“Lottie, why don’t you speak?” cried Steady in real distress.
“Miss Gritton appears to be so gentle and kind,” pursued the clergyman.
“She’s an angel! I’d die for her!” interrupted Lottie, fairly breaking down, and bursting into a fit of loud sobbing.
“Do you not think that, if you have displeased her, she might be persuaded to overlook a fault, and take you back?” suggested Mr. Eardley, glad that at least the girl’s obstinate silence was broken.
“I can’t go back!” sobbed Lottie.
“And wherefore not?” inquired Mr. Eardley.
“Lottie, do, do speak,” pleaded her brother.
The poor girl was in bitter distress. A false idea of honour has led many a duellist to face the fire of an enemy, but never did the most nervous spirit more shrink from such an ordeal than did that of the little servant-maid from that which she now had to pass through. Influenced by the highest sense of honour—conscientious respect for a promise—Lottie stood the mark of questions, each of which seemed to strike her in the tenderest part. She had more than filial reverence for her pastor: to stand well in his favour, to do credit to his care, had been one of the highest objects of her ambition; to grieve, displease, disappoint him, was misery to which she could hardly have believed it possible that she should ever be exposed. Mr. Eardley, on his part, found the interview very painful. He had regarded Lottie Stone as one of the most promising girls under his pastoral charge; she was so simple-minded, affectionate, and pious; he could have trusted her with money uncounted; were she to prove ungrateful and unworthy, in whom could he henceforth trust? The clergyman was very patient and tender, but he was also very faithful. For more than an hour he stood in that little room, plying the silent, miserable girl with questions that put her to the torture, appealing to her reason, her affections, her conscience; exhorting, reproving, entreating—doing all that lay in his power to overcome her inexplicable reserve. Mr Eardley saw that Lottie’s character, that most precious of earthly possessions, was at stake; that if she continued silent, a merciless world would believe the worst. He explained this again and again; and Lottie, in anguish of soul, felt how true was every word which he uttered. And yet, had she not promised before God? was it not better to endure suspicions than to incur sin? Not all the efforts of her pastor, backed by the entreaties of her simple-hearted brother, could force the poor girl from the position to which conscience had fastened her, like a baited creature fixed to the stake.
At length, disappointed and disheartened, Mr. Eardley took his leave, promising, however, soon to return. Lottie wrung her hands in silent misery as she heard the door close behind him. “There,” she thought, “goes the kindest, most generous of friends, wearied out at last, and thinking me an ungrateful and wicked girl. Oh, I could have borne anything better than this!”