Missy's first feeling after reading this was, that hehad at least behaved well about it, and had put things in the best shape for her. It was the better way surely, for the children to stay away altogether now. She felt she could not bear the sight of Gabrielle, and the chance of having to meet Mr. Andrews himself was insupportable. Yes, it was the best way, and she hoped that they might never, never cross each other's paths again.
Perhaps he would close the house and go away. She hoped her precious protegées would not give him satisfaction, and then he would have to go away. But then came second thoughts, soberer and less hopeful. Was it best for the children to stay at home to-day? How explain to the household, beginning with her mother, this sudden change of base? What would Goneril say, the glib-tongued Ann, and all the rest? It looked like a quarrel, a breach, a sensation. Gabrielle would be questioned over the hedge; the whole story would get out. No; this would never do. The children's clothes were in the drawers of the spare room, their playthings all about the house. The packing these and sending them back so abruptly, would be like a rocket shot into the sky, a signal of sensation to all Yellowcoats.
And then, proving how real her affection for Jay was, there came a feeling of solicitude for him, shut up in that damp nursery. It always had been damp, and she had disapproved it; the worst room in the house, with trees close up to the window, and no sun in it.
The house had been shut up for several days, and in September, that does not do for country houses by the water. The Varians had fire morning and evening,and Jay had been dressed every day since she had had the charge of him, by a bright little blaze of pine and hickory. It would be an hour before the woman came, and what would she get together for their dinner. Some poor baker's bread, perhaps, and some sweetmeats. Jay, poor little man, would be hungry before this time, she was sure. How he was fretting and crying now, no doubt; kicking his little bare legs against the chair.
Missy yearned over him, and she thought, with a pang, how she had pushed him away when he came climbing into her lap. If he were left there, with no one to take proper care of him for two or three days, she knew perfectly well he would be ill. His hands had been a little hot that morning, with all the care that she had given him. To-day was Saturday. It was not likely that the new women could be got into the house before Monday. No, she could not put poor little Jay into all this danger, to save her pride. So, after a good cry, the result of this softened feeling, she wrote the following little note to Mr. Andrews:
"I think you would do better to let the children come back and stay here till Monday. By that time you will no doubt have the servants in the house. When you are ready for them, please send me a few lines and I will send Goneril in with them."
She hoped she had made it plain thathewas to keep out of the way, and as he had not merited stupid in addition to stout and elderly, she felt quite confident he would understand. She began several sentences which were meant to imply, from a pinnacle, that she did not blame him for the stings of his little viper, and that no more need be said about it. Butnone of them satisfied her, and she put the note into the envelope without anything but the bare statement of facts recorded above. Then she took Jay's hat, which she had brought in with her from the garden, and calling Ann, told her to take the note and the hat in to Mr. Andrews.
"The children are there, I think," she added carelessly, in explanation. "Jay ran off without his hat."
She had bathed her eyes before she rang the bell, that Ann might not see she had been crying. By and by Jay came in, accompanied by the new waitress, who explained from her master that Miss Gabrielle was under punishment and was not to have any dinner. She would come back at bedside. Jay looked a little doubtfully at Missy. He had not forgotten his repulse. When the woman had gone out of the door, she said,
"Come Jay, I think we'd better be friends, old fellow," and taking him in her arms, kissed him a dozen times. Jay felt as if a great cloud had lifted off the landscape. Why had everybody been so horrid? There must have been something the matter with people. He gave a great sigh as he sank back in Missy's embrace, but only said, "I want some dinner."
PER ASPERA AD ASTRA.
TThe next day was Sunday, a chilly September day, threatening rain. Missy quite wished it would rain, and then there would be an excuse for omitting the children's church-going. But church time approached. It did not rain, indeed, looked as if it were to be a prolonged sulk, and not a burst of tears. So the carriage was ordered, the children made ready, and Miss Varian and Goneril, armed with prayer-books, waited on the piazza. The children looked very pretty in their mourning. Gabrielle was so handsome, she repaid any care in dressing her, and Alphonsine had really exerted herself to make up a pretty black dress, and trim a hat for her. There is always something pathetic in the sight of young children in mourning, and Missy had almost cried the first time she saw Jay in his little black kilt and with that somber cap on his yellow curls. She was quite used to it now, and did not feeling like crying from anything but vexation, as she came out on the piazza when she heard the carriage wheels approaching. She was going to church, to be sure, and that ought to have been soothing to her feelings. But she was also going to face the little populace of Yellowcoats, and that was very ruffling to them. She felt it was a pity she could not make herself invisible, and that her neighbors could not make themselves invisible too. She was sure they would say better prayers if thatcould be the case. How they would gaze at her as she walked down the aisle! How glances would be exchanged, and nudges given, as the little black-clad children came in sight. It is all very well to say, don't think of such things if you know you're doing right. It takes a very advanced saint not to mind what people think, and Missy, poor Missy, was not that. She longed to say her prayers, and felt she had never needed to say them more; but it was as if a thousand little devils, with as many little prongs, were busy in a swarm around her. To add to all her fretting thoughts, Aunt Harriet was particularly trying, Goneril was more audacious, the children were exasperating, even sitting still and in their Sunday clothes.
The next day was Sunday, a chilly September day, threatening rain. Missy quite wished it would rain, and then there would be an excuse for omitting the children's church-going. But church time approached. It did not rain, indeed, looked as if it were to be a prolonged sulk, and not a burst of tears. So the carriage was ordered, the children made ready, and Miss Varian and Goneril, armed with prayer-books, waited on the piazza. The children looked very pretty in their mourning. Gabrielle was so handsome, she repaid any care in dressing her, and Alphonsine had really exerted herself to make up a pretty black dress, and trim a hat for her. There is always something pathetic in the sight of young children in mourning, and Missy had almost cried the first time she saw Jay in his little black kilt and with that somber cap on his yellow curls. She was quite used to it now, and did not feeling like crying from anything but vexation, as she came out on the piazza when she heard the carriage wheels approaching. She was going to church, to be sure, and that ought to have been soothing to her feelings. But she was also going to face the little populace of Yellowcoats, and that was very ruffling to them. She felt it was a pity she could not make herself invisible, and that her neighbors could not make themselves invisible too. She was sure they would say better prayers if thatcould be the case. How they would gaze at her as she walked down the aisle! How glances would be exchanged, and nudges given, as the little black-clad children came in sight. It is all very well to say, don't think of such things if you know you're doing right. It takes a very advanced saint not to mind what people think, and Missy, poor Missy, was not that. She longed to say her prayers, and felt she had never needed to say them more; but it was as if a thousand little devils, with as many little prongs, were busy in a swarm around her. To add to all her fretting thoughts, Aunt Harriet was particularly trying, Goneril was more audacious, the children were exasperating, even sitting still and in their Sunday clothes.
