The Flight of the Shadow

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It was too dreadful! I rose. He sprang to his feet.

"You must excuse me, sir!" I said. "With one who can speak so of his
mother, I am where I ought not to be."

"You have a right to know what my mother is," he answered--coldly, I
thought; "and I should not be a true man if I spoke of her otherwise than
truly."

He would pretend nothing to please me! I saw that I was again in the
wrong. Was I so ill read as to imagine that a mother must of necessity be
a good woman? Was he to speak of his mother as he did not believe of her,
or be unfit for my company? Would untruth be a bond between us?

"I beg your pardon," I said; "I was wrong. But you can hardly wonder I
should be shocked to hear a son speak so of his mother--and to one all
but a stranger!"

"What!" he returned, with a look of surprise; "do you think of me so? I
feel as if I had known you all my life--and before it!"

I felt ashamed, and was silent. If he was such a stranger, why was I
there alone with him?

"You must not think I speak so to any one," he went on. "Of those who
know my mother, not one has a right to demand of me anything concerning
her. But how could I ask you to see me, and hide from you the truth about
her? Prudence would tell you to have nothing to do with the son of such a
woman: could I be a true man, true to you, and hold my tongue about her?
I should be a liar of the worst sort!"

He felt far too strongly, it was plain, to heed a world of commonplaces.

"Forgive me," I said. "May I sit down again?"

He held out his hand. I took it, and reseated myself on the
clover-hillock. He laid himself again beside me, and after a little
silence began to relate what occurred to him of his external history,
while all the time I was watching for hints as to how he had come to be
the man he was. It was clear he did not find it easy to talk about
himself. But soon I no longer doubted whether I ought to have met him,
and loved him a great deal more by the time he had done.

I then told him in return what my life had hitherto been; how I knew
nothing of father or mother; how my uncle had been everything to me; how
he had taught me all I knew, had helped me to love what was good and hate
what was evil, had enabled me to value good books, and turn away from
foolish ones. In short, I made him feel that all his mother had not been
to him, my uncle had been to me; and that it would take a long time to
make me as much indebted to a husband as already I was to my uncle. Then
I put the question:

"What would you think of me if I had a secret from an uncle like that?"

"If I had an uncle like that," he answered, "I would sooner cut my throat
than keep anything from him!"

"I have not told him," I said, "what happened to-day--or yesterday."

"But you will tell him?"

"The first moment I can. But I hope you understand it is hard to do. My
love for my uncle makes it hard. It has the look of turning away from him
to love another!"

With that I burst out crying. I could not help it. He let me cry, and did
not interfere. I was grateful for that. When at length I raised my head,
he spoke.

"It has that look," he said; "but I trust it is only a look. Anyhow, he
knows that such things must be; and the more of a good man and a
gentleman he is, the less will he be pained that we should love one
another!"

"I am sure of that," I replied. "I am only afraid that he may never have
been in love himself, and does not know how it feels, and may think I
have forsaken him for you."

"Are you with him _always?_"

"No; I am sometimes a good deal alone. I can be alone as much as I like;
he always gives me perfect liberty. But I never before wanted to be alone
when I could be with him."

"But he _could_ live without you?"

"Yes, indeed!" I cried. "He would be a poor creature that could not live
without another!"

He said nothing, and I added, "He often goes out alone--sometimes in the
darkest nights."

"Then be sure he knows what love is.--But, if you would rather, I will
tell him."

"I could not have any one, even you, tell my uncle about me."

"You are right. When will you tell him?"

"I cannot be sure. I would go to him to-morrow, but I am afraid they will
not let me until he has got a little over this accident," I answered--and
told him what had happened. "It is dreadful to think how he must have
suffered," I said, "and how much more I should have thought about it but
for you! It tears my heart. Why wasn't it made bigger?"

"Perhaps that is just what is now being done with it!" he answered.

"I hope it may be!" I returned. "--But it is time I went in."

"Shall I not see you again to-morrow evening?" he asked.

"No," I answered. "I must not see you again till I have told my uncle
everything."

"You do not mean for weeks and weeks--till he is well enough to come
home? How _am_ I to live till then!"

"As I shall have to live. But I hope it will be but for a few days at
most. Only, then, it will depend on what my uncle thinks of the thing."

"Will he decide for you what you are to do?"

