Chapter 37

Miss Laura came forward with outstretched hands and tear-stained eyes to greet him.

"Henry," she exclaimed, "I am shocked and sorry, I cannot tell you how much! Nor do I know what else to say, except that the best people do not--cannot--could not--approve of it!"

"The best people, Laura," he said with a weary smile, "are an abstraction. When any deviltry is on foot they are never there to prevent it--they vanish into thin air at its approach. When it is done, they excuse it; and they make no effort to punish it. So it is not too much to say that what they permit they justify, and they cannot shirk the responsibility. To mar the living--it is the history of life--but to make war upon the dead!--I am going away, Laura, never to return. My dream of usefulness is over. To-night I take away my dead and shake the dust of Clarendon from my feet forever. Will you come with me?"

"Henry," she said, and each word tore her heart, "I have been expecting this--since I heard. But I cannot go; my duty calls me here. My mother could not be happy anywhere else, nor would I fit into any other life. And here, too, I am useful--and may still be useful--and should be missed. I know your feelings, and would not try to keep you. But, oh, Henry, if all of those who love justice and practise humanity should go away, what would become of us?"

"I leave to-night," he returned, "and it is your right to go with me, or to come to me."

"No, Henry, nor am I sure that you would wish me to. It was for the old town's sake that you loved me. I was a part of your dream--a part of the old and happy past, upon which you hoped to build, as upon the foundations of the old mill, a broader and a fairer structure. Do you remember what you told me, that night--that happy night--that you loved me because in me you found the embodiment of an ideal? Well, Henry, that is why I did not wish to make our engagement known, for I knew, I felt, the difficulty of your task, and I foresaw that you might be disappointed, and I feared that if your ideal should be wrecked, you might find me a burden. I loved you, Henry--I seem to have always loved you, but I would not burden you."

"No, no, Laura--not so! not so!"

"And you wanted me for Phil's sake, whom we both loved; and now that your dream is over, and Phil is gone, I should only remind you of where you lost him, and of your disappointment, and of--this other thing, and I could not be sure that you loved me or wanted me."

"Surely you cannot doubt it, Laura?" His voice was firm, but to her sensitive spirit it did not carry conviction.

"You remembered me from my youth," she continued tremulously but bravely, "and it was the image in your memory that you loved. And now, when you go away, the old town will shrink and fade from