension of 
 the great changes that were soon to take place. 
 
 Returning from a botanizing expedition one after 
 noon, they came to a growth of pines so thick that 
 everything was gray and black within, except for 
 the floor of deep, warm red made by the slow deposit 
 of dead needles from the upper boughs, year by year ; 
 and for the dazzling streaks of gold and crimson 
 that fell here and there through some interstice above. 
 These, and the general diffusion of perpetual twilight, 
 revealed a maze of sharp, broken lines, the dead 
 lower branches, scratched against the deepening 
 background like fine lines on an etcher s plate. The 
 wanderers were seized with a desire to make their 
 way home by penetrating this enticing barrier. 
 " Through the pine-wood blind with boughs/ " 
 Miss Viola quoted, as usual. 
 
 So the attempt was made, and of course they 
 became separated in carrying it out. Burlen was 
 
172 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 not much grieved by the result, since he and Edith 
 remained together, and made their way by them 
 selves. At length they emerged into a glorious 
 beechen glade, just above the desert. 
 
 Burlen was touched by a slight chill of premo 
 nition. He could not avoid a fancy, that there 
 might be some ill omen in his arriving with Edith 
 at this singular waste, after their struggle in com 
 pany through the opposing wood. But as he did n t 
 believe in omens, he shook this fancy off. 
 
 4 There are our puzzling gray figures again, in 
 the sand," he observed, pointing out the withered 
 tree-bole which they had seen on the day of their 
 arrival. And from this point also the resemblance 
 was striking. 
 
 44 Have you decided yet whether they are bidding 
 each other farewell, or meeting after an absence?" 
 she asked. 
 
 44 1 ve never thought of it again," he said. "But 
 it s just as reasonable to think the} 7 re meeting, 
 and a good deal pleasanter. So we 11 decide upon 
 that." 
 
 He laughed a little, and they went on chatting as 
 they proceeded to circumvent the sand and make 
 their way down into the glen of the trout-brook. 
 There, tired with their scramble, they sat down to 
 rest, in an angle formed by two rocks and within 
 hearing of the purling streamlet. 
 
 " Do you notice," said Edith, " we can t see the 
 water, from here? But how wonderfully cosey it 
 sounds, tinkling under the grass ! Oh, I have an 
 
IDYLLIC DAYS. 173 
 
 idea, Mr. Burlen ! I think it s almost a poetical one. 
 That murmuring brook seems to be to the silence of 
 this afternoon just what the cloud-shadows are to the 
 landscape under this broad sunlight. What do you 
 think?" 
 
 Burlen thought her fresh } T oung heart, responding 
 to such a fancy, was ver} T much like the meadow- 
 rivulet itself, running on in pleasant melody, though 
 unnoticed. But he did not say this. " I agree with 
 you," he answered. " You make me think of a 
 beautiful little poem I once read, called The Hidden 
 Brook/ It might have been written about this very 
 one." 
 
 " Do you remember it?" 
 
 "Only a few lines." After thinking a moment, 
 he was able to recall them : 
 
 "It tones the shrilling of the locust s glee, 
 And, like a harper s touches falling in 
 With high notes of a master s violin, 
 It binds a jarring note to harmony." 
 
 "Excellent!" said Edith. "It s just as simple 
 as it ought to be." 
 
 He seemed to be pondering. Then he asked : 
 " What sort of a life do you suppose a man must 
 have led, to write that? It ought to have been as 
 clear and untroubled as the brook, I should think. 
 Shouldn t you?" 
 
 " Oh, that depends on his own character," she re 
 turned, with ready decision. "It doesn t seem to 
 matter what a man has suffered, if he only keeps his 
 innocence and sympathy." 
 
174 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 Her answer apparently relieved him. " Do YOU 
 think so?" he demanded eagerly. 
 
 Thereupon she began to hesitate. " I know it 
 would n t be so with a woman," she said. " Women 
 seem to have no resource but to live or die by their 
 experience. They can be brave under sorrow, but 
 they can t separate themselves from what they ve 
 been through. And men are just the opposite in 
 everything, are n t they?" she questioned, with a sim 
 ple, half- wondering confidence in his vast knowledge. 
 ; At any rate, you must know more about that than 
 I do." 
 
 When a man comes to rery upon a woman for the 
 decision of a momentous question, her wisdom upon 
 which he has depended often resolves itself into a 
 counter-question, or a sudden leaning upon him for 
 the final word. And, curiously enough, this is the 
 very best thing she can do for him, sometimes. 
 Neither of them are infallible, I imagine ; but the 
 fact that she refers back to him gives him confidence. 
 So Burlen felt that if Edith thought him able to de 
 cide, her own decision must be sufficient. 
 
 Still, u I only know, as far as I m concerned," he 
 said, " that I myself feel much better fitted to ex 
 press something that accords with the rough moun 
 tain-streams in the woods around here than with 
 the mildness of this little brook. That s the result 
 of my experience." 
 
 " What kind?" she asked, timidly. 
 
 He was startled to find how near he had drawn to 
 the point of disclosing his bitter reminiscences to 
 
IDYLLIC DAYS. 175 
 
 her. "Don t ask me," he urged, with a disturbed 
 look. "I can only say that I ve been through a 
 great deal, and that when I recall it I feel old be 
 fore my time, and fit to deal only with grief and 
 struggle." 
 
 It is a trait of the young that they attach so much 
 secret weight to their trials and misfortunes. They 
 hoard them up, and furrow their hearts with the 
 thought of them ; and by-and-by, when everything is 
 disclosed, they find that the disclosure, instead of 
 causing a cataclysm, dissipates the whole black chi 
 mera into thin air. 
 
 Yet there was a good deal of ground for Burlen s 
 sensitiveness. We find upon the surface of some 
 persons dispositions, whom we know, a trait which 
 may mean one thing or another, according to its re 
 lation with other traits and motives below ; and un 
 less we can properly gauge the whole nature to the 
 bottom, we form an unjust judgment of such persons. 
 There is a geology of character, as well as of moun 
 tains. The ignoring of this fact by society is the 
 source of infinite wrong and anguish to people who 
 have been put in a false position at the outset of their 
 careers ; for the world, having once adopted an un 
 favorable theory of their moral structure, is slow to 
 abandon it. It was an instinct to protect himself 
 from this wrong, that led the young preacher to try 
 so carefully to separate himself from his past. 
 
 Edith was silent for some moments after he spoke. 
 She was not embarrassed ; nor did she think any 
 thing ill of this friend who was so unlike her other 
 
176 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 friends. She was simply wondering what his troubles 
 had been, and whether she should ever know. 
 
 "I can hardly understand it," she said, rising as 
 if ready to return to the house. " I have never had 
 any very great griefs. My mother died when I was 
 so young, it is more like things I have read about 
 than something that actually happened." Yet her 
 face grew wistful and sad while she was saying this. 
 " Some time or other," she resumed, with the com 
 posure of a thorough!} happy person, and }"ct in a 
 serious tone, " you must tell me something about 
 3*ourself. I might learn from it." 
 
 The young man s heart beat rapidly. "Ah, if I 
 could ! " he half sighed. 
 
 He had got up, too, and they were on their way 
 along the brook-side. An impetuous desire came 
 upon him to unlock his feelings to her, to tell her all 
 the half- formed emotions and plans concerning her 
 which pursued him so constantly, and to ask her 
 whether she cared for him, and would take him as he 
 was, so that their lives might be united. But the 
 remembrance of his conversation with her father, the 
 night before leaving Marie, interposed. Archdale 
 had asked him in vague terms not to "take advan 
 tage." How remote that possibilit} had seemed, 
 then ; and how near he stood to it, now ! He 
 checked the impulse. 
 
 They went along through the daisied grass, wind 
 ing among the boulders and clumps of dark, sweet 
 juniper, past the deserted house where the wild ro 
 ses had now nearly ceased blooming; and climbed 
 
IDYLLIC DAYS. 177 
 
 a stone-wall by a short bridge draped in forsaken- 
 looking vines of wild grape, the green fruit of which 
 was ripening into dashes of ruddy purple where the 
 sun looked through the leaves. They said nothing ; 
 but both were busy with thoughts, and the bright 
 world around them seemed to be saying a great deal. 
 When they came to the brook s source, where the 
 spring bubbled up amid long, matted grass so that 
 it was hard to tell where water began and grass 
 ended, the} T were near the barn, and therefore 
 strolled through it on their way to the house. 
 
 The cavernous old building was half full of new 
 hay, the sweetness of which in that cool, dark interior 
 seemed to be the perfume of stored-up sunlight ex 
 haling from the thin, dried stalks. 
 
 " Barns like this always fascinate me," said Edith. 
 " Especially when there are no cows in them. It 
 sounds splendid to call them kine, as writers do ; 
 but that does n t make them any pleasanter to have 
 in a barn. What I like is this delicious, faint smell 
 of the hay, and the bigness and quietness. Hens I 
 don t object to," she added, as one or two made their 
 appearance in the loft. " Any way, it all makes 
 me think of when I was a little girl and played in 
 barns. It brings back such pleasant memories ! 
 You have lived in the country, too. Does n t it 
 bring them back to you ? " 
 
 She asked without reflection ; but she saw at once 
 the shadow that came over his face. 
 
 "No, it certainly brings back no pleasant ones," 
 he said, with an effort. 
 
 12 
 
178 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 " Oh, I m sorry I reminded } ou," she said ner 
 vously. " But now realty, Mr. Burlen, I can t have 
 3 r ou so gloomy about it. I want you to admire the 
 barn." 
 
 "I ll try to," he laughed. " Ah, see there, Miss 
 Archdale ! That little bird flying, up there." He 
 pointed towards the roof, where a small feathered 
 creature, having accidentally darted in through a 
 seam between the old boards of the side, some 
 little Strayed Reveller from feasts of orchard and 
 wild wood, was fluttering to and fro blindly, trying 
 to escape again. In a moment or two he came 
 providentially upon the open loft-door, and was 
 gone. "Did you notice," Burlen asked, "how he 
 kept flying up against the roof, at first? He seemed 
 to think if he could only get towards the sky, it 
 would be all right." 
 
 "Yes; poor little creature, he hit his wings so, 
 every time he went up ! " 
 
 "It s a good deal like some of us others, when 
 we try to rise," he mused. 
 
 "Oh, clear! I hope not," said Edith, "/want 
 to rise. And can t I do it so as not to hurt my 
 wings? I don t know surely that I ve got airy 
 wings, though," she ended, facing him with a smile. 
 
 " Nor I, either," said Burlen. " I mean simply 
 that people who aspire are always getting hurt. Do 
 you find that laughable? " 
 
 "Not at all," she answered. "I thought you 
 were giving me a warning. You know that I want to 
 learn and to advance ; and you know I feel how pur- 
 
IDYLLIC DAYS. 179 
 
 poseless I have been. But I don t wonder at your 
 thinking me foolish to attempt getting an}* higher." 
 
 44 You?" he exclaimed. " I wish I could tell you 
 what I do think." 
 
 "Don t," she begged him, sincerely. u If } ou 
 do, you 11 very likely crush me ; and I don t want to 
 be crushed." 
 
 They had reached the door opening on the harp- 
 shaped elm and the house ; but he paused a moment, 
 resting one hand on the post at the side. Putting 
 down the intense feeling that came over him, he said 
 quietly: "I can t imagine what put all this into 
 your mind. But it s a mistake. Anyway, I must 
 sa}* to 3 ou that I I had no idea of that kind. I 
 was thinking of nry own aspirations. For yours I feel 
 nothing but reverence." 
 
 He stood looking at her, almost breathless ; think 
 ing that perhaps he had said too much. She re 
 turned his gaze with one of astonishment. 
 
 4 Well," she said, finally, "how could you ex 
 pect me to know that?" And, after a pause: "I 
 think we must have misunderstood each other ! " 
 
 And so they had. Misunderstanding is some 
 times a useful thing. But useful as it is, and fre 
 quent as it also is, people are always amazed at it. 
 
180 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 THE TRIAL-SERMON, AND WHAT FOLLOWED. 
 
 A RCHDALE had seen nothing to alarm him, 
 -^"^ since coming to Pride s. lie saw Burlcn de 
 voting a good many hours to reading and other 
 work, and the rest of the time four young men and 
 women enjoying themselves harmlessly. He even 
 undertook to humiliate his sister Grace, by show 
 ing her how groundless had been her fears ; though 
 in this, it must be admitted, he did not meet with 
 success. 
 
 Meanwhile, he had opportunities to talk with his 
 favorite disciple about his prospects. He was now 
 conducting some diplomatic negotiations intended to 
 result in Burlen s being appointed assistant to a pop 
 ular and overworked pastor in Boston ; though this 
 could follow only after some preliminary service else 
 where. 
 
 " So, if you are called to the church here," he said, 
 inclining his spectacles with just the slightest trace 
 of disdainful patronage towards that part of the 
 valley where the Second Church lay, "it will do 
 very well for your novitiate. The salary at Boston, 
 even for the assistant-pastor, would be a good one," 
 he added comfortingly. 
 
THE TRIAL-SERMON. 181 
 
 The candidate betrayed some dissatisfaction. " I 
 wish," he said slowly, " that we didn t have to con 
 sider these money matters so much." 
 
 Archdale sighed concurringly ; but it was the sigh 
 of a man who had been so long resigned to the sad 
 necessit}^ in question, as to have acquired rather a 
 relish for it. " Nevertheless, since we have to," he 
 said, "it is pleasant to be able to accept a position 
 where there need be no anxiety on that head." 
 
 "That is n t quite what I mean. The amount is 
 just what I d rather not think about. Here s Mr. 
 Bland, who has been talking lately about a burning 
 question in his Church, this very question of the 
 minister being made a hired piece of furniture, or 
 worse ; a slave to his vestry or his congregation, on 
 whom he depends for bread. The question does n t 
 burn Bland very badly, because he pays his own sal- 
 aiy, and falls back on his violin besides. But even 
 he is stirred indignantly at the thought that minis 
 ters of the Gospel may have their tongues tied with 
 a purse-string." 
 
 His old preceptor looked annoyed. " My clear 
 Robert, you should have thought of all this before 
 deciding upon }-our profession." 
 
 Burlen remembered what Edith had said to him : 
 "It is not 3 our profession, it is simply yourself 1 
 He answered, calmly: "I have thought of it, and 
 now I m thinking of it again. Probably I shall be 
 forced to do so very often in my career." 
 
 " Yes ; it is, perhaps, a useful instrument to hu 
 mility," Archdale returned, dropping into resignation 
 once more. 
 
182 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 " At any rate, I should be no nearer independence 
 in the cit} r , with a larger salary, than with a small 
 one np here, where living is cheap," the other ar 
 gued. " I have been forming the idea that I should 
 like to devote mj self wholly to this locality. It 
 needs devotion enough." 
 
 "Well, that s the right spirit," Archdale re 
 sponded, as if he were deciding upon a reading in 
 some ancient author. "We can determine that 
 matter by-and-by, though. I m glad to see you so 
 earnest ; but don t let yourself be carried away." 
 
 Burlen went from the colloquy a little saddened. 
 He began to see that there were serious differences 
 between his old friend and himself. To be " carried 
 away " was just what he thought essential ; and if 
 more persons could be so borne on to enthusiastic 
 devotion to great aims with small rewards, he thought 
 it would be better for the world. But he soon threw 
 himself again into the current of the sermon he was 
 working upon. 
 
 The appointed Sunday came. The church-bells 
 jangled harshly up from the valley, very distinct in 
 the silent air. When they began, the thrushes that 
 had been carolling in the woods ceased, as if rudely 
 admonished of impiety. Only the more insensible 
 sound of the cow-bells from cattle grazing at pasture 
 responded to the signals from the steeples. The 
 peace that reigned in the hill-fields, however, was so 
 suggestive of worship that it seemed almost a mis 
 take to descend to the confined space of the village 
 churches for that ceremony. But by the time the 
 
THE TRIAL-SERMON. 183 
 
 bells had stopped ringing and the thrushes had re 
 sumed their lonely song, the party from Pride s had 
 taken their places in the stiff-backed pews, garnished 
 with palm-leaf fans and black-bound hymn-books. 
 
 Archdale and Buiien both sat behind the ugly 
 pulpit, which rose in a mass of veneered curves 
 and scrolls at one end of the church. The old sex 
 ton pulled at the bell-rope dangling through the 
 ceiling of the porch, with a long, steady motion, as 
 if he were making all sail for heaven, and the meet 
 ing-house were a craft on which the last stragglers, 
 coming up the road, had better hasten to embark 
 before it got under wa\ T . Then the last mournful 
 strokes came to an end, the sexton crept noiselessly 
 to his usual post near the door ; there was a brief 
 hush, and the latest-comers, on entering, went to 
 their places with a guilty air. After which, the 
 service began. 
 
 When the moment for the sermon arrived, Burlen 
 began, very quietl} r and with some embarrassment, 
 by reading a text from Isaiah, telling how, in the 
 last clays, "the mountain of the Lord s house shall 
 be established in the top of the mountains ; " and 
 another which says that men shall then cast away 
 their idols of silver and gold, "to go into the clefts 
 of the rocks and into the tops of the ragged rocks, 
 for fear of the Lord and for the glory of his majesty, 
 when he ariseth to shake terribly the earth." 
 
 He startled the country-folk a little by following 
 this with a question so simple, and put in so ordinary 
 a tone, that it seemed to them almost as if he were 
 
184 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 jesting: "Did you ever," he said, "ask 3 T ourselves 
 what a mountain is, what it means?" Some of 
 the young girls in the gallery were inclined to titter ; 
 but that was alwa} S a regular part of the service, 
 with them : the excitement of going to church con 
 sisted largely in the effort required to restrain their 
 own risibility. Serious Savage, however, braced 
 himself comfortably in his pew. His ideal of a 
 wholesome mental diet was uninterrupted condiment, 
 and the present discourse promised to be something 
 "spicy," something that might, in short, be con 
 sidered pure intellectual nutmeg. 
 
 " I have been asking myself that question," Bur- 
 len went on, " ever since I have been among these 
 grand hills around us ; and my hope to-day is, that 
 I ma} T be able to tell 3^011 something of the answer." 
 Then, with a mixture of homely illustration and vivid 
 eloquence, he sketched the similitude between hu 
 man life and a varied landscape. "We are all fa 
 miliar with the idea of ups and downs in temporal 
 affairs, and we all feel the forcible symbolism of the 
 Valley of the Shadow of Death and the Hill Diffi 
 culty in spiritual experiences. A mountain inspires 
 us. People like to climb it, because it involves vig 
 orous effort, and there is a sense of triumph when it 
 is done. The peak that rises so high above our or 
 dinary levels excites ambition. And when we make 
 an attempt to rise in life, to go higher in spiritual 
 ity, or accomplish an} great action, success in that 
 attempt gives us the same sense of elevation and 
 victory that we feel when we have scaled the peak. 
 
THE TRIAL-SERMON. 185 
 
 Mountains give us another kind of sympathrv, too ; 
 for they seem to have suffered and endured, as hu 
 man creatures do. They have been through all sorts 
 of struggles and shocks ; they have been fused in 
 fire, and chilled by choking ice-fields. Sometimes 
 they have been partially overthrown by these con 
 vulsions of the earth, and sometimes lifted up still 
 higher ; and they all bear the grim marks of their 
 history, just as we get scarred with grief and loss 
 and loneliness, in going through life." 
 
 So, after dwelling a little on the physical history 
 of mountains, he began to show the important part 
 they had played in the spiritual history of men. 
 From the Old Testament record of events connected 
 with them, he led effectively to a climax concerning 
 the Sermon on the Mount ; and upon that foundation 
 he laid so much of symbolic legend, of noble poetry 
 and powerful description of Nature, that his own 
 discourse seemed gradually to build itself up before 
 the vision of his hearers like a verdure-clad height. 
 
 "Yes," he said, in one part, " these natural mon 
 uments are among the teachers that Providence has 
 surrounded us with. We may learn from them, just 
 as I may learn from you, or } ou from me ! The 
 world is so full of helpful forces. Even the dumb 
 earth speaks to us." And then he talked to them of 
 Monadnoc (almost within range of sight from the 
 church-windows) in such a way that, to man} r , a sud 
 den glory and awe-inspiring influence appeared to 
 stream down from the rugged eminence they knew so 
 well, and had so long looked upon with comparative 
 
186 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 indifference. " But there is one chief lesson which 
 these time-worn shapes convey to us, that I want es 
 pecially to bring before you," he continued. " AVhen 
 you go up to the top of Monadnoc, 3*011 find that you 
 can t take much with 3*011. You have to leave your 
 idols of silver and gold behind ; and I might go on 
 and say that you leave man}* other things behind, 
 your hardware and your bales of wool, your farms 
 and 3 our swift locomotive. Most of your friends, 
 too, you leave. After reaching the summit, where 
 you can overlook all that 3*011 have left, 3*011 are 
 almost as much alone and as much separated from 
 those who are dear to you as if you were dead. 
 This is only a type of what happens to every man 
 or woman who is unflinchingly brave, who is devoted 
 to great moral ideas, let us sa3 T , for instance, some 
 reform in advance of the age ; or even the daily pur 
 suit of perfect truthfulness. To such persons sep 
 aration comes ; thej 7 are often severed by difference 
 of opinion from those whose love they most desire. 
 The3 r stand alone. And then the3 find themselves 
 upon a mount of sacrifice ; they learn to kindle their 
 altar-fires on these lonely summits, and feel as they 
 ma3* never have felt before what it was that Christ 
 endured in that night of prayer on the Mount of 
 Olives ! " 
 
 He tried to show that in even* life there rise such 
 mounts of sacrifice, more or less difficult to ascend, 
 which man} people try to avoid, creeping on in 
 convenient lower places, bus3* with sordid interests, 
 though they ought really to be approached bravely 
 
THE TRIAL-SERMON. 187 
 
 and gloried in. How to prepare for this upward 
 struggle was the next point in his theme ; and finally 
 he called upon the people to think where they would 
 wish to stand at that final moment whether it be 
 of the whole mundane life or of our individual exis 
 tences when the Lord ariseth to shake terribly 
 the earth." 
 
 In all this, of which I have given but a fragment 
 ary outline, Edith recognized some of the things 
 which she had heard him say before, but now so 
 strengthened and illuminated, and fitting in as parts 
 of such an impressive whole, that they seemed still 
 more striking than at first. She saw that he had 
 chosen for his trial-sermon the very one she had so 
 earnestly urged him to write ; and a flush of pride 
 and joy came over her. But before he had finished? 
 his ability and eloquence seemed to carry him so far 
 awa} from her, that she almost wondered at her own 
 temerity in having ever talked with him about it. 
 
 The sermon met with cordial appreciation from a 
 number of the congregation, who afterward lingered 
 in the aisles for a chance to shake hands with the 
 young preacher ; having obtained which privilege most 
 of them became suddenly embarrassed, looked as if 
 they had been placed in an awkward predicament 
 contraiy to their own wishes, and then stammered 
 out a few rusty words of thanks or congratulation. 
 One of the deacons, however, was heard to say, when 
 moving awa} from the church, that there had been a 
 great deficiency of doctrine in the discourse. 
 
 u There was good points in it," James Wad- 
 
188 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 kin contended; " but he shoots raythersome high. 
 These young fellers mostly doos." 
 
 Serious was satisfied : he had been surprised, and 
 shaken out of his usual lethargy. And Ravling, 
 waiting in the porch, overheard a short dialogue be 
 tween Mrs. Serious and Ann Fernlow, which was 
 also favorable. 
 
 "I call that a rema kable sermon," declared Mrs. 
 Serious; "and comin from one so young ! he don t 
 look more n a boy sca cely. He s downright good- 
 looking, too, Ann ; not to say handsome. Beautiful 
 set o teeth he s got." 
 
 "He d make a splendid minister," Ann Fernlow 
 replied, blushing at her own boldness in uttering the 
 opinion. " Then he s so plain and friendly out of the 
 pulpit, the way we see him up to the farm. Did n t 
 you think what he said about the prophets was real 
 good, Mrs. Savage?" 
 
 " Sh d say I did ! " the matron exclaimed, rolling 
 up her eyes and looking as if attacked with a faint 
 ing-fit, by way of marking her approval. Then, ab 
 ruptly coming to again: "Yes, he d ought to fill a 
 pulpit first-rate. Beautiful set o teeth ! " 
 
 Mrs. Savage afterward said to her husband, at 
 home: " Scr ous, that young man d ought to be 
 engaged." 
 
 " Well, I do know but a temp ary arrangement 
 might be good policy, if the terms was low," he 
 agreed ; the impression of the sermon rapidly giving 
 way to his ordinary fiscal caution. 
 
 Ravling had been genuinely pleased by Burlen s 
 
THE TRIAL-SERMON. 189 
 
 production ; and, though there was something ap 
 proaching a smouldering dislike between them, he 
 expressed his pleasure heartily. The candidate, on 
 his side, remembered with keen discomfort the dis 
 paraging tone in which he had overheard the lawyer 
 commenting on his graduation address, and therefore 
 received his encouragement now with the added de 
 light of surprise. He shook Ravling s hand with a 
 quick, glad satisfaction ; and the two men, as they 
 looked at one another, underwent a slight change of 
 mind which resulted in mutual respect, even though 
 it stopped short of friendliness. 
 
 Edith said nothing, at first. It even seemed to 
 Burlen that she established a distance between them, 
 for which he could not account. But as they were 
 driving back to the farm, Archdale put forth a few 
 criticisms, in a kindty way ; among other things 
 raising a doubt as to the propriety of Burlen s hav 
 ing introduced those veiy legends of St. Patrick 
 which Edith and the young man had been so much 
 interested in. 
 
 "Oh, papa!" cried Edith. "I think that was 
 one of the most beautiful things of all." 
 
 She turned upon her father with a look of surprise 
 in her proud 3 oung face, that had in it at the same 
 time so much of girlish deference and simplicit} . 
 And that look and exclamation certainty added much 
 to the reward which Burlen s whole-souled endeavor 
 in his sermon had already brought him. 
 
 After their early dinner in the farm-house, Whit- 
 cot and Ravling took themselves back to the tent, to 
 
190 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 smoke. The ladies retired into a suitable Sunday 
 privacy of reading, letter-writing, napping, and talk 
 ing over dresses ; and before long Archdale and 
 Burlen, though they did not smoke, came out and 
 joined the occupants of the tent. 
 
 The Iaw3"er was looking over some newspapers of 
 the day before, when they entered, but laid them 
 aside when he saw Archdale. 
 
 "This is a terrible affair that Linkinfoot has got 
 into," he remarked gravely. " I have just been read 
 ing the latest reports about it. I wish to heavens 
 it could all be cleared up and dismissed." 
 
 Linkinfoot was a preacher of considerable renown, 
 whose fame had at that time recently been attacked 
 by charges which involved it in an appalling scandal 
 of the grossest kind. The first rumor of it had been 
 received with disgusted incredulity by the public ; but 
 matters took such a course that doubts arose, and 
 then a sickening disappointment began to creep into 
 men s minds. 
 
 Ideas, sentiments, emotions, travel rapidly in 
 America, because of the simple nature of society 
 and the effectual brotherhood that unites closely such 
 large masses of the community. Every astounding 
 or unexpected event relating to even one person, or 
 a small group, especially if they stand out promi 
 nently in the public view, lias a widespread in 
 fluence ; even more than is usual elsewhere, because 
 we at once, knowing that the nation is young and 
 feeling all that hangs upon its future, try to judge of 
 this event as revealing to us something of ourselves 
 
THE TRIAL-SERMON. 191 
 
 unseen before, and as a force that is likely to have 
 an effect on our general development. For good or 
 evil, this sympathy among us is intense ; and at the 
 time of the Linkinfoot scandal it was carrying into 
 every cranny and corner which the press could reach 
 a wave of sorrow and discouragement. 
 
 When Ravling referred to it, it had not }~et reached 
 the stage of long and loathsome reports in judicial 
 proceedings daily made public, nor had people 
 reached the callous period of referring to it in gen 
 eral conversation ; and the four gentlemen talked of 
 it together with a sense of outrage that they should 
 be forced to talk of it at all. 
 
 They got rid of it as soon as possible ; but the 
 next subject that came up was the late political news, 
 which involved assertions of enormous frauds in 
 elections, corrupt machinations among party leaders, 
 and charges of demoralizing personal favoritism in 
 the conduct of certain Government financial trans 
 actions. 
 
 "I wonder how much of all this is true," specu 
 lated Burlen, wearily. 
 
 " The trouble is that both parties," said Archdale, 
 " keep on asserting such baseness in each other, 
 that finallj* neither of them has moral sensitiveness 
 enough left to save even itself much less the 
 country." 
 
 Whitcot, however, gave it as his belief that the 
 whole trouble lay in the unmitigated wickedness of 
 the Democrats. " Really," he said, with an air of 
 being dazed by the thought, " I don t see how such 
 
192 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 a party exists ! It has n t a single virtuous point 
 about it." 
 
 " I don t see how it does exist, if that s the case," 
 remarked Ravling, drily ; though he, too, was a Re 
 publican. 
 
 Burlen belonged to the same part} , when it came 
 to a vote. He could no more have graduated at 
 Marie, without drifting, theoretically at least, into the 
 orthodox political creed of Massachusetts, than he 
 could have induced himself to turn a somersault 
 while preaching. Nevertheless, "I don t believe 
 the nation is divided so exactly into villains and 
 saints," he asserted. " All the knaves are not fools, 
 and some of them will get on to the winning side, 
 which ever it is. What discourages me is this con 
 tinual story of wrong-doing, which seems to be true 
 of both." 
 
 "We mustn t despair, though," said Archdale, 
 placidly. (He had not attended an election for 
 years.) 
 
 " That s just what I think, too," Burlen was quick 
 to reply. u But if we are not to despair, we must 
 do something ! In politics we have these records of 
 corruption and compromise, day by da^y. . In reli 
 gious life we begin to have phenomena like this of 
 Linkinfoot. In business we have a few men grow 
 ing enormously rich l)y rings and shams, at the 
 expense of multitudes. Everywhere people seem 
 to be going in for the big prizes, and principle seems 
 to come out with no prizes at all. That s w^lry I 
 think we need examples of sacrifice, men to stand 
 
THE TRIAL-SERMON. 193 
 
 in the breach, to give up their lives to some ideal 
 work and do it well, even if it s in some small sphere 
 and imposes poverty on them. Practical work ought 
 to be done in the same spirit, too. However, I 
 don t mean to deliver a second sermon to-da}*," he 
 concluded with a smile, which gave place to a look 
 of earnest meditation. 
 
 "There are a good many men of the kind you 
 describe," said Ravling, "already." 
 
 "I know there are. But how seldom they come 
 into the ascendant ! Nothing can save us from 
 deterioration, unless they appear everywhere, in all 
 walks of life, and acquire the ruling influence again 
 as they had it in the old da} s of the Republic. 
 We re too successful, we grow too fast and make 
 wealth too easily, to be safe without counteracting 
 forces." 
 
 Nobody answered, and they relapsed into uneasy 
 reflection. None of the four felt anxiety as to im 
 mediate national disaster : no American does. But, 
 looking long j ears ahead, each one was clearly con 
 scious of injurious powers subtly at work, which 
 might in the end sap and crumble away much that 
 was fairest and noblest in the country. 
 
 As they walked back to the house together, Bnr- 
 len told Archdale of Pride s remark about the 
 desert. "The recent news gives it still greater 
 point than it had when I first heard it," was his 
 comment. "A moral desert is slowly blowing 
 and spreading among us, just like that one ; but 
 13 
 
194 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 because there is so much fertile ground left, people 
 hardly notice it." 
 
 " I don t understand your being so despondent, 
 Robert," said Archdale. "It s not natural in a 
 young man." 
 
 " I m not despondent," his former pupil answered 
 him; "I m very hopeful. But mayn t it be that 
 young e3 es sometimes see farther than old ones, 
 even in these things ? " 
 
A FRIENDLY ENEMY. 195 
 
 XVII. 
 
 A FRIENDLY ENEMY. 
 
 WHAT had struck Whitcot more than anything 
 else on the occasion of Burleii s sermon was, 
 that he had seen Ida Hiss listening attentive!} in an 
 out-of-the-way corner of the gallery. She did not 
 seem in place there, and his hazy hypothesis in re 
 gard to her again began to float before him and take 
 a more positive shape. Such a girl as she seemed 
 to be could hardly, he thought, be in the habit of 
 corning to church ; but if she were Burlen s sister, it 
 might well be that, under cover of her assumed name 
 and feeling secure against recognition, she should 
 wish to hear her brother, who had been brought by 
 accident so near her. 
 
 He woke up during the night, in the tent, and 
 thought of this again. But that time his whole 
 suspicion appeared to him the frailest kind of phan 
 tasm. He had manufactured it out of nothing ! He 
 would put it out of his mind. 
 
 The morning only increased the unreality of his 
 imaginings. Still, he did not altogether put them 
 away. 
 
 Archdale was to leave them on that day, and go 
 back to his Apologists at Marie ; so that the morning 
 was a good deal occupied in seeing him off. But, 
 
196 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 notwithstanding this, TVhitcot had opportunity before 
 afternoon to observe as he fancied a noticeable 
 change in Edith. His recent sentimental advance 
 towards her had left him rather confident than other 
 wise ; and their old acquaintance had enabled them 
 to go on meeting among the rest, without embarrass 
 ment, while he was meditating how and when he 
 should next speak to her. But to-day he began to 
 fear that he had been reckoning hastily. She obvi 
 ously was indifferent to his existence. She was 
 abstracted and altered in manner ; there was a cer 
 tain dreaminess in her eyes, unnoticed by him be 
 fore. And, worse than all, he could see that she was 
 observing Burlen and attending to everything he 
 said, with an interest that threatened to obliterate 
 every other. 
 
 He had discovered, in talking with her the even 
 ing before, her high opinion of the sermon ; and it 
 did not take him long to infer from that and from 
 the present signs that Burlen had at last perhaps 
 really touched deeply responsive chords in her. 
 
 The conclusion set him thinking again about the 
 lost sister, Thyrsa Burlen. Plow very convenient it 
 would be, now, if Ida Hiss should prove to be she! 
 Ought he not at least to put Mrs. Savland and Edith 
 in possession of what he had learned as to the cleri 
 cal candidate s past? He was suddenly smitten with 
 a high regard for his own magnanimity in having 
 kept it to himself so long. But, no ! On second 
 thought, it might savor of under-handed envy, if he 
 went to Edith with this tale. He flattered himself 
 
A FRIENDLY ENEMY. 197 
 
 that he was too much of a gentleman to run that 
 risk even for her benefit. He would go directly 
 to Buiien and tell him what had occurred to him in 
 regard to Ida. 
 
 Seeing him start off down the brook-glen with a 
 book in his hand, he followed with a trout-pole, 
 though there were no fish to be caught at this season, 
 and managed thus to come conveniently upon him. 
 
 41 Ah," cried Burlen, as he approached ; " fishing? 
 What for? bobolinks or butterflies?" 
 
 " Neither," Whitcot answered seriously. " I 
 think I m a fisher of men, this time. I m after 
 you." 
 
 " I 11 consider myself caught, then." 
 
 " I want to speak with you in private. Suppose 
 we walk up under the trees there." 
 
 Decidedly curious to know what confidential com 
 munication was about to be made, Burlen closed his 
 book and went with him. A few general remarks 
 were made, and then as they came under the shade 
 of the trees Whitcot, who had laid his plan carefully, 
 stopped, turned towards his companion, and look 
 ing into his eyes said: "I think I ve found your 
 sister." - 
 
 Buiien s face flushed violently: his eyes flashed 
 with what might have been either supreme excite 
 ment or rising menace. In an instant he became 
 calmer, and asked coldly : " My sister? Where?" 
 
 " Here at Savage s." 
 
 "I have never mentioned her to you. What do 
 you know about her? What right have you to 
 
198 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 speak?" Burlen s voice had sunk, but there was 
 something vindictive and biting in its tones. 
 
 Whitcot began to be frightened at the force of the 
 blast to which he had touched his match. 
 
 " I know all the facts," he said, rather timorously, 
 " and I have come to you simply as a friend." 
 
 " A friend with a knife in your hand ! " 
 
 " Oh, if 3*ou re going to be violent " 
 
 " I beg 3*our pardon." Burlen put a strong pres 
 sure upon himself. " Tell me your reasons, then. 
 But be quick ! " 
 
 Whitcot gave a rapid explanation. "It s the 
 very woman I spoke to you about at the hotel, the 
 day we came," he concluded. " The waitress there. 
 You remember?" 
 
 "Yes; but you say she bears another name. 
 Besides, why should n t / have thought of it, when 
 I saw her? Do you think 3*011 see airy any " 
 
 "Resemblance, you mean? Well, I don t know. 
 I m not positive, of course. And then perhaps it s 
 all a fane} of mine, any wa}V To his surprise the 
 engineer, when lie saw the other man s agitation, 
 found himself rather anxious to soften or smooth 
 away the trouble he had caused. And this confirmed 
 him in his fallacious belief that there was nothing of 
 malice in the motive which had brought him to take 
 his present step. 
 
 "Do you think you could recognize your sister 
 yourself, now?" 
 
 " I doubt if I could judge with certaint} ," his vic 
 tim returned, despondently. "It is eleven years 
 since I saw her." 
 
A FRIENDLY ENEMY. 199 
 
 " That would make her how old?" 
 
 "About thirty. And in these years, especially, 
 she must have changed greath 7 ." 
 
 " I don t think this girl Ida can be so old as that," 
 said Whitcot, impartially. 
 
 " You don t? There is a doubt, then? " 
 
 " She might be, though, it s very hard to tell, 
 she s such a ir^sterious creature." Whitcot s com 
 passion began to cool again, the moment he became 
 less confident of his position. 
 
 44 1 can t bear this suspense ! " exclaimed Burlen, 
 in a tone of revolt. "I must see her myself. I 
 must see her ! " And he made a few strides away 
 in the direction of the village, as if for immediate 
 execution of that purpose. 
 
 44 By all means you must see her," said Richard, 
 coolly. " That was what I was going to propose." 
 
 " Come, then ! " almost shouted his companion. 
 
 "I must warn } ou," said the adviser, "that it s 
 not easy to see her with safety." 
 
 "What do 3 T ou mean?" The young preacher 
 frowned sternly upon him. 
 
 " I mean there s a man in the way." 
 
 Burlen smote his forehead with his hand. His 
 whole frame visibly shook with wrath and horror. 
 Then he moaned, in surrender to the worst: "Go 
 on. Tell me the whole. What is it?" 
 
 " I don t know," Richard blandly confessed, " ex 
 cept this, that the fellow has some hold upon her 
 upon Ida Hiss, mind : she may not be } T our sister, 
 you know. But he watches her like a lynx, and is as 
 
200 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 full of jealousy as a powder-magazine is of danger." 
 He then related something of his own experiences 
 with Rudyard, and the way in which lie had been 
 pursued by him. " I laughed at him for his prowl 
 ing, when I saw him in the village afterwards," he 
 said. "But I have no desire to be mixed up with 
 him and his jealousies again." 
 
 "What is all this to me?" Burlen demanded, 
 angrily. 
 
 " It simply shows you why I haven t been able 
 to make any inquiries of her before speaking to 
 you, and why you d better be cautious in your 
 movements." 
 
 "Very well; what s to be done, then? Speak! 
 Don t you see I m bewildered helpless? Do 3-011 
 understand what I feel, and do you think it s manly 
 to go on torturing me ? " The candidate for the 
 ministry seized him by the arm, with an iron grip. 
 " Come, I want to know." 
 
 "Let go of me first!" Whitcot commanded 
 hotly. He was furious at the other s touch. " Gen 
 tlemen don t converse with the aid of their fists." 
 
 Burlen relaxed his grasp. The taunt made him 
 quiver, but it also gave him self-control in the con 
 tempt he began to feel for his professed friend. 
 " Have you anything more to say that s to the pur 
 pose ? " he asked. 
 
 Whitcot looked sullen, but gradually regained his 
 composure. "I had thought of a plan," he said, 
 distantly. " There s going to be a sort of assembly 
 of a charitable association among the woollen-mill 
 
A FRIENDLY ENEMY. 201 
 
 people in the village, Wednesday evening, and she 11 
 probably be there on Rudyard s account. We might 
 go there, without much trouble." 
 
 " I suppose it s possible," Burlen returned, drear 
 ily. " How can we find out about it? " 
 
 " Here s the announcement," said Whitcot, draw 
 ing from his pocket a crumpled hand-bill. " It was 
 given me at the hotel." 
 
 The document read thus : 
 
 LEVEE ! 
 
 The Union Mills C. B. Association. 
 
 AT TOWN HALL. 
 
 2^= This is intended to be a thoroughly sociable affair. 
 Music AND DANCING. 
 
 Oysters, Candy, Ice-cream, etc. 
 
 COME EARLY AND HAVE A GOOD TIME ! 
 
 Burlen read it twice, with listless disgust ; and the 
 crude hilarity of its wording seemed to 1)6 aimed 
 mockingly at himself. " A good time ! " he repeated, 
 under his breath. "Well," he said aloud, returning 
 the bill, "if there s no better way, I ll make the 
 experiment. You will go with me ? " 
 
 "Certainly, if you prefer." 
 
 "And meanwhile it s understood, I suppose, that 
 until further developments you will keep this matter 
 to yourself?" 
 
202 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 " Of course, Burlen. What do you take me for? " 
 Whitcot rejoined with beaming generosity. 
 
 They then separated, and the student walked 
 further on toward the sandy stretch. When he was 
 out of sight, he sank down at the foot of a tree, over 
 come with wretchedness. "It was an omen, after 
 all," he murmured. " That semblance of two figures 
 "means a parting, a long farewell; and I am to be 
 parted from Edith ! I see. This is to be my sacri 
 fice." His own sermon was coming home to him. 
 
 "Dear me sus ! That cellar-door won t jag no 
 how ! " groaned Mrs. Pride, as she came into the 
 sitting-room that evening, having just brought up 
 from the home of the house-adder a glass of milk for 
 Mrs. Savland to take just before going to bed. "I 
 s pose you think I m in a dreadful pheese about it. 
 Well, so I am and no mistake. Besides, everything 
 seems to be pernicketty to-day. There s Ann Fern- 
 low come up this arternoon for some soft soap, but 
 her pail wa n t bailed true, nor nothin ; so she 
 could n t carry it. What s more, father had n t got 
 the soap ready, and she could n t have carried it if it 
 had been bailed, the pail that is ; and Tim thy, he 
 would n t even come and say Bo-to-a-goose to her. 
 I don know what in poky s come over Tim thy, late 
 days ; he don t pay no sort o tention to her, and yet 
 a nicer, handier gal you don t find this side Monad- 
 noc, take it as you ma} from one degree of attitude 
 to another ! I more n half believe it s that terr ble 
 Ida gal down to the village at s brewing mischief 
 
A FRIENDLY ENEMY. 203 
 
 atween him and Ann. Now should 3-011 s pose any 
 one d do so?" 
 
 Here the ancient woman, having set down the 
 milk, contemplated Edith and her aunt earnestly ; 
 her gray and white face twitching uneasily, as old 
 faces and old cobwebs do when they have hung too 
 long in the same place and are disturbed. 
 
 41 I m sure," said Mrs. Savland, with refined pre 
 cision, "I ve no idea who the person is you allude 
 to, and I can t in the least form a judgment." 
 
 "And then there s Mr. Burlen," continued Mrs. 
 Pride, gliding to another subject, without the least 
 ruffle at this rebuke, " there s another thing that s 
 all quirky. Why did n t he come down to tea, I d 
 like to be told?" In fact, the student had kept 
 his room that evening, not even appearing at the 
 table. "He said he didn t feel quite chirk, you 
 know, this eve ; but I guess you *d ought to know 
 somethin about that, Miss Edith. I ve sort o 
 skirtled it all round in my mind, and that s about 
 what I make it, that he s just where you can make 
 him as mis ble as you a min to. Now don t bear 
 down on him too hard. Take an old mother s ad 
 vice, that s sort o blinked in a few idees while she s 
 been a dnstin round this poor world of ours." 
 
 Mrs Savland s little sand-papered features had 
 sharply contracted with horror while this speech was 
 delivering, and she was prompt to utter at its close 
 an admonition to this effect : " I must beg you, Mrs. 
 Pride, not to bring up again a subject of this sort, 
 which does n t concern }"ou. If my niece needs ad 
 vice, she will come to me." 
 
204 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 "Well, well, suit yourself, Miss Edith," retorted 
 the housewife, indirectly. "One old woman s as 
 good as another, I guess. But you can take your 
 pick, /ain t proud." 
 
 The fact remained that Edith was not a little 
 disconcerted at Burlen s indisposition, which she 
 could n t help suspecting though she did not know 
 why was more a mental trouble than anything else. 
 
 There was a pallor in his brown complexion the 
 next morning. She also noticed how harassed and 
 miserable he looked, during all that day and the one 
 following. He remained as much as possible alone. 
 The truth was, that he suffered almost as keenly from 
 self-reproach as he did from dread of the discovery 
 that seemed to be impending over him. All these 
 years he had been looking forward to finding the lost 
 Thyrsa ; for a long time, as he had told Archdale, he 
 had believed that this was his indispensable dutj T , 
 without the performance of which no other obligation 
 could be faithfully carried out. Many a time he had 
 looked forward with joy to a possible reunion with 
 this sole remaining being to whom close ties of blood 
 bound him. And now, now when the moment for 
 it approached, how did he feel? Reluctance and 
 despair had taken the place of that imagined joy. 
 He did not wish to meet his sister. Week by week, 
 without fully anah zing his own state of mind, he 
 had come to feel that he was getting nearer and 
 more near to the goal of winning Edith ; and he had 
 shifted the whole fabric of his future to the founda 
 tion of that hope. Formerly it had been the recovery 
 
A FRIENDLY ENEMY. 205 
 
 of Thyrsa, on which his plans had depended : now it 
 was the gaining of Edith s love that seemed essential 
 to his success in the world ; and with him success 
 meant usefulness. 
 
 But all this, he told himself, was cowardice. By 
 a prodigious effort he brought himself back to a sense 
 of his duty to the one remaining member of his fam 
 ily. If she was really near him at last, he must go 
 and seek her unflinchingly, devotedly. 
 
 But before the time came for going to the " socia 
 ble affair" of the " Union Mills C. B. Association," 
 whatever that might mean, he matured a resolve 
 which he did not impart to Whitcot. He could not 
 depend upon the engineer, whom he knew to be a 
 possible opponent to his success with Edith. There 
 was no one indeed on whom he could depend, ex 
 cept Archdale. 
 
 Accordingly he made an excuse to get to the vil 
 lage before Whitcot, on the appointed Wednesday ; 
 and there he sent off a despatch asking Doctor 
 Archdale to return immediately to the scene he 
 had barely left. 
 
 Having accomplished this, he waited for his self- 
 appointed friend, as had been agreed, in the porch 
 of Savage s Hotel. From there the} proceeded in 
 company to the Town Hall. 
 
 The room had been decorated for the evening s 
 festivities with sundry pine-boughs and streamers ; 
 an extraordinary collection of lamps added to its 
 dowdy brilliancy, and a large crowd of people in 
 would-be showy attire were already assembled, when 
 
206 IK THE DISTANCE. 
 
 the two entered. The "levee" being an important 
 one, Ann Fernlow and Timotlry had also made their 
 way there, and Burlen descried them before long 
 amid the slowly-moving mass. In one corner a 
 slender partition of scantlings and thin stringers 
 covered with feebly painted cloth had been raised, 
 separating from the main hall the refreshment de 
 partment, which was approached through an arched 
 entrance glittering with tinsel. After a time, a short 
 man with puffy cheeks and a white waistcoat made 
 his appearance on the permanent platform at one 
 side of the room, and putting his hand up in a listen 
 ing position near his ear, as if he had just heard 
 something of singular importance, succeeded in 
 attracting attention and producing silence. The 
 wandering throng hereupon paused and listened to 
 some gloomy recitations from an actor "who had 
 kindly consented, being in the neighborhood," etc., 
 and received them with sternly conscientious ap 
 plause. He was followed by a ventriloquist, who 
 soon threw them into successive spasms of genu 
 ine laughter. And when these performances were 
 completed, a small band struck up, and the dancing 
 began. 
 
 Whitcot had already pointed out Rudyard to his 
 companion ; but the} had not as }*et seen Ida. A 
 curious old fishers hornpipe was being danced, in 
 which Major Brown had joined, so as to show the 
 others the fine points of the steps as they used to be 
 executed when he was a young man. Ann Fernlow 
 his partner, and he treated her with an elabora- 
 
A FRIENDLY ENEMY. 207 
 
 tion of gallantly at which Timothy stared in amaze, 
 from the edge of the surrounding crowd. Ann was 
 attired in a plain black dress, which fitted remarka 
 bly well, and left no baggy folds that might harbor a 
 doubt as to the natural grace of her yout&ful figure. 
 A narrow rim of white collar showed just within the 
 black of the dress, where it closed evenly and with a 
 kind of primness around her throat. There was also 
 a small knot of cherry ribbon at that point, and a 
 bow of it on her black hair. Her eyes sparkled with 
 excitement, and there was a pretty color in her 
 cheeks. No time for bashfulness was allowed in this 
 energetic hornpipe. There was a constant forming 
 and reforming of lines and groups ; the dancers 
 shifted here and there punctually to the brisk tune of 
 " Comin Thro the Rye." Now there was a row of 
 men facing a row of women, all of them shaking 
 about gently as if they had been mounted on wire 
 springs. Major Brown passed into romantic retire 
 ment behind the row of men, and there executed a 
 very singular pas seul with man} eccentric little skips 
 and flings of the feet, such as the victim of a hope 
 less love might be expected to indulge in during his 
 solitary walks ; while Ann Fernlow, screened by the 
 women on the other side, tripped up and down in a 
 daintier manner, the crimson bow fluttering on her 
 head with a heartlessly coquettish motion. Then the 
 two "moved around the ends of their respective rows, 
 discovered each other in an accidental way, and 
 apparently came to an understanding with startling 
 swiftness ; for they at once joined hands and pranced 
 
208 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 contentedly down the lane between the men and 
 women. There was more confusion and more turn 
 ing ; after which another swain and another lass 
 enacted the same silent episode, with the same happy 
 result. Another figure brought the united couples 
 face to face, whereupon they began to skip from side 
 to side with several sprightly steps each way, as if 
 unable to determine how they should pass each 
 other ; and, being unable to settle the question, they 
 gave it up and danced off into new combinations. 
 
 At last the band ceased to come through the rye, 
 and the tired hornpipers stopped, amid a clapping of 
 hands from the on-lookers. Ann and the Major came 
 out with the chief honors. 
 
 Just at that moment Burlen, who had been stand 
 ing beside the tinsel archwa} , turned and found him 
 self within two or three feet of the person he had 
 been looking for. Ida was just coming out from the 
 refreshment department. She stopped short and 
 looked at him piercingly. So great was his nervous 
 tension, that this action and the shock of seeing her 
 so unexpectedly almost convinced him that he stood 
 before his sister. He was on the point of uttering 
 her name, when Ida, glancing away again, passed 
 rapidly by and made her way into the crowd. 
 
 The young man felt a cold perspiration starting 
 out on his face. He hurried to Whitcot. "I shall 
 be taken sick if I stay here," he whispered. "I 
 can t endure it." 
 
 " You saw her, just now? " 
 
 " Yes." The word was hardly audible. 
 
A FRIENDLY ENEMY. 209 
 
 < Well ? What do you think ? " 
 
 "I don t know. It s impossible to think. I m 
 all unstrung." 
 
 Whitcot again pitied him. " Are you going away 
 now?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes. I 11 go alone." 
 
 " Very well. Don t be too much cut up, though." 
 
 Burlen, without replying, made haste to get off, 
 much to the regret of some of the Second Church 
 people, who had been greatly pleased and somewhat 
 flattered by his coming to the levee, and now vainly 
 tried to detain him. 
 
 As he tramped back through the warm and scented 
 darkness, the moon stood slenderly curved in the 
 sky, as if balancing itself on some unseen pinnacle 
 higher than the mountains. Its light and the fresh 
 air quieted him somewhat, and he decided to stroll 
 along a lower road, near the river, before returning 
 to Pride s. He made the detour accordingly, and, 
 finding that he could think over his affairs better 
 here, he sat down on the flat stones of a wall above 
 the river, in deep shadow. The moon did not so 
 much illuminate the rounded fields and the woods 
 that were drawn into sharp points or long curves 
 by the broken conformation, as it enveloped them 
 in mysterious tintings vaguely blent with white ; 
 although the brooding, secret waters of the stream 
 were touched with flitting sparkles of sharper radi 
 ance. There was a fitness in this dim, uncertain 
 coloring, as regarded his own mood. Everything 
 was very still, and the dam in the village rumbled 
 14 
 
210 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 "with a low sound no more obtrusive than that of a 
 bumble-bee. He had sat motionless a long time in 
 the shadow, and began to think of going, when a 
 rustling of leaves in some hazel-growth between his 
 position and the Contoocook attracted his attention. 
 It was too positive to have been caused by the wind. 
 
 He paused, wondering why any one else should 
 have chosen to ramble this wa}^ at so late an hour, 
 and became still more alert when he heard subdued 
 voices in that direction. The crackling of some 
 twigs and the pushing of leafy boughs proved that 
 the persons from whom the voices came were pro 
 ceeding along the river-side, and would soon appear 
 on the open ground. The tones were serious, and 
 were those of a man and woman. The man s voice, 
 even at that distance, appealed to his memory. 
 
 Could his suspicion be correct? He got quietly 
 into the low branches of a dense-foliaged maple be 
 side the wall- top, in order to see better and without 
 being seen. In a moment, the two untimely strollers 
 emerged into view. 
 
 Burlen could scarcely control his excitement as the 
 form of Ida Hiss outlined itself in the dim, greenish 
 field, two or three rods away. Again, the man who 
 was walking beside her said something argumenta- 
 tively. 
 
 Yes ; there could be no doubt. It was Whitcot ! 
 
REINFORCEMENTS. 211 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 REINFORCEMENTS . 
 
 BURLEN retreated from his post of observation 
 as soon as possible, and set out again on the 
 walk to Pride s hill. His pulse was beating rapidly, 
 for he felt sure that he had detected his friendly 
 enemy s true character. "VVhitcot s effort to prevent 
 his meeting with the girl, and then this clandestine 
 consultation by night seemed to show clearly enough 
 that some plot was hatching. Exactly what it might 
 be he exhausted conjecture in trying to settle ; but 
 vainly. 
 
 A light was burning in the tent as he came within 
 sight of it. He went up to it and looked in. Rav- 
 ling was there alone, reading. 
 
 " Whitcot has n t got back yet, I suppose," Burlcn 
 hazarded. 
 
 "No. It s after eleven, but I have to mount 
 guard till he comes. Can t leave the light burning, 
 and go to sleep : tent might burn, too." 
 
 Burlen explained that he had left Whitcot in the 
 hall a good while before. " He found it more enter 
 taining than I did. I ve been so leisurely about 
 climbing up here that I thought I d see whether he 
 had forestalled me. Good night." 
 
 u Good night," said Ravling. 
 
212 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 The candidate could no longer imagine that he 
 had in any way deceived himself as to the identity of 
 the loiterer, but he went to his room without waiting 
 for any explanations that night. " If he has no 
 wish to conceal something, he will tell me in the 
 morning what he has been about," he reflected. 
 
 But the morning brought no disclosure. The 
 engineer gave no sign of communicativeness. 
 
 44 You were late last night," said Burlen, signifi 
 cantly, when they got a moment or two alone. 
 
 "Yes, quite." 
 
 " And did n t you arrive at anything, in your inter 
 view by the river ? " 
 
 Whitcot started. " Ah," he sneered, " you were 
 within sight after we parted, and } T et would n t give 
 me the pleasure of your company ? " 
 
 " I doubted whether it would be a pleasure to 
 either of us just then," Burlen retorted. " Besides, 
 Rudyard, you know, is dangerous ! Had you chained 
 him up, out of the way, that you dared to be out 
 with with Ida?" 
 
 "If j ou want to practise rhetoric, Burlen, take 
 some other occasion. Because you accidentally 
 caught sight of me under circumstances which you 
 don t understand, you are kind enough to By 
 the way, what is it you re kind enough to suspect? " 
 
 "Nothing. I m simple enough, though, to think 
 secrec} of movement and reticence on } T our part de 
 cidedly out of place in this matter." 
 
 " Yes ; because }*ou re not capable of imagining 
 that I was willing to run some risk, in order to have 
 
R E IN FOR CEMEN TS. 213 
 
 a talk with this girl and try to find out something 
 definite." 
 
 " I can imagine it ; but why were n t you ready to 
 tell me of it at once ? " asked the student of divinity, 
 beginning to condemn his own haste. 
 
 " Simply because there was nothing worth telling. 
 I could n t gain any knowledge from her. And 
 now," pursued Whitcot, " perhaps you will allow 
 me to be incensed at your reticence. You might 
 have told me you had telegraphed for Archdale to 
 come to-day." 
 
 " How did you learn that I had?" 
 
 "In the easiest possible way. The operator told 
 me, at the levee. He wanted to know if any one 
 was ill here." Saying this, the engineer took out a 
 cigar and lighted it ; looking cynical the while, as if 
 his faith in humanity were gone, and tobacco alone 
 could be depended on. 
 
 Each having mistrusted the other, the} 7 were 
 obliged to compromise summarily and open a new 
 account of mutual confidence. Burlen yielded grace 
 fully to the situation, though it did not please him. 
 
 The truth as to Whitcot s proceedings had been as 
 follows : Dissatisfied with the very slight and doubt 
 ful result of his attempt to disconcert his rival, he 
 decided, even at the hazard of trouble with Rudyard, 
 to consult Ida herself on the subject of her assumed 
 identity with Tlrp-sa Burlen. " If she really is that 
 person, it s time for me to know it," he said to him 
 self. " And if she is n t " At this point his mute 
 soliloquy became indefinite. It was not quite clear 
 
214 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 to him what he should do, in that case. When a man 
 who esteems himself respectable is drifting nearer 
 and nearer to rascalitj , there is quite likely to be 
 some part of the course lying before him which he 
 instinctively prefers to leave undetermined. 
 
 Whitcot seized a chance, while standing near Ida 
 in the crowd at the levee, to exchange a few words 
 with her in an undertone. He told her he had some 
 thing very important for her to hear without delay ; 
 must speak with her alone that night. She took 
 this very coolly, which in so far he considered a 
 good sign, and immediately contrived means for 
 eluding Rudyard and meeting the engineer at a 
 spot which she prescribed for him, just outside of 
 the village. 
 
 There he at once broached the subject in his mind ; 
 but when he put the direct, crucial question, she ap 
 peared rather alarmed. 
 
 " I don t mean to answer," she affirmed finally. 
 
 " That settles it," said Whitcot. " If you were n t 
 Thyrsa Burlen, you would n t hesitate about an 
 swering." 
 
 The girl laughed at him. " I don t answer," she 
 said, "because you ve got no business to think 
 I m pretending; and I don t choose to talk with 
 you about it." 
 
 Whitcot made a feint of quitting the subject, and 
 entered into some slight banter, to which she put an 
 end by sa3 ing: "You told me there was something 
 very important for me to know. What is it?" 
 
 He proposed to walk a little way and discuss it. 
 
REINFORCEMENTS. 215 
 
 Then it was that he threw out hints and feelers with 
 the object of inducing her to in some way give color 
 to the theory that she was Burlen s sister. It might, 
 in the end, be of great worldly advantage to her, 
 he represented. She appeared to be impressed, but 
 would not commit herself; and this was as far as he 
 could get with her. 
 
 Burlen meanwhile awaited Archdale s coming with 
 impatience and suppressed torture. His one glance 
 at Ida s face had shown there some quality, half 
 hidden and half disclosed, which tallied with his own 
 memory of his sister. But wh} had she avoided him 
 and shown no emotion, if this resemblance were 
 more than accidental? His recollection of Tlryrsa 
 and the features of this enigmatical girl united to 
 form a sort of negative picture ; but his relations 
 with Edith seemed to pour a flood of light through 
 the negative, and stamp its outlines on his brain as 
 a burning reality. He could not decide, however, 
 whether this was the reality he had so long been in 
 search of; whether his sister was actually at this 
 moment so near him. Archdale could perhaps help 
 him. It might have been in bad taste to summon 
 him so peremptorily, yet he was glad that he had 
 done it. 
 
 He expected no return message, for the train 
 would arrive at noon. Still, feeling sure that his 
 old preceptor would not disappoint him, be asked 
 Timothy to borrow the Fernlow chaise for him and 
 bring it into a lane out of sight of the house, whence 
 
21G IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 he could drive to Powder Brook, a signal station 
 on the railroad, nearer than Savage s. The train was 
 signalled, and boarding it he found Archdale in it. 
 
 u Dear me ! " cried the old gentleman. " I had no 
 idea this is n t Savage s," he said, hastily survey 
 ing the diminutive shanty that served as a station. 
 
 " No, but I thought it would be more convenient," 
 the 3*oung man explained nervously. " I ve brought 
 a chaise for you." 
 
 They dismounted hurriedly ; the professor having 
 only a travelling-bag with him, on which were his 
 initials, worked by Edith in monogram. It con 
 tained a copy of Justin and a few other articles of 
 the scholar s toilet. 
 
 As the train left them alone in the road, Archdale, 
 standing very straight, his good, honest face shaded 
 by a gathering apprehension, asked: "Is it an} - 
 thing very serious, my dear boy? I hope no one is 
 ill." He tried to look as if prepared for bad news, 
 but the small gray whiskers on either cheek trembled 
 a little after he had done speaking. 
 
 " No ; all are well," said Burlen. " I must apolo 
 gize for sending in such haste, because it was for 
 nvyself." He looked awa} , for tears of humiliation 
 sprang to his eyes, which he must repress. 
 
 "Yourself?" 
 
 "Yes. Get into the chaise, please. I will tell 
 3 ou as we go along." 
 
 They drove over the beautiful, wild upland road 
 without further words, for a moment or two. The 
 young man scarcely knew how to begin. " I have n t 
 
REINFORCEMENTS. 217 
 
 told Mrs. Savlancl you were coming," he said, at 
 length. 
 
 "Oh," said Archdale. 
 
 Burlen thought there was a frostiness in his voice, 
 which struck him with apprehension. He feared that 
 he had already injured the cause for which he meant 
 to plead, before long, with Edith s father. But what 
 ever the result might be, there was no help for it 
 now. "It was very repugnant to me to take this 
 course," he said firmly. And then he went on to set 
 forth what had happened between him and Whitcot, 
 and what he feared might be true with regard to the 
 reputed Ida Hiss. He did not venture to look into 
 his companion s face while doing this, but at the end 
 he made a short peroration in excuse. "Perhaps 
 you can t form an idea from your own experience 
 I m sure } ou can t of how this trouble drags me 
 down and discourages me. It seems like a trap set 
 by evil powers, to ruin 1113 career. If this girl is my 
 sister well, there is no choice then but to give my 
 self up to caring for her and keeping her from harm. 
 And if she is not, the doubt and the mystery remain 
 hanging over me. At an}* moment I may find myself 
 in this same predicament again ; possibly at a time 
 when such a disgrace would not fall upon me alone, 
 but would be more public, and humiliate others 
 dear to me." 
 
 He had spoken earnestly but without vehemence, 
 feeling that he could no longer depend upon sym 
 pathy in his listener. From the despondency which 
 fell upon him as he closed, he was roused by a kind 
 touch on his arm. 
 
218 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 " I will help you," said Archdale, with a voice al 
 most feminine in its tenderness. 
 
 It was a great surprise. The graduate s e} r es 
 glowed with gratitude. " Then you will overlook/* 
 he began, " my presumption in sending " 
 
 "My dear Robert, you are in great need, which 
 entirely justifies you. Some way must be found of 
 settling your affairs, and I ought to have given them 
 more attention than I have. But since our last talk 
 at Marie I have often turned the subject over in my 
 mind, and I have concluded that you ought to cut 
 adrift from what hampers 3*ou. Your own usefulness 
 and the good of others require it." 
 
 Burlen did not stop to consider how he could 
 reconcile it with his conscience to cut adrift, should 
 the surmise about Ida prove true. For the moment 
 the delight of finding Archdale so cordial was enough, 
 and seemed to lift the burden from his shoulders. 
 
 Just then they reached the highest point in their 
 drive, and the guardian mountain, which had not 
 been seen on the lower windings of the road, came 
 into full view as if to welcome them. Nearer, and 
 divided from it In 7 a gulf, stood the old farm-house 
 and barn, amid the sunlit fields, with huge mulleins 
 spiring up in mist} silver-green along the stone 
 walls by the road. And as the} rolled swiftly with a 
 whir of wheels towards the house, a gray squirrel, 
 having just reached the summit of his ambition on a 
 pine-branch over them, emitted a shrill, triumphant 
 chatter for their benefit. 
 
 "I shall talk with Whitcot, and something must 
 
REINFORCEMENTS. 219 
 
 be done. We will confer this afternoon," said Arch- 
 dale. 
 
 " I want to see you alone again, too," Burlen said. 
 " There is something else something partly con 
 nected with this I would like you to know." 
 
220 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 HOW BURLEN SURPRISED ARCHDALE. 
 
 / T*HE professor allowed his sudden arrival to be 
 * taken as a duplicate of his first unexpected 
 coming, and Whitcot was careful not to betray the 
 fact that he had known of it in advance. 
 
 Archdale drew him aside. " I want to ask 3-011 a 
 question or two," he said, leading the way to the 
 clump of cherry-trees encircling that little, rocky out 
 door study whither Burlen had often resorted. 
 
 " Ah? " said the engineer politely, on his guard. 
 
 " About this affair of Burlen s sister. How much 
 do you know about the girl you suppose is she ? " 
 
 " He has told you, then? " inquired Whitcot, in his 
 turn. " Well, I know very little about her." Then 
 he regretted the admission, and became reserved. 
 
 " Good, so far ! I m afraid, though, that 3-011 were 
 
 rash in suggesting the idea to my young friend before 
 
 ascertaining decisively whether the person known as 
 
 -Ida Hiss, is it? bears her own name or not. 
 
 What was your object?" 
 
 "I I well, in short, I supposed he would 
 want to know." 
 
 u So," was the older man s comment. " So ; " 
 given in a not very reassuring tone. 
 
HOW BURLEN SURPRISED ARCHDALE. 221 
 
 Whitcot assumed the contrite. "I m sorry if I 
 made a mistake," he said. " I presume you knew 
 already about Burlen s ah " here his voice con 
 veyed a delicate shade of considerateness for an 
 ugly subject " Burlen s circumstances, since you 
 seem quite prepared for this subject." 
 
 Certainly, Robert is my friend; I possess his 
 confidence." 
 
 " Oh, well, if I had known that, I could have com 
 municated to you, first, what I had found out." 
 
 Archdale was well impressed, but replied perti 
 nently : "Excuse me, but I understand that you 
 have not found out anything." 
 
 "Quite right, sir. No; I should have said my 
 surmises." Civil-engineer Whitcot began to suspect 
 that he had something much harder to do than me 
 chanical drawing, before he could consider himself a 
 success. 
 
 "As you sa}V proceeded Archdale, "it would 
 have been proper to come to me with a guess. As 
 it is, you have been a little hasty. However, we 
 want to clear up the matter, and I shall expect your 
 co-operation. Can t 3^011 arrange for an interview 
 between myself and the girl?" 
 
 "1 will try." 
 
 "It should take place quite privately, you under 
 stand, of course." 
 
 " Of course. There s plenty of privacy plent^y 
 of solitude round here." Whether from some chance 
 recollection of that night-pursuit of Rudyard s, or 
 from a sense of failure closing in upon him, or some 
 
222 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 general vague foreboding, Whitcot shivered slightly 
 in making this reply. 
 
 "If you. can influence her," said Archdale, "try 
 to bring her to such a point that one interview will 
 suffice." 
 
 " I don t know of any influence to bring to bear, 
 except through Timothy Pride." 
 
 ""What, the farmer s son? What possible influ 
 ence can he have ? " 
 
 "That I can t tell you, sir. Accidentally it has 
 come to my knowledge that he has more or less 
 power over her ; and it might be worth while to try 
 to avail ourselves of it." 
 
 " Very well. See what you can do, and then let 
 me know, if 3*011 please." 
 
 And there, for the time being, the3 T left the coil 
 half unwound. But Whitcot had an uncomfortable 
 conviction, that, as fast as one end was unwound, it 
 laid hold of and tightened around him, and that it 
 might eventually trip him up. 
 
 In accordance with his promise that the3 T would 
 confer together, Archdale strolled down the glen 
 with Burlen, in the afternoon, and told him how he 
 had deputed Whitcot to arrange a meeting with Ida. 
 Burlen had something still more momentous to im 
 part. He had prepared himself to tell Edith s father 
 what was in his heart, and to ask Archdale s sanc 
 tion to his at least putting the decision of his happi 
 ness into Edith s hands. But in order to do this he 
 felt that he must also be prepared to have his whole 
 
110 W BURLEN SURPRISED ARCPIDALE. 223 
 
 past put before her. Archclale had trusted him, and 
 should be made to see clearly that his trust had been 
 well placed. If he judged, as he doubtless would, 
 that the preliminary to a marriage proposal ought to 
 be a full understanding on Edith s part in regard to 
 the conditions of his life, past and present, Burlen 
 made up his mind to accept that decision. To do 
 this required no mean effort, but he saw that honor 
 and manliness demanded it : a crisis had come, and 
 he could not permit himself to shrink from the duties 
 it involved. 
 
