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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8580dfa --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #63526 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/63526) diff --git a/old/63526-0.txt b/old/63526-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index e7340c2..0000000 --- a/old/63526-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11391 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Woman of Yesterday, by Caroline Atwater -Mason - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: A Woman of Yesterday - - -Author: Caroline Atwater Mason - - - -Release Date: October 22, 2020 [eBook #63526] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WOMAN OF YESTERDAY*** - - -E-text prepared by Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading -Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by -Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/womanofyesterday00masoiala - - -Transcriber’s note: - - Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). - - - - - -A WOMAN OF YESTERDAY - -by - -CAROLINE A. MASON - -Author of “A Minister of the World,” “The Minister of Carthage,” “A Wind -Flower,” etc. - - - “_There are, it may be, so many kinds of voices in the world, and none - of them is without signification._” - - - - - - -New York -Doubleday, Page & Co. -1900 - -Copyright, 1900, by -Doubleday, Page & Company - -Norwood Press -J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith -Norwood Mass. U.S.A. - - - - - Our share of night to bear, - Our share of morning, - Our blank in bliss to fill, - Our blank in scorning. - - Here a star, and there a star, - Some lose their way. - Here a mist, and there a mist, - Afterwards—day! - - EMILY DICKINSON. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - Contents - - - Page - BOOK I. MORNING 1 - - BOOK II. AFTERNOON 131 - - BOOK III. NIGHT 219 - - - - - BOOK I - MORNING - - - - - CHAPTER I - - I rise and raise my claspèd hands to Thee! - Henceforth, the darkness hath no part in me, - Thy sacrifice this day,— - Abiding firm, and with a freeman’s might - Stemming the waves of passion in the fight. - —JOHN HENRY NEWMAN. - - -Where the Monk River makes its way through the mountain wall in one of -the northern counties of Vermont, lies the small, white village of -Haran. Although isolated and remote from the world, unknown and -unconsidered beyond certain narrow limits, this village possessed, forty -years ago, a local importance as being the county town, the seat also of -a Young Ladies’ Seminary of some reputation, and an Orthodox church -which boasted a line of ministers of exalted piety and scholarly -attainment. - -The incumbent in the year 1869 was the Rev. Samuel Mallison. His -pastorate had now extended over twenty years, and he was reverenced far -beyond the bounds of his parish for learning and godliness. - -It was a June Saturday night in that year, and the hour was late. In the -low-roofed garret of the parsonage of Haran the figure of a tall, thin -girl with a candle in her hand moved swiftly and softly to the head of a -steep flight of stairs, which gave access to the garret from the floor -below. Some one had called her name. - -“Yes, father,” she returned, and a certain vibration of restrained -feeling was perceptible in her voice, “it was I. I am sorry I disturbed -you. Were you asleep?” - -All was dark below, and no person could be seen, but again came the -man’s voice. - -“What were you doing, Anna?” was the question. - -“Only putting away—” here the girl faltered and stopped speaking. The -candle in her hand shook, and threw a strange, wavering shadow of her -shape upon the long, rough timbers of the wall. The roof was so low -where she stood that of necessity her head was bent sharply forward. The -outline of her shoulders was meagre and angular; her arms and body had -neither the grace of a girl nor the curves of a woman; they were simply -lean and long. There was something of loftiness, and even of beauty, in -the face, but the cheeks were hollow, the lines all lacking in softness. -The _ensemble_ was grave and strenuous for a girl of eighteen. - -She began again. - -“I was nailing up that box of books, you remember. I thought now, you -know, I ought to do it.” - -Something like a groan seemed to float up from the darkness below. There -was no other reply for a moment, and then the father’s voice said -slowly:— - -“To take back later such an action is a greater violation of the moral -nature than to avoid performing it. If it has been given you as duty, it -is well done, but be very sure.” - -A smile, brooding, and even sad, altered the girl’s face as she -reflected for a little. - -“I am very sure,” she said softly, but without hesitation. - -“Then, good night. Sleep, now. Let to-morrow take thought for the things -of itself, Anna.” - -“Good night, father.” The little lingering of her voice on the last word -gave to it the force of a term of endearment, which it would not have -occurred to Anna Mallison at that time to add. - -A door closed below, presently, and the house was still. - -The garret extended over the entire house, and its unlighted spaces -seemed to stretch indefinitely on all sides from the little circle of -light shed by the one candle. The place was wholly open, save that at -the front gable, below the highest point in the peak of the roof, a -partition of planed but unpainted boards enclosed a small chamber. The -narrow door of it stood open. - -As Anna approached this door she cast her glance to a far, dim corner, -where in stiff order a wooden box of moderate size stood upon a chest. -She crossed to the place, passed her hand over the lid of this box, -satisfied herself that it was firmly and evenly fastened, and then -gathered up some nails and a hammer, which she put away on the ledge -formed by a square, projecting rafter. This accomplished, she came back -and entered the chamber, which was sparely enough furnished, undressed, -put out her candle, and sat down in the open gable window. - -Even if to-morrow were left to take thought for the things of itself, -there were many yesterdays which she wished to meet to-night. And for -that to-morrow,—she was hardly ready to leave all thought of it yet, for -she regarded it as the most solemn and important crisis in her eighteen -years of life. On the Sabbath, which a few hours would bring, she was to -be received into the village church of which her father was pastor, and -this event would signify that all her previous existence, the time past -of her life, was a closed and finished chapter, and that henceforth all -things were to become new. Life was to be furnished now with new -pleasures, new pains, new motives, new mental occupations. A somewhat -sterner and sadder life she fancied it, full of self-examination, -sacrifice, and high endeavour, for she felt it must suffice her to have -wrought her own will in the past, “the will of the flesh,” as her father -and the Apostle Paul termed it; a phrase which had but a vague import to -her own understanding, and yet exerted a powerful influence upon her -conscience. - -To her mind there was an intimate connection between that now sealed box -and “the will of the flesh.” - -It was when she was fifteen years old that Anna had discovered one day -among the ranks of chests and trunks which lined the outer stretches of -the garret, this small box of books, thickly covered with dust. At first -she had been greatly surprised, since books were the things her father -most earnestly desired and needed, his scanty collection being quite -insufficient for his use, and being helped out by no village library. -Every book in the house had borne to Anna’s imagination a potent dignity -and value, for each one embodied a persistent need, and represented an -almost severe economy before its possession had been achieved. - -And here were nearly thirty respectably bound volumes packed away for -moth and dust alone to live upon—what could it mean? Had they been -forgotten? Anna had devoured their titles with consuming wonder and -curiosity, and with the ardour of the instinctive book-lover. Like -Aurora Leigh, she had “found the secret of a garret room.” - -There was a volume of Ossian,—heroic, sounding words caught her eye as -she turned the rough, yellow leaves; Landor’s “Hellenics and Idylls”; a -copy bound in marred, brown leather of Pope’s translation of the -“Iliad,” published, she noted, in 1806, almost fifty years before she -was born; the poems of Byron, Shelley, Keats, and Coleridge, and of the -earlier American poets; and a thin gilded volume of Blake’s “Songs of -Innocence.” - -Besides these were worn volumes of Plato, of Greek and Latin poets, and -German editions of Faust and Nathan der Weise. At the bottom of the box -Anna found a faded commonplace book with her father’s name inscribed on -the first page, and the date 1840. It contained translations of Greek -poetry which she supposed to have been made by her father, although of -this she was not sure. She did not read them, for she felt that she had -no right to explore anything so personal without his permission. This -scruple, however, did not extend to the books which filled the box, -although Anna felt rather than understood that they had not been packed -away together thus by accident, or left by forgetfulness. She perceived -that they denoted some decisive experience in her father’s inner life, -that spiritual personality of the man, which possessed to the young -girl’s thought an august and even mysterious sacredness. - -Whatever these books had meant to him, and for whatever reason they had -been exiled from his meagre library, they became to his daughter the -most brilliant and alluring feature of a somewhat colourless girlhood, -the charm of them enhanced by secrecy; for, with the reticence -characteristic of the family life, Anna never alluded to her discovery. -Neither did she ever remove these literary remains from their seclusion -in the garret; this would have seemed an act of violence, but around the -box which held them she formed a kind of enclosing barricade of chests -and old furniture. The little nook thus formed she regarded as her place -of refuge, of private and unguessed delight. A candle at night, and rays -of light piercing the wide cracks under the eaves by day, made reading -easy to her clear young eyes, even in the dust and dusk of the dim -place. And so for two years, through biting cold and searing heat, Anna -fed her mind and heart on the poetry which had ruled her father’s -generation, unknown and unsanctioned by any one. Then one day came a -strange event; she never recalled it without a sense of unshed tears. - -It was late one August afternoon, and, her day’s work faithfully -performed, Anna had gone up to her garret room to make her simple toilet -for the evening meal. There were a few moments to spare, and, as usual, -she hastened to her nook, and was soon deep in Prometheus, for Shelley -just then controlled her imagination. Her father came into the garret -behind her, a very unwonted thing, and Anna heard the sharp, scraping -sound as he drew out from the recesses where it had stood for years, a -small, brown, hair-covered trunk, studded with brass nails, forming the -initials S. D. M. It had been his own during his college days, and had -seen but little service since. One of Anna’s brothers was to start for -college in a day or two, and the old trunk was to serve a second -generation in its quest for learning. - -Startled by the unusual noise, Anna rose in her place, and, seeing her -father, spoke to him, whereupon he crossed the garret to where she -stood; a small, thin man, bent a little, with a pale brown skin, -prominent eyes, and a dome-shaped head, the hair thin on the crown even -to baldness, but soft and silken and long enough behind the ears to show -its tendency to curl. - -“What have you there, Anna?” Samuel Mallison had asked, peering with -short-sighted, searching eyes between the bars of a battered crib which -Anna had used as a part of her wall of partition. - -“Poetry, father,” she had replied, handing him the book with eager, -innocent enthusiasm; “oh, it is very beautiful! I love it so.” - -Her father, looking at the book, flushed strangely, and a sudden, -indescribable change passed over his face. Pushing aside the rubbish -which separated him from Anna, he was immediately at her side, and in -silence had bent over the box. He had drawn it nearer the light, and -seemed looking on the side for some sign or inscription. There was a -piercing eagerness in his eyes. Then Anna had noticed what had escaped -her hitherto, the initials, S. D. M., followed by the reference, Matthew -v. 29, and the date, 1848, written in ink on the lower corner, dim with -dust stains and faded with the processes of time. - -Still her father had not spoken, but, sitting down on a chest, he had -bent over the box, and had drawn from it one after the other the buried -books, with a hand as gentle as if he were touching the tokens of a dead -love. Anna had stood aside, silent and abashed, a strange tightening -sensation in her throat. Her father seemed to have forgotten her. At -last he had reached the old commonplace book underneath all. The flush -on his face had deepened, and Anna had thought there were tears in his -eyes as he glanced rapidly over its yellowed pages, with the verses in -fine, stiff writing and faded ink. Then he had closed the book with a -long sigh, had laid it carefully back in its place, and rising, had -walked up and down in the low garret for many minutes in some evident -agitation. - -A sense of guilt and apprehension had fallen upon Anna in her -perplexity, but when, in the end, he had come and stood beside her, -there was a great gentleness on his face. - -“And so you love those books, my child?” he had asked her briefly. - -“Yes, father.” - -“I understand. I loved them, but I gave them up—twenty years ago, -almost. They became a snare.” He had been, then, silent a moment, while -a peculiar conflict of thought was reflected in his face. “Yes,” he -continued, as if convinced of something called in doubt, “they became a -snare—to me—but for you I cannot decide. It may not be for you to drink -of my cup. Who knows?” and with that he had turned and left her, and -left the garret, the trunk forgotten; and Anna had laid the books back, -soberly and with a great heartache, almost as if she were laying dust -dear and sacred in its coffin. - -The matter had never been alluded to again between the father and -daughter, but Anna knew that she was free to read, and so read on. And -still her unalloyed happiness in her hidden treasure was gone. A -question, a suspicion, a disturbing doubt, was now attached to it. It -was not wrong to read this poetry, but plainly there was a more -excellent way, a higher ground which her father had reached, and which, -with her inborn passion for perfection, she, too, must some day attain. -Slowly and silently this conviction matured within her. - -And so to-night, on the eve of her day of supreme consecration, Anna, in -her turn, had buried out of her sight, as her father had before her, the -poetry into which she had been pouring her young awakening life, -silently and secretly, but with a fervour which the reader of many books -can never know. They had spoken to her in mighty voices, these great -spirits, so free, joyous, and mysterious in their power; but they were -not the voice _of God_, and therefore she must listen to them no more. -This had been a tree of life to her, but its fruit was forbidden. The -axe must thenceforth be laid unflinchingly at the root of the tree. Such -was the initial impulse, single, stern, and absolute, of Anna’s -awakening religious nature. - -Theologians in the sixties did not talk of the immanence of God. - - - - - CHAPTER II - - Children of men! the unseen Power whose eye - Forever doth accompany mankind, - Hath looked on no religion scornfully - That man did ever find. - - Which has not taught weak wills how much they can? - Which has not fall’n on the dry heart like rain? - Which has not cried to sunk, self-weary man: - _Thou must be born again!_ - —MATTHEW ARNOLD. - - -Anna Mallison’s working theory of the human family in its moral and -religious relations (and she recognized no other as of importance) was -as destitute of shading as a carpenter’s house plan. Indeed, her -hypothesis unconsciously bore a certain pictorial resemblance to the -ground plan of a colonial house—a hall running through the middle with -two rooms on each side! There was, straight through the centre of her -moral universe, a wide, divisive, neutral passage in which dwelt -uneasily all people who had not been regenerated, but who had not -rejected salvation formally and forever. Here were such heathen and -young children, and such thoughtless and unhardened impenitent as might -yet listen to the divine call. At the right of this central hall, -following Anna’s scheme of the race, were two wide rooms: the first -bright with a subdued and varied light; the second, opening beyond the -first, overflowing with undimmed and celestial radiance. The first was -the Church, the place of saints on earth, the second was heaven, easily -reached from the first. But the entrance to the first room from the -central space was obscure, difficult, and mysterious, and few were they -who found it. - -At the left of the great hall were likewise two vast connecting -chambers. A wide door stood ever open into the first, through which a -throng continually passed. Here were dimness and dread, lighted only by -false and baleful gleams; and in the room beyond, the blackness of -darkness, and that forever. - -This first room was the abode of those who deliberately chose the world -and turned away from God, whose fitting end was in the awful gloom of -that place of torment and wailing beyond. - -Above the right-hand division, high and lifted up, dwelt in unthinkable -glory the God of her fathers, holy, but to her subconscious sense, -ineffective, else why were earthquakes, murders, prisons, insanities? -and why, indeed, those populous chambers on the left? - -Over them presided a rapid, hurtling Spirit, always engaged in her -imagination in falling like lightning from heaven. He was Miltonic -necessarily, but also much like one of Ossian’s heroes, and, on the -whole, a more imposing force than the Creator whose power he seemed so -successfully to have usurped. - -In fine, Anna believed in two gods, an infinite spirit of good, and an -infinite spirit of evil, although she would have called herself strictly -monotheistic. - -The neutral space between the realms of the Good and Evil was the -battleground of these two mighty spirits. Here prophets, apostles, and -preachers were calling loudly and untiringly upon all men to repent, and -to find the entrance to the company of the redeemed. From time to time -some swift and valorous spirit of man or angel would even make excursion -into the dim outer room on the left, and bring thence a scorched and -spotted soul, saved, but so as by fire. But such events were rare and -not to be presumed upon or expected. - -It was all perfectly clear to Anna, the classification and grouping -precise, exact, and satisfactory. Black was very black; and white, very -white. She had herself until very recently belonged in the neutral hall, -but she now believed herself to be “experiencing religion,” a fine old -phrase, which was in effect to be pressing successfully through that -obscure opening which led into the outer court of heaven. - -But just here there was a weakness in the system. Theologians and -preachers like her father boldly declared the contrary, and asserted -that the processes of entering the kingdom of heaven were as marked and -unmistakable as the great general divisions of saints and sinners. The -conversion of Saul of Tarsus was always depicted as norm and type. To be -sure, all the processes were not in each case marked by equal -distinctness, but the logical order was the same. In the first stage of -the progress the sinner was said to be “under conviction” or -“experiencing a sense of sin”; and the more bitter and overwhelming was -this first phase, the better was the diagnosis from the professional -point of view. At this point the penitent was to realize that, whatever -his former life had been, even if a life of prayer and unselfish -devotion, it had been wholly displeasing to God, and that, as tending to -self-righteousness, such a life was peculiarly dangerous. By nature, -there could not be in the human character any real moral excellence, or -what was more technically known as “evangelical virtue.” - -All this Samuel Mallison had recently set forth in a series of sermons -on “Human Depravity; its Degree, its Extent, its Derivation, and its -Punishment,” which had been considered of extraordinary value and merit. - -But it was just here that his daughter, for all the logic and learning -to which she was privileged to listen, stumbled and stood still. For -weeks her spiritual development appeared to be arrested. She was silent, -uncommunicative, and disappointing to all the older members and -office-bearers in her father’s church. - -“What is the matter with Anna?” was the frequent question put to Mrs. -Mallison in the parish. “Why don’t she _come out_?” - -“Oh, she is under conviction all the time,” would be the reply, with a -somewhat decided shake of the head. “We let her alone pretty much, Mr. -Mallison and I. It isn’t best to say too much, you know, when anybody -has reached that point. We can see that conscience is working with her.” - -The questioner would depart with the belief that Anna’s conviction was -of an unusually profound and interesting nature, like a disease with a -complication; but if they had asked Anna herself, she might have told -them that it was from the absence of this conviction, rather than from -its intensity, that she was suffering. She was too honest to assume a -virtue, or even a vice, if she had it not, and seek it as she would, a -poignant sense of sin did not visit her. She had cast about her, and -searched her own heart and life in a distinct embarrassment at finding -so few clearly defined and indubitable sins of which to plead guilty; -she had even secretly reproached her parents in her heart for having -insisted upon an almost faultless standard of daily living, since -conformity to their will seemed to be in itself a snare, and to place -her at a distinct disadvantage now as compared with the flagrant sinner. -Why had they taught her to pray, since she was now told that the prayers -of the unregenerate were displeasing to God? - -She used to sit during the Sunday morning service and look at the -neighbours in their pews around her, at their children and -grandchildren, and at the members of her own family, seeking to find a -person whom she was conscious of having wronged, or toward whom she -cherished a feeling of enmity or envy. The only result of this species -of self-examination had been to bring to her remembrance a childish, -half-forgotten grudge against a girl with fair curls, Malvina Loveland -by name, who had once ridiculed her at school, for wearing one of -Lucia’s dresses made over. Anna drew this dim and fading fault -remorselessly up to the light, and formally and forever forgave the -unconscious “Mally.” But the longing for a deep experience of the -“exceeding sinfulness of sin” remained unsatisfied. Like many another -sincere and seeking soul of that day, she yearned in vain to fill out in -its rigid precision of sequence that spiritual programme which the -theologians prescribed. - -Her father gave her free access to the precious, if narrow, resources of -his library, and she read the Edwards, both elder and younger, the elder -Dwight, Bunyan, Baxter, and the rest, in place of her dear pagans whose -end she now clearly foresaw. She read of the “depraved moral conduct of -every infant who lives so long as to be capable of moral action”; she -read that “the heart of Man, after all abatements are made for certain -innocent and amiable characteristics, is set to do evil in a most -affecting and dreadful manner”; and that “the darling and customary -pleasures of men furnish an advantageous proof of the extreme depravity -of our nature.” - -“Was I a very wicked little child?” she asked her mother one day. - -“Wicked!” cried her mother, artlessly, resenting the thought. “You were -like a little angel, Benigna, even from the very first. So was it that I -gave you my sainted mother’s name. Even your looks were all love; all -saw it, and strangers too. You a bad child, indeed who never gave your -mother a harsh word or a heartache since you were born!” - -Anna Benigna, for so her mother called her, bent and kissed her mother, -a rare caress in that family. - -“I am glad I pleased you,” she whispered. There were tears in her eyes, -and as she walked without further word from the room, her mother -perceived the significance of question and reply, and pondered long. - -Then suddenly, as ice breaks up in the spring, and the freshet bears -down everything before it, a moment of crisis and perception came, one -of those moments which, albeit varying with each human experience, -remains in each supreme. - -Under all her outward conformity to law and love, Anna realized now that -there had lain for years a deep, half-conscious resentment toward the -Creator, a cold dislike of God. How could he look upon her with approval -while such a disposition remained in her heart? She had loved the human; -she had not loved the divine. - -A sense of the absolute and eternal Good from which she was alienated, -to which she was antagonistic, smote her with force. She now seemed to -herself in the presence of God as a speck of dust against a dazzling -mountain of snow—incalculably small, hatefully impure. A passion of -contrition and surrender mastered her; vague regenerating fires tried -her soul; and then came an exhaustion of spirit, as of a child whom its -Father has chastened, and who is reconciled and at peace. This -succession of emotions she was able to recall distinctly as long as she -lived. - -This had been a month ago. Anna had recounted these spiritual exercises -to her father, and he had told her that they denoted conversion, and -advised her presenting herself to the church for admission. This she had -done, but when he asked her, further, to what cause, if any, she -ascribed this past sense of enmity against God, she had been silent. - -However, her father was fully satisfied. Like a physician with a -well-declared fever of a certain type, he felt it to be a clear case. -Considering his child’s blameless innocence of life, it was an -unexpectedly satisfactory one from the theologian’s point of view. - -As she sat now in the warm gloom of the June night, with the dark trees -murmuring softly under the wind, and the sky with many stars bending -near, only the gable jutting above her head to keep its splendours off, -Anna travelled back in thought to her childish days and found there the -answer to her father’s question. - - - - - CHAPTER III - - Nay, but I think the whisper crept - Like growth through childhood. Work and play, - Things common to the course of day, - Awed thee with meanings unfulfill’d; - And all through girlhood, something still’d - Thy senses like the birth of light, - When thou hast trimmed thy lamp at night - Or washed thy garments in the stream. - —DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. - - -Until her twelfth year Anna had not encountered the severities of -Calvinistic theology, Samuel Mallison having intrusted the spiritual -guidance of his children, during their earlier years, to their mother. -Anna was the youngest child. Mrs. Mallison was of a German Moravian -family who, coming from Pennsylvania, had settled on the eastern -boundary of New York early in the century. She possessed the serene and -trustful temperament of her people. The subtleties of her husband’s -religious system were beyond her simple ken; she loved to sing the hymns -of Zinzendorf, as she sewed and spun and ordered her household in true -German _Hausfräulichkeit_, a sincere, devout, affectionate soul who had -found the tone of the frigid little north New England community more -chilling than she dared to own. - -From her Anna inherited her warm impulses, her abounding delight in -nature, her susceptibility to the simplest impressions of sweet and -common things. Gulielma Mallison understood the child when she came -running to her one early spring morning from the parsonage garden, where -the dark brown earth was freshly upturned and young green things were -springing, and had tears in her eyes, veiling wonder, and a shy thrill -of joy in all her small birdlike frame, and had asked, her hands clasped -upon her breast:— - -“Why am I so happy, mother, that I can’t bear it? Why does something -ache so here?” - -“It is because thou art in God’s beautiful world, little Benigna,” the -mother had said, “and thou art God’s child. He is near thee, and thy -heart yearns to him. Be glad in God.” - -In his study, through the open door, Samuel Mallison heard these words, -and, whatever his perplexity as to their doctrinal inconsistency, he did -not gainsay them. From his point of view at this time little Anna was -entirely out of relation to God and out of harmony with his being, and -it would have been impossible for her to please him. But just then an -old question, which would not always down, had forced its way to his -mind—What if there were a wrong link somewhere in the logic? What if the -love of God were something greater than the schoolmen guessed? - -But on a certain winter night Anna’s childhood died, and the battle of -her life began. - -Well she remembered every physical sensation even, accompanying that -experience. - -It had been a snowy Saturday night, and she had come in from the warm -kitchen where, in a round washing-day tub, drawn close to the hot stove, -she had taken a merry, splashing bath, after the regular order of -exercises for Saturday night at the parsonage. Her older sister, Lucia, -had presided over the function, and when it was accomplished she had -been closely wrapped in a pale straw-hued, homespun flannel sheet, over -her nightclothes, preparatory to facing the rigours of the bitterly cold -hall and stairs, and the little bedroom above. - -So she had trailed into the living-room, where the boys and her parents -were gathered around a large table. The room was not very brightly -lighted by the single oil lamp, but a great fire crackled loudly in the -stove, and the rattle of the hard snowflakes on the window panes and the -whistling of the wind outside gave keen emphasis to the sense of -cheerful safety and comfort. - -Warm and languid from the heat of her bath, Anna had sat down on a low -seat and dropped her head on her mother’s knees, feeling an -indescribable sensation of happy lassitude and physical well-being. She -recalled how interested she had been in the shrivelled whiteness of her -own long, little fingers, and how soft and woolly that dear old blanket -had felt; it was on her bed now, with her mother’s maiden name worked in -cross-stitch in one corner, in pale pink crewel. - -They had been waiting for her, to proceed with the evening devotions, -and her father had at once begun to read a part of a sermon from one of -the standard divines who, though somewhat out of fashion in the centres -of progressive thought, were still held infallible in these remoter -regions. - -The subject was “The Benevolence of God in Inflicting Punishment,” from -a work entitled “The Effects of the Fall.” - -Anna did not listen very closely for a time, but presently her attention -was caught and held. The writer was seeking to prove that “the damnation -of a large part of the human race directly subserved the general -happiness of mankind and the glory of God.” That even if he had saved -none of the sons of men, but “had left them to the endless torment they -had so justly deserved,” and “had glorified himself in their eternal -ruin, they would have had no cause to complain.” That the best of what -were illusively known as “good works,” were “no more than splendid -sins.” That no doubt, if any heathen could be found who was truly -virtuous and holy, who loved God in the strictly evangelical sense, as -infinitely great, wise, and holy, and who kept all his perfect law -without infraction, such heathen might be saved. But as there was no -evidence that any such heathen ever had existed, or ever could exist, -there was no reason to believe that any had been saved. As the heathen -still formed a vast proportion of the population of the globe, and as -only a small fraction of those nations commonly known as Christian had -actually and experimentally come under the law of grace, the only -conclusion possible was, that a vast proportion of the human family -throughout all ages and down to the present time “were serving the -purposes of God’s infinite wisdom and benevolence in their creation in -endless misery or torment.” - -The triumphant logic of the old divine, which Mrs. Mallison secretly -found discomfiting but accepted calmly enough considering its terrific -import, and which her husband read with the sad and solemn pathos of one -to whom it was a mournful verity, had a curious effect upon little Anna. -For the first time the real meaning of familiar words like these smote -full and sharp upon her mind, and in the physical lassitude of the -moment acted like a bodily injury upon her. She grew whiter and whiter, -and she touched and grasped the soft blanket about her with powerless -fingers, to convince herself that she could feel and find what was -familiar, faintness being an absolutely unknown sensation. - -Suddenly, with an imperious impulse, and a singular effect of childish -courage which dared to do an unheard-of thing, she rose and said with -perfect apparent composure, breaking in upon the reading:— - -“I am too tired to stay here any longer, I am going upstairs now,” and -so left the room. Her mother had watched the slight figure in its close -drapery with anxious eyes until the door closed upon her, but had not -thought of following. This reading was a solemn function not to be -lightly interrupted. - -Upstairs, Anna had betaken herself hastily to bed, and lay there, -motionless, somewhat alarmed at her own revolutionary action, and with -little to say when questioned by her mother presently. - -But when the house was still, and the night advancing to its mid depth -of darkness, the child, still lying with wide, wakeful eyes, cried -silently with a piteous consciousness of desolation and sorrow. A sense -of the bitterness of a world where millions of helpless human spirits -were shut up to endless agony had overwhelmed her, and a spirit of -rebellion against God who willed it so for his own glory had taken -intense possession of her thought. - -In the passion of her childish resentment and grief and worn by the -unwonted wakefulness, her breath came in long, quivering sobs which were -heard in the next room, and brought her father to her side. - -She could answer nothing to his questions, but he found her hands cold, -and her pulse weak and rapid. - -“You did not eat your supper to-night, little Anna,” he said gently, -remembering her faint appetite for the frugal fare of the parsonage -table. - -Anna only sobbed more convulsively. She had expected severity and blame, -feeling verily guilty in spirit. - -Samuel Mallison said nothing more, but Anna, wondering, heard him go -downstairs, heard doors open and shut, and then silence fell again. Ten -minutes later her father stood again by the bedside in the icy chill of -the winter midnight in the unwarmed chamber, and he had brought a bowl -of broth, hot and smoking, bread, too, and, most unwonted pampering, a -piece of the rare poundcake, kept for company and never given to -children except on high holidays. - -Neither of them spoke, but Samuel Mallison, for all the cold, sat on the -bed’s edge while Anna ate and drank, drawing her frail little body to -rest against his own. - -The broth was salted for Anna by her tears, and the long-drawn sobs, -coming at intervals, half choked her as she ate, but she was comforted -at last and fortified against the woe of the world, and she pressed her -cheek against her father’s arm with a sense of the infinite sweetness of -fatherhood warm at her heart. As she finished the last crumb of cake, -she thought:— - -“If only God had been kind like my father! I was naughty, and that only -makes him good to me and pitiful.” But she said nothing, only looked -with a world of wondering gratefulness in her large innocent eyes up -into her father’s face, finding some perplexity that cake and broth -should reconcile her to the everlasting torment of the majority of -mankind, but wisely concluding to make the best of it since such seemed -to be the effect, and, as it was now undoubtedly high time, to go to -sleep. - -Finding her bright and well next morning, the Mallisons, father and -mother, had thought little more of that Saturday night revolt, which -they, indeed, had not known as such; but, as she looked back over her -years to-night, in her gable window, Anna perceived that from that time -there had always been in the secret place of her heart a sense of enmity -against a God who was not kind like her father. To-night she knew -herself, at last, reconciled; faith had triumphed and declared that even -the darkest decree of God’s great will must be right, since he was the -absolutely Good. But her heart yearned with mighty yearning for the -subjects of his just wrath, and as she knelt in the darkness and silence -she gave herself with simple, unreserved sincerity to the service of the -lost among men. - -Rising from her knees, Anna felt a strange glow and exaltation of -spirit. In her own personal life sin had been met and vanquished. -Tremendous apostolic assertions buoyed her soul upward like strong -wings: “free from the law of sin and of death,” “passed from death unto -life,” “All things are yours, and ye are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s.” -Thus she felt her finite linked to the infinite. Her spirit was suffused -with thrilling and unspeakable joy; God was closer than breathing and -nearer than hands and feet. - -But, as she stood rapt and absorbed, there came up through the hush of -the night from the dim street below a strange sound, and she was caught -back by it, and listened painfully. It was a little child crying -piteously. - -Peering down through the clustering branches, below her window, Anna -could discern by the dim light of the stars the shape of a woman, -forlorn and spiritless, passing silently along the shadowed way. Behind -her followed the crying child, with weary little feet stumbling at every -stone. The woman carried something in her arms, hidden by an apron; she -turned and looked at the child, and shook her head, but did not speak. - -This woman, who moved abroad only at night, was the village outcast, and -the child was her child, born in sin. - -Vague and uncomprehended to Anna’s mind was the abyss into which this -woman had fallen, but she felt it to be black and bottomless, and to -place an everlasting separation between her and the good. She drew back -from the window, a sharp pain, made of pity and horror, at her heart, -sin embodied thus confronting her. She felt as Sir Launfal felt when he -saw the leper. - -Lying down to rest at last, Anna slept, in spite of spiritual ecstasies -and sufferings, the sound sleep of a healthy girl who is fortunate -enough to forget the ultimate destinies of human souls, her own with the -rest, for certain favoured hours. - -It was long before her sleep was disturbed by dreams, but an hour before -sunrise she awoke with a pervading sense of exquisite happiness brought -over with her from a dream just dreamed. It was a still dream of seeing, -not of doing. She had seen the form of a man of heroic aspect, old -rather than young, with a grey head, leonine and majestic, strong stern -features, a glance mild and yet searching and subduing; a man imperial -and lofty, and above his fellows, but whether as king or saint or -soldier she could not guess. But here was made visible a power, a -freedom, and a greatness for which her own nature, she felt in a swift -flash of self-revelation, passionately cried out, which it had nowhere -found, and to which it bowed in a curious delight hitherto unknown. This -only happened: this mysterious personality, more than human, she -thought, if less than divine, had looked kindly upon her, in her weak, -childish abasement, and had shed into her eyes, and so into her heart, -the impossible, inexplicable happiness with which she awoke. She did not -sleep again. This waking consciousness enamoured her. - -What did it mean? Anna asked herself all day. Was it a dream sent from -God at this solemn hour of dedication? If so, what did it prefigure? -Even at the sacramental feast, her first communion, that majestic head, -with the controlling sweetness of the eyes upon her, came before her -vision, and made her heart beat fast. - - - - - CHAPTER IV - - The fiend that man harries - Is love of the Best. - —_The Sphynx_, R. W. EMERSON. - - -Malvina Loveland, the girl whom Anna had found solace in forgiving for -her childish offence, had “come out,” as Haran people said, at the same -time with Anna. - -This fact, and the compunction in Anna’s heart toward her early foe, had -drawn the two girls together, and they became friends. They talked of -the interests of the cause of religion, and read biographies together, -or rather, Anna read aloud while her friend diligently produced lace -work with a small shuttle, or hemstitched linen ruffles; but both cared -less for these several occupations than for the sense of mingling their -young, unfolding perceptions. - -Anna had need of a friend; Lucia, her sister, was many years older, and -had long ago married a farmer, and departed deeper into the hills, where -she worked with the immoderate industry of New England women, bore many -children, and lived a life into which Anna did not enter deeply. The -Mallison boys were away from home, studying and working, and the -parsonage was a silent place. Anna adored her father with the restrained -ardour of her kind, and loved her mother with a great tenderness, but -she was actively intimate with neither, and thus greatly alone. - -Mally was noticeably pretty, and Anna thought her beauty angelic. She -was capable, clever, quick, and impulsive, one of the women who can do -anything they see done, strongly imitative and impressionable. She -developed rapidly, while Anna matured slowly. Anna had nobleness, Mally -had facility. Anna, beside Mally, looked uncomfortably tall, with her -angular thinness and her dark, grave face. She had masses of lustreless -brown hair, a clear _brune_ skin like her father, and, like him, -singularly fine hands. Her eyes were her mother’s, and her only -beauty,—golden brown, and of limpid clearness. - -To both these girls their religion was a system of prohibition and of an -abnormal development of conscience. The negative, not the positive, side -was uppermost to them. “Thou shalt not” was written over every device -and desire which did not minister directly to the furtherance of the -local conception of religion. Both were eager to grasp the positive -side, to convert the world, to see Satan chained, and themselves to -contribute to this desirable consummation; but they were doubtful how to -begin. Both were ardent controversialists after the manner of their day, -and Anna read systematic theology with her father with extraordinary -relish. - -They waited and wondered, each longing for her destiny to disclose -itself decisively. But with Anna a hidden life budded beneath the -surface, unknown even to Mally. The romantic and poetic impulses of her -nature, no longer directly nourished by the poets whom she had put away -from her by force, stirred in her heart, and fed themselves, in silence, -on the life of nature, and on the delicate, evanescent imaginings of her -awakening womanhood. - -Below the surface of her conscious thoughts a strange inarticulate -passion for power and freedom beat and throbbed, and would not be -stilled, despite her quiet, conscientious conformity to the narrow -conditions of the world about her. She did not know what freedom was, -but she felt that she was not free; neither did she clearly know what -the power meant for which she longed, but she felt the absence of it in -every one she had ever met. It was mysterious, indefinable—once only had -she encountered it, and that was in a dream. - -Thus a nature simple and single, with all its forces apparently bent one -way, and with few avenues, or none, by which to import conflicting -influences, was, in fact, already incipiently subject to the -complexities of instinct, of motive, and desire, which weave the -bewildering network of human experience. - -When Anna was twenty, an event occurred of much importance in its -bearing on her life. Under the direction of an old friend of Samuel -Mallison, the Rev. Dr. Durham of Boston, a general secretary for Foreign -Missions, a series of meetings was held in Haran for the promotion of an -interest in this cause. Dr. Durham was entertained, during the time of -the convention, at the parsonage; he was a genial and kindly man, and -became in his way an especial friend of Anna, in whom he manifested a -marked interest. - -From the country round about, during the week, men and women thronged to -Haran; and at an evening meeting to be addressed by a woman who had been -a missionary in India, the white meeting-house was filled. Many in the -congregation had never seen a missionary; many more had never heard a -woman speak in public. Curiosity ran high. - -The speaker was a little sallow woman, in a plain and unbecoming grey -gown, who stepped timidly to the edge of the platform, laying a small -hand which trembled visibly on the cold mahogany pulpit, as if to -conciliate it for her intrusion and to crave its support. - -She spoke in a shrill crescendo, without the graces or arts of a skilled -speaker, and she made no appeal to the emotions of the hearers. It was -rather a dry and unimaginative account of the work done at an obscure -mountain station, with statistics of no great impressiveness, and -careful attention to accuracy of detail. But she had the advantage of -sowing her seed on virgin soil. It was not important at that day and to -those isolated and simple-minded people that the missionary should speak -with enticing words, or attempt dramatic effect. She was herself there -before them in flesh and blood, and no great time before she had been on -heathen ground, had come into actual combat, face to face, with wild, -savage men and strange, outlandish women, who knew not God, and who -veritably and visibly bowed down to wood and stone. - -For the hour, that little woman of weak bodily presence and commonplace -intellect became the incarnation of Christianity seeking a lost world, -and she herself was far greater to their thought than anything she could -have said. - -At the end of her report, for it was that rather than appeal or address, -she told the story of a high-caste Hindu woman to whom she had sought to -give the gospel message. This woman had turned upon her with grave -wonder and had asked, “How long have you known this? about this Jesus?” - -“Oh, for many years, all my life in fact.” - -“Then,” said the woman, solemnly, “why did you not come to tell us -before?” - -Without comment or enlargement, having told of this occurrence, the -speaker turned and walked shyly from the platform, leaving an unusual -hush in the assembly, as if an event, a result of some sort, were waited -for. - -Toward the end of the church, where she was seated with her mother, Anna -Mallison rose in her place, made her way out into the middle aisle, and -then, with her head a little bent, but her face neither pale nor -agitated, walked quietly to the foot of the platform. Samuel Mallison, -who was seated with Dr. Durham behind the pulpit, rose and stood, just -above, as if to receive her, looking down with solemn eyes. Some one who -saw Anna’s face said that, as she looked up into that of her father thus -bent above her, the smile which suddenly illuminated it was beyond -earthly beauty. It was a look in which two human spirits, and those -father and child, purged as far as might be of earthliness, met in -angelic interchange, pure and high. - -Turning about, thus facing the great congregation, Anna, who had never -before spoken in a public gathering of any sort, however small, said in -a voice which was clear and distinct, though not loud:— - -“I wish to offer myself to this society to go, if they will send me, to -some heathen people, to tell them that Christ has died to save them. I -am ready to go at once, if it is thought best.” - -The gravity and simplicity, and absence of self-consciousness, of the -girl’s words and bearing, and the profound sympathy of the people who -saw and heard her, combined to produce an overpowering impression. As -the meeting broke up, women were weeping all over the house, and sturdy -unemotional men were deeply moved. - -Anna, seeing that many would surround her and speak their sympathy or -give their praise, which she dreaded and feared to hear, turned with -swift steps to the door nearest her, and so escaped into the outer -darkness of the night, no one following. - -But, as she hurried with light steps across the village green and -reached the parsonage gate, she found Mally waiting to waylay her. - -“Oh, Anna,” she cried, and her tears flowed fast, “you will go away from -me, from all of us! How can you put this great distance between us?” - -“How can I do anything else, Mally?” Anna answered softly. “It is what I -have been waiting for; I think I was never truly happy until to-night. -All my life before I have been unsatisfied, and something has ached and -hurt whenever I stopped to feel it.” - -“And to-night you are really happy?” cried her friend, half enviously, -and yet by no means drawn to devote herself to the medley of crocodiles, -dark-skinned babies, and cars of Juggernaut, which signified India to -her mind. - -“Oh, at last!” Anna exclaimed, and with a long breath of relief. “Will -it not bring peace, Mally, to know that I am surely doing His will? It -will be like pure sunshine after living in a fog these past years.” - -“Then weren’t you really happy when you were converted and joined the -church?” asked Mally, naïvely. - -“Partly. But just to be happy because you are saved yourself—why, it -does not last. And you know, dear, we could never find anybody’s soul to -work for here in Haran; at least, we didn’t know how,” and Anna became -silent, the vision of one solitary outcast coming before her, with whom -she had been forbidden even to speak. But Mally refused to be comforted -thus, and went her way with many tears. - -There were more tears for Anna to encounter that night, for her mother -came home broken-hearted. The Lord had answered her husband’s daily -prayer, and had graciously chosen one of their own family to preach the -gospel to the heathen, and the answered prayer was more than the loving -soul could sustain. Like Jacob, she could get no farther than the wail, -“If I am bereaved, I am bereaved.” - -Not so Samuel Mallison. Too long had he schooled himself to the -sacrifice of his dearest human and earthly desires. The long discipline -of his life stood him now in good stead. Coming into the room where Anna -was vainly seeking to comfort her mother, he laid his hands in blessing -on her head, and with a look upward which stilled the weeping woman, he -pronounced the ancient words:— - - “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy - word; - For mine eyes have seen thy salvation.” - -And yet Anna was the very apple of his eye. Of such fibre was the -altruism of that rugged first growth. - - - - - CHAPTER V - - Life! life! thou sea-fugue, writ from east to west, - Love, Love alone can pore - On thy dissolving score - Of harsh half-phrasings, - Blotted ere writ, - And double erasings - Of chords most fit. - —SIDNEY LANIER. - - -From the time of the missionary meeting and the announcement of his -daughter’s determination to devote herself to the service of Christ in a -heathen land, Samuel Mallison’s health declined rapidly. His _Nunc -Dimittis_ was of literal import, and prophetic. - -Whether the death which all who loved him saw that he was soon to -accomplish could be called dying of heart-break or dying of fulfilled -desire, would have been hard to determine. Heart and flesh cried out -against the separation from his best-beloved child, while the triumphant -spirit blessed God for answered prayer, and for the fruition in that -cherished life of his child of hopes and aspirations which had been but -scantily fulfilled in his own. - -“I have not been a successful man, Anna,” he said to her one autumn day -when they were alone in his study. He sat erect in his straight chair, -but with an unmistakable languor in every line of face and frame, and -with a feverish brightness in his prominent dark eyes. - -Anna laid her hand upon his with endless gentleness. - -“No man in Haran is so beloved, father. No man has done so much good.” - -“Perhaps,” he answered sadly, “and I am satisfied. It is the will of -God. Anna, I have seemed, perhaps, cold and silent, and without feeling -as you have seen me; but the fire within has burned unceasingly, and I -am consumed.” - -The last words were spoken lower and with an unconscious pathos which -moved Anna unspeakably. - -“I do not understand, father dear, not fully. Can you tell me all? I -love you so.” - -They were the simplest words of the most natural affection, and yet it -was the first time in her life that Anna had spoken after this sort to -her father. - -“My girl,” he said simply, taking her hand within his own. Then, after a -pause, he continued speaking. - -“It is after this manner that life has gone with me. I believe I ought -to retrace my past with you—for perhaps there may be light upon your -path, if you know all. When I entered the ministry it was with sincerely -right purpose; all the influences of my life pointed me in that -direction, but it was, perhaps, more as an intellectual and congenial -profession than from deeper reasons. I began my ministry, in 1841, in -Boston. I was considered to have certain gifts which were valued in that -day, and all went well, on the surface. But it was the period of a -literary awakening in our nation, of which Boston was the centre of -influence. An American literature was just becoming a visible reality, -and a new impulse was at work and stirring everywhere. Men of original -force were suddenly multiplied before us, and the contagion of -intellectual ambition was felt in an altogether new degree. To me it -became all-controlling. Transcendental philosophy, Platonism, and -classic learning acquired for me a supreme attraction, and I gave myself -more and more to the study of them, and to the translation of Greek -poetry. This had no unfavourable effect upon my preaching in the opinion -of my congregation, rather the reverse, and I may say without vanity -that I had reached comparatively early a certain eminence to which I was -by no means indifferent.” - -Samuel Mallison paused a moment, while Anna silently reflected that this -narrative would in the end explain the buried books of her dear old -garret delight. - -“Learning was young among us in those days, Anna,” Samuel Mallison began -again humbly, after a little space, “else this would not have happened; -in the year 1848 I received a call to a professorship of the Greek -language and literature in Harvard College.” - -Anna felt her own young blood rush to her cheeks in pride and wonder and -amazement. To her little-village simplicity and scanty experience this -seemed a surpassing distinction, and one which placed her father among -the great men of the earth. - -“The day after the mind of the authorities had been made known to me, -was the day of my life which I remember best,” Samuel Mallison -continued. - -“I went to my study that morning with a programme of what would take -place somewhat definitely before my mind. I was about to seek, humbly -and devoutly, an interview with God, in which I would lay before him -this new and momentous opening in my life, and seek to have his will for -me made clear. What this will would be, or what I should take it to be, -was, just below the surface of my mind, a foregone conclusion. In fact, -my letter of acceptance was substantially framed in my mind already. I -had never been favoured with voices and visions and revelations clear -and conclusive in my religious experience, and I foresaw a decision -based upon general reasonableness and preference, touched with a -pleasant sense of the divine favour, which might naturally be expected -to rest upon so congenial a course, and one so worthily justified by -precedent. I read, as a preparatory exercise, with perfect satisfaction, -the twelfth chapter of John’s Gospel, then closed my Bible and knelt in -prayer. This was exactly as I had foreseen—an orderly series of -exercises befitting my position. But, oh; how mechanical, how cold, how -barren! With such perfunctory practices I could think to take leave of -the sacred calling of the ministry, so dead had my spirit grown to the -claims of the blessed gospel, and its mission of salvation to a lost and -perishing world! - -“I knelt and thought to pray, but, like the king in ‘Hamlet’, my words -flew up, my thoughts remained below. Between me and Him whom I would -have approached, interposed, like a palpable barrier, a solemn -reiterated echo of words just read: ‘Verily, verily, I say unto you, -except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone; -but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit. He that loveth his life -shall lose it.’ - -“I rose from my knees and walked up and down the room in great anxiety -of spirit. This new work which I thought to undertake was educational, -ennobling, necessary; in no way contrary to sound doctrine, in no way a -betrayal of sacred responsibility; I was fitted for it by nature, by -tastes, and attainments. Why was it opened to me? To mock me? to tempt? -I could not believe it, I had welcomed it as coming in the providence of -God. - -“But my heart-searching grew swift and deep, and it was given me to see -the absoluteness, the finality, of the vows which I had assumed, from -which I straightway realized that no argument of those with which I was -equipped sufficed to release me. Feebly and imperfectly, yet sensibly, I -began to grasp the import of what the apostle calls the fellowship of -Christ’s sufferings, the being made conformable unto his death. Oh, the -depth of the mystery hid in that saying! All these years I have sounded -it—Anna, all these years I have died, in my own natural life—I have -striven to give all I had to give, but the ‘much fruit’—where has it -been?” - -An expression of pain, hardly less than agony, was impressed upon Samuel -Mallison’s face, and Anna hid her eyes, finding it too bitter to bear to -see him suffer thus. - -“I put it all away from me, then and there. Nothing was possible but for -me to decline the invitation which had been given, you can see. Further, -I saw that my studies had been my snare. My love of poetry and -philosophy and learning, the prominence of my pulpit, the social and -intellectual affinities I had formed, all had contributed to my -spiritual deadness and decline. It was then that I put away in that box, -now upstairs, the books which had particularly ministered to the tastes -which had led me so far from the true conception of my life work. Never -since that day have I allowed myself to follow the instinct for poetic -expression. That longing had to be cut out, even if some life-blood -flowed in the doing it. Henceforth, I wished to know nothing but Christ, -and him—Anna, do not fail to grasp this—him, not triumphant, but -_crucified_. The offence of the cross to the natural spirit, how hardly -can it be overcome! No child’s play, no easy and harmonious growth in -grace, has it been to me, but a conflict all the way. Your mother has a -different type of religious life. Be thankful if her temperament shall -prove to be yours. - -“That is the story. I left my church not very long after and sought this -rugged, remote section, because it offered hard work and a needy field, -which some men shunned. Some years before I had met your mother, and we -were married. Twenty years of my life and its best activity have been -spent here in Haran. Those first few years and what made life to me in -them I have looked upon as a false start. From that day, I sought only -this one gift: an especial enduement of the Holy Spirit to give me power -with men unto salvation. I desired this gift supremely, but I have not -received it in any signal manner. My ministry has not been wholly -unfruitful, but it has been lacking in the results for which I hoped; I -have not had power with God and men, as have some of my more favoured -brethren. The end is near now, very near, but I come with almost empty -hands and a humbled, contrite heart to meet my Judge. But, my child, -whatever the conflicts of the past years, the last thing which I could -wish for to-day would be to have reversed that early decision. My life, -from the merely human point of view, might, perhaps, on the line of -intellectual effort have been counted successful, while as a minister of -Christ it has not been so to any marked degree: but what is success, and -what failure, when the things of time fade before our eyes?” - -Samuel Mallison’s head drooped upon one supporting hand, and an -expression of solemn musing rested on his face, while Anna’s tears -flowed fast. - -“Just to do our own little day’s work faithfully, not knowing what its -part may be in the great whole, just to hold fast to the word of God and -the testimony of Jesus, and, having begun the race, to continue to the -end—is not this enough?” - -There was silence between them for some moments, and then the father -said, making a sign to Anna to rise:— - -“I want you to leave me now, dear child. I must rest. The one earthly -hope to which I still cling is that to you may be given the reward of -‘much fruit,’ which I have failed to win. Remember this, if all the -other teaching I have given you shall be forgotten in the years which -are to try you, of what stuff you are made: _with greatness we have -nothing at all to do; faithfulness only is our part_.” - -Anna Mallison listened to these words with reverent sympathy and loving -response, but the deeper meaning of them did not reveal itself to her, -her time for perception being not yet fully come. - - - - - CHAPTER VI - - O Joy, hast thou a shape? - Hast thou a breath? - How fillest thou the soundless air? - Tell me the pillars of thy house! - What rest they on? Do they escape - The victory of Death? - —H. H. - - -In the largest theatre of the New England city of Springfield on a night -in December, an immense assembly of people was gathered. Every gallery -was crowded to its utmost, and the house, from floor to roof, was a -dense mass of human beings. On the stage were musical instruments, but -the customary scenery was withdrawn, save that the background showed a -Neapolitan villa situated on the slope of a Swiss mountain, at the base -of which an ultramarine ocean heaved stormily. Against the incongruity -of this unstable structure were massed several hundred men and women, -and before them a musical leader, baton in hand. At an appointed signal -the great chorus stood, and with them, at the gesture of a man, himself -seated near the centre of the foreground of the stage, the whole -audience, with a rushing sound like the sea or the wind, rose also. - -Then there was sung by the chorus, with trained perfection, an old hymn, -the words of which, as well as the melody, were of quaint and almost -childish simplicity:— - - “Alas, and did my Saviour bleed? - And did my Sovereign die? - Would he devote that sacred head - For such a worm as I? - Was it for crimes that I had done - He groaned upon the tree? - Amazing pity, grace unknown, - And love beyond degree.” - -With a swift motion of his baton the leader indicated that the whole -assembly was to join in singing the refrain, in lowered voices. There -followed in a deep murmur of a pathos quite indescribable:— - - “Remember me, remember me, - Oh, Lord, remember me! - And when thou sittest on thy throne - Dear Lord, remember me.” - -At the close of this hymn many people in all parts of the house were in -tears, but the hush of motionless silence following was complete, and -the eyes of all were riveted upon that central figure on the stage, the -man who now rose and, advancing to the front, began to address them. - -This man was of majestic personal presence and his speech was with -marked power. Thinly veiled under a manner of unusual restraint and -quietness lay a genius for emotional appeal and for persuasion. There -was in his manner and speech an utter absence of excitability, and yet a -quality which excited; a capacity for impassioned eloquence, apparently -controlled and held back by the speaker’s will. The congregation -listened with absorbed attention. - -At the close of the address, which was designed to move all the -impenitent or irresolute persons present to an immediate confession of -their need of a Saviour, the speaker asked those of this class who were -present and were so inclined to advance and take certain seats, directly -in front of the stage, which had been reserved for them. - -A close observer would have been interested in watching the man as this -part of the evening’s work was ushered in. The restrained intensity of -his manner was noticeably augmented; his eyes moved slowly and -searchingly from one part of the house to another with a gaze which no -trifler and no awakened soul might escape. The expression of his face -was sternly solemn, even tragical, as of one undergoing an actual -travail of spirit. He stood absolutely motionless save for a single and -significant gesture of his right hand, an upward gesture made with -peculiar slowness and with dramatic effect. It was at once entreating, -subduing, and commanding. - -At the first moment no person stirred; but presently, as if drawn by an -irresistible magnetism, a stream of men and women could be seen -advancing down the various aisles, with fixed look, pallid faces, and -sometimes with tears. Upon such the speaker bent a look of gentleness -and encouragement, in which his features would be momentarily relaxed, -only to resume the profound solemnity already spoken of, as he lifted -his eyes again to the unmoved masses still confronting him. - -The chorus, without rising, now chanted softly the words of vivid -appeal:— - - “Why not to-night? Why not to-night? - Thou wouldst be saved, why not to-night?” - -Many moments passed. The company of seekers now numbered a hundred. -Beneath the absolute outward restraint which held all, an inner -excitement grew steadily in intensity, and the subtle contagion of “the -crowd” assumed an irresistible sway. It might have become alarming. It -possessed elements of terror just below the surface. A climax was -reached when a man of gigantic frame and brutalized features, in the -upper gallery, stepped forward, and with a gesture rude and almost wild, -flung out his arms toward the evangelist, and called through the silence -of the place:— - -“I give in—you knew I’d have to. Yes, I’m comin’.” And then, turning, -clattered down the bare gallery stairs, only to reappear presently -below, with his coarse head bent and big tears flowing down his purple -cheeks. - -Gradually the stream of seekers abated, and the aisles became empty. -Thus far no word of appeal or warning had been added to the sermon; save -for the restrained monotony of the music this extraordinary scene had -taken place in complete silence. - -Then the speaker’s voice was heard again, and in it was a strange -emotional quality which had been previously unnoticed, and before which -the pride and will of many melted within them. - -“The people of this company are dismissed to their homes,” he said, in -gentle, measured tones; “my work now is for those who have feared God -rather than men. They will remain. Let all others go without unnecessary -delay, or stopping for speech with one another. The Spirit is here.” - -The benediction followed, but as they broke up, scores hitherto -irresolute turned and joined the company of seekers in the front of the -house. - -When the speaker, the house being otherwise emptied, came down to the -anxious and disquieted little company waiting for his guidance, he stood -before them in silence for a little space, and then, turning to a group -of clergymen who were associated with him, he said:— - -“Pardon me, but I believe I will leave these friends in your hands, -brethren. I wish to return immediately to my lodging,” and saying -nothing further in explanation or apology, he departed, with evident -haste. - -When he reached the lobby of the theatre he found three men watching who -hastened toward him, their spokesman, with outstretched hand, -introducing himself and his companions and adding, with eager -cordiality:— - -“This is so much better than we expected. We were prepared to wait for -you some time.” - -The man received the greeting gravely, and, indeed, silently. - -“Will you come with us now to our hotel? We wish to confer with you. We -have come from New York for that purpose.” - -“Will you not let me know what you wish here, at once?” was the -rejoinder. “I am in some haste.” - -“Certainly, certainly, if you prefer it,” said the other, cheerfully, -hiding a shade of discomfiture. Then, with a change to serious emphasis, -he proceeded: “We want you to undertake a work in New York this winter, -as soon as possible, in fact. A large group of prominent churches is -ready to unite in the movement, and unlimited resources will be placed -at your disposal. Your own compensation, pardon me for alluding to it, -will be anything you will name—that is a matter of indifference to the -committee, save that it be large enough. We are ready to build you a -tabernacle two hundred feet square,—larger if you like.” - -The man addressed involuntarily laid his hand on his breast; a letter in -the pocket under his hand, from Chicago, specified a tabernacle three -hundred feet square. He smiled slightly; even religious zeal was a size -larger in Chicago than elsewhere. - -Further details were mentioned, but the evangelist seemed to give them a -forced and mechanical attention. Then, rather suddenly, he broke in with -a word of apology. - -“I am fully sensible, gentlemen,” he went on, “of the confidence you -have manifested in me, and I would, under other conditions, have -accepted your proposition. But the very circumstance of your making it -to-night hastens an action on my part which I have been approaching, but -had not, until now, definitely determined upon. I am about to withdraw -from this work, and can form no engagements, however promising. I shall -close the meetings here as soon as I can honourably do so, and these -meetings are, for the present certainly, my last.” - -The blank faces of the three men before him seemed to demand a word or -two more. - -“My reasons?” he asked with curt and almost chilling brevity. “Pardon -me. They are personal to myself. Good evening. No one can regret your -disappointment more than I.” With these words the speaker turned -abruptly from the little group and left the theatre. In great amazement -and perplexity the committee of three presently followed his example. - -Here was an accredited and earnest man, no irresponsible religious -tramp, who possessed, apparently in a superlative degree, the gift of -winning souls for which Samuel Mallison had given his all, if in vain, -and for lack of which he might fairly be said to be dying, being one who -could have lived on spiritual joy, if such had ever been his portion. -And this man, possessing this coveted and crowning religious endowment, -was deliberately putting it aside, and refusing to use it. What did it -signify? - - * * * * * - -Anna Mallison had left Haran, in its ice-bound valley, early that -morning, and, by travelling through snowdrifts in a sleigh all the -forenoon, had been favoured to get as far as Springfield on her journey, -at nine o’clock of that same evening. She was bound for Boston, where -she was to go before the missionary board to be examined as to her -fitness and promise for a worker on the “foreign field.” - -At the Springfield station Anna had been met by the little missionary -lady whom she had heard and met in Haran on her night of great decision. -By her she had been conducted to a hotel, shown to a room, -affectionately if reticently counselled, and then left to sleep and be -ready for another early start on the following morning. It was the first -time Anna had ever been in a city, and she was bewildered by the noise -and lights in the streets through which she had been hurriedly driven. - -Left alone, she looked about her at the stiff order of the narrow hotel -chamber, the first she had ever inhabited, the showy, shabby carpet, the -cheap carvings of the furniture, the long mirror in which she herself -stood, still and dreary, and a rushing wave of heart-sickness swept over -her. Her anxiety for her father became suddenly poignant; a sense of the -sadness of his life tore her heart with fierce pain: she realized now, -as she had failed to before, how fast his strength declined. She longed -to know how that moment fared with him, and how the next would. A wild -purpose seized her to return the next morning to Haran, and let all -other purposes go until some later time. - -However, in spite of all this anxiety and doubt, Anna’s physical -weariness was sufficient to bring sleep apace, when once her head was on -the pillow, and all the distant murmur of the city and the sudden, -uncomprehended noises of the great house were soon lost to her. Thus she -failed to hear a man who entered the room next to hers within the same -hour, who closed the door with some emphasis and locked it fast; who, -after that, walked up and down within the narrow limits of that room -with uniform, slow step, and who continued to do this until the December -dawn filtered through the dim windows. All was still in that next room -when Anna awoke. The anxiety and homesickness of the night before were -gone, and in their place was that mysterious joy which once before on a -June night had strangely visited her. Again, in her dream, she had seen -the face which ever since had dominated her; as before, it was majestic, -free, and strong. As before, it had bent to her,— - - “Bent down and smiled.” - -She rose hastily, glad and awed and greatly wondering. At six o’clock -she was ready and went down to the great dining-hall, dark save for the -wan light of a single gas jet under which she sat down, silent and -alone, and was served by a heavy-eyed, untidy man-servant, with an -indifferent breakfast. She swallowed a few mouthfuls by force of will, -then gathered up her humble belongings, and started out alone into the -icy chill of the grey morning. It was too early for her friend from the -Orient to brave the rigours of the unaccustomed winter. It was all -comfortless, dreary, and inauspicious; small cheer for a young girl -starting on such an errand, but there was no sinking now of her spirit. -She walked to the Springfield station in the light and warmth of that -inexplicable radiance of her dream, and so pursued her journey to -Boston. - - FROM ANNA MALLISON’S NOTE-BOOK - - Do you believe in the mutual penetration of mind? Do you believe - that, independent of word and voice, independent of distance, from - one end of the world to the other, minds can influence and penetrate - one another?... Do you not know a soul can feel within it another - soul which touches it? - - —PÈRE GRATRY. - -_January 28, 1870._—A week to-day since my father was buried. It is late -at night, and I have come up to my little roof room, but I cannot sleep. -I have been with my mother, and we have cried together, until she sleeps -at last, so tired, and her dear face changed so sadly that, as she -slept, I was almost afraid. And yet she is greatly upheld, and as gentle -and uncomplaining as it is possible to be. - -But for me, knowing my father, and trying to find the meaning of his -life, these days give me less grief than wonder and perplexity. For a -time after my father told me the story of his past, after I knew what he -might have been, knew his great renunciation, his utter humility, his -leaving all to seek one only thing, and that a gift for others, and even -that being denied him, so that to himself his life seemed a failure, and -its supreme sacrifice unsanctioned and unblessed—after this I could -hardly bear the heart-break of it all. So pure, so blameless, so devoted -a life, and yet, to his own thought, so unfruitful. Just a narrow little -village church, with its narrow little victories and defeats, and its -monotony of spiritual ebb and flow—this was the sum of his achievement. -Was it not hard of God? This he would not have said, but my -undisciplined heart has cried out in bitterness and rebellion. I have -been in deep doubt and darkness. - -To-night it is given me to see it all in light, and I am reconciled. The -word which changed my father’s life was that great word of the Master, -“Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and _die_, it abideth -alone.” That dying, the utterness of it, was what we did not comprehend. -I think my father understood before he left us, although he could not -express it. But all along he had felt that in dying in his own personal -life to the world and to his ambition, he was meeting the condition, and -that in his own personal life the fruits of that death were to be -manifest, that he should be set for the salvation of many. But God sees -not with our short vision. Days with him are years, and years days; and -our whole life but a vapour, which appeareth for a little time, and then -vanisheth away. - -This has come to me: My father’s sacrifice has borne in the life of one -of his children, if not in all, the fruit of an especial dedication of -that life to the service of God. If he had not been the man he was, if -he had not laid down his life daily and hourly in humble self-surrender -to the Divine Will, never, never should I have dreamed of giving myself -to the work to which I am now pledged. His life, in its deepest working, -had been wrought into mine, so that unconsciously I willed to be what he -would have willed to have me. So, then, it is no more I alone, but the -spirit, the will, the nature of my father that worketh in me. - -The God of my father—this phrase, so common, so almost commonplace -before, has suddenly taken to itself an extraordinary significance. My -father’s God, my God, who began in my father’s willing sacrifice of all -the noblest powers of his manhood his purpose of grace, will now, in his -good pleasure, carry on the one work, the same so begun, through me, all -unworthy as I am, timid, trembling, but a child. A child, and yet called -with this high calling; child of a saint, called solemnly, sacredly, in -the very depths of my being, deeper than I feel, higher than I know, to -be my father’s child, to be the continuance, the fulfilment of his dying -life, to finish what he began, to bring to fruitage the seed he died to -sow. How sublime, how sweet, how awful the vocation wherewith I am -called! - -Then look upon me, O my God, my father’s God! Behold my weakness; raise -it into power; turn my dull mind to light, my hard and narrow heart to a -flame of love; make me thy minister, thy messenger, fulfil in me all thy -great will. - -_February 20._—To-night I am alone in the old home, not _our_ home any -more. It is stripped already of all that made it home, but, bare and -grim as it is, I love it, and leave it with a sorrow my heart is yet too -tired to realize. They have consented to let me sleep this one last -night in my own little room. This poor bed is to be left, being not -worth removing, and all that clothes it goes with me. So, like a -pilgrim, under a tent roof for a single night, I lie alone, and look up -beyond the dear old gable and see the winter stars. - -They shine upon his grave, and the snow already has drifted over it, and -my heart bleeds. Why will they not let us pray for our dead as the -Romish people do? Oh, kind little father, gone what dim, dazzling way I -do not know, will they let you be happy at last? Will God let you _see -why_? - -_February 21._—It was a strange night, and yet most beautiful. - -I hardly slept, but prayed until nearly dawn. Then I slept a short time, -and woke to find my limbs racked with pain from the bitter chill of the -room, and tears running down my face. Almost as if I were carrying out -an order given me in my sleep, I hurried on my clothing, and, taking my -candle, came down the stairs, both flights, through the empty, echoing -house, to the rooms below. I was so cold that I shook from head to foot. -Then I found in the kitchen wood left from our store, and I brought it -into the east room, the parlour, where we laid my father after his -death, and where I had sat beside his dear form each night. The great -fireplace was bare and empty, like the room, but the andirons were left. - -I laid the wood across and started the fire, and it blazed and gave -light, and threw strange shadows about the room, and I kneeled beside -it, on the hearth, as I used sometimes when I was a little child, and -warmed my hands, and still I cried, and there was no one to comfort me. - -Mally says she would have been afraid—in that room. I cannot understand. -It is because her dearest have not died. What of him could have been -anything but precious? To have felt his spirit near me! That would -indeed have been holy consolation. - -But what if that were true? I do not know. While I so crouched in the -chimney corner, my heart bleeding, and the tears bathing my poor face, -there was a soft touch, lighter than the flight of a thistledown, -passing over my head, as if the gentlest hand God himself could make -gentle had smoothed my hair, and sought to comfort me. - -Then some one said: “I came here to be with you.” But I do not know -whether it was I who so said in my own heart, or whether the words were -spoken to my ear. I only know that I was comforted, and the fire warmed -my aching limbs, and my head drooped against the wall, and I slept with -long sobs, as I slept once when I was a child, and my dear father -ministered to me. - -It was broad daylight when I awoke, and I felt soothed and strong. I -rose to go and make ready to lock and leave the house. But first I knelt -and prayed, and I am praying still. - -Live in me, O God, as my father lives in me, and as thou didst live in -him. Let me live the life and die the death which he sought to live, to -die, for thee. Give thou unto him through me abiding fruit in the -salvation of souls; and grant us such grace as that we may humbly and -worthily fulfil thy gracious will, I on earth, as he in heaven. - - - - - CHAPTER VII - - She [Dorothea] could not reconcile the anxieties of a spiritual life - involving eternal consequences, with a keen interest in gimp, and - artificial protrusions of drapery.