True womanhood a tale |
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| 12. | CHAPTER XII. |
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 | CHAPTER XII. True womanhood |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
Cautiously, slowly, and with a noiseless tread, they stole
through the narrow, unfrequented path, until they reached the
end-steps of the piazza, where Arthur stopped for a moment near
a large, heavily curtained window, and making a sign to the Major,
began to reconnoitre.
Within were Mrs. Maynard and Julia, sitting together upon a
sofa drawn up to the fire; Julia leaning upon her aunt, with
hands clasped and resting in her lap, and the aunt, with one arm
about Julia's waist, and eyes that seemed overcharged with tears.
“This will never do!” whispered the Major. “We must give
up the idea of taking them by surprise. I never saw your
mother with that look before — so helpless and so hopeless —
nor Julia so wretched, and so dependent. Look at her hands —
how pale and how lifeless they are! Something must have happened,
Arthur — ah! a sob! — my sister Elizabeth actually sobbing,
with that poor girl's head resting upon her shoulder!”
At this moment, Mrs. Maynard reached out her hand, trembling
with weakness, or with deep emotion, and took an open
letter from the table.
“Hush! — don't move for your life, — the window must be
open, for I distinctly hear the rustling of that paper.”
“Right,” said Arthur, touching his uncle on the shoulder, and
pointing toward the window, which opened in two parts like doors,
and was not properly fastened. “What carelessness!” he added,
in a whisper; “we must look to this ourselves; I never much
liked these French windows.”
The voice of Julia was now heard, faint, low, and almost wailing.
“How do you understand it? can there be any other meaning,
dear aunt?”
“No, my poor child; I can see no other meaning; it would
be irreverent, and wholly unlike brother George, and out of
place, if not accepted as we first understood it,” — reading over
the note in a low, sweet, trembling voice, — “`Let not your
hearts be troubled. Ye believe in God, believe also in me!'”
“The very note I sent them by Mr. Fay,” whispered the Major;
“I hope they understood it, as intended, — hush!”
“Certainly! the language is clear,” said Mrs. Maynard, as if
in reply to her brother; “it must mean just that, and nothing
else,” — locking her hands and lifting them up in silent prayer, —
“I am perfectly satisfied now, and really wonder at my own
childish misgiving, dear Julia; and all the more, that while you
were casting yourself upon me, in a measure — and while God
was strengthening you — I should have become so utterly
powerless, on hearing the dreadful secret you have kept so
long buried in your own heart. Yes, my brother — my dear,
dear brother — we will accept the interpretation, and be comforted!”
“Thank God!” whispered the Major, wiping his eyes, and
turning away from the window.
“Inasmuch as we believe in God, therefore will we believe in
thee! my poor brother!” she added, in a more cheerful tone.
Arthur clasped his uncle's hand in reply, but neither of them
spoke or moved. Their hearts were too full for speech.
“But how wearily the day drags on,” said Julia, looking at her
watch; “only half-past two! — surely we must hear something
of him, or get a message, before night.”
“No, Julia, so long as we do not hear of him, and no message
is received, I shall be looking for him; — ah! didn't I hear a step
on the piazza?”
The brother could forbear no longer. With the strong tread
of manly self-reliance, he walked up to the door followed by
Arthur.
A slight scream followed — a brief, hurried, bustling movement
within — the sound of a distant bell from below — the front
door flew open — the hall-doors — the parlor-door — and the
next moment brother and sister were locked in each other's arms,
with Julia and Arthur standing near, afraid to speak or move,
with their faces covered.
Then there followed a low, distant, half-smothered, convulsive
sobbing — many tears — and much heaving of the shoulders —
but no word of speech — nothing but the deep, heavy, labored
breathing of hearts overcharged with thankfulness, and joy, and
self-reproach, for unexpected, and almost unhoped-for deliverance.
Like the friends of Peter, they had been praying, and hoping,
and believing, and expecting the prison-doors to be opened, as
they thought, or tried to think; and yet, as when Peter knocked
at the door, and his praying friends chose to believe it was only
his spirit, so the poor sister, and the poor, patient, hopeful, suffering
Julia could hardly believe their own eyes, when the liberated
prisoner appeared.
After sitting together in the perfect stillness of happy hearts,
hand in hand for awhile, the brother and sister tranquillized, and
even Julia and Arthur beginning to feel better acquainted, and
somewhat inclined to fall back upon their old footing, where each
might study the countenance of the other, and puzzle out the hidden
meaning of many a shifting shadow, as it came up from the
innermost depths below, and floated away like a swift summer-cloud
over still waters, or drifted slowly over forehead, mouth, and
eyes, and never quite clearing off.
