"Overshadow me, O Lord,With the comfort of thy wings."
Marjorie stood before the parlor grate; it was Saturday afternoon, and she was dressed for travelling—not for a long journey, for she was only going home to remain over Sunday and Monday, Monday being Washington's Birthday, and a holiday. She had seen Linnet those few days that she visited them on her return from her voyage, and her father and mother not once since she came to Maple Street in September. She was hungry for home; she said she was almost starving.
"I wish you a very happy time," said Miss Prudence as she openedMarjorie's pocketbook to drop a five-dollar bill into its emptiness.
"I know it will be a happy time," Marjorie affirmed; "but I shall think of you and Prue, and want to be here, too."
"I wish I could go, too," said Prue, dancing around her with Marjorie's shawl strap in her hand.
There was a book for her father in the shawl strap, "The Old Bibie and the New Science"; a pretty white cap for her mother, that Miss Prudence had fashioned; a cherry-silk tie for Linnet; and a couple of white aprons for Annie Grey, her mother's handmaiden, these last being also Miss Prudence's handiwork.
"Wait till next summer, Prue. Aunt Prue wants to bring you for the sea bathing."
"Don't be too sure, Marjorie; if Uncle John comes home he may have other plans for her."
"Oh,ishe coming home?" inquired Marjorie.
"He would be here to-day if I had not threatened to lock him out and keep him standing in a snowdrift until June. He expects to be here the first day of summer."
"And what will happen then?" queried Prue. "Is it a secret?"
"Yes, it's a secret," said Miss Prudence, stepping behind Marjorie to fasten her veil.
"Does Marjorie know?" asked Prue anxiously.
"I never can guess," said Marjorie. "Now, Kitten, good-bye; and sing toMrs. Kemlo while I am gone, and be good to Aunt Prue."
"Marjorie, dear, I shall miss you," said Miss Prudence.
"But you will be so glad that I am taking supper at home in that dear old kitchen. And Linnet will be there; and then I am to go home with her to stay all night. I don't see how I ever waited so long to see her keep house. Will calls the house Linnet's Nest. I'll come back and tell you stories about everything."
"Don't wait any longer, dear; I'm afraid you'll lose the train. I must give you a watch like Linnet's for a graduating present."
Marjorie stopped at the gate to toss back a kiss to Prue watching at the window. Miss Prudence remembered her face years afterward, flushed and radiant, round and dimpled; such an innocent, girlish face, without one trace of care or sorrow. Not a breath of real sorrow had touched her in all her eighteen years. Her laugh that day was as light hearted as Prue's.
"That girl lives in a happy world," Mrs. Kemlo had said to Miss Prudence that morning.
"She always will," Miss Prudence replied; "she has the gift of living in the sunshine."
Miss Prudence looked at the long mirror after Marjorie had gone down the street, and wished that it might always keep that last reflection of Marjorie. The very spirit of pure and lovely girlhood! But the same mirror had not kept her own self there, and the self reflected now was the woman grown out of the girlhood; would she keep Marjorie from womanhood?
Miss Prudence thought in these days that her own youth was being restored to her; but it had never been lost, for God cannot grow old, neither can any of himself grow old in the human heart which is his temple.
Marjorie's quick feet hurried along the street. She found herself at the depot with not one moment to lose. She had brought her "English Literature" that she might read Tuesday's lesson in the train. She opened it as the train started, and was soon so absorbed that she was startled at a voice inquiring, "Is this seat engaged?"
"No," she replied, without raising her eyes. But there was something familiar in the voice; or was she thinking of somebody? She moved slightly as a gentleman seated himself beside her. Her veil was shading her face; she pushed it back to give a quick glance at him. The voice had been familiar; there was still something more familiar in the hair, the contour of the cheek, and the blonde moustache.
"Hollis!" she exclaimed, as his eyes looked into hers. She caught her breath a little, hardly knowing whether she were glad or sorry.
"Why, Marjorie!" he returned, surprise and embarrassment mingled in his voice. He did not seem sure, either, whether to be glad or sorry.
For several moments neither spoke; both were too shy and too conscious of something uncomfortable.
"It isn't so very remarkable to find you here, I suppose," he remarked, after considering for some time an advertisement in a daily paper which he held in his hand.
"No, nor so strange to encounter you."
"You have not been home for some time."
"Not since I came in September."
"And I have not since Will's wedding day. There was a shower that night, and your mother tried to keep me; and I wished she had more than a few times on my dark way home."
"It is almost time to hear from Will." Marjorie had no taste for reminiscences.
"I expect to hear every day."
"So do we. Mrs. Kemlo watches up the street and down the street for the postman."
"Oh, yes. Morris. I forgot. Does he like the life?"
"He is enthusiastic."
She turned a leaf, and read a page of extracts from Donald Grant Mitchell; but she had not understood one word, so she began again and read slowly, trying to understand; then she found her ticket in her glove, and examined it with profound interest, the color burning in her cheeks; then she gazed long out of the window at the snow and the bare trees and the scattered farmhouses; then she turned to study the lady's bonnet in front of her, and to pity the mother with the child in front ofher; she looked before and behind and out the windows; she looked everywhere but at the face beside her; she saw his overcoat, his black travelling bag, and wondered what he had brought his mother; she looked at his brown kid gloves, at his black rubber watch chain, from which a gold anchor was dangling; but it was dangerous to raise her eyes higher, so they sought his boots and the newspaper on his knee. Had he spoken last, or had she? What was the last remark? About Morris? It was certainly not about Donald Grant Mitchell. Yes, she had spoken last; she had said Morris was—
Would he speak of her long unanswered letter? Would he make an excuse for not noticing it? A sentence in rhetoric was before her eyes: "Any letter, not insulting, merits a reply." Perhaps he had never studied rhetoric. Her lips were curving into a smile; wouldn't it be fun to ask him?
"I am going to London next week. I came home to say good-bye to mother."
"Will you stay long?" was all that occurred to her to remark. Her voice was quite devoid of interest.
"Where? In London, or at home?"
"Both," she said smiling.
"I must return to New York on Monday; and I shall stay in London only long enough to attend to business. I shall go to Manchester and to Paris. My route is not all mapped out for me yet. Do you like school as well as you expected to?"
