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He was quietly weeping, and not at all conscious of the circumstance; and Harry was burning with anger at his wrongs. “It was a bad day for you, Antony, when the Filmers came into your life,” he said. “You have flung your love away on Rose, and your gold away on me. I do not know what I shall do without you. You are the greatest soul I ever met. Do not go away, Antony!”
“There is nothing else to be done. I have worn out her patience, and she has worn out mine. Be kind to her; and when you have an opportunity, say a kind word for me.”
Far into the morning they talked, and then Antony drove to the station, and went his lonely way, too miserable to think of adieus, too ashamed and heart-broken to bear more, either of advice or consolation. Harry watched his thin, sorrowful face out of sight; and at the last moment lifted his hat to so much departing love and worth. Then he drove as fast as his horse could take him to the Filmer place.
Rose had awakened from her sleep, and had had her breakfast. She was miserable in all her being. Her head ached; her heart ached. She was humiliated and chagrined, and the thought of Antony haunted her and would not let her rest. Also the house was miserable. Everything was waiting on Antony. Some of the things to be taken to the city were already packed; others were lying on the chairs and tables, and the servants were each and all taking their own ill way about affairs. Rose could think of nothing but an order to let the packing alone until Mr. Van Hoosen returned; but there was a most unsettled feeling through the house, and she was quite aware nothing was being done that ought to be done.
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She was greatly relieved to see Harry coming. Harry was the one member of her family whom she regarded. He had not offended in the Duval matter, and so it was generally through Harry she was influenced to do what was required of her. But this morning Harry gave her back no smile; he did not answer her greeting, and when she offered her hand, he put it crossly away.
“Rose,” he said, “you have managed to behave abominably for a long time. But your conduct last night is unpardonable. If you were my wife I would shut you up in a madhouse until you put your senses above your temper.”
“Thanks! I am not your wife, I am happy to say. No one but the divine Adriana could——”
“Stop your foolish chatter! You have driven your husband from you, at last. Now I hope you are satisfied.”
“So he has gone, has he? And pray, where has my lord gone?”
“To Arizona.”
“I am glad he has gone so far.”
“Now, madam, you will have to fight the world without him. There is not a decent woman who will notice you.”
“What have I done wrong? And I do not believe Antony has gone. He will come trailing home to-night.”
“He will not. And as to what you have done wrong, if there were nothing against you but that Duval affair it shuts you out of society.”
Then she rose in a passion, and snapped her fingers in his face. “You!” she cried, “you dare to come here and reproach me with Duval! Pray, what about250Cora Mitchin? It is the devil correcting sin for you to talk virtuously. And the divine Yanna is just as bad to live with you. I would not. I would have respected Antony if he had turned on his heel when he saw me with Duval on the steamer; if he had turned on his heel and left me forever, I would have respected him! As it is, I despise him. Arizona is the best place for him.”
“There is no use, and no sense, in putting your fault and mine on the same level, Rose. Society will teach you who is the worst next winter.”
“What do I care for society? Society is not Jehovah; and being amanwill not help you, sir, at the Day of Judgment. You are a great deal worse than I am. You are not fit for any woman’s company; and the sooner you leave mine, the better I shall like it.”
And Harry went. He had nothing further to say. He was convicted by his own conscience, and by the swift passage through his mind of certain words that came from the Blameless One—“He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.”
251CHAPTER X
It was near Christmas, and New York had the sense of its festivity in all her streets and avenues. The store windows were green and gay, and the sidewalks crowded with buyers. The crisp, frosty air and bright sunshine—full of promise and exhilaration—touched even Rose Van Hoosen, and made her consciously subject to the pervading influence. She had been to see her father and mother, who had just returned from Europe, and she was going to the loneliness of her own handsome home. No letter had come to her from her husband; but his lawyer brought her every month the liberal income which had been left in his charge for the maintenance of the Van Hoosen household.
As yet she had lived in seclusion, but her mother had advised a different course. “You must give some small but extremely fine dinners and entertainments, Rose,” she said. “Nothing stops gossip like hospitality. People will want to come to your little parties, and they will pooh-pooh all ill-natured reports, for their own sake. To-morrow we will talk over this plan, and arrange the most suitable functions.”
“But they will wonder at Antony’s absence, mamma.”
“They will hardly take it into account. His indifference and his refusal to dance were always cold water on your social efforts. As far as they are concerned, he is better away. And what more promising excuse can you have than that gold has been found on252his place. It has a rich sound, and, of course, he has to look after it. No one will think further than that. How are Harry and his wife getting on?”
“I think Yanna has quite spoiled Harry. Will you believe that I used to meet him driving with the baby last summer; and he trotted to meeting every Sunday with Yanna. I can tell you, mother, that your day is over. Yanna has Harry quite under her thumb now, or I am much mistaken.”
“And the Cora Mitchin affair?”
“I should say it is dead and buried. I do not see the girl’s name at any theatre, and her picture is not staring you in the face from every window this season. She has been retired evidently.”
“We shall see. Now, Rose, throw aside this nonsensical air of seclusion and sorrow. Get some pretty costumes, and prepare gradually to open your house. A woman with your income aping the recluse is ridiculous.”
“You do me so much good, mamma.”
“Well, my dear, there is nothing for wrong but to try and put it right. I think you have been to blame, but there is no use going about the world to accuse yourself. You must try and make your peace with your husband. It is such bad form, this quarreling. Send for Yanna and Miss Alida, and ask their advice—just to flatter them. Youmusthave the support of your family.”
“I do not speak to either of them. I have made a business of offending them. Yanna was the inventor of the Duval romance; and Alida Van Hoosen thinks her thoughts. They have been living together.”
“I am awfully sorry you have offended them. Can you not be friends with Yanna?”
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“I don’t want to be friends with her. I have quarreled with Harry, too. The idea of Harry coming to tell me my sins! I suppose Yanna sent him. Well, he heard the truth about his own sins, for once in his life! Mamma, I have quarreled with every one but you.”
As she was speaking, Harry entered. He took his mother in his arms, and then turned to Rose. “Good morning, Rose,” he said pleasantly. But Rose looked past him, and without a word in reply, she left the house.
“I am sorry you have quarreled with your sister, Harry,” said Mrs. Filmer. “If ever she needed your countenance and aid, it is now.”
“It is not my fault. Has she told you about the last——?”
“I have heard a dozen versions of the affair. Poor girl!”
“Mother, you ought not to condone her sins.”
“You made no objections to my condoning your sins, Harry—much more flagrant ones, too. And I do not think your wife need to put on so many airs about poor Rose.”
“Rose has wantonly wounded Yanna’s feelings very often.”
“Poor feelings! I wonder how they endured the pretty Cora’s extravagances of every kind.”
“Mother!”
