EEvery day of that week Missy walked about as in a dream, and with a single thought in her mind. When and how should she meet Mr. Andrews, and was there any possible hope to be built upon the meeting? A hundred times, to be more accurate, a thousand times, she went over the scene; she made her confession, she entreated his pardon, she felt the joy of perfect understanding and confidence. She met him by the sea—on the cliffs—in the garden—in the library—at church—by the roadside—sometimes it was alone—sometimes there were others in the way. Ah! who does not know what ingenuity fancy has to multiply those interviews? How between troubled moments of sleep one goes through scene after scene of the ensnaring drama; underscored, obliterated, blotted, incessantly altering time and place—but through all walking and speaking the two, beside whom all other created souls are shadows? Who does not know the eloquence, the passion, the transport? Who has not burned with shame at the poor reality; the blundering words, if they ever come to be spoken; the miserable contradiction of Fate, if the interview ever comes about?
Every day of that week Missy walked about as in a dream, and with a single thought in her mind. When and how should she meet Mr. Andrews, and was there any possible hope to be built upon the meeting? A hundred times, to be more accurate, a thousand times, she went over the scene; she made her confession, she entreated his pardon, she felt the joy of perfect understanding and confidence. She met him by the sea—on the cliffs—in the garden—in the library—at church—by the roadside—sometimes it was alone—sometimes there were others in the way. Ah! who does not know what ingenuity fancy has to multiply those interviews? How between troubled moments of sleep one goes through scene after scene of the ensnaring drama; underscored, obliterated, blotted, incessantly altering time and place—but through all walking and speaking the two, beside whom all other created souls are shadows? Who does not know the eloquence, the passion, the transport? Who has not burned with shame at the poor reality; the blundering words, if they ever come to be spoken; the miserable contradiction of Fate, if the interview ever comes about?
There were but six days and nights for Missy to dream and hope about her reprieve, and she employed them well. She was white and languid-looking in the morning, but from the first sound of the knocker, thefirst step heard upon the walk outside, a spot of color burned in her cheeks, and a strange glow shone from her light eyes. She was absent-minded, imperious, impatient. She was living upon a chance, the throw of a dice, and she couldn't say her prayers. She wanted to be let alone, and she hated even her mother when she interfered with this desire.
The six days had worn themselves away to one, uneventful, save for the blotted score of Missy's dreams. This day must bring some event, some occurrence, good or bad. It was impossible that Mr. Andrews would go away and offer such a disrespect to, at all events, her mother, as not to come and say good-bye. It was a fixed fact in her mind that he would come. She dressed for it, she waited for it, she counted off the moments, one by one. Not a motion of wind in the trees missed her ears, not a carriage rolled along the road, nor a step crossed the lawn that she did not hear.
At last, in the afternoon, there came some steps up from the gate. A group under the trees; for a moment she could not discern them, but presently she saw he was not with them. There came the two ladies, with Jay and Gabrielle, Flora and the latter laughing and romping, and apparently trying to get themselves quieted down before entering the house of their stiff-necked neighbors. Missy came down stairs to find them talking with her mother in the parlor. Flora was in brilliant spirits, the prospect of "dear Europe" again, she said, had quite upset her. Mrs. Eustace was rather overbearing, and less suave and conciliatory than usual. She found herself so near "dear Europe" and a settlement for Flora, that she could afford to be natural for once. She fastened herself upon Mrs. Varian, and was sufficiently disagreeable to cause even that languid lady to wish the visit over. Flora, sweet young thing, stood to her guns manfully till the very last minute, and made Missy's cheeks burn and her eyes glow. Though she knew she had given her whatever success she would ever have, and had played into her hand, and thrown up her own game in a pet, she could not hear her calmly.
"We are all so eager to get off," she said. "I was telling the Olors they mustn't think it uncomplimentary to Yellowcoats, though it does sound so! I have had alovelytime. I never shall forget it! A beatific summer! And mamma has enjoyed it, too, though she has had a great deal of care and worry getting things into shape after those dreadful servants that we found there. But poor Mr. Andrews has had such a horrid time ever since he took the place that I think he fairly longs to get away, and never see it again. 'Thank heaven, it's the last day of it!' he said this morning, poor dear man, with such an emphasis."
"Papa meant the hall stove," said Gabrielle, in an insinuating little voice. "Because it smoked so dreadfully."
This took Flora aback for a moment; she choked as if somebody had hold of her throat, then, with a sweet smile to Gabrielle, "Very likely he said it about the hall stove too, dear," she said, and putting her arms around the engaging child's waist, went on to ask Miss Rothermel if they meant to spend the winter in the country.
Miss Rothermel thought it probable, though it was not quite determined.
