Mrs. Murray was one of those who keep the inner sanctuary of their hearts shut and barred, lest some foolish tenderness should find expression; it was there, though, and those dreadful words her dear eldest daughter had spoken were to her like the stab of a knife. Like most nervous persons, her feelings were intense. Such condemnation, remorse, and utter despair as took hold of her: it could not be called repentance, for that has "A purpose of heart and endeavour after new obedience." She was in the Slough of Despond. The twilight had deepened into darkness, when sounds indicated an arrival.
"Aunt Deborah has come," Florence whispered at the door. "You lie still, mother, and Mag and I can do everything just as nicely."
But "mother" hastily arose and met her visitor as calmly as if she had not spent the last three hours in a tempest.
Aunt Deborah Hathaway was a dear old saint. Her name should have been "Peace," for that word was written all over her, from the unruffled brow and calm eyes, to the soft folds of her dove-coloured cashmere.
"Tell me all about your life, my dear," she said to Mrs. Murray, when they were seated alone the next morning—all the rest of the family in church.
"My life has turned out to be a failure," said Mrs. Murray, sadly."And what is strange, I have only just now found it out."
Then drawn on by the loving sympathy expressed, she unburdened her heart to Aunt Deborah, keeping back nothing. "But then, what am I telling all this to you for? Nobody can help me. I have at times realised that I was growing very irritable, and was ashamed of it. Then I would resolve that I would not do so any more, but my resolves are like ropes of sand. I get started and can't stop. I think if human beings were like sewing-machines, and when they get out of order, could have some skilful hand just put a drop of oil here and there, and loosen the tension or something, it would be so good. But things do annoy me so, sometimes it seems as if Satan himself planned things out to vex me.
"I make no doubt," said Aunt Deborah, "but that Satan is busy enough, but sometimes I think he gets more set down to his account than rightfully belongs. He couldn't accomplish half he does with us if we didn't help him. We put ourselves in such a condition that it is easy for him to carry us captive. But you said 'nobody could help you.' Now I believe I can help you. I came very near being shipwrecked once myself on these very rocks you have struck. It will never do to give up, and go to groaning when we get into trouble. What you want is to get out of it. To help you in the best way, you must give me an old woman's privilege, and let me speak my mind freely. I think I know the secret of the trouble. Your nerves are sick—people used to think that meant hysterics, but they know better now. You are overworking these sick nerves. The first thing to be done is for you to get relief from everything that tries you, as far as you can. Treat yourself like an invalid, as you are. Then change your way of life entirely: go out a good deal in the air, read, and talk, and sing, and play on the piano—you used to be a good player, I remember. Let the housework and the sewing be done by somebody else, except what you can do without a strain upon yourself. Then I should be a little careful about my dress, to have it becoming and all that, and I would invite in a little company once in a while, and go out in a sociable way a little, and try to make my home just the brightest, cheeriest place in all the world. Economy is good in its place, but I believe Satan is even at the bottom of that sometimes, when we drive our boys and girls out from home by saving coal and gas, and shutting the sun out of our houses—they like brightness as well as the birds do. You see you can't tell me anything new on this. I made all these mistakes myself once."
"But Aunt Deborah," said Mrs. Murray, "I am surprised. I thought you used to be such a strict Christian."
"Used to be such a strict Pharisee, you mean," Aunt Deborah answered; "used to imagine religion consisted in wearing the ugliest garment I could put on, combing my hair straight back in a hard knot, being 'a keeper at home,' and making things generally uncomfortable for everybody. Now I think a Christian is one who loves and obeys his Lord. I know I love Him and I am trying to obey Him, but I believe if there is one place on the earth He loves next to the gates of Zion, it is a happy home, and that He smiles upon us in all our innocent efforts to make it so.
"You were surprised that I did not say right off, 'Pray over your troubles,' weren't you? No, no! I believe we have got to take everything out of our way that hinders us before we come and ask him to do some great thing for us. You must lay aside the 'weight,' and the temptations to the 'sin that doth so easily beset us,' then He will do his part. It isn't his way to do for us what we can do. Now if you load yourself down with burdens that He did not ask you to carry, I don't believe you will have the same grace given you to overcome that a poverty-stricken mother of a large family has given to her; grace is bestowed according to our need."
"Yes," said Mrs. Murray, "it is all true. But suppose I do all these things that you suggest. I can't expect to be entirely free from all provocations to anger while I live in this world. What is there in all this that will help me to control my temper? I declare to you, Aunt Deborah, I cannot do it. I have no hope that I can ever be different. I know myself so well."
"Praise the Lord that you know that," said the old lady. "He says, 'In me is thy help found.' Not a soul of us comes to him for help till we have made this discovery, 'I cannot do it.' When your watch is out of order you do not expect it to right itself; you take it to the watchmaker. Now lay your heart down before Jesus, and say, Lord won't you fix it for me? As you trust the watchmaker, trust Him."
"I want to be made over new," said Mrs. Murray sadly, "but oh, have I faith enough for such a great work? I am too unworthy, too far away from Him to expect it."
"Well, He is worthy. Don't you know good old Faber says:
"'Pining souls, come nearer Jesus;Come, but come not doubting thus:Come with faith that trusts more freelyHis great tenderness for us.'"
And Mrs. Murray came. The promise, "Ask and it shall be given you," was verified to her. When the sun of that Sabbath set, the dove of peace sang in the tired woman's heart. She had the secret of victory. Her brow was almost as placid as Aunt Deborah's.
Monday morning brought the usual work and bustle, "Mary," said Aunt Deborah, "Satan is twice as active Monday morning as other days; perhaps he thinks we get the start of him on the Sabbath. Forewarned is forearmed. Here is my rule when provoked: To shut my lips tight and lock them till a pleasant word feels like coming."
"Yes, Aunt Deborah, Christ helping me, I shall make an entire revolution in this household." And she looked bright and courageous as she had not in years.
"To begin, then: Go out of this kitchen and come when you are called," said Aunt Deborah, briskly.
There was much work accomplished that day. A valuable servant was soon secured and installed in the kitchen; then Mrs. Murray went in and out the stores. No one in all the busy throng was more enthusiastic than she, as with joyful eagerness she selected some little gift for each, adding to her purchases a little stock of evergreens and flowers to brighten up with on the morrow, for this coming Christmas was to be no common one. Aunt Deborah engaged in the business of tying and festooning evergreens with all the gusto of a girl; the two made the parlour into a bower of beauty. When the short winter day drew to its close, the whole was pronounced complete, and Mrs. Murray went to her room to dress. She was strongly tempted to put on the same old gray dress she had worn all winter, and brush her hair straight back as usual; but self and ease should not be consulted, so she shook out her still handsome locks and arranged them in the style her husband used to admire, in loose waves about her forehead; then she donned a neatly fitting black dress, with lace cuffs and collar, fastened with a bright ribbon. When she went down to the parlour, Aunt Deborah looked over and then under her spectacles.
"Child," she said, as she surveyed her, "it does matter how you look."
Father, son, and daughters, all came in together to-night.
"Girls," said Ralph, advancing first into the dining-room and getting a peep into the back parlour, "is this our house? Everything is trimmed up, and there sits a lady by the fire."