"Oh, yes, indeed."
"You expect to finish this year?"
"I suppose I shall leave school."
"And go home?"
"Oh, yes. What else should I do?"
"And learn housekeeping from Linnet."
"It is not new work to me."
"How is Miss Prudence?"
"As lovely as ever."
"And the little girl?"
"Sweet and good and bright."
"And Mrs. Kemlo?"
"She is—happier."
"Hasn't she always been happy?"
"No; she was like your mother; only hers has lasted so long. I am so sorry for such—unhappiness."
"So am I. I endured enough of it at one time."
"I cannot even think of it. She is going home with me in June. Morris will be glad to have her with mother."
"When is Mr. Holmes coming here?"
"In June."
"June is to be a month of happenings in your calendar."
"Every month is—in my calendar."
He was bending towards her that she might listen easily, as he did not wish to raise his voice.
"I haven't told you about my class in Sunday school."
"Oh, have you a class?"
"Yes, a class of girls—girls about fourteen. I thought I never could interest them. I don't know how to talk to little girls; but I am full of the lesson, and so are they, and the time is up before we know it."
"I'm very glad. It will be good for you," said Marjorie, quite in MissPrudence's manner.
"It is, already," he said gravely and earnestly "I imagine it is better for me than for them."
"I don't believe that"
"Our lesson last Sunday was about the Lord's Supper; and one of them asked me if Christ partook of the Supper with his disciples. I had not thought of it. I do not know. Do you?"
"He ate the passover with them."
"But this was afterward. Why should he do it in remembrance of his own death? He gave them the bread and the cup."
Marjorie was interested. She said she would ask her father and MissPrudence; and her mother must certainly have thought about it.
The conductor nudged Hollis twice before he noticed him and produced his ticket; then the candy boy came along, and Hollis laid a paper of chocolate creams in Marjorie's lap. It was almost like going back to the times when he brought apples to school for her. If he would only explain about the letter—
The next station would be Middlefield! What a short hour and a half! She buttoned her glove, took her shawl strap into her lap, loosening the strap so that she might slip her "English Literature" in, tightened it again, ate the last cream drop, tossed aside the paper, and was ready for Middlefield.
As the train stopped he took the shawl strap from her hand. She followed him through the car, gave him her hand to assist her to the platform, and then there was a welcome in her ears, and Linnet and her father seemed to be surrounding her. Captain Rheid had brought Linnet to the train, intending to take Hollis back. Linnet was jubilant over the news of Will's safe arrival; they had found the letter at the office.
"Father has letters too," she said to Hollis; "he will give you his news."
As the sleigh containing Linnet, her father, and Marjorie sped away before them, Captain Rheid said to Hollis:—
"How shall I ever break it to them? Morris is dead."
"Dead!" repeated Hollis.
"He died on the voyage out. Will gives a long account of it for his mother and Marjorie. It seems the poor fellow was engaged to her, and has given Will a parting present for her."
"How did it happen?"
Will has tried to give details; but he is rather confusing. He is in great trouble. He wanted to bring him home; but that was impossible. They came upon a ship in distress, and laid by her a day and a night in foul weather to take them off. Morris went to them with a part of the crew, and got them all safely aboard theLinnet; but he had received some injury, nobody seemed to know how. His head was hurt, for he was delirious after the first night. He sent his love to his mother, and gave Will something for Marjorie, and then did not know anything after that. Will is heartbroken. He wants me to break it to Linnet; but I didn't see how I can. Your mother will have to do it. The letter can go to his mother; Miss Prudence will see to that.
"But Marjorie," said Hollis slowly.
"Yes, poor little Marjorie!" said the old man compassionately. "It will go hard with her."
"Linnet or her mother can tell her."
The captain touched his horse, and they flew past the laughing sleighload. Linnet waved her handkerchief, Marjorie laughed, and their father took off his hat to them.
"Oh,dear," groaned the captain.
"Lord, help her; poor little thing," prayed Hollis, with motionless lips.
He remembered that last letter of hers that he had not answered. His mother had written to him that she surmised that Marjorie was engaged to Morris; and he had felt it wrong—"almost interfering," he had put it to himself—to push their boy and girl friendship any further. And, again—Hollis was cautious in the extreme—if she did not belong to Morris, she might infer that he was caring with a grown up feeling, which he was not at all sure was true—he was not sure about himself in anything just then; and, after he became a Christian, he saw all things in a new light, and felt that a "flirtation" was not becoming a disciple of Christ. He had become a whole-hearted disciple of Christ. His Aunt Helen and his mother were very eager for him to study for the ministry; but he had told them decidedly that he was not "called."
"And Iamcalled to serve Christ as a businessman. Commercial travellers, as a rule, are men of the world; but, as I go about, I want to go about my Father's business."
"But he would be so enthusiastic," lamented Aunt Helen.
"And he has such a nice voice," bewailed his mother; "and I did hope to see one of my five boys in the pulpit."
"He giveth his beloved sleep."
Sunday in the twilight Linnet and Marjorie were alone in Linnet's little kitchen. Linnet was bending over the stove stirring the chocolate, and Marjorie was setting the table for two.
"Linnet!" she exclaimed, "it's like playing house."
"I feel very much in earnest."
"So do I. That chocolate makes me feel so. Have you had time to watch the light over the fields? Or is it too poor a sight after gazing at the sunset on the ocean?"
"Marjorie!" she said, turning around to face her, and leaving the spoon idle in the steaming pot, "do you know, I think there's something the matter?"
"Something the matter? Where?"
"I don't know where. I was wondering this afternoon if people always had a presentiment when trouble was coming."
"Did you ever have any trouble?" asked Marjorie seriously.
"Not real, dreadful trouble. But when I hear of things happening suddenly, I wonder if it is so sudden, really; or if they are not prepared in some way for the very thing, or for something."
"We always know that our friends may die—that is trouble. I feel as if it would kill me for any one I love to die."
"Will is safe and well," said Linnet, "and father and mother."
"And Morris—I shall find a letter for me at home, I expect. I suppose his mother had hers last night. How she lives in him! She loves him more than any of us. But what kind of a feeling have you?"
