Esther and Alice became separated by a narrow ravine, which gradually widened until its sides became steep. Oswald had followed Esther, who seemed perfectly happy, and unconscious of the widening breach between them and her friend.

Paul had seen his chance to be alone with Alice. The girl had not noticed how their path was being separated from that of her friends until they had gone some distance. Then she thought of retracing her steps, but Paul suggested that they might get farther away in this manner, and that by continuing up the ravine a crossing soon would be found. They kept on their way, Paul evincing his desire to find Esther and Oswald by frequent calls. There were no responses. After an hour of wandering, Alice became tired, and sat down to rest.

Paul now seemed worried over not finding Esther and Oswald. He suggested that they wait to see if their friends would not come that way. They more easily could get back to the point of separation by not traveling farther. Alice approved of this plan, and both waited in the shade of an overhanging tree on the bank of the ravine.

Paul was very kind, treating her anxiety with marked solicitude. He succeeded in allaying her doubts as to the outcome of this incident, and they talked freely upon little events of their past.

Gradually Paul approached the subject uppermost in his mind. Alice tried to divert him until some better time. Her ingenuity was not equal to the occasion in dealing with Paul Lanier. She became aware of this, and tremblingly awaited the attack.

With softened accents and apparent deference, Paul asked:

"Do you remember, Alice, the promise made me about a year ago?"

"That I would wait a year before deciding?"

"Yes, I believe you did say a year."

"But, Mr. Lanier, that was only nine months ago."

"While I have no right to hurry you, Alice, yet when a man's dearest hopes are at stake, waiting three long months is a great trial."

"Still, Mr. Lanier, to decide such an important question is a year too long?"

Mistaking her trembling earnestness for genuine interest in the proper solution of this heart problem, Paul gravely urged:

"In the time already pa.s.sed since my proposal, you surely have reached a decision, and it is cruel longer to keep me in suspense."

Alice began to cry.

Paul attributed her tearful, hesitating manner to yielding consent, and said:

"It will be better for me to now know my fate than to suffer the uncertainties of three long months."

As Alice still hesitated, Paul boorishly insisted:

"Do here and now decide my fate."

Thus pressed, Alice replied:

"Mr. Lanier, I am so sorry to say that I never can become your wife."

Alice continued in a stammering way to tell Paul why she could not accept his proposal.

Seeing that the frightened girl had power to refuse, Paul Lanier listened with stoic, dogged silence. His craft did not forsake him, but encouraging Alice freely and fully to state her whole mind, he helplessly acquiesced.

Apparently dazed, Paul was some time silent; then with resigned air said:

"I wonder why Mr. Langdon and Miss Randolph have not found us? Perhaps it would be wise to return before it is late."

They started back, Paul showing no lack of courtesy toward this girl who had crushed his hopes.

Alice felt rebuked by his conduct, and tried to be very kind in her manner.

They met their friends near the point of separation. There were mutual exchanges of surprises, but no one was pressed for explanations. A strange self-abstraction seemed to control all. Without many words, the four went together to the place where they had left Sir Donald. The party was soon on the lake, sailing homeward. Finding the carriage in waiting, they reached the Northfield residence at sunset.

Evidently all had enjoyed the outing, but they were weary, and soon retired.

Both Paul and Oswald had reason to ponder the eventful experiences of that day. Each felt keen disappointment, chafing at the perversity of fate.

Esther and Oswald had strolled along pleasantly for some time before missing their friends. Not doubting but that the absent ones soon would appear, Esther enjoyed being alone with Oswald for the first time since the arrival of Alice. There was something in the refined manner of this earnest man that strongly appealed to Esther's womanly sentiments. But for duty's requirements, she would have yielded to the evident wish of Oswald Langdon. Her conduct seemed less restrained, and there was an absence of that preoccupied air so puzzling to Oswald. Realizing that their lives would drift apart, Esther felt a sense of loneliness. Her smiles were wistful in antic.i.p.ation of solemn adieus.

