CHAPTER XVI.“To know, to esteem, to love,—and then to part,Makes up life’s tale to many a feeling heart!”Valencia, to Meg, had become a barren spot on the map. Nothing relieved the dreary monotony but the nagging tongue of her aunt, who, it would seem, had found her mission in life, that of saying and doing the little things which crucify.Meg felt that she could have endured having her house of cards tumble about her feet; could even have been stoical, because accustomed to a loveless life. But the constant jarring note,—the mean, cutting words which dwelt upon the lips perpetually of her one relative, kept her soul in such a turmoil, that she seriously thought of embracing Catholicism, and retiring to the peace of a convent.That consolation, however, was denied her. She had not listened to Mrs. Weston’s exordiums on unrequited love, without acquiring a tolerably accurate idea of the remarks which such an act would call forth,—remarks which she felt would follow and torment her, though thirty convent walls, instead of one, hemmed her in from the strife and malice and unwisdom of the world she had left.When she took a mental inventory of her accomplishments with the view of engaging in some business, she knew she could not qualify. She was skilled in cooking and housework,—but courageous as she was in her convictions, she shrank from the social ostracism that would surely follow, should she employ her one talent in earning her independence.While she was turning these things over in her mind, and trying to come to a decision, the message came summoning her to the aristocratic little Eastern city where Mrs. Malloy had made her home since the early days of her wedded life.Before speaking to her aunt about it, Meg counted over her scanty savings from her insufficient income, and found that she would have barely money enough for a round-trip ticket. It had not occurred to her to refuse the summons. She felt it her positive duty to go, and, putting her own trouble behind her, to do what she could for the stricken mother who had turned to her in her need.When she timidly mentioned it to Mrs. Weston, she said sharply, “You surely don’t think of going! Why, it will only strengthen the opinion most of the people have,—that you are desperately in love with Robert Malloy.”Meg raised her head with a gesture of pride and dignity, though the red blood mounted to her cheeks, as she replied, “You may tell the neighbors should they inquire, that Iamin love with him.”“Why, Margaret Anthony, I never heard so shameless an admission in my life!”“I thought you might as well know, being my nearest of blood. You have thrown out so many innuendoes about the matter, that it may ease your mind to know the truth. Now you have the knowledge, you may sow it broadcast. No,” as her aunt started to speak, “there is nothing more to be said between us on the subject. You may discuss me with the butcher-boy, or the garbage-gatherer, whom I would consider a proper receptacle for such gossip, or any one who inspires you with a desire to talk,—but I demand silence for myself!”It was a new phase of Meg’s character, which Mrs. Weston did not understand, and as she did not possess a spirit of adventure, she wisely refrained from disobeying the injunction.The following day, with her few clothes, her ticket, and a small lunch-box which Delia had smuggled to her, Meg set out on her journey. To her it was a new experience, for since her orphanhood she had scarcely been away from Valencia. It would have been a pleasurable trip, but for the sorrow which she anticipated at its close.She was so intensely alive, that everything interested her: the occupants of the car, and the moving panorama without, the rolling prairies of her own State, the cool, wooded forests of Missouri, the rich farms of Illinois. But as she neared her journey’s end, and contemplated what it meant to her, and to that other lonely woman who loved him, her thoughts took shape, and, closing her eyes, she tried to realize the full force of the blow that had fallen alike upon his mother and herself.In imagination she saw it all! A dim, high-ceilinged cathedral, with the monastery at the rear. The gloom was relieved only by the candles at the altar. A priest was droning the Latin of his prayer-book, while the organ in the loft was playing some soft, monotonous air, that got into her brain and nearly soothed her into forgetfulness. Suddenly it burst into a triumphant Te Deum, as the altar boys appeared, followed by other priests, and lastly, by five young men clad in the brown robe of the order of St. Francis.Her eyes sought their faces, one by one, till the last one was reached. He was white, and in his eyes was the look of a man who had lived, and loved, and lost. Over the heads of the other novitiates, beyond the forms of the priests, his eyes met and held hers. And when he should have responded in Latin, with the others, no sound issued from his lips, but his eyes, fixed on hers, said: “Margie, I love you so! You are dearer to me than all the world, dearer to me than the cloistered life I thought would be all-sufficing!”She held out her arms to him, but into his face had come the gray pallor of a living death. The service went on and on, endlessly, it seemed to her. It was all so meaningless! Her mind comprehended nothing. Her heart, tense and ready to break, knew only that he was leaving her. The beauty of the music, the impressiveness and solemnity of the service meant but the one thing,—Robert was leaving her!The service ended, his eyes said farewell to her,—and, with the others, to the same monotonous music of the organ that had first lulled her senses, he retreated, farther and farther away from her, until at last he disappeared entirely. There was a moment of terrible suspense, as she strained her ears to listen. Then came the clang of the monastery gates, as they closed behind him, shutting him out of her life forever!“Missy, de train’s done reached Welcomeville. Ain’t dis where you all get off?”Meg sat up straight and looked at the colored porter in a dazed manner for a moment. Then, gathering her few possessions together, she left the train.