“Well, Harry, there is no use in our quarreling. Where is Antony?”
“In Arizona.”
“It is a great shame. I shall make your father go and see him.”
“There is no necessity. A word of contrition from254Rose will bring him home. Without that word, nothing will bring him. You had better get Rose to write to him. A dozen words will do.”
“She will never write one.”
“Then she had better get a divorce.”
“And lose all Antony’s money!”
“She has behaved shamefully to Antony. I will not talk any more about her.”
“However, she is going to entertain quietly; and her own familymustsupport her. You may tell your wife I said so.”
“Did you have a pleasant summer, mother?”
Then Mrs. Filmer began a long complaint of the weather, and the weary hours her husband spent in the libraries, and the exorbitant charges, and the dreadful laundry work, and finally she opened one of her trunks, and took out of it some presents for Yanna and the child. So the morning went rapidly away, and Harry stayed to lunch with his father and mother, and then went downtown and attended to some business for them; so that the day was all broken up and spoiled, and he resolved to go home and take Yanna her presents.
When he entered the parlor of his own home, he was astonished to see Yanna sitting at a little Dutch table, drinking tea with a woman in the regulation dress of the Salvation Army—astonished to see that she had been weeping; and still more lost in amazement when the guest stood up and faced him, for it was undoubtedly Cora Mitchin.
She looked with grave eyes straight at Harry, who had paused in the middle of the room, and said: “Mr. Filmer, I came here to-day to ask Mrs. Filmer’s pardon. You may see that she has forgiven me.”
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“Miss Young,” said Adriana, rising, “it is my wish that you tell Mr. Filmer all that you have told me. He will be glad to hear it.” And then she went quietly out of the room, leaving the two alone. For a moment Harry was angry. He did not like standing face to face with his transgression; and he was quite inclined to escape from the position in some way or other, when Cora said:
“May I tell you what has happened?”
“Is there any use now? If I can do anything, Cora——”
“No! no! Mrs. Filmer asked me to tell you. May I?”
Harry sat down, but not very graciously; and the young woman stood by the table, with her hand grasping the back of the chair from which Yanna had just risen. She was a very pretty young woman, and her peculiar dress was by no means unbecoming. If it had been, Harry perhaps might have been less willing to listen; though, as it was, he had a wandering idea that Cora was playing a trick—that she might have taken a wager she would enter his house and drink tea with his wife—that she might have wondered at him for not seeking her out, and contrived this plan to engage his attention. In fact, he did not at all believe in any confession Cora had made to his wife; and he was resentful of her presence under any guise on his hearthstone. So, though he sat down to listen, he did it ungraciously, and his voice was irritable as he said:
“I do not understand your little game, Cora; and I wish you would explain it as quickly as possible.”
“Do you remember Mary Brady, one of the ballet girls?”
“Yes.”
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“She is dead. She sent for me one night in July. She was dying without a friend, and without a cent. I did what I could. I did what there was no one else to do, I tried to pray with her, and to tell her about a pitiful God and Christ.”
“You!”
“Me. For I am the child of parents who loved God, and I have two little sisters whom I have sinned for, lest they should become sinners. I know I ought to have trusted God, but I thought He was never coming to help me—and so I took the devil’s help. No one knows what the devil’s wages are until they have earned them. Mary has taken his last coin, which is—death.”
“Poor little girl! She was a merry sprite.”
“Mirth was part of her bargain. She was dying while she was laughing”—and the face of the speaker was so instinct with grief that Harry suddenly found that all his suspicions were vanishing, and an irrepressible interest was taking their place.
“Well, Cora?”
“My name is Hannah—Hannah Young. My father and mother gave me that name, in the old meeting-house at Newburyport. It was the name registered in God’s Book, and I would not see it on a play-bill; so I called myself—the other one. As I was telling you, I tried to talk to poor Mary, as I knew my mother would have talked to me. Alas! alas! it was too late!”
Harry looked up startled and uneasy.
“She had suffered so long and so cruelly, without anything to help or to relieve her pain. I brought her cold water and fruits and a doctor, and I told her that Christ saw all her trouble and pitied her, but she only said, ‘It is not true! If He loved me He would have257sent me help, when help might have saved me.’ Then I got the Gospel, and I read it to her, and she cried wearily, ‘I have heard it all before! I know He was loving and good, but that is all so long ago!’ I said, ‘Mary, if you could only pray!’ and she asked angrily, ‘To whom? To the fine ladies on Broadway, or to the men who preach now and then in the mostly closed churches?’ I told her, ‘Christ waits in this very room,’ and she began to wail and cry out, ‘It is not true! It is not true! Christ would have touched and healed me long ago!’ Yes, in her very last moments she whispered, ‘He does not know.’ I shall never forget her eyes; no, not as long as I live. She went quite hopeless down the hard road to the grave; but I do believe now that the moment she touched the other side Jesus met and comforted her.”
Harry did not answer. His eyes were cast down, and he was holding his right hand in his left, with a nervous, restless motion.
“After Mary’s death I could not be the same. I felt that I would rather hire myself out to wash dishes than earn another sinful penny. The day of her burial I went back to her room to pay the pittance due for its wretched shelter; and I sat and talked with the woman who owned the house a long time, so it was growing dark when I turned out of the court into the main street. It was a poor, quiet street, and the people were sitting on their doorsteps, or leaning out of their windows; and I saw a little crowd coming toward me, and they were singing. And as I met them, they ceased; and a woman a little in front, with an open Bible in her hand, cried out:
“‘Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ And her clear, sweet258call went down into my heart, and I began to weep and to pray as I walked through the streets; and after I got to my room, I locked the door and threw myself on my knees, on my face, and pleaded with Christ to forgive me and save me from my sins and myself. Oh! how I longed and wept for the purity I had lost and the faith I had cast aside! I was weary, fainting, but I would not rise. In a little while, I could not rise. I felt that the Savior was in the room. It seemed to me at first as if He would not be entreated, as if He would go away. But I had hands that clasped his feet, and caught his robe, and I would not let Him go until He forgave me.”
“You knew that you were forgiven? How?”
“I knew it by the joy that filled my heart. I did not feel my body at all. I walked up and down, clasping my hands and saying, ‘Christ, I thank Thee! Christ, I thank Thee!’ And when the dawn began to break, a great, a wonderful peace came all over me; and I lay down and slept such a happy sleep; and when I awakened, I knew that the old life had passed away, and that I was a different woman. Do you believe me, Mr. Filmer?”
“Yes,” answered Harry, very softly, “I believe you.”
“Then I went to the Salvation Army. Such gifts as God had given me, I gave back to Him. And I have been very happy ever since.”
“What made you come here to my wife?”
