The Attic Guest: A Novel

by Robert E. Knowles

There is one feature of that evening's worship that lingers with me very vividly. After we knelt down—his chair was a few feet from mine—Charlie crept over to the sofa where I was kneeling and bowed down beside me. It thrilled me so—perhaps not in terms of Charlie Giddens exactly—but it was the first time I ever thought of love and prayer going together. And I recall how overpoweringly it came to me that there could, surely, be nothing more sweet than this, that two who loved each other should pray together, and should feel that even death could never separate them, because their love was set in the light of the Invisible. Charlie took my hand, too, and I rather think his eyes were open—I know his face was turned to mine—but I couldn't be sure of this, for my own were tightly closed.

I went outside the door with Charlie after he had said good-night to all but me; and I do not think the silent night ever appeared so glorious before. There was no moon, but the stars were shining calmly overhead, and a sweet stillness, fragrant with the breath of spring, was all about us. I could hear the twittering of birds in the magnolia tree, and wondered if they were the love-lorn pair I had seen taking shelter there.

I fancy I was still thinking of the great words and the great thoughts of the swelling psalm, but Charlie seemed to have forgotten all about it. He evidently didn't want anything but me. And his voice was full of tender passion as he began and pressed his suit again—right away, he said, it must be right away. And he rang the changes a little on the yacht and Europe—I wished so much he hadn't mentioned these, for I felt, in a kind of hungry way, that they had nothing to do with the real case. He told me how much he loved me, and how empty life would be without me at his side—but this was in between, and I felt, away down in my heart, that he wasn't putting things in their proper places. But he put his arm about me, and kissed me, three or four times, I think. And then he tried again to make me promise—but I wouldn't.

"When we go abroad, we'll go and see where that parson used to herd the sheep," he said, and laughed. "It's a wonder he didn't bring his collie with him, isn't it?" and I felt my cheeks burn with resentment at the jest. But I didn't let him see it—for I felt I had no right to resent it. Besides, he had herded sheep on the hills—he said so himself—and that was the worst of it. I thought something like that then, at least, poor fool.

"Let me see its light again," said Charlie, taking my hand and looking at my engagement ring; "it makes the whole night radiant, doesn't it?" with which he kissed it, and held it to my lips that I might do the same. I couldn't help glancing proudly at it, too, for it was a beauty—and mother said no girl of our circle had ever had one so valuable.

Then Charlie went away and I went back into the parlour. They were all there except Mr. Laird.

"Well, I took him to the attic myself," said my Aunt Agnes, "and it was right amusing to see how he went on over it. I had told Lyn to light the fire, and it really looked cozy in the dark when we went in. He said it was a room fit for a king—said he felt sorry for the elder. Oh! he was just lovely about it."

My mother's mind was engrossed with something else. "Wasn't that mortifying at the table," she began, "about his having been a shepherd, I mean—he doesn't understand our way of looking at things here, or he'd never have mentioned it. I saw Mr. Giddens fairly jump in his chair."

"I thought it was lovely," I broke in with a vehemence I could not restrain; "I don't see any disgrace in that. I think it's all the more to his credit."

"Oh! no, of course, I don't mean it's any disgrace," my mother exclaimed, "but—it's so funny. It's so different from anything we've been used to."