“Yes, I said that. But you must first be
sure what is really selfish—”
“I know what is selfish in this case,”
said the girl with a sublimity which, if foolish,
was still sublimity. “She is sick—it
will kill her to lose him—You have said
what I expected, and I thank you, thank you, thank
you! And I will do it! Oh, don’t fear
now but I shall; I have done it! No matter,”
she went on in her exaltation, “no matter how
much we care for each other, now!”
“No,” said Sewell decidedly. “That
doesn’t follow. I have thought of such
things; there was such a case within my experience
once,”—he could not help alleging
this case, in which he had long triumphed,—
“and I have always felt that I did right in advising
against a romantic notion of self-sacrifice in such
matters. You may commit a greater wrong in that
than in an act of apparent self-interest. You
have not put the case fully before me, and it isn’t
necessary that you should, but if you contemplate
any rash sacrifice, I warn you against it.”
“You said that we ought to act unselfishly.”
“Yes, but you must beware of the refined selfishness
which shrinks from righteous self-assertion because
it is painful. You must make sure of your real
motive; you must consider whether your sacrifice is
not going to do more harm than good. But why do
you come to me with your trouble? Why don’t
you go to your father—your mother?”
“I have none.”
“Ah—”
She had risen and pushed by him to the outer door,
though he tried to keep her. “Don’t
be rash,” he urged. “I advise you
to take time to think of this—”
She did not answer; she seemed now only to wish to
escape, as if in terror of him.
She pulled open the door, and was gone.
Sewell went back to his tea, bewildered, confounded.
“What’s the matter? Why didn’t
he come in to tea with you?” asked his wife.
“Who?”
“Barker.”
“What Barker?”
“David, what is the matter?”
Sewell started from his daze, and glanced at his children:
“I’ll tell you by and by, Lucy.”
A month passed, and Sewell heard nothing of Lemuel.
His charge, always elusive and evanescent, had now
completely vanished, and he could find no trace of
him. Mr. Corey suggested advertising. Bellingham
said, why not put it in the hands of a detective?
He said he had never helped work anything up with
a detective; he rather thought he should like to do
it. Sewell thought of writing to Barker’s
mother at Willoughby Pastures, but he postponed it;
perhaps it would alarm her if Barker were not there;
Sewell had many other cares and duties; Lemuel became
more and more a good intention of the indefinite future.
After all, he had always shown the ability to take
care of himself, and except that he had mysteriously
disappeared there was no reason for anxiety about him.