“I had wronged her. Against her my sin was great and particular. I came to her, and I told her what I have told you. She wept with me. She forgave me freely. She made me tea with her own hands; she did more than that—she ate and drank with me. It259was as if Christ again put His hand upon the leper, or went to be guest in the house of a man that was a sinner. I shall never forget her goodness. I wanted you to know——”
“What?”
“That there is mercy for sin—that there is joy and gladness in repenting—that God is ‘the lover of souls.’”
“It is a strange thing to hear you talk in this way to me.”
“I talk to you now because I shall not accuse you at the Day of Judgment. I have been forgiven, and I have forgiven you. But, oh! if you remain unforgiven, will you accuse me then?”
“No; I only am to blame.”
“Now I will go. It is not likely we shall meet again until the Day of Judgment. At that Day, I shall be glad that I have spoken; and I hope that you will be glad that you have listened.”
Harry tried to answer, but he knew not what to say. His soul was in a chaos of emotion. There seemed to be no words to interpret it; and before he could find words, the woman was gone, and the door was shut, and he was quite alone.
He did not wish to see Yanna just then; and she, being a wise wife, probably divined this feeling, for she did not intrude herself or her opinions on the event at that time. She knew what Hannah Young would say to him, and she understood that such words need neither commentary nor explanation. She was rather satisfied than otherwise, when she heard Harry go out; and as she had promised to dine with Miss Alida, she went there alone—there being already an understanding that Harry should come for her at eleven o’clock.
260
So their next meeting was in a company who were discussing Browning with an extraordinary animation. Miss Alida stopped in the middle of her declaration “that she would rather have her teeth drawn than be compelled to readSordello,” to smile a welcome; and Yanna’s look of pleasure drew him to her side; where he stood leaning on her chair and watching Professor Snowdon, who was holding a book open at the likeness of the poet.
“What a brave countenance!” he cried. “How honest, and thoughtful, and kindly! And what a pleasant shrewdness in the eyes! It is a perfect English face.”
“Oh, indeed!” said a scholarly man who stood by Miss Alida; “if Browning had an English body, his soul was that of some thirteenth-century Italian painter. Does he not say of himself:
‘Open my heart and you will seeGraved inside of it—“Italy.”’
‘Open my heart and you will seeGraved inside of it—“Italy.”’
‘Open my heart and you will see
Graved inside of it—“Italy.”’
Now it is a prejudice with me, that if an Englishman is to open his heart to us, we ought to findEnglandwritten there. Shakespeare, who is at home with all people, is never so mighty and so lovable as when depicting the sweet-natured English ladies who became his ‘Imogenes,’ ‘Perditas,’ and ‘Helenas,’ or dallying with his own country wild-flowers, or in any way exalting England’s life and loveliness, majesty and power.”
“And pray, sir,” asked the Professor, “who but a man with an English heart could have written that home-yearning song:
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‘Oh to be in EnglandNow that April’s there;And whoever wakes in England,Sees, some morning unaware,That the lowest boughs, and the brush-wood sheafRound the elm tree bole, are in tiny leaf;While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough,In England—now!’”
‘Oh to be in EnglandNow that April’s there;And whoever wakes in England,Sees, some morning unaware,That the lowest boughs, and the brush-wood sheafRound the elm tree bole, are in tiny leaf;While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough,In England—now!’”
‘Oh to be in England
Now that April’s there;
And whoever wakes in England,
Sees, some morning unaware,
That the lowest boughs, and the brush-wood sheaf
Round the elm tree bole, are in tiny leaf;
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough,
In England—now!’”
“There is somewhere a still finer home-thought,” said Harry. “I remember learning it when I was at college;” and as Adriana looked backward and smiled, and the Professor nodded approval, and Miss Alida said, “Let us have the lines, Harry,” he repeated them without much self-consciousness, and with a great deal of spirit:
“‘Nobly, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the westward died away;Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;Bluish ’mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;In the dimmest north-east distance, dawned Gibraltar grand and grey;“Here and there did England help me,—how can I help England?”—say,Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.’”
“‘Nobly, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the westward died away;Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;Bluish ’mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;In the dimmest north-east distance, dawned Gibraltar grand and grey;“Here and there did England help me,—how can I help England?”—say,Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.’”
“‘Nobly, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the westward died away;
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;
Bluish ’mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;
In the dimmest north-east distance, dawned Gibraltar grand and grey;
“Here and there did England help me,—how can I help England?”—say,
Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,
While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.’”
There was a hearty response to Harry’s effort, and then Miss Alida’s favorite minister—who had been silent during the whole discussion, much to her disappointment—spoke.
“A poet’s nature,” he said, “needs that high reverence which is to the spirit what iron is to the blood; it needs, most of all, the revelation of Christianity, because of its peculiar temptations, doubts, fears, yearnings, and obstinate questionings. Mr. Browning has this reverence, and accepts this revelation. He is262not half-ashamed, as are some poets, to mention God and Christ; and he never takes the name of either in vain. He does not set up a kind of pantheistic worship. No one has ever told us, as Browning has in his poem of ‘Christmas Eve and Easter Day,’ how hard it is to be a Christian. Do you remember its tremendous dream of the Judgment Day:
‘When through the black dome of the firmament,Sudden there went,Like horror and astonishment,A fierce vindictive scribble of redQuick flame across; as if one said(The angry Scribe of Judgment), There,Burn it!’
‘When through the black dome of the firmament,Sudden there went,Like horror and astonishment,A fierce vindictive scribble of redQuick flame across; as if one said(The angry Scribe of Judgment), There,Burn it!’
‘When through the black dome of the firmament,
Sudden there went,
Like horror and astonishment,
A fierce vindictive scribble of red
Quick flame across; as if one said
(The angry Scribe of Judgment), There,
Burn it!’
And who can read the pleading of the youth who has chosen the world, and not recognize the amiable young man of to-day, unable to put the cup of pleasure utterly away, but resolving to let
‘the dear remnant passOne day—some drops of earthly goodUntasted.’
‘the dear remnant passOne day—some drops of earthly goodUntasted.’
‘the dear remnant pass
One day—some drops of earthly good
Untasted.’
Do you want to know the end of this choice? Browning has told us in words no young man should be ignorant of.”
“Go on, Doctor,” said the Professor. “It will do us all good.”
“God reserves many great sinners for the most awful of all punishments—impunity. We can despise the other life, until we are refused it. This youth got the world he desired. A Voice tells him it is—
‘Flung thee freely as one roseOut of a summer’s opulence,Over the Eden barrier whenceThou art excluded. Knock in vain!’
‘Flung thee freely as one roseOut of a summer’s opulence,Over the Eden barrier whenceThou art excluded. Knock in vain!’
‘Flung thee freely as one rose
Out of a summer’s opulence,
Over the Eden barrier whence
Thou art excluded. Knock in vain!’