 "I have thought it all over, Dr. Archdale," he 
 began slowly, " and I have chosen this as the best 
 time to speak of a a subject veiy important to me. 
 But before I say what I wish to, I must ask you not 
 to think me too confident, or to imagine that I mean 
 to take your kindness in my present trouble as pledg 
 ing 3-011 to a still greater kindness." His hands 
 turned cold as he uttered these deliberate words 
 without any appearance of unusual agitation. 
 
 " I don t quite guess what you are at," replied 
 Archdale, n^stified ; " but I think you may rely on 
 me not to misinterpret you." 
 
 The good gentleman did not see what was coming, 
 and his inadequate manner made Burlen s inward 
 discomposure still harder to bear. " Has n t it 
 occurred to you," the 3 oung man asked, fixing his 
 deep e} es on Archdale, " that there ma} be a reason 
 for my wishing not to be humiliated before people 
 by having the dishonor of my family fastened on me 
 again a reason, I mean, much stronger than my 
 own personal mortification ? " 
 
224 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 " Certainty, Robert ; a very much stronger one, 
 that of the prejudice and unfair difficulty it might 
 throw in the way of your career, the usefulness of 
 which I expect to be great. Yes, I ve thought of 
 that. I thought we had discussed it. Have n t we 
 discussed all the reasons, before?" 
 
 "Not this one." It was a rough spot where they 
 stood, and the trees around them sprang up at un 
 wonted angles, owing to the unevenuess of the 
 ground. It seemed to Burlen that these trees, 
 poised in such a peculiar way about him, had begun 
 to stagger. He put out his hand to touch one, and 
 as he felt the contact of its rough bark, he said: 
 " The reason I refer to is I love Edith." 
 
 Then his eyes fell. 
 
 If the solid hickory by which Burlen steadied him 
 self had actually given way, instead of only seeming 
 to him just ready to do so, Archdale could hardly 
 have been more stunned than he was, for a moment, 
 by this announcement. He was unable to speak, at 
 first. An unreasoning anger choked him, anger 
 with himself, with Burlen, and even with his sister 
 Grace for having foreseen so much. But this passed, 
 and the Archdale of every day the man of polish, 
 the sound theologian, possessor of a well-trained 
 heart recovered himself. " I wish," he said in a 
 tone of criticism, but not harshly, " that you had at 
 least postponed this statement. Does n t it strike 
 you that there is a trace of impropriety in making it 
 just at this time?" 
 
 "Yes," was the unexpected answer. "And yet 
 
HOW BURLEN SURPRISED ARCHDALE. 225 
 
 I chose my time." Then Burlen seemed to pass 
 through a swift change. He cried out, in a tone that 
 was new to his listener: "Impropriety? Yes, I 
 was born in an impropriety, brought up in one ! It s 
 an impropriety that I should be in the toils of this 
 wretched mystery surrounding nry sister. Must I 
 unmake, remake, everything before I come to you to 
 confide this secret, as I once did the black one that 
 has been almost life-long? Perhaps I must n t allow 
 myself to think of Edith : I have considered that. 
 That may be an impropriety, too, the crowning 
 one." But in uttering her name his tumultuous 
 manner was checked, and he manifested a reverence 
 that impressed Archdale more than any impassioned 
 appeal could have done. " But even if I am to stop 
 thinking of her in this way, I must love her just the 
 same. I wanted to learn whether you would deny 
 me the right to hope. You know my story ; you are 
 my only friend ; you are her father. If you oppose, 
 I will submit : she shall never hear a syllable from 
 me unnatural though I might think it. But if you 
 were to countenance my suit at all, it would have to 
 be in the face of this thing that is still unsettled and 
 darkens my path." 
 
 "There is something brave and right in what 
 you say, Robert," the. other admitted with sorrow 
 ful frankness. 
 
 "I m glad you look at my motive in that way. 
 But of course that is not the same as giving me 
 liberty to speak. Do you feel that you can t do 
 so?" 
 
 15 
 
226 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 "It is hard to answer at once. Plow long has 
 this ah this idea been in your mind ? " 
 
 " Longer than I know, I suppose. But it is only 
 lately that I recognized it beyond doubt, and saw 
 that my whole future was wrapped up in it." 
 
 "Let us leave it for the present," Archdale pro 
 posed, hesitating. 
 
 I would rather not, sir. If 3*011 feel an opposi 
 tion to the thought that is very hard to overcome. I 
 had better know it at once." 
 
 "In any case," continued Archdale, still tempor 
 izing, "you could hardly approach Edith on such a 
 theme until after you had solved the problem which 
 has taken shape in the person of Ida Hiss." 
 
 Burlcn turned his eyes away wearily. It was 
 a severe strain upon him to subject emotions sa 
 cred, delicate, and hitherto untarnished by any one s 
 handling, to this process of weights and measures. 
 "No," he said, "I would not wish to. Besides, 
 I want to lay the facts of my life before her, in 
 any case, for her to view as she will, before I ask 
 her " 
 
 "Wait a moment, Robert. You may want to re 
 consider that. I appreciate the excellence of your 
 purpose in so planning. But it may be caused by 
 over-loA alty to me." 
 
 " I think not, sir." 
 
 " Well, on general grounds, I advise against it." 
 Unconsciously, Archdale had already, drawn on by 
 the j ounger man s sturdy sincertty, thrown himself 
 into his position, and was planning what course would 
 
HOW BURLEN SURPRISED ARCIIDALE. 227 
 
 be best for him in presenting his suit. " There is no 
 real need of 3*our embarrassing yourself in that way. 
 If it should really be the case that Edith " he 
 pulled up suddenly, seeing how far he had gone, but 
 gallantly resumed "that Edith cared for you, the 
 narration of past events would come more naturally 
 after some assurance of that fact, than before." 
 
 A look of gladness brightened in Burlen s face. 
 
 "Perhaps 3*011 are right," he answered. "But 
 you are speaking almost as if you were reconciled 
 to what I wish." 
 
 Archdale did what, ten minutes earlier, he would 
 have thought impossible: he smiled. "I believe I 
 am," he said candidly. "I hardly knew it; but 
 somehow 3*ou have won me over, I think. It was 
 nothing in you, Robert, that made me hesitate at 
 first. You know that. After all, I don t see why I 
 should stand between two j oung lives, if they grow 
 naturally together." 
 
 "I can t tell 3*011 how much 3*our goodness does 
 for me," the candidate responded, lifted into a calm 
 ecstasy by this favorable result. 
 
 "You accept my advice, then?" the professor 
 queried, punctiliously. " You see that it is better to 
 leave reminiscences until afterward ? " 
 
 " Let me think a moment," said Burlen. 
 
 Former^- he had been the one to request a post 
 ponement ; now it was Archdale who counselled it. 
 His instinct had been to let Edith know everything, 
 before asking her to be his wife ; but possibly that 
 was a crude idea, since it did not recommend itself 
 
228 IX THE DISTANCE. 
 
 to Archdale. It might not be at all fitting to preface 
 his proposal with a long and painful story. Then, 
 there were other considerations. Our relations in 
 life seem, at times, to be mcrety groupings, which 
 endure because they are effective and convenient, or 
 unavoidable like the chain-gang in prisons, inevit 
 able to sufferers under a common doom of disap 
 pointment. Only at times, I say, do they strike us 
 in this wa} . But it is undeniable that man} of our 
 dearest and apparently firmest ties may be dissolved, 
 at the least seriously modified, if one of the parties 
 to them shall be presented to the other in a suddenly 
 altered light ; not necessarily a light due to a fatal 
 misdeed, but simply some difference of opinion, some 
 flaw of temper, some episode of the past unexpect 
 edly made known and not fully understood. Such a 
 light, falling unexpectedly, often changes a person s 
 whole aspect in the e}~es of another, and causes 
 grave consequences, though the person in question 
 may not have been seriously at fault nor even blame 
 worthy at all. Regarded in this way, our mundane 
 unions of friendship, love, and society become like 
 experiments in chiaroscuro, constantly thrown aside 
 or neglected in the hope that something more nearly 
 perfect will be arrived at. If this can be so in 
 unions already formed, the risk is still greater when 
 a man appears suddenty before the woman to whom 
 he is about to declare his love, in a surrounding ot 
 rough and disenchanting fact wholly different from 
 what slie has grown used to associating with him. 
 Something of all this Burlen had observed during 
 
HOW BURLEN SURPRISED ARCHDALE. 229 
 
 his progress through the world, and now reviewed, 
 Edith was to him the fulfilment, in tangible form, 
 of that higher existence to which he had dedicated 
 himself; towards which he had slowly striven over 
 volcanic slopes of fire and tumult and destructive 
 upheaval. He had risen toilsomely, by the force of 
 an aspiration and of faculties which God had given 
 him, out of squalid depths up to her joyous and more 
 blessed plane. Would it not be more just, therefore, 
 to win his way further even as he had begun ? 
 
 " You seem to be in great doubt," observed Arch- 
 dale, who had watched the strong, brown, sensitive 
 face during that pause of absent reverj 7 . 
 
 " No ; I am in doubt no longer. It must be best 
 as 3"ou say. I think I will wait about telling her, 
 unless, of course, this girl is really Thyrsa." And 
 again, for an instant, Burlen s expression became 
 one of anxious pain. 
 
 The tone of life at the farm was insensibly deep 
 ening. All those who sat down to tea that evening 
 in the homely old dining-room, which the 3*oung peo 
 ple had nicknamed Gobble Hall, were occupied with 
 hopes and sentiments, fears, anxieties, and weighty 
 life-plans, excepting Mrs. Savland. Yet there was 
 no lack of mirth. The conversation was light and 
 amusing. There was youth enough in the party to 
 overcome all shadows of care and the slumbering 
 tides of solemn passion. Ravling, unlike Burlen, 
 had the art of separating himself from his own 
 affairs, or from what was going on around him, 
 
230 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 even though it might be cutting him to the quick, 
 so far as to regard all that happened as part of 
 a strange and entertaining, albeit an occasionally 
 tragic, show. This made him a good story-teller. 
 Odd experiences had befallen him, and he wrought 
 them all into a continuous drama full of surprises, 
 of wit and humor, sometimes of simple beaut} and 
 deep reflection, from which he drew at will to please 
 his friends. Nearly every one liked him, in conse 
 quence ; and on this particular evening he appeared 
 so well that an impartial authority might have pro 
 nounced him a dangerous rival to Burlcn. I suspect 
 that Edith really had some momentaiy compunctions 
 for her discouraging treatment of him. 
 
 Burlen, however, could not repress his hopefulness. 
 He had gained so much in this one day, that it 
 seemed impossible he should not continue and reach 
 the acme of his desires. Before the moon rose, they 
 were all called out to look at a camp-fire burning 
 on Monadnoc, a spectacle which to them was an 
 important event. The scene was glorious, and the 
 whole party were hushed by it. Great masses of 
 rising and falling ground rolled themselves towards 
 Monadnoc in a gloom of woods, decp-hued as a star 
 less sky ; but the real heavens hung blue-black above 
 this expanse, full of pale glittering lights. Dusk on 
 dusk, the mountain heaped its giant limbs high 
 against the stars ; and half way up its bold acclivity 
 the small spot of the camp-fire shone like a fierce e}*e 
 looking to the southward, so that Monadnoc seemed 
 even more than by daylight a potent, living presence. 
 
HOW BURLEN SURPRISED ARCIIDALE. 231 
 
 There was a vague murmur in the air of little brooks 
 that one might fancy had lost their way in the dark 
 ness and were whispering together how they should 
 get home. As Burlen stood there, near Edith, a 
 song-sparrow disturbed in her rest uttered from her 
 nest, in the ink-black trees by the road, a sudden, 
 soft twitter, lazy and remote as a sound in dreams. 
 In Burlen there awoke a gladness that responded 
 with good accord to that sweet note, as he recalled 
 how he had now put into articulate words the pas 
 sion that possessed him. But when he should speak 
 to Edith, it would no longer be like a sound in a 
 dream. 
 
232 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 XX. 
 
 A MEETING IN THE DESERT. 
 
 E more that Whitcot lost confidence in the 
 plausibility of entangling Burlen in ties of 
 relationship with a girl who assuredly could not be 
 considered a desirable sister-in-law, the more reso 
 lute he became in effecting some embarrassment 
 which should delay his rival s progress with Edith. 
 
 There were elements in the young engineer, differ 
 ent though his breeding was from that of the strange 
 child of night who had flitted by a seeming acci 
 dent into his life, which responded involuntarily to 
 her unfettered, dangerous nature. Argue as 3*ou 
 will from the strength of refining association, these 
 tendencies of downward affinity will be found in 
 places where, until one has learned to search deeper 
 than all prejudice or theory, they seem least likely 
 to occur. They perhaps denote in the cultivated 
 nature an unconscious remembrance of something 
 lower, from which it has risen by gradual stages, 
 through man} generations. 
 
 In Ida Hiss, Whitcot had encountered a living type 
 of the lower sort, still undeveloped ; and although 
 there had been something repellent in his first chance 
 association with her, she also exercised a species of 
 uncanny fascination over him. Now that he had 
 
A MEETING IN THE DESERT. 233 
 
 been drawn into fixing upon her as an instrument 
 in a plot to forward his own ends, he felt the force 
 of this more controlling!}", notwithstanding that he 
 still failed to take due account of it. Being com 
 missioned by Archdale to deal further with her, he 
 was obliged to see her again. The negotiation did 
 not proceed altogether satisfactorily. Arguments 
 had to be used. He cajoled, he flattered her. He 
 tried to persuade her that she would gain in Timo 
 thy s regard if she could rise, even for a short time, 
 to the position of Burlen s sister. And in doing all 
 this he dropped into a familiar relation, tinged with 
 a tawdry affectation of gallantry, not very creditable 
 and still less prudent, since it exposed him to Rud- 
 yard s suspicion and dislike. 
 
 She agreed to come to a rendezvous with Arch- 
 dale and Burlen at a sheltered spot just above the 
 desert ; but he could get from her no intimation as 
 to what she would do when there. Possibly she 
 herself did not know. Even this much was accom 
 plished only by the intervention of Timothy Pride. 
 When the assistance of that }"oung man was asked, 
 he replied : " You want to find out suthin from Id}"? 
 Well, I tell 3*011, Mr. Whitcot, it ain t no go. She s 
 as sharp as the little end o nothin ! " 
 
 Whitcot had not confided to him what they wished 
 to find out ; but the young fellow none the less used 
 his best endeavor to contrive the meeting. These 
 preliminaries occupied two days, but at last the 
 appointed time drew near. 
 
 The engineer told the two persons most interested 
 
234 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 how the interview was to take place ; and when the 
 hour came, Archdale and Burlen separately made 
 their escape unobserved from the house and chose 
 slightly circuitous routes to the place that had been 
 named. The engineer had to wait for Timothy, who 
 was bringing up to the barn some saplings which his 
 father and he had been trimming for wagon-poles. 
 Unluckily Ann Fernlow had just come with her 
 mother to see Mrs. Pride, and Timothy who had 
 been more devoted to the bashful little maiden since 
 her success at the levee gave indications of wish 
 ing to remain near her. He drove slowly np with 
 his loc.d of wagon-poles, singing his accustomed 
 song, which had the merit of containing only two 
 lines ; so that by varying the number of repetitions 
 it could be lengthened or diminished at will, and 
 made to fit exactly the extent of any drive, whether 
 long or short. 
 
 "I d ra ther be with Ro-sa-bel, 
 A-swing ing in the lane ! " 
 
 he roared, with all the vigor of his robustly insensi 
 ble lungs. Then, after vague intermediate humming, 
 he would reiterate his desire to be with Rosabel. 
 
 " I don t doubt you d rather be," growled Whitcot, 
 under his breath, standing near the gate; " but we 
 can t allow it, just at present." 
 
 The wagon was unloaded, and then Timothy de 
 liberately went to join his Rosabel, who, under the 
 guise of Ann Fernlow, was standing by the kitchen 
 door with the two elder women. "Come, Timo- 
 
A MEETING IN THE DESERT. 235 
 
 thy!" Whitcot hailed him. "I m ready to go out 
 with you now and set those traps in the woods." 
 This was to be their ostensible errand. 
 
 " All right. I want to talk to Ann and her mother 
 a spell, first," returned the youth, doggedly. 
 
 " Hurry up, then!" 
 
 But it was not an eas} T matter to get him away 
 from the shy little maiden. Finally Whitcot started 
 off slowly into the road, whistling with a fierce facil 
 ity that conveyed in the strongest terms his growing 
 impatience. This indirect appeal moved Timothy, 
 and he began to follow, but only to turn back once 
 more. 
 
 "Oh, Ann ! " he bawled, with affectionate energy. 
 "I had suthin I was goin to tell you, an I most 
 forgot it." 
 
 Ann twisted the forefinger of her left hand with 
 her timid little right one, by way of intimating that 
 she was all attention, and glanced out at him from 
 under her bent hat. 
 
 " They want me," said Timothy, jerking his head 
 descriptively towards that part of the house occupied 
 by the summer-boarders, " to drive one o the teams 
 to Monadnoc when they go. There 11 be room on 
 it for you." 
 
 Ann looked quickly at her mother, who nodded. 
 
 " What say? Will you go? " demanded Timothy. 
 
 "Yes, long as mother saj s I ma} ," the girl an 
 swered, inaccurately, since her mother had not 
 uttered a syllable. But she was blushing with grati 
 fication, and that satisfied her suitor. 
 
236 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 " All right. I 11 tell you, when we re goin ," he 
 remarked, with an assumed air of regarding it strictly 
 as a business matter, and having no sentimental 
 interest in it whatever. But he really found in the 
 little attention he had just offered a balm to ease his 
 conscience for the deception he was guilty of in go 
 ing to see Ida Hiss once more. His meetings with 
 Ida hitherto had been actuated on his part solely 
 by sedate curiosity, and rendered mildly agreeable Ly 
 the knowledge that she had what seemed an extrav 
 agant liking for him. At present he was going to 
 see her merely to oblige Mr. Whitcot, and was firmly 
 resolved to have nothing more to do with her. 
 
 Burlen having arrived first at the trysting-place 
 had seated himself on the thick, short grass under 
 the spreading boughs of a linden, the other half of 
 which overhung the sand. The tree was still full 
 of life and beauty, although the desert had begun its 
 fatal assault by banking sand up around the bole. 
 On the grass where the young candidate sat were 
 scattered scores of seed-sacks from the branches 
 above, each one a disk-shape provided with a small 
 green wing on one side, by means of which the wind 
 could waft it away to some final lodgment, far from 
 any one s ken, where it would either take root or 
 wither fruitlessly into dust. Little emblems of fate 
 they seemed, to Burlen ; and as he waited here for 
 the interview fraught with so many possible conse 
 quences, the sharp contrast of the hot sand-acres on 
 one side of him with the cool and shadowed green 
 ness on the other became typical of the junction be- 
 
A MEETING IN THE DESERT. 237 
 
 tween opposing forces in his career, which was just now 
 taking place. From his revery over these tilings he 
 was roused by Archdale s arrival ; and they were soon 
 afterward joined by Whitcot and his reluctant agent. 
 
 " Where can the young woman be?" queried the 
 professor, looking about. 
 
 "I can t imagine," said Whitcot, nervous with so 
 much delay. " It s considerably past the time when 
 she ought to have got here." 
 
 While they were staring in all directions for some 
 sign of her approach, they heard a low, contralto-toned 
 laugh, which seemed to come out of the sand-heaps 
 close by. They turned in astonishment, and there 
 was Ida emerging from a hollow between two of the 
 low crests of the desert-tract, where she had crouched 
 in effectual concealment. She wore no hat, even in 
 the warm sunlight that had been beating on her there. 
 With her shining black hair, her rich, deep complex 
 ion, and clear red lips exposed to the full after 
 noon glow, her vivid, careless vitality contrasting 
 with the haunting misery that never was absent from 
 her expression, she rose upon Archdale and Burlen 
 like an embodiment of the desolation in which she 
 stood at that instant ; a life that had sprung all at 
 once out of lifeless matter ; a creature having human 
 form and human traits, but not yet quite freed from 
 the encumbering weight of that lower and more 
 savage nature from which she had risen. 
 
 "I ve seen every one of you come," she said, 
 without waiting for any question. "1 was here all 
 the time." She stepped out on to the grass and 
 
238 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 faced the farmer-lad. " Timothy Pride, what do you 
 want here?" 
 
 "Any harm in my wantin to see you?" he re 
 torted, with the comfortable sulkincss of indifference. 
 You allus pretended you was sot on me, before." 
 
 "I don t want to see you with these men," she 
 said, glancing contemptuously at the others. " You 
 didn t say you was going to be here. You asked 
 me to come and talk to em, and I came because you 
 asked." 
 
 "Well, I did it a-puppuss," Timothy declared, 
 becoming belligerent. I want you to tell me what 
 I asked you so many times a ready, just where 
 you come from and who your folks be. They want 
 to know, and so do I ; and that s why we come to 
 gether. See ? " 
 
 The strange girl turned imperiously to Archdale. 
 ^"Send him away!" she commanded, pointing at 
 Timothy. She had not waited for any introduction 
 to the venerable and scandalized professor. 
 
 He, however, was resolved to be conciliatory at 
 all cost. Persuading the farmer s son to walk away 
 out of hearing, and contemplate a group of white 
 birches in the near distance, he then, with some 
 sternness, addressed Ida. M Now let us be reason 
 able, if you please," he began. After this he set the 
 case before her in courteous phrases, from his own 
 point of view. Mr. Burlcn had a sister who had left 
 her home, and so on ; rumors had arisen ; greatly 
 obliged if she would enlighten them ; and so on, and 
 so on. " In fact it is your duty," he wound up, " if 
 
A MEETING IN THE DESERT. 239 
 
 you are not this lost sister, or have no knowledge of 
 her, to state as much at once and put an end to all 
 doubt." 
 
 His eminently proper appeal made no discernible 
 impression. " I sha n t tell you anything about my 
 self," she said. " I don t know that I m anybody s 
 sister. Have n t you heard my name? Ida Hiss is 
 what folks call me, round here. If you ve all a 
 mind to tell me something about your families, per 
 haps I 11 tell you about mine. But I won t promise. 
 Suppose we all sit down and tell stories," she sug 
 gested, with an air of jo}*less amusement. Archdule 
 turned away from her in despair, shocked and dis 
 concerted. He had already made up his mind that 
 she had no claim on his former pupil, whoever she 
 might be. Then she turned to Burlen, with a half 
 sinister smile. "Do I look like your sister?" she 
 asked him. " If you want to treat me like a sister 
 and be nice to me, 3-011 can. It would be real fun ! " 
 
 It had been a part of Archdale s prescribed pol 
 icy that Burlen should make no strenuous appeal to 
 her ; that he should notice her, indeed, as little as 
 possible, and leave her to take her own course. But 
 this partly insolent, partty coquettish sally of hers, 
 together with her piercing and inscrutable gaze, 
 bewildered the young man. He could not actually 
 believe her to be his sister ; but the mixed current 
 of pity, longing, and terror that fretted against his 
 heart was hard to resist. 
 
 u I shall never treat } ou as a sister," he said in a 
 voice profoundly sad, which seemed to echo itself in 
 
240 -ftV THE DISTANCE. 
 
 a tremulous ringing tone, though he uttered each 
 word distinctly, " until I find that it is right to do 
 so. If you proved yourself my sister, no one should 
 be to you what I would." 
 
 He looked directly into her eyes while speaking, 
 and for a moment afterwards. She returned his 
 look ; but it was a mutual gaze which neither would 
 have been anxious, just then, to repeat. Who can 
 tell what dark abyss he explored, in those few sec 
 onds, or what terrifying height of spirituality she 
 discerned in him ? There was a still and awful pas 
 sion in their discovery of the distance between them ; 
 perhaps as when a star looks down into some black 
 tarn of earth, millions of miles below, and the dark 
 waters, looking up, tremblingly reflect the star. 
 
 She made no immediate answer, and Buiien turned 
 his gaze away and receded a few steps, as if that try 
 ing scrutiny had exhausted him. 
 
 But the girl had been shaken, influenced. For a 
 second or two a light shone in her eyes which might 
 have betokened some important resolution. She 
 glanced at Timothy, who stood a few rods away with 
 his back turned, and then at Burlen, as if she were 
 weighing the consideration that Whitcot had lately 
 suggested to her. So he at least fancied, leaning 
 with folded arms against the linden-trunk and ob 
 serving her. 
 
 " What would you do if I really was your sister?" 
 she inquired of the young theologian, after a pause. 
 " Would 3 ou think as much of me as } ou do of those 
 ladies up at the farm, mebbe? Would I have dresses 
 
A MEETING IN THE DESERT. 241 
 
 like them? How do you suppose they would like it? 
 How do you suppose they would treat me?" But 
 by the time she finished she had broken into a quiet 
 laugh of derision, which she seemed to direct against 
 herself as well as against other people in general, 
 and the ladies referred to in particular. 
 
 Burlen looked up again. The other two men in 
 stinctively withdrew a few paces. 
 
 "Are 3*011 Thyrsa?" demanded the unfortunate 
 young man, with agonized entreaty. "If you are, 
 tell me some little thing that will show it ! You 
 must n t be afraid. You don t know how I searched 
 for my sister, for }*ears. I don t believe } ou are she, 
 or else you could n t see me in such suspense without 
 telling me positively. Do you remember the little 
 pool where we used to play, and where my father 
 used to wet the wheels sometimes, when he was put 
 ting new iron around them ? It was near the shop, 
 just along the road. O Th}*rsa ! I remember I 
 ran after her, that very day when she left us for the 
 last time, and asked her if she would be back soon ! " 
 Tears forced themselves into Burlen s eyes. The 
 girl bent her face aside, so that he could not see it, 
 whether because she was really moved or only 
 wearied with the scene, it was impossible for him to 
 tell. "Wait!" he cried. "Did you ever have a 
 breast-pin made of your mother s hair, a small pin 
 made like a shield ? " He paused an instant : it 
 seemed to him that he heard a suppressed sob from 
 the girl before him. But she made no answer. 
 " Very well," he suddenly resumed, with forced com- 
 16 
 
242 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 posure. "I see. If 3*011 were Thyrsa, I m sure 
 3 ou would sa} T something when I reminded 3*ou of 
 mother." 
 
 Ida confronted him again, half fiercely, with no 
 trace of emotion in her face. " You wouldn t want 
 to have 3*0111 sister back, even if you did find her ! " 
 she exclaimed, passionately. "I know very well 
 how it would be. You d despise her. Why do 
 3*ou go on, this way? Haven t 3*011 had enough of 
 talking to me? Let s stop this." 
 
 Burlen drew back, despairing, 3*et with a sense of 
 relief. Archdale, growing impatient, returned to 
 the attack and made one more effort ; but Ida only 
 smiled disdainfully at him, and vouchsafed no reply. 
 Then Whitcot, seeing that no progress was being 
 made, brought Timothy forward again. 
 
 The girl warned him off, as he approached. Then, 
 on his advancing, she began to go further awa3*, and 
 mounted the low sancty ridge behind her. He fol 
 lowed, alone, leaving the rest in the background. 
 " You ve got to settle this to suit em," he asserted, 
 in matter-of-fact tones, " before you go away. Else 
 I sha n t marry you, nor have nothin more to do with 
 you." 
 
 She frowned and shook her finger at him. You re 
 a wicked little boy, Timothy," she said. " What do 
 you mean ? What is it to you ? " 
 
 "I don know s I sh d have anythin more to do 
 with you any way," he replied. " But then I prom 
 ised that managing engineer, or whatever he is, that 
 I d tell ye this. So there ! " 
 
A MEETING IN THE DESERT. 243 
 
 " That Whitcot? What a fool he is ! Oh, I re 
 member well enough," she continued, addressing the 
 engineer, though he was beyond reach of her voice, 
 " how you asked me, that first time I saw you, 
 whether I could be afraid of you. And so you thought 
 I would, did you? Listen, Timothy : he 11 find out 
 his mistake. There s some one else he d better be 
 afraid of! Timothy, you did wrong to make me 
 come up here ; and now I ve done it for you, 3-011 re 
 cruel and mean, and don t treat me well. You like 
 that little fraid-cat, Ann Fernlow, better than you 
 do me. Well, go along to her, then." The farmer s 
 son appeared quite willing to obey this injunction ; 
 but she pulled him by the sleeve as he began to move 
 away from her. "You won t forget me for always, 
 will you, Timothy?" she asked, in sudden earnest, 
 and betraying a kind of humility. 
 
 He shook her hand off. "Don t touch me!" he 
 said, with plain, prosaic testiness. 
 
 She recoiled as if more hurt than she would like to 
 admit. Then, all at once, waving her hand to the 
 three who stood further off under the linden boughs : 
 " Good- by, folks!" she cried. "I m sorry you 
 did n t bring those ladies to see me, too." 
 
 Timothy came back to them, indolently observing : 
 "You might s well whistle psalm-tunes to a dead 
 horse as talk to her! " (In strict accuracy, what he 
 said sounded like " Sam tunes.") 
 
 Archdale was moving forward to enter an appeal 
 against this tantalizing close of the interview which 
 was to have been so conclusive, when he was arrested 
 
244 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 by the sound of several people coming towards them 
 through the adjacent wood, and recognized the voices 
 of Edith and Viola in conversation with Ravling. In 
 another instant these new arrivals carrying bows, 
 quivers, and a target stepped out into the grass} 
 opening near the linden, and halted in amazement at 
 the disconnected and incongruous group which they 
 beheld there. 
 
 " Schucky ! " exclaimed Timothy, and immediately 
 made good his retreat over the bank of the desert. 
 
 "How strange you all seem, papa!" said Edith, 
 coming nearer. " Who is that woman there?" 
 
 " Some one Timothy has been talking with," said 
 her father, making an effort to appear perfectly col 
 lected. 
 
 " But why did he run away so? He told us }-ou 
 were all going to be here, and so we brought our 
 archery. But it took us so long to find it ! " 
 
 "Oh, he told 3-011, did he?" Whitcot asked, with 
 innocent surprise. " Well, let s begin." 
 
 "Are you all tired out with waiting?" Viola in 
 quired, in a singing tone and with a brilliant smile, 
 as if to indicate that she never became tired. 
 
 " How that woman watches us ! " Edith whispered 
 to her father, imeasity. 
 
 " We shall have to make a target of her," Ravling 
 declared jocosely, overhearing this. 
 
 But Ida, having scanned them all to her satisfac 
 tion, was now ready to go. Without further demon 
 stration, she walked along the edge of the sand, 
 ascended a little knoll at the end of it, where some 
 
A MEETING IN THE DESERT. 245 
 
 tall white birches grew in an airy clump together, and 
 stood there, briefly looking back at the rest, as if 
 she were a sorceress who was satisfied with casting 
 a spell over them from a distance. Then she van 
 ished. 
 
 Laughing at her singular behavior, Ravling set up 
 the target, and the archery practice began ; Burlen 
 and the professor taking no share in it. In a few 
 moments there came floating up from the glen below 
 the desert a sturdy voice, keyed to the familiar 
 
 strain : 
 
 " I d rather be with Ro-sa bel." 
 
 This ditty was repeated a few times, and then died 
 awa}^. After a while, the} heard the same voice 
 calling to the cattle: "Bossy, bossy, bossy, bossy! 
 Coo, coo, coo!" And again, further off: "Bossy 
 bossy boss} ! " It formed a grotesque closing 
 strain to the unique parley which had just taken 
 place, 3 r et it resounded in the vast silence of declin 
 ing afternoon, and in this lonely spot, with a mourn- 
 fulness that struck Burlen. To him it seemed as if 
 everything, even the most prosaic occurrence, took 
 on a shade of the tragic among these solemn hills. 
 
 When the party got ready to go, he contrived to 
 pass near enough to Whitcot for a moment to mutter 
 in his ear, " If Timothy told the others we were going 
 to be here, there is only one person who could have 
 given him the hint." 
 
 The engineer did not flinch nor change expression. 
 But his very self-possession condemned him, in Bur 
 len s opinion. It seemed altogether probable that he 
 
246 IN THE DISTANCE, 
 
 had intended to bring about a theatrical surprise, 
 which, had Ida acknowledged herself the theologi 
 an s sister, would have led to an abrupt disclosure 
 before the entire assemblage of friends. 
 
 "Well, Robert," said Archdale, when they were 
 alone, " it seems to have come to nothing. What is- 
 your opinion about the girl ? " 
 
 " It seems less likely to me now, than at any time 
 since the notion was broached, that she can be 
 Tlryrsa. At least, I shall repudiate it entirely from 
 now on until she chooses to bring positive proof." 
 
 "Quite right!" nodded the professor, cheerfully. 
 " I think you may consider yourself free." 
 
 And he knew how much that phrase meant to 
 Buiien. 
 
THE CROWN OF MONADNOC. 247 
 
 XXL 
 
 THE CROWN OF MOXADNOC. 
 
 ALIGHT rain set in the next day after the scene 
 which has just been described, and caused the 
 inmates of Pride s to postpone for another twenty- 
 four hours the drive to Monadnoc and the ascent to 
 its summit, which they had been planning. 
 
 It was now late in August, and the half-circle of 
 peaks at the head of the valley, which marked the 
 shading of one season into another by the slow 
 changes of their hues, had grown yellow and brown 
 with sun-burnt pastures and ripening harvests on 
 their lower slopes. The green of the woods, too, 
 began to dim and to 3 ield, here and there, to russet 
 tarnishings, small patches of faint gold, or touches 
 of bizarre crimson at rare intervals. The excursion 
 to the mountain-top came as a culmination of the 
 holiday sojourn. It would not be long before the 
 little group of friends and rivals would disperse 
 again. Nothing had yet been done by the Second 
 Church in regard to securing Burlen as its pastor, 
 the congregation being still agreeably occupied in 
 trying one preacher after another; but he did not 
 feel inclined to stay at Pride s, awaiting their deci 
 sion. Ravling, likewise, was inwardly hearkening to 
 
248 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 the call of legal business, which was already sum 
 moning him back to Boston. 
 
 Yet the lawyer found it hard to fix upon an unal 
 terable date for returning. It must not be supposed 
 from the hints of a growing interest in Miss Viola 
 which we have noticed, that his mood had radically 
 changed with regard to Edith. All that he had said 
 to her at Marie he still felt ; but he was at a loss to 
 conceive how that subject could ever come up be 
 tween them again until after a longer period than 
 had yet elapsed. Still he waited near her, vaguely 
 feeling that something more definite than had thus 
 far occurred ought to happen before he could leave 
 her vicinity. Mrs. Savland, to whom her niece had 
 confided nothing of Ravling s twice-made proposal, 
 had now put Whitcot into the second place on her 
 books, and was very desirous of a match with the 
 lawyer, not for herself, but merely for herself 
 through Edith. She found herself unable to do any 
 thing important towards it, but she lent herself to 
 the cause of detaining Ravling. 
 
 During this day of leisure Edith was busy with 
 unsatisfied mental inquiries concerning the mysteri 
 ous young woman whom she had seen apparently 
 conversing with Timothy in the presence of her 
 father, Burlen, and Whitcot. She had afterwards 
 recalled her face as that of the waitress at the hotel, 
 whom she had seen standing in the court-yard with 
 the engineer, a thing she had thought very singular 
 at the time. Could it be that something was going 
 on in regard to this girl which had not been confided 
 
THE CROWN OF MONADNOC. 249 
 
 to her? Burlen s preoccupation, approaching dejec 
 tion, as he sat silent under the linden-tree during the 
 archery game, had not escaped her ; and if there was 
 a secret, it did not seem a very great leap of inference 
 to conclude that the secret affected him. Being ut 
 terly in the dark as to his troubles, however, she 
 could not guess how it could affect him. Having 
 got thus far in her meditations, it suddenly occurred 
 to Edith to ask herself whether, were the secret 
 Ravling s or Whitcot s, she would pay so much at 
 tention to it as she was now doing. Her conscience 
 promptly answered "No." 
 
 This led to a haughty little resolve that she would 
 not give the matter another thought ; and thereupon 
 she began to think about it more than ever. "I do 
 wish he would tell me about himself," she finally 
 said. She began to regard his reticence as a per 
 sonal injury. 
 
 "The sky looks kind o scurried up," Mrs. Pride 
 informed them, that evening, on taking a hasty 
 meteorological observation before closing the house- 
 door for the night. But the morning dawned fair, 
 and the atmosphere was fresher for the recent show 
 ers. The drowsy premises soon became noisy with 
 the bustle of preparation. Mrs. Pride twitched her 
 face a great deal, and kept exploding with exclama 
 tions of anxiety and impatience as she hurried about, 
 getting the luncheon. The cellar-door not "jag 
 ging" to her satisfaction, she lifted it quietly off its 
 hinges and laid it against the wall. Timothy became 
 
250 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 breathless with his labors in currying and harnessing 
 the horses, and in attending to his mother s demands 
 for help ; but she considered it a point of propriety 
 that he should not be allowed to rest for an instant. 
 "Come, yon can t sit there sucking 3-011 r claws all 
 day ! " she cried, when he incautiously dropped down 
 upon a chair, with nothing more to do. "Go and 
 get me a jug for this cold cotfec." Bolting into the 
 rust} outer kitchen to obey her behest, he stumbled 
 upon the three rivals democratically blacking their 
 own boots with as much vigor as if their success 
 and happiness for life depended on outdoing one an 
 other in the splendor of their polish. Every bod j , in 
 fact, was busy. 
 
 Viola was wrapping herself in veils, as if she 
 were a water-color study which might fade if exposed 
 carelessly to the sunlight. Edith took care to arm 
 herself with a favorite book, to be read in some 
 cosey perch of the rocks, but really destined to re 
 main forgotten in her pocket all da}" ; and Mrs. 
 Savland packed a small reticule with linen bandages, 
 smelling-salts, and witch-hazel, in gloomy forebod 
 ing of accidents which refused to occur. Only Arch- 
 dale, who had strapped a field-glass over his shoulder 
 for the views, paced up and down in exaggerated 
 calm, trying to counterbalance the undue confusion 
 into which the rest had fallen. 
 
 Mr. Pride had already taken his place on one of 
 the wagons, when the excursionists came out; but 
 in deference to the society of ladies he promptly spat 
 out a chip of wood which he had been chewing to 
 
THE CROWN OF MONADNOC. 251 
 
 curb his restlessness. Then there ensued a careful 
 stowing away of baskets and pails ; and Timothy 
 watched with astonishment the number of light 
 cloaks and shawls, and the air-cushion and camp- 
 stool, which Mrs. Savland insisted on carrying. 
 Edith wore a costume of plain dark-blue, with glint- 
 ings of silvered buttons and narrow silver braid here 
 and there. Her only ornament was a necklace of 
 small amber beads. This met with critical approba 
 tion from Timothy ; but the other ladies struck him 
 as too elaborate. He preferred Ann Fernlow, in 
 her modest figured gingham, especially since the 
 gingham was in close proximity to himself, and he 
 could look into the wearer s face without embarrass 
 ment, because her eyes drooped so shyly that she 
 did not see any part of Timothy above the hand in 
 which he held the reins. At last they started ; and 
 Ann began to waver to and fro with the jolting of 
 the wheels over rough places, like the sober grasses 
 in a field, swaying gently to the breeze. 
 
 "Are you a very careful driver, Timothy?" in 
 quired Archdale, becoming suddenly thoughtful after 
 a severe downward thump and abrupt turn while 
 they were still descending the first hill. 
 
 " I can team it better than dad," the youth de 
 clared boastfully, feeling the stimulus of Ann s 
 presence. "Of course," he continued in an injured 
 tone, "he wanted to go first so s to make it safer; 
 and may be t is, for if he was behind us I would n t 
 insure this here tool-cart on no terms. You d see 
 him come shootin down on us somewheres just like a 
 
252 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 a telescope." Timothy chose this word from an 
 impression that it had a good deal to do with rail 
 road collisions. 
 
 "Is he so bad a driver as that?" asked the old 
 gentleman, much concerned for his sister, who was 
 supercargo of the other wagon. 
 
 " No, he ain t a bad driver ; but I can beat him. 
 I dared him once to do what I did, drive a horse 
 in an open buggy up the hill back o Major Brown s 
 cider-mill; and he wouldn t. Why, it s so steep 
 there, there ain t any road, you know, that afore 
 the horse got to the top he could look right over his 
 ears an see his own back. Easy, too." 
 
 "I hardly see how that could be possible," re 
 marked the professor, feeling that he must hereafter 
 observe equine anatonry with particular care. 
 
 " Well," said Timothy with scrupulous exactness, 
 "I don know but that special horse was a leetle 
 mite cross-ej ed." 
 
 "Ah, yes; perhaps that would explain it,". Arch- 
 dale said musingry. 
 
 He tried to appear unconcerned ; but during a 
 good part of their long drive he was in momentary 
 expectation, when tlie}^ passed any unenclosed slope, 
 of seeing Timothy charge it with his horses like a 
 battery of artillery suddenly ordered into action. 
 
 Monadnoc, that morning, had resolved itself from 
 the slight cloudiness of the day before into its usual 
 hue, a deep aluminous blue, letting the 63-6 sink into 
 recesses of color seemingly endless ; and the rich 
 brown and yellow of some coreopsis flowers, rising 
 
THE CROWN OF MONADNOC. 253 
 
 on long stalks from a low swell of ground near the 
 road, were thrown against it like knots of gold em 
 bossed on a surface of lapis lazuli. But as they 
 drew nearer it changed. The glory of distance 
 melted awa} T into forms and colors that showed the 
 mountain as it really was, a part of the eveiy-day 
 world, but gathering the ordinary elements compos 
 ing that into a grandeur which made of them some 
 thing superior, and almost lifted them into a new 
 order of material. Yet the unit} 7 of its whole mass, 
 which gave it such a solid serenity and so reposeful 
 an effect when seen from afar, suffered in some 
 degree under this closer scrutiny. To come from 
 looking at it in a long aerial perspective to contem 
 plating it here, was like suddenly meeting an old 
 friend whom one has known in the prime of life, and 
 finding his face stricken and scarred with age and 
 sorrow. Among the thick woods banked upon its 
 sides rude ledges of rock showed through in some 
 places, with a dead ashy tint. Even the trunks 
 and branches of the trees in the white sunlight that 
 brought out the dry gray of their bark, made the 
 skeleton of the forest quite as prominent as its cov 
 ering ; the unreckoned mj riads of leaves seemed to 
 have alighted on the limbs only to rest a while before 
 departing again with the quick flight of the New 
 England summer. And for a brief space while he 
 could regard the mountainous mass at a particular 
 angle, with its rough features gathered together in a 
 particular way, Bnrlen was startled at the aspect of 
 hard, immovable agony in which it presented itself 
 
254 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 to him. The next moment the soft sky above it, 
 full of dim white convolutions of cloud that hung 
 motionless or dissolved imperceptibly, gave it a be 
 nignant and peaceful air. A bird was seen flying 
 over it in the sunny ether, as if it were nothing so 
 very terrible or significant after all. Birds were 
 singing in the green hiding-places about it, treating 
 it familiarly. Then the wagons passed through a 
 gate on the road, to begin winding up towards a 
 small hotel on the other side of the mountain ; and 
 Monadnoc from this point was transformed into a 
 great, cheerful mound, decked with waving festival 
 boughs. 
 
 44 What s the gate for?" asked Viola. 
 
 " It s to keep the mounting from strayin into any- 
 body s pastur ," said Timothy. " That s all." 
 
 They had started early ; so that when they came 
 to the hotel, at the end of the wagon-road, it was 
 agreed to make the climb to the crest before lunch 
 ing. Viola and "Whitcot at once moved forward on 
 the rough path that led thither, stirred by a desire 
 to be the first to reach the top ; Burlen and Edith, 
 chancing to be near together, followed. This left 
 Ravling in the position of having to offer his services 
 to Mrs. Savland, as Archdale hesitated to attempt 
 the rather arduous ascent. Miss Viola, with a tin 
 flower-case fastened at her waist, looked like a Diana 
 with a cartridge-box, and trudged ahead at a speed 
 equally appropriate to the fleet huntress. She soon 
 disappeared with her escort along the rising way that 
 passed under a continuous canopy of 3*011 ng trees ; 
 
THE CROWN OF MONADNOC. 255 
 
 and as Mrs. Savlancl moved at a slow pace in the 
 rear, Burlcn was left in enviable solitude with Edith. 
 The mountain-side was full of delightful sounds. 
 They heard the liquid trill of the wood-pigeon and 
 the distant, hushed babble of running water. A red 
 squirrel scampered across their course at one point, 
 and at another when they sat down to rest on a 
 convenient flat slab of stone, the rich, low murmur 
 of wild bees accompanied their talk with an en 
 chanting undertone. 
 
 They gained an open plateau strown with tumbled 
 fragments from the topmost ridge that rose abruptly 
 above it ; and from here on, the real climb from rock 
 to rock beginning, Burlen had to give Edith his hand 
 more than once. They had hitherto seldom even 
 shaken hands; and whenever .they had done so it 
 was alwa} s with a light, escaping touch on Edith s 
 part. But now she grasped strongly for help, and 
 it seemed to him a gain that she shtwld place this 
 much reliance on him. -As they toiled upward, a 
 wandering night-hawk sailed high over their heads, 
 his muffled, secret note falling like a question : u Who 
 are these ? are these ? " Perhaps the true answer 
 would have been, "A pair of lovers." But as yet 
 Burlen could not be sure that this was the true one. 
 
 When they arrived at the narrow, uneven surlace 
 at the top, a solid floor of schist cross-lined, irregu 
 larly worn away by the conflicts of time, and pitted 
 with fine dents from billions of driving rain-drops 
 during man} 7 centuries, they discovered Whitcot 
 and Viola, busily looking at various points in the 
 
256 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 vast landscape below, and holding on to their hats 
 against the swift breeze that came bounding and 
 sweeping with unexpected velocity over the bare, 
 stony crest. 
 
 "Only think of it!" cried the Diana of the tin 
 box. "We can see Boston, Edith! But it s only 
 a little smoky spot on the horizon, down there where 
 you see just a narrow blue strip of sea. Look ! " 
 
 4 We have been talking about the geology of 
 the mountain," Whitcot announced, looking rather 
 learned. 
 
 As Burlen looked off to where the faint line of the 
 sea was visible, the grim mountain under their feet 
 seemed to be looking also at the distant ocean which, 
 in ages past, had lapped its base and had now re 
 treated so far. "It s curious to reflect," he said, 
 " that that s really the rim of an immense continent ; 
 and I ve been told that Monadnoc is one of the 
 oldest mountains in it. I believe it s what the} call 
 Laurentian, isn t it?" 
 
 Whitcot believed it was, in part. "Just imagine, 
 Edith, wild boars making their dens here in some 
 one of the former C} T cles of vegetation," he went on ; 
 "and you can throw in, if you like, one or two 
 woolly elephants roaming among the palms and cin 
 namons." 
 
 "A woolly elephant? How absurd ! " said Viola. 
 
 "Did elephants ever make themselves ridiculous 
 by having wool?" asked Edith. 
 
 "Yes. But it probably didn t strike them as 
 ridiculous. I ve no doubt the}* took it veiy seri- 
 
THE CROWN OF MONADNOC. 257 
 
 ously. Fashion makes all the difference even with 
 animals of that calibre." 
 
 They went around to the northern side, overlook 
 ing Dublin Lake, which from here dwindles to some 
 thing like the proportions of a hand-mirror ; and 
 they tried to study the marks made by the continen 
 tal glacier, which at some points on Monadnoc cut 
 gashes two feet deep into the stony wall, before it 
 loosed its cold clutch forever. 
 
 44 One can hardly imagine that time," said Burlen, 
 " even after reading about it. And } et some plants 
 grow here even now that belong properly to the high 
 North or to the snowy Alps, certain varieties of 
 saxifrage, I believe. They are a legacy of the glacial 
 period, and would never have appeared here at all, 
 if it had n t been for that great procession of ice 
 which passed b^y, thousands of years ago." 
 
 " So these little flowers still keep the ice in re 
 membrance?" Edith asked. "Isn t that strange? 
 And there s something very beautiful in it, too." 
 She looked far away over the dim world below them, 
 musing, with a look of wondering pleasure. "Oh, 
 I m so glad we came up here!" she exclaimed, en 
 thusiastically, bringing her gaze back to what was 
 immediately around her. 
 
 11 Let s go down again," the engineer proposed, in 
 a moment more. "It blows too hard up here, and 
 I in getting frightfully hungry, besides." 
 
 Viola was ready ; but Edith declared she had not 
 seen half enough- " I m going to see if I can find a 
 more sheltered place," she added, " out of the wind, 
 17 
 
258 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 where I can sit and look at things a little. But 
 don t wait, Viola : I shall start back very soon." 
 
 The two disappeared over the side of the rocky 
 platform as if they had gone clown a trap-door. By 
 the time they were out of sight Edith had found an 
 elbow of the ridge which would keep off the wind 
 and still permit a sufficient view into the valle} 7 ; so 
 she sat down behind it, and Burlen took a place near 
 her. 
 
 "Is that Savage s?" she asked, pointing to the 
 village that lay at such a dizzying depth and so far 
 away. 
 
 " It must be," he said, " though it seems as frail 
 and insignificant as a few white egg-shells that have 
 fallen down there and broken." 
 
 "There is something awful about these great 
 heights," she said, with a slight shudder. " I feel 
 almost lost in space. Real!} , Mr. Burlen, it makes 
 me think how to God, looking down on the worlds, 
 we must dwindle down into one small speck. All 
 our souls and hearts together make only a little 
 atom, for Him." 
 
 "And what then?" Burlen asked, curious to find 
 out what she was thinking further. 
 
 What then ? " she repeated . "Is n t that enough ? 
 It makes it very hard to hold on to belief and to all 
 that s best, if one feels that there is nothing supreme 
 and individual about one s self." 
 
 "It doesn t seem to me so," he said, simply. 
 " We have the sense of being important and being 
 individuals. That is enough. For instance, suppose 
 
THE CROWN OF MONADNOC. 259 
 
 I am crushed, beaten down into obscurity in this 
 life ; do you think I should lose that sense of indi 
 vidual being? Not at all. Well; if I don t lose it 
 in sinking into insignificance before men, I certainly 
 ought not to before God, because He is more sympa 
 thetic and sees farther than they do." 
 
 She looked up at the sky and sighed. " Ah, 
 that s because you have a plan in your life. I have 
 thought I had, too ; but I m not so sure now. At 
 any rate, my aim does n t seem good for much, any 
 longer." 
 
 "What aim is it?" 
 
 u Oh, you would despise it, of course," she said. 
 " I half do, myself. I have had an ambition to lead 
 in society, in a good way, you know ; but still, to 
 take a place where I can lead others. I have n t 
 been willing to be lost in anything. I m afraid I 
 want other people and things to be lost in me." 
 
 " I think you don t quite do your idea justice," 
 he said. u To be a good leader is n t a thing to de 
 spise." He spoke with some reserve, however, and 
 stopped short. 
 
 " Yes, but I think it would be finer if I put down 
 that arrogant feeling, wouldn t it?" she made an 
 swer. " I ought to learn to lose myself a little." 
 
 "That s a virtue, undoubtedly," said the } oung 
 preacher, feeling that he would much rather adore 
 than give counsel, in this case. 
 
 The} 7 became silent, and strong feelings rushed 
 through his mind during the pause. Would she be 
 willing to lose herself at all in him? Could he ask 
 
2GO IX THE DISTANCE. 
 
 her to do so? And would it be too much like sac 
 rificing her to himself? Then there came a throb 
 bing exultation at the thought of possibly winning 
 her. 
 
 The moment they ceased speaking, the silence of 
 the mountain-top began to close in around them like 
 oblivion ; though it was accented by the cry of a 
 bird now and then, or the steady low buffeting of 
 the wind around the stony crown. This influence 
 threw Burlen into a species of brief trance, in which 
 a palingenesis of Nature took place. He saw and 
 felt in a few minutes, as if by actual experience of 
 his own, all the marvellous mutations through which 
 this great bulwark of the valleys had passed during 
 lapsed aeons. 
 
 The ancient sea-mud began to heave and harden 
 and crystallize under the influence of creative heat, 
 and then rose above the universal waters. This was 
 the small beginning of the mountain. Ages passed 
 by in a flash, and the air shook with illimitable thun 
 ders as new ranges burst upward, and this one was 
 carried higher. The earth-crust cracked and curled 
 like burning paper ; wrinkled valleys drew out their 
 uneasy length between the heights. There was a new 
 inrushing of the sea, swarming with speechless ma 
 rine life ; there were floods of fire. Out of the life 
 less and inorganic rose like a mist the first life of 
 plants and reptiles, and was expunged again like a 
 mist. Then came another order of gigantic birds 
 and beasts, with a prodigious tropic vegetation. 
 Thousands of years had passed over the moun- 
 
THE CROWN OF MONADNOC. 261 
 
 tain s head, but it kept the productiveness of youth 
 and nurtured a multifarious life, putting forth rich 
 beauties of growth. But another period of death 
 arrived ; this time by freezing ; and the ice-blocks 
 ground off and carried away from the mountain sub 
 stance enough to make a little kingdom. What was 
 left of Monadnoc now was only a ruin of its former 
 self. 
 
 But it still took its part in the new creation ; it 
 germinated new forests ; it submitted to the foot of 
 a new species of being man. The soft white clouds 
 drifted above it ; the ancient height smiled in the 
 sunlight. And here, on its impassive summit, a lover 
 mused in the presence of the woman he loved. 
 
 This huge creation of extinct forces was a founda 
 tion for him. He rose upon it in the strength of a 
 race loftier than all preceding forms of life. The 
 rock was inert and lifeless : he breathed. The 
 rock could endure till the dissolution of the earth, 
 and it required nothing outside of itself. The man 
 would not endure so long, but he could share his life 
 with others, and had the privilege, the need, of draw 
 ing upon their life and love. 
 
 It was a singular mood, and lasted only a few min 
 utes ; but a mysterious strength and inspiration 
 seemed to rise up out of the dark bulk beneath him 
 and pass into his veins, as he dreamed. It was a 
 current of longing that flowed up from the very roots 
 of time, he fancied, and filled his heart, as if this 
 alone were what the mountain had been waiting for. 
 Must he not obey its impulsion ? 
 
262 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 " Do you remember that da} ," he asked, " when 
 I met you coming back on the stage, at the Cleft, 
 and we looked off at Monadnoc and talked about 
 it?" 
 
 " Oh yes, indeed. Now that I m here, though, it 
 hardly seems the same mountain an} more." 
 
 "It s very strange," he rejoined, "to find our 
 selves in possession, as it seems, of what we saw so 
 far from us a few weeks ago. It strikes me as the 
 same only in one way ; that is, it still forms a sort 
 of centre for plans and hopes that were beginning 
 to connect themselves with it then. It looked so 
 unattainable, then ; and yet here I am on the crest ! 
 I m wondering whether I ought to hope that I shall 
 reach other unattainable things, the same way." 
 
 For an instant she thought he had in mind the 
 question of success in his vocation. "Why not?" 
 she returned, looking brightly at him. 
 
 "Ah, you don t understand. It is you I am 
 thinking of." 
 
 " I?" 
 
 They looked straight into one another s eyes. Edith 
 felt as if the wide air-spaces around them were grow 
 ing thinner and colder ; she put out her hand with a 
 gesture as though she might cling to the young man 
 for protection, and then quickly drew it back. He 
 had risen when he began to speak, and was looking 
 down on her almost with an effect of being in some 
 way a part of the sunn} cloud which she beheld 
 stretched out on either side of him in the sky be 
 yond. His face was transfigured by a tender light. 
 
THE CROWN OF MONADNOC. 263 
 
 " Have } ou never seen it?" he asked. "I love 
 you. I love you with all the good that is in me, 
 Miss Archdale. Do you think I could rise to you, 
 by the strength of my love ? " 
 
 "No, no! I haven t really known it," . she an 
 swered him, finding that the flickering consciousness 
 of his admiration which she had felt from time to 
 time had never disclosed what this one open, over 
 mastering glance of devout passion revealed. "It 
 is /, Mr. Burlen, I m afraid I could not be worthy 
 of your love." 
 
 * fc How can that be, Edith? Don t make me feel 
 my own unworthiness still more, by speaking so. 
 Tell me ; tell me ! Everything seems to depend on 
 what j ou answer." But she did not answer. She 
 looked slowly away over the valle} s and the hills 
 that slept in hazy unreality below. Here on the 
 mountain s crown it seemed eas} 7 to stand with Bur 
 len alone, and respond to his avowal with an inten 
 sity and trust matching his own. But how would it 
 be down in that every-day world? He saw that her 
 hand trembled, and stealing nearer took it in his 
 own. "Oh, Edith," he said, with the gentleness of 
 awed wonder: "can it be true?" 
 
 The amber beads showed b}- their movement that 
 she was breathing too tremulously to speak. But 
 she bent her head. It was a consent, and at the 
 same time an attitude of reverence for the happiness 
 which was descending upon her. Burlen drew her 
 hand softly to his lips, but when he let it go again 
 he wondered if it were really her hand that he had 
 
264 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 kissed, and what had become of all that past so 
 recently existent, wherein this little act would have 
 been impossible. 
 
 Suddenly she turned towards him again, and with 
 bright tears in her eyes began to smile. " After 
 all," she said, "I haven t given you any answer in 
 words. But I do trust you, Robert." She could 
 not utter the more tender word } et. "Oh, but I 
 can t believe you feel so about me. Why, I have so 
 man} 7 faults ! " She gazed at him with something 
 like dismay. 
 
 If there is any one thing more than another that 
 will intoxicate a young man when thoroughly in love, 
 it is to hear his goddess speak of herself as a mere 
 woman exemplifying the defects of her kind. 
 
 Burlen became still happier than before. u How 
 ignorant } ou are about yourself!" he cried, with a 
 new gayety. " That s a fault, I admit ; and a very 
 serious one. But I hope I can remedy it. I 11 try, 
 I can assure } r ou." 
 
 " But I will try to be good, Robert. And j ou 
 will help me. You will teach me everything, won t 
 3 r ou? And we will learn together. And if I can be 
 of any use to you, if yon really think I can help 
 you in your career, oh, how happy I shall be ! " 
 
 " There is one thing," he said, some time after, as 
 they still lingered there "one thing I had forgot 
 ten. I have not yet told you about myself and my 
 past. Have you thought how little you know about 
 me?" 
 
 " In that way } es. But I think I know a great 
 deal about you that is better worth while." 
 
THE CROWN OF MONADNOC. 265 
 
 " What I shall have to tell you will be full of pain- 
 fulness and wretchedness," he persisted, a shadow of 
 his old grief darkening his face for an instant, as if 
 the sky above them had become a little less radiant. 
 
 "What of that?" she answered, full of hope. 
 She thought that, standing with him in this lonely 
 place, she gained a new conception of how heavy the 
 solitude of sorrow must have been that had encom 
 passed him. But she also thought that, with the 
 strength of their union, she could dissipate the last 
 trace of it. " Could I truly love you," she asked, 
 " unless I expected to share your burdens as well as 
 your joys? I love you for yourself, not what you 
 may have been through ; but all your trials, past 
 and to come, will be dear to me, if I can help you 
 in them." 
 
 "Bravely spoken!" he exclaimed, in his frank, 
 unconventional way. He drew her to him in a proud 
 embrace. 
 
 And so on the rough ledge that diadems Monad- 
 noc s head, the flower of love and aspiration bloomed 
 naturally above the wreck of ages, shedding its per 
 fume on two young hearts united. 
 
266 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 TREACHERY. 
 
 AS the lovers moved across the open space on 
 the crest to begin their descent, the head and 
 shoulders of a man rose above the verge of the rocky 
 terrace on which they stood, just at the point towards 
 which the}* were going. The face that thus con 
 fronted them was Ravling s. 
 
 Burlen instantly released Edith s arm, which was 
 resting in his. But the pale, stricken visage of the 
 young law}*er showed that he had comprehended the 
 situation at once, and had read in it his own doom. 
 He remained motionless, his figure concealed by the 
 rock, from the shoulders down ; so that he had a 
 curious air of being three quarters buried, and look 
 ing up out of his grave in envy at the new happiness 
 of his rival. 
 
 "We were getting anxious about 3*011," he said, 
 as they came nearer, making a brave attempt at a, 
 cheery, commonplace tone. " That is, Mrs. Savland 
 was. She gave out at the foot of the peak here, and 
 asked me to come up and look for .you." 
 
 I don t think Burlen and Edith had airy very defi 
 nite idea as to what took place after this, except that 
 lunch was eaten under some trees near the hotel, and 
 that they, individually or dually, were in a state of 
 
TREACHERY. 2G7 
 
 transport for which enjoyment would have been a 
 tame word. To the young man the whole world 
 seemed altered ; the landscape was peculiarly lumi 
 nous, lie could have walked twenty miles without 
 fatigue. It was strange, too, that he had ever 
 thought life a problematical or difficult thing : it pre 
 sented no desperate perplexities at all. So far was 
 he carried by this conviction of its amiable harm- 
 lessness, that he was about to pick a cluster of red 
 berries resembling mountain-ash, the touch of which 
 alone is poison, when suddenly prevented by Rav- 
 ling, who feeling his generosity challenged by his 
 accidental discovery of the new state of affairs 
 exercised a careful protection over the lovers during 
 the rest of the trip. 
 
 On the drive home, they came to a cross-roads 
 where they had to wait a moment for another team 
 that was moving across the track. Ravling noticed 
 it especially, on account of an odd correspondence 
 between the white horse marked off into sections by 
 the black straps of his harness and the man in the 
 wagon who was informally attired in black trousers 
 and a white shirt, so that his back, crossed by a pair 
 of suspenders, presented a large X boldly marked 
 upon the cotton expanse. While he was looking at 
 this, it occurred to him that he had seen the man 
 before. 
 
 " Hello ! There s Stubbs," exclaimed Pride, sud 
 denly drawing in the reins. 
 
 The other man turned, and disclosed the pinched 
 features and economical skin of Marshall Stubbs, 
 
268 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 the driver of the stage between Willowbridge and 
 Marie. 
 
 " What can he be doing here ? " questioned Burlen. 
 
 This was speedily answered by a brief conversation 
 between the farmer and the driver on the subject of 
 hay. "He comes up here on spec," Pride added 
 for the enlightenment of the party. " Comes every 
 season the old skinflint! An it pays him, too. 
 He gets our hay for a little somethin under nothin , 
 and then sells at a fair profit down to Boston. We 
 have to do it cause we hain t got the facilities. But 
 Fernlow, he burned a lot o his hay, last year, rather n 
 give in." 
 
 Having delivered this gloomy information, Mr. 
 Pride dropped into a train of rather depressing med 
 itation, and repeated some of his former comments 
 on the increasing brevity of grass. "Got down s 
 low s my knee, now," he muttered. "Bimebyit ll 
 get down to tinder that, and then it 11 keep on till I 
 get under it" And he contemplated his long legs 
 with a grieved surprise, that, when his person afforded 
 such fine opportunities for measuring a very tall crop, 
 the grass should avail itself thereof to so slight an 
 extent. 
 
 Burlen, remembering the smothered dislike which 
 Stubbs had on several occasions manifested towards 
 him, for no ostensible reason except that he was 
 an enthusiast for beautiful scenery, was conscious 
 of an equally strong repugnance for the stage-driver. 
 Pride s statement regarding him seemed to justify 
 this antipathy. But how curious, that, on the very 
 
TREACHERY. 269 
 
 day when the young man had attained to that prom 
 ise of a felicity the highest he could imagine here 
 below, Stubbs should again cross his path, a sod 
 den incarnation of sordidness creeping up from Marie 
 into the grand demesne of the mountains, for a brief 
 recreation in the form of hard bargaining ! So it 
 seemed to Burlen ; but he soon forgot the man again 
 with the renewal of that buoyant contentment on 
 which he was just at present being wafted along 
 without effort. 
 
 Edith did not run to her aunt, on getting back to 
 the farm, with any confession of her engagement. 
 She could not possibly have laid her head on that 
 lady s fragile and inadequate shoulder, there to im 
 part in broken murmurs which I believe is the 
 accepted idea of what should be done on these occa 
 sions the wonderful secret of her joy. Mrs. Sav- 
 land s mind was not large enough to contain so great, 
 so expansive a confidence ; and to pour it out upon 
 her would have been only a desecration. But if she 
 did not receive the substance of it, she at least gath 
 ered some of the essence. She had a conviction that 
 " something had happened ; " and therefore she was 
 not unprepared for the news when Archdale came to 
 her towards evening, and told her that Burlen had 
 asked for Edith s hand and had been accepted. 
 
 " Oh, Thomas ! And you approve?" 
 
 " Yes, Grace. I do." 
 
 The next remark of his sister seemed irrelevant. 
 " Where are my medicines?" she asked, vaguely. 
 
 "Your what?" 
 
270 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 "Medicines!" 
 
 " What on earth are you going to do? Prepare a 
 philter to change their affections? " Archdale broke 
 into unseemly laughter, and was half stifled by his 
 efforts to repress it. 
 
 " Thomas," said Mrs. Savland, deeply injured, 
 " } ou are unfeeling, unchristian! Don t 3*ou see 
 how faint this news makes me?" 
 
 " Oh," said he, anxiously, " I never thought of 
 that. "Where are the medicines?" 
 
 " In that little black box there," Grace answered 
 promptly. 
 
 He wondered why she had asked, if she knew so 
 well ; but he got them for her in silence. Poor Mrs. 
 Savland s bandages and lotions had been useless, that 
 d^v, and were still more useless in face of the pres 
 ent disaster. But she comforted her spirit and her 
 nerves as well as she could by swallowing a quantity 
 of little pulsatilla sugar-pills. She refrained, how 
 ever, from coming down to tea, and finished off a 
 large supply of toast in the grief-laden silence of her 
 own room and heart. "And the cruelest pang of 
 all," she declared internally while consuming the last 
 piece, " is that my own brother s daughter should re 
 fuse me her confidence." At this point the scented 
 handkerchief came into pla}*, and when her face again 
 emerged from the folds it was if possible serencr, 
 more im wrinkled, and more placidly narrow than ever. 
 
 But Edith did steal into Viola s room before they 
 went to bed, to tell her what had happened. It was 
 done with such maturitj^ of manner, so restful and 
 
TREACHERY. 271 
 
 satisfied a calm, that Viola who prided herself on 
 her " sympathy," and was ready to be quite shattered 
 by affectionate and tearful responsiveness to her 
 friend s new, sweet delight was astonished at the 
 ease of the announcement, and hardly knew what to 
 do. Notwithstanding this, they exchanged so many 
 hugs and kisses that one would have supposed it was 
 they who were engaged to each other. After a while 
 Miss Welsted, sitting on the bedside, looked up at 
 Edith, who stood by her, and said falteringly, 
 
 "I m so glad, if you are glad, Edith. And I 
 I thought, all the time, it was going to be Mr. 
 Ravling." 
 
 "No, dear," said Edith with peculiar sweetness, 
 " I think he is going to marry some one else." 
 
 This remark may appear superfluous, since it was 
 obvious that the lawyer could not marry Edith under 
 existing circumstances. But Viola understood what 
 
 O 
 
 it meant. She gazed at her companion with grati 
 tude and a personal satisfaction of her own glisten 
 ing in her eyes, and made an answer which to both 
 of them seemed perfectly adequate. "You re a 
 sweet, lovely creature, Edith," was what she said. 
 
 And Edith retired, with a double cause for plea 
 sure. She rejoiced in the virtuous consciousness of 
 having given up Ravling to her friend ; and this con 
 sciousness was enhanced by the comfortable knowl 
 edge that she did not want Ravling herself. 
 
 " I hope," said Archdale, in the conference which 
 he, for his share, held with the other part}^ to the 
 betrothal, " that 3*011 are not going to be in any 
 
272 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 haste about talking over 3*011 r past worries with 
 Edith." The truth was, much as the mild-hearted 
 professor had sought to reconcile himself to all the 
 conditions of this match, the blemish upon Bur- 
 len s antecedents was still very distasteful to him. 
 He wanted to have it obliterated ; and the nearest 
 practicable approach to this was for all concerned 
 to ignore it. "I regard the whole thing as settled, 
 now," he concluded. " Why not put it altogether 
 behind you, and consider your life as really beginning 
 now? The actual beginning was a shadow-play, a 
 failure ; abortive. You have outlived it. The alarm 
 about your sister s presence here is done away with. 
 You have framed new and more fit conditions for 
 your career. Is n t it strictly logical to put ever3*- 
 thing inharmonious out of sight?" 
 
 "I m not sure that I can ever do that," returned 
 the 3*oung man, yieldingly. "But it ma3 T be better 
 not to talk of those things again, even though Edith 
 must of course know them all, in time." 
 
 Archdale winced at this thought. " At all events," 
 he urged, " let us put it off. She trusts you, and has 
 good reason to. Let things settle, for a while. If 1 
 advise you to wait, certainly she will not blame } r ou 
 for doing so." He waited some moments for an an 
 swer, and then demanded wistfully: "Are we in 
 accord, Robert? Do 3~ou promise me to be silent, 
 for the present ? " 
 
 Life had grown so bright ; the future seemed so 
 simple ; this advice was so insinuating and soothing, 
 Burlen rapidly came to think that he might as well 
 
TREACHERY. 273 
 
 agree. "Yes," he at length said, " if you wish me, I 
 will promise for the present." 
 
 His original intention had been to have a long and 
 important talk with Edith the very next morning, 
 which should make her the sharer of his past as well 
 as of his present and future. But this interposition 
 on her father s part, immaterial as it seemed at the 
 moment, changed the course of events decidedly. 
 