Wreaths festooned the archway between the parlours, there were vases of flowers, and hanging-baskets of trailing vines, and a canary in a gilded cage, a bright fire in the grate lighting it up cheerily; Aunt Deborah smiling and knitting on one side, "mother" on the other. Florence rushed up to her, showering kisses upon her, while her father looked on with shining eyes.
"Who knew our mother was such a pretty woman? Where's her equal in this whole city?" said Ralph.
That glad Christmas was the harbinger of many happy years to the Murrays. The back parlour was that day, by the thankful mother, consecrated to the comfort of the family—thenceforth light, warmth, and beauty reigned in that room. There they gathered evenings, under the drop-light about the round table, with books and work, and talk and music. Father, too, suddenly discovered that there was a lull in business, and that cheerful chimney-corners were more attractive than ledgers. Ralph and the girls brought their young friends there. What was strangest of all, the nervous headaches almost entirely disappeared; even the high notes of a song, or the jingling of piano-keys, failed to bring them back. The crowning climax of the whole was this: there was positively no scolding in that house. The evil spirit had been exorcised, and that mother was given the victory day by day. Peace was in her heart and on her brow.
She was so changed in the eyes of her children that she seemed almost an object of adoration. Not the last drop in her cup of joy were the many little ways in which they showed their keen appreciation of the change in her.
One night, after all had retired, conscience knocked at Margaret's door. She tried to sleep, but her visitor persisted. Margaret was face to face with all her hard, impertinent words and ways toward her mother.
"Flo," she said, "a miracle has come to mother, or she's getting to be an angel, or something," but "Flo" was fast asleep; then she tossed and turned, again. Then came a tap on mother's door. Mrs. Murray came quickly.
"Mother," said Margaret, throwing her arms about her, and hiding her face in her mother's neck, "I have been a wicked girl. Forgive me, dear precious mother."
Blessed words! Margaret was soon sleeping quietly, but her mother's heart was so full, her joy so great, that she lay thinking of the gift that He had sent her at that Christmas time.
"Peace on earth," had been literally fulfilled to her.
"Oh, mother, I will get back before it snows much, and I shall not mind if a few flakes of snow do light on me. Please do not object to my going, a walk is just what I'm longing for;" and Edna Winters drew on her gloves and stepped from the door of her home, a low-roofed farm-house on the hill, which, in its gray old age, seemed a part of the hill itself.
It was not the beauty of the afternoon that tempted Edna out, for the leaden sky almost met the gray hills; and all wore the same sober hue, sky, hills, house, and leafless trees. The wind howled fiercely through the group of pine-trees in the yard, that seemed but deep shadows on the general grayness, and occasional flakes of snow were already flying about. Father Winters looked through the front window after his daughter, and shook his head, saying:
"Mother, there's a great storm brewing, if I'm not mistaken. The child ought not to have gone."
Then the mother came and anxiously inspected the sky, although she only said:
"Oh well, she is young, and don't mind the weather like us old folks. I was only twenty years old myself, once, and I remember just how tired I used to get cooped up in the house so much; besides, she wanted to go to the post-office. To-morrow is Christmas, you know, and the office will not be open but an hour or two."
Mr. Winters was growing old, and the rheumatism was keeping him a prisoner just now, so he came back to the fire and his newspaper.
The little city wherein was the post-office lay a little over two miles away, and Edna often walked in and out for the mere pleasure of it. Even on this dismal day she tripped lightly along, humming a glad measure, stopping a moment in the edge of the pine woods to gather a few squaw-berries and a bit of moss; then, casting a glance at the threatening sky, hurried on her way. Before she reached the town the snow was falling thick and fast, and was blown by the wind into little mounds almost as soon as it came down. She was fairly blown inside the door of the post-office, feathery flakes adorning her from head to foot.
Mr. Hugh Monteith had also come to the post-office. He had merely stepped across the street from his banking-house, and stood waiting for the afternoon mail to be distributed. He turned his head carelessly as the door opened to admit Edna. She took off the veil that enveloped her head, shook and brushed herself, and walked over to the stove. Then Mr. Monteith's inner consciousness told him that there was the very face he had been in search of for years. Then he did what was not found in his code of etiquette—he stared, although he did retreat behind a pillar while doing so. He took in the whole picture. The face, of that pure, clear tint that belongs only to a certain type of brown eyes and hair, the hair gathered into a coil at the back of the head, except one or two loose curls that strayed down from it, the eyes sweet and serious. Mr. Monteith dealt many hours of the day with dollars and cents, notes and bills; still, he knew poetry when he saw it, and that golden-brown curl was to him a bit of a poem. Then her dress was peculiar; his fastidious taste pronounced it perfect for the occasion: walking-dress of soft, dark brown, glinted by a lighter shade of the same colour; a jaunty brown jacket of substantial cloth, a little brown hat, with a brown and white wing perked on one side of it; no colour, except a soft pink that the cold air had laid on the cheeks with delicate skill. His quick eye noted too, the neat glove, the well-fitting little boot poised on the hearth of the stove. She looked like a little brown thrush about to spread its wings; but she did not fly, she walked over to the delivery and received a package of letters and papers, asking in low, clear tones, "Is the Eastern mail in?" The voice was in keeping with eyes, and hair, and dress—pure, refined, cultured.
Mr. Monteith's resolution was quickly made; he secured his mail and followed Edna. "Who could she be? He supposed he knew all the young ladies in town, but where did this revelation of loveliness drop from?" He turned corner after corner as she did, not caring where he went, only so that he kept her in view. To his astonishment he soon found himself in the open country. It was not a day that he would have chosen for a pleasure-walk in the country: the snow eddied and whirled, and almost blinded him; but if he lost his face, his ideal realised, should he ever find it again? There was no choice, so on he strode, congratulating himself that he happened to have on an overcoat and heavy boots.
The little brown-clad figure ahead of him sped briskly on, and faster and faster came the snow. Things were beginning to look serious; the wind roared and howled through the pine woods, blowing the snow into drifts in the road. Mr. Monteith had a new motive for his journey now. He must protect this young girl in her lonely way; it was out of the question to leave her in such a desolate place and a storm raging. He quickened his steps; she might need assistance.
A feeling of despair was beginning to creep over Edna. What if she should sink down in this lonely place unable to go on. She had left the main road a few minutes before, and this one by the pine woods was not much travelled. It was probable that nobody would find her. In dismay she turned and looked behind her, but no sooner did she see a man rapidly coming towards her than a mortal fear took possession of her, and she started forward with new impetus; on and on she ran as fleetly as a deer. Mr. Monteith ran too at the top of his speed, wondering, inly, if she really were of the earth, and if she had not some means of locomotion that he did not possess. He must reach her at all events.
Edna at last paused in dismay before an immense drift that lay directly across the road. She would have plunged in, but Mr. Monteith was at her side and said pleasantly, "If you will allow me to go on first, I think I can tread a path for you."
Edna looked up quickly, somewhat reassured by the manly tones, and the grey eyes that looked into hers were true eyes; a little child might have known that.
"Before we go on let me introduce myself," and Mr. Monteith drew out a card and handed it to Edna.
