University of Virginia Library

54. CHAPTER LIV.
PENANCE.

To Beatrice, sheltered in her childhood's
home, safe and quiet in the guardianship of
her aunt, who, if she did not understand, at
least did not interfere with her, came after a
time her uncle's wife, with not insincere expressions
of sympathy and affection, and an
urgent request that Mrs. Chappelleford should
return with her to town, and accept a home
beneath her uncle's roof. But Beatrice shook
her head, smiling sadly:

“Thank you very much, Juanita, and thank
my dear uncle, too, but I cannot come at
present; I am busy here.”

“Busy, my dear child?” asked Mrs. Bar
stow, glancing around the quiet chamber
with incredulous surprise.

“Yes, busy in settling my life.”

“But that is just what we want to do for
you—to settle your life. Come to us, and that
will settle it.”

“I don't mean that sort of life,” said Beatrice
quietly. “I am trying to understand—
but no matter now.”

As her voice drearily died away, and her
eyes sought the distant hills where the sunshine
lay brightly, although the country
between was all in shadow, Mrs. Barstow
looked at her with quiet worldly scrutiny.

“My dear,” said she, “I would not do it.”

“Do what?”

“Either of the two things you have in
mind—either marry Marston Brent or become
devout. Neither will suit you as well as the
role of belle esprit you have so successfully
played since your marriage with my uncle
Chappelleford. You are too young, too handsome,
and too brilliant for a dévote; and as for
Mr. Brent— That reminds me to thank you,
Trix, for saving me from an awful stupidity.
If you had not been with me when Major
Strangford came home, I might have gone
into some sentimental nonsense with him—it
was quite on the cards. But you helped me
over the first danger, and after that I reflected
—why really it would have been very foolish
—and I found, on a second look, that he had
gone off immensely, quite broken up, and
passé indeed. And, that danger over, there
was no chance of another; for a good house,
as many carriages as I choose, and a husband
with a hundred thousand a year, are ever so
much better than moonlight and Tennyson,
as I dare say you knew when you advised
against the Major. And really Mr. Barstow
and I am very comfortable together; he is a
prince for generosity, and as indulgent as possible.
He has never spoken a cross word
since we were married, Beatrice.”

“Dear, good uncle Israel! And is he happy,
Juanita?”

“I mean to make him so, and I think I do.
I always consult him before ordering dinner,
and never object to his inviting his stupid old
merchants, and smoking in the library. And
actually, my dear, I find that I am growing
almost domestic in my tastes. Having no
girls to bring out, I have not the ties to society
that most married women have; and—
now don't you laugh—I positively enjoy a

game of whist occasionally, and even a `hit
at backgammon,' as Mr. Barstow calls it. And
I make it a positive duty to give him a little
music after dinner, almost every evening, and
he likes going to the theatre with me. So, altogether,
Trix, I count myself a model wife—
quite a Grizelda in fact, and I think your uncle
would tell you the same story.”

“I am very glad, very glad indeed, Juanita,
for I never knew a man who deserved better
of his wife and his home than my uncle Israel,”
said Beatrice warmly.

And the elder matron, laughing slyly, inquired:

“Not even Marston Brent?”

“Don't, Juanita. I do not think of Mr.
Brent, or he of me. My mind is filled with
other matters, and he, I hope, will marry Ruth
Brewster.”

“Beatrice, I want to ask you a question;
will you answer it truly?”

“Truly, if at all.”

“Your old Jesuitical answer; but n'importe.
When I told you that I was afraid to meet
Major Strangford, because I fancied myself
still in love with him, you almost crushed me
with your virtuous indignation at the idea of
a married woman being in love with any one
but her husband, and, if I remember, you
vowed it would be impossible for you to even
imagine such a thing. Now, Trix, tell me,
after you had stayed three weeks under the
same roof with Marston Brent, did not you
change your mind?”

And as Mrs. Barstow asked her searching
question, she looked keenly into that pure,
pale face so steadily set toward the distant
hills, whose shining peace was reflected in the
eyes that watched them. The face did not
droop, the calm eyes did not quail, but a slow
wave of color mounted through cheek and
chin, even to the masses of bright hair coiled
away from the white brow—mounted, and
burned, and faded before Beatrice replied;
then she said:

“I will answer you, Juanita, and truly,
though to my own shame. The armor of
which I so presumptuously boasted to you
proved of no avail when the hour of trial
came, nor would the worldly shield which
saved you have proved sufficient for me.
Even while I assured myself that there was
no danger, the danger stood face to face with
me, and all my defences of philosophy, and
reason, and intellect dropped away like flax
within the fire, and left me simple, defenceless
woman.”

“Well, what then? What saved you?”
asked Mrs. Barstow breathlessly.

“The honor, the conscience, the Christian
principle of Marston Brent,” said Beatrice
with a sudden fervor in her voice. “I failed,
and he upheld me; I was simple, and he rebuked
me; I was despairing, and he, by the
noble example of his own life, taught me how
to live.”

“Then you acknowledged to each other
that you were still in love?”

“Certainly not.”

“But you are, aren't you?”

“Juanita, you are profane. You grasp at
matters of which you should not even speak.”

“Mercy on me! Beatrice, I cannot understand
you in the least,” exclaimed Mrs. Bar
stow pettishly.

“I know it—I do not understand myself as
yet, and I certainly should not have said what
I have to you, but that —”

“Well, what?”

“I considered it a fitting penance for my
arrogance when I spoke to you before. I was
right in my conclusions then, but all wrong
in my reasoning, and more than wrong in my
estimate of my own strength. Now, dear,
let us speak of something else, and lay this
aside forever.”

“And you will not come to town with me?”

“No thank you, Juanita.”

“Or join us in the winter?”

“No; I have done with life, such life as
that, and I shall stay in Milvor until —”

Juanita waited patiently, but the sentence
was not finished, and she left the room.