The Gilchrist was clean, honest blood. Hetty testified her appreciation of this truth by refusing to marry him. He could think how his mother would look when she had heard the story and how Fairhill gossip would gloat over the “newest thing in clerical scandals!”
Why should it be made public? Why should he not help to keep it quiet instead of pulling down ruin upon the helpless and unoffending? Hetty had written, “In mercy to the innocent.” He seemed to hear her say it now, in his ear.
A faint melodious chime just vibrated through the sultry air. The fine bell of the “Old First” had struck the half hour. The church in which he was baptized; the church of his mother’s love and prayers! At thought of the pulpit desecrated by this fellow’s feet, a rush of indignant contempt surged up to his lips.
“Sacrilegious dog!” he muttered, touching the motionless heap with his foot.
Homer shambled back out of breath. He had brought a lantern.
“Now—it’s powerful shady under the trees!” he replied to March’s remark that the moon gave all the light they required. “An’ ther’s somethin’ come ter me, as I want ter see!”
He set down the lantern, hugged the tree bole, and went up a foot or two. Then were heard a scratching and a rattling overhead.
“Now—would ye a mind holdin’ this ’tell I git ’em all?”
The “all” were four bottles and a tin box. Two phials were long and empty. A name was blown in the glass. March held one down to the light.
“Elixir of Opium!”