What have I left? Is there a more impoverished creature in the world?

There is nothing left to me but bare existence and hateful memories.

Oh, the lightning was dim compared with the vividness with which I've seen it all since that hateful moment last night, when the truth became evident even to Adah Yocomb. But up to that moment, even up to this hour, I hoped you pitied me--that you were watching and waiting to help me to be true and not to be false. I did not blame you greatly for your love--my own weakness made me lenient--and at first you did not know.

But since you now openly seek that which belongs to another; since you now exult that you are the stronger, and that I have become your spoil, I feel, though I cannot yet see and realize the depths into which I have fallen. Even to-day you might have helped me as a friend, and shown me how some poor shred of my truth might have been saved; but you s.n.a.t.c.h at me as if I were but the spoil of the strongest. Mr. Morton, either you or I must leave the farmhouse at once."

"This is the very fanaticism of truth," I cried, desperately. "Your mind is so utterly warped and morbid from dwelling on one side of this question that you are cruelly unjust."

"Would that I had been less kind and more just. I felt sorry for you, from the depths of my heart. Why have you had no pity for me? You are a man of the world, and know it. Why did you not show me to what this wretched weakness would lead? I thought you meant this kindness when you said you wished my brother was here. Oh that I were sleeping beside him! I thought you meant this when you said that nothing would last, nothing could end well unless built on the truth. I hoped you were watching me with the vigilance of a man who, though loving me, was so strong and generous and honorable that he would try to save me from a weakness that I cannot understand, and which was the result of strange and unforeseen circ.u.mstances. When you were so ill I felt as if I had dealt you your death-blow, and then, woman-like, I loved you. I loved you before I recognized my folly. Up to that point we could scarcely help ourselves. For weeks I tried to hide the truth from myself. I fought against it. I prayed against it through sleepless nights. I tried to hide the truth from you most of all. But I remember the flash of hope in your face when you first surmised my miserable secret. It hurt me cruelly. Your look should have been one of dismay and sorrow.

But I know something of the weakness of the heart, and its first impulse might naturally be that of gladness, although honor must have changed it almost instantly into deep regret. Then I believed that you were sorry, and that it was your wish to help me. I thought it was your purpose yesterday to show me that I could be happy, even in the path of right and duty, that had become so hard, though you spoke once as you ought not. But when I, unawares, and from the impulse of a grateful heart, spoke your name last night as that of my truest and best friend, as I thought, you turned toward me the face of a lover, and to-day--but it's all over. Will you go?"

"Are Mr. and Mrs. Yocomb false?" I cried.

"No, they are too simple and true to realize the truth. Mr. Morton, I think we fully understand each other now. Since you will not go, I shall. You had better remain here and grow strong. Please let me pa.s.s."

"I wish you had dealt me my death-blow. It were a merciful one compared with this. No, you don't understand me at all. You have portrayed me as a vile monster. Because you cannot keep your engagement with a man you never truly loved, you inflict the torments of h.e.l.l on the man you do love, and whom Heaven meant you to love. Great G.o.d! you are not married to Gilbert Hearn. Have not engagements often been broken for good and sufficient reasons? Is not the truth that our hearts almost instantly claimed eternal kindred a sufficient cause? I watched and waited that I might know whether you were his or mine. I did not seek to win you from him after I knew--after I remembered. But when I knew the truth, you _were_ mine. Before G.o.d I a.s.sert my right, and before His altar I would protest against your marriage to any other."

She sank down on the arbor seat, white and faint, but made a slight repellent gesture.

"Yes, I'll go," I said, bitterly; "and such a scene as this might well cause a better man than I to go to the devil;" and I strode away.

But before I had taken a dozen steps my heart relented, and I returned.

Her face was again buried in her right arm and her left hand hung by her side.

I took it in both of my own as I said, gently and sadly:

"Emily Warren, you may scorn me--you may refuse ever to see my face again; but I have dedicated my life to your happiness, and I shall keep my vow. It may be of no use, but G.o.d looketh at the intent of the heart. Heathen though I am, I cannot believe he will let the June day when we first met prove so fatal to us both: the G.o.d of whom Mrs.

Yocomb told us wants no harsh, useless self-sacrifice. You are not false, and never have been. Mrs. Yocomb is not more true. I respect and honor you, as I do my mother's memory, though my respect now counts so little to you. I never meant to wrong you or pain you; I meant your happiness first and always. If you care to know, my future life shall show whether I am a gentleman or a villain. May G.o.d show you how cruelly unjust you are to yourself. I shall attempt no further self-defence. Good-by."

