great risk; I wish I had not wanted them."
"It was no risk for me," he answered.
"What can I send you in return?" she asked, as they walked
forwards. "I am going home to-morrow."
"Betty told me," Leonard said; "please, wait one minute."
He stepped down to the bank of the
stream, washed his hands
carefully in the clear water, and came back to her,
holding them,
dripping, at his sides.
"I am very ignorant," he then continued,--"ignorant and rough. You
are good, to want to send me something, but I want nothing. Miss
Bartram, you are very good."
He paused; but with all her tact and social experience, she did not
know what to say.
"Would you do one little thing for me--not for the ferns, that was
nothing--no more than you do, without thinking, for all your
friends?"
"Oh, surely!" she said.
"Might I--might I--now,--there'll be no chance tomorrow,--shake
hands with you?"
The words seemed to be forced from him by the strength of a fierce
will. Both stopped, involuntarily.
"It's quite dry, you see," said he,
offering his hand. Her own
sank upon it, palm to palm, and the fingers
softly closed over
each, as if with the
passion and
sweetness of a kiss. Miss
Bartram's heart came to her eyes, and read, at last, the question
in Leonard's. It was: "I as man, and you, as woman, are equals;
will you give me time to reach you?" What her eyes replied she
knew not. A
mighty influence drew her on, and a
mighty doubt and
dread restrained her. One said: "Here is your lover, your
husband, your cherished
partner, left by fate below your station,
yet whom you may lift to your side! Shall man, alone, crown the
humble maiden,--stoop to love, and,
loving,
ennoble? Be you the
queen, and love him by the royal right of womanhood!" But the
other
sternly whispered: "How shall your fine and
delicate fibres
be knit into this
coarsetexture? Ignorance, which years cannot
wash away,--low instincts, what do YOU know?--all the servile
side of life, which is turned from you,--what
madness to choose
this, because some current of
earthlymagnetism sets along your
nerves? He loves you: what of that? You are a higher being to
him, and he stupidly adores you. Think,--yes, DARE to
think of all the prosaic realities of life, shared with him!"
Miss Bartram felt herself growing dizzy. Behind the
impulse which
bade her cast herself upon his breast swept such a hot wave of
shame and pain that her face burned, and she dropped her eyelids to
shut out the sight of his face. But, for one endless second, the
sweeter voice spoke through their clasped hands. Perhaps he kissed
hers; she did not know; she only heard herself murmur:
"Good-bye! Pray go on; I will rest here."
She sat down upon a bank by the
roadside, turned away her head, and
closed her eyes. It was long before the
tumult in her nature
subsided. If she reflected, with a sense of
relief, "nothing was
said," the thought immediately followed, "but all is known." It
was impossible,--yes, clearly impossible; and then came such a wild
longing, such an
assertion of the right and truth and justice of
love, as made her seem a
miserablecoward, the veriest slave of
conventionalities.
Out of this struggle dawned self-knowledge, and the strength which
is born of it. When she returned to the house, she was pale and
weary, but
capable of responding to Betty Rambo's constant
cheerfulness. The next day she left for the city, without having
seen Leonard Clare again.
II.
Henry Rambo married, and brought a new
mistress to the farm-house.
Betty married, and migrated to a new home in another part of
the State. Leonard Clare went back to his trade, and returned no
more in harvest-time. So the pleasant farm by the Brandywine,