263
He is made welcome to so rate earth, and never to know
‘What royalties in storeLay one step past the entrance door.’
‘What royalties in storeLay one step past the entrance door.’
‘What royalties in store
Lay one step past the entrance door.’
So he tries the world, tries all its ways, its intellect, and art; and at last, when everything else fails, he tries love. Surely love will not offend; and he looks upward toThe Format his side for approval. But its face is as the face of the headsman, who shoulders the axe to make an end. Love? Asking for love, when He so loved the world as to give His only beloved Son to die for love. Then lost and bewildered, and weary to death, the youth cowers deprecatingly, and prays that at least he may not know all is lost; that he may go on, and on, still hoping ‘one eve to reach the better land.’” And the minister’s eyes were full of tears, and his voice was full of despair, and there was a moment’s intense silence. Harry broke it. “Surely, sir,” he said, “the poet did not leave the youth in such hopeless distress?”
“He knew his God better,” was the answer. “I will tell you in the youth’s own words what happened:
‘Then didThe Formexpand, expand—I knew Him thro’ the dread disguise,As the whole God within his eyesEmbraced me!’”
‘Then didThe Formexpand, expand—I knew Him thro’ the dread disguise,As the whole God within his eyesEmbraced me!’”
‘Then didThe Formexpand, expand—
I knew Him thro’ the dread disguise,
As the whole God within his eyes
Embraced me!’”
“If you are not tired of Browning,” said the Professor, in a singularly soft voice for him, “I will give you from him a picture of the world in the highest mood it has ever known, or perhaps ever will know—under the Cross. It is only the ‘Epitaph in the Catacombs’:
264
‘I was born sickly, poor, and mean,A slave; no misery could screenThe holders of the pearl of priceFrom Cæsar’s envy; therefore twiceI fought with beasts, and three times sawMy children suffer by his law;At last my own release was earned;I was some time in being burned,But at the close a hand came throughThe fire above my head; and drewMy soul to Christ; whom now I see.Sergius, a brother, writes for me,This testimony on the wall:For me, I have forgot it all.’
‘I was born sickly, poor, and mean,A slave; no misery could screenThe holders of the pearl of priceFrom Cæsar’s envy; therefore twiceI fought with beasts, and three times sawMy children suffer by his law;At last my own release was earned;I was some time in being burned,But at the close a hand came throughThe fire above my head; and drewMy soul to Christ; whom now I see.Sergius, a brother, writes for me,This testimony on the wall:For me, I have forgot it all.’
‘I was born sickly, poor, and mean,
A slave; no misery could screen
The holders of the pearl of price
From Cæsar’s envy; therefore twice
I fought with beasts, and three times saw
My children suffer by his law;
At last my own release was earned;
I was some time in being burned,
But at the close a hand came through
The fire above my head; and drew
My soul to Christ; whom now I see.
Sergius, a brother, writes for me,
This testimony on the wall:
For me, I have forgot it all.’
Could any picture be more perfect? Christ has made of the poor sick slave a hero; and he speaks dispassionately from the other side. At last his release was earned. He was some time in being burned. Sergius writes—it is not he—he has forgot it all. These words light up an infinite picture, and surely the poet, who with one light stroke can smite such a statute from the rock, is a Master crowned, and worthy of our love.”
Every face was illuminated, every soul expanded, and the Professor, burning with his own enthusiasm, laid down the book. Then Miss Alida, smiling, but yet with tears in her large gray eyes, turned to a pretty young woman who had a roll of music in her lap. “Mrs. Dunreath,” she said, “we cannot bear any more of Mr. Browning’s strong wine; give us one of your songs of Old Ireland—some that you found in Munster, among the good lay monks and brothers. And the lady lifted her mandolin, and touched a few strings to her strange musical recitative:
265
“A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer;Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear.There is honey in the trees, where her misty vales expand;And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned;There is dew at high noontide there, and springs in the yellow sandOn the fair hills of holy Ireland!“Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground;The butter and the cream do wondrously abound;The cresses on the water, and the sorrels are at hand;And the cuckoo’s calling daily his note of music bland:And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song in the forest grand.On the fair hills of holy Ireland!”
“A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer;Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear.There is honey in the trees, where her misty vales expand;And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned;There is dew at high noontide there, and springs in the yellow sandOn the fair hills of holy Ireland!
“A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer;
Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear.
There is honey in the trees, where her misty vales expand;
And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned;
There is dew at high noontide there, and springs in the yellow sand
On the fair hills of holy Ireland!
“Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground;The butter and the cream do wondrously abound;The cresses on the water, and the sorrels are at hand;And the cuckoo’s calling daily his note of music bland:And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song in the forest grand.On the fair hills of holy Ireland!”
“Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground;
The butter and the cream do wondrously abound;
The cresses on the water, and the sorrels are at hand;
And the cuckoo’s calling daily his note of music bland:
And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song in the forest grand.
On the fair hills of holy Ireland!”
The song made a charming let-down from the loftier tension; and some one said that it was just the sweet lament for the good time past, suitable for a race which like the Irish “had seen better days.” “But,” said Miss Alida, “you would never find an old Dutch or Norse song so destitute of hope or self-reliance. Their spirit is one that does not look back to the dead and gone; or even forward for some expected Helper. They sing the present, and the best possible present. That is the noblest kind of song, and there will be hope for Ireland when she sings no longer about thehaving been, but determinesto be.”
However, in spite of all diversions, Browning had the evening; for no one could escape from his influence. And all the way home Harry spoke of Miss Alida’s minister, and of the poem he had quoted from. He was longing to say, “How strangely the experience of the youth in the poem fitted into Hannah Young’s fear that Christ would go away and not forgive her, until the moment of pardon revealed Him through the266dread disguise a God of mercy and forgiveness!” He wished also to speak for himself, but it was very difficult to do. In the first place, Adriana was tremblingly afraid of explanations. She passed from one person to another, and one subject to another with so much haste and interest that it was finally clear to Harry she did not wish him to allude to the great event of the day.
But his heart was full of love and sorrow, and as he walked by her side from the carriage to the drawing-room he came to a decision. Adriana stood a moment before the fire, and there Harry unclasped her cloak, drew her head towards him, and kissed her fondly.
“Yanna!” he whispered, “Yanna, truest and best of wives! I love you, and I love only you! I have wandered often, but never have I been happy away from you. Forgive me once more. The things I have heard to-day I shall never forget. Never will I be less worthy of your love than I am at this hour; never again!”
And she put her arms around his neck and kissed him. No earthly words were loving enough and happy enough, but something exquisite and certain passed from eye to eye, and from heart to heart—some assurance in that language of love whose sweet symbols happiness uses so well. And Adriana knew that her true affection and noble patience had conquered; and that the slow, calm years would flow on henceforth in glad content, bringing them in their season all things good.