"I don't know."
"You are tired and want to go to sleep," said Marjorie, practically."I'll sing you to sleep after supper. Or read to you! We have 'SteppingHeavenward' to read. That will make you forget all your nonsense."
"Hollis' face isn't nonsense."
"He hasn't talked to me since last night. I didn't see him in church."
"I did. And that is what I mean. I should think his trouble was about Will, if I hadn't the letter. And Father Rheid! Do you see how fidgety he is? He has been over here four times to-day."
"He is always stern."
"No; he isn't. Not like this. And Mother Rheid looked so—too."
"How?" laughed Marjorie. "O, you funny Linnet."
"I wish I could laugh at it. But I heard something, too. Mother Rheid was talking to mother after church this afternoon, and I heard her say, 'distressing.' Father Rheid hurried me into the sleigh, and mother put her veil down; and I was too frightened to ask questions."
"She meant that she had a distressing cold," said Marjorie lightly. "'Distressing' is one of her pet words. She is distressed over the coldness of the church, and she is distressed when all her eggs do not hatch. I wouldn't be distressed about that, Linnet. And mother put her veil down because the wind was blowing I put mine down, too."
Linnet stirred the chocolate; but her face was still anxious. Will had not spoken of Morris. Could it be Morris? It was not like Will not to speak of Morris.
"Will did not speak of Morris. Did you notice that?"
"Does he always? I suppose Morris has spoken for himself."
"If Hollis doesn't come over by the time we are through tea, I'll go over there. I can't wait any longer."
"Well, I'll go with you to ease your mind. But you must eat some supper."
As Linnet placed the chocolate pot on the table, Marjorie exclaimed, "There they are! Mother Rheid and Hollis. They are coming by the road; of course the field is blocked with snow. Now your anxious heart shall laugh at itself. I'll put on plates for two more. Is there chocolate enough? And it won't seem so much like playing house."
While Marjorie put on the extra plates and cut a few more slices of sponge cake, Linnet went to the front door, and stood waiting for them.
Through the open kitchen door Marjorie heard her ask, "Is anything the matter?"
"Hush! Where's Marjorie?" asked Hollis' voice.
Was it her trouble? Was it Miss Prudence? Or Prue—it could not be her father and mother; she had seen them at church. Morris!Morris!Had they not just heard from Will? He went away, and she was not kind to him.
Who was saying "dead"? Was somebody dead?
She was trembling so that she would have fallen had she not caught at the back of a chair for support. There was a buzzing in her ears; she was sinking down, sinking down. Linnet was clinging to her, or holding her up. Linnet must be comforted.
"Is somebody—dead?" she asked, her dry lips parting with an effort.
"Yes, dear; it's Morris," said Mrs. Rheid. "Lay her down flat, Linnet.It's the shock? Hollis, bring some water."
"Oh, no, no," shivered Marjorie, "don't touch me. What shall I say to his mother? His mother hasn't any one else to care for her. Where is he? Won't somebody tell me all about it?"
"Oh, dear; I can't," sobbed Mrs. Rheid.
Hollis drew her into a chair and seated himself beside her, keeping her cold hand in his.
"I will tell you, Marjorie."
But Marjorie did not hear; she only heard, "Good-bye, Marjorie—dear."
"Are you listening, Marjorie?"
"Oh, yes."
Linnet stood very white beside her. Mrs. Rheid was weeping softly.
"They were near a ship in distress; the wind was high, and they could not go to her for many hours; at last Morris went in a boat, with some of the crew, and helped them off the wreck; he saved them all, but he was hurt in some way,—Will does not know how; the men tried to tell him, but they contradicted themselves,—and after getting safe aboard his own ship—do you understand it all?"
"Yes. Morris got back safe to theLinnet, but he was injured—"
"And then taken very ill, so ill that he was delirious. Will did everything for his comfort that he could do; he was with him night and day; he lived nine days. But, before he became delirious, he sent his love to his mother, and he gave Will something to give to you."
"Yes. I know," said Marjorie. "I don't deserve it. I refused it when he wanted to give it to me. I wasn't kind to him."
"Yes, you were," said Linnet, "you don't know what you are saying. You were always kind to him, and he loved you."
"Yes; but I might have been kinder," she said. "Must I tell his mother?"
"No; Miss Prudence will do that," answered Hollis. "I have Will's letter for you to take to her."
"Where is he? WhereisMorris?"
"Buried in England. Will could not bring him home," said Hollis.
"His mother! What will she do?" moaned Marjorie.
"Marjorie, you talk as if there was no one to comfort her," rebuked Mrs.Rheid.
"You have all your boys, Mrs. Rheid, and she had only Morris," saidMarjorie.
"Yes; that is true; and I cannot spare one of them. Do cry, child. Don't sit there with your eyes so wide open and big."
Marjorie closed her eyes and leaned back against Linnet. Morris had gone to God.
It was hours before the tears came. She sobbed herself to sleep towards morning. She did not deserve it; but she would keep the thing he had sent to her. Another beautiful life was ended; who would do his work on the earth. Would Hollis? Could she do a part of it? She would love his mother. Oh, how thankful she was that he had known that rest had begun to come to his mother, that he had known that she was safe with Miss Prudence.
It was like Marjorie, even in her first great sorrow, to fall asleep thanking God.
"As many as I love I rebuke and chasten."
Marjorie opened her "English Literature." She must recite to-morrow. She had forgotten whom she had studied about Saturday afternoon.
Again Hollis was beside her in the train. Her shawl strap was at her feet; her ticket was tucked into her glove; she opened at the same place in "English Literature." Now she remembered "Donald Grant Mitchell." His "Dream Life" was one of Morris' favorites. They had read it together one summer under the apple-tree. He had coaxed her to read aloud, saying that her voice suited it. She closed the book; she could not study; how strange it would be to go among the girls and hear them laugh and talk; would any of them ask her if she were in trouble? They would remember her sailor boy.
