And Lily answered "Yes" to her grandfather, but did not look at Mr. Thornton, not even when he said "that he would call for her at four, and would she please have some cut flowers ready for him?" Then he said "Good-night!" and went.
It was not a very good night for her, though. She went over and over that strange evening. How happy and how miserable it had been! He probably meant nothing, after all, but a joke, and her foolish vanity had made so much of it; but then, he looked so much more than he said. What right had he to do that? Was he, after all, nothing but a trifler?
And what if she were mistaken, and he had no friend of the sort she had imagined? Ah! That thought made her heart stand still when she remembered the words he had but just spoken, the grave, tender tones, and earnest looks. But there were the white violets, and he had said she was like them—this friend.
She was ready punctually when the carriage came, with a bouquet she had prepared for the old lady and the flowers he had ordered. The talk on the way did not extend beyond the beauty of the day and the objects they happened to pass. Arriving at the "Old Ladies' Home," they were at once taken to the room of the invalid.
Aunt Phœbe, as all her friends called her, had a calm, pleasant face, with gray hair parted beneath a white muslin cap, and eyes that did not seem to belong to a sick person, they were such cheerful, satisfied eyes. She had given her best days to Christian service, and "had now sat down to rest a bit before she went home," she said. Her face broke into a smile at sight of Mr. Thornton, as if he were a welcome visitor.
"Aunt Phœbe," he said, "I have brought you my friend, Miss Winthrop; Miss Winthrop, this is Aunt Phœbe—my friend."
"Are you feeling bright to-day?" he asked, putting into her hand—with as courtly grace as if she were a duchess—the bunch of white violets. As he did so, he bestowed on Lily one look that meant many words; then he left her free to do much thinking while he gave his attention entirely to Aunt Phœbe.
They talked of books and men and women and work. They spoke glad words to each other of Christ and Heaven, and Hope and Love. Somehow as Lily listened she found herself repeating, "I believe in the communion of saints."
They rose to go, and Lily bent forward and whispered a word of love as she put the roses and heliotrope in Aunt Phoebe's hand.
"Bless you! Dear child," whispered back the old lady. "I've known you this long time. You are a dear flower yourself. I've got more good in looking at your young face while you sat here, never speaking a word, than from some very long speeches." The last few words reached Mr. Thornton's ears, who said:
"That is a blow aimed at me," then taking up the basket of flowers, "Will you come with me, Miss Lily, and help me distribute my blessings?"
So they went, knocking at each old lady's door, leaving handfuls of flowers, and receiving in return benedictions. "But why did you not tell me?" Lily said, "and I would have made them into bouquets."
"Because they enjoy them best in this shape; they love to sort them over and arrange them as they please. Then some have favorite flowers, and I let them choose."
Here, then, was where the rare flowers went that Mr. Thornton purchased. How many revelations were being made!
On the way home Mr. Thornton gave the history of Aunt Phœbe, as well as that of "The Home," its organization, management, workings, etc., leaving nothing whatever for Lily to say, for which she was thankful.
He simply said "Good-night!" when he left her at her own door, and drove away, giving no sign that he ever expected to come back. He came, though, two hours afterward; he guessed where he should find her: in the greenhouse, by the lilies. He came over to her and asked,—
"How did you like my friend? Did she look as you expected her to?" The vision of his friend that her imagination had pictured came up before her in such ludicrous contrast to the reality that she laughed merrily, and Mr. Thornton joined it. There was no more talking in enigmas after that.
While the moonbeams fell upon their heads like a benediction, there were more revelations, as each read pages that no other eyes had looked upon. The tale was long, but the violets, nor the nodding roses, nor the lily bells ever breathed a word of it to anybody.
Weeks afterward it occurred to Lily to ask Mr. Thornton what the "H" in his name represented.
"Hathaway," he promptly responded, and immediately knew that his secret was out.
Lily and her grandfather exchanged wondering looks.
"Is it possible that you are—that you can tell me—who the friend is to whom I am so much indebted?" Mr. Winthrop said, his voice trembling with emotion.
"Thy Heavenly Friend," said Mr. Thornton reverently.
"MY AUNT KATHERINE."———
"IT is perfectly absurd that she should occupy the best room in the house. What difference can it possibly make to an old lady where she is, so she is comfortable? She ought to be thankful that you allow her to stay here at all."
This was said in an excited tone, by a tall, thin lady with thin lips and flashing, light blue eyes.
Her husband was a silent man, with a horror of discord. It had taken him but a short time to discover that the only means of avoiding it was to let his new wife have her own way, so he held his peace and looked out of the window, and the lady went on.
"If she had any delicacy, she would not wish to remain now that she has no possible claim upon you. There is the 'Old Lady's Home,' why could she not go there? It is a magnificent building, with beautiful rooms."
New wife though she was, she had overshot the mark this time. The tall silent man drew himself up two inches taller and answered sternly:—
"Laura, you are mistaken! My mother-in-law will always have a claim upon me. As long as I have a home she shall share it with me. What do you take me for? As if I would ever turn my Margaret's mother out upon charity! She is, besides, very dear to me for her own sake. She is a remarkable example of unselfishness, and that is a rare quality in this world."
There were two stings in this speech, which was a long one for Mr. Agnew. The selfish woman who heard it bit her lip in vexation, and all the jealousy in her nature rose up at the words "My Margaret"; jealous of that other wife who had been in her heavenly home for five years; whose husband, albeit, was more to be pitied now than when she first left him desolate; because he was that phenomenon—over which men and angels might weep—a true, noble man, joined for life to a selfish, heartless, coarse-grained woman, and that of his own deliberate choice. If some men should shut their eyes and marry the first woman they happened to open them on, they could not make more fatal mistakes than they do.
When Margaret Agnew selected this particular room for her mother it was because it was large and convenient and sunny; because one window looked off to distant hills, and another one to the busy street, while from another you stepped into the flower garden. It was, it is true, in many respects the best room in the house, and into it was gathered whatever of comfort and beauty the loving daughter could devise.
As soon as the second Mrs. Agnew stepped into the house she set covetous eyes on this room and resolved, to use her own elegant language,—"that she would oust the old lady from that."
Whatever such women resolve to have, they usually get. After the rebuff on the part of her husband she did not again approach him on the subject, but planned the attack differently. By means of hints and disagreeable thrusts she managed to make the sensitive old lady feel quite ill at ease until she was established in one of the back chambers. It was a dreary room. She missed the cheerful outlook, and it was not easy, with a slight lameness, to get up and down stairs, but, for peace's sake, she forebore to complain. So skillfully was everything managed that it was several days before her son-in-law knew of her removal; then he was indignant, and insisted that she must return, but this she would not consent to do. She even displayed so much cheerfulness that he was deceived into thinking she preferred the change. It was a hardened nature that could not be won by her sweet spirit. She was like her Master; she followed her copy closely; "when she suffered she threatened not," and she had much to bear: a system of petty annoyances that only female ingenuity could devise.
After she had passed through this furnace and suffered loneliness and desolation, another crisis in her life arrived. Mr. Agnew fell suddenly ill. While his life hung in the balance and reason was shaken, his wife induced him to make his will, leaving to herself the whole of his property. Then he died, and the chief emotion that throbbed in the heart of his widow and hid behind the blackest and deepest crape was—triumph!
Not for worlds would Mr. Agnew have so arranged his affairs had it not been that in his half-delirious state he was subject to the will of another. He had always intended to settle a competence upon Mrs. Lyman—his mother-in-law. He had expected to live years yet. Who does not?
Mrs. Agnew lost no time. As soon as the funeral services were over she questioned Mrs. Lyman as to her plans for the future. The poor old lady felt bewildered at having to make any plans, so lovingly had she been cared for all her life. She had scarcely realized as yet that her one protector was gone; above all, that he had made no provision for her. Homeless and penniless and nearly seventy years of age, where should she go? What should she do? Where would a helpless being go in straits but to the One who plans and governs our lives? And thither she went. She well knew the road. Old friends gathered about her with kindly offers of aid, but she believed she saw her path plainly, and declined their many invitations to tarry with them for a time. She had a little money of her own, enough to insure her entrance into the "Home for Aged Women," and there she determined to go. Mrs. Lyman had occasionally driven with her daughter through the grounds of the "Home." She had admired the stately edifice, and remarked that it was a grand charity; she had also contributed to it; but it had not entered her mind that she was ever to become one of its inmates. She thought of it that afternoon as the carriage which conveyed her there wound slowly up the avenue. The trials of the past few days had been peculiarly sharp. She had gone out from the dear home, with its precious memories, forever. She could not, without contention, claim even her daughter's gifts to herself; contend she would not, so she left them: so many things that almost had a tongue to speak of other days. There were no tears in her eyes, and the old face was placid as she leaned back and looked up at rows and rows of windows. She even repeated to herself some favorite lines:
"That's best which God sends.'Twas his will; it is mine."
The room Mrs. Lyman shortly found herself in was a strong contrast to the one her daughter had carefully fitted up for her. It was spotlessly clean and trim; the walls were high and white, the furniture of the plainest, the floors bare except for the strip of carpet by the bed and one by the window, where the occupant would be supposed to sit in the cane-seat rocker. It depended entirely on one's previous surroundings what her first impressions of life in this place would be. Old Mrs. Carter, who had lived at sixes and sevens all her life, with scarcely a corner that she could call her own, thought her room was next to Heaven itself. To Mrs. Lyman it simply looked bare and dreary. The buzz in the long dining room, mingling with the clatter of cups and spoons, was cheerfulness itself to Mrs. Carter, while to Mrs. Lyman's refilled ears and sensitive nerves it was positively distressing. It was trying to her, too, to mingle with all sorts of natures, to listen to garrulous complaints and garrulous stories from gossipy old women. She would much have preferred to shut herself in with her books and her own thoughts, but she did not. Her Master was always kind and helpful to the most uncongenial people; so would she be, for his sake. Necessarily, though, it was a lonely, monotonous life for her. Old friends were too remote and too busy to remember her often.
One afternoon she sat at her window looking down into the street, when a carriage drew up, and a young lady stepped lightly out. The coachman handed her a basket of flowers, and she almost ran up the broad stone steps, with that childlike eagerness of manner which is in refreshing contrast to the languid air of many of her class.
Mrs. Lyman listened eagerly as her fresh young voice was heard in the hall. The golden hair, and eyes as blue as the hyacinths she carried, brought to her visions of another girl as bright and graceful. Just so she looked, years ago, her dear lost Margaret. Then the mother's heart went back over the girlhood and womanhood of her darling, and just as she was wondering how it was possible for Robert Agnew ever to have fancied he loved that other woman, when his life had been so blessed with Margaret, there came a knock at the door, and the matron brought in the bright-haired girl with her flowers, saying:—
"Mrs. Lyman, I have brought Miss Harlowe in to see you. She's come on ahead to tell you that spring is coming some day."
She looked sweet and fair enough to be spring's herald in very truth, coming in, as she did, out of the snow and sleet of the winter day, roses in her hands and roses on her cheeks, looking up almost shyly into the face of the stately old lady.
Each regarded the other for a moment with surprise and admiration, and Esther Harlowe, yielding to a sudden impulse, reached up and left a kiss soft as a rose leaf on the faded old cheek; then selecting the choicest of the roses, begged her to accept them.
They both forgot themselves. The young lady forgot that she was being kind to a "poor old body" in "The Old Lady's Home."
This dignified, handsome old lady was surely one of the friends of their family. And Mrs. Lyman, too, imagined for a moment that she was welcoming a young visitor to the Agnew mansion. They fell into conversation as naturally as if this were the case, and, in the short interview, they gained more than a glimpse of each other's lives.
"How strange that you should be here," Esther said. "I have often passed Mr. Agnew's house; perhaps you were sitting at the window looking out. But isn't it dreadful to you? How can you endure it?"
"No, not 'dreadful,' dear; sometimes it is a little lonely, and this way of living is all new to me; but I daresay I shall soon get accustomed to it. I ought to feel continually grateful that when I am old and poor, there is such a place provided for me."
"How can you, when you have lived so differently? I'm sure I should die. I knew you didn't belong here as soon as I saw you. It is a shame!"
"If God put me here, I must belong here, child. He makes no mistakes," the old lady said, smiling at her visitor's impetuous manner.
"But how can you be so calm and good about it? I should think you would go distracted."
"I wonder if she will understand," Mrs. Lyman said, after searching the young face a moment; then asked, "Did you ever read these lines?—
"'To will what God doth will, that is the only scienceThat gives us any rest.'
"The secret of calmness is in that: having God's will our will. It is called a science, you see, and it is deep and difficult, or rather, people make it so. It takes some of them years to learn it. I learned it very slowly myself, but once acquired, it is forever after easier to bear hard things. It does bring peace."
"Oh! Show me how to learn it, then," said Esther, tears starting to her eyes. "There are so many hard things in my life."
"Poor dear! Have they come to you so early?" The motherly voice and pitying eyes were like sunshine to this girl who was not much more than a child, and whose heart was hungry.
"I suppose it is because I am so wicked," Esther said, hesitatingly, "but I am afraid I never can feel as you do about God's will. Perhaps it is his will that I shall go through terrible troubles. It frightens me, and I can't want to have his will done."
"Is there anybody whom you dearly love," said Mrs. Lyman, "in whom you have unbounded confidence, feeling sure that he will always do right?"
"No, there is nobody," Esther answered sadly; then flushing a little as she realized the confession she had made, added,—
"I did have somebody once—my darling mother—but she is gone. She always did right."
"How did you feel about her plans for you? Were you fearful she would always be inventing something wherewith to torture you?"
"My dear, lovely mother! No, indeed. She was always thinking of my happiness."
"And yet she was obliged to thwart your own plans and wishes often, I presume. Did you rebel?"
"O, no I was always obedient to my mother. I loved her so, I would not have grieved or displeased her for the world."
"There it is, my dear!—the whole secret. When once we love God with all the heart, it is sweet to do or suffer his will."
"But I never have thought of God in that way. He seems majestic and glorious, but I think I fear him more than I love him. I cannot realize that he loves me either."
"It will help you greatly, my dear, to take the Bible and Concordance and go through the words 'Love' and 'Father;' then you may see and 'believe the love that God hath for us.' He has tried very hard—has written it plainly all through the Book to make us understand that he is truly our Father. Call it mother love if that makes it plainer to you: think that he feels toward you as your mother did; Father, as God uses it, stands for father and mother both. It is the tenderness of mother joined to the protecting care and greater strength of father."
"I must go now, the carriage has come," Esther said, rising hastily, "but I shall never forget your talk. I am sure it will do me good. I came here to-day with the flowers because Dr. Foster preached about giving a cup of cold water for Christ's sake, to some of his children; and I couldn't think of anybody to carry one to but some of these old ladies; I didn't think I was going to have my reward so soon. It was so nice to find you; you seem like my own dear grandma who died when I was a little child. I am coming often to see you; may I?" And the sweet face smiled up into hers.
"Yes, indeed, my dear, and I thank you with all my heart for coming. No cup of cold water could have refreshed me more than this visit, if I had been famishing for some,—and these roses!—" taking a long breath of them as she spoke,—"each one is a separate blessing."
As the carriage rattled over the city streets in the dusk Esther's aunt and cousin, fresh from shopping, discussed laces and silks while she leaned back and thought of Mrs. Lyman, her heart thrilling with the new thought that God loved her as her mother loved her.
At last her Cousin Sophy said:—
"What are you dreaming about, Esther? Where have you been all this while?"
Esther started as the cold, fault-finding tones broke in on her reverie and said evasively, "I went to the 'Old Lady's Home,' you know."
"Been there all this time?—Impossible! Will you never be like other people?"
Miss Sophy Ward had passed her first youth and was growing sharp and severe, especially toward girls who were guilty of being nineteen. She took it upon herself to keep strict watch over every thought, word and deed of her young cousin who had lived with them since the death of her mother. Esther dreaded the lecture that she knew was forthcoming, so she began eagerly to try to divert attention from herself.
"O, Cousin Sophy! you have no idea what a lovely old lady I found there." Not even the curl that distorted Miss Sophy's lip just then prevented her from going on.
"She looks as I should imagine an angel might,—I always thought if I made pictures of angels they should be dear old grandmas, and not girls. Her hair is like fine white silk, and waves beautifully. Her eyes are hazel, and they are not old eyes a bit—they are bright and clear. She wore a dove-colored dress, and a soft white mull handkerchief about her neck. And do you know, she is Mrs. Agnew's mother; you remember we saw, Mr. Agnew's death in the paper a few months ago."
This last piece of information had the desired effect, for mother and daughter indulged in a bit of gossip concerning it, but Miss Sophy presently returned to the charge.
"It is perfectly incomprehensible," she went on, "what you find in a company of poverty-stricken old women to interest you. But then, your mother always had just such tastes; never so happy as when she was poking about in some alley or hovel, among miserable people."
If the light had not faded, Cousin Sophy might have seen Esther's cheek pale and flush, and her lips press closely together to keep herself from saying what she should not. But she did not see it; she went on and on in an exasperating manner. Her mother added a word occasionally by way of endorsement and emphasis, and poor Esther had the grace to keep silence, half-wishing that she were an old woman, too, so that she could live where Mrs. Lyman did.
In her uncle's luxurious home there was everything to make life desirable—everything but love and peace. When either mother or daughter was in ill humor Esther was the escape valve. They lectured her on behavior, dress, and the Christian virtues. They criticised all she said and did and thought, and judged her without mercy.
During the last few months, however, it had begun to dawn upon them that the girl was grown up, and possessed decided tastes and opinions of her own. She was becoming a person of more importance, too, because of very pointed attentions bestowed upon her by Mr. Clifford Langdon. He was the son of one of the oldest families—handsome, agreeable, literary, rich. If they sought the world over, where could be found a more desirable husband for Esther? He might have captivated the girl's fancy, perhaps, if she had not heard her aunt and cousin ring the changes on his name until she almost wearied of it. In their eyes he was a paragon. They exhorted her to do this, and not to do that, as Mr. Langdon had very fastidious tastes, and they openly expressed their astonishment that so incomparable a person should do her the honor to notice her.
All this naturally had the effect of causing a girl like Esther to avoid him and to declare that it was a matter of indifference to her what Mr. Langdon thought. She wished for no more critics.
That gentleman was as much in love with Esther as he ever could be with anybody besides himself. Since first he had been conscious of existence, he had never forgotten himself long enough to be absorbed in anything or anybody. His own pleasure was the chief end of his life. Yet he had no vices; his narrow, cold nature did not tempt him in the direction that larger natures are tempted. The world called him a fine, moral young man. They did not know he was selfish, domineering and conceited; his nearest friends would scarcely admit it to themselves. He enjoyed ruling over anything; he took pleasure in his many pets when a boy, chiefly for the sake of training and ordering about a parrot, or dog, or pony; and a tyrannical master he made. As a man, he retained the characteristic. At this time he had just returned from a four years' course of study in Europe, his education completed, and his self-conceit intolerable. He felt competent to sit in judgment upon the creations of genius in art and literature or in anything under the sun, as well as to direct, advise, suggest and control the mental food of all the young ladies of his acquaintance. He at once became an oracle among them. The book he approved was largely read, and the book he condemned was shunned. Whoever differed in opinion from him he considered devoid of fine taste. Solomon must have had this young man in mind when he wrote, "Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit, there is more hope of a fool than of him."
When Mr. Langdon met Esther, he pronounced her a "fine creature," and declared he would like the training of her, much as he would have spoken of Frisk, his black colt. He was not aware that he needed to be put in training himself and taught by Mr. Ruskin how to reverence womanhood.
That she seemed indifferent to him was all the more reason for choosing her. It was refreshing to find a girl who required to be won, and did not hold her heart in her hand ready to bestow it for the asking.
It was a gloomy, rainy afternoon in autumn that Esther, sitting alone in the library, was surprised by a call from Mr. Langdon. She was smarting under some hateful words of Sophy's, and thinking drearily that there was not a single person on the earth who cared very much whether she lived or died, when, behold! here came one, offering love, home, an honorable name, everything that a woman's heart could ask.
Ether was amazed. She had believed that Mr. Langdon simply admired her, as he did a score of others. She was too young and unworldly to weigh for a moment the advantages of position offered. He said he loved her, and that was what her heart hungered for. Nobody had told her so since her mother died. The tide of her feelings began to turn. How kind and good he seemed. How could she ever have thought him otherwise? Then she found herself in a whirl of thought. She was so very grateful to him, but how could she marry anybody? Not for a great many years yet, at least. Of course she must marry somebody—an orphan girl like her. Perhaps she was beginning to care for him, for her feelings toward him had changed within a few minutes. Still, it was all so different from what she had thought it would be when that time should come in which somebody brave and true would say these words to her. Was he brave and true? Was he? Oh! If she had not to settle a great question. It frightened her, and she was not glad, as she had dreamed she would be, nor happy as girls in books were; but real life was never quite up to books and stories, and Aunt Maria and Sophy would never forgive her if she refused him, and—and—he said he loved her. What should she say to him, sitting there looking down at her, waiting for her answer? What could she say? "O, mother! What would you have me say?"
She made a lovely picture in the large chair before the fire, its light glancing on her hair, her head leaning on her hand, the face sweet and serious, like a troubled child's, and the eyes almost tearful. Mr. Langdon resolved to have her painted in just that attitude immediately. Her hesitation and long silence did not in the least annoy him; he attributed it to maiden coyness. It almost amused him, he felt so sure of her. It never entered his mind that she could refuse him, or, indeed, that anybody could. And she did not; she promised she would be his wife—when one hour before the thought of such a thing had never come into her heart. So lightly and hastily are lifelong covenants entered into!
