 | CHAPTER XXVII.
THE MYSTERY SOLVED. What can she do? |  |
27. CHAPTER XXVII.
THE MYSTERY SOLVED.
EDITH again resumed her watching in her
mother's room. The invalid was still dwelling
on the past, and her delirium appeared to Edith
a true emblem of her old, unreal life. Indeed, it
seemed to her that she had never lived before. A
quiet, but divine exaltation, filled her soul. She
did not care to read any more, but just sat still and
thought, and her spiritual light grew clearer and
clearer.
Her faith was very simple, her knowledge very
slight. She was scarcely in advance of a Hebrew
maiden who might have been one of the mournful
procession passing out of the gates of Nain, when a
stranger, unknown before, revealed himself by turning
death into life, sorrow into joy. The eye of her
faith was fastened on the distinct, living, loving personality
of our human yet Divine Friend, who no
longer seemed afar off, but as near as to that other
burdened one “who touched the hem of his garment.”
“He does not change, the Bible says,” she
thought. “He cannot change. Therefore He will
help me, just as surely as he did the poor, suffering
people among whom he lived.”
It was but three o'clock, and yet the eastern sky
was pale with dawn. At length her attention was
gained by a faint but oft-repeated sound. It seemed
to come from the direction of the garden, and at
once the mystery that so oppressed poor Hannibal
occurred to her. She rose, and passed back to her
own room, which overlooked the garden, and,
through the lattice, in the faint morning twilight,
saw a tall, dusky figure, that looked much too substantial
to be any such shadowy being as the old
negro surmised, and the strokes of his hoe were too
vigorous and noisy for ghostly gardening.
“It must be Arden Lacey,” thought Edith, “but
I will put this matter beyond all doubt. I don't
like this night work, either; though for different
reasons than those of poor Hannibal. We have suffered
enough from scandal already, and, henceforth,
all connected with my life shall be as open as the
day. Then, if the world believes evil of me, it will
be because it likes it best.”
These thoughts passed through her mind while
she hastily threw off her wrapper and dressed.
Cautiously opening the back-door, she looked again.
The nearer view and clearer light revealed to her
Arden Lacey. She did not fear him, and at once
determined to question him as to the motive of his
action. He was but a little way off, and was tying
up a grape-vine that had been neglected, his back
being toward her. Edith had great physical courage
and firmness naturally, and it seemed that on this
morning she could fear nothing, in the strength of
her new-born enthusiasm.
With noiseless step she reached his side, and
asked, almost sternly,
“Who are you, sir; and what does this action
mean?”
Arden started violently, trembled like the leaves
in the morning wind, and turned slowly toward her,
feeling more guilty and alarmed than if he had been
playing the part of a burglar, than her good genius.
“Why don't you answer?” she asked, in still
more decided tones. “By what right are you doing
this work?”
Edith had lost faith in men. She knew little of
Arden, and the thought flashed through her mind,
“This may be some new plot against us.” Therefore
her manner was stern and almost threatening.
Poor Arden was startled out of all self-control.
Edith's coming was so sudden and unexpected, and
her pale face was so spirit-like, that for a moment
he scarcely knew whether the constant object of
his thoughts was really before him, or whether his
strong imagination was only mocking him.
Edith mistook his agitation and hesitancy as evidences
of guilt, and he so far recovered himself as
to recognize her suspicions.
“I will be answered. You shall speak the truth,”
she said, imperiously. “By what right are you
doing this work?”
Then his own proud, passionate spirit flamed up,
and looking her unblenchingly in the face, he replied:
“The right of my great love for you. Can I not
serve my idol?”
An expression of deep pain and repulsion came
out upon Edith's face, and he saw it. The avowal
of his love was so abrupt—indeed it was almost
stern and, coming thus from quite a stranger, who
had so little place even in her thoughts, it was exceedingly
painful, that it was like a blow. She had
been dwelling upon the serene heights of a Divine
love, and the most delicate declaration of a human
and earthly love at that time would have jarred
rudely upon her sensitive spirit. And yet she
hardly knew how to answer him, for she saw in his
open, manly face, his respectful manner, that he
meant no evil, however he might err through ignorance
or feeling.
