by storm the very citadel of her affections was not alone a surprise, but seemed like sacrilege. The mystery and doubt that overhung the relations between her own father and mother—and which she felt keenly—had made her regard with awe any possible marriage of her own, investing the thought of it with a terrible sanctity, and as something to be approached only with a reverent fear. If in this connection she had ever thought of Reuben, it was in those days when he seemed so earnest in the faith, and when their feelings were blent by some superhuman agency. But at his divergence into the paths of skepticism, it seemed to her simple and intense faith that thenceforth their pilgrimages must be wholly distinct: his—and she trembled at the thought of it—through some terrible maze of error, where she could not follow: and hers—by God's grace—straight to the city whose gates are of pearl.
When, therefore, she had replied to the passionate address of Reuben, "You must not talk thus," it was with a tear in her eye.
"It grieves you, then, Adèle?"
"Yes, it grieves me, Reuben. Our paths are different now"; and she bethought herself of her father's injunction, which seemed to make her duty still plainer, and forbade her to encourage that parley with her heart which—with her hand still fast in Reuben's, and his eyes beaming with a fierce heat upon her—she was beginning to entertain.
"Adèle, tell me, can I go on?"
"Indeed, indeed, you must not, Reuben!"—and withdrawing her hand suddenly, she passed it over brow and eyes, as if to rally her thoughts to measure the situation.
"You are weeping, Adèle?" said Reuben.
"No, not weeping," said she, dashing the merest film of mist from her eyes, "but so troubled!—so troubled!" And she looked yearningly, but vainly, in his face for that illumination which had belonged to his enthusiasm of the summer.
They walked for a moment in silence,—he, with a scowl upon his face. Seeing this, Adèle said plaintively,—
"It seems to me, Reuben, as if this might be only a solemn mockery of yours."
"You doubt me, then?" returned he like a flash.
"Do you not doubt yourself, Reuben? Have you never doubted yourself?" This with a glance that pierced him through.
"Good Heavens! are you turned preacher?" said he, bitterly. "Will you measure a heart by its dogmatic beliefs?"
"For shame, Reuben!"
And for a time both were silent. At last Adèle spoke again,—
"There is a sense of coming trouble that oppresses me strangely,—that tells me I must not listen to you, Reuben."
"I know it, Adèle; and it is for this I would cherish you, and protect you against all possible shame or indignities"———
"Shame! Indignities! What does this mean? What do you know, Reuben?"
Reuben blushed scarlet. His speech had outrun his discretion; but seizing her hand, and pressing it more tenderly than ever, he said,—
"Only this, Adèle: I see that a coolness has grown up toward you in the parsonage; the old prejudice against French blood may revive again; besides which, there is, you know, Adèle, that little family cloud"———
"Is this the old, kind Reuben, my brother, who reminds me of a trouble so shadowy I cannot fairly measure it?" And Adèle covered her face with her hands.
"Forgive me, Adèle, for God's sake!"
"There is a cloud, Reuben; thank you for the word," said Adèle, recovering herself; "and there is, I fear, an even darker cloud upon your faith. Until both are passed, I can never listen to such talk as you would urge upon me,—never! never!"
And there was a spirit in her words now that awed Reuben.
"Would you impute my unbelief to