Arthur, perplexed and embarrassed, and Julia wondering at her
own changeableness, and feeling somewhat uneasy at Arthur's
grave, thoughtful manner, were glad to be listeners to the conversation
that followed, between the brother and sister.
“You must not question me further, dear Elizabeth,” said
he, kissing her forehead, and liberating her hand, as he finished
the history of the day. “You are now acquainted with all the
facts.”
The sister seemed to think otherwise, for she smiled sorrowfully,
and shook her head.
“All the facts I mean, which I am at liberty to communicate.
Julia has kept nothing back, I see; and now, all I desire of you,
my beloved sister, of you, dear Julia, and of you, Arthur, is, that
you will continue to believe in me.”
“I will! — we do! — we do!” answered they, all together.
“When you are troubled with misgivings, when your faith in
me begins to give way — no matter for what reason — all I ask
is, that you will come to me at once, and say so, and I will satisfy
you — if I can.”
“If you can, brother!”
“And what more could I promise? Whatever concerns myself
only, whatever I can do, or say, for your comfort and relief,
without betraying others, that you may depend upon.”
“And beyond that, we would not have you go, a single hair's
breadth,” said Mrs. Maynard, looking at Julia for confirmation.
“Certainly not,” said Julia.
“But then, we are all so fond of mystery,” continued her aunt,
with a significant smile. “It seems to run in our blood.”
“We have so much whispering and telegraphing, and always
have had, ever since I can remember,” said Arthur, with a faint
laugh, “that, really, I hardly know how to behave, where people
seem to mean just what they say, nor how to understand the
downright, straightforward plain-dealing of the very few I meet
with, who are only gifted with plain common sense, and appear
to be wholly unacquainted with management and mystery.”
Julia bit her lip.
“Some people seem to go through the world on tiptoe, like
listeners and eavesdroppers; and if they talk to you about the
weather, take you aside, and lower their voices to a whisper; and
grow confidential, and wary of all bystanders, if they happen to
like the fit of your gloves, and wish to know where they are
to be had. They are of those who `cannot take their tea without
a stratagem.'”
Julia drew her chair a little further off, and Uncle George and
Mrs. Maynard exchanged a smile, as Arthur continued, with a
flushed face, and eyes alarmingly bright, —
“In our family, from my earliest recollection, doors were always
opening of themselves; notes, mysteriously worded, were
flying about; strangers were coming and going, to no purpose;
and listeners were found lurking about the house, at all hours,
night and day.”
“Listeners, Arthur!”
“Yes, dear mother. I do not speak of the family now; neither
than of reading other people's letters; but surely, you have not
forgotten how much of this work was done by the servants, nor
how many we had to discharge. For my own part, I must acknowledge
that for two years before my father's death, I felt as
if we were under surveillance; that a system of espionage was
at work in our very midst, and that, in one way or another, all
our movements were known, and our most hidden purposes anticipated.
I appeal to you, Uncle George, and to you, dear
mother.”
“Some truth, I must acknowledge, in what you say, dear Arthur;
but you are so full of exaggeration and embellishment —
or of what you call poetry — that we must make large allowances,
— we must indeed.”
“When I am not perfectly serious, mother; but now I am
serious; but you do not answer me, Uncle George?”
Uncle George's countenance changed — a cloud passed over
it — and for a moment he was almost gloomy; and then his eyes
filled.
“There is indeed much truth in what you say, nephew; and
we have all suffered from the disposition you speak of; and no
person more than your father. Constitutional with him at first,
I dare say, and perhaps with your mother also, it became a
settled habit with you, before we saw the consequences. We
are strangely constituted. Mystery begets mystery; and a very
little derangement of the digestive organs, or the nerves, from a
neglected cold, or an overworked brain, may change our opinions,
unsettle our hopes, and so disturb the wholesome current of our
blood, that we may come to be afraid of ourselves, — and even
afraid to be left alone. You have always looked upon me as a
man of great firmness, great bodily strength, of sound health, and
a serene temper, and wholly beyond such influences, — but we
have all been mistaken. I have misunderstood my own character.
I have no such self-reliance, no such self-sustaining power,
as I have always had credit for; — to tell you the truth, I have
grown afraid of shadows, and what is more, of myself; so that I
am almost afraid to be left alone.”
Touched by the tender sadness of her uncle's voice, Julia drew
his knee, with her large melancholy eyes fixed upon his; while
Arthur sat where he could see every movement, and study the
changes of her wonderful countenance without being suspected.
