WE had been traveling for a little more than an hour when achange passed insensibly over us both.

Still sitting close together, with my hand in his, with my headon his shoulder, little by little we fell insensibly intosilence. Had we already exhausted the narrow yet eloquentvocabulary of love? Or had we determined by unexpressed consent,after enjoying the luxury of passion that speaks, to try thedeeper and finer rapture of passion that thinks? I can hardlydetermine; I only know that a time came when, under some strangeinfluence, our lips were closed toward each other. We traveledalong, each of us absorbed in our own reverie. Was he thinkingexclusively of me--as I was thinking exclusively of him? Beforethe journey's end I had my doubts; at a little later time I knewfor certain that his thoughts, wandering far away from his youngwife, were all turned inward on his own unhappy self.

For me the secret pleasure of filling my mind with him, while Ifelt him by my side, was a luxury in itself.

I pictured in my thoughts our first meeting in the neighborhoodof my uncle's house.

Our famous north-country trout stream wound its flashing andfoaming way through a ravine in the rocky moorland. It was awindy, shadowy evening. A heavily clouded sunset lay low and redin the west. A solitary angler stood casting his fly at a turn inthe stream where the backwater lay still and deep under anoverhanging bank. A girl (myself) standing on the bank, invisibleto the fisherman beneath, waited eagerly to see the trout rise.

The moment came; the fish took the fly.

Sometimes on the little level strip of sand at the foot of thebank, sometimes (when the stream turned again) in the shallowerwater rushing over its rocky bed, the angler followed thecaptured trout, now letting the line run out and now winding itin again, in the difficult and delicate process of "playing" thefish. Along the bank I followed to watch the contest of skill andcunning between the man and the trout. I had lived long enoughwith my uncle Starkweather to catch some of his enthusiasm forfield sports, and to learn something, especially, of the angler'sart. Still following the stranger, with my eyes intently fixed onevery movement of his rod and line, and with not so much as achance fragment of my attention to spare for the rough path alongwhich I was walking, I stepped by chance on the loose overhangingearth at the edge of the bank, and fell into the stream in aninstant.

The distance was trifling, the water was shallow, the bed of theriver was (fortunately for me) of sand. Beyond the fright and thewetting I had nothing to complain of. In a few moments I was outof the water and up again, very much ashamed of myself, on thefirm ground. Short as the interval was, it proved long enough tofavor the escape of the fish. The angler had heard my firstinstinctive cry of alarm, had turned, and had thrown aside hisrod to help me. We confronted each other for the first time, I onthe bank and he in the shallow water below. Our eyes encountered,and I verily believe our hearts encountered at the same moment.This I know for certain, we forgot our breeding as lady andgentleman: we looked at each other in barbarous silence.

I was the first to recover myself. What did I say to him?

I said something about my not being hurt, and then somethingmore, urging him to run back and try if he might not yet recoverthe fish.

He went back unwillingly. He returned to me--of course withoutthe fish. Knowing how bitterly disappointed my uncle would havebeen in his place, I apologized very earnestly. In my eagernessto make atonement, I even offered to show him a spot where hemight try again, lower down the stream.

He would not hear of it; he entreated me to go home and change mywet dress. I cared nothing for the wetting, but I obeyed himwithout knowing why.

He walked with me. My way back to the Vicarage was his way backto the inn. He had come to our parts, he told me, for the quietand retirement as much as for the fishing. He had noticed me onceor twice from the window of his room at the inn. He asked if Iwere not the vicar's daughter.

I set him right. I told him that the vicar had married mymother's sister, and that the two had been father and mother tome since the death of my parents. He asked if he might venture tocall on Doctor Starkweather the next day, mentioning the name ofa friend of his, with whom he believed the vicar to beacquainted. I invited him to visit us, as if it had been myhouse; I was spell-bound under his eyes and under his voice. Ihad fancied, honestly fancied, myself to have been in love oftenand often before this time. Never in any other man's company hadI felt as I now felt in the presence of _this_ man. Night seemedto fall suddenly over the evening landscape when he left me. Ileaned against the Vic arage gate. I could not breathe, I couldnot think; my heart fluttered as if it would fly out of mybosom--and all this for a stranger! I burned with shame; but oh,in spite of it all, I was so happy!

And now, when little more than a few weeks had passed since thatfirst meeting, I had him by my side; he was mine for life! Ilifted my head from his bosom to look at him. I was like a childwith a new toy--I wanted to make sure that he was really my own.

He never noticed the action; he never moved in his corner of thecarriage. Was he deep in his own thoughts? and were they thoughtsof Me?

I laid down my head again softly, so as not to disturb him. Mythoughts wandered backward once more, and showed me anotherpicture in the golden gallery of the past.

