The Flight of the Shadow

“How do you know?”

“I can no more prove it than I can doubt it. I cannot inquire into my mother’s proceedings. I leave that sort of thing to her. Let her spy on me as she will, I am not going to spy on her.”

“Of course not! But if you have no proof, how can you state the thing as a fact?”

“I have what is proof enough for saying it to my own soul.”

“But you have spoken of it to me!”

“You are my better soul. If you are not, then I have done wrong in saying it to you.”

I hastened to tell him I had only made him say what I hoped he meant—only I wasn’t his better soul. He wanted me then to promise that I would marry him in spite of any and every thing. I promised that I would never marry any one but him. I could not say more, I said, not knowing what my uncle might think, but so much it was only fair to say. For I had gone so far as to let him know distinctly that I loved him; and what sort would that love be that could regard it as possible, at any distance of time, to marry another! Or what sort of woman could she be that would shrink from such a pledge! The mischief lies in promises made without forecasting thought. I knew what I was about. I saw forward and backward and all around me. A solitary education opens eyes that, in the midst of companions and engagements, are apt to remain shut. Knowledge of the world is no safeguard to man or woman. In the knowledge and love of truth, lies our only safety.

With that promise he had to be, and was content.

CHAPTER XVII. THE SUMMONS

Next morning the post brought me the following letter from my uncle. Whoever of my readers may care to enter into my feelings as I read, must imagine them for herself: I will not attempt to describe them. The letter was not easy to read, as it was written in bed, and with his left hand.

“My little one,—I think I know more than you imagine. I think the secret flew into your heart of itself; you did not take it up and put it there. I think you tried to drive it out, and it would not go: the same Fate that clips the thread of life, had clipped its wings that it could fly no more! Did my little one think I had not a heart big enough to hold her secret? I wish it had not been so: it has made her suffer! I pray my little one to be sure that I am all on her side; that my will is to do and contrive the best for her that lies in my power. Should I be unable to do what she would like, she must yet believe me true to her as to my God, less than whom only I love her:—less, because God is so much bigger, that so much more love will hang upon him. I love you, dear, more than any other creature except one, and that one is not in this world. Be sure that, whatever it may cost me, I will be to you what your own perfected soul will approve. Not to do my best for you, would be to be false, not to God only, but to your father as well, whom I loved and love dearly. Come to me, my child, and tell me all. I know you have done nothing wrong, nothing to be ashamed of. Some things are so difficult to tell, that it needs help to make way for them: I will help you. I am better. Come to me at once, and we will break the creature’s shell together, and see what it is like, the shy thing!—Your uncle.”

I was so eager to go to him, that it was with difficulty I finished his letter before starting. Death had been sent home, and was in the stable, sorely missing his master. I called Dick, and told him to get ready to ride with me to Wittenage; he must take Thanatos, and be at the door with Zoe in twenty minutes.

We started. As we left the gate, I caught sight of John coming from the other direction, his eyes on the ground, lost in meditation. I stopped. He looked up, saw me, and was at my side in two moments.

“I have heard from my uncle,” I said. “He wants me. I am going to him.”

“If only I had my horse!” he answered.

“Why shouldn’t you take Thanatos?” I rejoined.

“No,” he answered, after a moment’s hesitation.

“It would be an impertinence. I will walk, and perhaps see you there. It’s only sixteen miles, I think.—What a splendid creature he is!”

“He’s getting into years now,” I replied; “but he has been in the stable several days, and I am doubtful whether Dick will feel quite at home on him.”

“Then your uncle would rather I rode him! He knows I am no tailor!” said John.

“How?” I asked.

“I don’t mean he knows who I am, but he saw me a fortnight ago, in one of our fields, giving Leander, who is but three, a lesson or two. He stopped and looked on for a good many minutes, and said a kind word about my handling of the horse. He will remember, I am sure.”

“How glad I am he knows something of you! If you don’t mind being seen with me, then, there is no reason why you should not give me your escort.”

Dick was not sorry to dismount, and we rode away together.

