“I do know them, and many other things of the same kind. There is a man, more modest than you, who has been to a great university, and yet who does not all the time be speaking in Latin, and yet I have no doubt but that he has forgotten more than you will ever know. I will answer your Latin speech with another: ‘Laus propria sordet,’ and I hope you like it.” She was as proud in her mouthing of the words as Archie had been. It was Parker who had taught her the saying, “Self-praise defiles,” and she had repeated the Latin rendering till she remembered it, and now flung it at Archie with a scorn which completely crushed him. He had not a word to say for some minutes, and then he remarked meekly, “I didn’t know you knew Latin, Agnes.”
“I don’t, but I know that, and it fits the case. I’ve no pleasure in a man who blows his own trumpet.”
“Do I do that?”
“I should think you would be well aware of it when it is your chief occupation. You bluster around here as if the universe belonged to you, and you are so puffed up with importance that there is no comfort to be had in you. Ah, but you’re sadly changed, Archie, and not for the better.” And Archie’s humiliation was complete. Agnes, having begun to give vent to her feelings, went on. “I used to think you were as nice and modest a lad as ever I knew, but if being a minister means disobeying Paul’s injunction not to be puffed up, then I’ll forswear ministers, though they are the heralds of the gospel.”
“Ah, but, Agnes!” Archie’s voice was shocked, but he made no further protest. She had sent her shafts home with a vengeance and he smarted under the wounds. He was conscious that there was truth in what she said, and after a silence he said: “I have been puffed up, I acknowledge with shame and humility,—I, who am but the least in the sight of heaven. Perhaps, after all, Agnes, I am not fit to think of filling the holy office. I am magnifying the station and dishonoring the cause I should guard with care. I’m forgetting that it was said that the last shall be first. Ah, Agnes, perhaps I’d better not go on.”
“‘He that putteth his hand to the plough,’” quoted Agnes, sternly. “You’d best go on, Archie, and you’ll learn; it’s your inexperience. I’ve no doubt but that you’ll make a good, conscientious minister of the gospel.” She was turning the tables on him with a vengeance. “When you’re older you’ll know less, my mother says, and she says you will have occasion to learn meekness and lowliness. If you want my friendship, you will certainly have to become less of a braggart, and that right quickly.” And Archie’s rags of pride all fell from him.
“I’ll remember, Agnes,” he said unsteadily, “and I’ll try not to be boastful. If I’d known ye were displeased, and that it was that has been keeping ye at your distance—”
Agnes interrupted him. “It’s not that altogether for I—I—must be honest with you. I know I can never care for you as you want me to; there’s no use in my pretending.”
“Ah, but,” Archie’s voice was eager enough now, “I know why, Agnes; it’s my foolish boasting that has turned you from me. I thought to win ye by self-praise, and I see that it is no way, for what a man is that shall he appear without words of his. Try me again, Agnes, and I’ll try and conquer the pride and vainglory that should have no place in my heart. No, I’ll not give ye up. I’ve said that once and for all; not till ye marry another man.”
Agnes sighed. “Then I think we’ll neither of us ever marry, Archie.”