CHAPTER XXXIII.TURNING SHADOWS INTO SUNBEAMS.
Where was Catharine Lacy all this time? Away in a New-England village, where a merciful institution had been established for the care and amelioration of insanity. Mrs. Barr had become matron of the house, and she took Catharine with her as an assistant, having learned to know and love the girl as good people are sure to love the excellence they have benefited.
The building was of recent erection; the grounds were newly laid out, and were, of course, somewhat bare of ornament. But a few grand old forest-trees had been left scattered over them in clumps and singly, while an undergrowth of ferns, wild shrubbery and thick rich grass compensated for all lack of scientific culture. Beyond all that, the situation was a commanding one. The prospect from almost every window was beautiful. Hillsides covered with thrifty crops—maple groves that became gorgeous in the autumn—farm-houses that gave an idea of elegance as well as comfort, formed lovely rural pictures whereon the inmates of the institution looked. Indeed, within or without, there was nothing to excite the brain or give an unpleasant emotion. Authority there was, certainly, firm and judicious, but so concealed in all its rugged points, that even the sharp suspicion of insanity failed to jar against it. Indeed, the ruling spirit of this place was Mrs. Barr, whose charity was ever prevailing, and whose firm goodness was rendered efficient by proportionate strength. To her the inmates of this building were objects of unlimited interest. She gave up all the energies of her life for their benefit, and learned to find in each diseased mind some sane spot capable of understanding the sympathy she gave.
What Mrs. Barr was to her charge, Catharine became in another way. Notwithstanding her hard life, she was not uneducated: no girl of good natural ability ever need be ignorant in this land. So long as she can read and write, the keys of all knowledge are in her own keeping; nature supplies objects of beauty upon which her imagination can feast, and books are so plentiful, that she can hardly escape the information they contain.
In her childhood, Catharine had received generous advantages and secured the idea of many accomplishments which application was sure to improve; these she brought into action at once. A love of music placed her in quick sympathy with many of the patients. Her talent for painting, crude as it was, supplied amusement for others. She had a fine voice, and was that rare being, a natural reader. The very tones of her voice filled the listening ear with harmonies. With this exception, Catharine’s attainments were few; but natural talent—not to say genius—gave grace and piquancy to them all. Besides, she was so pretty, so exquisitely truthful, that even insanity felt the charm of her whole character.
Mrs. Barr had left the girl to her own gentle devices. A perfect knowledge of her character made this course a wise one. When God gives the power of usefulness to any human being, that power teaches the way. So this young creature was let loose into the establishment as a wild bird is free to the woods, and worked out her own sweet will unchecked. On first coming to the institution, a conversation regarding the future had taken place between Catharine and her benefactress. There was nothing in her history which she had not revealed to this good woman, except the name of her husband and of her aunt. These she kept a secret in her own bosom, and Mrs. Barr trusted her sufficiently to respect a reserve which injured no one.
This conversation arose one day, when Catharine was called upon to sign her name.
“It is not my name,” she said, doubtfully, “and I think it would annoy my aunt to see it connected with any public institution, buthisname I am forbidden to use.”
Mrs. Barr took the pen from Catharine’s hand, walked to a window, and became very thoughtful for some time. She was a widow with sufficient means for an humble independent support. They had been ample once; but she had given them with a free hand year after year, till but little was left. Her life had been full of benevolence, but she was very lonely, notwithstanding. What if she adopted this young person! The thought became more and more pleasant. She, who had been all her life childless, might gain the benefits and happiness of motherhood by uniting this young creature’s destiny with her own. She went back to the table where Catharine was sitting, and placed the pen in her hand.
“Sign it Catharine Barr, if you like the name and will take me for a mother,” she said, “for, henceforth, I consider you as my own child. There is no one on earth to question my right, and it will be a relief to these proud friends of yours.”
Catharine threw her arms around the old woman’s neck, and kissed her soft cheek in grateful silence. Then she took up the pen again, and wroteCatharine Barrplainly as she could through the tears that were filling her eyes. So from that day Catharine knew what it was to have a firm friend, and a tender mother, and in this way her identity was lost alike to those who had sought her so anxiously and to those who gladly forgot her.