267CHAPTER XI
The next morning Adriana called on her mother-in-law. In her wedding Bible, Peter had written the words of the pious Raguel—“Honor thy father and thy mother-in-law, which are now thy parents; that I may hear a good report of thee”—and she had conscientiously tried to fulfil this domestic law. But Harry’s marriage had never been quite forgiven by his parents, and in some way both of them had convinced themselves that Harry was not to blame for it. Adriana had cast some spell over him—or won some advantage—or Miss Alida, to further her own plans, had used some underhand influence which they felt it as hard to understand as to forgive. But Mrs. Filmer was much too polite and conventional to permit the public to share her dissatisfaction. However cold and formal she was to Adriana, she talked of her daughter-in-law to her acquaintances as “a most suitable person for her son’s wife.”
“The match is the realization of my husband’s desire to unite the two branches of the family and consolidate its wealth,” she said to every one. And in her heart she did acknowledge not only this advantage, but also the many virtues and charms of Adriana; for it was not her reason that was disappointed; it was her maternal jealousy that was offended.
On this morning she was unusually pleasant to Adriana. She had not seen her for some months; she had brought her some handsome souvenirs, and been268soothed by her satisfaction and gratitude; and she was very desirous to make peace between Adriana and Rose, and so induce Adriana to give Rose the benefit of her influence and countenance in society. The visit was, therefore, so confidential and affectionate that Adriana, in a moment of unguarded emotion, resolved to tell Mrs. Filmer about the change in Harry. Naturally she thought it would delight his mother; and she considered the momentary reluctance that assailed her as a selfish feeling.
“Mother,” she said, “I have something very good to tell you about Harry.”
“What is it? Gracious knows, I ought to hear something pleasant about Harry; for Rose’s affairs are enough to break my heart.” Her tone was querulous, rather than interested, and Adriana wished she had not spoken. A sudden fear that she was violating a sacred confidence troubled her, for where there is no sympathy, spiritual confidences are violated and wronged by being shared. It was, however, too late to be silent, but she involuntarily chose the person most removed for the opening of the conversation.
“Do you remember Cora Mitchin?”
“I remember nothing about such people.”
“Unfortunately, Harry knew her, and I have——”
“Adriana, let me tell you one thing, a wise woman does not trouble herself about her husband’s private friends. Harry is kind to you. He keeps his home handsomely. He is seen at your side both in church and society, and it is quite possible to ask too much from a good husband. Harry is young yet—too young to have so many obligations and cares as he has.”
“I think you mistake me, mother. Have I made a complaint of Harry? Not one. I was only going to269tell you that the girl I spoke of has been genuinely reformed and has joined the Salvation Army.”
“I cannot believe in such reformations. I thought it was of Harry you had good news to tell.”
“The girl came to see me at our house, and as Harry came in while she was present, she told him about her conversation; and the circumstances have had a great influence upon him. I do not think Harry will err in that respect again.” But Adriana spoke coldly, and felt unable to enter into details; Mrs. Filmer’s face was so unresponsive and even angry.
“The girl came to your house! What an impertinence! And you received her and allowed her to talk about her—conversion! I am simply amazed at you, Adriana! And you think Harry will err no more? You poor deluded woman! The girl was probably hunting Harry up. I have no doubt she considers her visit to you a most excellent joke. Did you see no look of understanding between Harry and this converted young woman?”
“I left them alone to converse.”
“Excuse me, Adriana, but I cannot comprehend such romantic puddling folly—such quixotic generosity! It was wrong, both for Harry and for yourself.”
“I am sure it was not wrong, mother. I know that Harry was greatly moved by the girl’s experience. I can trust Harry for the future. With God’s help he is going to be a very different man. He told me so this morning. I believed him. And I did hope you would be glad to hear it.”
“Of course I am glad. If he keeps his intentions it will be a good thing—but men never do.”
“If they trust to themselves, they fail, of course; but Harry knows better than that.”
270
“I only hope he will not grow too good. One saint in the family is sufficient;” and with a smile which did not quite take away the sting of the mock compliment, Mrs. Filmer put Adriana—who had risen—back into her chair, saying:
“You must not go yet, Adriana. I want to consult you about Rose. Her affairs seem to be in a very bad way. We will waive all discussion of the causes for this condition at present, and just consider what is best to be done.”
“Antony will return for one word of contrition.”
“But if Rose will not say that word?”
“She ought to say it.”
“Never mind the ‘ought.’ We have to work with events as they are. Now, she is too much alone. I am afraid of solitude for her. She will be in danger of flying for comfort or oblivion, where it is destruction to go. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“Yes. But ‘yes’ does not mend matters. She says she has not been out of her house for a month. That will not do. She must have the world round her. She must go to church. To go to church regularly will keep the world her friend; and I will see that she performs that duty. Can you not help me in other matters?”
“Rose has not spoken to me since—the day that her baby died. I do not think she will speak to me. I will do anything I can. What do you propose?”
“I want her to open her house—to give a few quiet receptions or dinners—such events as are quite proper in her circumstances. Of course I shall be with her, and if you could get Miss Alida Van Hoosen to come to her initial dinner, it would give the stamp necessary271for their respectability. Of course, you and Harry will be there.”
“Mother, I do not believe Rose will ask us; but if she does, we will overlook the past.”
“For heaven’s sake, do not talk about ‘overlooking’ things. Take up life where it was pleasantly dropped, and bury the interval. Will you get Miss Alida’s promise to endorse Rose?”
“I will ask for it. She is a very determined woman, and Rose has been obtrusively rude to her.”
“None of you seems to have understood Rose, or to have remembered how broken-hearted she was about baby’s death. Something may be excused on that account, I think. Will you go now and see Miss Alida? I should like to know who I can depend upon.”
Then Adriana went. The duty set her was not a pleasant one, especially as Mrs. Filmer was certain she ought to succeed in it. At this crisis she found it easy to recollect the tie of blood, and to expect from Miss Van Hoosen as a right what Adriana was doubtful of obtaining even as a favor.
She found Miss Alida in, but dressed ready for her drive, and in a radiantly good-natured mood. So Adriana, hoping everything from a woman so cheerful and affectionate, said at once:
“Cousin Alida, just give me five minutes, will you?”
“Ten, twenty, sixty, my dear, if you want them.”
“I have just left Mrs. Filmer.”
“Has she made you feel like a flayed woman in a furze bush?”
“She was very nice to me. She is wretched about Rose.”
“I should think she ought to be.”
“I can see that she fears Rose is——”
272
“Drinking too much. Don’t mince the words, Yanna. They are ugly enough to make one hate the sin they describe.”
“Her mother thinks she is too solitary. She is going to make her go to church, and she hopes that you will stand by her in society.”
“I will do nothing of the kind.”