The garden at the Vicarage formed the new scene. The time wasnight. We had met together in secret. We were walking slowly toand fro, out of sight of the house, now in the shadowy paths ofthe shrubbery, now in the lovely moonlight on the open lawn.

We had long since owned our love and devoted our lives to eachother. Already our interests were one; already we shared thepleasures and the pains of life. I had gone out to meet him thatnight with a heavy heart, to seek comfort in his presence and tofind encouragement in his voice. He noticed that I sighed when hefirst took me in his arms, and he gently turned my head towardthe moonlight to read my trouble in my face. How often he hadread my happiness there in the earlier days of our love!

"You bring bad news, my angel," he said, lifting my hair tenderlyfrom my forehead as he spoke. "I see the lines here which tell meof anxiety and distress. I almost wish I loved you less dearly,Valeria."

"Why?"

"I might give you back your freedom. I have only to leave thisplace, and your uncle would be satisfied, and you would berelieved from all the cares that are pressing on you now."

"Don't speak of it, Eustace! If you want me to forget my cares,say you love me more dearly than ever."

He said it in a kiss. We had a moment of exquisite forgetfulnessof the hard ways of life--a moment of delicious absorption ineach other. I came back to realities fortified and composed,rewarded for all that I had gone through, ready to go through itall over again for another kiss. Only give a woman love, andthere is nothing she will not venture, suffer, and do.

"No, they have done with objecting. They have remembered at lastthat I am of age, and that I can choose for myself. They havebeen pleading with me, Eustace, to give you up. My aunt, whom Ithought rather a hard woman, has been crying--for the first timein my experience of her. My uncle, always kind and good to me,has been kinder and better than ever. He has told me that if Ipersist in becoming your wife, I shall not be deserted on mywedding-day. Wherever we may marry, he will be there to read theservice, and my aunt will go to the church with me. But heentreats me to consider seriously what I am doing--to consent toa separation from you for a time--to consult other people on myposition toward you, if I am not satisfied with his opinion. Oh,my darling, they are as anxious to part us as if you were theworst instead of the best of men!"

"Has anything happened since yesterday to increase their distrustof me?" he asked.

"Yes,"

"What is it?"

"You remember referring my uncle to a friend of yours and ofhis?"

"Yes. To Major Fitz-David."

"My uncle has written to Major Fitz-David "

"Why?"

He pronounced that one word in a tone so utterly unlike hisnatural tone that his voice sounded quite strange to me.

"You won't be angry, Eustace, if I tell you?" I said. "My uncle,as I understood him, had several motives for writing to themajor. One of them was to inquire if he knew your mother'saddress."

Eustace suddenly stood still.

I paused at the same moment, feeling that I could venture nofurther without the risk of offending him.

To speak the truth, his conduct, when he first mentioned ourengagement to my uncle, had been (so far as appearances went) alittle flighty and strange. The vicar had naturally questionedhim about his family. He had answered that his father was dead;and he had consented, though not very readily, to announce hiscontemplated marriage to his mother. Informing us that she toolived in the country, he had gone to see her, without moreparticularly mentioning her address. In two days he had returnedto the Vicarage with a very startling message. His motherintended no disrespect to me or my relatives, but she disapprovedso absolutely of her son's marriage that she (and the members ofher family, who all agreed with her) would refuse to be presentat the ceremony, if Mr. Woodville persisted in keeping hisengagement with Dr. Starkweather's niece. Being asked to explainthis extraordinary communication, Eustace had told us that hismother and his sisters were bent on his marrying another lady,and that they were bitterly mortified and disappointed by hischoosing a stranger to the family. This explanation was enoughfor me; it implied, so far as I was concerned, a compliment to mysuperior influence over Eustace, which a woman always receiveswith pleasure. But it failed to satisfy my uncle and my aunt. Thevicar expressed to Mr. Woodville a wish to write to his mother,or to see her, on the subject of her strange message. Eustaceobstinately declined to mention his mother's address, on theground that the vicar's interference would be utterly useless. Myuncle at once drew the conclusion that the mystery about theaddress indicated something wrong. He refused to favor Mr.Woodville's renewed proposal for my hand, and he wrote the sameday to make inquiries of Mr. Woodville's reference and of his ownfriend Major Fitz-David.

Under such circumstances as these, to speak of my uncle's motiveswas to venture on very delicate ground. Eustace relieved me fromfurther embarrassment by asking a question to which I couldeasily reply.

"Has your uncle received any answer from Major Fitz-David?" heinquired.

"Yes.

"Were you allowed to read it?" His voice sank as he said thosewords; his face betrayed a sudden anxiety which it pained me tosee.

"I have got the answer with me to show you," I said.