When Edna read "Hugh Monteith & Co., Bankers," all her fear left her. The name of Monteith had long been a familiar one to her; she remembered hearing her father speak of having a little business with that bank.
"Well, I am Edna Winters," said Edna simply. "My father is SamuelWinters, and we live a little more than half a mile from here."
"Then we are acquainted, I am sure, for your father is one of our depositors. Now let me break a road through this barricade, if possible," and Mr. Monteith dashed bravely into it; but as well as he could see through the blinding storm, the drift reached a long distance ahead. It would be a work of time to tread it down, and the cold wind cut like a knife.
There was a shorter way—this was no time for ceremony or trifling. He came back to Edna's side saying, "It will be almost impossible to do it. We must hasten on or perish in this storm. Trust me, this is best"—and the tall form stooped and lifted Edna from her feet as if she had been a feather, before she had time to realise his purpose, then with long strides he waded into the sea of snow. Neither spoke, but the girl that was borne along in the strong arms did a large amount of thinking. Despite the danger and the gallantry of her protector, she could not but feel a little provoked at being snatched up in that style without her leave, as if she were a bale of cotton; provoked, too, at herself for getting into such a predicament. If she only had stayed at home as mother advised. Mother had always told her she had feared something would happen to her going through those woods by herself, and here it had come. Then the funny side presented itself. She wanted to laugh but was afraid to. She stole a glance at the face below her—a finely-cut face it was, but there was no smile in the grave eyes; instead, an intense, earnest purpose. When they came again to the ground where the snow lay on a level, Edna was put again upon her feet, her hand drawn through Mr. Monteith's arm, and the two plodded on. It was almost a silent journey; the snow coming directly in their faces, and the wind fairly taking their breaths, made it no time for formal talk. Wherever the drifts had thrown up a barrier she was again lifted and borne through them, but not set down again, for Edna's protector had discovered that she was almost overcome by fatigue, try as she might to hide it; and when she said, "Let me walk now if you please," he answered: "Miss Winters, you are my prisoner until I place you at your father's, door."
She submitted with good grace, and began to feel some dawnings of gratitude towards her deliverer.
Old Mr. Winters had walked back and forth from the fire to the window for the last half-hour. "Why don't the child come," he said. "I'm sure something has happened to her. If I could only go out and see, but I should make poor headway, hobbling about in the drifts." He could do nothing himself, so he fled to his unfailing refuge, asking the God who rules the storms to protect his darling.
Mrs. Winters had said for the tenth time, "Why, father, I think she wouldn't start back in this storm." Nevertheless she placed her rocking-chair close by the window and looked down the road far more than she sewed. Their anxiety reached its height when they saw a stranger toiling up the hill bearing their daughter in his arms. The door was opened long before they reached it, and Edna called out, "I'm all right, mother."
"Why, it's Mr. Monteith, as sure as I live," said Edna's father.
"Yes, Mr. Winters," said Mr. Monteith, "I found a stray lamb of yours on the highway, and brought it home."
"May God reward you," and Mr. Winters clasped his hand warmly. "I have been very anxious. I did not see what was to become of her if she was on her way in this terrible storm. How providential that you happened to be going her way."
Mr. Monteith winced a little at this.
"You will stay with us to-night, of course," Mr. Winters said.
"Oh, no, indeed! Thank you! I must get back before dark. Will rest a few minutes, though."
The Storm King was out in full force that day, for during those few minutes huge banks piled themselves against windows and doors, and the wind shrieked and moaned like a demon, shaking the house to its foundations.
"Now," said Mr. Winters as his guest rose to go, "it is madness for you to think of going home tonight, and I must insist that you stay. I am disabled just now, or I would harness old Prince and get you through."
Here Edna came in with her pleading eyes and, "Do stay; I know it is not safe for you to go."
Motherly Mrs. Winters entreated also. How could he resist such urgency, especially when it exactly fitted in with what he desired above all things to do. He yielded, and was soon comfortably established in the large old rocker by the fire. And now he enjoyed the pleasure of a new experience. The stereotyped fashionable house he knew all about, but this old house that looked small, and yet stretched itself out into many cosy rooms; it was quaint, it was unique, and so was the little household. It was like stepping into a book, and that a book of poems. What was the charm of that low-browed room he sat in? Could it be the broad fireplace, wherein blazed and snapped a veritable back-log? Mr. Winters had stoves to warm the house, but he insisted on keeping this fire to look at.
When they all gathered about the tea-table, his critical eye noted many little points that a less refined man would not have thought of. The fine white table-linen, delicate old-fashioned china, a piece or two of highly polished silver, and the table not vulgarly loaded with too great variety, yet everything delicious and abundant. Mr. and Mrs. Winters, too, though unpretending, were persons of refinement and intelligence. He was puzzled to understand how a young girl, reared in so much seclusion, should possess such grace and culture as did Edna. After tea, when she played and sang, his mystification increased, for the bird-like voice and delicate touch were superior to much that he heard among his city friends. It came out in the course of conversation, however, that Edna had spent the last six years in one of the finest schools in Boston—an inmate of her aunt's family; and now she had come back to them to gladden the eyes of those two, who almost set her up as an idol; come back, not spoiled, taking up her daily little homely duties again with real zest.
Mr. Monteith found Mr. Winters most congenial company. He had read extensively, and was keen in argument, throwing in a bit of poetry or a witty story, as the case required. Edna brought her crotcheting and made herself into a picture in one corner of the fireplace, her changing, speaking face and piquant remarks lending interest to the dullest subject.
"It is my opinion, Mr. Monteith," said Mr. Winters, as a fierce blast dashed sheets of snow against the windows, "that, in all probability, you will be obliged to spend your Christmas with us. If this storm continues at this rate you will be a prisoner."
"For which I shall be most devoutly thankful," he answered.
"Well, our turkey is all ready, and we shall thank kind Providence for sending you to us, snow-bound as we are."
Mr. Winters took down the old Bible and read "a portion with judicious care," then a hymn and prayer, and the good-nights, and Mr. Monteith was in the guest-chamber—a little white room under the eaves, cold-looking in its purity but for the firelight glow. "The name of that chamber was Peace," thought Mr. Monteith, as his delighted eyes surveyed, it and with Bunyan's Pilgrim he felt that he had reached "already the next door to heaven." It surely must be the "chamber of peace," because "the window opened towards the sunrising," and in the morning a glorious panorama spread itself before him. Fences and all unsightly objects had disappeared. Just one broad expanse of whiteness as far as the eye could reach. The rough old hills, from foot to summit, wore a robe of unsullied whiteness—the soft white garment rested lightly on roof and tree, over all the rising sun shed rays of rosy light. It accorded well with Mr. Monteith's spirit when he heard Mr. Winters singing—
"The New Jerusalem comes down.Adorned With shining grace."
The host and his visitor launched into a tide of talk immediately after breakfast. They had so many things in common to talk over that there seemed to be no end. So occupied was Mr. Monteith with the father that he seemed to bestow very little attention on the daughter; on the contrary, no word or look of hers escaped him.