“Dear cousin, if she has a quiet little dinner party, and her mother and Harry and I are present, I am sure you will also go.”
“No! I shall not!”
“She is such a foolish, spoiled woman; it is not worth your while remembering her rudeness to you.”
“I care nothing about her rudeness to me. It is her treatment of Antony I resent. I shall not countenance her in any way until she confesses her sin to her husband, and he forgives her. If Antony can forgive her, I suppose I may try and endure her.”
“Dear cousin——”
“Nonsense, Yanna! You know me well enough to understand that having made up my mind on this subject, I shall not unmake it for any other terms but the ones I have accepted as reasonable and right. Confession, my dear, and then forgiveness. Everything must be done in its proper order. Do you not find me in a remarkably happy temper? Do you not want to know the reason? Harry has been here this morning, and he has told me a very wonderful story. I don’t know when I have been so pleased. I have been saying to myself ever since that there is no change in Our Redeemer. The world outgrows its creeds, but it is still blessedly true that they who ‘seek for Him with all their heart find Him.’ My dear, I feel to-day that there is a God. I always know it, but to-day I feel it.273That is the reason I am so happy. I like that woman Hannah Young. I am going this day to the Salvation Army Headquarters to find her. The devil gave her the means to make her mother and sisters happy; and I intend to show her that God can do more, and better, than the devil.”
“Have you no pity for Rose?”
“Not for Rose proud and wicked and unrepentant. When Rose is sorry for her sins, when God forgives her, I shall have no right to be angry. And what do you ask me to do? The worst possible thing for a woman like Rose—surround her with circumstances that enable her to forget what she ought not to forget for one moment. I—will—not—do—it!”
This disappointment did not, however, deter Mrs. Filmer from carrying out her plan; and invitations were duly sent to such of Rose’s old friends as it was supposed would give prestige and dignity to the occasion of her first dinner. Miss Alida sent a curt refusal; and all of the people whose presence was most desired did likewise, with varying politeness. Some “regretted very much,” and others simply “regretted.” Some had “previous engagements,” others did not lay this flattering excuse to the wound of their declining; but the fine dinner was, after all, prepared for guests who had been asked as “secondaries,” and whose absence would not have been regretted. In some way—probably through the kitchen door—the true story of Antony’s absence had been blown about by every wind of gossip; and Rose’s dinners, however she might regard them, were not important affairs to a class of people to whom dinners meant lofty and irreproachable social intercourse.
Mrs. Filmer was greatly humiliated by this failure,274but not inclined to abandon her plan; and Rose pretended to be well pleased that she had been “cut by such a dreary crowd of purple and fine linen Pharisees. However,” she said, “as I have opened my house, I intend to fill it. Young men and young women who want to dance will go anywhere, if there is a good floor, with good music and plenty of wines and ices. If I cannot be exclusive, I can at least be popular. If you do not like my company, mamma, you need not endorse it. I shall take no offence at your scruples. As for Harry and his excellent wife, I never will pretend to be glad to see them any more as long as I live. When society declines to accept Mrs. Antony Van Hoosen, you cannot make it accept her, mamma.”
“I am sure, Rose, there are plenty of people in the best society who have been talked about in far worse fashion than you have.”
“That is true enough; but society, now and then, gets very moral and thinks it necessary to have a scapegoat whom it can punish for all the rest. At present it is laying its sins on my head, and driving me out to the wilderness; though it has plenty inside its high fence just as bad as I am, mamma.” Then she was suddenly quiet, as if remembering. “Mamma, when I was in London I saw a picture of myself.” Mrs. Filmer looked at her curiously and inquiringly, and she went on, with a kind of desperate indignation:
“It was in a gallery. It was calledThe Sacrificial Goat. The poor tormented creature was plodding with weary feet through the quaking wilderness, under the crimson rocks of Edom, and by the shores of the Dead Sea. I could not keep away from that picture. I felt as if I could do anything to give the fainting animal a drink of cold water. No one feels that about me”—and275she flung herself among the satin cushions of her sofa and began to sob like a lost child.
“Oh, Rose! Rose! How can you say so? What would I not do to make you happy?”
“Leave me alone, dear mamma. Do not be miserable about me. I am not worth worrying over; and I do not care the snap of my fingers for your society! Only, do not tell papa anything against his little Rose. He will never find out I am sorrowful and despised unless you say it in his very ears.”
“Rose, go and speak to your father. He is a wise man; and he has a heart, my child.”
“Yes, as good a heart as can possibly be made out of brains. But I do not want to trouble papa; and I do want him to believe I am all that is lovely and admirable. You never told him about Duval, did you?”
“No. Why should I?”
“And what have you said about Antony?”
“What you told me to say—that gold had been found on his place, and he had to look after things. It quite pleased him.”
“Will Harry say anything—wrong?”
“Nothing at all. I have spoken to Harry.”
“Poor dear papa!”
“Oh, Rose! My Rose!”
“And poor dear mamma, too!”
“If you would only write one word to Antony.”
“I will not.”
This conversation indicated the way Rose was going to take, and she made haste to carry out her determination. There is always a brilliant riffraff of good society who are eager for pleasure—so called—and ambitious to achieve the trumpery distinction of ‘smartness’—dissipated, devilish men, and rapid,276realistic women; and with this class Rose found it easy to fill her fine rooms. It was to outward appearance a highly desirable set, gorgeously dressed, and having all the insignia of the uppermost class. There was no sign of anything but the most exact virtue at the dinner-table, and the earlier dances were beautiful and proper; but as the evenings wore on, and the wines and ices began to influence conduct, the tone fell lower; men and women talked louder, and danced more recklessly; and at the last hour it was necessary to be a little blind and a little deaf.
But it is the eternal law, that where sin is, sorrow shall answer it; and in all this tumult and riot of feasting and dancing, Rose was sad and disconsolate. It was not alone that she was aware of her distinct loss of social estimation—aware that old friends shirked speaking to her if they could; and that even her mother lost patience with her vagaries and imprudences—it was not even the total silence of her husband, and the appalling sense of loneliness that chilled her whole life—there was a want greater than these, for it is not by bread alone we live; there is a certain approval of conscience necessary even to our physical existence, and without its all-pervading cement, this wondrous union of self is not held healthily together. Rose had not this blessed approval; and the flatteries of the crowd she feasted did not make up for the sweet content that follows duty accomplished and love fulfilled.
She had taken into her confidence a young girl called Ida Stirling. She was exceedingly pretty and witty and sympathetic, and quite inclined to share in all the mitigations of Rose’s private hours. They had luxurious little meals together, and they told each other their secrets as they ate and drank. In this way277Rose betrayed herself; she gave to a stranger a confidence she had not given as fully to her mother, and put her heart into her hands, either to comfort or to despise. For a little while, the two women were inseparable; and on Rose’s side, at least, there was nothing hidden from her companion.