As the carriage rolled up to the church gate, Missy felt her face growing red and white with apprehension of the eyes that would in a moment more be looking at it. The bell had stopped ringing, and she heard the organ. Of all moments, this was the worst to go in.
"What are you waiting for?" said Miss Varian, sharply, as Missy paused, irresolute.
"Nothing," said Missy with a groan, and she went forward, bidding the children follow. Goneril, of course, was a dissenter, and had to be driven to the other end of the village to say her humble prayers. I think she objected to stopping even at the church gate, and to riding with people who were going there. She always had a great deal to say at the Sunday dinner, about forms and ceremonies and a free Gospel, but as her fellow-servants were most of them of a more advanced creed themselves, she did not get much sympathy, or do much injury to any one.So Goneril went her way, and Missy, with her blind aunt on her arm, and the children following in her wake, went hers. Certainly it was the way of duty, or she never would have walked in it. If she had dared to do it, she would have stayed from church that morning, and said matins among the cedars on the bank. But as she did what was right and what was hard, no doubt, her poor distracted prayers got an answer, and her marred, distorted offering of worship was accepted.
St. John was not yet in the chancel; they had fallen upon the moment when they would naturally be most conspicuous and attract most notice from the congregation. Miss Varian always would walk slowly and heavily; the children gazed about them, and met many curious eyes. Missy looked haughty enough; she was never particularly humble-looking. When they reached the pew-door (and it seemed to Missy they would never reach it), Miss Varian was a long while getting through the kneeling cushions, and accepted no help from any one.
"Well, I hope they all see the children and are satisfied of my intentions," said Missy bitterly to herself, as she stood thus a mark for the merry eyes of Yellowcoats. At last, Aunt Harriet made her way to the end of the pew, and Missy followed her, letting the children take care of themselves.
St. John's voice; well, there was something in it different from other voices. There must have been a dim and distant echo of that company who rest not day nor night. It did not recall earth and vanity. It made a lift in the thoughts of those who heard it. Missy, amidst distraction and vexation, heard him, andin a moment felt that it was very little worth, all that had caused her smart and ache. When St. John read, people listened, whatever it was. Perhaps it was what is "sincerity" in art. He read in a monotone too, as does his school. He did not lift his eyes and look about him; he almost made a business of looking down. It was very simple; but maybe those who would analyze its power, would have to go far back into fasts and vigils and deep hours of meditation. Missy drew a long breath. She didn't care for Yellowcoats' gossip now, while she heard St. John's voice, and poured out her fretted soul in the prayers of her childhood. Perhaps she never knew how much she owed her brother, and those disapproved austerities of his. We do not always know what the saints win for us, nor how much the fuller we may be for our holy neighbor's empty stomach. And the children tumbled and twisted about on their seats, and Jay went to sleep, and Gabby eyed her neighbors, and Missy did not mind. It was well that she did not, for if she had reproved them, Yellowcoats would have whispered, what a step-mother is that, my brothers. And if she had caressed them, they would have jeered and said, see the pursuit, my sisters. But as she simply let them alone, they could say nothing, and settled themselves to listen to the sermon after the prayers were said.
And in the sermon there was a word for Missy. It was an old word, as most good words are; Missy remembered copying it out years before, when it had seemed good to her, but now it seemed better and fuller:
"Let nothing disturb thee, nothing surprise thee:
"Everything passes:
"God does not change:
"Patience alone weareth out all things:
"Whoso holds fast to God shall want for nothing:
"God alone sufficeth."
And "the benediction that followeth after prayer" seemed to her more than ever
"A Christian charm,To dull the shafts of worldly harm."
"A Christian charm,To dull the shafts of worldly harm."
Even though the arm stretched out to bless were that of the young brother whose steps she had so often guided in their days of childhood.
As they went in, Missy had seen, somehow, with those quick, light-blue eyes of hers, that Mr. Andrews was in the church, in a pew near the door. She knew it was the first time he had been in the church since his wife's death. She began instantly to speculate about his reasons for coming, and to wonder whether he would have the kindness to go off and leave them to get into the carriage by themselves after service. Then St. John's voice had broken in upon the fret, and she had forgotten it, till they were at the church door, coming out, before chattering little groups of people on the grass outside. It did not yet rain, but the sky was gray as granite, and the air chill.
Jay's warm little hand was in hers, unconsciously to them both. Miss Varian was leaning heavily upon her other arm. Half a dozen persons came up to speak to them as they made their way to the carriage. At the carriage door stood Mr. Andrews. Jay made a spring at him. Mr. Andrews gravely lifted him in. Missy felt an angry agitation as she saw him, but the words of St. Theresa's wisdom stood by her for themoment. He scarcely looked at her as he put her into the carriage. Gabrielle, very subdued, followed, and Mr. Andrews closed the door, lifted his hat, after some commonplace about the weather, and the carriage drove away. All Yellowcoats might have seen that. Nothing could have been more unsensational.
That evening St. John came to tea, very tired and silent. He sat alone with his mother an hour before tea, and Missy saw tears on her cheeks as she brought in the light. She came into the library and lay on her sofa, but could not join them at tea. Those tears always gave Missy a jealous feeling. These long talks with St. John now always brought them. At tea the children chattered, and St. John tried to be amusing to them, and after tea, as they sat around the library fire, while the rain outside dashed against the windows, he took Jay on his lap, and told him a story. Jay liked it, and called for more, and Gabby drew near to listen.
"Why didn't you tell us a story to-day at church," he said. "Stories are a great deal nicer than talking the way you did."
"Goneril says it doesn't do us any good to go to church when we don't want to," said Gabby. "Does it, Mr. Varian?"
"People don't go to church to be done good to," said Missy, who had no patience with Goneril, and less with Gabrielle.
"Don't they?" asked Gabrielle, ignoring Missy, and turning her great eyes up appealingly into St. John's face, as she leaned on the arm of his chair.
"No, I should think not," said St. John, slowly, putting his hand on hers.
"Translate it into words of one syllable, St. John," said Missy, poking a pine-knot into blaze, "that people go to church for worship, not for edification."
"Well, children," he said, "no doubt you have always been taught to go and say good-morning to your father, and give him a kiss, haven't you? And you generally do it, though it doesn't do you any particular good, nor, for the matter of that, very much to him. But he likes it, and you always ought to go. Maybe sometimes you don't want to go; sometimes you're busy playing, or you're hungry for your breakfast, or you're a little lazy. But if you always give up your play, or put off your breakfast, or get over being lazy, and go, no doubt you have done right, and he is pleased with you. Now, going to church is a service, a thing to be done, to be offered to God; it isn't that we may be better, or learn something, or get any good, that we go. It is to pay an honor to our Heavenly Father; it is something to give to Him, an offering. I think we should be glad, don't you? There are so few things we can give Him."
Gabrielle was not convinced, and offered objections manifold, but Jay said "All right, he'd go next time without crying, if Goneril didn't brush his hair so hard."
"You mustn't get her into an argument, then," said Missy. "The faster she talks, the harder she brushes."
"You won't be here another Sunday, Jay," said Gabby. "You'll have your own nurse, and maybe she'll brush easy."
The children were soon sent to bed, and then St. John went away.
"I have something to tell you, Missy," said her mother. "Come to my room before you go to bed."
Missy's heart beat faster. Now she should know the explanation of her mother's tears, and St. John's long silences.
"Well," said Missy, sitting down by her mother's sofa, before the fire which blazed uncertainly. She knew from the clear shining of her mother's eyes, and from the faint flush on her cheek, that it was no trifling news she was to hear, and that before that pine log burned away, they should have gone very deep. She felt a jealous determination to oppose.
"You don't know how to begin, I see," she said, with a bitter little laugh. "I wish I could help you."
"Oh," said her mother, "it is not very difficult. St. John says you told him never to talk to you about going away; and so it was best not to talk about it till everything was settled."
"Certainly; he has only kept his promise. I did not want to be stirred up with all his fluctuations of purpose."
"I do not think, Missy, you can justly say he has fluctuated in purpose. I think he came here almost under protest, giving up his will in the matter to please us—to please you. In truth, I think he has had but one purpose, that has been strengthening slowly day by day."
Missy lifted her head. "I don't understand exactly. I know he has been getting restless."
"I don't think he has been getting restless."
"Well, at any rate it looks so, going from one parish to another in six months."
"But, he is not going from one parish to another."
Missy started. "What do you mean, mamma? I hope he isn't—isn't giving up the ministry."
"Oh, no; how could you think of such a thing."
"Well," cried Missy, impetuously, "please remember I am outside of all your counsels. Everything is new to me. St. John is going away; is going to make some important step, and yet is not going to a new parish, is not forsaking his vocation. How can you wonder I am puzzled?"
"He isn't forsaking his vocation; he is only following what he is very sure is his vocation in its highest, fullest sense."
"You don't mean," cried Missy, turning a startled face to her mother, "that St. John has got an idea that he is called to the religious life? Mamma, it isn't possible. I can't believe you have encouraged him in this."
"I have had nothing to do with it, alas, my child. One must let that alone forever. We can give up or deny to God, our own souls; but 'the souls of others are as the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil; we must not touch them.' I had my own soul to give, and I did not give it."
Missy turned coldly away while her mother pressed her hands before her face. There was a silence, in which a bitter flood of thoughts passed through the mind of the younger one.
"I am a reproach to you, mamma," she said. "Perhaps I ought not to exist. There are moments when I feel the contradictions of my nature to be so great, I wonder if it were not wrong, instead of right, that I was born—a broken law, and not a law fulfilled. I know—you need not tell me—you had always thoughtof the religious life yourself. We have not talked much of it, but I have had my thoughts. Your first marriage bound you to the world, because it left you with me. I suppose if I had not been born you would have entered a sisterhood. Then, mamma, you need not evade it, you would have missed the real love, the real life of your heart. You have never told me this, but I know enough to know you did not love my father. It cannot be your fault; but it was your fate. Do not contradict me, we never have gone so deep before. Yes, mamma,Ibound you to the world. I was the unlovely child who stood between you and heaven. How could I help being unlovely, born of duty, not of love? I don't reproach you, except as my existence reproaches you. St. John is not a contradiction; his nature is full and sweet; he might live a happy life. Why do you sacrifice him? You say you have had no hand in this—mamma—mamma—you moulded him; you bend him now. You do not know how strong your influence upon him is. It is the unconscious feeling of your heart that you are making reparation. You are satisfied to give him up who is all the world to you, that Heaven may be propitiated. It is I who should have been sacrificed; I, who have been always in your way to holiness—a thorn in your side, mamma—a perverse nature, not to be bent to your path of sacrifice and immolation."
"Do not talk of sacrifice, my child, of immolation. It is a height, a glory, to attain to. I cannot make you understand—I will not contradict you."
"No, do not contradict me. I am contradicted enough. I am not in your state of fervor. I see things as they are, I see plain facts. Believe me, thisenthusiasm cannot last. You will find, too late, that you have not counted the cost; that you cannot bear the strain of feeling—a living death—a grave that the grass never grows over. Time can't heal a wound that is always kept open. You are mad, mamma, you are mad. We cannot bear this thing. Look at it, as you will when your enthusiasm cools."
"I have looked at it, Missy, for many months, through silent nights and days. It is no new thought to me. My dear, I have many lonely hours; I have much suffering, which abates enthusiasm. Through loneliness and suffering, I have had this thought for my companion. I know what I am doing, and I do it almost gladly. Not quite, for I am very weak, but almost, for God has been very gracious to me."