Mr. Langdon was ten years older than Esther. He had always fancied that he should choose a wife much younger than himself, it would be so delightful to mould her unformed nature; in short, to make her over to suit himself. So he set himself to the pleasant task at once. He had not tact enough to wait until he had won the right, as he would say.
He was pedantic himself, so he wished his wife to shine in literary society—to be able to discuss all isms and ologies, the merits and demerits of all standard authors, ancient and modern, and quote freely from their works. He brought her books and set her tasks, and made her recite to him as if she were a schoolgirl. If she read aloud, he criticised her elocution. If she played for him with ever so much taste and skill, he found fault with the selection or gave a lecture on style and delicacy of touch. Even the tenderest love ballad did not escape. It was analyzed and measured by square and compass till all the sweetness had gone out of it, and Esther felt vexed at having sung it, or her voice was pronounced to be too sharp, the tones not pure; she must begin at once to take lessons of some excellent master.
Esther bore it all meekly enough at first because of those precious three words he had spoken to her. It was a wonderful, sacred thing, somebody to love her, and she would endure much on that account even though her own heart did not respond as she had striven to make it. And, to tell the truth, she was slowly awakening to the fact that their spirit and aims were so very unlike, that clashing was inevitable. Mr. Langdon was more like a mentor than a lover, and she had an unpleasant consciousness of being managed, and of continually yielding her will to his, even in the matter of a ride, or a walk, or an evening's entertainment, for it was contrary to his rule to do anything, or go anywhere, that was not perfectly convenient and agreeable to himself.
They were not in sympathy on many points. She loved books and study and music for themselves, but scorned the thought of learning anything for the mere sake of displaying it. The pedantic airs Mr. Langdon assumed used to amuse her, now, they mortified her.
There was yet another more important subject on which they differed. Since the day of her first visit, Esther had gone often to see Mrs. Lyman, and it was impossible to come into close contact with her sweet spirit and strong faith without having the religious life quickened and strengthened; so Mr. Langdon's views jarred her more than they would have done a few months previous when she was a formal, worldly Christian. He pronounced many of Esther's opinions to be "mere cant." Some of the hymns she loved were "in very bad taste," "perfect trash," while the convictions of her tender conscience were "superstitions." He assured her that the time would come when, as her mind became more expanded and her tastes elevated, she would appreciate his criticisms.
This was too much, even though it were well seasoned with honeyed words, and Esther's indignant protest warned Mr. Langdon not to be too urgent in this direction. There was a limit even to meekness and forbearance.
It was Christmas morning, and Esther was in the conservatory. Her uncle had given her permission to take as many flowers for her own use as she pleased. He well knew they would go to brighten some dreary home this Christmas Day. While she worked she was thinking—going back over the year somewhat. It had not been a happy year to her. She was obliged to confess to herself that she had never been more harassed and worried in her life. A shadow fell on her face as she meditated that when once Christmas is well gone, Spring is not far distant. Then she must be married. This home was not such a happy one that she need mourn to leave it, but she dreaded that new home more. Her troubled thoughts and troubled face did not accord with the beauty and fragrance about her, and neither brightened when Mr. Langdon was announced. He came in where she was at once, saying he was in haste.
"We have arranged a sleigh-ride for to-day," he said, after greeting her. "It was quite impromptu, because we were uncertain about the snow. We are going fifteen miles in the country, to Mr. Clayton's father's, where we are invited to dine. How soon can you get ready, Esther?"
"Oh! I cannot go. You know I told you, Mr. Langdon, that I had an engagement this morning at the 'Old Ladies' Home.'"
Mr. Langdon's lip curled. "Engagement! Surely you can postpone that."
"Surely I cannot. Patrick has gone to got me some greens, and I am going to trim their rooms a little and make a bouquet for each of them. They would be disappointed if I did not come—and so should I. They have looked forward to Christmas for weeks. They are old and poor and have so few pleasures, how can I deprive them of this when they have set their hearts on it?"
"As if nobody could attend to that nonsense but you! Send a servant with the flowers."
"But that wouldn't do at all. It's I they want more than anything. You see, there are very few people who appreciate me. Those old ladies do. I read to them and sing to them, and they think I am an angel just dropped down from Heaven. So you will be good and excuse me this time, and let me give you this as a Christmas token," and she tried to fasten a small white chrysanthemum in his coat.
But Mr. Langdon stepped back and said, with much sharpness of tone, "Esther, it is impossible that you are in earnest. I certainly shall not excuse you, if you are. Of course you will go with me. Go quickly and make ready. I shall call for you in an hour."
Esther reached up and clipped a spray of smilax before she spoke, which she did in a slow, resolute way. "Mr. Langdon, I am quite in earnest; I cannot go. I have made a promise, and I must keep it."
He had never seen Esther assume so much dignity before. She certainly did mean what she said. He was angry enough to go without her, but that would cause him some embarrassment; so he would condescend to persuasion, but this was done in such a manner as to be more offensive than some people's commands.
"My little girl," he said, smiling derisively, "what new airs have you taken on? They do not become you in the least. What has come over you? Is she trying to be a strong-minded female, or is she doing penance or works of supererogation? Come, now, have done with this nonsense, and say you will be ready, my pretty one," and he put his finger under her chin, as one would do to a child, adding, "Look up here, and let us have no tantrums? Some day I must get a bit and bridle for you, my beauty; you are growing spirited."
Esther could never remember feeling more outraged at anything than at this speech. It was a new and repulsive glimpse of his character.
Mr. Langdon had an opportunity to see her in a new character then. She drew herself up, and said coldly: "Such language is very distasteful to me, and I wish to hear no more of it. Please understand distinctly that I am not going, so it will not be necessary for you to detain yourself further."
He thought his ears must have deceived him, that she should dare to assert herself thus, when he supposed he had her under such good control!
He grew white with anger; so angry: that he forgot himself, and said between his teeth,—
"I command you to go."
"You have no right to command me," Esther said calmly.
Then growing desperate, and resolved not to be baffled, he drew out his watch, saying:—
"I will give you three minutes to decide. Once for all: I warn you; you would better repent your decision. If a pack of old women are to be put before me, we shall see. You may take the consequences if you refuse."
Then he turned and walked up and down the short space, while Esther went on clipping flowers. Her fingers trembled, and her hands were nerveless, but the steady clip, clip, of the shears came to the ears of the man who was waiting.
The time was up; he walked toward Esther, and looked at her. She laid another flower in the basket, and said in a low tone, without looking at him, "I shall not go," and then he strode away without another word; and Esther gathered up her flowers and started on her mission.
How very much hung upon her keeping her promise she could not have imagined. She had arranged with Mrs. Lyman to sit with her after she had gone the rounds, and she carried a book to read her some Christmas poems. So after flitting about among the rooms, pinning a bit of the evergreen here, and a vine there, and dispensing flowers and kind wishes to all, she knocked at Mrs. Lyman's door. It was opened by a nurse who told her that the old lady had met with an accident. While going down-stairs that morning she had slipped and fallen, and could see no one.
Hearing a voice she loved, Mrs. Lyman said, "Is it Miss Harlowe? Let her come in."