All January and February passed in this constant succession of public and private entertaining; and the “affairs” began to pall, even upon those who had nothing to do but enjoy them. The Van Hoosen household grew notorious for its extravagance and its disorder, and an indefinableauraof contempt and indifference began to pervade those who came together in Rose’s fine reception rooms. They no longer respected their hostess, they were often barely civil to her; and yet they were only fulfilling that condition Rose herself had anticipated—allowing her to find them a good floor, good music, and wines and ices for their refreshment. During February she suspected this feeling, but Ida Stirling, with many assurances, had pacified her doubts. A little later, however, she realized her position thoroughly; and she smarted under the sense of the contemptuous acceptance of her hospitality.
“I shall put a stop to the whole thing,” she said to herself, one morning in March. “I shall not stay in New York until Easter. I shall ask Ida to go with me to Europe, and we will travel quietly with a maid and a courier.” She permitted this idea to take possession of her until she suddenly remembered that even Ida had not appeared to be as fond of her society as she used to be. With a profusion of apologies and regrets, she had refused several invitations to shop and drive, and stay all night with her friend. Perhaps she would278not go to Europe. In such case, Rose resolved to travel with her maid only.
Absorbed in this new idea, she went out one day to attend to some shopping necessary for her plan. It was a lovely afternoon, full of sunshine, and a soft, fresh breeze. The windows were gay with spring fashions and preparations for Easter, and Broadway was crowded with well-dressed men and women, happy in the airs of spring, and in the sense of their own beauty or elegance. When she came out of Tiffany’s, the temptation to join in this pleasant promenade was so great that she sent her carriage forward to Vantine’s, and resolved to walk the intermediate distance. The sense of resurrection and restoration was so uplifting, the cheerfulness, the smiles, the noise of traffic and the murmur of humanity were altogether so restorative to her jaded heart that Rose felt a thrill of genuine natural happiness. She thought of the fresh sea and the queer, splendid old towns beyond it, and she hoped Ida would be willing to start by the first possible steamer.
To such thoughts she stepped brightly forward, her garments fluttering in the wind, and a large bunch of daffodils in her hands. As she approached Seventeenth Street, she felt a sudden impulse to answer an unknown gaze; and she let her eyes wander among the advancing crowd. In an instant they fell upon Ida Stirling and Mr. Duval. They were walking together, and their air was that of lovers; and Rose felt that they were talking about her. For a moment she was stunned; her soul was really knocked down, and her body felt unable to lift it. The next moment she stumbled on, with flaming cheeks, and ears so painfully alert that they heard every tone of the mocking279little laugh which saluted her in the passing. Ida was looking into Duval’s face, and affected not to see Rose; but Duval stared insolently at her, without a token of recognition. She had herself, in the momentary pause, made a faint inquisitive smile, a slight movement that she could not restrain, but which she instantly felt to be the most shameful wrong to herself. It was answered—if at all—by that mockery of a laugh which entered her ears like the point of a sword and reached her heart through them.
Blindly, breathing in short gasps, she reached her carriage; and with a great effort gave the order “home.” She was distracted. Her anger burned inward, set her blood on fire, and shook her like an earthquake. Her lover and her friend, both false! All her confidences betrayed! Her poor heart laid bare for their scorn and mirth! It was impossible to endure so abominable a wrong. She was struck dumb with it. She knew no words to express her distress. She could not rest a moment, sleep fled from her; her inner self was in a chaos of indescribable suffering.
In the morning she was physically ill; a great nausea, a burning fever, and a pain in every limb subdued her. All night her soul had seemed a substance made of fire; in the morning, it was dulled and numbed by her bodily agony; for pain is indeed perfect misery, and the very worst of mortal evils. Mrs. Filmer and a doctor were sent for; and Rose lay nearly two weeks, stunned and suffering from the soul-blow she had received. Much of the time she was hardly conscious of the present, moaning and fretful when awake, and when asleep lost in the unutterable desolation of dreams, full of portentous shapes and awful280suggestions. Her life had lost its balance, and she had lost her foothold on it in consequence.
“Am I very ill, mamma?” she asked mournfully, one midnight.
“Not very, my dear Rose. You are beginning to get better. The doctor thinks you have had a severe mental shock. What was it? Antony?”
“No; not Antony. Antony is not brutal. Am I strong enough to talk, mamma?”
“It may do you good to talk—to tell me what made you ill.”
“I met Ida Stirling and Mr. Duval walking together. They laughed in my face as they passed me. And I had told Ida everything—everything!”
“Do you mean about Antony?”
“Yes; and about that dreadful day when you all thought I intended to go to Cuba.”
“Rose, I never have understood that affair.”
“And yet, without understanding it, every one, even you, thought the very worst of me.”
“Then why did you not explain?”
“I don’t know. I was too angry. I felt wicked enough to let you all think whatever you chose. And then baby was dead, and Antony treated me as if I were her murderer.”
“You did not intend, however, to go to Cuba?”
“No more than you intended to go.”
“What took you to the steamer then?”
“Mr. Duval had some letters—foolish, imprudent letters—and I was miserable about them; because whenever I did not meet him, or send him money, he threatened to show them to Antony. He promised, as he was going to Cuba, to give them to me for $500. I had only three days to procure the money, and I did281not succeed in getting it until noon of the last day. Then I went to the Astor House, where Mr. Duval was waiting for me, and because I wanted to keep him in a good temper, I took lunch with him. He said he would give me the letters after lunch. I did not take but two glasses of wine, yet they made me feel strange, and when I was told that his luggage had all gone to the steamer, and that I must go there for the letters, I could not help crying. When Adriana spoke to me, I was begging for my letters, and he was urging me to go to Cuba with him. He wanted my money, mamma, and I knew it. He was cruel to me, and I had become afraid of him. While he was talking, I was listening for the bell to warn people ashore, and I should have fled at the first sound.”
“He might have prevented you, Rose. My dear, what danger you were in!”
“I thought of that. There were several passengers on deck, and the captain was not far away. I would have thrown myself into the water rather than have gone to Cuba with Mr. Duval.”
“Did you get the letters?”
“No. Yanna came interfering, and then Antony. I let them think what they liked. Duval said I intended to go with him. It was a lie, and he knew it; but Yanna and Antony seemed to enjoy believing it, and so I let them think me as wicked and cruel as they desired. Not one of you took the trouble to ask me a question.”
“We feared to wound your feelings, Rose, by alluding to what could not be undone. And you were fretting so about your child.”
“Not one of you noticed that I had taken no clothing, none of my jewelry, not a single article necessary282for comfort. Was it likely I would leave all my dresses and jewels behind me? If Mr. Duval thought I was going with him, was it likely he would have suffered me to forget them?”