At one time the perilous walk of yesterday was the subject of conversation, and Mr. Winters was again expressing his gratitude. "So strange," he remarked, "that you should have been coming this way. How did you happen to start out in such a storm?"
Mr. Monteith did not like to talk upon that subject; he murmured something about "business," while a slight flush tinged his cheeks, and at once asked Mr. Winters "what effect he supposed the resumption of specie payment would have upon the state of the country," and the unsuspecting old gentleman was ready to enter with avidity upon the discussion of that subject.
The Christmas dinner duly disposed of, Edna opened the piano, and Mr. Monteith delighted the old people by joining his exquisite tenor to Edna's voice in some old hymns. Mr. Winters called for his favourites, "St. Martins," "Golden Hill," "Exhortation," and listened with tears in his eyes at their faithful rendering, even essaying to put in a few notes of bass himself among the quavers of old St. Martins.
Not until the shadows began to steal into the room did Mr. Monteith take his departure, much to his own regret as well as that of his entertainers, with many promises of future visits.
A few days after Christmas the stage-driver left at the door a small box marked "Samuel Winters." The old gentleman put on his glasses and opened it with much curiosity. Behold, there lay a lovely bouquet of roses, carnations, and violets. He lifted it with care, and a card marked "Hugh Monteith" fell from it. "That is odd," he said, with a roguish look at Edna, "to send these things to me; they are pretty, though, I declare," and he buried his face in a fragrant rose, then involuntarily hummed—
"How sweet the breath beneath the hill.Of Sharon's dewy rose."
Another prolonged inhalation and he called, "Mother, come here and smell this pink; it's the very one that my mother used to border her flowerbeds with when I was a boy." Then he gave the bouquet into Edna's care while he went off, in imagination, into his mother's garden, tied up the sweet peas and trained the morning-glories once again. How each flower, like a dear human face, stood before him looking into his eyes. The damask roses, the Johnny-jump-ups, larkspur, bachelor-buttons, ragged ladies, marigolds, hollyhocks, and a host of others that are out of fashion now. That bouquet furnished him a pleasant reverie for an hour. It brought no less pleasure to Edna. Their new friend had not forgotten them, and her intuitions told her for whom the lovely blossoms were intended.
After that it grew to be quite a thing of course for Mr. Samuel Winters to receive a box of flowers. He always pretended to appropriate them to himself, much to Edna's glee, as he did the not infrequent visits of Mr. Monteith to "The Pines," often remarking, after a pleasant evening's discussion—
"That is an uncommon young man, coming so far to chat with me. He's one among a thousand; the most of them haven't time nowadays to give a civil word to an old man."
He had a deeper purpose in this than might have been supposed. There were few things he did not think over as he sat looking into the fire. What if this young man should unwittingly steal away his darling's heart and then flit away to some other flower, and leave this, his own treasure, with all the soul gone out of her life. He believed Mr. Monteith to be an honourable man, but then he would hedge this blossom of his about and guard it carefully. There should be no opportunity for tender speech that meant nothing.
One day Edna was in town, passing through one of the busy streets. Among the gay turnouts came one that caught her attention instantly: a prancing span of grays before a light sleigh. Among the furs and gay robes sat Mr. Monteith and a young lady, beautiful to Edna as a dream. Even in the hurried glance she noted the pink and white complexion, the blue eyes peeping through golden frizzes, set off by a dark-blue velvet hat with a long white plume. Mr. Monteith raised his hat and bowed low to Edna in pleased surprise. Edna went on with a little pang at her heart; it might have been less had she known that Miss Paulina Percival's invitation to ride came in this fashion: Making it convenient to emerge from a store just as Mr. Monteith came from the bank and was about to step into his sleigh, she engaged him in conversation, then exclaimed:
"Oh, Mr. Monteith! What a lovely span of greys, they match perfectly." Then with a pretty pout: "Naughty man, you never asked me to try them."
"Suppose I ask you now," he said, and even while he spoke he said to himself, "Edna Winters would never have done that."
Miss Percival needed no urging; she was soon seated in triumph by Mr.Monteith's side, the envy of many another city belle.
That night Edna stood at the window of her little chamber, looking out on the fair earth glittering like diamonds in the moonlight. She was not often in the mood she found herself in tonight: restless, gloomy, with no heart for anything. She began to take herself to task for it. Why had the light suddenly gone out of everything and life to seem flat and dull? She knew why. It was simply because she had seen that bewitching-looking girl riding with Mr. Monteith. And what of that? Was she foolish enough to believe that he cared for her, a simple country girl, just because he had given her a few flowers and called there. He probably considered these common attentions that he offered to many others. Her cheeks burned at the remembrance of the delight she had felt in his society. The last few weeks had been the happiest she had ever known. No words of his would justify her, either. She was vexed at herself. Here it had turned out that she was just like any other silly girl, holding her heart in her hand, ready to bestow it unasked. In her self-accusing spirit, she forgot that looks and tones may speak volumes in the absence of words.
"Now, Edna Winters," she told herself, as she stared out on the white hills, "you might as well look things in the face to-night and have it done with. I shall probably spend a great part of my life on this very hill, living on in just the way I did before I knew him. Why not? That is the way Samantha Moore and Jane Williams have been doing these ever so many years. They keep right on, and on, and on. Nothing happens to them. There is no change in their lives. Why should there be in mine? They clean house spring and fall, can fruit, go to town, have the sewing society, and so on"—and Edna shuddered a little at the picture she had sketched of her own future. These two were neighbours, whose peaceful dwellings nestled among the hills before her. Then she felt condemned as she heard floating up from the sitting-room, the "wild, warbling strains" of Dundee, her dear old father's voice, with just a little tremble in the tones. "How thankful she ought to be for this blessed home of hers." The stove-pipe came up from below and warmed her room. She came over to it, and inclined her head to hear the words:
"Oh, God, our help in ages pastOur strength in years to come,Our refuge from the stormy blast,And our eternal borne."
Sure enough! God our "strength in years to come," even though they be wearisome years. A little "stormy blast" had swept over her. She would fly to her Refuge, and then the "eternal home." What if this life was not just as we would have it, the next one will be; and Edna "laid her down in peace and slept."
"Heigh ho!" said Mr. Winters one bright day, "whom have we here?" A merry jingle of bells suddenly stopped and two gray horses and a handsome sleigh stood in front of the gate. "Mr. Monteith, eh? He has most likely come to take me out riding," he said, with a twinkle in his eye.
"Miss Edna, will you ride?" Mr. Monteith asked when the greetings were over. Edna's eyes sought her mother's for reply. It was not every gentleman, be he ever so great and rich, that this primitive, independent father and mother would entrust with their treasure, their one ewe lamb.
"Yes. Edna might go, but he would be sure to bring her home before dark?"
"Trust me; did I not bring her home before dark once?" he laughingly asked. The two were soon tucked among the robes, skimming briskly over the smooth, hard surface, which is just the next thing to flying. They flew about the streets of the town a little while; met Miss Paulina, who stared at Edna and said to a young lady by her side: "Whoever can that be with Mr. Monteith?" Then their route stretched many miles out into the quiet country. The journey was long, but not tedious. It was beguiled by low-spoken words that kept time to the slow, silvery chime of the bells—the old musical, mysterious words that established a covenant between those two, needing only the word from father and mother and minister to make binding and never-ending.
