 | CHAPTER XXVII.
EASTER LILIES. My wife and I, or, Harry Henderson's history |  |
27. CHAPTER XXVII.
EASTER LILIES.
THE next afternoon Jim and I kept our appointment
with the Van Arsdel's. We found one of the parlors
transformed to a perfect bower of floral decorations.
Stars and wreaths and crosses and crowns were
either just finished or in process of rapid construction under
fairy fingers. When I came in, Eva and Alice were busy on
a gigantic cross, to be made entirely of lilies of the valley,
of which some bushels were lying around on the carpet.
Ida had joined the service, and was kneeling on the floor
tying up the flowers in bunches to offer them to Eva.
“You see, Mr. Henderson, the difference between modern
religion and the primitive Christians,” she said. “Their
cross was rough wood and hard nails; ours is lilies and
roses made up in fashionable drawing-rooms.”
“I'm afraid,” said Eva, “our crown may prove much of
the same material!”
“I sometimes wonder,” said Ida, “whether all the money
spent for flowers at Easter could not better be spent in
some mode of relieving the poor.”
“Well,” said Eva, “I am sorry to bring up such a parallel,
but isn't that just the same kind of remark that Judas made
about the alabaster vase of ointment?”
“Yes,” said I; “what could be more apparently useless
than a mere perfume, losing itself in the air, and vanishing
entirely? And yet the Saviour justified that lavish expenditure
when it was the expression of a heart-feeling.”
“But,” said Ida, “don't you think it very difficult to
mark the line where these services and offerings to religious
worship become excessive?”
“Of course it is,” said I; “but no more difficult on this
subject than any other.”
“That's the great trouble in this life,” said Eva. “The
line between right and wrong seems always so indefinite,
like the line between any two colors of the prism—it is
hard to say just where one ends and another begins.”
“It is the office of common sense,” I said, “to get the
exact right in all such matters—there is a sort of instinct
in it.”
“Well, all I have to say about it is,” said Eva, “since
we do spend lavishly and without stint in our houses and
in our dress for adornment, we ought to do at least as
much for our religion. I like to see the adornment of a
church generous, overflowing, as if we gave our very best.
As to these lilies, I ordered them of an honest gardener, and
it goes to help support a family that would be poor if it were
not for these flowers. It is better to support one or two
families honestly, by buying their flowers for churches
than it is to give the money away. So I look on it.”
“Oh, well,” said Alice, “there is no end to anything.
Everything you do tends to something else; and everything
leads to something; and there is never any knowing about
anything; and so I think it is best just to have as good a
time as you can, and do everything that is agreeable, and
make everything just as pretty as it can be. And I think it
is fun to trim up the church for Easter. There now! And
it don't do any harm. And I just like to go to the sunrise
service, if it does make one sleepy all day. What do you
say, Mr. Fellows? Do you think you could go through
with the whole of it?”
“Miss Alice, if you only go you will find me inspired
with the spirit of a primitive Christian in this respect,”
said Jim. “I shall follow wherever you lead the way, if it's
ever so late at night, or ever so early in the morning.”
“And Mr. Henderson,” said she, “may we depend on you,
too?”
“By all means,” said I, as I sat industriously gathering up
the lilies into bunches and tying them.
“Mr. Henderson is in a hopeful way,” said Eva. “I think
we may have him in the true church some of these times.”
“I am afraid,” said Ida, “that Mr. Henderson, having
seen you only in Lent, won't be able to keep track of you
when the Easter rejoicings begin, and the parties recommence.”
“Oh dear me!” said Eva, with a sort of shudder, “To
think of that horrid wedding!”
“That's just like Eva,” said Alice. “She's been, and been,
and been to these things till she's tired out with them;
whereas, I am just come out, and I like them, and want
more of them. I don't think they are horrid at all. I am
perfectly delighted about that Elmore wedding. One will
see there all the new things, and all the stunning things,
and all the latest devices from Paris. I was in at Tullegig's
the other day, and you never saw such a sight as her rooms
are! Somebody said it looked as if rainbows had been
broken to pieces and thrown all round. She showed me all
the different costumes that she was making up for the various
parties. You know there are to be seven bride's-maids,
and each of them is to wear a different color. Madame
thinks `O'est si gentil.' Then, you know, they are
making such grand preparations up at that chateau of
theirs. The whole garden is to be roofed in and made a
ball room of. I think it will be gorgeous. I say, Mr. Fellows,
if you and Mr. Henderson would like it, I know I
could manage cards for you.”
Jim assented, heartily, for both of us; and I added that
I should like to see the affair; for I had never seen enough
of that sort of thing to take away the novelty.
After tea we all sallied out to the church with our
trophies. We went in two carriages, for the better accommodation
of these, and had a busy time disembarking at
the church and carrying them in. Here we met a large
committee of co-workers, and the scene of real business
commenced. Jim and I worked heroically under the direction
of our fair superintendents. By midnight the church
was a bower of fragrance and beauty. The chancel seemed
cross, shedding perfume upon the air. The baptismal font
was covered with a closely woven mosaic of fragrant violets,
and in each panel appeared an alternate red or white
cross formed of flowers. The font was filled with a tall
bouquet of white saint's-lilies, such as gardeners force for
Easter.