"It is infatuation, it is madness, and you will both repent."
"Hush, my child," said her mother, trying to take her hand, "the thought is new to you, that is why it seems so dreadful."
But Missy drew her hand from her mother's and turned her face away. Her heart was pierced with sorrow at the thought of parting from her brother. It was the overthrow, too, of all her plans for him, of all their joint happiness and usefulness. But, to do her justice, the bitterness of her disappointment came from the idea of separation from him. She loved him a great deal more than she acknowledged even to herself. Life would be blank without him to her, and what would it be to her mother? This sudden weight of woe seemed unbearable, and it was a woe worse than death, inasmuch as, to her mind, it was unnecessary, unnatural, and by no law of God ordained. She feltas if she were smothering, stifling, and her mother's soft voice and calm words maddened her.
"I need not talk to you," she cried, "for you are in this state of exaltation you cannot understand me. When your heart is broken by this sorrow; when you sink under the weariness of life without him, then we can talk together in one language, and you can understand me. But it will be too late—Oh, mamma, hear me—but what is the use of talking!—remember how young he is, how little of life he knows! Think how useful, how honorable, his work might be. I cannot comprehend you; I cannot think what magic there is about this idea of the monastic life. Why must St. John be better than other men of his generation? Why cannot he serve God and live a good life as better men have done before him? I see nothing in him so different from others; he is not so much worse, that he needs such rigor, nor so much better, that he need set himself apart. Believe me, it is the subtle work of a crafty enemy; he cannot be contented with the common round, the daily task; he is not satisfied to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly; he must do some great thing."
"We shall see," said her mother, gently. "His vocation will be tested. You know it will be long before he is permitted to enter the order he has chosen. He may not be accepted."
"Not accepted!" cried Missy. "A man with money, influence, talent—Oh, we need not flatter ourselves. He will be accepted soon enough. They may coquet about it a little to save appearances, but they will not let him escape them, you may be quite sure."
"Missy, I must beg, if you cannot spare me such things, you will at least not wound St. John by saying them before him."
"Oh, you may be sure I will not wound his saintly ears by such profanity. But you—I did not think you had yet left the world. I fancied there was yet one of my blood to whom I might speak familiarly. You and St. John are all I have; and when he is a monk, I shall be obliged to be a Trappist—are there female Trappists?—excuse my ignorance of such matters—or offend you occasionally by my secular conversation."
"Missy, we won't talk of this any more till you have got over your bitterness a little. I hoped you would not take it so. I have dreaded telling you for the pain it would give you, but I did not think you would so misapprehend him. By and by, I am sure you will see it differently, and though you may not fully approve, you will yet admire the fullness of his faith, and the sweetness of what you call his sacrifice."
"Never, never," cried Missy. "I love truth and right and justice too much to admire even the most beautiful perversions of them. I may be reconciled so far as to hold my peace. More you cannot ask of me. Mamma, remember, you and I have always thought differently about these things. St. John took your faith, and has always been dearer and nearer to you than I. I cannot help the way I was made; we are not responsible, I suppose, for the shape of our minds any more than for the shape of our bodies. St. John always loved to hear about miracles and martyrdoms; I never did. It wasn't his merit that he liked them, nor my fault that I didn't like them. Such as I am by nature, you must be patient with me."
"Such as we are by nature, my dear, would draw little love to us from God, or men. Our corrections and amendments make our worth. I love you for what you have made yourself, in spite of passion and self-will, and St. John, for the conquest he has made of faults that lie deeper and more hidden. Ah, my dear, we may go to prisons and reformatories to see how attractive people are by nature."
"You know," said Missy, coldly, "I never could feel as you do about this making over, 'teaching our very hearts to beat by rule.' You see it is—just one part of our difference. St. John will always please you. I am afraid I cannot hope to do it, and as we are to spend our lives alone together, it is to be regretted."
"Oh, Missy, Missy, do not try to break my heart!"
"If it is not broken now, by this cruel separation, nothing I can do will break it. Mamma, forgive me, if I am not as humble and reverent as I should be, but you have laid a great deal on me. All this is, as you say, quite new to me. It is as if you had taken me by the hand, and led me to the room where my brother lay dying and had said to me, 'See, I have mixed the poison, and given it to him; we have talked it over for months together; we are both convinced that it is right and good. Death is better than life. Be content, and give thanks for what we have done.'"
"My child, you cannot surely be so blind. How is it that you do not perceive that it is not death, but life, that I have led you in to see? That I have shown you your brother, girded with a new strength, clothed with a new honor; set apart for the service of God forever.Missy, he is not lost to us, dear, while we believe in the Communion of Saints."
"Mamma, I don't believe in it! I don't believe in anything. You have overthrown my faith. You have killed me."
"Listen to reason, Missy, if not to faith. St. John is happy; happier than I ever knew him, even as a child; he is happy, even in this time of transition and suspense. If he is blessed with this great gift, if he has sought peace and found it, even in what may seem to you this hard and bitter way, let us be thankful and not hinder him. This is not of an hour's growth, and he will not waver. He is slower than we are, Missy, slower and deeper. St. John is steadfast, and he is fully persuaded in his own mind of what he wants to do and what he ought to do. I know no one with so little natural enthusiasm—the fire that burns in him is not of nature. And he has counted the cost. He knows what he gives up, and he knows what he gains. He knows that he is sure of misconception, reprobation, scorn, and I do not think it weighs a straw with him. What would weigh with you, and possibly with me, is literally of no force at all with him. You know he never thought at all what the world might say about him, not from disrespect to the opinion of others, but from deep indifference, from perfect unconsciousness. That is nature, and not grace, but it makes the step less hard. The separation from us, Missy, the giving up his home, that has been a battle indeed; but it has been fought, and, I think, will never have to be gone over, in its bitterness, again."
"I don't know how you can have any assurance of that; excuse me for saying so."
"Well, I cannot explain it to you. I am afraid I could not make you understand exactly. 'The heart hath its reasons, which the reason cannot comprehend.'"
"No doubt. I am not right in asking you to cast these spiritual pearls before me—"
"Missy!"