Mr. Monteith was said, by belles of the town, to be destitute of a heart—at least all their arts had not succeeded in finding it; even Miss Percival, skilful as she was, had also failed, much to her sorrow. To be sure, the heart was of small account to her, only so that she might be mistress of the stately Monteith mansion, might possess those gray ponies for her very own, and glitter in the silks and jewels and laces that his money would buy. She had no heart herself, because in her very shallow nature there was not room for one. Paulina had failed thus far, but she was not discouraged. Mr. Monteith's mother was old and feeble; she would die some day, then "we shall see what we shall see"—then, of course, he would need someone to preside over his home; and who so well fitted to adorn it as she, the acknowledged beauty of the town?
When the time of birds and blossoms had come again, and picnics and excursions were revived, Paulina said to her dearest friend:
"What do you think that delightful man has gotten up now? Mr. Monteith, I mean. He is to have a little breakfast party in the country—just a few of us, you know. We are to go in carriages. I dare say you'll be invited, too. Isn't it a charming novelty? I presume it is to an old uncle and aunt of his, you know," and the butterfly girl tripped on without waiting for replies. Accordingly, one balmy June morning, a merry company alighted at "The Pines," and were ushered into a fairy-like room.
Green vines crept and twined along the white walls, drooping over doors and windows, and trailing down the muslin curtains as if they grew there. The flowers were not made into stiff bouquets, but here and there was a handful of roses or sweet-scented violets. The old fireplace lost itself in callas, ferns, and ivies, while the mantel blossomed out into tube-roses and mosses. One of the recesses formed by the large chimney was turned into a leafy bower, the bells of white lilies fringing the green archway.
"Beautiful!" "Exquisite!" murmured the guests. "I verily believe we have come to a wedding," said one.
In another moment Mr. Monteith and his bride stood in the niche under the lilies, and the minister spoke the mystic words that declared them "no more twain, but one."
Edna was not glittering in satin and jewels. Her dress was apparently a soft white cloud floating about her, looped here and there with a cluster of lilies of the valley. A wreath of the same flowers fastened her veil; and the sweet face and luminous eyes that gleamed through its folds seemed just another rare flower.
The formalities and congratulations all over, Mr. and Mrs. Monteith passed down the walk under the spreading branches to their carriage.
The apple-blossoms showered fragrant blessings on them as they went their way, and the bridegroom whispered: "Do you remember the first time you and I came up this hill together?"
There was an audible rustle in the large congregation of St. Paul's Church, well-bred people though they were, as their young minister came up the aisle with his bride and seated her in the minister's pew. They not only turned their heads, giving one slight glance, seeing all without seeming to, as cultured people know how to do, but they broke all rules in their code of good manners by a succession of twistings of the neck. It was not easy to settle down content after one short look at the beautiful being who glided by the minister's side. Had he seated a veritable fairy in that pew the sensation could scarcely have been greater. Her beauty was of that rare blonde type—hair of spun gold, eyes of sapphire, and complexion fine and delicate as a rose-leaf. She was youthful and richly dressed, the dark-green velvet suit, white plumes and fine laces, well setting off her marvellous beauty. Her eyes fairly drooped before the undisguised admiration expressed in many faces.
The minister himself saw nothing of it at all. He was annoyed at finding himself actually late, and his thoughts were intent on getting to his place in the pulpit with all possible speed. It was not one of his ambitions to be conspicuous; he was accustomed to slip quietly into his place from the chapel door, and his apparently triumphal march into his church on the first Sabbath of his return, after all the people had assembled, as if to say, "Behold us now!" was not to his taste nor of his planning; all this threw his thoughts into a tumult unfitting him in part for his sacred duties.
At the close of service that day, the congregation did not discuss the minister's sermon, they were absorbed in another subject: the minister's wife. The opinions were various. Grave old deacons looked askance at her in her regal beauty as they passed out, shook their heads, and repeated to each other the familiar saying, that wise men often make fools of themselves when they come to the business of selecting a wife. One lady said she was "perfectly lovely;" another, that she had "a great deal of style;" another, that "her dress must have cost a penny, and she did not see for her part how a Christian could find it in her conscience to dress like that."
"One would have thought," Mrs. Graves said, "that a man like Mr. Eldred would have chosen a modest, sensible person for his wife, who would be useful in the church, but then, that was the way, a minister was just like any other man, money and a pretty face would cover up a good many failings." Mrs. Graves was the mother of three sensible, modest girls, who would have made capital ministers' wives. Why will ministers be so shortsighted?
"But, mother," Tom Graves asked, "aren't you pretty fast? How do you know but she is sensible and modest; you never heard her speak a word?"
"Anybody with half an eye don't need to hear her speak to know all about her."
"The idea of a minister's wife," said Mrs. Meggs, "with her hair frizzed, and such a long trail for church!"
"She paints, I know she does!" said sallow Miss Pry. "There never was such a complexion as that born on to a human being."
Those who did not say anything, who made it a rule never to speak uncharitably of anyone, seemed well satisfied to have others to do it for them, and looked and sighed their holy horror that their minister should have shown so little discretion in choosing a wife. Just to think of her leading the female prayer-meeting and being president of the Missionary society, humph!
Ah! if there had been one dear "mother in Israel," with love enough to bear this young thing in the arms of her faith to the mercy seat and plead a blessing for her—with courage enough to try to win her to see the blessedness of living a consecrated life, it might all have been different.
When Thane Eldred first met Vida Irving he was immediately taken captive. So fair a vision never crossed his path before; whatever of enchantment might have been wanting in golden curls and blue eyes was completed by a voice such as few possess, rich, sweet, and fine compass; had she been poor it might have brought her a fortune. When he heard her sing in such angelic strains the sweet hymns he loved, he took it for granted that the words of fervent devotion but gave voice to the feelings of her own heart. So fair a bit of clay, he reasoned, must contain a soul of corresponding beauty, and he forthwith invested her with all the charms of an angel. A slight misgiving, it is true, sometimes crossed his mind as to whether she could adapt herself easily to the difficult position of a pastor's wife. She had the air of an empress, and the hauteur of her manner was often so great as to gain her positive enemies, and yet the deluded man, with blind eyes, reasoned, "I can mould her to what I will when she is mine; it is the fault of a false education, I am quite sure her heart is all right."
And why did the spoiled beauty condescend to smile upon one, who by his very profession, if closely following in the footsteps of the lowly Master, must needs abjure the vanities and enticements of this world, and live a life of self-denying toil. Not a thought of that kind had ever entered her pretty head. A minister in her estimation was an orator, the idol of a wealthy people, and a gentleman of elegant ease. There was a fascination about this dark-eyed young minister; his graceful dignity and impassioned eloquence pleased her fancy, so the sudden attachment was mutual.
Early left a widow, with a large fortune, Mrs. Irving devoted herself to her idol, her only child, with unremitting devotion; nothing that would add to her happiness or her attractions was neglected, and now with her education completed, the fond mother looked about her, seeking a brilliant alliance for this rare daughter, when lo! she found the matter settled. Vida's own sweet will had been the ruling power ever since she came into the world, and the mother was obliged to submit to the inevitable with as good grace as she could command under the circumstances.
