Sir Donald had told Esther the cause of Oswald's sudden departure. She was saddened, but made no protest. That the innocent should suffer such unjust banishment shocked Esther's ideas of right providence. Why were such straits permitted?
Esther begins to see that the world groans beneath weight of unmerited burdens. Under fairest skies gleam sacrificial blades. Balmiest airs minister to altar-fires. Bird-carols and zephyr-murmurs are but medley variations to minor chords of vicarious pain.
Esther now has occasional convictions that some wrongs may continue indefinitely. Can it be that transient evil is lasting good? Are there more clamorous voices than those of physical need? Shall the less ravenous, yet infinitely more real, soul-hunger wait on alms and ambulance?
That such moods of questioning thought bear intimate reference to Oswald's hard fate no way lessens their deep sincerity. Heart queries are wonderfully profound.
No word of complaint escapes Esther's lips, nor does she doubt the wisdom of their proposed course. Deeply solicitous for Oswald's vindication, this loyally sympathetic girl would hesitate at no personal sacrifice in his behalf. It is hard that she can do nothing to help him.
Aware of her father's interest in her every wish and aspiration, Esther refrains from any suggestion which may cause additional care.
Sir Donald's observing vision notes each emotional clew. Many unspoken queries find vocal reply. Delicate points are cleared by suggestive indirection. Neither completely yields to profitless conjecture. They magnetize Northfield.
One bright day Sir Donald and Esther take a stroll about the familiar grounds. The air is laden with perfume of flowers. Both are charmed with exquisite plant and foliage shades. Many exclamatory comments are uttered by the enthusiastic daughter, more gravely confirmed by her gently reserved father. They quit the mansion grounds for a stroll along the wood-fringed lake. Past the family graves, where a pensive hour is spent, they walk to where a small sail is locked fast by the pebbly shore. Sir Donald fails to loosen the fastening. Farther down is a rowboat, in which they start out on the lake.
Moving along with the breeze, both yield to meditation. Former tragic happenings upon this peaceful lake come to mind. Each ripple is tremulous with saddened retrospect. Every voice of wind and branch is keyed to minor utterance. These, with monotonous swish of slow waves, blending with notes of leaf-hid birds, seem miserere and requiem.
At this projecting shrub, bright-eyed, sweet-voiced, vivacious, loving, impulsive Alice Webster had been rescued by Oswald Langdon; yonder is the wooded point toward which Paul Lanier was sailing when, maddened by her frightened resistance and stinging protests, he roughly pushed Alice overboard. Here is the bank upon which the body again became instinct with life's returning pulses.