—_Middlemarch_, GEORGE ELIOT. - - -A small house in a small street of a small provincial city. A faded -brown house with its front door directly on the street, the steps -jutting into the sidewalk. A narrow strip of yard overlaid with grimy -snow separated this house from others on either side, equally unnotable -and uninteresting, the dwellings of mechanics and small tradesmen. - -It was the close of a rough March day, the wind had not died with -sunsetting, and a thin, piercing rain, colder than snow, was driven -before it into the very teeth of the few passers-by. - -A tall woman, in a straight black dress with a dyed black shawl drawn -tightly around her shoulders, was making her way down the street dead -against the wind, which beat her hair out into wet strands and bound her -skirts hard about the slender long limbs. She made no useless attempt to -hold an umbrella; in fact, she carried none, but was heavily burdened -with four or five large books. She was girlish in figure after a severe -sort, her step steady, her movement without impatience or fluttering, in -spite of the struggle with the wind. Seeing her face, the absorbedness -of sorrow in it was profound enough to explain indifference to sharper -buffetings than those of the wind. It was Anna Mallison. - -When she reached the house she deposited her books on the icy step and -drew from her pocket with stiffened, aching fingers a key with which she -unlocked the door. The house was unlighted, and its close, airless -precincts apparently empty. - -Stooping, Anna gathered her books again and closed the door, then groped -her way to a steep staircase, a weary sigh escaping her as if in spite -of herself. The room which she entered, silent and dark at her coming, -showed itself, when she had lighted a lamp, a low but spacious living -room, stiffly and even meagrely furnished. Opening beyond it was a -smaller bedroom. - -Having laid aside shawl and bonnet, Anna made preparation for a simple -evening meal for two persons. Not until these were made did she stop to -realize that she was chilled and that her shoes were wet through. -Characteristically it was of the shoes she took cognizance rather than -of her feet—circumstances having thus far led her to regard health as an -easier thing to acquire than food and raiment. - -There was a sudden outburst now, from below, of merry voices, both a -man’s voice and a girl’s, in loud and cheerful banter, then the house -door shut with a bang, there was a quick step on the stairs, and a gay, -fluttering, wind-blown figure of a pretty girl appeared in the upper -sitting room. It was Mally Loveland, Anna’s early Haran friend and -companion. - -“Holloa, Anna!” she called lightly, “lucky for me you got in first! A -fire is a good thing, I tell you, on a night like this.” Mally’s voice -had acquired a new ring of self-confident vivacity. - -“You’re a little late, Mally,” remarked Anna, quietly, as she returned -to the room. “Shall I make tea?” - -“Oh, yes, do; there’s a dear. Oh, such fun as we’ve been having at the -Allens’! But I’m so chilly and damp, you know; and just look, Anna, at -the ribbons on my hat.” Mally held up to view a pretentious structure of -ribbon and velvet which had plainly suffered many things of the -elements. - -“Too bad. I hope you won’t go out again to-night, your cold was so bad -yesterday. It is a wretched night.” - -“Oh, I must go out, my dear—must indeed! Couldn’t disappoint the girls, -you know.” - -“Nor even the boys?” asked Anna smiling. - -Mally laughed at this, evidently pleased. In a few moments she was ready -and they took their places at the tea-table, Mally quieting herself with -an effort, in order to ask a brief blessing upon the meal. It was her -turn to-night. The two coöperated in their religious exercises of a -general character, as well as in their housekeeping. - -Destiny, so eagerly challenged by these two village girls in the -eventless isolation of their life in Haran, seemed at last to have -declared itself decisively: both were to catch men,—Anna in the -apostolic sense, Mally in a different one. - -Anna’s journey to Boston, three months earlier, had been successful. She -had returned under appointment as a missionary to India; but being still -too young to go out, the Board had advised her to spend the following -two years in studies especially designed to develop her usefulness in -work among the heathen. In January Samuel Mallison had died. The -parsonage, where the children had been born and nurtured, could thus no -longer be their home. It must be made ready now for a successor. - -It had been a sorrowful breaking up, and when the melancholy work was -done, and the home effaced forever, the mother, patient and -uncomplaining, departed with Lucia to the lonely farmhouse among the -hills, to take on again, in her later years of life, the many cares of -tending little children. It was then that Anna, accompanied by her -friend Mally, had come to Burlington with the purpose of studying at a -collegiate institute, which offered opportunity for more advanced study -than could be had in Haran. Anna was hard at work every morning on -Paley’s “Evidences” and Butler’s “Analogy,” while her afternoons were -spent in the small hospital of the town, in an informal nurses’ class, -as it was even then considered a useful thing for missionaries to go out -with some equipment for healing the bodies of men as well as their -souls. Mally, by her own account, was “taking” music, painting, and -French. - -As they sat at their little table now, with its meagre and humble fare, -but its indefinable expression of refinement, Anna and Mally were in -striking contrast. - -It has been said before that Anna matured slowly. There was still in her -face, despite its sadness, the grave wonder, the artless simplicity, and -the sweet unconsciousness of a child. Her figure was angular and -undeveloped; her black dress, absolutely, harshly plain, and of coarse -stuff; her face, far too thin and colourless for beauty. She was, -plainly, underfed and overworked; but there was, nevertheless, a dignity -and a distinction in her aspect which emphasized Mally’s provincialness, -notwithstanding the little fashionable touches about dress and coiffure -which the latter had swiftly and instinctively adapted to her own use. - -Anna had the repose of a person who is not concerned at all as to the -impression she makes, or desirous of making any personal impression -whatever. Mally had the restlessness, the vivacity, the eagerness, of a -woman who wishes everywhere and at every time to make herself felt, to -be the central figure. She was born an egotist, and even “divine grace,” -in the devotional phraseology of that time, had not been sufficient to -overcome her natural bent. At the present time, in fact, egotism was -having comparatively easy work with her, and an indefinite truce with -the religious conflicts of earlier days had been tacitly declared. That -spiritual experience had been sincere, and it had lasted several years. -Fortunately, to Mally’s unspoken thought, she had been favoured during -those years to work out her salvation, which was now, according to a -prime doctrine of the church, secured to her against all accidents. This -being so, no one need be concerned for her; and if she were herself -satisfied with a low spiritual attainment, it was nobody’s business but -her own. - -She had, to her own naïve surprise, met with a marked degree of social -success in a certain middle-class stratum of the small town. She was -pretty, clever, adaptive; the young men and women of her set said she -was “such good company.” This was high praise. In Haran the natural -order for a marriageable girl was to be soberly and decorously and -protractedly wooed by one young man, to whom, in process of time, she -was married. Here Mally found a far more stimulating social condition. -Not one man, but many, might be the portion of a popular girl, and Mally -found the strength of numbers very great. The sex instinct, the ruling -desire to attract men, sprang into vigorous action, and became, for a -time at least, predominant. Women of whom this is true are often very -good women, with energy and common sense, but it is important for their -friends, for various reasons, to hold the master key to their character. - -Anna Mallison, at this period of her life as sexless in her conscious -life as a star, looked on at this rapid and unlooked-for development of -Mally’s nature in infinite perplexity. She had always liked certain men, -even outside her own kindred, but it was because they were wise or good -or sincere, not because they were men. A thirst for admiration being -thus far undeclared in her own life, Mally became inexplicable to her; -she did not hold the key to her character, and involuntarily she -withdrew more and more into herself, her only friend becoming thus -uncomprehended. If she felt this in any degree, Mally, being closely -occupied with more tangible consideration, paid small heed to it. - -While they were taking tea, Anna kept her eyes fixed on the mantel -clock, and, having eaten hastily, rose from her place. - -“What is the matter?” asked Mally, looking up. “Oh, of course; but, dear -me, Anna, I never would bother to get things ready for old Marm Wilson, -after the way she grumbles at you. Sit down, do. You’ll never get any -thanks, I can tell you that; and what’s the use?” - -Anna was at the door already. “I think it’s late enough now to be safe. -She only grumbles, you know, if the oil and wood burn out awhile before -she gets here. She was to work quite near on Hill Street, to-day, so she -will surely be in early.” - -“Oh, well, go on if you’ve a mind to. I suppose it is forlorn on a night -like this for the poor old creature to find her house all dark and -cold,” Mally spoke carelessly, half to herself. Anna was already -half-way downstairs. - -Mrs. Wilson was their houseowner, a seamstress of narrow means and -narrower life whose upper rooms they rented. - -An hour later the upper sitting room was suddenly enlivened and almost -filled, as far as seating capacity was concerned, by a group of Mally’s -friends, who had come to escort her to an evening gathering. These young -men and maidens, whom Anna had scarcely seen before, seemed to explain -the new Mally to her, and to place her at a different angle, as one of a -class, not one by herself. The girls all wore a profusion of ribbons and -curls, and were all in an effervescence of noisy excitement regarding -the effect of the dampness on their hair and their finery; they -whispered and giggled together, and pouted at the young men, or tossed -their heads and assumed exaggerated airs of being shocked at the -personal remarks which these attendants volunteered, and with which they -were, in fact, palpably delighted. - -Anna, who attempted some quiet civilities from time to time, was -regarded with undisguised indifference, as not being “one of the set.” - -After the young people had left the house, however, Mally’s companion on -their expedition, a young man somewhat above the others in intelligence, -said to her:— - -“What an unusual girl that friend of yours, that Miss Mallison, is. I -never met any one just like her. She strikes me as a girl who would keep -a fellow at a mighty distance; but if she ever did care for him, he -wouldn’t mind dying for her, you know, and all that sort of thing. But -she isn’t one of the kind you like to play games with.” - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - - She was a queen of noble Nature’s crowning, - A smile of hers was like an act of grace; - She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning, - Like daily beauties of the vulgar race; - But, if she smiled, a light was on her face, - A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beam - Of peaceful radiance. - —HARTLEY COLERIDGE. - - -To the surprise of both the friends, Anna, who had gone about her -rigorous tasks unseen and unnoted hitherto, began about this time to -come into a certain comparative prominence in the quiet little city. - -A day or two after the evening described in the last chapter, Anna -received a note from Mrs. Ingraham, the wife of a distinguished citizen -of the town, a man of great wealth, and a well-known senator. The -Ingrahams were, perhaps, the most highly placed family in the little -town, by right of distinguished antecedents, of wealth, and of habit of -life. They belonged to that singularly privileged class, which Anna -Mallison had not hitherto encountered, who have both will and power to -appropriate the most select of all things which minister to the -individual development, whether things material, things intellectual, or -things spiritual. Thus Mrs. Ingraham and her daughters were women of -fashion, prominent figures at the state functions of their own state, -and well known in the inner circles of Washington society. They dressed -superlatively well in clothes that came from Paris. At the same time -they were as much at home among literary as among fashionable folk, and -Mrs. Ingraham at least was understood to be devotedly religious, with an -especial penchant for foreign missions. In fine, all things were theirs. - -Thus it was an event for Anna Mallison, in her dull, low-ceiled upper -room, to open and read the note of Mrs. Senator Ingraham to herself,—a -note written in graceful, flowing hand, on sumptuous, ivorylike paper, -squarely folded, with a crest on the seal, and the faintest suggestion -of violets escaping almost before perceived. The note was delicately -courteous, a marvel of gracious tact. Mrs. Ingraham had heard through a -friend that Miss Mallison was under appointment as a missionary to -India, and had sincerely wished to meet her. On Friday evening a dear -Christian worker from Boston, now her guest, was to hold a little -parlour meeting at the house for the help and encouragement of friends -who were interested in a higher Christian life. Would not Miss Mallison -give them all the pleasure of making one of that number? Mrs. Ingraham -would esteem it a personal favour; and if Miss Mallison felt that she -could tell the little company something of the experience she had had in -being led into this beautiful life work, it would be most acceptable. -However, this was by no means urged, but merely suggested and left -entirely to Miss Mallison’s preference. - -The man who had brought the note waited on the narrow walk below for -Anna’s answer. He wore a sober but handsome livery. - -This was the first invitation of the kind which Anna had received, but -she had now somewhat accustomed herself, by the advice of the Board, to -speaking in women’s missionary meetings, and it seemed to her right to -say yes. Accordingly, on untinted note-paper of a very common grade, she -said yes in a natural and simple way, and made haste to give the note to -the man at the door below, whom she felt distressed to keep waiting. - -This man removed his shining hat in respectful acknowledgment as he took -the note, and told Anna that Mrs. Ingraham had asked him to say, having -forgotten to mention it in her note, that in case Miss Mallison would be -so kind as to come, Mrs. Ingraham would send the carriage for her at -half-past seven on Friday evening. - -Anna felt that she ought to deprecate so much attention, and timidly -attempted to do so; but the man plainly was not further empowered to -treat in the matter, and, bowing respectfully, departed with Anna’s -pallid, long and narrow envelope in his well-gloved hand. - -When Mally came in, Anna handed her Mrs. Ingraham’s note. Mally’s face -flushed noticeably as she read it. It was not easy for her to have her -quiet friend thus preferred. - -“You’ll go, of course?” she commented rather coldly, as she handed it -back. - -“Yes.” - -“I should think you would by all means. Who wouldn’t? I’ve heard lots -about Mrs. Ingraham; she believes in a very high religious life, you -know, and those rich higher-life people live high, I can tell you. -There’ll be a supper, depend on that, and it will be a fine one.” - -“Oh, I don’t think there will be anything of that kind,” interposed -Anna, hastily. - -“You see!” cried Mally, with an air of superior wisdom and wide social -experience. “Oh my! if I should tell you all I’ve heard about those -Ingrahams, you’d be surprised. One night they have a prayer-meeting and -the next night a dance. It’s all right, I suppose. Kind of new, that’s -all.” - -On the following evening, when the luxurious Ingraham carriage was -driven up before Mrs. Wilson’s poor little house, many eyes peered -narrowly from neighbours’ windows to catch the unwonted sight; and Anna, -slipping hastily out of the Wilson door, felt an access of humility in -this exaltation of herself, for such she knew it seemed to her -neighbours, transient though it was. She had suffered a guilty and -apologetic consciousness all day toward Mally, who had treated her with -a slight coolness and indifference, which afflicted Anna keenly. - -When Anna entered the hall of the Ingraham house, a small, stout woman, -in a brown dress and smooth hair, came out to greet her, and took her -hand between both her own, which were white and soft and heavily -weighted with diamonds. Anna found the diamonds confusing, but she knew -the hands were kind. Mrs. Ingraham’s manner, of sincere kindliness and -dignity, put Anna wholly at her ease, and she looked about her, -presently, at the subdued luxury and elegance of her surroundings with a -frank, childlike pleasure. Her absolute unconsciousness of herself saved -Anna from the awkwardness which her unusual height, her angular -thinness, and her unaccustomedness to social contact might otherwise -have produced. She wore her “other dress,” which was of plain black -poplin, but quite new, and not ungraceful in its straight untortured -lines; and as she entered the great drawing-room, with its splendours of -costly art, and met the eyes of many people who were watching her -entrance, the quiet gravity and simplicity of her bearing were hardly -less than grace. - -Two women, dressed with elegance and apparently not deeply touched with -religiousness, commented apart a little later, having met and spoken in -turn with the lady from Boston and the young missionary elect. - -“What do you think of Mrs. Ingraham’s new saints?” asked one, whose -black dress was heavily studded with jet ornaments. - -“I like the young missionary better than the Bostonian, myself,” was the -reply. The speaker had red hair and an exquisite figure. “Isn’t she -curious, though?” she continued. “Manners, you know, but absolutely no -manner! I never encountered a woman before, even at her age, who -positively had _none_.” - -“That is what ails her, isn’t it?” returned her beaded friend. “You’ve -just hit it. And you can see that tremendously developed missionary -conscience of hers in every line of her face and figure, don’t you know -you can?” - -“Figure, my dear? She has none. I never saw such an utter absence of the -superfluous!” - -Here they both laughed clandestinely behind their laced handkerchiefs. - -“Do you know how I should describe that girl?” challenged the Titian -beauty, recovering. - -“Cleverly, without doubt.” - -“I should call her a scaffolding over a conscience.” - -“That is really very good, Evelyn. You can see that she is not even -consciously a woman yet. She knows nothing of life or of herself or of -this goodly frame, the earth, save what that New England conscience of -hers has interpreted to her. Her horizon is as narrow as her chest.” - -“Poor thing. How will she bear life, I wonder!” and the words died into -a whisper, for at that moment the little talking, moving groups of men -and women were called to take the chairs, which had been arranged in -comfortable order, and give attention to what was to follow. - - - - - CHAPTER IX - - When the soul, growing clearer, - Sees God no nearer; - When the soul, mounting higher, - To God comes no nigher; - But the arch-fiend Pride - Mounts at her side, - And, when she fain would soar, - Makes idols to adore, - Changing the pure emotion - Of her high devotion - To a skin-deep sense - Of her own eloquence; - Strong to deceive, strong to enslave— - Save, oh! save. - —MATTHEW ARNOLD. - - -Anna was the first to speak. When she rose and faced the little -audience, made up of fashionable women, professional men, and a -sprinkling of the more clearly defined religious “workers”, she did not -feel the coldness underlying their courteous attention. The Titian -beauty fixed upon her eyes full of unconsciously patronizing kindness, -and Mrs. Ingraham smiled at her with sympathetic encouragement, but they -might have spared themselves the effort. Anna did not perceive or -consider these things. She was not thinking of them at all, nor of -herself. - -The peculiar twofold consecration which rested upon her spirit in regard -to her missionary vocation, as a call to fulfil at once the Divine Will -and the will of her father, was so profound and so solemn as to remove -her from personal and passing cares. She would not herself have chosen -to appear before these people and to speak to them of her supreme -interest; but to do so had been laid upon her as duty, and Anna’s -conception of duty, by reason of the “tremendously developed conscience” -which the worldly-wise women had discerned in her, was of something to -be done. She did this duty with the simple directness of a soldier under -command. She stood erect and motionless, with no nervous working of -hands or trembling of lips, and spoke in a clear, low voice, in which -alone, by reason of a peculiar vibrant pathos, the profound, undeclared -passion of her nature was suggested. - -Her critics of the early evening had been right in finding her destitute -of manner. There was no slightest evidence as she spoke of the orator’s -instinct—the magnetism of kindling eye and changing expression, of the -conciliation and subtle flattery of her hearers. Neither had she fervid -personal raptures nor spiritual triumphs to communicate. Of the -picturesque and pathetic elements of the situation she made no use -whatever. She had simply an absolute, dominating conviction that the -heathen were lost; that they could only be saved by the knowledge of -Christ; that this knowledge must be conveyed to them by the disciples of -Christ at his command; and that she, Anna Mallison, was humbly grateful -that she was permitted to devote herself to a service so obviously -necessary. Of these things she spoke; of the sacred sense of living out -her father’s disappointed life she naturally could not speak. - -It was not the speech which Mrs. Ingraham and her guests had expected. -They had looked to have their sympathies aroused by a pathetic recital -of sacrifice and exalted self-devotion. Anna, on the contrary, was -unconscious of sacrifice, and felt herself simply grateful for the -privilege of carrying out her innermost desires. - -The people who heard her felt that to give up “the world” was a mighty -thing. Anna did not yet know what “the world” was. To their -anticipation, she had been a figure almost as romantic and moving as a -young novitiate about to take conventual vows; to herself, she was an -enlisted soldier who has received marching orders, and whose heart -exults soberly, since there are ties which may be broken, and death, -perhaps, awaiting, but even so exults with joyful response. - -Thus, to most of those who heard her, Anna’s little speech was a -distinct disappointment; the very loftiness of her conception of her -calling made it featureless, and robbed it of adaptation to easy -emotional effect. The ladies who had discussed her before her speech -found, after it, that it was, after all, exactly what might have been -expected—altogether of a piece with the austerity of her figure, and her -sad, colourless face, no warmth, no emotion—just the hard Puritan -conscience at its hardest. - -There were two or three only who felt the spiritual elevation belonging -to the girl and to what she said, and the underlying pathos of her high -restraint, as too great to put into the conventional phrases of sympathy -and praise, and so kept silence. - -There was a brief pause after Anna returned to her seat, during which -people stirred and spoke in low tones, and the beaded lady leaned over -and thanked Anna for her “charming little talk”. Then Mrs. Westervelt, -the guest from Boston came forward and began speaking with a winning -smile, a gentle, soothing voice, and an affectionate reference to “the -dear, sweet young sister.” She had the ease and flexibility of the -practised public speaker; the winning and dimpled smile with which she -won the company at the start was in frequent use, and she made constant -motions with a pair of very white hands. She was quietly dressed, and -yet, after the straightness of Anna’s poor best gown, her attire had its -own air of handsome comfort. The perfect command of her voice and of -herself established instantaneously a _rapport_ with her audience, of -which Anna, in her inexperience, had never dreamed. - -Her beloved Mrs. Ingraham, she said, had asked her to tell the dear -friends of some wonderful answers to prayer which she had recently -experienced, but before doing this she craved the privilege of reading a -few verses of Scripture. - -She then read certain passages from the prophecy of Zechariah, detached -from one another, taken entirely from their historic setting, but fitted -together with some care. The speaker explained that she had, in her -earlier Christian life, found some difficulty in interpreting this -rather obscure passage, but in the new life of complete sanctification, -into which it had been her glorious privilege to enter, she had come to -see all Scripture by a new and marvellous light. No longer did she trust -to the dry and formal explanations of scholars, many of whom, it was but -too well known, had never had the deep things of God revealed to them, -and who had been led into many errors by their pride of learning. All -that kind of study was past for her, for the dear Lord himself showed -her, when she lifted her heart to him, just what he meant in his blessed -word. This had been her experience in regard to the passage just read. -To the natural mind there were difficulties in it, but just below the -surface was the great precious truth which God would have all his -children receive. It had been given her that when she came to the -beautiful home of Mrs. Ingraham, and should be called upon to speak to -these friends, she must bring them this particular passage. But it had -looked dark to her, and she was in doubt how to interpret it. But as she -had been in the cars, coming up from Boston, she had said: “Now, Lord, -those dear friends in Burlington will want to know just what you meant -by that sweet portion of your word, and I do not feel that I can tell -them unless you enlighten me. What is it that is intended by the two -staves in the hand of the prophet, one called Beauty and one called -Bands?” - -Then the dear Lord had sweetly spoken in the secret place of her heart, -as distinctly as if with an audible voice: “My child, the old life of -formalism, of coldness, and of worldly pleasure in which many Christians -live is the staff called Bands. The higher life, the life of answered -prayer, the life of perfect sanctification and fulness of blessing, is -Beauty. Take this message to my dear children in Burlington.” - -Oh, how simple! Oh, how sweet! Who would weary heart and brain over the -interpretations of rationalistic German commentators, when we could thus -have the direct interpretation of his own word by the Lord himself? - -Thus Mrs. Westervelt proceeded at some length on this line, and then, -with tearful eyes and an added intensity of the personal element, she -rehearsed the answers to prayer which her friend, Mrs. Ingraham, had -rightly called wonderful. Thus, in carrying on the work of preaching -perfect sanctification in Boston, a room had been needed for meetings. -Two or three of the little band had prayed, and within a week they had -had a most suitable room offered them by a precious sister, but it was -unfurnished. The details of securing the equipment of this room were now -described. Each piece of furniture, the speaker declared, had been -directly given in answer to special prayer and by a marvellous -interposition. If any natural means had been at work by which persons in -sympathy with their efforts were led to supply their obvious needs, -these were not mentioned. Plainly it was Mrs. Westervelt’s conception of -a perfect relation to God that the one sustaining it should receive -constant miraculous testimony of the divine favour. The privilege of -attaining this condition was presented with fervid emphasis. It was the -high and perfect life! Who would live on the old plane when this was -what God had for them? Oh, how beautiful it was to trust! Why should we -ever doubt, when we were so plainly told that _whatsoever_ we ask we -shall receive? - -As Mrs. Westervelt went on, many of her hearers were moved to tears, and -a continuous response of sympathetic looks and subdued exclamations -followed her recital of her surprising experiences. The wealthy women -present felt that this was certainly a fine thing for those who could -not get what they wanted by ordinary business methods, but were, -perhaps, secretly glad that they were not themselves called upon to test -their relation to God quite so pointedly. The poorer and humbler guests -wept profusely, thinking how long they had stumbled on in the dull and -inferior practice of working painfully for many needed things, which -might all have been miraculously given them, if they had only been -favourites of God, like Mrs. Westervelt, or, as she would have said, -“had only just stepped out into the fulness.” - -Anna Mallison sat and listened in unspeakable astonishment. - -This was as absolutely new a gospel to her as the gospel of Christ to a -disciple of Buddha. It was her first contact with sentimental religion. - -The God of her father had been the immutable and eternal Creator, the -high and holy One inhabiting eternity, the Judge of all the earth. -Through the Incarnation the just anger of this Holy Being toward sinful -men had been appeased. But although in Christ there had been found -access to God and an Intercessor, never had it entered into the heart of -Samuel Mallison or those whom he led to regard themselves as occupying a -position other than of deepest humility, self-distrust, awe, and -reverence. - -Mrs. Westervelt’s phraseology was almost like a foreign tongue to Anna. -The constant use of terms of familiar endearment in speaking of the -Almighty; the application of affectionate and flattering adjectives on -all sides; the sense of a peculiar and intimate relation established -between herself and God; and the free-and-easy conversational, in fact, -rather colloquial, style in which she held herself privileged to -communicate with him,—were almost amazing to her. And beneath all these -superficial marks of a new cult, lay the deeper sense of the inherent -disparity. Religion to Anna had been, it has been said earlier, a system -of prohibitions, of self-denials, of self-abasement, with only at rare -intervals the illumination of a profound sense of the love of God. Here -was a religion which held up a species of luxurious spiritual enjoyment, -of unrestrained freedom in approaching God, of an indubitable sense of -being personally on the best of terms with him, as the privilege of all -true believers. - -The conception of prayer which Mrs. Westervelt had demonstrated was not -less surprising to Anna. She knew that there were wide and sweeping -scriptural promises with regard to prayer, but she had always felt a -deep mystery attaching itself to them. For herself, she had never -ventured to intrude her temporal gratifications and designs upon the -attention of her God, but had rather felt a sober silence regarding -these things to best befit a sinful creature coming before a holy -Creator. Half revolting, but half smitten with compunction, the thought -now flashed through her mind that, if she had only prayed after this new -sort, her father might have received the oranges for which he had sorely -longed in the months before his death. This luxury was not to be -obtained in Haran, and had therefore been patiently foregone, heaven and -Burlington having seemed equally inaccessible at the time. - -Mrs. Westervelt sat down, and the meeting broke up, a swarm of -enthusiastic, tearful women rushing to surround her and pour out their -effusive appreciation of her wonderful address. Anna stood bewildered -and alone, doubting within herself. Had it all been the highest -consecration, as it undoubtedly desired to be? or had it been the -highest presumption, the old temptation of spiritual pride, assuming a -new guise? - -Two clergymen of the city, who had been attentive listeners during the -whole evening, not being moved to pour out their admiration upon either -speaker, quietly strayed across the hall into Mr. Ingraham’s library. -The senator himself was absent. - -“Well, Nichols,” said Dr. Harvey, the older man, who had a shrewd, -kindly, smooth-shaven face, “what do you think of that for Old Testament -exegesis?” - -“It was pretty stiff to have the responsibility for it given to the -Lord,” returned his friend. “I almost felt like interrupting her to say -that, with all due respect, the Lord never told her any such thing, her -interpretation being monstrously untrue.” - -“It was awful, simply awful,” said the other, with slow emphasis. “Such -fantastic tricks before high heaven might make men, as well as angels, -weep. And then her familiarity with the Lord, Nichols,—why, man, she -positively patronized the Almighty!” - -“It is true, and yet, do you know, Doctor, that woman has some -extraordinary elements for success in such work?” - -“If she hadn’t, she would be of no importance, my dear fellow. She has a -fine homiletic instinct. That is just where the danger lies. But, after -all, she represents only one danger—there are others. She is simply the -modern mystic—a kind of latter-day, diluted Madame Guyon. Too much of -the thing is a trifle nauseous, perhaps, but it represents the revolt of -devout souls, in every age, from formalism, and is inevitably an excess, -like all revolt. Doubtless there will be such revolt, world without end, -and it will have its uses.” - -“It was fairly pathetic to see how eagerly those women rushed forward to -receive her; evidently that’s the message they are pining for. They -don’t go for us that way, Doctor.” - -“No; and they didn’t for that first speaker, Mallison’s daughter. I knew -him. Poor man, what a mystic he might have made, if he had let himself -go! This girl is much like him—the old New England type; religion with -all colour and sentiment clean purged out of it. Cold as ice, chaste as -snow, the antipodes of the Guyon-Westervelt danger. Talk of -holiness,—poor Mallison,—he was the holiest man I ever knew, and in this -life the least rewarded,” and the old clergyman shook his head with a -mournful smile. - -“I fancied, when I heard her speak, although I had no idea who she was, -that this daughter of his had not exactly revelled in the luxury of -religion.” - -“No; but I tell you, Nichols, she is none the worse for that, at her -age. There is a hardihood, an unconscious, sturdy fortitude in that -earlier type, which we mightily need in the world to-day. To me, that -girl was positively beautiful, because—notice what I say, Nichols—she is -absolutely true.” - -“Very likely.” - -“Yes; but when you have thought it over, tell me, some day, how many men -and women you know of whom you can say that. If you know one, you will -do well.” - -Dr. Harvey, as he said these words, rose to leave the library, but -stopped and stood, as there appeared at that moment at the hall door the -figure of a man who was apparently passing through the hall. So silent -and so sudden was his coming, and so singular his aspect, that the -younger of the two men, perceiving him, started violently in involuntary -surprise, and was conscious of a disagreeable sensation along the course -of his veins. - -This man, who had approached the door with noiseless steps, might have -been young, or might have been old. He was of unusual height, with -narrow shoulders, short body, and disproportionate length of limb. His -face, an elongated oval, was of as smooth surface as that of a woman, -and of the shape and pale even colour of an egg. The enormous forehead, -the eyes, small and narrow, set wide apart and obliquely, the flattened -nose, the straight, wide, almost lipless mouth, combined with an -expression of crafty complacence to give the man a singularly alien -semblance. As he stood, he smiled slowly, a smile which emphasized both -the craftiness and the complacency of his expression, and remarked in a -high, thin voice:— - -“Just going, Doctor? Make yourself at home here, that’s all right.” - -He carried a rather large, morocco-bound note-book in one hand, and a -silver pencil-case in the other. His hands were extremely delicate and -white, with sinuous, flexible fingers, of such phenomenal length as to -suggest an extra, simian joint. They conveyed to the young clergyman a -sense of expressing the same craft as the face, and a yet more palpable -cruelty. The unpleasant impression became more pronounced, for, seeing -the hands, young Nichols involuntarily shivered. - -Probably this fact was not noticed by the newcomer, but, having thus -spoken and smiling one more chilling smile, he passed on to the other -end of the hall. - -Eyes rather than voice asked in astonishment, “Who is that?” - -“Oliver Ingraham, the senator’s son,” was the elder clergyman’s reply, -as they left the library together, “the son of his first wife.” Dr. -Harvey was Mrs. Ingraham’s pastor. - -“Incredible!” cried the other, under his breath. “I never saw him, never -heard of his existence.” - -The other shook his head with gravely troubled look. - -“He is only here when it becomes impossible to keep him elsewhere.” - -“Is he insane? imbecile? what is he?” - -“Not the first, not the second. I cannot answer the third question.” - - - - - CHAPTER X - - She sitteth in a silence of her own; - Behind her, on the ground, a red rose lies; - Her thinking brow is bent, nor doth arise - Her gaze from that shut book whose word unknown - Her firm hands hide from her; there all alone - She sitteth in thought trouble, maidenwise. - —R. W. GILDER. - - -An October morning, and breakfast-time in the Ingraham household. Great -doors stood open into the dining room, where the vast round table could -be seen with its glittering array of silver, and the grace and colour of -exquisite flowers. - -A slender girl, as graceful and charming in her simple morning dress as -the flowers she had just placed on the table, stood in the doorway, -waiting, a shade of impatience on her face. Behind her, at one of the -dining-room windows, stood Oliver Ingraham, her half-brother. Mrs. -Ingraham, with her other daughters, one older, one younger, were in the -adjoining library. Outside, in the hall, a man paced up and down with -impatience which he did not attempt to conceal. This was Mr. Ingraham -himself, a man of good height, fine, erect figure, and youthful energy -of motion and bearing. His hair was grey, as also his heavy mustache and -imperial; his eyes grey also, keen, clear, but inclined to wander with -disconcerting swiftness; he had a high, beaklike nose, and a fine, -carefully kept skin, in which a network of dark red veins betrayed the -high liver. He was at once peremptory and gracious, military and -courtly, a man of the world and of affairs on a large scale. - -With watch in hand he entered the library and approached his wife. - -“Cornelia,” he said, smiling with good-tempered sarcasm, “does it strike -you that the show is a little late in opening? I dislike to mention it, -but it is already ten minutes past eight. I am not familiar with the -social customs of Abyssinia, nor even of Macedonia, but in the United -States it is considered good form for guests, albeit lions, to come to -breakfast on time. Even the Hyrcan tiger, I understand, is usually -prompt in his attendance on that function—” - -“Papa!” cried his youngest daughter, Louise, “you are perfectly -dreadful.” - -Mrs. Ingraham looked up into her husband’s face with her mild, -conciliating smile. - -“I am so sorry, Justin,” she said softly, “but I suppose the poor dear -creatures are very tired after the meeting last night, and their -journey, and all—” - -There was a slight noise on the stairs as she spoke, and Mr. Ingraham -faced about with military precision to receive in succession a number of -ladies, who filed into the room, and were warmly greeted and promptly -presented to him by his wife. Two were visitors from New York, -substantial “Board women”; other two, returned missionaries from Japan; -the last to enter was a shy, brown little person with soft dark eyes, a -native Hindu, who could only communicate with her host by a gentle, -pleading smile. All were in attendance on a great missionary conference -held in Burlington that week, drawing its supporters from all New -England and New York. - -“Shall we go to breakfast, Cornelia?” Mr. Ingraham asked, having infused -sudden courage into the trembling breast of the little native by his -gallant attention. “Are we all here?” - -“Why, no, papa,” interposed his youngest daughter; “we must wait for Mr. -Burgess.” - -“Mr. Burgess?” repeated her father, in a musing tone. “I do not recall -that I have met him. Is the gentleman an invalid?” - -“At least the gentleman is here, papa,” murmured Louise, directing his -attention to a young man who at the moment entered the room, and -approached Mrs. Ingraham with a few words of courteous apology. - -Meeting him, Mr. Ingraham saw a slender, youthful figure, somewhat below -the average of masculine height, a man of delicate physique, perhaps -five and twenty years old, with a serious, sensitive face, and earnest -blue eyes looking out through glasses; a young man who presented himself -with quiet self-possession, and bore the unmistakable marks of good -breeding. - -As they took their places around the breakfast table, Keith Burgess, for -this was the young man’s name, found himself seated opposite Oliver, -with whom he was not drawn to converse, and between the second Miss -Ingraham and the little Aroona-bia. Conversation with the latter being -necessarily of an extremely limited nature, her gentle lisping of “yes” -and “thank you” being somewhat indiscriminate, the guest found himself -shortly occupied exclusively with his very pretty neighbour. - -“You know, Mr. Burgess,” she was presently saying, “I almost feel that I -know you already.” - -“How so?” asked Keith, simply. It was plain that, although accustomed to -the refinements of life, this was not a man accomplished in social -subtleties. There was, in fact, a curiously unworldly expression in the -young fellow’s eyes, and somewhat of thoughtful introspection. - -“Why, you see mamma and some of her friends who heard you speak last -spring have told us so much about you.” - -Keith bowed slightly, without reply. - -“And you can’t think, Mr. Burgess, how delighted we are to have you come -to Burlington. We were so afraid you would leave for the East before we -could hear you, and I assure you that would have been a great -disappointment. I think you sail in the spring, do you not?” - -“Yes, in May, as soon as I graduate.” - -“And it is for India?” - -“I suppose so. It is not fully determined, but that would be my choice, -and I believe the Board incline that way.” - -The pretty Miss Ingraham, whose name was Gertrude, sighed a very little. - -“It is all so wonderful, so almost incredible, to me that any one young -and like other people, don’t you know? can really go,” she said gently. -“There _are_ people to whom it seems perfectly natural. Mamma has a new -protégée who is to go out as a missionary teacher a year from this fall. -She is very young, only twenty-one, and we all think she is lovely; but -still, for her it seems really the only thing to be expected. She has -the genuine missionary air already, and you would know she could not be -anything else, somehow.” - -Keith looked civilly, but not keenly, interested. - -“I wonder if it is any one I have heard of,” he remarked. “It is our -Board that sends her?” - -“Yes. Her name is Mallison, Anna Mallison. Her father was a country -minister up in the mountainous part of the state. Poor thing! She will -find India quite a change after Vermont winters, I should think.” - -“An improvement, perhaps,” said Keith, smiling. “But really, Miss -Ingraham, going back to what you said a moment ago, why should it seem -so incredible for a man who has devoted himself to the service of God, -truly and unreservedly, to be willing to go where what little he can do -is most needed? Many men go to foreign countries and remain the better -part of their lives for business purposes: men in the navy; Englishmen, -of course, of social and political ambitions, by hundreds. Do you ever -feel that there is anything extraordinary or superhuman in what they -do?” - -Gertrude Ingraham was looking at the young man with almost devout -attention. - -“No,” she answered, shaking her head with pretty humility, seeing which -way he led. - -“Then why,” pursued Keith Burgess, leaning over to look steadily in her -face with his earnest eyes, and lowering his voice to a deeper emphasis, -“why do you wonder that now and then a man should be willing to do for -the Lord Jesus Christ and the salvation of souls what a hundred men do -as a matter of course for their own selfish ambition and the gaining of -money?” - -The girl looked down, the brightness of her face softened by serious -feeling. - -“The only wonder, Miss Ingraham, is that so few do it. For my own part I -do not see how a fellow who goes into the ministry, as things are now, -can do anything else,” and Keith turned back to his neglected breakfast. -Thereafter he was drawn into conversation, across the mute languor of -the little Hindu, with his host, who had questions to ask regarding -Fulham, which had been his college. - -At four o’clock that afternoon, Keith Burgess, sitting in a large -congregation in Dr. Harvey’s stately church, listening with consciously -declining interest to a long statistical report which was being read -from the pulpit, felt himself touched on the shoulder. Looking up he saw -the Rev. Frank Nichols, pastor of a mission church in the city. He had -known him well in college, a clear-eyed, well set-up young cleric. -Nichols invited him by a word and look to follow him, and together they -quietly left the assembly. - -When they had reached the street and the crisp autumn air, Keith shook -himself with a motion of relief. - -“Is there anything more tiresome than such a succession of meetings?” he -exclaimed. “Shall we walk? I am in a hurry to climb one of these hills.” - -“We must do it later,” returned Nichols; “but if you are not too tired I -want to take you down this street and on a block or two to my church. -The women are having a meeting there this afternoon.” - -“Oh, yes, I remember; but will it be in order for us to intrude?” - -“Yes, that will be all right. The brethren drop in quietly now and then, -and are welcome. You needn’t stay long, for you are tired, I know by -your face; but I tell you what it is, Burgess, I want you to hear Anna -Mallison.” - -Anna Mallison! again that name which he had heard in the morning. It -began to have a strangely musical quality to Keith’s ears. - -“I have heard her name. She is under appointment, I believe. A good -speaker?” - -“No, not a particularly good speaker, but, as Dr. Harvey once said to -me, an absolutely true nature. She is a young woman of strong -personality, but singularly destitute of the desire to impress herself, -and with a certain touch of the unconsciously heroic about her which you -feel but cannot describe. I have never met a girl of precisely her type -before, myself, and I am curious to know what you will think of her.” - -Entering the small, unpretentious church, Nichols and his friend sat -down in the first row of seats, next to the central aisle. The room was -nearly full; several women were upon the platform, from which the pulpit -had been removed. One woman was speaking in a high-keyed, plaintive -voice. - -It was not a stable or quiet audience; some were leaving their seats, -others coming in, many turning their heads to catch glimpses of expected -friends. Behind the young men came in two girls who remained standing -close beside them in the aisle for a little space. One of these girls -had pretty, fair hair and peachy cheeks; she was dressed in deep blue -with touches of gilt cord and buttons, giving a kind of coquettish -military jauntiness to her appearance. She wore a small round hat, of -dark blue, which set off her pretty hair charmingly. Her manner was full -of quick, eager animation; she smiled much and whispered to her -companion continually. This companion stood motionless and unresponsive -to the frequent appeals made to her, a quiet face and figure, a dress -and bonnet of plain and unadorned black, ill suited to her youth; but it -was her face and figure rather than the other to which Keith Burgess -found his attention riveted. He knew intuitively, before Nichols told -him, that this was Anna Mallison; but without this knowledge he felt -that he must still have kept his eyes upon her face. The repose of it, -the purity and elevation of the look, the serene, serious sweetness, -were what he had seen in the faces of angels men have dreamed of rather -than of women they have loved. But that she was after all a woman, with -a woman’s sensitiveness and impressibility, he fancied was manifest -when, having perhaps felt his look resting thus intently on her face, -Anna turned and their eyes met in an instant’s direct, uninterrupted -gaze, whereupon a deep flush rose and spread over the clear brown pallor -of her face, and she turned, and bent to speak to her friend, as if to -cover a slight confusion. - -The friend was Mally Loveland, and she was finding her position a -particularly satisfactory one at the moment, being aware that Mr. -Nichols was so placed as to take in the best points of her new fall -costume in a side view. It was for him, not for Anna, that she had been -using so much of nervous energy in the last few minutes. - -A lady who had left the platform for the purpose now came down the -aisle, and, taking Anna Mallison by the hand with a word of welcome, -conducted her to the front of the church. Mally, thus left alone, -fluttered into a place made for her, seeming to discover Mr. Nichols as -she turned, and smiling surprise and pleasure upon him. - -Just before Anna began to address the gathering, while a hymn was sung, -Keith Burgess quietly made his way to a seat near the front of the -church, at the side of the platform. He had excused himself to Nichols, -who had then asked and obtained permission to sit beside Mally, an -incident productive of a vast amount of conscious and fluttering delight -on the part of that young lady. - -The austerity of Anna Mallison’s religious life had, under the influence -of Mrs. Westervelt and her disciple, Mrs. Ingraham, relaxed within a few -months to a marked degree. New conceptions of a relation of joyful -assurance, of conscious acceptance with God, had risen within her, with -the perception that religion was not exclusively prohibition, and -conscience its only energy. Something of warmth and brightness had been -infused into her chill, colourless, outward life, furthermore, by the -intercourse with the Ingrahams which had followed her first visit. She -was still in a manner ice-bound in her interior life and in her capacity -for expression, but the ice was beginning to yield and here and there to -break up a little. - -Thus, in the manner with which she spoke on this occasion, there was -something of gentleness, and a less uncompromising self-restraint than -when she had first spoken before an audience. She was still noticeably -reserved, still innocent of the orator’s arts, or of conscious seeking -to produce an effect; she still delivered herself of her simple message -as if it were a duty to be discharged rather than an opportunity to be -grasped. But through the coldness of all this neutrality there pierced -now and then a ray of the radiant purity and loftiness of the girl’s -inner nature, and this time those who heard her did not pity or -patronize her in their thoughts. - -Keith Burgess watched her from the place he had chosen. Her tall, meagre -figure in its nunlike dress was sharply outlined against a palely tinted -window opposite, through which the October sun shone. She stood without -support of table or desk, her hands falling straight at her sides, and -looked directly at the people she addressed, fearless, since burdened -with the sense of immortal destinies, not with a consciousness of -herself. Keith noted the hand which fell against the straight black -folds of her dress; its fine shape and delicate texture alone expressed -her ladyhood. She could not have been called pretty, but her face thus -seen in profile was almost beautiful, the hollowness of the cheeks and -the stringent thinness of all the contours being less obvious. - -But Keith Burgess was not occupied with Anna’s face and figure to any -serious degree. He knew instinctively that she was of good birth and -breeding; he saw that, though severe and angular in person and manner, -she was womanly, noble, refined. He divined, as no one could have failed -to divine, the essential truth and purity of her nature. From her -simple, unfeigned utterance he perceived the high earnestness and -consecration with which she was entering upon missionary labour. -Perceiving all those things, the young man looked and listened with a -sudden, momentous question taking swift shape in his mind. - -He remained until the close of the meeting and met Anna, introducing -himself, as he preferred doing. She received his few expressions of -satisfaction in hearing her with scant response, and apparently with -neither surprise or gratification. He did not like her the less for -that. - -The Ingrahams found Keith sober and preoccupied at dinner that night, -but, as he was to be chief speaker at the evening session of the -convention, they thought this natural and in order. He was liked and was -treated with especial consideration by them all, and even Mr. Ingraham -did him the honour of going to the church to hear him speak. He had no -sympathy with his wife’s penchant for missions, but he thought Burgess -was “a nice little fellow,” and he wanted to see what kind of a speech -he could make. - -The different members of the family and their guests came home one after -another late in the evening, and, as they met, exchanged enthusiastic -expressions concerning the eloquence of Keith Burgess. Mrs. Ingraham and -the Board ladies thought the dear young man had a wonderful gift; -Aroona-bia smiled tenderly in assent; the girls said he was simply -perfect; and Mr. Ingraham admitted that, when he had worked off some of -his “sophomoric effervescence,” he might make a good deal of an orator, -and added, under his breath, it was nothing less than a crime to send a -delicate, talented boy like that to make food for those barbarians, -whose souls weren’t worth the sacrifice, even if he could save them, -which he couldn’t. - -“Very true, dear,” rejoined his wife; “no man can save another’s soul; -he can only lead him to the dear Lord’s feet.” - -The senator bit short a sharp reply, and just then Keith himself -appeared, looking pale and exhausted, deprecating wearily the praise -they were eager to bestow upon him, and begging to be excused if he -withdrew at once to his room. - -As the sound of his footsteps was lost in the hall above, Mrs. Ingraham -said:— - -“I am sorry Mr. Burgess was so tired. I invited Anna Mallison to come -here for the night, and I wanted him to meet her. Mrs. Churchill has -asked the opportunity for a little talk with Anna in the morning, and it -will be convenient for her to be here. It is so far to her rooms, you -know.” - -“I should think the house was full already, mamma,” remarked Gertrude -Ingraham. “Where can we put her?” - -“Oh, she will not mind going up to the south room in the third story, my -dear. I told Jane to have it in order.” - -Just then Miss Ingraham came into the house and Anna Mallison was with -her. - - - - - CHAPTER XI - - The Moving Finger writes; and having writ, - Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit - Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, - Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it. - —THE RUBAIYAT. - - -In a few moments after he had reached his room Keith Burgess heard a -knock at his door. Opening it, he found a neat, white-capped maid who -bore a tray; entering demurely, she placed it upon a small table, -remarking that Mrs. Ingraham thought he would need refreshment. The tray -held an exquisite china service for one person, a pot of chocolate, and -delicate rolls and cakes. - -“Miss Gertrude said I was to light your fire,” the maid said, proceeding -to remove the fender and strike a match for the purpose. - -“Very well,” replied Keith, walking to the other side of the room. The -night air was sharp, and he liked the notion. - -A moment later the maid withdrew, with the noiseless, unobtrusive step -and movement of the well-trained servant, and Keith, when he turned, -found the room already enlivened by the firelight. The table was drawn -to a cosey corner on the hearth-rug, a deep cushioned easy-chair beside -it. The fragrant steam of the hot chocolate rose invitingly, and as -Keith threw himself with a long sigh of comfort into the chair, he -detected another fragrance, and perceived, lying upon the plate, a -single rose, and around the stem a slip of white paper. On the paper, -Keith found a few words written: “You must let me thank you for the -great uplift you have given me to-night. GERTRUDE INGRAHAM.” - -The young man, rising, put the flower in a clean glass vase on his -mantle, and the note in the inner compartment of his writing-case, -touching both with careful gentleness. Then, returning to the fireside, -he fell to drinking and eating with cordial satisfaction in all this -creature comfort; but as he ate and drank and grew warm, he was thinking -steadily. - -He was not minded to flatter himself unduly, but what was he justified -in inferring from Gertrude’s action and from other small signs which he -had seen? Simply, that she liked him; honoured him above his due; -probably idealized him; possibly, if he sought her deeper regard, might -respond. - -He liked her thoroughly. What man would not? She was very pretty, and -her beauty was enhanced by faultless dress,—no small thing in itself. -Her manners were charming, with the charm of a sweet nature, aided by -the polish of high social intercourse; she had the thousand little -nameless, flattering graces of the woman, who, old or young, -instinctively knows how to put a man at his best. Furthermore, Keith was -not insensible to the background against which this girl was set. The -aristocratic, powerful family connection, the magnificent home, the -wealth and grace and ease of life, the fine manners and habits of -thought and conduct belonging to the Ingrahams, were not matters of -naught to him. He liked all these things. What was more, he knew -perfectly that there was no element of temptation in them to lead him -from his chosen path of altruism; Mrs. Ingraham’s well-known missionary -ardour and Gertrude’s delicate sympathy were guarantee for that. They -understood perfectly that within six months he would depart for an exile -of perhaps a lifetime, in an alien and uncongenial land, where he would -work under conditions of life repulsive and depressing to the last -degree. Nevertheless, he believed without vanity that Gertrude Ingraham, -knowing all, foreseeing all, could care for him. - -Keith Burgess had come, suddenly perhaps, but definitely, to the -conclusion that he wanted a wife; and, furthermore, that he wanted a -wife who would go out with him to India six months hence. Consequently, -as he sat by the fire which Gertrude Ingraham had lighted for him, he -pursued this line of thought with significant persistence. - -A curious condition, however, attended his reflections. While he sat by -Gertrude’s fire, tasted her dainty food, inhaled the fragrance of the -rose she had sent him, and thought of her in all her beauty and grace, -he did not _see_ her. Instead of her figure, there stood constantly -before the eye of his mind the tall, austere form of Anna Mallison, in -the unsoftened simplicity of her manner and apparel, and in her -passionless, unresponding repose. He thought of Gertrude Ingraham, but -he saw Anna Mallison. - -She had travelled the way that he had come. Outwardly there might be -coldness between them, but inwardly there must be the profoundest basis -of sympathy. The same master conviction had won and held their two -souls. He could not have known her better, it seemed to him, had he -known her all his life. The things which would have repelled another man -were what drew him all the more to her. It was not the passion of love -which had so suddenly awakened within him, but a mighty longing for what -Keith Burgess had thus far gone through life without,—a true and -satisfying sympathy with his religious life and its aspirations. A girl -like Gertrude Ingraham might accept his religion and the shape it took, -but it would be because she cared for him; a girl like Anna Mallison -might, perhaps, accept him, but it would be because of his religion and -the shape it had taken. At this crisis of his life the enthusiasm for -his calling ruled him as no human love could, and by it all the issues -of life must stand or fall. - -Hours passed. The fire died out to a core of dull red embers, the single -rose drooped on its stem, the tray of food stood despoiled and -indifferent; the words of the small white paper were forgotten, and -Keith Burgess, throwing himself upon his knees, prayed thus to God:— - -“Oh, my Lord, if thou wilt grant me so great a good as to win her for my -wife, if thou wilt bless me in seeking her, if it is according to thy -will that our lives should be united, and that together we should carry -the cross of Christ to the lost, grant me, O Lord, a sign. But if it be -not thy will, make this, too, known to me. Thy will I seek, O my God, in -this, in all things.” - -Then, being wearied in brain and body, he slept heavily until morning. - -When, just before the breakfast hour, Keith stepped into the hall, he -paused a moment, hearing a step on the stairs above him leading from the -third story rooms. He advanced slowly to the head of the next staircase, -and not until he reached it did he see who it was descending from above. -Then, lifting his eyes, he saw Anna Mallison. - -Her presence in this house, at this hour, so surprising, so -unlooked-for, so almost unnatural, since her home was elsewhere in the -city—what did it mean? It was the sign he had craved. How else could he -interpret it? - -The blood rushed in sudden flow to his heart, leaving his face -colourless. - -Anna, not being surprised to meet him thus, was simply saying “Good -morning,” and passing down the stairs. Keith put out his hand and -stopped her going. - -So marvellous did her presence seem to him that he forthwith spoke out -with unconventional directness the thought in his mind. - -“I think you do not know just what it means that you are here, in this -house, this morning.” - -Mally Loveland would have flashed some pert rejoinder to a comment like -this; Gertrude Ingraham, in a similar situation, would have looked at -Keith Burgess with pretty wonder and smiling question. - -Anna Mallison, seeing the pallor and emotion of his face, and having -become wonted to the supernatural interpretation of the small events of -human life, only said gravely and without obvious surprise:— - -“I do not, perhaps, know all that it means. I trust it means no trouble -to any one—to you.” - -“No,” he answered, a slight tremor in his voice; “I cannot believe that -it does. You came under the divine leading, no matter how or why you -seemed to yourself to come. You came as a sign. I had asked a sign of -God. I did not dream of your presence in this house. Seeing you now, so -unexpectedly, how can I doubt any further? It is the will of God.” - -Anna looked straight into Keith’s face, a deep shadow of perplexity on -her own, but she did not speak. - -He smiled slightly. - -“You cannot understand, and no wonder, I am speaking to you as I have no -right to—in the dark. It is for you to say whether, by and by, before I -go to-morrow morning, I may explain my meaning and try to make clear to -you what is so clear to me.” - -It was Anna now who grew perturbed, for the significance of his words, -although veiled, was manifest. She turned and descended the stairs -without speaking, Keith Burgess following her in silence. She did not -herself understand her own sharp recoil and dismay, but all the maiden -instinct of defence was in alarm within her. - -At the foot of the stairs they both paused for an instant, and Keith -asked in a low voice:— - -“Will you walk with me on these hills somewhere, alone, this afternoon -at four o’clock?” - -A sudden great sense of revolt arose in the girl’s heart, and broke in a -faint sob upon her lips. She did not want to walk on the hills with -him—with any man. She did not want to hear what he had to say. But he -had said it was the will of God, their thus meeting. He had sought that -awful, irrefragable will, and she had acted, it seemed, in obedience to -it in coming to this house. What was she, to be found fighting against -God? - -She felt herself constrained to say yes. - - - - - CHAPTER XII - - ... I made answer to my friend: “Of a surety I have now set my feet - on that point of life beyond the which he must not pass who would - return.” - - —_The New Life_, DANTE. - - -“I ask you, Anna Mallison, to go out with me to my work in India in May, -as my wife.” - -Thus Keith Burgess, having recounted the story of the lights and -leadings of the past twenty-four hours. - -They were standing, and faced one another in a yellow beech wood where -the sky above their heads was shut out by the sun-lightened paving of -the clustering leaves. - -As she came down the woodland path Anna had broken off a long stem of -goldenrod, and she held it hung like an inverted torch at her side, like -a sad vestal virgin at some ancient funeral rites. - -“Forgive me for bringing this to you so swiftly. I know it seems hasty, -perhaps unreasonably so. But to me no time or acquaintance, however -extended, could change my wish. And, you see, my time is so very short, -now!” - -Keith Burgess looked with his whole soul’s sincerity into Anna’s face, -and the integrity of his purpose, of his whole nature, could not be -mistaken. - -“It is not the suddenness, I think,” she replied slowly, with -unconscious coldness; “like you, I feel that the great facts of God’s -will and providence may be made clear to us instantly.” - -Then she hesitated and paused. - -“Please go on,” the young man said gently. - -“It is only,” she answered, with a pathos which a woman would have -understood, “that I did not want to be married at all. I had never -thought of it as being a thing I needed to be troubled about.” - -Keith Burgess smiled faintly at her frankness, which was not cruel of -intention, he knew, but his smile touched Anna’s heart. - -“I did not wish to trouble you,” he said quietly. - -“Please do not misunderstand me. It was not the way to express it—my -words sounded unkind, I am afraid. I should learn better ways of gentler -speaking. Other women seem to have them naturally.” - -“I like it that you are honest, even if it hurts,” said Keith, steadily. - -“I did not mean that you trouble me—not exactly. Only that my life -looked so plain and clear to me, and this is so surprising—it seems to -change things so.” - -“Only by a little outward difference. I should not dare to ask you to go -as my wife if I did not believe that you could work more effectively so, -perhaps,” he added timidly, “even more happily, if I had strength and -protection to give you, and a home of some sort, however poor, in that -strange land.” - -Something in the quality of his voice brought swift tears to Anna’s -eyes. It was so new to have some one thinking and caring for her ease -and happiness. It had so long been her part to do this for others, to -forget herself, and take it quite for granted that others should forget -her. - -He saw his advantage, and sought to follow it. - -“The thought of marriage is unwelcome to you,” he said earnestly, -“because it is foreign and unfamiliar. I think you are very different -from most girls of your age, and have lived a different inward life, -higher and purer, and free from personal aims in a wonderful way. But -even so, regarding marriage I believe you are wrong. You think of it as -an interruption, almost as a decline from the life you had meant to -live. On the contrary, God has made it to be the very best life, the -normal and fulfilled life, in which each is at the strongest and best. -Where my work for God and men might fall utterly to the ground, you, by -your purer insight, might help me to make it availing; and perhaps the -poor service I could give might help a little to carry forward your -work.” - -Anna lifted her hand in a slight, expressive gesture. - -“Look at the whole thing a moment,” cried Keith, with sudden boldness, -“as if you were not you and I not I. Here are two persons, man and -woman, of the same age within two or three years, led of the same Spirit -to the same purpose and consecration and calling; both ready to go out -to the same unknown land, lonely and apart, and there to work as best -they may far from any human being they have ever seen or known. Such -were we. And now God, looking upon us, sees that each needs the other, -and in his good providence he leads us here to this place. I see you, -and instantly my heart goes out to you as the companion, the other self, -I need. My soul recognizes in you its counterpart. God, in answer to my -prayer that he will make known his will, suddenly, most unexpectedly, as -I start on the new day, brings you before me before I have spoken or met -with man or woman, as the first, best light of morning. What does God -mean? Ask yourself, Anna Mallison, ask him. For my own part, I cannot -doubt his will. I have no right to thrust my conviction upon you -forcibly, but to me this is as clearly the call of God as my call to the -foreign field or to the divine service.” - -They were still standing face to face, and while Keith spoke Anna looked -into his eyes with the serious directness of one listening to an -argument of weighty but impersonal import. With all his conviction and -earnestness, he was as passionless as she, save for his religious -passion. A strange wooing! - -Anna turned now and walked on along the mossy path in silence. - -“Take time to consider,—all the time you need. Do not try to decide -now,” said Keith, walking at her side. She made no reply; in fact, she -did not realize that he spoke. Her mind was working in intense -concentration. - -Keith Burgess alone she would have turned away without a moment’s doubt, -but he had, or seemed to have, a mighty Ally. She did not fear him in -rejecting nor desire him in accepting, but to reject God!—that she -feared; to accept God in every manifestation of his will was her deepest -desire. - -But what if Keith were wrong in his conviction? Her pale face flushed -with a flame of indignation as she thought of it, that a man, whom she -had never met or known, sought or desired, could suddenly invade the -very citadel of her will, and summon her to surrender her very life into -his keeping, in the great Name, when, perhaps, he was self-deceived, was -coming in his own name, to do his own will. She looked aside at Keith’s -face as he walked by her, in sudden distrust. It wore no flush of -passion, and in the blue eyes was the light less of earthly love than of -heavenly. It was a look pure and high, such as a man might fitly wear as -he approached the sacrament. A sudden awe fell upon Anna, as if she were -looking upon one who had talked with God, and her eyes fell, the lashes -weighted with heavy, unshed tears. - -“He is better than I,” she thought; “a man like this could not lead me -wrong.” - -White and cold, and with a strange sinking at her heart, she turned to -him soon, and stopped where she stood. - -He looked into her face, his own suffused with emotion. She held out -both her hands, the goldenrod, which she had held until now, falling to -the ground. Keith Burgess took them in both his, and Anna felt that his -hands trembled far more than did her own. - -“I believe you were right,” she said simply. “It is the will of God.” - -He kissed her then on her brow and on her lips, the salutation -disturbing her no more than if he had been her brother. - -“Please, will you let me go home now, alone, Mr. Burgess?” she asked -humbly, like a child. - -Keith was disappointed, but consented at once. - -“Only,” he said, “you should not call me Mr. Burgess. My name for you is -Keith.” - -“Not yet,” she answered. “In outward things and ways remember, please, -that we are perfect strangers. It is only in the spirit that we have -met.” - -Then she left him, and Keith Burgess stood watching the tall, dark -figure swiftly receding down the wood walk in the yellow light. His look -was wistful. He longed to go after her, but he forebore. - -Anna hastened down into the city streets and to the hospital where she -was on duty every afternoon. There was plenty of work awaiting her, and -not for a moment was she free or left alone to think her own thoughts. -Six o’clock found her back in her own rooms at Mrs. Wilson’s. They were -low and dull after the fine spaciousness of the Ingraham house, but that -was a matter of little note to Anna. - -Mally was there with a friend whom she had brought home with her to tea. -Anna washed the dishes while these two diligently revised the trimming -of their hats which in some particular, wholly imperceptible to Anna’s -untrained eye, fell below the standard of latest fashion. - -It was not until the girls left the house, at seven o’clock, and all her -duties, trivial and homely and wearying, were done, that Anna, alone at -last, could yield to the overpowering weariness which was upon her. - -She carried the lamp, whose flame seemed to pierce her aching eyes, into -the next room, and then, lying on the hard haircloth sofa with her head -propped on one hand, she closed her eyes, thankful at last to be where -she could let a few tears fall with no one to wonder or question. The -quiet patience inbred in the constitution of the girl’s nature -controlled her mood; there was no struggle of revolt from the vow she -had taken and the future to which she had pledged herself, but an -unspeakable homesickness had taken possession of her. She liked and -reverenced Keith Burgess, no doubt she would love him very truly by and -by, but just now he seemed to have turned her out of her own life and to -have taken control where she had hitherto, with God, been supreme. It -all gave her the same feeling she had suffered when, after her father’s -death, they had been obliged to give up their home for the coming in of -a new leader for the little flock her father had led so long. She knew -there was no real analogy between the two experiences, she could reason -clearly against herself, but she could not control the piteous -heart-sickness which settled down upon her in the dim room, in the -silent, empty house. - -Many women have suffered a reaction like this in the hour of committing -themselves, from the fear that this is not the supreme love, the love of -the lifetime; the misgiving lest this man is not, after all, the man for -whom they can forsake all others and unto whom they can cleave with a -perfect heart to the end. These were not, however, the considerations -which weighed upon Anna Mallison. It was, as she had herself expressed -it, very simply, that she had not thought about marriage at all. She had -no ideal of manhood in her mind from this point of view. It was not that -she craved the love of a stronger man or a man abler or better in any -way than Keith Burgess; she merely preferred no man. She had not -awakened to love; the deeper forces of her woman’s nature were sleeping -still. - -But there was not for an instant, in Anna’s mind, the thought of -withdrawing from her plighted word to Keith. She believed that he had -come to her, as he believed, under the divine light and leading. She -turned to walk in the new path marked out for her, faithfully and -obediently, but pausing a moment to look with aching eyes and heart down -the dear, familiar path which she was leaving. But Anna was too tired to -think long, or even to feel, and so fell asleep shortly, in the stiff, -angular position in which she lay, the tears undried upon her cheeks. -The sound of the knocker on the house door, hard, metallic, but without -resonance, suddenly roused her, and she sprang up hastily, remembering -that Mrs. Wilson had gone to the great missionary meeting, and that she -was alone in the house. - -She took her lamp and went down the narrow stairs into the bit of entry. -When she opened the door, Keith Burgess himself was standing there. - -He looked at her, smiling half mischievously, and she felt a sudden -warmth at her heart as she met the sweet, true look of his eyes. - -“Didn’t you ever expect to see me again?” he said, and laughed as he -stepped into the house and closed the door. - -She smiled, too, and held out her hand. He took it and kissed it in a -gallant way, which she found wholly wonderful, being quite unused to -such feats, and unread in romances. - -“It will be a bore, won’t it,” he went on quaintly, “this having a man -around to bother you? Perhaps I ought not to have come, but, you see, I -go in the morning, and I thought you might have something to say to me -before I left.” - -“Yes,” Anna said; adding naïvely, “but where shall I take you? It is so -new. I have not had a call like this before.” She felt shy about -inviting him up to her own sitting room. - -“In there?” he queried, pointing to the door of Mrs. Wilson’s drear -little closed parlour. - -“Oh, no,” replied Anna, “Mrs. Wilson never lets us go in there. It is -too fine for anything but funerals and—” she was about to say weddings, -but broke off confused, and they both laughed, looking at each other -like two children with their innocent eyes. - -“I can sit here,” said Keith, pointing, as he spoke, to the steep, -narrow stairs. There was a red and green striped carpet on them, and a -strip of grey linen over for protection. The little entry was bare of -furniture, save for the small uncovered table on which Anna had placed -her lamp. - -“Very well,” she said, “I will borrow a chair from Mrs. Wilson’s -kitchen;” and she forthwith brought out a clean wooden chair painted a -light yellow, and placed it at the side of the stairway for herself, -there being no room at the foot. - -“I was going to say,” remarked Keith, musingly, as Anna sat down, “that -these stairs are rather wide, and if Mrs. Wilson is particular about -lending her chairs, I could make room for you here,” and he looked at -her soberly between the stair-rails. Anna shook her head, but suddenly -there came over them both a sense of the ludicrousness of the little -scene they would have presented, had any one been able to look in upon -them, and they laughed again, as Anna had not laughed since she was a -child, something of exhaustion aiding to break down her wonted -restraint. - -“It is so funny, oh, it is so funny!” she cried, “to see you looking out -between those bars as if you were a lion in a cage. Just think of the -people at the meeting! What if they were to see us two. Wouldn’t they -think it was dreadful?” - -“Would you mind putting your hand into the cage?” asked Keith. “I assure -you it is perfectly safe. This is not the man-eating variety.” - -“You are sure?” Anna asked, with a woman’s instinctive coquetry swiftly -developed, but giving her hand. - -“It is such a beautiful hand,” he said, laying it very gently on his own -right hand, which he had placed on the stair beside him, and at this, -the first word of flattery which any man had ever spoken to her face, -Anna blushed and grew positively pretty, as he looked at her. - -All this laughing and light nonsense between them, did for her what a -season of prayer and serious discussion of their situation could not -have accomplished. Anna felt, with a sudden sense of comfort and -release, that this new relation was not exclusively a solemn religious -ordinance, but a dear human companionship, the joyousness of simple, -upright hearts, and the sympathy of kindred minds. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII - - Now die the dream, or come the wife, - The past is not in vain, - For wholly as it was your life - Can never be again, - My dear, - Can never be again. - —W. E. HENLEY. - - -At Anna’s earnest request, Keith Burgess consented that their engagement -should be announced to no one save his mother until spring. Mally -observed the regularity of Keith’s weekly letters, and attempted to -tease Anna into acknowledging that there was “something in it”; but -Anna’s dignity, which on occasion had its effect even upon Mally’s -vivacious self-confidence, ended this line of attack in short order. A -few weeks after Keith left Burlington Anna received the following note:— - - MY DEAR MISS MALLISON: My son, Keith Burgess, has confided in me the - fact that you have consented to enter into an understanding with him - which, if Providence should favour, will doubtless eventually - terminate in marriage. Your name has been mentioned to me by members - of our Woman’s Foreign Missionary Board, and I am led to believe - that my dear son has been graciously led of the Lord in his choice - of a companion in the path of duty upon which he has entered. That - my son is a godly young man and of an amiable disposition, I need - hardly take this occasion to tell you. Similarity of views and of - religious experience would seem to furnish a satisfactory basis for - a union productive of mutual good and the glory of God. - - Trusting for further acquaintance before you depart for foreign - shores, - - I am yours very truly, - SARAH KEITH BURGESS. - - -If this letter were stiff or cold, Anna, not looking for warmth and -freedom, did not miss them. She knew that Keith was the only son of his -mother, and she a widow. She took it for granted that they were poor -like herself; she had not known many people who were other than poor, -none who were in the ranks of missionary candidates. Such a thing would -have seemed singularly incongruous because unfamiliar. She had a -distinct picture of Mrs. Burgess, whom she knew to be in delicate -health, as a woman of sweet, saintly face and subdued manner, living in -a small white cottage in an obscure street of Fulham, perhaps not unlike -the Burlington street in which Mrs. Wilson’s house stood. She fancied -her living alone—indeed, Keith had told her that this was so—in a plain -and humble fashion, a quiet, devoted, Christian life, a type with which -her experience both in Haran and Burlington church circles had made her -familiar. There were some geraniums in the little sitting room window, -she thought, and it was a sunny room with braided mats over the carpet, -and a comfortable cat asleep on a patchwork cushion near the stove. -There would be a small stand beside Mrs. Burgess’s rocking-chair with a -large Bible and a volume or two of Barnes’s “Notes,” a spectacle case -and a box of cough medicine; perhaps it was a bottle, Anna was not sure, -but she inclined to the hoarhound drops, and almost smelt them when she -thought of the room. She imagined the dear old lady carefully and -prayerfully inditing the epistle to herself, and thought it most kind of -her, and wrote thus to Keith. - -The winter passed for Anna in hard and unintermitting work. Mally -allowed herself lighter labours, and, having raised her eyes with -admiration to the Rev. Frank Nichols, now shook herself free as far as -she could conveniently from her more frivolous Burlington friends, and -renewed her earlier interest in religion with extraordinary zeal. She -felt that Dr. Harvey’s church was too worldly for her ideals, and that -Mr. Nichols’s beautiful work among the humbler classes offered far more -opportunity for religious devotion. Her regular attendance at all the -meetings of the church was a great satisfaction to Anna, who looked on -with characteristic blindness, glad to see her friend returning to a -more consistent walk and conversation. - -The letters which passed between Anna and Keith would hardly have been -called love-letters. They dealt with religious experience and views of -“divine truth,” for the most part. Not even at start or finish of any -letter was place found for the endearing trifling common to lovers. This -correspondence might all have been published, omitting nothing—without -dashes or asterisks, even in that day when it was thought unseemly to -reveal the innermost secrets of hearts, and to speak upon the housetops -that which had been whispered in the ear. There were few personal -allusions on the part of either, beyond Keith’s occasional mention of -his health being below the mark. At Christmas Keith sent Anna a volume -of “Sacred Poetry”; on the fly-leaf he had written:— - - ANNA MALLISON, - From her sincere friend and well-wisher, - KEITH BURGESS. - -He had abstained from warmer terms on account of Anna’s wish to withhold -the knowledge of their engagement for the present. - -Poor Anna, having nothing wherewith to provide a gift for her lover, the -small savings for her education being now nearly exhausted, made shift -to sew together sheets of note-paper, on which she copied her favourite -passages from Paley and Butler and various theologians. This humble -offering was sent to Keith, who was highly gratified, and treasured the -little gift affectionately. - -For two weeks following Christmas Anna received no letter, but she was -not greatly surprised, as she knew Keith was to start early in January -for a tour of various New England towns, where he was expected to -present the cause of Foreign Missions. He was now completing his last -year in the theological seminary near Boston, and his unusual gifts in -public speech induced the faculty to send him out frequently on such -missions. - -At half-past eight of a zero morning in the second week of January, -Anna, with her threadbare black jacket buttoned tight to her throat, her -arm full of books, was leaving Mrs. Wilson’s door on her way to school, -when she saw a boy stop in front of the house with a telegram in his -hand. Taking it, she found, greatly amazed, that it was for herself—the -first telegram she had ever received. - -The boy, accustomed to see people receive his messages with changing -colour and nervous hands, glanced at her coolly, then turned and went -his way back, plunging his hands into his pockets against the biting -cold. In the little entry Anna opened the despatch. It was dated -Portland, Maine, and signed by Keith Burgess. It told her that he was -very ill; that he was alone, it being impossible for his mother to go to -him. It asked her to come to him at once. - -Anna’s mind, in the half-hour which followed, worked with intense -rapidity. She found from a newspaper that by a ten o’clock train she -could reach Boston that evening, and she decided to take that train, and -go on to Portland by night. She wrote a note to Mally, in which she told -her of her engagement to Keith and of what had occurred. She packed a -satchel with what was necessary, and last of all drew out of her little -square writing-desk, where she kept it carefully locked away, an -envelope containing all the ready money she possessed. She found that -there remained exactly twelve dollars. This, to Anna, was a large amount -of money, and, although her heart sank a little at the thought of -spending so much at once, the prospect for the weeks to come before she -could draw upon her mother again being blank enough, she knew that this -was justified by the emergency. - -Soon after nine Anna again departed from the house, the books replaced -by the satchel, the worn and faded black gown and jacket unchanged, -starting alone and unsped upon her long and anxious journey. - -She went first to the Ingrahams, walking the long mile in the sharp -cold, carrying her heavy bag with a benumbed hand, since the reckless -extravagance of a carriage might not for a moment be considered. - -Mrs. Ingraham was ill and could not see Anna, but her daughter Gertrude -came into the parlour and greeted her cordially. The issues of the hour -were too strong upon Anna to permit any trace of embarrassment or -personal feeling in her manner, although she felt that it would have -been easier to say what she felt must be said, to Mrs. Ingraham. - -“Will you be so good as to tell your mother,” she began, “that I could -not go away on this journey, which I must take, without explaining it to -her? She has been so very kind. We did not mean to announce it quite so -soon, but Mr. Burgess, whom I met here in the fall, and I are engaged to -be married.” Anna was too preoccupied to perceive the flush which slowly -and steadily rose in Gertrude Ingraham’s face. - -“We expect to go out together in May,” Anna proceeded. “Mr. Burgess has -not been strong for several months, perhaps he is never very strong; but -this morning I have a telegram from him asking me to come to Portland, -as he is very ill, and his mother cannot be with him.” - -“Shall you go, Miss Mallison?” asked Gertrude, with visible constraint. - -Anna looked at her then, surprised, and instantly felt the indefinable -coldness of her reception of her little story. - -“I am on my way to take the ten o’clock train east,” she said simply, -her voice faltering slightly. For all her courage and steadiness, her -heart was crying out for a little touch of another woman’s gentleness; -the way before her was not easy, and there was a sense of loneliness -upon her which began to make itself acutely felt. - -Gertrude Ingraham rose and said:— - -“I am so very sorry for Mr. Burgess. We liked him very much. You must -let me go and speak to mamma a moment, for I know she would wish to give -you some message. I will not keep you long.” And she hurried from the -room. - -Anna sat alone and watched the minute-hand of a French clock on the -mantel moving slowly along the gilded dial, a heavy oppression on her -spirit. She had not consciously expected sympathy, but Gertrude’s -aloofness hurt her strangely. - -Some one came softly into the room behind her just then, so softly that -she turned rather because she felt a presence than because she heard a -step. It was Oliver Ingraham. - -The peculiar personality of this mysterious man inspired Anna always -with an aversion hardly less than terror, and although she had become -familiar with his presence in her frequent visits, it had never become -less painful to her. Indeed, latterly, a new element of discomfort had -been added to her feeling toward him, since he had shown a marked -disposition to follow her about, and intrude a manner of unpleasant -gallantry upon her. - -He greeted her now almost effusively, and, perceiving that she was -prepared as if for a journey, asked at once:— - -“Not going away? The painful hour of parting is not here yet, surely?” - -Anna made a vague and hurried reply. - -“Because, you know,” pursued Oliver, lowering his voice to an offensive -tone of familiarity, and maliciously mimicking the phraseology of his -stepmother’s friends, “we could hardly spare our dear young sister yet; -she is becoming really indispensable to us,” and he held out one long -hand as if to clasp that of Anna, leering at her repulsively. - -Anna rose hurriedly and moved away from him, her heart beating hard with -fear and antipathy. To her great relief she heard Gertrude Ingraham’s -step in the hall, and Anna, with her face paler than it had been, met -her at the door, while Oliver slunk away to a little distance, and -appeared to be looking out of a window unconcernedly. - -Gertrude Ingraham carried a pocket-book open in her hand, and as she -spoke she looked at it, and not at Anna. - -“Mamma is so very sorry, and sends her best wishes and hopes for Mr. -Burgess’s quick recovery. She hopes you will let her know; and, Miss -Mallison,” Gertrude was evidently embarrassed, “mamma says it is such a -long and expensive journey, and she wishes you would just take this with -you to make everything as comfortable as may be.” And she drew out a -crisp twenty-dollar note, which she essayed to put in Anna’s hand. - -Anna had not known before that she was proud. She did not know it now, -but Gertrude Ingraham did, and was touched with keen compunction. She -understood that her mother would have been more successful. - -It was only the swift, unconscious protest of Anna’s hand, the pose of -her head as she turned to go, and the quiet finality with which she -said:— - -“Will you thank Mrs. Ingraham for me, and say I did not need it? She is -always kind. Good-by.” - -A moment later Gertrude watched from the window the slender figure in -its faded, scanty black, with the heavy, old-fashioned satchel, passing -down the windswept lawn, under the grey and bitter sky. - -Within was warmth and luxury and protection, and yet Gertrude’s heart -leaped with a strong passion of desire to forego all this and take Anna -Mallison’s place, that so she might start on that long journey which -should bring her, at its end, to the side of Keith Burgess. - -Small, unseen tragedies in women’s lives such as this, never once, -perhaps, expressed, and never forgotten, work out the heroic hypocrisies -which women learn, since such is their allotted part. - -“You might have known better than to offer money to that girl,” Oliver’s -high, shrill voice behind Gertrude said. “She’s as confoundedly proud as -all the other saints. But she’ll have to come down yet. We shall see -some day.” - -Thus unpleasantly interrupted in her reverie, Gertrude rose impatiently, -and left the room. - -It was eight o’clock that evening when Anna reached Boston. Dismayed by -the small remainder of money left her after her railway ticket was -bought, she had not dared to spend anything for food through all the -day, and had tried to think the cold, dry bread, a few slices of which -she had put into her satchel, was sufficient for her needs. - -In Boston a change of stations made a cab a necessity if she would not -lose the Portland train, and this she must not do, since she had -telegraphed Keith from Burlington that she would be with him in the -morning. Anna alighted at the station of the Maine Railroad and heard -the cabman say that his fee was two dollars with a sensation hardly less -than terror. She paid him without a word, then entering the station, sat -down in the glare of light amid the confusion of the moving crowd, and -looked into her poor little purse, a sharp contraction at her throat as -she counted, and found less than three dollars left. - -The train would leave in fifteen minutes. Anna went with as brave a face -as she could manage, to the office, and asked what was the fare to -Portland. The curt reply of the agent proved the glaring insufficiency -of her small remaining store. Trembling with weakness and dismay, Anna -turned back to her place and sat down, closing her eyes while she -prayed. She had friends in missionary circles in Boston, who would -gladly have lent her money, but time failed to seek them out. She -thought, as she prayed, of the money which Gertrude Ingraham had -proffered in the morning, and, humbled, asked forgiveness for the -ignorance and pride which had led her to reject it. The thought of Keith -watching, perhaps in vain, for her coming in his loneliness and great -need, perhaps in his extremity, overwhelmed her with pity and penitence. -Having prayed for forgiveness and for guidance, and for a way out, and a -way to Keith that night, she opened her eyes, astonished for the moment -at the harsh light and the motley scene about her, her actual -surroundings having been for the time forgotten in the complete -abstraction of her mind. She gazed for a few moments languidly before -her, her face so colourless and sorrowful that many persons who passed -her looked back at her in curiosity and concern. Presently the space -before her became clear; there was a pause in the fluctuating course of -passers-by, and nothing interposed, for the instant, between her and the -window of the ticket office. - -An elderly gentleman in a long travelling cloak and silk hat, carrying a -snug and shiny travelling bag, came up to the window with the confident -and assured bearing of the experienced traveller. Anna heard him ask for -a ticket to Portland. She recognized him at once, for it was Dr. Durham, -the missionary secretary who had once been her father’s guest. - -When he turned from the window, the doctor found the pale, quiet girl in -black standing just behind him; she spoke to him with a radiant light in -her face, such as he had never met before. To herself, Anna was saying -with a sense of exquisite joy in her heart, “God is near,” feeling -herself close touched by the Almightiness. To her father’s friend she -told her story and her need in few words, without hesitation or doubt, -declaring, necessarily, her engagement to Keith Burgess, and the fact -that she was hastening to reach him on account of his serious illness. - -“Amazing, my dear,” exclaimed Dr. Durham, taking off his hat and wiping -the large shining baldness of his head, “amazing indeed! I am myself on -my way to Burgess, and we can make the journey together. Poor fellow! It -is a sad case. I had a telegram yesterday, but it was impossible to -start until to-night. It seems he has had a hemorrhage. But we will talk -all this over on the way,” and the good old gentleman made haste to buy -Anna’s ticket, which he said it was only the part of the Society to do, -and she must never mention it again. This done, they hastened on -together to the train. - - - - - CHAPTER XIV - - How true it is that our destinies are decided by nothings, and that - a small imprudence helped by some insignificant accident, as an - acorn is fertilized by a drop of rain, may raise the tree on which - perhaps we and others shall be crucified.... - - Poor, sorely tried Faith! She has but one way out of the - difficulty—the word Mystery. It is in the origins of things that the - great secret of destiny lies hidden, although the breathless - sequence of after events has often many surprises for us too.