"But I may ask for some plain husks of fact. I am capable of understanding them, perhaps. If it isn't bringing things down too much, please, when does my brother go away—where does he go to, when he goes?"
"I suppose he will go next month; he will offer his resignation here to-morrow at the vestry meeting."
"Then will begin the strife of tongues," said Missy, with a shudder. "I suppose he will think it his duty to tell these ten solid gentlemen 'with good capon lined,' fresh from their comfortable dinners, why he goes away."
"Assuredly not, Missy. St. John is not Quixotic. He has good quiet sense."
"He had, mamma. Excuse me. Well, if I may hear it, where is he going, and is it to be unequivocally forever—and—I hope he remains in our own communion? I don't know whether I ought to ask for such low details or not, but I cannot help a certain interest in them. I suppose an ecstasy has no body; but a resolution may have."
"Surely, Missy, you will not say things like these to St. John? Save your taunts for me. It would wound him cruelly, and he would not know, as I do, that they spring from your suffering and deep love to him."
"Truly, mamma, you are too tender of the feelings of your ascetic. If I wound him, that is a part of whathe has undertaken; that is what he ought to be prepared for, and to ask for. You can't put yourself between him and his scourge. Think of it! how the lash will come down on his white flesh; and St. John has always been a little tender of his flesh, mamma. Well—is he Roman or Anglican? For I confess I feel I do not know my brother. Please translate him to me."
"I don't know why, having seen no wavering in his faith, you should insult him by supposing he has any intention to forsake it. But let us end this conversation, Missy. I feel too ill to talk further to-night, beyond telling you he hopes to enter an order in England, and that he will be gone, in any event, two years. After that, it is all uncertain. If he is received, he is under obedience. He may be sent to America; he may end his days in India. We may see him often, or we may see him never. It is all quite one to him, I think, and I pray he may not even have a wish."
Mrs. Varian ceased speaking, and lay back on her sofa quite white and exhausted.
"I suppose I'd better not keep you awake any longer, then," said Missy, rising. "Is there anything I can do for you? Call me if you need me. Good-night." She stooped over her mother and kissed her lightly. She would not touch her hand, for fear she should show how cold hers was, and how it trembled. She went across the room to see if the windows were closed, and then to the fire to see that it was safe to leave for the night, and with another word or two, went out and shut the door. A tempest of remorse for her unkindness came over her when she was alonein her own room. She knew what her mother was suffering, had suffered, and though she reproached her for having influenced her brother's decision, she reproached herself for having added one pang to her already too great sorrow. She had, indeed, cruelly wounded her, and left her to the long night watches without a word of repentance.
Missy would have given worlds to have been on the other side of the door she had just closed.Thenit would be easy to let the tears come that were burning in her eyes, and to throw herself into her mother's arms, and be silently forgiven. But in cold blood to go back, to reopen the conversation, to take back what she had said, to humble herself to ask forgiveness for what was true, but which ought not to have been spoken—this was more than she had grace to do. She longed for the time to come when she should have a sorrow to bear that was not mixed up with repentance for some wrong-doing of her own. This loss of her brother, cruel as it was, would always be made crueller by the recollection of her jealousy of him, of her unkindness to her mother, of the way in which she had rejected her sympathy and taunted her with the share she had had in what had happened. It all seemed insupportable, the wounded love, the separation, the remorse, the jealousy, and the disappointment. What was her life now? St. John was woven into every part of it. What was her work in the parish, with him away; what her home without his presence? The world, she had given up as much as he, she thought; in it she could find no amusement. Study had been but a means to an end; there was nothing left her but duty—duty without peace orpleasure. She had her mother still, but her mother's heart was with St. John. Missy felt that there was a barrier between them which each day's suffering would add to. She should reproach her mother always for having influenced St. John. (She never for a moment altered her judgment of the error that had been made, nor allowed that there might be a side on which she had not looked.) She was certain that her mother would be unable to endure the separation, and that the months, as they wore away, would wear away her life. She would see her mother fading away before her eyes; and St. John, in his new life, leaving his duties to her, would be sustained by his mother's praise, and the approbation of his perverted conscience. She would be cut off from the sympathy of both mother and brother; equally uncongenial to both. She thought of them as infatuated; they thought of her as worldly-minded; she looked down upon their want of wisdom; she knew they looked down upon her unspiritual sordidness. It was all sore and bitter, and as the day dawned upon her sleepless eyes, she thought, with almost a relenting feeling, that if St. John had found peaceanywhere, he was not to blame for going where it led him.
MY DUTY TO MY NEIGHBOR.
SSix months had passed; St. John's leave-taking had soon taken place, after the conversation just recorded. It had been a time of great suffering to all; even Missy had found it harder than she had imagined. Miss Varian had taken it very much to heart, and in her violence Missy had become calm. Her natural place was, of course, in opposition to this member of the family. It seemed improper for her to be fighting in the ranks beside her aunt. This, and her great pain in parting from her brother, hushed her outward opposition. She felt she was, at least, justified in supporting him in the eyes of his deserted parish—and thus, Yellowcoats believed always that Missy had been the chief instrument in depriving them of his services; so correct is popular information. Her mother, Missy did not understand. The actual moment of parting was as full of agony as she had anticipated; for an hour after, there really seemed a doubt to others than Missy, whether the poor mother would ever come out of the swoon which had followed the last sound of the carriage wheels outside. But when, after a day or two, the physical effects of the emotion passed away, Mrs. Varian seemed to grow content and quiet; a deeper peace than before filled her eyes. The yearning, pining weariness which Missy had anticipated, did not come. She seemed to heed neither companionship norsolitude; her solitude seemed peopled with angelic company; while her face welcomed all who came near her, far from angelic as they might be. Her health seemed stronger. It was all a mystery to her daughter.