He seemed to wait for her to speak again, and
his face, from being like the eastern sky, became
very pale. From recent experience, and the teachings
of the Patient One, Edith's heart was very
tender toward anything that looked like suffering,
and though she deemed Arden's feeling but the
infatuation of a rude and ill-regulated mind, she
could not be harsh, now that all suspicion of evil designs
was banished. Therefore she said quietly,
and almost kindly,
“You have done wrong, Mr. Lacey. Remember
I have no father or brother to protect me. The
world is too ready to take up evil reports, and your
strange action might be misunderstood. All transactions
with me must be like the sunlight.”
With an expression of almost anguish, Arden
bowed his head before her, and groaned,
“Forgive me; I did not think.”
“I am sure you meant no harm,” said Edith, with
real kindness now in her tone. “You would not
knowingly make the way harder for a poor girl that
has too much already to struggle against. And
now, good-bye. I shall trust to your sense of honor,
assured that you will treat me as you would wish
your own sister dealt with;” and she vanished,
leaving Arden so overwhelmed with contending
emotions that he could scarcely make his way home.
An hour later Edith heard Hannibal's step down
stairs, and she at once joined him. The old man
had aged in a night, and his face had a more worn
and hopeless look than had yet rested upon it. He
trembled at the rustle of her dress, and called,
“Miss Edie, am dat you?”
“Yes, you foolish old fellow. I have seen your
spook, and ordered it not to come here again unless
I send you for it.”
“Oh, Miss Edie!” gasped Hannibal.
“It's Arden Lacey.”
Hannibal collapsed. He seemed to drop out of
the realm of the supernatural to the solid ground of
fact with a heavy thump.
He dropped into a chair, regarding her first with
a blank, vacant face, which gradually became illumined
with a knowing grin. In a low, chuckling
voice, he said,
“I jes declar to you I'se struck all of a heap. I
jes done see whar de possum is dis minute. What
an ole black fool I was, sure 'nuff. I tho't he'se
her how Arden had served her in her illness.
She was divided between amusement and annoyance,
the latter predominating. Hannibal concluded
impressively:
“Miss Edie, it must be lub. Nothin else dan dat
which so limbered up my ole jints, could get any
livin man ober as much ground as he hoed dat
night.”
“Hush, Hannibal,” said Edith, with dignity;
“and remember that this is a secret between ourselves.
Moreover, I wish you never to ask Mr.
Lacey to do anything for us if it can possibly be
helped, and never without my knowledge.”
“You know's well, Miss Edie, dat you'se
only to speak and it's done,” said Hannibal, deprecatingly.
She gave him such a gentle, grateful look that the
old man was almost ready to get down on his knees
before her. Putting her hand on his shoulder, she
said,
“What a good, faithful, old friend you are. You
don't know how much I love you, Hannibal;” and
she returned to her mother.
Hannibal rolled up his eyes and clasped his hands,
as if before his patron saint, saying, under his
breath,
“De idee of her lubing ole black Hannibal. I
could die dis blessed minute,” which was his way
of saying, “Nunc dimittas.
Laura slept quietly till late in the afternoon, and
was almost childlike. She had lost all confidence
in herself, and seemed to wish to be controlled by
Edith in all things, as a little child might be. But
she was very feeble.
As the morning advanced Edith grew exceedingly
weary. Reaction from her strong excitement
seemed to bear her down in a weakness and lethargy
that she could not resist, and by ten o'clock she felt
that she must have some relief. It came from an
unexpected source, for Hannibal appeared with a
face of portentous solemnity, saying that Mrs. Lacey
was down stairs, and that she wished to know if she
could do something to help.
The mother's quick eye saw that something had
deeply moved and was troubling her son. Indeed,
for some time past, she had seen that into his unreal
world had come a reality that was a source both
of pain and pleasure, of fear and hope. While she
followed him every hour of the day with an unutterable
sympathy, she silently left him to open his
heart to her in his own time and manner. But her
tender, wistful manner told Arden that he was
understood, and he preferred this tacit sympathy to
any spoken words. But this morning the evidence
of his mental distress was so apparent that she went
to him, placed her hands upon his shoulders, and with
her grave, earnest eyes looking straight into his,
asked:
“Arden, what can I do for you?”
“Mother,” he said, in a low tone, “there is sickness
go to them again?”
“Yes, my son,” she replied, simply, “as soon as
I can get ready.”