"How dreary!" exclaimed Miss Eustace. "Itpasses me to understand how you can exist. I suppose, though, one doesn't mind it so much as one gets—I mean—that is—as mamma says—at my age—" And she stopped with a pretty naïve embarrassment, which was surprisingly well done. She recovered from it to say:
"And Mr. Andrews tells us you aresodomestic. He thinks he didn't see you once all winter long."
"No," said Missy. "I don't remember seeing him at all, all winter. But the children came, and Jay was a great pleasure to me."
"Fancy," cried Flora, "being amused by a child to that extent. I dote on children, but oh, I dote on other things too. Mr. Andrews thinks he will settle us at Florence, and if he finds a satisfactory governess, we shall be free to leave the children, and he will take us to Rome, and Naples, and there is a talk of Spain. Oh, we spend all our leisure hours in mapping out excursions. I tell mamma it is like the Arabian Nights. I have only to wish a thing, and it comes. Mr. Andrews has such a way of ordering and carrying out what you want, and putting things through. Don't you think so?"
"I don't know," said Missy. "I never traveled with him and I can't judge."
"Well, I never did either, except on paper, and we've been around the world that way. But I mean in excursions, picnics, and sailing parties, and all that. You see he has kept us busy this summer, always planning something for us. I don't think there ever was anybody so good as Gabrielle's good papa!" cried the young lady, giving Gabrielle a little hug and a kiss.
Gabrielle received this attention in silence, shooting a penetrating glance across towards Missy. It is probable that this gifted child fully understood the position of affairs.
"But it seems dreadful to think of you here all winter," pursued Miss Eustace. "Nobody is going to stay, as far as I can hear. And I should think you'd be afraid, only you three ladies, and yours the only house open anywhere about. It was a sort of protection, last winter, when Mr. Andrews was here, even if you didn't see him."
"Yes, it was pleasant to feel the next house was inhabited. But I don't think there is anything to be afraid of."
"Suppose you had another fire. What a fright you must have had, Miss Rothermel! It must have been quite an experience. And so droll. I suppose there is always a droll side to things, if one has the ability to see it. Mr. Andrews has told me all about it. Don't you think he has a strong sense of humor, Miss Rothermel?"
Miss Flora's face expressed great amusement at the recollection of something connected with the fire. She repeated her question, which Missy had not answered.
"He is so very quiet, one wouldn't suspect him of it, but don't you think he has a keen sense of the ridiculous?"
"I have never thought of it," said Missy. "I should rather have said not. But of course you know him best."
"I've always threatened to ask you some questions about the fire," she continued, with merriment in her eyes. "But he made me promise not."
"Then I don't see that I can help you," Miss Rothermel said.
"I shall be anxious to know how you get out of the next fire, without Mr. Andrews here to see to it."
"I hope we sha'n't have another fire; but if we do, we shall miss Mr. Andrews, I am sure, for he was most kind in every way. But it is possible that we may not be alone; my brother may spend the winter with us; he is coming home this autumn."
"Your brother? Is it possible? That is the young—the young—monk, that I've heard them talking of."
"Yes."
"Oh, then I am almost sorry that we're going away. I had such a curiosity to see him. Probably you don't know, but I take the greatest interest in the Catholic movement."
"I certainly had not suspected it."
"Oh, dear Miss Rothermel, how sarcastically you said that. I find Mr. Andrews was right about that
"keen, sarcastic levity of tongue,The stinging of a heart the world hath stung."
"keen, sarcastic levity of tongue,The stinging of a heart the world hath stung."
"Papa said that about old Mr. Vanderveer; it wasn't about Missy," put in Gabrielle again, and this time she didn't get a kiss for it.
"You are a very pert little girl," said Flora, withdrawing her arm, "and would be the better for a year or two of boarding-school."
Gabrielle gave a frightened look at Missy, and dropped her eyes. At this moment Jay, on the other side of the room, pulled over a stand of flowers, and in consequence of the noise and alarm, began to cry.Missy ran to him, and putting her arms around him, whispered that he needn't care about the flowers, that if he'd give her a dear kiss and be her own little boy again, she'd like it better than all the flowers in America. This comforted him, and he consented to dry his eyes, and accompany her to the dining-room, to look for cake on a shelf which he knew of old. Missy did not hurry to take him back, and they had an old-time talk, and a great many kisses and promises. He was quite like himself when he was away from his cousins.
"You'll be a big boy when I see you again, Jay," she said, "and you'll have forgotten all about me when you come back from over the water."
"Why don't you go 'long with me, then," he said, with a voice rendered husky by cake.
"Oh, you've got your cousin Flora. I should think she was enough for any little boy."
"She can go to boarding-school with Gabby," said Jay, settling himself closer into Missy's lap, and taking another piece of cake. Missy laughed at this disposition of the triumphant young lady in the other room.
"I don't know what she'd say to that, nor papa either," she added, in a lower tone.
"Papa wouldn't mind. Papa's a man, and he can do anything he wants to. You can come with us, and you can ride my pony that I'm going to have, and papa can drive you with his horses, like he did that day."
