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“But you can not turn me from it,” he said, with a smile.

“I do not know you yet,” said she, looking away.

“When I last saw you, you said you doubted whether I were my real self. I have become my real self since then.”

“Because you are not what you were, it does not follow that you are what you should be.”

“Surely, Edith, that is not reasonable. I was what circumstances forced me to be, henceforth I shall be what God made me.”

“Did God, then, have no hand in those circumstances?”

“Not more, at all events, than in these.”

Edith shook her head. “God does not absolve us from holy vows.”

“But how if I can not, with loyalty to my inner conscience, hold to those vows?” exclaimed David, with more warmth. “I have long felt that I was not fitted for this sacred calling. Before the secret tribunal of my self-knowledge, I have stood charged with the sin of hypocrisy. It has been God’s will that I be delivered from that sin.”

“Why did you not say that before, David?” she demanded, looking at him. “Why did you remain a hypocrite until it was for your worldly benefit to abandon your trust? Can you say, on your word of honor, that you would stand where you do now if you were still poor instead of rich?”

“Men’s eyes are to some extent opened and their views are confirmed by events. They make our dreams and forebodings into realities. We question in our minds, and events give us the answers.”

“Such an argument might excuse any villainy,” said Edith, lifting her head indignantly.

“Villainy! Do you use that word to me?” exclaimed David.

“Not unless your own heart bids me–and I do not know your heart.”

“Because you do not love me?”

“You may be right,” replied Edith, striving to steady her voice; “but at least I believed I loved you.”

“You are cured of that belief, it seems–as I am cured of many foolish faiths,” said David, with gloomy bitterness. “Well, so be it! The love that waits upon a fastidious conscience is never the deepest love. My love is not of that complexion. Were it possible that the shadow of sin, or of crime itself, could descend upon you, it would but render you dearer to me than before.”

“You may break my heart, David, if you will,” cried the girl, tremulously, yet resolutely, “but I reverence love more than I love you.”

David had turned away as if to leave the room, but he paused and confronted her once more.

“At any rate, we will understand each other,” said he. “Do you make it your condition that I should go back to the ministry?”

Edith was still seated, but the condition of the crisis compelled her to rise. She stood before him, her dark eyes downcast, her lips trembling, nervously drawing the fingers of one hand through the clasp of the other. She was tempted to yield to him, for she could imagine no happiness in life without him; but a rare sanity and integrity of mind made her perceive that he had pushed the matter to a false alternative. It was not a question of preaching or not preaching sermons, but of sinful apostasy from an upright life. At last she raised her eyes, which shone like dark jewels in her pale countenance, and said, slowly, “We had better part.”

“Then my sins be upon your head!” cried David, passionately.

The blood mounted to her cheeks at the injustice of this rejoinder, but she either could not or would not answer again. She remained erect and proud until the door had closed between them; what she did after that neither David nor any one else knew.

The apostate David seems to have determined that, if she were to bear the burden of his sins, they should be neither few nor light. His life for many weeks after this interview was a scandal and a disgrace. The old Lambert mansion was the scene of carousals and excesses such as recalled the exploits of the monks of Medmenham. Harwood Courtney, and a score of dissolute gentlemen like him, not to speak of other visitors, thronged the old house day and night; drinking, gaming, and yet wilder doings gave the sober little town no rest, till the Reverend David Poindexter was commonly referred to as the Wicked Parson. Meanwhile Edith Saltine bore herself with a grave, pale impassiveness, which some admired, others wondered at, and others deemed an indication that she had no heart. If she had not, so much the better for her; for her father was almost as difficult to manage as David himself. The old gentleman could neither comprehend nor forgive what seemed to him his daughter’s immeasurable perversity. One day she had been all for marrying a poor, unknown preacher; and the next day, when to marry him meant to be the foremost lady in the neighborhood, she dismissed him without appeal. And the worst of it was that, much as the poor colonel’s mouth watered at the feasts and festivities of the Lambert mansion, he was prevented by the fatality of his position from taking any part in them. So Edith could find no peace either at home or abroad; and if it dwelt not in her own heart, she was indeed forlorn.