“Ah, my child! there is little to be read in that tongue that could benefit thee. Blasphemers and winebibbers they are, with no sense of shame in their idolatry of sensual things.”
“Then they are an evil-minded people, mother?”
“Yea, yea; a frivolous and false-hearted race.”
Then Dorcas turned away sorrowfully. Could it be that Henri Beauclaire had told what was not true? If he could steal he might also lie. He was base had he done both; and if that race was false why was he an exception among Frenchmen? When this mood was upon her she blushed alone in her chamber at the thought of the bit of muslin that he so carefully rolled about his finger and put from sight. Mostly, however, her meditations were concluded with the memory of his respect for the clean life of his grandpère, and, do as she might, to think him guilty she could not.
The years went quickly by. It was a round of simple duties to Dorcas, enlivened by a keen sense of the beautiful and a quick response to sympathetic needs. The weeks were much alike. First-day meeting, followed by the household laundry work. Fourth-day meeting, succeeded by the mending, sweeping, and baking. This was varied by monthly meeting day dinner, when several Friends were apt to be seated at their board, or a drive to a quarterly meeting in a larger community; and the crowning event—not often enjoyed by Lucretia and Dorcas—of passing a week in the great city at the time of the yearly gathering. It was on one of the latter occasions that Dorcas met and became much interested in a young man who was welcomed by Daniel as the son of a dear and distant friend. She had never mingled with youth a great deal, and George Townsend’s quick wit and good temper were a source of great pleasure to her. She had no idea of marriage in her mind, and when, after months of intimate acquaintance, he directly asked her to become his wife, she shrank from him as if he had struck her.
“Does thee feel that I have done wrong?” he gently questioned.
“No,” she stammered; but a strange vision of flashing dark eyes and an earnest injunction to “keep just as you are now” made her faint.
“Will thee let me dwell upon thy request in solitude?” she said, and the honest-hearted man made answer:
“Thee is right to question thy own soul. If there thee finds a single cloud, wait until the light cometh.”
When Dorcas sat alone she covered her face with both hands and a few tears trickled between her fingers. Presently she wiped them away, and began to question herself as she would have questioned another.