"Ah, Jay, that would be nice indeed, only I'm afraid Gabby and the two cousins wouldn't agree to it."
"I'd make 'em," said Jay. "Papa's going to buy me a little pistol, and I'd shoot 'em if they didn't."
In such happy confidences the minutes slipped away. Presently the voice of Flora called Jay from the hall, and, recalled to civility, Missy took him by the hand and went back. She found them all standing up, preparing to take leave.
"I am sorry to hurry you, Jay, but we must go."
"Won't you please leave Jay to spend the afternoon with me?" asked Missy. "I will send him safely back at whatever hour you say."
"That would be very pleasant," said Mrs. Eustace, "but Mr. Andrews is going to take us for a drive, and charged us to be back at four o'clock, to go with him. He has been hurrying all the morning to get through with everything, so that he might be at liberty to take this drive, which is a sort of farewell to Yellowcoats. He seemed to want to have the children go, though I am afraid we shall be rather late getting back for them. We take the early train in the morning, but I believe everything is in readiness for the start. You may imagine I have had my hands full, Mrs. Varian."
Mrs. Varian expressed her sympathy, the good-byes were said, Missy held Jay tight in her arms, and kissed his little hands when she loosened them from her own, and watched the group from the piazza as they walked away.
Then he was not coming this afternoon. He preferred a drive with these ladies, to coming here. No, she did not believe it was any pleasure to him to go with them. He had his own reasons. She would rest upon the belief that he would come in the evening.
The afternoon was fine and clear, with a touch ofautumn in the air. She longed to be alone and to be free—so, telling no one of her intention, she wandered away along the beach and was gone till after six o'clock. The short day was ended and dusk had already fallen. She was little tired by her long walk, but soothed by the solitude, and braced by the thought of what evening would surely bring her.
The lamp was newly lighted at one end of the hall, and was burning dimly. As she passed up the stairs, her eye fell on some small cards on the dark table near the door. With a sudden misgiving, she went back, and picking them up, went over to the lamp to read them. They were three cards of "Mr. James Andrews," with p.p.c. in the corner.
I don't know exactly what Missy thought or felt when she read them. She stood a few minutes in a stupid sort of state. Then, the drive had been a fable, and the hand of fate was against her. The precious opportunity was lost, while she was wandering aimlessly along the beach, saying over and over to herself, the words that now never would be spoken. She had tossed away from her her one chance, as she had tossed pebbles into the water while she walked that afternoon. She had felt so secure, she had been so calm. Now all was over, and the days and nights that had been given to this meeting were days and nights that mocked her when she thought of them. How she had been cheated! She realized fully that the chance was gone. She knew that months of separation, just as they were situated, would have been enough to make a renewal of friendship impossible, and here were years coming in between them. No, the only moment that she could have spoken would have been while therecollection of what he had said to her the other day upon the lawn, was fresh in both their minds. Perhaps, already, it was too late to revive any feeling for her; but at least, she could have tried. She hadn't any pride left. At least, she thought she hadn't, till, in her own room, she found herself writing to him. Then, when she saw the thing in black and white, she found she had still a little pride, or perhaps, only a sense of decency. Here was a man who hadn't talked to her about love, who hadn't said anything that anybody mightn't have said about an ordinary friendship. She knew quite well that he meant more, but he hadn't said more, and by that she must abide. So she tore her letter up; ah, the misery of it all. She bathed her eyes and smoothed her hair, and went stonily down to tea when the bell rang. When the tea bell rings, if the death-knell of your happiness hasn't done tolling, you hear it, more's the marvel.
The monotonies of Mrs. Smatter and the asperities of Miss Varian for once roused little opposition. Missy had a fevered sense of oppression from their presence, but she was too full of other thoughts to heed them. After tea there was something to be done for her mother, who was ill from the strain of the afternoon's visitors, and two or three persons on business had to be attended to. She felt as if she had begun a dreadful round of heartless work that would last all her life.
When at last she was free from these occupations she threw a cloak around her shoulders and went out on the piazza. The night was dark and still, and as she listened she could hear voices and sounds from the other house—a door close, a window put down, a callto a dog, the rattle of his chain. Then she heard the shrill whistle, which she knew was the summons for the man from the stable, and after a few moments she heard Mr. Andrews' voice on the piazza.
With an impulse that she made no attempt to resist, she went down the steps and ran quickly across the lawn, and, standing behind the gate, under the heavy shadow of the trees, strained her eyes through the darkness, and gazed over toward the next house. Mr. Andrews was talking with the man, who presently went away, and then he walked up and down on the piazza slowly; it was easy to hear his regular tread upon the boards, and to see a dark figure cross the lighted windows. That was as near as he would ever be to her again, perhaps.