—AMIEL. - - -The incredible luxury of her breakfast the next morning in the hotel in -Portland made an impression upon Anna which she could never forget, -since she was, in fact, very nearly starved. The rich coffee, the -delicate and sumptuous food, the noiseless assiduity of the sleek black -waiters, the great glittering room, all partook of the marvellous to her -exhausted senses. - -Then she was conducted through endless passages where her feet trod in -baffling silence upon the lanes of thick crimson carpet, for a few -moments she was alone in a room to bathe and prepare herself, and then a -low-voiced woman, stout and motherly, met her at the door, and she was -led to Keith. - -He was lying, fully dressed, on a broad velvet sofa, in a richly -furnished room, which was full of flowers, and bright with the light of -the snowy winter morning and a blazing wood fire. His eyes were -luminous, his colour better than she had known it, and he did not look -ill. The nurse left them alone, and they met with unfeigned but quiet -happiness. - -“Was I selfish to ask you to come this long journey, just for me?” Keith -asked anxiously, holding her hands. Anna found his hot and tremulous, -and soothed them with a slow, strong motion of her own. - -“No, not selfish,” she said. - -“You see, I am not very ill; in fact, I am sure the worst is over now, -and I shall be just as well as ever in a few weeks; but I had a terrible -cold and coughing so there was a little hemorrhage,—simply from the -throat, we understand it now,—but at the time the doctor himself was -alarmed, and so was I. If I had known how slight an affair it really -was, I should not have asked so much of you, but I cannot be sorry, -Anna. I shall have to stay right here for several weeks, they say, and -it will be everything to have you near me, don’t you see?” - -“I am most grateful to be with you, Keith.” - -“And will you talk to me about India, and about our home there? I have -thought of it so continually since I have been sick. It almost seems as -if I had seen it, and you in it. I love it already, Anna. Please say -that you do too, just a little.” - -“Tell me about it. Of course I shall love it.” - -“It is all made of bamboo, you know, the house, and perched up in the -air, and there are great, wide rooms, with cool shade, and a sound of -water flowing; there are broad bamboo lattices at the windows, and it is -still and peaceful, and the servants go about softly, and you are there -in a white dress, Anna,—oh, how I want to see you in that white dress! -It has tiny borders of gilt and coloured embroidery, and it suits you so -much better than this hard black gown. Will you have a dress made soon -like that?” - -Anna smiled and pressed her hand over Keith’s eyes, which were full of -childish imploring. She was beginning to see his weakness with a new -pain at her heart. - -She sat with him an hour, and then, the doctor coming in, she was sent -to her room to sleep until noon, while Keith should rest, and have an -interview with Dr. Durham, their fatherly friend. - -When Anna reached her room, she found on a table a large jar of roses, -rich in colour and fragrance, and a basket of hothouse grapes. The day -was bitterly cold, and it was snowing hard, the thick snowflakes melting -against the broad, thick glass of her window. - -The extravagant luxury of such fruit and flowers in this depth of -midwinter astonished and disturbed her. There was no one of whom she -could ask questions, but how could it be right for Keith to spend so -much money? To remain for weeks in such a hotel as this seemed to Anna -to involve an impossible expenditure, and she lay down on the great -luxurious bed with a bewildering confusion of questions to which no -answers were forthcoming. From the pinching cold and hunger of yesterday -to the luxurious ease of to-day was like the transformation of a fairy -tale; and Keith, with his weak hands, and his bright eyes, and his -wistful eagerness was formidable in his appeal to her. She did not know -what might be coming, but she felt anew that she had surrendered herself -and was pledged now to do another’s will. - -At noon Anna had a moment’s conference with Keith’s physician. He -assured her that there was a remarkable change for the better in his -patient,—in fact, that he looked now for a speedy convalescence, adding -that her coming had produced a most favourable effect. - -The whole afternoon of that January day, Keith and Anna were left alone -together. The nurse, glad of a brief release, took her “afternoon out”; -the various doctors of medicine and divinity betook themselves to other -places; and word was given the page that Mr. Burgess could not receive -visitors, so that flowers and cards accumulated, and interruptions were -postponed. There was justice in what Keith said, that they had never yet -had a chance to get acquainted, and now the afternoon was turned to good -account. - -Experience and instinct made Anna a nurse. Keith was sure he had never -been so wholly comfortable as she made him, and the effect of her -personal presence was like health and healing to him. - -“How dear you are, Anna, and how absolutely necessary to me,” he said -fondly, as he watched her quiet way of preparing his food and medicine. -“I foresee plainly that I can never let you leave me.” - -When twilight gathered and the room grew dusky, they had no lights, but -sat by the fire, Anna on a low seat beside the sofa, and silence fell. -When Keith spoke again, his voice betrayed a rising emotion, and an -appeal before which she trembled within herself. - -“Anna,” he said, “why should you leave me again? Why need we be -separated any more? I need you. I can get strong far faster with you -beside me, for you inspire me with a new life. Everything seems sure and -strong when you are with me. But I want you wholly mine without fear or -favour. Marry me, dear, to-night, to-morrow! What have we to wait for? -It is only three months before our marriage was to be, you know.” - -Concealing her agitation, and speaking quite steadily and soothingly, -Anna answered:— - -“But you know, Keith, I must go back in a few weeks, and finish my work -in the school and hospital. I have still so much to learn before I can -make a really useful missionary, and so little time before May to learn -it in. You know I have cut my preparation short a year, now, so that we -may go out together. I am sure we ought to wait until May.” - -“Oh, Anna!” - -The words, so spoken, had all the force of an inarticulate cry from the -man’s heart. They told what hours of argument and pleading could not -have conveyed,—the yearning need for her presence and her upholding. -Anna lifted her eyes to Keith’s, and saw that they were dim with tears. -She did not feel them to be unmanly tears, knowing his physical -exhaustion, and they moved her profoundly. She rose and walked to the -window, looking out into the snowy street. Again that sense that her -life was taken out of her own hands came upon her; she felt like those -of old who feared as they entered into the cloud. She feared, but, -nevertheless, she went back to Keith, and said, very gently, but without -hesitation:— - -“If we should be married to-morrow night, would that please you, Keith?” - -He caught her hand and pressed it to his cheek with pathetic eagerness. - -“Oh, my girl, am I wrong to move you to do this for my sake? Forgive me, -leave me, if I am leading you faster, farther, than you wish to go.” - -“I will not leave you, Keith,” Anna replied, taking her low seat again -at his side, “never, any more. It is the will of God.” - -The next day Keith was much stronger. He was able to walk about the -room, to sit up for an hour at a time, and to talk and plan to his -heart’s desire. His spirits were high, and he was full of irrepressible -happiness, and yet a wistful, grateful question always rose in his eyes -when they rested upon Anna. The marriage was arranged to take place in -Keith’s room at six o’clock. Dr. Durham had consented to remain and -perform the ceremony, returning to Boston that night. Keith’s physician -had interposed no objection to the plan, and even regarded the -inevitable excitement as likely to be a benefit rather than an injury to -his patient. - -“He needs you, Miss Mallison,” he remarked with an emphasis which Anna -felt to be peculiarly significant, finding him a man of few words. - -It was five o’clock, and Anna had gone to her room to make ready for the -ceremony. At Keith’s urgent desire, and by the aid of one of the many -efficient friends whom the circumstances of his illness had gathered -around him, a white dress had been ordered for her. She found it now, -lying in delicate tissue wrappings upon her bed, and beside it a box of -orange flowers whose fragrance filled the room. - -She was becoming a little inured to luxury; colour, warmth, perfume, -delight to sense, seemed here to be the natural order. A vague -perplexity lay below it all, but she had ceased now to ask questions. - -As she bent to take her wedding-gown from its wrappings, some one -knocked at her door. It was Dr. Durham. There was a shade of anxiety -upon his kind old face, and he asked her to come with him into an alcove -at the end of the hall. With an uneasy stirring at her heart, Anna -followed him. Keith’s physician was standing by a table in the alcove, -evidently awaiting them. - -Anna looked into his face, waiting without speaking for what he might -have to say. Surely it was impossible that Keith could be worse; it was -not ten minutes since she left him. - -“Miss Mallison,” said the doctor, gravely, “I have been having a little -conference with your friend, Dr. Durham, and we find that there is a -chance that you may be under some misapprehension of the actual -conditions under which—under which you are about to take an important -step.” - -“I did not understand it myself, my dear girl, until within the last -hour,” interposed Dr. Durham; “and I really don’t know now what we ought -to do. Still, perfect frankness, perfect understanding, you know, may be -better for all parties.” - -The good old man was visibly oppressed with the burden of the part he -had to bear in the interview. Motionless Anna stood, only turning her -eyes from one man to the other in troubled wonder. - -“The facts are simply these,” the physician took up the word again, “and -I am greatly surprised, and I may add greatly pained, that they have not -apparently been understood before. Mr. Burgess will recover from this -attack, and may have years yet of moderate health, but as for carrying -out his purpose to go out as a foreign missionary, it is absolutely -impossible. Such a course would simply be suicidal, and must not be -considered for a moment.” - -“Not now, perhaps,” Anna spoke very low, in a strange, muffled tone; -“but it may be—later—?” and she turned her imploring eyes from the face -of one man to the other. - -“To be perfectly frank, my dear,” said Dr. Durham, pressing his hands -nervously together, “after what the doctor has told me of the condition -of our dear friend, the organic difficulty, and all that, you see—I fear -that I can only, in justice to all concerned, state plainly that our -Board would not be justified in sending him. I assure you the blow is a -severe one to me in my capacity as secretary; for we regard Keith -Burgess as, perhaps, the most promising candidate who has ever come -before us. It is a dark Providence, and you will believe me that only a -sense of our duty in the matter has led us to put the case so plainly -before you.” - -Anna did not speak. - -“I was not aware, Miss Mallison,” said the physician, “until an hour -ago, that you were yourself under appointment as a missionary. When I -learned this fact, it seemed to me that you should not enter upon the -proposed line of action without knowing clearly that it involves giving -up your chosen career,” and with these words the doctor bowed and turned -to withdraw. - -Anna turned to Dr. Durham. - -“Mr. Burgess does not know that he must give up—?” she asked. - -“No, oh, no,” was the reply; “the doctor says that he must on no account -be allowed to learn it until he is stronger. His heart is so entirely -bound up in this noble purpose, that the blow will be a terrible one -when it comes.” - -“We must wait, Miss Mallison, until he is as far as may be recovered, -before we allow him to even suspect the actual state of the case;” the -doctor added this, looking at Anna’s face with surprise and concern. “If -I can serve you in any way, do not fail to call upon me. For the present -I must say good evening,” and he hastened away. - -Dr. Durham followed, walking along the hall by his side. The look in -Anna’s face awed him. He felt that it was not his right to share in an -hour of such conflict as this bade fair to be to her, for he perceived -already something of what her missionary vocation meant to her. Anna, -however, did not notice that he had gone; the crisis was too great to -permit her paying heed to the accidental circumstances around her. A -voice in her heart seemed crying with constant iteration, “Father! -Father! What does God mean?” - -For ten minutes Anna stood alone in the alcove, looking steadily before -her, but in her bewildered pain seeing no outward thing, while in the -far dim reaches of the hall the good old clergyman paced noiselessly to -and fro. - -On one side Anna saw her father’s life, with all its deep renunciation, -its pure aims, its defeat, and its one final hope of fulfilment in -herself; she saw the look in his eyes as he bent above her in the little -church that night, when she declared her purpose to become a missionary; -she remembered his _Nunc Dimittis_ as he blessed her with dying eyes; -she lived again through the solemn hour of dedication, just after her -father’s death, when the sense came upon her that she was called of God -to carry on what her father began, to be in herself the continuance, and -through divine grace the fruition, of his life. Since that hour life had -meant only one thing to Anna; no other purpose or desire had ever -entered to divide or diminish its control over her: she was set apart to -carry the gospel of Christ to the heathen; this one thing only would she -do. - -This on the one side, strong as life itself, inwoven into the very -texture of her soul and her consciousness. - -On the other side Keith Burgess, even now scarcely better than a -stranger, and yet, by the will of God as she believed, bound to her by -sacred and indissoluble vows. To be faithful to those vows, to save him -from despair, perhaps from death, she must cut off all her past, must -read her life all backward, must annul and declare vain and void the -most solemn purposes of her soul. - -From his retreat, watching, Dr. Durham at length saw Anna advancing down -the hall toward the door of her room. He met her there, a question he -did not dare to speak in his tired, kind old eyes. Her face was as the -face of one who has even in the moment received a spiritual death-blow. - -He held his watch in his hand. Without speaking, Anna motioned to him, -and he replied:— - -“It is nearly half-past five, my dear.” - -“Very well,” she said, her voice dull and toneless; “I will be ready at -six o’clock.” - -As if in a dream she prepared herself for her marriage. She moved as if -in response to another will than her own; her own will seemed to lie -dead before her, a visible, tangible thing, done to death by her own -hand. The white gown, Keith’s gift, seemed less a wedding-garment than a -burial robe, and a strange smile crossed her face when she caught her -reflection in the glass, and saw that, save for her eyes, her face was -wholly colourless, the pale flowers on her breast hardly paler, hardly -colder. - -At the clock-striking of the appointed hour, Anna entered the room, and, -taking her place beside Keith, whose face was full of tender gladness, -she lifted her eyes steadily to the old clergyman’s face, listening as -for life and death to his words. - -“In sickness and in health, ... for richer for poorer, ... and forsaking -all others, keep thee only unto him.” Yes, all others. God only knew the -significance of those words, for they seemed to mean God himself just -then; but God would pity. He would help. Her response came low but -unfaltering, and then, with bowed heads, standing side by side in their -youth, their innocence, their patience of hope, they two listened -solemnly to the last irrevocable words. - -So steadfastly Anna held herself until the end, but hardly had the final -word of blessing been pronounced, when, with a low cry for help, she -wavered as she stood, and fell fainting. - - - - - BOOK II - AFTERNOON - - Hear now our cry for strength to bear the weight of prayers unanswered. - —MAARTEN MAARTENS. - - - - - CHAPTER XV - -The evil base of our society eats right through; that our wealthy homes -are founded on the spoliation of the poor vitiates all the life that -goes on within them. Somehow or other, it searches through and degrades -the art, manners, dress, good taste of the inmates.—EDWARD CARPENTER. - - -It was a month later, when a train from the east, entering the Fulham -station at five o’clock of the February afternoon, brought Keith Burgess -and his wife home. - -Keith was apparently in fairly good physical condition, and looked and -carried himself much as he had when Anna first knew him, although she -could now detect the underlying weakness which he strove hard to -conceal. He had been told in due time of what was involved in his -illness. The shock had been severe both to mind and body, and for a -while a serious relapse had seemed imminent. Those days had brought the -young wife and husband into a new union of sympathy and suffering, as -each strove to bear the burden of their thwarted lives bravely for the -other’s sake. Not at that time nor at any later period was it possible -for Anna to let Keith know to the full the meaning of this renunciation -to her. He knew that to her, as to him, the abandonment of the -missionary purpose was a profound and poignant sorrow; he did not know -that it was the overthrow of all that had made her life hitherto, and -that, whatever new forces and motives might produce out of the elements -of her character, the old life, the first Anna Mallison, was slain. - -Keith had told her little of what lay before them in his mother’s home, -which was now to be theirs; they had been too deeply absorbed in the -present emergency to take much thought for the future. This much, -however, had been accomplished in a week’s sojourn in Boston: Keith -would shortly be appointed to fill a missionary secretaryship, which -involved much travel and speaking in the interests of the cause, but -permitted him to make his residence in Fulham. The strong hope which -Anna clung to silently for herself, as the last pitiful substitute for -the calling now denied her, was that she, too, might still accomplish -something for the work so urgent in its claims upon her, by presenting -it, as occasion offered, among Christian women in her own land. But she -knew that her life was no longer in her own hands to shape and direct as -she might will; not only was Keith now to be her care, her chief concern -and interest, but she looked forward to daughterly duties toward his -invalid mother, to whom it was in her mind to minister with loving and -faithful devotion. - -As the train now drew into the Fulham station, Keith remarked, -casually:— - -“There’s Foster, all right. I knew he would be on hand.” And, looking -from the car platform, Anna saw a grey-haired man-servant in plain -livery, who saluted Keith respectfully as he hastened to the spot, and -wore an expression of solicitude and responsibility which stamped him at -once as an old family servant. As they gave over their hand luggage to -this man, and followed him out to the street where a plain closed -carriage stood in waiting, an unostentatious “B” on the door showing it -to be private, a deep perplexity and confusion began to rise in Anna’s -mind. She had gradually become accustomed to the luxuries of the life in -the Portland hotel, and had regarded them as incident to the passage of -a grave crisis, and justified, perhaps, by the necessities of the case; -but she had not been interested in thinking farther along the line of -the Burgesses’ worldly status, least of all minded to make it a matter -of inquiry, consequently the sight of the man-servant and the family -carriage smote her with a sharp sense of entering a new and undreamed-of -outward life. In them was the first obvious token which had ever been -given her of her husband’s home surroundings and worldly position. A -vague anxiety and dread were awakened in Anna by these small signs of a -life and habit so widely at variance with her own past of austere -privation. She saw the low white cottage figured heretofore in her -thought, in the narrow street, fading before her; the geraniums in the -window, the cat on the cushion, the braided mats, the wooden -rocking-chair, the little table with the Bible and cough-drops, wavered -in all their outlines, and fell like a house of cards. How would it be -with the figure of the sweet, saintly, patient invalid to whom she was -to minister? Must that go too? Anna ceased to speculate, but she sat -silent beside her husband, and her heart beat hard. - -When the carriage stopped, it was in a fine old quiet street lined with -substantial dwellings, and before a large brick house painted a dull -drab. The house stood with its broad, low front close to the street; -there were many small-paned, shining windows, and a brass knocker on the -panelled black front door. Nothing could have been plainer or less -pretentious, and yet the house bore, to Anna’s first intuitive -perception, its own unmistakable expression of decorous and inflexible -dignity and quietly cherished family pride. - -As they entered the wide, low-ceiled, oak-wainscoted hall, a neatly -dressed middle-aged woman advanced and, speaking in a low voice to Anna, -asked if she would follow her up to her rooms, Keith introducing her -pleasantly as his mother’s indispensable Jane. No one else was in sight; -but Mrs. Burgess’s invalid condition seemed to account sufficiently for -this, although Anna had supposed her able to move about the house, and -even to go out under favouring conditions. - -Keith joined Anna on the stairs, taking her hand in his. He smiled -tenderly as he looked into her face, but there was a nervous eagerness -upon him which he could not conceal. Was he thinking that he had chosen -his wife for far other scenes and a widely different life? She could not -tell. - -“This was my old room, Anna,” Keith was saying now, as they stood in the -doorway of a spacious bedroom with old-fashioned mahogany furniture and -handsome but faded chintz hangings. There was a marble chimney-piece, -over which hung a large picture of Keith, with a boyish, eager face. - -Jane now threw open a door from this room into another of equal size. - -“If you please, I was to tell you this is to be Mrs. Burgess’s own -sitting room,” she said respectfully, “and the dressing room and bath -beyond the bedroom will be for your own use entirely after this,” and -she crossed to open another door. - -Keith drew Anna on into the sitting room. - -“Well, now, this is certainly very kind of my mother,” he said, a flush -of grateful pleasure rising in his sensitive face. “See, Anna, this has -always been the state apartment, the guest-chamber of the house, and she -has had it refitted for our use.” - -“How very kind,” said Anna, warmly. - -The room was, indeed, in its own manner, grave and subdued, a luxurious -parlour, with good pictures, handsome hangings, and soft, pale-tinted -carpet. - -“I must go down at once and tell the dear mother how we thank her,” said -Keith, and Anna, left alone, returned to the bedroom and began to remove -her travelling hat. - -Jane was beside her at once, giving unneeded assistance. - -“Shall I unpack for you directly?” she asked, looking at Keith’s small -trunk, which was quite adequate to Anna’s few belongings, added to her -husband’s. Anna felt her colour deepen as she declined the offered help, -and sat down with a little sigh in a great easy-chair. But she submitted -perforce when the maid knelt at her feet, and, quite as a matter of -course, removed her shoes. It was the first time since babyhood that -this office had been performed for Anna by other hands than her own, and -she felt all her veins tingle with a shy reluctance, but sat motionless. - -Rising, Jane looked about, Anna thought with a shade of dissatisfaction -that there was thus far so little to be done, so scanty a display of the -small belongings of luxury. - -“When you are ready to dress for dinner,” she said, with a touch of -coldness, “I will come if you will just ring the bell. The bell is -here,” and she indicated the green twisted cord and heavy silk tassel at -the head of the bed. “Mrs. Burgess said she could spare me to wait on -you for what you needed to-night,” she added. - -“Thank you,” said Anna, gently, but with the quiet unconscious loftiness -of her own reserve. “Mrs. Burgess is very good to think of it, but I am -accustomed to caring for myself, and so I shall not need to trouble -you.” - -“Very well, that will be just as suits you, ma’am. I should be pleased -to wait on you any time Mrs. Burgess doesn’t need me. Dinner will be at -six o’clock, then, if you please.” Thus saying the maid withdrew. - -“Keith,” said Anna, with a perplexed countenance, when a few moments -later he joined her, “I find I ought to dress for dinner, but I have -nothing better to wear than this black gown. You ought to have told me, -dear.” - -Keith looked down at the straight fashionlessness of Anna’s black figure -with unconcealed concern. - -“I ought to have thought,” he said, “but it never occurred to me about -your clothes. We must get you a whole lot of new things straight away, -dear. We will do it together, and have a great time over it, won’t we? -And you will put off the black now for my sake? I want to see you in -wine-red silk and good lace.” - -“Oh, Keith!” cried Anna, “I cannot imagine myself masquerading like -that. It would never do. But for to-night—that is the trouble now.” - -“Why, wear your wedding-gown, sweetheart; that is just the thing. What -luck that we did get that!” and Keith was down on his knees before the -trunk on the instant, and soon produced the dress which, being of fine -white cashmere, with a little lace about the neck, was, in fact, -altogether appropriate. - -Anna looked puzzled. It seemed to her almost sacrilegious to put on that -dress for everyday use, and the association with it made her shiver, -even now, but she did not dispute the matter. - -Just before six o’clock Keith ushered his wife into the library -downstairs, where his mother sat waiting to receive them. It was the -sort of a library which Anna had read of but had not seen—lined with -books, furnished with massive leather-covered chairs and darkly gleaming -mahogany, a dim old India carpet on the floor. - -Anna saw by the shaded drop-light the form of a small woman of fragile -figure, dressed in silver-grey silk, with a white shawl of cobweb -fineness of texture about her shoulders. There were several good -diamonds at her throat and on her hands, her grey hair was beautifully -dressed in soft waves and fastened with a quaint silver comb of fine -workmanship. Her face was pale and the features delicately cut; her -movement as she advanced to meet Anna was slow, and, in spite of her -diminutive size, stately, and there was a crisp, frosty rustle of her -grey gown. - -She took both Anna’s hands in hers with a cold, kind smile, and kissed -her twice on her forehead, Anna bending low for the purpose. She seemed -to be at an incalculable height above the fine little lady, and -singularly young and immature. At twenty-two she had felt herself a -woman for long years, with her sober cares and grave purposes; but -to-night, before Keith’s mother, she suddenly seemed to become a shy, -undeveloped girl again. - -While they spoke a little of the journey and the night, Keith Burgess -turned on his heel and affected to be examining, with critical interest, -an engraving above the fireplace, which he had seen in the same spot all -his life; but he was watching them both aside narrowly as he stood. He -was perfectly satisfied. - -If Anna had been never so much prettier, and possessed of all of Mally -Loveland’s confident social facility; if she had met his mother as the -country girl of this type would have done, with eager and affectionate -appeal that she should at once stand and deliver motherly sympathy and -affection in copious measure,—there would have been only disappointment -and chagrin. But Mrs. Burgess’s bearing was not more reserved than that -of her daughter-in-law. At twenty-two Anna’s grave repose of manner was -in itself a distinction, and one which had its full weight with the -elder woman. Plainly, she had not a gushing provincial beauty on her -hands to curb and fashion into form. As for good looks, there was a -certain angular grace already in figure, an unconscious dignity of -attitude and bearing which suited Keith’s mother, while for her face, -the eyes were good, the brow very noble, and the expression peculiarly -lofty. The succession of strong and sudden emotional experiences through -which Anna had recently passed had wrought a subtle change already in -her face; there was less severity, less of hard, conscientious rigour in -its lines; a certain transparent, spiritual illumination softened the -profound sadness which was her habitual expression. - -At dinner, a delicately sumptuous meal, served with some state, Anna -acquitted herself perfectly, having the instincts of good breeding, the -habit of delicate refinement, and having learned at Mrs. Ingraham’s -table many of the small niceties which she could hardly have acquired in -Haran. - -Already, within the first hour, while seeing that her mother-in-law had -been physically entirely able to meet her children at her door at their -home-coming, Anna perceived the inevitable consistency of her waiting to -receive them in due form and order. Formality and form were essentials -of life in this house. This did not oppress Anna particularly, and she -liked to look at the cameo-cut delicacy of Mrs. Burgess’s face. Still, -perhaps never in her life, never in the cheerless chambers of Mrs. -Wilson’s poor house, had Anna known the homesickness with which she ate -and drank—that night at her husband’s table. - -Poverty and obscurity were old and tried friends to Anna; among them she -would have been at home. From wealth and social prominence she shrank -with instinctive dread and ingrained disfavour. The familiar austerities -of poverty were, to her, denotements of mental elevation, while the -indulgences of wealth bore to her thought an almost vulgar pampering of -appetite and ministering to sense. The trained perfection of the silent -attentive service in itself was an offence to her. Why should those -people be turned into speechless automatons to watch every wish and wait -upon every need of three other people no more deserving than themselves? -Could it ever seem right to her? - -She excused herself early. Left alone with him, Mrs. Burgess laid her -small hand on Keith’s, saying without warmth but with significant -emphasis:— - -“You have done very well, Keith, in marrying Miss Mallison. I confess I -was not without some apprehension lest the wife who would have been a -perfect helpmeet and companion for you in the foreign field might appear -at some disadvantage in the life now before you in the ordering of -Providence.” - -“Anna is so absolutely true, mother, that she cannot be a misfit -anywhere, except among false conditions.” - -Mrs. Burgess bowed her head. - -“I can see that she is a thoroughly exemplary young woman, and while she -may have much to learn of social conditions in a place like Fulham, the -foundation is all right.” She paused a little, and added reflectively: -“Her eyes and hands are extremely good. Her figure will improve. I -understand that her father belonged to the Andover Mallisons.” - -There was a little flicker of Keith’s eyelids, but he made no reply, -taking up casually from the table a book at which he looked with -mechanical indifference. It was a volume of Barnes’s “Notes.” This much -only of Anna’s vision had had foundation. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI - - For the most part people do not think at all. They have little - phrases and formulas which stand in their minds for thoughts and - opinions, and they repeat them parrotlike. Most of their notions and - ideas and prejudices are mere extraneous accretions, barnacled on to - them by men and books in their passage through life, as shells are - on a vessel, but not growing out of them or really belonging to - them.—ANON. - - Life in her creaking shoes - Goes, and more formal grows, - A round of calls and cues. - —W. E. HENLEY. - - -At the end of the week, on Saturday morning, Anna Burgess was sitting on -a low stool in the middle of her bedroom, surrounded by a curious -confusion and medley of miscellaneous things. Before her was an open -cedar chest of large proportions; its pungent odour was mingled with the -spicy smell of winter apples, dried fruits, and maple sugar. From the -half unpacked chest, quilts of calico patchwork and soft home-woven -blankets were overflowing; piles of snowy linen sheets and pillowcases, -finely hemstitched and bordered with delicate thread-work, lay about the -floor, together with body linen of equal daintiness, and books in dull -and faded binding, while the red apples, rolled everywhere, studded the -confused array as commas do a printer’s page. - -In the chest still lay some old-fashioned furs and other clothing. Anna, -as she sat, had her lap heaped with a quantity of yellowed lace, and a -number of small, thin silver spoons. She was reading a letter, and, as -she read, unconsciously tears were running down her cheeks. - -“You must have known,” wrote Gulielma Mallison, “that I could not let my -dear daughter go empty-handed to her new home. The box has been long, -however, in being made ready, but I know your husband and his mother -will make excuses, the marriage having been so sudden. Lucia and I have -taken comfort in sorting out and preparing the things. The linen is, -much of it, what was left of my own bridal outfit, but we have bleached -it on the snow, and it is still strong. The silver I have tried to -divide equally among you all. This is your portion. The little -porringer, you know, came over from Germany with my mother, then the -Jungfrau Benigna von Brosius. - -“I regret that I am unable to provide you with more dresses, etc., but -there is little to do with and little to choose from in Haran. Indeed, I -hardly ever get to Haran any more, my rheumatism is so bad, and the -going has been terrible this winter. We got Lucia’s husband’s sister to -buy the white cotton cloth, and sent it back by Joseph when he went down -with a load of wood. The brown cloak I shall not be likely to need any -more, going out so seldom, and Lucia says she doesn’t begrudge it to you -at all, being much too long for her, and it would be a shame to cut off -any of that material to waste. You know it is the best of camlet cloth, -and there is no wear out to it. I have given Lucia the melodeon, and she -says it is only fair that you should have the cloak and the brown silk -dress. We got Amanda Turner to make that over for you by an old waist we -had of yours. She was here three days, right through the worst snowstorm -we have had all winter, and there was nothing to interrupt us. We turned -the silk and made it all over. I think we succeeded pretty well. I -thought you really ought to have one silk dress, now you are going to -live in this country. Of course you’ll be invited out to tea some, there -in Fulham. The grey merino will do for afternoons. I made you four -aprons, two white, and two check to wear about your work, and you’ll -need them afternoons for taking care of your husband’s mother. Please -give her my best respects. I send the dried fruit to her,—maybe it will -tempt her appetite a little,—and part of the maple sugar, that in the -little cakes. Lucia ran it for her especially. We thought maybe they -wouldn’t have it down there in Fulham, that was pure. - -“I am sorry we haven’t anything better to send Mr. Burgess, but I put in -your dear father’s quilted dressing-gown as my particular present; his -health being so poor, Lucia and I thought it might be acceptable. The -books are for him, from your father’s library....” - -The letter dropped in Anna’s lap, and covering her face with both hands, -she burst into passionate tears. Her old life, in all its homely, simple -sweetness called her mightily, and the sharp sense of her own separation -from it now and forever tore her heart. Her mother’s inability to -comprehend the new conditions, the eager self-sacrifice which had gladly -shorn her own poor life bare of every lingering superfluity of -possession that she might equip her child with such small dower as was -attainable, had to Anna a pathos which seemed almost too poignant to -endure. How well, oh, how well she understood the planning and -contriving, the simple joy in each small new object gained; the delight -which her mother and Lucia had shared in picturing to themselves her own -grateful surprise in the manifold treasures stored in the dear old -chest, itself an heirloom of impressive value in the Mallison family. -And she was grateful beyond words to tell, and pleased and proud to come -thus set out to her husband; and yet, these possessions, so unspeakably -precious to her, would, she knew only too well, wear a rustic and -incongruous aspect in the Burgess household. She knew that Keith and his -mother would be gentle and respectful in thought as in word, but she -knew the faint embarrassment which they would try to conceal in -receiving gifts for which they would have no use; she knew the delicate, -half-pitying, well-meaning sympathy, which could never understand, try -as it would. - -On Sunday morning, Anna attended church with her husband and his mother -for the first time, the latter making a great effort, since church-going -was far beyond her usual invalid routine. When Anna presented herself in -the hall ready to start, Mrs. Burgess, or Madam Burgess as she was -generally styled after this time, had bit her lip and almost gasped, -such was her amazement and dismay. However, she had said nothing, the -situation being plainly hopeless, and she sat in the carriage in -speechless anxiety, while Keith’s face reflected the same emotion. He -had felt it impossible to interfere with Anna’s arraying herself as she -had for church, seeing with his sensitive perception that the garments -fashioned and sent her from her home by the hands of her mother and -sister, for such a time as this, were in her eyes sacredly beyond -criticism or cavil. - -Anna now preceded him, following his mother, down the broad aisle of the -stately and well-filled church, drawing to herself unconsciously the -attention of many eyes. She wore over the soft overshot silk gown the -brown camlet cloak which had formed in her mother’s eyes the chief glory -of her simple trousseau. It was a long, circular cape, falling to the -hem of her dress, drawn up about the throat and shoulders with quaint -smocking after a forgotten art, and tied with a long, loose bow of -changeable brown ribbon. The outlines of this garment were so simple and -so natural that it could never, at any period or by any shift of -fashion, become awkward, but it had at that time an effect of -Puritan-like quaintness. She wore a dark, broad-brimmed hat with falling -plumes, according well in simplicity as in colour with her cloak. - -As she passed down to the Burgess pew, her height and bearing, the -flowing outline of her costume, the purity and unconscious, childlike -seriousness of her face with its clear brune pallor, the steady light of -her hazel eyes, the lustreless masses of her dark hair, all combined to -make a singular impression of mediæval loveliness, of something rare and -fine and wholly distinct from the prevalent type of women in the -ambitious little city. There were some who, seeing her, smiled and -whispered at the quaintness of her dress; there were others who found -their eyes irresistibly drawn again and again by the picturesque harmony -of her figure; there were one or two persons who, watching the proud, -pure severity of her face as she sat with her soul lifted to God and -heedless of outward things, saw in her a woman fit for reverence and -wonder, one whose spirit had been most evidently nourished on the -greatness and simplicity of spiritual realities, and who was yet -untouched by “the world’s slow stain.” - -And so it came about that Keith Burgess and his mother, who had been -dismayed at the lack of conformity to fashion in Anna’s dress at this -first appearance in their world, found themselves met, the service over, -by men and women who had admiration and interest, sober and sincere, to -express, and much to say aside of the singular distinction, the -aristocratic dignity and charm, of the bride. Madam Burgess was not slow -to produce the good points of Anna’s ancestry of which she had quickly -possessed herself, thus enhancing the favourable impression, and she was -ready to accept Anna, cloak and all, herself, when the son of one of -Fulham’s leading men, Pierce Everett, an artist newly returned from -Paris, came to her with a respectful but eager wish that Mrs. Keith -Burgess would at some future day grant him the notable favour of sitting -to him for some saint’s face and figure. - -There was a little crowd about them as they passed out to their -carriage, and much kind and deferential courtesy pressing upon Anna’s -notice. A group of young girls on the church steps watched her with shy, -awed glances, and murmured to each other that they adored her, she was -so different from any bride they had ever seen; she was grave and quiet, -and something of pathos and mystery seemed to remove her far from the -conscious, fluttering pink-and-white brides of their experience. - -The young artist, Pierce Everett, joined a friend, a professor of -literature in the local university, Nathan Ward, as he walked away from -the church. - -“What a study for a saint!” he exclaimed, with enthusiasm. “I did not -suppose there was such a woman left in the world. Where can she have -been saved up to keep that super-earthly look?” - -Professor Ward smiled. After a silence he said,— - -“Here’s a conundrum, if it is Sunday: Why is Keith Burgess like St. -Francis of Assisi?” - -The answer not being forthcoming, Professor Ward presently volunteered -it. - -“Because he has espoused Poverty, Chastity, and Obedience. In Mrs. Keith -these three are one.” - - -Fulham was a small city with a college of no great reputation, which -called itself a university by reason of having a divinity school -affiliated. Furthermore it was a seaboard town and had had a large -shipping trade in former years, now slowly dying a natural death. The -aristocratic circle of Fulham—there was but one—was as definitely marked -and as strongly defended from invasion as it is possible for such a -circle to be, even in an old New England town. In fact, it existed more -obviously for its own defence and preservation from the ineligible than -for any other reason; and only two classes of citizens were -eligible,—namely, those who had some connection with “the university,” -and those who inherited either poverty or riches from ancestors engaged -in foreign commerce. These two agreed in one, and agreed to rule out all -others. Thus the aristocratic circle was necessarily small and its -social functions painfully mechanical and monotonous; its maidens were -proverbially lacking in personal charms, and its young men, with rare -exceptions, fled, escaping to more interesting and varied scenes; but it -was supremely satisfied, rejoiced in the distinction of its unattainable -exclusiveness, and looked with cold and unrelenting disfavour upon all -strangers, newcomers, or fellow-citizens, however meritorious, who -failed to possess the sole claims to its ranks. - -Madam Burgess enjoyed a double title to membership in this exclusive -circle. Her fathers before her, for several generations, had been -shipowners residing in the house now her own, to which her husband, the -Reverend Elon Burgess, had come, as an eminently suitable adjunct upon -their marriage. Mr. Burgess had filled a minor chair in the divinity -school for the ten years of their married life; he had not filled even -this particularly well, being a man of small calibre, lacking in any -trace of original power or talent, but his name was in the university -catalogue, and hence his place in the ranks of Fulham’s high social -circle safe forever. But, although of limited ability, Professor Burgess -was fine of grain and fine of habit, and sincerely pious in a day when -to be called pious did not awaken a smile. In the fear and faith of God -and in true humility he had lived and died, leaving perhaps no very -large and irreparable vacancy, and no overwhelming sense of loss or -desolation even to his wife and son, and still having borne— - - “without reproach - The fine old name of gentleman.” - -As a girl Sarah Keith had given satisfactory evidence of a “change of -heart,” and in a time of profound missionary awakening she had declared -herself strongly in sympathy with foreign missions. To the position thus -taken she had consistently adhered. All boards and auxiliaries to which -she was available claimed her name on their lists. Missionary literature -was always scattered abundantly in her library, her gifts were large, -and her allegiance to religious interests was so completely taken for -granted that it would no more have been questioned in Fulham than her -place in its aristocracy. Certainly she never doubted herself that she -was essentially a religious woman. Nevertheless, religion, whether -personal or in its outreaching toward a world which she would have -unhesitatingly called “lost,” consisted for her now in a series of -mechanical observances, and in tenacious orthodoxy of opinion it had -become a dry husk enclosing a dead seed. The brief blossoming of the -religious impulse of her young years over, she had fixed her affections -on the small adventitious trappings of “this transitory life,” and -denied unconsciously the power of that other life, the form of which she -so punctiliously maintained. - -Her invalidism was becoming, not inconvenient on the whole, and not -wholly imaginary. Such was the woman who was now by the ordering of -Providence to rule and direct the unfoldings of Anna’s early womanhood, -since Keith Burgess cherished a respect and submission to his mother -which would have found something akin in Chinese ancestor-worship. He -had reproduced in his own young life his mother’s early missionary -fervour; that it was long dead in her case he did not suspect. With -Keith this experience had received a strong accent from the temper of -his college life, and from the possibility of an actual dedication of -himself to the missionary vocation. It had thus become, as we have seen, -for a time nobly and completely dominant with him, the strongest passion -his life had known. He was himself surprised to find, on his reaction -from the crisis of loss and disappointment connected with his illness -and the abandonment of a missionary career, how natural and, on the -whole, how satisfactory it was to settle back into his own place in his -old home, to fall back into the small, comfortable interests of Fulham, -and to find full soon an aspect of unreality and even of incongruity -clothing his former ardent dream. - -Not so Anna. - -The ordered precision, the formal, stiff monotony, repeated day after -day in her husband’s home, the cold, conventional courtesies, the -absence of any purpose save to maintain things in existing form without -progress or alteration, for a time exerted upon her an almost paralyzing -effect. A torpid dulness, a physical oppression, came upon her when shut -up alone to the companionship of Madam Burgess, against which she found -it impossible to struggle successfully. Accustomed to serious mental -work, to much strenuous bodily labour, to the wholesome severity of long -walks in all weathers, and more than all to the stimulus of a great, -immediate purpose ennobling every homeliest task and smallest -service,—the present life of inaction, of sluggish ease, of absence of -responsibility of motive or purpose, was like the life of a prison. A -heavy, spiritless apathy overbore every motion to fresh endeavour or to -new hopes and incitements. She “fluttered and failed for breath,” and at -times her heart seemed bursting with its longing, the old wild, girlish -longing, grown still and deep, for freedom and for power. - -With mechanical indifference she accompanied Madam Burgess on her daily -drives, paid and received visits, shopped, and attended the various -prescribed social functions, read aloud to Keith, and made a feint of -embroidering the great ottoman cover which her mother-in-law had -contrived for her leisure. It was a stag’s head with impossible square -eyes, the head partially surrounded by a half-wreath of oak leaves and -acorns, staring out of an illimitable field of small red stitches, -numberless as the sands of the seashore, and significant, Anna thought -wearily, of her endless, monotonous hours. - -All the while, just below the surface, repeated through the long days, -was the bitter conflict of her spirit, her perpetual, unanswered -questioning, Why had God thus dealt with her? Why, with all power to -save or heal, had he permitted the illness to come upon Keith which had -thus brought to naught what she had supposed was the very and sacred -purpose of her creation. - -Upon the intensity of youth and a nature of profound and passionate -earnestness this thwarting of her dedicated purpose, this apparent -rejection of herself from the service of God, worked piteous havoc. Anna -did not grow sullen or rebellious, but she felt her whole interior life -to be in hopeless confusion. Her sense of an immediate and personal -relation to a fatherly God had suffered something like an earthquake -shock. All the high faith, the sacred and filial purpose, the profound -self-dedication of her girlhood, seemed to have been flung aside by the -God whom she had sought to know and serve, with cold, blank -indifference, without sign or suggestion of pity, of love, or of amends. -The God of whom Mrs. Westervelt had taught her, a conception which she -had gradually absorbed and assimilated as her own, a God closer than -breathing, nearer than hands and feet, to whom the heart was never -lifted in vain, whose presence could be indubitably felt and known, who -answered every holy and devout prayer of his children, and who led them -immediately in every thought and action—where was he? Either he existed -only in imagination, or she was herself rejected by him as unworthy; -and, in a depth below the depth of burning grief, she saw her father -likewise despised and rejected. - -A great protest, honest and indignant, rose up in Anna’s heart. She knew -that, as far as mortal man could be holy and harmless in the eyes of his -God, her father had been; and she knew that her own purposes had been -blameless and sincere. She refused to quibble with herself in regard to -these facts; something staunch and sturdy in her mental constitution—not -obstinacy, not pride, but sheer inward honesty—refused to seek -accommodation in any forced paroxysm of humility or blind submission. -With a sorrow which a lighter nature could not have comprehended, but -with characteristic conclusiveness, she said to herself, the stress of -her inward conflict spent, “I do not know God,” and composed her spirit -in silence to wait. - -At the end of a month Keith returned to his class in the Massachusetts -Divinity School, with which he was to graduate in June. Immediately -thereafter he expected to enter upon the duties of his missionary -secretaryship, and make his home in Fulham with his wife and mother. - -Thrown thus upon the sole companionship of Madam Burgess, and forced -either to make the best of the situation or to appear the crude, -undisciplined provincial who sullenly refuses to adapt herself to new -conditions, Anna’s native good sense came to her rescue. With strong -will she crowded down her mental conflict, while with conscientious -earnestness she addressed herself to the duty of making herself a -cheerful and sympathetic companion to her husband’s mother, and of -filling the social position in which she was undeniably placed, however -inscrutable the reasons therefor. New influences came out to meet and -win her on every side, and she responded with a social grace, and even -facility, which amazed all who had seen her first as the cold, pale, -silent girl whose marriage altar had seemed rather an altar of -sacrifice. - -An effect of singular charm was produced by this new mental attitude, -the opening out of a nature until now so closely sealed. The native -seriousness, the fine, direct simplicity, of Anna’s girlhood remained; -but they seemed flooded with a new and warmer light, welcome as daily -sunshine while the hardness, the rigour, and the severity melted away. -She submitted without further protest to the comparative luxury of her -surroundings, found it surprisingly agreeable, and discovered a fresh, -forgotten joy in simple physical existence, which carried her bravely -through the long, dull days of the Burgess order of life. - -Notwithstanding all these things, below the surface of her life, often -below the surface of her thought, lay an unplumbed depth of spiritual -loneliness, a sense of double orphanhood, a voice which cried and would -not be stilled; for while men and women had come near, of God she had -become shy, feeling toward him as toward a dearest friend grown cold. - -But one night, as she lay alone and wakeful, tears painful, not easily -flowing, wetting her pillow, a sudden thought stung her by its throbbing -wonder and delight, seeming great enough to reconcile all things, even -God, who had filled her with bitterness, and hedged her about in all her -ways. - -She said to herself, “It may be I shall have a child,” and the deep -places of her nature called to each other in joy and exultation; and she -knew that, if this grace should be given her, all would yet be clear, -and she could still believe in God’s love, and in his purpose in her -life. - -So, blindly groping through the rough and thorny way by which humanity -has sought God through many ages, this human soul, sincere and humble, -perpetuated the heart-breaking fallacy of conditioning the Divine Love, -the Eternal Power and Godhead, on the small mutations of her own life, -seen at short range. - - - - - CHAPTER XVII - - Affections, Instincts, Principles, and Powers, - Impulse and Reason, Freedom and Control— - So men, unravelling God’s harmonious whole, - Rend in a thousand shreds this life of ours. - Vain labour! Deep and broad, where none may see, - Spring the foundations of that shadowy throne - Where man’s one nature, queen-like, sits alone, - Centred in a majestic unity. - —MATTHEW ARNOLD. - - -To some minds there is nothing more pathetic in human experience than -the patient resignation with which average men and women accommodate -themselves to the most disastrous and distorting of griefs and -disappointments, nothing more amazing than their power to endure. If -something of the brute nature is in us all, it is not always and -altogether the animalhood of greed or of ferocity, but far more commonly -the mute, uncomprehending submission of sheep and oxen. Though the -futility of revolt is so apparent, the infrequency of it in human lives -does not cease to surprise. The modern Rachel mourns for her children, -and will not be comforted, but she goes about the streets in -conventional mourning, orders her house with decent regularity, and -probably, in the end, goes abroad for a time, and returning, enters with -apparent cheerfulness into the social round. The modern Guelph or -Ghibelline, banished from the political or intellectual activities which -made life to him, finds readily that raving against time and fate is no -longer good form, reads his daily paper with unabated interest, and -enjoys a good dinner with appetite unimpaired. Very probably the man’s -and the woman’s heart is broken in each instance, but what then? Life -goes on, and the resiliency of the mainspring in a well-adjusted piece -of human mechanism may be usually guaranteed, with safety, to last a -lifetime. - -In a year after her marriage Anna Burgess was diligently at work along -the conventional lines of activity of her day for religious young women -at home,—writing missionary reports, distributing literature, collecting -dues. She saw nothing better to do. Her own private and innermost -relation to God, it was true, had been dislocated, but the heathen -remained to be saved. - -One morning, Keith being away from home, Anna came into Madam Burgess’s -sitting room, her cheeks slightly flushed, her eyes shining, a letter in -hand. - -“May I read you this?” she asked eagerly; “I have been invited to give -an address at the foreign missionary conference next month in H——. What -if I could! I should be so glad.” Her eyes told the new and eager hope -which this summons had stirred within her. - -An added degree of frost settled upon her mother-in-law’s face. - -“You can hardly mean, Anna,” she said, “that you would be willing to -speak in public?” - -“But our missionaries do, and sometimes others,” Anna replied anxiously. - -“The case of missionaries is, of course, entirely exceptional; and they -should never be heard, in my opinion, before mixed audiences. As for -other women making spectacles of themselves, it would seem to be enough -to remind you, Anna, of the words of the Apostle Paul on that subject. -You would hardly attempt, I think, to explain them away.” - -Anna was silent. - -“A woman who has a noble Christian husband, my dear,” continued Madam -Burgess, more gently, feeling her case now won, “as you have, who is -already at work in this very field of labour, has no occasion to leave -the sacred shelter of her own home, and lift up her voice and exhibit -her person in public gatherings.” - -“Keith always said that I might still have a chance to do a little work -in this way; I am sure he approved,” and Anna’s low voice faltered, her -heart full just then of the memory of those first days of their common -sorrow. - -“You have a very indulgent husband, and it is not strange if, in the -first fond days of your married life, he may have unwisely yielded to -some mistaken sense of duty on your part, and apparently committed -himself to a purpose which he would later realize to be impracticable. -Understand me clearly, my dear,” and the term of endearment sounded, -from Madam Burgess’s lips, as sharp as the point of an icicle, “my son’s -wife can never, without flying in the face of all her holiest -obligations, both to God and man, present herself before an audience of -people as a public speaker. A woman who does this violates the very law -of her being, she ceases to be womanly, ceases to be modest, and loses -all that feminine delicacy which is woman’s chief ornament.” - -The finality of these remarks clearly perceived, Anna rose from her -chair, and left the room in silence. She never returned to the subject, -but simply buried in her heart one more high hope of service. - -This was the first time that Anna’s inexperience and young ardour had -joined direct issue with Madam Burgess’s social creed. For a while -everything had gone so smoothly that Anna’s first sense of disparity had -been soothed to rest; all things being new, she had failed to see the -full significance of certain limitations which hedged her in. Little by -little she learned this, and learned the inevitable submission. She -never appealed to Keith from his mother, controlled by a sense of the -essential ugliness and vulgarity of a domestic situation in which the -different elements are working and interworking at variance with each -other. Furthermore, she learned very soon that, however sympathetic and -gentle Keith might show himself toward her, he would, in the end, range -himself on his mother’s side of every question. - -Stratagem and indirection were alike alien to Anna’s nature and habit, -but she inevitably learned, in process of time and experience, to avoid -leading Madam Burgess to a declaration of definite positions, while she -sought to enlist her husband’s sympathies in her own undertakings before -his mother was made acquainted with them. Any plan which was brought -before her by her son was comparatively acceptable to the elder woman. -Thus wisely ordering her goings as women learn to do, Anna succeeded in -reaching a fair degree of independence and at the same time a harmonious -outward order. Her sacrifices and disappointments, the gradual paring -down of her larger hopes and the dimming of her finer aspirations, she -kept to herself. - -Pierce Everett, the young artist who had spoken of Anna’s fitness for a -model of a saint, had carried out his purpose, and had formally -requested her to pose for him. With the cordial approval of both Madam -Burgess and Keith, Anna had consented, and late in the winter the -sittings began in Everett’s studio, which was in his father’s house. -Madam Burgess brought Anna to the house for the first sitting. They were -received by the mother of the artist, an intimate friend of Madam -Burgess, and the older ladies then laughingly gave Anna over into -Everett’s hands while they enjoyed a discussion of certain benevolent -committee matters. - -In the studio a little talk ensued regarding the projected sittings, and -various considerations involved in them. These matters understood, Anna -said composedly:— - -“I am ready, Mr. Everett, if you will tell me just what you wish. I do -not even know for what I am to be painted.” - -“And you will not object, Mrs. Burgess,” said Everett, quickly, “if I do -not tell you now? It is in a character which could not, I am sure, -displease you, but I think it would be decidedly better that we should -not discuss it, and that you should have no definite thought of it. Is -this satisfactory to you?” - -“Entirely so.” - -“Very well.” - -Immediately upon this Everett took his place at the easel and began a -first rapid sketch of Anna’s head. He was a slight fellow, below the -medium height, with a delicate, almost transparent face, a red Vandyke -beard, and large and brilliant brown eyes. Quick and nervous in speech -and gesture, he had the clear-cut precision of a man who knows both his -means and his end. - -Anna thought him very interesting. - -At the second sitting their talk chanced to turn upon the relation of -the ideals of men and women to their practical lives, and Everett told -Anna the old story of Carcassonne, which was new to her. The train of -thought thus suggested soon absorbed her, so that she forgot him and -what he was doing. The sacred hope of her own life, yet unfulfilled, -still centring in the hope of her father, the ever receding purpose of -which she never spoke, cast its powerful influence upon her. - -For half an hour neither spoke. Then Everett’s friend, Professor Ward, -came into the room in familiar fashion, and the two men talked of many -things. - -When Anna left Nathan Ward said, looking over his friend’s shoulder:— - -“If you can keep that look, you will make a great picture.” Then he -added, “But don’t fail to get her hands. They have the same expression.” - -After that it became an habitual thing for Ward to drop into the studio -at these sittings. It never occurred to Anna that her presence had -anything to do with his coming. She supposed he had always come. He -talked very little with her, but she liked to listen to his talk with -Everett. It was distinctly novel to her—light, rambling, touch-and-go, -and yet full of underlying thought and suggestion. Anna had known few -men at best, none of the order to which these two belonged, men -conversant with art and literature, music and poetry, and modern life on -all its sides. Much that they said puzzled and perplexed her, but she -found an eager enjoyment in it. - -Then one day Professor Ward said to her, apropos of Shelley, of whom -they had been speaking:— - -“You do not join in this discussion, Mrs. Burgess. I am quite sure you -could give us opinions much wiser than ours.” - -Anna’s colour deepened as she answered:— - -“I have not read Shelley in a great many years. Indeed, I know nothing -of literature.” - -There was a little silence; Anna hesitated, half inclined to say a word -in explanation of a fact which she plainly saw the two men found very -surprising, but finally, finding the explanation too personal and too -serious, remained silent. - -As she started to walk home from the Everett’s, Professor Ward joined -her, asking to walk with her. He was a man of forty, with a wife and a -flock of little children. Anna knew the family slightly, but pleasantly. - -“Mrs. Burgess,” the professor began, as they walked down the quiet -street, “I do not want to intrude or to be found inquisitive, but I am -so puzzled by what you said a little while ago that I really wish you -felt inclined to enlighten me. I know you never speak with the -exaggeration and inaccuracy which is so much the habit of young ladies, -and so I accept what you said as to your ignorance of literature as -sober truth. But you are a well-educated woman. How can it be?” - -Anna was almost glad of a chance to explain. She was facing many new -questions in these days, and she felt the need of light. She answered -therefore at once, with frankness:— - -“I deliberately gave up study on all these lines when I became a -Christian. I supposed them to be contrary to the absolute consecration -of my life to God.” - -Professor Ward looked perplexed. - -“You cannot understand,” Anna said timidly. “I have felt since I have -been in Fulham as if the language of my religious life in those days -would be an unknown tongue here. I see that I am right. To you, -Professor Ward, I am sure such a sense of duty as I speak of is -unintelligible, but I can still say it was sincere. And it was not an -easy sacrifice to make, for I had already grown fond of poetry, and -longed to know more in a way I could never express.” - -“I see,” said her companion, gravely; “you felt that the study of the -work of men like most of our poets, whose religious positions were vague -and not formulated according to our creeds, was likely to act -unfavourably upon your spiritual life and experience.” - -“Yes. To divide my heart, to dim my sense of a one, single aim in life.” - -“And that aim?” - -“To serve God directly in every thought and word. That, and to try to -save the souls of the lost.” - -Professor Ward had no key to the profound sadness with which Anna spoke, -but he watched her face with earnest interest. She spoke with the -unconsciousness of absolute sincerity. He was reflecting, however, on -how much easier life might be if one could sustain, undisturbed, such -bare simplicity of conception of human relations. - -“And so,” he said slowly, “you were going to prune away every instinct, -every faculty of your nature which did not serve the immediate purpose -of furthering what men call sometimes ‘the cause of religion,’ and know -and feel and be one thing only?” - -Anna bent her head in assent. - -“That is precisely what men and women do who seek monastic life.” - -Anna looked up at Professor Ward in quick surprise and instinctive -protest. - -“Yes,” he said, with emphasis, “it was just as noble and just as -cowardly, just as weak and just as strong, as the impulses which make -monks and nuns. It is what people do who are afraid of life, who do not -dare to encounter the whole of it, who have not reached the highest -faith in either God or man.” - -“Then you think such a resolution, such a scheme of life, produces weak -natures, not strong ones?” asked Anna, looking up with her honest, -steadfast gaze into his eyes. - -“I should say narrow natures, and yet I fear I ought to say weak ones -too. Mrs. Burgess, do you not see yourself the weakness, the narrowness, -of the position? It is what might be called the department system of -human life,” and Professor Ward, with rapid gestures, indicated the -drawing of sharp lines. “It is as if you said to your ego, your -soul—yourself—whatever,—Go to now, this department of your life is -religious; it sings hymns, reads a collection of sacred writings at -regular hours, prays, gives away money to build churches, and performs -various other exercises definitely stamped as godly. This other -department loves nature, exults in beauty, pours itself into poetic -thought, rejoices in music, expresses itself in art: but all this is -secular, pagan—all men may have this in common who have not accepted my -particular conception of the divine nature and its dealings with men; -consequently all this is to be cut off—effaced, fought with to the -death. Am I right?” - -Anna nodded, her face very grave, her breath quickened. - -“Does that seem to you a reasonable or even a noble conception? There -was nobleness, I grant you, in the struggle, just as there was in the -fortitude of the Spartans; but who feels now a desire to imitate that -sheer, barbaric effacing of human feeling? No, no. That day has passed. -We can begin to see life whole to-day; we can see God in nature, in -poetry, in beauty, in ugliness even. He is all and in all. All things -are ours and we are God’s! I wish I could make this clear to you.” - -“You have, in part,” said Anna, simply. - -“No way, however tortuous, by which men have groped after God can be -indifferent to us, if we have the right sense of humanity. Trust -yourself, Mrs. Burgess; trust the human heart throughout the ages. -Believe me, with all the drawbacks, all the falls, and all the blunders, -it has been an honest heart and is worthy of reverence and devout study. -‘Trust God: see all, nor be afraid.’” - -“I have seen only one side of life, one conception of human nature.” - -“That, at least, was a high and lofty one. For stern heroism of thought, -commend me to that old New England Calvinism in which I see you were -nurtured. It was fine; I glory in it, just as I glory in heroism -everywhere, builded up on however mistaken a foundation. The worst of -it, however, is that it completely deceives the human heart as to -itself. It is terrible in its power to mislead. The elect are not as -elect by half as they suppose. Calvin himself helped to burn Servetus, -which was not really fine of him, you know. But I have said enough. I -hope I have not wounded you?” - -“I do not think so,” said Anna, smiling faintly, “but I am amazed beyond -everything. All that you say is so new.” - -They had reached Professor Ward’s house, which was very near that of -Madam Burgess. - -“I wish you would come in a moment,” said Ward, very gently; “you know -my wife always likes to see you, and I want to show you some books in -which I think you would be interested.” - -Without reply, Anna passed through the gate which he held open for her, -and they entered the house together. Mrs. Ward met them, and they all -went into the professor’s study. - -In a few moments Anna was lost in the realm of books so long self-closed -to her experience. She sat at his desk, and Ward handed her and heaped -about her rare and beautiful volumes until she became bewildered with -the sense of intellectual richness and complexity. She looked up at -last, as he bent over her, turning the leaves of a beautiful old Italian -edition of Dante’s “Commedia,” and, with a smile beneath which her lips -trembled, she asked, like a child:— - -“Tell me truly, is all this for me, righteously, safely?” - -“Did I not tell you?” he asked gently. “‘All things are yours, and you -are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s.’” - -With that day Anna returned to the long-sealed books of her father’s -love and her own. She read and studied under Professor Ward’s guidance -and direction, steadily and with eager delight. She did this with no -further misgiving or doubt. He had succeeded in satisfying her -conscience, and she moved joyfully along the clear lines of her -inherited intellectual choice. - -As for her father and the example of renunciation he had given her, her -heart was at rest. That which was perfect being come for him, was not -that which had been in part done away? - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII - - Are you the new person drawn toward me? - To begin with take warning, I am surely far different from what you - suppose; - Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal? - - · · · · · - - Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloyed satisfaction? - - · · · · · - - Do you see no further than this façade, this smooth and tolerant manner - of me? - Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic - man? - Have you no thought, O dreamer, that it may be all maya, illusion? - —WALT WHITMAN. - - -In her sittings in the studio of Pierce Everett, Anna had found from -time to time numbers of an English magazine devoted to social reform. -Some of these, at Everett’s suggestion, she had taken home with her and -read with care. Coming to the studio one May afternoon, for the work had -been laid aside for a time for various reasons, and only resumed with -the spring, Anna laid down on a table three or four of these magazines -with the remark:— - -“I wish I knew who John Gregory is.” - -Everett glanced up quickly. - -“I mean the man who wrote those articles on the ‘Social Ideals of -Jesus,’” added Anna. - -“Do you like them?” asked Everett. - -“I do not know how to answer that question,” said Anna, musingly; -“perhaps you hardly can say you like what makes you thoroughly -uncomfortable. What he says of the immorality of a life of selfish ease -appeals to me powerfully.” - -“It is a great arraignment,” said Everett, working on in apparent -absorbedness. - -“What stirs me so deeply,” continued Anna, “is that this writer not only -says what I believe to be true, but that he makes you feel a sense of -power, authority, finality almost, in the way he says it. And by that, -you know, I do not mean that he is authoritative or autocratic; it is -simply that he writes as one who sees, who knows, who has gone beyond -the mists of doubt and has a clear vision.” - -“You are quite right, Mrs. Burgess,” said Everett, quietly, looking up -from his work, his eyes kindling with unwonted light. “John Gregory is a -man of his generation—a seer; as you say, one who sees. He is my master. -You did not know, perhaps, that I am a socialist?” - -“No,” Anna said simply; “I do not even rightly know what a socialist -is.” - -“It is, as far as my personal definition is concerned,—there are a dozen -others,—a man who believes that the aim of individual and private gain -and advantage, to the ignoring of the interests of his fellow-men, is -immoral; this, whether it is the struggle for the man’s salvation in a -future life, or his social or material advancement in this.” - -Anna looked very sober. In a moment of silence, she was asking herself, -“I wonder what becomes of people who are forced into lives of selfish -inaction; who have to live luxuriously when they don’t want to; who are -obliged to go in carriages when they far prefer walking; and who find -their hands tied whenever they seek any line of effort not absolutely -conventional?” - -Looking up then with a sudden smile, she exclaimed, “I should like to -ask this Mr. Gregory a few questions!” - -“Perhaps you may be able to some time. He is in this country now, and he -is so good as to honour me with his personal friendship. However, he -passes like night from land to land; one can never count upon his -coming, or plan for his staying an hour. But if I can bring it about, -Mrs. Burgess, you shall meet some time.” - -“Thank you. What is he? A clergyman, a teacher, or what?” - -“You found something a little sermonic in his articles?” and Everett -smiled. “I believe he can never throw it off entirely. He is an Oxford -man, a scholar, and a writer on sociology. He is first and last and -always, however, a Christian in the purest and most practical sense.” - -“That seemed to me unmistakable.” - -“He used to be a preacher; in fact, he was for a number of years a -famous evangelist in England, and also in this country. He was led into -that work by a sense of obligation. I should almost think you must have -heard of his wonderful success. John Gregory—his name was in everybody’s -mouth a few years ago.” - -Anna tried to recall some vague sense of association with the name, -which failed to declare itself plainly. - -“He was holding great revival meetings somewhere in New England, simply -sweeping everything before him; all the great cities were seeking him, -you know his income could have been almost anything he would have made -it. All this I know, but I never heard a word of it from Gregory -himself.” - -“He is not doing this still?” - -“I will tell you. Really to understand, you must try to imagine -something of the man’s personality. He has in the highest degree that -indefinable quality which we usually call magnetism. He has an almost -irresistible personal influence with many people. Well, on a certain -night, four or five years ago, I should think, during the course of a -most successful meeting, it suddenly became clear to him that he was -bringing the people in that audience to a religious crisis, and to a -committal of themselves to a profession of a knowledge of God, by -doubtful means. I cannot tell you the details, I have forgotten them; -but I know that he went through something like agony in that meeting, -and that in saying the words ‘The Spirit is here,’ he had an -overwhelming sense of presumption and even of blasphemy. He did not know -that the Spirit was present. He was not sure but the influence at work -was the product of music, of oratory, of his own will and personality, -of the contagion of an excited crowd—in short, was purely human. If this -were so, what could the results be but confusion and dismay when the -hour of reaction should come? He was borne down by a sense of pity and -remorse even for the coming spiritual doubts and struggles of the people -who were at that hour placed almost helplessly in his hands, and -abruptly he left the place—hall, whatever it was. That night in his -hotel he made no attempt to sleep, but studied the situation, its -dangers, its losses, its benefits, with the result that he never again -held that order of revival meetings. Whatever good other men might do -with the forces at work and put into their hands to wield at such -crises, for himself he was convinced that the human had usurped the -divine, and made of him, not only an unauthorized experimenter with -souls, but a violator of their sacred rights, albeit hitherto -unconsciously to himself.” - -“What has he been doing since?” - -“Studying. He has gone deeply into social and religious problems, has -travelled largely, has seen and talked with many of the most famous -leaders of modern thought, and I think he has now some large plans which -are maturing slowly. Meanwhile he writes such things as you have read.” - -The following week Anna was again in Everett’s studio. This sitting, he -promised her as it drew to a close, should be the last, as he could -finish the picture without her. - -“Am I to see it now?” asked Anna, timidly. - -“Not quite yet, if you can be patient still after such long -forbearance,” was the answer, given with a bright but half-pleading -smile. “I want you to like the thing if you can, Mrs. Burgess, and I -know my chances are better if you see it when the final touches are on.” - -“Very well. I am not in a hurry.” - -When Anna left the studio the sun was low and the room fast growing -shadowy. Seeing how hard and intensely Everett was working to use the -last light of the day, she insisted that he should not come down the -three long flights of stairs with her. The studio was at the top of the -house. They parted, therefore, with a brief, cordial good-by, and -earnest thanks from the young artist, whose admiration and reverence for -his model had grown with every hour spent in her presence. - -On the second flight of stairs Anna encountered the housemaid coming up, -a tray with a card in her hand. Otherwise the house seemed strangely -still and deserted that evening. As she descended slowly from the broad -landing of the main staircase, where a window of stained glass threw a -deep radiance from the western sky like a shaft of colour down into the -dim hall below, Anna perceived that some one stood there, waiting. - -As she looked, amazement and a strange, deep joy took hold on her. The -man who stood with arms crossed upon his breast where the shaft of light -fell full upon him in the gathering shadow was of heroic height and -stature, with a large leonine head, grey hair thrown carelessly from his -forehead, strong features, and eyes stern and grave in their fixed look -straight before him as he stood. - -It was not the first time that Anna Mallison had confronted this face. -Twice in her girlhood she had seen it as she saw it now. It was the face -of her dream, the dream which for years secretly dominated her inner -life as a vision of human power and greatness touched with supernatural -light. Even in later time, in this year of her Fulham life, she had at -intervals recalled that presence and influence distinctly, and never -without quickened pulses and mysterious longing. And now she saw bodily -before her the very shape and substance of her dream. - -With her heart beating violently and her breath painfully quickened, she -proceeded down the stairs, through the hall, and so past the place where -the stranger stood. When she reached him he became aware of her presence -for the first time. Throwing back his head slightly with the action of -one surprised, he met Anna’s eyes lifted with timid joy and dreamlike -appeal to his face, and smiled, bending slightly as if in spiritual -bestowment, and shedding into her heart the inexplicable delight which -she had known before only as the effluence of a dream. - -Neither spoke. The house door opened and closed, and Anna hastened down -the street alone under the pale, clear sky, with a sense that the -greatest event of her life had befallen her, but she knew not what it -was. As she went on her homeward way she seemed to herself to be -palpably taken up and borne onward by a power beyond herself, as of some -rushing, mighty “wind of destiny.” - -She found her husband at home, alone in the dusky library by an -oppressive fire. She wanted to tell him what had happened; but when she -sought to do this she found that nothing had happened; there was nothing -to tell unless she should seek to put into words that mysterious dream -of her past, and this she found impossible. The dream was her own. No -one else could understand. - -Keith had returned from a long and tiresome journey in her absence, and -Anna was filled with penitence that she had not been in the house to -receive him and make him comfortable. He looked worn and dispirited, and -complained of the weather, which she had thought celestial, but which -prostrated his strength. - -In her quiet, skilful way she ministered to him, hiding in her heart the -deep happiness in which no one could share, and as she bathed his head -he caught her hand and kissed it. - -“Oh, my wife,” he said, so low that she could hardly hear, “you are too -beautiful, too wonderful for a miserable weakling of a man like me; but -how I love you, Anna! Tell me that I do not spoil your life.” - - - - - CHAPTER XIX - - I am holy while I stand - Circumcrossed by thy pure hand; - But when that is gone again, - I, as others, am profane. - —ROBERT HERRICK. - - -John Gregory stood in the studio with his friend, the first greetings -over. - -“May I look at your work?” he asked, approaching Everett’s easel. The -younger man stood behind him with sensitive, changing colour, and -something almost like trepidation in the expression of his face. - -There was a certain quality of command in John Gregory, of which he was -himself, perhaps, usually unconscious, which produced in many minds a -disproportionate anxiety to win his approval. As he stood now before -Everett’s easel, however, he was not the awe-inspiring figure of Anna’s -dream, or even of its sudden fulfilment, but simply an English gentleman -in his rough travelling tweeds, a man of fifty or thereabout, noticeable -for his height and splendid proportion, for a kind of rugged harmony of -feature, and for the peculiarly piercing quality of his glance. His -manner was characterized by repose which might have appeared stolidity -had not the fire in his eyes denied the suggestion; his voice was deep -and full, and he spoke with the roll and rhythm of accent common to -educated Englishmen. The aspect of the man produced, altogether, an -effect of almost careless freedom from form, the sense that here was one -who had to do with what was actual and imperative, not with the -adventitious and artificial; in fine, an essentially masculine and -virile individuality,—a man born to lead, not to follow. - -Beside him, Pierce Everett, with his delicate mobility of face and the -slender grace of his frame, looked boyish and even effeminate, but there -was nothing of superiority or patronage in Gregory’s bearing toward the -young artist, but rather a kind of affectionate comradery peculiarly -winning, and he entered into the study of the young man’s work with -cordial and sympathetic interest. - -The canvas before them was not a large one; the composition extremely -simple; the single figure it presented was set in against a background -of cold, low tones of yellow. A crumbling tomb of hewn stone, with tufts -of dry grass growing in the crevices, hoary with age, stained with -decay, was set against a steep hillside of sterile limestone. Leaning -upon a broken pillar of this tomb stood the figure of a young girl, her -hands dropped carelessly upon the rough stone before her, her head -lifted and encircled by a faint nimbus, the eyes fixed in absorbed -contemplation, and yet with a child’s passionless calm. The outlines of -the figure, in white Oriental dress, were those of extreme youth, -undeveloped and severe, the attitude had an unconscious childlike grace, -the expression of the face was that of awe and wonder, with a curious -mingling of joy and dread. The subject, easily guessed, was the Virgin -in Contemplation in early girlhood. - -The picture was nearly finished, only the detail of the foreground -remained incomplete. - -John Gregory stood for some time in silence. The face and figure before -him possessed the expression of high, spiritual quality common to the -early Florentines; there was little of fleshly or earthly beauty, but an -aura of celestial purity, of virginal innocence and devout aspiration, -was the more perceived. - -“You have painted, like Fra Angelico, Everett, with heaven in your -heart.” - -Gregory spoke at last. The artist drew a long breath and turned away, -satisfied. They both found chairs then, and settled down for an hour of -talk. - -“Where could you find a model for such a conception? It would be most -difficult, I should think, in our self-conscious, sophisticated, modern -life.” - -“It was my model who created my picture,” replied Everett. “Mrs. Keith -Burgess is the lady’s name. Seeing her at church, when she came here a -bride, gave me my first thought of the thing.” - -Gregory looked at him meditatively. - -“It is most remarkable that a woman who was married could have suggested -your little Mary there, with that child’s unconsciousness in her eyes, -that obviously virginal soul. When a woman has loved a man, she has -another look.” - -Everett was surprised at this comment from Gregory, who had never -married, and who was peculiarly silent and indifferent commonly when the -subject of love or marriage was touched in conversation. He answered -presently: - -“When Mrs. Burgess was married and came here, she was in a sense a -child. She was thoughtful and serious beyond her years in religious -concerns, but quite undeveloped on all other lines, and as inexperienced -in the motives and energies of the modern world as a child—I think one -might have described her then as a very religious child.” - -“Has she changed greatly?” - -“Not so much, and yet somewhat. She has begun to read, you see, which -she never had done except on certain scholastic and religious lines; she -has begun to think for herself somewhat, and in a sense, one could say, -she has begun to live.” - -John Gregory did not reply, but he said to himself that if she had begun -to love she could not have furnished his friend with the inspiration and -the model for just that picture. - -He had come to Fulham only for the evening, being on his way to take a -steamer from Montreal back to England. The two men had dinner together, -and then, returning to the studio, conversed long and earnestly. Gregory -spoke freely but not fully of plans which absorbed him, but which were -not yet matured. Some theory of social coöperation was in full -possession of his mind, and he had small consideration for things -outside. Everett listened with serious attention to all that he said, -and when he rose to make ready for departure he remarked:— - -“Mr. Gregory, when the time comes that you are ready to carry into -execution any plan embodying this principle of brotherhood, count on me, -if you think me worthy. I am ready to follow you—anywhere.” - -Gregory looked down upon the young man with his grave and winning smile. - -“Thank you, Everett; I shall remember. But do you know, my dear fellow, -I want to ask a tremendous favour of you now, this very night?” - -“Say on,” returned the other. - -Gregory had crossed the room to the easel, and now stood with a look -intent on the picture of the young Virgin. - -“It is a bold request, but I want to buy this picture of you now—before -you have a chance to touch it again. Who knows but you may spoil it? It -interests me unusually, and I want to take it with me to England,—to do -that it must go with me to-night. I will pay you any price you have in -mind. I want it for a purpose, Everett.” - -“What! you mean that I should let it go to-night, before I have finished -it, or shown it to Mrs. Burgess herself even?” and Everett looked almost -aghast. “She has never seen it, even once, you know.” - -“Yes,” said the other, looking fully into the artist’s excited face with -undisturbed quietness; “that is exactly what I ask of you. I will -promise to return the painting to you at some future date if that should -be your wish. I shall be over here again in a year.” - -Everett stood for a moment, reflecting. - -“I am very fond of the picture,” he said slowly. - -“So am I,” said the other, smiling. - -Everett glanced up, and caught the smile, and felt a strange control in -it. - -“You will have to take it,” he said, with a nervous laugh. “There is no -other way.” - -“Then, put a good price on it, my boy,” said Gregory, with -matter-of-fact brevity. - -“You will agree not to exhibit it anywhere, publicly?” - -“Certainly. I could not do that without Mrs. Burgess’s consent.” - -“How I shall make my peace with her, I am sure I cannot imagine,” -murmured Everett, as he took the painting from its place, and laid it on -the table preparatory to packing it. - -“Will you tell her, please,” said Gregory, quite unmoved, “that I wanted -the picture, and will agree to make good use of it?” - -A sudden clearing passed over Everett’s clouded face. - -“Oh, to be sure, to be sure!” he cried; “Mrs. Burgess has read your -recent articles in the _Economist_, and she is quite enthusiastic over -them. It will be all right.” - -“I am sure it will,” said John Gregory. He was thinking of Anna’s face -as she had passed him in the hall below, but he did not mention the fact -that they had met to Everett. - - - - - CHAPTER XX - - That which has caused the miserable failure of all the efforts of - natural religion is that its founders have not had the courage to - lay hold upon the hearts of men, consenting to no partition. They - have not understood the imperious desire for immolation which lies - in the depths of every soul, and souls have taken their revenge in - not heeding those too lukewarm lovers. - - —_Life of St. Francis._ SABATIER. - - To be content to have while others have not, to be content to be - right while others are bound and crushed with wrong, to be content - to be saved apart from the common life, to seek heaven while our - brothers are in hell, is deepest perdition and not salvation; it is - the mark of Cain in a new form.