neighboring Quaker meeting-house, in the
preparation for which, and
the various special occupations of their "First-day" mornings, the
unsuspecting parents overlooked that
inevitable change in the faces
of the lovers which they must
otherwise have observed. After
dinner, as Eli was
taking a quiet walk in the garden, Richard
Hilton approached him.
"Friend Mitchenor," said he, "I should like to have some talk with
thee."
"What is it, Richard?" asked the old man, breaking off some pods
from a
seedling radish, and rubbing them in the palm of his hand.
"I hope, Friend Mitchenor," said the young man, scarcely knowing
how to approach so important a
crisis in his life, "I hope thee has
been satisfied with my conduct since I came to live with thee, and
has no fault to find with me as a man."
"Well," exclaimed Eli, turning around and looking up, sharply,
"does thee want a
testimony from me? I've nothing, that I know of,
to say against thee."
"If I were
sincerely" target="_blank" title="ad.真诚地;诚恳地">
sincerely attached to thy daughter, Friend Mitchenor,
and she returned the
attachment, could thee trust her happiness in
my hands?"
"What!" cried Eli, straightening himself and glaring upon the
speaker, with a face too amazed to express any other feeling.
"Can you
confide Asenath's happiness to my care? I love her with
my whole heart and soul, and the fortune of my life depends on your
answer."
The straight lines in the old man's face seemed to grow deeper and
more rigid, and his eyes shone with the chill
glitter of steel.
Richard, not
daring to say a word more, awaited his reply in
intense agitation.
"So!" he exclaimed at last, "this is the way thee's repaid me! I
didn't expect THIS from thee! Has thee
spoken to her?"
"I have."
"Thee has, has thee? And I suppose thee's persuaded her to think
as thee does. Thee'd better never have come here. When I want to
lose my daughter, and can't find anybody else for her, I'll let
thee know."
"What have you against me, Friend Mitchenor?" Richard sadly asked,
forgetting, in his
excitement, the Quaker speech he had
learned.
"Thee needn't use compliments now! Asenath shall be a Friend while
_I_ live; thy fine clothes and merry-makings and vanities are not
for her. Thee belongs to the world, and thee may choose one of the
world's women."
"Never!" protested Richard; but Friend Mitchenor was already
ascending the garden-steps on his way to the house.
The young man, utterly overwhelmed, wandered to the nearest
grove and threw himself on the ground. Thus, in a
miserable chaos
of
emotion,
unable to grasp any fixed thought, the hours passed
away. Towards evening, he heard a
footstep approaching, and sprang
up. It was Moses.
The latter was engaged, with the consent of his parents and
expected to "pass meeting" in a few weeks. He knew what had
happened, and felt a
sinceresympathy for Richard, for whom he had
a
cordial regard. His face was very grave, but kind.
"Thee'd better come in, Richard," said he; "the evenings are damp,
and I v'e brought thy
overcoat. I know everything, and I feel that
it must be a great cross for thee. But thee won't be alone in
bearing it."
"Do you think there is no hope of your father relenting?" he asked,
in a tone of despondency which anticipated the answer.
"Father's very hard to move," said Moses; "and when mother and
Asenath can't
prevail on him, nobody else need try. I'm afraid
thee must make up thy mind to the trial. I'm sorry to say it,
Richard, but I think thee'd better go back to town."
"I'll go to-
morrow,--go and die!" he muttered
hoarsely, as he
followed Moses to the house.
Abigail, as she saw his
haggard face, wept quietly. She pressed
his hand
tenderly, but said nothing. Eli was stern and cold as an
Iceland rock. Asenath did not make her appearance. At supper, the
old man and his son exchanged a few words about the farm-work to be
done on the
morrow, but nothing else was said. Richard soon
left the room and went up to his
chamber to spend his last, his
only
unhappy night at the farm. A yearning, pitying look from
Abigail accompanied him.
"Try and not think hard of us!" was her
farewell the next morning,