She trembled; but she only whispered:

"Good-by. Go, and forget."

"When I forget you--when I fail in loving loyalty to you, may G.o.d forget me!" I replied, and I hastened from the garden with as much sorrow and bitterness in my heart as the first man could have felt when the angel drove him from Eden. Alas! I was going out alone into a world that had become th.o.r.n.y indeed.

As I approached the house Mrs. Yocomb happened to come out on the piazza.

I took her hand and drew her toward the garden gate. She saw that I was almost speechless from trouble, and with her native wisdom divined it all.

"I did not take your advice," I groaned, "accursed fool that I was! But no matter about me. Save Emily from herself. As you believe in G.o.d's mercy, watch over her as you watched over me. Show her the wrong of wrecking both of our lives. She's in the arbor there. Go and stay with her till I am gone. You are my only hope. G.o.d bless you for all your kindness to me. Please write: I shall be in torment till I hear from you. Good-by."

I watched her till I saw her enter the arbor, then hastened to the barn, where Reuben was giving the horses their noonday feeding.

"Reuben," I said, quietly, "I'm compelled to go to New York at once. We can catch the afternoon train, if you are prompt. Not a word, old fellow. I've no time now to explain. I must go, and I'll walk if you won't take me;" and I hastened to the house and packed for departure with reckless haste.

At the foot of the moody stairway I met Adah.

"Are you going away?" she tried to say distantly, with face averted.

"Yes, Miss Adah, and I fear you are glad."

"No," she said, brokenly, and turning she gave me her hand. "I can't keep this up any longer, Richard. Since we first met I've been very foolish, very weak, and thee--thee has been a true gentleman toward me."

"I wish I might be a true brother. G.o.d knows I feel like one."

"Thee--thee saved my life, Richard. I was wicked to forget that for a moment. Will thee forgive me?"

"I'll forgive you only as you will let me become the most devoted brother a girl ever had, for I love and respect you, Adah, very, very much."

Tears rushed into the warm-hearted girl's eyes. She put her arms around my neck and kissed me. "Let this seal that agreement," she said, "and I'll be thy sister in heart as well as in name."

"How kind and good you are, Adah!" I faltered. "You are growing like your mother now. When you come to New York you will see how I keep my word," and I hastened away.

Mr. Yocomb intercepted me in the path.

"How's this? how's this?" he cried.

"I must go to New York at once," I said. "Mrs. Yocomb will explain all.

I have a message for Mr. Hearn. Please say that I will meet him at any time, and will give any explanations to which he has a right. Good-by; I won't try to thank you for your kindness, which I shall value more and more every coming day."

For a long time we rode in silence, Reuben looking as grim and lowering as his round, ruddy face permitted.

At last he broke out, "Now, I say, blast Emily Warren's grandfather!"

"No, Reuben, my boy," I replied, putting my arm around him, "with all his millions, I'm heartily sorry for Mr. Hearn."

CHAPTER XVIII

MRS. YOCOMB'S LETTERS

I will not weary the reader with my experiences after arriving at New York. I could not have felt worse had I been driven into the Dismal Swamp. My apartments were dusty and stifling, and as cheerless as my feelings.

My editorial chief welcomed me cordially, and talked business. "After you had gone," he was kind enough to say, "we learned your value. Night work is too wearing for you, so please take that office next to mine. I feel a little like breaking down myself, and don't intend to wait until I do, as you did. I shall be off a great deal the rest of the summer, and you'll have to manage things."

"Pile on work," I said; "I'm greedy for it."

"Yes," he replied, laughing, "I appreciate that rare trait of yours; but I shall regard you as insubordinate if you don't take proper rest.

Give us your brains, Morton, and leave hack work to others. That's where you blundered before."

Within an hour I was caught in the whirl of the great complicated world, and, as I said to Mr. Yocomb, I had indeed no time to mope.

Thank G.o.d for work! It's the best antidote this world has for trouble.

But when night came my brain was weary and my heart heavy as lead. It seemed as if the farmhouse was in another world, so diverse was everything there from my present life.

I had given my uptown address to Mrs. Yocomb and went home--if I may apply that term to my dismal boarding-place--Tuesday night, feeling a.s.sured that there must be a letter. Good Mrs. Yocomb had not failed me, for on my table lay a bulky envelope, addressed in a quaint but clear hand. I was glad no one saw how my hand trembled as I opened her missive and read:

"My Dear Richard--I know how anxious thee is for tidings from us all, and especially from one toward whom thy heart is very tender. I will take up the sad story where thee left it. Having all the facts, thee can draw thy own conclusions.