—G. D. HERRON. - - -In the few years which followed her early married life, the cords of -convention, slender, and strong as threads of silk, were wound closer -and closer about Anna Burgess outwardly. As she grew older, Keith’s -mother grew more immovable in her social creed, and ruled her family -more rigidly. Anna might read and study, but if she would please her -mother-in-law, it must be in the mildest of manners, and on strictly -suitable and ladylike lines; religious biography was recommended, while -all literature which conveyed a touch of freedom in thought, or a -suggestion of a change in social conditions, was viewed with horror. - -Anna might also be charitable, but this too must be on strictly -conventional lines. There were numerous benevolent organizations upheld -by Fulham’s fashionable women; the name of Mrs. Keith Burgess might -figure frequently on these,—to this there would be no opposition, but -individual and sporadic work among the poor was uniformly discouraged. -The family carriage was often sent into the slums of the city on errands -of bestowal as from the wealthy to those “less favoured,” but when Anna -would have liked the carriage to take her on social calls on equal -terms, in respectable but unfashionable regions, she met with a cold -disfavour and unyielding lack of compliance. - -Malvina Loveland, who had been married to the Rev. Frank Nichols, not -long after Anna’s marriage, had come again within Anna’s horizon. -Through Keith’s personal influence, exerted at Mr. Nichols’s request, a -call had been extended to him to the pastorate of a church in Fulham. -This church was not very large and not particularly prominent; -furthermore, it was not in the “right” part of Fulham geographically, -which was as distinctly limited as the social circle. - -The Nicholses, delighted to come to Fulham as a university town of some -importance, and to a church far more promising of obvious success than -the mission enterprise in which they had worked in Burlington, -innocently rented a cosey modern house on a pleasant street which, had -they but known it, distinctly stamped them as socially ineligible from -the day of their arrival. - -Mally, dreaming of nothing of the kind, entered upon what she expected -to be a somewhat brilliant life socially, into which she saw her husband -and herself conducted easily and naturally by the Keith Burgesses. - -Anna had received her old friend with most affectionate cordiality, and -had spent days of hard work in helping her to order her house, which, as -there was a baby and but one servant, was not a small undertaking. Madam -Burgess had submitted with patience to the long absences and the -preoccupation of her daughter-in-law thus involved, and had even -responded without demur to Anna’s timid request that they might have her -old friends to dinner. - -This dinner closed the Nichols episode from the social point of view. -The guests were full of cheerful and unfeigned admiration, eager to -please, easy to be pleased, but their good will availed them nothing. -Even Anna could not fail now to perceive poor Mally’s inherent -provincialness, but had she been apparently to the manner born, it would -have made no difference with Madam Burgess. The essential qualifications -to entrance into her world being lacking, her punctilious and attentive -courtesy for the occasion simply covered the inevitable and absolute -finality of it. - -The Nicholses themselves, while by no means perceiving that the social -career to which they had looked forward in Fulham was ended with this -visit instead of begun, departed from the Burgess mansion with a vague -sense of chill which all Anna’s efforts could not counteract. They were -never invited there again. Madam Burgess had done her duty by her son’s -wife’s early friends, and the incident, as far as she was concerned, was -closed. - -Anna, burning with a desire to make up to Mally for the inevitable -disappointment which she foresaw, and hotly, although silently, -resenting the social narrowness which excluded all men and women whose -lives had not been run in the one fixed mould, devoted herself -personally to her old friend with double ardour. More than this she -could not do. Mally wondered, as the months passed and they settled down -to the undivided intercourse of their own obscure church and -neighbourhood, that Anna made no attempt to introduce her into her own -aristocratic circle. Over and over she bit back the question which would -reach her lips, “Why?” Her heart fermented with bitterness and -resentment, and her husband was taxed to the utmost to subdue and -sweeten the tumult of her wounded feeling. - -Another year brought Mally another baby, greatly to her own -dissatisfaction. Poor Anna, the great passion of motherhood within her -still baffled and unfulfilled, poured out her soul upon mother and child -in vicarious ecstasy, and went home to lie awake for many nights with -her ceaseless, thwarted yearning for a child; and thus these two women -each longed passionately for what the other, possessing, found a burden -rather than a joy. - -As time went on, Anna, bound to a certain outward course of life alien -to her natural bent, lived her own life just below the surface, a life -like a flame burning beneath ice. All the master motives of her nature -unapplied; all the initial motives with which life had begun, -neutralized and made ineffective, she reached, five years of married -life over, the point which in any human development is one of -danger,—the point when great personal forces are dammed up by barriers -of external circumstance, when the prime powers and passions are without -adequate expression. - -Meanwhile Keith Burgess, his young enthusiasms having lost their first -freshness, the limitations of physical weakness and suffering making -themselves more and more felt, settled into a narrow routine of life and -thought. As his physique gradually seemed to shrivel and his delicacy of -form and feature to increase, a resemblance to his mother, scarcely -observable in his younger manhood, became at times striking. His -missionary activity passed from its original fresh ardour into a system -of petty details, increasingly formal and perfunctory, even to Anna’s -reluctant perception. - -Perhaps it was due to Keith’s protracted absences from home, perhaps -partly to his physical exhaustion, which made him dull and unresponsive -when with her, but Anna felt, against her own will, a growing divergence -in thought and interest between them. He was delicately sympathetic, -chivalrously attentive, to her in all outward ways; but when she longed -with eager craving for his participation in the life of thought and -purpose which was stirring the depths of her nature in secret, she found -scant response. - -Driven inward thus at every point, Anna’s essential life centred itself -more and more upon the new message of social brotherhood which she had -found in the writings of John Gregory; and, unconsciously to herself, -the ruling figure in her mind, as the symbol of the human power and -freedom for which she longed, was his. The “counterfeit presentment” of -this man in her dream had ruled her girlish imagination; and now his -actual presence, though but once encountered, exercised an influence -over her maturer life no less mysterious and no less profound. To this -influence fresh strength was given by the relation, never-so-slight, -which existed between them by reason of Gregory’s possession of the -picture painted by Everett. How she was represented was still all -unknown to her, still unasked; but must it not be that, owning this -mysterious image of her face, his thoughts would sometimes turn to her? -This thought stirred Anna with a thrill, half of joy, half of fear. - -An interruption in the routine of their Fulham life occurred after Keith -had served the missionary society for a period of five years. An illness -which manifested, as well as increased, his physical inability to -continue in his difficult duties brought Keith and Anna to a sudden -course of action. Keith resigned his official position, and, as soon as -he was able to travel, they sailed for Europe for a year’s absence. - -This was a year of rapid development and of abounding happiness to Anna. -Alone and unguarded in their life together for the first time since -their marriage, the husband and wife grew together in new sympathy, and -fed their spirits on the beauty and wonder of art and the majesty of -nature in fond accord. The fulness and richness and complexity of the -working of the human spirit throughout the ages were revealed to Anna; -the grandeur and purity of dedicated lives of creeds unlike and even -hostile to her own opened her eyes to a new and broader view of human -and divine relations. Reverence, love, and sympathy began to usurp the -place of dogma, division, and exclusion in her mental energies. She -began to perceive that the righteous were not wholly righteous, nor the -wicked wholly wicked. The old ground plan of the moral universe with -which she had started in life looked now a mean and narrow thing. Larger -hopes and a bolder faith awoke in her. - -And so in mind, and also in body, Anna grew joyously and freely; even -her attitudes and motions expressed a new harmony, while suavity and -grace of outline succeeded to the meagre and angular proportions of her -youth. - -The return to Fulham came, when it could no longer be postponed, as an -unwelcome period to their best year of life. Madam Burgess received her -children with affectionate, albeit restrained, cordiality, and watched -Anna with keen eyes on which no change, however slight, was lost. - -When mother and son were left alone on the night of the return, as on -the night when Keith brought his wife home a bride, Madam Burgess spoke -plainly and directly of Anna. She had never discussed her -characteristics from that night until the present, but she felt that -another epoch was reached, and a few remarks would be appropriate. - -“My son,” she said, “do you remember the night when you brought Anna -home to this house as a bride?” - -“Perfectly, mother.” - -“So do I. I have been going back continually in thought to-night to that -time. Without undue partiality, Keith, I think we are justified in a -little self-congratulation. Anna has developed slowly, but she has now -reached the first and best bloom of her maturity. You brought her here a -shy, angular, country-bred, undeveloped girl, although I will not deny -that she had distinction, even then; to-night you bring her again not -only a _distingué_ but a beautiful woman,—yes, Keith, I really mean -it,—a beautiful woman, and with a certain charm about her which makes -her capable of being a social leader, if she chooses to exert her power. -I understand she has purchased some good gowns in Paris. I have about -concluded to give a reception next month in honour of your return, if my -health permits.” - -The reception, which Madam Burgess’s health was favoured to permit, -proved to be as brilliant an event as social conditions in Fulham -rendered possible. The fine old house was radiant with flowers and -wax-lights, and the company which was gathered was the most -distinguished which the little city could muster. In the midst of all -the gay array stood Keith and Anna,—he with his small, slight figure, -his scrupulously gentlemanly air, his thin, worn face and nervous -manner; she tall and stately, with her characteristic repose illuminated -by new springs of thought, perception, and feeling, full of swift and -radiant response to each newcomer’s word, overflowing with the first -fresh joy of her awakened social instinct. - -Professor Ward stood with Pierce Everett aside, and, watching Anna, said -in a lowered voice:— - -“Mrs. Burgess is a woman now, through and through. Would you know her -for the girl whom Keith brought here half a dozen years ago?” - -“I could not find my little maiden Mary in that queenly creature!” -exclaimed Everett. - -“No; you were just in time with that mysterious disappearance of yours, -bad luck to you that you made way with it, however you did!” - -“It has taken her a good while to accept the world’s standards and fit -herself to the world’s groove, but Madam Burgess has been patient and -diligent, and I think she has succeeded at last,” said Everett gravely; -“she will run along all right after this.” - -“You think Mrs. Keith will live to sustain the family traditions -hereafter, do you? And Keith, what is to become of him? He seems to have -dropped off his missionary enthusiasm with singular facility.” - -“Precisely. You will have to create a nice little chair for him in the -university now, to keep him in the correct line of his descent. By and -by, you know, he will have the estate to administer. That will be -something of an occupation.” - -“Then he probably will take to collecting things,” Ward added, “coins or -autographs—” - -“Oh, come, Ward, you’re too bad,” laughed Everett. “You don’t know Keith -Burgess as well as I do.” - -Later in the evening Anna was summoned from her guests to speak with -some one who had called on an urgent matter which could not be put by -until another time. - -The fine hall, as she passed along it, was alive with lights, fragrance, -music, and airy gayety; her own elastic step, her exquisite dress, her -joyous excitement in the first taste of social triumph which the evening -was bringing to her, accorded well with the environment. For the first -time in her life, Anna had seen that she was beautiful; had felt the -potent charm of her own personality; had found that she could draw to -herself the homage and admiration of her social world. These perceptions -had not excited her unduly, but they had given her a new sense of -herself, a strong exhilaration which expressed itself in the lustre of -her eyes, the brightness of every tone and tint of her face, in the way -she held her head, in the clear, thrilling cadence of her voice. - -Once again, after long dimness and confusion, life seemed about to -declare itself to her, and the energies of her nature to find a free -channel. At last she might move in the line of least resistance, and -fill the place she was expected to fill, without further conflict or -question. - -It looked a pleasant path that night, and submission a sweet and -gracious thing. - -With a half smile still on her lips, and the spirit of the hour full -upon her, Anna came to the house door and opened it upon the outer -vestibule, where she had been told the messenger would await her. - -The man who stood there was John Gregory. - -Anna softly closed the door behind her, and looked up into his face. It -wore a different aspect from that which she remembered, for it was stern -and unsmiling, and more deeply grave and worn than she had seen it. But -even more than before the person of the man seemed to overawe her with a -sense of power and command. - -“Do you remember me, Mrs. Burgess?” he asked simply. - -“Yes.” - -“And I know you through my friend, through the picture he painted once -of you. You must pardon my intruding upon you to-night. I could not do -otherwise. I have a message for you, and I am here only for to-night.” - -Anna did not speak, but her eyes were fixed upon his in earnest -question, as if in some mysterious way he held destiny in his hands. - -“No man could paint that picture from you now,” he proceeded slowly, -gently, and yet with a kind of unflinching severity; “you had the vision -then. You have lost it now. You saw God once. To-night you see the -world. Once your heart ached for the sorrows of others; now it thrills -with your own joys. You have given up great purposes, and are accepting -small ones. I have been sent to say to you: keep the word of the kingdom -and patience of Christ steadfast to the end, and hold that fast which -was given that no man take your crown.” - -These words, spoken with the solemnity of a prophetic admonition, -pierced Anna’s consciousness. - -A faint cry, as if in remonstrance, broke from her lips, but already -Gregory had turned, and before she could speak she found herself alone. - -With strong control Anna returned, and mingled with her guests without -perceptible change of manner. When, however, the last carriage had -rolled down the street, and the house itself was dark and still, she -escaped alone to her own room to live over and over again that strange -summons and challenge of John Gregory. - -Now the sense of what he had said roused her to burning indignation and -protest, and again to contrition. She knew that she was blameless and -approved if tried by the standards of the people now about her, and they -were the irreproachable, church-going people of Fulham. She was simply -conforming to the demands of an orderly and balanced social life, and -pleasing those most interested in her. But she also knew that, as tried -by the standards of her father, and her own early convictions, in the -social and intellectual ambitions which now animated her, she was -learning to love “the world and the things of the world,” to know “the -lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life.” The -voice of her past spoke clearly through the voice of John Gregory and -must be heard. The things which she had thought to put away forever in -the solemn dedication of her girlhood had gradually returned, and -silently established themselves in her life in the guise of duties, -necessities, conformities to the wishes of others. - -But of late she had come to regard those early scruples almost as -superstitious. Where lay the absolute right—the truth? the will of God -concerning her? Why was life so hard? Why was it impossible to even know -the good? What right had John Gregory to spoil, as he had spoiled, this -latest development of life for her, and give her nothing in its place? -She resented his interference, and yet felt that she should inevitably -yield herself to its influence. - - - - - CHAPTER XXI - - My thwarted woman-thoughts have inward turned, - And that vain milk like acid in me eats. - Have I not in my thought trained little feet - To venture, and taught little lips to move - Until they shaped the wonder of a word? - I am long practised. O those children, mine! - Mine, doubly mine: and yet I cannot touch them, - I cannot see them, hear them—Does great God - Expect I shall clasp air and kiss the wind - For ever? And the budding cometh on, - The burgeoning, the cruel flowering: - At night the quickening splash of rain, at dawn - That muffled call of birds how like to babes; - And I amid these sights and sounds must starve— - I, with so much to give, perish of thrift! - Omitted by his casual dew! - —STEPHEN PHILLIPS. - - -The next morning Anna was sent for to go to Mrs. Nichols, whom she had -hardly seen since her return from Europe. - -She found her sitting in her nursery with her two little children -playing about her feet. She was near her third confinement, and in the -shadow of her imminent peril and the heavy repose laid upon body and -spirit by her condition there was an indescribable dignity about her -which Anna had never felt until now. - -Before she left, Mally, with wistful eyes, looked up to her, and said, -timidly:— - -“Anna, you love little children. No one that I ever saw takes mine in -her arms as you do—not even I who am their mother.” - -“Oh, Mally!” Anna cried, sharp tears piercing their way. “If that is -true, it must be because my heart never stops aching for a child of my -own. I know now that we shall never have children, and I try to be -reconciled; but you can never know, dear, how I envy you.” - -“Do not envy me,” Mally answered, her lips trembling. “You do not know -what it means to sit here to-day and see the shining of the sun on the -children’s hair, and touch their little heads with my hand, and smell -those roses you brought, and yet think that to-morrow at this time I may -be gone beyond breath, sight, the sun, the children—” - -“Dear, don’t, don’t,” Anna pleaded; “you must not think so. You have -been helped through safely before; you will be again. People always have -these times of dread.” - -Mally shook her head, but answered quietly:— - -“I have never felt before like this, but only God knows. But this is why -I sent for you: If my little baby lives, and is a perfect child, and I -am taken away, would you, Anna, do you think you could—take my baby for -your own, for always?” - -“Oh, if I could!” and all Anna’s heart went out in the cry, and Mally -saw the love which shone in her eyes and wondered at her strange beauty. - -“I am sure you will come through safely as you have before,” she said, -“but this I promise you, Mally,” taking her friend’s hand and holding it -fast, “if you should be taken from your children, and they will let -me,—I mean if my husband and his mother should consent, for I am not -quite free, you see,—I will take your little baby and it shall be my -very own, and I will be its mother while we both live, God helping me.” - -A look of deep joy and relief in Mally’s poor pale face was full -response, and the two parted with a sense of a deeper union of spirit -than they had ever known before. - -Early on the following morning, after a wakeful and anxious night, Anna -hastened to the Nicholses’ home. - -Mally’s husband met her with a stricken face, for a swift and sudden -blow had fallen; her trial had come and his wife had died, hardly an -hour before. There had been no time to send for Anna, although Mally had -spoken her name almost at the last. - -They stood together in the poor, gay little parlour which Mally had -adorned with high hopes of the abundant life into which she fancied -herself entering,—the young husband with his grief-wrung, ashy face, -Anna with her heart melted in sorrow and compassion. While neither could -speak for their tears, the faint wail of a little child smote upon the -silence from a room within. - -“The baby?” Anna asked under her breath. - -A deeper darkness seemed to settle upon Nichols’s face. - -“Yes, a boy. A fine little fellow, they say; but I feel as if I could -not look at him. I have not seen him.” - -Anna turned and left the room, and in another moment, in the dark inner -room where she had sat with Mally in the sunshine the day before, she -took Mally’s baby into her arms, and bent her head above it with a great -sense of motherhood breaking over her spirit like a wave from an -infinite sea. - -She stood and held the tiny creature for many moments, alone and in -silence, while joy and sorrow, life and death, passed by her and -revealed themselves. Then she laid the baby down and went up to the room -where Mally lay, white and still, with something of the beauty of her -girlhood in her face, and the great added majesty of motherhood and -death. On her knees Anna bent over the unanswering hand which yesterday -she had seen laid warmly on the fair curls of her little children, and, -in the hush and awe of the place, spoke again her solemn promise of -yesterday. - -After that she came down to the children and their father, and took -quietly into her own hands the many cares which the day had brought. - -It was late in the evening when Anna, exhausted and unnerved, returned -home. She found Keith and his mother waiting for her in the -library,—Keith hastening to welcome her with tender sympathy, Madam -Burgess a shade colder than usual beneath a surface of suitable phrases -of solicitude and condolence. She had been absolutely indifferent to -Mrs. Nichols in life, and did not find her deeply interesting even in -death. Furthermore, she always resented Anna’s spending herself upon -that family, and in the present affliction she felt that flowers and a -ten-minute call would have answered every demand. - -If Anna had been steadier and less under the influence of the piteous -desolation of the home she had left, less absorbed in her own ardent -purpose, she would have realized that this was not the time or place in -which to make that purpose known. If she had waited, if she had talked -with her husband alone, the future of all their lives might have taken a -different shape. But with the one controlling thought in her mind, -forgetting how impossible it was for these two, not highly gifted with -imaginative sympathy, to enter into her own deep emotion, she spoke at -once of Mally’s request that in the event of her death she should take -her baby; of her own conditional promise, and of her deep desire to -fulfil it. - -There was a little silence, chill and bleak, and then Keith said, in a -half-soothing tone as if she had been an excited child, hurrying in with -a manifestly impossible petition:— - -“It was a very sweet and generous wish on your part, Anna; so like you, -dear.” - -Anna looked at him in silence, her lips parted. - -Madam Burgess gave a dry cough, and partook of a troche from a small -silver box which she carried in a lace-trimmed bag. - -“Yes, as Keith says, my dear, it was a kind impulse on your part, but it -certainly was a very singular action on that of your friend. She was -probably too ill, poor thing, at the time to realize just what she was -asking. I have no doubt you were quite excusable for giving her some -sort of a conditional promise, considering all the circumstances. But -you need have no sense of responsibility in the matter; infants left -like that never live. It will only be a question of a few weeks’ care -for any one.” - -Anna turned her eyes from her mother-in-law back to her husband in mute -amazement and appeal. They could not mean to deny her this sacred right! -It was impossible. And yet a sudden sense of the incongruity of poor -Mally’s baby in that house smote sharply upon her for the first time. - -“If it had been God’s will that we should have had children of our own, -Anna,” said Keith, in answer to her look, “we should have learned to fit -ourselves to the many cares and responsibilities involved, I do not -doubt, as others do; but it is very different to go out of our way to -assume such cares, not ours in any legitimate sense. I think the -question is more serious than you realize in the very natural and proper -emotion which you are passing through in the death of your friend. We -certainly could not ask mother to take this strange child, and all that -would be involved in such a relation, into her house; and we are, I am -sure, as little prepared to leave mother and break up our natural order -of life,” and Keith smiled with kind conviction into Anna’s face. She -rose slowly and stood with eyes fixed before her, and a strange light -was in them, which her husband had never seen before. - -“That is all perfectly true, Keith,” said Madam Burgess, as if to finish -up the case against poor Anna; “and even if all this were not so, there -would remain one insuperable obstacle to adopting this infant—an -absolutely insuperable obstacle.” - -“What is it?” asked Anna, very low. - -“Blood, my dear. I believe in blood, and never, with his mother’s -consent or approval, could my son give his name, and all that that -means, to a child of alien stock. Never.” And Madam Burgess closed her -lips firmly and folded her hands peacefully upon her grey silk gown with -the consciousness of occupying a perfectly unassailable position. - -Anna moved toward the door, a curious effect in her step and bearing as -of one physically wounded, her head drooped slightly as if in -submission, her eyes downcast. - -When she reached the door, however, a swift change passed over her; a -sudden energy and power awoke in her, and she turned, and, looking back -at mother and son, her eyes flashing light, and a smile they had never -seen before upon her lips, said quietly, but with slow emphasis:— - -“You have decided this matter. You have each other; you are satisfied. I -shall submit, as you know. Once more you have taken my life—its most -sacred promise and its highest purpose—out of my hands. This time -another life, too, is involved. One thing only you must let me say, _I -wonder how you dare_!” - -Facing them for an instant in silence, she turned, and went alone to her -room. - - - - - CHAPTER XXII - - One by one thou dost gather the scattered families out of the - earthly light into the heavenly glory, from the distractions and - strife and weariness of time to the peace of eternity. We thank thee - for the labours and the joys of these mortal years. We thank thee - for our deep sense of the mysteries that lie beyond our dust.—RUFUS - ELLIS. - - By Thy Rod and Thy Staff comfort us. - —CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. - - -Two days later, in response to a note from Pierce Everett, Anna went to -the studio. He wrote that John Gregory had passed through Fulham and had -left the picture, in which she might still feel some lingering interest. - -Anna left Keith and his mother diligently occupied in their daily task -of arranging and copying Keith’s European letters and journals, -interspersing them with careful and copious notes from Baedeker. From -this laborious undertaking, which absorbed mother and son in mutual and -sympathetic devotion, Anna was self-excluded, simply because she found -the letters of merely passing interest, but not of marked or lasting -value and concern. Madam Burgess confessed that she could think of no -occupation more graceful or becoming a young wife than this of putting -in permanent form the beautiful and instructive correspondence of her -beloved husband, and she found a new cause for disapproval in Anna’s -indifference to the work. In her own heart Anna hid a great protest -against the substitution of puerile and unproductive work like this, for -the serious altruistic endeavour to which she still felt that she and -Keith were both inwardly pledged. But this was an old issue, and one, -indeed, to-day almost forgotten before her passionate grief concerning -Mally, buried yesterday, and the promise to her which might not be -fulfilled. The pitiful cry of Mally’s baby seemed to sound continually -in her ears. - -But another, even deeper, consciousness was that of the condemnation, -brief, sharp, conclusive, of herself by John Gregory. She believed now -that his judgment of her and of the line along which she was developing -was in a measure just—but what then? It had suddenly become definitely -declared in Anna’s thought, with no further shading or disguise, that a -life of worldly ease, of self and sense-pleasing, of fashionable charity -and conventional religion and of intellectual stagnation, was the only -life which could be lived in harmony with the spirit of her home. Her -soul lay that day in the calm which often falls upon strong natures when -profound passions and powers are gathering in upheaval just below the -surface. To conform, or to revolt, or to lead the wretched life of -spiritual discord which seeks to avoid alike conformity and freedom, -were the hard alternatives before Anna, as she thought, that day. - -Pierce Everett, meeting her at the door of his studio, was startled by -the pallor and sadness of her face, like that of her earlier years, but -forebore to question her. He had expected to see her in the joyous bloom -of his last view of her; he had looked for her to fulfil his prophecy. - -The light tone of badinage and compliment with which he had -involuntarily started to receive her fell from him now as impossible, -seeing her face, and in almost utter silence he led her across the room -and pointed to the picture of the Girlhood of Mary. - -After a few moments Anna said simply, without turning to Everett, her -eyes still on the picture:— - -“Did _I_ once look like that?” - -“Yes.” - -“Mr. Gregory said no one could paint this from me now,” Anna said -slowly, as if to herself, not knowing that tears were falling down her -cheeks. - -“You are older, that is all,” said Everett, gently. - -“No, that is not all. I have lost something which I had then.” - -“We all lose something with our child-soul, Mrs. Burgess,” cried -Everett, earnestly; “but you have gained more than you have lost. John -Gregory was not fair to you to leave you with a word like that. You were -a child then; now you are a woman. That face in my picture is not the -face of a Madonna, yet. It did not seek to be, but we do not blame it -for that. Should we blame the Mater Dolorosa that she has no longer the -face of a child?” - -“Thank you,” Anna said humbly, and held out her hand, which the young -man caught in his and held with reverence. - -She left the studio hastily, not daring to say more, a childless mother -of sorrows. The very emptiness of her grief, since no sweet substitution -of motherhood could be granted her, made it the more intolerable. - -Instinctively she went from the Everett’s straight across the city to -the unfashionable new quarter and to the Nicholses’ home. She found -Mally’s baby properly cared for, but coldly, by hired and unloving -hands, and took it into her own arms with yearning motherliness and -cried over it, easing her heart and murmuring the tender nonsense, the -artless art which mothers always know, but seldom women who have not -known motherhood. - -Mr. Nichols came in and she told him,—leaving the baby that she might -surely control herself,—that on account of Madam Burgess’s feeble health -it had been found impossible for her to carry out Mally’s wish and her -own. The disappointment of the poor fellow, with his almost impossible -burden and scanty income, was evident; but he rallied well, and showed a -simple dignity in the matter which made Anna like him even better than -she had before. - -“I shall watch over the baby, you may depend, and come as often as I -can,” she said in leaving. - -He thanked her, and she made him promise to send for her without delay -or hesitation if there were illness among the children or other -emergency, and so came away. - -The frail little life, unwarmed and unwelcomed by the love which had -been bestowed on the other children, seemed to feel itself in an alien -air, and failed from week to week. Anna spent every moment she could -with the child, and sought to cherish and shield the tiny, flickering -flame of life, but in vain. The baby lingered for a month, and then, on -a bleak March evening, Anna was sent for, to speed its spirit back into -the unknown from which it had scarcely emerged. She sat all night with -the child upon her knees, the young father asleep in the leaden sleep of -unutterable weariness on a sofa in the room adjoining. It is not given -to a man to know the absolute annihilation of the body by love which -makes the endurance of long night watches and the supreme skill in -nursing the prerogative of women. - -The nurse came and went at decent intervals with offers of help and of -food, but Anna quietly declined both. She knew that she was about to -partake of the sacrament of death, and she wished to receive it fasting, -and, if it might be, alone. She knew that she only on earth loved the -little child and longed to keep it, and she meant that it should die in -loving arms, if they had been denied it for living. - -In the slow hours which were yet too swift, as she bent over the small -pinched face, brooding tenderly over the strange perfection of this -miniature of humanity, the delicately pencilled eyebrows, the fine -moulding of the forehead, the exquisite ear with soft fair hair curling -about it, the little, flower-like hands, Anna wondered, as she never had -thought to wonder before, at the wastefulness of nature. All this -exquisite organism made perfect by months of silent upbuilding, a life -of full strength paid for its faint breath, and then, this too cut off -before the dawn of consciousness! - -Harder to bear was the thought, which would not leave her, that if she -could have taken the child for her own its life could have been saved. A -photograph of Mally on the bedroom wall in her wedding-gown looked down -upon her through the yellow gloom of the night lamp, and the eyes seemed -to Anna full of sad upbraiding. - -In bitterness of soul she groaned aloud:— - -“Oh, Mally, Mally, I wanted to keep your baby, but they would not let -me! He is going back to you, dear. Oh, if I knew that you were glad, -that you forgive me!” - -At the sound of her voice the child on her knees, which had been asleep -or in a stupor, opened its eyes, and lifted them to hers. They were -large blue eyes like Mally’s, and for a moment their look was fixed upon -her own,—a clear, direct look, and, with a thrill of awe, Anna felt a -_conscious_ look. The instant of that mutual glance with all of mystery, -of joy, and of wonder which it held, passed; the waxen whiteness of the -lids fell again, but, as it passed, a sense of great peace fell upon -Anna’s spirit. The last look of that newborn soul, pure and undefiled, -had searched her heart, had found her love, had shed the glory of its -passing into her bruised and cabined spirit. - -“Now go, little child, go to God and be at rest; we have known each -other, and you are mine after all,” she whispered fondly, her tears -falling like spring rains upon white blossoms. - -The dawn-light came into the room, dimming the lamp-light with which it -could not blend; a tremor passed through the tiny frame, the breath -fluttered once or twice upon the lips, and the baby died. Anna had -called the father, and he stood by, watching in heavy oppression. - -Quietly, with the great submission of spirit which death brings, Anna -washed and dressed the little body, putting on the garments of fairylike -texture and proportion which she had seen Mally making with warm, -dexterous fingers, a few weeks before. Then, having prayed, she left the -place and walked home alone through the silent streets, with the -consecration of the hour full upon her. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIII - - He who professeth to believe in one Almighty Creator, and in his Son - Jesus Christ, and is yet more intent on the honours, profits, and - friendships of the world than he is, in singleness of heart, to - stand faithful to the Christian religion, is in the channel of - idolatry; while the Gentile, who, notwithstanding some mistaken - opinions, is established in the true principle of virtue, and humbly - adores an Almighty Power, may be of the number that fear God and - work righteousness.—JOHN WOOLMAN. - - -A physician’s carriage stood before the house when Anna reached it, and -within there was a stir unusual for that early hour. Jane met her on the -landing, and answered her questions. - -“Yes, ma’am; Mrs. Burgess, she was all right as far as I could see when -I helped her get to bed, but I hadn’t got her light out when I heard her -give a queer kind of groan, and when I got to her, her face was that -twisted all to one side, that it would make your heart ache to see her. -But that isn’t so bad now; you’d hardly notice it. And she don’t seem -paralyzed; she moves ’most any way.” - -“Then she is better?” - -“Well, ma’am, I don’t know as you could say so much better. The worst of -it is, her mind ain’t right. She looks sort of blank, and when she talks -it ain’t natural, but all confused like, and it’s hard, poor lady, for -her to get anything out; she talks thick and slow, so different from -herself.” - -A moment later Anna saw Keith, and heard the verdict of the physician. -Madam Burgess had suffered a paralytic seizure of a somewhat unusual -character. He should watch the case with great interest. There was -evidently a small clot on the left side of the brain which affected the -mental equilibrium, and produced something like delirium. The ultimate -result could only be fatal, and it was doubtful whether full -consciousness would return before death. - -That afternoon Anna was permitted to go to her mother-in-law’s bedside. -Keith followed her, full of eager hope that for her there might be the -clear and unquestionable recognition which had thus far been denied him. -It was a strangely painful thing to Anna to see the familiar figure of a -woman so graceful, so precise, so secure in her high-bred -self-possession, so decided in her conscious self-direction, prostrate, -dull, lethargic; to hear in place of the cold, clear modulations of her -voice a meaningless, half-articulate muttering. She stood for a moment -beside the bed, her heart sinking with the piteousness of the sight, -herself apparently unnoticed by the stricken woman. - -At the foot of the bed Keith, standing, cried out as if in -uncontrollable pain:— - -“Mother, do you see Anna? She wants to speak with you.” - -Slowly his mother turned her eyes, which had been fixed straight before -her, until they rested full upon Anna in a curious, disconcerting stare. -This continued in silence for some throbbing seconds, and then, with -thick utterance and unaccented monotony of modulation, she said, very -slowly:— - -“If you had married differently you might have had children of your -own.” - -This laboured sentence, in its violent discordance with the filial -tenderness and sympathy which alone filled the hearts of Keith and Anna -at the moment, smote them both as if with a harsh and incredible buffet. -Anna turned away from the bed white and appalled, and left the room at -the motion of the nurse while Keith, bowing his head upon the bed-rail, -groaned aloud. Even in the moment their mother had fallen back into -unintelligible confusion of speech. To them both this sinister and -unlooked-for expression revealed something of the weary ways in which -the clouded mind was straying. Some haunting sense of remorse and -accountability, vaguely felt and deviously followed, was torturing the -dimness of mental twilight. Again and again during the days following, -Anna, sitting just outside the bedroom door, heard the question -reiterated in the harsh, toneless voice:— - -“Did that baby die?” And always, when answered, there came the same -response, “I said it would, I said it would that night.” - -Filled with pity and compunction as she recalled the severity of her own -utterance in that interview, the memory of which with the sick woman had -plainly outlived all other, Anna went once more on the third night into -the sick-room, knelt by the bed, and took the hand of the sufferer in -both her own. - -“Mother,” she said, in a strong, comforting voice, “mother dear, this is -Anna. Will you forgive me for my unkindness that night?” - -There was no reply. - -“Dear mother,” Anna went on, with gentlest kindness, “I wanted to tell -you that the little baby has gone to its own mother. It is all right, -and I am satisfied.” - -There was a faint response as of relief and acquiescence. - -Then, as Anna still held the limp, unresisting, unresponding hand and -looked tenderly in the grey, changed face, Sarah Burgess spoke once -more. Broken and falteringly came the words:— - -“I am ... sorry ... you have ... no child,” and, as she spoke, large, -slow tears rolled down her face. - -It was the first time in all their intercourse that she had opened her -heart to Anna in motherly pity. Perhaps she could not before, the -defences of pride and reserve were sunk too deep. But the few words, the -tears, the glimpse of a heart which, whatever its hardness, itself knew -the passion of motherhood and could understand her pain, broke down for -the younger woman the last remaining barriers which had stood between -these two who had lived together so coldly. Anna laid her head on the -pillow and kissed the face of the dying woman again and again, their -tears mingling, while pity and tenderness overflowed the coldness and -all the silent resentments of the past. - -Two days later Madam Burgess died, not having spoken again, although she -had plainly recognized Keith and watched him with wistful eyes. - -The burial and the various incidents connected with the close of a long -life, and one of social eminence, over, Keith and Anna turned back to -the home, now wholly their own, and looked about them wondering what was -in the future. Like all men and women of gentle will, they blotted out, -at once and forever, every impression of unworthiness or selfishness -which their dead had ever made upon them. They idealized her narrow -character, and loved her better than they ever had, perhaps, in life; -but underneath all this dutiful loyalty Anna found in her own heart a -recognition of great release, and at times, in spite of her will, her -pulses would bound and leap with the sense of new possibilities in life -for them both. - -Just what these possibilities might be was by no means clear to Anna, -nor how far Keith would sympathize with her own vague but dominant -desires for a return in some sort to the working motives which had -swayed their earlier lives. She was greatly encouraged by the response -which she received to her timid approach to the subject of some slight -changes in their outward method of life in favour of simpler and more -democratic habits. The horses and carriage and liveried servants had -long been a source of distress to Anna’s conscience, as marks of a -privileged and separate class. She had always avoided employing them as -far as was possible. She had never, since she had begun reading the -social essays of Gregory, driven in the family carriage without longing -to apologize to every working man and woman whose glance rested upon -her, for a luxury which she felt to be in their eyes divisive, while all -the time her heart was crying out for brotherhood and burden-sharing -with the lowliest and most oppressed among them. - -Somewhat to her surprise she found that Keith was not without a similar -consciousness, any expression of which, even to Anna, he had -scrupulously avoided in his mother’s lifetime. Finding herself met here, -and thus emboldened, Anna came to her husband one evening with a -question which involved serious doubt and difficulty for her. It was two -months since the death of Madam Burgess, and Anna was to start the -following morning for Vermont for a visit of several weeks to her mother -and Lucia. Keith was too busy with the details of settling his mother’s -estate to accompany her, but it had been planned that he should meet her -in Burlington on her return, late in May, and together with her make a -visit, long-promised and long-postponed, at the Ingrahams’, whose -friendship for them both had remained unchanged by the years. - -And now the postman had brought Anna a note from Mrs. Ingraham which -took her back strangely to her girlhood, and to one March night when she -had first received a like request from the same source. This note asked -her to come, when she came for the promised visit, prepared to give a -missionary address at a meeting which would take place at that time in -Burlington. - -Anna handed the note to her husband, and, as he finished the perusal of -it, she said hesitatingly:— - -“Keith, I don’t know what to do.” - -“Why, dear? Why not simply do as Mrs. Ingraham asks? You would like to, -would you not?” - -“Once I would have, only too gladly,” and Anna paused a moment, -recalling the opposition to which she had yielded so unwillingly in the -time past. That outward and forcible opposition was now wholly removed, -but another restraint, subtle and subjective, had gradually taken its -place, although Anna had until now scarcely recognized the existence of -it. - -“I am afraid, if I tell you,” she resumed, “you will be shocked and -pained. Perhaps I cannot even put it into words, and not overstate what -is in my mind; but the trouble is, Keith, I am afraid I don’t believe -everything just as I used to.” - -Keith Burgess looked at her with his gentle smile. - -“Go on,” he said quietly. - -“Dear, it is very strange,” and Anna spoke with sudden impetuousness; -“but I suppose I have not really a right to speak for missions, for I -cannot, any more, believe that God will condemn to everlasting torment -all the heathen who do not believe in a means of salvation of which they -have never heard.” - -“Neither can I.” - -“Keith!” Anna felt her breath almost taken away by this sudden admission -of what, in the seventies, was rank heresy in strictly orthodox circles. -“Why have you never let me suspect such a change in your views? Has this -had something to do with your giving up the secretaryship? Was it not -then quite all your health? Oh, Keith, if you knew how I have been -troubled!” - -The tumult of Anna’s surprise broke out in this swift volley of -questions, for which she could not wait for answers. - -“How have you been troubled? Tell me that first, Anna.” - -Anna’s colour came and went. It was not easy to speak, but honesty and -frankness were the law of speech with her. Very seriously she said:— - -“It seemed so strange to me that you grew, after the first few years, -into what often appeared a kind of official and perfunctory way of -working—letting the details cover the great purposes. It seemed little, -and different from what I had expected. Tables and figures and endless -reports—it was all business, and almost like other business.” - -Keith Burgess nodded gravely. “Go on,” he said, as before. - -“And then, you see, all at once you dropped it. Of course you had that -illness, and I could see how tiresome and troubling the work had come to -be; but I used to think—forgive me, Keith; I hated myself that I -did—that you dropped the whole missionary endeavour and purpose and -point of view as easily as you might have dropped a coat that you had -worn out—” - -“In short, that it was all officialism.” - -“Yes, even that—that it had come to be. And you know how different it -was at first, when it was your only life.” - -“Yes, Anna,” and the delicate, sensitive face of the man showed -something of the profound pain which he could not speak; “it has been a -hard experience. I have kept it to myself because I did not think it was -fair to lay upon you the same burden of doubt and conflict. I see how -naturally you came to look upon the change in me as you have described. -Perhaps your view is in a measure just, too, but I think not -altogether.” - -“Tell me, Keith.” Anna was waiting for him to go on with sympathetic -eagerness. - -“It was simply that, some way, I hardly know how,—perhaps it was in part -worldliness and selfishness, but I think not altogether,—my views -gradually have changed. Perhaps it was in the air, perhaps I took it in -unconsciously from what I read, and from my deeper thought of God and -his grace. What I learned of the various forms of heathen religions -influenced me somewhat, and also observation of the workings of our own -system in our own country even under most favouring conditions. I cannot -tell, only I came definitely at last to the point where I could no -longer go before the churches and plead with them to send their money to -foreign missions to save the heathen from immediate eternal perdition -and torment, because they did not believe in the plan of salvation by a -Saviour of whom, as you say, they had never heard.” - -“What did you do?” - -“You see,” Keith went on, not noticing her question, “according to our -confession there is no salvation even in any ordinary knowledge of -Christ, but only for the elect few who experience personal regeneration -by conscious acceptance according to the line laid by such men as Calvin -and Edwards. Now we know that judged by this test a very large -percentage of any so-called Christian community is doomed to eternal -punishment, and when you come to the heathen, it grows unthinkable—do -you see?” - -“Yes, I _feel_.” - -“I went very soon to Dr. Durham, and poured out a full confession of my -‘unsoundness.’” - -“What did he say?” - -“Anna, that was what settled me. I almost think that if he had said, -‘Stop where you are, and wait until you can see it differently,’ I might -have come back to my early convictions in some sort, at least -sufficiently to give me a motive for working on. What he did say, in his -large, hearty way, was: ‘Oh, my dear fellow, there is nothing more -common than such doubts and questions! They naturally arise from time to -time with us all. Probably not half the men who are at work in this -cause actually believe literally in the common conception that the -heathen who do not know of Christ are all condemned. Oh, no, I ceased to -hold any such opinion long ago.’ ‘Then why don’t you say so openly?’ I -asked; to which he replied impressively: ‘Don’t you see, Burgess, that -if we told our change of views to the churches at large we should _cut -the very nerve_ of the missionary motive? We may hold these slightly -modified views on eschatology ourselves without detriment, perhaps, or -danger, although of course they must be held well in hand; but if we -should speak them out to the rank and file, the result would be an -instant falling off in the receipts of our treasury, and the Lord knows -they are small enough and inadequate enough as it is. The average man -would reason, if the heathen can be saved after all in some other way, -it is not necessary for me to deny myself in order to send them the -gospel. So keep still, my dear Burgess, just keep your views to yourself -as some of the rest of us do. Go right along as you have been doing, and -there will be no harm done.’” - -“Keith, dear Dr. Durham did not know it, but that is Jesuitism!” -exclaimed Anna, with flashing eyes. - -“I thought it was,” he replied quietly, “and the result was I gave up my -office, partly on account of my health, partly because I could not -continue what would actually have been, for me, getting money under -false pretences.” - -“Still, Keith, it is not only to save the heathen from everlasting -punishment that we want to send the gospel, but to give them the present -salvation from sin.” - -“Certainly. There are other motives left. I think they may be sufficient -to energize our work far beyond what the Gospel of Fear could do, but -they are not at present the popular motives to which I am expected to -appeal. The future of the cause is not clear to me. If Durham is right, -and the nerve of missions will be cut when people cease to believe that -the heathen are necessarily damned because they have not accepted -Christ, why then I have little hope, because it seems to me impossible -for thinking people to hold this view much longer. But I must admit that -it is hard enough to get them to give money when they believe implicitly -in the immediate and hopeless doom of every heathen soul departing to -judgment.” - -“Keith, they _don’t_ believe it! Nobody _believes_ it! It is monstrous. -If we really believed such things as practically taking place, we should -all lose our reason. Our only escape from insanity, I believe, is that, -while with our mouths and with our opinions we have declared such -things, in our hearts and in our deeper conviction we have denied them, -knowing that they would be treason to God. What misleads us all, Keith, -I am beginning to believe, is that we have felt bound to accept a system -which theologians have worked out, and which has involved a paring down -of both God and man to make them fit into the narrow grooves they have -assigned them in the hard logic of their formulas.” - -“Well, let us make this question concrete; illustrate it from life,” -said Keith, leaning back languidly in his arm-chair. “How is it with -yourself? You have been taught, and have believed until very recently, -this doctrine of universal condemnation of all heathen ‘out of Christ,’ -and now, it seems, you have begun to question it. What is the effect on -the missionary motive in your case? Would you feel as eager as ever to -go as a missionary? Does the subject appeal to your conscience as -powerfully as before?” - -Anna looked at Keith for a moment in thoughtful silence, and then shook -her head. - -“No.” - -“You see Dr. Durham was right,” said Keith, sadly. “If this is true of -you, who have all your life been pledged to this work,—and I admit that -it is true of myself,—what can be expected of the careless crowd, -indifferent at best?” - -Anna had been walking restlessly up and down the library. Now she came -back to the heavy black oak table at which her husband was sitting, sat -down, and, resting her elbows on the table, propped her chin in both -hands, and so sat silently for many moments. Then she began to speak, -but very slowly, rather as if thinking aloud:— - -“I have been accustomed, and so have you, all our lives, to the -stimulus, the spur, of a piercingly powerful motive, the most powerful -possible, I should think.—To save somebody from immediate death when the -means of rescue is in your hands is a motive to which every human being -must respond, instinctively. Suppose this motive is shown to be, in some -degree at least, based upon a misunderstanding, and we find that we are -asked to alleviate suffering instead of to save life, why would it not -be perfectly natural, almost inevitable, that at first there should be a -reaction? Accustomed to the stronger stimulus, just at first our motives -and purposes would languish, I think. Mine _do_. I can’t help owning it, -Keith. But I can imagine that deeper knowledge of God, higher -conceptions of human brotherhood, of what they call the solidarity of -the race—things like that—which I only dimly realize yet, might -reënforce our poor wills, and knit again the nerve if it has been cut. -Don’t you think so?” - -Keith watched his wife as she sat thus speaking, and a great tenderness -was in his eyes. - -“You are a very wonderful woman, Anna,” he said; “your thought always -goes beyond mine.” - -She did not seem to hear what he said, for she went on in the same -musing tone:— - -“In a way, it seems to me, sometimes, as if every hope, every purpose, -every controlling motive with which I started out in life, had slipped -away from me, this of missionary work with the rest. All that I thought -I could do or become has been rendered impossible in one way or another, -and whatever capacity or force there is in me is unapplied. I can’t even -be a comfortable society woman; other people won’t let me, even if I can -let myself, and you know how I find it impossible to fit into -conventional charities. Everywhere I seem to be superfluous, out of -harmony with my environment. I thought once, I was vain enough to think, -that God wanted me for some special service,—that he would give me a -work for him and for his children; but I am thirty years old now, Keith, -and what have I done?” - -“You have been a dear wife and a faithful child,—a true Christian -woman,—is that not enough?” - -Anna smiled wistfully. - -“It is not good for any one to simply _be_, and bring nothing to pass. -But to-night I feel that whatever new wine life is to bring me will have -to be put into new bottles. The old motives and forces have spent -themselves, and the old hopes; and the forms which held them, have gone -with them, for me.” - - - - - BOOK III - NIGHT - - O Holiest Truth! how have I lied to thee! - I vow’d this day thy sacrifice to be; - But I am dim ere night. - Surely I made my prayer, and I did deem - That I could keep in me thy morning beam, - Immaculate and bright. - But my foot slipp’d; and, as I lay, he came, - My gloomy foe, and robb’d me of heaven’s flame. - Help thou my darkness, Lord, till I am light. - —JOHN HENRY NEWMAN. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIV - - Christianity has hitherto only partially, feebly, and waveringly - taught its great doctrine. Christendom has not believed its own - gospel. Forsaking the vital religion of Jesus, and of all the heroes - and saints as impracticable, men have put up with a sort of - conventional Christianity, from which the great essential ideas of - the Golden Rule and the real presence of God were dropped out. - - —C. F. DOLE. - - -“I have spoken for three nights in this place, and for three nights you -have heard me patiently. I have not regarded the favour of any man, but -neither have I wished to bruise or wound. And yet, as I stand here now -for the last time, I must declare the whole truth as it has been given -to me. I have charged upon our present social and industrial conditions -grave responsibility. To-night I declare plainly that you who calmly -accept and profit by them, whether you know it or whether you know it -not, are rejecting Jesus of Nazareth and his kingdom.” - -The speaker was John Gregory, the place a large hall in the city of -Burlington, crowded to its utmost with eager listeners, for the theories -which he proclaimed were new and startling in that day. - -As in his earlier revival preaching, so now, Gregory’s utterance was -attended with peculiar power. There was this difference, however, -between his relation to his audience now and in that other time: then a -familiar appeal was reënforced, even though involuntarily and -unconsciously, by the full weight of his personal and psychic influence; -now he relied wholly, it appeared, upon the dynamic of his message. His -manner was more impassioned than in that earlier time, but less -exciting. - -Keith and Anna Burgess, from their places in the audience with Mrs. -Ingraham, whose guests they were, watched and listened with almost -breathless intensity of interest. They had not heard it on this wise -before. - -“Do you remember,” continued Gregory, with searching emphasis, “that on -a certain day the Master said, ‘Verily I say unto you, That a rich man -shall hardly enter into the kingdom of heaven’? Do you remember how the -twelve men who followed him were said to have been ‘exceedingly amazed’? -From the fourth century, when the Church and the world formed their -unhallowed union, down to the present day, men have continued to be -‘exceedingly amazed’ at a saying so inconvenient and so revolutionary, -and have set themselves to blunt its sharp edge or to explain it away -altogether. - -“To-night I am here to say to you plainly, This is a faithful saying, -worthy of all acceptation, and woe unto him who seeks to take it away -from the words of Christ. Put with it, if you will, other like words -from the lips of Christ and his Apostles, rather than seek to abate the -force of these. But why are the rich condemned? Surely they are the most -law-abiding, most influential class in every community! Because the -riches of the rich man are founded upon a lie! This is the lie: _that a -man has the right to build up his own prosperity and enjoyment upon the -suffering and privation of his fellow-men_. - -“Ask yourselves, men who listen to me now, do I tell the truth? - -“You made your money in trade; very well—is trade just? Could you, under -present conditions, have made money, had you dealt justly and loved -mercy? had you lived the truth, shown the truth? Could your trade have -prospered if you had followed the simplest rule of Christ, ‘Do unto -others as ye would have them do unto you?’ - -“Is not the very basis of your trade and of your gains that you force -other men into failure, dejection, and poverty, and rise upon the wreck -of them? Well has it been said, ‘A rich man’s happiness is built up of a -thousand poor men’s sorrows.’ - -“Many men make their money in manufacture, perhaps not largely so in -this city; but the conditions are familiar to us all. Very well, is -manufacture true to God, true to men? - -“The profits, we will say of a given manufacture, were not great enough -last year; the owners had a large income, but not as large as they -wanted; some of the rich stockholders grumbled. What did they do? They -reduced the beggarly wages of the toilers in their iron prisons, sent -them home to their wives and children with less than sufficed to give -them daily bread and shelter, and they knew it. They sent pure girls to -the life of shame, and honest men to the black refuge of despair. Thus -they declared their dividend, and their rich neighbours praised their -business genius and pocketed their share of the gains complacently; and -the rich grew richer, and the poor, poorer. This done, they come before -God with pious words; they pass boxes in the churches to gather the -widows’ and the orphans’ mites whose burdens they do not lift, no, not -with one finger; they build a hospital now and then; they found a -university, and their names are exalted; they sit in their homes with -all their treasures of art, of intellect, and of refinement about them, -and thank the Lord that they are not as other men are, or even as that -poor fellow they hear reeling, profane and drunken, down the street, -because _no_ home is his, no hope, no God. - -“Hear the words which God hath sworn by his holy prophets: - -“‘Forasmuch, therefore, _as your treading is upon the poor_, and ye take -from him burdens of wheat; ye have built houses of hewn stone, but ye -shall not dwell in them; ye have planted pleasant vineyards, but ye -shall not drink wine of them. - -“‘For I know your manifold transgressions and your mighty sins; they -afflict the just, they take a bribe, and they turn aside the poor in the -gate from their right. - -“‘Woe to the City of Blood! - -“‘Woe unto them that join house to house, that lay field to field, till -there be no place, that they may be placed alone in the midst of the -earth! - -“‘Woe to them that are at ease in Zion!... that lie upon beds of ivory -and stretch themselves upon their couches, and eat the lambs out of the -flock, and the calves out of the midst of the stall, that chant to the -sound of the viol and invent to themselves instruments of music, ... -that drink wine in bowls and anoint themselves with the chief ointments; -but they are not grieved for the affliction of Joseph! - -“‘Woe to him that buildeth a town with blood, and establisheth a city by -iniquity! - -“‘Neither their silver nor their gold shall be able to deliver them in -the day of the Lord’s wrath. - -“‘For, behold, the Lord said unto me, What seest thou? And I said, A -plumb-line. Then said the Lord, Behold, I will set a plumb-line in the -midst of my people Israel: I will not again pass by them any more. - -“‘For judgment will I lay to the line and righteousness to the -plumb-line: and the hail shall sweep away the refuge of lies, and the -waters shall overflow the hiding-place. - -“‘For ye have said, We have made a covenant with death, and with hell -are we at agreement; we have made lies our refuge, and under falsehood -have we hid ourselves. - -“‘But your covenant with death shall be disannulled and your agreement -with hell shall not stand.’” - -As the speaker went on marshalling and massing with stern conviction the -tremendous indictments and declarations of the Hebrew prophets, which -the people before him had never heard thus definitely applied to their -own social conditions, the dramatic effect became irresistible. A mighty -blast of wind seemed to bow their heads, and many trembled and grew -pale. - -Suddenly John Gregory, whose whole face and figure had been rigid and -set with the awe of what he spoke, stepped out to the very edge of the -platform, and, with a gesture of gentleness and reconcilement, and a -smile which relaxed the tense mood of his hearers, cried:— - -“But this is not all! Never did the prophets leave the people without a -ray of hope—never did they withhold - - “‘Belief in plan of God enclosed in time and space, - Health, peace, salvation.’ - - “‘Is it a dream? - Nay, but the lack of it a dream, - And failing it life’s love and wealth a dream, - And all the world a dream.’” - -These words were spoken with no less conviction than those which had -gone before, but the change of voice, of expression, of attitude and -gesture, were those which only a master of oratory could have so swiftly -effected. The audience, now wholly under his control, felt a new thrill -of comfort, of hope, even of exultation. - -“The Spirit of God is brooding in the bosom of all this chaos, and a new -day dawns. Fear not, but look within. Your own heart confesses the bond -of brotherhood which unites you to all the race. Let your heart speak. - -“Men everywhere see the new light, and confess and deny not that it is -the true light, the light which lighteth every man coming into the -world, until sin and selfishness quench it. - -“The day is come when men shall no longer greedily seek their own -salvation; the straitened individualism of the fathers has had its day; -even the passion for personal perfection is refined selfishness from the -new point of view. Many Christian souls have been misled in the past by -the mistaken idea of self-sacrifice and renunciation, not for their -results to humanity, but for the perfecting of self, a fruitless, -joyless, Christless thing. The continual seeking for the safety here and -hereafter of the individual—the man’s own advantage, what if -spiritual?—held up always as his chief and noblest aim, have resulted in -Christianity becoming a symbol for sublimated selfishness. - -“A greater, nobler motive is ours to-day—no new gospel, but a right -reading of the old, a deeper insight into his purpose who said, ‘If any -man serve me, let him follow me.’ - -“Here may we, at last, and perhaps for the first time in long years of -blind and baffled longing for the fellowship of Christ our Sacrifice, -learn the awful joy of dying in our own lives that so we may not live -alone. - -“Your soul cannot rise toward God, my brother, while you are treading -down other souls beneath your feet. Cease the hopeless effort. Take the -world’s burden on your heart, and you shall know Christ. Refuse the joys -which can only be for the few and the rich. Take nothing but what you -can share. Learn poverty and simplicity and hardihood; unlearn luxury, -exclusiveness, epicureanism. Be pioneers in the new state, apostles of -the new-old gospel—the Gospel of Brotherhood, of Fellowship, of -Sacrifice.” - -As Anna Mallison, in her early girlhood, had responded with swift, -unquestioning response to the simple appeal of the missionary, and had -offered herself unreservedly to the work of seeking lost souls in the -heathen world, so now, in the maturity of her womanhood, her inmost soul -confessed that her hour had come. The message of John Gregory, heard -vaguely and partially before, had now reached her fully, and she found -its claim upon her irresistible. - -“Where this leads, I follow,” a voice said in her heart; “I follow -though I die! It is for this I have waited.” - -Turning, she looked into her husband’s face, and their eyes met. Keith -Burgess read what he intuitively expected in the deep awe of Anna’s -eyes; while she read in his a sympathy and response, real, and yet -strangely sad. - -Gregory had been about to leave the platform, his address ended; but the -audience sat unmoving, as if they would hear more. A man rose up then, -in the middle of the hall, and spoke. - -“Mr. Gregory,” he said, “some of the people are saying that, having told -us so much, you ought to tell us more. If it is true that you have some -scheme or system by which people like us could live such a life as you -describe, we want to hear about it.” - -Having so said, he sat down. - -John Gregory turned about and came slowly back to his former place. Here -he stood, confronting the people with a gravely musing smile. Again, as -she saw him, there swept over Anna’s memory the sense that this was the -presence of her girlish dream, and the old indefinable sense of joy in -the power of this man was shed into her heart. - -“You want to hear me say something about Fraternia, I suppose,” said -Gregory, slowly. - -“I am not here for that purpose. I covet no man’s silver or gold for my -project, let that be distinctly understood first of all. Fraternia has -not had to beg for support, thus far. Men and women who are like-minded -with ourselves are welcome to join themselves to us. No others need -apply,” and he smiled a peculiar, humorous smile of singular charm. - -“Fraternia,” he continued, “is an experiment. It is only a year old. Is -is what may be called a coöperative colony, I should think; that is, a -little community of people who believe that no one ought to be idle and -no one ought to overwork, and accordingly all work a reasonable number -of hours a day. We also believe that an aristocratic, privileged class -is not a good thing, not even a necessary evil, but a mere gross product -of human selfishness. We have none, accordingly, in Fraternia, nor -anything corresponding to it. We are all on a precisely equal footing. -That bitterest and tightest of all class distinctions, the aristocracy -of money, is unknown among us. Those who have joined us have thus far -put their property into the common treasury, and all fare alike. We -propose to work out this social problem on actual and practical lines. -We all work and all share alike in the results of our work. - -“You will ask what we do. Fraternia lies in a valley among the foothills -of southwestern North Carolina. We raise all kinds of fruit, some grain, -and some cotton. We have water-power, a mountain stream as beautiful as -it is useful, and so we have built a cotton mill. We have made it as -pretty as we could, this mill,—better than any man’s house, since the -house is for the individual, and the mill for the use of all. By the -same token our church and our library are to be finer than our houses -when we advance so far as to build them. We have nothing costly or -luxurious in Fraternia, but our mill is really very attractive. We all -like to work in it. You know it is natural to like to work under human -and decent conditions. I believe no man ever liked absolute idleness. It -is overwork and work under hideous and unwholesome conditions against -which men revolt. - -“In our personal and home life, simplicity and hardihood are the -key-notes. No servants are employed, for all serve. Our luxuries are the -mountain laurel and pine, the exquisite sky and air, the voices of the -forest, the crystal clearness of the brook. In these we all share. So do -we in the books and the few good pictures which we are so happy as to -own; in the best music we can muster and in the service of divine -worship. Life is natural, homely, simple, joyous. Its motive: By love, -serve one another. From no one is the privilege of service withheld. -Thank God, we have no forlorn leisure class. - -“Our mission, however, is not to ourselves alone, but to the world -outside. We are holding up, by our daily living, a constant -object-lesson. We are preaching coöperation and social brotherhood -louder than any voice can ever preach it, and the small child and the -simple girl can preach as well as the cultured woman and the strong man. - -“Who are we? We are mostly from England, many from the slums of London, -others from its higher circles, some Germans and Scandinavians, and thus -far not more than a dozen American families. Some of us had nothing to -begin with, and some had large property; some were so unfortunate as to -belong to the number of those who oppress the poor in mills and mines, -while others were simple peasants. We have no difficulty in living -happily together on the broad basis of a common human nature, a common -purpose, and a common hope. - -“But there is another side to this adventure, friends,” and Gregory -spoke with deeper seriousness. “Fraternia is nothing unless it is -builded on the immutable laws of God and of righteousness. Never, never -can we succeed if sin grows little to us and self large. Our message -will be taken from us, our arm will be paralyzed, if the day shall ever -come when the lust of gold, the lust of power, the lust of pride, shall -taint the free air of our high valley. - -“So then, if any among you would join our ranks, see that you shrive -your souls and come to us seeking only the Kingdom of God and his -righteousness.