Was it Saturday afternoon? Hollis wore those brown kid gloves, and there was the anchor dangling from his black chain. She was not too shy to look higher, and meet the smile of his eyes to-day. Was she going home and expecting a letter from Morris? There was a letter in her pocket; but it was not from Morris. Hollis had said he expected to hear from Will; and they had heard from Will. He would be home before very long, and tell them all the rest. The train rushed on; a girl was eating peanuts behind her, and a boy was studying his Latin Grammar in front of her. She was going to Morris' mother; the rushing train was hurrying her on. How could she say to Miss Prudence, "Morris is dead."
"Marjorie."
"Well," she answered, rousing herself.
"Are you comfortable?"
The voice was sympathetic; tears started, she could only nod in reply.
There seemed to be nothing to talk about to-day.
She had replied in monosyllables so long that he was discouraged with his own efforts at conversation, and lapsed into silence. But it was a silence that she felt she might break at any moment.
The train stopped at last; it had seemed as if it would never stop, and then as if it would stop before she could catch her breath and be ready to speak. If she had not refused that something he had brought her this would not have been so hard. Had he cared so very much? Would she have cared very much if he had refused those handkerchiefs she had marked for him? But Hollis had taken her shawl strap, and was rising.
"You will not have time to get out."
"Did you think I would leave you anywhere but with your friends? Have you forgotten me so far as that?"
"I was thinking of your time."
"Never mind. One has always time for what he wants to do most."
"Is that an original proverb?"
"I do not know that it is a quotation."
She dropped her veil over her face, and walked along the platform at his side. There were no street cars in the small city, and she had protested against a carriage.
"I like the air against my face."
That last walk with Morris had been so full of talk; this was taken in absolute silence. The wind was keen and they walked rapidly. Prue was watching at the window, loving little Prue, as Marjorie knew she would be.
"There's a tall man with Marjorie, Aunt Prue."
Aunt Prue left the piano and followed her to the door. Mrs. Kemlo was knitting stockings for Morris in her steamer chair.
Marjorie was glad of Prue's encircling arms. She hid her face in the child's hair while Hollis passed her and spoke to Miss Prudence.
Miss Prudence would be strong. Marjorie did not fear anything for her. It might be cowardly, but she must run away from his mother. She laid Will's letter in Hollis' hand, and slipping past him hastened up the stairway. Prue followed her, laughing and pulling at her cloak.
She could tell Prue; it would relieve her to talk to Prue.
They were both weeping, Prue in Marjorie's arms, when Miss Prudence found them in her chamber an hour later. The only light in the room came through the open door of the airtight.
"Does she know?" asked Marjorie, springing up to greet Miss Prudence.
"Yes; she is very quiet, I have prayed with her twice; and we have talked about his life and his death. She says that it was unselfish to the end."
"He sent his love to her; did Hollis tell you?"
"I read the letter—I read it twice. She holds it in her hand now."
"Has the tall man gone?" asked Prue.
"Yes, he did not stay long. Marjorie, you did not bid him good-night."
"I know it; I did not think."
"Marjorie, dear;" Miss Prudence opened her arms, and Marjorie crept into them.
"Oh, Aunt Prue, I would not be so troubled, but he wanted to give me something—some little thing he had brought me—because he always did remember me, and I would not even look at it. I don't know what it was. I refused it; and I know he was so hurt. I was almost tempted to take it when I saw his eyes; and then I wanted to be true."
"Were you true?"
"I tried to be."
"Then there is nothing to be troubled about. He is comforted for it now.Don't you want to go down and see his mother?"
"I'm afraid to see her."
"She will comfort you. She is sure now that God loves her. I have been trying to teach her, and now God has taught her so that she can rejoice in his love. Whom the Lord loveth, she says, he chastens; and he knows how he has chastened her. If it were not for his love, Marjorie, what would keep our hearts from breaking?"
"Papa died, too," said Prue.
Marjorie went down to the parlor. Mrs. Kemlo was sitting at the grate, leaning back in her steamer chair. Marjorie kissed her without a word.
"Marjorie! The girls ought to know. I don't believe I can write."
"I can. I will write to-night."
"And copy this letter; then they will know it just as it is. He was with you so long they will not miss him as we do. They were older, and they loved each other, and left him to me. And, Marjorie—"
"Yes'm."
"Tell them I am going to your mother's as soon as warm weather comes, unless one of them would rather take me home; tell them Miss Prudence has become a daughter to me; I am not in need of anything. Give them my love, and say that when they love their little ones, they must think of how I loved them."
"I will," said Marjorie, "You and mother will enjoy each other so much."
Marjorie wrote the letters that evening, her eyes so blinded with tears that she wrote very crookedly. No one would ever know what she had lost in Morris. He had been a part of herself that even Linnet had never been. She was lost without him, and for months wandered in a new world. She suffered more keenly upon the anniversary of the day of the tidings of his death than she suffered that day. Then, she could appreciate more fully what God had taken from her. But the letters were written, and mailed on her way to school in the morning; her recitations were gone through with; and night came, when she could have the rest of sleep. The days went on outwardly as usual. Prue was daily becoming more and more a delight to them all. Mrs. Kemlo's sad face was sweet and chastened; and Miss Prudence's days were more full of busy doings, with a certain something of a new life about them that Marjorie did not understand. She could almost imagine what Miss Prudence had been twenty years ago. Despite her lightness of foot, her inspiriting voice, and heryounginterest in every question that pertained to life and work and study, Miss Prudence seemed old to eighteen-years-old Marjorie. Not as old as her mother; but nearly forty-five was very old. When she was forty-five, she thought, her life would be almost ended; and here was Miss Prudence alwaysbeginning again.
Answers to her letters arrived duly. They were not long; but they were conventionally sympathetic.
One daughter wrote: "Morris took you away from us to place you with friends whom he thought would take good care of you; if you are satisfied to stay with them, I think you will be better off than with me. Business is dull, and Peter thinks he has enough on his hands."
The other wrote: "I am glad you are among such kind friends. If Miss Pomeroy thinks she owes you anything, now is her time to repay it. But she could pay your board with me as well as with strangers, and you could help me with the children. I am glad you can be submissive, and that you are in a pleasanter frame of mind. Henry sends love, and says you never shall want a home while he has a roof over his own head."
The mother sighed over both letters. They both left so much unsaid. They were wrapped up in their husbands and children.
"I hope their children will love them when they are old," was the only remark she made about the letters.
