“I was full of her visit, and everything she said, when Dr. Stewart dropped in to say that they had been down again at the Burnside to try and get him to let Dolly go abroad with them. 'I never liked the notion, Mrs. Butler,' he said; 'but I was swayed here and swayed there by my thoughts for the lass, what was best for her body's health, and that other health that is of far more value; when there came a letter to me,—it was anonymous,—saying, “Before you suffer your good and virtuous daughter to go away to a foreign land, just ask the lady that is to protect her if she still keeps up the habit of moonlight walks in a garden with a gentleman for her companion, and if that be the sort of teaching she means to inculcate.” Mrs. Trafford came to the door as I was reading the letter, and I said, “What can you make of such a letter as this?” and as she read it her cheek grew purple, and she said, “There is an end of our proposal, Dr. Stewart. Tell your daughter I shall importune her no more; but this letter I mean to keep: it is in a hand I know well.” And she went back to the carriage without another word; and tomorrow they leave the Abbey, some say not to come back again.'
“I cried the night through after the doctor went away, for what a world it is of sin and misery; not that I will believe wrong of her, sweet and beautiful as she is, but what for was she angry? and why did she show that this letter could give her such pain? And now, my dear Tony, since it could be no other than yourself she walked alone with, is it not your duty to write to the doctor and tell him so? The pure heart fears not the light, neither are the good of conscience afraid. That she is above your hope is no reason that she is above your love. That I was your father's wife may show that Above all, Tony, think that a Gospel minister should not harbor an evil thought of one who does not deserve it, and whose mightiest sin is perchance the pride that scorns a self-defence.
“The poor doctor is greatly afflicted: he is sorry now that he showed the letter, and Dolly cries over it night and day.
“Is it not a strange thing that Captain Graham's daughters, that never were used to come here, are calling at the Burnside two or three times a week?
“Write to me, my dear Tony, and if you think well of what I said, write to the doctor also, and believe me your ever loving mother,
“Eleanor Butler.
“Dolly Stewart has recovered her health again, but not her spirits. She rarely comes to see me, but I half suspect that her reason is her dislike to show me the depression that is weighing over her. So is it, dear Tony, go where you will; there is no heart without its weary load, no spirit without that touch of sorrow that should teach submission. Reflect well over this, dear boy; and never forget that though at times we put off our troubles as a wayfarer lays down his pack, we must just strap on the load again when we take to the road, for it is a burden we have to bear to the journey's end.”
Not all the moral reflections of this note saved it from being crushed passionately in his hand as he finished reading it. That walk, that moonlight walk, with whom could it have been? with whom but Maitland? And it was by her—by her that his whole heart was filled,—her image, her voice, her gait, her smile, her faintest whisper, that made up the world in which he lived. Who could love her as he did? Others would have their hopes and ambitions, their dreams of worldly success, and such like; but he,—he asked none of these; her heart was all he strove for. With her he would meet any fortune. He knew she was above him in every way,—as much by every gift and grace as by every accident of station; but what did that signify? The ardor of his love glowed only the stronger for the difficulty,—just as his courage would have mounted the higher, the more hazardous the feat that dared it. These were his reasonings,—or rather some shadowy shapes of these flitted through his mind.
And was it now all over? Was the star that had guided him so long to be eclipsed from him? Was he never again to ask himself in a moment of difficulty or doubt, What will Alice say?—what will Alice think? As for the scandalous tongues that dared to asperse her, he scorned them; and he was indignant with the old minister for not making that very letter itself the reason of accepting a proposal he had been until then averse to. He should have said, “Now there can be no hesitation,—Dolly must go with you now.” It was just as his musings got thus far that Skeffy rushed into the room and seized him by both hands.
“Ain't I glad to see your great sulky face again? Sit down and tell me everything—how you came—when——how long you 're to stay—and what brought you here.”