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXV - - Sin and hedgehogs are born without spikes, but how they wound and - prick after their birth we all know. The most unhappy being is he - who feels remorse before the deed, and brings forth a sin already - furnished with teeth in its birth, the bite of which is soon - prolonged into an incurable wound of conscience. - - —RICHTER. - - -On the steps of the rostrum, as he descended them, John Gregory was met -by a man of singular aspect, a man who has been encountered by us -before, in the house of Senator Ingraham,—his son, Oliver. - -As the two clergymen whom he had then addressed had been disturbed, and -even dismayed, by this strange face and figure, the smooth, egglike face -with its enormous forehead, narrow eyes, and wide, thin-lipped mouth, so -now Gregory drew back instinctively, finding the singular apparition -thus suddenly before him. - -Mr. Oliver Ingraham did not appear to notice the movement, but, smiling -his peculiarly complacent smile, held out one long, sinuous hand, and as -Gregory took it, not over eagerly, he remarked in his high, feminine -voice:— - -“I liked your line very much, Mr. Gregory. Nothing would suit me better -than to see these rich men brought to book. They’ll get their -come-uppance in the next world, anyway; but I sometimes get tired of -waiting. It would be a satisfaction to see Dives, Esquire, taking his -torments here once in a while, don’t you think so?” and the malevolent -leer with which the question was accompanied gave Gregory a chill of -disgust. - -Oliver held in his left hand a handsomely bound note-book and silver -pencil-case which it was his custom to carry everywhere. Gregory, now -about to pass on, and greet the crowds who were waiting to speak with -him just below, was again stopped. - -“Just a moment, Mr. Gregory,” said the other, slipping off the elastic, -and opening the note-book with the dexterity of constant habit; “I want -you to help me a little in gathering some very valuable statistics. It’s -rather in your line, I take it. I have been engaged in this work for -several years, and find it extremely interesting.” - -Gregory noted the long, white, flexible fingers of the man, and the -look, half of deficient intellect and half of cunning, in his face. - -“Please make haste, Mr. Ingraham,” he said shortly, “there are others -waiting.” - -“I am making a computation,” Oliver continued imperturbably, “in fact, a -carefully tabulated record, according to nations, of the probable number -of souls from each nation now in Sheol—it is considered polite now to -call it Sheol, I believe. We used to say hell when we were boys, didn’t -we, Mr. Gregory?” and Oliver laughed his low, cruel laugh. - -“Excuse me,” exclaimed Gregory, impatiently; “I could not give you any -information on that subject. I have never been there. Allow me to pass -on, if you please.” - -Oliver closed his book as if not unaccustomed to rebuffs; but, as -Gregory’s forward movement obliged him to retreat down the steps, he -remarked slyly:— - -“I had a message to you from the senator, if you only weren’t in such a -hurry. He is one of the fellows that will have to go to now, weep and -howl. He has the shekels, I can tell you! What he wants of you is more -than I can figure out. I should suppose Ahab would as soon have sent for -Elijah.” - -“Did your father send for me?” asked Gregory, surprised. They were now -at the foot of the steps, and the crowd was gathering about them. - -“Yes; he would like to see you in his office on this same block, next -building, as soon as you can get away from here. You work him right, and -you can get something out of him for your Utopia.” The last words were -called back aloud with a series of confidential nods, as Oliver turned -and plunged into the crowd, who seemed to make a way for him with -especial facility. Gregory saw him go with a keen sense of heat and -discomfort. - -Half an hour later, Gregory found himself in the office of Senator -Ingraham, seated in a substantial office-chair by the well-appointed -desk, while Mr. Ingraham, himself in evident and most unusual mental -disturbance, walked up and down the room. Suddenly he wheeled, and -confronted Gregory, as if with sudden, though difficult, resolution. - -“Mr. Gregory,” he said, low, and with the stern, terse brevity of a man -who finds himself forced to speak what he would rather leave unsaid, -“for over thirty years I have carried certain facts in my personal -history shut up in my own memory. Not one other being, to the best of my -belief, has shared my knowledge. To-night, I cannot tell how, I do not -know why, I feel that I must break silence, and before you—stranger as -you are—unload my burden. A strange compulsion seems upon me to disclose -the things I have hitherto lived to conceal. What there is in you or in -what I have heard you say, to bring me to this point, I cannot -understand; but I feel in you something which makes you alone, of all -men I have ever met, the one to whom I can speaks—and must. Are you -willing to hear me?” - -John Gregory noted the set, hard lines in the lawyer’s face, the knotted -cords in his hands, and the tone, half of defiance, half of -self-abasement, with which he threw out this abrupt question. Accustomed -to encounters with men in their innermost spiritual struggles, Gregory -was in no way astonished or excited by this surprising beginning of -their interview, and simply nodded gravely in token that Ingraham should -proceed. - -“I will not affront you by demanding secrecy on your part,” the latter -began haughtily; “if it were possible for you to betray my confidence, -it would have been impossible for me to give it to you. I understand -men.” - -He paused. Gregory made no remark in confirmation of this assertion, but -the direct, unflinching look with which he met the appeal in the eyes of -the speaker was full guarantee of good faith. There was promise of -profound and sympathetic attention in Gregory’s look, there was also -judicial calmness and reserve; in fine, the characteristics of the -priest and the judge were singularly united in him, and it was to the -perception of this fact that he owed the present interview. - -“I do not know whether I am a respectable citizen or a murderer,” -Ingraham now began, turning again to walk the floor, while an -uncontrollable groan as of physical anguish accompanied this unexpected -declaration. “Imagine, if you will, what thirty years have been inwardly -with this uncertainty as food for thought, served to me by conscience, -or some fiend, morning and night. If I could have forgotten for one -blessed day, it has been ingeniously rendered impossible, for sin in -bodily form is ever before me. You have seen my son.” - -With this sentence, harsh and curt, Ingraham paused, glanced aside at -Gregory, who assented, and then continued to walk and speak. His voice -and manner alike showed that he was holding himself in control by the -effort of all his will. Strange distorting lines appeared in his face, -and there was heavy sweat on his forehead. - -“I was twenty-five years old when I was married, and was alone in the -world save for one brother,—Jim, we always called him,—two years younger -than I. We had inherited a good name, strong physique, and some little -property from our parents, and started in life shoulder to shoulder. In -Burlington, where we first began business life together, we became -intimately acquainted with a family in which there were two daughters. -The elder, Cornelia, was very pretty and singularly attractive. Men -always fell in love with her. I did, desperately. The younger sister was -a commonplace, uninteresting girl, rather sentimental perhaps, not -otherwise remarkable. - -“I shall make this story as short as possible. I offered myself to -Cornelia after long wooing, and was refused. I was bitterly wounded, -angry, defiant. While I was in that state of mind, it became apparent to -me that I was secretly an object of peculiar interest to the younger -sister. Like many another fool, half in spite and half in -heart-sickness, I sought her hand, and was at once accepted, and our -marriage followed quickly. Within the year Cornelia and Jim became -engaged. There was a hard, silent grudge against Jim in my heart from -the day I first suspected that it was he who had stood between Cornelia -and me, and their engagement increased the grudge to hate. - -“We had, before this, put the whole of our inheritance into mining -fields in what was then the far West, buying up a large tract of land, -divided equally between us. The year after my marriage we moved West for -a time, and I started out on a prospecting tour of our land; Jim to -follow me when he had finished establishing a kind of business office in -pioneer quarters, in a small town as near the base of our operations as -was feasible. My wife remained in this town. - -“On horseback, with two engineers and a copper expert and an Indian -guide, I rode through our possessions. Miners were already at work, and -had pursued the lead far enough to prove pretty distinctly that, while -Jim’s part of the tract was likely to be fairly productive, the vein -stopped short of mine, which was thus practically worthless. - -“I rode back to our camp in a black mood. Jim, it seemed, was to succeed -in everything; all that he sought was his, and for me there was nothing -but failure and defeat. All the way back I brooded bitterly on the -contrast between us, until I was in a still frenzy of jealousy when I -reached the camp. The contrast between Cornelia, for whom I still had a -wild, hopeless passion, and my wife, sickly, dull, indeed disagreeable -to me already, was maddening, and had been sufficiently so before. But -now, when I thought of Jim, with Cornelia for his wife and the certain -prospect of large wealth to add to his elation, while I was without a -penny or a prospect of any sort, the rage and fury in my mind became -almost intoxicating. - -“We had encountered hostile Indians on the trail as we returned, but our -bold, dare-devil dash through this danger made slight impression on me. -I think death would have been welcome to me that night. God knows I wish -I had met it then. My heart was evil enough, but at least it had not the -guilt that came later. - -“I suppose, Mr. Gregory, that I am answerable for my brother’s death—not -in the eye of the law, but before God. And yet—if you could tell me that -I am mistaken, that I exaggerate, that other men would have done the -same and held themselves guiltless—if that could be—” Ingraham broke off -and fixed his eyes on Gregory’s face once more, as if in appeal for his -life. - -“Please go on,” was Gregory’s response, but the words were gently -spoken, as the words of a physician when he is diagnosing a manifestly -mortal disease. - -“Very well,” said Ingraham, harshly. “Jim was at the camp, and was boy -enough to parade a letter from Cornelia before me. We quarrelled -fiercely, about what I cannot remember, but I could not restrain the -storm of rage and jealousy in me. It had to break loose somewhere. I -refused to tell Jim what I had discovered regarding the lead, and he -declared he would go and find out for himself. I said he would be a fool -if he did, but gave him no hint of the fact that there were hostile -Indians on the way. He knew nothing of the conditions, nor the character -of the people about us, having never been in the country before. It was -early in the morning. We had ridden all night, and the men had gone to -their tents and were sleeping off the effects of our struggle. I told -Jim he could not get a guide. He merely whistled in a light-hearted, -careless way he had, and started off to a neighbouring camp, in search, -as I inferred, of some escort. I saw him no more, and made no attempt to -govern his actions, and did not even know whether he had started. Who -and what the guide was whom he obtained, I learned later. - -“I slept most of that day, after Jim disappeared, exhausted in body and -mind, and continued to sleep far into the night, keeping my tent door -securely closed, as I wished to see and speak to no one. It was, -perhaps, three o’clock of the morning following when I was roused by a -strange noise at my tent door. Starting up from my bed on the ground, I -saw that some one had cut open the fastenings, and that the flap was -drawn back. In the opening thus formed stood the shape of an Indian -rider on horseback, perfectly motionless. The moonlight, which was -unusually brilliant, fell full upon the face of this man, and I -recognized him at once, with a horrible chill of foreboding, as a -half-witted Indian who sometimes acted as guide, but only to those who -knew no better than to accept his services, which were worthless and -treacherous. He was a half-breed, an odious, repulsive being, with only -wit enough to be malicious, and of abnormal treachery and cruelty even -for his kind. Never can I forget that face of his in the moonlight. He -spoke not one word, but simply sat his horse and looked at me with his -narrow, gleaming eyes, a malignant grin making his ugliness fairly -fiendish. If you want to get a faint idea of his look, recall the face -of Oliver—my son;” Ingraham’s voice sunk to a whisper, and he added, “I -can never escape it.” - -Gregory’s brows knit heavily, and his face reflected something of the -tortured misery of the man before him. - -“It was not,” said Ingraham, “until I had staggered to my feet that I -saw that across his saddle-bow this creature carried a dead body—Jim. -There was an Indian arrow in his side.” - -“No matter, no matter for the rest; I understand,” said Gregory, -hastily. - -There was silence for a moment, and then Ingraham, with a strong effort, -rallied himself to conclude his story. - -“I was Jim’s heir.” These words were spoken with hard and scornful -emphasis. “That was a feature of the case which presents complications -to a man in forming a judgment. Perhaps you will believe me when I say -that this issue had not entered my mind in letting the boy go to his -death. Indeed, the whole series of events was without deliberation, but -under the influence of blind, sullen anger.” - -“I believe you,” said Gregory. - -“All the same, I profited by his death. The mines proved immensely -valuable, and are even to-day. They have made me rich—and incomparably -wretched. A word or two more, and you will know the whole story. Jim was -brought home, here, for burial, my wife and I returning with his body. -All through that journey, and continually, for many months, I saw before -me, waking or sleeping, that face of cruelty incarnate, the half-witted -Indian guide, as I had seen him on that awful night. That face was my -Nemesis. It is still. - -“Within the year my wife gave birth to a son, Oliver,—a strange -perversion, made up of moral obliquity, mental distortion, and physical -deformity, like an embodiment of sin. On his face was stamped by some -strange trick of nature the image which had haunted me—as if the Fates, -or the Fiends, or God himself, had feared I might forget, and know a day -of respite. - -“My wife died when Oliver was a few months old,—died of cold, I believe, -the chill of our loveless marriage. Two years later Cornelia and I were -married. I believe she has been happy. I have been prospered, and have -risen to a position of some influence, and we have all that could be -desired in our home, in our three daughters. But when, to-night, I heard -you pronounce the judgments of God on men who had built up prosperity -upon a lie, I was like a man struck in his very heart. I felt that I -could no longer endure my hidden load, and must confess to one human -being my past, and make restitution, if by any means it is yet possible. -The Romish Church is merciful, when it provides the possibility of -confession to sinful men. - -“What have you to say to me? Have you healing for such a sore as mine?” - -With these abrupt words Ingraham threw himself into a leather-covered -arm-chair with the action of complete exhaustion. His aspect was changed -from that of the alert, confident man of the world and of affairs, to -that of a broken down and shattered age. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVI - - Sin is not a monster to be mused on, but an impotence to be got rid - of. - - —MATTHEW ARNOLD. - - Use sin as it will use you; spare it not, for it will not spare you; - it is your murderer and the murderer of the world: use it, - therefore, as a murderer should be used. Kill it before it kills - you; and though it kill your bodies, it shall not be able to kill - your souls: and though it bring you to the grave, as it did your - Head, it shall not be able to keep you there.—BAXTER. - - -John Gregory met the demand thus made upon him with all the moral and -spiritual resources of which he was master, for all were needed. The -full strength of the man’s personality was brought into action, the -lofty severity, the unflinching hate of sin, and yet the clear vision -which could see beyond the torture and taint of it, and sound the depth -of a nature which thus agonized for redemption and for righteousness. - -“The only sin,” he said, in the words of another, “which is unforgiven -is the sin which is unrepented of. That early yielding to a paroxysm of -jealousy and rage had a fearful, and yet it may even be a merciful, -result. There are those who have given way to worse, and, no result -following, have lived on in hardness of heart and contempt of God’s law. -Christ’s inflexible law, far more rigorous than the old law of Moses, -says he that hateth his brother is a murderer. Murder, then, is the -commonest of social sins, rather than the rarest. Christ also says that -it was for sinners that he came to die, not for the righteous. His love -overflows all our sin, and finds no halt at the degrees of guilt which -men emphasize in their shallow judgment. Men judge by consequences, by -outward events; God looks upon the heart. - -“Looking upon the heart, as far as we may, with God, I say then, you -have been guilty of murder, but so have other men. Many a man has -cherished a spirit of bitter revenge and hatred against one who had -injured him, who has not suffered what you have, not having caused or -profited by the death of that person, directly or indirectly; but before -God you are perhaps equally guilty. - -“I do not count your sin slight. I would not seek to make it small in -your own eyes, but I believe that you are released from the guilt and -burden borne so long, and should no longer stagger under it. Has not -Almighty God given to his servants power and commandment to declare to -those who are penitent the absolution and remission of their sins? - -“What did our Lord say to the leper who sought his cleansing? ‘I will, -be thou clean.’ Even this he says to you. Throw off that old yoke of -bondage. It is your right. Go free in the liberty of the sons of God, -but go to sin no more.” - -These words, spoken with the authority of a priest, and with the -solemnity of absolute conviction, brought something of light and release -to the troubled heart of Ingraham. - -The hour was late, indeed, morning was at hand, when, lifting his face -upon which a certain calmness had settled, he said to Gregory, -earnestly:— - -“I believe I grasp the truth of what you say, and that there is for me a -certain peace, a partial release, although forgetfulness never. But this -is not enough; the cry of my whole soul is to make restitution in some -sort, somewhere, although how and to whom I cannot see. I still have the -stain that I profit by my sin. What can you tell me? Do you see a way -for me?” - -John Gregory looked at Ingraham steadily for a moment before speaking, -and then said very slowly:— - -“Do you remember what the Master said to a certain ruler, ‘Sell all that -thou hast, and distribute unto the poor, and come, follow me’? If you -are in earnest, Mr. Ingraham, and if you feel that, as your experience -of sin has been in no light and common form, but in a depth of agony -which few men ever know, so your repentance should be along no mild and -easy lines, but should reach to the foundations of your life—if, I say, -you see things thus, and can bear so strong a prescription, I should -repeat to you _literally_ what Christ said to the rich ruler. It is a -hard saying; not every man can receive it.” - -The two men faced each other in silence for a moment, and Gregory saw -the leap of a sudden question in the other’s eyes. - -“No,” he said sternly, as if in answer to a spoken inquiry, “I am not -advising you with an eye on my own advantage. My thought was not of my -own cause, but of the cause of humanity anywhere. Pardon me if I speak -plainly; I could not use a farthing of your money, were it all at my -disposal, for building up the work I am seeking to establish in -Fraternia. Recall what you heard me say to-night of the true Kingdom of -God. I could not use your money, Mr. Ingraham, in seeking to show forth -that kingdom; but I could use you, should you wish to come with us, if -you came empty-handed.” - -The lawyer felt the pitiless severity of Gregory’s moral standard and -all that this dictum implied, but he did not resist it. His humiliation -and submission were sincere, and, for the time at least, controlling; -but doubt and conflict were plainly read in his face. - -“Is it a hard saying?” John Gregory asked, with a slight smile. - -“Yes, harder than you know. I could do what you say, were I alone to be -considered; but to reduce my family to beggary, to cut short my career -and stain my reputation by the cloud which would inevitably rest upon it -in the community by such an unheard-of course of action, to take my wife -and daughters from their social world to follow me, sent like a -scapegoat into some wilderness—really, Mr. Gregory, what you name is -beyond reason!” - -Gregory made absolutely no response. After a long silence, Ingraham said -thoughtfully:— - -“This is about the way I see for myself: from this time on I shall seek -to live a humbler and a sincerely Christian life, and shall strive in -every way open to me to aid and further the cause of righteousness, with -my money and with my influence. In this way I shall bring happiness and -satisfaction to my wife, to whom I owe the highest obligation, next to -God, instead of destroying her comfort by dragging her with me into some -late missionary endeavour or eccentric experiment. Pardon me, Mr. -Gregory, if I too speak plainly. - -“But this is not all. Although I feel no individual call in the -direction of your coöperative colony, and am not over sanguine of its -success, I do believe profoundly in you, personally, as I must have -shown you. Now I want you to reconsider what you said a little while -ago. Frankly, this discriminating between money made in one way or -another savours to me of superstition. This money, which is mine, cannot -be destroyed; even you would hardly advise that. Why not put it to a -good use, the best possible from your point of view? I have never given -away money largely, but I am able to, and I want to seal our interview -to-night with a substantial gift.” - -As he spoke, Ingraham turned to his desk and touched a check-book which -lay upon it. - -“Mr. Gregory, I want to write my check for fifty thousand dollars to be -placed unconditionally in your hands. You want a little church down -there in your settlement, and you want it beautiful, worthy of its -purpose; you want a library—both are necessary to carry on the kind of -work you project. Here they are,” and again he touched the little -leather book with his forefinger; “let me do that much as a memorial of -this night and what you have done for me.” - -John Gregory met the look of sincere and even anxious appeal with which -these words were spoken with unyielding, although not unkindly, -firmness. - -“This is a generous impulse on your part, Mr. Ingraham. Do not for a -moment think I fail to appreciate it. You are right; the money must be -used, and will be, I hope, promptly and wisely. You must pardon me a -certain over nicety perhaps in preferring not to build my church in -Fraternia, or even my library, with it. You will find plenty of men less -fastidious, and no one but myself will, I suppose, have reason to -entertain such scruples.” - -Gregory had risen, and was ready now to go. It was four o’clock, he -found, by his watch, and it had been a long vigil; but, while Ingraham’s -face was haggard and even ghastly, that of Gregory was unchanged in its -massive firmness and its strong, fine lines. - -Ingraham stood at his desk plainly chagrined and ill at ease. - -“In your eyes, I see,” he said ruefully, “I am still in the place of the -man who went away sorrowful because he had great possessions.” - -“Perhaps,” said Gregory; “it is too soon to tell.” - -“Every man must judge for himself, Mr. Gregory, when it comes to the -supreme acts of his life.” - -“Yes,” said the other, sadly; “to the supreme acts or to the supreme -compromises. Will you excuse me now? I believe that I must go.” Gregory -held out his hand, which Ingraham grasped with eagerness. “You have -honoured me by your confidence and your generosity. Count me your friend -if you will. Good night.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXVII - - I tire of shams, I rush to be.—EMERSON. - - -Gertrude Ingraham was still unmarried, still pretty, still charming in -her dainty, high-bred way. - -Perhaps the thought crossed Keith Burgess’s mind as he joined her in her -father’s library that evening, after their return from Gregory’s -lecture, that she would have been, as a wife, a shade less _exigeante_ -than Anna. - -Anna, shrinking from the small coin of discussion of so great themes, -had gone directly to their room,—the room which had been Keith’s on his -first visit to Burlington. Keith remained in the library to accept the -refreshment which Gertrude had prepared for their return, and found the -situation altogether pleasing. It was a rest to a sensitive, nervous man -like himself to sit down with a pretty woman who had no startling -theories of life and conduct; one who had always moved, and who would -always choose to move, on the comfortable lines of convention, instead -of seeking some other path for herself, rough and lonely. - -Perhaps Keith lingered all the more willingly to-night because he -perceived a rough and lonely path opening visibly before him, into which -he must in all probability turn full soon. - -“What did you think of Mr. Gregory?” asked Gertrude Ingraham over her -tea-cups. - -“He is a tremendous speaker,” said Keith, soberly; “I never heard a man -who could mould an audience to his will as he does. You were not there -to-night.” - -“No, but I heard him before you and Mrs. Burgess came, night before -last. I think he has the finest physique of any orator I ever heard. -Don’t you think that is one source of his power? There is something -absolutely majestic about him when he is speaking. He seems to overpower -you—you _must_ agree with him, whether you do or not.” - -“Then do you accept this new doctrine of his, Miss Ingraham?” - -“You mean that there should be no social distinctions, no aristocratic -and privileged class, no wealth and no poverty, and all that? I do not -know what he said to-night, you see, but that is the line on which he -has been speaking.” - -“Yes, that is what it all comes to.” - -“Why, no, of course I don’t believe in it, when I get away from Mr. -Gregory,” said Gertrude, laughing prettily; “because I really think he -is going against the fundamental laws of God. There have always been -rich people and poor people, and it was intended that there always -should be, I think.” - -“It does seem absolutely impracticable to carry out any such theory in -actual life. Certainly it would be under existing conditions. It can -only be done by radical, by revolutionary methods. Have you heard what -Mr. Gregory is actually doing to illustrate his theory? Have you heard -of Fraternia?” - -Gertrude Ingraham lifted her chin with a roguish little movement and -nodded with a charming smile. - -“Yes, I have heard of Fraternia too! Isn’t it droll? That is why I -didn’t go to-night, you see. I was afraid Mr. Gregory would get hold of -me with that irresistible power of his, and then I should have to go and -work in a cotton mill!” and with this Gertrude lifted her eyebrows with -an expression of plaintive self-pity which Keith found very taking. “I’m -afraid I shouldn’t like it,” she added archly; “it would be so new, and -one’s hands would get so horrid!” - -They laughed together, Keith naturally noting the delicacy of the small -white hands which were manipulating the transparent china on the low -table between them. Then Mrs. Ingraham and others coming into the room -after them, Keith rose with graceful courtesy to serve them and to draw -them into the conversation. But all the while Keith had a sense that he -was turning against himself the sharpest weapons which could have been -found, nothing being so instinctively dreaded by him as to put himself -in an absurd situation, to awaken ridicule, even his own. - -Just below the surface of his thought there lay two formidable facts, -like sunk, threatening rocks seen darkly under smooth water. He knew -that Anna would propose to him that they should throw themselves into -Gregory’s enterprise, and become disciples of the new school; and he -knew that having cut off hitherto, involuntarily or otherwise, each -deepest desire of her soul for the service of others, he should not dare -to thwart her in this. If she wished to do this thing, he must join her -in it. - -Keith had himself been deeply moved by Gregory. The old passion for -sacrifice and self-devotion had stirred again within him. He felt the -high courage, the generosity, the strong initiative of Gregory; he was -thrilled at the sight of a man who could throw himself unreservedly into -a difficult and dangerous crusade, simply for an ideal, with all to lose -and nothing to gain. He too had once marched to that same music; his -blood was stirred, and he felt something of the enthusiasm of his -student years, rising warm within him. He perfectly understood the -motions of Anna’s spirit, and shared in them, up to a certain point. -This point was reached when he touched the limit set by his inborn and -inherited conservatism, his constitutional preference for things as they -were, and his quick dread of making himself absurd. And now, Gertrude -Ingraham with her pretty mocking had suddenly put the whole thing before -him in the light he dreaded most. - -Anna was not thus divided in her mind, and could not have been. -Something of the steadfast simplicity of her ancient German ancestry -preserved her from this characteristically American form of -sensitiveness. She could have adopted without hesitation, any outward -forms, however out of conformity to usage, however grotesque in the eyes -of others, if she had felt the inward call. Gregory’s stern and lofty -utterances had come to her with full prophetic weight, and had left -nothing in her to rise up in doubt or gainsaying. - -In this mood Keith found her. She was standing, still fully dressed, -before the chimney-piece, where he had sat one night and dreamed at once -of her and Gertrude Ingraham. Her hands were clasped and hanging before -her; her face was slightly pale, and her eyes strangely large and -luminous. Standing before her, Keith took her clasped hands between his, -and looked at her with a questioning smile. - -“Well, dear,” he said, “what is it?” - -“You know,” she answered softly. “Was it not to you what it was to me? -Is it not the very chance we wish, to redeem our poor lost hopes of -service?—to leave all the luxuries and privileges and advantages, and -share the world’s sorrows? to become poor and humble as our Master was? -to give what we have received? Oh, Keith, is it to be, or must another -hope go by?” - -As Anna thus cried out, the solemn appeal of her nature, austere, and -yet full-charged with noble passion, breaking at last through the -barriers which had long held it back, gave her an extraordinary -spiritual grandeur. There was something of awe in the look with which -her husband regarded her. Weapons of fear and doubt and cavil fell -before that celestial sternness in her eyes,—a look we see sometimes in -the innocent eyes of young children. - -“It is to be, Anna. You shall have your way this time, my wife.” - -The words were spoken reverently, with grave gentleness, and Keith’s own -sweet courtesy. Was it Anna’s fault that she failed, in the exaltation -of her mood, to catch the sadness in them? - -Keith was hardly conscious of it himself. He was thinking, on an -unspoken parallel, that he would rather be privileged to adore Anna -Mallison in a moment like this, even though she led him in a rough and -lonely path, than to dally with another woman in smoothness and ease. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVIII - - I took the power in my hand - And went against the world; - ’Twas not so much as David had, - But I was twice as bold. - - I aimed my pebble, but myself - Was all the one that fell. - Was it Goliath was too large, - Or only I too small? - —EMILY DICKINSON. - - We all have need of that prayer of the Breton mariner, “Save us, O - God! Thine ocean is so large and our little boats are so - small.”—FARRAR. - - -“Trunks checked for Utopia! Direct passenger route without change of -cars! Ye gods, it doth amaze me!” - -Thus Professor Ward, with a sardonic and yet discomfited smile, standing -in the studio of his friend Pierce Everett, in Fulham. The room was in -the disorder of a radical breaking up; packing boxes standing about and -litter strewn everywhere. - -Everett in his shirt sleeves was piling on a table a mass of draperies -which he had taken from the wall. He was covered with dust, but his face -was full of joyous excitement. - -“Yes, my good friend—straight for Utopia now! - - “‘Get on board, chil’en, - Get on board, chil’en, - For there’s room for many a more.’” - -Everett trolled out the old negro chorus with hilarious enjoyment. - -“_Quos Deus vult perdere_—” began Ward, grimly. - -“Oh, we’re all mad, you know. We are simply not so mad as the rest of -you,” interrupted Everett, gayly. “We have intervals of sanity, and are -taking advantage of one of them to get out of the mad-house, leaving you -other fellows to keep up your unprofitable strife with phantoms by -yourselves, while we actually—yes, we even dare to believe it—_live_. -Think of that, Ward, if you have the imagination!” Ward shook his head. -“No, you haven’t; that is so. If you had, you could not have listened to -Gregory unmoved.” - -“Confound Gregory,” muttered Ward. “What did you ever get the man here -for, turning our world upside down!” - -“That has been the occupation of seers and prophets from the beginning, -I believe,” retorted Everett, carelessly. - -“Seers and prophets!” cried Ward, angrily, “that is what I can stand -least of all. This posing as a kind of nineteenth century John the -Baptist strikes me as exquisitely ridiculous.” - -Everett’s eyes flashed dangerously, but he made no rejoinder. - -“I saw your John the Baptist this morning in the Central Station buying -his railway ticket and morning paper like any other average man. The -locusts and wild honey were not in evidence.” - -“No, he doesn’t take nourishment habitually in railway stations,” put in -Everett, coolly. - -“I didn’t see any leathern girdle about his loins, either, although of -course he may wear it next the skin for penitential purposes. His -clothing appeared to be a species of camel’s hair—” - -“Falsely so called,” put in Everett; “it is really English tweed. Very -good quality.” - -“Yes, I’ll venture to say that is true. Your prophet of the wilderness -strikes me as knowing a good thing when he sees it. Plague take the -fellow! He has just that sort of brute force and sheer overbearing -personal dominance, which you idealists and credulous take for spiritual -authority.” - -“Come now, Ward, we may as well keep our tempers and treat this matter -decently. Nothing is gained by calling names. You are naturally -prejudiced against a man who attacks the existing social order, and -suggests that even the rulers of the synagogue and the great teachers of -the schools have something yet to learn. Gregory is radical, -revolutionary perhaps, but not a whit more so than the New Testament -makes him. He is an absolutely conscientious man; he has given up every -personal ambition, wealth, position, all that most men cling to—” - -“In order to become a Dictator, in a field where there is very little -competition.” - -Everett suppressed the irritation which this interposition aroused, and -continued in a lighter tone,— - -“You are enough of a dictator yourself to see this point, which had -escaped the rest of us. I can see that it is a little bitter to you to -have Mrs. Burgess seeking another spiritual and intellectual -adviser,—going after other gods, as it were.” - -“Yes,” said Ward, gravely; “it makes me sick at heart to see a woman -like Mrs. Burgess, with all that glorious power of self-devotion of -hers, throwing herself blindly into this wild, Quixotic experiment—sure -to end in disappointment and defeat. It is mournful, most mournful,” and -Ward shook his head in melancholy fashion. “And when it comes to Keith,” -he resumed, “alas! our brother! Poor Keith, with his lifelong habits of -luxurious ease, his conventional views of duty, his yardstick -imagination, and his wretched health—to think of such a man being torn -from all the amenities of a refined Christian home, and carted across -lots, Government bonds and all, to be set down in some malarial swamp to -dig ditches with a set of ploughmen, to prove, forsooth! that all men -are created free and equal,” and Ward groaned and bent his head as if -overcome by the picture he had called up. - -Lifting his head suddenly, he added in a tone of pensive rumination. - -“He is one of those men Thoreau tells of, who would not go -a-huckleberrying without a medicine chest; and he would perish, I am -convinced, if deprived of improved sanitary plumbing.” - -“All very clever,” said Everett, “but I will take the liberty of -mentioning the fact that the Burgess’s physician hails the North -Carolina project as the very best thing which could happen for Keith’s -health.” - -Hardly had he finished the sentence when a light knock was heard on the -half-open door of the studio, and Anna Burgess, at Everett’s word, -stepped into the room. - -She wore a thin black gown, for the day was warm, and a broad-brimmed -hat of some transparent black substance threw the fine shape of her head -and the pure tints of her face into striking relief. A handful of white -jonquils was fastened into the front of her gown, and the freshness of -the June day seemed to enter the dusty, despoiled studio with her. - -Both men stood at gaze before her with deference and admiration in every -line and look. With a delicate flush rising in her cheeks, Anna gave her -hand to each, and spoke a word of greeting in which her natural shyness -and her acquired social grace were mingled to a manner of peculiar -charm. - -“I ran up to hand you these papers for Mr. Gregory,” she said to -Everett, a vibration of suppressed joy in her full, low voice which he -had never heard before. “You know he said he would like it if you would -bring them,” and she placed a long envelope in his hand. “No, I cannot -stop a moment, Keith is waiting for me in the carriage. I did not give -the papers to the maid because I wanted to say to you, Mr. Everett, that -Keith does not see it any differently,—about the estate, you know. He -pledges the income, freely, altogether, but he feels that the estate -itself should be kept intact.” - -“Thank Heaven, he has a spark of reason left!” exclaimed Ward under his -breath, adding quickly,— - -“Pardon me, Mrs. Burgess, but you know I am not a Gregorian psalm -myself, yet.” - -Anna turned to him with her rare smile, less brilliant than clear and -luminous. - -“But I was so glad you came to the house, Professor Ward, and heard Mr. -Gregory,” she said with gracious courtesy; “we cannot expect every one -to follow out these new theories practically as we hope to do, but at -least we want every one we care about to know really what they are.” - -“Do you think that many of those present at your house that afternoon -were inclined to accept Mr. Gregory’s gospel, if I may so call it?” -asked Ward, respectfully. - -“Of course not,” interjected Everett, “there was no one there but cranks -and critics.” - -Anna’s face clouded a little. “No,” she said simply. “Fulham is not a -good field for such a message; it was quite different in Burlington. -Most of them went away saying it would be very fine if it were not -wholly impossible.” - -“And it does not occur to you, does it, Mrs. Burgess,” Ward pressed the -question with undisguised earnestness, “that perhaps they were right? -that there is something to be said for the old order, as old as the -race? that possibly certain distinctions are inherent in the nature of -things? Such distinctions, for instance, as separate you,” and Ward gave -the pronoun a freight of significance to carry, “from that man,” and he -indicated a labourer who had just left the room with an immense box of -merchandise on his broad, bent shoulders, and whose slow, heavy steps -could now be heard on the stairs below. - -He had struck the wrong chord. - -“Professor Ward,” cried Anna, her voice even lower than its wont, but -her emphasis the more intense, “did that man choose to be reduced to the -life and little more than the faculties of a beast of burden, to be a -brother to the ox, to live a blind, brutalized, animal existence, with -neither joy nor star?” - -She paused a moment, and then added, with indescribable pathos dimming -the kindling light in her eyes:— - -“It is that man, Professor Ward, and what he stands for, that sends me -to Fraternia, if perhaps I can yet atone. It is I that have made that -man what he is, and you, and all of us who have clung gladly to our -powers and privileges, and dared to believe that we were made for the -heights of life, and men like him for the abyss. If we could read our -New Testament once as if it were not an old story! If we, for one -moment, could lay our social cruelties beside that pattern shown us in -the mount!” - -The deep heart of her and the innermost motive power broke forth from -Anna’s usual quiet and reserve in these last words with thrilling -influence upon both men. She was beautiful as she spoke, but with the -beauty of some Miriam or Cassandra,—a woman, as had been said of her -long before, “to die for, not to play games with.” - -Professor Ward, the irritation of his earlier mood quite gone, stood -regarding Anna as she spoke with a sadness as profound as it was wholly -unaffected. Having spoken, she turned to go. - -“Let me say one word, Mrs. Burgess,” he said, extending his hand to -detain her a moment. “I sympathize deeply with your purposes, and I am -not wholly incapable of appreciating your motives. From my heart I shall -bid you God-speed on your way when your time comes to go out into this -new spiritual adventure. It will be none the less noble because it is -impossible.” - -“Good-by,” she said, and smiled. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIX - - Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring? - O sweet Content! - Swim’st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in thine own tears? - O Punishment! - Then he that patiently Want’s burden bears - No burden bears, but is a king, a king. - O sweet Content, O sweet, O sweet Content! - Work apace, apace, apace, apace, - Honest labour bears a lovely face. - —THOMAS DEKKER, 1600. - - -A valley, two thousand feet above the sea level, narrowing at its upper -or northern end to a ravine piercing thickly wooded hills, but widening -gradually southward, until, a mile lower down the mountain stream which -issues from the gorge, it becomes a broad sunny meadow land. - -On a day in the middle of March, when the sun shone warm and a turquoise -sky arched smiling over this valley, signs of human activity and energy -prevailed on every side. In the bottom lands men were ploughing the -broad level fields; here the river had been dammed, forming a pond, on -the bank of which stood a large picturesque building sheathed with -dark-green shingles. From the wide and open windows of this building the -sound of whirring spindles and the joyous laughter of girls and men -issued. - -Higher up the valley men were at work building a light bridge of plank -across the creek, while others were carting newly sawed lumber, with its -strong pungent smell, from the sawmill below. On the eastern side of the -valley, between this bridge and the mills half a mile south, were -scattered or grouped at irregular intervals, forty or fifty small -cabins, some of log, others of unplaned boards; thatched, or covered in -red tile. Men and women were at work in the damp mould of the gardens by -which these cabins were surrounded, and fresh green things were shooting -up. On the opposite side of the stream, on a wooded knoll, stood a -large, low, barrack-like building with a red roof, and near it a few -cabins. It was opposite this group of buildings that the foot-bridge was -in process of making, to supersede a single plank and rail which had -hitherto connected the banks of the stream. Down the valley from this -small and separate settlement stretched fields already under -cultivation, for corn, potatoes, and cotton. - -There were no streets in this rustic settlement. Footpaths led to the -cottage doors through the thin, coarse grass, and along the eastern side -of the little river; and between its bank and the houses ran a rough -wagon road, deeply rutted now by the wheels of the lumber wagons in the -soft, red soil. To the north and east the hills rose abruptly, covered -with oak and pine, and the aromatic fragrance of the latter was in the -air, mingling with the scent of the soil. Beyond the lower hills to the -west loomed the shoulders of dim, blue mountains, while looking south, -down the shining river, beyond a belt of woodland, the valley broadened -out to the sunny plain stretching to the horizon line. - -The limpid clearness of the air, the fragrance of the forest and the -earth, the musical flow of the little river, the wonderful brilliancy of -the sky, with the vast uplift of the mountains, gave a sense of wild -perfection to the _ensemble_. Such was Fraternia in the morning of its -second spring. - -It was during that decade which saw the sudden springing into life of so -large a number of communistic organizations and settlements throughout -the country, mainly in the south and west. Many of these experiments -were crude and obscure; most of them were shortlived. They were founded -on widely different social conceptions, ranging from those of unlimited -license and rank anarchism up to the high ideals of the life of -Christian brotherhood set forth in the early church. - -The latter was the foundation of John Gregory’s colony in Fraternia. -Inflexible morality and blamelessness of Christian living were his -cardinal laws. Built upon them was the superstructure of economic and -social equality, of labour sharing, and of domestic simplicity. - -Thus far unusual promise attended the adventure, and peace and good will -reigned in the little community. - -Toward the upper end of the village half a dozen men were at work around -a circular excavation not more than five or six feet in diameter, which -had been lined with irregular slabs and blocks of stone patched together -with clay. In blue overalls thickly bespattered with red mud and the -sticky clay, a man was working on his knees at the edge of this basin. -It was Keith Burgess. Near him, measuring with rule and line and marking -out the width of the coping, stood the artist, Pierce Everett. Their -fellow-workmen were two Irishmen—big, active fellows, with honest -eyes—and a wiry little black-a-vised Jew, a quondam foreman in a New -York sweat-shop. He was mixing clay and laying the stone of the coping, -while the Irishmen were at work in an open trench through which ran the -pipe which was to conduct the water from a spring in the ravine above -into the new reservoir. - -Emerging from the woods below the dam a little crowd of children came -straying up the valley, laughing and shouting, and jumping gayly over -the pools of red mud in the road. Their hands were full of wild -flowers,—bloodroot, and anemones, and arbutus; their hair was blown -about in the wind; their eyes were shining. Among them, giving her hand -to a little girl who walked with a crutch, walked Anna Burgess, her face -as joyous as theirs, and a free, unhampered vigour and grace in every -line of her figure. She was the head teacher in the village school, and -was known to her scholars, and, indeed, quite generally in the little -community, as “Sister Benigna.” - -This name, “Benigna,” which had come down in Anna’s family for -generations, and had been given her as a second name, had not been used -for many years, save by her mother, who still clung loyally to the full -“Anna Benigna.” Who it was in Fraternia who had revived the beautiful -old Moravian name was not known, but the use of it had been quickly -established, especially among the children and the foreign folk. - -The habit of using “Brother” and “Sister” with the given name in -ordinary social intercourse was common, although not universal, in -Fraternia. Anna’s assistants in the school—a pale, little English -governess, who had apparently never known stronger food than tea and -bread until she came to Fraternia, and a rosy-cheeked German -kindergartner—were among the little flock, their hands overflowing with -wild flowers, and their faces with the high delight the spring day -brought them. It was Saturday morning, and a holiday. - -Suddenly there was a shout from some boys who were foremost in the -company, and they came scampering back to Anna exclaiming that the -“fountain” was almost finished, and, perhaps, the water would soon be -turned into it. By common consent the whole party hastened on and soon -encircled the workmen at the basin with noisy questions and merry -chatter. It was to be so fine not to have to go up to the spring in the -ravine with pails and pitchers any more. Could they surely have the -water here for Sunday? Then Fräulein Frieda told them how the girls in -her country came to such fountains with their jugs, and carried them -away full on their heads. She showed them with a tin pail, found lying -in the clay, just how it was done, walking away with firm, balanced -step, the pail unsupported on her pretty flaxen-haired head, on which -the sun shone dazzlingly. The little girls were greatly delighted, and -all declared they should learn to carry their water pots home on their -heads from the _Quelle_, as Fräulein Frieda called it. - -Anna stood at the edge of the basin, Keith at her feet, on his knees, -with the trowel in his hands, smiling up at her, the little lame girl -still at her side, a trace of wistfulness in her eyes as she watched the -others. - -“We will not carry our water pails on our heads, you and I, will we, -little Judith?” Anna asked, kind and motherly. “_We_ want our brains to -grow, and it might crowd them down; don’t you think so?” - -The swarthy Jew looked up from the clay he was mixing with quick, -instinctive gratitude. Judith was his child. He grinned a broad and -rather hideous grin, and exclaimed in a broken dialect:— - -“Das ist so, Kleine; shust listen to our lady! She knows. She says it -right.” - -Pierce Everett’s dark eyes flashed with sudden enthusiasm. Turning to -Anna he bowed profoundly and said low to Keith, as well as to her:— - -“There you have it! Barnabas has found your title—‘our lady’!” - -Anna looked into Everett’s dark eager eyes with her quiet smile, and was -about to speak, when a sudden noise of grating and rattling and horses’ -hoofs behind them caused them all three to turn and look down the river. -A horse and stone drag were approaching rapidly, driven by John Gregory, -who stood on the drag, which was loaded with big clean pebbles from the -river-bed. He wore a coarse grey flannel shirt, the collar turned off a -little at the throat, and rough grey trousers tucked into high rubber -boots, which reached to the thighs. The cloth cap on his head with its -vizor bore a certain resemblance to a helmet, and altogether the -likeness of the whole appearance to that of a Roman warrior in his -chariot did not escape the three friends who watched its approach in the -motley crowd around the basin. - -Gregory drove his drag close up to the edge of the coping, now nearly -laid, greeted the company with a courteous removal of his hat and a -cordial Good-morning, then discharged the load of pebbles in a glinting -heap on the soft red earth. - -There was no conscious assumption of mastery or direction in Gregory’s -manner, nothing could have been simpler or more democratic than the -impartial comradery with which he joined the others, nevertheless the -sense that the master was among them was instantly communicated -throughout the little group. Up in the trench, nearly to the base of the -cliffs which marked the entrance to the ravine, one Irishman said to the -other, in a tone of satisfaction not unmixed with good-natured sarcasm:— - -“Himsilf’s come now. The gintlemin masons will git to rights or they’ll -lose their job, d’ye mind, Patrick?” - -“Oh, ay,” said the other, “an’ the same to yersilf, if ye ivir noticed -it.” - -There was a little silence even among the chattering children as Gregory -stooped by Everett’s side, pulled up with the ease of mighty muscle two -or three stones, took the trowel from Keith’s hand and a hod of mortar -from the waiting Barnabas, and set the stones over on a truer line, -laughing the while with the men and turning aside the edge of criticism -with frank self-disparagement, as being himself but a tyro. - -A curious consequence of Gregory’s appearance on the scene after this -sort, was the dwarfed effect of the men around him, who suddenly seemed -to have shrunk in stature and proportions, and whose motions, beside the -virile force and confident freedom of his, appeared incompetent and -weak. - -Anna had drawn back from her place near the basin’s edge. Gregory had -not looked at her nor she at him directly. In fact, they habitually, for -some reason they themselves could not define, avoided each other, and -yet could not avoid a piercing consciousness, when together, of every -look and word of the other. A sudden shyness and subduing had fallen -instantly upon Anna’s bright mood, and, while the others watched every -look and motion of Gregory with almost breathless interest, she stood -apart and arranged little Judith’s flowers with apparent preoccupation. - -Tossing the trowel back to Keith, with whom he exchanged a few words of -question, Gregory next hastened with long strides up the line of the -trench to the place where the Irishmen were at work. Here was a -primitive moss-grown trough, into which the water of the spring had -hitherto been conducted, and to which all the people had been obliged to -come for their supply of drinking water. The new iron pipe already -replaced the rude wooden conduit which had done duty until now, but the -water still flowed into the trough, and would do so until, the basin -completed, the connection might be made between the two sections of -pipe. - -Under Gregory’s direction this was now effected, and the water of the -spring, if there was no flaw, should now flow unimpeded into the basin -below. To test the basin, it was Gregory’s purpose to make the -experiment at once. - -Presently there was a shout, exulting and joyous, from the company -below. - -“The water is here! The water! The water!” rose the cry into the -stillness of the valley. The men at work upon the bridge left their -work, and hastened to join the little crowd. - -With strides even longer than before, Gregory came down again, the -Irishmen following him in a scramble to keep up. Joy was in all their -faces, and the deepest joy of all in that of Gregory. They stood -together and watched the jet of water as it sprang from the mouth of the -pipe, turbid at first, but gradually becoming clear and sparkling, and -fell with a gentle, musical plashing into the stone fountain. There was -complete silence for a little space, as they looked intently at the -increasing depth of the gathering pool, and then, bringing down his -hands with a will on the shoulders of Keith and Everett, Gregory -exclaimed:— - -“Men, you have done well, all of you! It holds, do you see? It is tight -as a ship. Hurrah!” - -They all joined in a great cheer, and then, swiftly finding where she -stood, or knowing, as he always seemed to know, instinctively, Gregory’s -eyes sought Anna Burgess. - -“Will Sister Benigna come up here?” he asked quietly, with the -unhesitating steadiness of the man who knows just what he means to do. - -Anna came slowly forward, and stood on the new-laid coping, by the side -of Gregory, greatly wondering. Just beyond her was Keith, side by side -with Barnabas Rosenblatt. Meanwhile, Gregory had taken from his pocket a -small folding drinking cup of shining metal, which he had held in the -flow of the spring water until it was thoroughly purified. Turning now -to look at all those who stood round about, he said:— - -“Brothers, sisters, little children, this water is the good gift of God. -Let this fountain be now consecrated to all pure and holy uses. By the -wish which I believe to be in every one of you, let the first who shall -drink of this living water from the new fountain be our Sister Benigna.” - -With these words Gregory filled the cup from the sparkling outgush of -the spring, the water so cold that the polished cup was covered with -frosty dimness, and with simple seriousness handed it to Anna. Affection -and reverence were in the eyes of all the people as they watched her -while with uncovered head, calm brow, and the fine simplicity of -unconsciousness she took the cup and drank. But with the first touch of -her lips to the cup the hand in which she held it trembled; and when she -drained the last drop, it trembled still. As Anna stepped back, having -drunk, into the ranks, Gregory lifted his hand, and with the gesture -which commands devotion repeated the ancient words,— - -“‘O most high, almighty, good Lord God, to thee belong praise, glory, -honour, and all blessing! - -“‘Praised be my Lord for our brother the wind, and for air and cloud, -calms and all weather, by the which thou upholdest in life all -creatures. - -“‘Praised be my Lord for our sister, water, who is very serviceable unto -us, and humble, and precious, and clear.’” - -Then with a deeper solemnity and significance in face and voice, he -continued:— - -“‘If thou knewest the gift of God and who it is that saith to thee, Give -me to drink; thou wouldest have asked of him and he would have given -thee living water.’ - -“‘Jesus said, If any man thirst, let him come to me and drink.’” - -It was noon, and turning they all dispersed, each to his own place, a -deepened gladness in their faces. But as for Anna Burgess, a dimness was -upon her joy, a thrilling undercurrent of dread and wonder which she -could not understand; for she had drunk of the Cup of Trembling—and knew -it not. - - - - - CHAPTER XXX - - We’ve toiled and failed; we spake the word; - None hearkened; dumb we lie; - Our Hope is dead, the seed we spread - Fell o’er the earth to die. - - What’s this? For joy our hearts stand still, - And life is loved and dear, - The lost and found the cause hath crowned, - The Day of Days is here. - —WILLIAM MORRIS. - - -The Burgesses had come to Fraternia in the preceding December, although -Keith had soon left again, having still many business concerns to recall -him to Fulham. The house there was now closed, and the life there for -them presumably ended, and, late in February, Keith had returned to -Fraternia. - -Anna had employed the months between their decision to join the -coöperative colony and their actual journey to the South, in taking a -short course in nursing in a Fulham hospital, reviving her old knowledge -of the subject, gained in her girlhood in Burlington. She had it in mind -to fit herself thus as thoroughly as the brief interval allowed, for the -duties of a trained nurse to the little community, this being an -occupation at once congenial to herself and important for the general -good. For uniformity of service was by no means according to John -Gregory’s plan, and Gertrude Ingraham might not have found herself shut -up to the cotton mill even if she had done so incredible a thing as to -throw in her fortunes with Fraternia. All must labour, and all must -labour for the general good,—one of Gregory’s prime maxims being, If a -man will not work, neither shall he eat; but as far as practicable that -labour was to be on the line of each person’s best capacity, choice, and -development. Thus Keith Burgess’s feat of stonelaying had not been -enforced, but self-chosen, as an expression of his good will in the -sharing the coarser labours of the people. The work to which he had been -assigned by Gregory was clerical, not manual, being that of secretary to -the colony. - -Anna, thus far, had had no opportunity for any especial use of her -vocation as nurse, the families of Fraternia being remarkably healthy -under the simple and wholesome conditions of their life, and serious -illness unknown during that winter. Her trained and well-equipped mind -obviously fitted her for a work of intellectual rather than industrial -character, and the duties of teaching the children of the colony five -hours a day—the required time of service for the women—were given to her -by common consent. - -Neither at the time when she was chosen to this service, nor at any -other, had John Gregory directly communicated his wishes to Anna or -discussed his plans with her; and yet, from the day of her arrival in -Fraternia he had perhaps never formed a plan which was not in some -subtle manner shaped by unconscious reference to her. In her own way, -Anna’s personality was hardly less conspicuous than his; and these two -invisibly and involuntarily modified each the other’s action and -deliberation as the orbits of two stars are influenced by their mutual -attraction and repulsion. - -By the whole habit and choice of his life John Gregory was a purist in -morals and in his personal practice of simplicity. The most frugal fare -and the simplest domestic appliances served his turn by preference, -although he had been born and bred in comparative luxury. He was free -and fraternal with men; gently respectful to women, whom he yet never -treated as if they were superior to men by force of their weakness, but -rather as being on a basis of accepted equality; while to little -children he always showed winning tenderness. Socially, however, he -scrupulously avoided intercourse with women, with a curious, undeviating -persistency which almost suggested ascetic withdrawal. The other men of -the colony, several of whom were men of some social rank and mental -culture, found it pleasant to stop on the woodland paths or by the -stream, all the more in these soft spring days, and exchange thought and -word, light or grave, with the girls and women, but never once had -Gregory been seen to do this, or to visit the households presided over -by women on any errand whatever. Whether a line of action which thus -inevitably separated him more and more from the domestic life of the -people, was pursued by deliberate purpose or by the accident of personal -inclination was not clear, but certain it was that the fact contributed -to the distinction and separation which seemed inevitably to belong to -Gregory. With all his simplicity of life and democratic brotherliness of -conversation, he lived and moved in Fraternia with an effect of one on a -wholly different plane from the others, and with the full practical -exercise of a dictatorship which no one resented because all regarded -him with a species of hero-worship as manifestly the master of the -situation. - -His residence was in one of the small cabins on the western side of the -river, to which the bridge gave convenient access. The other cabins -served, one as a rude, temporary library, the other as storehouse, while -the large barrack-like building furnished bachelor quarters for the -unmarried men. Gregory, since Everett’s arrival, had shared his house -with the artist. Their meals were taken in common with the other men. No -one was in the habit of entering the house, Gregory having a kind of -office, agreeably furnished, at the cotton mill, where he was usually to -be found when not at work in field or wood. This was, however, often the -case, for he never failed to discharge the daily quota of manual labour -which he had assigned himself; and it was noticeable to all that if any -task were of an offensive or difficult nature, he was the one to assume -it first and as a matter of course. It was owing to this characteristic, -perhaps more than to any other, save his singular personal ascendency, -that the silent dictatorship of Gregory in the little community was so -cheerfully accepted. Nominally the government of the village was in the -hands of a board of directors, with an inner executive committee, and of -which Gregory was chairman. Several women served on the larger board. -Keith Burgess was a director; Anna’s name had not been proposed for the -office. There had been but one vacancy in the board on their arrival, -which was sufficient reason. The councils of the directors were held -weekly in Gregory’s office, and thus far a good degree of harmony -prevailed. - -Again it was Saturday morning. A week had passed which had brought many -days of heavy rain. The river, swollen and yellow, dashed noisily down -from the gorge and filled its channel below with deep and urgent -current. On its turbid flood appeared from time to time newly felled -logs, floated down from the regions above, where Fraternia men were at -work, taking advantage of the swollen river for conveying their lumber -to the sawmill. A west wind, the night before, had blown the clouds -before it, and this morning the sun shone from an effulgent sky; the -wind had died to a soft breeze laden with manifold fragrance; and in -place of the chill of the north, the air possessed the indescribable -softness and balm of the southern spring. - -It was again a busy morning in Fraternia, and everywhere, and in all the -homely tasks, thrilled the unchecked joy in simple existence of innocent -hearts living out their normal bent for mutual help and burden-sharing. -In the garden ground around their house, which was high up the valley in -a group of three others, one of which contained the common kitchen and -dining room for the inmates of all, Anna Burgess was at work in her -garden, sowing and planting in the damp soil. Glancing down the valley, -she could see Everett hard at work with another man, who had been an -architect in Burlington, erecting a little thatched pavilion, of -original design, graceful and rustic, to protect the new and precious -fountain from the sun, and keep its water clean and serviceable. Across -the river, in the library, Keith, she knew, was at work at his -bookkeeping, and also at the task of collecting excerpts from the -writings of social economists for use in an address which he was -preparing. A new mental activity had been stimulated in Keith by the -change of climate and conditions, and the influx of new ideas; and the -ease and cheerfulness with which he had adapted himself to the primitive -habits of pioneer life, would have amazed his friend Ward. - -Barnabas had been gathering one or two sizable slabs of stone which had -been left from the lining and coping of the fountain, and Anna watched -him a moment as, having loaded them into a wheelbarrow, he proceeded to -carry them down to the new bridge, and so across to the west side of the -river. She hardly cared to wonder what he was about to do, being -otherwise absorbed, and her eyes did not follow him as he wheeled his -burden on up the knoll on which were the library and the house of -Gregory, set in their bit of pine wood. - -The door of Gregory’s cabin stood open, as was customary in Fraternia in -mild weather. Barnabas dropped the burden from his barrow just before -the open door, stood to wipe the sweat from his forehead, and then, -kneeling, began the self-imposed effort of placing the stones together -for a low step, which was yet lacking to the rudely finished house. As -he worked, he now and then lifted his eyes and glanced into the interior -of the house which he had never entered. It had the walls and ceiling of -unplaned, uncovered boards of all the Fraternia houses; the floor was -absolutely bare and absolutely clean, damp in spots and redolent of soap -from recent scrubbing. The open windows let in the sun-warmed, piney -air, but the light was obscured, the trees growing close to the house, -and a dim gold-green twilight reigned in the silent room. A door stood -open into the second room where two narrow iron beds came within the -field of vision. There was the ordinary chimney, built of brick, of -ample proportions, with a pine shelf running across, and in the -fireplace logs of fat pine laid for a blaze in the evening, which was -still sure to be cool. Plain wooden arm-chairs stood near the hearth; an -uncovered table of home manufacture, clumsy and heavy, in the middle of -the room, was thickly strewn with books and papers and writing -materials. It was the typical Fraternia interior,—bare, and yet not -comfortless, and with its own effect of simple distinction, conveyed by -absolute cleanness, order, and the absence of the superfluous. - -But it was none of these details which caught the eye of Barnabas. Above -the chimney there was fastened by hidden screws close against the wall, -so that it had the effect of a panel, a picture, unframed, showing the -figure of a slender girl with uplifted head and solemn eyes, set against -an Oriental background. It was Everett’s study of the Girlhood of the -Virgin, and besides it there was no picture nor decoration of any sort -in the place. - -Each time he lifted his eyes from the stones before him to the picture -whose high lights gleamed strangely through the dimness of the room -within, Barnabas was more impressed with some elusive resemblance in the -face; and at last, striking the stone with his hand, he murmured to -himself in his native tongue, “Now I have it! The damsel there is like -our lady when she prays.” - -Meanwhile the river ran between and thundered over the dam below; the -red roofs gleamed warm in the sun, and Anna, down on her knees like -Barnabas, on a bit of board, was tending her bulbs with loving hands, -while within her was springing a very rapture of poetic joy. Almost for -the first time in her life she was conscious of unalloyed happiness. Was -it because the sky was blue? or because the vital flood of spring beat -and surged about her in the river, in the forest, in the air? Not -wholly; nor even because under these kindly influences all the dormant -poetic and creative instincts of her nature were stirring into luxuriant -blossoming, although all these things filled her with throbbing delight. -The deeper root of her joy was in the satisfaction, so long delayed, of -her passion for brotherhood with lowly men and poor; the release from -the constraint of artificial conventions, and from the painful sense, -which she could never escape in the years of her Fulham life, that she -owed to every weary toiler who passed her on the street an apology for -her own leisure, her luxury and ease. - -Suddenly Anna rose, and stood facing the west, her eyes full of light. A -voice within her had called and said:— - -“I can write poetry now, and I will!” The fulness of energy of joy and -fulfilment in her spirit sought expression as naturally as the mountain -spring sought its outlet in the fountain below. - -Just then her neighbour, in the house on the left,—it was the -dining-house,—put her head out of the window and said, reflectively:— - -“Say, Sister Benigna, I wish I knew how to get the dinner up into the -woods to the men-folks. It’s half-past eleven and time it went this -minute, and Charley has gone down to Spalding after the mail; but I -suppose it’s late or something. Anyway he ain’t here, and I’ve got the -rest to wait on.” - -“Why, I could take the dinner pails up to them, Sister Amanda,” answered -Anna, obligingly. The “men-folks” alluded to were of her own group of -families and were felling lumber in the woods north of the valley. - -“You couldn’t do it alone, but Fräulein Frieda, she’d be tickled to -death to go with you. There she is now,” and Sister Amanda flew to the -cabin door through which a neatly ordered dinner table could be seen, -and shouted down the slope to the young German teacher who had just come -over the bridge with some books on her arm from the library. - -A few moments later Anna sallied out from the house with Frieda, both -carrying well-stored dinner pails. - -“No matter,” said Anna, smiling at the sudden diversion from her poetic -inspiration; “it is better to live brotherhood than to sing brotherhood. -But some day, maybe, yet, I shall sing.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXXI - - Heaven’s gift takes earth’s abatement! - He who smites the rock and spreads the water, - Bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him, - Even he, the minute makes immortal, - Proves, perchance, but mortal in the minute, - Desecrates, belike, the deed in doing. - —ROBERT BROWNING. - - -Relays of men had been at work in the woods clothing the steep banks of -the ravine above Fraternia for three days, even while the rain was -falling in torrents. It was absolutely necessary to secure the lumber -while the river was of a depth to carry it down stream, and for a time -all other work was in abeyance. - -Gregory had worked steadily with the rest at the wood cutting, but Keith -had told Anna the night before that on Saturday morning he would be -obliged to go down to Spalding, the small town in the plain below the -valley, on urgent business concerning notes which were coming due and -must be extended if possible. - -It was therefore with great surprise that Anna, as they approached the -spot where the men were at work, heard Frieda exclaim:— - -“There is the master himself; see, Sister Benigna!” - -They had had a merry scramble up the gorge, but a hard one. The swollen -stream had submerged the narrow path by which the ascent was commonly -made, and it was only by finding the footholds cut out by the men with -their axes in the earth of the dripping, slippery bank above, that Anna -and her companion had been able to make their way on. Holding their -pails with one hand and clinging to overhanging branches or roots of -ferns and laurel with the other, shaking the splashes of rain from the -dripping leaves as they struck their faces, the two had scrambled -breathlessly forward; and now, at length, the welcome sound of the axe -greeted their ears, and they saw a little beyond, strewing the -underbrush, the new chips and shining splinters of stripped bark which -told that trees had recently been felled. - -Anna had just stopped to exclaim:— - -“How good it smells, Frieda,—such a wild, pure smell!” and was laughing -at her own choice of adjectives, when Frieda had called her attention to -John Gregory. He was standing at no great distance from them in the -midst of the rapid, roaring creek where the water reached nearly to the -tops of his high boots, and, with a strong pole in both hands, was -directing the course of the logs, which were eddying wildly about him on -the surface of the torrent, into the proper channel which should carry -them down stream. - -Frieda’s voice attracted his attention to their approach, and without -pause he strode through the water, leaped up the bank and was promptly -in the path, if it could be called such, before them, holding out both -hands to relieve them of their burdens, and smiling a cordial greeting. - -Anna’s cheeks wore a vivid flush. - -“Then you did not go to Spalding?” she asked, seeking to quiet the -confusion of her surprise and the immoderate beating of her heart. -Frieda, she saw gratefully, was quite as excited; it was so unusual for -Mr. Gregory to bestow attentions of this sort upon them; it was not -strange that one should be a little stirred. - -“No,” he said, leading on in the now broadening path, “I found I could -send a letter by Charley, and the men rather needed a long-legged fellow -like myself up here this morning. But I see that my doing this has -reacted unexpectedly upon you. Charley not being on hand to bring the -dinner, our ladies have had to take his place,” and Gregory turned -toward them as he spoke with regret and apology which were evidently -sincere. - -“Are you very tired?” he asked simply, looking at Frieda but speaking to -Anna. - -They both declared that it had been great fun and they were not in the -least tired; and indeed the bright bloom of their cheeks, and the -laughter in their eyes, and the elastic firmness of their steps were -sufficient reassurance. - -“I think, Mr. Gregory,” said Anna, quite at her ease now, “that -Fraternia women can never know anything of that disease of civilization, -nervous prostration. It will become extinct in one spot at least.” - -“‘More honoured in the breach than the observance,’” quoted Gregory, “we -shall hail its loss.” - -Soon they reached a little clearing, where, the underbrush trampled -down, the rugged steepness of the bank declining to a gentler slope, and -the sun having found full entrance by reason of the removal of the -larger trees, there was a possibility of finding a dry place to rest. -Here they were soon joined by half a dozen men, several of whom had -brought their dinner with them, and preparations were made for a fire to -heat the coffee which filled one of the pails brought by Anna and -Frieda. The other was solidly packed with sweet, wholesome brown bread -and butter and thick slices of meat. - -The fat pine chips and splinters burned readily in spite of the -all-pervading dampness, and the coffee-pail, suspended over this small -camp-fire from a hastily improvised tripod, was soon sending up a -deliciously fragrant steam. - -The men treated the two women as if they had been foreign princesses, -covering a great tree-trunk with their coats for a kind of throne for -them, and serving them with coffee in tin cups with much flourish of -mock ceremony. This part of the proceedings John Gregory watched from a -little distance, leaning against a tree, a smile of quiet pleasure in -his eyes. He refused the coffee for himself, drinking always and only -water, but ate the bread and meat they handed him with hearty relish and -a vast appetite. - -By a sort of inevitable gravitation, almost before the meal was -concluded, Frieda had strayed off into the woods with Matt Taylor, son -of Anna’s neighbour, whose devotion to her was one of the especial -interests for Fraternia folk that spring. A certain view from the crest -of the hill beyond the little clearing was by no means to be missed. -Then, one after the other, the men took up their axes and returned to -their work; but John Gregory kept his place, and still stood leaning -against the tree, facing Anna, the smouldering embers of the fire -between. - -He had been speaking on a subject in which all had been interested,—the -prayer test advocated by Mr. Tyndall, which had attracted the attention -of the scientific and religious world of that time. The men had gone -away reluctantly, leaving the conversation to these two. Heretofore Anna -had hardly spoken, but now with deepening seriousness she said:— - -“I feel the crude, incredible impertinence of such a test as this which -Mr. Tyndall has proposed, and yet it brings up very keenly to me my own -attitude for many years.” - -Gregory looked a question, but did not speak, and Anna went on:— - -“A good woman whom I once heard speak at Mrs. Ingraham’s in Burlington -gave me an idea of prayer, quite new to me then, but which I at least -partially accepted, and which has had its effect on my inner life ever -since.” - -“It was—?” - -“That we were to pray to God for every small material interest of life, -and were to expect definite, concrete, physical return. That if such was -not our experience it was because we were not dwelling near God, and -were out of harmony with him. This life of answered prayer and perfect -demonstrable union which she described was called the ‘higher life.’” - -“What was your own experience?” - -“It has been a long experience of spiritual defeat. I prayed for years -for every temporal need, asked for whatever I deeply desired, -and—never—perhaps there was one exception, but hardly more—received an -answer to my praying which I could fairly assume to be such.” - -Anna’s face was profoundly sad, as she spoke, with the sense of the -baffling disappointments of years. - -“In the end what has been the effect on you?” - -“I have ceased to pray at all, Mr. Gregory. I know that sounds very -harsh, perhaps very wrong, but I lost the expectation of a response, and -the constant defeat and failure made me bitter and unbelieving. God -seemed only to mock my prayers, not to fulfil. It seemed to me at last -that I was dishonouring him by praying, and that waiting in silence and -patience was shown to be my portion. Do you think that was sinful?” - -Anna raised her eyes timidly to Gregory’s face with this question, and -met the repose and steady confidence of it with a swift presentiment of -comfort. - -“No,” he answered; “I think you were simply struggling to release -yourself from the meshes of the net which a mercenary conception of -prayer cannot fail to throw over the soul. It was said of John Woolman, -and a holier man never lived, that he offered no prayers for special -personal favours. I believe the theory of prayer of your Burlington -friend not only mistaken, but dangerous and misleading. Instead of such -a habit of mind as she described being a ‘higher life,’ I should call it -a lower one. The nearer the man comes to God, the less he prays, not the -more, for definite objective things and externals; the more he rests on -the great good will of God. Prayer was not designed for man to use to -conform a reluctant God to his will, to get things given him, but to -conform the man’s own blind and erring will to the divine. By this I do -not mean to say that no prayers for temporal objects are granted. Many -have been, but the soul that feeds itself on this conception of prayer -as a system of practical demand and supply lives on husks.” - -“But there are many promises?” Anna said with hesitation. - -“Yes,” said Gregory, with the emphasis of sure conviction, crossing the -space between them to stand directly before her, forgetting all his -usual scruples; “but you must interpret Scripture by Scripture, by the -whole tendency and purpose, not by isolated mottoes which men like to -drag out for spiritual decoration, breaking off short all their roots -which reach down into the solid rock of universal Truth! Look at our -Lord himself—did he ask for ‘ease and rest and joys’? It is only as we -enter into his spirit that our prayers are answered, and that almost -means that we shall cease to pray at all for personal benefits. He -prayed, often, whole nights together, but was it that he might win his -own cause with the people about him? Was it not rather for the -multitudes upon whom he had compassion, and that God the Father should -be made manifest in himself? Ah, Sister Benigna, few of us have sounded -the depths of this great subject of prayer. It is one of the deepest -things of God; and, believe me, it is not until we have cast out utterly -the last shred of the notion of childish coaxing of God to do what will -please us, that we can catch some small perception of its meaning. But -let me say just one thing more: you are too young to count any prayer -unanswered. At present you see in part and interpret God’s dealings only -in part. At the end of life your interpretation will be larger, calmer -than it is now. We ‘change the cruel prayers we made,’ and even here -live to praise God that they are broken away ‘in his broad, loving -will.’” - -Anna sat in silence, her eyes downcast, slowly passing in review the -nature of her own most ardent prayers and the deep anguish and doubt of -their non-fulfilment. Not one, she saw, could bear the high test of -likeness to the mind of Christ, not one but had its admixture of -selfishness, not one but seemed poor and vain in this new light. A -nobler conception of the relation of her soul to God seemed to dawn -within her. She looked up then, and saw upon Gregory’s face that inner -illumination which belongs to the religious genius. The look of it smote -her eyes as if with white and dazzling light, and they fell as if it -were impossible to bear it. Then she rose, and they stood for a moment -alone and in silence, while a sense of measureless content overflowed -Anna’s spirit, and for an instant made time and space and human -relations as if they were not. So strong upon her was the sense of -uplift from the contact with the spirit of Gregory. She hardly knew at -first that the incredible had happened. John Gregory had taken her hand -in his, with reverent gentleness, for some seconds. He was asking her if -he had been able to help her in any wise, and asking it as if he cared -very much. She said “yes,” quite simply, and turned to go. Frieda was -coming back, and they were lingering over long. Slowly they descended -the rugged path before them, for a strange trepidation had come over -Anna,—a vague, new, disturbing joy. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXII - - What went ye out into the wilderness for to see?... A man clothed in - soft raiment? Behold, they which are gorgeously apparelled, and live - delicately, are in kings’ courts.—_St. Luke’s Gospel._ - - Instead of the masterly good humour, and sense of power, and - fertility of resource in himself; instead of those strong and - learned hands, those piercing and learned eyes, that supple body, - and that mighty and prevailing heart, which the father had, whom - nature loved and feared, whom snow and rain, water and land, beast - and fish, seemed all to know and to serve, we have now a puny, - protected person, guarded by walls and curtains, stoves and - down-beds, coaches, and menservants and women-servants from the - earth and the sky.