"I am your child, too," said Marjorie. "Won't you take me instead—no, not instead of Morris, butwithhim?"
In April Will came home. He spent a night in Maple Street, and almost satisfied the mother's hungry heart with the comfort he gave her. Marjorie listened with tears. She went away by herself to open the tiny box that Will placed in her hand. Kissing the ring with loving and reverent lips, she slipped it on the finger that Morris would have chosen, the finger on which Linnet wore her wedding ring. "Semper fidelis." She could see the words now as he used to write them on the slate. If he might only know that she cared for the ring! If he might only know that she was waiting for him to come back to bring it to her. If he might only know—But he had God now; he was in the presence of Jesus Christ. There was no marrying or giving in marriage in the presence of Christ in Heaven. Giving in marriage and marrying had been in his presence on the earth; but where fullness of joy was, there was something better. Marriage belonged to the earth. She belonged to the earth; but he belonged to Heaven. The ring did not signify that she was married to him—I think it might have meant that to her, if she had read the shallow sentimentalism of some love stories; but Miss Prudence had kept her from false ideas, and given her the truth; the truth, that marriage was the symbol of the union of Christ and his people; a pure marriage was the type of this union. Linnet's marriage was holier and happier because of Miss Prudence's teaching. Miss Prudence was an old maid; but she had helped others beside Linnet and Marjorie towards the happiest marriage. Marjorie had not one selfish, or shallow, or false idea with regard to marriage. And why should girls have, who have good mothers and the Old and New Testaments?
With no shamefacedness, no foolish consciousness, she went down among them with Morris' ring upon her finger. She would as soon have been ashamed to say that an angel had spoken to her. Perhaps she was not a modern school-girl, perhaps she was as old-fashioned as Miss Prudence herself.
"I chose my wife, as she did her wedding gown, for qualities that would wear well."—Goldsmith.
"Prudence!"
"Well, John," she returned, as he seemed to hesitate.
"Have we arranged everything?"
"Everything! And you have been home three hours."
"Three and a half, if you please; it is now six o'clock."
"Then the tea-bell will ring."
"No; I told Deborah to ring at seven to-night."
"She will think you are putting on the airs of the master."
"Don't you think it is about time? Or, it will be at half past six."
"Why, in half an hour?"
"Half an hour may make all the difference in the world."
"In some instances, yes?"
They were walking up and down the walk they had named years ago "the shrubbery path." He had found her in the shrubbery path in the old days when she used to walk up and down and dream her girlish dreams. Like Linnet she liked her real life better than anything she had dreamed.
Mr. Holmes had returned with his shoulders thrown back, the lines of care softened into lines of thought, and the slouched hat replaced by a broad-brimmed panama; his step was quick, his voice had a ring in it, the stern, determined expression was altogether gone; there was a loveliness in his face that was not in Miss Prudence's own; when his sterner and stronger nature became sweet, it was very sweet. Life had been a long fight; in yielding, he had conquered. He bubbled over into nonsense now and then. Twenty years ago he had walked this path with Prudence Pomeroy, when there was hatred in his heart and an overwhelming sorrow in hers. There always comes a time when we arethrough. He believed that tonight. Prue was not lighter of heart than he.
"Twenty years is a large piece out of a man's lifetime; but I would have waited twice twenty for this hour, Prudence."
"I wish I deserved my happiness as much as you do yours, John."
"Perhaps you haven't as much to deserve."
"I'm glad I don't deserve it. I want it to be all God's gift and his goodness."
"It is, dear."
"I wish we might take Marjorie with us," she said, after a moment; "she would have such an unalloyed good time."
"Any one else?"
"Mrs. Kemlo."
"Is that all?"
"There's Deborah."
"Prudence, you ought to be satisfied with me. You don't know how to be married."
"Suppose I wait twenty years longer and learn."
"No, it is like learning to swim; the best way is to plunge at once. And at once will be in about twenty minutes, instead of twenty years."
"What do you mean?" she asked, standing still in unfeigned astonishment.
"I mean that your neighbor across the way has been invited to call at half past six this evening to marry me, and I supposed you were willing to be married at the same time."
"John Holmes!"
"Do you want to send me off again?"
"But I never thought of such a thing."
"It wasn't necessary; one brilliant mind is enough to plan. What did you ask me to come home for?"
"But not now—not immediately."
"Why not?" he asked, gravely.
"Because," she smiled at her woman's reason, "I'm not ready."
"Don't you know whether you are willing or not?"
"Yes, I know that."
"Aren't you well enough acquainted with me? Haven't you proved me long enough?"
"O, John," her eyes filling with tears.
"What else can you mean by 'ready'?"
She looked down at her dress; a gray flannel—an iron gray flannel—a gray flannel and linen collar and cuffs to be married in. But was it not befitting her gray locks?
"John, look at me!"
"I am looking at you."
"What do you see?"
"You were never so lovely in your life."
"You were never so obstinate in your life."
"I never had such a good right before. Now listen to reason. You say this house is to be sold; and the furniture, for future housekeeping, is to be packed and stored; that you and Prue are to sail for Havre the first steamer in July; and who beside your husband is to attend to this, and to get you on board the steamer in time?"
"But, John!" laying her hand in expostulation upon his arm.
"But, Prudence!" he laughed. "Is Deborah to go with us? Shall we need her in our Italian palace, or are we to dwell amid ruins?"
"Nothing else would make her old heart so glad."
"Marjorie and Mrs. Kemlo expect to go home to-morrow."
"Yes."
"Don't you want Marjorie to stay and help you?"
"With such a valiant husband at the front! I suspect you mean to create emergencies simply to help me out of them."
"I'm creating one now; and all I want you to do is to be helped out—or in."
"But, John, I must go in and fix my hair."
"Your hair looks as usual."
"But I don't want it to look as usual. Do you want the bride to forget her attire and her ornaments?"
A blue figure with curls flying and arms outstretched was flying down towards them from the upper end of the path.
"O, Aunt Prue! Mr. March has come over—without Mrs. March, and he asked for you. I told him Uncle John had come home, and he smiled, and said he could not get along without him."
"John, you should have asked Mrs. March, too."