After a few moments he came down the steps, walked slowly along the path, and stood leaning against the gate. She could see the spark of his cigar. They were not two hundred feet apart. If she had spoken in her ordinary tone, he could have heard her; the stillness of the night was unusual. There was no breeze, no rustle of the leaves overhead; no one was moving, apparently, at either house—no one passing along the road. Her heart beat so violently she put both hands over it to smother the sound. Why should she not speak? It was her last chance, her very last. If the night had not been so dark, she might have spoken. If the stars had been shining, or moonlight had made it possible for them to see each other, if the hour had been earlier, if there had been any issue but one, from the speaking—if, in fact, it were not what it was, to speak, she might have spoken.
The minutes passed—how long, and yet how swift,they were in passing. She had made no decision in her own mind what to do; she meant to speak, and yet something in her held her back from speaking. There are some things we do without thought, they do themselves without any help from us, and so this thing was done, and a great moment in two lives was lost—or gained perhaps, who knows? She stood spell-bound as she saw the tiny spark of light waver, then, tossed away, drop down and go out in the damp grass. Then she heard him turn and go slowly towards the house—always slowly, she could have spoken a hundred times before he reached the piazza steps. Then he took a turn or two up and down the piazza, and then, opening the front door, went in, shutting it behind him.
It was not till that door shut, that Missy realized what had come to pass in her life, and what she had done, or left undone. A great blankness and dreariness settled down upon her with an instant pall. She did not blame herself—she could not have spoken, no woman of her make could have spoken. She did not blame herself, but she blamed her fate, that put her where she stood, that made her as she was. An angry rebellion slowly awoke within her. It is safer to blame yourself than to blame fate. Poor Missy took the unsafest way, and went into the house, hardening her heart, and resisting the destiny that lay before her.
SHUT AND BARRED.
TThe destiny that lay before her was a little harder than even she knew, when she went into the hall that night, throwing off the damp cloak that she had worn, and mechanically walking to the fire in the library to warm herself, after her half-hour in the chilly night air. She thought she knew how dull and hateful her life was to be, how lonely, how uneventful. She was still young—twenty-nine is young when you are twenty-nine, not, of course, when you are seventeen. She had just found out what it is, to have life full and intense in emotion and interest, and now she was turned back into the old path that had seemed good enough before, when she did not know any better one. But still, with resolute courage, she said to herself, her mother, and duty, and study, and health, and money, might do something for her yet, and, after a year or two of bitterness, restore her to content and usefulness.
The destiny that lay before her was a little harder than even she knew, when she went into the hall that night, throwing off the damp cloak that she had worn, and mechanically walking to the fire in the library to warm herself, after her half-hour in the chilly night air. She thought she knew how dull and hateful her life was to be, how lonely, how uneventful. She was still young—twenty-nine is young when you are twenty-nine, not, of course, when you are seventeen. She had just found out what it is, to have life full and intense in emotion and interest, and now she was turned back into the old path that had seemed good enough before, when she did not know any better one. But still, with resolute courage, she said to herself, her mother, and duty, and study, and health, and money, might do something for her yet, and, after a year or two of bitterness, restore her to content and usefulness.
These things she said to herself, not on that first night of pain, but the next day, when she walked past the shut-up house, and wondered, under the cold gray sky, at the strength of the emotion that had filled her as she had watched, through the darkness, the glimmer of the cigar spark by the gate. Thank heaven, she hadn't spoken! She knew just as well now what she had lost, as then, but daylight, and east wind, level values inevitably. It was all worth less—living and dying, love and loneliness. She could bear what she had chosen, she hadn't any doubt.
How gloomy the day was! Raw and chill, and yet not cold enough to brace the nerves. The gate stood ajar. Missy pushed through it, and walked down the path. Some straw littered the piazza steps; an empty paper box lay on the grass. The windows were all closed. Only the dog, still chained to his kennel, howled her a dismal welcome. He was to go, probably, to some new home that day. Well, Missy thought bitterly, he will at least have novelty to divert him.
She didn't go on the piazza; she remembered, with a sense of shame, the last time she had crossed that threshold, saying it should be the last time. What a tempest of jealousy and anger had been in her heart! Oh, the folly of it (not to say the sin of it). How she had been conquered by those two women (not to say the enemy of souls). She could see it all so clearly now. Every word and look and gesture of Mr. Andrews took a different meaning, now she was in her senses. That dinner had been his last hope, his last attempt to conciliate her. She had repulsed him more sharply than ever that night, stung as she was by the insults of her two rivals. After that, he had made his plans to go away and end the matter. Miss Flora might thank her for "dear Europe," this time.
