University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

I FEAR there was a touch of selfishness in our feelings
next day, when we heard that Miss Bain had a headache.
Miss Easy and Mr. Collingwood were alone in the
little parlour, and the explanation of this circumstance was,
truth to say, very satisfactory: we could be sorry for the
invalid but not for ourselves. So long as we were very
bright, her company and conversation came not amiss; but
in those circumstances where the tongue—“that little horse
that is perpetually running away,”—requires the guiding
hand of nice feeling, at the very time when Miss Easy was
most lovely, Miss Avarintha was least endurable.

Moreover when dinner was served, I discovered that she
would have been too many in another respect. We were
such a pleasant number as matters stood,—mamma and I
on one side, Mr. Rodney and Kate on the other: my father
armed with the carving knife; while opposite to him sat
Miss Easy with a face of such pleased affection, that none
but those who knew her well, would have guessed that she
had always at least one thought upstairs. I felt reproved
for my secret joy every time I looked at her—get rid of it
I could not.

An acute observer who had surveyed that happy dinner
table, would have thought none of us in exuberant spirits;
and yet would have judged that we were possessed of as much
comfort, of as much counterbalancing good, as man needs to
bear the evil patiently,—and so we were. The wind went
noisily about the house, as it had been the world's turmoil:
dark clouds that would have done honour to November's

moodiness drifted in close order across the sky, like threateners
of our peace. Yet did not the world enter, nor the
darkened light without do aught but brighten the world
within,—we were very happy. Quietly, soberly, as people
who have tasted life must be, to be happy at all; though
with Kate and me the taste was half sympathetic, and in
return the older members of the company caught from us
somewhat of the smack of young pleasure that yet lingered
on our lips.

There is something very fair in the unbroken glow of a
summer day; but fairer yet, and of more interest, is that
play of light and shade when the sun cannot quite banish
the clouds, nor the clouds refuse to admit his influence.
When the shadows that fall are soft and fleeting, and every
touch of light is burnished by the strong hand of contrast.

My stepmother went to see the sick lady after dinner;
and leaving my father and Mr. Rodney to finish their conversation,
Miss Easy walked into the drawing-room again,
followed by Kate and me. The short day was just ending;
but as if to make amends for its past cloudiness, the sky
was now perfectly clear, and the wind had gone after his
playthings.

“How long does Mr. Rodney stay, Miss Easy?” said
Kate.

“He goes to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!”

We watched the passing light almost in silence; but
when the sun had set, and we were looking for darkness,
there came through the bay-window a strip of the fairest,
softest radiance, that ever fell upon a twilight world. It
glimmered faintly upon the window, but within—upon
carpet and chair and wall—the ray had not even that
approach to gayety,—it breathed the very spirit of pure consolation.
We looked at each other and then at the western
sky. There hung, just over the horizon, a slender crescent,
coming forth from the cool white light of the sky most
beautifully—like a diamond in silver setting; and from

point to point, faintly mapped out, the eye could just trace
the outline of its future greatness. Steadily it shone in
upon us in its descent, and for a while we watched it almost
as steadily.

“My dear Kate,” said Miss Easy then, “what are you
thinking of? the moon?”

“No ma'am, my thoughts had descended to earth.”

“Come here and let me see you.”

Kate left her stand at the back of Miss Easy's chair, and
kneeling down at her feet lent her face to her friend's kind
and somewhat thoughtful scrutiny.

“Well dear Miss Easy,” she said, “can your mind find
the path by which mine came down? I don't think I
could direct you to it.”

“Tell me where it came to and I will try,” said her friend
smiling. “Katie, your eyes are just like the channels
about those islands Mr. Rodney was telling me of—only
there are no hidden reefs.”

“What islands?” said Kate laughing.

“The Bermudas.”

“Was he telling you about them? O I wish I had heard
it. I wanted very much to ask him but”—

“Wanted to ask me what?” said the gentleman in question
as he came up and placed himself in Kate's former
position behind Miss Easy.