"I forgot the etiquette of it. I forgot she was your pastor's wife. But it's too late now."
"Prue!" Miss Prudence laid her hand on Prue's head to keep her quiet."Ask Marjorie and Mrs. Kemlo and Deborah to come into the parlor."
"We are to be married, Prue!" said John Holmes.
"Whois?" asked Prue.
"Aunt Prue and I. Don't you want papa and mamma instead of Uncle John andAunt Prue?"
"Yes; I do! Wait for us to come. I'll run and tell them," she answered, fleeing away.
"John, this is a very irregular proceeding!"
"It quite befits the occasion, however," he answered gravely. Very slowly they walked toward the house.
All color had left Miss Prudence's cheeks and lips. Deborah was sure she would faint; but Mrs. Kemlo watched her lips, and knew by the firm lines that she would not.
No one thought about the bridegroom, because no one ever does. Prue kept close to Miss Prudence, and said afterward that she was mamma's bridesmaid. Marjorie thought that Morris would be glad if he could know it; he had loved Mr. Holmes.
The few words were solemnly spoken.
Prudence Pomeroy and John Holmes were husband and wife.
"What God hath joined—"
Oh, how God had joined them. She had belonged to him so long.
The bridegroom and bride went on their wedding tour by walking up and down the long parlor in the summer twilight. Not many words were spoken.
Deborah went out to the dining-room to change the table cloth for one of the best damasks, saying to herself, "It's just as it ought to be! Just as it ought to be! And things do happen so once in a while in this crooked world."
"To see in all things good and fair,Thy love attested is my prayer."—Alice Cary.
"Linnet is happy enough," said their mother; "but there's Marjorie!"
Yes; there was Marjorie! She was not happy enough. She was twenty-one this summer, and not many events had stirred her uneventful life since we left her the night of Miss Prudence's marriage. She came home the next day bringing Mrs. Kemlo with her, and the same day she began to take the old household steps. She had been away but a year, and had not fallen out of the old ways as Linnet had in her three years of study; and she had not come home to be married as Linnet had; she came home to do the next thing, and the next thing had even been something for her father and mother, or Morris' mother.
Annie Grey went immediately, upon the homecoming of the daughter of the house, to Middlefield to learn dressmaking, boarding with Linnet and "working her board." Linnet was lonely at night; she began to feel lonely as dusk came on; and the arrangement of board for one and pleasant companionship for the other, was satisfactory to both. Not that there was very much for Annie to do, beside staying at home Monday mornings to help with the washing, and ironing Monday evening or early Tuesday. Linnet loved her housekeeping too well to let any other fingers intermeddle. Will decided that she must stay, for company, especially through the winter nights, if he had to pay her board.
Therefore Marjorie took the place that she left vacant in the farmhouse, and more than filled it, but she did not love housekeeping for its own comfortable sake, as Linnet did; she did it as "by God's law."
Her father's health failed signally this first summer. He was weakened by several hemorrhages, and became nervous and unfitted even to superintend the work of the "hired man." That general superintendence fell to Mrs. West, and she took no little pride in the flourishing state of the few acres. Now she could farm as she wanted to; Graham had not always listened to her. The next summer he died. That was the summer Marjorie was twenty. The chief business of the nursing fell to Marjorie; her mother was rather too energetic for the comfort of the sickroom, and there was always so much to be attended to outside that quiet chamber.
"Marjorie knows her father's way," Mrs. West apologized to Mrs. Kemlo. "He never has to tell her what he wants; but I have to make him explain. There are born nurses, and I'm not one of them. I'll keep things running outside, and that's for his comfort. He is as satisfied as though he were about himself. If one of us must be down, he knows that he'd better be the one."
During their last talk—how many talks Marjorie and her father had!—he made one remark that she had not forgotten, and would never forget:—
"My life has been of little account, as the world goes; but I have sought to do God's will, and that is success to a man on his death-bed."
Would not her life be a success, then? For what else did she desire but the will of God.
The minister told Marjorie that there was no man in the church whose life had had such a resistless influence as her father's.
The same hired man was retained; the farm work was done to Mrs. West's satisfaction. The farm was her own as long as she lived; and then it was to belong equally to the daughters. There were no debts.
The gentle, patient life was missed with sore hearts; but there was no outward difference within doors or without. Marjorie took his seat at table; Mrs. Kemlo sat in his armchair at the fireside; his wife read hisAgriculturist; and his daughter read his special devotional books. His wife admitted to herself that Graham lacked force of character. She herself was apusher. She did not understand his favorite quotation: "He that believeth shall not make haste."
Marjorie had her piano—this piano was a graduating present from Miss Prudence; more books than she could read, from the libraries of Mr. and Mrs. Holmes; her busy work in the household; an occasional visit to the farmhouse on the sea shore, to read to the old people and sing to them, and even to cut and string apples and laugh over her childish abhorrence of the work. She never opened the door of the chamber they still called "Miss Prudence's," without feeling that it held a history. How different her life would have been but for Miss Prudence. And Linnet's. And Morris's! And how many other lives, who knew? There were, beside, her class in Sunday school; and her visits to Linnet, and exchanging visits with the school-girls,—not with the girls at Master McCosh's; she had made no intimate friendships among them. And then there were letters from Aunt Prue, and childish, affectionate notes from dear little Prue.
Marjorie's life was not meagre; still she was not "happy enough." She wrote to Aunt Prue that she was not "satisfied."
"That's a girl's old story," Mrs. Holmes said to her husband. "She mustevolve, John. There's enough in her for something to come out of her."
"What do girls want todo?" he asked, looking up from his writing.
"Be satisfied," laughed his wife.
"Did you go through that delusive period?"
"Was I not a girl?"
"And here's Prue growing up, to say some day that she isn't satisfied."
"No; to say some day that she is."
"Whenwere you satisfied?"
"At what age? You will not believe that I was thirty-five, before I was satisfied with my life. And then I was satisfied, because I was willing for God to have his way with me. If it were not for that willingness, I shouldn't be satisfied yet."
"Then you can tell Marjorie not to wait until she is half of three score and ten before she gives herself up."
"Her will is more yielding than mine; she doesn't seek great things for herself."