—R. W. EMERSON. - - -The spring passed in Fraternia, and the summer. Not again did John -Gregory and Anna come into direct personal communication. They went -indeed their several ways with a steadier avoidance of this than before, -from an undefined, but instinctive, sense of danger. Nevertheless, the -fact that they breathed the same air and shared the same lot in life -sufficed to yield in the heart of each an unfailing spring of -contentment; while now and again it would happen that Anna, in her -schoolroom or cottage, and Gregory, at his work, lifting their eyes at a -footstep or a shadow, would be aware that the other had drawn near and -passed by, and contentment would give place to nameless joy. - -The poetic impulse which Anna had inherited from both parents, but the -expression of which had been stifled by the deadening of her high -desires which life in Fulham had brought, now developed unchecked. Many -influences promoted this development: her clear child-delight in the -rich life of nature about her, the release of her long-cabined spiritual -energy, and the stimulation of her powers of discernment and -interpretation by contact with the strong intellectual power of Gregory. - -Gregory was, in the simple system of life in Fraternia, at once prophet, -priest, and king; and his most potent influence over the people was -manifest in the Sunday services and in the evening lectures which, for -lack of a church, were held in a large empty room on the upper floor of -the cotton mill. Anna found in these sermons and lectures the strongest -intellectual and spiritual food upon which she had ever fared, and -throve apace, having good faculty of assimilation. The verses which she -wrote at intervals from a sudden and almost irresistible impulsion were -always, when completed, turned over to her husband. Proud and pleased at -this new gift of Anna’s, it was Keith’s habit to take them straightway -to Gregory. Anna never knew this. She knew, however, that her poetry -found its way into print, and now and then, she found, into the hearts -of sincere people. This was new food for unaffected gladness, and she -was glad. - -The summer, although its fierce continuous heat had been hard to bear, -was yet the season _par excellence_ for Fraternia, and peace and plenty -reigned in the valley. But with the autumn came a change, gradual at -first, but later strongly accented. The wholesome occupations of the -spring and summer came, of necessity, to a standstill. There was now -little vent for the energy and working force of the people, while the -scant resources of the narrow valley offered nothing to counteract a -dull ennui which settled like a palpable cloud upon them. It had been a -bad year for all their crops; the cotton crop had been a total failure, -and the mill was shut down. This threw nearly fifty of the little -community into enforced idleness, and a smouldering resentment was bred -by the discovery that there had never been a profit, but rather a -sustained loss, on the output of the mill by reason of Gregory’s scruple -against selling at any advance beyond the bare cost of production. This -principle might have a fine and lofty sound from the lips of an orator, -speaking on broad, general lines; but the hard business sense of average -men and women rebelled against the concrete results of its application -to their own isolated case. - -“If other people did the same, it might work. For one manufactory alone -to attempt it is simply commercial suicide,” they said to each other, -and with justice. - -It became known, moreover, throughout the community, that a heavy -mortgage had been placed on the land, held by a rich cotton planter in -South Carolina, and that a wide chasm yet intervened between their -present condition and that of self-support. A more serious -disappointment and a more immediate difficulty, however, lay in the -inadequacy of their food products to the needs of the people, and the -consequent demand for ready money wherewith to buy the necessities of -life. - -The fare, hitherto of the simplest, was gradually made coarser and less -palatable, since better could not be. Winter was coming on; open-air -life had become impossible; fierce winds coming down through the gorge -swept the valley, and scattered the foliage of the forest, while a grey -and sullen sky hung over, and every day brought chilly rains. There was -some sickness, of a mild nature, but it emphasized the discomfort and -inconveniences of the homes. The prospect for the coming months in -Fraternia grew grim. The enthusiasm of novelty had tided the little -community over the two preceding winters, but some stronger upholding -must evidently now be interposed; for the people openly murmured, and -began to say to each other sullenly, as once another company, “Were we -brought out into this wilderness to die? As for this food, our soul -loathes it.” - -Keenly conscious of the criticism of which he was now the subject, -Gregory withdrew proudly more and more within himself, and touched less -and less familiarly the life of those about him. It was well known that -he deprived himself of all better fare than coarse bread and the water -from the spring, that he had unhesitatingly devoted his last dollar to -the enterprise so near his heart, and the patience and courage of the -man were unfailing. But what of that? It was his own enterprise, with -which he must stand or fall. Why should he not risk everything and bear -everything? For the rest it was different. They, too, had given their -money, and they had left their ceiled houses and their goodly fleshpots -and their pleasant social commerce to further his project! They at least -expected Christian food! - -Crossing the bridge from the library, on a raw afternoon late in -November, Anna Burgess met a woman of her own age, a woman of cheerful, -sensible temperament and habit, the wife of the architect, whom she had -known in Burlington. The husband, George Hanson, had surrendered with -unconditional devotion to Gregory’s teaching, and the wife, in loyal -sympathy, although herself by no means an idealist, had gathered her -little brood of children and a few household treasures together, and had -come to Fraternia with him. - -As she approached the bridge, Mrs. Hanson, holding up her wet skirts -with both hands, cried to Anna:— - -“Oh, how I hate this red mud! Don’t you? It seems to me I could stand it -better if it were not this horrid colour. One can never get away from -it, or lose sight of it.” - -Anna, who thus far, with only a few others, still kept heart and courage -unbroken through this gloomy season, replied cheerfully that she rather -liked the colour. - -Mrs. Hanson gave a mournful sigh. - -“You like Fraternia anyway, don’t you, Sister Benigna? You always did?” - -Anna smiled at the _naïveté_ of the question, and assented. - -“I must like what I have chosen above all other things.” - -“Well, I confess I never did like it, and I never shall. Oh, it will do -very well for a summer vacation if one could be sure of getting safe -home at the end. But as for a life like this! and when it comes to -bringing up children here!—” and Mrs. Hanson’s voice broke into a -suppressed sob. - -“I am sorry,” said Anna, gently. - -“Oh, Sister Benigna!” cried the other, letting loose the floodgates of -her tears, while they still stood on the bridge in the piercing rain, “I -never was so homesick in my life! When I hear my children asking if they -are not going home to see grandma pretty soon, it just breaks my heart. -They have no appetite for this hard meat and coarse bread, and they look -so white and thin, and plead so for a good old-fashioned turkey dinner! -I have a little money of my own, and I would spend every cent of it for -better food for them, but Mr. Hanson, he says that would be unjust to -the rest who cannot have such things, and that all must share alike. He -says it would cost a hundred dollars to give one such dinner as the -children want to the whole village.” - -“I suppose that is true,” said Anna, seriously; “and then it would only -be harder to come back—” - -“To prison fare,” Mrs. Hanson interjected with unconcealed bitterness. -“Well, all I have to say is that, if this is coöperation, I’ve had all I -want of it. As for ‘the brotherhood of man,’ I wish I may never hear of -it again as long as I live! I believe we have some duties to ourselves.” - -With this she passed slowly on, and Anna hastened homeward, a deep pang -in her heart. - -Entering her own house, she found Keith, pale and dispirited, leaning -with outstretched hands over the fire in an attitude unpleasantly -suggestive of decrepitude and want. He looked up as Anna came in, and -smiled faintly. - -“I think I have taken a fresh cold,” he said hoarsely; “this climate is -lovely half the year, but the other half—” and he left the sentence -unfinished, coughing sharply. - -Anna sat down by the hearth and removed her mud-sodden shoes, afterward -hastening to prepare such scanty remedies for Keith as the cabin -afforded. There was a dispensary down at the mill. She would go down for -medicine as soon as she had made him comfortable. On the surface of her -mind lay the habit of sympathy and care for her husband’s fragile -health, but in the depth below was a sense she could not have formulated -to herself of resentment at his lack of courage and fortitude. For -Keith, although too finely courteous to share in the open murmuring of -the people, was himself in the full swing of reaction from the -comparative enthusiasm which he had felt six months ago. The fall -weather had brought on ague, which, added to his chronic physical -weakness, made him altogether wretched; and while he punctiliously -avoided contributing to the public discontent, Anna perceived and -understood perfectly his weariness with the enterprise. For the first -time in their married life his patience and sweetness of temper failed; -he had grown irritable, and fretted at small inconveniences in a way -which chafed Anna’s hardier spirit indescribably. - -“I am very sorry, Keith, you are so miserable to-day,” Anna said now, -with half-mechanical commiseration. It chanced that, as she had come on -her way home from the little conversation with Mrs. Hanson, a new -sympathy had taken possession of her for the lonely man upon whom fell -the full burden of all this reaction, but who bore it with such -unflinching patience, albeit so silently. Almost inevitably, her mind -being thus absorbed, the sympathy with Keith in his familiar ailments -and complaints was rendered perfunctory for the time, and by comparison -his weakness wore to her some complexion of unmanliness. - -Perhaps Keith discerned a shade of coldness in her tone, and was stirred -by it. - -“I am sure I do not know,” he said with significant emphasis, “how long -I can stand this condition of things. You must see, Anna, that I am -losing ground from day to day. Look at my hands!” and he held out his -left hand to her, clammy and cold, for all the yellow blaze, wasted and -thin even to emaciation. - -Anna took the hand in hers, and caressed it with womanly gentleness, -murmuring that it was too bad, and something must be done; he certainly -was not properly nourished. - -“Why, Anna,” the poor fellow cried, warmed by her compassion, “I would -give all my ‘incomes from dreamland,’ all the fine-spun theories of -economic religion and social salvation that Gregory or any other -idealist ever dreamed of, to be for just one day in our own dear old -library, warmed all through, floor warm, walls warm—everything, you -know; to see you, beautifully dressed again, at your own table, with its -silver and damask; to have the service we always had; and once, just -once, Anna—to have all the hot water I want for a bath!” - -Anna smiled, but forebore to speak. The echo of Mrs. Hanson’s wail was -almost too much for her, and yet she pitied and understood. Pioneers -must be made of sterner stuff, that was all; men who, like Emerson’s -genius, should “learn to eat their meals standing, and to relish the -taste of fair water and black bread.” Were there such men? She knew one. -She almost began to doubt if there were any more. A few moments later -she brought Keith a tray containing tea and toast, served with such -little elegance as was possible, and with the daintiness of shining -linen and silver. - -“We must find a way for you to spend the winter in a different climate,” -she said, as she stood beside him. She spoke very kindly, but with the -inward sense of concession as of the stronger to the weaker. “You -certainly cannot remain here if this ague continues.” - -Keith watched her gratefully, as she prepared to go out again, sure of -some effective help when her strong determination was enlisted. The last -six months had revealed his wife to him as six years had not done -before. As she was about leaving, he said thoughtfully:— - -“Anna, I am not the only one to be anxious about. Perhaps you do not -know it fully, but the whole scheme of Fraternia is on the edge of -collapse.” - -“How do you mean, dear?” she asked, alarmed. - -“Through lack of funds. He says very little, but I can see that Gregory -has practically reached the end of his resources and expectations.” - -Anna’s face showed her great concern. - -“I did not know it was so bad,” she answered. “Oh, Keith, would you not -be willing to help out a little more? I know you have been wonderfully -generous, but some one must come up to the point of real sacrifice and -save the day. You could sell the Mill Street property, you know?” and -the timid tone of her final question contrasted strangely with that in -which she had begun speaking. - -It was the expression of Keith’s face which had dashed Anna’s -confidence. She had never seen him look so much like his mother as when -he replied. - -“No, my dear, I shall have to stand my ground,” he said, “and abide by -the terms I first proposed. My mother’s estate is not to be sacrificed -for this doubtful experiment. More than ever before I feel the -problematic nature of Gregory’s scheme. We must provide for our own -future as well as for his present crisis.” - -It was hard, Anna felt, as she started out again alone into the wind and -rain, not to reflect that, perhaps, the sooner the experiment proved a -failure the better Keith would be satisfied. She struggled against a -rising sense of anger which the separation of their interest from -Gregory’s gave her, at the characteristic caution, the irritating -prudence, the old familiar inflexibility, so like his mother. Keith’s -decision chafed her all the more because something warned her, in her -own despite, that he was after all justified in it. But the contrast -between his softness of yielding toward his own desires for luxury, and -the hardness of his withholding from the bare needs of another, came -just then into unfortunate juxtaposition. - -The attitude of Keith toward Gregory was complex and peculiar. When in -the immediate presence of this man he was brought under his personal -influence to a degree which even Anna often found surprising. Gregory’s -intensely masculine and forceful nature appeared to exert an almost -irresistible control over the younger man so long as they were together. -As soon, however, as Keith was removed from that immediate influence, he -reverted at once to an attitude not only critical toward Gregory, but at -times, and as if instinctively, antagonistic. - -Anna went on her way down the valley to the cotton mill with a sore and -heavy heart. On other days she could rejoice even in a leaden sky, in -the muddy, sullen stream, in the stripped branches of the forest; but -to-night, for twilight was falling now, all seemed clothed in that -oppressive ugliness of Tennyson’s picture:— - - “When the rotten woodland drips, - And the leaf is stamped in clay.” - -Reaching the mill, dark and silent otherwise, she noted a light in -Gregory’s office and the sound of voices, but the door was closed. She -passed through the corridor to the small room beyond which was used as a -dispensary. Pushing open the door she found the room empty; the young -man whose charge it was seemed to have betaken himself otherwhere over -early. However, Anna’s knowledge of drugs was not inconsiderable, and in -this case she knew precisely what Keith needed and where to find it. So -she proceeded without delay to place on the small polished counter which -stretched across the narrow room, the necessary ingredients for a -certain powder, and then carefully mixed these in the proportion called -for by her simple prescription. While she was thus occupied she noticed -with a sense of discomfort that the voices in the office, only divided -from her now by a thin partition, grew louder and took on a disagreeable -quality. Presently the door of the office was opened, and some one -hastened from the building in evident impatience, leaving the door wide -open. There was complete silence for a moment, and then Anna heard John -Gregory speak. She could not fail to hear every word, although his voice -was not raised, and its wonted quietness and courtesy were unchanged. - -“You will bear me witness, nevertheless, Mr. Hanson,” he said, “that I -never promised an easy life for those who came with me to Fraternia. I -declared plainly that simplicity and poverty and roughness were to be -accepted as necessary conditions.” - -“That is all very well,” a voice replied, which Anna recognized as that -of the Burlington architect, whose wife had evidently been working upon -him; “but when simplicity means starvation for delicate women and -children, and poverty begins to look like bankruptcy, the situation -strikes me as pretty serious. All I have to say is,” and the man’s voice -rose to a pitch of high excitement, “you are the dictator here, and you -are responsible; you’ve got us into this scrape, Mr. Gregory, by working -upon our emotions, and all that, and now you’ve got to get us out of it, -somehow!” and with these words Anna heard the speaker leave the office -with rapid steps, and a moment after the outer door of the mill closed -upon him. - -Anna had dropped the powders which she was dividing now into their -papers, and had started to go to the door and close it that she might -hear no more; but before she could do this a step in the corridor which -she knew sent her back to her place with a beating heart, and in another -instant John Gregory stood in the doorway. - -Anna had never seen his face changed by any mental agitation, nor was it -now, save for a touch of weariness and an unwonted pallor. There was a -deep, sunk glow in his eyes, which, together with the careless sweep of -the grey hair flung off his forehead, recalled with peculiar emphasis -the leonine effect Anna had often noticed. The habitual grave composure -of his manner was in no way disturbed; and although he could not have -known of her presence in the dispensary, it did not seem to cause him -surprise. - -“Is some one ill at your house?” he asked with evident concern but -characteristic abruptness. He was one of those few persons who do not -find it necessary to explain what is self-evident. - -“Mr. Burgess is not very well,” Anna replied, hesitating somewhat, -unwilling to strike another dart into the soreness of his spirit, which -she felt distinctly, for all his outward firmness. - -“I fear,” Gregory said thoughtfully, “that Mr. Burgess ought not to -remain in Fraternia this winter. I am very much afraid that his health -will suffer. Both of you deserve a little change,” he continued, with a -slight smile, the pathos of which Anna felt sharply. “Fraternia is not -so pleasant at this time of year. Why do you not go North for a few -months? You would come back to us in the spring—perhaps?” - -The apparent carelessness which he wished to convey to this question -contrasted strangely with the piercing anxiety of the look with which -Gregory’s eyes searched Anna’s face. She understood the instinctive -desire to forestall another attack, to take for granted an impending -blow. - -Quietly working at her powders, laughing a little, by sheer effort of -will, since tears were near the surface, she replied:— - -“I could not be spared, Mr. Gregory, this winter. I see you are a little -disposed to undervalue my services. There are several cases of sickness -now, and I am vain enough to think I am needed. Besides, you know, I -love Fraternia. I do not want to go away from home.” - -The minor arts of coquetry were all unknown and foreign to Anna, but the -genius of her woman’s nature and intuition was thrown into the last -sentence with full effect. - -The strong spirit of Gregory, which could meet the assaults and buffets -of reproach and detraction without shrinking, and which would have -rejected express sympathy, was mastered for a minute by the delicate -comprehension and implied fidelity of Anna’s words. - -She knew better than to see the momentary suspicion of dimness in his -eyes, or to note the silence which for a little space he did not care to -break. When at last he spoke, it was to ask, in a wholly matter-of-fact -manner:— - -“Have I not heard that Mr. Burgess was a particularly successful public -speaker?” Anna looked up quickly then. - -“You may have heard it, for I am sure it is true,” she said. Another -pause for reflection, and then Gregory said:— - -“It is becoming urgently necessary that the purpose and future of -Fraternia should be promoted by some one capable of going about, -particularly in the cities, and presenting our aims publicly—before -audiences of people.” - -Anna had gathered up her powders now and put them in her pocket and -stood ready to go but she stopped, and her face kindled with swift -recognition and welcome of the thought in Gregory’s mind. - -“And you have thought that Mr. Burgess might do this, and so still serve -the cause and yet do it for a while under easier conditions?” she -exclaimed. “Mr. Gregory, I cannot tell you how glad I should be if this -plan could be carried out. I am really a little anxious about my -husband. I am sure this would work well for every one, and it might -solve several problems at once.” - -He smiled, a little sadly, at her confident eagerness, said they must -consider it seriously, and then stood aside to let her pass out and go -home. It was not necessary for him to say, as he bade her good night, -that he wished it were expedient for him to walk home with her. She -understood his theory of what was wise for himself in such matters. She -approved it. Nevertheless, she found it hard to leave him alone just -then in the deserted mill. Half-way back she met Everett, plodding -through the mud, with his hands in his pockets, and whistling, to keep -his spirits up, she fancied. - -“Be extra good to Mr. Gregory to-night,” she said, womanlike, unable to -resist the longing to help, as he paused a moment. - -“Why?” he asked, frowning; “have they been at him again?” - -Anna nodded and passed on, afraid to say more. - -“Fools!” he murmured between his teeth, and plunged on against the wind. - -But Anna went home with a beatific vision to soothe her spirit, of Keith -comfortable at last in a good hotel, with menus and waiters, bells and -bathrooms, in an infinite series. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXIII - - “Lo, fool,” he said, “ye talk - Fool’s treason; is the king thy brother fool?” - Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrill’d, - “Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools! - Conceits himself as God that he can make - Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk - From burning spurge, honey from hornet combs, - And men from beasts—Long live the King of fools!” - —TENNYSON. - - But yours the cold heart and the murderous tongue, - The wintry soul that hates to hear a song, - The close-shut fist, the mean and measuring eye, - And all the little poisoned ways of wrong. - —THE RUBAIYAT. - - -Everett had improvised a studio in a low loft over the bachelors’ -quarters, contiguous to the cabin which he and Gregory shared. - -It was necessary, he said, for him to get down to hard work now. That -hedging and ditching nonsense was great sport for a man’s holidays, but -he had no more time to play; he must paint. The work he had produced in -Fulham had not been, often, especially salable or popular in its -character, a certain mystic quality pervading it not readily understood -by casual observers. All that, he declared, was now to be rigidly -excluded from his painting; he should paint to sell—cheap, pretty -things, picturesque, palpable. With this purpose he had set to work with -a will, and by February had a few hundred dollars to turn over to the -treasury as the fruit of his industry. His pictures were sold in the -North through Keith Burgess as intermediary. - -He was hard at work in the studio at nine o’clock on a night in -February, laying in the outline for a bit of the valley which he -declared he could paint now with his eyes shut, he had done it so often, -having found it “a good seller,” when he heard Gregory’s step on the -stairs. That the boy had just brought the mail up from Spalding Everett -knew, having heard the horse galloping over the bridge, and stopping -before the house. - -Gregory came in now with several letters in his hand, one open. He did -not speak at first, and Everett let him walk up and down the place -undisturbed, seeing that he was peculiarly perplexed, probably by the -open letter, which Everett noticed was in Keith Burgess’s handwriting. -After a few moments he remarked slowly, but with an unusually incisive -quality in his tone:— - -“Burgess is a singularly prudent little man. Did it ever strike you so?” - -“He has some capacity, however, for the opposite quality.” Everett threw -out this remark with no manifestation of especial interest, and it -seemed to pass unnoticed. - -“Having it in his power,” Gregory continued, with the same incisive -deliberation, “to extricate us from our whole present difficulty -himself, with the utmost ease, he yet jogs about the country after a -comfortable fashion, presenting the subject publicly as occasion offers, -and sends me back such letters as this.” - -Lifting the sheet in his hand, Gregory read from it:— - -“I held a meeting last night in Grand Rapids, to which I have been -working up carefully for over a week through the press, etc. The -attendance was fair, and the people listened well. I regret, however, to -be obliged to report that the practical results of the meeting were not -all that we could have wished—” and dropping the letter, Gregory added:— - -“And so on, copiously, through nearly four pages of matchless ambiguity -and polite phrases, which could all have been condensed to the usual sum -total of his reports; thus far, nothing!” - -“Still, Mr. Gregory, we must remember that he did pretty well for the -first few weeks.” - -“Yes,” said Gregory, nodding a short assent, “while he was covering the -field which was ready for harvest—seeing the men already committed to -the cause. We can evidently expect nothing more from him. What kind of a -speaker is he, Everett?” - -“Good, really very good as a special pleader. He had very fair success -when he was missionary secretary.” - -“I wonder at it,” murmured Gregory,—“a mild, prudent little man like -that with his perpetual fears and scruples; I cannot fancy his ever -letting himself go.” - -Everett, unwontedly sober and silent, worked on. Gregory paced the room -for a little while. He wanted to ask Everett how Keith’s marriage with a -woman like Anna could ever have come about, but he could not bring -himself to frame the question, and presently left the studio. - -Hanging about the door below, Gregory found Barnabas Rosenblatt, -apparently waiting to speak with him. - -“Hello!” said Gregory, not unkindly, but shortly. “Do you want me?” - -“Well, shust a minit, if Herr Gregory vas not too busy,” and the little -Jew shuffled along by Gregory’s side until they reached the door of the -cabin. - -Gregory brought his visitor in and gave him a chair, then stirred up a -smouldering fire and threw on a piece of pine, which, flaring up into a -sudden blaze, made other light unnecessary. The reflection of the yellow -flames played weirdly over the walls, and Barnabas seemed unable to -withdraw his eyes from the picture above the chimney. - -“Our lady,” he said simply, nodding across at Gregory, and closing his -eyes impressively. - -“Well, Barnabas, what is it you want?” asked his host. - -“It’s our lady,” said Barnabas, sniffing quite vigorously; “das is it. -How she fall off!” and he shook his head with a slow, mournful motion. - -“Fall off what? I do not understand, Barnabas. You are speaking of -Sister Benigna?” Gregory’s face changed. - -“So—so—” and the little man nodded emphatically. “She’s got awful poor! -Oh, my! Her bones comes right through zu next. My Kleine, she say our -lady don’t eat notin’s, shust only leetle, leetle milk, an’ work, work, -work, like a holy angel everywheres at one time, up an’ down the valley; -sick folks an’ well folks, all derselbe. Light come all place she come!” -and Barnabas relapsed into meditative silence, having found his -vocabulary hard tested by this prolonged statement. - -“Do you mean that Sister Benigna is sick?” asked Gregory, with slight -sharpness. - -“Ja, ja, Herr Gregory; she has went home sick heut’ abend from the sew -class down to der mill. When she go, all go. Fraternia ohne Sister -Benigna,” and the little man drew his shoulders quite up to his ears in -a characteristic shrug strongly expressive of a thing unthinkable. - -Gregory rose, Barnabas following his example. - -“I will go over and inquire,” he said, taking his hat, and they left the -house at once. - -The night was cold, a light fall of snow lay over the valley, and the -stars glittered from a frosty sky. - -When they reached the neighbourhood of Anna’s cottage Gregory sent -Barnabas up to the door, while he waited at a little distance. In a few -moments Frieda, who now shared Anna’s cabin, joined him, while Barnabas, -with the action of a waiting watch-dog, humble, and yet with a due sense -of responsibility, hung about near by. Frieda’s account was reassuring, -as far as immediate solicitude for Anna was concerned; she had come home -ill from the afternoon sewing class, and had a chill, headache, and -fever. She was resting now, and would doubtless be up again in a day or -two. - -“Nothing can keep her down, Mr. Gregory,” Frieda said in conclusion. “I -am not frightened just now, but we all see plainly that Sister Benigna -is killing herself by inches. She eats hardly anything, and yet works as -if there were no limit to her strength. Sometimes I think she is just -laying down her very life for us here in Fraternia, and we’re not worth -it,” and with this Frieda’s voice broke a little, and without stopping -to say more she hurried back. - -Gregory bade Barnabas good night hastily, and then, instead of going -home, he walked rapidly down the rough road to the mill, unlocked the -door, and went into his office and sat down at his desk. His face had -changed strangely; it had grown grey and his lips were tightly -compressed. He sat long in motionless silence, thinking intensely. -Although he had himself watched Anna with growing uneasiness, the -suggestions of Frieda and Barnabas came upon him with startling effect. -He asked himself now with unsparing definiteness whether this was indeed -the final turn of the wheel of torture on which he was bound, or whether -he could wait for another. The conviction was upon him, stark and stern, -that in the end he should yield and seek the one means of escape which -was still open to him, and which he had been holding off with almost -dogged resolution. He recalled the shaping of events in Anna’s life -during the last few months, and his face softened. - -Late in November, when Keith went North, she had accompanied him, having -been sent for by her sister Lucia. Their mother, Gulielma Mallison, upon -whom age and infirmity had increased heavily, had conceived a -controlling desire to return to her childhood home, the Moravian town of -Bethlehem, to end her days. Anna had visited Haran therefore, and had -brought her mother back to her early home, establishing her there in the -quiet Widows’ House in peace and satisfaction. - -At Christmas, when she returned alone to Fraternia, Anna had seemed to -bring with her a new infusion of active and aggressive force. Relieved -of anxiety for Keith, whom she had left in good spirits, and from the -constant ministration to his comfort, she was now wholly free to devote -herself to the common good. With new and contagious ardour she had -thrown herself therefore into the life of the discouraged little -community, cheering the faint-hearted and rekindling the flagging -purposes of the fickle. She taught the girls and women quaint fashions -of embroidery and work on linen which she had learned from her mother, -and inspired them with the ambition to earn something with their -needles, thus dispelling their listlessness. She seemed at times to -possess in her own enthusiasm and courage sufficient motive power to -energize them all; she worked and moved among them as if no less a task -had been given her, and with a sweetness and sympathy that never failed. - -All who watched her wondered at the power in her, and many who had -murmured hitherto now declared themselves ashamed, and responded -willingly. John Gregory marvelled more and more at the qualities of -brilliant leadership which she now developed. Within him a voice, which -he could not always silence, sometimes whispered that if such a nature -as that which had been gradually revealed to him in Anna Burgess, in its -plenitude of power and its greatness of purpose, could have been allied -to his own, a movement far beyond what he had even dreamed of in -Fraternia might have been possible. - -But while a certain reënforcement of courage had followed Anna’s strong -initiative, and while in some respects the domestic conditions of the -people had been improved and their murmurings for the time partially -silenced, the gravity of the situation and of the prospects for the -future as Gregory saw them remained unchanged. Keith’s mission had -proved unproductive, as the letter just received emphasized afresh. -Gregory himself could not leave Fraternia at this juncture without -manifest peril. Only his personal influence now availed to hold together -many discordant elements which were very actively at work and arrayed -against each other. From no quarter could he discern any hope of -substantial support. - -And now, last of all, she was laid low; worse, they told him she was -laying down her life in her devotion to his cause—she, his one -high-hearted, intrepid, dauntless ally! Bitterly Gregory said to himself -that she who had freely left wealth and station was starving and working -to her death to save him from defeat, and all in vain, unless—Should he -calmly sit by and permit the sacrifice? Great of heart as she was, all -her work could not avail, nor his, unless aid of another kind could be -found, and that at once. - -And it could be found; of that he had little doubt. To find it he must, -indeed, make a certain compromise, but it was one which involved only -himself, his own position,—perhaps, after all, only his own pride. Had -he not himself preached against the subtle selfishness which underlies -the passion for individual perfection? Did not the common good and the -larger interests of his cause call for the sacrifice? - -Gregory rose at last and went to the outer door of the mill. It was five -o’clock of the February morning, and off to the east a faint yellowish -light was climbing up the sky. The mill pond lay dead in its stillness -below him; the water fell quietly, stilled with ice, over the dam; the -valley stretched out white and cold; a mile below was the black belt of -the forest, and beyond, the dim plain, with the stars shining over. It -was pure and cold and pitiless. In sky or earth no sign of relenting, no -suggestion of a gentler day. But Gregory was not looking for signs, or -reckoning with omens, save the omen which had come unasked and taken up -its abode in his mind. He was thinking, not of the scene before him, nor -of the sleeping village behind, nor even of the outline of the future, -nor of Anna in her pain and patience. - -An old story was repeating itself within him of the ancient king to whom -the sibyl came bringing nine books, which, being offered, he rejected; -and of how, in the end, it had been the fate of the king to desire the -three which alone were left, and to obtain them at a threefold price. - -Presently the door of the mill was closed, and Gregory returned to his -desk. There was sternness in his face as he set about writing a letter, -and self-disdain and humiliation; but he wrote on, and finished the -letter, which he signed and sealed. Then, without further hesitation or -pause, he crossed the road to the mill stables, brought out and saddled -his own horse, a tall roan, fit to carry a man of his proportions, -mounted it, and rode away down the valley toward Spalding. The letter -which he chose to mail with his own hand was addressed to Senator -Ingraham, and it stated briefly that the writer had come to the -conclusion that his rejection of the generous gift offered him on a -certain night known to them both was ill advised, and that if the same -or any part of it were offered him now for the furtherance of his -coöperative work, it would not be refused. - -A week passed, and Anna, protesting that she was as well as ever, had -returned to her regular round of cares. The only change in her -appearance was a peculiar whiteness of the tints of her skin, such that -her face at times seemed actually to emit light. The contrast of this -whiteness of tint with the masses of her dull, dark hair and the large, -clear eyes, full of the changing lights which lurk in hazel eyes, gave -her at this time a startling beauty, startling because it suggested -evanescence. Most marked, Fraternia people said, was this phase of -Anna’s appearance on a night near the end of another week, when a large -company was gathered in the hall over the mill for an entertainment. -Anna had been much interested through the winter in a series of author’s -evenings, and this chanced to be the occasion for the closing programme -of the series. The subject was Lowell, and prose had been read and -poetry declaimed; the changes rung on all,—humorous, pathetic, and -patriotic. The little hall was full and the audience eager for the -closing number, because it was to be given by Anna herself, who had a -charming gift in rendering poetry. - -She had chosen a number of passages from the “Commemoration Ode,” and as -she stood on the platform with its dark crimson background and drapery, -dressed, as she was habitually when indoors, in white, her eyes kindling -as she spoke the noble words of the noblest American poem, the audience -watched her face with an attention even closer than that with which they -listened to her voice. This, indeed, showed a slight weakness, but the -eloquence and energy of her spirit subdued it to a deeper pathos, while -its impressiveness was most marked when she reached the close of the -fifth strophe, every word of which to her meant John Gregory:— - - “But then to stand beside her, - When craven churls deride her, - To front a lie in arms and never yield, - This shows, methinks, God’s plan - And measure of a stalwart man, - Limbed like the old, heroic breeds, - - · · · · · - - Fed from within with all the strength he needs.” - -She was half-way through the lines when a striking and incomprehensible -change passed over her. Her eyes dilated, then drooped, her breath -almost forsook her, and her quiet hands clasped each other hard. She -continued to speak, but her voice had lost its tone and timbre. Almost -mechanically she kept on to the close of the part she had selected, but -those who loved her feared to see her fall before the end. When she -reached the room behind the stage, the faithful Frieda was waiting to -receive her. - -What had happened? Was it merely that Sister Benigna was still weak from -her illness? As they broke up, these questions were repeatedly asked -among the people. Some of them called attention to the fact that while -she was speaking a stranger had tiptoed into the hall so noiselessly -that only a few persons had been aware of his coming, but he was a man -of so singular a physiognomy and an expression so repellent that a vague -connection was felt to link Anna’s agitation with his appearance. - -This man was Oliver Ingraham. - -Anna, with Frieda, hurrying out of the mill alone into the blackness of -the starless and stormy night, and turning homeward, heard steps -approaching, heavy and hard. Some one passed them. Anna knew only by the -great height and breadth of shoulder, dimly discerned through the dark, -that it was Gregory. She stopped, and he turned, catching a glimpse of -her white face. - -“Mr. Gregory,” she said, “Oliver Ingraham is here. What can it mean?” - -“Here already!” he cried almost harshly. “I have only this moment -received a despatch!” and he hastened forward, as if he might yet -interpose some obstacle to this most unwelcome arrival. - -The words in the despatch, crumpled fiercely and thrust into Gregory’s -pocket, were these:— - - “My son will be the bearer of the funds required. Trust you will - give him the opportunity he desires for study of social problems. - - “INGRAHAM.” - -It was the first word of reply to his letter which Gregory had received, -and it was a word which made him set hard his teeth and groan like a -wounded lion. - -“Perhaps it is fair,” he said to himself, as he crossed the bridge; “but -Ingraham’s Nemesis as the price is a higher one than even I expected.” - -Above, in the mill hall, Oliver was mingling with the people who were in -the habit of remaining together for an hour of social interchange after -the programme, on these occasions. He quickly found his old townsman, -Mr. Hanson, who seemed more amazed than rejoiced to greet him in -Fraternia. - -“Stopped over, eh, to see our village?” he asked. “On your way North, I -suppose?” - -“Oh, no,” said Oliver, smiling complacently; “I have come straight from -home. I have a commission for your czar from my father, and I rather -look to throwing in my fortunes with you folks. I want to see how this -experiment works; study it, you know, on all sides. If I like it, I -guess I shall stay.” - -“Oh, really,” said Hanson, a little aghast. - -“How are you getting on, anyway?” proceeded Oliver, craftily. -“Rose-colour washed off yet? Has it been pretty idyllic this winter? -Say, I should think catering for a crowd up in this valley would be -quite a job. Don’t get salads and ices every day, I take it.” - -Hanson shook his head impatiently, longing to get away from the -questioner. - -“Well,” said Oliver, “I suppose by this time Gregory the Great has -issued his edicts and made all the poor people rich, hasn’t he? and all -the rich people poor? That seems to be the method of evening up. I don’t -wonder the poor fellows like it. Should think they would.” - -“You will know better about us when you have been here awhile, Mr. -Ingraham.” - -Oliver nodded cheerfully. “Oh, yes, of course. I am going to take notes, -you see. Perhaps I’ll write it up by and by,” and he tapped the neat -note-book which protruded from a pocket of his coat. “Are all the -sinners saints by this time?” he added. - -“Hardly.” - -“Well, then, we’ll put it the other way,” said Oliver, with a peculiar -significance in his high voice, “are the saints all sinners yet?” The -malicious leer with which this question was accompanied seemed to turn -it into a hateful insinuation, which Hanson, with all his -half-suppressed discontent, resented hotly. He was about to make a hasty -reply when Gregory came up and spoke to Oliver, to whom he held out his -hand. His manner was as cold as could be with decent courtesy, and when -Oliver had shaken his hand he passed his handkerchief over it with the -impulse a man has after touching a slug or a snake. - -Oliver noticed the gesture, and rubbed his long white hands together -reflectively. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXIV - - Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been; - I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell; - Unto thine ear I hold the dead sea-shell - Cast up thy Life’s foam-fretted feet between; - Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen - Which had Life’s form and Love’s, but by my spell - Is now a shaken shadow intolerable, - Of ultimate things unuttered, the frail screen. - Mark me, how still I am! - —D. G. ROSSETTI. - - -It was mid-April and the afternoon of a day of perfect weather, of -summer rather than spring. - -The hills around Fraternia were covered now in sheets of flame-colour, -white and rose, from the blossoming of the wild azalea and laurel. The -air was laden with perfume and flooded with sunshine. - -It was at the close of the afternoon school when Anna, a company of the -children with her, started to climb the eastern hill which rose a little -beyond the mill pond, to gather flowers. - -Gregory, from the open window of his office in the mill, watched the -pretty troop as they threaded their way up the steep path and were soon -lost to sight in the woods. He heard them speak of Eagle Rock as the -goal of their expedition,—a favourite point of view, less than a mile to -walk, and nearly on the crest of the hills. - -Anna was dressed in the coarse white cotton of Fraternia manufacture -which was the usual dress of the girls and women of the village in the -house and out in dry, warm weather, simply made, easily laundered, -cleanly, and becoming. Her tall figure, the last to disappear up the -woodland path, had attracted the eyes of another, as well as of John -Gregory. - -Oliver Ingraham, in these two months grown an all-too-familiar figure in -Fraternia, finding his way stealthily and untiringly to every favourite -nook and corner of the valley, had also watched the start from some -lurking-place. It was half an hour later when Gregory noticed him -sauntering casually along the foot of the hill, and with an air of -indifference striking into the same path which Anna and the children had -taken. Gregory watched him a moment fixedly, his eyebrows knit together, -and he bit his lip with impatience and disgust. Of late Oliver had shown -an ominous propensity to haunt Anna, whose dislike of his presence -amounted well-nigh to terror. More than once Gregory’s watchful eyes, -which never left Oliver’s movements long unnoted, had observed attempts -on his part to follow or to overtake her, to seek her out and attach -himself to her. Invariably Oliver found himself foiled in these -attempts, although he had no means of attributing the interference to -Gregory. Thus far the intervention had been accomplished almost -unnoticeably, but none the less effectively. - -The afternoon was a busy one for Gregory. The mill, no longer silent and -deserted, was running now on full time; and, to the great satisfaction -of a majority of the colonists, Gregory had withdrawn his scruples -against selling the products of their manufacture at a reasonable -profit. He was finding it easier and easier to compromise with his -initial scruples. It had also become more imperative to try to meet, in -so far as was reasonable, the demands of the people, since already -Fraternia had suffered serious defections. A number of substantial -families had withdrawn earlier in the spring, among them the Hansons and -the Taylors, who had taken the pretty Fräulein Frieda with them, to -Anna’s great regret. Others talked of leaving, and, in spite of the -greater financial easiness, criticism and jealousy were at work in the -little company at first so united. The almost insuperable difficulties -attending the experiment had now fully declared themselves. - -However, there was plenty of work to do, which was a material relief. -Gregory glanced now at the pile of papers before him on his desk, and -then once more through the window at the figure of Oliver, receding up -the hill. No, he could not run the risk of allowing him to overtake and -annoy Anna. The work must wait. Taking his hat, he left the mill -hastily; but, instead of choosing the path behind Oliver, Gregory turned -and went up the valley a little distance, struck through behind the -houses, crossed a bit of boggy ground which lay at the foot of the hill -in this part of the valley, and so mounted the hill below Eagle Rock in -a line to intercept Oliver before he could overtake Anna, if such were -his purpose. - -There was no path up this side of the hill, but Gregory found no trouble -in striding through the deep underbrush which would have swamped the -women and children completely. Soon he reached a point from which he -commanded a sight of Eagle Rock, and a glance showed him the fluttering -dresses of the children already on its summit. In another moment he -dashed up on a sharp climb, for the hill was very steep at this point, -and reached the path only a short distance from the base of the rock. He -looked up, but no one was in sight; then down the path, and in a moment -Oliver came into view walking much more rapidly than fifteen minutes -before, when he had entered the woods. He slackened his pace as he -caught sight of Gregory slowly approaching down the path, and sought to -hide a very evident discomfiture with his evil smile. - -“You got up here in pretty good time, didn’t you, Mr. Gregory?” he -asked, as he reached him. “I saw you, seems to me, in your office when I -came along. I’ve taken my time, you see. A beautiful day for a walk.” - -Oliver’s small green-grey eyes twinkled wickedly as he spoke these -apparently harmless words, for he saw, or felt, that beneath every one -of them Gregory’s anger, roused at last, reached a higher pitch. Oliver -perfectly understood what he was here for. - -“I have a word to say to you,” said Gregory, stormily. “You will have to -stop haunting the women and children, and annoying them with your -attentions. I speak perfectly plainly, Mr. Ingraham; they are not -agreeable and they must be stopped.” - -“You rule with a rod of iron here, Gregory,” said Oliver, his long -fingers twining together; “what you say goes. Still, you know, you might -go a little too far.” - -Gregory did not reply, but stood watching him as a lion might watch a -reptile. - -“I am willing to stay in Fraternia, under favourable conditions,” Oliver -proceeded, with hideous cunning; “but I should think, as I am paying -pretty well for my accommodations, I ought, at least, to get the liberty -of the grounds. What do you say?” - -“I say, Go, this minute, or I’ll throw you neck and crop down that -bank,” said Gregory, with unmistakable sincerity, at which Oliver, -suddenly cowed, and his weak legs trembling under him, faced about -promptly and retreated down the path. He paused at a safe distance, -while Gregory’s hands tingled to collar him, and called back, in a loud, -confidential whisper:— - -“You can have her all to yourself this time. That’s all right,” and with -this he hurried off, his thin lips writhing in a malicious smile, and -his hands clenched tightly and cruelly. - -For a moment Gregory stood still in the path. A dark flush had mounted -slowly even to his forehead. He was irresolute whether to follow and -find Anna, or to return directly to the valley. Something in Oliver’s -ugly taunt acted like a challenge upon him, it seemed, for, turning, and -catching through the trees the glimmer of Anna’s white dress, he -hastened on up the path. - -He found her sitting on a mossy rock at the foot of the cliff, where -there were trees and shade and a fair view of the valley, and the blue -billowing sea of the mountain ranges beyond. Her strength and colour had -returned with the out-door life of the spring, and she looked to-day the -embodiment of radiant health. Greatly astonished at Gregory’s -appearance, she yet welcomed it with unaffected gladness, starting to -rise from her low seat with the impulses of social observance which she -could not quite outgrow even in the wilderness; but he motioned to her -to sit still. All around her the children had flung their branches of -laurel and azalea, running off to gather more and bring her, and the -delicate suffusion of colour made an exquisite background to the -picture. The picture itself, Gregory thought, Everett ought to have -painted for a Madonna; for in Anna’s lap leaned a sturdy, fair-haired -boy, with a cherub face, a child of less than four years, his head -thrust back against her shoulder as he looked out from that vantage -ground with serene eyes at Gregory, while Anna held one round little -hand in hers and looked down upon the child with all the wistful -fondness of unfulfilled maternal love. - -“Do not smile,” said Gregory, with affected sternness at last, as she -glanced up from the child to him with a questioning smile, expecting -some explanation for his presence here; “I have come this time to scold -you.” - -“O dear!” said Anna, with a gay little laugh of surprise. “My turn has -come!” - -“Yes, your turn has come,” he continued gravely. “Do you not know that -when you come away on such long, lonely climbs as this, even with the -children, you give us anxiety for you, and trouble? I have had to come -all this distance to take care of you.” - -Anna shook her head, much more puzzled than penitent. - -“What is there to be troubled about?” she cried. - -Gregory did not answer at once. He found it impossible to make mention -of Oliver in her presence. He fixed his eyes on the little child, who -was on his knees now, by Anna’s side, pouring out into her white dress a -small handful of scarlet berries, and letting them run like jewels -through his fingers, laughing to see them roll. - -“Do you not know,” he began again, very slowly, “that we fear for your -strength, for your endurance, upon which you will never, yourself, have -mercy?” - -Anna began to protest a little, her colour deepening at some vague -change in his tone and manner. - -“Do you not know,” he continued, not heeding her interruption, “that you -are the very heart of our life, here in Fraternia? that we all turn to -you for our inspiration, our hope, our ideal? Should we not guard you, -since without you we all should fade and fail?” - -Never before had Anna heard this cadence of tenderness in Gregory’s -voice, nor in the voice of man or woman; the whole strength of his -protecting manhood, of his high reverence and his strong heart, was in -it, but there was something more. What was it? A tremor ran through -Anna’s heart. Could she dare to know? She lifted her eyes at last to -meet his look, and what she read was what she had never dreamed of, -never feared nor hoped—the supreme human love which a man can know. -Reading this, she did not fear nor faint nor draw her own look away, but -rather her eyes met his, full of awe and solemn joy; for at last, in -that moment, her own heart was revealed to itself. - -“O Anna!—O Benigna!” - -Gregory spoke at last, or rather it seemed as if the whole deep heart of -the man breathed out its life on the syllables of those two names. - -In the silence which followed Anna sat quite quiet in her place, the sun -and the soft shadows of the young oak leaves playing over her face and -figure. The child still tossed his red berries with ripples of gleeful -laughter over the whiteness of her dress, and not far away could be -heard the busy voices of the older children as they ruthlessly broke -away the blossoms from their stems. And in the sun and shade and the -stillness Anna sat, while wave after wave of incredible joy broke over -her spirit. For the first time in her life she knew love, knowing it for -what it was. She had not asked to know it, nor mourned that she had -missed its full measure, nor dreamed that it could yet be hers; but it -had come, not stayed by bonds nor stopped by vows. It was here! The man -whose strong spirit, in its freedom and power, had cast its spell upon -her mysteriously even before she had seen his face save in a dream, -loved her, with eyes to look like that upon her and that mighty -tenderness! Life was fulfilled. Let death come now. It was enough! - -The moment, being supreme in its way, was not one to leave room for -outward excitement, for flutter and trepidation. Anna rose now from her -place with perfect calmness, and bent to take the little, laughing child -by the hand, while she went to call the others together. Gregory had -turned away slightly, and with his arms crossed over his breast was -leaning hard against the rugged wall of the cliff, his head thrown back -against it, his face set, his whole aspect as of some granite figure of -heroic mould, carved there in relief. Anna heard a sound like a groan -break from his lips, and turning back, with an irresistible impulse, -laid her hand, light as a leaf, upon his arm. - -From head to foot Gregory trembled then. - -“Don’t,” he said sternly, under his breath. - -“What is it?” asked Anna, confused at his sudden harshness. - -“It is the end,” he said, with low distinctness and the emphasis of -finality. - -Then, only then, did Anna waken to perceive that what in that brief -moment of joy she had taken for glory, was only shame and loss and -undoing, unless smothered at the birth. - -An inarticulate cry broke from her then, so poignant, although low, that -the little child, pulling at her dress, began to cry piteously. She -stooped to comfort him, gave him again the hand which she had laid on -Gregory’s arm, then, turning, walked slowly away. - -Gregory made no motion to detain her or to follow, but stood as she left -him, braced against the rock. Anna gathered her little flock, and they -hastened down the hill in a gay procession, with the waving branches of -April bloom, and the merry voices of the children. Only Sister Benigna, -as she walked among them, little Judith noticed, was white and still. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXV - - Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung, - And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day - Went glooming down in wet and weariness; - But under her black brows a swarthy one - Laugh’d shrilly, crying: “Praise the patient saints, - Our one white day of Innocence hath past, - Though somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it.” - —TENNYSON. - - -At nine o’clock that evening Barnabas Rosenblatt, working around the -mill stables, was startled at the sudden appearance of Gregory, who -passed him without speaking, as he went hurriedly into the stall and -brought out his horse. The day had been followed by a night of brilliant -moonlight, and Barnabas saw, as distinctly as if it had been day, that -his face, usually firm and composed, was drawn and haggard to a degree. -He started to speak to him, but an imperious gesture of Gregory silenced -him. Without a word Barnabas therefore assisted him in saddling the -horse, and then stood perplexed as he watched him gallop away down the -valley in the moonlight. - -Straight on through a narrow bridle-path which led by a short cut -through the stretch of oak wood to the little hamlet of Spalding, -Gregory galloped. He had reached the outskirts of the woods, and was in -sight of the level meadows and the cluster of lights of the village -beyond, when he suddenly perceived the figure of a man on foot -approaching him from the direction of Spalding. A few steps more, and -Gregory saw, with surprise and strange perturbation, that it was Keith -Burgess. He reined up his horse and stood motionless, until Keith had -reached him, and called out a greeting as he stood in the path, looking -a pigmy beside the Titanic proportions of the horse and rider. The -moonlight showed Keith more thin and wan than ever. He had returned to -Fraternia once before this spring, in March, but, after a week, had been -glad to go back to Baltimore, with some rather vague commission. His -return at this time was wholly unexpected, even by Anna. - -Keith had long since come to stand to Gregory for something like a -concrete embodiment of his many disappointments and vexations, by reason -of his lukewarm participation in his own purposes, his ineffective -labours, and his continual draft upon Anna’s sympathies. As Gregory -looked down upon him, thrown at this moment so unexpectedly in his path, -a singular hardness toward the man came upon him, for he was hard beset -by passion; and while he meant to have no mercy upon himself, he was not -in the mood to have mercy upon another man, least of all, perhaps, upon -Keith. - -“You are going back to Fraternia?” he asked coldly, his tone striking -Keith with chill surprise. The latter assented as a matter of course. - -There was a moment of silence; Keith felt something sinister in the -nature of it. - -“Why should you go back there?” Gregory asked now, with the same -careless coldness; “you have no heart in Fraternia or its purposes.” - -Keith was stirred, and answered pointedly:— - -“I have at least a wife in Fraternia, Mr. Gregory.” - -Gregory looked at him a moment with a measuring glance, noting his -wasted and feeble appearance. - -“I suppose you do need nursing,” he said slowly. - -Keith Burgess turned ashy pale. Was this wanton injury? Did Gregory wish -to insult him? What did it mean? Gregory did not know himself. He knew -only that, in the agony of that night, for he had fully resolved himself -to see Anna no more, the sight of Keith Burgess worked like madness in -his brain. - -“Mrs. Burgess,” he said now, with the deliberation of strongly -suppressed excitement, “is more highly endowed for great issues than any -person I have ever known. It is almost a pity that she should not have -freedom to use her powers in the greater activities to which she is -fitted.” - -Each sentence, cruel with all the cruelty which the climax of pride and -passion could inspire, pierced the heart of Keith like a shaft barbed -with steel. He stepped backward and leaned against a tree, breathing -hard. The occult, mysterious quality of the moment’s experience to him -was that he saw himself, distinctly and as if by an inexorable -necessity, turning away from Fraternia, and going back by the way which -he had come. - -Without another word, Gregory tightened his rein and galloped on, out -through the wood’s edge and so down to the plain. He did not see, in the -high excitement of the moment, the figure of a man lurking stealthily -among the trees at no great distance from where Keith stood. When the -sound of the horse’s hoofs had died away, this figure stepped softly out -from its shelter and passed along the bridle-path, peering inquisitively -in the face of Keith as he still stood where Gregory had left him. But -neither did Keith observe him, nor care who he was, and so he went on -his way toward Fraternia. He looked back once or twice. His last look -showed him that Keith had gathered himself together and was walking -slowly away, in the direction from which he had come. - -Keith walked blindly on, not knowing why he went, nor where he went, -like a man who has suffered a heavy blow upon his brain, and moves only -automatically without thought or will. On the outskirts of the village, -near the railroad, he passed a barn, rickety and disused, but there was -old hay in a heap on the floor of it, it offered shelter, and shelter -without the contact with others from which he shrunk as if he were in -disgrace, and fleeing for his life. Accordingly Keith went into this -place, drawing the broken door together as far as he could move it on -its rusty hinges, threw himself on the heap of hay, and slept until five -o’clock in the morning. The one passenger train of the day passing -through Spalding eastward was due at five o’clock. Keith was wakened by -the long whistle announcing its approach, and came dizzily out into the -chill and wet of a miserable morning. - -The train slowed down as it neared the place where he stood. He swung -himself upon it with the brief but tense nervous energy of great -exhaustion, sank into a vacant seat in the foul, unventilated car, and -was carried on, whither he did not know or care. - -Anna, coming back from the walk to Eagle Rock, had gone to her own house -alone. Here she spent the earlier hours of the evening in the deepest -travail of soul she had ever known. The purity and unworldliness of all -her life, both the life of her girlhood and that with Keith, had served -to keep far from her familiarity with possibilities of moral danger. She -was as innocent of certain kinds of evil as a child, and the thought -that a temptation to a guilty love could assault her would, until this -day, have appeared to her incredible. And now, in the fierce struggle of -this passion, the only one she had ever known, she knew herself not only -capable of sin, but caught at last in its power. - -Not that for a moment she dreamed of any compromise of outward fidelity; -such a thought she rejected with horror as inconceivable either to -herself or to Gregory, whom she firmly believed to be far stronger than -she. But the flaw in faithfulness had come already, beyond recall, -beyond repair. Her whole soul moved toward this man, who had so long -secretly dominated her inner life, with a mighty and overwhelming tide. - -Her relation to Keith had been that of gentlest consideration, -kindliness, and affection. More it had never been; and to-night it -seemed as powerless to stay the flood of passion as a wall of sand built -on the shore of an infinite sea by the hands of a child. - -So Anna thought, so she felt. She went to the door of her cabin with -this thought mastering her, driven by restlessness, and longing to feel -the coolness of the night air on her face. For a moment she stood in her -open door, and saw mechanically that the moonlight was shed abroad in -the valley; she heard the voices of the men across the river singing in -a strong, sweet chorus. - -Then, suddenly, as if the words had been spoken in her ear, the thought -came to her, “But Keith needs me; he needs me now!” - -What was it? She did not know. She never understood. The sense was -strong upon her that Keith was near her; that he was in some danger, and -needed her. - -Without pause to consider what she did, Anna flew down the river path -and reached the mill breathless. The pond lay in the moonlight, -motionless. The air did not stir. The mill was still and dark and -deserted. The woods were dim with their night mystery. She looked down -the valley, and up, and across the river, and everywhere was perfect -peace, save in her own heart. Then in the silence she heard a step -approaching from the direction of the woods below. She drew back hastily -into the protection of the mill porch and waited for the steps to pass. -Whoever it was paused for a little time above the mill, and Anna’s heart -beat hard with a sense of dread and danger. Finally she heard the steps -pass on, and when she returned to the road she recognized the -unmistakable figure of the man now moving on in the unshadowed moonlight -to the bridge above. It was Oliver Ingraham. - -Slowly Anna returned to her own cottage, not daring to do otherwise, a -heavy oppression on her heart. - -Early in the morning, which was cold and rainy, Oliver was at her door, -and she answered his summons herself, full of a vague, trembling -anxiety. He scanned her face narrowly; it was careworn and hollow-eyed, -for she had slept not at all. - -In silence he handed her a letter, broken at the edges, and soiled with -long carrying about. She glanced at the address. It was Keith’s, written -by herself perhaps a month before; not a recent letter. She looked at -Oliver in speechless perplexity. - -“I found that lying on the ground down near Spalding last night,” he -said, still eying her craftily, and with that hurried off, giving her -not another word. - -Anna went in, closed the door, and drew out the letter. It was -unimportant, insignificant, simply an ordinary letter of wifely -affection and solicitude, but one which had evidently been much read, -being worn on the folds. Who could have carried it save Keith himself? -Had he, then, been really near her the night before? Was he really -coming? - -Anna knew already that it was for this she longed supremely. - -Noon brought to Everett a special messenger with a letter from Gregory, -who brought with him also the roan horse ridden the night before to the -county town, C——, and evidently ridden fiercely. At C—— was the bank -where Gregory transacted all his business. This letter stated, first of -all, that he had suddenly reached the conclusion that it was important -and imperative that he should go at once to England in the interests of -the colony. He should not return to Fraternia before sailing. He wished -to empower Everett to act in his place during his absence, which would -not be for more than three months. - -Various items of business were enumerated, and the letter closed with -this remarkable statement: “The funds furnished by Mr. Ingraham of -Burlington have been returned to him with the exception of the five -thousand dollars already used, which I shall restore at my earliest -opportunity. This removes the obligation from us of counting Mr. Oliver -Ingraham as one of our number, and I beg that you will signify to him my -conviction that his continued presence in Fraternia is impossible. Do -not allow him to stay a day if you can help yourself, and keep him under -your eye while he remains.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXXVI - - I said farewell; - I stepped across the cracking earth and knew - ’Twould yawn behind me. I must walk right on, - ... Fate has carried me - ’Mid the thick arrows; I will keep my stand, - Not shrink and let the shaft pass by my breast - To pierce another: oh, ’tis written large - The thing I have to do. - —GEORGE ELIOT. - - -The following morning Anna sent for Oliver. Word had reached her that he -was about to leave Fraternia. In the depth of her present distress and -perplexity a thought which “had no form, a suffering which had no -tongue” had arisen. Gregory, she knew, had left the village hastily that -night under stress of powerful emotion, perhaps in a condition of mental -excitement exceeding his own control. It seemed to her possible that -somewhere on the way from Fraternia to Spalding he might have -encountered Keith. The letter brought by Oliver indicated, she was more -and more convinced, that he had really been on his way to her. If this -were true, some event had interposed, something had occurred to hinder -his coming. What could it have been, supposing him to have been but two -miles away, save some mysterious, unthinkable effect of an interview -with Gregory, if such there had been? It was no longer possible, no -longer justifiable, to await events. She must herself discover all that -Oliver knew, even if the discovery were to mean despair. - -Alone, in her own cabin, she received Oliver. If Keith had been in -Fraternia, or John Gregory, it would not have been permitted; but her -intense anxiety and suspense overbore her usual shrinking from contact -with the man, and Everett yielded to her wish to see him alone. - -Oliver entered the cabin, noting its simple appointments with his -characteristic curiosity. Anna pointed to a chair which he took, -although she herself remained standing. Her face was as white as her -dress, her eyes deeply sunken, her manner sternly imperious. - -“You are going away from Fraternia to-day?” she asked, with swift -directness. - -“Yes,” said Oliver, nodding with his peculiar smile; “this precious -demigod or demagogue—whichever you please—of yours, your imperial -Gregory, has issued a ukase against me, in short, has done me the honour -to banish me from the matchless delights and privileges of Fraternia!” -The last word was spoken with a slow emphasis of condensed contempt. - -“There is something really a little queer about it,” Oliver continued, -in a different tone. “I am on to most of what happened between my father -and Gregory, but I’ve missed a link now somewhere. You see, the -governor, in a fit of temporary aberration, offered Gregory a -magnificent contribution for his socialist scheme down here; but Gregory -was pretty high and lofty just then, and, ‘No, sir,’ said he—I heard -him, though he and the governor don’t know it—‘No, sir, I couldn’t touch -your money. I am just that fastidious.’ The governor had been confessing -his sins to Gregory, the worse fool he! It seemed that his money had -come to him in a way that might make some men squeamish, and Gregory, -oh, dear, no! he wouldn’t have touched those ill-gotten gains as he was -feeling then—not with the tip of one finger. - -“But the joke is,” Oliver went on, “that he had to come to it. Oh, yes; -he got down on his marrow bones to the governor here about three months -ago, and wrote to him that he had reconsidered the matter, and saw his -mistake,” and Oliver gave a low chuckle; “so the governor had to come -down with the lucre, more or less filthy as it was, and I don’t think he -was quite so much in the mood for it either as he was at the first, to -tell the truth. But he sent it all the same, and sent me with it, don’t -you see? I came as the saviour of Fraternia, although I have never been -so recognized. The whole town has been run the last month or two on -Ingraham money, and it seems to have greased the wheels about as well as -any other money, for all I see. But now comes the unexpected! Off goes -Gregory to England, sends back the governor’s check, so I hear from -Everett, and kindly writes me to take myself off. What brought him to -that is what I don’t quite see through yet.” - -“I have no doubt,” said Anna, concealing her dismay at Oliver’s malign -disclosure with a manner of cold indifference, “that Mr. Gregory had -good reasons for thinking it better for you to return to Burlington.” - -“You’re right there,” retorted Oliver, quickly; “oh, yes, he had -excellent reasons, the best of reasons. A man who knows too much is -often inconvenient, you know.” - -“Mr. Ingraham,” Anna asked hastily, apparently ignoring this insinuation -although she trembled now from head to foot, “I am not interested in the -business relations of your father and Mr. Gregory. It was not to hear of -them I sent for you. You brought me a letter yesterday which I think -must have been not long ago in my husband’s possession. I wish you to -tell me if, on the night when you found this letter, that is the night -before last, you saw my husband in the neighbourhood of Fraternia?” - -“Oh, yes,” replied Oliver, as if it were quite a matter of course; “were -you not expecting him?” - -“Where did you see him?” The question came quick and sharp. - -“Well,” said Oliver, reflectively, “you would like me to be exact, I -suppose. Let me see, how shall I describe the place so that you will -recall it—distinctly.” - -There was a certain cold deliberation in the articulation of these words -which gave them a sickening cruelty. They called up strange visions of -dread and dismay to Anna’s tortured imagination. - -“Speak more quickly,” she commanded, rather than asked, “the precise -spot makes no difference.” - -“It was near the edge of the woods, on the Spalding side, that I saw him -first. The night was quite bright with moonlight, if you remember. I had -taken a stroll down to Spalding myself for some of those little luxuries -which Fraternia doesn’t furnish, and was on my way back when I first -noticed Mr. Burgess. He was just striking into the path, there by that -dead oak tree; you may remember it. I noticed it because it stood out so -white in the moonlight, and it was just at the foot of it that I picked -up that letter. I did not know that he had dropped it, nor whose it was -until after I got home.” - -“Undoubtedly false,” thought Anna; “you had not had the chance to read -it, that was all,” but she did not speak. Oliver too was silent, as if -he had answered her question, and was done. - -“Please go on.” Anna kept her patience and control still. - -“Oh!” exclaimed Oliver, as if surprised, “you want to hear more, do you? -All right. I guess likely I’m the only man that can tell you, being the -only witness, in fact.” - -“Witness of what?” Anna cried importunately. - -“Well, that’s it. That’s what I’ve asked myself more than once since -that night, and I rather guess as good a description as I could give -would be to call it a kind of moral murder; a moral murder,” and Oliver -repeated the phrase as if gratified by the acuteness of his perception -in forming it. - -He watched her face closely, and beginning to fear from the bluish shade -which tinged her pallor that Anna would soon be released from his power -to torture by unconsciousness, hastily took another line. - -“Oh, you’ve nothing to worry about, Mrs. Burgess, nothing at all. That -was just a little fancy of mine, just my metaphorical way of stating -things. It was a very simple little incident, nothing which need affect -a man unpleasantly in the least. It just happened, you see, that Gregory -was galloping down the path toward Spalding, and he met your husband, -and they had a little talk together,—a mere quiet conversation for a few -moments,—and Mr. Burgess seemed to change his mind about going to -Fraternia just then, and turned back toward the village. That was all. I -watched him a little, to be sure he didn’t need any help, you know, -afterward. Gregory galloped right along; he was going to catch a train, -I suppose, at C——, and that made him in something of a hurry, of -course.” - -“Why should my husband have needed help, Mr. Ingraham? Will you be good -enough to explain yourself clearly, and in as few words as possible?” -Anna spoke more calmly now, but her eyes were like coals of fire. - -“Certainly, certainly. I cannot repeat Gregory’s language, not -literally, but it seemed to cut Mr. Burgess up a good deal at the -time,—at least I fancied so. That is what I meant by that little simile -of mine awhile ago. He’s all over it now, of course. It was only a few -words anyway. Just that Gregory said, in that short way he has once in -awhile—Probably you’ve never heard him; he wouldn’t be apt to speak so -to you,” and Oliver decorated the sentence with one of his most -insinuating smiles. - -“Mr. Gregory said—?” Anna asked, looking into his face with an -unflinching directness, before which Oliver’s eyes wandered nervously. - -“Why, he seemed surprised that Mr. Burgess should be coming back so -soon, and he gave him to understand that a man like him, who was sick -all the time, and not much of a Fraternian, either, was rather a drag on -such a woman as you, don’t you see? and it might be fully as well if he -should keep away and give you your freedom most of the time.” - -“Did my husband make any reply that you heard?” asked Anna, huskily, -this hideous distortion of unformulated traitor thoughts which had -lurked in the background of her own consciousness confronting her now to -her terror, and her heart doubly sick with the loathing of being forced -to ask such information from such a source. - -“He said you were at least his wife, I remember that. I guess that was -about all. It struck me at the time that there was something in what he -said, with all due respect for Gregory. He rules everything here, of -course, though, I suppose,—even to the relations between husbands and -wives.” - -The last words were lost upon Anna. - -“You may go now, if you please, Mr. Ingraham,” she said calmly. Her look -and an unconscious gesture of dismissal were imperative, and Oliver, not -daring to disobey, left the place without another word. - -For two days Anna sat alone and in silence, waiting for the summons -which she knew by a sure intuition must come. - -Oliver’s story had been confirmed in so far that it had been learned -that Keith had been seen in Spalding on the night of Gregory’s -departure, and had been known to take an east-bound train on the -following morning. Nothing further was discovered regarding his -movements, and it was useless to try to follow and find him. Anna could -only wait. - -When the message came it was, as she had known it would be, urgent and -ominous. Keith was in Raleigh; he was very ill; she must go at once. - -Everything was ready, and with a strange composure and quietness as of -one carrying out a line of action fully foreseen, Anna went on her -journey, so like and yet so unlike that other journey to Keith which she -had taken in her girlhood, ten years before. That had ended in their -marriage. How would this end? - -Reaching the city in the afternoon, Anna was driven with the haste she -demanded to the address named in the message which had come, not from -Keith himself, but from a physician. It was not that of a hotel, as she -had expected, but of a boarding-house of very moderate pretensions in a -quiet street. Even the small details of the place, in their cheap -commonness, smote her heart. Was it in places like this that Keith had, -after all, been living, instead of in the well-appointed hotels in which -she had always fancied him? - -The landlady, a kindly, careworn woman, plain of dress and of speech, -received Anna with a mournful face, but forebore explanations, seeing -that it was time rather for silence, and led her down a long corridor to -the door of a dim and silent room. - -There was a little stir as Anna stood in the open door; the physician -came out and spoke to her, and she saw a nurse sitting quietly by a -window. But Anna did not know that she saw or heard them; her sense took -in only her husband, with eyes closed and the shadow of death upon his -face, lying upon the strange bed in this place of strangers. - -She was by his side and his hands were in hers, when presently he opened -his eyes. Seeing her, a sudden light of clear recognition illuminated -his face, a triumphant ray of joy and satisfaction. He tried to speak, -but could not, but Anna felt the faint pressure of his hand. - -Once more his lips moved, and Anna saw rather than heard the words:— - -“Good-by, darling,” and with them the same look of ineffable love and -peace. Then his eyes closed and he sank again into unconsciousness. - -The physician, leaning over, said softly, “He will not rouse again. This -was most unexpected. He has been unconscious since morning.” - -The end came soon after midnight, unconsciousness falling into death -without pain or struggle. - -Of the days which followed Anna could never recall a distinct or -coherent impression. Detached scenes and moments alone lived in her -memory. - -She knew that Everett was there and that they started for Fulham. -Somewhere on the way Professor Ward met them, and Foster, the old family -servant. Nothing seemed strange and nothing seemed natural; all passed -to her as in a dream. - -She was at Fulham; she remembered afterward that she sat in the library -which Keith had longed for so, and his body lay beside her, below the -mantelpiece where she had so often seen him lean. The old servants, -hastily summoned for the occasion, went and came, and looked at her, she -thought, with eyes of cold respect and mute reproach. Then Everett stood -there, and she saw that tears were on his face as he looked upon his old -friend, but she did not cry. Only when Everett turned toward her she -said, very simply, with a motion of her hand which signified all that -the place meant:— - -“Keith gave his life—for me.” Then Everett had looked at her as if -alarmed at what he saw in her face, and had gone out hastily and sent -some woman to her, whom she did not want. - -The incidents of the funeral seemed to pass by unnoticed. She remembered -the moment at the grave when at last she fully realized that this was -the end. Then she was at the Fulham railroad station, and Professor Ward -had come to her on the train and had held her hands strongly in his, and -had said with urgent emphasis:— - -“You must always remember that Keith’s physician and all his old friends -believe that his life was prolonged rather than shortened by your living -in the South. Do not for a moment dwell on the opposite thought.” - -She had felt her dry lips tremble then and her eyes grew dim, but she -did not speak. The train had moved out soon, and she knew that kind eyes -watched her, but she could not meet their look. - -Of the journey down into the West to her mother that night she -remembered nothing, save that the incessant jar of the train seemed to -follow in a rhythmic endless repetition the familiar refrain of the old -passion hymn,— - - “Was ever grief like mine?” - - - - - CHAPTER XXXVII - - From the unhappy desire of becoming great; - _Preserve us, gracious Lord and God._ - —_Old Moravian Liturgy._ - - There is a time when religion is only felt as a bridle that checks - us, and then comes another time when it is a sweet and penetrating - life-blood, which sets in motion every fibre of the soul, expands - the understanding, gives us the Infinite for our horizon, and makes - all things clear to us.