Kate hesitated.

“I was thinking—I was wishing that I could ask you—
that you would tell us something about Bermuda,” she
said in rather a low voice, as if afraid of giving pain. And
to that he answered.

“I love to think of it Miss Kate—it is very pleasant to
me. What was your question?”

“Sit down here Katie and tell him,” said Miss Easy, “I
am going upstairs.”

“I don't know enough about it to ask questions,” said
Kate as she took the offered chair, while Mr. Rodney left
his stand for one by the mantelpiece; “I have just a general
idea of a group of islands east of the United States.
Are they remarkable for anything?”

“Very remarkable, both for beauty and situation. You
are so fond of this little inland lake Miss Kate, what would

you say to a lake in the midst of the ocean?—its boundary
a coral reef, its horizon one low water-line. Well Gracie
—you look at me as if I were telling travellers' wonders,
and not very credible ones neither.”

“Because I can't quite understand them sir. Was there
ever such a place?”

“There was when I came from Bermuda—the islands lie
in just such a one. It is a singular shoal, some twenty-three
miles by thirteen, the deep sea on every side of it,
and the nearest point of land almost six hundred miles off.”

“And the lake is on top of this shoal?” said Kate.

“Precisely. And the reefs which surround it are so
high as to keep out entirely the action of the sea.”

“And how near to the islands is this reef?”

“The outer edge of it? The distance varies very much
—ten miles off in some places. The islands are low and
always green—indeed there is no climate there but of spring
—it is one of the prettiest evening scenes you can imagine;
and the little boats go gliding about the narrow channels
like a train of fairy things.”

“O Mr. Rodney—” I said, “that is just what I wanted
to ask—those channels”—

“Are among the islands,” said Kate,—“didn't you understand?”

“Of course! where else could they be! But Miss
Easy said that Kate's eyes were just like those channels—
except the reefs—is there anything peculiar about them
Mr. Rodney?”

He smiled.

“They are peculiarly clear and pure Gracie—I presume
that is what Miss Easy was thinking of. But do you know
that you have a great fondness for indefinite pronouns?”

“How have I? what do you mean sir?”

“What was the antecedent to your `them'? `eyes' or
`reefs' or `channels'? If I had been a stranger to all three
I might have been puzzled.”

“I know,” said I laughing—“papa talks to me about it
sometimes. But then you always understand everybody
Mr. Rodney.”

“I generally understand you,” he said with a smile.
“But it is only by means of this same clearness of the

water that the islands can be reached at all. When a ship
comes to the boundary a negro pilot takes her in charge,
and leaning over the prow to keep close watch of the reefs
with which the lake is studded, he guides her safely through
the narrow channel.”

“It must be a lovely place!” said Kate, who by dint of
strong imagination had conjured up a visionary Bermuda
in the fire, and was surveying it intently. “I almost wonder
you did not want to stay there, Mr. Rodney.”

“That could hardly be!” he said with that quick light of
the eye which sudden and strong feeling often wrought in
him—“that could hardly be!”—then adding more quietly,
“if you knew me better Miss Kate, you would better appreciate
my love of friends and home.”

“But one might make friends—there are plenty of people
there.”

“Plenty of strangers—that give one as much of a home
feeling as does the wild ocean outside the reef! they
seemed like a barrier between me and everything that I
cared about.” He paused and then said in a lower and
graver tone,

“Yes, there are people enough there, and in some moods
one might, as you say, make friends. But if one knew
them all, home is not easily transferrable,—even the eye
wearies of strange beauties, and longs for those which if
more common are far more dear. I would have bartered
all the graceful, unfading loveliness of Bermuda, for one
look at the roughest view in this neighbourhood, in the
wildest storm that ever bedecked it with clouds and snow.”