A poor minister! who could have dreamed that the daughter would have made such a choice. With this mother's views of life, and life eternal, it is not to be wondered at that she felt bitter disappointment. The prospect, though, was not wholly dark, he was "handsome and talented," and that went far toward consolation; then, too, he would probably be called in time to a large, important church, and have D.D. at the end of his name, and it would sound well to say "My son-in-law, Rev. Dr. Eldred, of Boston, or New York City," and to discourse of his brilliant preaching, his wealthy parishioners, the calls he had declined, etc.
St. Paul's Church was situated in a small city of large manufacturing interests, and while there were many families of wealth and position in the church, there were also many who were obliged to toil hard and practice the utmost economy in order to have any left to pay their subscription with. Some of these looked with no kindly eyes on the magnificent changes of toilet that Mrs. Eldred brought out Sabbath after Sabbath; now a sealskin sacque, then an Indian shawl, and suits innumerable of rich silks in all possible tints, suited to all possible occasions.
"It makes a body feel as if they hadn't a thing fit to wear, the way Mrs. Eldred comes out in her silks and velvets," Mrs. Jenks, a mechanic's wife, remarked to her neighbour. I wonder what she'd say to wearing a black alpaca dress seven years running, for her best dress! I declared, it made me feel as if there wa'n't any sort of use scrimping and saving as we do, to pay fifteen dollars a year to support the minister; I told John we better not pay but five next year, and I'd put the other ten on my back. He's got a rich wife, he don't need much salary now. Just to think of her fur sacque, and great handsome shawl, and here I havn't had a new cloak this ten years—have to wear my blanket shawl to church.
"Yes, I think's much!" answered Mrs. Myers, emphatically. "She's as proud as Lucifer, too. Mr. Eldred shook hands with me real friendly like last Sunday, and asked 'How is the little one?'—as he always calls my Tommy—then he introduced me to her, and she turned her head toward me, and looked at me from head to foot, exactly as if she was saying to herself 'Dress, twenty-five cents a yard; shawl five dollars, hat, two dollars;' then she gave me what she'd call a bow may be, she swept her eyelashes down, and tilted her head back, instead of forward, and I thought I saw the least mite of a curl on her lip, (she's got a dreadful proud mouth, anyway;) she didn't offer to put out her hand, not she! she was afraid I'd soil her white kids, with something less than a dozen buttons on them."
"Well, it's too bad," Mrs. Jenks said, "and he such a good Christian man as he is—wonder what he wanted to go and marry such a wife for, anyhow; I don't believe he more than half approves of her himself, now he sees how she goes on, but, poor man, he's got to make the best of it now; I shall always think everything of him though, he was so kind to us when Peter was sick."
Mrs. Eldred was not entirely ignorant of the duties expected from a minister's wife, but she had resolved, as far as she was concerned, to ignore them. Because she had married a minister was no sign that she was to be subject to the whims of a whole parish; she could consider herself bound by no rules that did not apply equally as well to every other member of the church. Her mother had forewarned her, and advised her to this course:
"A minister's wife, my dear," said the worldly-wise mother, "is usually a slave. So just put your foot down in the beginning, and don't wear yourself out. Enjoy yourself all you can. Poor child! it is a dismal life at best that you have chosen for yourself, I fear."
Mrs. Eldred did not state her peculiar views to her husband, by any means; she should just quietly carry out her plans, and he would learn to submit in time. Mother said that was the way to manage a husband.
It was Thursday night. The first bell for prayer-meeting was ringing when Mr. Eldred came down from his study. His young wife sat under the drop-light cosily established in a large easy-chair, absorbed in the last number of Scribner. She was robed in a white flannel wrapper, and her long, fair hair was unbound, lying in bright waves about her shoulders. Mr. Eldred contemplated the pretty picture a moment, then he said:
"You look comfortable, my dear: but do you know that is the first bell for prayer meeting?"
"Oh, I am not going to meeting. I am perfectly delighted to have an evening to myself once more, when that indefatigable people of yours are engaged. I am actually worn out receiving calls," she said, languidly.
Mr. Eldred was disappointed. He had thought more than once that day how he should enjoy it; to have his dream realized, Vida walking with him, to his own meeting, and sitting near, singing as none but she could sing. A spice of vanity mingled with it too. How the people would listen and admire! He felt annoyed and was about to protest, but she looked so like an angel in her soft white dress that he had not the heart to find fault. So he kissed her good-bye, and went his way alone.
She accompanied him the next week; to be a disappointment, however. Her voice joined not in the hymns of praise, she remarking at the close of the meeting:—
"Do you think I could sing in all that discord? It is horrible; it sets every nerve in my body on edge. People always sing that way in prayer-meeting, every one trying to sing, though not knowing one note from another. One old man by me sang five notes below the key; a woman on the other side screamed out as many above; a girl before me had a strong nasal twang. I should think you'd go distracted; and, by the way, what a quantity of common people attend your church!"
Mr. Eldred looked into the fire and repeated half aloud, "The common people heard Him gladly."
As the weeks went on, it became evident to him that he must abandon the pleasant plans he had formed of companionship in his work. He attended meetings alone, made calls alone, and grew weary of apologizing for Vida.
She was willing to attire herself royally and make a round of fashionable calls with him on the first families, but concerning calls on the humbler of the flock she gaily remarked, that she did not purpose turning city missionary. "When ladies called upon her, she would return their calls, that is, if she wished to continue the acquaintance; but as for running all about town hunting out obscure people, that was out of the question."
There was a gay clique in the church who eagerly welcomed the pastor's wife to their circle. They organised a literary society and gave Shakespearian entertainments.
Mrs. Eldred's fine literary taste and musical abilities made her a valuable acquisition. She soon became the centre about which it revolved. Was there a difficult part to be rendered, or a queen of beauty to be represented, Mrs. Eldred was sure to be chosen, and she gave herself with enthusiasm to the absorbing fascination.
Mr. Eldred had united with them in the beginning, but when he discovered that the members of the society were much more interested in getting up costumes than they were in their own mental improvement, and that the whole thing was degenerating into private theatricals, he withdrew, and urged his wife to do the same, but no amount of persuasion could move her in the least; her own will had been her law too long. And this was the being he had thought to mould! It was all so different from the picture he had sketched of these first months of their married life, the picture of sunny, happy days, flowing on with scarce a ripple. Instead, they held long heated discussions that only served to widen the distance between them.
"I beg your pardon," Vida said, in sarcastic tones, during one of these skirmishes, "but I think it would be much more to your profit to attend the meetings of our society than to find fault with me. If you would study Shakespeare more, it might freshen up your sermons somewhat, and lift them from the commonplace. I cannot but think you are degenerating. The first discourse I heard you preach was filled with poetical fancies and literary allusions, and the language was flowery and beautiful. Your preaching seems to have changed of late; last Sabbath, for example, it was mere 'talk' without rhetoric or eloquence; the most ignorant in the church could have understood them. I thought you would receive a call soon to a wealthy church in a large city, but you never will make a reputation if you preach in this style."