 When the two defeated rivals withdrew to their 
 tent that night, the law\ er subsided dejectedly upon 
 his couch of hemlock-boughs, and with a vehemence 
 he seldom gave way to exclaimed : " I m sick of 
 this, Whitcot ! I ve stayed here too long." 
 
 " Wiry, what has come over you? " demanded the 
 other, comfortably lighting a brier-pipe which he had 
 just filled, and taking his place on a camp-stool in 
 the tent-door. The moonlight was streaming in 
 over him, and gave him a luminous greenish, ghostly 
 look, sharply in contrast with the rub}* spot of fire in 
 the pipe-bowl below his lips. " I thought you were 
 very well pleased." 
 
 "I m not sure," responded Ravling, slowly, 
 "that the mountain air agrees with me. Boh! 
 Don t you notice the chill to-night? It s fairly 
 autumnal." He added, with a sarcasm reserved for 
 his own private appreciation: " I found it surpris 
 ingly cold up on top of the mountain to-day. The 
 life seemed to go out of me, when I got up there." 
 
 " Well, if you re going to leave, I suppose I shall 
 have to, as well," said the engineer. 
 18 
 
274 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 ii Not necessarily," Ravling replied, from the 
 dark couch where he was now half reclining. " You 
 can keep the tent if you like, and I 11 halve the 
 expense just the same. Still, you may conclude 
 not to stay, either. Especially," he continued, after 
 an instant s delay, " if I tell you something which 
 I believe has occurred to-da} . I judge that you are 
 seriously interested in Miss Archdale." 
 
 The smoker s e3 T es suddenly glittered in the 
 moonlight, and were fastened upon him. 
 
 " I m not the only one, I believe, who is interested 
 in her," was his repry. 
 
 " That may be, and there s a point of agreement 
 between us, possibly in more than one sense. 
 But what I was going to sa}^ was Ravling 
 changed his approach all at once. "-The discovery 
 is my own, but I should n t think of mentioning it 
 generally, outside. You, I consider, ought to know, 
 since we are camp-fellows and friends. Other 
 wise I should hold my peace until the two most 
 concerned " 
 
 4 The two ? " interrupted Whitcot. < For Heaven s 
 sake, man, don t be so long with your story ! Re 
 member, you re not conducting a trial, and need n t 
 work up to the point gradually, to influence the jury." 
 How little the irritable } oung fellow suspected that, 
 before long, Ravling would be conducting a trial, in 
 which he (Whitcot) was to hold a very important 
 but a very silent and singularly undesirable part ! 
 "The two?" he repeated. "Somebody besides 
 Edith, then! Who?" 
 
TREACHERY. 275 
 
 " I see you have guessed," said Ravling, coolly. 
 " Robert Burlen, of course. I can state almost as 
 a proved fact that they became engaged to-day." 
 
 "Engaged!" a few white ashes dropped from 
 Whitcot s pipe, through the spectral illumination that 
 hung round him. He bounded to his feet. " What 
 makes you think so?" 
 
 Probably Ravling, who was no more than human, 
 found some mitigation of his own disappointment in 
 seeing Whitcot hit, too. " Suppose we go out and 
 walk," he said, " and I ll tell you." 
 
 The} donned their great-coats, stepped out into 
 the field, and began walking up and down, side by 
 side, two muffled and lugubrious shapes in the 
 moon s pale glare. The lawyer set forth what he 
 had in his mind. 
 
 "Well, I m satisfied," said Whitcot at length, 
 recovering himself. 
 
 " How so? It s too late, Whitcot, for you to place 
 any other stake. Le jeu est fait, as they say in 
 Homburg." 
 
 "No. There s one play remaining for me, by 
 which I ma3 T win." 
 
 " I can t see that," Ravling rejoined, in a tone of 
 displeasure. " One hardly wants to try winning, 
 when two people have settled their affairs so far." 
 
 "The engagement has not been announced," 
 observed the engineer. 
 
 "You make fine distinctions," the other said 
 dryly. " Too fine for a blunt taste like mine." 
 
 " I imagine Miss Archdalc will make distinctions, 
 
276 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 too," was the confident retort, " when she learns 
 what I know of Burlen s origin." 
 
 " His origin? Is it discreditable? " 
 
 Then still pacing up and down, two muffled 
 figures, black in the moon-glare, and now assuming 
 an ominous look Whitcot went over the stoiy with 
 which we are alread} familiar. He poured out the 
 animus of his interest in the graduate s secret, with 
 out reserve. He broke away from the various sub 
 terfuges with which he had at first deceived himself, 
 and did not even attempt to deceive his listener. 
 He violated his pledge of silence given to Burlen, for 
 the miserable satisfaction of defaming him in their 
 common rival s ear. 
 
 " And 3 ou propose to make all this known to 
 Miss Archdale, without Burlen s knowledge?" Rav- 
 ling inquired, with studious neutrality. 
 
 " Certainly. She ought to know it." 
 
 "If you expect my s^-mpathy in such a perform 
 ance," Ravling went on, "I may as well tell you. 
 that 3*011 reckon without 3 our host. I advise you to 
 abstain from interference." 
 
 "I didn t ask for your sympathy," Whitcot re 
 minded him, self-sufficiently. u It strikes me that 
 you 11 need it all for yourself. And, if you don t 
 object, I think I ll go to bed now." 
 
 The next day, as Ravling was making a circuit of 
 some fields above the barn, he passed along by a 
 stone-wall fringed with } oung ash-trees, at the brow 
 of the hill, where he could overlook a secluded swale 
 beyond. Unexpectedly he caught sight of two fig- 
 
TREACHERY. 277 
 
 urcs, whose movements made him pause. The spot 
 abounded in golden-rod, just beginning to uncurl its 
 golden plumes from the green stalk ; and Edith had 
 apparently come thither to gather them, for she held 
 a bunch in her hand. But Whitcot was with her, 
 and had begun to talk upon some subject which had 
 caused her to forget the wild flowers. 
 
 Ravling could hear some of their tones, but was 
 not near enough to distinguish their words. 
 
 The varying action of the two figures, however, 
 told him enough. 
 
 The lawyer at once divined, from the previous 
 night s conversation, the topic that engaged them. 
 When his eye first lighted on them, Edith was fac 
 ing her tormentor that was the description which 
 seemed to the observer most fitting with a glance 
 of imperious reprimand. 
 
 But Whitcot, it seemed, replied coolly, half apolo 
 getically, and } ct with such calculated skill that the 
 impassioned woman before him cast her eyes down 
 and turned slightly away, in confusion. Ravling 
 could easil} guess that the engineer had thrown some 
 slur upon Burlcn, and, on her resenting it, had asked 
 with feigned surprise what could be the cause of her 
 warm feeling. 
 
 For a moment nothing passed between them ; but 
 presently Whitcot began to speak again. She list 
 ened quietly for a few seconds, and then quickly 
 interrupted him. 
 
 The engineer resumed, with more heat. 
 
 Edith then appeared to direct a short, swift ques- 
 
278 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 tion at him ; to which he replied in a louder voice, 
 with an air of triumph, at the same time flinging out 
 his arm to point with great emphasis in the direction 
 of the village. "His sister is there!" Ravling be 
 lieved he could almost hear. At least, he was con 
 fident that was what had been uttered. 
 
 At this Edith raised her hand to her head in a 
 wild way, as if confused or horror-stricken. She 
 threw away the golden-rod she had gathered, and 
 moved rapidly in the direction of the farm-house. 
 Whitcot pursued her with a changed demeanor ; 
 seemed to beg her to stop ; caught her hand. She 
 snatched it away from him, and turned with a ma 
 jestic ire that was appalling even to the witness of it 
 at this distance. The young man in gray fell back, 
 and stood frozen before it. Then Miss Archdale 
 went on alone. 
 
 "The villain!" murmured Ravling, in helpless 
 wrath, turning away unperceived and feeling partially 
 tainted with guilt at having even looked on at so 
 cowardly an attack, without venturing to interfere. 
 Yet what right had he to interfere? The answer he 
 made himself was immediate, that he had none. 
 
 This evening it was Edith who stayed away from 
 the tea-table, while Mrs. Savland resumed her place 
 there. An unprecedented gloom settled down on the 
 little group. Burlen was distraught, being suddenly 
 deprived of all that made the present interesting ; 
 and Ravling was so absorbed by his indignation with 
 Whitcot that he could pay little attention to an} T - 
 thing else. Luckily, the Rev. Franklin Bland burst 
 
TREACHERY. 279 
 
 in upon them with his violin, soon after tea, and 
 saved them from funereal silence. 
 
 But when the time came for Ravling and Whitcot 
 to seek their tent, the lawyer asked his mate the 
 meaning of the dumb-show which he had witnessed. 
 " Have you been telling her what you told me last 
 night?" he demanded. 
 
 4 Of course. What else did you expect?" the 
 engineer replied. 
 
 u I expected something much better of yon," said 
 Ravling. " After this, I shall have to recede from 
 what I said about leaving you the tent. I must ask 
 you to look out for other quarters to-morrow. It s 
 impossible that I should share responsibilities of any 
 kind with you, hereafter, since you ve chosen to 
 adopt this line of conduct." 
 
 44 Oh, very well," returned Whitcot. "It s all 
 the same to me. I 11 say good-by to you to-morrow 
 morning." But he was nevertheless aware, too late, 
 that in trying to prejudice Burlen s cause with Edith 
 he had hopelessly ruined his own. 
 
280 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 MORTIS FORMIDINE ET IRA. 
 
 T^DITH continuing indisposed the next clay, Bur- 
 J -- len sought Mrs. Savland s aid to conjure her 
 into visibility, but without effect. Then he tried 
 Miss Viola, who entered into the situation with no 
 lack of sympathy ; but her intervention was likewise 
 of no avail. As a last resort, he had recourse to 
 Archdale. 
 
 The professor, though much concerned at the in 
 explicable situation, and very considerate in his pro 
 cedure with his daughter, was unable to find out 
 what was the matter. The utmost he could obtain 
 was a half-hysterical assent from Edith to the pro 
 ject of seeing Btirlen alone. 
 
 Their meeting was to take place in the natural 
 arbor of wild-cherry trees, not far from the house. 
 The candidate was there betimes, and awaited her 
 coming. 
 
 "What is it, Edith; what is this trouble that has 
 come between us so soon?" he demanded in ago 
 nized entreaty, as soon as she entered among the 
 trees. " Something seems to have separated us, 
 and I do not know what." 
 
 " You ought to know," she replied. " Oh, why 
 did n t you tell me ? " 
 
MORTIS FORMIDINE ET IRA. 281 
 
 "I? Tell you what?" 
 
 "It is more terrible than I can bear! " she cried. 
 "And I trusted you so complete!} ! It would all 
 have been different if it had been you who had 
 spoken." 
 
 "Edith," said her lover, with a sudden fear, 
 "what is it you are thinking of? My " 
 
 "Oh, your sister! your sister! your past! All 
 that 3*011 have been through. Oh, Robert ! to think 
 that you so nearly deceived me ! " 
 
 Burlen was aghast. " Can 3*011 believe that? " he 
 asked, amazed. " What ! hasn t your father told 
 3 ou ? " 
 
 "No; I wouldn t let him. I couldn t bear to 
 talk with him. lie only persuaded me to see 3*011 
 here. I don t know what to make of it." 
 
 "Oh, well, if 3*011 haven t even listened, I m 
 not so much astonished," he answered, though still 
 trembling with the shock that had come upon him. 
 " But if your father hasn t told 3*011 of all this, who 
 has?" 
 
 " Mr. Whitcot," she faltered breathlessly. 
 
 " Great powers above! Whitcot? I had almost 
 forgotten him," gasped her lover. " Can it be that 
 he was so venomous ? " 
 
 "Did n t he tell the truth? How could he dare 
 tell an3 thing else?" she asked, in return. "An 
 swer me, Robert." 
 
 " I can t answer you until I know what he said," 
 Burlen replied. 
 
 In a few scattered phrases she gave him the sub 
 stance of the engineer s treacherous recital. 
 
232 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 " Yes," said Burlcn, li the most of it is true ; but 
 there is no certainty that that girl he has told 3 ou of 
 is my sister." 
 
 "But why should 3*011 have left it for some one 
 else to tell me all this?" Edith asked, upbraidingly. 
 " Why did n t you tell me yourself ? " 
 
 " I was going to, Edith." 
 
 " Going to? You should have done it ! It is too 
 late now." 
 
 " But your father knew all about it," the young 
 man protested. 
 
 "My father? Impossible! He would have told 
 me if he had known." 
 
 " But," said Burlen, thinking that this would at 
 last make things elear, "he didn t want you to 
 know, yet. He wanted to put it all away out of 
 sight. He even made me promise that I would n t 
 talk of it with you, for a time." 
 
 " But you promised me, one day ! You promised 
 you would tell all about yourself. Don t you re 
 member ? " 
 
 "No, indeed! I never promised. I remember 
 you asked me, and I meant to. I wanted to, even 
 before I should tell 3*011 what I felt towards you. 
 But I never promised, Edith." 
 
 With a woman s vagueness of interpretation, she 
 had convinced herself that her own former request 
 was the same thing as a consent on his part, and she 
 would n t listen to his explanations. " Oh, Robert! 
 Robert!" she exclaimed, "how terrible this is! 
 Why did you do this? What could be gained by it? 
 All must be over, now, between us ! " 
 
MORTIS FORM1DINE ET IRA. 283 
 
 And, saying this, she darted away from him, leav 
 ing him in a condition bordering on frenzy. He 
 struck out from the cherries in a different direction, 
 came to the road, walked a few paces along it, and 
 met Ravling. 
 
 4 Well," said the lawyer, " Whitcot is going to 
 leave us." 
 
 " When? I was just coming to look for him." 
 
 " I believe he takes the train to-morrow morning," 
 said Ravling; "but he s going down to the village 
 to-day, very soon, now. He s going to stay at 
 the hotel over night." 
 
 " Very singular ! " ejaculated Burlen. " Where is 
 he now?" There was a stern, concentrated eager 
 ness in his manner that might have disturbed the 
 engineer, had he witnessed it. 
 
 44 He s in the house at this moment, I think," the 
 lawyer said, "bidding good-by to the ladies. He s 
 going to walk to Savage s, he said." 
 
 Without waiting, Burlen passed down the road, 
 took a short-cut through a wedge-shaped piece of 
 woods, and came to a stand on the other side of it, 
 close to the highway, intending to intercept his false 
 friend at that point. 
 
 It was veiy sultry in the woods as he went through 
 them, and every time that Burlen stopped, as he 
 now and then did, to see if anj* one was coming, 
 he heard his own heart beating loudly. 
 
 He was watching for Whitcot like a hunter await 
 ing his pre} . There was something terrifying to him 
 in his own mood. His wrath against the man who 
 
284 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 had so unjustly produced a misunderstanding between 
 Edith and himself was tempestuous ; it kept burst 
 ing upon him in one wave after another. He tried 
 to resist it, but he could not force himself to turn 
 back. 
 
 How could he let so contemptible a creature go 
 without some scathing reprimand, some brief but 
 absolute condemnation? To confront him with his 
 own iniquities, to grind him down with the sense of 
 shame that was his due, and then to leave him, 
 this, Burlcn felt, would barely satisfy the demand of 
 justice ; and this he must have. 
 
 Before long he saw the figure he awaited moving 
 down the road, passing tree after tree on the other 
 side of the narrow, wedge-shaped wood, and ap 
 proaching around the bend that would soon bring 
 him to this point. AVhitcot trod buoyantly, and 
 whistled as if nothing weighed upon his conscience. 
 Within two minutes he came full upon Burlen, and 
 stopped short in surprise. Almost immediately he 
 put himself in motion again ; but he did not resume 
 his soft whistling. 
 
 " You re just in time to bid me good-bj ," he said, 
 affecting indifference. 
 
 4 Yes. I came here for the purpose of meeting 
 you," Burlen returned, with ill-concealed rage. 
 
 Whitcot forced a laugh. "Don t prolong the 
 agony of our parting too far," he admonished the 
 other. 
 
 "I ll walk with you a little way," Burlcn ob 
 served ; thinking that he would go down to the 
 
MORTIS FORMIDINE ET IRA. 285 
 
 Contoocook, or to his favorite bathing-place under 
 the ash-tree, in the woods, after he had finished the 
 business of moral chastisement. 
 
 " How good of you ! " the engineer exclaimed, with 
 latent sarcasm. He took out his brier-pipe and be 
 gan smoking as the}- started off. 
 But the candidate gave him short respite, and 
 plunged into the midst of his reproaches. Their 
 voices grew louder and louder in altercation, until 
 finally the two came to a stop beside a wall of thick 
 hemlocks that screened the road, and stood there 
 hotly flinging charge and retort to and fro. 
 
 A long, deep roll of thunder boomed from the 
 neighborhood of Monadnoc, and some crows among 
 the trees close by them started up into the air with 
 harsh and awful cries that rang through the dead, 
 simmering stillness of the afternoon like the shrieks 
 of some creature smitten with a mortal wound. But 
 the angry men did not observe these interruptions. 
 Neither did they notice Marshall Stubbs, who, hav- 
 ino" come out to view some uncut hay on a piece of 
 land in that vicinity, had been drawn on by the 
 noise of the dispute that was proceeding in the road, 
 at the other side of the hemlocks from him. Moving 
 stealthily up to the barrier of green-fringed boughs, 
 he thrust his hard countenance astutely forward as 
 far as prudence would allow, and listened. His 
 tightly stretched lips were pursed up in a curt smile 
 of evil satisfaction as soon as he recognized Bur- 
 len, whose passionate bearing at that moment was 
 greatly to his disadvantage. Stubbs trusted that 
 
286 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 there would be a set-to with fists, and began laying 
 bets with himself on the result ; odds greatly in 
 favor of Whitcot. 
 
 "And why," rejoined that personage, to some re 
 newed charge of Burlen s, " why should n t I give 
 her a warning, if I thought you were n t the sort of 
 person you assumed to be?" 
 
 " You a judge in such matters!" cried Burlen, 
 derisively. " That s an audacious notion. It s my 
 opinion that if yon were known for what you really 
 are, you would be banished from society. I, for 
 one, wish you might be obliterated, swept out of 
 this life for good and all!" 
 
 " Suppose you try obliterating me," Whitcot 
 bitingly returned, " with your blacksmith s arm ! 
 That s about what you re fitted for." 
 
 Both the wranglers were beside themselves, and 
 Stubbs made sure that at this climax Burlen must 
 square off and begin the physical combat which he 
 expected. The young theologian, it is true, did 
 clench his fists as if to strike ; but instead of cany- 
 ing out that movement he bit his lips, and by a pro 
 digious strain held himself back. Then he veered 
 swiftly about and began to move up the road whence 
 he had come ; forgetting, in the blind struggle with his 
 half-insane passion, his purpose of going to bathe. 
 
 The engineer, however, launched one more shaft 
 at him. " Aha ! " he breathed in a low, penetrating 
 tone, but as if he were registering a discovery in re 
 spect of some lower order of animal: "A coward, 
 too ! " 
 
MORTIS FORMIDINE ET IRA. 287 
 
 Having said this, he also turned to go upon his 
 way ; but, instead of following the road, he obeyed 
 an impulse to make a short-cut through the woods. 
 
 As that final taunt reached Biuien, he Hung his 
 arms up in uncontrollable excitement. Seemingly, 
 he had been goaded beyond his endurance. Remem 
 bering at the same instant that he had intended 
 to go to the river, and that he was unfit to appear 
 among his friends while overwrought with this fury, 
 he reversed his steps, came back, and though his 
 antagonist had disappeared among the trees strode 
 down the road, in the same general direction that 
 the engineer had taken. 
 
 "That means big mischief!" said Stubbs, aloud, 
 relieved from precaution by their departure. "I d 
 give half a dime to see the end of it." His accus 
 tomed penuriousness did not forsake him, even at 
 this crisis. 
 
 The day was lengthening, and the air grew darker 
 still from the storm-clouds that were drifting over 
 Monadnoc. Whitcot walked faster. There was 
 something exceedingly distasteful in the situation : 
 the quarrel with Burlen, added to a sense of the fatal 
 misstep he himself had made, must have thrown his 
 nerves off their balance. 
 
 He looked around several times, to see if Robert 
 was following him. Was there not a sound of foot 
 steps, as on that well-remembered first evening, be 
 hind him or off there at the side, behind the under 
 brush? Stand still, Whitcot ! Listen! 
 
288 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 No ; nothing but the foolish antics of the wind. 
 It has come suddenly, and is blundering through the 
 wood, rattling a few dry boughs, and picking up the 
 dead leaves in loose handfuls to throw them after 
 the lonely walker in a feeble kind of mimic wrath. 
 But see how it stirs the branches above him, causing 
 them to nudge one another with uncouth mj stery ! 
 One long, cloaked arm seems to take hold of an 
 other long, cloaked arm, and all beckon and point 
 together as if moved by the presence, in the secret 
 places here, of some dreadful, shadow} thing not to 
 be named. Whitcot ! Whitcot ! Don t you sec that 
 it is time to get back to the road ? 
 
 The wind comes with another rush, and sweeps 
 the leaves up higher than before. Now it appears 
 to be playing with some sardonic purpose of over 
 whelming and covering up and burying awaj the 
 lusty youth who steps forward so boldly against it. 
 Dead men have been wrapped before now, Whitcot, 
 in this same winding-sheet of dead leaves, the dust 
 of vanished summers. Step 3 ou never so boldly, 
 you must step into your shroud at last. You know 
 . not where or when that will be. Here are the winds 
 and the leaves all ready to cover you now, and the 
 fading gleams of evening shall light you to your final 
 rest, if you choose to take it here ! 
 
 In the morbid twilight thickening through the 
 woods, shadows and changing shapes assemble as if 
 to enact some gloomy rite. Yet lias not our traveller 
 often passed such spots as this, and with the same 
 cuixUing forebodings that vex him at this moment? 
 
MORTIS FORM I DINE ET IRA. 289 
 
 But the obstacles always yielded, the fear passed 
 away ; he came out warm and safe, and the forebod 
 ings proved meaningless. Why, then, dread any 
 thing to-day? 
 
 Cut it is baffling, nevertheless, to have the wind 
 keep up this rough game of pelting him with leaves ; 
 whirling them around his head, driving them into 
 his very face ; waiting for him and leaping upon him 
 suddenly, or clutching at him from behind. Accord 
 ing to its fancy it lifts the lifeless leaves into coils or 
 spirals, and gives them in the increasing sylvan 
 dusk a rude, fragmentary resemblance to divers 
 animals that rise up fiercely for a moment or two 
 and battle with each other or chase the } r oung man s 
 form, then fade away into nothing or sweep off in 
 full cry before the blast and come rounding back in 
 a savage troop. Have 3-011 never seen such shapes 
 loosely suggested by blowing leaf-heaps ? Creatures 
 of mouth and claw they seem, dogs, wolves, 
 tigers, or others that rear themselves higher and 
 strive to take the shape of man. Strange horror ! 
 To one under the influence of such fancied likenesses, 
 the most terror-striking of all these staggering, wav 
 ering bodies are those that make one think of human 
 beings. 
 
 Ah, great Heaven ! What is this that comes at 
 last with fell purpose through the whirling drift? It 
 is a man ! 
 
 There is horror in the wood. Were those the 
 clear gray eyes filled with stilly fire, that for an in 
 stant faced the victim before the struggle ? Or were 
 19 
 
290 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 they the same that had lately gleamed upon him in 
 a fury of reproach? . . . What is it that tightens 
 round his neck? Are the waters of the black river- 
 down in the valley rising, rising, and choking him? 
 . . . What is happening? Why does it all seem so 
 strange and far off, as if it were being done to some 
 one else? 
 
 Is it an actual deed, or something that some one 
 has been telling about? . . . What pity there will 
 be for the poor senseless body, when it is all over! 
 . . . There was, in fact, a murder committed some 
 where in the neighborhood here, long ago, it is 
 said. 
 
 Look ! One reeling glimpse of an opening through 
 the trees, and Monadnoc stamped dimly on the sky 
 that fast recedes, the last glimpse of earth to a 
 man who is sinking into the deep, incurable blind 
 ness of death ! That is just as Whitcot had fancied 
 it must have been with the man he had heard of, in 
 that same murder which was done hereabout, in one 
 of these darksome hollows. 
 
 But if it is nothing more than fancy now, why 
 does that figure in the gray coat so like the soli 
 tary walker whose feet lately rustled through the 
 silence lie there with its face in the leaves, motion 
 less as a dead limb fallen from one of the trees? 
 
DISCOVERY OF A MURDER. 291 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 DISCOVERY OF A MURDER. 
 
 IT is Epenetus B. Savage the man with a face 
 like a disturbed shadow who comes skimming 
 along in his restless, speculative buggy, before all 
 the folks at Pride s are quite dressed, the next morn 
 ing. And it is Epenetus B. s dog that runs beside 
 the buggy, with a red tongue hanging out of his black 
 jaws, but suddenly pauses, sniffs, utters a weak howl, 
 and darts into the woods beside the road. 
 
 The preoccupied man in the light vehicle is borne 
 along without noticing this abrupt canine excursion ; 
 but his horse has not trotted many yards before a 
 piteous, barking cry, a strange, inarticulate call 
 for human aid, though proceeding from no human 
 throat, floats out from among the trees, and causes 
 the business-minded Savage to draw rein at once. 
 
 A glance back ; the cry repeated ; rapid move 
 ments on the part of Epenetus ; a scraping of the 
 wheel against the side of the buggy in making a short 
 turn. Then the light structure .shoots back over the 
 course it has just traversed. The dog tears his way 
 through the bushes, out to the road ; stands waiting ; 
 sees that help is coming, and then disappears again 
 madly. No dela}*, now, on the part of Epenetus. 
 The horse is tethered to an iron weight, which his 
 
292 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 master throws out like an anchor to keep him from 
 drifting ; and the driver himself plunges through the 
 underbrush, after the dog. 
 
 In a few minutes he comes out again, wet with 
 dew, and showing a face more like a disturbed 
 shadow than it ever was before or is likely to be 
 again, hoists the anchor-weight, and whips up furi 
 ously for Pride s. His shaggy attendant, entirely 
 forgotten, though the immediate cause of this ex 
 citement, rushes along also in the dust of the flying 
 wheels. Epenetus B. Savage and Epenetus B. Dog 
 will be mentioned in the newspapers as having been 
 the first to make an appalling discovery. 
 
 They arrive at the form, breathless, the man 
 trembling, and the buggy under him quivering, too. 
 How redly the sunbeams, through this morning haze, 
 strike upon the dog, splashing him all over with ter 
 rifying stains as of blood ! 
 
 Pride is called for, taken out to the gate, is whis 
 pered with, and starts back as if he had been struck ; 
 then casts a terrified look towards the house, as if he 
 would summon the other occupants. This movement 
 is checked by hurried remonstrance from Epenetus, 
 it would be hard to say why. He is bewildered ; 
 wants to gain time : it seems to him as if it ought not 
 to be spoken of just yet. But Timothy comes forth 
 unbidden, and is told. No one can keep this awful 
 secret. If you approach those who know it, you 
 feel a chill, a vague warning radiated from them. 
 It is in the air. One of these three at the gate must 
 go up to the house ; but if any one goes it will become 
 
DISCOVERY OF A MURDER. 293 
 
 known, this secret which no one can keep except 
 the dead man and that other, worse than dead, 
 who knows how the crime befell. It will become 
 known? Well, what then? We three here at the gate 
 cannot long keep it to ourselves, or we shall go mad ; 
 perhaps who knows? fall upon each other and 
 wreak some fresh crime, since humanity is capable of 
 such things. The only safety, the only wisdom, is 
 to spread the news, to scatter the horrible deed to all 
 the winds, so that it ma} not creep, slowly corrupting 
 us, through our frozen veins. 
 
 So from that knot of three at the gate, with the 
 restive, red-splashed dog running continually about 
 them, the story spreads to the others in the house. 
 
 "Murdered!" 
 
 That word went up from Burlen with a terror in 
 the sound different from any other voice among them. 
 "No, no! It" cannot be! Whitcot murdered, and 
 it was I who oh, this is too frightful ! " 
 
 No one gave special heed to his exclamation just 
 then. All was confusion for a few moments, and 
 then measures were taken for lodging information at 
 the village, for sending word to Whitcot s father, and 
 organizing a search for the murderer. Not until Sav 
 age had driven away again, and Timothy had gone 
 with his father to call the nearest neighbors, did 
 Burlen s whereabouts occur as a question of impor 
 tance. Ravling was consulting with Archdale, hop 
 ing to hit upon some fragment of evidence. " Who 
 saw Whitcot last?" he inquired, suddenly. 
 
 " I don t know. Let me see," said the professor 
 
294 JN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 slowly. "He came into the house to say good-by, 
 and then why, Robert must have seen him after 
 that. In fact, he told me so. He was very much 
 depressed last night, and finally told me that he had 
 had a bitter altercation with Whitcot, which grieved 
 
 i O 
 
 him. 
 
 " Altercation ! " The lawyer looked at Archdale, 
 with a new apprehension in his eyes. Archdale 
 caught the alarm, and for an instant they regarded 
 each other in silence. 
 
 " But I can t think that has any significance," said 
 the Doctor, at length. 
 
 "Perhaps not," Ravling assented hastily, as if 
 fearing to dwell on the point. " But probably Bur- 
 len could throw light on Whitcot s last movements. 
 And then it is important, we must think of the 
 circumstances, you know, it s important for him 
 to explain his own position at once. Did you notice 
 what he said just now, when Savage told us? 
 Whitcot murdered, and I it was 7 I don t 
 know exactly, but it was something like that." 
 
 Archdale was aghast. Then he rose, with one 
 hand on the table, and demanded sternly: "What 
 do you mean to insinuate, Mr. Ravling? That it is 
 possible " 
 
 "Possible that suspicion may fall on him," an 
 swered the lawyer, gravely, with an unflinching gaze. 
 "It is simply prudence and friendship to recognize 
 that. Where is Burlen? Let us see him at once." 
 
 They turned their attention immediately to finding 
 their friend ; but Burlen had disappeared, and no 
 one knew where he had gone to. 
 
DISCOVERY OF A MURDER. 295 
 
 "This is very serious," Ravling observed, as they 
 came back and entered the dining-room for a quiet 
 consultation. "He may have gone to the village. 
 I hope so. It may make him a great deal of trouble 
 to be out of the way just now. Mind you, I say 
 nothing more : it would hardly be possible for me to 
 believe more. But I am anxious for him. Would 
 you object to telling me what you know of his quar 
 rel with Whitcot?" 
 
 " I can tell you precisely the cause of it, but noth 
 ing further. He would not talk of it last night ; he 
 was so much pained at having given way to anger, 
 though it was fully justified. That seemed to be 
 his main concern." And then Doctor Archdale 
 went on to tell of Whitcot s treacherous disclosure 
 to Edith, and the misunderstanding that had ensued 
 between Edith and Burlen. 
 
 "Ah, that s what I supposed," said the lawyer. 
 "I knew enough of it to make me suspect just 
 that." 
 
 " But Edith already repents of her haste in re 
 proaching the poor fellow," continued the other. 
 " Whitcot, I m sorry to say, led her to believe that 
 Robert knew his unfortunate sister to be in the vil 
 lage, and was deliberately resolved to ignore her 
 existence. That was what shocked her most ; and 
 in the general excitement of the shock she was in 
 clined to upbraid him altogether for having kept back 
 so much of his personal histoiy. But she saw her 
 error last night. There was no opportunit} r of an 
 explanation with Robert : you recall how despondent 
 
296 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 and abstracted he was, and how soon he went to his 
 room. Edith came to me and explained everything 
 before we retired, and I was to prepare Robert for 
 their reconciliation this morning. And now every 
 thing is thrown out. But he must be about the 
 house somewhere. Suppose we look again." For a 
 moment Ravling lost his studied calm. " Poor Miss 
 Archdale ! " he murmured, his head drooping upon 
 his upraised arm. " If there were anything I could 
 do ! I hope no greater evil is in store." 
 
 " Come," said Archdale, " we must look again for 
 Robert." 
 
 As they rose, the door opened, and Edith stood 
 on the threshold, very pale, but strenuously com 
 manding herself. "Is is there airything more ? " 
 she asked. " Have they found him?" 
 
 Whom ? " asked her father. 
 
 "The" she shuddered, and stopped. "Have 
 the} found out whether it was accident, or oh, tell 
 me something! How is it, Mr. Ravling?" 
 
 The Iaw3 er had grown pale, too. "There is 
 nothing more to tell," he answered. "Leave it to 
 us, Miss Archdale, I beg 3-011." 
 
 But her father was less prudent. " Have } ou 
 seen Robert?" he asked. 
 
 "No," said she. Then, with a pang of nervous 
 fright trembling through her features: "Why? 
 Wiry?" she demanded. "Have you been looking 
 for him?" 
 
 " We wanted to consult him," Ravling said, shoot 
 ing towards the older man a glance of reprimand 
 and warning that struck him like an arrow. 
 
DISCOVERY OF A MURDER. 297 
 
 11 Yes, dear; to consult him," Archclale faltered. 
 "Go to your aunt, Edith. We are busy, and you 
 ladies must keep together." 
 
 The second search was as fruitless as the first; 
 but breakfast was announced, and the two gentlemen 
 hoped that this would bring Burlen. The ladies 
 took the meal upstairs : Ravling and Archdale sat 
 down alone. They tasted their coffee and tried to 
 eat something, but could no longer speak. At last, 
 a loud knock at the door roused them again. Arch- 
 dale s first thought was that Burlen had come, but 
 he saw, in another moment, that this could not be : 
 the candidate would have entered without such pre 
 liminary. In fact, the knock preceded the entrance 
 of Sheriff Brown. Burlen had not been seen in the 
 village, but on the arrival of the news brought by 
 Epenetus B. Savage and his dog, Marshall Stubbs 
 had made known the circumstance of the quarrel 
 witnessed by him, and had made a complaint under 
 oath before a justice of the peace. As a result of 
 this, Major Brown had been armed with a warrant 
 for the arrest of Burlen, and had come now to search 
 Pride s house. 
 
 The object of this visit was concealed from the 
 ladies by the Major s orotund statement that the can 
 didate for the ministry was wanted as a witness to 
 assist in giving evidence, and that they were obliged 
 to go through the form of looking for him because 
 he did not happen to be at hand. But even the 
 power of the Sheriff was unavailing. Burlen re 
 mained mj steriously out of sight. Major Brown 
 
298 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 and his posse retreated ; Archdale and Ravling went 
 down to the village, and returned. The day wore on ; 
 evening approached. Still the young clerical candi 
 date did not make his appearance. 
 