“To know, to esteem, to love,—and then to part,
Makes up life’s tale to many a feeling heart!”
Valencia, to Meg, had become a barren spot on the map. Nothing relieved the dreary monotony but the nagging tongue of her aunt, who, it would seem, had found her mission in life, that of saying and doing the little things which crucify.
Meg felt that she could have endured having her house of cards tumble about her feet; could even have been stoical, because accustomed to a loveless life. But the constant jarring note,—the mean, cutting words which dwelt upon the lips perpetually of her one relative, kept her soul in such a turmoil, that she seriously thought of embracing Catholicism, and retiring to the peace of a convent.
That consolation, however, was denied her. She had not listened to Mrs. Weston’s exordiums on unrequited love, without acquiring a tolerably accurate idea of the remarks which such an act would call forth,—remarks which she felt would follow and torment her, though thirty convent walls, instead of one, hemmed her in from the strife and malice and unwisdom of the world she had left.
When she took a mental inventory of her accomplishments with the view of engaging in some business, she knew she could not qualify. She was skilled in cooking and housework,—but courageous as she was in her convictions, she shrank from the social ostracism that would surely follow, should she employ her one talent in earning her independence.
While she was turning these things over in her mind, and trying to come to a decision, the message came summoning her to the aristocratic little Eastern city where Mrs. Malloy had made her home since the early days of her wedded life.
Before speaking to her aunt about it, Meg counted over her scanty savings from her insufficient income, and found that she would have barely money enough for a round-trip ticket. It had not occurred to her to refuse the summons. She felt it her positive duty to go, and, putting her own trouble behind her, to do what she could for the stricken mother who had turned to her in her need.
When she timidly mentioned it to Mrs. Weston, she said sharply, “You surely don’t think of going! Why, it will only strengthen the opinion most of the people have,—that you are desperately in love with Robert Malloy.”
Meg raised her head with a gesture of pride and dignity, though the red blood mounted to her cheeks, as she replied, “You may tell the neighbors should they inquire, that Iamin love with him.”
“Why, Margaret Anthony, I never heard so shameless an admission in my life!”
“I thought you might as well know, being my nearest of blood. You have thrown out so many innuendoes about the matter, that it may ease your mind to know the truth. Now you have the knowledge, you may sow it broadcast. No,” as her aunt started to speak, “there is nothing more to be said between us on the subject. You may discuss me with the butcher-boy, or the garbage-gatherer, whom I would consider a proper receptacle for such gossip, or any one who inspires you with a desire to talk,—but I demand silence for myself!”
It was a new phase of Meg’s character, which Mrs. Weston did not understand, and as she did not possess a spirit of adventure, she wisely refrained from disobeying the injunction.
The following day, with her few clothes, her ticket, and a small lunch-box which Delia had smuggled to her, Meg set out on her journey. To her it was a new experience, for since her orphanhood she had scarcely been away from Valencia. It would have been a pleasurable trip, but for the sorrow which she anticipated at its close.
She was so intensely alive, that everything interested her: the occupants of the car, and the moving panorama without, the rolling prairies of her own State, the cool, wooded forests of Missouri, the rich farms of Illinois. But as she neared her journey’s end, and contemplated what it meant to her, and to that other lonely woman who loved him, her thoughts took shape, and, closing her eyes, she tried to realize the full force of the blow that had fallen alike upon his mother and herself.
In imagination she saw it all! A dim, high-ceilinged cathedral, with the monastery at the rear. The gloom was relieved only by the candles at the altar. A priest was droning the Latin of his prayer-book, while the organ in the loft was playing some soft, monotonous air, that got into her brain and nearly soothed her into forgetfulness. Suddenly it burst into a triumphant Te Deum, as the altar boys appeared, followed by other priests, and lastly, by five young men clad in the brown robe of the order of St. Francis.
Her eyes sought their faces, one by one, till the last one was reached. He was white, and in his eyes was the look of a man who had lived, and loved, and lost. Over the heads of the other novitiates, beyond the forms of the priests, his eyes met and held hers. And when he should have responded in Latin, with the others, no sound issued from his lips, but his eyes, fixed on hers, said: “Margie, I love you so! You are dearer to me than all the world, dearer to me than the cloistered life I thought would be all-sufficing!”
She held out her arms to him, but into his face had come the gray pallor of a living death. The service went on and on, endlessly, it seemed to her. It was all so meaningless! Her mind comprehended nothing. Her heart, tense and ready to break, knew only that he was leaving her. The beauty of the music, the impressiveness and solemnity of the service meant but the one thing,—Robert was leaving her!
The service ended, his eyes said farewell to her,—and, with the others, to the same monotonous music of the organ that had first lulled her senses, he retreated, farther and farther away from her, until at last he disappeared entirely. There was a moment of terrible suspense, as she strained her ears to listen. Then came the clang of the monastery gates, as they closed behind him, shutting him out of her life forever!
“Missy, de train’s done reached Welcomeville. Ain’t dis where you all get off?”
Meg sat up straight and looked at the colored porter in a dazed manner for a moment. Then, gathering her few possessions together, she left the train.