She was in bed, pale with suffering, and a surgeon was setting her broken ankle. Esther came softly to her side, slipped her hand into hers, and stood still, watching the operation. It was like an anæsthetic in its soothing effect upon the patient— this fresh young face, with hair and eyes like Margaret's, the perfume of the flowers filling the room, and the warm little hand in hers.
Esther watched the surgeon's fingers curiously. How swift and cool their movements!—no uncertainty or clumsiness. A lady sorting embroidery silks could not work more delicately. As he put the finishing touches to his task Esther almost forgot there was any pain connected with it, and found herself wondering if he did not enjoy what he could do so deftly and neatly. Then for the first time she let her gaze rest upon his face. He was a young man—she had thought surgeons were always old or elderly. It was a strong, pure face, with wavy dark hair falling carelessly over the broad forehead. It was but a few seconds, but girls can think much in that time. She decided that hair was much more becoming worn so than plastered down in a precise manner, as she was accustomed to see it. He was surely not in the least like the young men of her acquaintance. Sire tried to fancy him arrayed in swallow-tail coat, light kids and slippers, dancing, and talking nonsense at an evening party. He could never be one of that sort, she was sure. He was too grave and earnest to be a trifler. When he had finished his work, he lifted a pair of clear, penetrating eyes to hers, and they surveyed each other an instant; then the doctor bowed, and Esther turned and, bending down, whispered a few words to Mrs. Lyman, left her flowers on the pillow, and a kiss on the worn cheek, and glided away. She made one or two more calls that she had left till the last, and was passing through the hall to go home, when a nurse met her and asked her to come in and sing to old Mrs. Moore. She had been very ill for many days, and they hoped the singing might quiet her nervous restlessness, and soothe her to sleep. Esther went willingly; she loved to sing, and loved to help others. But here was that eagle-eyed doctor to spoil it. She wished he would go, but he did not.
There was a tall old rocker by the bed, where they motioned her to sit, but she took her place at the back of the chair and folded her hands over its top. Standing so, the doctor could not see her face. He could hear, though, and to that he gave himself. Resting his head on his hand, he closed his eyes and let the sweet melody flow over him.
Almost as soon as the pure, soft tones met her ear the patient ceased her restless tossing, and listened eagerly to catch the words, which were articulated so plainly that not one was lost. They were simple words, just suited to the simple-minded old woman, and peculiarly soothing because they brought to mind the prayer of childhood. Neither was she the only one who felt the spell of the humble little song as it floated through the still room:—
"Now I lay me down to sleep,As the shadows softly creep,As the bird, with folded wing,On some tiny bough doth swing;As the flowers, wet with dew,Bow themselves in slumber, too,In the stillness, awful, deep,Now I lay me down to sleep."Now I lay me down to sleep,Friends and kindred 'round me weep;But I know no want or fear,For no darkness, Lord, is here;All my way is lit by thee,Through the shade thou leadest me.Knowing that the Lord will keep,May I lay me down to sleep."
Refreshed and calmed, the old lady folded her, hands and said, "'Now I lay me down to sleep.' Oh if I only had somebody to pray with me, I believe I could go to sleep."
There was silence a moment, and one looked at another. Who could pray? Not the doctor, surely; that was not considered to be in his line; but Dr. Evarts knelt down, and, in a few simple, tender words, besought a blessing on the aged mother whose journey was almost done. Here was another evidence, Esther thought, that this young man was different from any she had ever known. She thought about it as she walked home, and sighed as she remembered Mr. Langdon and the angry look on his face as he left her that morning.
Esther had promised Mrs. Lyman that she would come again to see her on the morrow. She was free from pain, and welcomed her visitor eagerly.
"I have such great news to tell you, my dear, that I could scarcely wait. You know it is a whole fortnight now since you were here. Such a wonderful thing has happened! I am not a poor, lonely old woman any longer, Esther. I have a dear boy to care for me. The young physician you found attending me yesterday is my nephew. I was sorry I felt too sick to introduce you. He is Paul Evarts, and he is my dear sister's only son. His mother was left a widow, and they went to England to live when Paul was but a boy. My sister died a few years ago, and we lost sight of Paul. I thought he had forgotten his old auntie, but he had not. He came almost purposely to look me up. He thinks of remaining and going into practice in his native city. If he does he will take a house, and I shall be his housekeeper. Now, what do you think of that, my dear?"
"It's beautiful!" said Esther. "Just beautiful! Why, it's a book acted out. I am so very glad."
"And the queer part of it all," said Mrs. Lyman, "is that after he had been here a few days I must needs go and break my ankle, as if to test his skill as a surgeon. There is no loss, though, without some gain. Perhaps you will take pity on me and come oftener to see me because of my affliction. But you must sing the song now, and read the poem that I was cheated out of yesterday."
After that they had a long talk. Esther's girl friends were never taken into such close confidence as Mrs. Lyman, and, if girls would but believe it, a wise, sweet-spirited, youthful-hearted old lady is a valuable friend for a girl to have. Who should know the dangers of the way so well as those who have just passed over it?
"Your face has a shadow on it this morning, dear child," Mrs. Lyman said presently; "I like to feel that everybody is happy when I am so happy."
Esther wanted counsel and comfort sorely, so she told her troubles.
"Did I do wrong? Ought I to have gone with Mr. Langdon, do you think?" she asked.
"Perhaps the wrong is further back than that. Did you wish to go, but thought it your duty to come here because you had promised?"
"To tell the truth, I preferred coming here to taking a long ride," Esther said, laughing and flushing. "I enjoy bringing flowers here so much; perhaps I was selfish, and then, I did want to keep my promise."
"Can it be that hearts have changed since I was a girl?" the old lady said archly. "What would have tempted me to stay at home when Eleazer asked me to go with him—anywhere? A long ride in the country! Why, that would have been blessed. Are you sure you care for this young man in the right way, dear—if I may ask you a plain question?"
"Why, I don't know," Esther said, stammeringly. "I suppose I do. I try to."
"My dear little girl," said Mrs. Lyman, "can you really think of marrying a person for whom you entertain such a vague uncertain affection?"
"Why, that's the trouble," said Esther. "I don't really want to marry anybody ever. I wish I could be let alone, and not be perplexed about these things, and yet it is very pleasant to have people fond of you, and not feel alone as I do."
"You poor little bud of a girl," Mrs. Lyman said, putting her arms about her, "you should not have been disturbed for a long time yet; you needed a mother to shield you; but you ought to be told that when the one God intends for you crosses your path you will not find it necessary to try to love him. You will, instead, have to pray God to keep you from making him an idol, and where he is, there you will wish to be. Marriage may be the highest state of earthly happiness, and it may be the bitterest bondage. Take care, dear child, how you take vows upon you that your soul revolts from. I believe much of the misery of this life is God's protest against the profanation of this holy ordinance."
It became evident, as the days went by, that Mr. Langdon was hopelessly offended. He did not come to the house or write. Esther was both glad and troubled. Relieved of his constant supervision and criticisms she drew a long breath, and knew, as she had not before, that whatever heart she might possess was not in his keeping. She lived in constant dread that he would return to her after he had punished her sufficiently. And yet his remaining away brought her into trouble with her aunt and cousin; they were already questioning and harassing her beyond endurance. At last, when her aunt wrote Mr. Langdon demanding an explanation, he sent a brief note, saying the engagement between himself and Miss Marlowe was at an end. If she wished for reasons he would refer her to her niece.
