That Printer of Udell's Part 36

"Yes," said d.i.c.k, "I know what it means for me, your going home. But you need not again be a useless b.u.t.terfly as you say. Write your father and tell him of your desire; that you cannot be content as a useless woman of society. He will ask you to come home, I am sure. And when your present term of school is finished, you can take your old place in the world again. You will find many ways to be of use to others, and I know that your father will learn to give you more liberty."

"And the past?" asked Amy, with a blush of shame.

"Is past," said d.i.c.k, emphatically. "No one in Boyd City knows your story, nor need they ever know."

"One man there can tell them," answered the girl, with averted face.

"You are mistaken," said d.i.c.k, quietly. And then, as gently as he could, he told her of Whitley's death. But of his connection with him and the real cause of the fight in the cabin, he said nothing.

It was hard for d.i.c.k to advise Amy to go home, for as she was then, they were equals. If she went back to Boyd City, all would be changed.

But he had fought over the question in his own mind and the right had conquered.

Amy agreed with him that it was best, and added, "I have felt all along that I ought to do this after a while, but I wished to see you again first, and had you not happened to find me, I should have written to you later."

And so it was settled. No word of love was spoken between them. d.i.c.k would not permit himself to speak then, because he felt that she ought not to be influenced by her present surroundings; and even had he spoken, Amy would not have listened, because she felt her work could only be complete when she had returned to her old position and had proved herself by her life there.

And so they parted, with only a silent clasping of hands, as they stood beside the brook that chattered on its way to join the other; though there was a world of love in both the gray eyes and the brown; a love none the less strong because unspoken.

Upon d.i.c.k's return to the city, he took up his work again with so light a heart that his many friends declared that he had entirely recovered his health, and their congratulations were numerous and hearty.

During the holidays, there was some gossip among the citizens when it was announced in the Daily Whistler, that Miss Goodrich would soon return to her home. The article stated that she had been living with some friends in the east, finis.h.i.+ng her education, and the public accepted the polite lie with a nod and a wink.

Mrs. Goodrich, though her mother heart was glad at the return of her child, received the girl with many tearful reproaches; and while Amy was hungering for a parent's loving sympathy and encouragement, she could not open her heart to the woman who mourned only the blow dealt her family pride and social ambition.

Adam was formal, cold and uncompromising, while Frank paid no more attention to his sister than if she were a hired servant in the house.

Only the girl's firm determination, awakened womanhood, patience and Christian fort.i.tude enabled her to accept her lot. But in spite of the daily reproaches, stern coldness and studied contempt, she went steadily forward in her purpose to regain the place she had lost; and somehow, as the weeks went by, all noticed a change in Amy. Her father dared not check her in her work, for something in the clear eyes, that looked at him so sadly, but withal so fearlessly, made him hesitate. It was as though she had spoken, "I have been through the fire and have come out pure gold. It is not for you to question me." And though she attended to her social duties, her influence was always for the good, and no one dared to speak slightingly of religious things in her presence; while the poor people at the Mission learned to love the beautiful young woman who visited their homes and talked to them of a better life, and never failed to greet them with a kindly word when they met her on the street.

Of course d.i.c.k could not call at her home. He knew well that it would only provoke a storm; nor did Amy ask him to. They met only at church or at the Mission; and nothing but the common greetings pa.s.sed between them. No one ever dreamed that they were more than mere acquaintances.

But they each felt that the other understood, and so were happy; content to wait until G.o.d, in his own way, should unite the streams of their lives.

CHAPTER XXVII

It was about nine o'clock in the evening, and d.i.c.k was in his office at the a.s.sociation building, writing some letters pertaining to the work, when the door opened, and to his great astonishment, Amy entered hurriedly, out of breath and very much excited.

"I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Mr. Falkner," she began, as soon as she could speak; "but I must tell you." And then she broke down, sinking into a chair and crying bitterly.

d.i.c.k's face was very grave, and stepping to the window he drew the curtain, then turned the key in the door.

"Now what is it, Miss Goodrich? Please be calm. You know you have nothing to fear from me."

Amy brushed away her tears, and looking up into his face, "I'm not afraid of you," she said. "But--but--, our secret is out."

d.i.c.k nodded that he understood, and she continued: "You know that Frank has been at Armourdale the last few weeks, looking after papa's interests in the mines there, and--and he came home this afternoon?"

"Yes, I know," said d.i.c.k calmly.