The conversation was continued, hour after hour, at intervals;
but Arthur could not help observing, without a word in relation
to what was now uppermost in his mind. It seemed a little
strange that nothing should have been said of Mr. Bayard;
though perhaps that might be accounted for, by the unwillingness
of Uncle George to enter upon the mysterious past; — but why
was the name of Mr. Fay so carefully avoided? Not a question
had been asked, not a reference made to him, nor to his management
and behavior, from first to last. Was that subject reserved,
by common consent, for private consideration, when he should be
out of the way? Or was it only overlooked, or forgotten, for
awhile?
It might be unfounded suspicion; but he could not help thinking
that Julia was a little disappointed; and that now, while she
sat there, watching with such eagerness every shadow that passed
over the large rocky forehead of her uncle, without opening her
mouth, it was in the expectation, if not in the hope, of hearing
what Mr. Fay had been doing, after his interview with her, and
what her uncle thought of him. But if so — why not introduce
the subject? why not question her uncle? or at least, mention
the name of Mr. Fay?
Poor Arthur! Growing more and more uncomfortable, the
more he thought of all that had happened, he drew out his watch
at last, and, as he could not hope to steal away without being
missed, in the dead silence that followed, he went to the window,
and after looking out awhile, as if studying the sky, proposed to
take a stroll over the grounds, if his mother had no objection,
— breathe a little fresh air, and be back in season for dinner.
“By all means, dear Arthur, it will do you good; and Julia,
my love, just take your bonnet and shawl, and thick shoes, and
go with him. The grounds are not very extensive, to be sure,
but there is a plenty of well-trodden highway; and as we are
no longer obliged to dress for dinner, nor to sit up for company,
you will have time for a good long walk.”
Arthur was delighted; and when Julia jumped up, and ran off
to get her shawl, just as if nothing had ever happened to trouble
their pleasant intercourse, he began to take himself to task for
being so unreasonable; and when they were together once more,
and he felt her arm resting, as of old, upon his, with now and
then a slight trembling, as they hurried over the intermediate
enclosure, and entered upon the highway — though nothing was
said by either, for both were thinking of other days, and running
over the incidents of the last few months, and almost wondering
at themselves, that they should be found together once more in
such a pleasant relationship — Arthur began to feel somewhat
ashamed of himself; and was just on the point of saying as much,
when they were startled by the sound of a carriage that came
whirling round the corner, and drew up within a yard or two of
them.
“Why, bless me!” cried somebody within, — dropping the
glass, and looking out, — “if here isn't Miss Parry herself!
How do you do, my dear? Good morning, Mr. Maynard!
Sallie, my love, —”
And then, the door flew open, and Miss Wentworth leaned
out, with Sallie looking over her shoulder, and begged to know
if Mrs. Maynard was at home, and if that was the Maynard cottage,
— pointing, — and whether Miss Julia and Mr. Maynard
were to be gone long on their walk?
“Not long,” said Julia; wondering what business could have
brought Miss Wentworth so far, after what had happened.
“The Major is well, I hope?” continued Miss Wentworth.
“Very well, thank you, Madam,” said Arthur. “You will find
him with my mother.”
“Well, well; good morning. Won't detain you; only please
to remember, if you do not get back in season, that our visit is to
you, my dear,” — bowing to Julia, — “as well as to your aunt;
whom, by the way, we are all dead in love with, — arn't we,
Sallie?”
“Of course. Good morning! good morning!”
Here was another mystery! But then, there was nothing portentous
— nothing to be dreaded — if they might judge by the
pleasant voices, and very pleasant looks of these two women,
“Cousin Arthur,” said Julia, after a long, thoughtful pause,
“I am afraid we have wronged these people.”
“And so am I, Cousin Julia; and if you knew all that I know,
you would feel sorry — if not ashamed — as I do, for having
permitted myself to judge of their characters by the little that
transpired in that first morning's interview; frivolous they may
be, and rather troublesome, perhaps, but I do not believe them
heartless.”
“You forget, Arthur, how much we knew of them before.”
“How much, Julia! how little, you mean; for what knew you,
except of these outward peculiarities, or at second hand, of Miss
Wentworth's real character? Let me tell you that I have reason
to believe we are under the greatest obligations to her; I
cannot go into particulars, but when you hear them related by
Uncle George, I know you will agree with me.”
“More mystery, Arthur?”
“Yes, dear Julia, more mystery. But you saw her look of
kindness when she spoke of my mother, and of the Major — of
natural kindness, too — and `one touch of nature makes the whole
world kin,' you know.”