Eva and I worked side by side this evening, and never
had I seemed to know her more intimately. The fact is,
among other dangerous situations to a young man's heart,
none may be mentioned more seductive than to be in a
church twining flowers and sorting crosses and emblems in
the still holy hours of the night. One's head gets, somehow,
bewildered; all worldly boundaries of cold prudence
fade away; and one seems to be lifted up to some other
kind of land where those that are congenial never part
from each other. So I felt when, our work being all done,
I retired with Eva to the shadow of a distant pew to survey
the whole result. We had turned on the gas-light to
show our work, and its beams, falling on thousands of
these white lily-bells and on all the sacred emblems, shed
a sort of chastened light. Again, somehow, as if it had
been a rose-leaf floating down from heaven, I found that
little hand in mine; and we spoke low to each other, in
whispers, of how good and how pleasant it was to be there,
and to unite in such service and work—words that meant
far more than they seemed to say. Once, in the course of
the evening, I saw her little glove where it had fallen into
a nest of cast-off flowers, and, as no one was looking, I
seized upon it as a relic, and appropriated it to my own
sacred memories. Nor would I surrender it, though afterward
I heard her making pathetic inquiries for it. Late
at night I went home to think and dream, and woke with
the first dim gray of morning, thinking of my appointment
to meet her at the church.
It is a charming thing to go out in the fresh calm morning
before any one is stirring. The bells for early service
were dropping their notes here and there, down through the
that great event which happened so silently and so unregarded,
many, many years ago. I thought as I walked
through the dim streets and saw here and there an early
worshiper, prayer-book in hand, stealing along, of the
lonely women who, years ago, in Jerusalem, sought the
sepulchre to see where they had laid Him.
Little twittering sparrows filled the ivy on the outside of
the church and made it vibrate with their chirpings. There
was the promise in the brightening skies of a glorious sunrise.
I stood waiting awhile, quite alone, till one by one
the bands of youths and maidens came from different directions.
I had called Jim as I went out, but he, preferring to take
the utmost latitude for sleep, looked at his watch and told
me he would take another half hour before he joined us.
Eva was there, however, among the very first. The girls,
she said, were coming. We went into the dim church together
and sat ourselves down in the shady solitude of one
of the slips waiting for the morning light to pour through
the painted windows. We said nothing to each other; but
the silence was sociable and not blank. There are times
in life when silence between two friends is better than
speech; for they know each other by intuition.
Gradually the church filled with worshipers; and as the
rising sun streamed through the painted windows and
touched all the lilies with brightness, a choir of children in
the organ-loft broke forth into carols like so many invisible
birds. And then, the old chant,
“Christ, being raised from the dead, dieth no more,”
seemed to thrill every heart.
After the service came a general shaking of hands and
greetings from neighbors and friends, as everybody walked
round examining the decorations.
“Now, Mr. Henderson,” said Eva, as she stood with me
surveying this scene, “is not a church which preserves all
these historical memorials a most lovely one? Ought we
not thus to cherish the memory of that greatest event that
bring up children year after year by festivals like these, to
mark off their life in acts of remembrance.”
“You speak truly,” I said, sharing her enthusiasm. “I
could wish the church of all good people had never ceased to
keep Easter; indeed, they who do disregard it seem to me
a cold minority out of the great fellowship. I think it is
fortunate that the Romish and the Episcopal churches are
bringing us, descendants of the Puritans, back to those
primitive customs. I, for one, come back willingly and
joyfully.”
[Eva Van Arsdel to Isabel Convers.]
My Darling Belle:—I have been a naughty girl to let your
letter lie so long. But my darling, it is not true, as you
there suggest, that the bonds of sisterly affection, which
bound us in school, are growing weaker, and that I no
longer trust you as a confidential friend. Believe me, the
day will never come, dearest Belle, when I shall cease to
unfold to you every innermost feeling.
And now to come to the point about “that Mr. Henderson.”
Indeed, my love, your cautions are greatly mistaken.