“And yet—”

“And yet I love to think of it now? Yes, very much,
but not for the sake of the place itself—there are some
associations that can endear anything, and some recollections
that are much more gladdening than forgetfulness.”

“There are a great many false notions on that subject,”
said my father suddenly pausing his steps by Kate's chair;
“I am glad they are not yours. In `throwing off' and `forgetting'
some cause of sorrow, how often hidden blessings
and comfort go with it. While if men would seek them
out, they would by and by get on the bright side of the
cloud—out of reach of its shadow.”

How sadly the shadow was on Mr. Rodney's face for a
moment, ere he answered,

“I cannot say that for myself Mr. Howard, not always
—sometimes I am selfish enough to feel the cloud far too
much—assured as I am that to be out of this world, is not,
for a christian, to be beyond the pale of all good, but of
all evil.”

“How many people,” said my father, “look upon heaven
as a man whose house is burning looks at the rest of the
world,—he must leave his house, but what to do elsewhere?
I was struck with that, almost painfully, the last time I was
in Philadelphia. `Poor Dr.—' said a clergyman to me,
speaking of the late minister of the — St. church! Sir
I wondered if the man thought `the promise of none
effect'! What a slur upon his friend's faith! What a
commentary upon his own! I was happy to know that the
former was undoubted.”

“You remember papa,” said Kate, “what Cotton Mather
says of old Governour Bradstreet—`death seemed rather
conferred upon him, than life taken from him.'”

“Ay,” said my father, turning off again to his walk,
“but it is much easier to see some people's mistakes than
to imitate other people's excellencies.”

I had a presentiment that the headache would go off by
tea-time, and to be sure it did. Miss Bain was not only
able, but very glad to take her place at the table, and as
large a share as possible in the conversation—to make up
for lost time.

“What are you going to do?” said my father seizing a
time when he thought the subject matter at the other side
of the fireplace seemed pretty engrossing. “You don't
mean to turn counsellor Mr. Rodney?”

“Not `at law,' certainly.”

“That's well—though perhaps I shouldn't say so; but it
always seems to me as if the atmosphere of other people's
quarrels must be unwholesome. But what are you going
to make of yourself then? what profession have you
chosen?”

“That one sir for which a man is least of all self-made—
the church.”

“But my dear Mr. Rodney!” said Miss Bain suddenly

turning round, “the church! I always thought you were a
dissenter?”

“From what Miss Avarintha?” said Mr. Rodney.

“From what?” said the lady, dubiously eyeing her antagonist;
“well that is a question! Why the established
church of course.”

“And what is the established church of America?” he
answered with a smile.

“Really sir,” said Miss Bain a little piqued, “I did not
know that you were in the habit of evading a fair question.”

“It doesn't so much matter what he dissents from after
all, ma'am,” said Mr. Howard, “if he only lives up to
Bunyan's standard. You remember Miss Bain that `Christian
saw the figure of a very grave person hang up against
the wall; and this was the fashion of it: it had eyes lifted
up to heaven, the best of books was in its hand, the law
of truth was written upon its lips, the world was behind its
back; it stood as if it pleaded with men, and a crown of
gold did hang over its head.'”

“To be sure,” said Miss Bain half involuntarily.

“Well Mr. Rodney,” said my father, “I am glad that
such is your choice. I only hope they will build you a
church at the other horn of the lake, to keep Mr. Ellis in
countenance. We can't afford to lose you permanently
from this neighbourhood.”

“Ah sir!” said Miss Easy, “that would be too pleasant!
Yes sir, I wish I could see that!”

The wish and the tone of loving interest were well paid
for, if a look could pay.

“It would be almost too pleasant a thing to happen, dear
Miss Easy,” he said. “I cannot hope to have just the place
in the world that I should like best.”

There was some wistfulness, some sorrowful feeling, in
her eyes for a moment; and then she said,

“I will hope it! and if not—it will be better for you,—
that is enough.”

But we all felt very much drawn together that night.