The terrors of the night on which Emilia fled to escape from her traducers produced an indelible effect upon her mind. Often in afterlife, when the brief gleam of sunshine she was destined to enjoy had died away, did she reflect with shudders upon the experiences of those few pregnant hours. From the moment of her departure until sunrise flooded the land with light, but brought only a deeper anguish to her soul, there was an interval of darkness lasting barely seven hours, but it seemed to her that it might have been seven times seven, so heavily charged were the minutes with black woe. Feeble as she was, and fragile as was her frame, she travelled a surprising distance during these interminable hours. When, compelled by exhaustion to rest, she had so far recovered as to be able to proceed, she ran with fleet foot to make up for lost time, until, breathless and panting, she came to a standstill, and caught at the nearest object for support, generally a fence or the branch of a tree. Sometimes she caught at shadows and fell, and lay supine awhile, to rise again in ever-growing despair and continue her flight; but moral forces are powerless against the forces of physical nature, and shortly after sunrise her strength gave way, and now when she fell she was unable from exhaustion to rise. She might have been able to continue her flight for still a brief space, had she not been climbing a hill, the exertion of which completely overpowered her. The spot upon which she fell commanded a view of a river. It stretched to the north and south of her, and in its waters were mirrored the gorgeous splendors of the rising sun. She did not see it at first, for it came into view only at the point she had reached; lower down the hill it was not visible to sight.
Presently, opening her eyes, she saw the jewelled shadows playing on the surface, and they so distressed her--yearning as she was for peace and rest--that her eyelids drooped, and she turned her head to avoid a picture which in happier circumstances she would have gazed upon with delight. But she knew the river was there.
For full half an hour she lay with her eyes closed, struggling with a horrible temptation. Then she turned to the water, struggled into a sitting posture, and gazed with wild eyes upon it. Not voluntarily and of her own free will; some evil spiritual power within her compelled her to do so.
It was quieter now. The gorgeous colors had died out of the skies and the river was in repose. "Come," it whispered, "come to my embrace, and end your woes." But the strong religious instinct within her enabled her to struggle with the frightful suggestion. "No, no!" she murmured, feebly putting her hands together. "Help me, dear Lord, to avoid the crime!" Her appeal did not banish the silent voices which urged her to seek oblivion, and, in oblivion, peace. How the struggle would have ended it is difficult to say, had not her fate been taken out of her own hands.
There came to her ears the crack of a whip and the sound of a human voice urging horses up the hill. She bowed her head upon her lap to hide her face from the stranger who was approaching her.
He was an old man in charge of a wagon and a team of horses. The cattle were willing enough, and fresh for their day's work, and it was only from habit that their driver was shouting words of encouragement to them. They reached the summit of the hill, and the wagoner, merciful to his beasts, eased them a bit. It was then his eyes fell upon the form of Emilia. He approached her and laid his hand upon her shoulder. She shivered and shrank from his touch. At this human contact, the first she had experienced since her flight from the house of the maiden sisters, there seemed to come upon her a more complete consciousness of the shame and degradation into which she had been thrust. That it was unmerited mattered not. It clung to her, and was proclaimed in her face. How, then, could she raise her head to meet the gaze of any human being?
"In trouble, my lass?" asked the wagoner, kindly. With but an imperfect observation of her, he knew that she was young.
Emilia made no reply, but let her shoulder droop, so that his hand might not touch her.
"Can I help you?"
No sound, and now no further movement, from the hapless girl. He lingered a moment or two longer, and then slowly left her. Giving the word, his team began to descend the hill. But at the bottom of the descent, with a level road before him, he pulled up his cattle again, and turned with sad eyes to the spot where he had left Emilia, who was hidden from his sight.
This man had a history--as what man has not?--and it is probable that Emilia was saved from suicide by the remembrance of the most dolorous experience in his life. He was nearer seventy than sixty years of age, but he was strong and lusty still, and his heart had not been soured or embittered by trouble. The story of his special grief is a common one enough, and can be narrated in a few words. He was a married man, and his old wife was waiting at home for him, five and thirty miles away. Children had they none, but thirty years ago they had a daughter, who left them secretly upon the persuasion of a scoundrel. The villain took her to London, and after she had enjoyed a brief spell of false happiness she found herself deserted and friendless. In her despair she crept back to the home of which she had been the joy, but she had not t............