So she arranged matters to stay if needed, and
thus in Edith's extremity she appeared. In view of
Arden's words, Edith hardly knew how to receive
her or what to do. But when she saw the plain,
grave woman sitting before her in the simple dignity
of patient sorrow, her course seemed clear. She instinctively
felt that she could trust this offered
friendliness, and that she needed it.
“I have heard that your mother has been sick as
well as yourself,” she said kindly but quietly. “You
look very worn and weary, Miss Allen; and if I, as
a neighbor, can watch in your place for awhile, I
think you can trust me to do so.”
Tears sprang into Edith's eyes, and she said, with
sudden color coming into her pale face, “You take
noble revenge for the treatment you have received
from us, and I gratefully submit to it. I must confess
I have reached the limit of my endurance; my
sister is ill also, and yet mother needs constant
attention.”
“Then I am very glad I came, and I have left
things at home so I can stay,” and she laid aside
her wraps with the air of one who sees a duty
plainly and intends to perform it. Edith gave her
the doctor's instructions a little incoherently in her
utter exhaustion, but the experienced matron understood
all, and said,
“I think I know just what to do. Sleep till you
are well rested.”
Edith went to her room, and, with her face where
the sweet June air could breathe directly upon it
through the open window, sleep came with a welcome
and refreshing balm that she had never known
before. Her last thought was, “He will take care
of me and mine.”
She had left the door leading into the sick-room
open, and once Mrs. Lacey stepped in and looked
at her. The happy, trustful thought with which
she had closed her eyes left a faint smile upon her
face, and gave it a sweet spiritual beauty.
“She seems very different from what I supposed
her,” murmured Mrs. Lacey. “She is very different
from what people are imagining her. Perhaps
Arden, poor boy, is nearer right than all of us. Oh,
I hope she is good, whether he ever marries her or
not, for this love will be the saving or running of
him.”
When Edith awoke it was dark, and she started
up in dismay, for she meant to sleep but an hour or
two. Having hastily smoothed her hair, she went
to the sick room, and found Laura reclining on the
sofa, and talking in the most friendly manner to
Mrs. Lacey. Her mother's delirium continued,
though it was more quiet, with snatches of sleep
intervening, but she noticed no one as yet. Mrs.
Lacey sat calmly in her chair, her sad, patient face
making the very ideal of a watcher, and yet in spite
of her plain exterior there was a refinement, an air
observer. As soon as Laura saw Edith she rose as
quickly as her feebleness permitted, and threw her
arms around her sister, and there was an embrace
whose warmth and meaning none but themselves,
and the pitying eye of Him who saved, could understand.
Then Edith turned and said, earnestly,
“Truly, Mrs. Lacey, I did not intend to trespass
on your kindness in this manner. I hope you will
forgive me.”
“Nature knew what was best for you, Miss Allen,
and you have not incommoded me at all. I made
my plans to stay till nine o'clock, and then Arden
will come for me.”
“Miss Edie,” said Hannibal, in his loud whisper,
“I'se got some supper for you down here.”
Why did Edith go to her room and make a little
better toilet before going down? She hardly thought
herself. It was probably a feminine instinct. As
she took her last sip of tea there was a timid
knock at the door. “I will see him a moment,”
she decided.
Hannibal, with a gravity that made poor Edith
smile in her thoughts, admitted Arden Lacey. He
was diffident but not awkward, and the color deepened
in his face, then left it very pale, as he saw
Edith was present. Her pale cheek also took the
faintest tinge of pink, but she rose quietly, and
said,
“Please be seated, Mr. Lacey. I will tell your
mother you are here.” Then, as Hannibal disappeared,
your mother's kindness, and—yours also. At the
same time, too deep a sense of obligation is painful;
you must not do so much for us. Please do not
misunderstand me.”
Arden had something of his mother's quiet
dignity, as he rose and held out to Edith a letter,
saying,
“Will you please read that—you need not answer
it—and then perhaps you will understand me
better.”
Edith hesitated, and was reluctant.
“I may be doing wrong,” continued he, earnestly
and with rising color. “I am not versed in the
world's ways; but is it not my right to explain the
rash words I uttered this morning? My good name
is dear to me also. Few care for it, but I would
not have it utterly blurred in your eyes. We may
be strangers after you have read it, if you choose,
but I entreat you to read it.”
“You will not feel hurt if I afterwards return it
to you?” asked Edith, timidly.
“You may do with it what you please.”
She then took the letter, and a moment later Mrs.