“Well, Arthur — I am in no hurry; I can bide my time —
only this, I cannot help saying; that, after what happened about
the house, when Uncle George threw up the bargain so handsomely,
and she left us holding her handkerchief to her eyes, and
followed by her man of the law, stepping so softly, and looking
so happy, as if they had out-generalled — or overreached, or outwitted
— our dear, good uncle; I took such a sudden and violent
dislike to that woman, that I am half afraid to trust myself with
her, notwithstanding what you say.”
“How unlike you, and how unworthy of you, dear Julia, are
these prejudices.”
“Thank you, Cousin Arthur; from the bottom of my heart I do
thank you; for now do I know that you are my friend.”
“Your friend, Julia, — have you ever doubted me?”
“Yes, — and with good reason, I think; but we have no time
now; and this, you will acknowledge, is not exactly the place for
“we shall have to walk fast; and it would be such a pity, if we
were to begin our new housekeeping arrangements behind time.”
Their walk was continued in silence, till they reached a pathway
leading to the rear of the cottage-grounds, where they
caught a glimpse of the carriage, as it rolled off toward the highway
they had just left.
“I wish I knew,” said Arthur, after a long season of thoughtfulness,
“what on earth I have said — or done — to make you
doubt my friendship, Cousin Julia.”
“Or omitted, Cousin Arthur?”
“Yes, Julia, — or omitted. You frighten me, though.”
“`The wicked flee when no man pursueth.'”
“Julia!”
“`The sound of a shaken leaf shall chase them!'”
“What do you mean, Julia? There is no playfulness in your
speech, though I see it in your eyes.”
“`A wounded spirit, who can bear?'”
“Not I, by my faith, Cousin Julia; and I insist on your explaining
yourself.”
“Be patient, Arthur; all in good time. There's my hand.”
Arthur took the hand, — “Bless you!” — and before he well
knew what he was doing, had lifted it to his lips.
Julia colored to the eyes; but just then, happening to look up,
she snatched it away, for the first time in all her life, though it
was no such uncommon offence; for she caught a view of her
aunt and uncle standing at the window, with the curtains pushed
a little aside.
But Arthur saw nothing of this; and when she snatched away
her hand so impatiently — coquettishly, he would have called it,
if another had done so, after all that had happened — he grew
very serious and very thoughtful.
“We are friends now, I hope?” said he, after a short pause.
“I hope so, too; and, if we have a good opportunity this evening,
I mean to put your friendship to the proof.”
They had now reached the back piazza, and were soon seated
round a comfortable, cheap, and well-appointed dinner; where
they learned, somewhat to the surprise of both, — notwithstanding
for their unreasonable and hasty dislike, — that Miss Wentworth
and her showy niece had come to acknowledge their acquaintance,
and not to spy out the nakedness of the land, to intermeddle,
by questioning or otherwise, nor to transact business
with Uncle George.
“After all,” said Aunt Elizabeth, who had never betrayed her
opinion before, “after all, Miss Wentworth appears to be a kind-hearted
gentlewoman; and though I do not feel acquainted with
her niece, I must say that their behavior has been exceedingly
proper and considerate.”
“Are you quite sure they know what has happened, aunt?”
said Julia.
“Quite sure, my love. There is no other way of explaining
their visit or behavior; and your uncle appears to have other
and better reasons for such a belief; so that I am really very
glad to have that uncomfortable prejudice removed.”
Julia looked at Arthur, and her lips moved, so that he almost
understood her. At any rate, he saw in the cheerful, sunny
light of her eyes, that she was thinking of the other reasons that
Arthur had, for believing the visit meant in kindness and sympathy,
and not in triumph, nor commiseration.
“We must learn to think better of human nature,” said Aunt
Elizabeth.
“Or rather, to think better of human beings, and worse of
human nature,” added Arthur, “and then you know, dearest
mother, the less we expect, the more we shall be pleased with
every symptom of goodness.”
“Sound philosophy, my boy,” added his uncle, with a slap on
the back. “The more we expect of poor human nature, the
more unreasonable we are, and the more cruelly disappointed at
last.”
What a pleasant evening that was, to be sure! “The world
forgetting, by the world forgot;” a frugal dinner, such as they
knew they might afford hereafter; a cheerful fire, a quiet house
and a peaceful neighborhood; no rattling of drays or carriages —
no screaming of newsboys — no beggars, and no thieves; no tiresome
parties to worry through — no fashionable music to hear —
come to their senses; and to be all together once more, and at
home, was happiness enough. To sit round the fire, literally
hand in hand, knowing the worst, and prepared for whatever
might happen, so long as they could look up to their Great
Father unabashed, and with a cheerful hope; to feel that, after
all they had gone through with, they were not forsaken; that
having withstood the temptations of the day, and triumphed worthily,
there was none to molest nor make them afraid, — how
could they be otherwise than happy?