Oswald observed this change in Esther's manner, vigilantly noting each significant sign. Would he ever have another such favorable opportunity to learn Esther's mind concerning the subject which so engrossed all his interest? The time would be too brief for him to know by the slow processes of the last four weeks. Might not this mystery be solved and his own fate be determined by frank avowal of his love?

There was to Oswald's thoughts a decisive directness which could not brook the slow action of less positive minds. He resolved to know his future in the hopeful present.

They sat down in an embowered spot, under a small tree, upon a gra.s.sy knoll. Oswald's manner was nervously excited, despite strenuous effort to appear circ.u.mspect. He began in low voice to express his sense of pleasure since coming to Northfield.

"The happiest days of my life have been pa.s.sed in your society. I have often congratulated myself on the fortunate accident which detained me at such a hospitable home, where the a.s.sociations have been so pleasant.

Of my stay here I shall ever have most tender memories. It seems to me that I have always known you, Miss Randolph. I never can tell you and your father my appreciation of your kindnesses."

Here Esther interrupted his earnest talk by saying:

"Father and I are the debtors. We have been overpaid by the pleasure of your stay at Northfield. Mr. Langdon, there will be a void in our home when you have gone away."

Oswald eagerly replied:

"Why should I go away? Why not always be with you, Miss Randolph?"

Startled by these sudden questions, Esther was speechless. She saw the drift, but the form was too dubious to admit of responsive reply.

Then, with impetuous frankness, Oswald avowed his love for Esther and interest in her future plans.

"My love has grown stronger every day since we met. I have not known you long, but what has time to do with such sentiments? I have so hoped that you would reciprocate my love and think kindly of my suit. I have often wondered at your preoccupation, but hope there is nothing in your plans or purposes which will prevent our being forever united."

Pausing, Oswald noted Esther's tremor, but awaited her response.

In hesitating, plaintive voice, Esther said:

"Mr. Langdon, I greatly appreciate your sentiments toward me, and feel much interest in your future. No light consideration would influence me in such an important decision. I have no words to tell you how it pains me to decline such an honorable proposal. I too will always have tender recollections of your stay at Northfield. My life will be devoted to alleviating the sorrows of the poor and wretched. This vow was taken before you came to Northfield, and I must not break it, though the trial be indeed very hard. My life as your wife would be against the plain dictates of duty and a breach of covenant with Heaven."

Completely stunned, Oswald felt the decisive solemnity of Esther's words, but could find no fitting reply. He had too much respect for her good opinion, even though she crush his fondest hopes, to argue against the grounds of her decision. There was something so intangible, yet solemnly real, in this decisive consecration to holy ends that Oswald experienced a sense of bewilderment and awe, rendering nerveless his imperious will.

Following some further explanations by Esther for her fixed resolve, they had returned and joined their friends without more than a few words.

Having retired to his room, Oswald pondered long and bitterly over the unwelcome revelations of the day. Esther had told him that for a long time she had been thinking of her chosen life-work, but was fully decided in this resolve by the solemn words of a minister spoken while she was at London. Oswald had no censure for this high-principled, conscientious girl's infatuation, but indignantly railed against her spiritual advisers. These promoters of high ethical philosophy were safe from undue force of their own appeals, though more susceptible hearts might be crushed through conscientious compliance. It maddened Oswald that this lovely girl, with all her perfections of mind, face, and form, should be cast, like a common worm, into the great, vulgar, carnivorous mouth of human want. If Christ's ultimate aim were alleviation of physical suffering, why not feed and heal all earth's hungry, diseased millions, through diviner, broad-gauged philanthropy than lagging processes of personal devotion?

Oswald recalled the hateful, cruel, bigoted zeal of a Calchas, pressing upon Agamemnon at Aulis the unappeased wrath of the G.o.ds, until to fill the canvas of Grecian fleet for Troy sail this so-called "King of Men"

could yield his household's idol to butcher-blade of human sacrifice.