But poor little Jay, what had he to thank her for? Ah! that gave her heart a pinch to think of. Poor little Jay might set down as the sum of his gratitude to her, a miserable youth, a mercenary rule at home, deceit and worldliness, low aims, and selfishness, that would drive him shelterless into the world to find his pleasure there. For Missy never doubted that Florawould gain her end. She knew Mr. Andrews was not clever enough to stand out very long. "He's just the sort of man," she said to herself, "to be married by somebody who is persistent. He doesn't know women well enough to stand out against them. He will give in for the children's sake, he won't care for his own. And he will spend a life of homeless wretchedness, silent and stolid, protecting the woman who is cheating him, laboring for the children who will disappoint him. Ah! my little Jay, forgive me," she cried, stooping and picking up a broken whip of his that lay in the grass beside the path.
Everybody makes mistakes, but it isn't often given to any one to make such a wholesale one as this. We must be charitable to Missy if she was bitter and gloomy that dark morning. She wandered about the paths for a little while longer, then, picking a few artemesias that grew close up by the house, she turned to go away. At the gate she met a boy with a yellow envelope in his hand. He was just going to her house, he explained, presenting the envelope. It was a telegram, and Missy opened it hastily.
"It is all right," she said, giving him the money, and putting the paper in her pocket. We are apt to be very selfish when we are miserable, and Missy's first thought on reading the message was a selfish one. The message was from her brother. He had just landed, and would be at home that evening. She did not think of the joy it would be to her mother, of the joy it might have been to her; she only thought, "Thank Heaven, this will give me something else to think of for a little while." She was quite bent upon curingherself, even at this early date; but with the supreme selfishness of great disappointment, she thought of nothing but as it influenced her trouble.
AMICE ASCENDE SUPERIUS.
SSt. John's coming did not prove much help to her. It separated her from her mother, and gave her a more lonely feeling even than before. She was further off than ever from sympathy with them. She was smarting over the loss of what they were giving up. Their lives looked heavenward, hers, she did not disguise it from herself, looked, earthward, and earthward only. Their exalted faith had upon her simply the effect of depressing her own. She had a supreme estimate of common sense. She quite made it her rule of life just now. Whatever was opposed to it, she was ready to condemn; and, it must be admitted, there was a good deal in the lives of St. John and his mother that did not bear its stamp. Tried by its standard alone, in fact, it would have been difficult to find two people who were wasting their time more utterly. This Missy was not backward in saying to herself, and in suggesting to them, as far as she dared. That was not very far, for there was something about St. John that prevented people from taking liberties with him. His reality, sincerity, and simplicity of aim commanded the respect that his humility never claimed. No one felt it possible to remonstrate withhim, however much inclined to blame. Dignity would have been his last aspiration, rather his abhorrence; but his self-less-ness answered pretty much the same purpose. The thing we are most apt to resent in others is personal claim to—anything. When a man claims nothing, and has given himself away, we can't quarrel with him, however poor a bargain we may consider he has made. Neither was it possible to pity St. John, or to feel contempt for him. The natural force of his character forbade that, and (those who sympathized with him would say) the grandeur of his purpose.
St. John's coming did not prove much help to her. It separated her from her mother, and gave her a more lonely feeling even than before. She was further off than ever from sympathy with them. She was smarting over the loss of what they were giving up. Their lives looked heavenward, hers, she did not disguise it from herself, looked, earthward, and earthward only. Their exalted faith had upon her simply the effect of depressing her own. She had a supreme estimate of common sense. She quite made it her rule of life just now. Whatever was opposed to it, she was ready to condemn; and, it must be admitted, there was a good deal in the lives of St. John and his mother that did not bear its stamp. Tried by its standard alone, in fact, it would have been difficult to find two people who were wasting their time more utterly. This Missy was not backward in saying to herself, and in suggesting to them, as far as she dared. That was not very far, for there was something about St. John that prevented people from taking liberties with him. His reality, sincerity, and simplicity of aim commanded the respect that his humility never claimed. No one felt it possible to remonstrate withhim, however much inclined to blame. Dignity would have been his last aspiration, rather his abhorrence; but his self-less-ness answered pretty much the same purpose. The thing we are most apt to resent in others is personal claim to—anything. When a man claims nothing, and has given himself away, we can't quarrel with him, however poor a bargain we may consider he has made. Neither was it possible to pity St. John, or to feel contempt for him. The natural force of his character forbade that, and (those who sympathized with him would say) the grandeur of his purpose.
So it was that his aunt fretted and scolded about him to his mother, and made her life a burden to her, but in his presence was quite silent about the matter of his vocation, and much more agreeable and well behaved than in anybody else's presence. And Mrs. Hazard Smatter was quite unable to ask him questions or to gain information from him. Very soon after his arrival, oppressed no doubt by the mediæval murkiness of the atmosphere, and the unfamiliarity of the situation, she quietly gathered up her notes and queries and prepared to wing her way to more speculative regions and a freer air. Even Goneril's tongue was tame when he was by, though she beat and brushed and shook his black habit as if it were the Pope, and harangued about the Inquisition to her fellow-servants by the hour together.