“Would that poor Charles were here!” whispered Arthur, to
Julia.
Startled by the suddenness and apparent strangeness of the
remark, though nothing could have been more natural — for he,
poor fellow, was the only missing member of that happy household
— Julia turned anxiously to Arthur, and then to her Aunt
Elizabeth, as if expecting to hear some explanation of the remark;
but a sad smile, and a sorrowful shake of the head was the
only reply.
Still she was not satisfied, and the moment they were left alone
together, her uncle withdrawing, to throw himself upon a lounge
after a sleepless night, and her Aunt Elizabeth, to find strength
and help and consolation after the worry of the day, she turned
toward Arthur, and touching him on the arm, as he sat looking
into the fire, and lost in reverie, she asked what made him think
of poor Charles just then?
“I am not at liberty to tell you.”
“Another mystery, as I live!” said Julia; “but never mind,
I am not very inquisitive — and as I threatened to try your
friendship this evening, if I had a fair opportunity, I rather think
I may be able to offset a mystery of my own worth half a score of
yours, against all that appear to be gathering about our path, —
but upon the express condition, that you are to be satisfied with
what I may choose to communicate, and ask no questions; that
you are to be patient and hopeful, and not give me up, Arthur
Maynard, without good reasons, though you may not always be
able to see your way clearly.”
Julia tried to smile, but her lashes were wet, and her little
to be an accidental touch of Arthur's.
“Can you be satisfied to go with me just so far, and no further?
Can you believe in me, as Aunt Elizabeth believes
in her brother George? so that, if I withhold the explanations
you may desire, and refuse to be questioned, even where the
questions are well meant, and proper in themselves, and such as
you would have a right to ask, your faith in me will not be disturbed?
I may be compelled, Cousin Arthur, not only to appear
disobliging and unreasonable, but to be so; and before we take
another step in the business I have in hand, where I want your
help — as a brother — and must have it —”
“As a brother? Oh, certainly.”
“I desire to know if you think you would be able to trust me,
notwithstanding appearances, if I should refuse to answer the
most trivial questions, and what may be still harder to bear, considering
our intimacy and relationship, if I should refuse to give
a reason for not answering you? Take your time, Arthur —
consider the question well — and then say yes or no.”
Arthur sat still for five minutes, without speaking or moving;
but, as the shadow of his chief trouble drifted away, the working
of his fine features gave place to a beautiful expression of trust
and hopefulness, and turning toward Julia, he said, with a solemnity
and feeling worthy of a much older man, —
“Yes, Julia, I believe I may answer for myself. The conditions
are hard — unreasonable, I think; and I have been sorely
tried already by your silence, and by that of others very dear to
me, and I —” growing somewhat embarrassed, and speaking
hurriedly, — “nevertheless, and there's my pledge,” offering his
hand, which that same Julia, who had just flung away at an accidental
touch, now took between both of hers — “nevertheless, and
notwithstanding all I have suffered, and all I fear, I answer Yes.”
Another short and rather uncomfortable silence followed, neither
being inclined to speak first, until Arthur moved his chair
somewhat impatiently, as if wondering why the trial of his friendship,
which had been set down for that very evening, if a good
opportunity offered, and they could not well hope for a better,
did not come on.
At last Julia spoke, though not in her natural voice. There
was too much evident preparation, and something, he thought,
of backwardness or unwillingness, overcome by a sense of
duty.
“What think you of Mr. Fay?” said she.
Arthur caught his breath! A strange question, at best, but
propounded in such a voice, and so abruptly, as if it had long
been premeditated, and could be withheld no longer; it was absolutely
startling.
“What do I think of Mr. Fay, Julia?”
Julia nodded; and lifting her eyes to his, waited patiently
for the answer.
“Well then, if you must know, I will answer you in the fewest
possible words — I don't like Mr. Fay.”
“That is not the question, Arthur. I do not ask if you like
Mr. Fay, but what you think of him.”
Here was bold playing, to be sure, and Arthur was troubled
for a moment; and then, that Julia should have nothing to boast
of, nor to reproach him with hereafter, on the ground of dislike
or concealment, he determined to be generous — to be magnanimous
— to put a good face on the matter — trump the trick —
and then lead trumps.
