CHAPTER XXVI
Samuel slept not a wink all that night. First he lay wrestling with the congregation. And then his thoughts came to Miss Gladys, and what he was going to say to her. This kindled a fire in his blood, and when the first streaks of dawn were in the sky, he rose and went out to walk.
Throughout all these adventures, his feelings had been mingled with the excitement of his love for her. Samuel hardly knew what to make of himself. He had never kissed a woman in his life before—but now desire was awake, and from the deeps of him the most unexpected emotions came surging, sweeping him away. He was a prey to longings and terrors. Wild ecstasies came to him, and then followed plunges into melancholy. He longed to see her, and other things stood in the way, and he did not know why he should be so tormented.
Just to be in love would have been enough. But to have been given the love of a being like Miss Gladys—peerless and unapproachable, almost unimaginable!
After hours of pacing the streets, he called to see her. And she came to him, her face alight with eager curiosity, and crying, “Tell me all about it!”
She listened, almost dumb with amazement. “And you said that to my father!” she exclaimed again and again. “And to Mr. Hickman! And to old Mr. Curtis! Samuel! Samuel!”
“It was all true, Miss Gladys,” he insisted.
“Yes,” she said—“but—to say it to them!”
“They turned me out of the church,” he went on. “Had they a right to do that?”
“I don't know,” she answered. “Oh, my, what a time there will be!”