"Yes--I think so. Perhaps if he were--" I was on the point of saying,
"like your mother," but I stopped in time--or hardly, for I think he saw
what I just saved myself from. It was but the other morning I made the
discovery that, all our life together, John has never once pressed me to
complete a sentence I broke off.

He looked so sorrowful that I was driven to add something.

"I don't think there is much good," I said, "in resolving what you will
or will not do, before the occasion appears, for it may have something in
it you never reckoned on. All I can say is, I will try to do what is
right. I cannot promise anything without knowing what my uncle thinks."

We rose; he took me in his arms for just an instant; and we parted with
the understanding that I was to write to him as soon as I had spoken with
my uncle.

CHAPTER XV.

THE TIME BETWEEN.

I now felt quite able to confess to my uncle both what I had thought and
what I had done. True, I had much more to confess than when my trouble
first awoke; but the growth in the matter of the confession had been such
a growth in definiteness as well, as to make its utterance, though more
weighty, yet much easier. If I might be in doubt about revealing my
thoughts, I could be in none about revealing my actions; and I found it
was much less appalling to make known my feelings, when I had the words
of John Day to confess as well.

I may here be allowed to remark, how much easier an action is when
demanded, than it seems while in the contingent future--how much
easier when the thing is before you in its reality, and not as a mere
thought-spectre. The thing itself, and the idea of it, are two such
different grounds upon which to come either to a decision or to action!

One thing more: when a woman wants to do the right--I do not mean, wants
to coax the right to side with her--she will, somehow, be led up to it.

My uncle was very feverish and troubled the first night, and had a good
deal of delirium, during which his care and anxiety seemed all about me.
Martha had to assure him every other moment that I was well, and in no
danger of any sort: he would be silent for a time, and then again show
himself tormented with forebodings about me. In the morning, however, he
was better; only he looked sadder than usual. She thought he was, for
some cause or other, in reality anxious about me. So much I gathered from
Martha's letter, by no means scholarly, but graphic enough.

It gave me much pain. My uncle was miserable about me: he had plainly
seen, he knew and felt that something had come between us! Alas, it was
no fancy of his brain-troubled soul! Whether I was in fault or not, there
was that something! It troubled the unity that had hitherto seemed a
thing essential and indivisible!

Dared I go to him without a summons? I knew Martha would call me the
moment the doctor allowed her: it would not be right to go without that
call. What I had to tell might justify far more anxiety than the sight of
me would counteract. If I said nothing, the keen eye of his love would
assure itself of the something hid in my silence, and he would not see
that I was but waiting his improvement to tell him everything. I resolved
therefore to remain where I was.

The next two days were perhaps the most uncomfortable ever I spent. A
secret one desires to turn out of doors at the first opportunity, is not
a pleasant companion. I do not say I was unhappy, still less that once I
wished I had not seen John Day, but oh, how I longed to love him openly!
how I longed for my uncle's sanction, without which our love could not be
perfected! Then John's mother was by no means a gladsome thought--except
that he must be a good man indeed, who was good in spite of being unable
to love, respect, or trust his mother! The true notion of heaven, is to
be with everybody one loves: to him the presence of his mother--such as
she was, that is--would destroy any heaven! What a painful but salutary
shock it will be to those whose existence is such a glorifying of
themselves that they imagine their presence necessary to all about them,
when they learn that their disappearance from the world sent a thrill of
relief through the hearts of those nearest them! To learn how little
they were prized, will one day prove a strong medicine for souls
self-absorbed.

"There is nothing covered that shall not be revealed."

CHAPTER XVI.

FAULT AND NO FAULT.

The next day I kept the house till the evening, and then went walking in
the garden in the twilight. Between the dark alleys and the open
wilderness I flitted and wandered, alternating gloom and gleam outside
me, even as they chased one another within me.

In the wilderness I looked up--and there was John! He stood outside the
fence, just as I had seen him the night before, only now there was no
aureole about his head: the moon had not yet reached the horizon.

My first feeling was anger: he had broken our agreement! I did not
reflect that there was such a thing as breaking a law, or even a promise,
and being blameless. He leaped the fence, and clearing every bush like a
deer, came straight toward me. It was no use trying to escape him. I
turned my back, and stood. He stopped close behind me, a yard or two
away.

"Will you not speak to me?" he said. "It is not my fault I am come."

"Whose fault then, pray?" I rejoined, with difficulty keeping my
position. "Is it mine?"

"My mother's," he answered.