This same black habit was a great snare to Missy. She always spoke of it to her mother as "his costume," as if it had come from Worth's; and it was a good many days before she could be resigned to his walkingthrough the village. She even importuned her mother to beg him to give it up during his visit home.
"In the name of common sense, mamma," she exclaimed, "why need he disedify these country people, over whom he has some influence, by this puerile affectation? What virtue is there in that extra yard or two of cloth? He could save souls in a pea-jacket, I should think, if he were in earnest in the matter."
It was rather hard on Mrs. Varian to have to bear all these criticisms. That she had to bear them came of her natural sweetness and softness, which led every one, beginning with Missy, to dictate to her. But there was something even harder than this, that fell to her share of the oblation. She had to tell Missy of something very bitter, and to endeavor to reconcile her to it. She had prepared herself for it, in many silent hours, but it is hard, always, to give pain, harder, to some natures, than to bear it.
It was one evening, when Missy came to her room for her good-night kiss, that she chose. St. John had gone away to be gone two or three days, and it is probable that the hour had been settled upon for a long while. But prepared as she was, there was a tremble in her voice when she said:
"Come and sit down by me for a little while. I have something to say to you," that made Missy feel, with a sharp tightening across her heart, that there was something painful coming.
She sat down where the light of the lamp did not fall upon her and said, with a forced calmness, as she bent forward to do something to the fire,
"Well, mamma, what is it? If you have anything to say to me, of course it must be nice."
"You don't always think so, I'm afraid, my child," said her mother, with a sigh. "I wish that I might never have anything to tell you that did not give you pleasure."
"Which is equivalent to telling me you have something to tell me that will give me pain. Pray don't mind it. I ought to be used to hearing things I don't like by this time, don't you think I ought?"
"Most of us have to hear things that are painful, more or less often in our lives—and change is almost always painful to natures like yours, Missy."
"Oh, as to that, sometimes I have felt, lately, that change would be more acceptable than anything. So don't be afraid. Perhaps you will find it will be good news, after all."
"I earnestly wish so. Of this I am confident, one day you will feel it was what was best, whether it gave you pain or not at first."
"Proceed, mamma, proceed! If there is anything that rasps my nerves it is to see the knife gleaming about in the folds of your dress, while I see you are trying to hide it, and I am doubtful which part of me is doomed to the stroke. Anything but suspense. What is it, who is it this time? We don't slay the slain, so it can't be St. John. You are not going to ask me to mourn him again?"
"No, Missy, and I am not going to ask you to mourn at all."
"Oh, excuse me. But you know I will mourn, being so blinded and carnal. Mamma, let me have it in plain English. What sacrifice am I to be called upon to make now? Is it you, or my home, or what?"
"Both, my child, if you will put it so—I cannot make it easy."
Missy started to her feet, and stood very pale beside her mother's sofa.
"You have shown so little sympathy with St. John's plans, that I have been unable to ask you to share in their discussion, as day after day they have matured. You know the house belongs to him, he has given up all—you can see what it involves."
"I see, and his mother is to be turned out of house and home, to satisfy his ultra piety."
"Missy, let me speak quickly, and have done. I cannot bear this any better than you. It is impossible for me to give myself up as St. John has given himself. I have no longer youth and health to offer. But there is one thing I can do, and that is not to stand in his way—and another. Hear me patiently, Missy; I know it will be pain to you; I am going to identify myself with his work in a certain way."
"You! What am I hearing? Are you going to India, to Africa?—I am prepared for anything."
"No, Missy. Your brother's India is very near at hand. His order are establishing a house in one of the worst parts of the city. Next to the church which they have bought—"
"With his money," interpolated Missy.
"With his money, if you choose; next to the church which they have bought—there is a house which I am going to buy. It may be the starting point for the work of a sisterhood, it may be a refuge, a shelter for whoever needs refuge or shelter. It is given—its uses will be shown if God accepts it."
"And you?" said Missy, in a smothered voice, standing still and white-faced before her.
"And I—am going to live there, Missy, and do the work that God appoints me, or bear the inaction that He deems to be my part. It is a poor offering and no sacrifice, for it is the life I crave. Only as to the suffering I lay on you, I shrink from. God knows, if you could only sympathise with me and go too—what a weight would be lifted off my heart;—but I feel I cannot hope for that. It is always open to you, and I shall always pray that it may come to pass, and we shall not really be separated so very much. I shall not, perhaps, be bound by any rule, and if my health suffers or if you need me ever, I shall always be free to come to you—"
"Let me understand," said Missy, in an unnatural voice, sitting down upon the nearest chair. "You go too fast for me. Where am I to be, when you are to feel free to come to me? This house is no longer to be our home, you say. What is to be my home? What plans, if any, have you made for me? Don't go any further, please, till I comprehend the situation of things a little better. This staggers me, and I—don't know exactly what it all means."