Then the storm burst in all its fury. The tongues of mother and daughter were let loose upon her. "Now you shall tell me just what you have done," declared her aunt. "I will not have a gentleman like Mr. Langdon insulted in my own house."
When the story was told, the case was no better for Esther. The rage and disappointment of aunt and cousin knew no bounds.
"Esther, you are a fool!" said her aunt.
"She's a contemptible little minx!" said Miss Sophy. "And I would shut her up and feed her on bread and water until she apologizes."
"I shall never do that," said Esther firmly. "I told him some time before that I should be occupied on Christmas morning, and he had no right to try to force me to alter my plans. The apology must come from him. I have done no wrong."
"Just hear the stupid little simpleton! He apologize to her! The idea! To think she should dare to go contrary to his wishes, and run the risk of losing him, and all for the sake of amusing a few old women!"
"Do you know," Sophy said, turning fiercely to Esther, "what you have done? Or haven't you brains enough to take it in? Mr. Langdon will be the richest man in the city when his father dies, and you have lost him, probably."
"I don't care for money," Esther said dreamily, her eyes out of the window, following a fleecy cloud that was sailing by, and thinking what she dare not speak, that it was far better to be able to pray as that young doctor did, than to have great riches.
"You don't care for money!" screamed her aunt. "Indeed! You will find out whether you care for it when you are left alone in the world without a penny, as you probably will be. Go to your room, do! And stay there out of my sight. You are too exasperating to be tolerated."
"I had no idea she was so stubborn," Mrs. Ward told her daughter, as day after day passed, and Esther refused to send a humble confession to Mr. Langdon. They constructed one themselves at last, ordering her to copy it, but Esther was firm. She had nothing to confess, and she would not, for any consideration, engage herself to him again. It was delightful to be free again; if only they would not torment her she could be almost happy. When she expressed something of this to them they looked at each other aghast, as if here was proof that Esther was a subject for a lunatic asylum.
The weeks that followed were dreary ones to Esther. She was kept on bread and water, figuratively, if not literally, and ice-water at that. It was curious how a house that is warmed And lighted until it fairly glows can be rendered dark and chilly as a tomb to some of its inmates. If the girl's life had been unpleasant before, it was wretched now. Cold looks and sharp words were her portion, when she was not ignored utterly, all the more so because Mr. Langdon had transferred his affections to a Boston belle, visiting in the city, and was hopelessly and forever lost to Esther.
It was not all dark, though. There were occasional visits to a snug little house at the other end of the city, where dwelt a lovely, white-haired old lady called by her devoted nephew, Aunt Katherine.
Mrs. Lyman insisted on a weekly visit from Esther, and sometimes she was kept to cosy little suppers. It was a delightful place to visit, and it was no wonder Esther liked it. She was warmly welcomed and petted to her heart's content. There was usually a good, long talk with her old friend first, then the doctor would come home, and bring out a store of stories from his brain, of things in foreign lands, grave and gay and instructive; he was a charming talker, and Esther was a good questioner. Then he had great volumes of rare engravings of which she never tired, and a microscope whereby she became wise about some of nature's secrets. Her education was going on surprisingly, all the more because one was entirely unaware that he was teaching, and the other that she was being taught. Aunt Katherine watched the glowing faces,—the golden head and the brown head bending together over one book—and smiled. After they had sung numberless songs and hymns it was time for Esther to go home. Of necessity, Dr. Evarts must accompany her home, in a long walk across the city, which latter was not a necessity, but which they much preferred to street cars, the walk being not at all long to them.
As they thus walked and talked one winter night when the Christmas moon shone solemnly down on a white world, and the songs of angels floated on the clear air—heard only by those two—the breeze wafted back some of the words. Their talk was all about themselves—how the precious gift of each to the other began a year ago last Christmas. And they tried to settle bewildering questions: Whether, if Esther had not insisted on going to the "Old Ladies' Home" that morning she would be walking this Christmas Eve with Paul, and suppose there had been no "Old Ladies' Home," would they ever have met.
"And if your Aunt Katherine had not been there—" said Esther. "We owe it all to her, after all."
"Your Aunt Katherine! Say my Aunt Katherine," Paul said, looking down at her with shining eyes.
And Esther obediently repeated, "My Aunt Katherine." The old moon hid herself behind a cloud just then, and neither she nor Paul saw the lovely color that flushed the happy face.
In the spring when all things are made new, they two clasped hands and began their new life together. Their wedding journey was not made to some famous fashionable resort; they were of one mind in this, as in everything else. They sought a quiet retreat where they might carry on their intimacy with nature, and she rewarded them; she unsealed her fountains and discovered to them her secret nooks and crannies, her buds and blossoms and delicacies, as she does to no one but ardent worshippers. They searched the woods and glens, climbed mountains and wandered by streams, and walked and rode and talked and studied, with not one hour of dullness. And then they went back to the little house and lived their beautiful lives.
"Two to the world for the world's work's sake,But each unto each, as in Thy sight, one."
And the world said, "Poor thing! She was jilted by that rich Mr. Langdon, you know, and now she has had to take up with a poor young doctor;" which shows just how much the world knows about Esther's affairs, and ours.
When the years had gone away and Dr. Evarts' praises were in every mouth, and he had become rich and celebrated, Miss Sophy Ward was fond of speaking of "My cousin, Mrs. Dr. Evarts."
Aunt Katherine, too, had occasion for triumph and for heaping some very hot "coals of fire," but she never thought of either. Mrs. Agnew had lost her property, and the Agnew estate was sold to the highest bidder, which was Dr. Evarts. Strange to say he was able to place Aunt Katherine in her old room, with many of the dear familiar objects of other days about her; while the wretched woman who had played her brief part in this history, lived in a humble home not far off. She was sick and poor and miserable. To her Mrs. Lyman ministered as if she had received nothing but kindness at her hands. And Christ-like love conquered in the end; it broke down the hard heart and brought her into faith and peace.
When riches increased, Dr. Evarts obeyed the Scripture, "set not thy heart upon them." They flowed out in all directions, blessing and comforting others.
Every Christmas, he and Esther visited the "Old Ladies' Home," with a bountiful thank-offering. Each recurring year they were wont to go over every small detail of their meeting, and sometimes make little confessions that were new to the other.
"It was here you stood to sing," the dignified doctor would remark, or, "Was ever anything lovelier than when you stood there with those roses, watching me set the broken bones?"
"And how you frightened me when you flashed your eyes on me so suddenly."
"It is a good place," the doctor would say; "here we found each other, and here began the love that has blessed our lives."
"And here I found my Aunt Katherine," Esther was fond of adding.
THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS.———
"WHY, Auntie! What a quantity of lunch you are putting up. You don't expect me to take my Christmas dinner on the cars, do you?"
"Stranger things than that have come to pass, even though you should," Aunt Ruth said, tucking in another half-dozen biscuits. "Massachusetts is a long way off, and Christmas is pretty near at hand. You'll have sharp work to get through by Christmas, I'm thinking. The connections will have to be very good, and no set-backs on the way. That don't always happen in winter, you know. Trains will be behind time, or there 'll be a bridge down, or something. Then as you get on toward the East there will be snow-storms—snow you up for a week, maybe—better stay till after Christmas yet."
"Aunt Ruthie, don't! Please don't prophesy such terrible things; I shall get on all right, I am sure. Good-by, dear own auntie!" And the young girl wound her arms about the elder woman's neck, and laid her brown head close to the gray one.