“I should think you had been familiar with legal questioning,
Julia —”
“I have,” said she, interrupting him. “I have been sorely
questioned and sorely tried, in a court of justice, and again by
that Mr. Fay; and it was well for me that one of the first lessons
I ever learned of my dear father was how to answer a question.
Julia, he used to say, not one man in a hundred — not one woman
in ten thousand — ever answers a question.”
“And yet women and children make the best witnesses, they
say.”
“Yes — after they have learned how. My dear father had
two rules, and but two; and by these, we were always governed,
as I dare say you must have thought, when you found us all so
very unreasonable —”
“Or rather so very reasonable; for that was ever the fault of
your whole family. Upon the most trivial occasions, you were
exact and truthful.”
“Thank you, Cousin Arthur!”
“But you have not mentioned the two rules. What were
they?”
“The first was — Be sure that you understand the question
before you answer it; and the second was — Be sure that you
answer that very question, as you understand it, and no other;
confining yourself to that, and answering neither more nor less
than that very question may demand.”
“Very proper, I dare say, but very tiresome, you must acknowledge,
where people are not under oath.”
“But we are always under oath — are we not, Cousin Arthur?
If there be any difference between truth and falsehood — or if
we are always bound to speak the truth —”
“Perhaps; but in such a case what would become of poetry,
and romance — or the exaggerations of eloquence — or the pleasantries
of conversation — or the extravagances we all take so
much pleasure in? Well might we go about the world asking
what is truth —”
“I cannot argue with you, Cousin Arthur; but I have something
here that obliges me to speak the truth, or to be silent;
something which forbids the very extravagance and exaggeration
of which you speak —”
“What would become of us, dear Julia, if we were all of your
opinion? where would be our story-books — our magazine papers
— our fables — nay, the very parables of our Saviour?”
Julia grew serious, but he continued, warming more and more
with the subject.
“What of the grandest burst of Hebrew poetry? What is
our imagination — our sense of the beautiful — our passionate
longing for the vague and vast — for the unmanageable and
the uplifting — for eloquence, and poetry, and song; what are
all these appetites and yearnings given us for?”
“Very well, Cousin Arthur, I believe I must give way. You
are so much of a poet yourself, that if I said more about the
sacredness of unadulterated truth, I might appear to be growing
personal; but you have not answered my question.”
“Well, then, as I think I understand it, according to your first
rule, I propose to answer it according to the second, without
going aside a single hair's breadth from the obvious meaning of
the language employed. I think Mr. Fay one of the most
adroit and plausible men I ever met with, and a very clever
lawyer.”
“Indeed!”
“And neither more nor less! — there! — have I not fulfilled
the conditions?”
Julia could not help laughing.
“And now for my turn, Julia. How do you like Mr. Fay?”
Poor Julia was evidently taken by surprise; but she answered
without mincing the matter, and at once.
“I don't like him at all.”
“And why not, pray?”
“I am too much afraid of him.”
“Bravo, Julia! and to tell you the truth, so am I.”
“Well, then, as we appear to be agreed upon that particular
question, which, between ourselves, Cousin Arthur, had begun to
grow embarrassing, after what you saw to-day, with your own
eyes — I hope he told you how it happened, on the way in” —
Arthur colored to the temples, and Julia herself was agitated,
though she tried to carry it off with a pleasant smile; “and as
we are not likely to be misunderstood hereafter, upon that particular
question — we will go to another, before Aunt Elizabeth
returns. Read this note, which I have long wanted to show
you.”
“Merciful Father! — why! it is the handwriting of poor
Charles!”
“Read it aloud, if you please, and then we must have a consultation;
for the matter may be growing serious — too serious
for delay; and I have nobody to consult with, but you.”
“Where is Uncle George? — Where is my dear mother,
pray?”
“Read for yourself, and you will see, Cousin Arthur, how
needful it is that they, of all persons alive, should know nothing
of the affair at present.”
The note was brief and hurried, but earnest; and the following
afterward, with especial emphasis.
“You must see the poor child yourself, Julia — and you must
learn to love her for my sake. If I am ever anything more than
a hopeless reprobate, or a genteel vagabond — it will be owing
to the influence of that child. She saved me once — but well
nigh drove me to distraction, at last, when I had the means of
living where I wanted to live, afar and apart from all my old
associations, by refusing point blank to share my fate, unless I
would first prove my strength, by giving up all my `questionable
habits' for a twelvemonth. Knowing what she was capable of,
and astonished that one so young, and so loving, should undertake
to manage me, as if I myself were a child — I left her —
and I have never seen her since. But, Julia, dear Julia! I
must see her again, and will, if I live; and if I should ever become
worthy of her, she shall yet be the wife of your brother.
