"Am I wrong when I fancy that one is, that the house belongs to one from whom you would not endure an obligation?"

"You put it too harshly, sir; but in truth I do not like obligations."

"You would incur none, then, let me a.s.sure you, by remaining here. The house will be unoccupied; I should be glad to have some one in it, and there is, I fear, little chance of having the parish permanently suited with a clergyman before fall, and even after that, there is no necessity of retaining this as a parsonage; there are one or two houses nearer the church, which would, indeed, be more convenient."

"Thank you, sir, but it will be impossible. You do not estimate the difficulties. I cannot stay here: and perhaps you will be kind enough to tell me what to do about the arrangement of the books. Shall they be packed, or are they to remain on the shelves? And here, sir, is the key of the private drawers in that book-case, that I was to give you when you came."

My voice faltered as I delivered my kind friend's last message. There was a long pause, then Mr. Rutledge said:

"These things are very trying to you now; there is no need that you should distress yourself by attending to them at once. Leave them till later."

"No, sir, it is better that they should be all arranged before you go. I do not mind the effort of undertaking it at once."

"But how do you know I am going? Why will not a few weeks hence do as well?"

"Why, sir, as I told you, I should prefer that everything were settled, the papers arranged, the house vacated, before you go abroad. It may make no difference, but it will be more agreeable to me."

"I am not going abroad; I do not intend to leave America again. Can you not be contented to let things rest as they are at present, and to let me, in some degree, take the place of him you have lost? Consider, you are homeless and friendless--you have no one to direct or guide you"----

"I have considered this, sir, more fully, perhaps, than you have. There is not a circ.u.mstance in my fate that I have not weighed. Indeed, I do not need so much pity; your attention has just been called to it, and so it sounds new and dreadful to you for a woman to be left so alone. But I am used to the idea, and I do not mind it. People will be kind to me, no doubt, and I shall do very well."

"Then you are resolved to go away from here?"

"Within a fortnight, sir."

"And you refuse all offers of a.s.sistance from me, of all kinds?"

"Why, sir, you know it would be useless to trouble you, when I do not need any; but I hope you understand that I am very grateful for your goodness."

"I understand it fully, and that you decline any further demonstration of it. But if you have no scruple against telling me where you intend to go, perhaps it would be wiser to do it, as some cases may occur which you cannot foresee, in which it would be safer for you to have the judgment and advice of one whose age and experience place him above you in knowledge, of the world, at least."

"It would be impossible for me to tell you, sir, for I do not know in the least where I shall go. You know I have not had time to arrange my plans definitely--it is only two days--since--since--I have had to think about them."

"And you will not take more time, and put off any change for a few months--you will not let me advise you?"

"Mr. Rutledge, you are trying to make me seem rude; I have but one answer to make, and it sounds so ungracious you are not kind to oblige me to repeat it."

"I will not; I believe I understand how you wish it to stand; and perhaps you are right. It is not necessary to detain you longer," he continued, rising, "there is nothing of importance left to say, I believe. About the books and furniture, I should prefer having them left for the present in the house; I will not trouble you to do anything but to send the keys, when you leave, to my house. Mrs. Roberts will take charge of them. The papers I can look over at my leisure. In regard to the servant you spoke of--I will mention her to Mrs. Roberts, and will see that she is provided with a situation. Is there anything more?"

"Nothing that I remember at this moment, sir. You are very kind; I shall endeavor to leave everything in the order you would wish."

"I do not doubt it; I hope you will be able to bear whatever you intend to put upon yourself, but you will do well not to overtask your strength or fort.i.tude just now; you are not at not at present fit for exertion.

But I forget"----

I rose, and held out my hand; he went on: "You know you have always my best wishes; there is no need for me to say that."

"I know it, sir," I replied, with what steadiness of voice I could. "I wish I could tell you how"----but the words choked me. He did not relinquish my hand, but with a sudden change from the cold tone of his last words, he exclaimed hurriedly, and with a smothered vehemence:

"You wish you could tell me what? You wish you could tell me what I already know--could tell me that you pity me--that you are sorry for the pain you give me? That you know how much it costs me to say a final farewell to you--and that you are sorry--sorry. No! You need not wish to do it; I can spare you that. I came to you to-night to see if time, and sorrow, and necessity had not helped me in my suit; to try, for the last time, whether there was any chance of winning you; I came to tempt you by the fortune and the luxury I could offer you, just to endure my love, and to repay, by ever so cold a kindness, the devotion of years. I came, misled by a hope held out by one who loved us both too well to be an impartial judge; and I find you colder, more distant than ever, and that the hope I have been trying to extinguish so long is only rekindled to be quenched at last utterly!

"Foolish girl!" he went on, in a lower tone, "how little you know what you throw away. How vain to cling so fondly to a memory. Believe me, it will not be wronging the dead--I little thought I should ever stoop to ask it, but only try to love me--only consent to give me your esteem and consideration, and I will take the risk of teaching you to love me. Is it nothing to be loved as I have loved you? To be the first, and last, and only choice of a man who has had so many to choose from? Have you no vanity that can be touched--no pride? If you had, I could allure you by the promise that you should be proud of the position you would hold; those who have slighted you should look at you with envy--those who"----

"Oh, Mr. Rutledge do not talk of those things now--I have given them up forever; I shall never care again for the world--but--there is something else--I"----

"You relent!" he murmured, eagerly. "You will consent to forget the past--you will"----

"I must tell you one thing first; I must tell you something that I have told to no one else. Heaven have mercy on me if it is a sin, or if I am betraying what I should still conceal. I never felt the love you think I did. I deceived him and you; but as I have been bitterly punished, and bitterly penitent, so Heaven forgive me for it! Between him and me there was another love, that began before I ever saw him--that is not ended yet--that has never known change or wavering."

"And that love?"

Within his arms, my face hidden on his shoulder, I could whisper the answer to that question, and the confession of the folly, and deceit, and pride, that had so long kept me from him.