"Good-by, dearie!" Aunt Ruth said in broken tones. "The Lord bless you and keep you—and see here, child, I'll tuck these two little books into your basket, and some more biscuits, then if you should have to spend a week on the way, you will have something to feed soul and body both."
A last loving look into Aunt Ruth's eyes, and Marian sprang into a light wagon by Uncle Eli's side, and two ponies trotted off over the smooth country road. The frosty air, the crackle of dry leaves and twigs, the morning sun, the fragrant cedars, and the flutter of gay-winged birds, made the heart of this girl, whose eye and ear were open to all sweet influences of nature, sing for joy—the mere joy of being—on this glorious morning. And truly a winter morning in the poetical, picturesque southwest, with its balmy airs, green fields, and gay birds, at Christmas time, can but seem to a New Englander the presage of that morning when all things shall be made new.
Aunt Ruth watched them far down the road, then she went into the house with a slow step and a heavy heart. She wiped away the tears as she gathered up Marian's woody treasures that she had forgotten—lichens, moss twigs, and purple berries. The house was empty and dull. The bright young creature who had filled it with an atmosphere of warmth and gladness was gone. How grim and desolate it seemed!
For two months Aunt Ruth had lived a charmed life. Marian, the daughter of her favorite niece, whom she loved as her own child, had come from her far city home for a brief visit—to honor one whom her mother prized so highly. Her stay was protracted far beyond what duty required, though. The girl enjoyed the free, unconventional life, the novel experiences, and the almost idolatrous love bestowed upon her.
It was hard to say which was most delighted with the other. The younger one painted scenes of the gay, busy world, that seemed to the elder, hard-worked woman like the tales of Aladdin. Then she, in turn, in quaint speech, seasoned with wit, poured into the young ears the privations and romances of frontier life, as well as the love tales of long ago, which were far more delightful than one could find in a book, because they had been lived out before Aunt Ruth's eyes. She knew whether the fine gold of the marriage day had become dim; what they did, and how they lived, and so on to the very last chapter. With graphic words she made them live again for her eager listener—a long line of ancestors—sketching her characters with no mean skill, her charitable nature hiding their faults behind their graces, so that they were most fascinating as heroes and heroines. In short, Aunt Ruth was to Marion a delightful old book, full of wisdom and strong sweetness. And while Marian was to her aunt a revelation of grace and loveliness, she was besides gifted with an active brain, and was the very soul of truth and candor, so that she seemed to the New England woman like a breath of air fresh from the old Massachusetts hills. Aunt Ruth always disparaged the East in contrast with the West when she re-visited it, and yet she loved its rocky hills with all her heart. At the same time, anything or anybody of Eastern make or birth, was held up to Western people as a model of all excellence.
"She is just wonderful," the old lady would declare, in confidential chats with Uncle Eli. "There she has been brought up in a great city, her folks are rich, and she has everything she wants, and yet she isn't spoiled a mite. You might have thought she would have brought a trunk full of novels to this out of the way place, and only us two old folks here, but not a bit of it! She's devouring the old yellow books in the bookcase as if her life depended on it. The other morning she got down the 'History of the Reformation,' and there she sat the whole forenoon, never stirred or looked up as I went in and out—so deep in her book. In the afternoon, when I sat down to my mending, we had a great visit over Luther. She told me things that I forgot years ago. His reasons for getting a wife tickled her wonderfully. Forgot them, have you? I had, too. They were: 'That he might please his father, spite the Pope, and vex the devil.' Said she, 'I should have wanted him to have one more reason, Auntie, if I had been his Katy—the only reason—because he loved me.' She looked so sweet and pretty, I spoke right out before I thought, and I said, 'Of course he would. How could anybody help loving you, dearie?' You ought to 'a' seen her pretty blush, then; exactly like my tea-rose in the window there. She's reading 'Paradise Lost,' now. She knows the Catechism from beginning to end, and she is up in the doctrines, and knows about missions. She's a regular old-fashioned girl. Sarah Brewster wrote me that they didn't raise such girls around Boston any more. She said they spent the whole time dressing and going, and reading novels and embroidering, and that they couldn't stand a June frost, physically or morally, that they hadn't any piety nor anything else—nothing but pretty faces. Now, there's Marian, she can walk three miles, and she took hold and helped me with the baking and churning, and swept the whole house. Besides all that, she's truly pious. She isn't going to make one of the strong-minded kind, either—stiff, and hard, and high-stepping, and homely as a hedge fence. She's as sweet as a rose, and as humble as a chipping-bird. I never thought I should set such store by her, when I looked out of the window that day she came, and saw her coming up the walk, sort o' dancing along, with her big hat on, and her curls blowing about her eyes. I said to myself, 'Yes, there she comes! A fine Boston lady, and she will mince about and make fun of us with her saucy airs, and then take herself off in two days, and I shall not be sorry, even if she is my great-niece.' But here she has been, week after week, and don't want to go home yet."
The first fifty miles of Marian's journey was unmarked by anything of special interest. This brought her to the junction where she was to change cars for the main line. But there, to her dismay, she discovered that the train with which she was supposed to connect had been gone for an hour, her own train being late. There was nothing to be done but to wait at a forlorn little hotel for the next one, which would not be until noon of the next day. It was of no use to feel provoked, or to fret, so Marian set herself to bear it patiently. She walked about the small village, and on into the country, made the acquaintance of children gathering Christmas greens, and returned with her hands full of evergreen and bitter-sweet berries.
The time did not hang so heavily as she had anticipated, although she was heartily glad when the long train glided in, and she was once more seated in the car, and on her homeward way. As it was to be a long journey, she was not a little interested in her surroundings. So she began to scrutinize her fellow-passengers, to measure, and classify, and determine, by those few swift glances, their standing—mental, social and moral—and whether they were agreeable, or selfish and ill-natured. She reached her conclusions—unjust ones in some instances, perhaps; and yet the intuitions of some fine natures are a little short of divine. When she wearied of that, she brought out pencil and paper, and scribbled a voluminous letter to Aunt Ruth. Having a talent for sketching, she embellished her sheet here and there with portraits of her fellow-travellers, "to cheer up Auntie," she told herself, albeit the artist seemed to enjoy her work immensely, and to put a deal of painstaking into it. There was a scornful big woman with a pug-nosed dog, a laughing baby, a great pompous man asleep with his mouth open, the sweet face of an old lady biding away under a deep bonnet, and at last, with careful touches, the profile of a young man who sat just ahead of her; a fine scholarly face, bent over a book.
That letter made two old people happy for more than one evening. What if our cheery words went oftener to brighten lonely homes!
Stuart Lynde, a young lawyer returning from a business trip, who sat just below, across the aisle, was not in the least interested in those about him. They were simply a number of strangers with whom he had no possible concern. He had not raised so much as an eyelid to discover who sat before or behind him. He was absorbed in a book, and would have been amazed had he known that an excellent portrait of himself had just been executed and was about to travel back over the road he had come. That which first attracted him from the fascinating pages was a ray of golden light falling across his book; then he put it aside and gave himself up to the enjoyment of the sunset, which was unusually fine. Marian made a mental note of the fact that few watched the glorious picture hung in the sky: three or four only besides herself; the old lady, the young man, a tired-looking mother, and a plain farmer with a "gospel face." As for the lap-dog woman, and the pompous man, they never saw a sunset. "Eyes have they, but they see not," applies to more than heathen idols. It is always so: God's best things are for the few; the many do not throng into the inner temple; hearts are stony, ears are dull, and "their eyes they have closed."