 Then there began to steal over Edith a mist of 
 vague but awful apprehension, in which she could as 
 yet make out nothing decisive. Where was Robert? 
 Could it be possible that he had finally gone to the 
 village and was detained there by his efforts to assist 
 justice ; or had something dreadful happened to 
 him also? It must be dangerous to be wandering 
 about the country now, since Wliiteot could meet 
 with such a fate so near Savage s. And then gradu 
 ally that other danger began to assert itself, of which 
 the rest were secretly thinking, the danger that a 
 long, unexplained absence just at this time would 
 bring, since it was known that he had had serious 
 cause for disagreement with Whitcot the day before. 
 It was only at moments that this occurred to her, 
 and even then it was no more than the shadow of a 
 threatening possibility ; but when at last the inmates 
 of the farm-house parted for the night, and she found 
 herself alone with the suspense as to Burlen still 
 unbroken, a dread more deadly than any hitherto 
 commencing in one small spot in her mind ex 
 tended its sway like sand blown by the wind, until 
 her whole soul grew parched and weary with it. 
 Since she had given the young preacher her promise 
 on the mountain-height, her hours of happy repose, 
 exquisite though they were, had been few. Whit- 
 cot s attack had subjected her faith in Robert to an 
 
DISCOVERY OF A MURDER. 299 
 
 early and exacting strain, under which she had given 
 way, though only for a short time. But now it was 
 forced to undergo an ordeal a thousand times more 
 difficult than that. In this new trial of her faith and 
 fortitude there was a clutch like that of a preordained 
 destiny. Were they doomed to be put asunder by 
 forces beyond her control? Perhaps she had been 
 right, that day in church, when she had thought of 
 him as standing in a natural isolation, far off from 
 her. And was she not bearing this trial now all 
 alone, awa} r from him, without his aid? But he, 
 too, was alone ; he had left her when she had spoken 
 words of reproach and anger : how could she tell 
 that he was not suffering even more than she? With 
 this, her mind reverted to his past years, during 
 which he had gone through so much in solitude ; and 
 she resolved that she would be strong, as he had 
 been. But her anxiety was too great to bear with 
 out aid : she turned to God. " Oh, is there no help 
 in 3 our glorious sky?" she murmured, sitting like a 
 ghost in her dusky room. " Is there no answer out 
 there in the breezy night?" 
 
 She gazed out into the moonlight, but found no 
 consolation. The maple that rose thick-foliaged be 
 side her window, jutting masses of grim, greenish- 
 white leaves out of the deep shadow at its black 
 core, waved them with heavy hands in the slow 
 wind ; and even as these swaying hands tossed up 
 and down, the} changed into the aspect of strange, 
 dead faces that mocked her. 
 
300 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 Meanwhile, the two gentlemen of the household 
 had been weighted with a fresh fact of bad omen, 
 imparted Iry Mrs. Pride ; which was, that, on his 
 return to the farm the preceding afternoon, Burlen 
 entered b} the back way and passed through the 
 kitchen, with his clothes dripping. This he ex 
 plained by saying that he had been walking care 
 lessly, and had slipped into the river. An accident 
 like that would have no special significance ordi 
 narily ; but it seemed to place Burlen near the spot 
 where Whitcot had been found, and there would be 
 those who would imagine reasons for his inventing 
 such a story to account for his being drenched with 
 water. Thinking of these things, Archdale hardly 
 slept ; and Ravling found himself incapable of 
 taking any rest in the tent which he had so lately 
 shared with the murdered man. He tried to read ; 
 lie walked up and down the road, and stared towards 
 the village as if its one lingering light could disclose 
 to him what was going on there. He sat still and 
 listened for the tramp of hoofs, some new arrival 
 bringing information. But the incessant, sad cry of 
 the crickets alone responded to his listening. 
 
 There were others who kept vigil that night ; and 
 some of the watchers at Savage s at last descried 
 the light of a small fire on some high ground in 
 the direction of Monadnoc. It might be an inno 
 cent fire, but there was a chance that guilt} hands 
 had kindled it for comfort in the chill night, until 
 flight should be resumed. Little time was lost in 
 
DISCOVERY OF A MURDER. 301 
 
 sending a determined band towards the twinkling 
 
 spot. 
 
 At that moment a man sat beside the fire, which 
 had been built in a small open space on the natural 
 hearth of a smooth rocky slab. The flames sprang 
 nimbly up between the sticks and made an agreeable 
 but wild and lonely glow amid the silent surround 
 ings. It burnished the thick fringe of ferns below 
 the rock into vivid visibility, struck here and there 
 upon branches of underbrush that stuck up from the 
 ground at accidental angles, suggesting eager figures 
 just risen up to look ; and farther off it darted lines 
 of light across the boles of larger trees. These spots 
 of reflected fire all around on rock, tree, and fern 
 became like so many flaming eyes concentrated upon 
 the low blaze of the figure bending over it. Sur 
 rounded by them, and with the crackling fagots cast 
 ing up their illumination into his face, there was no 
 possibility on the man s part of escaping identifi 
 cation, should his pursuers come this way. 
 
 The face thus revealed, though sad and haggard, 
 was that of Robert Burlen. 
 
 On hearing the tragic tidings brought that morn 
 ing, he had been struck with an overpowering re 
 morse, and had felt the necessity of getting out of 
 sight. Taking his hat, he had gone silently out and 
 made his way into the nearest woods, wandering on 
 without noticing in what direction chance bore him. 
 How swiftly his unhallowed wish for AYhitcot s ex 
 tinction, uttered in the insanity of his first resent 
 ment, had been fulfilled ! That was what he was 
 
302 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 thinking : and he presented it to himself in many 
 ways, torturing himself with a sense of wickedness 
 that seemed now by this sudden and violent death to 
 have had the stamp of permanence set upon it. 
 
 The fresh, peaceful quiet of the woods began at 
 length to relieve him ; when suddenly an ugly appre 
 hension that he might come unawares upon the mur 
 dered man beset him. He shrank from the thought 
 like one guilty, and looked about him to see where 
 he was, so that he might retrace his steps. He had 
 been walking blindly for a good while, getting always 
 deeper into the growth, and forcing aside the hinder 
 ing thickets wherever there was no passage around 
 them ; so that he had no conception of his present 
 locality. Several narrow avenues opened among the 
 trees, and he made an attempt to go back along the 
 one he had just arrived by ; but everything was un 
 familiar, new windings radiated everywhere. The 
 idea that he could be lost seemed preposterous ; but 
 after he had wandered for hours seeking in vain for 
 some escape, he could no longer deceive himself. 
 
 At first, the excitement of trying to find his way 
 nerved him and diverted his mind ; but when the 
 attempt began to appear hopeless, the gloom of his 
 regrets came back and bore him down. He grew 
 faint for want of food, and succeeded only after much 
 effort in finding a few late berries. He sank down 
 and waited, in exhaustion. Then by degrees some 
 clusters of club-moss pricking up through the dark 
 earth at his side interested him. He studied their 
 structure, and fell to wondering at their perfection. 
 
DISCOVERY OF A MURDER. 303 
 
 From these he passed to the leaves nearest him ; the 
 marvel and beauty of their delicate shaping and vein- 
 ing grew upon him. He watched closely the small 
 est insects that travelled through the dead rubbish of 
 the wood within a few feet around his resting-place. 
 Crawling on his knees and observing their adven 
 tures among the sticks, straws, weeds, and debris, 
 he came to feel that the petty area he was examining 
 was almost a world complete in itself. All at once 
 he sprang to his feet with a cry. His thoughts, for 
 a time absorbed in these tiny insect-mazes, had 
 abruptly reverted to the crime made known that 
 morning. 
 
 The interval of idle companionship with small 
 natural things, however, had put fresh vigor into 
 him. To be lost in this region was no trilling peril, 
 and the risk would increase with every additional 
 hour of fasting and fatigue. He pushed on once 
 more, and this time succeeded in getting upon con 
 stantly rising ground ; which was so far an advan 
 tage. But the vaulted wood kept growing darker. 
 He attributed this to storm-clouds : the air, however, 
 became cooler and the dusk more pervasive, until he 
 caught sight of a star beyond the boughs, sparkling 
 premature!} , and knew that evening had arrived. 
 
 Fearing to advance further, he sat down, heaped 
 dr} leaves about him for warmth, and waited. He 
 was just on the edge of a clearing, and in the gap 
 between some dark-tree shafts he beheld the great 
 angular back of Monadnoc hunched up like wizard- 
 work against the clear, dark sky ; also the Scorpion 
 
304 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 crawling with its golden or diamonded star-points 
 through the space above. He watched the constellation 
 slowly shifting, hour by hour. Its gradual movement, 
 connected with the imaginary reptile outline, seemed 
 to be a step in the working of some fatalistic enigma ; 
 and then again its aspect changed : it became Hke a 
 glorious and triumphant show of jewels pendent above 
 the mountain. Burlen thought of that sublime hour 
 he had passed on the summit with Edith, when their 
 souls had flowed together, and they two had possessed 
 that pinnacle as if they had been one happy life 
 raised high above the, common world. And now he 
 must resign himself to loneliness and darkness, and 
 to the chill of this sombre, hideous night. What did 
 it mean ? What destiny was preparing for him ? 
 
 A wan gray dimness of light that was not morn 
 ing s began to infiltrate the black spaces of the wood. 
 Burlen heard a snake slip over the loose leaf-pave 
 ment close by him, but did not stir. He seemed to 
 have come nearer to the snake since morning, and 
 could almost sympathize with him : the day had 
 been so terrible, he had grown so faint, humanity 
 had begun to seem so far off any touch of life was 
 acceptable. The moon sent brighter rays into the 
 obscurity, and presently the lost man noticed a small 
 filmy ball swaying to and fro in the pallid glimmer, 
 not three yards away. It was a spider s silky cradle- 
 cocoon full of eggs, suspended by a long thread from 
 a lifeless bough above, in such wise that a slight 
 stirring of air caused it to swing with the regu 
 larity of slow clock-work. The motion of this petty 
 
DISCOVERY OF A MURDER. 305 
 
 shape appeared to relate itself to the noiseless wheel 
 ing of that vast Scorpion design in the sky, so im 
 measurably far away. Were they not, in different 
 degrees, measuring the same deliberate movement of 
 Fate s mechanism? Little by little it related itself 
 to another thing, the most revolting in the world. 
 It made Burlen think of the wretched shape of some 
 condemned criminal tossed into the air to die, and 
 swaying helpless with the strangling rope. 
 
 Then there arose among the branches overhead 
 an unearthly sound. The breeze had freshened, and 
 two limbs or tree-stems, growing in such a way that 
 the} chafed, emitted a desolate creaking under the 
 stress of the rushing .air. There is no sound in 
 Nature more melancholy than this crazy cry. The 
 tree that produces it is malformed, and the inarticu 
 late shriek carries with it a thought of endless pain, 
 the helpless anguish of a doom that begins with 
 birth, and is forwarded by the very act of growth. 
 
 Burlen started up and hurried on, unable to bear 
 this sound. The moonlight now enabled him to see 
 his way ; but finding an open spot and a smooth rock, 
 he resolved to make a fire and camp there till morn 
 ing. He lay down without other covering than a 
 projecting bush supplied. But his anxieties and 
 visions distressed him more than the hardness of his 
 bed and the want of shelter. Hunger had made him 
 light-headed, and he dreamed before he could sleep. 
 He fancied himself pursued, hunted with dogs, he 
 did not know for what ; fierce glaring eyes surrounded 
 him. Then all this changed, and he was hunting 
 20 
 
306 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 himself. He could not find himself. Oh, now he 
 remembered : he was lost. But how had he come 
 into the woods ? Why ? Was he, after all, a criminal ? 
 Would they catch him ; and what would they do to 
 him? 
 
 With a sharp, fresh, foamy roar the gathering 
 wind set on anew against the pines : their ominous 
 murmur filled his ears. He fell asleep. 
 
 Before the light of dawn had fully risen, there be 
 gan a moist, refreshing cheep and universal twitter 
 in the branches round about, all the birds chirping 
 very much alike, as if they had forgotten their species 
 overnight. Comparative silence ensued. First there 
 had been the general voice of the race : now there 
 was a lull, a kind of prehistoric period in bird-de 
 velopment ; after which the notes began again, each 
 in its separate sort. The cat-bird flung out its 
 harsh remonstrance from a hazel-covert below ; the 
 jay indulged in the more musical of his two calls. 
 Some robins were fluting with unusual alertness, 
 apparently surprised at their own proficiency ; and 
 from a dreamier distance floated the happy aria of 
 song-sparrows that had wisely bnilded near seed- 
 bearing fields. 
 
 Burlen started up amid all this lavish music. He 
 was lame with much walking and exposure ; but the 
 clear upward pulsations of the da}--break sk} , and 
 the sweet wood-minstrelsy around him, gave him 
 fresh vigor, and finding a rough path leading from 
 where he stood, in a direction which he could now 
 see would carry him home, he sat out at once. How 
 
DISCOVERY OF A MURDER. 307 
 
 glorious the morning was, how different from the 
 awful day just gone ! 
 
 He had walked about five minutes, when he heard 
 the rush of water, and came upon the rocky pool 
 where he had so often bathed. There w r ere the clear 
 topaz current pouring into the natural basin, the big 
 black ash close \)j it, and the thick screen of bushes 
 on the opposite side. The loneliness of the place 
 impressed Burlen, as he thought of the deed so lately 
 done much nearer the highway, and he shuddered. 
 Just then he heard trampling steps beyond the alders 
 across the stream, and a new thought occurred to 
 him. 
 
 " What if I should meet Whitcot s murderer prowl 
 ing here ? " he asked himself. 
 
 As if to settle this queiy, the bushes were parted 
 and a face presented itself in the opening. It was 
 that of Major Brown, in his usual broken silk hat 
 bound with faded blue ribbon. This apparition was 
 so unlike that of a possible murderer, which Burlen 
 had just been imagining, that it became ridiculous. 
 
 " Ah, good morning ! " cried the } oung man, with 
 a smile. 
 
 Major Brown did not speak, and seemed still less 
 inclined to smile. He picked his wa} T carefully 
 across the brook on some dry stones that formed a 
 partial causewa} T , and when very near Burlen s side he 
 produced from his side-pocket, with a casual air of 
 having found it in his way there, a revolver. 
 
 u There s two more on us close behind," he said. 
 " I arrest you, Mr. Burlen, on a charge of murder." 
 
308 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 TINDER ARREST. 
 
 TX the early morning, Ravling, on the look-out at 
 * his tent-door for whatever might happen, saw 
 the Sheriff and his party coming up the road with 
 Bnrlen in charge, and hastened to meet them. 
 
 The young theologian gazed at him with a dumb 
 astonishment and horror that gave no clew to his 
 own conviction in regard to his guilt or innocence. 
 Had his eyes been turned to stone, they could not 
 have been less communicative. His color was wan, 
 his hair disordered ; the black-and-white spotted tie 
 that he wore hung in two loosened strips fluttering 
 uneasily below his impassive face. He did not go 
 through any of the formalities of recognition, and 
 yet there was a kind of vague appeal in the uncertain 
 stare which he fixed upon Ravling. 
 
 The law} er himself was, for an instant, checked 
 bj" a sense of possibilities yet undetermined ; but 
 only for an instant. "We foresaw this yesterda}*," 
 he said quietly to the prisoner. " Say nothing to 
 these men till I have consulted with you." 
 
 Then Buiien found his voice, and his e3 es began 
 to live again. "But why? "he asked indignantly. 
 " I am as innocent as you. I was lost in the 
 woods." 
 
UNDER ARREST. 309 
 
 "You knew where you were this mornin , pears 
 to me," observed the Major, dryly. Burlen merely 
 turned upon him a glance of cold scorn. 
 
 " I believe what you say, Burlen," Ravling assured 
 him, quickly. " But the circumstances are going 
 to make trouble. Innocent men are sometimes in 
 the greatest danger. Prejudice is aroused, and 
 you mustn t give it the advantage of misconstru 
 ing a single word. What are you going to do, 
 Mr. Brown?" 
 
 "Give him his clothes and something to eat. 
 Says he s most starved," the Sheriff answered. 
 44 T ain t reg lar, maybe ; but then we want a wagon 
 for him, too, and I thought I might as well." 
 
 Major Brown was a trifle awed in the presence of 
 Ravling s legal acquirements, and somehow felt that 
 he was addressing a superior officer. 
 
 " Very well. Take my tent. I shall go with you 
 to the village afterward." 
 
 The tent was immediate!} 7 converted into a prison, 
 while Ravling and the Major proceeded to the house. 
 Archdale was called down and made acquainted with 
 the fact of Burlen s capture. The poor old gentle 
 man s calm temperament and steady hand had failed 
 him this morning, and his erudite chin displayed a 
 serious cut which he had given himself with his 
 razor. 
 
 "I want to ask Robert one question, just one. 
 May I? " he inquired piteous!} , as if he himself were 
 under arrest and unable to act without permission. 
 
 " Go ahead," said the Major, who was ambitious 
 
310 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 to appear quite used to this sort of thing. " /don t 
 mind if he don t." He jerked his thumb at the tent. 
 
 " Wait a moment," said Ravling. " I would like 
 to know what the question is, if 3~ou please. It 
 may be important. And first I must see Miss 
 Archdale. Will you ask her to give me five min 
 utes? It is exceedingly urgent." 
 
 "Of course, if you wish it," said the Doctor, 
 though his face expressed a criticism that the request 
 was untimelj*. 
 
 " I think you should also tell her of the arrest," 
 the 3 oung man proceeded undisturbed. 
 
 "Very well," Archdale again assented. He saw 
 that he must be a follower at present. 
 
 In a few moments Edith came to the parlor, where 
 Ravling met her. 
 
 " I am going to offer my services to Mr. Burlen 
 for his defence," he said at once, "if 3-011 are will 
 ing." His manner was charged with a tenderness 
 that tried to conceal itself under the deference and 
 respect of a man who discusses some mere business 
 detail with a woman upon whom great suffering has 
 unexpectedly fallen. 
 
 She raised her head swiftly, and flashed an aston 
 ished inquir3 upon him. " You?" 
 
 " Does n t it seem natural? " he asked. 
 
 She dela3~ed answering. " I did n t know 3*011 felt 
 such friendship for him." she then said, in a low 
 voice. "I I thought 3*ou had not so high an 
 opinion of him as others." 
 
 " We were rivals," he answered frankly. " That 
 
UNDER ARREST. 311 
 
 does n t make me his enemy. And now he is in 
 need of immediate help, which it happens I may be 
 able to give." 
 
 " But why do you come to me? Why not go to 
 him?" she demanded, feeling that she had detected 
 him in an effort, perhaps half unconscious, to make 
 her lean upon his generosity. 
 
 " Because }~ou have the best right to be consulted. 
 Your father yesterday told me of your engagement, 
 formally announced it; though, of course, I knew of 
 it before. There is no time to spare, and as you had 
 this right to approve or refuse my aid, I wanted to 
 ask you at once. Do you object?" 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Ravling, you are generous ! " she cried. 
 The look she gave him now was worth many dis 
 appointments. " You have called yourself selfish 
 so long " 
 
 "No, not always," he interrupted. "Don t you 
 remember my telling you once that I could n t see 
 why it was selfish to try to advance myself and gain 
 a position, even without any very great aim perhaps? 
 What I propose now may not be exactly selfish ; but 
 it is hardly more generous than that. I do it for my 
 own good, too, because I wish to help you as well as 
 Burlen ; and I should be very unhappy if it were 
 denied me." He waited a moment for her to repty. 
 " Do you consent to my service?" 
 
 " Consent? Why should I object? " 
 
 " I am not a criminal lawyer." 
 
 " And does that make a difference? Will it les 
 sen the chance of a fair trial? " 
 
312 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 "I know something of criminal procedure," he 
 answered impartially. "And then I should get a 
 young acquaintance of mine, who is strong in that 
 field, to assist me. On the whole, I feel confidence 
 in myself because of my personal knowledge of the 
 situation. I think I should succeed." 
 
 Edith reflected a moment. It passed through her 
 mind that a defeated rival in Ravling s position might 
 gain a frightful triumph over the victor should he 
 in any way misdirect the defence of life and honor. 
 She could not suspect Ravling of villany ; yet it cost 
 her an effort to place such a vital trust in his hands, 
 when that thought had once occurred to her. 
 
 " Confidence would in itself be a great help," she 
 said slowly. Tell me, Mr. Ravling, have you yet 
 formed any idea as to who is really the criminal?" 
 She looked steadily, penetratingly at him ; and he 
 was quick to see that the question meant, " Are you 
 thoroughly convinced of Robert s innocence ? " 
 
 His own eyes returned an involuntary assurance 
 on this point, which she accepted. " Yes," he 
 answered, " I have my idea. But I shall not breathe 
 a word to any one until I have got something to 
 go upon. That s my strongest hope in the case, and 
 I must n t risk it by doing anything premature. You 
 may be sure, though, that the person I suspect will be 
 watched." 
 
 "I m willing to trust it all to you," she declared 
 impulsively. 
 
 "It is you who are generous," he said, his voice 
 quivering a little. 
 
UNDER ARREST. 313 
 
 As he took the hand she had eagerly put forth to 
 press her own gratitude and courage into his, he 
 longed to bend and touch his lips upon it, if only 
 in token of resignation and farewell to what he had 
 once believed he might win. What would he not 
 have given to be allowed even a moment s uncon 
 cealed worship before her there ! But he knew that 
 the desire wronged his deeper sentiment toward her, 
 and he went his way in silence. 
 
 She looked after him from the window, feeling 
 that she had never adequately known him until this 
 moment. 
 
 " What in the world could Mr. Ravling have to 
 say at such a time?" demanded Mrs. Savland, who 
 had just rustled downstairs and slipped into the 
 room unnoticed. Edith told her the errand that had 
 brought him. ; Well, that is certainly very noble of 
 him," said her aunt glibly. " But I wonder at his 
 coming to } ou. Of course your relations with Robert 
 Bmicn are at an end now." 
 
 " No, Aunt Grace, they ve only just begun." 
 
 Mrs. Savland was silent for a time, while her niece 
 continued looking out upon the morning sky, with tear 
 less eyes and a burning at her heart. When Arch- 
 dale, a few minutes before, had informed his sister of 
 the situation, the magnitude of the disaster had at 
 first palsied her tongue. In such an emergency even 
 pulsatilla pills could not be counted on with any cer- 
 taint} T . She stared vacantly at her brother for an 
 instant, and then startled him with this announce 
 ment : 
 
314 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 " Thomas, we must go to Europe." 
 
 " Europe?" he gasped, fearing that her mind was 
 unhinged. 
 
 " Yes ; Edith and I. We ought to start at once." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " To get her away, of course. Harm enough has 
 been done, Heaven knows ; but she must n t be mixed 
 up in a murder trial; you can understand that, I 
 hope. I must go with her immediately, and stay a 
 long time, till this is all forgotten. 
 
 " But Robert " he began. 
 
 At this point Mrs. S a viand had abandoned him, 
 and, in descending the stairs, she had caught sight 
 of the lawyer leaving the parlor. Gathering her 
 forces, she broached her project to Edith ; but the 
 girl turned upon her with a quiet intensity of disdain 
 that, for the first time, opened Mrs. Sav land s eyes 
 to the full measure of the distance between them. 
 
 The lingering cynicism around her lips grew into a 
 curve of lofty courage, as she answered in a voice 
 divided by jarring notes of love and anguish: "I 
 shall never leave Robert till this is over. Life is a 
 tragedy, people say : well, it has begun for us as if 
 it really were one, and he and I have our parts to 
 gether. Whatever he has to bear I shall glory in 
 bearing. I will be true now, true to him, even 
 if I am never called on to be true again." Then, 
 feeling tears of mortification springing to her eyes at 
 the shame which her aunt s shrunken soul had put 
 upon her love, she went swiftly from the room. 
 
 In the little square hall-way she came upon Mrs. 
 
UNDER ARREST. 315 
 
 Pride. " Oh, my dear ! " cried the poor housewife, 
 trembling with pity; and then she put her stiff, 
 veined hands on the young shoulders, unable to say 
 more. " It ll all come right," she went on, recov 
 ering herself. "Martha Pride tells you so. Only 
 don t go teening and crying, dear. They ve made 
 a mistake, that s all. Some one s got his head 
 squiggled, and they ve lighted on the wrong pusson. 
 I ve just been out telling Major Brown so, and tole 
 him he d better go hoppity-skippity after the real 
 man putty quick, or he might git away. And now 
 his breakfast s all ready. He was in the woods all 
 night, you know ; sh d you s pose it?" 
 
 "What? Whose? Have they caught the man 
 who really did it?" asked Edith, confused. " Whose 
 breakfast are you talking about?" 
 
 " Why, Mr. Burlen s." 
 
 "Oh, let me take it to him ! " 
 
 Mrs. Pride hurried away, and returned with the 
 tray she had prepared. But she found Mrs. Sav- 
 land and Archdale in the hall, remonstrating. 
 
 " That I cannot allow," Mrs. Savland affirmed. 
 " Your father will forbid it. Thomas ! " 
 
 And Archdale, being commanded, began : " Edith, 
 my child, don t you think " 
 
 " Father, will you please open the door for me?" 
 said Edith, quietly, with the tray in her hands. 
 
 He opened the door. 
 
 Ravling happened to be approaching the gate, and 
 met her. He took off his hat. " Shall 1 tell Mr. 
 Buiien you are coming.? " he asked gently ; and, upon 
 
316 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 her consenting, he turned and moved on before her, 
 still leaving his head uncovered. 
 
 The guards, a constable and two assistants, all 
 in plain clothes a good deal faded, and slouch hats, 
 moved away out of ear-shot of the tent, as they 
 saw Edith coming. Her relation to the prisoner had 
 promptly become known to them, and their official 
 rigor was less strong than their American sense of 
 duty towards a woman. 
 
 "Edith! Why have you come?" There was 
 gratitude in Burlen s tone ; there was intense long 
 ing in it, too ; but the pang he felt for Edith s posi 
 tion and his desire to relieve her from it conquered 
 these emotions. 
 
 "You ought not to ask," she said sadly, yet try 
 ing to throw cheer into the words. "I wanted to, 
 Robert. I longed to do something for you ; and it 
 just happened oh, Robert, do you forgive me?" 
 She had set down her burden and taken a step or 
 two towards him, in a contrition that made her, he 
 thought, more touchingly beautiful than he had ever 
 seen her. 
 
 " Forgive you what, dear?" 
 
 " My anger and my selfishness. I hardly knew 
 what I was saying. I did n t mean it. I wanted so to 
 tell you yesterday. I thought you knew the girl was 
 your sister and were going to be cruel to her ; and 
 that, with the concealment oh ! " she sobbed, giv 
 ing way; and putting her arm over her face, she 
 leaned her head against the tent-post, wearily. 
 " I don t wonder at it," he said calmly. "I had 
 
UNDER ARREST. 317 
 
 been drawn into a false position. If I had followed 
 my own instinct everything would have gone well. 
 I was for truth, not policy, and I ought to have held 
 to it. But, Edith," he added, in sudden excitement, 
 41 you mustn t stay here. We re forgetting. . . . 
 Remember what has happened to me ! You must 
 not be exposed to this." 
 
 "I wish to!" she exclaimed, lifting her head. 
 There was a certain white, exalted light about her 
 forehead. "I wish to bear it with 3-011 whatever 
 comes." 
 
 4 But it isn t right," he urged, with increasing 
 distress. "God knows I should like your help ; I 
 would like to have }*our arms about me. But I can 
 not ! You must not even come near me until I have 
 been justified from this shadow. Don t you see that? 
 Trust me." 
 
 " If you tell me so," she said, that luminous qual 
 ity still suffusing her face, " I will stay awa}-. It 
 will be harder for me, but I can do it. Whatever 
 you think that must be right." 
 
 He knew that he could not depend upon his own 
 strength further, and, raising his hand, pointed 
 silently towards the house. She lingered a little. 
 " See if you can find your father," he said, trying 
 to speak without agitation. 
 
 She moved; her lips shaped a " good-by," but 
 the sound did not reach him. The two looked their 
 farewell, that otherwise must have expressed itself 
 in rushing tears. 
 
318 IN Tim DISTANCE. 
 
 XXYI. 
 
 PREPARING FOR A STRUGGLE. 
 
 T lIE question which Archdale wished to put to 
 - 1 - Burlen, as he speedily made known on arriving 
 at the tent-door, was this : What did you mean by 
 that strange exclamation when the men first brought 
 us word that Whitcot was dead ? You know, my 
 boy, how I feel about you ; but I want you to explain 
 that." 
 
 The young man looked bewildered. " What ex 
 clamation ? " 
 
 "Is it possible you ve forgotten?" inquired his 
 old preceptor, feeling that a chasm was opening be 
 tween them, which might abruptly broaden and put 
 them asunder. " You said something about Whitcot 
 being killed, and you being in some way to blame : 
 at least you said And it was I who what, Rob, 
 ert? You who come, tell me what you meant! 
 Don t you see how strange it sounds?" 
 
 " Did I say that?" returned Ikirlen, touching his 
 hand to his forehead. Then, with a heavy return to 
 memory, "Oh, yes! I see what you are recalling. 
 I have been through so much since then. I know 
 my first thought was, that, in my rage with Whitcot, 
 I had told him that I wished he was dead ; and there 
 was my wish fulfilled before I had time to retract it. 
 
PREPARING FOR A STRUGGLE. 319 
 
 I suppose I exclaimed something to that effect, 
 didn t I?" 
 
 "Yes, Robert; those were the words I ve 
 repeated. Oh, if you had only finished your sen 
 tence ! " Archdale clasped his hands in the vehe 
 mence of his regret. 
 
 "Why?" asked Burlen. 
 
 " Because others heard what 3 ou said, and it will 
 be hard to explain them." 
 
 The young man felt as if he had tried to move one 
 of his limbs freeh T and had found himself tied. The 
 perception of how those guiltless words might be 
 used against him reminded him that he had not } et 
 fully comprehended what it was to be a prisoner 
 under suspicion of capital crime. A momentary 
 numbness of horror fell upon him. 
 
 " Never mind," he said, rousing himself on seeing 
 Archdale s misery. " I am innocent. I can t be 
 condemned for another s crime, unless God wills it. 
 My own punishment has already come : it is enough 
 that people can think for a moment I might have 
 committed such a deed. Oh, what a stain ! It s a 
 stain that almost proves my unfitness ever to do 
 good. And yet I deserve it, I know. I deserve it 
 for that one moment of unbridled hate. How we 
 planned and planned, Doctor, to evade the snares of 
 my old misfortunes ; and see how the evil fate that 
 was born with me traps me, just when we fancied it 
 was finall} 7 defeated ! " 
 
 u Oh, not so ! it s not so ! " cried Archdale, getting 
 down where he could half enfold him with one arm. 
 
320 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 "Don t feel so, my boy! You exaggerate. I un 
 derstand the pain of your conscience ; but you will 
 see, when you ve come through this trial, that you re 
 not unfitted for your high calling. Don t give up 
 courage and faith in your mission, my dear fellow ! 
 Remember, you re my son : remember what we all 
 expect from you ! " 
 
 "I will," said Burlen, in a low, reverent voice. 
 Thank Heaven for such a father ! " 
 
 And with one silent, firm embrace of the kind that 
 men bestow on one another only when carried clean 
 out of masculine consciousness into the realm where 
 all suffering spirits meet on equal terms, with one 
 such embrace, they parted. 
 
 The telegraph had shot out messages from Sav 
 age s Mills as a centre to all parts of the country, 
 detailing the violent end of Whitcot and the arrest 
 on strong suspicion of "an eloquent young clergy 
 man staying in the vicinity." Everywhere the news 
 was acceptable as a relief from the vulgarity and 
 monotonous repetition of average criminal reports. 
 The great newspaper public quickly recognized the 
 case as something select, and opinion went with 
 swift unanimity against Burlen because of his sacred 
 profession. The Linkinfoot scandal had warmed the 
 general mind into quite a flaming and sulphurous 
 scepticism as to the virtue of the clerical class, and 
 a vast number rejoiced in the fact that this suspected 
 man was a young minister, as much as if the accu 
 sation against him established beyond doubt their own 
 
PREPARING FOR A STRUGGLE. 321 
 
 exceeding uprightness. The local paper at Savage s 
 indulged in safe innuendoes, alluding pungently to 
 the former banking and defaulting pastor of the 
 Second Church ; and, though not daring to advance 
 such a view himself, the editor reproduced an article 
 from a metropolitan journal, which alluded to the 
 Burlen case and the Linkinfoot scandal, and wound 
 up by declaring that the "era of priestcraft" had 
 gone by, and that the leadership of the clergy had 
 practically given place to that of the press. 
 
 A Boston reporter also arrived, talked with every 
 body, flattered and looked down upon the local 
 editor, and sent home a long account of the affair 
 in numerous short chapters, giving Burlen s perso 
 nal history, telling of the engagement with Edith, 
 describing the " deportment " of the supposed mur 
 derer ; " and in all ways sacrificing decency and con 
 sideration to aid his own sensational success. 
 
 From nothing of this did Burlen shrink. He 
 faced it all and studied it. Looking steadily at the 
 cold, craven, unbeautiful side of human nature that 
 was now turned upon him, he felt a separation tak 
 ing place between himself and the race. Human 
 ity receded from him like an ebbing tide ; and yet 
 he felt, too, strangely enough, that he was forming 
 a new bond with his kind, which gave him power 
 over it. The Rev. Franklin Bland forgot to offer 
 him any support. But although Dr. Snowe came 
 to see him once, in his cell, a plain, cheerful room 
 in an old jail otherwise untenanted, he appeared 
 scarcely at his ease; and the only companions 
 21 
 
322 I& THE DISTANCE. 
 
 with whom he could really speak were Ravling and 
 Archdale. 
 
 Mrs. Savland was more sensitive than he. She 
 had made a second effort to withdraw Edith from the 
 scene, but without avail ; and then she took Viola 
 under her wing and fled to Marie, in time to escape 
 contamination, publicity, and the insinuating efforts 
 of the interviewer. 
 
 " Oh, I do feel so sorry at having to leave you ! " 
 cried Miss Welsted to Edith. "But I see that I 
 can be of no use in staying. You would n t have 
 me do so, would you, Edith? And 3 ou know Long 
 fellow says disasters come not singly : do you 
 remember? 
 
 " First a shadow, then a sorrow, 
 Till the air is dark with anguish. 
 
 I m sure it won t be so with you," she added, aware 
 of the unfortunate choice of her quotation; "and 
 m} heart will be with you, even if I in not here. 
 Write to me, dear, when you can." 
 
 So Archdale and his daughter were left at the 
 farm alone. The new term had begun at the Marie 
 Theological School, but the professor succeeded in 
 making a temporary arrangement to have his place 
 supplied, feeling himself unequal to the resumption 
 of his lectures. 
 
