“It’s my turn; I’m third,” said Reuel.
“Luck to you, old man,” they called as he disappeared in the darkness.
Reuel Briggs was a brave man. He knew his own great physical strength and felt no fear as he traversed the patch of woods lying between the two estates. As he reached the avenue of hemlocks he was not thinking of his mission, but of the bright home scene he had just left—of love and home and rest—such a life as was unfolding before Aubrey Livingston and sweet Molly Vance.
“I suppose there are plenty of men in the world as lonely as I am,” he mused; “but I suppose it is my own fault. A man though plain and poor can generally manage to marry; and I am both. But I don’t regard a wife as one regards bread—better sour bread than starvation; better an uncongenial life-companion than none! What a frightful mistake! No! The woman I marry must be to me a necessity, because I love her; because so loving her, ‘all the current of my being flows to her,’ and I feel she is my supreme need.”
Just now he felt strangely happy as he moved in the gloom of the hemlocks, and he wondered many times after that whether the spirit is sometimes mysteriously conscious of the nearness of its kindred spirit; and feels, in anticipation, the “sweet unrest” of the master-passion that rules the world.
The mental restlessness of three weeks before seemed to have possession of him again. Suddenly the “restless, unsatisfied longing,” rose again in his heart. He turned his head and saw a female figure just ahead of him in the path, coming toward him. He could not see her features distinctly, only the eyes—large, bright and dark. But their expression! Sorrowful, wistful—almost imploring—gazing straight forward, as if they saw nothing—like the eyes of a person entirely absorbed and not distinguishing one object from another.
She was close to him now, and there was a perceptible pause in her step. Suddenly she covered her face with her clasped hands, as if in uncontrollable grief. Moved by a mighty emotion, Briggs addressed the lonely figure:
“You are in trouble, madam; may I help you?”
Briggs never knew how he survived the next shock. Slowly the hands were removed from the face and the moon gave a distinct view of the lovely features of the jubilee singer—Dianthe Lusk.
She did not seem to look at Briggs, but straight before her, as she said in a low, clear, passionless voice: