From all this, not a few consequences, whose value you above all others are able to judge and appreciate, are immediately deduced with a clearness greater even than we could desire. The first is, that the noblest and greatest problem of modern philosophy, to wit, that the protological and encyclopædic principle cannot be placed elsewhere than in the principle of creation, understood in conformity with the tradition of the Catholic Church; this principle, I say, was stated and solved amply, doubly, irrefutably, by St. Augustine; first, in hisSoliloquies, where one by one the partial principles of all the sciences are recovered; secondly, in this eighth book ofThe City of God, where the one only rule is laid hold of and exhibited by which to distinguish the only true system among various and opposite philosophical systems. The second consequence is, that those persons must cover their eyes with both hands who will not see and admit that St. Augustine preferred the Platonic doctrine, and specifically preferred the Platonic or Pythagorean ideology, in the clearest terms in which it was possible for him to express his meaning. The third is, that St. Augustine not only derived his ideology from the very principle of creation, in the way of an inference more or less remote; but held it, rather, as an integral part of the principle itself, and made of it a second cycle, one lying between the first, which respects the origin of substances, and the third, which assigns the good of operations. The final consequence is, that this second cycle, relating to rational intelligence, has been passed over by the moderns; which may serve as a useful admonition to them, to convince them thoroughly that no one can take St. Augustine's place in philosophy; that modern philosophy, with all its power, lags very far behind the Augustinian speculations, and that if all other books are understood and studied to the neglect of St. Augustine, this will turn not to his disadvantage but to ours. Thus we see, by a most striking example, that he alone not only saved, by the principle of creation, physics and ethics; but moreover, by that middle cycle, which is as it were central to the other two, saved rational philosophy, without which the other two result less necessarily, and, so to speak, revert back to nullity.
The first of the consequences above enumerated was noted by mein this place many years ago; and has been better exhibited for the benefit of science by the illustrious F. Milone in his book entitled,La Scuola di Filosofia Razionale Intitolata a S. Augustino; wherefore I will abstain from considering it any further at present. I will restrict myself on this occasion to taking advantage of the other consequences which follow to a marvel from the ideology, but especially from the genesis of the ideology of St. Augustine. Indeed we have a great number of authors, beginning with the most exalted of all, that is, the seraphic and angelic doctors, and terminating with writers who are still living in Italy, France, and Belgium, who have collected from the Augustinian writings a most extensive list of disputed questions concerning ideology and human knowledge; but, above all, we have two more remarkable collections in the works of those two fathers of the Oratory of France, who are equal to any in learning and merit—Thomassin and Martin.[116]That which may perhaps have something new and original in it, in our own investigation, is the more exact indication of the primitive fountain and source whence these large streams take their issue; that source, namely, from which St. Augustine derived the logical moment of that ideology which he bases, constructs, and amplifies with such great strength; which was the concept, original with him, of that most vast and sublime theory of human cognitions formed by him alone. It appears to me that I have made it clear to all, from those things which have been laid down and the testimonies adduced, that St. Augustine concentrates and hinges the three branches of the natural encyclopædia in one sole principle unfolded in three members: the principle being that of creation; the three members being physics, logic, and ethics; which are respectively the sole cause of existence, the sole light of knowledge, the sole end of virtue. From this every one can see and touch with the hand that St. Augustine found his ideology in the principle of creation, regarded it as a part of the principle of creation, distinguished it from the two extreme cycles, and from the two opposite members of the principle of creation. If any one had denied the ideology of St. Augustine in his time, St. Augustine would have been bound to say that such a person denied the principle of creation; if some one else had vaunted a contrary system of ideology, he would have been bound to judge that system to be contrary to the principle of creation; if any one had demanded from St. Augustine the substantial formula of his ideology, the origin of that ideology, or the proofs of the stability, security, and irrefutable validity of that ideology, he would always have been obliged to answer by appealing to the universal principle established by reason and the Catholic faith, that is, to the principle of creation. Therefore the genesis of the Augustinian ideology, if it had not been already traced out or properly considered before to-day, would be now as clear and certain as the light, and with the eighth book ofThe City of God, we might predict that it would be immortal.
In scientific themes a twofold labor must be undergone; on the one hand, in ascertaining, and in elucidating on the other, the matters to be treated of; and the one who must apply himself rigorously to one part of this is rarely able at the same time to attend to the other. This is the case with myself; for, havingbeen obliged to point out the seat and position of the Augustinian ideology in that encyclopædic principle which I have above defined, I could not bring forward the second cycle except as implicated and restricted by the other two, the first and third. I am glad to be able now to supply, at least partially, this defect, by alleging one quite peculiar testimony, which, fortunately, leaves in the background the two cycles with which we are not concerned, and brings forward with admirable distinctness the one which specially concerns us in ideology.
"Now, those authors whom we with justice prefer to all others," (says St. Augustine, speaking of the Platonists, Pythagoreans, and others of the best stamp,) "have distinguished those things which are perceived by the mind from those which are attained by the sense; not taking from the senses those things for which they have a capacity, or granting to them what is beyond their capacity. But the light of minds by which all things are learned [see here clearly the second cycle] they affirmed to be God himself, by whom all things were made."
"Now, those authors whom we with justice prefer to all others," (says St. Augustine, speaking of the Platonists, Pythagoreans, and others of the best stamp,) "have distinguished those things which are perceived by the mind from those which are attained by the sense; not taking from the senses those things for which they have a capacity, or granting to them what is beyond their capacity. But the light of minds by which all things are learned [see here clearly the second cycle] they affirmed to be God himself, by whom all things were made."
Lumen autem mentium esse dixerunt ad discenda omnia eumdem ipsum Deum a quo facta sunt omnia.[117]The principle of creation, then, in so far regards our rational intelligence as it places on the one hand the sensible perception we have of it, and on the other the intelligence which we have in addition as our great prerogative. Rational cognition comes from the conjunction of intellect with sensibility; and therefore the greater part of the ancient philosophers, grossly taking our cognition for an act tied to a mere sensible perception, and badly mixing up sense with intellect and the sensible with the intelligible, knew little or nothing of the contra-position of the one to the other. Some of them, giving every thing to the sensible, fell into Epicureanism, into materialism, into atheism, denying God, and thus the principle of creation; others, paying attention only to the intelligible, rushed into fatalism and pantheism, denying created substances, and thus again the principle of creation. These are the philosophers whom we Catholics cannot prefer to the others; whom St. Augustine says,non prodest excutere, it is lost time to discuss them. But those, on the contrary,quos merito ceteris anteponimus, began from a fundamental distinction between the intelligible and the sensible, and therefore also between the intelligence and the sensibility;discreverunt ea quæ mente conspiciuntur ab eis quæ sensibus attinguntur; nor did they take away from the senses their proper office and necessary value in the act of defending as their principal aim the intelligence, which is so true that they regarded rational cognition as a sort of marriage, and a true coöperation, of the mind with the senses. If, then, concludes the most glorious father of Catholic philosophy, the best sages of antiquity, and we with them admit and give value to the sensibility, that is necessary in order to maintain the principle of creation, since otherwise all the substances created by God, which are sensible natures, disappear. Likewise if the same sages, and we as much as or even more than they, admit and defend intelligence, this is of equal if not greater necessity, in order to keep the same principle of creation. In fact, with the sensibility alone,non est discere, we can learn nothing, as the brutes,certo nusquam discuntcertainly never learn any thing; but only minds endowed with intelligence, who have as a lightad discenda omnia, eumdem ipsum Deum a quo facta sunt omnia—as a light for learning all things, that same God himself who created all things. Since, therefore, by the principle ofcreation, God is the only light of all minds, so, by denying to minds that divine, creative light, all rational intelligence is denied, and the principle of creation is totally destroyed, just as much as by taking away all substances.
But perhaps some one of you, considering that St. Augustine had been instructed in the Platonic doctrine, as we read in theSummaof Aquinas, will remain doubtful whether the genesis which I have traced out is not that of the Platonic or Pythagorean ideology, whichever we may choose to call it, rather than of the Augustinian. I think that I have in the preceding portion of this dissertation cited from the original texts enough of St. Augustine's own expressions, which always revert to these constant formulas,qui nobiscum sentiunt, quos merito ceteris anteponimus, to render it certainly and for ever incontestable that in these passages it is St. Augustine whocum istis sentit; it is he whohos ceteris anteponit; and by consequence he it is who embraces, explains, and defends the Platonic ideology, amending it where it sins, and supplying to it what it lacks. But, conceding that there is a difficulty here in our way, corroborated by an expression of the angelic doctor, I wish it to be noted distinctly that I do not resolve it principally by alleging any solitary expression whatever of the angel of the schools himself, but by a series of formulæ as distinctly marked in their significance as they are harmoniously located in the structure of his thought and of his boundless learning. Whenever there shall be for the first time produced a copious and well-arranged history of our philosophy, we shall see among other things relating to that most glorious Aquinas, a fact which gives lustre to his works, and is a memorable one in human philosophy; and the fact, which is one completely manifest and palpable, is this, that while he pays so little deference to the Platonic philosophy, while he habitually interprets the ideas of Plato only in the sense ascribed to them by Aristotle and other philosophers, the most hostile to him; while, consequently, he does not notice the Platonic ideology except to reject and confute it, he nevertheless gives us to understand, and professes a hundred times, that he has nothing to oppose to the ideology of St. Augustine; that he agrees that it is not the secondary truths which serve as the rule of our judgments, but rather the one only and primary truth which is the divine light and God himself; that he agrees that our soul is an image of God principally by the intelligence which we possess, into which the light of that first and one truth falling produces there an image of the intelligible things, as like as possible in the spiritual order to that figure which bodies cast upon a mirror by virtue of the exterior material light; that he agrees that our intellect is like wax which receives the impression of the primary truth as if from a seal; that he agrees that those universals from which metaphysics works under the form of principles, mathematics under the form of axioms, morals under the form of unchangeable, imperishable laws, these universals, (questi generali,) I say, and nothing else, St. Thomas admits to be eternal, in the eternal light of the eternal truth, which is the light of the divine intelligence.[118]Is there any great need of certifyingthat these formulæ to which St. Thomas agrees are not a single one of them taken from Aristotle, but are without exception taken from St. Augustine himself? Therefore St. Thomas, who had to treat the ideology of Plato, as it was presented to him, as absurd, sustains and honors as much as we could wish the Augustinian ideology; that is to say, he makes Augustinian and not Platonic the ideology of the eighth book ofThe City of God.[119]
What should hinder us from passing for an instant to those other books altogether similar to this one,Of the Trinity,Of the Literal Interpretation of Genesis, and theConfessions? The last five books ofThe Trinityare, indeed, a complete ideology which for novelty, sublimity, insight, and scientific force cannot be equalled in the whole range of human science. I will cite only one passage, however, which amid so many others is especially noteworthy, that one, namely, in which Augustine protects and defends, (who would believe it?) against Plato himself, that ideology which is nowadays called Platonic. Here it may be seen in express words.
"Plato, that noble philosopher, ... related that a certain boy who was asked some questions, I know not precisely what, in geometry, answered like a person extremely skilled in that branch of study; whence he attempted to prove that the souls of men have lived here before they were in their present bodies.... But we ought rather to believe that the nature of the intellectual mind was so created that, being naturally coördinated by the Creator to intelligible things, it sees them in a certain incorporeal lightsui generis, in the same way that the bodily eye sees those things which are circumjacent to it in this corporeal light for which it has been created with a natural capacity and congruity."[120]
"Plato, that noble philosopher, ... related that a certain boy who was asked some questions, I know not precisely what, in geometry, answered like a person extremely skilled in that branch of study; whence he attempted to prove that the souls of men have lived here before they were in their present bodies.... But we ought rather to believe that the nature of the intellectual mind was so created that, being naturally coördinated by the Creator to intelligible things, it sees them in a certain incorporeal lightsui generis, in the same way that the bodily eye sees those things which are circumjacent to it in this corporeal light for which it has been created with a natural capacity and congruity."[120]
This passage being only an incident in connection with the whole context, we find him saying a little above that this incorporeal light is nothing else than the truth; that these intelligible things are the eternal reasons, and a little below, that this light and these things are "something eternal and unchangeable;" that our soul is made naturally in the image of God, inasmuch as "it can use reason and intelligence to know and form a conception of God," and as noted in another place, "although the mind is not of the same nature with God, nevertheless the image of that nature which is more perfect than any other must be sought and found in that part of our nature which is more perfect than any other."[121]
Joining together and recapitulating all this in theConfessions, he says in formal terms:
"Behold how much I have wandered about in my memory seeking thee, O Lord! and I have not found thee outside of it; ... for where I have found the truth, there I have found my God, the truth itself."[122]
"Behold how much I have wandered about in my memory seeking thee, O Lord! and I have not found thee outside of it; ... for where I have found the truth, there I have found my God, the truth itself."[122]
Moreover, in those most stupendous books of theLiteral Interpretation of Genesis, he undertakes to distinguishpartitively the vision in the light of the truth from all the other manners of vision conceded to the nature of the human soul, and terminates with a final contrast which presents the fundamental opposition between the intelligent soul and its intellectual light in these words:
"Even in that kind of things seen by intellectual vision, (intellectualium visorum, understand here that which he is wont to callintellectum rationale,) those which are seen in the soul itself, as virtues, the contraries of which are vices, are one thing; ... the light itself by which the soul is illuminated, so that it is able to see in a true intellectual apprehension all things either in itself (rational knowledge) or in that (intellectual knowledge;) for that indeed is God himself; but this created existence, although made rational and intelligent (these two terms correspond to the two members,either in itself, or in that) after his image, when it attempts to gaze upon that light trembles with weakness, and can do but little; yet it derives from thence whatever it does understand according to its ability. When, therefore, it is rapt into that region, and, being withdrawn from the senses, is brought more directly face to face with that vision, not by any local presence in space, but in a manner peculiar to itself; it even sees in a way superior to its ordinary power that by the aid of which it also sees whatsoever it does see in itself by understanding."[123]
"Even in that kind of things seen by intellectual vision, (intellectualium visorum, understand here that which he is wont to callintellectum rationale,) those which are seen in the soul itself, as virtues, the contraries of which are vices, are one thing; ... the light itself by which the soul is illuminated, so that it is able to see in a true intellectual apprehension all things either in itself (rational knowledge) or in that (intellectual knowledge;) for that indeed is God himself; but this created existence, although made rational and intelligent (these two terms correspond to the two members,either in itself, or in that) after his image, when it attempts to gaze upon that light trembles with weakness, and can do but little; yet it derives from thence whatever it does understand according to its ability. When, therefore, it is rapt into that region, and, being withdrawn from the senses, is brought more directly face to face with that vision, not by any local presence in space, but in a manner peculiar to itself; it even sees in a way superior to its ordinary power that by the aid of which it also sees whatsoever it does see in itself by understanding."[123]
The few moments which remain to me will barely suffice for the briefest possible exposition of the contrast between the belligerent ideology of modern Catholics and the certain and incontestable ideology founded by the prince of all our philosophers, of which I have just given a sketch in his own words. I feel bound to say one thing here which has probably not been attended to, but is nevertheless not the less true or the less demonstrable to a wise critical judgment. However much it is to be lamented that the modern philosophy of the Catholic masters, through a miserable obliviousness of St. Augustine and St. Thomas, has brought once more into vogue and patronized so long, in great measure so blindly also, the Gentile dispute between the ideology of Plato and that of Aristotle; this most obstinate war, more bitterly waged in our day than ever before, has no right to be considered as excusable. Whoever will look a little into the interior of this matter, will be persuaded that the great mass of questions of this kind should rather be regarded as vain and superfluous, than as founded on unreasonable or unjust opinions. The Catholic ontologists and the Catholic psychologists sustain one and the same thing in two contrary parties; but that which all in common wish to maintain appears to the members of one party to be badly comprehended and worse defined by those of the other. All say unanimously, We ought to hold that theory alone as good and perfect in which is maintained the capital distinction between God and his creation; in which is firmly established the knowledge of God on the one hand, and that of things created on the other; in which neither the reality of the divine nature, which is the principle of every other reality, nor the reality of that which is created, apart from which that principle itself is no longer such, and all knowledge is overturned and destroyed from summit to foundation, is compromised. This all profess and maintain. But when it comes to the definition of a theory sufficient for such a lofty scope, the one party divide themselves from the other through the diverse aspect in which they regard, on the one side, that most sublime and universal truth which they hold as anterior to the mind, and, on the other side, the multitude of created natures which are perceived by the internal or external sensible faculty. To make my meaning clearer, there are two pointsto be made secure in ideology: the truth by which all things which are true exist; and the true things which furnish the argument by which their principle, that is, the truth, is proved. The psychologists observe the following maxim, which is irreprehensible. It is impossible to prove the existence of the creator without asserting and proving the existence of the creation; since we cannot attain to the scientific notion of the truth except by the medium of the knowledge of actualities. The ontologists contemplate the matter from another entirely diverse side, reasoning with equal evidence in this form. To know a thing to a certain extent, is to distinguish to the same extent whether it be true or false; but we must necessarily distinguish whether a thing be true or false by the light of truth—the truth, however, is God; therefore, without an interior and divine light, neither man nor angel can know any thing whatsoever. But take care, exclaim the psychologists, that you do not by such a method destroy physical cognition; in fact, if every thing is known in the truth, which is eternal and immutable, created things, which are mutable and temporal, cannot be known at all. You ought rather to take much greater care, reply the ontologists, lest by your mode of reasoning you deny and destroy metaphysical cognition; in fact, the universal cannot be any kind of created thing, since every creature is completely individual and particular; wherefore, it follows, from your statement, that the universals are nothing either physically or metaphysically. The psychologists rejoin by saying, God in creating things renders them knowable; therefore, when we know them, this comes from the fact that they are thus created—that is, precisely knowable. The ontologists with equal force respond, We agree entirely that created things are knowable because they are created; but since they would not be created except for the divine action of the creator, so they would not be any more knowable except for the divine action which creates their knowledge in the human mind; wherefore, in the same way as the drawing of a substance from nothing requires omnipotence, which is entirely from God, the giving of intelligence to a created spirit requires the truth, which is entirely from God, and is God himself. But, reply again the psychologists, you are obliged to admit the reality of the created apart from the divine reality; therefore, also, its cognoscibility. And you, reply the ontologists, ought further to maintain the contra-position of intelligence to sensibility. We, who profess that the intelligibility of things consists in a divine light, easily secure the contra-position of intelligence and sensibility by means of the contra-position of God and created substances visible in the creation; whereas, taking away the divine light, the creation alone remains to form the object of the sensibility on one part, and the object of intelligence on the other. But in that case it is impossible to secure one's self scientifically, logically, demonstratively, as is necessary, from confounding intellect with sense, which results—note it well!—in the denial of the creation of man itself, and the reduction to nullity not less of revealed religion than of natural morality.[124]
I will not proceed any further, but will leave it to the historians of Catholic philosophy to continue, if they see fit, this chain of parallel arguments, which describe the whole cause of combat between the two great modern schools. The sketch I have given will, I hope, suffice to convince you, first of all, of that which is chiefly commendable, honorable, and worthy of attention in this dispute, which, in many other respects, is so excessively wearisome. I have demonstrated that the two contrary parties look toward one and the same end—which is, to make valid in ideology the Catholic principle of creation; that both govern themselves by the same criterion—which is, the genuine and Catholic interpretation of the principle of creation, more or less known naturally, and perfectly defined in Catholic doctrine. All this is due to the praise of the two schools, and to the glory of that philosophy to which both pride themselves in belonging. This, however, would go but a little way toward the attainment of that peace at the present day so necessary, and always so desirable. Since, therefore, all truths are in agreement with each other, and are harmoniously united in one only and self-same truth, I have consequently wished to demonstrate by actual proofs that, aside from human weakness and the errors of certain teachers on both sides, the living and substantial arguments on either side which are brought forward in an opposite sense are not really opposed to each other, being drawn from the difference of terms, and the fact that they apprehend and contemplate from opposite sides that truth which is, above all others, universal and comprehensive in the principle common to both parties. This consideration, most powerful for promoting the peace we all desire and recommend, ought so much the more to be held as good and sound, as the Augustinian formula in which all the force of Catholic philosophy is concentrated with the most luminous evidence, appears divided into two parts, and distributed between the argumentation of the two opposite schools. For, while the one sustains that first clause which forbids to take away from the senses their proper capacity—neque sensibus adimentes id quod possunt—the other stands firmly by the last clause, which declares that the light of the mind is God,lumen autem mentium ad discenda omnia esse ipsum Deum a quo facta sunt omnia. But would it not be a great fault of the ideologists, to whatever school they might belong, if they should wilfully dismember and destroy the organism of Christian protology? Is it, perhaps, not true that the Catholic masters of modern psychologism and ontologism all completely agree in that maxim, as new in itself as it is felicitous for the whole human encyclopædia, and clearly distinct to us?
"The whole discipline of wisdom pertaining to the instruction of man is the correct discrimination of the creator from the creation; the worship of the one as possessing supreme dominion, and the acknowledgment of the simple subjection of the other."[125]
"The whole discipline of wisdom pertaining to the instruction of man is the correct discrimination of the creator from the creation; the worship of the one as possessing supreme dominion, and the acknowledgment of the simple subjection of the other."[125]
Let us then bring these things back to their origin, and the philosophers of our times will recognize thatthey have much the advantage in antiquity and merit of the philosophers of another class who are the chiefs of natural science; the psychologists will observe that they have a psychological formation in St. Thomas against which Catholic ontologism cannot have any just complaints; on the other hand, the ontologists will observe that there is an ontological form in St. Augustine to which nothing is wanting of that which Catholic psychologism can hold as correct. The time is past for beginning philosophy over againda capo; whoever wishes to participate in it, let him gather it from the most choice, weighty, and authoritative traditions. That peace which for so many ages it has been impossible to conclude, was already made centuries ago. There was no ideological dispute, (whoever maintained that there was?)—no! there was only diversity of method of exposition and of language, between St. Augustine and his most faithful disciple, who was in every sense the Angelical; and this was wrought by the infinite Providence, so that Catholic intellect might remake philosophy twice over by the two opposite ways, from intelligence to sense, and from sense to intelligence. It is a shame to mention the Platonists with dispraise, when our glory is a Catholic Plato; it is a vile thing to lose one's self in reproaches against Aristotle, after that a Catholic Aristotle has filled the whole church with the fame of his wisdom.
The learned Caramuele affirmed that if that ancient Plato of heathenism could have seen the Aristotle who diverged from him so widely, as St. Thomas re-cast him, corrected and entirely altered, he would have been forced to applaud him, and to declare himself satisfied with him. Cardinal Sigismund Gerdil announced and demonstrated[126]that in the ideology of St. Thomas more than one principle is encountered wonderfully conformed to the principles of St. Augustine. TheScuola di Filosofia Razionaleof the excellent F. Milone is for this reason more precious and valuable in my eyes, that he, contrary to Gioberti, who is only one among numberless others, marks out a theory of peace between the ontological and psychological method, between St. Augustine and St. Thomas. It is a matter of the most transparent certainty that, if the ontologism of Catholic authors is reduced to a profession of the philosophical doctrines of St. Augustine, well understood and better exposed and elucidated, nothing can be more secure and more respectable among Catholics than ontologism; nor is it less certain and transparent that, if the psychologism of Catholic authors turns to a maintenance of the philosophical doctrines of St. Thomas, well and symmetrically arranged, and with fine language reduced to science and made accessible to our age, nothing can be more adapted to our time, or more suitable, or more irreprehensible than the same psychologism. Let Catholic philosophers follow the example of the holy church, who, since the time of St. Augustine and St. Thomas, has turned toward no one a regard more steady and fixed than to Augustine and Thomas.
In the name of these most authoritative and most blessed doctors, I pray for Catholic philosophy the just and desired tranquillity, which can only be obtained from a direction less arbitrary in the selection of questions, and more capable of embracing all the grand problems. Ideology distinguishes naturally between the objective and the subjective; init the ontologists are accustomed to establish with sound reasoning the objectivity of the truth, and likewise the psychologists the subjectivity of signs and knowledge. If both the one and the other desire to become victors in such a grand combat, let them make place, as they ought, the ontologists to larger considerations respecting the created,non adimentes sensibus id quod possunt; and the psychologists to a greater security of the intelligibility of things,non dantes sensibus ultra quam possunt. Then, the choice will be free to all to select between the two opposite methods, and they can, in respect to that divine light,quo illustratur anima, profess indifferently the original formula of Catholic ontologism in St. Augustine, or the imitative exposition of Catholic psychologism in St. Thomas. With these peace-makers, so glorious, so well-deserving, so venerable, it appears to me that we ought at once to treat of peace. May these saints aid from heaven my humble undertaking!
On the eve of Christmas Day,Ere the moon began to rise,I fell to dreaming.When a fairy did display,Spread before my wond'ring eyes,Bright jewels gleamingLike the stars at night.Then to me—"Choose which to sendAs a present to your friend,And thus your friendship plight."Ah! how rare the jewels seemedEre those words were spoken.After, I no longer deemedGems a fitting token."Jewels may her garments grace:'Tis not there that I would placeSomething to remind her thoughtOf the friendship of my heart.Not all gems that may be boughtWould of that be counterpart.""Hoity, toity!" said the fairy,"This is extraordinary!Don't you know 'tis customary?""Yes," said I; "but on this mornCould I but herheartadornWith some little gift of mine,Then 'twould have a fitting shrine."Gathering up her jewels rare,Said the fairy, "Don't despair.Send her what her heart can wear."Reaching out my eager hand—"Have you in all fairy-landSuch a boon at my command?"Raising up her eyes to heaven—"Only there such gifts are given.Gifts that make the heart more fairGod bestows. The price—a prayer."God knows the prayer is said, my friend.I doubt not He the gift will send.
On the eve of Christmas Day,Ere the moon began to rise,I fell to dreaming.When a fairy did display,Spread before my wond'ring eyes,Bright jewels gleamingLike the stars at night.Then to me—"Choose which to sendAs a present to your friend,And thus your friendship plight."Ah! how rare the jewels seemedEre those words were spoken.After, I no longer deemedGems a fitting token."Jewels may her garments grace:'Tis not there that I would placeSomething to remind her thoughtOf the friendship of my heart.Not all gems that may be boughtWould of that be counterpart.""Hoity, toity!" said the fairy,"This is extraordinary!Don't you know 'tis customary?""Yes," said I; "but on this mornCould I but herheartadornWith some little gift of mine,Then 'twould have a fitting shrine."Gathering up her jewels rare,Said the fairy, "Don't despair.Send her what her heart can wear."Reaching out my eager hand—"Have you in all fairy-landSuch a boon at my command?"Raising up her eyes to heaven—"Only there such gifts are given.Gifts that make the heart more fairGod bestows. The price—a prayer."
God knows the prayer is said, my friend.I doubt not He the gift will send.
During the latter part of Margaret's stay at Shellbeach, the doctor noticed that he never saw her alone; and as formerly he had observed, with amusement, Miss Spelman's many admirable reasons for leaving the room, he imagined that Miss Lester had been the cause of the change. "She wants to prevent my going too far," he said to himself; and then with a rather bitter laugh, "She need not be afraid." He often met her riding alone on the Marchioness, or caught sight of her at sunset on the beach with her little dog, but they had very little satisfactory conversation of any kind together. Once or twice she made allusions before him to a "period of importance," or to a "momentous decision," or to the "turning-point of her existence," which was at hand; but it was always as a joke, and she seemed to enjoy his surprise and embarrassment.
"She does not want me to forget July 18th, the date of our absurd agreement," he said mentally. "What a fool I was to allow such a nonsensical arrangement! I wish I were well out of the scrape."
At last, on the evening of the appointed day, Miss Spelman gave a little tea-party and Dr. James was present. He had resolved that he would decline; but he was curious to see what Miss Lester would do and say, and so, at some inconvenience to himself, he made his appearance among the guests. He happened once to have expressed his dislike to pink bonnets, and indeed to that color for any part of a lady's dress; and lo, on this occasion Margaret came to meet him, radiantly smiling in rose-colored muslin, with delicate roses to match in her hair and on her breast! It was extremely becoming, the doctor perceived, and he saw also that her spirits were at their height. He inwardly groaned at the prospect of the evening before him. It was pleasant, however; even he acknowledged it. Margaret's mischievous remarks werefew, and she seemed to have the power of drawing people out and making every one appear his best; every one, the doctor felt, except himself. In vain he exerted himself to be agreeable and unconscious; he was grave and preoccupied. The thought of that dreadful letter which he had promised to write that very evening weighed on his mind, and he was perplexed by doubts and questions concerning it, himself, and Miss Lester. Was he not taking her words too literally? Had she the remotest idea of writing to him? or would it not end in his making an utter fool of himself? No; never before had she been so handsome, so gay, so universally kind. Little Miss Spelman caught the infectious cordiality, and beamed upon her guests with overflowing hospitality.
The windows and doors stood open, the sweet breath of roses was in the air, and suddenly from the garden came the sound of instruments. A serenade! Miss Spelman and every one looked at each other in surprise, for the music was not such as was obtainable in Sealing. But a glance at Margaret convinced all that she was the author of this unexpected pleasure. She said in a low voice to her aunt, "This is my contribution to the general festivity;" and it was indeed a delightful addition. The band played at intervals through the evening, the music varying from grave to gay, from solemn to pathetic.
The Shellbeach tea-parties were early affairs, and at ten o'clock the guests reluctantly departed, almost all driving home to Sealing, and a few from the neighboring houses walking slowly along the road, with the sweet notes of the music still in their ears. Dr. James lingered. Why, he could not have told; and it was with a start that, turning away from the window, he saw that he was the very last. He apologized; but Miss Selina coming to him, kindly took his hand,
"You are a true friend, you know, Dr. James," she said, "and should feel yourself at home."
Margaret was at the door, bidding good-night to the last guests, when the doctor, after warmly shaking Miss Spelman's hand, came into the hall for his hat. She walked with him down the little path to the front gate, while the air of the "Last Rose of Summer" came to them from the garden, and for the first time that evening he saw that her face was serious.
"I would like to walk home with you, in this lovely moonlight," she said.
"Well, will you not come? I will gladly accompany you back."
"No; there will not be time. You forget that you and I have an engagement at eleven o'clock this evening." Then, as he did not know how to reply, she continued, "I shall send you a note, to-morrow morning, at seven, and the boy will bring me back, not an answer, for it will not be that, but a corresponding note from you."
"Yes, Miss Lester, it shall be ready, if you say so."
"I do. Good night, Dr. James. Give me your hand; we are friends, are we not?"
"I believe we are. Yes, Miss Lester, I know we are friends to-night."
"And we shall be friends to-morrow; remember that I say so. Good-night."
She leaned on the little gate, and watched him as he walked away without once turning back. The music stopped, and a voice was heard calling, "Margaret!" She slowly walked into the house, and, sitting quietly down by her aunt on the sofa, told her that Jessie Edgar's marriage was fixed for the first day of September, and she was going to Newport, to be with Jessie till the wedding.
"Yes, my dear," returned Miss Selina rather plaintively. "I must not be selfish; but when do you think of leaving me?"
"To-morrow."
Poor Miss Spelman was astounded, shocked, and hurt; but Margaret pacified and consoled her. She assured her that it was a great deal better than if they had had this separation hanging over them for weeks, and if she had been obliged to take a formal leave of every body.
"Now I have bidden them good-by in the pleasantest way," she said; "they are all pleased with me, and so must you be, too, dear, dear Aunt Selina! We are too good friends to disagree about this."
"But you will come back after the wedding, dear? You feel this is your home, do you not?"
"I will come back, but not immediately. I mean to pass next winter in New York; and you will come and make me a long visit, to make up for my living on you so long here." And Margaret drew so bright a picture of the good times they would have together in New York that Miss Spelman bade her good-night quite happily. Margaret's movements were always so sudden that the quiet old lady was not, after all, as surprised as might have been expected.
"It was just like her," she said; "such decision of mind, such energy of character!"
Margaret, meanwhile, who had quietly completed all her arrangements and packed her trunks, went to her room, and, after laying aside her rose-colored dress, and putting on her wrapper, sat down to her table and wrote her letter. It did not seem at all difficult to her to write, though she once or twice laid down her pen and thought for a few minutes, with a grave face.
She wrote no rough copy, and made no alterations; but went on firmly, line by line, till she had signed her name, when she read it carefully over, sealed and directed it. It took her about half an hour, and then she went directly to bed, and slept as soundly as a child.
Dr. James's state of mind grew worse and worse, as he approached his home, and, after leaving Rosanna at her stable, he walked up and down before the house many times, before he went in to write his letter. Never before had any letter given him such trouble. He wrote and rewrote it; left it and walked about his room; took refuge in a book, and then put it down in despair. At last he resolved to try for the last time, and keep what he should write; and this was his letter:
"My Dear Miss Lester: I have a humiliating confession to make to you; but before I make it (afterward it would be impossible) I feel obliged to say to you that your conduct since you have been at Shellbeach has compelled my respect and admiration. I appreciate the courage and earnestness with which you adopted your change of life, and, instead of seeking in it only your own amusement, made your stay here not only a pleasure to your friends, but a blessing to persons whose number I can only guess at, but whom your own heart knows."I know, Miss Lester, you are wealthy; I knew it long before you came here. And your wealth, I acknowledge it to my shame, has been a temptation to me. I believe you consider all men mercenary, and fortune-hunters. I think you are mistaken; and I wish you to take the humiliation of what I am going to say as a proof that you are wrong. Miss Lester, I know I do not love you, and here is the proof: If I think of you as my wife, the thought of what your money would be to me comesfirstto my mind. Having said that, I can say no more; but I am, always yours faithfully,"Francis James."Shellbeach, July 18, 1868."
"My Dear Miss Lester: I have a humiliating confession to make to you; but before I make it (afterward it would be impossible) I feel obliged to say to you that your conduct since you have been at Shellbeach has compelled my respect and admiration. I appreciate the courage and earnestness with which you adopted your change of life, and, instead of seeking in it only your own amusement, made your stay here not only a pleasure to your friends, but a blessing to persons whose number I can only guess at, but whom your own heart knows.
"I know, Miss Lester, you are wealthy; I knew it long before you came here. And your wealth, I acknowledge it to my shame, has been a temptation to me. I believe you consider all men mercenary, and fortune-hunters. I think you are mistaken; and I wish you to take the humiliation of what I am going to say as a proof that you are wrong. Miss Lester, I know I do not love you, and here is the proof: If I think of you as my wife, the thought of what your money would be to me comesfirstto my mind. Having said that, I can say no more; but I am, always yours faithfully,
"Francis James.
"Shellbeach, July 18, 1868."
The clock struck one as the doctor signed his name, tore up the unfinished letters which lay around him, and hastened to extinguish his light and go to bed. He was angry with himself, and disgusted with his letter; and for the first time for years, found that he could not sleep. One minute he repented of what he had done, and called himself a fool; the next, he said to himself, "I must tell her the truth; she deserves it." He then asked himself what she did deserve? It was plain to him what her plan of action was to be: she wished to part friends, because she supposed that she would by her letter give a dreadful blow to his hopes, and consign him to despair. At this, he laughed with pleasure, to think that his letter would undeceive and disappoint her. Then rose up clearly before him the always recurring temptation of his great need of money, and all the good he could do with it. What a chance had been offered him! Would he ever have such another? Might he not, if he had gone to work differently, won her heart? Other men had done such things; and he was better worthy of her, he was sure of it, than the society-men she had so often spoken of with contempt. Had he not heard that "any man can have any woman"? No, that was not right; it was, "Any woman can have any man." Then, had she tried to ensnare him? had she really endeavored to please him? He could not say she had; but he remembered, with some discomfiture, her apparent enjoyment in shocking and teasing him. She was an enigma; but he believed her honest, and was glad he had told her the truth.
To tell all Dr. James's reflections of that night, would take considerably longer than it took him to make them, which was two or three hours; so we will leave him to his uncomfortable pillow, and not return to him till he opened his chamber-door, at seven o'clock in the morning, and saw Tommy McNally waiting with a letter in his hand. The doctor handed the boy his own, and walked into his study, where he sat down at his table and contemplated the square white envelope and graceful monogram, and his own name written in a large, firm hand. He slowly opened the letter, struck by its neatness and the fair, distinct writing, and read as follows:
"Sweet Brier Cottage,July 18, 1868."My Dear Dr. James: When, six months ago, I promised to write you this letter, I certainly had no idea that I should say in it what I am about to say now. Whether, if this possibility had occurred to me, I should have made that promise, or whether I should have come to Shellbeach at all, it is profitless to consider."I know you always speak the truth frankly, and I am resolved, in all my dealings with you, to do the same; for I feel that I shall thus best show my appreciation and approbation of your character, and of the plain truth which I know you will write to me to-night. You deserve honest treatment, and you shall have it. I consider the time I have spent here to be the great lesson of my life, and one which I on no account regret, though I weigh well the significance of the words. I have learned to know and value the useful and unselfish life and work of one man, and from him to believe in the capacity for noble things in other people whom I once despised. In recognizing your superiority, I have grown humble; and from your wisdom and good sense, I have come to be aware of my own ignorance and conceit. I know how strongly you will object to hearing this, but be patient a little longer. You have given me a lesson you will be glad to hear of, and it is this: I believe that a useless life will never again content me, and that to do some active good will be the only way to make my life happy."But you will say all this is not to the purpose, and not in the bond. You are very right; and though I beat round the bush, I do not mean to beg the question, and I know very well that honor, esteem, appreciation, good resolutions, etc., etc., were not to be the subjects of this letter. Truly then, Ilove you, and I have never loved before. I believe that to be your wife, in this little town, with no society and no excitements, to share your work and your poverty, (if poverty indeed it were,) would be a happy lot. I tell you this, because I trust you; I know it is not maidenly, but it is honest. I shall not see you again; for I know you do not love me, and that your letter will tell the truth. I thank you for your kindness, and your wise and good advice. I hope it has not all been lost upon me. I hope you will sometimes let me know what you are interested in, and how you are prospering."Good-by, and believe me your true friend,Margaret Lester."Once more, I do not regret any thing."
"Sweet Brier Cottage,July 18, 1868.
"My Dear Dr. James: When, six months ago, I promised to write you this letter, I certainly had no idea that I should say in it what I am about to say now. Whether, if this possibility had occurred to me, I should have made that promise, or whether I should have come to Shellbeach at all, it is profitless to consider.
"I know you always speak the truth frankly, and I am resolved, in all my dealings with you, to do the same; for I feel that I shall thus best show my appreciation and approbation of your character, and of the plain truth which I know you will write to me to-night. You deserve honest treatment, and you shall have it. I consider the time I have spent here to be the great lesson of my life, and one which I on no account regret, though I weigh well the significance of the words. I have learned to know and value the useful and unselfish life and work of one man, and from him to believe in the capacity for noble things in other people whom I once despised. In recognizing your superiority, I have grown humble; and from your wisdom and good sense, I have come to be aware of my own ignorance and conceit. I know how strongly you will object to hearing this, but be patient a little longer. You have given me a lesson you will be glad to hear of, and it is this: I believe that a useless life will never again content me, and that to do some active good will be the only way to make my life happy.
"But you will say all this is not to the purpose, and not in the bond. You are very right; and though I beat round the bush, I do not mean to beg the question, and I know very well that honor, esteem, appreciation, good resolutions, etc., etc., were not to be the subjects of this letter. Truly then, Ilove you, and I have never loved before. I believe that to be your wife, in this little town, with no society and no excitements, to share your work and your poverty, (if poverty indeed it were,) would be a happy lot. I tell you this, because I trust you; I know it is not maidenly, but it is honest. I shall not see you again; for I know you do not love me, and that your letter will tell the truth. I thank you for your kindness, and your wise and good advice. I hope it has not all been lost upon me. I hope you will sometimes let me know what you are interested in, and how you are prospering.
"Good-by, and believe me your true friend,
Margaret Lester.
"Once more, I do not regret any thing."
Poor Dr. James! He read the last word, and sat like a man in a dream staring at the letter before him. Suddenly he started up, seized his hat from its peg, put it on, and rushed to the door; then came back, threw his hat away from him and sat down again, burying his face in his hands. Fool, fool that he had been! What had he thrown away? Was there ever a woman like this? What would it not be for him, for any man, to go through life with such a companion; who would never hold him back from what was right; who would not fear to meet any thing for the sake of truth and justice? What woman in a hundred would have done this? knowing, too, that her love was not returned. And how did she know it? Oh! how much more clear-sighted she had been than he, with all his wisdom and experience! If he had not shut his eyes, if he could have had the least suspicion of this, what a difference might it not have made? Then he resolved to seek her, to go through fire and water if need be, if he could only find her, and bring her back, and never let her leave him again.
At that moment, the words he had written to her came before him, and threw him again into despair. No; all was lost! He had insulted her, causelessly and needlessly; he had said that he valued her money more than herself! Her money! Would she had not a cent; would she were dependent and friendless, that he might work for her, share with her all that he had, and win name and fame for her!
When Mrs. Day, his housekeeper, put her head into his room, exclaiming that the breakfast-bell had rung half an hour ago, he followed her to the dining-room and swallowed his cold coffee without a word, with a meekness that touched the heart of his Gorgon. She proposed boiling him an egg, or cutting a few shavings of ham; but the doctor declined her attentions (to her great relief) and hurried to the stable for Rosanna. He drove twenty miles away to his most distant patient, whom he alarmed by his gloomy face and abrupt manner; he drove Rosanna back to Sealing at a rate she was unaccustomed to, and walking up the street—it was then late in the afternoon—encountered Tommy McNally, roaring at the top of his voice, and rubbing his eyes as if he wished to leave in them no powers of vision. Dr. James stopped and asked rather crossly what ailed him:
"O doctor! she's gone away, and she's given me this," holding up a dollar bill and continuing to cry, "and one for each of us; and she's gone away, and we won't see her any more!"
"Do you mean Miss Lester?"
"Yes, doctor," said Tommy, beginning to dry his eyes. "I've been to the station and seen her go off; and she told me to be a good boy and help mother."
"Mind you do it," said the doctor, hurrying away and home to his cold dinner. That evening he called on Father Barry, and heard that Margaret had been there on her way to the cars, and had left directions for all herprotégés, especially the McNallys. Father Barry seemed quite dejectedabout her departure, and much surprised at it; but the doctor, of course, chose to throw no light on the subject.
A few days after, as soon as Dr. James could make up his mind to do so, he called on Miss Spelman, and found the house quite as forlorn as he had expected, and his old friend very glad to receive sympathy. She said she had heard from her niece that very day.
"It was an amusing, affectionate letter," said Miss Selina, "just like her. Poor child! she will be easy now she is with her friend. She was very much changed, doctor."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, she had grown so quiet and so strange—that is, she seemed to me strange; she would sit so long without speaking a word; and then she was much more affectionate—I mean more demonstrative—than when she first came; but she seemed to have lost her good spirits."
"I thought she seemed much as usual whenever I saw her."
"Yes, she was gayer than ever when any one was here; but that was only put on. Poor child! she felt Jessie's marriage, and that she was so soon to be separated from the friend of her childhood."
Miss Spelman seemed to think the doctor needed consolation, and from little remarks and insinuations, he imagined that she considered him suffering from disappointment; he did not try to undeceive her, for was it not true?
He found Martha Burney a great comfort; to her he sometimes talked of Margaret, and from her he learned to understand things in her character which had been puzzling to him before. And the more he became convinced that Margaret had spoken the truth in saying that she loved him, the more he wondered at and admired her for so completely concealing it from him in their intercourse; and the better he understood that her apparent levity and exaggerated spirits were no doubt assumed in order to hide her deeper feelings. He thought much of all these things, and wondered more; but he kept his secret and hers, and only suspected sometimes that Miss Burney knew more than any one else about the matter.
Dr. James was a disappointed man, and he made no effort to disguise it from himself; but he was not a man to sit down in despair and waste his life in regrets. So, recognizing the fact that he had thrown away a great chance of happiness, and been wholly to blame for it, he resolutely turned the energy of his thoughts into other channels, and worked harder than ever. But Sealing became unutterably wearisome to him; it was only by iron determination that he went through with his daily round of duties, and as for society, he confined himself exclusively to making the calls that he imposed on himself, and going for relaxation to Father Barry and Miss Burney.
In the middle of August he left Richards in charge, and went for a week to his mother and sisters in Maine.
Soon after Dr. James's return from Maine, he was apprised by his friend Philip of his approaching wedding, to take place at Newport, on September first. Philip urged his and Jessie's wish that he should be a groomsman; but this Dr. James,knowing that Margaret would of course be a bridesmaid, declared would be out of the question. He unwillingly promised to be present at both wedding and reception, because he had no reason to give for declining; and he looked forward to the day with mingled feelings of dread and impatience. He bought a dress suit for the first time for years; and when he was arrayed in state, gloves and all, surveyed himself from head to foot with strong disapprobation. He had spent the night at a hotel in Newport, and, having completed his toilet, descended to the parlor, where he had an opportunity of beholding histout ensemblein the long glass between the windows.
"I look like the ass in the lion's skin," he said to himself; "only I suppose that was too big for him, while every thing I have on is too small for me. I sha'n't be myself again till I get off these vanities."
He arrived at the church full half an hour before the time, he was so afraid of being late, and chose his seat up-stairs, where he could see better without being conspicuous. He observed the showy dresses and latest fashions with wonder and disapproval, and speculated on the probable cost of the ladies assembled to their husbands and fathers, till the clock pointed to twelve and the bridal party arrived. First came a troop of little girls in white, with pink and blue sashes, carrying baskets of flowers; then Mrs. Edgar with Philip; the six bridesmaids followed, headed by Margaret, each accompanied by her groomsman, and the doctor noticed that Miss Lester's companion was a tall, handsome fellow, with a fair mustache; last came the bride, on the arm of an elderly man, whom Dr. James supposed to be her uncle.
The ceremony was soon over, and the church rapidly becoming deserted, when Dr. James descended from his post of observation, and got into a carriage to go to Mrs. Edgar's house. He found the two handsome parlors quite full, and stood for a few minutes at the door observing the scene before him.
The bride and bridegroom stood at the end of the room, with the pretty children playing in the bay-window behind them. Philip looked as proud and beaming as might have been expected, and Jessie was just what the doctor thought she would be: very pretty and refined, looking timid and rather flushed at receiving so many congratulations. His eyes scarcely rested on her; for he was immediately conscious of Margaret standing near her, apparently dividing her attentions pretty equally between three gentlemen. Her dress was white, very rich and flowing; she held a beautiful bouquet, and there were rose-buds in her hair and on her dress. The next thing he knew, one of the gentlemen-managers was asking his name, he was led up and presented, and found himself embraced by Philip, and greeted with a sweet smile by Jessie.
"He is the best fellow in the world," said the bridegroom; and Jessie added,
"We are very glad to see you, Dr. James; it was very kind of you to come."
Then he turned to find Margaret by his side, with the smile he knew so well, and the cordial, outstretched hand. His face flushed painfully, but he was not called upon to speak, for Philip remarked,
"Oh! yes, you are old acquaintances, are you not? Where is Mrs. Edgar? I want her so much to see him. Oh! there she is at the end of the other room. I suppose it wouldn't do forme to leave Jessie." And he turned to his bride with a face full of happiness.
"I will go with Dr. James," said Margaret at once; and he found himself walking, with her on his arm, through the crowd of people, some of whom regarded him with curiosity.
"You were at the church, were you not?" began Margaret at once; "and was she not a lovely bride? I was very much afraid it would be a showery wedding; but Jessie behaved very well, only she arrived at home a perfect Niobe, and had to be consoled in private before she could face all these people."
"Why should she have to be consoled?"
"Now, that's just what I say, Dr. James; why does she marry him if it doesn't make her happy? Philip, however, seems to understand her, and I leave to him the task of comforting. She is very fond of her mother, and it is very hard for her to live so far away, you know."
"Miss Lester, you look thin and pale," the doctor said very abruptly; he did not mean to say it, the words came almost involuntarily.
"Yes, this has been a wearing time for all of us; I am glad it is nearly over. Here we are. Mrs. Edgar, this is Philip's friend and mine, Dr. James."
The doctor received the kindest greeting, and was overpowered with questions about his mother, who had been a school friend of Mrs. Edgar, and his sisters. He tried to answer them intelligibly, thinking, however, only of Miss Lester, and conscious that she had turned away to be polite to other guests. Mrs. Edgar then introduced him to Jessie's sister Isabel, a fresh little girl of sixteen, who looked full of fun and mischief, and she in turn presented him to a friend, a tall young lady, who immediately began to talk to him so fast that he could hardly keep up with her. Mrs. Edgar suggested that he should get some ice-cream for himself and them, and then occupied herself with other people, considering that her duties of hospitality to him were performed. Dr. James went obediently into the next room and returned, after some difficulties, with ices and cake, and did his best to be polite. Soon Isabel was sent into the other room to see about the children, and the talkative young lady became engaged in conversation with an equally voluble young gentleman, so that Dr. James found himself again alone. He put down his untasted cake, and seeing a glass of wine near him, which seemed to belong to no one, he drank it and felt rather better. The solitariness one sometimes feels in a crowd came over him, and he looked from one strange face to another, feeling himself completely out of place. Mrs. Edgar was absorbed in duties of hospitality; Jessie and Philip in the distance, during a pause in the stream of guests, were engrossed in each other; even Margaret seemed to have completely forgotten him, and he saw her earnestly talking with her handsome groomsman. He regretted that he had refused to be a groomsman; no doubt he would have been assigned to Margaret, as the corresponding "best friend," and then she would have been talking to him instead of to that fellow; from which it will be seen that he had already arrived at a stage of lover-like inconsistency, since his sole motive for declining his friend's invitation had been his dread of encountering Miss Lester.
He saw that many people were going, and it came to him as a happy thought that he might go too. He interrupted Mrs. Edgar to shakehands again with her, observed that Margaret was near the door, and next made his way to Philip, with whom he had a little talk, unsatisfactory, of course, but one's best friend must be excused for being preoccupied on such an occasion. Philip parted from him with resignation, saying that he must come to California and settle, that he would do splendidly there and make a fortune. Such a prospect seemed to the doctor dreary in the extreme; and owning to himself that he did not at all begrudge to Philip his pretty and delicate bride, he bade her a friendly farewell, and approached Margaret. He was glad to interrupt the groomsman in thesotto voceremarks he was making, and to have Margaret turn at once to him and leave her companion to his own reflections.
"Good-by, Miss Lester. I go back to Sealing this afternoon."
"Good-by, Dr. James. I am very glad you came." That was all; how soon these words were said! Again he met the straightforward look of those clear, brown eyes; again he felt the kind pressure of her hand. Her glove was off and so was his, (not accident on his part,) and he felt that her hand was cold. He was on the point of saying, "How pale you are!" but remembered just in time, that he had made that remark before.
In another minute he was outside the door, and driving to the hotel. As he drew his tight boots from his aching feet, and resumed his comfortable, familiar clothes, he said to himself,
"This episode in my life is closed. I must shut her completely out of my existence, and go on as if there were no such woman as Margaret Lester."
So he took the five o'clock train, and arrived safely in Sealing that night.
One evening, two or three weeks after the wedding at Newport, Dr. James was sitting with Miss Burney in her little parlor. They often used that privilege of fast friends, silence; and it was after an unbroken pause of full a quarter of an hour that Martha looked up from her sewing, and said:
"Why did you never notice that I have not resumed my school-work this year?"
"I have noticed it; but supposed you had some good reason, which you would tell me when you were ready."
"I am ready now. I have given up teaching for the present, and perhaps for ever." The doctor made no reply, only showing by his attentive face that he was listening.
"Margaret has offered me a home, and I have accepted it."
"I imagined you were too proud to accept assistance from any body."
"From any body else except her. In the first place, she is rich and can afford it; secondly, it makes her happy to help people; thirdly, I love her and she loves me, and that is the best reason of all."
"You are right; and what decided you to take this step?"
"It seems she has had it in her mind ever since last spring; however, she only said to me, just before she left here, that she hoped I would make no arrangements for the winter, without first telling her my plans. Two weeks ago, I received a letter from her, saying that she had decided not to live any longer with Mrs. Edgar; but, after passing the month of September at Newport, to take a house for herself in New York. She said she could not live alone, and thatshe must have some one for company and for the sake of appearances. She begged me to be that somebody, because there was no one else with whom she could feel independent, and free to do what she chose. I considered the subject a week, and then wrote her my consent to do as she wished, for next winter at least. It will be a great advantage to me, of course, as well as a pleasure. Still I should not think of it on that account for a moment, if I did not believe that such an arrangement would be a good thing for her as well as for me. I do believe so, and therefore I am going to try the experiment."
"You will not repent it, I am sure. And when do you go?"
"Next week."
"Has she bought her house?"
"She has not decided yet, and wants my help about furnishing, etc.; so the sooner I go the better."
"Is she in New York now?"
"Yes, at a private boarding-house, where I am to stay with her till the house is ready."
Dr. James had made up his mind that nothing would astonish him again, yet this did take him by surprise; after he thought about it, however, he only wondered such an arrangement had not occurred to him before. Miss Burney was a great loss to him; for there was no other woman whose society was any pleasure to him, and Father Barry was now the only person with whom he had any sympathy, and of him he saw more and more.
He begged Martha Burney to write to him, but she was a miserable correspondent; her letters were few and far between, and never told him what he wanted to know. He was obliged to go to Miss Spelman for all his information regarding these two people in whom he was so deeply interested. He heard from her that Margaret had bought a very pretty little house, furnished it, and was comfortably established with Martha. She said Margaret always wrote in excellent spirits, and seemed to her to be enjoying her winter very much.
The doctor's "young man" Richards, thanks to the careful instructions and preparation he had received, was now become of great assistance, and, being left in charge, had very successfully treated several cases, and even performed very well one or two surgical operations, so that people began to feel considerable confidence in him. Dr. James encouraged this as much as possible; for the idea of giving up his practice at Shellbeach and vicinity had taken strong hold on him. Finding that he left his patients in competent hands, he often went away on business for a week at a time, and felt his own work considerably lightened.
At Christmas time, Miss Spelman went to New York, and staid a month, and returned eloquent about the delights of her niece's establishment, and the charming people she had met. The doctor, by careful questions, learned from her that Margaret was occupied with countless good works and charities, though Miss Selina seemed to have only a vague idea what they were. She described to her attentive auditor how she breakfasted in her own room, every day, at ten o'clock, or as much later as she liked, (which had always been her idea of comfort,) and then had the carriage to do what she chose till luncheon at two, when she saw Margaret for the first time; for she was always full of her charitable engagements till one, when she came home to dress. After luncheon, in time for which some pleasant person always dropped in, they drove, visited, or shopped, and dined at six. Then Miss Spelman told of the opera, andconcerts, and a dinner-party that Margaret gave while she was there, and of the old friends she had met, and of the many calls and great attention she had received; and she went on, telling about herself, with only now and then a word about Margaret, till the doctor was quite tired of listening. He was very curious about Margaret's morning work; of that his old friend, having seen nothing, could give no information; and after the account of the gayeties of Miss Lester's household, Doctor James grew more restless than ever.