I was glad of this for one definite reason, as well as many indefinite: I wanted John to see my letter, and know what cause I had to love my uncle. I forgot for the moment my resolution not to meet him again before telling my uncle everything. Somehow he seemed to be going with me to receive my uncle’s approval.

He read the letter, old Death carrying him all the time as gently as he carried myself—I often rode him now—and returned it with the tears in his eyes. For a moment or two he did not speak. Then he said in a very solemn way,

“I see! I oughtn’t to have a chance if he be against me! I understand now why I could not get you to promise!—All right! The Lord have mercy upon me!”

“That he will! He is always having mercy upon us!” I answered, loving John and my uncle and God more than ever. I loved John for this especially, at the moment—that his nature remained uninjured toward others by his distrust of her who should have had the first claim on his confidence. I said to myself that, if a man had a bad mother and yet was a good man, there could be no limit to the goodness he must come to. That he was a man after my uncle’s own heart, I had no longer the least doubt. Nor was it a small thing to me that he rode beautifully—never seeming to heed his horse, and yet in constant touch with him.

We reached the town, and the inn where my uncle was lying. On the road we had arranged where he would be waiting me to hear what came next. He went to see the horses put up, and I ran to find Martha. She met me on the stair, and went straight to my uncle to tell him I was come, returned almost immediately, and led me to his room.

I was shocked to see how pale and ill he looked. I feared, and was right in fearing, that anxiety about myself had not a little to do with his condition. His face brightened when he saw me, but his eyes gazed into mine with a searching inquiry. His face brightened yet more when he found his eager look answered by the smile which my perfect satisfaction inspired. I knelt by the bedside, afraid to touch him lest I should hurt his arm.

Slowly he laid his left hand on my head, and I knew he blessed me silently. For a minute or two he lay still.

“Now tell me all about it,” he said at length, turning his patient blue eyes on mine. I began at once, and if I did not tell him all, I let it be plain there was more of the sort behind, concerning which he might question me. When I had ended,

“Is that everything?” he asked, with a smile so like all he had ever been to me, that my whole heart seemed to go out to meet it.

“Yes, uncle,” I answered; “I think I may say so—except that I have not dwelt upon my feelings. Love, they say, is shy; and I fancy you will pardon me that portion.”

“Willingly, my child. More is quite unnecessary.”

“Then you know all about it, uncle?” I ventured. “I was afraid you might not understand me. Could any one, do you think, that had not had the same experience?”

He made me no answer. I looked up. He was ghastly white; his head had fallen back against the bed. I started up, hardly smothering a shriek.

“What is it, uncle?” I gasped. “Shall I fetch Martha?”

“No, my child,” he answered. “I shall be better in a moment. I am subject to little attacks of the heart, but they do not mean much. Give me some of that medicine on the table.”

In a few minutes his colour began to return, and the smile which was forced at first, gradually brightened until it was genuine.

“I will tell you the whole story one day,” he said, “—whether in this world, I am doubtful. But when is nothing, or where, with eternity before us.”

“Yes, uncle,” I answered vaguely, as I knelt again by the bedside.

“A person,” he said, after a while, slowly, and with hesitating effort, “may look and feel a much better person at one time than at another. Upon occasion, he is so happy, or perhaps so well pleased with himself, that the good in him comes all to the surface.”

“Would he be the better or the worse man if it did not, uncle?” I asked.

“You must not get me into a metaphysical discussion, little one,” he answered. “We have something more important on our hands. I want you to note that, when a person is happy, he may look lovable; whereas, things going as he does not like, another, and very unfinished phase of his character may appear.”

“Surely everybody must know that, uncle!”

“Then you can hardly expect me to be confident that your new friend would appear as lovable if he were unhappy!”

“I have seen you, uncle, look as if nothing would ever make you smile again; but I knew you loved me all the time.”

“Did you, my darling? Then you were right. I dare not require of any man that he should be as good-tempered in trouble as out of it—though he must come to that at last; but a man must be just, whatever mood he is in.”

“That is what I always knew you to be, uncle! I never waited for a change in your looks, to tell you anything I wanted to tell you.—I know you, uncle!” I added, with a glow of still triumph.