I turned and looked him in the eyes, through the dusk saw that he was
troubled, ran to him, and put my arms about him.

"She has been spying," he said, as soon as he could speak. "She will part
us at any risk, if she can. She is having us watched this very moment,
most likely. She may be watching us herself. She is a terrible woman when
she is for or against anything. Literally, I do not know what she would
not do to get her own way. She lives for her own way. The loss of it
would be to her as the loss of her soul. She will lose it this time
though! She will fail this time--if she never did before!"

"Well," I returned, nowise inclined to take her part, "I hope she will
fail! What does she say?"

"She says she would rather go to her grave than see me your husband."

"Why?"

"Your family seems objectionable to her."

"What is there against it?"

"Nothing that I know."

"What is there against my uncle? Is there anything against Martha Moon?"
I was indignant at the idea of a whisper against either.

"What have _I_ done?" I went on. "We are all of the family I know: what
is it?"

"I don't think she has had time to invent anything yet; but she pretends
there is something, and says if I don't give you up, if I don't swear
never to look at you again, she will tell it."

"What did you answer her?"

"I said no power on earth should make me give you up. Whatever she knew,
she could know nothing against _you_, and I was as ready to go to my
grave as she was. 'Mother,' I said, 'you may tell my determination by
your own! Whether I marry her or not, you and I part company the day I
come of age; and if you speak word or do deed against one of her family,
my lawyer shall look strictly into your accounts as my guardian.' You see
I knew where to touch her!"

"It is dreadful you should have to speak like that to your mother!"

"It is; but you would feel to her just as I do if you knew all--though
you wouldn't speak so roughly, I know."

"Can you guess what she has in her mind?"

"Not in the least. She will pretend anything. It is enough that she is
determined to part us. How, she cares nothing, so she succeed."

"But she cannot!"

"It rests with you."

"How with me?"

"It will be war to the knife between her and me. If she succeed, it must
be with you. I will do anything to foil her except lie."

"What if she should make you see it your duty to give me up?"

"What if there were no difference between right and wrong! We're as good
as married!"

"Yes, of course; but I cannot quite promise, you know, until I hear what
my uncle will say."

"If your uncle is half so good a man as you have made me think him, he
will do what he can on our side. He loves what is fair; and what can be
fairer than that those who love each other should marry?"

I knew my uncle would not willingly interfere with my happiness, and for
myself, I should never marry another than John Day--that was a thing of
course: had he not kissed me? But the best of lovers had been parted, and
that which had been might be again, though I could not see how! It _was_
good, nevertheless, to hear John talk! It was the right way for a lover
to talk! Still, he had no supremacy over what was to be!

"Some would say it cannot be so great a matter to us, when we have known
each other such a little while!" I remarked.

"The true time is the long time!" he replied. "Would it be a sign that
our love was strong, that it took a great while to come to anything? The
strongest things--"

There he stopped, and I saw why: strongest things are not generally of
quickest growth! But there was the eucalyptus! And was not St. Paul as
good a Christian as any of them? I said nothing, however: there was
indeed no rule in the matter!

"You must allow it possible," I said, "that we may not be married!"

"I will not," he answered. "It is true my mother may get me brought in as
incapable of managing my own affairs; but--"

"What mother would do such a wicked thing!" I cried.

"_My_ mother," he answered.

"Oh!"

"She _would!_"

"I can't believe it."

"I am sure of it."

I held my peace. I could not help a sense of dismay at finding myself so
near such a woman. I knew of bad women, but only in books: it would
appear they were in other places as well!

"We must be on our guard," he said.

"Against what?"

"I don't know; whatever she may do."

"We can't do anything till she begins!"

"She has begun."

"How?" I asked incredulous.

"Leander is lame," he answered.

"I am so sorry!"

"I am so angry!"

"Is it possible I understand you?"

"Quite. _She_ did it."

"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.

"Thank you, little one!" he returned, half playfully, yet gravely. "All I
want to say comes to this," he resumed after a pause, "that when a man is
in love, you see only the best of him, or something better than he really
is. Much good may be in a man, for God made him, and the man yet not be
good, for he has done nothing, since his making, to make himself. Before
you can say you know a man, you must have seen him in a few at least of
his opposite moods. Therefore you cannot wonder that I should desire a
fuller assurance of this young man, than your testimony, founded on an
acquaintance of three or four days, can give me."

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