Lacey appeared, and said,
“I will sit up to-morrow night, with your permission.”
Edith took her hand, and replied, “Mrs. Lacey,
you burden me with kindness.”
“It is not my wish to burden, but to relieve you,
Miss Allen. I think I can safely say, from our
trouble at a neighbor's, you would not spare yourself.
We cease to be human when we leave the too-heavily
burdened to struggle alone.”
Edith's eyes grew moist, and she said, simply, “I
cannot refuse kindness offered in that spirit, and
may God bless you for it. Good night.”
Arden's only parting was a grave, silent bow.
Edith was soon alone again, watching by her
mother. With some natural curiosity, she opened
the letter that was written by one so different from
any man that she had ever known before. Its
opening was reassuring, at least.
“Miss Edith Allen: You need not fear that I
shall offend again by either writing or speaking
such rash words as those which so deeply pained
you this morning. They would not have been
spoken then, perhaps never, had I not been startled
out of my self-control—had I not seen that you
suspected me of evil. I was very unwise, and I sincerely
ask your pardon. But I meant no wrong,
and as you referred to my sister, I can say, before
God, that I would shield you as I would shield
her.
“I know little of the conventionalities of the
world. I live but a hermit's life in it, and my letter
may seem to you very foolish and romantic, still I
know that my motives are not ignoble, and I venture
with this consciousness.
“Reverencing and honoring you as I do, I cannot
bear that you should think too meanly of me. The
but I have almost ceased to care for its opinion. I
have received from it nothing but coldness and
scorn, and I pay my debt in like coin. But perhaps
you can imagine why I cannot endure that you
should regard me in like manner. I would not have
you think my nature a stony, sterile place, when
something tells me that it is like a garden that only
needs sunlight of some kind. My life has been
blighted by the wrong of another, who should have
been my best helper. The knowledge and university
culture for which I thirsted was denied me. And
yet, believe me, only my mother's need—only the
absolute necessity that she and my sister should
have a daily protector, kept me from pushing out
into the world, and trying to work my way unaided
to better things. Sacred duty has chained me down
to a life that was outwardly most sordid and unhappy.
My best solace has been my mother's love.
But from varied, somewhat extensive, though perhaps
not the wisest kind of reading, I came to dwell
in a brave, beautiful, but shadowy world, that I
created out of books. I was becoming satisfied with
it, not knowing any other. The real world mocked
and hurt me on every side. It is so harsh and unjust
that I hate it. I hate it infinitely more as I see
its disposition to wound you, who have been so
noble and heroic. In this dream of the past—in
this unreal world of my own fancy, I was living
when you came that rainy night. As I learned to
know you somewhat, you seemed a beautiful revelation
woman in existence. My shadows vanished before
you. With you living in the present, my dreams of
the past ceased. I could not prevent your image
from entering my lonely, empty heart, and taking
its vacant throne, as if by divine right. How could
I? How can I drive you forth now, when my whole
being is enslaved?
“But forgive me. Though thought and feeling
are beyond control, outward action is not. I hope
never to lose a mastering grasp on the rein of deeds
and words; and though I cannot understand how
the feeling I have frankly avowed can ever change,
I will try never, by look or sign, to pain you with it
again.
“And yet, with a diffidence and fear equaled
only by my sincerity and earnestness, I would venture
to ask one great favor. You said this morning
that you already had too much to struggle against.
The future has its possibilities of further trouble
and danger. Will you not let me be your humble,
faithful friend, serving you loyally, devotedly, yet
unobtrusively, and with all the delicate regard for
your position which I am capable of showing, assured
that I will gratefully accept any hints when I
am wrong or presumptuous. I would gladly serve
you with your knowledge and consent. But serve
you I must. I vowed it the night I lifted your unconscious
form from the wharf, and gave you into
Mrs. Groody's care. There need be no reply. You
have only to treat me not as an utter stranger when
of doing something for you when opportunity offers.
Edith's eyes filled with tears before she finished
this most unexpected epistle. Though rather
quaint and stately in its diction, the passion of a
true, strong nature so permeated it all, that the
coldest and shallowest would have been moved.
And yet a half-smile played upon her face at the
same time, like sunlight on drops of rain.