She put her hands before her face for a moment, but then quickly withdrew them and folding them in her lap, sat silent till her mother spoke.
"The house was inevitable, of course I always knew that—and St. John is now of age. I do not know whether you had thought of it, I supposed you had."
"It never had occurred to me. I had forgotten that the house was left to him."
"And our united income, Missy, yours and mine,would have been seriously crippled if we had attempted to buy it from him, and to keep it up. This is an expensive place, and it would make you unhappy to see it less well kept than formerly. Even if—if I had not resolved upon this step for myself, it would scarcely have been possible to have remained here, at least, as we have been. This has been a great care and anxiety to me for many months. It would have been a great relief to me to have spoken to you, but your want of sympathy in St. John's work, made it impossible for me to talk to you about it. It has seemed so to St. John and me—we have given it much anxious thought—that the income from your father's property which I have settled all on you, is ample for your maintenance any where you choose to live. But—to me it has seemed a good plan, that you should take the old Roncevalle house across the way, with Aunt Harriet, and live there. It is vacant now you know, it is comfortable, the rent is low—"
Missy's eyes gave forth a sudden glow of light; she started to her feet, but then sank back upon her chair again.
"Mamma, that is too much—that is more than I can stand. The home is to be broken up—my whole life is to be laid waste. I am no longer set in a family—I am adrift—I am motherless and homeless—but that is not what I complain of. I only ask, why am I to take up the unpleasantest duty of your life? Why am I to be burdened with a blind, infirm and hateful woman who is in no way related to me by ties of blood or of affection? A beautiful home you have mapped out for me! An enchanting future! It seems to me you must think better of me than I haveever been led to believe you did, if you think me capable of such self-sacrifice."
"It is for you to take it up or lay it down as suits you, Missy. If Harriet will come with me, you know she will have a home and all the care that I can give her. But you can see that it is of no use to make such a proposition now. When she is older and more broken, she may be glad of the refuge we can give her, but now it would be in vain to think of it. And you, oh my child, do not be unkind when you think of what I have done. Reflect that I have given you my life, for all these many years. All that I have had has been yours, all that I have would still be yours, if you would share it in the consecrated retirement to which I now feel called. It would be the dearest wish of my heart fulfilled, if I could have you with me there. There would be scope for your energy, for all your talents, in the work that lies before us. But, I know I must not dream of this till you see things differently."
"No," said Missy, in a cold, hard tone. "You have one child, with whom your sympathy is perfect. He must suffice. Live for him now; I have had my share, no doubt."
"Missy! do not break my heart; I am not going to live for St. John. I am not going away from you for any human companionship. How can I talk to you? How explain what I feel, when you will not, cannot understand?"
"No, I cannot understand," cried Missy, with a sudden burst of tears. "Oh mother, mother, how can you go away from me? How can you leave me in thisfrightful loneliness? I am not to you what you are to me or you would never do it."
"Missy, you could have done it. I have not read your face in vain for these last few weeks. You could have done it, and you would. I cannot make a comparison between the affection that would have satisfied you to leave me—and the—the feeling of my heart that draws me out of the world into stillness, retreat, consecration. I cannot explain, cannot talk of it. If you do not understand, you cannot. It is no sacrifice, except the being separated from you—that will be the pain hidden in my joy, as it would have been the pain hidden in your joy if you had married. The pain would not have killed the joy, nor made you give it up. This is not the enthusiasm of a moment, Missy. It is what has come of long, long years of silence and of thought. A way has opened, beyond my hopes—possibilities of acceptance—of advance. There is a great work to be done: I must not hold it back from humility, from timidity. It seems so unspeakable a bliss that I—stranded—useless—wrecked—should be made a part of anything given to the glory of God. I daily fear it may be presumption to dream of such a thing, and that I shall be rebuked and checked. But even if I am, my offering is made—all—for Him to take or leave. All! ah, poor and miserable all, 'the dregs of a polluted life!' Would that from the first moment that I drew my breath my soul had reached up to Him with its every affection—with its every aspiration! Oh 'that I might love Him as well as ever any creature loved Him!' That patience and penitence might win Him to forget the wasted past, and restore the blighted years that are gone from me!"
She hid her face in her hands, and Missy, sinking down on the floor beside her, cried out, with tears:
"Why cannot you serve Him and love Him here as you have always done, all your good and holy life! Why can't you worship Him in the old way, and be satisfied with doing your duty in your own home, and staying with those who need you, and whom He has given you to love and care for! Oh, mamma, this is some great and terrible mistake. Think before it is too late!"