Six months had passed; St. John's leave-taking had soon taken place, after the conversation just recorded. It had been a time of great suffering to all; even Missy had found it harder than she had imagined. Miss Varian had taken it very much to heart, and in her violence Missy had become calm. Her natural place was, of course, in opposition to this member of the family. It seemed improper for her to be fighting in the ranks beside her aunt. This, and her great pain in parting from her brother, hushed her outward opposition. She felt she was, at least, justified in supporting him in the eyes of his deserted parish—and thus, Yellowcoats believed always that Missy had been the chief instrument in depriving them of his services; so correct is popular information. Her mother, Missy did not understand. The actual moment of parting was as full of agony as she had anticipated; for an hour after, there really seemed a doubt to others than Missy, whether the poor mother would ever come out of the swoon which had followed the last sound of the carriage wheels outside. But when, after a day or two, the physical effects of the emotion passed away, Mrs. Varian seemed to grow content and quiet; a deeper peace than before filled her eyes. The yearning, pining weariness which Missy had anticipated, did not come. She seemed to heed neither companionship norsolitude; her solitude seemed peopled with angelic company; while her face welcomed all who came near her, far from angelic as they might be. Her health seemed stronger. It was all a mystery to her daughter.
"Mamma seems better than for years, this winter," she was obliged to say, when asked about her mother's health. She did not talk much about St. John, even with Missy, but when she did talk of him, it was with simplicity and naturalness. His letters never threw her into depression, nor was she deeply anxious when they did not come. She always gave the letters to Missy to read, which had not been the case before. They were short, affectionate, plain as to fact, expressing nothing of inward emotion. Missy felt sure that this was understood between them, and that the outpouring of heart which had been so dear to both, was part of the sacrifice.
The new clergyman came, and parish matters in their new light had to be talked over. This was acute pain to Missy, to whom it seemed St. John's work alone. It seemed to give no pain to her mother, and her interest in affairs connected with the village church was unabated. The only thing that seemed to pain her, was the adverse criticism upon the step her son had taken, which Miss Varian took pains should come to her ears. People opened their minds on the matter toher, knowing she was strongly opposed to it, and she felt it to be her one source of consolation, to repeat these confidences to her sister-in-law.
After a time, it became Missy's business to thwart her in obtaining interviews with her mother, and to have always a servant in the room. Before a servant,Miss Varian would not talk on family matters, even when she was very bitter, and Goneril had a comfortable corner of the room where she was not loth to do her sewing, and where she saved Mrs. Varian many a sharp stab. The children, too, came often to the house, almost as often as in the summer time, and they and their nurse made a wall of defense as well.
After all, the winter wore away not unpeacefully to the Varian household, and all the desponding anticipations seemed to have been unwarranted. The children went and came; Jay's warm little hand was often in Missy's when she walked and rode; she had much occupation in the house, not as many interests outside. Time seemed to be healing the wound made by her brother's departure; she had read systematically, she was in fine health, the winter had been steadily cold and bracing. Yes, it had been a quiet, peaceful time to them all since Christmas. She blushed when she remembered how persistently she had prophesied evil, refusing to be comforted. "I must be very commonplace," she thought. "I am not even capable of suffering consistently." On the whole, however, it was a relief to be contented and comfortable, and she did not reject it exactly, though she took it under protest, and with a certain shame. She had, too, got over the violence of her feelings in the matter of her neighbor. She remembered her keen emotions with mortification. A good many things had contributed to this, principally the fact that St. John's going had eclipsed all other events, and that, in that real sorrow, the trifling sting was forgotten. Besides, the gentleman himself had had the kindness to keep entirely at home.
It was now May, and since November Missy hadnot spoken to him once. His household matters seemed to have been working smoothly. The servants, Missy learned through Eliza, the nurse, were contented and industrious. Mr. Andrews, she said, was the nicest gentleman to work for. He seemed as comfortable as a king, and was pleased with everything they did for him. He read his paper after dinner, and then talked with the children, and after they went to bed, read or wrote till after all were sleeping in the house. Two nights in the week he stayed in town; he did not seem to mind going back and forth. Sometimes he brought a gentleman home with him, but that was not very often. He seemed to think the children much improved, and he took an interest in their lessons, and made them tell him every night what they had been learning. As Eliza was herself their teacher, this gratified her very much. She was a steady, sensible young woman, and was in reality a protegée of Missy's. Missy had had her in her Sunday-school class, had prepared her for confirmation, and had never ceased to look after her and advise her; and had told a very naughty "story" when she denied to Mr. Andrews that the nurse elect was any protegée of hers. But in certain crises the most virtuous of women will say what is not true.
At first Missy tried to repress Eliza's devotion to her, and not to listen to the details she insisted on giving of her daily life and trials; but it was too alluring to give advice, and to manage Jay by proxy; and after a month or two, Missy ruled as truly in the Andrews nursery as she did in her own home. She was not without influence, either, over the other servants in the widower's establishment. They knew they owed their places to her, and they were anxious to obtain her good opinion. Through Eliza many hints were obtained how to manage about certain matters, how to arrange in certain delicate contingencies.
"Why, if I were in your place, Eliza, I should tell the cook she'd better speak to Mr. Andrews about Martin's coming in so late. It is always best to be truthful about such matters."
"Of course I don't know anything about it; but it seems to me the waitress would do much better to put up all the silver that is not in use, and ask Mr. Andrews to have it packed away. It only gives additional work, and can do no one any good; and it is really rather unsafe to have so much about, Mr. Andrews is away so many nights."
This had all come about so gradually, Missy would have denied indignantly that she had ever put a finger in her neighbor's pie; whereas, both pretty little white hands were in it greedily, all ten fingers, all the time. Dear Missy, how she did love to govern!
It was only when Gabrielle turned up her eyes, with the expression that she had had in them that horrid day by the green-house door—though she discreetly held her tongue—or when by rare chance Missy passed Mr. Andrews in driving, that she stiffened up, and felt the angry aversion coming over her again. As long as he kept out of sight it was all very well; and he had been wise, and had kept out of sight all the winter long.
It was now May; and perhaps he began to think it would be very rude not to make a call upon his neighbors, after all their kindness to the children; perhapshe began to grow a little tired of his freedom from the tyranny of women; perhaps his evenings were a trifle dull, now that he could not sit, with his book, between a wood fire and a student lamp. Perhaps he came from duty; perhaps he came because he wanted to come; but at all events he came, one soft May evening, in the twilight, and walked up the steps of the piazza, and rang the bell that he had not rung for six long months of frost and snow. It is certain he felt a trifle awkward about doing it; his manner showed that. Missy was alone in the library, writing a letter by the lamp. She looked up, surprised, when he entered—indeed, more than surprised. They were both so awkward that they were silent for a moment—the worst thing to be.