 In the mean time Ravling and his junior counsel 
 took rooms in the village and worked hard in pre 
 paration for the case. The Grand Jury had fortu 
 nately met soon after Burlen s arrest, and had found 
 their indictment : the trial was appointed to take 
 
PREPARING FOR A STRUGGLE. 323 
 
 place within ten days. Both the advocate and the 
 prisoner had no doubt as to where the guilt for 
 Whitcot s death really lay ; but they could not im 
 part their surmises. The counsel for the defence 
 were engaged in detective manoeuvres as well as in 
 taking legal precautions. The^y were careful to have 
 the ground well searched all around the scene of 
 the murder, without letting that measure become 
 known. Two unobtrusive men arrived at the hotel, 
 who were supposed to be lightning-rod agents, but 
 might have been noticed, had any one been keen 
 enough to observe them, spending a good deal of time 
 near the woollen-mill and taking an uncommon interest 
 in one of its occupants. Twice Ravling drove up to 
 the farm, and happened to be in the barn at the same 
 time that Timotlry was there, a circumstance favor 
 able to the quiet interchange of ideas and informa 
 tion. Once, too, there was a secret assembly in the 
 deserted house with heart-shaped door-lights at the 
 foot of the hill ; and if the foot-prints near the 
 threshold had been studied, three different shapes 
 would have been discovered, one of which would 
 have exactly accommodated the shoe of Ida Hiss. 
 
 That, in fact, was the dilemma. Ravling had 
 grown thin and worn by the time they were within 
 two days of the trial ; and the general belief among 
 on-lookers was that he would fail to bring his client 
 off. 
 
 This was the conviction expressed in an influential 
 group collected in the office-room of the hotel, the 
 night before the case was to be tried. Stubbs, as 
 
324 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 the sole possessor of peculiar!}- damaging testimony, 
 had much to say ; but Epenetus, Serious, and Absalom 
 Savage were all present, Absalom wearing a stunned 
 look, which, ever since the first tidings of the murder 
 reached him, had conferred upon him the air of hav 
 ing consummated his life-long effort at total deaf 
 ness. This relieved him from even appearing to 
 listen to discussion on a matter already so nearly 
 settled. The rest found in the occasion a distinct 
 need for the consumption of whiske} r and for much 
 difference of view on minor points. Each one con 
 sidered it his duty to uphold a thcon" varying in 
 some particular from that of an} T body else. 
 
 Waddy, the barber, still clung to the idea that a 
 plea of insanity would be set up. Without that, no 
 murder trial could be complete. 
 
 Serious, after drumming on his teeth in masterly 
 inactivitj^, put forward his argument that an alibi 
 would be claimed. 
 
 "I ll tell you what /heard this morning," said 
 Major Brown, modestly assuming by his manner that 
 any little contribution from him might not be duly 
 heeded, even though it in fact decided the debate. 
 "I was told that the defence could not find any 
 suitable line, and, quite s likely as not, will plead 
 guilty and appeal for mercy." 
 
 An awful hush followed these words, for it was 
 known that the Major had been seen talking with 
 the State s Attorney, the Hon. Ebenezer McKnight, 
 a tall, raw-faced barrister with Jeffersonian man 
 ners, who was at that moment shrouded in the 
 
PREPARING FOR A STRUGGLE. 325 
 
 secrecy of an upstairs room, making his final notes 
 for the prosecution. 
 
 But the hardware dealer, Card, succeeded in se 
 curing a unique ground, while steering clear of 
 offence to any one. " I differ with 3^011 all, gentle 
 men," he began, with unwonted boldness. " I have 
 my notions of what will be done ; but the point is 
 this, the result is going to be very unexpected." 
 
 For an instant they half believed that he had ut 
 tered something denoting superior sagacit} T . Then 
 Breck said to the Major, with some hesitanc3 T , 
 
 " Have you got the rope, Sheriff ? I suppose 
 you ll " 
 
 "Time enough," answered that functionaiy, with 
 the air of an old hand. "Have to get a new one 
 every time, you know. I rec lect Caldwell, second 
 cousin to K. V. Swift, Ser ous, Caldwell used to 
 say when he went to the rope-maker s, if he d got 
 a man to hang, the manufacturer d throw down his 
 hands and tell him, There, I know just what you 
 come for : take it and go ! Never would accept a 
 cent for it, he would n t. And they furnish good 
 stuff, too. Them ropes 11 bear a strain of three 
 thousand pounds." 
 
 The}? were all impressed ; and Card, vainry hoping 
 to find some way of voicing the general appreciation, 
 asked with much gravity: "That s more than s 
 necessary, ain t it?" 
 
326 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 THE CRISIS IN COURT. 
 
 BUSINESS was almost suspended when the hour 
 for opening the court arrived ; and most of the 
 able-bodied part of the community poured into the 
 pew-like seats of the big barren apartment, duly 
 furnished with tables, chairs, and gutta-percha spit 
 toons of that large official pattern which seems to 
 bear some occult relation of peculiar fitness to the 
 dispensing of justice in our courts. 
 
 Among the rest, Ida Hiss, Iludyard, and Timothy 
 Pride, with his mother, were present; and even 
 Mother Savage, who had qualified herself by a course 
 of criminal and litigious fiction pursued since the 
 arrest, made her appearance, her lips wound up 
 into a knot on one side, missing the accustomed pipe 
 now denied her. Breck, the jeweller, had difficulty 
 in deciding on which of the too man} objects of in 
 terest he should fix his earnest e} T e ; but at last he 
 found it fascinated by Whitcot s father, who had 
 made a deep impression in the village by the bit 
 terness of his grief, and b} T ordering a piece of 
 Monadnoc rock to be quarried for his son s tomb 
 stone at Marie. He had now come up expressly to 
 watch the trial, having done all he could to assist 
 
THE CRISIS IN COURT. 327 
 
 the prosecutor in securing evidence for Burlen s 
 conviction. 
 
 It was a strange thing to see him sitting there, 
 a man of fifty-five, with a short beard, perfectly white 
 but jauntily trimmed, darker hair parted at the 
 crown, and clothes of a fashionable and over-youth 
 ful cut. Handsome, selfish, a man of the world, he 
 looked like his son grown suddenly old, a young 
 man prematurely burnt out and ashen ; but just 
 under the white beard glowed a magenta silk neck- 
 scarf (he refused to wear mourning), which might 
 have stood for the last live spark of fire remaining in 
 him. And it w r as plain from his face that all his fire 
 was now converted into a desire for vengeance. 
 
 The judge entered, and the audience became sub 
 dued. The prisoner was brought in, and it began to 
 recover tone. Notwithstanding the drift of opinion, 
 there was no trouble about filling the jury until the 
 name of Tarbox was called. Then Ravling entered 
 a protest. Tarbox had been singularly affected by 
 Richard s death. From having had him in his house 
 for a while, he now seemed to confuse the dead man s 
 identity with that of his lost son. He had been 
 heard to talk loudly of inflicting speed} punishment 
 on the 3 oung preacher, and was evidently becoming 
 unsettled in mind. After a short debate, therefore, 
 he was rejected propter ajfectum. This incident 
 heightened the eagerness of the spectators. 
 
 "... That } Oii will well and truly try and true 
 deliverance make between the State of New Hamp 
 shire and the prisoner at the bar. So help you God." 
 
328 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 These words being spoken for the twelfth time, and 
 sworn to, the panel was complete, and the State s 
 Attorney rose to open the prosecution. 
 
 He first ruffled an imposing shirt-bosom, which 
 bore a small frill terrible as the comb of a fio-htino-- 
 
 o o 
 
 cock, at the prisoner, the opposing counsel, the 
 entire audience, and lastly though in more deferen 
 tial fashion at the bench itself. This shirt-bosom 
 was privately looked upon by its owner as one of the 
 bulwarks of law and society ; but it was only a part 
 of his armor. Accusation resided in his very hair, 
 high uplifted above his forehead ; there was the glow 
 of just indignation in his crimson cheek, and con 
 demnatory scorn quivered in his long forefinger. 
 He had in fact modelled himself on a distinguished 
 advocate who had impressed him in his youth, and 
 presented an old-school demeanor which carried con 
 viction to the inhabitants of Savage s. 
 
 He finished his opening and came to the evidence. 
 
 First witness for the government, Epenetus B. 
 Savage. He appears promptly in the witness-box, 
 rising up like an inky and discolored ghost. His 
 testimony is brief; touches the finding of the body; 
 also certain foot-marks in the vicinity leading towards 
 the river and ceasing there. 
 
 Next a physician is called, a supernumerary, 
 to place the " properties " of the case. Gives routine 
 evidence, bearing on the immediate cause and prob 
 able time of death. 
 
 Third witness, Marshall Stubbs. He repeats 
 the story of the quarrel overheard. His manner is 
 
THE CRISIS IN COURT. 329 
 
 shrewd, deliberate, winning general favor. His nar 
 ration, being dry even to unwillingness, only height 
 ens the sensation produced when he reeites Burlen s 
 express wish that Whitcot might be obliterated. 
 And when he imitates the accused man s action in 
 flinging up his arms as he disappeared in the direc 
 tion taken by Whitcot, the jury by a simultaneous 
 movement fix their eyes suddenly on Burlen, with 
 angered intensit} . 
 
 Ravling tried to break the force of this attack by 
 cross-questioning, but did not succeed well ; and 
 everybody thought him crushed. Stubbs was dis 
 missed and Mrs. Pride sworn, to show that the pris 
 oner, after the quarrel, had returned to the house 
 with his clothes wet through ; this in connection with 
 the traces of foot-prints mentioned by Epenetus. 
 
 "Now, my good woman," said the prosecutor, 
 growing portentously bland, "how did he explain 
 his condition at that time ? " 
 
 " He did n t say nothing at all about conditions." 
 
 The lawyer affected an indignant air. " Did you 
 ask him how he got wet ? " 
 
 " Yes. He said he had slipped and fallen into the 
 river." 
 
 " And you believed him? " 
 
 Ravling started up. " We object to that question, 
 your honor." 
 
 "Now, Mr. Ravling," interposed Mrs. Pride, 
 " what do you go objectin for? I m only going to 
 tell him the truth." 
 
 " The witness will be silent ! " announced the 
 judge, curtly. 
 
330 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 Mrs. Pride threw him an indignant glance. " You 
 needn t be so grurnsy, anyhow," she muttered. 
 
 " We maintain," continued Ravling, " that the 
 witness must be presumed to have given the pris 
 oner s statement credence, unless special reason can 
 be shown why she should not have done so." 
 
 The prosecutor fumed and persisted ; but the judge 
 looking out of the nearest window as if communing 
 with some invisible monitor of justice posted there, 
 declared the question inadmissible. 
 
 "Very well, then," said the attorney, sweeping 
 around towards the witness again, and bringing the 
 full force of his shirt-frill to bear. " Was there some 
 reason why " 
 
 " I object," cried Ravling. " Was there any 9 is 
 better." 
 
 The other lawyer, with formidable courtesy, took 
 the suggestion. "Was there any reason why you 
 should not believe his statement?" 
 
 " Of course there wasn t," Mrs. Pride exclaimed. 
 " And if there had n t been such a stewing and brew 
 ing about it, I el have told you so long ago." 
 
 The State s Attorney went on to show the fact of 
 Bmien s seclusion after his return, and his disappear 
 ance the next morning, immediately on the announce 
 ment of Whitcot s body having been discovered. 
 
 Cross-examined, Mrs. Pride declared that a young 
 man, going out to walk under ordinary circum 
 stances, had once lost himself in the same vicinity, 
 and was found only after three days. " When he 
 come out of the woods," she added, yielding to an 
 
THE CRISIS IN COURT. 331 
 
 historic impulse, " he was thin as a pea-pod in a dry 
 spell ; most starved, too. But, law ! we was all born 
 
 I would say mortal; and so I says, says I " 
 
 At this point, however, she was stopped, on the 
 ground of irrelevancy. 
 
 The defence had begun to gain a little in public 
 estimation; but Archdale s testimony, which fol 
 lowed, bringing in Buiien s enigmatic words con 
 necting himself with the murder, told heavily against 
 the prisoner. It now remained for the prosecution 
 to complete the chain of circumstantial evidence, 
 and suggest a sufficient motive on the part of the 
 accused. 
 
 An account of Wliitcot s supposed discovery that 
 Ida Hiss was Thyrsa Burlen was drawn forth ; and 
 as the mysterious girl was present, she became sud 
 denly one of the persons of the drama. Burlen 
 looked across the space between himself and the 
 place where she sat, and saw that her bold, dark, 
 melancholy beauty was clouded with a dim blush; 
 but otherwise she gave no token of interest. The 
 final witness for the Government was Rudyard. No 
 rumor of the many which had abounded had touched 
 this man ; yet as soon as he took the stand, every 
 one in the room appeared to be sensible of something 
 peculiar about his presence. 
 
 "Where were you," began the examining lawyer, 
 "on the afternoon when the murder is supposed to 
 have occurred ? " 
 
 " Down by the river." 
 
 " State what took place there." 
 
332 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 "I heard a noise in the woods, and then he," 
 jerking his head towards the prisoner, " Mr. Bur- 
 len, I mean, came running to the bank." 
 
 On this, the prisoner looked the witness full in 
 the face, with an indignant flash of the eyes. Ida 
 Hiss started and leaned forward, gazing eagerly 
 from one to the other. The blush had left her face, 
 which showed a clear brown pallor in its plane. 
 Rudyard returned the young preacher s angry scru 
 tiny with a steady, malignant stillness. 
 
 u Did you notice anything further?" was the next 
 question. 
 
 " He jumped into the water," proceeded Rudyard, 
 in a sullen voice, " and splashed around a great 
 deal. He seemed to be rubbing his clothes." 
 
 " Was this far from the spot where the body was 
 discovered ? " 
 
 " No : not very far, I should say." 
 
 " Have you any doubt about it?" 
 
 "No, sir. It was near that place." Rudyard 
 here slightly averted his face, and Burlen fancied 
 that a look passed between him and Ida. The ex 
 pression of dumb scorn on the girl s face, in reply, 
 sent an indefinable thrill through his veins. 
 
 " Did it occur to you that the prisoner might have 
 fallen in by accident?" 
 
 ^ No ; he jumped in. He seemed in a hurry, and 
 frightened. I thought there was something wrong, 
 and hid behind a tree." 
 
 ^ "Very well," said the attorney. He then ques 
 tioned the woollen-worker as to his knowledge of 
 
THE CRISIS IN COURT. 333 
 
 Whitcot s effort to prove that Ida was Burlen s sister. 
 Rudyard affirmed that he had been aware of it, and 
 that the candidate was furious with Whitcot, in con 
 sequence. Whitcot had said to witness that he 
 feared violence. 
 
 In the cross-examination he seemed much less 
 assured. Ravling s inquiries were swift: Rudyard 
 was slow and confused in his replies. " Why were 
 you afraid to be seen at the river ? " asked the coun 
 sel for the defence, throwing a powerful significance 
 into the words. 
 
 Rudyard grew uneasy ; his gleaming gray eyes fell. 
 At last he said in a chill voice: "I ain t afraid of 
 him or any man. I did n t want him to see me : 
 that s all." 
 
 "Oh," said Ravling, sarcastically; "perhaps you 
 wouldn t like to have been seen by anybody, just 
 then. Was that it?" 
 
 Rudyard glared at him and refused to answer. 
 
 "Were 3*011 on very friendly terms with the de 
 ceased?" the lawyer asked. 
 
 The man, having become exasperated, answered 
 quickly, with a sneer: " No. I thought he was a 
 fool ! " The listeners in the court-room were visibly- 
 shocked ; the jury assumed a wakeful air ; old Mr. 
 Whitcot darted a glance of astonishment at Rudyard, 
 the color rising in his faded face as if the magenta 
 scarf at his throat had become fluid and unexpectedly 
 tinged the pale features above it. 
 
 "Ah! And how did you form that opinion?" 
 asked Ravling, lightly. 
 
334 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 " Oh, I thought he was. I had my reasons." 
 "And did that have anything to do with the fact, 
 
 that, on the first day he came here, you dogged him 
 
 at twilight, along the road ? " 
 
 " How do you know I did?" demanded Rudyard, 
 
 defiantly. 
 
 The State s Attorney rose to protect his witness, 
 and thundered out a protest. 
 
 " I will alter the question," said Ravling, meekly. 
 " Did you recognize the deceased, on the evening of 
 the 6th of July, when you followed him along "the 
 road from Pride s?" 
 
 The witness allowed his eyes to turn towards Ida, 
 then towards Timothy Pride ; finally, they rested on 
 Burlen. He was reflecting. 
 
 "I request that that question be excluded," said 
 the attorney for the prosecution, again rising. The 
 court sustained the objection ; but an impression had 
 evidently been made on the jury and the spectators. 
 
 The defence proceeded to put various inquiries 
 respecting Whitcot s relations with Ida, tending to 
 show that the foreman s jealousy had been aroused. 
 The answers gained were not very satisfactory, but 
 they showed in the witness a desire to conceal some 
 thing. 
 
 " Has this got anything to do with the case?" 
 asked the prosecuting attorney. 
 
 " We hope to show that it has a great deal to do 
 with it," was the reply. 
 
 Ravling had not succeeded in breaking down Rud- 
 yard s testimony, but he had by innuendo produced 
 
THE CRISIS IN COURT. 335 
 
 the feeling that the man was untrustworthy. At 
 this point the court adjourned. 
 
 Of the hours of dread and gloom that intervened 
 before the reopening of the court, it need be said 
 only that they brought to Editli new fears and bewil 
 derments, arising from the remarkable testimony of 
 Rudyard. She scarcely dared to ask herself how 
 this would be confuted, or what would be its final 
 effect. 
 
 Meanwhile a hurried interview took place at night 
 between Ravling and the Boston reporter, who pro 
 duced a small and mysterious article which he had 
 picked up in the fatal wood. He had just been 
 completing a fresh examination of the spot, and the 
 discovery he had made there was so vital in its 
 bearing on the case that Ravling at once forgave him 
 all the annoyance he had caused by his publications. 
 Hastening to the jail, he consulted with his client 
 and returned full of excitement to his office ; after 
 which he contrived a secret conference with Ida, 
 whom he had subpoenaed as a witness for the de 
 fence. 
 
 The next morning judge, jury, lawyers, and the 
 public were all arrayed in their places as if they had 
 never moved ; arid the trial recommenced. The 
 defence brought forward some routine evidence to 
 the good character of the prisoner. Buiien followed, 
 telling his own story, and remaining firm under cross- 
 examination ; and then Archdale was put on the 
 stand to explain the " morbid conscientiousness " of 
 
336 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 Burlcn s mind, as accounting for his associating him 
 self with the guilt of the murder because he had wished 
 Whitcot dead. From this, counsel glided on to dis 
 close through Archdale what Whitcot had told him 
 of Rudyard s threatening attitude. But here the 
 Government attorney sprang to his feet, and asked 
 wrathfully whether the witnesses on his side were 
 to be tried for their lives, instead of the prisoner. 
 " From the first, your honor, there has been a most 
 vicious assault by the defence on this witness Rud- 
 3*ard, and we cannot allow it to go on." There was 
 a sharp contest ; Ravling and his junior exerted all 
 their force, and pleaded, that, painful as it might 
 be to even seem to direct suspicion towards an un- 
 accused person for a moment, a monstrous injustice 
 might be done were they not allowed to pursue this 
 inquiry. They prevailed at last, and followed up 
 what they gained in this way with a brief statement 
 from Edith. 
 
 She narrated her engagement, Whitcot s attempt 
 on the day before his death to estrange her from Bur- 
 leu, and the absence of any threat against the engi 
 neer on Burlen s part, even when the perfidy had 
 come to light. 
 
 Ida Hiss was called next. It was a great surprise 
 to the crowd ; she herself, also, appeared half dazed 
 by the summons, and took her place with an expres 
 sion of anxiety unfamiliar to those who had seen 
 most of her. No one, perhaps not even she, knew 
 what she was going to say ; but at moments during 
 the morning she had measured forces with Rudyard in 
 
THE CRISIS IN COURT. 337 
 
 long, terrible, undecipherable glances, which seemed 
 to presage something important. 
 
 Ida began with particulars concerning the plan 
 which Whitcot had formed of proving her to be the 
 sister of the accused. He had tried to persuade her 
 to enter into this plan. Did Rudyard know of it? 
 Yes, she had told him a little. Had the engineer 
 ever expressed to her any fear of Burlen? No. Had 
 she seen Whitcot often ? Not very ; she was afraid 
 to? Why? Because Rudyard was jealous, and 
 thought Whitcot was making love to her. Perhaps 
 she had given him some reason to think so, had 
 teased him about it only a few days before the mur 
 der ; she did n t know why ; out of mischief, she 
 supposed. 
 
 Once more the prosecuting attorney attacked the 
 line of defence, and succeeded in getting one or two 
 questions and answers struck off the record. 
 
 But at this point something unforeseen happened. 
 Burlen (previous!} instructed by his counsel) was 
 looking very keenly at the witness, who apparently 
 wavered before his scrutiny. All at once Ravling 
 produced from his breast-pocket a small article, 
 a breast-pin made of fine woven hair, and held it 
 up close to her. u Is this 3 ours? " he asked. 
 
 The girl uttered a gasping sound, like a stifled 
 scream. u You know !" she cried, trembling. She 
 sought Burlen with a yearning gaze that quickly fired 
 up into a look of supreme resolution. " He s inno 
 cent!" she cried. Then, with hands thrown wildly 
 across her eyes : " Rudyard did it ! He told me." 
 22 
 
338 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 The court-room was in absolute confusion for a 
 moment or two, people rising to look over those in 
 front; a hum of voices charged with horror, sur 
 prise, triumph ; the State s Attorney, in his loudest 
 tones, inquiring what this irregular procedure meant, 
 and what was the potent talisman in his learned 
 brother s hand, which had not yet been put in evi 
 dence. 
 
 "If the court please, I will now put this trinket 
 in evidence, and proceed with further testimony," 
 Ravi ing promptly declared. 
 
 Ida identified it as an ornament made of her moth 
 er s hair, and belonging to her. Order being re 
 stored, Ravling said to her: " State what you know 
 as to the commission of the murder." Despite the 
 clarion vigor of his tone, his voice quivered. lie 
 was not quite sure of his witness. 
 
 In few words, however, rapidly, as though fate 
 were on her track to stop the revelation, yet with a 
 wild, fixed energy, the girl told how, on her irre 
 sponsible and mischievous incitement, Rudyard had 
 let loose his ferocity, had met, overpowered, and 
 killed Whitcot in the wood, and had then told her of 
 his deed and besought her to fly the place with him, 
 which she refused to do. 
 
 All eyes were bent on the woollen-worker ; voices 
 began to exclaim, " Look ! look ! " He sat with his 
 head stretched .forward, while his body still leaned 
 back cravenly upon the bench. His hands clutched 
 and tugged at the wood of the seat on either side 
 of him ; his eyes seemed to retreat under his fore- 
 
THE CRISIS IN COURT. 339 
 
 head, and a glistening moisture came out on his 
 face. Those nearest drew away from him, while, 
 with an oath, he muttered unsteadily, " It s a lie ! " 
 
 " Look at that man, gentlemen of the jury ! " cried 
 Ravling, with outstretched arm. 
 
 The prosecuting attorney remained motionless, 
 and no longer attempted to interfere. Ravling went 
 on swiftly to prove that the breast-pin had been 
 taken by Rudyard, a few days before the murder, 
 and was carried in his pocket ; also that it had been 
 found by the reporter on the spot where the crime 
 was done, and that it was blood-stained. 
 
 The jury, without rising, gave their verdict : " NOT 
 
 GUILTY." 
 
 Rudyard, attempting to stride out of the room 
 while the evidence was finishing, was arrested and 
 taken to jail. 
 
340 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 REUNION AND SEPARATION. 
 
 BURSTING from the prisoner s dock, Burlen 
 crossed the court-room as well as he could, and 
 approached the flushed, startled woman whose timely 
 utterance had saved him. 
 
 "Thyrsa! you are Thyrsa, sister!" he cried. 
 " I knew it when they brought me that little orna 
 ment : I remembered. Oh, Thyrsa ! " 
 
 She shuddered and held back for an instant, but 
 over her handsome, shadowed face, so hard be 
 fore in its secretive, complacent insolence, there 
 was stealing a swift and peculiar change : the ten 
 derness of an affection long sealed up or perverted 
 crept into it with the softness of young springtime. 
 She put her arms around his neck, and poor 
 thing ! for an instant it seemed as if she had 
 never really been beyond the reach of that strong, 
 brotherly embrace that now enfolded her. " I am 
 so glad ! " she sighed. 
 
 So it was this unhappy, outcast sister she 
 whom he had imagined would disgrace him for life 
 who first welcomed him back to life, and rescued 
 him from the greater shame that had overcast his 
 horizon. And Edith stood by, silently watching. 
 
REUNION AND SEPARATION. 341 
 
 " You must come with us and stay with us now," 
 she said in a low voice, holding out her hand. 
 
 Thyrsa looked at her with deep, sorrowful eyes, 
 and shook her head. " You are a good woman," 
 she said; " but oh, I cannot ! I cannot! There is 
 something here " She made a strange gesture, as 
 if she would have torn out some unseen root of pain 
 from her breast, to fling it away. " You never could 
 understand ; you could n t really love me. I will try 
 to be good and do something for you and Robert ; 
 but I must n t stay with you." 
 
 "Yes, always," said I3urlen, gravety. "Your 
 place is with me, now, Thyrsa, and mine with you." 
 When they were alone he asked, " Why did you re 
 fuse to claim me so long ? " 
 
 "Can t you see?" she began, almost complain- 
 ingly. " God knows," she went on in a different 
 tone, "I wanted to get back to 3"ou ; but I knew 
 I was a dark cloud ; there was no hope for me. 
 Wiry should I agree to come and spoil your bright 
 prospects? But now, dear Rob, I ve been able to 
 help you. When I found myself there in court and 
 you really in danger, I had to let 3*011 know who I 
 was. And, oh, that horrible secret of Rudyard s ! 
 I should have died if I d kept it much longer. It 
 seems like a fever. I was afraid, at first, afraid 
 of him, and hoping you would come off without 
 your knowing I was your sister." 
 
 Burlcn had taken her at once to Pride s ; but, 
 although she was docile enough to consent to that, 
 she would not agree to any association with the rest 
 
342 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 that might embarrass them, and so remained in her 
 own room or with Mrs. Pride. The situation was 
 more than awkward ; it was acutely painful and har 
 assing for all concerned, and Burlen speedily became 
 aware that out of it would probably spring some de 
 cided and serious change affecting his engagement 
 with Edith. 
 
 " How sad you seem, still ! " Edith said to him, as 
 they stood at the porch of the old house that even 
 ing. " Oughtn t 3 ou to be happ} T , now that every 
 thing has turned out so well, and you have found 
 Thyrsa?" 
 
 He looked long and thoughtfully at her ; but for 
 all the tenderness that she saw in his eyes, the look 
 seemed rather to separate than to draw them nearer. 
 * I am so altered, Edith," he answered in a voice 
 level and listless, and not graduated even to the 
 intonations of despondency. " This ordeal that I 
 have been through I don t know what it has done 
 to me." 
 
 "How?" she asked, growing anxious. 
 
 " In the way of taking all the jo}- and color out of 
 some things, that before were the fullest of delight. 
 I m like those clouds up there. Sec ! Imagine sun 
 light on them, and you have the difference between 
 what I was and what I am." 
 
 Above the locusts the clouds, as she saw, were 
 feel)!} silvered by a new moon, as if they were the 
 same that had floated there during the da}-, but had 
 now been transplanted to some other world, and like 
 ghosts were looking back with infinite sadness on 
 this one. 
 
REUNION AND SEPARATION. 343 
 
 "That feeling will pass awa} , I m sure," she 
 urged. " It s natural that you should be depressed 
 now, but " 
 
 He laid one hand on hers as she touched his 
 shoulder with it. " How good it is to be free and 
 with 3*011 again ! " he exclaimed, though not vehe- 
 menth . " But to-morrow to-morrow we will talk 
 of these other things. I don t yet know how to tell 
 you all that s in my mind." 
 
 In the morning an incident of some -importance 
 led to the deferring of this intention. There had, of 
 course, been a great revulsion in Savagensian circles 
 on the sudden and dramatic ending of the trial, and 
 the church committee held an extraordinary meeting 
 without delay, to prepare congratulatory resolu 
 tions for the victorious defendant. A week before, 
 no one in the village had dared to uphold a firm 
 belief in the innocence of Buiien ; but now, with a 
 promptness in making reparation which is perhaps 
 a national trait, and with a readiness to act showily 
 on emotions soon to be forgotten, which may pos- 
 siblj- without injustice be put in the same categoiy, 
 the committee decided to invite the acquitted candi 
 date to become pastor of the Second Church. Mar 
 shall Stubbs, hearing of this, manifested his disgust 
 as far as seemed politic. But the brief era of his 
 importance as the chief Government witness was 
 over, and after collecting an exaggerated bill for his 
 services in that capacity he vanished. The church 
 committee meanwhile proceeded to Pride s, and 
 waited on Burlen. 
 
344 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 His colloquy with them was brief. He accepted 
 their offer at once, for a year. 
 
 When Archdale was informed of this he made 
 vigorous objection, and again displayed the advan 
 tages of the assistant-pastorate in Boston ; but the 
 young man was not to be dissuaded. " I have 
 thought it all over," was his reply. " Circumstance 
 brought about a strange crisis in my life here, arid 
 seems to have pointed out this spot where I ve been 
 vindicated as a good one to begin my true career in. 
 My ambition is n t merely geographical or pecuniary ; 
 and here at Savage s I shall find earth and heaven, 
 virtue and sin, all represented. Those are the ele 
 ments I should have to deal with anywhere. I will 
 meet them here." 
 
 " I suppose you are right," said Edith, on his put 
 ting the decision before her ; but there was perhaps a 
 slight note of apprehension observable in her voice. 
 
 "There are things to consider about our future," 
 he replied, gravely. " Let us walk, this afternoon, 
 and then we shall be free to say all that we wish." 
 
 It was October, and the leaves had begun to fall 
 early. Here and there, like scattered remnants or 
 memories of more prosperous times, spots and dashes 
 of vivid, reckless color were retained by the boughs ; 
 but in general the landscape was reduced to a meagre 
 and sinewy aspect. The sky assumed new promi 
 nence, and had become a far more important element 
 of the scene than it had been three weeks before. 
 Instead of walking through lofty, leafy alleys as at 
 that time, the lovers found themselves unexpectedly 
 
REUNION AND SEPARATION. 345 
 
 exposed to the broad overhanging surface of the 
 heavens when among the trees, as if a new light, a 
 new revelation, had suddenly come over the world, 
 bringing celestial supremacy into clearer notice. 
 Earth seemed to have shrunk, to have flattened and 
 grown chilled with a premonition of winter ; the sky, 
 in its new prominence, wore a vigilant look. On 
 this afternoon it did not permit a single cloud to 
 obscure its scrutiny of things below : there was even 
 something about it approaching the vindictive and 
 merciless. 
 
 "Do you think," asked Burlen, "that you could 
 be content here ? " 
 
 " If you think you would be happy," was her 
 answer. 
 
 He was silent, and sighed. Then, "It isn t that 
 that I fear. I have been thinking that I should have 
 too much happiness." 
 
 She had fancied he was speaking in play, but 
 something in his demeanor jarred on this idea. 
 " How clo you mean?" she asked. 
 
 "I will tell you," he said, "just what has been 
 passing in my mind during the time of my accusa 
 tion and imprisonment. That charge of murder was 
 like an earthquake shock. A single flash of anger 
 was what led to such an awful suspicion, and it 
 clouded over all my triumph in your love and put 
 me for a time into the dust. If it had n t been for 
 this, I should never have been able to separate my 
 self in thought from you, so as to see what I now do. 
 But now it seems to me that I was wrong in seeking 
 
34G IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 for the happiness that other men find. The mere 
 fact that I loved and had won your iove, involved 
 me in all the turmoil of motives and passions that the 
 world keeps up, and so it was possible for the sus 
 picion of hatred and deadly crime to fasten on me." 
 
 " Do you wish to be free?" she asked slowly, in 
 subdued tones, without flinching. 
 
 Where the} stood, some outstretched branches 
 hung their few leaves like flashes of dull lire against 
 the dim blue distances ; Monadnoc Lry across the 
 valley at their left, dissolving the glowing tints of its 
 woods in a serene depth of beryl ; and not far from 
 them the desert-spot shone under the waning sun. 
 Burlen was recalling their former speculations upon 
 the semblance of those two figures whom they had 
 supposed to be on the eve of a parting. 
 
 " I can t answer 3-011 in one word," he at last be 
 gan to say. u 1 do not wish to be free, and yet I feel 
 it my dut} , now, to be so. If you leave me, if I 
 lose you, " the agon} in his face show r ed her in an 
 instant what he would have said. "I can hardly 
 endure it," he cried, " now that I speak of it ! My 
 heart seems to break down and leave me nothing, 
 not even hope for my chosen work, if I must do it 
 without you." 
 
 The pain, the hidden anger perhaps, which had at 
 first shot its twinges through Edith, was converted 
 into pit} and a troubled 33*111 path} for her lover on 
 seeing the strange, unlooked-for grief into which he 
 had fallen. " Tell me all that you feel, and let me 
 help you, Robert," she said quickly. " I know that 
 
REUNION AND SEPARATION. 347 
 
 I m not great enough to be your companion. I 
 might often fail. You remember I had great doubts 
 of mj self when you first asked me. I have had other 
 ambitions. I wanted to shine, you know, in " 
 
 " Oh, no, no! it s not that. It is not any of 
 those reasons," he interposed. "And it s not only 
 the duty to myself I ve already mentioned, to keep 
 clear of entanglement in a love and interests of my 
 own that might make me less useful to others. 
 There are other duties, too ; the duty to Thyrsa and 
 the duty to }*ou, to free you from the dull wretch 
 edness of a family tie with her, and to let you find 
 some wider and brighter life in the big world than I 
 can give you here." 
 
 Edith s courage, too, began to fail. " You talk to 
 me of these cold things," she said, the tears begin 
 ning to sparkle in her eyes. " Oh, I have always 
 felt that in some way destiny would drive us apart ! " 
 " Not destiny," he protested, " for if we do not 
 carry out all that we hoped, it will be from something 
 higher than destiny, if } ou mean by it an uncon 
 trollable fate. It will be from choice, because we 
 think it is better ; and that is character, conscience. 
 That controls even fate." 
 
 She regarded him carefully, and with regained 
 composure asked: "Do you really think I have 
 failed towards you since this last trouble came to 
 you?" 
 