It is true that, much to my surprise, he has taken a fancy
to visit quite intimately at our house, and has made himself
a general favorite in the family. Mamma, and Aunt
Maria, and all the girls like him so much. But, then, you
must know he is generally set down as Ida's admirer. At
all events Ida and he are extremely good friends; and when
he calls here he generally spends the largest part of the
evening in her sanctum; and they have most edifying conversations
on all the approved modern topics—the Darwinian
theory, woman's rights, and everything else you can
think of. One thing I admit is a little peculiar—he notices
everything that I say in conversation—I must own. I never
saw such an observing creature. For example, the first
evening he was at our house, I just accidentally dropped
before him the remark that I was going to early morning
he was there too, and walked home with me. I was
the more astonished, because he does not belong to the
Church—so one would not expect it, you know. He is a
member of the Bethany Church himself, but he seems delighted
with our services, and talks about them beautifully—as
well as our rector could. I really wish you could
have heard him! He seems to have such an earnest,
thoughtful mind; and what I like in him is, that he never
flatters, and talks that matter-of-course complimentary
nonsense, that some men think is the thing to be talked
to ladies; neither has he that way of talking down to one
that superior men sometimes have, when they are talking
with us girls. I read somewhere this sentiment—that
we may know the opinion people have of us by the kind
of conversation they address to us—and if this is so I
ought to be flattered by the way Mr. Henderson talks to
me; for I think he shows quite as much anxiety to find
out my opinion on all subjects as he does Ida's. You
will, perhaps, think it rather peculiar if I tell you that
ever since that first morning he has been as constant at
the morning services as I have, and always walks home
with me. In this way we really are getting quite intimately
acquainted. Now, Belle, don't put on that knowing
look of yours, and intimate that there is anything
particular in all this, for there is not. I do assure you there
is not a bit of nonsense in it. You would be perfectly
astonished to hear how gravely and philosophically we talk.
We moralize and philosophize, and as Jim Fellows would
say, “come the high moral dodge” in a way that would
astonish you.
And yet, Belle, they wrong us who are called fashionable
girls, when they take for granted that we are not capable of
thinking seriously, and that we prefer those whose conversation
consists only of flattery and nonsense. It is mainly
because I feel that Mr. Henderson has deep, serious purposes
in life, and because he appreciates and addresses himself
to the deepest part of my nature that his friendship is so
because I insist upon it that there can be friendship, pure
and simple, between a gentleman and a lady; in our case
there is “only this and nothing more.”
How very teasing and provoking it is that there cannot be
this friendship without observation and comment! Now I
am very careful to avoid any outward appearance of special
intimacy that might make talk, and he appears to be very
careful also. After the first day at morning service he did
not join me immediately on going out of church, but went
out at another door and joined me at the next corner. I
was so thankful for it, for old Mrs. Eyelett was there with
her sharp eyes, and I know by experience that though she
is a pillar of the church she finds abundance of leisure from
her devotions to watch all the lambs of the flock; and I am
one that everybody seems to keep specially in mind as
proper to be looked after. If I only speak to, or look at,
or walk with the same person more than once, the airy
tongues of rumor are busy engaging and marrying me.
Isn't it horrid? I would not have old Mrs. Eyelett get
anything of this sort into her head for the world; it's so
disagreeable to have such a thing get to a gentleman's
hearing when he knows there is no truth in it; and the
world has condescended to interest itself so much in my
fortunes that it seems dangerous for anybody to be more
than civil without being set down as an aspirant.
The only comfort there is in being persistently reported
engaged to Mr. Sydney is that it serves to keep off other
reports, and I sometimes think of the old fable of the fox
who would not have the present swarm of flies driven off
lest there should come a new one in its place. How I wish
people would let one's private affairs alone! Here I must
break off, for there is company down stairs.
Wednesday Eve.
I have let this thing lie some days, dear Belle, because
there has been so much going and coming, time has flitted
away. Mr. H. has been at our house a good deal. I have
he thinks everything of—“Cousin Caroline”—and she is a
very superior woman. So you see how silly all your suggestions
are, Belle. For aught I know he may be engaged
to this cousin Caroline. I believe she is coming to New
York, and I am just wild to see her. You know I want
to see if I shall like her. She must be just the thing
for him; and I hope I shall like her. Ida thinks she shall.
Aunt Maria, who wants to portion off the fate of mortals,
has made up her mind that Mr. H. must be an admirer of
Ida's; and in short, that they are to be for each other.
Ida looks down on all this sort of thing with her placid
superiority. She has a perfect contempt for it, so very perfect
that it is quiet. She does not even trouble herself to
express it. Ida likes Mr. H. very much, and has a straightforward,
open, honest friendship with him, and doesn't
trouble her head a bit what people may say.
Saturday Morning.
We are all busy now about Easter decorations. We have
ordered no end of flowers, and are going into adornments on
a great scale. We press all hands in that we can get. Mr.
Henderson and Jim Fellows are coming to-night to tea to
help us carry our things to church and get them up.
Monday Morning.
I am so tired. We were up nearly all night Saturday, and
then at the sunrise service Easter morning, and services
all day. Beautiful! Lovely as they could be! But if one
has a good time in this world, one must pay for it—and I am
all tired out.
Mr. Henderson was with us through the whole affair.
One thing seemed to me quite strange. I dropped my glove
among some flowers, while I was busy putting up a wreath
of lilies, and I saw him through a bower of hemlock trees
walk up to the spot, and slyly confiscate the article. In a
moment I came back, and said, “I dropped my glove here.
Where can it be?” The wretched creature helped me search
for it, with every appearance of interest, but never offered
You know, gentlemen often pretend, as a matter of gallantry,
that they want your glove, or a ribbon, or some
such memento; but this was all so secret. He evidently
thinks I don't know it; and, Belle—what should you think
about it?
| CHAPTER XXVII.
EASTER LILIES. My wife and I, or, Harry Henderson's history | |