"I was in the sitting-room and he and father were in the library. I--I did not mean to listen, but the door was open and I heard them speak your name."

"Yes," said d.i.c.k again.

"Frank met Mr. Cushman and spent several days at the farm where they are prospecting, and--and of course learned that we were together there. Father believes the awfullest things and threatens to kill you; he is so angry. I--I'm afraid for you--and--and I slipped away because I--I thought you ought to know." The poor girl finished with a sob and buried her face in her hands.

d.i.c.k thought rapidly for a few moments. He remembered that he had never told Amy how her father had accused him of taking her away at first, and he saw now how that belief would be strengthened by her brother's story. Then as his heart bitterly rebelled at the thought of such a misunderstanding, and of the danger to Amy, his mind was made up instantly.

"Miss Goodrich," he said; "can you let me talk to you plainly?"

She nodded and grew quiet.

"I have known all along that these things would come out sooner or later. I have foreseen that the whole story must be told, and have prayed that the time might be put off until your life could give the lie to the thought that the past was not pa.s.sed forever, and now I thank G.o.d that my prayers have been answered. No harm can come to you now for your Christianity is no vain trifle, but a living power that will help you to bear the reproach that must come. Had this happened before you were strong, it would have driven you back again. But now you can bear it. But Miss Goodrich--Amy--I don't want you to bear this alone. Won't you let me help you? You know that I love you. I have told you so a thousand times, though no word has been spoken. And I know that you return my love. I have seen it in your eyes, and I have waited and waited until the time should come for me to speak.

That time is here now. Amy, dearest, tell me that you love me and will be my wife. Give me the right to protect you. Let us go to your father together and tell him all. He dare not refuse us then."

The beautiful girl trembled with emotion. "You must not. Oh, you must not," she said. "Don't, don't tempt me." She buried her face in her hands again. "You--you cannot take for your wife one who has been what I have."

"Amy dear, listen," said d.i.c.k. "You and I are Christians. We each have fallen; but Christ has forgiven and accepted both. G.o.d has only one love for each, one Saviour for each, one forgiveness for each. There is only one promise, one help, one Heaven for us both. Darling, don't you see that we are equal? I cannot reproach you for your past, because I too, have been guilty. You, in your heart of hearts, must recognize this great truth. Won't you forget it all with me?"

The girl lifted her face and looked into his eyes long and searchingly, as though reading his very soul.

Had there been anything but love in d.i.c.k Falkner's heart then, he would have argued in vain. But he returned the look unflinchingly, then--

"Amy listen. On the soul that has been pardoned in the name of Jesus Christ, there is no spot. Won't you put your past beneath your feet as I put mine in the dust, and come to me upon the common ground of Christ's love and forgiveness? Come, because we love each other, and for the good we can do."

The brown eyes filled with tears again; the sweet lips trembled, as holding out her hand she replied, "Oh d.i.c.k, I do love you. Help me to be strong and true and worthy of your love. I--I--have no one in all the world but you."

A few minutes later, d.i.c.k said, "I must take you home now."

"No, no," she answered, hurriedly; "the folks will think that I am calling on some of the neighbors, even if they miss me at all. I often run out of an evening that way. It is not late and I'm not afraid."

"Listen to me, dearest," he answered. "You must not see your father alone until I have told him everything. I will go up to the house with you now, and we will settle this matter once for--" A loud knock at the door interrupted him. Amy trembled in alarm. "Don't be frightened dear. No harm can come to you from this visit now. Thank G.o.d you have given me the right to speak for you."

The knock was repeated. "Step in here," he said, leading her to a chair in the next room, "and be a brave girl now. It's just some fellow on business. He'll be gone in a moment." And leaving her with the door partly closed, he stepped across the room just as the knock came the third time.

d.i.c.k threw open the door, and without waiting for an invitation, Adam Goodrich stepped across the threshold. To say that d.i.c.k was astonished but faintly expressed his feelings, though not a muscle of his face quivered, as he said:

"Good evening, sir, what can I do for you?"

"You can do a good deal," said Adam. "But first lock that door; we want no visitors here to-night."

Without a word, d.i.c.k turned the key again.

"Now sir, I want to know first, is it true that you were with my daughter in the Ozark Mountains this summer? Don't try to lie to me this time. I'll have the truth or kill you."

"I have never lied to you, sir," answered d.i.c.k; "and have no desire to do so now. It is perfectly true I did meet you daughter last summer while on my vacation."

"I knew I was right," raved Adam. "I knew you led her away from home.