"Listen, Missy," she said, after a few moments; her brief emotion passed. "Listen, and these are words of truth and soberness. I am useless here. There is a possibilitythereI might be of some humble service. You are more capable of managing and directing in every day matters than I ever was. You are no longer a young girl. I leave you with conventional propriety, for your Aunt Harriet is all that is requisite before the world. If you make it a question of family duty, St. John is many years younger than you, and may need me more. The home here is expensive, luxurious. The money is wanted for the saving of the souls and bodies of Christ's poor. To me there seems no question. I wish there might not be to you. If it were a matter of the cloister, I might waver, it is possible. I am not permitted to go that length in my oblation. I am now only separating myself from you by the length of time that you choose to stay away from me. In a house such as this is designed to be, you could always have your place, your share of work and interest. We shall win you to it, dear child; when you see what it is, your prejudice will wear away."
"Prejudice!" cried Missy, passionately. "What is not prejudice? Yours and St. John's have cost me dear. Oh, mamma, how could you have had such an alien child? Why must we see everything in such a different light? You and St. John are always of one mind. I am shut out from you by such a wall. I am so lonely, so wretched, and perhaps you can't understand enough to pity me. Oh, mamma, you are all I have in the world! Don't go away and leave me! Don't break up this home, which must be dear to you; don't turn away from what your heart says always. It can't be wrong to love your home, it can't be wrong to be sorry for your child. Oh, what misery is come upon me! Mamma, mamma, you will kill me if you go away! You must not, cannot, shall not go!"
From such scenes as this, it is better, perhaps, to turn away. When men are not of one mind in a house, how sore the strife it brings—how long and bitter the struggle when love is wrestling with love, but when self is mixed up in the war. It was a longer and crueller struggle than she had foreseen. Missy could see no light in the future, and grew no nearer being reconciled. Day after day passed, scene after scene of wretchedness, alternate pleading and reproaching, reasoning and rebellion. From St. John, Missy could not bear a word. She refused to treat with him, but threw herself upon her mother. Those were dark and troubled days. St. John looked a little paler than usual; the mother was worn and tortured, but gave no sign of relenting. A gentle, pliant nature seems sometimes more firm for such an assault as this. At last, all discussion of it was given up; Missy, hardening herself, went about the house cold-eyed, imperious,impatient. St. John was absent much of the time—Miss Varian had not yet been informed what was in store for her; all tacitly put off that very evil day.
Meanwhile the preparations for the change went quietly on. The old Roncevalle house was one that belonged to the Varians; having been bought by Mr. Varian in those lordly days, when laying field to field, and house to house, seems the natural outlet of egotism and youth. Felix Varian, young and used to success, had the aspirations of most young and wealthy men. He proposed in the first flush of satisfaction in his home, to make it a fine estate, worthy of his name and of the yellow-haired baby, who had now grown up to wear a black habit and a girdle round his waist. He bought right and left, and made some rather unprofitable purchases. His early death left matters somewhat involved, but yet, when all was settled up, the Varians were still a wealthy family, and the young heir had a good deal to take with him to his work in that dirty down-town street, of which Missy thought with such loathing and contempt, and he with such fervor of hope. Missy's father had had a comfortable little property, which had been thriftily managed, and this was now to be hers exclusively. It was by no means a princely settlement, but it was quite as much as an unmarried woman needed to live comfortably upon, and she felt that her mother had done quite right in not offering her a cent of the Varian money, which she never would have touched. She had hated her stepfather fervently as a child; now she felt strangely drawn to him, and as if they had a common injury. How he would have scorned this infatuation, and resented this appropriation of his gorgeous and luxurious gold.
The Roncevalle house had always been kept in order, and rented furnished. It was a comfortable looking house, standing close to the street, with a broad piazza, and having a pretty view of the bay. It was very well—but oh! as a home, coming after the one she had grown up in! Poor Missy loathed it. She had made it part of her capable management of things to keep this house furnished from the overflow of their own. It was a family joke that this was the hospital for disabled and repaired furniture, the retreat to which things out of style and undesirable were committed. If a new carpet were coveted at home, it was so good an excuse to say the Roncevalle carpets needed renovating, and it was best to put the new ones on the floors at home. When Missy's dainty taste tired of a lamp or a piece of china, it was ordered over to the Roncevalle. It may be imagined with what feelings she contemplated living over those discarded carpets, eating her dinner off that condemned china, being mistress of that third-rate house.
But to do her justice, this formed a very small part of her trial. She was of a nature averse to change, firm in its attachments. To give up her home would have been heart-breaking, even though she should still have had the companionship of her mother. But when that was broken, and the whole face of her life changed, it seemed to her, indeed, a bitter fate. She could see no righteousness in it, no excuse, no palliation. She felt sure that it was but the beginning of the end, and that her mother could but a short time survive the fanatical sacrifice she had made. Sheimagined her in the reeking, filthy streets of midsummer, surrounded by detestable noises and sights, without the comforts to which she was accustomed.
"Nothing prevents my coming to you, if I am ill," said her mother. "And, Missy, if I can live throughthis, I can endure anything, I think."
THE BROOK IN THE WAY.