"It seems a long while since I have seen you, Miss Rothermel," said Mr. Andrews; and then he began to see how much better it would have been not to say it. It was so absurd for people living side by side not to have spoken to each other for six months. It couldn't have happened without a reason; and the reason came, of course, to both their minds.
"Yes, I believe it is," returned Missy, uncomfortably. "I think I caught sight of you, one day last week, coming from the cars. The new time-table is a great improvement, I should think. I suppose you get home now quite early, don't you?"
She was naturally the first to get command of herself, and by and by they got upon safe ground. But Missy was uneasy, stiff; Mr. Andrews wished the visit over many times before it was, no doubt.
"I will call my aunt," said Missy, "she enjoys visitors so much."
"Which is more than you do," thought Mr. Andrews as he watched her cross the room and ring a bell. But Miss Varian was long in coming.
"Don't you think Jay is growing nicely?" asked Mr. Andrews, trying to find a subject that was safe. He dared not mention Gabrielle, of course.
"Yes, he seems very well this spring. And he is a good boy, too, I think—for him, that is."
There was a certain pretty softening of her face, when she spoke of Jay, that never escaped Mr. Andrews. He liked to see it, it amused him as much as it pleased him. "Jay has made his first conquest," he thought. "This severe little lady is perfectly his slave."
"I am afraid he troubles you with his frequent visits. His nurse tells me he insists on coming very often," he said aloud.
"Oh, he never troubles me; sometimes I do not even see him. He is great friends with mamma."
"Mrs. Varian is well, I hope? I have thought very often your brother's absence must try her very much."
Most unreasonably the tears rushed into Missy's eyes at the allusion to her brother. The letter on her lap was to him, and she was rather less composed than usual.
"We bear it," she said, "as people bear what they cannot help. It was what mamma wanted for him, and so, in some ways, it seems easier to her than to me. Though of course the loss falls heaviest on her." This was more than she had ever said to any one, andshe could not understand, a moment after, how she could have said it.
"It was," he said thoughtfully, "a grave step for him to take; I confess I cannot understand his motives, but, young as he is, one feels instinctively his motives are more entitled to respect than those of most men."
"I cannot respect motives that give me so much misery," she said, in a voice that trembled.
At this moment Miss Varian came in. While Mr. Andrews was speaking to her, and while the severe hands of Goneril were arranging her a seat, Missy had time to recollect how near she had been to making Mr. Andrews a confidant of her feelings about her brother. Mr. Andrews, who had broken his wife's heart; a pretty confidant. She colored high with shame and vexation. What had moved her to so foolish a step. She was losing all confidence in herself; people who habitually do what they don't mean to do, are very poor reliance. "I always mean to treat him with contempt, and I very rarely do it," she thought. "It is amazing, and a humiliation to me to recall the way in which I always begin with coldness, and end with suavity, if not with intimacy."
Pretty soon, Miss Varian began to ask what sort of a winter he had had. He said it had been very quiet and pleasant, and that spending a winter in the country had been a new experience to him.
"You must have found it very dull," she said. "I hate the country when there's nobody in it, and I wonder you could want to stay."
"But there was somebody in it," said Mr. Andrews, with a frank smile, "for me. A little boy andgirl that are of more importance than kings and crowns, God bless them."
"With all my heart," said Miss Varian, "but I didn't know you were so domestic. I'm glad to be able to say, I've seen a man who would give up his club and his comfort for his children. Not but that you had some comfort here, of course. It wouldn't do to say that before Missy, who organized your cabinet for you, didn't she? How do your servants get along?"
"Very well, thank you," said Mr. Andrews uncomfortably.
"And have you taken the house for another year?" went on the speaker.
"Oh, yes, it agrees so well with the children here," answered Mr. Andrews apologetically. "I did not know where they would be any better off."
"Well, we must be grateful to them for keeping you, I suppose. I don't think you have been a very valuable neighbor so far, however. You haven't lived enough in the country to know what is expected of neighbors, perhaps."
"No, I must confess—"
"Why, neighbors in the country have a serious duty in the winter. They spend evenings very often together; they play cribbage, they bring over the evening paper; they take watches to town to be mended; they mail letters, they even carry bundles."
"I should think Mr. Andrews would give up the lease of his house if you put much more before him as his duty for next winter."
Missy said this quite loftily, having grown red and white, possibly a little yellow, since her aunt beganto speak. Her loftiness, perhaps, piqued Mr. Andrews a little, for he said, turning to her:
"Hasn't a neighbor any summer duties? I hope Miss Varian will make me out a list."
"With pleasure," cried Miss Varian, scenting mischief in the air.
"My aunt's ideas of duty are individual, pray let me say," Missy put in, in not the most perfectly suave tone.
"A neighbor, in the summer," went on Miss Varian, as if she had not spoken, "a neighbor in the summer comes across after dinner, and smokes his cigar at the beach gate, if any of the family are sitting on the lawn. In rainy weather he comes over for a game of cards; occasionally he comes in time for tea; if he has a sail-boat, he takes his neighbors out sometimes to sail; he brings them peaches, the very first that come to market, and he never minds changing a book at the library in town."
"But these are all privileges; you were going to tell me about duties, were you not?"
"As to that, you may call them what you please, they are the whole duty of man in the country, and I can't see how you ever came to overlook them for such a length of time."
"You shan't be able to reproach me any more. Peaches are not in market; and my sail-boat is not out of winter quarters. But I might change a library book for a beginning. Haven't you got one that I might try my hand upon?"
"To be sure I have," said this hateful woman, with great enjoyment of her niece's anger; "I have a volume of Balzac that Goneril has just got through,under protest, and I'd like to have another, to make an utter end of her. It's my only chance of getting rid of her, and you would be a family benefactor."
"Please, let me have the book," said Mr. Andrews. "Is it this one on the table?"