The letter from Switzerland about being "satisfied" Marjorie read again and again. There was only one way for childhood, girlhood, or womanhood to be satisfied; and that one way was to acknowledge God in every thing, and let him direct every step. Then if one were not satisfied, it was dissatisfaction with God's will; God's will was not enough.
Hollis had made short visits at home twice since she had left school. The first time, she had been at her grandfather's and saw him but half an hour; the second time, they met not at all, as she was attending to some business for Mrs. Holmes, and spending a day and night with Mrs. Harrowgate.
This twenty-first summer she was not happy; she had not been happy for months. It was a new experience, not to be happy. She had been born happy. I do not think any trial, excepting the one she was suffering, would have so utterly unsettled her. It was a strange thing—but, no, I do not know that it was a strange thing; but it may be that you are surprised that she could have this kind of trial; as she expressed it, she was not sure that she was a Christian! All her life she had thought about God; now, when she thought about herself, she began to fear and doubt and tremble.
No wonder that she slept fitfully, that she awoke in the night to weep, that she ate little and grew pale and thin. It was a strange thing to befall my happy Marjorie. Her mother could not understand it. She tempted her appetite in various ways, sent her to her grandfather's for a change, and to Linnet's; but she came home as pale and dispirited as she went.
"She works too hard," thought the anxious mother; and sent for a woman to wash and iron, that the child might be spared. Marjorie protested, saying that she was not ill; but as the summer days came, she did not grow stronger. Then a physician was called; who pronounced the malady nervous exhaustion, prescribed a tonic—cheerful society, sea bathing, horseback riding—and said he would be in again.
Marjorie smiled and knew it would do no good. If Aunt Prue were near her she would open her heart to her; she could have told her father all about it; but she shrank from making known to her mother that she was not ill, but grieving because she was not a Christian. Her mother would give her energetic advice, and bid her wrestle in prayer until peace came. Could her mother understand, when she had lived in the very sunshine of faith for thirty years?
She had prayed—she prayed for hours at a time; but peace came not. She had fasted and prayed, and still peace did not come.
Her mother was as blithe and cheery as the day was long. Linnet was as full of song as a bird, because Will was on the passage home. In Mrs. Kemlo's face and voice and words and manner, was perfect peace. Aunt Prue's letters were overflowing with joy in her husband and child, and joy in God. Only Marjorie was left outside. Mrs. Rheid had become zealous in good works. She read extracts from Hollis' letters to her, where he wrote of his enjoyment in church work, his Bible class, the Young Men's Christian Association, the prayer-meeting. But Marjorie had no heart for work. She had attempted to resign as teacher in Sunday school; but the superintendent and her class of bright little girls persuaded her to remain. She had sighed and yielded. How could she help them to be what she was not herself? No one understood and no one helped her. For the first time in her life she was tempted to be cross. She was weary at night with the effort all day to keep in good humor.
And she was a member of the church? Had she a right to go to the communion? Was she not living a lie? She stayed at home the Sabbath of the summer communion, and spent the morning in tears in her own chamber.
Her mother prayed for her, but she did not question her.
"Marjorie, dear," Morris' mother said, "can you not feel that God loves you?"
"Iknowhe does," she replied, bursting into tears; "but I don't love him."
In August of this summer Captain Will was loading in Portland for Havana. She was ready for sea, but the wind was ahead. After two days of persistent head wind Saturday night came, and it was ahead still. Captain Will rushed ashore and hurried out to Linnet. He would have one Sunday more at home.
Annie was spending a week in Middlefield, and Linnet was alone. She had decided not to go home, but to send for Marjorie; and was standing at the gate watching for some one to pass, by whom she might send her message, when Will himself appeared, having walked from the train.
Linnet shouted; he caught her in his arms and ran around the house with her, depositing her at last in the middle of the grass plat in front of the house.
"One more Sunday with you, sweetheart! Have you been praying for a head wind?"
"Suppose I should pray for it to be ahead as long as we live!"
"Poor little girl! It's hard for you to be a sailor's wife, isn't it?"
"It isn't hard to be your wife. It would be hard not to be," said demonstrative Linnet.
"You are going with me next voyage, you have promised."
"Your father has not said I might."
"He won't grumble; theLinnetis making money for him."
"You haven't had any supper, Will! And I am forgetting it."
"Have you?"
"I didn't feel like eating, but I did eat a bowl of bread and milk."
"Do you intend to feed me on that?"
"No; come in and help, and I'll get you the nicest supper you ever had."
"I suppose I ought to go over and see father."
"Wait till afterward, and I'll go with you. O, Will! suppose it is fair to-morrow, will he make you sail on Sunday?"
"I neverhavesailed on Sunday."
"But he has! He says it is all nonsense not to take advantage of the wind."
"I have been in ships that did do it. But I prefer not to. TheLinnetis ready as far as she can be, and not be in motion; there will not be as much to do as there is often in a storm at sea; but this is not an emergency, and I won't do it if I can help it."
"But your father is so determined."
"So am I," said Will in a determined voice.
"But you do not own a plank in her," said Linnet anxiously. "Oh, I hope itwon'tbe fair to-morrow."
"It isn't fair to-night, at any rate. I believe you were to give a hungry traveller some supper."
Linnet ran in to kindle the fire and make a cup of tea; Will cut the cold boiled ham and the bread, while Linnet brought the cake and sugared the blueberries.
"Linnet, we have a precious little home."
"Thanks to your good father."
"Yes, thanks to my father. I ought not to displease him," Will returned seriously.
"You do please him; you satisfy him in everything. He told Hollis so."
"Why, I didn't tell you that Hollis came in the train with me. See how you make me forget everything. He is to stay here a day or so, and then go on a fishing excursion with some friends, and then come back here for another day or so. What a fine fellow he is. He is the gentleman among us boys."
"I would like to know what you are," said Linnet indignantly.
"A rough old tar," laughed Will, for the sake of the flash in his wife's eyes.
"Then I'm a rough old tar too," said Linnet decidedly.
How short the evening was! They went across the fields to see Hollis, and to talk over affairs with the largest owner of theLinnet. Linnet wondered when she knelt beside Will that night if it would be wrong to ask God to keep the wind ahead until Monday morning. Marjorie moaned in her sleep in real trouble. Linnet dreamed that she awoke Sunday morning and the wind had not changed.