Mrs. Eldred's angry passions were raised to a high pitch, or she would not have spoken thus plainly.
The sorely tried spirit of the man who listened could not repress a groan at the conclusion of this long tirade. He did not trust himself to say one word, but went with a slow, heavy step, like one who had received a mortal hurt, to his study. The irritation he might otherwise have felt at such words, was lost in sorrow at the utter lack of sympathy, and apparent ignorance of the spirit and aims of the gospel.
He had been coming nearer to Christ the last few months, had received a new baptism, and with it a new view of preaching the gospel. He had, doubtless, spoken in an unknown tongue to scores of his hearers. Now he turned the key on his elegant essays, and, asking the Lord for a message, he was trying to tell it with no "great swelling words," but in humility and plainness of speech, holding up Christ, hiding himself, intent only on saving souls.
Satan had told him before that the world and some Christians would count his preaching "not deep;" now his own wife had repeated the thought. He had been so happy in his work, and he longed to throw himself into it with nothing to come between him and "This one thing I do." But daily trials on account of one who should have been his greatest helper, saddened him, so that much of his labour was mechanical, and he carried a heavy burden. The anxiety was continuous, for he was well aware that many busy tongues were censuring her, while kindlier critics were grieved at her course.
At rare intervals she attended the ladies' meetings, but no persuasions could induce her to take any part in them. She visited those whom she fancied, and persistently refused to visit others; thus he laboured under constant embarrassment, and was in a chronic state of apology for her. And yet Mrs. Eldred could make herself the most fascinating of beings. There were evenings when she chose to shine at home. Then she would with artistic skill brighten the room, and beguile her husband from his books, and the time would go on wings, as they read and discussed a new book, and sung together their old and new songs. At such times the careworn minister forgot that any clouds obscured his sky.
One evening Mrs. Eldred entered her husband's study, resplendent in white satin and diamonds, saying:—
"Thane, it is quite time you too were dressed."
"Dressed for what?" he said with an astonished air.
"Why, is it possible that you have forgotten that we have an invitation to Mrs. Grantley's tonight?"
"I recall the invitation now, but I never gave it a second thought, nor did I suppose that you had. Did you not notice from the wording that it was to be a dancing party. I think there must be some mistake about it, as I never was invited before our marriage to these parties, nor have we been since; I cannot understand why they should ask us now."
"Why, pray, should we not be invited? It is not necessary for you to dance, of course. We shall be obliged to go, for I have accepted the invitation," Mrs. Eldred replied, with a nothing-further-to-be-said air.
"I am sorry you accepted an invitation for me, without consulting me, but I cannot go," her husband answered gravely.
"Oh fie! How old and strait-laced you are for a young man; why Dr. Henry often went and looked on, and his daughter danced, and people liked him all the better for it. You will be immensely unpopular if you pursue that course. Don't you think," she continued, encouraged by his silence, "that it savours a little of bigotry and egotism to set one's self up to condemn an amusement that many other Christians approve? What is your ground of objection? One would suppose that you had received a direct revelation on the subject."
"I have," he said, and his clear eyes looked full into hers, "directly from the Master himself. Don't you know that a person who is absorbed in Christian work, a consecrated Christian, is not absorbed in all these amusements, and one who is, has no room in his heart for Christ. There is a law of Natural Philosophy, you know, which says that 'Two bodies cannot occupy the same place at the same time', and there is a somewhat similar law in regard to a soul, stated by the Lord himself. 'Ye cannot serve two masters.' It is the world or Christ with every soul, and I have chosen Christ."
"I know this much," she said, coldly, "that fanatics are the most intolerable of all people. I have danced all my life, and since I became a church-member, and never had it hinted to me before that I was not a Christian because I loved it. You need not go; John can take me and call for me, and I will make excuses for you."
"My dear wife! would you do that? Surely you did not yourself intend to dance; the most liberal would be shocked, I fancy, were a minister's wife to dance."
"And why? I am not the minister. I recognise no restraints that do not apply as well to every Christian woman. You told me yourself that Mrs. Graham is an excellent lady; she is a member of your church, and dances, I am told. Why should not one professor of religion have the same privileges as another?"
"Vida," he said, in a tone of mingled pain and tenderness, "it is only a short time since we were pronounced 'no more twain hut one;' you said then the thought made you glad. How can you separate your interests from mine now? Will you do what would dishonour my calling were I to do it? The world counts us one, your action is mine, and just or unjust, they do not accord to you the right to wade quite so far into the sea of worldly pleasures as they themselves feel privileged to do. They would point the finger of ridicule at both of us, and charge us with inconsistency. We will not stop to argue the right and wrong of the subject now, supposing your conscience does not shut you out from the dance, let worldly prudence and a desire to keep our names from common gossip, influence you, I pray you, if indeed my wishes and opinion are of no value."
But the young wife was in no frame for recollecting tender vows, nor listening to reason. She threw off his arm with an impatient gesture, and glancing at her watch, said:—
"I have not only accepted an invitation to this party, but promised to dance. It is getting late and I must go."
Mr. Eldred controlled his agitation by a mighty effort, and in a low, calm tone said:—
"Then I must save you from disgracing us both. I insist, Icommandyou not to go."
Had he struck her, she would not have been more astonished. She stood as if stunned for a moment; then with a stately air, she swept by him and ascended the stairs to her room. What was his consternation, as he stood gazing out into the moonlight, presently to see her pass down the walk, step into the carriage and drive away!
Turning from the window, he paced the floor with anguish keen as though she had gone from him for ever. What obstinacy, what unreasoning wilfulness—and what would come of it? He spent the long night brooding over his great sorrow, the root of which was the fear that his dear wife did not belong to Christ, for beloved her through all her unloveliness. "Husbands, love your wives even as Christ loved the church." His love had something in it of the divine pity and patience that our blessed Lord feels for his sinning, stumbling, and exasperating children.
Mrs. Eldred was not that type of womankind who spent their wrath in tears and reproaches. When she was angry, she was unapproachably so, as frigid as an iceberg. The crisis had come. Her husband had dared to command.
The next morning there was not the turn of an eyelid that could be construed into penitence. A brawling woman is but little less endurable than a perfectly silent one. You may almost as well "flee to the house-top" from one as the other. What few words were spoken by Mr. Eldred at the breakfast table received no replies.
In the course of the forenoon he went to fulfil an engagement a few miles in the country, where he was detained till late in the day. He sat in his study in the gathering twilight longing for, but not expecting, a word from his wife of contrition and conciliation. He was summoned to tea, but no wife appeared. After a little he went in search of her. She was not in the house. It was growing dark. He was perplexed and anxious. Again he went to their room, hoping to find some explanation of the strange absence. On the mantel lay a note addressed to him. As he read he gazed about to assure himself that it was not a horrible dream, half expecting his wife to gleefully spring into his arms from some hiding-place; but all was silent save his own moans of pain.
Vida had gone! Had "fled to her mother for protection from a tyrant." So the letter ran; it was in her own graceful hand; her name was affixed. It was no cruel joke. She said, moreover, that it was evident that their tastes were not congenial; it was out of the question for her to be tied down to the sort of life he expected of her; that she had borne reflections on her conduct that she had not tolerated from any other being! Tyranny was of all things most hateful to her; the climax was now reached when he ventured "to command."