He almost snatched the letter out of my hand; he turned his backon me to read it by the light of the moon. The letter was shortenough to be soon read. I could have repeated it at the time. Ican repeat it now.

"DEAR VICAR--Mr. Eustace Woodville is quite correct in statingto you that he is a gentleman by birth and position, and that heinherits (under his deceased father's will) an independentfortune of two thousand a year.

"Always yours,

"LAWRENCE FITZ-DAVID."

"Can anybody wish for a plainer answer than that?" Eustaceasked, handing the letter back to me.

"If _I_ had written for information about you," I answered, "itwould have been plain enough for me."

"Is it not plain enough for your uncle?"

"No."

"What does he say?"

"Why need you care to know, my darling?"

"I want to know, Valeria. There must be no secret between us inthis matter. Did your uncle say anything when he showed you themajor's letter?"

"Yes."

"What was it?"

"My uncle told me that his letter of inquiry filled three pages,and he bade me observe that the major's answer contained onesentence only. He said, 'I volunteered to go to Major Fitz-Davidand talk the matter over. You see he takes no notice of myproposal. I asked him for the address of Mr. Woodville's mother.He passes over my request, as he has passed over my proposal--hestudiously confines himself to the shortest possible statement ofbare facts. Use your common-sense, Valeria. Isn't this rudenessrather remarkable on the part of a man who is a gentleman bybirth and breeding, and who is also a friend of mine?'"

Eustace stopped me there.

"Did you answer your uncle's question?" he asked.

"No," I replied. "I only said that I did not understand themajor's conduct."

"And what did your uncle say next? If you love me, Valeria, tellme the truth."

"He used very stron g language, Eustace. He is an old man; youmust not be offended with him."

"I am not offended. What did he say?"

"He said, 'Mark my words! There is something under the surface inconnection with Mr. Woodville, or with his family, to which MajorFitz-David is not at liberty to allude. Properly interpreted,Valeria, that letter is a warning. Show it to Mr. Woodville, andtell him (if you like) what I have just told you--'"

Eustace stopped me again.

"You are sure your uncle said those words?" he asked, scanning myface attentively in the moonlight.

"Quite sure. But I don't say what my uncle says. Pray don't thinkthat!"

He suddenly pressed me to his bosom, and fixed his eyes on mine.His look frightened me.

"Good-by, Valeria!" he said. "Try and think kindly of me, mydarling, when you are married to some happier man."

He attempted to leave me. I clung to him in an agony of terrorthat shook me from head to foot.

"What do you mean?" I asked, as soon as I could speak. "I amyours and yours only. What have I said, what have I done, todeserve those dreadful words?"

"We must part, my angel," he answered, sadly. "The fault is noneof yours; the misfortune is all mine. My Valeria! how can youmarry a man who is an object of suspicion to your nearest anddearest friends? I have led a dreary life. I have never found inany other woman the sympathy with me, the sweet comfort andcompanionship, that I find in you. Oh, it is hard to lose you! itis hard to go back again to my unfriended life! I must make thesacrifice, love, for your sake. I know no more why that letter iswhat it is than you do. Will your uncle believe me? will yourfriends believe me? One last kiss, Valeria! Forgive me for havingloved you--passionately, devotedly loved you. Forgive me--and letme go!"

I held him desperately, recklessly. His eyes, put me besidemyself; his words filled me with a frenzy of despair.

"Go where you may," I said, "I go with you!Friends--reputation--I care nothing who I lose, or what I lose!Oh, Eustace, I am only a woman--don't madden me! I can't livewithout you. I must and will be your wife!"

Those wild words were all I could say before the misery andmadness in me forced their way outward in a burst of sobs andtears.

He yielded. He soothed me with his charming voice; he brought meback to myself with his tender caresses. He called the brightheaven above us to witness that he devoted his whole life to me.He vowed--oh, in such solemn, such eloquent words!--that his onethought, night and day, should be to prove himself worthy of suchlove as mine. And had he not nobly redeemed the pledge? Had notthe betrothal of that memorable night been followed by thebetrothal at the altar, by the vows before God! Ah, what a lifewas before me! What more than mortal happiness was mine!

Again I lifted my head from his bosom to taste the dear delightof seeing him by my side--my life, my love, my husband, my own!

Hardly awakened yet from the absorbing memories of the past tothe sweet realities of the present, I let my cheek touch hischeek, I whispered to him softly, "Oh, how I love you! how I loveyou!"

The next instant I started back from him. My heart stood still. Iput my hand up to my face. What did I feel on my cheek? (_I_ hadnot been weeping--I was too happy.) What did I feel on my cheek?A tear!

His face was still averted from me. I turned it toward me, withmy own hands, by main force.

I looked at him--and saw my husband, on our wedding-day, with hiseyes full of tears.