"No," said Miss Varian. "I don't think it is down-stairs. Missy, ring the bell for Goneril to get it; will you?"
Missy had been sitting with her head turned away, and her lips pressed together. After her aunt spoke, she sat quite still for a moment, as if she could not bring herself to execute the order; then, without speaking, got up and walked across to the bell, and rang it, sitting down when she came back, a little further from the light, and from the two talkers.
"Missy, you've got through with the book yourself, haven't you?" said her aunt, determined to make her talk, as she was sure her voice, if she could be made to use it, would show her agitation.
That was Missy's calamity. Her voice was very sweet and pleasant; the nicest thing about her, except her feet and hands. But it was a very unmanageable gift, and it registered her emotions with unfailing accuracy. Missy might control her words, occasionally, but she could not control her voice, even occasionally. It was never shrill in anger, but it was tremulous and husky, and, in fine, angry. So now, when she answered her aunt that she had not seen the book, and did not know its name, and did not want to read it, the words were faultless, but the voice, alas, betrayed the want of harmony between aunt and niece. That Mr. Andrews had suspected since his earliest acquaintance with them.
"Oh, then, I won't keep it out for you," Miss Varian said blithely. "But, maybe you'd like Mr. Andrews to take back your Lecky; I heard you say at breakfast you had finished it. It wouldn't be much more trouble to take two than one, would it, Mr. Andrews?"
"Neither would be any trouble, but a great pleasure," said Mr. Andrews, civilly.
"Thank you; but there is no need to put it upon you. We have not left our books to chance bounty; the expressman is trusty, and takes them regularly."
"We sometimes have to wait three days!" cried Miss Varian, annoyed to have her errand look like a caprice.
"Well, I shall try to be more prompt than the expressman. Perhaps you'd better make out your list, that there may be no mistake."
"Missy, get a card, will you, and make out a list."
Missy again got up, after a moment's hesitation, looked in her desk, and got the card and pencil, and sat down as if waiting for further orders. In the meanwhile Goneril had come in, and was waiting, like a suppressed volcano, for information as to the cause of this repeated interruption of her evening's recreation. Miss Varian sent her for the book, and then said, "Missy, I wish you'd get the card."
"I have been waiting some time," said Missy.
"Well, then," said Miss Varian, pleasantly, "write out a list of Balzac, beginning with 'Les Petites Misèresde la Vie Conjugale'—translated, of course, forGoneril can hardly read English, let alone French. Ioughtto have a French maid."
"Surely," said Missy, "if you want to read Balzac."
"I do want to read him, every line," returned her aunt. "'Les Petites Misères.' Well, let me see—what else haven't I read of his?"
Missy paused with her pencil suspended over the paper after she had written the name. She disdained to prompt.
"Can't you think, Missy?" said her aunt sharply.
"I can't," said Missy, quietly.
"Well, you're not often so short of words, whatever may be the cause. Mr. Andrews, I beg you won't think ill of my niece's intelligence. She is generally able to express herself. You have read ever so many of Balzac's books aloud to me, you must know their names."
"I don't recall them at this moment," returned Missy, using her pencil to make a little fiend turning a somersault, on the margin of the evening paper which lay beside her.
"Can't you help me, Mr. Andrews," said Miss Varian, a little tartly.
"I, oh, certainly," said Mr. Andrews, recalling himself from what seemed a fit of absentmindedness. "Some of the names of Balzac's books. Let me see, 'César Birotteau,' 'Le Père Goriot'—"
"Oh, I don't mean those. I've read all those, of course. I'd like some of the—well, some of the ones I wouldn't have been likely to have read, you know. Missy, there was one you were so horrified about, but you were fascinated too. Can't you think what it was? It occurs to me I'd like to try it again. You're not generally so stupid, or so prudish, whichever it may be." Missy's lips grew tight; she made another little fiend on the paper, before she trusted herself to answer.
"Perhaps," she said, handing the card across the table to her aunt, "you had better leave it to Mr. Andrews and the librarian. Maybe between them they can find something that will please you."
"Well, Mr. Andrews, then I'llhaveto leave it to you. And if you bring me something that I have read before, it will be Missy's fault, and you'll have to hold her responsible for it."
"I hope I shall be able to suit you; but in any case, I have quite a lot of French books at the house, which are at your service."
"But, you see, my maid can't read French, and so I have to have translations."
"Oh, I forgot. Well, perhaps, Miss Rothermel, some of them might suit you, if you'd let me send them in to you."
"You are very kind," said Missy. "But I have my reading laid out for two months to come, and it would be impossible for me to take up anything more."
Mr. Andrews bowed, and got up to take his leave. Miss Varian gave him the card and her hand too, and said an effusive and very neighborly good-night. Missy half rose, and bent her head, but did not offer to put out her hand.
"The caprices and the tempers of women," he thought, as he went home under the big trees and looked back at the friendly or unfriendly lights gleaming from the library window. "Their caprices and their tempers and their tongues!"
Nevertheless, he found himself speculating upon which of Balzac's books Missy had been fascinated with and horrified about. He did not like to think of her as reading Balzac, and being ashamed to own ittoo. He always thought of her as a "severe little lady;" she seemed to him, with all her caprice and temper, and even her sharp tongue, as the embodiment of all the domestic virtues. He had liked her face that day she came out of church, with her blind aunt on her arm, and little Jay close at her side; surely she was a good woman, if there were good women in the world. Nevertheless (as he lit his cigar), he could have wished she had a better sense of justice, and did not vent on him the anger engendered by the faults of others.
The next evening promptly upon the arrival of the carriage from the train, Eliza and Jay brought over "Les Petites Misères," and another of Balzac for Miss Varian from the library, and the last "Saturday Review," "Revue des Deux Mondes" and "Punch" for Miss Rothermel. Missy would not even take them off the table where her aunt had laid them down. She considered it quite humbling that he could not understand his literature had been refused. She had quite prided herself on the decision with which she had nipped in the bud that neighborliness, and here he was persistently blooming out into politeness again.
"This shall be put an end to forever," she thought. "They shall go back with their leaves uncut to-morrow, and that he cannot misconstrue."
FIRE AND SWORD.