—LACORDAIRE. - - -On the quiet street of the hill town of Bethlehem stands the quaint and -ancient building set apart in the Moravian economy as the Widows’ House. - -In the interior of the old stone house, with its massive walls and rows -of dormer windows, are wide, low-ceiled halls, and sunny, sweet-smelling -chambers, clean and orderly, chaste and simple, as those of a convent. -Here in mild monotony and peace the women of the “Widows’ Choir” live -their quiet life, and here in September we find Anna Burgess, who had -fled to this haven of her mother’s abiding-place, as to a sanctuary. - -The evening was warm, and the windows of Gulielma Mallison’s room were -open to the sunshine and the sweet air. Flowers blossomed in the deep -window-sills; the bare floor was as white as scrubbing could make it; -the appointments of the room were cheerful and refined, albeit homely, -and the atmosphere was that of still repose. By the window Gulielma -Mallison sat knitting, her face beneath its widow’s cap calm and strong -in its submissive sadness. Opposite her on the sofa lay Anna, each line -of her face and figure expressing the suffering of a stricken heart. -There had been months of slow, wearisome illness and of grievous mental -suffering, in which her days had been a Purgatorio and her nights an -Inferno; and now weeks of convalescence, which were bringing life back -into her wasted frame, still failed to bring healing to her mind. - -The mother’s fond eyes, glancing unperceived across her knitting, noted -the listless droop of the long white hands upon the white dress, the -marblelike pallor of the forehead from which the hair was so closely -drawn, the hollow cheeks, the piteous sadness of the mouth, the glassy -brightness of the eyes, fixed in the long, still gaze of habitual -introspection. - -“Surely,” sighed Gulielma Mallison to herself, as she had before a -hundred times, “there is more than the bitterness of death in her face; -widowhood alone to the Christian brings not such havoc as this. It is in -some place of danger that her thoughts are dwelling. I should fear less -for her if she could only speak!” - -But Anna’s grief could not find its way to words. How could her mother, -in her sober, ordered existence, her decorous and righteous experiences -of life and love and death, comprehend what it was to live with shadows -of faithlessness, even of blood-guiltiness, for perpetual company? For -to Anna’s thought Keith had been driven to his lonely death by the -hardness of Gregory, by words which had issued from the white heat of -his passion for her, a passion unrebuked by her,—nay, rather, shared to -the full. Was she then guiltless of her husband’s death? - -Not for a moment could Anna divide herself from Gregory in -responsibility for the action which Oliver had characterized as “moral -murder.” Unsparingly just to herself, she bore to the very limit of -reason all the fellowship which was imposed upon her by the mastery of a -love so long lived in its unconsciousness and silence, so soon cut off, -once perceived and acknowledged. It has been said that “all great loves -that have ever died, dropped dead.” Anna’s mighty passion had been -stillborn, slain by the words which had sent Keith on his dim way to -death. For she had never doubted that Oliver’s rehearsal of the scene in -the woods between Gregory and Keith had been substantially true. She -knew there had been spiritual violence done, and her soul recoiled from -the very strength and power which had once enchained her. Something of -diabolical pride seemed to her now to invest even the austere morality -of Gregory. He would have spurned a yielding to the weakness of the -flesh, his moral fastidiousness would have made it impossible; but he -fought the fire of love fiercely with the fire of pride, not humbly with -the weapons of prayer. No shield of faith nor sword of the spirit had -been his in the hour of temptation, for all his high ideals, but the -sheer, elemental force of human will. He had conquered, or rather had -grappled with, the one passion; but the very force by which he had -conquered turned again and conquered him, and his very power became his -undoing. - -Beside this conception of Gregory which had now taken possession of -Anna’s mind, Keith’s gentleness, his faithful, patient life, above all, -the greatness of the silent sacrifice which he had made for her sake -when he embarked on the Fraternia adventure, became sacred and heroic. -She saw at last what his leaving his normal life had been; she believed, -as she had said to Everett, that he had literally given his life for -her, and the sense of his devotion, so little understood, so scantily -recognized, wore ceaselessly at her heart. Her one drop of balm was the -memory of Keith’s last smile of triumphant love and faith; the bitterest -drop in her Cup of Trembling that not one last word had been given her -to show her by what paths his soul had fared, and whether thoughts of -peace had lightened his sufferings. Having loved her, he had loved her -to the end,—this only she knew. His faithfulness had not failed. - -Words which her father had spoken to her shortly before his death, -vaguely comprehended at the time, haunted her now, “_With greatness we -have nothing at all to do; faithfulness only is our part._” - -If only she had earlier discerned their meaning! - -Such shape did these two men take to Anna now; the one who had moulded -all her outward life and touched her inner life hitherto so faintly, the -other who had mastered her in her innate longing for power and freedom, -and controlled her inner life for many years: Keith seemed to her now -like some spirit of gentle ministration, humble, faithful, undefiled; -Gregory, like some proud spirit, even as Lucifer, son of the morning, -who had said, ‘I will ascend into heaven,’ but who had been brought down -to hell, dragging with him all that was highest and holiest. And she had -thought him so different! Like another, her heart would cry out:— - - “I thought that he was gentle, being great; - O God, that I had loved a smaller man! - I should have found in him a greater heart.” - -Once, some weeks earlier, there had come to her a brief note from -Gregory, written soon after his return to Fraternia. It said only:— - -“I have sinned deeply, against God; against him; most of all against -you. I cannot even venture to ask you to forgive. I can only say to you, -the penalty is wholly mine to bear. You are blameless.” - -Having read the note, Anna threw it into the fire, and wrote no word in -return. - -And for herself—? - -There was no softness of self-pity in Anna’s remorse. Dry and tearless -and despairing, she saw herself, after long years of spiritual -assurance, of established and unquestioned righteousness, overwhelmed at -last by sin; not by the delicate and dainty and inconclusive discords -which religious experts love to examine and analyze, but by a gross -ground-swell of primitive passion, linking her with men of violence and -women of shame. - -Looking back upon her girlhood, Anna thought with sad self-scorning of -her young desire for “a deeper sense of sin.” It had come now, not as -the initial stage in a knowledge of God, and of her relation to him, but -as a tardy revelation of the possibility of her nature, undreamed of in -her long security. The cherished formulas of the old system, its measure -of rule and line applied to the incalculable forces of the human spirit; -its hard, inflexible mould into which the great tides of personal -experience must be poured, seemed to lie in fragments about her now, -like wreckage after a storm. She remembered that Professor Ward had once -spoken to her of her inherited religious conceptions as terrible in -their power to mislead, to deceive the heart as to itself; she saw the -danger of a belief founded not on infinite verities, but on a narrow -mediæval logic. She knew sin at last, and knew that it was not slain in -the hour of spiritual awakening. - -She thought of the night preceding her union with her father’s church, -and the recoil of nameless dread with which she had seen passing under -her window the village outcast whom she supposed to be incredibly guilty -and cut off from fellowship with all who, like herself, were seeking -God. And it was that very night that she had first dreamed of the mighty -personality, the embodiment of power and greatness, which she had -thought to find in Gregory. Though late, she now clearly perceived that -in no human being could that ideal of her dream find full manifestation. - -Such thoughts as these were passing behind the pale mask of Anna’s -pain-worn face, which her mother’s eyes were watching. The impress of -suffering which they gave was hard to see, and a long involuntary sigh -escaped Gulielma Mallison’s lips. - -Anna looked up with eyes as sad as those of Michel Angelo’s Fates. - -“Mother dear,” she said, her voice strangely dulled from its former -clear cadence, “why do you sigh? Do I make you unhappy?” - -“I cannot comfort you, Anna Benigna,” said the mother, sorrowfully. “It -is for that I sigh.” - -“No,” Anna said slowly, her eyes falling again from her mother’s face; -“you cannot do that, no one can. No one lives who can comfort your -child, mother.” - -“I have often thought, Anna, that you may have suffered,” the mother -ventured almost timidly, “as many others have, from the sad mistakes so -common to people who regard the Christian life and the married life as -ends, instead of beginnings.” - -Gulielma noticed a slight quickening of interest in Anna’s eyes, and -went on thoughtfully, with her simple philosophy of life:— - -“To read the books that are written, and to hear the things that are -said, young people can hardly help supposing that when they become -Christians they will know no more of sin, and when they are married they -will have only joy and perfect union. To my way of thinking, these wrong -ideas are responsible for a great deal of needless unhappiness. The -Christian life is really a school, with hard discipline and harder -lessons. As for marriage—” - -“Well,” said Anna, as her mother paused, “as to marriage?” - -“It may be a crown,” said Gulielma, slowly, “but it is sure to be in -some measure a cross. It is a testing, a trial, a discipline, like the -rest of life. Only, whether it happens to be happy, or happens to be -hard, it is equally to be borne faithfully and in the fear of God.” - -There was silence for a little space, and then a laughing voice in the -street outside, called:— - -“Mrs. Mallison!” - -Gulielma rose and stepped to the window, looking out over the crimson -and purple asters into the street. A young girl who stood there handed -her up a letter. - -“I don’t know whether it belongs to Mrs. Burgess or not. The address has -been changed so many times, but the postmaster said I was to ask you.” - -“Very well,” was the answer, and as Gulielma turned back, a letter in -her hand, she found Anna sitting up, leaning upon her elbow, her eyes -strangely eager. She held out her hand, not speaking, and received the -letter. The upper line, which struck her eyes instantly, was her own -name, and it had been written by Keith. She could not be mistaken. The -mother’s anxious eyes saw every trace of colour ebb away from Anna’s -face and lips, and then stream back until the faint flush rose to her -forehead. She had not stopped to decipher the many addresses written -below, crossed and recrossed by many pens, but, seeing her own name -written by the dear dead hand, she pressed the letter hard against her -heart and so lay a moment, silent. - -Soon she looked up and met her mother’s eyes. A wistful, heart-breaking -request was in her own, which she hardly dared to speak. - -“May I be all alone, mother?” she asked faintly; “my letter is from -_him_. It has gone wrong, but it has come to me, you see, at last. In -the morning I will see you. I will tell you then—all.” - -In another minute, the door quietly closing, Anna found herself alone. -Breaking the seal, she saw that the letter had been written three days -before Keith’s death. An error in the original address, doubtless due to -his exhaustion, had sent it far astray. The letter said:— - - MY OWN ANNA,—I am here in Raleigh in a comfortable house, and with - kind people, but I fear that I am very ill, and that the end is now - not far away, and I want you as soon as you can come to me. I hope - there will be no need of alarming you with a telegram, for I know - that you will start as soon as this reaches you, and that will be in - good time. - - Do not think that this crisis is sudden and unforeseen. The - physician in Baltimore told me plainly that I could have but a short - time to live, and when I knew that I hastened to reach you as - quickly as I might. It was for you only, Anna, in all the world that - I longed. I believed that a few weeks of quietness were for us, not - harder than we could bear, being together. - - I think you will know that something turned me back almost at my - journey’s end. John Gregory is honest, and he will tell you, if - indeed he knows himself. - - I do not know now what he said to me, I do not care to remember. - Whatever it was it should have had no weight, being spoken, I know, - under some strong excitement, but with it there went that strange, - irresistible influence which Gregory exerts over me, and before - which I was, or seemed to myself, powerless. I felt his will was for - me to go back, not onward to you, and I yielded as if unable to do - otherwise. I do not know, I cannot understand. I wish it had not - been so, but rather for him than for myself, for I know that in his - higher mood the thought of that night must be hateful to him. - - I want to say now while I can that neither you nor he must look upon - these events in a way to exaggerate or overemphasize their - importance. I can see that you with your sensitive conscience and he - with his great moral severity may judge over hardly. The difference - to me has not been great. The end was very near, and is not - hastened, and I shall see you yet before it comes. If I had not been - weak I should have kept on my way. It was my weakness that sent me - back rather than the outward compulsion. - - I shall not want to talk of this when I see you, Anna, and so I will - write to-day some things which have come to my mind this winter, for - I have come to see many things in a new light. - - John Gregory loves you. I do not blame him for that, nor wonder. “We - needs must love the highest when we see it.” He is a man of great - power and of the highest spiritual ambition. He is far nearer to you - in ability than I; he could enter more deeply into your purposes and - sympathize in fuller measure with your intellectual life. I believe - you could have loved him, if you had been free, and that the union - of two such natures would have been nobly effective for good. But I - found you first, and with my fond dream that a sign was given me, - won you for my wife. What then? - - It fell to my part, although not of my own will, to give your life - the shape it has taken. Sometimes I see plainly that I, a poor, - pale, colourless fellow, wholly beneath both you and John Gregory, - have maimed both your lives, so much stronger and more potential - than mine could ever be. - - And yet, Anna, for all this I cannot wish the past undone. I claim - you wholly, heartily, for my own, and whatever the future may hold - for you, and however the past has tried you, I believe in your love - for me, and in the union of our spirits. My heart is at rest. My - trust in you is absolute and beyond hurt or harm, and all the joy my - life has known has come through you, my true and faithful wife. - Never doubt this if you love me and would honour my name. - - I wish to lay no hint of limitation or direction upon your future. - Wherever you go, the dear Lord will go with you, and you will bring - peace and consolation. You cannot go astray, nor your work be - brought to naught, for God is with you. All that I have is yours - without reserve or condition, beyond the few legacies I have named - in a letter to my lawyer in Fulham. Use what was ours together - freely wherever you will, whether to establish Fraternia, or in any - line of effort which appeals to you. My keenest regret is that - heretofore I have withheld from you what you desired. Forgive me. - Those scruples look small and mean to me to-day. - - Good night, my Anna—my Benigna, my highest grace and blessing. - - Do not think of me as left comfortless. I am not alone. The King is - at the door, and I hear his voice. He has even come in and will sup - with me and I with him. - - Let his peace be upon us both. - - KEITH. - - * * * * * - -It was morning. - -Entering her room, Gulielma Mallison found Anna fully dressed, standing -in a stream of sunshine, with a brighter light than that of the sun upon -her face. - -“Oh, mother!” she cried, stretching out both her hands, “I can live. I -can sleep. I can even cry now. Oh, these tears! how they have fallen -like rain on a thirsty ground. See, mother; after all I am young still -and strong. Feel my pulse, how full it is this morning, how strong and -steady! I am at peace. The peace of God has come to me at last. Keith -has comforted me.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXXVIII - - Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun, - To spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won - God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain - And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain. - —SIDNEY LANIER. - - While we are not to forget that we have fallen, we are not always to - carry the mud with us; the slough is behind, but the clean, clearly - defined road stretches ahead of us; skies are clear, and God is - beyond. We were made for purity, truth, and fidelity, and the very - abhorrence of the opposite of these qualities bears testimony that - our aspirations are becoming our attainments. The really noble thing - about any man or woman is not freedom from all the stains of the - lower life, but the deathless aspirations which forever drive us - forward.... Better a thousand times the eager and passionate fleeing - to God from a past of faults and weaknesses, with an irresistible - longing to rest in the everlasting verities, than the most - respectable career which misses this profound impulse. - - —ANON. - - -It was Easter morning in Bethlehem. The stars still shone in the sky, -and the little town lay in the hush and stillness which precede the -earliest dawn, when suddenly, far off, like a whisper from the sky, the -tones of the trumpets could be heard announcing the risen Christ. - -Down through the quiet streets passed the solemn choir, the trombones -blowing their deep-breathing melody in full and thrilling power. They -stopped for a little space upon the bridge, and as their herald choral -swelled and grew and filled the air, lights came out in visible response -here and there throughout the sleeping town; and as they passed on down -the streets, under the starlit sky, groups of men and women joined them -in quiet fashion until the procession grew to a great though silent -throng. - -From the Widows’ House Gulielma Mallison and Anna came out and stood -together for a moment in the dusk, watching the approaching stream of -people as it moved forward in the gloom, and listening to the strains of -music which called to their ears:— - -“Rise, heart; thy Lord is risen!” - -Soon the procession had reached their door, and, joining it with humble -gladness, mother and daughter followed with the rest, greeting their -friends and neighbours in simple, heartfelt kindliness. - -The church was reached, and within it a solemn service was begun, and -continued until the brightening of the eastern sky gave token of the -sunrise. Then, as with one accord, and with the quietness of dear and -familiar custom, the great congregation streamed out into the twilight -of the early dawn, and, again forming in procession, moved forward up -the winding hill to the cemetery, the choir with the pastor leading the -way. - -It was an early spring, and on the air was the thrill of awakening life. -As she stood in the midst of the reverent throng now waiting, as if -expectant, in the still churchyard, Anna felt the deep significance of -the time as it had never been given her to feel it before. - -Again the trombones poured forth their deep, yearning music in the -ancient Easter hymn, the people singing in full chorus:— - - “Amen! Come, Lord Jesus! Come, we implore thee; - With longing hearts we now are waiting for thee; - Come soon, O come!” - -Then followed, in slow, rhythmic chant, the noble words of the old -Moravian liturgy:— - - “This is my Lord, who redeemed me, a lost and undone human creature, - purchased and gained me from all sin, from death and from the power - of the devil; - - “Not with gold or silver, but with his holy, precious blood, and - with his innocent suffering and dying; - - “To the end that I should be his own, and in his kingdom live under - him and serve him in eternal righteousness, innocence, and - happiness; - - “So as he, being risen from the dead, liveth and reigneth world - without end.” - -With awe and joy came back the great volume of the response:— - - “_This I most certainly believe._” - -“Keep us, oh Lord,” came then the prayer, “in everlasting fellowship -with those of our brethren who since Easter Day have entered into the -joy of their Lord and with the whole Church triumphant, and let us rest -together in thy presence from our labours.” - -The sun rose. The quiet God’s Acre was gilded with its misty beams, and -the pale opal tints of the morning clouds reflected its glory. From the -whole assembly burst forth the mighty hallelujahs of the hymn of praise, -borne up by the deep diapason of the trumpets:— - -“The Lord is risen. He is indeed risen.” - -As Anna came out of the churchyard in the sunrise light, the peace of -God was in her look, and the victory of the Resurrection morning shone -in her eyes. - -Hardly had she reached the street, when some one who had stood, awaiting -her coming, put out his hand and greeted her. It was Pierce Everett. - -“I saw you in the churchyard,” he said. “I wish to speak to you now, if -I may.” - -Anna welcomed him with quiet gladness, and they walked on together -through the street, until they were beyond the crowd. Then Anna asked:— - -“Do you come from Fulham?” - -“Oh, no,” was the answer, “from Fraternia, or from what was Fraternia. -My home is there now, and will be.” - -“I did not know,” Anna said simply, not finding it easy to say more. - -“There is little left there now of the old village or of the old life. -Even the name is gone. They call it Gregory’s now.” - -“I heard that the land had gone into the hands of the man who held the -mortgage.” - -“Yes, it is all gone now; all except the bit of ground that Mr. -Gregory’s house stands on. The house and land we have kept for our own.” - -“And there you live alone? Are all the others gone?” - -“Nearly all. Some stay and work in the cotton mill, which has been -enlarged, but the cabins are mostly used now by the coloured people who -work the land, and are employed also in the mill.” - -They were silent for a moment, and then Everett said:— - -“We have heard that you are going soon to India. Is it true?” - -“Yes, I go next month.” - -“As a teacher?” - -“Yes, partly, but I am also to be connected with a hospital. You know -that is work which I have always liked, and this is to be a new -hospital, bearing my husband’s name.” - -Everett was silent, and Anna noted as she had not before the profound -sadness of his face. Presently he looked at her with undisguised anxiety -and asked a question which she had already begun to dread. - -“Would you be willing to see Mr. Gregory before you go?” - -A painful change passed over Anna’s face. - -“I cannot,” she replied quickly; “it is not necessary. Is he here, Mr. -Everett? Did he come with you?” and he noticed that she trembled and -lost colour. - -“No,” he answered very gently; “do not be troubled. He is not here. He -will not seek to find or follow you. He will never leave Fraternia -again.” - -Her eyes questioned his face, for it was impossible not to detect some -melancholy significance in his words. - -“Mr. Gregory has received a severe injury,” Everett went on, as if in -answer to her look. “It was a month ago. He was at work with the -lumbermen up in the ravine. He was working midway of the river, which -was unusually high, and he slipped and fell. Before he could get to his -feet, a heavy log which was carried forward very swiftly by the current -struck him with tremendous force and stunned him. We were near enough to -reach him almost immediately, but the blow was on the spine, and it -produced instantaneous paralysis. He will never walk again.” - -Swift changes had passed over Anna’s face. In a softened voice she -said:— - -“How strange, how very terrible. Is he himself in other ways?” - -“Perfectly. His mind was never clearer nor more active. I think he was -never stronger in spirit. His body is a magnificent wreck, that is all.” - -“And he does not wish to leave Fraternia?” - -“No, I think nothing could suit him so well as our little stronghold in -the solitude there. He does not mind the changes even, as one would -expect. There is no bitterness. He is too large-minded for that. He -acknowledges himself defeated, but his faith is still strong in his -cause.” - -“And how about yourself?” - -“I am with him, heart and soul,” Everett answered, with strong emphasis; -“nothing could take me from him now,—unless my presence ceased to be -acceptable to him. He is, in spite of all that has passed of failure and -defeat, my leader, and will be to the end. He is imperfect, being human; -perhaps there are men least in the kingdom of heaven who are greater -than he. Nevertheless, he is the bravest man I have ever known and the -most sincere,—I would almost add, the humblest. So we live on together. -He writes, I paint. Barnabas takes care of the house for us, and little -Judith gives us the touch of womanhood we need to humanize us. An oddly -assorted family perhaps, but we are satisfied.” - -Anna listened with intense eagerness to every word, and found sincere -satisfaction in the simple picture which Everett had thus drawn for her. - -“And you have come to Bethlehem—” Anna hesitated, and Everett took up -the word quickly. - -“I have come all the way from Fraternia to ask you to go back with me -and see John Gregory once more. He may live for a number of years, but -it is hardly probable that you ever will see him again. He asks this as -the greatest kindness you can do him, but he told me to say that, if you -do not feel that you can go, he will still be perfectly sure that you -are doing right.” - -Something in the new note of humility, of submission, in the implied -finality of the request, most of all the vision of the strong man in his -present helplessness and acknowledged defeat, wrought powerfully upon -Anna’s resolution. - -They walked on silently for some moments, and then, turning abruptly to -retrace her steps into the town, Anna said:— - -“Yes, I will go with you. We will start to-morrow morning.” - -It was late on Tuesday afternoon when they reached the valley. As they -drove past the mill Anna gave a sudden exclamation of dismay as she -caught a passing glimpse of a well-remembered figure which she least -expected to see again in Fraternia. - -“That could not be Oliver Ingraham,” she cried, “and yet no other man -could look like him.” - -“It was Oliver himself,” said Everett, smiling a little. - -“How can it be? What has happened?” - -“To begin with, I should tell you that Mr. Gregory succeeded in paying -back, even to the last dollar, Mr. Ingraham’s contribution.” - -Anna’s face grew brighter. - -“I am glad,” she said. - -“Yes, it was better, I am sure. But when this was accomplished a sense -of compunction seized him toward Oliver for some fancied harshness in -the past. Six months ago he sent for him to come if he would, and he -appeared promptly. Mr. Gregory had conceived the idea that something -better could be made of the man under right influences, and he -determined to make the attempt.” - -“Can you see any change?” asked Anna, still incredulous. - -“It was rather hopeless for a time, only that he so evidently, for all -his former spleen and spite, came to have a regard for Mr. Gregory, -himself, approaching worship. But when the accident happened up in the -woods and he saw Mr. Gregory helpless as he is now, it seemed to produce -an extraordinary change in the fellow. He is softened and humanized in a -marvellous degree. He can never be wholesome exactly to ordinary -mortals. I sometimes think he is a snake still, but a snake with its -poisonous fangs drawn. Yes, Mr. Gregory has made it possible to hope for -good even from Oliver.” - -“Only a great nature could have made that possible,” said Anna, -musingly. - -“Yes,” responded Everett, “and only then a great nature which had -learned obedience by the things which it suffered.” - -Anna was silent. This action of Gregory’s seemed very great to her, so -wholly was it in opposition to his deep, instinctive antipathy toward -Oliver. This man had seemed to embody in himself the evil forces which -had entered Fraternia to destroy all of highest hope and purpose with -which it had been established. And now Gregory had stooped to lift up, -even to draw to himself, the man in all his hideous moral ugliness. -Idealist as Anna had ever been, she saw in the nature thus revealed to -her, in spite of failures and falls, a more robust virtue, a higher -spiritual efficacy, than any of which she had known or dreamed. Again -she found herself convicted of a too narrow and partial view of the -working of the human spirit in her passionate withdrawal from Gregory in -his time of temptation. - -They had crossed the bridge now, and up the wooded slope Anna saw -Barnabas and little Judith standing before the door of Gregory’s cabin. -With simple and unaffected delight they welcomed her, and then suffered -her to enter the house alone. - -When the door had closed behind her, Barnabas came up quietly and took -his place upon the rude steps which his hands had laid, and so sat, -throughout the interview, as one self-stationed, to keep guard. - -The interior of the cabin was as it had always been, with its rude -furniture and its one picture, save that a broad and capacious couch -covered with leather stood with its head just below the south window. On -this couch, with a rug of grey foxskin thrown over his limbs, lay John -Gregory, his head and shoulders propped high, his powerful hands lying -by his sides with their own expression of enforced idleness. - -He lifted his head as Anna entered, and leaned forward, raising his -right hand in a pathetic salutation of reverence and gratitude. - -Overcome by the new and more august repose of his face and by the pathos -of his look and gesture, Anna crossed to where Gregory lay, and fell -upon her knees by his side, her tears bathing his hand, although this -she did not know. - -For a space neither spoke nor moved. Then, as she rose from her knees, -Anna said under her breath:— - -“Life is greater than I thought.” - -“Life is great,” returned Gregory, “because we live in God.” Then he -asked humbly, all the fire of his earlier habit of speech quenched,— - -“Do you then forgive me?” - -“Yes, I have forgiven you,” she said softly. “I could not until, months -after my husband’s death, a letter came to me from him, which had been -lost long in reaching me. It was so noble, so great, so reconciling, -that it sufficed for all—even that,” she added, with unsparing -truthfulness. Then, even more gently:— - -“It is altogether from him that I am here to-day. I could never have -seen you again if it had not been for that letter.” - -“Then I owe to him the greatest mercy of my life,” said John Gregory, -solemnly, “and it is fitting that I should. He was a gentler man than I, -a better man. I did not rightly appreciate him when he was among us.” - -“He had no noisy virtues,” Anna said. “I think none of us perceived -fully what he was until he was gone.” - -Then with great delicacy she told Gregory all that the letter had -brought of reconcilement, and especially the word to him. He heard it in -brooding silence, and his face grew very calm. - -“I wanted you to know,” Gregory began after a long pause, “that my -feeling toward you has not been evil or base or wholly selfish. From the -time I first saw that picture,” and he pointed to that above the -fireplace, “you became to me a kind of religion. You stood to me for the -absolute purity of my ideal, untainted by self and sin and even sorrow. -That picture gave you to me as a virgin soul in the first dawning of a -great and noble expectation. It was a picture which a Galahad might have -worshipped. But alas! I was no Galahad. - -“I was bringing the picture back to this country, and it happened, -although you never knew it, that I crossed on the same ship with you.” - -“How could it have been,” cried Anna, “that I never saw you?” - -“I was with my East London people in the other part of the ship. But I -used often to see you with your husband and with the many friends who -always made a circle about you, and I fancied I saw a change in your -look,—a change which betokened a gradual dimming of your higher vision, -a fading of your ideal. I thought the people about you were changing you -to their own likeness in some degree, and the thought haunted and -disturbed me more than I had a right to let it. - -“I came to Fulham with the picture, which I had promised to return to -Everett. When I reached his house late in the evening, his mother -received me and told me that he and ‘all the world’ were at a great -reception at your house. She further told me that your husband’s mother -had confided in her her hopes and her confidence that a new era of -social leadership was now before you, and added that you were indeed -already quite ‘the fashion’ in Fulham’s aristocratic circle. - -“I had hardly an hour in Fulham—hardly a moment to reflect. I acted on -my impulse and sought you and called you out from your brilliant -company. You know what I said. My motive was pure, I think, whether the -action were well judged or ill. When I saw you before me in that brief -interview, in your loveliness, and in the docility which underlay your -frank and candid joy, a strange impulse arose in me to gain some -spiritual control over you, to have an essential influence over your -thinking and to direct your development and your activity as I believed -would be noblest and best. - -“Naturally I had no opportunity to carry out such an impulse for a long -period, but I think it never left me. When I saw you that night in the -audience at Burlington, I knew that you would go to Fraternia. I -determined in my own heart that if it could be right, you should. There -was no thought then or for many months that anything could arise between -us which could impair our faith and duty. Indeed, I never knew myself -that it was you who had wholly mastered me rather than I you, until that -day on Eagle Rock. When I left Fraternia that night, I knew all—to the -very depth. I understood the blindness and tyranny of my passion, and I -left, meaning never to see you again. Benigna, I did not have it in my -heart to do you wrong, least of all to do wrong to your husband. It was -the suddenness of his coming before me, and the struggle I was myself -undergoing, which threw me at the moment into a kind of still frenzy of -evil impulse. Gladly would I have died to atone for it. - -“Now, looking back, I almost think I can see that I was permitted, so -far as my individual life was concerned, to reach some climax of pride -and passion, that I might be brought low in my humiliation. Perhaps in -no other way could I have learned the way of the Cross than through -seeing the failure of my own strength, in which God knew, I see now, I -had taken an unconscious pride. - -“There is nothing left of it. No drop of the wormwood and gall has gone -untasted. But I believe solemnly to-day in the forgiveness of sins, and -rest in a good hope of salvation through our Master, Christ.” - -Again silence came between them, a silence which was full of peace, and -then, with something of his old abruptness, Gregory said:— - -“And now you will tell me about your going to India. You are glad to go; -so much I understand.” - -“Yes,” Anna replied, “it is a great fulfilment. I have lived a whole -round of life since I first felt the call to this service, and now I -come back to it with a purpose and conviction even deeper than those -which first inspired me.” - -“Then the larger hopes of final destiny do not, in the end, weaken the -missionary motive, you think?” - -“Oh, no. That fear belonged only to the time of transition. The message -I have now is a far mightier and a more imperative one than I had at -first. I know something now of the reality of sin and its terrible -fellowship, and at least far more than in those old days, both of law -and of love. I have learned also a greater reverence for man as well as -for God.” - -“Yes,” he said quietly; “it is true. You have been in training for your -work.” - -“I am gladder than I can tell you,” continued Anna, “that I was withheld -from going out on such a mission with the hard and narrow message which -was all I had then to give. It was you, Mr. Gregory, who opened to me -the great truth of the unity of the race, you who taught me to see that -‘redemption is the movement of the whole to save the part.’ I share the -burden of sin and suffering with all my fellow-men, and I simply seek to -lift that burden so far as I may where it presses most sorely. Can there -be any doubt that this is where Christ is not known,—among pagan -nations?” - -John Gregory thought for a moment before he replied. “I believe you are -right,” he said finally. “The needs there are grosser than here, and -they are actual and intolerable; inherent in the system, not artificial. -You have the gift of high ministry. You used it without stint for our -people here in Fraternia, but the issues were inadequate to your powers; -for the conditions were, after all, abnormal, being produced voluntarily -rather than by necessity.” - -“Then do you feel, Mr. Gregory, that the message of brotherhood, of -equality, cannot be spread by such means as we tried in Fraternia?” Anna -asked timidly, and yet without fear. - -“I believe that such isolated, social experiments, for many years at -least, will be as ours has been, premature and ineffective. They are -symptoms rather than formative agencies. They have significance as such, -but are otherwise unproductive. - -“I have not learned this lesson easily,” he added with a faint return of -his rare smile, and the swift, strong gesture with which he had always -been wont to dash the hair from his forehead. Anna knew without words -that in the fall of Fraternia his dearest hopes, his most cherished -plans, and highest pledges had fallen too. It was not necessary to open -the old wound that she should know his pain. - -“There are more steps between the clear perception of a condition and -the application of remedial measures than I supposed before I started -our colony here. I was in a hurry, but God seems to have plenty of time. -There must be years, generations, perhaps—I sometimes fear it—centuries -still of education and training before men understand that they are not -created oppressors by the grace of God, nor oppressed by the will of -God. I read this the other day,” he continued, taking a book from the -table beside him; “it will show you what I mean: ‘When a man feels in -himself the upheaval of a new moral fact, he sees plainly enough that -that fact cannot come into the actual world all at once—not without -first a destruction of the existing order of society—such a destruction -as makes him feel satanic; then an intellectual revolution; and lastly -only a new order embodying the new impulse.’ - -“That is good,” he commented, laying the book down, “but what is said -there in a few sentences may, in actual fulfilment, require several -centuries.” - -“It is hard to wait,” said Anna. - -“Yes, it is hard,” Gregory repeated, his eyes resting on her face with -that sympathetic response to her thought which, she was startled to -find, could still stir the old warm tremor in her heart; “but I can -wait, can’t you? You can if you believe, as we are bound to believe, in -a ‘divine event toward which the whole creation moves.’ I believe, I -thank God, also, that, unworthy and powerless as I am in this marred -soul and destroyed body of me, I can still hope, still work, still greet -the unseen and expect the impossible.” - -They talked long, and Anna rose at last to go. - -“Oh, you will be leaving now!” John Gregory cried, as if he had -forgotten that she did not belong to Fraternia. - -“Yes,” Anna said gently, “I am to return to Spalding in an hour for the -night, and I start home from there in the morning.” - -“Yes,” he said, “that is right. You must go;” but with the thought all -colour left his face, and his breath came hard and fast. She saw the -physical change in him then. She had hardly seen it before. - -“Can I help you? Can I bring you anything you need?” she asked quickly. - -He pointed to a glass on the mantel, and said, smiling faintly:— - -“It is so new to make others wait on me. It is not quite easy to lie -here and submit to be served,—even by you, Benigna.” - -As she brought him the glass, the simple act of service bore with it a -peculiar power of suggestion and produced upon Anna herself an effect -far beyond its apparent importance; for, as she thus served Gregory in -his helplessness, a wave of yearning compassion and pure womanly -tenderness broke over her heart. He would lie here for years, perhaps, -prostrate, defeated, suffering, and she who had so loved him would go -her way and leave him alone and uncomforted! Could it be right? - -Before the imperious power of this question all other motives lost their -significance. - -Gregory had recovered from the sharpest effect of his agitation, and -raised his eyes again, full of patient and quiet sorrow. - -“Tell me,” she cried low and breathlessly, “shall I stay? I said I -wished only to go where was most need of me. Is it here? Oh, I trust you -wholly now, John Gregory! If you need my service, I will serve you while -we both live.” - -Then, as they faced each other with looks of solemn question, Anna saw -into the depth of the man’s strong spirit, and she was prepared for what -would follow. - -“That might have been,” he said very slowly, and as if he were -pronouncing his own doom, “even that unspeakable joy; but I myself, my -child, made it impossible. Do you no longer see the great gulf fixed -between you and me?” - -He was holding both her hands now, and his own were firm and steady, but -his face reflected the stern agony of the moment, while that of Anna was -white as death. A throbbing silence filled the room, and all the air -seemed to vibrate with the fierce pulsations of their hearts, for in -both the cry arose that their punishment, self-inflicted, was greater -than they could bear. - -Then calmness fell, for as with one consent their eyes met again, and -each perceived the light of a final spiritual conquest, and the shadow -of an ultimate renunciation. - -Again, as once before, John Gregory said, “It is the end,” and thus, -most quietly, they parted. - - * * * * * - -It was evening when Anna left Fraternia. As the road entered the woods -where the valley widened to the plain, she turned and caught a last -glimpse of the solitary light which shone from the lowly house on the -river’s farther side. - -Through all the years and changes which remained to her, never did Anna -lose the vision of that light, shining apart in the high valley. But -John Gregory she never saw again. - - - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -Transcriber’s note: - - 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. - - 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WOMAN OF YESTERDAY*** - - -******* This file should be named 63526-0.txt or 63526-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/3/5/2/63526 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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- border-color: #000000; - clear: both; } - </style> -</head> -<body> -<h1 class="pgx" title="">The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Woman of Yesterday, by Caroline Atwater -Mason</h1> -<p>This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States -and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no -restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it -under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this -eBook or online at <a -href="http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you are not -located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this ebook.</p> -<p>Title: A Woman of Yesterday</p> -<p>Author: Caroline Atwater Mason</p> -<p>Release Date: October 22, 2020 [eBook #63526]</p> -<p>Language: English</p> -<p>Character set encoding: UTF-8</p> -<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WOMAN OF YESTERDAY***</p> -<p> </p> -<h4 class="pgx" title="">E-text prepared by Richard Tonsing<br /> - and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> - (<a href="http://www.pgdp.net">http://www.pgdp.net</a>)<br /> - from page images generously made available by<br /> - Internet Archive<br /> - (<a href="https://archive.org">https://archive.org</a>)</h4> -<p> </p> -<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10"> - <tr> - <td valign="top"> - Note: - </td> - <td> - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - <a href="https://archive.org/details/womanofyesterday00masoiala"> - https://archive.org/details/womanofyesterday00masoiala</a> - </td> - </tr> -</table> -<p> </p> -<hr class="pgx" /> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> - -<div class='titlepage box'> - -<div class='box'> - -<div> - <h1 class='c001'>A Woman of Yesterday</h1> -</div> - -</div> -<div class='box'> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div>BY</div> - <div class='c003'><span class='xlarge'>CAROLINE A. MASON</span></div> - <div class='c003'><span class='small'>AUTHOR OF “A MINISTER OF THE WORLD,” “THE MINISTER OF CARTHAGE,” “A WIND FLOWER,” ETC.</span></div> - <div class='c003'><span class='small'>“<em>There are, it may be, so many kinds of voices in the world, and none of them is without signification.</em>”</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -</div> - -<div class='box'> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div>NEW YORK</div> - <div class='c003'><span class='large'>DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO.</span></div> - <div class='c003'>1900</div> - </div> -</div> - -</div> - -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div><span class='small'><span class='sc'>Copyright, 1900, by</span></span></div> - <div class='c003'><span class='small'>DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY</span></div> - <div class='c002'><span class='small'><em>Norwood Press</em></span></div> - <div><span class='small'><em>J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith</em></span></div> - <div><span class='small'><em>Norwood Mass. U.S.A.</em></span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c005'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Our share of night to bear,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Our share of morning,</div> - <div class='line'>Our blank in bliss to fill,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Our blank in scorning.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Here a star, and there a star,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Some lose their way.</div> - <div class='line'>Here a mist, and there a mist,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Afterwards—day!</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in14'><span class='sc'>Emily Dickinson.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c003' /> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_vii'>vii</span> - <h2 class='c006'>Contents</h2> -</div> - -<table class='table0' summary='Contents'> - <tr> - <th class='c007'></th> - <th class='c007'> </th> - <th class='c008'><span class='small'>Page</span></th> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>Book I.</span></td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>Morning</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_1'>1</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>Book II.</span></td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>Afternoon</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_131'>131</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>Book III.</span></td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>Night</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_219'>219</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_1'>1</span> - <h2 class='c006'>BOOK I<br /> <span class='large'>MORNING</span></h2> -</div> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_3'>3</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER I</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>I rise and raise my claspèd hands to Thee!</div> - <div class='line'>Henceforth, the darkness hath no part in me,</div> - <div class='line in6'>Thy sacrifice this day,—</div> - <div class='line'>Abiding firm, and with a freeman’s might</div> - <div class='line'>Stemming the waves of passion in the fight.</div> - <div class='line in34'>—<span class='sc'>John Henry Newman.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Where the Monk River makes its way through the -mountain wall in one of the northern counties of Vermont, -lies the small, white village of Haran. Although -isolated and remote from the world, unknown and unconsidered -beyond certain narrow limits, this village possessed, -forty years ago, a local importance as being the -county town, the seat also of a Young Ladies’ Seminary -of some reputation, and an Orthodox church which -boasted a line of ministers of exalted piety and scholarly -attainment.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The incumbent in the year 1869 was the Rev. Samuel -Mallison. His pastorate had now extended over twenty -years, and he was reverenced far beyond the bounds of -his parish for learning and godliness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was a June Saturday night in that year, and the -hour was late. In the low-roofed garret of the parsonage -of Haran the figure of a tall, thin girl with a candle in -her hand moved swiftly and softly to the head of a steep -flight of stairs, which gave access to the garret from the -floor below. Some one had called her name.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, father,” she returned, and a certain vibration -of restrained feeling was perceptible in her voice, “it -<span class='pageno' id='Page_4'>4</span>was I. I am sorry I disturbed you. Were you -asleep?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>All was dark below, and no person could be seen, but -again came the man’s voice.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“What were you doing, Anna?” was the question.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Only putting away—” here the girl faltered and -stopped speaking. The candle in her hand shook, and -threw a strange, wavering shadow of her shape upon the -long, rough timbers of the wall. The roof was so low -where she stood that of necessity her head was bent -sharply forward. The outline of her shoulders was -meagre and angular; her arms and body had neither the -grace of a girl nor the curves of a woman; they were -simply lean and long. There was something of loftiness, -and even of beauty, in the face, but the cheeks were -hollow, the lines all lacking in softness. The <em>ensemble</em> -was grave and strenuous for a girl of eighteen.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She began again.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I was nailing up that box of books, you remember. -I thought now, you know, I ought to do it.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Something like a groan seemed to float up from the -darkness below. There was no other reply for a moment, -and then the father’s voice said slowly:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“To take back later such an action is a greater violation -of the moral nature than to avoid performing it. -If it has been given you as duty, it is well done, but be -very sure.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>A smile, brooding, and even sad, altered the girl’s -face as she reflected for a little.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am very sure,” she said softly, but without -hesitation.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Then, good night. Sleep, now. Let to-morrow -take thought for the things of itself, Anna.”</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span>“Good night, father.” The little lingering of her -voice on the last word gave to it the force of a term of -endearment, which it would not have occurred to Anna -Mallison at that time to add.</p> - -<p class='c011'>A door closed below, presently, and the house was -still.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The garret extended over the entire house, and its -unlighted spaces seemed to stretch indefinitely on all -sides from the little circle of light shed by the one -candle. The place was wholly open, save that at the -front gable, below the highest point in the peak of -the roof, a partition of planed but unpainted boards -enclosed a small chamber. The narrow door of it stood -open.</p> - -<p class='c011'>As Anna approached this door she cast her glance to a -far, dim corner, where in stiff order a wooden box of moderate -size stood upon a chest. She crossed to the place, -passed her hand over the lid of this box, satisfied herself -that it was firmly and evenly fastened, and then gathered -up some nails and a hammer, which she put away -on the ledge formed by a square, projecting rafter. This -accomplished, she came back and entered the chamber, -which was sparely enough furnished, undressed, put out -her candle, and sat down in the open gable window.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Even if to-morrow were left to take thought for the -things of itself, there were many yesterdays which she -wished to meet to-night. And for that to-morrow,—she -was hardly ready to leave all thought of it yet, for -she regarded it as the most solemn and important crisis -in her eighteen years of life. On the Sabbath, which a -few hours would bring, she was to be received into the -village church of which her father was pastor, and this -event would signify that all her previous existence, the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_6'>6</span>time past of her life, was a closed and finished chapter, -and that henceforth all things were to become new. -Life was to be furnished now with new pleasures, new -pains, new motives, new mental occupations. A somewhat -sterner and sadder life she fancied it, full of self-examination, -sacrifice, and high endeavour, for she felt -it must suffice her to have wrought her own will in the -past, “the will of the flesh,” as her father and the Apostle -Paul termed it; a phrase which had but a vague import -to her own understanding, and yet exerted a powerful -influence upon her conscience.</p> - -<p class='c011'>To her mind there was an intimate connection between -that now sealed box and “the will of the flesh.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was when she was fifteen years old that Anna had -discovered one day among the ranks of chests and trunks -which lined the outer stretches of the garret, this small box -of books, thickly covered with dust. At first she had been -greatly surprised, since books were the things her father -most earnestly desired and needed, his scanty collection -being quite insufficient for his use, and being helped out -by no village library. Every book in the house had -borne to Anna’s imagination a potent dignity and value, -for each one embodied a persistent need, and represented -an almost severe economy before its possession had been -achieved.</p> - -<p class='c011'>And here were nearly thirty respectably bound volumes -packed away for moth and dust alone to live upon—what -could it mean? Had they been forgotten? Anna -had devoured their titles with consuming wonder and -curiosity, and with the ardour of the instinctive book-lover. -Like Aurora Leigh, she had “found the secret -of a garret room.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was a volume of Ossian,—heroic, sounding -<span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span>words caught her eye as she turned the rough, yellow -leaves; Landor’s “Hellenics and Idylls”; a copy bound -in marred, brown leather of Pope’s translation of the -“Iliad,” published, she noted, in 1806, almost fifty years -before she was born; the poems of Byron, Shelley, -Keats, and Coleridge, and of the earlier American poets; -and a thin gilded volume of Blake’s “Songs of Innocence.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Besides these were worn volumes of Plato, of Greek -and Latin poets, and German editions of Faust and -Nathan der Weise. At the bottom of the box Anna -found a faded commonplace book with her father’s -name inscribed on the first page, and the date 1840. It -contained translations of Greek poetry which she supposed -to have been made by her father, although of this -she was not sure. She did not read them, for she felt -that she had no right to explore anything so personal -without his permission. This scruple, however, did not -extend to the books which filled the box, although Anna -felt rather than understood that they had not been packed -away together thus by accident, or left by forgetfulness. -She perceived that they denoted some decisive experience -in her father’s inner life, that spiritual personality of the -man, which possessed to the young girl’s thought an -august and even mysterious sacredness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Whatever these books had meant to him, and for whatever -reason they had been exiled from his meagre library, -they became to his daughter the most brilliant and alluring -feature of a somewhat colourless girlhood, the charm -of them enhanced by secrecy; for, with the reticence -characteristic of the family life, Anna never alluded to -her discovery. Neither did she ever remove these literary -remains from their seclusion in the garret; this -<span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span>would have seemed an act of violence, but around the -box which held them she formed a kind of enclosing -barricade of chests and old furniture. The little nook -thus formed she regarded as her place of refuge, of -private and unguessed delight. A candle at night, and -rays of light piercing the wide cracks under the eaves by -day, made reading easy to her clear young eyes, even in -the dust and dusk of the dim place. And so for two -years, through biting cold and searing heat, Anna fed her -mind and heart on the poetry which had ruled her -father’s generation, unknown and unsanctioned by any -one. Then one day came a strange event; she never -recalled it without a sense of unshed tears.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was late one August afternoon, and, her day’s work -faithfully performed, Anna had gone up to her garret -room to make her simple toilet for the evening meal. -There were a few moments to spare, and, as usual, she -hastened to her nook, and was soon deep in Prometheus, -for Shelley just then controlled her imagination. Her -father came into the garret behind her, a very unwonted -thing, and Anna heard the sharp, scraping sound as he -drew out from the recesses where it had stood for years, -a small, brown, hair-covered trunk, studded with brass -nails, forming the initials S. D. M. It had been his own -during his college days, and had seen but little service -since. One of Anna’s brothers was to start for college -in a day or two, and the old trunk was to serve a second -generation in its quest for learning.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Startled by the unusual noise, Anna rose in her place, -and, seeing her father, spoke to him, whereupon he -crossed the garret to where she stood; a small, thin man, -bent a little, with a pale brown skin, prominent eyes, -and a dome-shaped head, the hair thin on the crown -<span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>even to baldness, but soft and silken and long enough -behind the ears to show its tendency to curl.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“What have you there, Anna?” Samuel Mallison -had asked, peering with short-sighted, searching eyes -between the bars of a battered crib which Anna had -used as a part of her wall of partition.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Poetry, father,” she had replied, handing him the -book with eager, innocent enthusiasm; “oh, it is very -beautiful! I love it so.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Her father, looking at the book, flushed strangely, -and a sudden, indescribable change passed over his face. -Pushing aside the rubbish which separated him from -Anna, he was immediately at her side, and in silence had -bent over the box. He had drawn it nearer the light, -and seemed looking on the side for some sign or inscription. -There was a piercing eagerness in his eyes. -Then Anna had noticed what had escaped her hitherto, -the initials, S. D. M., followed by the reference, Matthew -v. 29, and the date, 1848, written in ink on the -lower corner, dim with dust stains and faded with the -processes of time.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Still her father had not spoken, but, sitting down on a -chest, he had bent over the box, and had drawn from it -one after the other the buried books, with a hand as -gentle as if he were touching the tokens of a dead love. -Anna had stood aside, silent and abashed, a strange -tightening sensation in her throat. Her father seemed -to have forgotten her. At last he had reached the old -commonplace book underneath all. The flush on his -face had deepened, and Anna had thought there were -tears in his eyes as he glanced rapidly over its yellowed -pages, with the verses in fine, stiff writing and faded ink. -Then he had closed the book with a long sigh, had laid -<span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>it carefully back in its place, and rising, had walked up -and down in the low garret for many minutes in some -evident agitation.</p> - -<p class='c011'>A sense of guilt and apprehension had fallen upon -Anna in her perplexity, but when, in the end, he had -come and stood beside her, there was a great gentleness -on his face.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“And so you love those books, my child?” he had -asked her briefly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, father.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I understand. I loved them, but I gave them up—twenty -years ago, almost. They became a snare.” He -had been, then, silent a moment, while a peculiar conflict -of thought was reflected in his face. “Yes,” he continued, -as if convinced of something called in doubt, -“they became a snare—to me—but for you I cannot -decide. It may not be for you to drink of my cup. -Who knows?” and with that he had turned and left her, -and left the garret, the trunk forgotten; and Anna had -laid the books back, soberly and with a great heartache, -almost as if she were laying dust dear and sacred in its -coffin.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The matter had never been alluded to again between -the father and daughter, but Anna knew that she was -free to read, and so read on. And still her unalloyed -happiness in her hidden treasure was gone. A question, -a suspicion, a disturbing doubt, was now attached to it. -It was not wrong to read this poetry, but plainly there -was a more excellent way, a higher ground which her -father had reached, and which, with her inborn passion -for perfection, she, too, must some day attain. Slowly -and silently this conviction matured within her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>And so to-night, on the eve of her day of supreme -<span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>consecration, Anna, in her turn, had buried out of her -sight, as her father had before her, the poetry into which -she had been pouring her young awakening life, silently -and secretly, but with a fervour which the reader of many -books can never know. They had spoken to her in -mighty voices, these great spirits, so free, joyous, and -mysterious in their power; but they were not the voice -<em>of God</em>, and therefore she must listen to them no more. -This had been a tree of life to her, but its fruit was forbidden. -The axe must thenceforth be laid unflinchingly -at the root of the tree. Such was the initial impulse, -single, stern, and absolute, of Anna’s awakening religious -nature.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Theologians in the sixties did not talk of the immanence -of God.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER II</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Children of men! the unseen Power whose eye</div> - <div class='line'>Forever doth accompany mankind,</div> - <div class='line'>Hath looked on no religion scornfully</div> - <div class='line in8'>That man did ever find.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Which has not taught weak wills how much they can?</div> - <div class='line'>Which has not fall’n on the dry heart like rain?</div> - <div class='line'>Which has not cried to sunk, self-weary man:</div> - <div class='line in8'><em>Thou must be born again!</em></div> - <div class='line in38'>—<span class='sc'>Matthew Arnold.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Anna Mallison’s working theory of the human family -in its moral and religious relations (and she recognized -no other as of importance) was as destitute of shading -as a carpenter’s house plan. Indeed, her hypothesis unconsciously -bore a certain pictorial resemblance to the -ground plan of a colonial house—a hall running through -the middle with two rooms on each side! There was, -straight through the centre of her moral universe, a wide, -divisive, neutral passage in which dwelt uneasily all people -who had not been regenerated, but who had not rejected -salvation formally and forever. Here were such -heathen and young children, and such thoughtless and -unhardened impenitent as might yet listen to the divine -call. At the right of this central hall, following Anna’s -scheme of the race, were two wide rooms: the first bright -with a subdued and varied light; the second, opening -beyond the first, overflowing with undimmed and celestial -radiance. The first was the Church, the place of -saints on earth, the second was heaven, easily reached -<span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>from the first. But the entrance to the first room from -the central space was obscure, difficult, and mysterious, -and few were they who found it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>At the left of the great hall were likewise two vast -connecting chambers. A wide door stood ever open -into the first, through which a throng continually passed. -Here were dimness and dread, lighted only by false and -baleful gleams; and in the room beyond, the blackness -of darkness, and that forever.</p> - -<p class='c011'>This first room was the abode of those who deliberately -chose the world and turned away from God, whose -fitting end was in the awful gloom of that place of torment -and wailing beyond.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Above the right-hand division, high and lifted up, -dwelt in unthinkable glory the God of her fathers, holy, -but to her subconscious sense, ineffective, else why -were earthquakes, murders, prisons, insanities? and why, -indeed, those populous chambers on the left?</p> - -<p class='c011'>Over them presided a rapid, hurtling Spirit, always -engaged in her imagination in falling like lightning from -heaven. He was Miltonic necessarily, but also much -like one of Ossian’s heroes, and, on the whole, a more -imposing force than the Creator whose power he seemed -so successfully to have usurped.</p> - -<p class='c011'>In fine, Anna believed in two gods, an infinite spirit -of good, and an infinite spirit of evil, although she would -have called herself strictly monotheistic.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The neutral space between the realms of the Good -and Evil was the battleground of these two mighty spirits. -Here prophets, apostles, and preachers were calling -loudly and untiringly upon all men to repent, and to -find the entrance to the company of the redeemed. -From time to time some swift and valorous spirit of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>man or angel would even make excursion into the dim -outer room on the left, and bring thence a scorched and -spotted soul, saved, but so as by fire. But such events -were rare and not to be presumed upon or expected.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was all perfectly clear to Anna, the classification -and grouping precise, exact, and satisfactory. Black -was very black; and white, very white. She had herself -until very recently belonged in the neutral hall, but she -now believed herself to be “experiencing religion,” a -fine old phrase, which was in effect to be pressing successfully -through that obscure opening which led into -the outer court of heaven.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But just here there was a weakness in the system. -Theologians and preachers like her father boldly declared -the contrary, and asserted that the processes of entering -the kingdom of heaven were as marked and unmistakable -as the great general divisions of saints and sinners. -The conversion of Saul of Tarsus was always depicted -as norm and type. To be sure, all the processes were -not in each case marked by equal distinctness, but the -logical order was the same. In the first stage of the -progress the sinner was said to be “under conviction” -or “experiencing a sense of sin”; and the more bitter -and overwhelming was this first phase, the better was -the diagnosis from the professional point of view. At -this point the penitent was to realize that, whatever his -former life had been, even if a life of prayer and unselfish -devotion, it had been wholly displeasing to God, and -that, as tending to self-righteousness, such a life was -peculiarly dangerous. By nature, there could not be in -the human character any real moral excellence, or what -was more technically known as “evangelical virtue.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>All this Samuel Mallison had recently set forth in a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>series of sermons on “Human Depravity; its Degree, -its Extent, its Derivation, and its Punishment,” which -had been considered of extraordinary value and merit.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But it was just here that his daughter, for all the -logic and learning to which she was privileged to listen, -stumbled and stood still. For weeks her spiritual development -appeared to be arrested. She was silent, -uncommunicative, and disappointing to all the older -members and office-bearers in her father’s church.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“What is the matter with Anna?” was the frequent -question put to Mrs. Mallison in the parish. “Why -don’t she <em>come out</em>?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, she is under conviction all the time,” would be -the reply, with a somewhat decided shake of the head. -“We let her alone pretty much, Mr. Mallison and I. -It isn’t best to say too much, you know, when anybody -has reached that point. We can see that conscience is -working with her.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The questioner would depart with the belief that Anna’s -conviction was of an unusually profound and interesting -nature, like a disease with a complication; but if -they had asked Anna herself, she might have told them -that it was from the absence of this conviction, rather -than from its intensity, that she was suffering. She was -too honest to assume a virtue, or even a vice, if she had -it not, and seek it as she would, a poignant sense of sin -did not visit her. She had cast about her, and searched -her own heart and life in a distinct embarrassment at -finding so few clearly defined and indubitable sins of -which to plead guilty; she had even secretly reproached -her parents in her heart for having insisted upon an -almost faultless standard of daily living, since conformity -to their will seemed to be in itself a snare, and to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>place her at a distinct disadvantage now as compared -with the flagrant sinner. Why had they taught her to -pray, since she was now told that the prayers of the -unregenerate were displeasing to God?</p> - -<p class='c011'>She used to sit during the Sunday morning service -and look at the neighbours in their pews around her, at -their children and grandchildren, and at the members of -her own family, seeking to find a person whom she was -conscious of having wronged, or toward whom she cherished -a feeling of enmity or envy. The only result of -this species of self-examination had been to bring to her -remembrance a childish, half-forgotten grudge against a -girl with fair curls, Malvina Loveland by name, who had -once ridiculed her at school, for wearing one of Lucia’s -dresses made over. Anna drew this dim and fading fault -remorselessly up to the light, and formally and forever -forgave the unconscious “Mally.” But the longing for -a deep experience of the “exceeding sinfulness of sin” -remained unsatisfied. Like many another sincere and -seeking soul of that day, she yearned in vain to fill out -in its rigid precision of sequence that spiritual programme -which the theologians prescribed.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Her father gave her free access to the precious, if narrow, -resources of his library, and she read the Edwards, -both elder and younger, the elder Dwight, Bunyan, Baxter, -and the rest, in place of her dear pagans whose end -she now clearly foresaw. She read of the “depraved -moral conduct of every infant who lives so long as to -be capable of moral action”; she read that “the heart -of Man, after all abatements are made for certain innocent -and amiable characteristics, is set to do evil in a -most affecting and dreadful manner”; and that “the -darling and customary pleasures of men furnish an -<span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>advantageous proof of the extreme depravity of our -nature.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Was I a very wicked little child?” she asked her -mother one day.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Wicked!” cried her mother, artlessly, resenting -the thought. “You were like a little angel, Benigna, -even from the very first. So was it that I gave you my -sainted mother’s name. Even your looks were all love; -all saw it, and strangers too. You a bad child, indeed -who never gave your mother a harsh word or a heartache -since you were born!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna Benigna, for so her mother called her, bent and -kissed her mother, a rare caress in that family.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am glad I pleased you,” she whispered. There -were tears in her eyes, and as she walked without further -word from the room, her mother perceived the significance -of question and reply, and pondered long.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then suddenly, as ice breaks up in the spring, and -the freshet bears down everything before it, a moment -of crisis and perception came, one of those moments -which, albeit varying with each human experience, -remains in each supreme.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Under all her outward conformity to law and love, -Anna realized now that there had lain for years a deep, -half-conscious resentment toward the Creator, a cold dislike -of God. How could he look upon her with approval -while such a disposition remained in her heart? She -had loved the human; she had not loved the divine.</p> - -<p class='c011'>A sense of the absolute and eternal Good from which -she was alienated, to which she was antagonistic, smote -her with force. She now seemed to herself in the presence -of God as a speck of dust against a dazzling -mountain of snow—incalculably small, hatefully impure. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>A passion of contrition and surrender mastered -her; vague regenerating fires tried her soul; and then -came an exhaustion of spirit, as of a child whom its -Father has chastened, and who is reconciled and at -peace. This succession of emotions she was able to -recall distinctly as long as she lived.</p> - -<p class='c011'>This had been a month ago. Anna had recounted -these spiritual exercises to her father, and he had told her -that they denoted conversion, and advised her presenting -herself to the church for admission. This she had -done, but when he asked her, further, to what cause, if -any, she ascribed this past sense of enmity against God, -she had been silent.</p> - -<p class='c011'>However, her father was fully satisfied. Like a -physician with a well-declared fever of a certain type, -he felt it to be a clear case. Considering his child’s -blameless innocence of life, it was an unexpectedly satisfactory -one from the theologian’s point of view.</p> - -<p class='c011'>As she sat now in the warm gloom of the June night, -with the dark trees murmuring softly under the wind, -and the sky with many stars bending near, only the -gable jutting above her head to keep its splendours off, -Anna travelled back in thought to her childish days and -found there the answer to her father’s question.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER III</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Nay, but I think the whisper crept</div> - <div class='line'>Like growth through childhood. Work and play,</div> - <div class='line'>Things common to the course of day,</div> - <div class='line'>Awed thee with meanings unfulfill’d;</div> - <div class='line'>And all through girlhood, something still’d</div> - <div class='line'>Thy senses like the birth of light,</div> - <div class='line'>When thou hast trimmed thy lamp at night</div> - <div class='line'>Or washed thy garments in the stream.</div> - <div class='line in32'>—<span class='sc'>Dante Gabriel Rossetti.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Until her twelfth year Anna had not encountered the -severities of Calvinistic theology, Samuel Mallison having -intrusted the spiritual guidance of his children, during -their earlier years, to their mother. Anna was the -youngest child. Mrs. Mallison was of a German Moravian -family who, coming from Pennsylvania, had settled -on the eastern boundary of New York early in the century. -She possessed the serene and trustful temperament -of her people. The subtleties of her husband’s religious -system were beyond her simple ken; she loved to sing -the hymns of Zinzendorf, as she sewed and spun and -ordered her household in true German <i><span lang="de" xml:lang="de">Hausfräulichkeit</span></i>, -a sincere, devout, affectionate soul who had found the -tone of the frigid little north New England community -more chilling than she dared to own.</p> - -<p class='c011'>From her Anna inherited her warm impulses, her -abounding delight in nature, her susceptibility to the -simplest impressions of sweet and common things. -Gulielma Mallison understood the child when she -came running to her one early spring morning from -<span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>the parsonage garden, where the dark brown earth was -freshly upturned and young green things were springing, -and had tears in her eyes, veiling wonder, and a shy -thrill of joy in all her small birdlike frame, and had -asked, her hands clasped upon her breast:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Why am I so happy, mother, that I can’t bear it? -Why does something ache so here?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It is because thou art in God’s beautiful world, little -Benigna,” the mother had said, “and thou art God’s -child. He is near thee, and thy heart yearns to him. -Be glad in God.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>In his study, through the open door, Samuel Mallison -heard these words, and, whatever his perplexity as to -their doctrinal inconsistency, he did not gainsay them. -From his point of view at this time little Anna was -entirely out of relation to God and out of harmony with -his being, and it would have been impossible for her to -please him. But just then an old question, which would -not always down, had forced its way to his mind—What -if there were a wrong link somewhere in the logic? -What if the love of God were something greater than -the schoolmen guessed?</p> - -<p class='c011'>But on a certain winter night Anna’s childhood died, -and the battle of her life began.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Well she remembered every physical sensation even, -accompanying that experience.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It had been a snowy Saturday night, and she had come -in from the warm kitchen where, in a round washing-day -tub, drawn close to the hot stove, she had taken a -merry, splashing bath, after the regular order of exercises -for Saturday night at the parsonage. Her older sister, -Lucia, had presided over the function, and when it was -accomplished she had been closely wrapped in a pale -<span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>straw-hued, homespun flannel sheet, over her nightclothes, -preparatory to facing the rigours of the bitterly cold hall -and stairs, and the little bedroom above.</p> - -<p class='c011'>So she had trailed into the living-room, where the -boys and her parents were gathered around a large table. -The room was not very brightly lighted by the single oil -lamp, but a great fire crackled loudly in the stove, and -the rattle of the hard snowflakes on the window panes -and the whistling of the wind outside gave keen emphasis -to the sense of cheerful safety and comfort.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Warm and languid from the heat of her bath, Anna -had sat down on a low seat and dropped her head on her -mother’s knees, feeling an indescribable sensation of -happy lassitude and physical well-being. She recalled -how interested she had been in the shrivelled whiteness -of her own long, little fingers, and how soft and woolly -that dear old blanket had felt; it was on her bed now, -with her mother’s maiden name worked in cross-stitch -in one corner, in pale pink crewel.</p> - -<p class='c011'>They had been waiting for her, to proceed with the -evening devotions, and her father had at once begun to -read a part of a sermon from one of the standard divines -who, though somewhat out of fashion in the centres of -progressive thought, were still held infallible in these -remoter regions.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The subject was “The Benevolence of God in Inflicting -Punishment,” from a work entitled “The Effects of -the Fall.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna did not listen very closely for a time, but presently -her attention was caught and held. The writer -was seeking to prove that “the damnation of a large -part of the human race directly subserved the general -happiness of mankind and the glory of God.” That -<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>even if he had saved none of the sons of men, but “had -left them to the endless torment they had so justly deserved,” -and “had glorified himself in their eternal ruin, -they would have had no cause to complain.” That the -best of what were illusively known as “good works,” -were “no more than splendid sins.” That no doubt, -if any heathen could be found who was truly virtuous -and holy, who loved God in the strictly evangelical -sense, as infinitely great, wise, and holy, and who kept all -his perfect law without infraction, such heathen might -be saved. But as there was no evidence that any such -heathen ever had existed, or ever could exist, there was -no reason to believe that any had been saved. As the -heathen still formed a vast proportion of the population -of the globe, and as only a small fraction of those nations -commonly known as Christian had actually and experimentally -come under the law of grace, the only conclusion -possible was, that a vast proportion of the human -family throughout all ages and down to the present time -“were serving the purposes of God’s infinite wisdom -and benevolence in their creation in endless misery or -torment.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The triumphant logic of the old divine, which Mrs. -Mallison secretly found discomfiting but accepted calmly -enough considering its terrific import, and which her -husband read with the sad and solemn pathos of one to -whom it was a mournful verity, had a curious effect -upon little Anna. For the first time the real meaning -of familiar words like these smote full and sharp upon -her mind, and in the physical lassitude of the moment -acted like a bodily injury upon her. She grew whiter -and whiter, and she touched and grasped the soft blanket -about her with powerless fingers, to convince herself -<span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>that she could feel and find what was familiar, faintness -being an absolutely unknown sensation.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Suddenly, with an imperious impulse, and a singular -effect of childish courage which dared to do an unheard-of -thing, she rose and said with perfect apparent composure, -breaking in upon the reading:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am too tired to stay here any longer, I am going -upstairs now,” and so left the room. Her mother had -watched the slight figure in its close drapery with anxious -eyes until the door closed upon her, but had not thought -of following. This reading was a solemn function not -to be lightly interrupted.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Upstairs, Anna had betaken herself hastily to bed, and -lay there, motionless, somewhat alarmed at her own revolutionary -action, and with little to say when questioned -by her mother presently.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But when the house was still, and the night advancing -to its mid depth of darkness, the child, still lying with -wide, wakeful eyes, cried silently with a piteous consciousness -of desolation and sorrow. A sense of the bitterness -of a world where millions of helpless human spirits -were shut up to endless agony had overwhelmed her, and -a spirit of rebellion against God who willed it so for his -own glory had taken intense possession of her thought.</p> - -<p class='c011'>In the passion of her childish resentment and grief -and worn by the unwonted wakefulness, her breath came -in long, quivering sobs which were heard in the next -room, and brought her father to her side.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She could answer nothing to his questions, but he -found her hands cold, and her pulse weak and rapid.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You did not eat your supper to-night, little Anna,” -he said gently, remembering her faint appetite for the -frugal fare of the parsonage table.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>Anna only sobbed more convulsively. She had expected -severity and blame, feeling verily guilty in spirit.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Samuel Mallison said nothing more, but Anna, wondering, -heard him go downstairs, heard doors open and -shut, and then silence fell again. Ten minutes later her -father stood again by the bedside in the icy chill of the -winter midnight in the unwarmed chamber, and he had -brought a bowl of broth, hot and smoking, bread, too, -and, most unwonted pampering, a piece of the rare poundcake, -kept for company and never given to children -except on high holidays.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Neither of them spoke, but Samuel Mallison, for all -the cold, sat on the bed’s edge while Anna ate and -drank, drawing her frail little body to rest against his -own.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The broth was salted for Anna by her tears, and the -long-drawn sobs, coming at intervals, half choked her as -she ate, but she was comforted at last and fortified against -the woe of the world, and she pressed her cheek against -her father’s arm with a sense of the infinite sweetness of -fatherhood warm at her heart. As she finished the last -crumb of cake, she thought:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“If only God had been kind like my father! I was -naughty, and that only makes him good to me and pitiful.” -But she said nothing, only looked with a world -of wondering gratefulness in her large innocent eyes up -into her father’s face, finding some perplexity that cake -and broth should reconcile her to the everlasting torment -of the majority of mankind, but wisely concluding to -make the best of it since such seemed to be the effect, -and, as it was now undoubtedly high time, to go to sleep.