“Why did you not tell me all this before, Rose?”
“I do not know ‘why,’ mamma. I enjoyed seeing Antony miserable. I enjoyed humbling Yanna’s pride. I used to laugh at the thought of Harry and her talking over my misconduct. A spirit I could not control took possession of me. I did not want to do wrong, but I liked people to think I did wrong. I suppose you cannot understand me, mamma?”
“Yes, I understand, Rose.”
“When I was quite alone, I used to cry bitterly about the sin of it; but all the same, as soon as Antony, or you, or Yanna, or any one that knew about Duval, came into my sight, I tried to shock them again.”
“You will do so no more, Rose?”
“The desire has gone from me. I do not even fear Mr. Duval now. He can send all the letters he has to Antony, if he wishes. I am naturally a coward, and cowardice made me sin many a time. If I had only been brave enough to tell Antony what the villain made me suffer, I need not have endured it. Antony is generosity. Duval is cruelty.”
This explanation gave Mrs. Filmer great relief, and doubtless it tended to Rose’s quick recovery. She no longer bore her burden alone, and her mother’s sympathy, like the pity of the Merciful One, was without reproach. But it was now that Rose began to realize for the first time that love teaches as the demon of Socrates taught—by the penalties exacted for errors. For every hour of her life she felt the loss of her husband’s283protecting care. Her sickness had compelled her to leave everything to servants; and the house was abandoned to their theft and riot. Waste, destruction, quarreling all day, and eating and drinking most of the night, were the household ordering. She found it difficult to get for her own wants the least attention; and the light, nourishing food she craved was prepared, if at all, in the most careless manner. Her orders were quarreled over, disputed, or neglected; and withal she had the knowledge that she must, for the time being, endure the shameful tyranny. But, oh, how every small wrong made her remember the almost omniscient love of her husband, and the involuntary and constant cry of her heart was, “If Antony were only here!”
Her loneliness, too, was great; she was unaccustomed to solitude, and she was too weak to bear the physical fatigue of much reading. So the hours and the days of her convalescence went very drearily onward. She could not look backward without weeping, and there was no hope in the future. Alas! alas! our worst wounds are those inflicted by our own hands; and Rose, musing mournfully on her sofa, knew well that no one had injured her half so cruelly as she had injured herself. With how many tears her poor eyes did penance! But they were a precious rain upon her parched soul; it was softened by them, and though she had as yet no clear conception of her relationship to God, as a wandering daughter, far from His presence—but never beyond His love—she had many moments of tender, vague mystery, in which, weeping and sorrowful, she was brought very close to Him. For it is often in the dry time, and the barren time, that God reaches out His hand, and puts into the heart the284hopeful resolve, “I will arise and go to my Father!” In some sense this was the cry that broke passionately from Rose’s lips on one night which had ended a day full to the brim of those small, shameful household annoyances, through which servants torture those whom they can torture.
“I will arise and go to my husband!” That was the first step on the right road, and the resolve sprang suddenly from a heart broken and wounded, and hungry and thirsty for help and sympathy.
“In Antony’s heart there is love and to spare,” she cried. “He would not suffer me to be tormented and neglected. He would put his strong arms round me, and the very south wind he would not let blow too rudely on my face. Oh, Antony! Antony! If you only knew how I long for you! How sorry I am for all the cruel words I said! How sorry I was even while saying them! I will go to Antony. I will tell him that I cannot forgive myself until he forgives me. I will tell him how truly I love him; how lonely and tired and sick and poor and wretched I am. He will forgive me. He will love me again. I shall begin to gonow—at this very moment.”
She rose up with the words, and felt the strength of her resolve. She looked at her watch. It was not quite nine o’clock. She rang the bell and ordered her carriage. The man hesitated, but finally obeyed the order. She was driven directly to her father’s house. Mrs. Filmer had gone out with Harry and Adriana, but Mr. Filmer was in his study. He was amazed and terrified, when he saw Rose enter.
“My dear Rose! what are you doing here?” he cried. “You are ill, Rose.”
“Ill or well, father, I want you. Oh, I need you so285much!” and she covered her face with her hands, and wept with all her heart. “I have been ill, but you have never been to see me, father—did you not know how ill I was? Do you not care for me?” she sobbed.
Mr. Filmer pulled a chair to his side. “Come here, my girl,” he answered, “for I cannot come to you. Look at my bandaged foot, Rose. I have not stepped on it for a month.”
“Oh, father! I am so sorry for you—and for myself.”
“I fell, my dear—fell down those spiral stairs in the library, and sprained myself very badly. Did you imagine I had forgotten?”
“Mamma never told me—yes, I believe she did tell me—but I thought it was only a little hurt. I have been so selfishly miserable. And, oh, father! it is such a disappointment to me. I wanted you to take me to Antony.”
“That is folly, my child. Your husband is about his business. He will come home as soon as he can leave it; and you are not fit to travel.”
Then Rose remembered that her father had but a partial knowledge of the truth regarding her real position, and she hesitated. Lame and unable to help her, why should she make him unhappy? So she only said: “There is something a little wrong between Antony and me, and I want to talk to him. Letters always make trouble. I thought perhaps you might go with me; but you are lame—and busy, too, I see.”
“Unfortunately, I am lame at present; but if you are in any trouble, Rose, I am not busy. What is this to you?” he asked, lifting some manuscript and tossing it scornfully aside. “It is only my amusement; you are my heart, my honor, my duty! I would burn every286page of my book if by so doing I could bring you happiness, my child.”
“There is nothing to call for such a sacrifice, papa,” she said, while the grateful tears sprang to her eyes; “but somehow, I do not seem to have any friends but you and mamma; none, at least, from whom I can expect help.”
“In trouble, Rose, you may always go to God and to your father and mother for help. From them you cannot expect too much; and from men and women in general you cannot expect too little. Your mother will be home soon, so remain here to-night, and have a talk with her about this notion of going west to Antony. She will tell you that it is very foolish.”
“If I stay I must send home the carriage, and then no one knows what may happen if the house is without any one even to give an alarm. But I am glad to have seen you, papa. And it was good to hear you say you would burn your book for my sake. I feel ever so much better for having heard you say such splendid words.”
So Rose went home, without having made any advance towards her intention; but she was strengthened and comforted by her father’s love and trust.
And she said to herself, “Perhaps I had better not be rash. I will be still, and think over things.” Yet she was sensible of a singular impatience of delay. “Delay might mean so much. Her evil genius might have foreseen her effort, and resolved thus to defeat it. Harry might go with her. She might go by herself. Had she not contemplated a journey to Europe alone?” Until long after midnight she sat considering the details of her journey—the dress she ought to wear—the words she ought to say—and, alas! the possibilities of disappointment.