“Mrs. Archibald is a very superior woman, truly religious,
and truly conscientious, and for months I attributed poor Edith's
unchangeable steadfastness to her influence; but I find I was
mistaken. The mother would have been willing to trust the happiness
of her only child to a comparative stranger, of `questionable
habits,' it must be acknowledged — for better for worse —
but the child, I do believe in my heart, dear Julia, that innocent
child loved me too much to throw away the only chance left for
my reformation. God bless her for it! And God will bless her,
I know, and it may be in the very way you so much desire.
Pray for me, therefore! — pray for me, my dear sister, — and
who knows but He may answer, and your brother be saved —”
Here Arthur stopped for a moment, and wiped a blur from
the paper, and then looked at the date, and then shook his
head.
“All very encouraging, as you see,” said Julia, with a faint
smile, “though not perhaps just what we should have desired, a
downwright miracle, in the shape of an immediate answer to the
prayer we heard in Fulton Street.”
“Other prayers had gone up, week after week, and month
after month,” said Arthur, “and while this very letter was on the
the answer now about to be vouchsafed. Stranger things have
happened, Julia —”
Her eyes filled; but she answered only with a sad, patient
smile, and a sign for him to go on. He continued, —
“The mother will hand you this, and allow you to see my letters
to her child. I have no concealment from you, my beloved
sister; but Uncle George must know nothing of this, nor even
Aunt Elizabeth, if she should happen to be with you. Arthur
you may trust altogether. He is a noble-hearted, generous fellow
—.” Arthur stopped short.
“Read on, Arthur, it will do you no harm. I might have
stopped you before, I might have doubled down the page, or I
might have read the letter myself, had I not wished you to understand
my brother's whole heart, and to see how willing he is
to trust you, altogether, in this very delicate business —”
“No, no, Julia,” said Arthur, in reply, “I love your brother
too much, and I know him too well, to make it a very safe or
pleasant thing for me to read his thoughts of me while afar off,
like testimony from another world —”
“Give me the letter then — stay! where were you? O, I
see!” And then she read as follows: —
“Arthur you may trust altogether. He is a noble-hearted,
generous fellow. Nobody appears to understand him — not even
your mother. He counterfeits a thousand extravagances; he
pretends to opinions, which he never seriously entertained in all
his life, and sometimes argues for them, as for matters of life and
death —”
Here she glanced at Arthur somewhat archly, as if about to
propound a question or two, upon this very point; whereupon he
fidgeted in his chair, and fell a-drumming upon the back of
another.
“But,” she continued, still reading from the letter, “if I should
say as much to him, I dare say he would quarrel with me on
the spot —”
Here Arthur changed the tune, and gave another twist in the
chair.
“For I verily believe, dear Julia, that he does not know this,
may be called a delusion, having breathed from his early boyhood
the atmosphere of controversy —”
“A pretty fellow,” said Arthur, “to be lecturing me upon my
fondness for controversy! He who never opens his mouth, but
for disputation —”
“All very true, Cousin Arthur, but hear what follows.”
“In other words, he is too much like me. But I begin to grow
weary of such things. I have no longer any desire of astonishing.
I do not so much care to be thought wiser, as to be in fact
better than people suppose. But enough; you may trust Arthur
as you would me. He loves you — like a brother.”
“Like a brother — yes — to be sure I do;” and the tune
stopped, and Arthur sat facing Julia once more, with a strange
look — a look almost of triumph, which haunted her, sleeping or
waking, for many a month afterward.
“And you have said nothing to mother of all this?”
“Not a word.”
“Nor to Uncle George?”
“Not a syllable.”
“But how did you manage with her, that evening, when Mrs.
Archibald came to see you, and you were with her so long in
your chamber?”
“Manage, Arthur! I told her the simple truth; I said the mystery
— for mystery is the very word, you know; nothing else
will serve our turn — we live and breathe now in what may be
called an atmosphere of mystery, as we are all ready enough to
acknowledge, just as you and Charles live in an atmosphere of
controversy; in short, I said to your dear mother, in so many
words, that the mystery was committed to me in confidence, and
that, until it should be cleared up, there was only one person
alive, yourself, Arthur, whom it would be possible for me to
communicate with.”
“And what said she to this?”
“Well, if you insist on hearing —”
“I do.”
“She said you were only a boy —”
“Only a boy!”
“Yes, Arthur, only a boy; but a boy with the heart of a
strong man — a boy to be trusted in matters of life and death,
however, and who only wanted one thing, to be a Christian
hero —”
“And what was that one thing, Julia — did she say?”