“Thank heaven,” she said, “I know of one more
true man in the world, if he is a strange one. How
different he is from what I thought! I don't
believe there's another in this place who could
have written such a letter. What would a New
York society man, whose compliments are as extravagant
as meaningless, think of it? Truly he
don't know the world, and isn't like it. I supposed
him an awkward, eccentric young countryman,
that, from his very verdancy, would be difficult
to manage, and he writes to me like a knight of olden
time, only such language seems Quixotic in our
day. The foolish fellow, to idealize poor, despised,
faulty Edith Allen into one of the grand heroines
of his interminable romances, and that after seeing
me hoe my garden like a Dutch woman. If I
wasn't so sad and he so earnest, I could laugh till
my sides ached. There never was a more matter-of-fact
creature than I am, and yet here am I enveloped
in a halo of impossible virtues and graces. If
Well, well, I must treat him somewhat like a boy,
for such he really is, ignorant of himself and all the
world. When he comes to know me better, the
Edith of his imagination will vanish like his other
shadows, and he will have another revelation that I
am an ordinary, flesh-and-blood girl.”
With deepening color she continued: “So it was
he who lifted me up that night. Well, I am glad
it was one who pitied me, and not some coarse,
unfeeling man. It seems strange how circumstances
have brought him who shuns and is
shunned by all, into such a queer relationship to me.
But heaven forbid that I should give him lessons as
to the selfish, matter-of-fact world. He will out-grow
his morbidness and romantic chivalry with the
certainty of years, and seeing more of me will banish
his absurd delusions in regard to me. I need his
friendship and help—indeed it seems as if it were
sent to me. It can do him no harm, and it may
give me a chance to do him good. If any man ever
needed a sensible friend, he does.”
Therefore Edith wrote him:
“It is very kind of you to offer friendship and
help to one situated like myself, and I gratefully
grant what you rather oddly call `a favor.' At the
same time, if you ever find such friendliness a pain
or trouble to you in any way, I shall in no sense
blame you for withdrawing it.”
The “friendship” and “friendliness” were under-scored,
only relation.
“There,” she said, “all his chains will now be of
his own forging, and I shall soon demolish the paragon
he is dreaming over.”
She laid both letters aside, and took down her
Bible with a little sigh of satisfaction.
“His lonely, empty heart,” she murmured; “ah,
that is the trouble with all. He thinks to fill his
with a vain dream of me, and others with as vain a
dream of something else. I trust I have learned of
One here who can fill and satisfy mine;” and soon
she was again deep in the wondrous story, so old,
so new, so all-absorbing to those from whose spiritual
eyes the scales of doubt and indifference have
fallen. As she read she saw, not truths about
Jesus, but Him, and at His feet her heart bowed in
stronger faith and deeper love every moment.
She had not even thought whether she was a
Christian or not. She had not even once put her
finger on her spiritual pulse, to guage the evidences
of her faith. A system of theology would have
been unintelligible to her. She could not have defined
one doctrine so as to have satisfied a sound
divine. She had not even read the greater part of
the Bible, but, in her bitter extremity, the Spirit of
God, employing the inspired guide, had brought
her to Jesus, as the troubled and sinful were
brought to Him of old. He had given her rest. He
had helped her save her sister, and with childlike
confidence she was just looking, lovingly and trustingly,
all her fear and pain. She seemed to feel sure that
her mother would get well, that Laura would grow
stronger, that they would all learn to know Him,
and would be taken care of.
As she read this evening she came to that passage
of exquisite pathos, where the purest, holiest, manhood
said to “a woman of the city, which was a
sinner,”
“Thy sins are forgiven. Go in peace.”
Instantly her thoughts reverted to Zell, and she
was deeply moved. Could she be forgiven? Could
she be saved? Was the God of the Bible, stern,
afar off, as she had once imagined, more tender toward
the erring than even their own human kindred?
Could it be possible that, while she had been condemning,
and almost hating Zell, Jesus had been
loving her?
The feeling overpowered her. Closing the book,
she leaned her head upon it, and, for the first time,
sobbed and mourned for Zell, with a great, yearning
pity.
Every such pitiful tear, the world over, is a prayer
to God. They mingle with those that flowed from
His eyes, as He wept over the doomed city that
would not receive Him. They mingle with that
crimson tide which flowed from His hands and feet
when He prayed,
“Father, forgive them, they know not what they
do.”
| CHAPTER XXVII.
THE MYSTERY SOLVED. What can she do? | |