"She recognised no such right. She never would; she would not be called to account every time she stepped over a forbidden imaginary line; it was plain they had been mistaken in each other, and disappointed; they did not add to each other's happiness, as appeared from the gloom enveloping him day and night; the last months were months of discord; she felt neglected; he was poring over books or seeking other society in an interminable round of calls; plainly what he needed in a wife was a sort of co-pastor; it was not too late to secure such a person, since the law granted divorce for wilful desertion."
With this last sentence the letter closed. Not a word betrayed the faintest regret at severing so solemn a bond. He searched it over and over to see if in some corner he could not find one tender word for him, a word that would reveal down deep in her heart the light of her great love for him, even such love as he had for her—a faint glimmer through the clouds of anger and recrimination. It was not there, not one syllable to show that the heart of the writer had not turned to ice. Yes, there was another sentence, more cruel and hopeless still: "Do not try to change my resolution, as though it were made in a pet; it is final—unalterable."
It could not be true. He looked wildly about as if to have the terrible truth dispelled. He opened her closet door and her bureau drawers, but the pretty, festive robes were all gone; the dainty garments were not in their places. A little pair of half-worn slippers, and the blue ribbon that had tied her hair were all he found. He seized them convulsively, as a part of Vida when she was sweet and simple—as she could be.
He sat for long hours with the letter in his hand, as one who holds his death-warrant. Then falling upon his face, he cried to his Helper. And He who is of great pity and tender mercies heard, and drew nigh in the darkness and comforted him, even "as one whom his mother comforteth," and when the morning dawned he arose and took up the burden of life again, where he was, ere Vida Irving stole into his heart. No, not that, it could never be the same again. When the lightning sends his lurid bolt down a noble tree, it may not wave green and fair as once; there will be dead branches and the gnarled seam to tell the story that
"Fire hath scathed the forest oak."
The grave man who went out into life again carried the marks of the conflict in sad eyes and pale cheeks. Not the least of this great trial was to meet and answer the looks and questions of the curious. For the present he could truthfully say:
"Mrs. Eldred has unexpectedly gone to her mother."
Meanwhile he resigned his charge, much to the sorrow and dismay of all. He disposed of all the elegant furnishings of the parsonage, and with haste left the spot that had been the scene of an exquisite torture. No defined plans were before him, save to get far away from any who could have had the least knowledge of him previously. No fugitive from justice ever felt more nervous haste. He pushed on, never pausing till he reached the very verge of civilisation in the far south-west. Not that he would be a hermit or misanthrope, but perchance find a people destitute of the gospel. He would bring it to them. He must preach Christ till death. This should be his joy and comfort; henceforth no other love should come between his soul and his dear Master.
And he found his work, as if an unerring path had been marked out straight to the little log church in the woods.
While Vida sat in a lofty temple of arches and massive pillars, the sunlight toned to the appropriate dimness, as it stole through the stained windows, the same hour her husband stood in the log church of the wilderness, its arches and pillars outside—the tall old trees locking arms overhead. Nature softened the fierce rays in this temple as well, for they filtered through thick green boughs, and flecks of light fell here and there, a stray one resting halo-like upon the minister's head, transfiguring him in the eyes of the hungry souls whose upturned faces drank in the words of life.
This unlearned, simple people with whom he had cast his lot, had their faults, but to the refreshment of his soul, they had no card or dancing parties, theatre or opera to steal the soul from Christ after the manner of more cultured Christians. The church was the apple of their eye. They made sacrifices for it, and travelled weary miles in the worst of weather, rather than lose a "meeting."
The young gifted pastor of St. Paul's Church was never more appreciated than now by these hardworking, warm-hearted pioneers. It was their daily wonder and thanksgiving that such a man should ever have been sent to them. Nothing that they could do for him was too much, and their loving devotion was like balm to his weary soul. His people were scattered for miles away, but the pastoral calls were as faithfully made as when they were comprehended within the limits of a few squares. The mild winter climate of that region was like one long autumn of the Eastern States. Mounted on his faithful pony, he spent a large part of every day riding over the prairies. The blue skies and the bright sunshine were tonics to the heart as well as to the body. Sometimes his route lay for miles through the woods, where perfect solitude reigned but for the chatter of birds that circled about him. In these long rides his heart went back over the past, reviving the memory of those first precious days with Vida. They seemed far away, and their recollection, like the perfume of wilted flowers plucked from the grave of a dear one. If he could not have prayed for her then, hourly, his heart would have broken.
Mrs. Irving changed her residence, putting many hundred miles between her new and the old home, so that Vida might begin life anew, as she phrased it, without embarrassment. In a large hotel in the great city, with seaside and mountain trips, parties and operas was much more to Vida's taste than dull life in a quiet parsonage, and she expected to play the role of a pastor's wife.
With her mother as chaperon she led a gay life, going, coming, revelling at will in her freedom. As before her marriage, she attracted much attention. Admired and courted, suitors innumerable paid her homage. But a positive nature and strong will asserted themselves here. Only such attentions as befitted a wife to receive were tolerated. She knew the law did not count her free; and if she had analyzed her secret heart, there was no true reason why she cared to be free. No face she met had power to quicken her pulses or extract from her a second thought. The inner heart had long ago been pre-empted, but the blind wilful creature knew it not. The face most often seen in her dreams; the voice that whispered in her ear; the sad dark eyes that seemed to follow her reproachfully, belonged to none of the gay gallants about her. Her previous history being unknown she was a problem in that circle.
There came a change. Mrs. Irving's health began to fail. The eminent physicians far and near were consulted in vain; and as the symptoms became more denned and alarming, Vida could not shut her eyes to the fact that her mother was in a most critical state. She was a devoted daughter, though the weeds of selfishness, fostered by the mother's hand, at times almost overtopped filial affection. Now she shut herself in from society and devoted herself to her mother with unremitting care. Every whim of the invalid was gratified.
One day, after weary months of suffering, she said: "O Vida dear, I would pray to die, if I were not afraid."
"Why afraid, mother? I'm sure you've been a member of a church these many years, and a faithful attendant on its services, and you have been kind to the poor and such a dear mother," said Vida, caressing her. "I don't think you need be afraid."
"O child, that will not stand in the great day. Don't mention anything I've done or been, I beg you," moaned the poor mother. "I've been nothing but a miserable worldling. Now I'm almost through with it all, and I've no peace or comfort. It's all dark, dark. O what shall I do?"
"Let me send for Dr. Hines," said Vida.
"O I cannot talk to him. He's a stranger; and I'm so weak. What mustI do, O what?"
Vida had been a member of the same church. But now she sat wrapped in gloom, feeling powerless to help, yet longing to comfort her dying mother. In the midst of her sad thoughts as she sat watching, while gentle slumber had stolen for a moment over the mother, she remembered the words of a text she had heard her husband preach from, "What must I do to be saved?" The sermon was all gone.
"If it asks that question in the Bible, it must answer it," she thought. So finding a Bible, she sat down to search for the old answer to the old question.