Those who did watch the first red bars steal into the blue of the evening sky, and the blue change to the vast golden sea, with soft violet clouds sailing over it, could scarcely repress exclamations of delight. It was to some of them as if the end of their journey was near—the end of all journeyings—and that rushing train was speeding on straight to the golden glory shining before them, where they should meet the King in his beauty at the gate of his temple, and be welcomed in, to go no more out forever. The old lady and the tired mother and the farmer wished from their souls it was. But Marian Chester and Stuart Lynde, if the thought had occurred to them, would have said, "No, no! Not yet. We want to test the world ourselves, even though you old people say it is a rough and thorny road. We will find the roses. We are not afraid."
It was not strange that as Marian watched the fading light she unconsciously and softly sang,—
"'Day is dying in the west,Heaven is touching earth with rest;Wait and worship while the nightSets her evening lamps alight—'"
Followed by Keble's sweet evening hymn,—
"'Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour dear,It is not night if Thou be near.'"
Hymn and song came one upon the other, but the refreshment was for none but herself. Stuart Lynde caught once or twice a low, sweet strain, and looked about him to see whence it came, but the din of the cars drowned all but a stray, occasional note. Although he listened intently, the music did not rise above a soft murmur. By turning slightly in his seat, his eyes had the range of the car, and he was not long in determining the probable singer, more by the attitude than directed by any sounds. By the waning light he could see a slight figure in a sealskin sacque, a small brown velvet cap resting on a coil of brown hair. The face leaning on one hand was pressed close against the glass, and while her eyes watched the fading colors in the sky, her lips framed the words of song, as absently and unconsciously as if she had forgotten that she were not leaning from her own chamber window. It was a charming picture, and he enjoyed it.
During the evening people dropped off at the different stations along the way, until only the few through passengers remained, who wearily counted the miles to the city where the sleeping coach should be attached. They were doomed to disappointment, however, for even while they were flying on at a high rate of speed, the train suddenly came to a stand still. A broken engine and a delay of several hours, was the word that quickly passed about. As if to add to the gloomy state of things, a severe storm had set in. The violet clouds that at sunset were lovely pictures, had grown into black, overhanging monsters. The wind howled and blew with a force that threatened to sweep all before it, and the rain fell in torrents. It was not a thing to be desired—standing in the midst of what seemed a boundless prairie, exposed to the fury of the storm, miles from any station, with telegraph wires down. It was curious how this changed state of affairs was met by different ones. Some who had been amiably dozing the last few hours were now thoroughly wide awake, going out and in, slamming doors and scolding the company because they did not provide engines that could not break down; others fretted, or were pale with fright, fearing lest the cars should be blown from the track, or there be a collision.
Stuart Lynde wore a calm face; whether the calmness of stoicism, or of trust, who could tell? The old lady, who had learned patience through a long life of disappointments, was philosophical. "What can't be cured, must be endured," she remarked to Marian as she took off her bonnet and hung it up, brought out a hood in its place, and made other little preparations to spend the night just where she sat. To herself, she said, "I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me to dwell in safety.'"
If only she had said those words aloud!
Marian, too, took a text for her pillow, curled herself up comfortably in her seat, and went to sleep.
"What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee," makes a soft pillow.
Mr. Lynde resolved that he would not waste his time in sleep. It was a good quiet time for thought. So he revolved in his mind the chief points in an important law case, wishing he were entirely alone, so that he might speak aloud the words of the plea, rushing to his brain, which he expected to make on the morrow, or did expect to—probably this miserable detention would spoil all his plans, at which he groaned inwardly. He was scarcely aware that another process was going on in his mind at the same time; that he was casting occasional glances at the face of the sleeper nearly opposite, and comparing it with a certain piece of statuary which was a favorite. Although strangers were distasteful to him, he was fond of tracing different types of faces, and this fair Grecian profile, outlined against the cushions, with closed eyes and rounded cheek, was a pleasant study. The hand put up to shade the face had slept at its post, and had fallen down and folded itself over the other one across the chest. The childlike mouth looked as if the lips had closed themselves on,—"I will trust." It was a calm, sweet picture of innocent sleep, and Stuart Lynde found himself thinking as he gazed, "If only a soul ever matched a fair face!"
If she had but known, how quickly the blood would have rushed into the cheek, and the statue would have sprung up and away! Marian was not a girl to pose for stranger eyes, nor any other. It was a little singular that a connoisseur of faces should bestow all his attention upon one, and not have noticed just beyond, the fine old face crowned with snowy hair, and radiant with calm content.
The old lady, between her naps, watched the sleeper, too, feeling a sort of motherly responsibility concerning her, because she was alone. "Dear lamb," she murmured to herself, "she is taking a good sleep."
Marian kept some vigils, too. She straightened herself up after a few hours, wondering vaguely where she was, and why the train was standing still. The ghostly light, the silence and the rough men in a seat not far away—one of them—an evil-faced fellow, happening to glare at her just then, filled her with shudderings. She glanced swiftly over to a certain seat to see if it had changed occupants. It had not, and she felt relieved. The man who sat there might be cold and proud, but he was honorable and chivalrous; he could defend a whole car full of people, she was sure. Then there was the old lady beaming out even in the gloom and darkness, as she just now roused up, saying, "How are you getting on, my dear?" There was a world of comfort in that "my dear."
Mr. Lynde had succumbed to the power of weariness, and was fast asleep himself now, and Marian had opportunity to retaliate, had she but known her grievances. She ventured only a few stolen glances to see if closer scrutiny would confirm her first intuitions. It was a shapely head thrown back against the corner of the seat; the face of a high, fine type, intellectually strong, and yet a trifle marred by something. Perhaps it was the suspicion that the mouth might easily take shape in a satirical smile; and there were other curves and lines suggestive of the idea that sarcasm was one of the weapons of his warfare he was fond of wielding. However, it was, as Marian decided, "a face to trust;" she composed herself to sleep again, comforted by the nearness of her two protectors.
When the day dawned matters had not mended. The rain had come down in sheets through the night; the whole country was flooded, and help had not yet come to the disabled engine. It was truly a dismal outlook for all concerned.
The fortunate ones were those who had some breakfast. The nice old lady had a snug little lunch basket, and she looked about her to see with whom she should share it. This particular car was nearly deserted, the men spending most of their time in the smoking car. Mr. Lynde was moodily gazing through the window upon the watery world, when the old lady trotted briskly over to him and, holding out her lunch basket, begged him to help himself to a sandwich and a doughnut, "for I'm sure you must be all tuckered out by this time," she added sympathetically. But this the gentleman most emphatically declined to do, assuring her that he was not suffering, and that he could not possibly think of depriving her of what she might greatly need before the end of the journey.
She looked disappointed as she went back, and Marian, who saw the refusal, but did not hear the kindly, courteous words, inly resolved that he should have no opportunity to decline any contributions from her stores. She could have furnished him an excellent breakfast, she told herself, without fear of coming to want, either. It was good, too; wonderfully fresh and nice, considering the long time it had been on the way, but then she had providently taken precautions when detained at the hotel to keep it in good condition.