But she did not awake until she heard a heavy rap on the window pane. It was scarcely light, and Will had sprung out of bed and had raised the window and was talking to his father.
"I'll be here in an hour or less time to drive you into Portland. Hollis won't drive you; but I'll be here on time."
"But, father," expostulated Will. He had never resisted his father's will as the others had done. He inherited his mother's peace-loving disposition; he could only expostulate and yield.
"The Linnet must sail, or I'll find another master," said his father in his harshest voice.
Linnet kept the tears back bravely for Will's sake; but she clung to him sobbing at the last, and he wept with her; he had never wept on leaving her before; but this time it was so hard, so hard.
"Will, howcanI let you go?"
"Keep up, sweetheart. It isn't a long trip—I'll soon be home. Let us have a prayer together before I go."
It was a simple prayer, interrupted by Linnet's sobbing. He asked only that God would keep his wife safe, and bring him home safe to her, for Jesus' sake. And then his father's voice was shouting, and he was gone; and Linnet threw herself across the foot of the bed, sobbing like a little child, with quick short breaths, and hopeless tears.
"It isn'tright" she cried vehemently; "and Will oughtn't to have gone; but he never will withstand his father."
All day she lived on the hope that something might happen to bring him back at night; but before sundown Captain Rheid drove triumphantly into his own yard, shouting out to his wife in the kitchen doorway that theLinnetwas well on her way.
At dusk, Linnet's lonely time, Marjorie stepped softly through the entry and stood beside her.
"O, Marjorie! I'msoglad," she exclaimed, between laughing and crying."I've had a miserable day."
"Didn't you know I would come?"
"How bright you look!" said Linnet, looking up into the changed face; for Marjorie's trouble was all gone, there was a happy tremor about the lips, and peace was shining in her eyes.
"Iambright."
"What has happened to you?"
"I can tell you about it now. I have been troubled—more than troubled, almost in despair—because I could not feel that I was a Christian. I thought I was all the more wicked because I professed to be one. And to-day it is all gone—the trouble. And in such a simple way. As I was coming out of Sunday school I overheard somebody say to Mrs. Rich, 'I know I'm not a Christian.' 'Then,' said Mrs. Rich, 'I'd begin this very hour to be one, if I were you.' And it flashed over me why need I bemoan myself any longer; why not begin this very hour;and I did."
"I'm very glad," said Linnet, in her simple, hearty way. "I never had anything like that on my mind, and I know it must be dreadful."
"Dreadful?" repeated Marjorie. "It is being lost away from Christ."
"Mrs. Rheid told Hollis that you were going into a decline, that mother said so, and Will and I were planning what we could do for you."
"Nobody need plan now," smiled Marjorie. "Shall we have some music? We'll sing Will's hymns."
"How your voice sounds!"
"That's why I want to sing. I want to pour it all out."
The next evening Hollis accompanied Linnet on her way to Marjorie's to spend the evening. Marjorie's pale face and mourning dress had touched him deeply. He had taught a class of boys near her class in Sunday school, and had been struck with the dull, mechanical tone in which she had questioned the attentive little girls who crowded around her.
It was not Marjorie; but it was the Marjorie who had lost Morris and her father. Was she so weak that she sank under grief? In his thought she was always strong. But it was another Marjorie who met him at the gate the next evening; the cheeks were still thin, but they were tinted and there was not a trace of yesterday's dullness in face or voice; it was a joyful face, and her voice was as light-hearted as a child's. Something had wrought a change since yesterday.
Such a quiet, unobtrusive little figure in a black and white gingham, with a knot of black ribbon at her throat and a cluster of white roses in her belt. Miss Prudence had done her best with the little country girl, and she was become only a sweet and girlish-looking woman; she had not marked out for herself a "career"; she had done nothing that no other girl might do. But she was the lady that some other girls had not become, he argued.
The three, Hollis, Linnet, and Marjorie, sat in the moon lighted parlor and talked over old times. Hollis had begun it by saying that his father had shown him "Flyaway" stowed away in the granary chamber.
He was sitting beside Linnet in a good position to study Marjorie's face unobserved. The girl's face bore the marks of having gone through something; there was a flutter about her lips, and her soft laugh and the joy about the lips was almost contradicted by the mistiness that now and then veiled the eyes. She had planned to go up to her chamber early, and have this evening alone by herself,—alone on her knees at the open window, with the stars above her and the rustle of the leaves and the breath of the sea about her. It had been a long sorrow; all she wanted was to rest, as Mary did, at the feet of the Lord; to look up into his face, and feel his eyes upon her face; to shed sweetest tears over the peace of forgiven sin.
She had written to Aunt Prue all about it that afternoon. She was tempted to show the letter to her mother, but was restrained by her usual shyness and timidity.
"Marjorie, why don't you talk?" questioned Linnet.
Marjorie was on the music stool, and had turned from them to play the air of one of the songs they used to sing in school.
"I thought I had been talking a great deal. I am thinking of so many things and I thought I had spoken of them all."
"I wish you would," said Hollis.
"I was thinking of Morris just then. But he was not in your school days, nor in Linnet's. He belongs to mine."
"What else? Go on please," said Hollis.
"And then I was thinking that his life was a success, as father's was.They both did the will of the Lord."
"I've been trying all day to submit to that will," said Linnet, in a thick voice.
"Is that all we have to do with it—submit to it?" asked Hollis with a grave smile. "Why do we always groan over 'Thy will be done,' as though there never was anything pleasant in it?"
"That's true," returned Linnet emphatically. "When Will came Saturday, I didn't rejoice and say 'It is the Lord's will,' but Sunday morning I thought it was, because it was so hard! All the lovely things that happen to usarehis will of course."
"Suppose we study up every time where the Lord speaks of his father's will, and learn what that will is. Shall we, Marjorie?" proposed Hollis.
"Oh, yes; it will be delightful!" she assented.
"And when I come back from my fishing excursion we will compare notes, and give each other our thoughts. I must give that topic in our prayer-meeting and take it in my Bible class."