 " You have been perfect in wish and action, 
 Edith. Where should I look for my ideal of woman 
 hood if not to you ? " 
 
348 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 " And would it make no difference," she con 
 tinued, " with your notion of duty to me, if I were 
 to say that I am ready to make every sacrifice that 
 may be needed, and wish as much as you can to 
 treat Thyrsa like a sister ? " 
 
 " It could make no difference," he said, as if try 
 ing to assume a coldness foreign to him. " My duty 
 to you would be the same, however } ou might wish 
 me to ignore it." The desire to be understood got 
 the better of his assumption, however, and he went 
 on. " The duties, I think, are all bound up together. 
 If it is an inspiration, this thought that I should 
 devote myself to ministering to my kind, I must 
 follow it out. Once I believed that I must give up 
 everything and search for Thyrsa. Then I found 
 that there might be a larger duty, to the race. And 
 now again, when I have been fancying that it was 
 essential to my mission that 1, too, should have love 
 and happiness and a home, so as to learn in my own 
 life what others need, it once more seems to me 
 that I must make renunciation. I m not propound 
 ing a theorjr. I should never lay down a law for 
 other men. They must discover their own best way 
 of doing the best work, and I mine. But if you 
 have ever believed what you admired in my poor 
 sermons, why, if I believe it myself, I must act 
 on what seems to me the highest inspiration. Don t 
 you yourself think that s true ? " 
 
 "I think you must follow your highest inspira 
 tion," she answered. She scarcely felt herself strong 
 enough to say more ; at the same time Burlen was 
 
REUNION AND SEPARATION. 349 
 
 aware of an access of courage and brightness in her 
 effect upon him. "You shall be free," he heard 
 her add. 
 
 He took her hand and, holding it in both his, hung 
 over it, reading every delicate line on its flexile 
 surface, as if he traced there the mystery of life and 
 death, of woe and blessing, and some ineffable an 
 swer to the riddle involved in these. But the pro 
 found impulse of his passion for her rose again and 
 almost mastered him ; the bitterness of denying 
 himself that conquering sweetness of which he had 
 become conqueror on the mountain-top was well- 
 nigh unendurable. "Ah, who could have imagined 
 it, a few days ago ! " he cried brokenly. " Could I 
 have foreseen it I who have loved } T OU so ? " 
 
 "We must not wait here," she said hurried^, 
 and drew away her hand. " It is not good for us ; " 
 but she gazed at him as if her eyes, at least, would 
 never depart from before him. How gentle they 
 were, how sad ! And how, in their gentleness, they 
 burned into his very heart ! It was strange, now, 
 to look back to the time when they had been proud 
 e^yes, and when this sweet face, which for a little 
 while belonged to him, had seemed far-off and care 
 lessly, C} T nicall3 content in its isolation. "Let us 
 part bravely," she adjured him, as he hesitated. 
 
 They offered no last embrace, no farewell kiss. 
 It was only a strong pressure of two hands, a look 
 of sublime frankness and mutual honor, with which 
 they parted. 
 
 Perhaps if they had allowed themselves a syllable 
 
350 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 more, the least additional endearment, the strained 
 courage of both would have snapped, and they would 
 have remained together. Never, I am sure, was 
 there a stranger severance of the compact between 
 two lovers. Outwardly cold, abrupt, possibly need 
 less, there was a peculiar exultation about it which 
 sustained them for a time ; yet anguish was busy 
 within them. Faintly wafted to them came the 
 melancholy, lingering note of a pewee, the saddest 
 sound of autumn, the audible "Alas!" of departing 
 summer ; but, otherwise, the hush of a trance was 
 in the air. Above, leaned the cold, vigilant sky ; 
 and that wide aerial field the sunset with no 
 wonted appanage of clouds to rumor and repeat 
 its glory across half the heavens was contracted 
 into a lonely blaze on one particular small arc of the 
 horizon. 
 
 As they thridded their way back among the de 
 nuded trees, the occasional light, dead fall of a leaf 
 sent through Burlen a shudder, as if it were the 
 dropping of dust iuto a grave. 
 
CERTAINTIES AND UNCERTAINTIES. 351 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 CERTAINTIES AND UNCERTAINTIES. 
 
 THAT evening, Edith and Burlen both received 
 notes from Ravling, whom the} had not seen 
 since the brief congratulation that passed at the time 
 of the trial. He wrote to say that he had been 
 obliged at once to go to Boston without telling them 
 in person how much happiness he wished them ; " but 
 I am sure it is in store for you," said the letter to 
 Edith, "without any need of aid from my wishes." 
 That to Burlen contained these words: "Your life 
 is free now ; the shadows have all been driven away 
 at once. I look for sterling deeds and a fine ex 
 ample from you." 
 
 Burlen handed the note in silence to Edith, as he 
 took hers to read. " Yes," she said presently, "your 
 life is free ! " 
 
 At this instant a stifling doubt attacked the young 
 minister : he wondered whether he had acted under 
 some morbid infatuation ; whether after all the sac 
 rifice that he was making might be needless ; and 
 whether he had been generous or ungenerous to 
 Edith. To receive these words from his defeated 
 rival, just at the time when he himself had surren 
 dered the result of victory, was terribly trying. 
 
352 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 " You are free, too, Edith," he answered. " To 
 me your happiness is dearer than my own, by far; 
 but I believe I am serving it. At least I try to 
 believe that. If I can ever do anything " 
 
 She saw that he trembled, and that he was on the 
 point of breaking down. " If you will write to me, 
 Robert, that will be a great deal. I shall want to 
 know of everything }-ou re doing here." 
 
 "Ah, Edith, that was what I had hoped!" He 
 drew a little nearer. "Why child," he said, im 
 pulsively " I ll say once, my darling do I seem 
 to you wrong ? Am I doing you an injury ? " 
 
 " You are doing right," she said. " But oh, how 
 can I bear it all?" That cry of her aching heart 
 escaped unawares ; but she summoned her fortitude 
 again. " Good-by, Robert. Do not tell papa till 
 we go away. I must leave here to-morrow." 
 
 Nevertheless, Archdale saw that something was 
 weighing heavily upon them. The next day Edith 
 was unable to stir ; but Burlen went with Thyrsa to 
 the village, and engaged temporary quarters to be 
 used until he should move into the parsonage. "But 
 we shall see you soon at Marie ? " queried Archdale. 
 "And oh of course you will bid us good-by to 
 morrow, at the station." 
 
 Burlen turned his head away. "I shall not be 
 coming to Marie," he said, huskily. 
 
 " Not coming? What can that mean? Has Edith 
 broken with you ? " 
 
 " We can never marry, Doctor Archdale." 
 
 The elder man drew himself up with austerity. 
 
CERTAINTIES AND UNCERTAINTIES. 353 
 
 "That will need further inquiiy and explanation, 
 Robert. Do I understand that you. reject the en 
 gagement, after all that she has been called upon to 
 suffer for your sake ? " 
 
 "Understand what you will," retorted Burlen, 
 proudly. " I am obeying my duties. Edith and I 
 agree." 
 
 Archdale was obliged to have recourse to his 
 daughter for further knowledge of the situation. At 
 first he repulsed it with impatience. "The boy is 
 beside himself! " he exclaimed. "It is all a chimera. 
 The mischief, so far as concerns Thyrsa, is done : 
 that can t be helped. I would have saved you from 
 it, if I could, but now that she is identified we must 
 make the best of it. As for this notion of breaking 
 the engagement don t you see the injury done to 
 yourself? But it all arises from inexperience : you 
 neither of you know the world." 
 
 " And perhaps the world does n t know us" hinted 
 Edith, mildly. 
 
 So, little by little, it became manifest to her father 
 that the careful fabric of his dreams based on Burlen 
 must undergo a complete remodelling, if indeed it was 
 not already crumbled beyond hope of reconstruction. 
 Much in the same wa} , there came to the young 
 minister also a clearer perception from day to day 
 of the desolation that now surrounded him. When 
 he had seen the train that carried Edith away 
 disappear down the track of the little sylvan rail 
 road which only three months ago had brought 
 him hither in so happy and expectant a mood, he 
 23 
 
354 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 began to understand to how lonely a life he had 
 consigned himself, what a terrible vacancy remained 
 for him to fill with abstract inspiration ; and he 
 shrank before it. Treacherous crevices of doubt and 
 weakness revealed themselves in the foundation of 
 courage and idealism which he had thought so solid. 
 He turned away, sick and dispirited, to take his place 
 in the unpromising home which Thyrsa and he were 
 to make together, and a sarcastic smile rose to his 
 lips as his mind went back to the day of his gradu 
 ating address at Marie. " This is not much like 
 enthusiasm." he muttered to himself. 
 
 Society was naturally shocked at the whole affair, 
 the unpleasant complication into which Edith had 
 been drawn by her connection with Burlen, and the 
 breaking of the engagement afterward. "But of 
 course nothing else was possible," Mrs. Savland took 
 every occasion to say to her friends, " after such a 
 dreadful scandal with the sister, and the murder and 
 arrest, and all that, you know. It s very unfortunate 
 for the poor 3 oung man, I admit such a promising 
 young preacher, too ! No one can be sorrier for him 
 than I ; but 3-011 11 agree with me, I m sure, that 
 Edith did the wisest thing, and probably the kindest 
 thing towards him, in breaking off the engagement." 
 She never for a moment allowed it to be supposed 
 that the loosing of the tie had been the result of 
 Burlen s decision. Unfortunately for her, Edith would 
 not support these tactics. She had little to say to 
 any one ; but when she spoke to Viola and a few 
 
CERTAINTIES AND UNCERTAINTIES. 355 
 
 others with reference to the history, she distinctly 
 made known the grounds on which the marriage had 
 been abandoned. 
 
 The topic, for a while, was in vogue among Edith s 
 Boston friends : they included it with plaques and 
 rare porcelain, scientific lectures and Cambridge 
 gossip, and the latest musical virtuoso or the newest 
 critical utterance on Wordsworth, as being adapted 
 to refined debate, which it was understood must 
 never become very earnest. It became the fashion 
 to sustain any one of several conflicting views 
 about it, which ladies displayed like the approved 
 shades of ribbon for that season, effective enough 
 until the} should go out of date. 
 
 One day in November Ravling went to see Viola, 
 and found her just rising from the piano. A tall 
 young gentleman with a white forehead, and a violin 
 in his hand, stood near the instrument. It was the 
 Rev. Franklin Bland. 
 
 "Ah, "said the lawyer, with his usual suavity, 
 u I did n t know you had come to town. Are you 
 making us a visit, or " 
 
 " Oh, dear, no ! " said the clergyman, lightly ; " I ve 
 come to stay. There was a poor young fellow who 
 wanted a place, and I told my handful up at Savage s 
 that if they would keep up the little church I d pa} T 
 his salary for a while. Fine chance for a sacrifice 
 on my part, you know. But," he concluded, smiling 
 significantly, "I m almost reconciled to the change. 
 There would have been a vacancy there soon, any 
 way : death from ennui, you know." 
 
356 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 Before long the Reverend Franklin took his leave 
 gayly ; but Ravling for some reason imagined that he 
 would not have gone so soon, if the interruption had 
 not occurred. 
 
 "Have 3 ou heard anything, lately, from Miss 
 Archdale?" he asked, when the outer door had 
 closed. 
 
 " Yes, she s coming to Boston, later in the winter. 
 She will be with me." 
 
 "I m glad to hear that. I wonder how she is. 
 How strangely it has turned out, that affair with 
 Burlen. I got to admire him greatlj , at the time of 
 the trial ; but I confess I don t quite understand his 
 conduct. What do you think ? " 
 
 " I hardly know," said Viola, bending her head 
 slightly sideward, as if she were critically examining 
 a picture with regard to its " values." "Edith is 
 quite as puzzling. She seems reconciled." 
 
 " Perhaps it s all right," Ravling conceded ; "but, 
 judging for myself, I should say he had been enor 
 mously selfish about it, in some ways. He s a man 
 of ambition, pure and spiritual ambition, I grant ; 
 but I remember thinking, before now, with reference 
 to him, that such a man might be as selfish as a 
 smaller one. And then it strikes me by the way, 
 it was to 3 ou I was sa}*ing something of the kind at 
 Marie, this last summer. It strikes me that he s 
 mistaking a morbid and temporaiy state of mind for 
 the prompting of that heroic enthusiasm he talked 
 to us about. And so you think Miss Archdale is 
 content?" 
 
CERTAINTIES AND UNCERTAINTIES. 357 
 
 Viola found it necessary to add a corrective touch 
 to her criticism. " That may not be the right word," 
 she said ; but I think she has accepted her life as it 
 is. I don t believe she ll ever many. I can appre 
 ciate her condition exactly. It s not happy, yet it s 
 not entirely despairing. Ah," Viola gave signs of 
 growing sentimental, "I know what it must be! 
 That exquisite line of Byron s gives exactly what I 
 mean 
 
 " With just enough of life to feel life s pain. 
 
 Have you never had such times in your life, Mr. 
 Ravling?" 
 
 " Oh, I dare say," he responded, a little brusquely, 
 and began to ruffle his beard as he frowned at the 
 carved piano-bench across the room. "When will 
 she be here ? " he asked abruptly, getting up. 
 
 In December, I think." Viola looked up at him 
 with a sort of meek apprehension, as if divining 
 that he had conceived some new hope concerning 
 Edith. 
 
 To Ravling she seemed at that instant so pretty in 
 her infantile calm, with her fair hair and the dark- 
 green velvet walking-dress in which she had come in 
 before Mr. Eland s arrival ; she was so patiently 
 waiting for something in life that had not been at 
 tained ; it was so clear that she admired him, that, 
 for a moment or two, he half fancied he could place 
 himself at her feet and ask her to discard her frail 
 sentimentality in favor of an every- day, practical 
 affection. "I m certain," he mused, u that that fel- 
 
358 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 low Bland means to do something of the sort ; " and 
 the reflection inspired in him a transient jealousy. 
 The next instant, however, he held out his hand and 
 said, " Good-by." 
 
 Viola ran upstairs as soon as he had left her, and 
 began to write a sonnet, which she timidly hoped 
 might distantly recall Petrarca or Mrs. Browning 
 if it should ever be published. This was, with her, 
 a period of much mental activity. She had a good 
 many little poems laid away in a scented drawer, to 
 which she sometimes fled for consolation ; and she 
 was debating with herself in these days whether she 
 should get them printed at her own expense. They 
 were of two sorts ; and the question that disturbed 
 her was, ought she to select the pallidly beautiful 
 ones and issue them in a vellum cover with gold 
 lettering, or put together those which were pictur 
 esquely passionate, and bring them out with a " col 
 orful " binding of eccentric design ? She could not 
 decide ; but at last, during the winter, it was whis 
 pered around that she was soon to become an author 
 ess, and there duly appeared a small book with broad 
 margins and ragged edges, called "-Plumelets From 
 The Poets," a selection from New England writers, 
 with appreciative notes and a chaste introduction, 
 in which the poets after being picked had their feath 
 ers returned to them in the handsomest manner. 
 
 After an interval, Edith began to receive letters 
 from Buiien. Sometimes the} contained details of 
 his ordinary duties and trials, the narrowness and 
 
CERTAINTIES AND UNCERTAINTIES. 359 
 
 the prejudices among his people that obstructed 
 him, or the fine traits and encouraging things that 
 he met with here and there. " It occasionally 
 seems belittling," he said, in one, " to shut myself 
 in to this narrow range ; but it is the dry soil which 
 needs rain, and why should n t I expend myself where 
 refreshing and fructifying influences so seldom come? 
 To do so must ultimately bring a result proportioned 
 to the cost. Self-denial is a duty with regard to in 
 tellectual passion the passion for influence or fame 
 as well as with regard to other kinds. 
 
 "In this country especially, perhaps, we measure 
 a man s ability, or the strength of his alliance with 
 divine power, by his capactty to impress great 
 masses of people. It is a serious error; for that 
 test, though good in some things, is crude. So we 
 are taught to push ourselves with the crowd, when 
 we ought to be devoting ourselves to making life 
 better, truer, happier, in a small circle. Our finest 
 minds, in the effort to get broad and profitable recog 
 nition, are often made selfish and worldly." 
 
 In another letter he told of the marriage of Timo 
 thy Pride and Ann Fernlow. " Little Ann, whom it 
 was my pleasant duty to join in wedlock with Timo 
 thy, is so happy that I am happier myself in think 
 ing of it. They have gone to live in the house with 
 heart-shaped door-lights, at the branch-road, having 
 repaired and fitted it up ; and a cheery domestic light 
 shines out of those apertures once more at night ; 
 though one can t see into the hearts, on account of 
 the innocent white dimitv that screens them." 
 
360 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 A few other things that interested Edith in these 
 communications may be quoted. 
 
 u Certainties and uncertainties, what are they? 
 I find I can t always tell. Now and then a great 
 despondency assails me, and I seem to have made 
 a fatal mistake. I recur to former thoughts and 
 aspirations, only to laugh at them. But while I am 
 still laughing, their meaning becomes clear ; I see 
 that they were true, and find myself, before I know it, 
 nerved for the struggle again." 
 
 "I have told 3-011 before about Riutyard s confes 
 sion, and his sentence to death. I wish I could give 
 you some idea of the extraordinary conversations I 
 had with him in jail. All the ordinary resources of 
 schools and books I found entirely useless at first, 
 and I had to depend on my own way of getting at 
 him. It was all the harder, because I would not 
 allow myself any of that sickening sentimentality 
 with which clerg3 T men usually surround the last 
 hours of the condemned. Whatever mercy aw r aits 
 them beyond this life, it seems to me irreverent to 
 make them ascend the gallows with hallelujahs like 
 those a pure-lived mart}T might utter when dying in 
 a noble cause. I tried to touch him into manliness 
 and penitence, and partly succeeded. Perhaps I 
 could n t have done this, if it had not been for the 
 discipline of my own recent accusation." 
 
 " You ask about Tlryrsa. She is trying very hard 
 
CERTAINTIES AND UNCERTAINTIES. 361 
 
 to wake to higher interests than she has known. 
 She studies a good deal, and makes a patient house 
 keeper ; but there is something dark and unruly in 
 her mind, which makes it difficult for her to grow 
 upward. It is a part of that latent primitive savag 
 ery of our nature, which we see constantly cropping 
 out on the surface of the race s life in so many ways, 
 and breaking out in the most cultivated families. 
 But there is room for hope. People are always 
 ready to recognize this primitive evil force ; why 
 shouldn t we also count upon a primitive force of 
 good?" 
 
 " Ideality evades us even while we try to be most 
 ideal. "When we achieve high results, there is so 
 much imperfection in them and in us that they seem 
 intangible. If we stood in the rainbow, probably 
 we should not be aware of the fact. Now that I am 
 living here in daily sight of Monadnoc, which used 
 to appeal to me like a guide and helper from the 
 horizon, there are days when I scarcely feel sure that 
 it is still the same mountain." 
 
 " The future changes shape as one approaches it, 
 just like this mountain. When it is reached, one 
 does not always recognize it. I often think of this 
 in connection with the growth of the Republic, which 
 is not entirely what the founders hoped for. They 
 saw it fair and clear a long way ahead, and drew its 
 shape for us distinctty ; but how distorted and dis 
 appointing it is, amid all its grandeur, when com- 
 
362 ^V THE DISTANCE. 
 
 pared with that distant view of it which they re 
 corded ! The true Republic is still far off." 
 
 " Nothing, I am sure, will ever regenerate society, 
 purify religion, lift up this country of ours to the 
 height of its noble opportunities, except greater 
 simplicity and integrity of life, and more vigorous 
 insistence upon principle as against policy. But in 
 timidation and anathema will not bring these about. 
 The revolution must be worked by examples of 
 honor, generosity, self-sacrifice, in countless individ 
 uals. Here in my small, unstoried way, within m}" 
 limits, I am determined to try for such qualities, and 
 leave the reward if there s to be one to others. 
 It is not language, but lives, that can revive pure 
 and sane religion, or honesty in government, or health 
 in societ} r . What we need is not so much pra} r er as 
 persons, in the largest, soundest, holiest sense of that 
 word, persons through whom shall be convened 
 the clear, strong tones of truth divine and human." 
 
 They were peculiar letters for a young man to 
 be writing to a 3 oung woman ; and it appeared to 
 Edith s friends Ravling, among others still more 
 peculiar that she should be in correspondence with 
 Burlen after what had passed. But she found a 
 satisfaction of her own in these missives. "Your 
 letters," she wrote back, " have an undertone of mel 
 ancholy in them : I think it s because you face life 
 so seriously, and will not blind yourself to the mean 
 and discouraging things in it. And yet your tone is 
 
CERTAINTIES AND UNCERTAINTIES. 363 
 
 not dispiriting. I suppose it is well to see the worst 
 before hoping for the best. Every time I read your 
 words it is like getting SL cool breeze from the sol 
 emn, grand, health-giving mountain." 
 
 The winter had almost gone when Edith aston 
 ished Ravling with a piece of news. " What do you 
 suppose I m going to tell you?" she began. 
 
 " Something pleasant about yourself, perhaps." 
 
 "No: about Viola. She s engaged to be mar 
 ried." 
 
 The lawyer suffered a slight shock ; but knew that, 
 after all, it was not serious. " I can guess to whom," 
 he said. " It must be the Reverend Franklin." 
 
 " Yes." Edith was radiant with satisfaction. 
 
 "That s very nice," said her caller, perfunctorily. 
 "I congratulate Mr. Bland. Well, I have some 
 news about m}*self, too." 
 
 "Of the same kind?" she asked smiling. Her 
 eyelids drooped a little, and there was a tinge of 
 reserve in her manner, as befitted an inquiry of this 
 nature. 
 
 "No, indeed," he answered, in the same fashion 
 of conventional amiability. He wondered just what 
 sort of interest lay behind her smiling question. 
 "No; it s merely that I ve begun trying to make 
 myself really useful." 
 
 "In what way?" This time Edith spoke with 
 quicker energy. 
 
 " Collecting bric-a-brac." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
364 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 "And pictures encouraging native art. Don t 
 you think I m improving?" 
 
 "Not enough," she replied frankly. "You ought 
 to give up disparaging your good impulses. It s a 
 great mistake, that mocking tone of }-ours." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose I m enough of a mockery in 
 myself, without that. But, really, I must try to be 
 useful in the only ways that are open to me. My 
 aunt s will has given me money enough, you know ; 
 and I want to help along the artists a little." 
 
 "But j ou might do more." 
 
 " Do you think so? Ah, if I only had the oppor 
 tunity to try ! " His tone was sincere enough now. 
 She knew how could she help knowing? that he 
 was thinking of her. There was an instant during 
 which their minds dwelt on the same point and the 
 same memory, though neither wished just then to 
 have them referred to. He continued in a more 
 apathetic wa}- : But there is nothing open to me ; 
 and if I were to set up an aim, the world would gently 
 ignore it. The world is so friendly and pleasant to 
 me that I can t make a good square issue with it. 
 I m not a hero, nor a great lawyer, nor a man that 
 must struggle, nor a merchant or artist : I m simply 
 at ease, with a fair share of cultivation. If I should 
 declare to-morrow, I m going to be great ! my 
 friends would answer, Oh, come, my boy, have a 
 glass of champagne, and let s hear about that some 
 other time. No ; if I ever occupy a c position, it 
 will only be by force of survival. I shall be this or 
 that because I can t help myself. My misfortune is 
 
CERTAINTIES AND UNCERTAINTIES. 365 
 
 that I should like to do something more than stop a 
 gap in society ; but Nature has decreed that I m to 
 be only the stop-gap." 
 
 They talked on for a time, the certainty deepening 
 all the while with Ravling that he had been right, 
 long ago, in telling Edith that she was his one aim, 
 and that without her he could do nothing. It seemed 
 so easy to speak again ; here they were together, 
 alone, with so little atmospheric space between them 
 what should prevent his claiming her and drawing 
 her to his side forever? But he did not speak; he 
 did not dare to. 
 
 In a few minutes he had left her and gone his way 
 again, hoping he should be braver another time. 
 
 Edith stood between the pale brown folds of Mad 
 ras muslin at the window, looking out into the Public 
 Garden, and thinking of the day when Ravling had 
 offered himself to her among the Marie pines. She 
 had wondered then if she was making a mistake, and 
 she wondered now. It seemed to her impossible 
 that she could ever love any man but Burlen ; all her 
 devotion had gone into the bond with him ; she felt 
 herself consecrated to him, though they were never 
 to be united ; and yet . . . " Certainties and uncer 
 tainties what are they?" She caught herself re 
 peating those words of Burlen s writing. Ravling 
 could offer her, if she encouraged him, all that she 
 had once thought would fulfil her dreams, wealth, 
 manliness, a place in Boston which she might easil} 7 
 make that of a leader." Would it not be better 
 to accept him, and then? 
 
366 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 A mental picture rose before her : the mountain- 
 country, the deep snow, the straggling houses with 
 their meagre life, and Buiien pushing through the 
 howling blast on some humble, prosaic errand of 
 mere}* or pastoral business. It was many da} s since 
 she had heard from him. B\* the way, it had begun 
 to snow ; she saw the park whitening, from the win 
 dow. Then, as if blown along with the storm, the 
 peremptory figure of a letter-carrier came into view, 
 and ascended the steps of the house with a white 
 envelope- in his hand. The bell rang ; the letter came 
 in to Edith like a flake from the white shower with 
 out. It was postmarked " Savage s Mills," but 
 addressed in a cramped, school-girlish hand. When 
 Edith opened it she read : 
 
 "DEAR FRIEND, Miss ARCHDALE, My brother is 
 very sick. He has typhoid fever. The doctor says he 
 thinks he will not live, and I want to let you know this, 
 because you are his only friend. 
 
 "THYRSA BURLEN." 
 
THE RAINBOW. 367 
 
 XXX. 
 
 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 " T TIS only friend ! " 
 
 -L JL ^ sharp detonation seemed to Edith to 
 split the air, when the sense of Thyrsa s few lines 
 had entered her mind. The shock was followed by 
 a ringing silence, amid which the words were re 
 echoed "His only friend." "And I am here, 
 idling, doing nothing for him, thinking of myself 
 brooding about Ravling, even while that noble 
 creature lies dying." This was the reproach she 
 brought against herself. 
 
 When Viola returned from the afternoon concert 
 to which she had been listening in rapt ecstasy with 
 Mr. Bland, Edith met her as if preparing to go out, 
 dressed in a dark travelling costume, her face white 
 and ghostly, looking as Viola had never seen it look 
 until now. " Oh, Edith, dear ! " she cried. " What 
 has come over you ? Are 3*011 ill ? " 
 
 "No. He! " The poor child was gasping. 
 She raised her arm and pointed vaguely away, as i( 
 to indicate some spectral presence in the room ; but 
 Viola s mind was quick to leap bej*ond that narrow 
 bound, and she saw far away, whither her friend s 
 faind was directed, the lonely mountain in New 
 
368 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 Hampshire. " He is dying," Edith said, almost in- 
 audibly. 
 
 "Burlen? How? Are you sure?" asked Viola, 
 rapidly. But } ou what are you going to do ? 
 You are not fit to go out, Edith." 
 
 " I am going up there to see him." 
 
 "In this storm? It s impossible. And alone, 
 dear?" 
 
 "Oh, don t speak to me! don t say so! I shall 
 never see him again if I don t go now. I don t care 
 what people say I don t care for anything, except 
 to go." 
 
 " Is thej-e a train to-night? " Viola inquired. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Then I shall go with you. Only wait for me to 
 get my things." 
 
 They waited for one other detail: they clasped 
 each other close, and Edith broke into weeping. 
 Her friend had never seen her shed a tear before 
 that ; but the two were alike now, the sentimental 
 ist and the proud, queenly-minded girl : the super 
 ficial friendship which they had hitherto so devoutly 
 Inept up deepened at once into a vital bond of heart 
 felt S3 r rnpathy. 
 
 Two graceful feminine figures, fair and engaging 
 even when shrouded in all their wraps, and inwardly 
 miserable though they were, packed into the red- 
 velvet cushions of a long, over-heated car, they were 
 carried steadily northward by the train that burrowed 
 like a mole through the dark of night and storm ; 
 past the weary lights of deserted stations, and over 
 
THE RAINBOW. 369 
 
 the harsh wilds of a black landscape fast smothering 
 itself in white drift. It was midnight when they 
 stopped at last and emerged into the cold, snow- 
 choked silence of Savage s ; and as they stood shiv 
 ering on the platform, they could have believed that 
 the whole village had been stricken with sudden 
 death. 
 
 Burlen did not know who was near him. Lost in 
 the weird labyrinths of fever, he thought himself 
 surrounded b}^ shapes and scenes of his troubled 
 boyhood. Forms of the dead and faces of the un 
 born, the unimagined, mingled in a great silent 
 drama that arose flickering before him, insubstantial, 
 exaggerated, like the images projected from a lan 
 tern ; and sometimes he saw his own figure there, 
 dilating or shrinking in a dizzying manner, driven to 
 and fro by uncontrollable blasts. He pitied the poor 
 dumb shadow, and wondered why it vexed itself with 
 such vast yearnings as seemed to be expressed in its 
 unhappy features. Then some one who could ex 
 plain it all seemed to be standing at his side, and he 
 tried to ask : Who is it that is making such ghastly 
 sport of me with those phantoms ? " But there was 
 no reply, and he fancied he heard retreating footsteps 
 and a smothered laugh. " God has forsaken me ! " 
 he moaned. 
 
 People he had never seen before conversed with 
 him in unknown languages, but he understood them : 
 the} gathered into an audience ; he poured out elo 
 quence which, an instant afterward, he could not 
 
 24 
 
370 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 remember ; and always in these strange tongues. 
 But presently common human speech returned, and he 
 was conscious that he had asked for water, and knew 
 that it was brought to him, but only one spark 
 ling drop, it seemed, which was lost in the hot whirl 
 or dead, sullen mist of heat that was consuming him. 
 Presently he began to look through the eddying 
 phantasmagoria that encompassed him, and saw 
 flowered, sunshiny meadows beyond, and light groves 
 of budding trees. He heard the bluebird singing, 
 a quick, cold ripple of music that ceased in an instant 
 and was lost, apparently forever. There was a gurg 
 ling brook in the fields, that fell into a pool ; but 
 just as he was about to plunge into it and bathe, he 
 saw lying under the water the white, placid, glinting 
 form of a dead man, quiet and beautiful as some 
 pearly sea-shell. "I will not disturb him," he 
 thought, and went away. . . . He was in the slums 
 searching for some one ; there was course yellow gas 
 light, there were drinking and laughter. . . . The 
 yellow light faded ; the rock} r crown of Monadnoc 
 lifted him up into pure air. But, looking over the 
 side, he saw his sister clinging there and about to 
 fall. He leaned over ; she caught hold of him, and 
 he slipped. Launclied into space, he fell and kept 
 falling ; for the earth opened and soon dissolved, 
 hanging above him as a mist. He was falling through 
 the nethermost depths of the universe, amid dense 
 night filled with white stars and snow showers. There 
 was a roar of wind and storm ; . . . then the whole 
 show of things that had been circling around him 
 
THE RAINBOW. 371 
 
 came to a pause abruptly. He looked straight for 
 ward and saw the ceiling of his room ; he turned a 
 little, sideward, and faced two sweet, anxious, patient 
 63-68. 
 
 " What is it? Where have we been, Edith?" he 
 asked feebly. 
 
 When he grew better he learned that Archdale 
 had come to watch with his daughter, after Viola 
 was obliged to return to Boston ; and that both the 
 father and the daughter were assisting Thyrsa. There 
 was an intimation, a presentiment of spring in the 
 air, that nrysterious balminess which seems to be 
 charged with the delicate scent of wild-flowers before 
 ever a blossom has sprung from the ground ; and 
 there came to the invalid a corresponding sense that 
 he should soon quite recover. The doctor, in fine, 
 had been mistaken. Edith forgave the mistake. 
 
 Burlen s convalescence was slow ; but his three 
 companions watched him carefully, and there was no 
 relapse. Finally, when trie snow had retreated to its 
 last hold in the deep woods and sheltered hollows, 
 he went out to walk in the sunny hours, with Edith. 
 They were alone, Archdale s conception of fitness 
 being unlike that of his more punctilious sister. 
 
 " How beautiful it is ! " said the j oung minister, 
 when they had reached the limit of their walk and 
 were about to turn. "I had almost forgotten that 
 the world could look so bright. And it helps me 
 so to have you here. When " he hesitated 
 "when are you going away?" In his weakness, 
 
372 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 though he strove to appear self-possessed, there was 
 a touch of the child who dreads to be left alone. 
 
 " I m not going until you feel that you don t need 
 me," said Edith. 
 
 It was with a mixture of sadness and delight in 
 his look that he answered : " I shall always need 
 you. Would you be willing to stay?" he added 
 timidly. " Do you think 3-011 could renew our en 
 gagement after my foolishness and conceit in with 
 drawing from it?" 
 
 Her face, though she did not at once turn it towards 
 him, answered before her voice. "I have been 
 yours," she said, with the sweet composure which had 
 always so potently impressed him in her, " since that 
 day when I promised first. And I don t think you 
 were foolish or conceited. It was brave to try that 
 renunciation, and we shall understand and love each 
 other all the better for it." 
 
 " I imagined myself so strong " he began. 
 
 4 And you are," insisted she; "but you needed 
 some weakness to make }*ou complete, and I can 
 supply it. Isn t that it?" 
 
 He laughed a little. " The case seems to be just 
 the reverse at present," he said. " I couldn t have 
 contrived a better way to get you back, if I had 
 been in a story. But I know what would have hap 
 pened if I had not had the fever. I should have 
 gone to you, instead of your coining to me." 
 
 They were not married until June ; and then the 
 wedding took place from Arohclale s old gambrel- 
 
THE RAINBOW. 373 
 
 roofed house at Marie, much to the distress of 
 several undergraduates, who had improved the last 
 opportunity to fall in love with Edith before her 
 departure to the humbler scene of Savage s. Mrs. 
 Savland fulfilled her part in the affair with excel- 
 lent judgment, carefully incorporating with the cere 
 mony a few judicious tears, which were followed by 
 smiles at the breakfast. What gave Edith and her 
 husband a keener satisfaction was the enthusiasm of a 
 committee from Burlen s congregation, who attended 
 the wedding, and afterwards modestly drew their 
 pastor aside to assure him that he must take a three 
 months vacation, during which they would provide 
 for him as usual. 
 
 We must leave them at the beginning of the 
 journey, which both symbolizes and inaugurates the 
 journey through life. There is much in store for 
 them, much suffering as well as pleasure. The 
 thing which seems to me fine about it is not the 
 amount of enjoyment they are likely to have, but the 
 fact that here are two fresh and genuine hearts going 
 forth into the world with the hope of making it bet 
 ter and gladder for a time. Even in an age when 
 enthusiasm is marked "curious" by the sophisti 
 cated collector, and when fiction, to get itself called 
 intellectual, ends fashionably in dilettante fatalism, 
 one may profitably descend for a moment to contem 
 plate these happ}- 3 oung people, setting out full of 
 belief and beneficence. 
 
 The goal which had seemed to Burlen so remote 
 a year before at the Cleft was gained, and he stood 
 
374 IN THE DISTANCE. 
 
 between two distances, one into which his past 
 misfortunes had faded ; another spreading out as far 
 as he could see in advance, a rich summer of antici 
 pation. 
 
 "You know," he said, as they travelled awi}*, 
 "how I thought one could never be certain of any 
 ideal thing? I ve changed my mind now, for I m 
 touching the rainbow, and know it." 
 
"A brilliant series." Boston Courier. 
 
 Stories by 
 
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#X I