“The temper and experience of a Christian.”
“Julia!”
“Well!”
“Perhaps, in that particular, she was right; and from my innermost
soul, I do wish I had the temper and experience of a
Christian!”
“Ask, and you shall receive, Arthur; such are the very words
of encouragement, you know.”
“So I hear, and so I try to believe.”
“Knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”
“I have knocked, Julia, but no answer has been vouchsafed.”
“Seek, and ye shall find.”
“I do seek — I will seek; but, oh, with how little encouragement!
with how little of hope!”
“We have not, because we ask not, dear Arthur.”
“One word, Julia, — there are some things that I do not understand
in the teachings of our Saviour.”
“Of course, how could it be otherwise? The teachings of the
Saviour, being for all time, are adapted to human progress, and
enough being plainly taught for the guidance of the simple-hearted,
and the wise-hearted and the willing-hearted — so that
he who runs may read — and the wayfaring man, though a fool,
need not err therein; what need we more?”
“We are to pray with the understanding, as well as with the
spirit, Julia; — we are to love God with all our mind and with
all our strength, as well as with all our hearts; and therefore
—”
“Excuse me, Arthur, I make it a rule never to argue these
questions with anybody, and least of all with you, or my poor
brother. I am no match for you in argument; and though I
have great confidence in my convictions, I am never able to express
them, as you do yours, clearly and logically —”
“I believe you are right, Cousin Julia. I question whether
says, the tree of knowledge has never, from the first, been the
tree of life. It is not so much the learned, as the unlearned, who
believe with all their hearts. We like to be wise above what is
written, — and so we are shipwrecked, or entrapped, or overwhelmed
and lost, before we see our danger.”
“My good cousin! what shall I say to you? I would counsel
you to go to your heavenly Father; but you have already
done so — to throw yourself into the arms of your Saviour — but
you do not see the way clearly, or you would have done so long
before this, — I dare not advise you; but, perhaps, if you would
talk freely with your dear, excellent mother, and with Uncle
George, they might help you to find the way —”
“The way, Julia! It is the teaching of our Saviour about
the way that so troubles me. Straight is the way, and narrow
is the path, and few there be that walk therein, — or something
of the sort, he says, — I cannot remember the very words just
now, but you will understand me.”
“I do understand you, Arthur.”
“On a certain occasion, too — and this, I acknowledge, Julia,
and I never said as much to any other human being — this
thrills me with horror, — he is asked if there be many that shall
be saved. Instead of answering that question, so awful in its
dread significance, and so proper, we should think, he tells us
that many are called, and few chosen, — that the great highway
to death is an over-crowded thoroughfare, while the way of life
is but a narrow path, and few there be that walk therein; and
if so — my heart stops beating, and my blood runs cold, when
I think of what is foreshadowed thereby to countless generations
of God's creatures; the burden is too heavy — I cannot bear it,
nor can I throw it off.”
“So much the better, I dare say,” said Julia. “It may be
that he would set us thinking, before it is too late, as where he
seeks to alarm the rich —”
“Who is sufficient for these things, dear children?” said Aunt
Elizabeth, who had entered by a distant door, without being
heard. “When we are troubled with a great mystery, and mysteries
there must be, so long as we are not like God himself, let
thee? Follow thou me!'”
A long silence followed, which was broken at last by Arthur,
exclaiming, as he drew a long breath, “What a day we have had,
mother! how full of incident, and how endless! Upon my word,
it seems like a month.”
“Beware, my child! Habitual exaggeration is very like habitual
extravagance. We find ourselves impoverished at last, like
the poor prodigal, and may be obliged to feed on husks.”
“Let us arise and go to our Father!” said Uncle George,
pushing the Bible toward Aunt Elizabeth, who opened at Samuel,
where it is related of the lad that he mistook the voice of
God for the voice of Eli.
Arthur grew more and more thoughtful. Leaning his forehead
upon his hand, the silence continued, till the voice of Uncle
George was heard in prayer.
And then, as they all rose to interchange the kiss of peace, he
added, — “How very beautiful, dear mother! The child goes
to his Father and says, Speak, Lord! for thy servant heareth!
But after a time, when he is better acquainted with himself, and
with his own wants, the man says, Hear, Lord! for thy servant
speaketh!”
Having satisfied themselves by a look, that Arthur was laying
all these things to heart, and would be likely to ponder them, if
left to himself, they withdrew; and he continued the reverie till
he dropped asleep in his chair.
| CHAPTER XII. True womanhood | |