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Finding her bright and well next morning, the Mallisons, -father and mother, had thought little more of that -<span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>Saturday night revolt, which they, indeed, had not known -as such; but, as she looked back over her years to-night, -in her gable window, Anna perceived that from that time -there had always been in the secret place of her heart a -sense of enmity against a God who was not kind like her -father. To-night she knew herself, at last, reconciled; -faith had triumphed and declared that even the darkest -decree of God’s great will must be right, since he was -the absolutely Good. But her heart yearned with mighty -yearning for the subjects of his just wrath, and as she -knelt in the darkness and silence she gave herself with -simple, unreserved sincerity to the service of the lost -among men.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Rising from her knees, Anna felt a strange glow and -exaltation of spirit. In her own personal life sin had -been met and vanquished. Tremendous apostolic assertions -buoyed her soul upward like strong wings: “free -from the law of sin and of death,” “passed from death -unto life,” “All things are yours, and ye are Christ’s, -and Christ is God’s.” Thus she felt her finite linked to -the infinite. Her spirit was suffused with thrilling and -unspeakable joy; God was closer than breathing and -nearer than hands and feet.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But, as she stood rapt and absorbed, there came up -through the hush of the night from the dim street below -a strange sound, and she was caught back by it, and -listened painfully. It was a little child crying piteously.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Peering down through the clustering branches, below -her window, Anna could discern by the dim light of the -stars the shape of a woman, forlorn and spiritless, passing -silently along the shadowed way. Behind her followed -the crying child, with weary little feet stumbling -at every stone. The woman carried something in her -<span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>arms, hidden by an apron; she turned and looked at the -child, and shook her head, but did not speak.</p> - -<p class='c011'>This woman, who moved abroad only at night, was -the village outcast, and the child was her child, born in -sin.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Vague and uncomprehended to Anna’s mind was the -abyss into which this woman had fallen, but she felt it -to be black and bottomless, and to place an everlasting -separation between her and the good. She drew back -from the window, a sharp pain, made of pity and horror, -at her heart, sin embodied thus confronting her. She -felt as Sir Launfal felt when he saw the leper.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Lying down to rest at last, Anna slept, in spite of -spiritual ecstasies and sufferings, the sound sleep of a -healthy girl who is fortunate enough to forget the ultimate -destinies of human souls, her own with the rest, -for certain favoured hours.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was long before her sleep was disturbed by dreams, -but an hour before sunrise she awoke with a pervading -sense of exquisite happiness brought over with her from -a dream just dreamed. It was a still dream of seeing, -not of doing. She had seen the form of a man of -heroic aspect, old rather than young, with a grey head, -leonine and majestic, strong stern features, a glance -mild and yet searching and subduing; a man imperial -and lofty, and above his fellows, but whether as king -or saint or soldier she could not guess. But here was -made visible a power, a freedom, and a greatness for -which her own nature, she felt in a swift flash of self-revelation, -passionately cried out, which it had nowhere -found, and to which it bowed in a curious delight -hitherto unknown. This only happened: this mysterious -personality, more than human, she thought, if less -<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>than divine, had looked kindly upon her, in her weak, -childish abasement, and had shed into her eyes, and so -into her heart, the impossible, inexplicable happiness with -which she awoke. She did not sleep again. This waking -consciousness enamoured her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>What did it mean? Anna asked herself all day. Was -it a dream sent from God at this solemn hour of dedication? -If so, what did it prefigure? Even at the sacramental -feast, her first communion, that majestic head, -with the controlling sweetness of the eyes upon her, -came before her vision, and made her heart beat fast.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER IV</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>The fiend that man harries</div> - <div class='line in2'>Is love of the Best.</div> - <div class='line in18'>—<cite>The Sphynx</cite>, <span class='sc'>R. W. Emerson</span>.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Malvina Loveland, the girl whom Anna had found -solace in forgiving for her childish offence, had “come -out,” as Haran people said, at the same time with -Anna.</p> - -<p class='c011'>This fact, and the compunction in Anna’s heart toward -her early foe, had drawn the two girls together, -and they became friends. They talked of the interests -of the cause of religion, and read biographies together, -or rather, Anna read aloud while her friend diligently -produced lace work with a small shuttle, or hemstitched -linen ruffles; but both cared less for these several occupations -than for the sense of mingling their young, -unfolding perceptions.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna had need of a friend; Lucia, her sister, was -many years older, and had long ago married a farmer, -and departed deeper into the hills, where she worked -with the immoderate industry of New England women, -bore many children, and lived a life into which Anna -did not enter deeply. The Mallison boys were away -from home, studying and working, and the parsonage -was a silent place. Anna adored her father with the -restrained ardour of her kind, and loved her mother with -a great tenderness, but she was actively intimate with -neither, and thus greatly alone.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mally was noticeably pretty, and Anna thought her -<span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>beauty angelic. She was capable, clever, quick, and -impulsive, one of the women who can do anything they -see done, strongly imitative and impressionable. She -developed rapidly, while Anna matured slowly. Anna -had nobleness, Mally had facility. Anna, beside Mally, -looked uncomfortably tall, with her angular thinness and -her dark, grave face. She had masses of lustreless brown -hair, a clear <em>brune</em> skin like her father, and, like him, -singularly fine hands. Her eyes were her mother’s, -and her only beauty,—golden brown, and of limpid -clearness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>To both these girls their religion was a system of -prohibition and of an abnormal development of conscience. -The negative, not the positive, side was uppermost -to them. “Thou shalt not” was written over -every device and desire which did not minister directly -to the furtherance of the local conception of religion. -Both were eager to grasp the positive side, to convert -the world, to see Satan chained, and themselves to contribute -to this desirable consummation; but they were -doubtful how to begin. Both were ardent controversialists -after the manner of their day, and Anna read systematic -theology with her father with extraordinary -relish.</p> - -<p class='c011'>They waited and wondered, each longing for her destiny -to disclose itself decisively. But with Anna a hidden -life budded beneath the surface, unknown even to -Mally. The romantic and poetic impulses of her nature, -no longer directly nourished by the poets whom -she had put away from her by force, stirred in her heart, -and fed themselves, in silence, on the life of nature, and -on the delicate, evanescent imaginings of her awakening -womanhood.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>Below the surface of her conscious thoughts a strange -inarticulate passion for power and freedom beat and -throbbed, and would not be stilled, despite her quiet, -conscientious conformity to the narrow conditions of the -world about her. She did not know what freedom was, -but she felt that she was not free; neither did she clearly -know what the power meant for which she longed, but -she felt the absence of it in every one she had ever met. -It was mysterious, indefinable—once only had she encountered -it, and that was in a dream.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Thus a nature simple and single, with all its forces -apparently bent one way, and with few avenues, or none, -by which to import conflicting influences, was, in fact, -already incipiently subject to the complexities of instinct, -of motive, and desire, which weave the bewildering network -of human experience.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When Anna was twenty, an event occurred of much -importance in its bearing on her life. Under the direction -of an old friend of Samuel Mallison, the Rev. -Dr. Durham of Boston, a general secretary for Foreign -Missions, a series of meetings was held in Haran for the -promotion of an interest in this cause. Dr. Durham -was entertained, during the time of the convention, at -the parsonage; he was a genial and kindly man, and became -in his way an especial friend of Anna, in whom -he manifested a marked interest.</p> - -<p class='c011'>From the country round about, during the week, men -and women thronged to Haran; and at an evening meeting -to be addressed by a woman who had been a missionary -in India, the white meeting-house was filled. -Many in the congregation had never seen a missionary; -many more had never heard a woman speak in public. -Curiosity ran high.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>The speaker was a little sallow woman, in a plain and -unbecoming grey gown, who stepped timidly to the edge -of the platform, laying a small hand which trembled visibly -on the cold mahogany pulpit, as if to conciliate it -for her intrusion and to crave its support.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She spoke in a shrill crescendo, without the graces or -arts of a skilled speaker, and she made no appeal to the -emotions of the hearers. It was rather a dry and unimaginative -account of the work done at an obscure mountain -station, with statistics of no great impressiveness, -and careful attention to accuracy of detail. But she -had the advantage of sowing her seed on virgin soil. It -was not important at that day and to those isolated and -simple-minded people that the missionary should speak -with enticing words, or attempt dramatic effect. She -was herself there before them in flesh and blood, and no -great time before she had been on heathen ground, had -come into actual combat, face to face, with wild, savage -men and strange, outlandish women, who knew not God, -and who veritably and visibly bowed down to wood and -stone.</p> - -<p class='c011'>For the hour, that little woman of weak bodily presence -and commonplace intellect became the incarnation -of Christianity seeking a lost world, and she herself was -far greater to their thought than anything she could have -said.</p> - -<p class='c011'>At the end of her report, for it was that rather than -appeal or address, she told the story of a high-caste -Hindu woman to whom she had sought to give the gospel -message. This woman had turned upon her with -grave wonder and had asked, “How long have you -known this? about this Jesus?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, for many years, all my life in fact.”</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>“Then,” said the woman, solemnly, “why did you not -come to tell us before?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Without comment or enlargement, having told of this -occurrence, the speaker turned and walked shyly from -the platform, leaving an unusual hush in the assembly, as -if an event, a result of some sort, were waited for.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Toward the end of the church, where she was seated -with her mother, Anna Mallison rose in her place, made -her way out into the middle aisle, and then, with her head -a little bent, but her face neither pale nor agitated, walked -quietly to the foot of the platform. Samuel Mallison, -who was seated with Dr. Durham behind the pulpit, -rose and stood, just above, as if to receive her, looking -down with solemn eyes. Some one who saw Anna’s -face said that, as she looked up into that of her father -thus bent above her, the smile which suddenly illuminated -it was beyond earthly beauty. It was a look in -which two human spirits, and those father and child, -purged as far as might be of earthliness, met in angelic -interchange, pure and high.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Turning about, thus facing the great congregation, -Anna, who had never before spoken in a public gathering -of any sort, however small, said in a voice which -was clear and distinct, though not loud:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I wish to offer myself to this society to go, if they -will send me, to some heathen people, to tell them that -Christ has died to save them. I am ready to go at once, -if it is thought best.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The gravity and simplicity, and absence of self-consciousness, -of the girl’s words and bearing, and the profound -sympathy of the people who saw and heard her, -combined to produce an overpowering impression. As -the meeting broke up, women were weeping all over -<span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>the house, and sturdy unemotional men were deeply -moved.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna, seeing that many would surround her and -speak their sympathy or give their praise, which she -dreaded and feared to hear, turned with swift steps to -the door nearest her, and so escaped into the outer darkness -of the night, no one following.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But, as she hurried with light steps across the village -green and reached the parsonage gate, she found Mally -waiting to waylay her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, Anna,” she cried, and her tears flowed fast, -“you will go away from me, from all of us! How can -you put this great distance between us?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“How can I do anything else, Mally?” Anna answered -softly. “It is what I have been waiting for; I -think I was never truly happy until to-night. All my -life before I have been unsatisfied, and something has -ached and hurt whenever I stopped to feel it.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“And to-night you are really happy?” cried her -friend, half enviously, and yet by no means drawn to -devote herself to the medley of crocodiles, dark-skinned -babies, and cars of Juggernaut, which signified India to -her mind.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, at last!” Anna exclaimed, and with a long -breath of relief. “Will it not bring peace, Mally, to -know that I am surely doing His will? It will be like -pure sunshine after living in a fog these past years.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Then weren’t you really happy when you were converted -and joined the church?” asked Mally, naïvely.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Partly. But just to be happy because you are saved -yourself—why, it does not last. And you know, dear, -we could never find anybody’s soul to work for here in -Haran; at least, we didn’t know how,” and Anna became -<span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>silent, the vision of one solitary outcast coming -before her, with whom she had been forbidden even to -speak. But Mally refused to be comforted thus, and -went her way with many tears.</p> - -<p class='c011'>There were more tears for Anna to encounter that -night, for her mother came home broken-hearted. The -Lord had answered her husband’s daily prayer, and had -graciously chosen one of their own family to preach the -gospel to the heathen, and the answered prayer was more -than the loving soul could sustain. Like Jacob, she -could get no farther than the wail, “If I am bereaved, -I am bereaved.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Not so Samuel Mallison. Too long had he schooled -himself to the sacrifice of his dearest human and earthly -desires. The long discipline of his life stood him now -in good stead. Coming into the room where Anna was -vainly seeking to comfort her mother, he laid his hands -in blessing on her head, and with a look upward which -stilled the weeping woman, he pronounced the ancient -words:—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word;</div> - <div class='line'>For mine eyes have seen thy salvation.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c011'>And yet Anna was the very apple of his eye. Of -such fibre was the altruism of that rugged first growth.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER V</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Life! life! thou sea-fugue, writ from east to west,</div> - <div class='line in10'>Love, Love alone can pore</div> - <div class='line in10'>On thy dissolving score</div> - <div class='line in10'>Of harsh half-phrasings,</div> - <div class='line in12'>Blotted ere writ,</div> - <div class='line in10'>And double erasings</div> - <div class='line in12'>Of chords most fit.</div> - <div class='line in42'>—<span class='sc'>Sidney Lanier.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>From the time of the missionary meeting and the -announcement of his daughter’s determination to devote -herself to the service of Christ in a heathen land, Samuel -Mallison’s health declined rapidly. His <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Nunc Dimittis</span></i> -was of literal import, and prophetic.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Whether the death which all who loved him saw that -he was soon to accomplish could be called dying of -heart-break or dying of fulfilled desire, would have been -hard to determine. Heart and flesh cried out against -the separation from his best-beloved child, while the -triumphant spirit blessed God for answered prayer, and -for the fruition in that cherished life of his child of -hopes and aspirations which had been but scantily fulfilled -in his own.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I have not been a successful man, Anna,” he said -to her one autumn day when they were alone in his -study. He sat erect in his straight chair, but with an -unmistakable languor in every line of face and frame, -and with a feverish brightness in his prominent dark -eyes.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna laid her hand upon his with endless gentleness.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>“No man in Haran is so beloved, father. No man -has done so much good.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Perhaps,” he answered sadly, “and I am satisfied. -It is the will of God. Anna, I have seemed, perhaps, -cold and silent, and without feeling as you have seen me; -but the fire within has burned unceasingly, and I am -consumed.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The last words were spoken lower and with an unconscious -pathos which moved Anna unspeakably.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I do not understand, father dear, not fully. Can -you tell me all? I love you so.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>They were the simplest words of the most natural -affection, and yet it was the first time in her life that -Anna had spoken after this sort to her father.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“My girl,” he said simply, taking her hand within -his own. Then, after a pause, he continued speaking.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It is after this manner that life has gone with me. -I believe I ought to retrace my past with you—for perhaps -there may be light upon your path, if you know all. -When I entered the ministry it was with sincerely right -purpose; all the influences of my life pointed me in that -direction, but it was, perhaps, more as an intellectual and -congenial profession than from deeper reasons. I began -my ministry, in 1841, in Boston. I was considered to -have certain gifts which were valued in that day, and all -went well, on the surface. But it was the period of a -literary awakening in our nation, of which Boston was -the centre of influence. An American literature was -just becoming a visible reality, and a new impulse was at -work and stirring everywhere. Men of original force -were suddenly multiplied before us, and the contagion of -intellectual ambition was felt in an altogether new degree. -To me it became all-controlling. Transcendental philosophy, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>Platonism, and classic learning acquired for me -a supreme attraction, and I gave myself more and more -to the study of them, and to the translation of Greek -poetry. This had no unfavourable effect upon my preaching -in the opinion of my congregation, rather the reverse, -and I may say without vanity that I had reached comparatively -early a certain eminence to which I was by no -means indifferent.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Samuel Mallison paused a moment, while Anna -silently reflected that this narrative would in the end -explain the buried books of her dear old garret delight.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Learning was young among us in those days, -Anna,” Samuel Mallison began again humbly, after a -little space, “else this would not have happened; in -the year 1848 I received a call to a professorship of the -Greek language and literature in Harvard College.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna felt her own young blood rush to her cheeks in -pride and wonder and amazement. To her little-village -simplicity and scanty experience this seemed a surpassing -distinction, and one which placed her father among the -great men of the earth.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“The day after the mind of the authorities had been -made known to me, was the day of my life which I -remember best,” Samuel Mallison continued.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I went to my study that morning with a programme -of what would take place somewhat definitely before -my mind. I was about to seek, humbly and devoutly, -an interview with God, in which I would lay before -him this new and momentous opening in my life, and -seek to have his will for me made clear. What this -will would be, or what I should take it to be, was, just -below the surface of my mind, a foregone conclusion. -In fact, my letter of acceptance was substantially framed -<span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>in my mind already. I had never been favoured with -voices and visions and revelations clear and conclusive -in my religious experience, and I foresaw a decision -based upon general reasonableness and preference, -touched with a pleasant sense of the divine favour, -which might naturally be expected to rest upon so -congenial a course, and one so worthily justified by -precedent. I read, as a preparatory exercise, with perfect -satisfaction, the twelfth chapter of John’s Gospel, -then closed my Bible and knelt in prayer. This was -exactly as I had foreseen—an orderly series of exercises -befitting my position. But, oh; how mechanical, -how cold, how barren! With such perfunctory practices -I could think to take leave of the sacred calling -of the ministry, so dead had my spirit grown to the -claims of the blessed gospel, and its mission of salvation -to a lost and perishing world!</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I knelt and thought to pray, but, like the king in -‘Hamlet’, my words flew up, my thoughts remained -below. Between me and Him whom I would have -approached, interposed, like a palpable barrier, a solemn -reiterated echo of words just read: ‘Verily, verily, I -say unto you, except a corn of wheat fall into the -ground and die, it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth -forth much fruit. He that loveth his life shall -lose it.’</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I rose from my knees and walked up and down the -room in great anxiety of spirit. This new work which -I thought to undertake was educational, ennobling, necessary; -in no way contrary to sound doctrine, in no -way a betrayal of sacred responsibility; I was fitted for -it by nature, by tastes, and attainments. Why was it -opened to me? To mock me? to tempt? I could -<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>not believe it, I had welcomed it as coming in the providence -of God.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“But my heart-searching grew swift and deep, and -it was given me to see the absoluteness, the finality, of -the vows which I had assumed, from which I straightway -realized that no argument of those with which I -was equipped sufficed to release me. Feebly and imperfectly, -yet sensibly, I began to grasp the import of -what the apostle calls the fellowship of Christ’s sufferings, -the being made conformable unto his death. Oh, -the depth of the mystery hid in that saying! All these -years I have sounded it—Anna, all these years I have -died, in my own natural life—I have striven to give all -I had to give, but the ‘much fruit’—where has it -been?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>An expression of pain, hardly less than agony, was -impressed upon Samuel Mallison’s face, and Anna hid -her eyes, finding it too bitter to bear to see him suffer -thus.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I put it all away from me, then and there. Nothing -was possible but for me to decline the invitation which -had been given, you can see. Further, I saw that my -studies had been my snare. My love of poetry and -philosophy and learning, the prominence of my pulpit, -the social and intellectual affinities I had formed, all had -contributed to my spiritual deadness and decline. It -was then that I put away in that box, now upstairs, the -books which had particularly ministered to the tastes -which had led me so far from the true conception of my -life work. Never since that day have I allowed myself -to follow the instinct for poetic expression. That longing -had to be cut out, even if some life-blood flowed in -the doing it. Henceforth, I wished to know nothing -<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>but Christ, and him—Anna, do not fail to grasp this—him, -not triumphant, but <em>crucified</em>. The offence of -the cross to the natural spirit, how hardly can it be overcome! -No child’s play, no easy and harmonious growth -in grace, has it been to me, but a conflict all the way. -Your mother has a different type of religious life. Be -thankful if her temperament shall prove to be yours.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“That is the story. I left my church not very long -after and sought this rugged, remote section, because it -offered hard work and a needy field, which some men -shunned. Some years before I had met your mother, and -we were married. Twenty years of my life and its best -activity have been spent here in Haran. Those first -few years and what made life to me in them I have looked -upon as a false start. From that day, I sought only this -one gift: an especial enduement of the Holy Spirit to -give me power with men unto salvation. I desired this -gift supremely, but I have not received it in any signal -manner. My ministry has not been wholly unfruitful, -but it has been lacking in the results for which I hoped; -I have not had power with God and men, as have some -of my more favoured brethren. The end is near now, -very near, but I come with almost empty hands and a -humbled, contrite heart to meet my Judge. But, my -child, whatever the conflicts of the past years, the last -thing which I could wish for to-day would be to have -reversed that early decision. My life, from the merely -human point of view, might, perhaps, on the line of intellectual -effort have been counted successful, while as a -minister of Christ it has not been so to any marked degree: -but what is success, and what failure, when the -things of time fade before our eyes?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Samuel Mallison’s head drooped upon one supporting -<span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>hand, and an expression of solemn musing rested on his -face, while Anna’s tears flowed fast.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Just to do our own little day’s work faithfully, not -knowing what its part may be in the great whole, just -to hold fast to the word of God and the testimony of -Jesus, and, having begun the race, to continue to the end—is -not this enough?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was silence between them for some moments, -and then the father said, making a sign to Anna to -rise:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I want you to leave me now, dear child. I must -rest. The one earthly hope to which I still cling is that -to you may be given the reward of ‘much fruit,’ which -I have failed to win. Remember this, if all the other -teaching I have given you shall be forgotten in the years -which are to try you, of what stuff you are made: <em>with -greatness we have nothing at all to do; faithfulness only is -our part</em>.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna Mallison listened to these words with reverent -sympathy and loving response, but the deeper meaning -of them did not reveal itself to her, her time for perception -being not yet fully come.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER VI</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>O Joy, hast thou a shape?</div> - <div class='line'>Hast thou a breath?</div> - <div class='line'>How fillest thou the soundless air?</div> - <div class='line'>Tell me the pillars of thy house!</div> - <div class='line'>What rest they on? Do they escape</div> - <div class='line'>The victory of Death?</div> - <div class='line in30'>—H. H.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>In the largest theatre of the New England city of -Springfield on a night in December, an immense assembly -of people was gathered. Every gallery was crowded -to its utmost, and the house, from floor to roof, was a -dense mass of human beings. On the stage were musical -instruments, but the customary scenery was withdrawn, -save that the background showed a Neapolitan -villa situated on the slope of a Swiss mountain, at the -base of which an ultramarine ocean heaved stormily. -Against the incongruity of this unstable structure were -massed several hundred men and women, and before -them a musical leader, baton in hand. At an appointed -signal the great chorus stood, and with them, at the gesture -of a man, himself seated near the centre of the foreground -of the stage, the whole audience, with a rushing -sound like the sea or the wind, rose also.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then there was sung by the chorus, with trained perfection, -an old hymn, the words of which, as well as the -melody, were of quaint and almost childish simplicity:—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“Alas, and did my Saviour bleed?</div> - <div class='line in2'>And did my Sovereign die?</div> - <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>Would he devote that sacred head</div> - <div class='line in2'>For such a worm as I?</div> - <div class='line'>Was it for crimes that I had done</div> - <div class='line in2'>He groaned upon the tree?</div> - <div class='line'>Amazing pity, grace unknown,</div> - <div class='line in2'>And love beyond degree.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c011'>With a swift motion of his baton the leader indicated -that the whole assembly was to join in singing the refrain, -in lowered voices. There followed in a deep murmur -of a pathos quite indescribable:—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“Remember me, remember me,</div> - <div class='line in2'>Oh, Lord, remember me!</div> - <div class='line'>And when thou sittest on thy throne</div> - <div class='line in2'>Dear Lord, remember me.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c011'>At the close of this hymn many people in all parts of -the house were in tears, but the hush of motionless silence -following was complete, and the eyes of all were riveted -upon that central figure on the stage, the man who now -rose and, advancing to the front, began to address them.</p> - -<p class='c011'>This man was of majestic personal presence and his -speech was with marked power. Thinly veiled under a -manner of unusual restraint and quietness lay a genius -for emotional appeal and for persuasion. There was in -his manner and speech an utter absence of excitability, -and yet a quality which excited; a capacity for impassioned -eloquence, apparently controlled and held back -by the speaker’s will. The congregation listened with -absorbed attention.</p> - -<p class='c011'>At the close of the address, which was designed to -move all the impenitent or irresolute persons present to -an immediate confession of their need of a Saviour, the -speaker asked those of this class who were present and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>were so inclined to advance and take certain seats, -directly in front of the stage, which had been reserved -for them.</p> - -<p class='c011'>A close observer would have been interested in watching -the man as this part of the evening’s work was -ushered in. The restrained intensity of his manner was -noticeably augmented; his eyes moved slowly and searchingly -from one part of the house to another with a gaze -which no trifler and no awakened soul might escape. -The expression of his face was sternly solemn, even -tragical, as of one undergoing an actual travail of spirit. -He stood absolutely motionless save for a single and -significant gesture of his right hand, an upward gesture -made with peculiar slowness and with dramatic effect. -It was at once entreating, subduing, and commanding.</p> - -<p class='c011'>At the first moment no person stirred; but presently, -as if drawn by an irresistible magnetism, a stream of -men and women could be seen advancing down the various -aisles, with fixed look, pallid faces, and sometimes -with tears. Upon such the speaker bent a look of gentleness -and encouragement, in which his features would -be momentarily relaxed, only to resume the profound -solemnity already spoken of, as he lifted his eyes again -to the unmoved masses still confronting him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The chorus, without rising, now chanted softly the -words of vivid appeal:—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“Why not to-night? Why not to-night?</div> - <div class='line'>Thou wouldst be saved, why not to-night?”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c011'>Many moments passed. The company of seekers -now numbered a hundred. Beneath the absolute outward -restraint which held all, an inner excitement grew -steadily in intensity, and the subtle contagion of “the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>crowd” assumed an irresistible sway. It might have -become alarming. It possessed elements of terror just -below the surface. A climax was reached when a man -of gigantic frame and brutalized features, in the upper -gallery, stepped forward, and with a gesture rude and -almost wild, flung out his arms toward the evangelist, -and called through the silence of the place:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I give in—you knew I’d have to. Yes, I’m -comin’.” And then, turning, clattered down the bare -gallery stairs, only to reappear presently below, with his -coarse head bent and big tears flowing down his purple -cheeks.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gradually the stream of seekers abated, and the aisles -became empty. Thus far no word of appeal or warning -had been added to the sermon; save for the restrained -monotony of the music this extraordinary scene -had taken place in complete silence.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then the speaker’s voice was heard again, and in it -was a strange emotional quality which had been previously -unnoticed, and before which the pride and will of -many melted within them.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“The people of this company are dismissed to their -homes,” he said, in gentle, measured tones; “my work -now is for those who have feared God rather than men. -They will remain. Let all others go without unnecessary -delay, or stopping for speech with one another. -The Spirit is here.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The benediction followed, but as they broke up, scores -hitherto irresolute turned and joined the company of -seekers in the front of the house.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When the speaker, the house being otherwise emptied, -came down to the anxious and disquieted little -company waiting for his guidance, he stood before them -<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>in silence for a little space, and then, turning to a group -of clergymen who were associated with him, he said:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Pardon me, but I believe I will leave these friends -in your hands, brethren. I wish to return immediately -to my lodging,” and saying nothing further in explanation -or apology, he departed, with evident haste.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When he reached the lobby of the theatre he found -three men watching who hastened toward him, their -spokesman, with outstretched hand, introducing himself -and his companions and adding, with eager cordiality:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“This is so much better than we expected. We -were prepared to wait for you some time.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The man received the greeting gravely, and, indeed, -silently.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Will you come with us now to our hotel? We -wish to confer with you. We have come from New -York for that purpose.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Will you not let me know what you wish here, at -once?” was the rejoinder. “I am in some haste.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Certainly, certainly, if you prefer it,” said the other, -cheerfully, hiding a shade of discomfiture. Then, with -a change to serious emphasis, he proceeded: “We -want you to undertake a work in New York this winter, -as soon as possible, in fact. A large group of prominent -churches is ready to unite in the movement, and unlimited -resources will be placed at your disposal. Your own -compensation, pardon me for alluding to it, will be anything -you will name—that is a matter of indifference to -the committee, save that it be large enough. We are -ready to build you a tabernacle two hundred feet square,—larger -if you like.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The man addressed involuntarily laid his hand on his -breast; a letter in the pocket under his hand, from Chicago, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>specified a tabernacle three hundred feet square. -He smiled slightly; even religious zeal was a size larger -in Chicago than elsewhere.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Further details were mentioned, but the evangelist -seemed to give them a forced and mechanical attention. -Then, rather suddenly, he broke in with a word of -apology.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am fully sensible, gentlemen,” he went on, “of -the confidence you have manifested in me, and I would, -under other conditions, have accepted your proposition. -But the very circumstance of your making it to-night -hastens an action on my part which I have been approaching, -but had not, until now, definitely determined -upon. I am about to withdraw from this work, and can -form no engagements, however promising. I shall close -the meetings here as soon as I can honourably do so, and -these meetings are, for the present certainly, my last.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The blank faces of the three men before him seemed -to demand a word or two more.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“My reasons?” he asked with curt and almost chilling -brevity. “Pardon me. They are personal to -myself. Good evening. No one can regret your disappointment -more than I.” With these words the -speaker turned abruptly from the little group and left -the theatre. In great amazement and perplexity the -committee of three presently followed his example.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Here was an accredited and earnest man, no irresponsible -religious tramp, who possessed, apparently in a -superlative degree, the gift of winning souls for which -Samuel Mallison had given his all, if in vain, and for -lack of which he might fairly be said to be dying, being -one who could have lived on spiritual joy, if such had -ever been his portion. And this man, possessing this -<span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>coveted and crowning religious endowment, was deliberately -putting it aside, and refusing to use it. What -did it signify?</p> - -<hr class='c012' /> - -<p class='c011'>Anna Mallison had left Haran, in its ice-bound valley, -early that morning, and, by travelling through snowdrifts -in a sleigh all the forenoon, had been favoured to get -as far as Springfield on her journey, at nine o’clock of -that same evening. She was bound for Boston, where she -was to go before the missionary board to be examined as -to her fitness and promise for a worker on the “foreign -field.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>At the Springfield station Anna had been met by the -little missionary lady whom she had heard and met in -Haran on her night of great decision. By her she had -been conducted to a hotel, shown to a room, affectionately -if reticently counselled, and then left to sleep and -be ready for another early start on the following morning. -It was the first time Anna had ever been in a city, -and she was bewildered by the noise and lights in the -streets through which she had been hurriedly driven.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Left alone, she looked about her at the stiff order of -the narrow hotel chamber, the first she had ever inhabited, -the showy, shabby carpet, the cheap carvings of -the furniture, the long mirror in which she herself stood, -still and dreary, and a rushing wave of heart-sickness -swept over her. Her anxiety for her father became -suddenly poignant; a sense of the sadness of his life -tore her heart with fierce pain: she realized now, as -she had failed to before, how fast his strength declined. -She longed to know how that moment fared with him, -and how the next would. A wild purpose seized her -<span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>to return the next morning to Haran, and let all other -purposes go until some later time.</p> - -<p class='c011'>However, in spite of all this anxiety and doubt, -Anna’s physical weariness was sufficient to bring sleep -apace, when once her head was on the pillow, and all -the distant murmur of the city and the sudden, uncomprehended -noises of the great house were soon lost to -her. Thus she failed to hear a man who entered the -room next to hers within the same hour, who closed the -door with some emphasis and locked it fast; who, after -that, walked up and down within the narrow limits of -that room with uniform, slow step, and who continued -to do this until the December dawn filtered through the -dim windows. All was still in that next room when -Anna awoke. The anxiety and homesickness of the -night before were gone, and in their place was that -mysterious joy which once before on a June night had -strangely visited her. Again, in her dream, she had -seen the face which ever since had dominated her; as -before, it was majestic, free, and strong. As before, it -had bent to her,—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“Bent down and smiled.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c011'>She rose hastily, glad and awed and greatly wondering. -At six o’clock she was ready and went down to -the great dining-hall, dark save for the wan light of a -single gas jet under which she sat down, silent and -alone, and was served by a heavy-eyed, untidy man-servant, -with an indifferent breakfast. She swallowed -a few mouthfuls by force of will, then gathered up her -humble belongings, and started out alone into the icy -chill of the grey morning. It was too early for her -friend from the Orient to brave the rigours of the unaccustomed -<span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>winter. It was all comfortless, dreary, and -inauspicious; small cheer for a young girl starting on -such an errand, but there was no sinking now of her -spirit. She walked to the Springfield station in the light -and warmth of that inexplicable radiance of her dream, -and so pursued her journey to Boston.</p> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c013'> - <div>FROM ANNA MALLISON’S NOTE-BOOK</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c014'>Do you believe in the mutual penetration of mind? Do you -believe that, independent of word and voice, independent of -distance, from one end of the world to the other, minds can influence -and penetrate one another?... Do you not know a -soul can feel within it another soul which touches it?</p> - -<div class='lg-container-r c013'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>—<span class='sc'>Père Gratry.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c011'><em>January 28, 1870.</em>—A week to-day since my father -was buried. It is late at night, and I have come up to -my little roof room, but I cannot sleep. I have been -with my mother, and we have cried together, until she -sleeps at last, so tired, and her dear face changed so -sadly that, as she slept, I was almost afraid. And yet -she is greatly upheld, and as gentle and uncomplaining -as it is possible to be.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But for me, knowing my father, and trying to find -the meaning of his life, these days give me less grief -than wonder and perplexity. For a time after my -father told me the story of his past, after I knew what -he might have been, knew his great renunciation, his -utter humility, his leaving all to seek one only thing, -and that a gift for others, and even that being denied -him, so that to himself his life seemed a failure, and -its supreme sacrifice unsanctioned and unblessed—after -<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>this I could hardly bear the heart-break of it all. So -pure, so blameless, so devoted a life, and yet, to his own -thought, so unfruitful. Just a narrow little village -church, with its narrow little victories and defeats, and -its monotony of spiritual ebb and flow—this was the -sum of his achievement. Was it not hard of God? -This he would not have said, but my undisciplined heart -has cried out in bitterness and rebellion. I have been -in deep doubt and darkness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>To-night it is given me to see it all in light, and I am -reconciled. The word which changed my father’s life -was that great word of the Master, “Except a corn of -wheat fall into the ground and <em>die</em>, it abideth alone.” -That dying, the utterness of it, was what we did not -comprehend. I think my father understood before he -left us, although he could not express it. But all along -he had felt that in dying in his own personal life to the -world and to his ambition, he was meeting the condition, -and that in his own personal life the fruits of that -death were to be manifest, that he should be set for the -salvation of many. But God sees not with our short -vision. Days with him are years, and years days; and -our whole life but a vapour, which appeareth for a little -time, and then vanisheth away.</p> - -<p class='c011'>This has come to me: My father’s sacrifice has borne -in the life of one of his children, if not in all, the fruit -of an especial dedication of that life to the service of -God. If he had not been the man he was, if he had -not laid down his life daily and hourly in humble self-surrender -to the Divine Will, never, never should I have -dreamed of giving myself to the work to which I am -now pledged. His life, in its deepest working, had been -wrought into mine, so that unconsciously I willed to be -<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>what he would have willed to have me. So, then, it is -no more I alone, but the spirit, the will, the nature of -my father that worketh in me.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The God of my father—this phrase, so common, so -almost commonplace before, has suddenly taken to itself -an extraordinary significance. My father’s God, my -God, who began in my father’s willing sacrifice of all -the noblest powers of his manhood his purpose of grace, -will now, in his good pleasure, carry on the one work, -the same so begun, through me, all unworthy as I am, -timid, trembling, but a child. A child, and yet called -with this high calling; child of a saint, called solemnly, -sacredly, in the very depths of my being, deeper than I -feel, higher than I know, to be my father’s child, to be -the continuance, the fulfilment of his dying life, to finish -what he began, to bring to fruitage the seed he died -to sow. How sublime, how sweet, how awful the vocation -wherewith I am called!</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then look upon me, O my God, my father’s God! -Behold my weakness; raise it into power; turn my dull -mind to light, my hard and narrow heart to a flame of -love; make me thy minister, thy messenger, fulfil in me -all thy great will.</p> - -<p class='c011'><em>February 20.</em>—To-night I am alone in the old home, -not <em>our</em> home any more. It is stripped already of all that -made it home, but, bare and grim as it is, I love it, and -leave it with a sorrow my heart is yet too tired to realize. -They have consented to let me sleep this one last night -in my own little room. This poor bed is to be left, -being not worth removing, and all that clothes it goes -with me. So, like a pilgrim, under a tent roof for a -single night, I lie alone, and look up beyond the dear old -gable and see the winter stars.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>They shine upon his grave, and the snow already has -drifted over it, and my heart bleeds. Why will they not -let us pray for our dead as the Romish people do? Oh, -kind little father, gone what dim, dazzling way I do not -know, will they let you be happy at last? Will God let -you <em>see why</em>?</p> - -<p class='c011'><em>February 21.</em>—It was a strange night, and yet most -beautiful.</p> - -<p class='c011'>I hardly slept, but prayed until nearly dawn. Then -I slept a short time, and woke to find my limbs racked -with pain from the bitter chill of the room, and tears -running down my face. Almost as if I were carrying -out an order given me in my sleep, I hurried on my -clothing, and, taking my candle, came down the stairs, -both flights, through the empty, echoing house, to the -rooms below. I was so cold that I shook from head to -foot. Then I found in the kitchen wood left from our -store, and I brought it into the east room, the parlour, -where we laid my father after his death, and where I had -sat beside his dear form each night. The great fireplace -was bare and empty, like the room, but the andirons -were left.</p> - -<p class='c011'>I laid the wood across and started the fire, and it -blazed and gave light, and threw strange shadows about -the room, and I kneeled beside it, on the hearth, as I -used sometimes when I was a little child, and warmed -my hands, and still I cried, and there was no one to -comfort me.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mally says she would have been afraid—in that -room. I cannot understand. It is because her dearest -have not died. What of him could have been anything -but precious? To have felt his spirit near me! -That would indeed have been holy consolation.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>But what if that were true? I do not know. While -I so crouched in the chimney corner, my heart bleeding, -and the tears bathing my poor face, there was a soft -touch, lighter than the flight of a thistledown, passing -over my head, as if the gentlest hand God himself could -make gentle had smoothed my hair, and sought to comfort -me.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then some one said: “I came here to be with you.” -But I do not know whether it was I who so said in my -own heart, or whether the words were spoken to my ear. -I only know that I was comforted, and the fire warmed -my aching limbs, and my head drooped against the wall, -and I slept with long sobs, as I slept once when I was -a child, and my dear father ministered to me.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was broad daylight when I awoke, and I felt soothed -and strong. I rose to go and make ready to lock and -leave the house. But first I knelt and prayed, and I am -praying still.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Live in me, O God, as my father lives in me, and as -thou didst live in him. Let me live the life and die -the death which he sought to live, to die, for thee. -Give thou unto him through me abiding fruit in the -salvation of souls; and grant us such grace as that we -may humbly and worthily fulfil thy gracious will, I -on earth, as he in heaven.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER VII</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c015'>She [Dorothea] could not reconcile the anxieties of a spiritual life involving -eternal consequences, with a keen interest in gimp, and artificial protrusions of -drapery.—<cite>Middlemarch</cite>, <span class='sc'>George Eliot</span>.</p> - -<p class='c010'>A small house in a small street of a small provincial -city. A faded brown house with its front door directly -on the street, the steps jutting into the sidewalk. A -narrow strip of yard overlaid with grimy snow separated -this house from others on either side, equally unnotable -and uninteresting, the dwellings of mechanics and small -tradesmen.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was the close of a rough March day, the wind had -not died with sunsetting, and a thin, piercing rain, colder -than snow, was driven before it into the very teeth of -the few passers-by.</p> - -<p class='c011'>A tall woman, in a straight black dress with a dyed -black shawl drawn tightly around her shoulders, was -making her way down the street dead against the wind, -which beat her hair out into wet strands and bound her -skirts hard about the slender long limbs. She made no -useless attempt to hold an umbrella; in fact, she carried -none, but was heavily burdened with four or five large -books. She was girlish in figure after a severe sort, her -step steady, her movement without impatience or fluttering, -in spite of the struggle with the wind. Seeing her -face, the absorbedness of sorrow in it was profound -enough to explain indifference to sharper buffetings than -those of the wind. It was Anna Mallison.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>When she reached the house she deposited her books -on the icy step and drew from her pocket with stiffened, -aching fingers a key with which she unlocked the door. -The house was unlighted, and its close, airless precincts -apparently empty.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Stooping, Anna gathered her books again and closed -the door, then groped her way to a steep staircase, a -weary sigh escaping her as if in spite of herself. The -room which she entered, silent and dark at her coming, -showed itself, when she had lighted a lamp, a low but -spacious living room, stiffly and even meagrely furnished. -Opening beyond it was a smaller bedroom.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Having laid aside shawl and bonnet, Anna made preparation -for a simple evening meal for two persons. Not -until these were made did she stop to realize that she -was chilled and that her shoes were wet through. Characteristically -it was of the shoes she took cognizance -rather than of her feet—circumstances having thus far -led her to regard health as an easier thing to acquire than -food and raiment.</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was a sudden outburst now, from below, of -merry voices, both a man’s voice and a girl’s, in loud -and cheerful banter, then the house door shut with a -bang, there was a quick step on the stairs, and a gay, -fluttering, wind-blown figure of a pretty girl appeared in -the upper sitting room. It was Mally Loveland, Anna’s -early Haran friend and companion.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Holloa, Anna!” she called lightly, “lucky for me -you got in first! A fire is a good thing, I tell you, on a -night like this.” Mally’s voice had acquired a new ring -of self-confident vivacity.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You’re a little late, Mally,” remarked Anna, quietly, -as she returned to the room. “Shall I make tea?”</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>“Oh, yes, do; there’s a dear. Oh, such fun as we’ve -been having at the Allens’! But I’m so chilly and damp, -you know; and just look, Anna, at the ribbons on my -hat.” Mally held up to view a pretentious structure of -ribbon and velvet which had plainly suffered many things -of the elements.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Too bad. I hope you won’t go out again to-night, -your cold was so bad yesterday. It is a wretched night.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, I must go out, my dear—must indeed! -Couldn’t disappoint the girls, you know.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Nor even the boys?” asked Anna smiling.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mally laughed at this, evidently pleased. In a few -moments she was ready and they took their places at -the tea-table, Mally quieting herself with an effort, in -order to ask a brief blessing upon the meal. It was -her turn to-night. The two coöperated in their religious -exercises of a general character, as well as in their -housekeeping.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Destiny, so eagerly challenged by these two village -girls in the eventless isolation of their life in Haran, -seemed at last to have declared itself decisively: both -were to catch men,—Anna in the apostolic sense, Mally -in a different one.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna’s journey to Boston, three months earlier, had -been successful. She had returned under appointment -as a missionary to India; but being still too young to go -out, the Board had advised her to spend the following -two years in studies especially designed to develop her -usefulness in work among the heathen. In January -Samuel Mallison had died. The parsonage, where the -children had been born and nurtured, could thus no -longer be their home. It must be made ready now for a -successor.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>It had been a sorrowful breaking up, and when the -melancholy work was done, and the home effaced forever, -the mother, patient and uncomplaining, departed -with Lucia to the lonely farmhouse among the hills, to -take on again, in her later years of life, the many cares -of tending little children. It was then that Anna, -accompanied by her friend Mally, had come to Burlington -with the purpose of studying at a collegiate institute, -which offered opportunity for more advanced study than -could be had in Haran. Anna was hard at work every -morning on Paley’s “Evidences” and Butler’s “Analogy,” -while her afternoons were spent in the small hospital of -the town, in an informal nurses’ class, as it was even -then considered a useful thing for missionaries to go out -with some equipment for healing the bodies of men as -well as their souls. Mally, by her own account, was -“taking” music, painting, and French.</p> - -<p class='c011'>As they sat at their little table now, with its meagre -and humble fare, but its indefinable expression of refinement, -Anna and Mally were in striking contrast.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It has been said before that Anna matured slowly. -There was still in her face, despite its sadness, the grave -wonder, the artless simplicity, and the sweet unconsciousness -of a child. Her figure was angular and undeveloped; -her black dress, absolutely, harshly plain, and of coarse -stuff; her face, far too thin and colourless for beauty. -She was, plainly, underfed and overworked; but there -was, nevertheless, a dignity and a distinction in her -aspect which emphasized Mally’s provincialness, notwithstanding -the little fashionable touches about dress -and coiffure which the latter had swiftly and instinctively -adapted to her own use.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna had the repose of a person who is not concerned -<span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>at all as to the impression she makes, or desirous -of making any personal impression whatever. Mally -had the restlessness, the vivacity, the eagerness, of a -woman who wishes everywhere and at every time to -make herself felt, to be the central figure. She was -born an egotist, and even “divine grace,” in the devotional -phraseology of that time, had not been sufficient to -overcome her natural bent. At the present time, in fact, -egotism was having comparatively easy work with her, -and an indefinite truce with the religious conflicts of earlier -days had been tacitly declared. That spiritual experience -had been sincere, and it had lasted several years. -Fortunately, to Mally’s unspoken thought, she had been -favoured during those years to work out her salvation, -which was now, according to a prime doctrine of the -church, secured to her against all accidents. This being -so, no one need be concerned for her; and if she were -herself satisfied with a low spiritual attainment, it was -nobody’s business but her own.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She had, to her own naïve surprise, met with a marked -degree of social success in a certain middle-class stratum -of the small town. She was pretty, clever, adaptive; the -young men and women of her set said she was “such -good company.” This was high praise. In Haran the -natural order for a marriageable girl was to be soberly -and decorously and protractedly wooed by one young -man, to whom, in process of time, she was married. -Here Mally found a far more stimulating social condition. -Not one man, but many, might be the portion of -a popular girl, and Mally found the strength of numbers -very great. The sex instinct, the ruling desire to attract -men, sprang into vigorous action, and became, for a time -at least, predominant. Women of whom this is true -<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>are often very good women, with energy and common -sense, but it is important for their friends, for various -reasons, to hold the master key to their character.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna Mallison, at this period of her life as sexless in -her conscious life as a star, looked on at this rapid and -unlooked-for development of Mally’s nature in infinite -perplexity. She had always liked certain men, even outside -her own kindred, but it was because they were wise -or good or sincere, not because they were men. A thirst -for admiration being thus far undeclared in her own life, -Mally became inexplicable to her; she did not hold the -key to her character, and involuntarily she withdrew -more and more into herself, her only friend becoming -thus uncomprehended. If she felt this in any degree, -Mally, being closely occupied with more tangible consideration, -paid small heed to it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>While they were taking tea, Anna kept her eyes fixed -on the mantel clock, and, having eaten hastily, rose from -her place.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“What is the matter?” asked Mally, looking up. -“Oh, of course; but, dear me, Anna, I never would bother -to get things ready for old Marm Wilson, after the way -she grumbles at you. Sit down, do. You’ll never get -any thanks, I can tell you that; and what’s the use?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna was at the door already. “I think it’s late -enough now to be safe. She only grumbles, you know, -if the oil and wood burn out awhile before she gets here. -She was to work quite near on Hill Street, to-day, so she -will surely be in early.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, well, go on if you’ve a mind to. I suppose it -is forlorn on a night like this for the poor old creature to -find her house all dark and cold,” Mally spoke carelessly, -half to herself. Anna was already half-way downstairs.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>Mrs. Wilson was their houseowner, a seamstress of -narrow means and narrower life whose upper rooms they -rented.</p> - -<p class='c011'>An hour later the upper sitting room was suddenly -enlivened and almost filled, as far as seating capacity was -concerned, by a group of Mally’s friends, who had come -to escort her to an evening gathering. These young -men and maidens, whom Anna had scarcely seen before, -seemed to explain the new Mally to her, and to place -her at a different angle, as one of a class, not one by herself. -The girls all wore a profusion of ribbons and -curls, and were all in an effervescence of noisy excitement -regarding the effect of the dampness on their hair -and their finery; they whispered and giggled together, -and pouted at the young men, or tossed their heads and -assumed exaggerated airs of being shocked at the personal -remarks which these attendants volunteered, and -with which they were, in fact, palpably delighted.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna, who attempted some quiet civilities from time -to time, was regarded with undisguised indifference, as -not being “one of the set.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>After the young people had left the house, however, -Mally’s companion on their expedition, a young man -somewhat above the others in intelligence, said to her:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“What an unusual girl that friend of yours, that Miss -Mallison, is. I never met any one just like her. She -strikes me as a girl who would keep a fellow at a mighty -distance; but if she ever did care for him, he wouldn’t -mind dying for her, you know, and all that sort of thing. -But she isn’t one of the kind you like to play games -with.”</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER VIII</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>She was a queen of noble Nature’s crowning,</div> - <div class='line'>A smile of hers was like an act of grace;</div> - <div class='line'>She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning,</div> - <div class='line'>Like daily beauties of the vulgar race;</div> - <div class='line'>But, if she smiled, a light was on her face,</div> - <div class='line'>A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beam</div> - <div class='line'>Of peaceful radiance.</div> - <div class='line in36'>—<span class='sc'>Hartley Coleridge.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>To the surprise of both the friends, Anna, who had -gone about her rigorous tasks unseen and unnoted hitherto, -began about this time to come into a certain comparative -prominence in the quiet little city.</p> - -<p class='c011'>A day or two after the evening described in the last -chapter, Anna received a note from Mrs. Ingraham, the -wife of a distinguished citizen of the town, a man of -great wealth, and a well-known senator. The Ingrahams -were, perhaps, the most highly placed family in -the little town, by right of distinguished antecedents, of -wealth, and of habit of life. They belonged to that -singularly privileged class, which Anna Mallison had -not hitherto encountered, who have both will and -power to appropriate the most select of all things which -minister to the individual development, whether things -material, things intellectual, or things spiritual. Thus -Mrs. Ingraham and her daughters were women of fashion, -prominent figures at the state functions of their -own state, and well known in the inner circles of -Washington society. They dressed superlatively well -in clothes that came from Paris. At the same time -<span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>they were as much at home among literary as among -fashionable folk, and Mrs. Ingraham at least was understood -to be devotedly religious, with an especial penchant -for foreign missions. In fine, all things were -theirs.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Thus it was an event for Anna Mallison, in her dull, -low-ceiled upper room, to open and read the note of -Mrs. Senator Ingraham to herself,—a note written in -graceful, flowing hand, on sumptuous, ivorylike paper, -squarely folded, with a crest on the seal, and the faintest -suggestion of violets escaping almost before perceived. -The note was delicately courteous, a marvel of gracious -tact. Mrs. Ingraham had heard through a friend that -Miss Mallison was under appointment as a missionary to -India, and had sincerely wished to meet her. On Friday -evening a dear Christian worker from Boston, now -her guest, was to hold a little parlour meeting at the -house for the help and encouragement of friends who -were interested in a higher Christian life. Would not -Miss Mallison give them all the pleasure of making one -of that number? Mrs. Ingraham would esteem it a -personal favour; and if Miss Mallison felt that she -could tell the little company something of the experience -she had had in being led into this beautiful life work, -it would be most acceptable. However, this -was by no means urged, but merely suggested and left -entirely to Miss Mallison’s preference.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The man who had brought the note waited on the -narrow walk below for Anna’s answer. He wore a -sober but handsome livery.</p> - -<p class='c011'>This was the first invitation of the kind which Anna -had received, but she had now somewhat accustomed -herself, by the advice of the Board, to speaking in -<span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>women’s missionary meetings, and it seemed to her -right to say yes. Accordingly, on untinted note-paper -of a very common grade, she said yes in a natural and -simple way, and made haste to give the note to the -man at the door below, whom she felt distressed to keep -waiting.</p> - -<p class='c011'>This man removed his shining hat in respectful -acknowledgment as he took the note, and told Anna -that Mrs. Ingraham had asked him to say, having forgotten -to mention it in her note, that in case Miss -Mallison would be so kind as to come, Mrs. Ingraham -would send the carriage for her at half-past seven on -Friday evening.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna felt that she ought to deprecate so much attention, -and timidly attempted to do so; but the man plainly -was not further empowered to treat in the matter, and, -bowing respectfully, departed with Anna’s pallid, long -and narrow envelope in his well-gloved hand.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When Mally came in, Anna handed her Mrs. Ingraham’s -note. Mally’s face flushed noticeably as she read -it. It was not easy for her to have her quiet friend thus -preferred.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You’ll go, of course?” she commented rather coldly, -as she handed it back.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I should think you would by all means. Who -wouldn’t? I’ve heard lots about Mrs. Ingraham; she -believes in a very high religious life, you know, and those -rich higher-life people live high, I can tell you. There’ll -be a supper, depend on that, and it will be a fine one.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, I don’t think there will be anything of that -kind,” interposed Anna, hastily.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You see!” cried Mally, with an air of superior -<span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>wisdom and wide social experience. “Oh my! if I -should tell you all I’ve heard about those Ingrahams, -you’d be surprised. One night they have a prayer-meeting -and the next night a dance. It’s all right, I -suppose. Kind of new, that’s all.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>On the following evening, when the luxurious Ingraham -carriage was driven up before Mrs. Wilson’s poor -little house, many eyes peered narrowly from neighbours’ -windows to catch the unwonted sight; and Anna, slipping -hastily out of the Wilson door, felt an access of -humility in this exaltation of herself, for such she knew -it seemed to her neighbours, transient though it was. -She had suffered a guilty and apologetic consciousness -all day toward Mally, who had treated her with a -slight coolness and indifference, which afflicted Anna -keenly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When Anna entered the hall of the Ingraham house, -a small, stout woman, in a brown dress and smooth hair, -came out to greet her, and took her hand between both -her own, which were white and soft and heavily weighted -with diamonds. Anna found the diamonds confusing, -but she knew the hands were kind. Mrs. Ingraham’s -manner, of sincere kindliness and dignity, put Anna -wholly at her ease, and she looked about her, presently, -at the subdued luxury and elegance of her surroundings -with a frank, childlike pleasure. Her absolute unconsciousness -of herself saved Anna from the awkwardness -which her unusual height, her angular thinness, and her -unaccustomedness to social contact might otherwise have -produced. She wore her “other dress,” which was of -plain black poplin, but quite new, and not ungraceful in -its straight untortured lines; and as she entered the great -drawing-room, with its splendours of costly art, and met -<span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>the eyes of many people who were watching her entrance, -the quiet gravity and simplicity of her bearing were hardly -less than grace.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Two women, dressed with elegance and apparently -not deeply touched with religiousness, commented apart -a little later, having met and spoken in turn with the -lady from Boston and the young missionary elect.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“What do you think of Mrs. Ingraham’s new saints?” -asked one, whose black dress was heavily studded with -jet ornaments.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I like the young missionary better than the Bostonian, -myself,” was the reply. The speaker had red -hair and an exquisite figure. “Isn’t she curious, though?” -she continued. “Manners, you know, but absolutely no -manner! I never encountered a woman before, even at -her age, who positively had <em>none</em>.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“That is what ails her, isn’t it?” returned her beaded -friend. “You’ve just hit it. And you can see that -tremendously developed missionary conscience of hers -in every line of her face and figure, don’t you know you -can?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Figure, my dear? She has none. I never saw -such an utter absence of the superfluous!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Here they both laughed clandestinely behind their -laced handkerchiefs.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Do you know how I should describe that girl?” -challenged the Titian beauty, recovering.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Cleverly, without doubt.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I should call her a scaffolding over a conscience.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“That is really very good, Evelyn. You can see -that she is not even consciously a woman yet. She -knows nothing of life or of herself or of this goodly -frame, the earth, save what that New England conscience -<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>of hers has interpreted to her. Her horizon is -as narrow as her chest.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Poor thing. How will she bear life, I wonder!” -and the words died into a whisper, for at that moment -the little talking, moving groups of men and women -were called to take the chairs, which had been arranged -in comfortable order, and give attention to what was to -follow.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER IX</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>When the soul, growing clearer,</div> - <div class='line'>Sees God no nearer;</div> - <div class='line'>When the soul, mounting higher,</div> - <div class='line'>To God comes no nigher;</div> - <div class='line'>But the arch-fiend Pride</div> - <div class='line'>Mounts at her side,</div> - <div class='line'>And, when she fain would soar,</div> - <div class='line'>Makes idols to adore,</div> - <div class='line'>Changing the pure emotion</div> - <div class='line'>Of her high devotion</div> - <div class='line'>To a skin-deep sense</div> - <div class='line'>Of her own eloquence;</div> - <div class='line'>Strong to deceive, strong to enslave—</div> - <div class='line'>Save, oh! save.</div> - <div class='line in32'>—<span class='sc'>Matthew Arnold.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Anna was the first to speak. When she rose and -faced the little audience, made up of fashionable women, -professional men, and a sprinkling of the more clearly -defined religious “workers”, she did not feel the coldness -underlying their courteous attention. The Titian beauty -fixed upon her eyes full of unconsciously patronizing -kindness, and Mrs. Ingraham smiled at her with sympathetic -encouragement, but they might have spared themselves -the effort. Anna did not perceive or consider -these things. She was not thinking of them at all, nor -of herself.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The peculiar twofold consecration which rested upon -her spirit in regard to her missionary vocation, as a call -to fulfil at once the Divine Will and the will of her -father, was so profound and so solemn as to remove -<span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>her from personal and passing cares. She would not -herself have chosen to appear before these people and to -speak to them of her supreme interest; but to do so had -been laid upon her as duty, and Anna’s conception of -duty, by reason of the “tremendously developed conscience” -which the worldly-wise women had discerned -in her, was of something to be done. She did this duty -with the simple directness of a soldier under command. -She stood erect and motionless, with no nervous working -of hands or trembling of lips, and spoke in a clear, -low voice, in which alone, by reason of a peculiar vibrant -pathos, the profound, undeclared passion of her nature -was suggested.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Her critics of the early evening had been right in finding -her destitute of manner. There was no slightest -evidence as she spoke of the orator’s instinct—the -magnetism of kindling eye and changing expression, of -the conciliation and subtle flattery of her hearers. Neither -had she fervid personal raptures nor spiritual triumphs -to communicate. Of the picturesque and pathetic -elements of the situation she made no use whatever. -She had simply an absolute, dominating conviction that -the heathen were lost; that they could only be saved by -the knowledge of Christ; that this knowledge must be -conveyed to them by the disciples of Christ at his command; -and that she, Anna Mallison, was humbly grateful -that she was permitted to devote herself to a service so -obviously necessary. Of these things she spoke; of the -sacred sense of living out her father’s disappointed life -she naturally could not speak.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was not the speech which Mrs. Ingraham and her -guests had expected. They had looked to have their -sympathies aroused by a pathetic recital of sacrifice and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>exalted self-devotion. Anna, on the contrary, was unconscious -of sacrifice, and felt herself simply grateful for -the privilege of carrying out her innermost desires.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The people who heard her felt that to give up “the -world” was a mighty thing. Anna did not yet know -what “the world” was. To their anticipation, she had -been a figure almost as romantic and moving as a young -novitiate about to take conventual vows; to herself, she -was an enlisted soldier who has received marching orders, -and whose heart exults soberly, since there are ties which -may be broken, and death, perhaps, awaiting, but even -so exults with joyful response.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Thus, to most of those who heard her, Anna’s little -speech was a distinct disappointment; the very loftiness -of her conception of her calling made it featureless, and -robbed it of adaptation to easy emotional effect. The -ladies who had discussed her before her speech found, -after it, that it was, after all, exactly what might have -been expected—altogether of a piece with the austerity -of her figure, and her sad, colourless face, no warmth, -no emotion—just the hard Puritan conscience at its -hardest.</p> - -<p class='c011'>There were two or three only who felt the spiritual -elevation belonging to the girl and to what she said, and -the underlying pathos of her high restraint, as too great -to put into the conventional phrases of sympathy and -praise, and so kept silence.</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was a brief pause after Anna returned to her -seat, during which people stirred and spoke in low tones, -and the beaded lady leaned over and thanked Anna for -her “charming little talk”. Then Mrs. Westervelt, the -guest from Boston came forward and began speaking -with a winning smile, a gentle, soothing voice, and an -<span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>affectionate reference to “the dear, sweet young sister.” -She had the ease and flexibility of the practised public -speaker; the winning and dimpled smile with which she -won the company at the start was in frequent use, and -she made constant motions with a pair of very white -hands. She was quietly dressed, and yet, after the -straightness of Anna’s poor best gown, her attire had -its own air of handsome comfort. The perfect command -of her voice and of herself established instantaneously -a <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">rapport</span></i> with her audience, of which Anna, in her -inexperience, had never dreamed.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Her beloved Mrs. Ingraham, she said, had asked her -to tell the dear friends of some wonderful answers to -prayer which she had recently experienced, but before -doing this she craved the privilege of reading a few -verses of Scripture.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She then read certain passages from the prophecy of -Zechariah, detached from one another, taken entirely -from their historic setting, but fitted together with some -care. The speaker explained that she had, in her earlier -Christian life, found some difficulty in interpreting this -rather obscure passage, but in the new life of complete -sanctification, into which it had been her glorious privilege -to enter, she had come to see all Scripture by a -new and marvellous light. No longer did she trust to -the dry and formal explanations of scholars, many of -whom, it was but too well known, had never had the -deep things of God revealed to them, and who had been -led into many errors by their pride of learning. All -that kind of study was past for her, for the dear Lord -himself showed her, when she lifted her heart to him, -just what he meant in his blessed word. This had been -her experience in regard to the passage just read. To -<span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>the natural mind there were difficulties in it, but just -below the surface was the great precious truth which -God would have all his children receive. It had been -given her that when she came to the beautiful home of -Mrs. Ingraham, and should be called upon to speak to -these friends, she must bring them this particular passage. -But it had looked dark to her, and she was in -doubt how to interpret it. But as she had been in the -cars, coming up from Boston, she had said: “Now, Lord, -those dear friends in Burlington will want to know just -what you meant by that sweet portion of your word, -and I do not feel that I can tell them unless you enlighten -me. What is it that is intended by the two -staves in the hand of the prophet, one called Beauty and -one called Bands?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then the dear Lord had sweetly spoken in the secret -place of her heart, as distinctly as if with an audible -voice: “My child, the old life of formalism, of coldness, -and of worldly pleasure in which many Christians -live is the staff called Bands. The higher life, the life -of answered prayer, the life of perfect sanctification and -fulness of blessing, is Beauty. Take this message to -my dear children in Burlington.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Oh, how simple! Oh, how sweet! Who would weary -heart and brain over the interpretations of rationalistic -German commentators, when we could thus have the -direct interpretation of his own word by the Lord himself?</p> - -<p class='c011'>Thus Mrs. Westervelt proceeded at some length on -this line, and then, with tearful eyes and an added intensity -of the personal element, she rehearsed the answers -to prayer which her friend, Mrs. Ingraham, had rightly -called wonderful. Thus, in carrying on the work of -preaching perfect sanctification in Boston, a room had -<span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>been needed for meetings. Two or three of the little -band had prayed, and within a week they had had a most -suitable room offered them by a precious sister, but it was -unfurnished. The details of securing the equipment of -this room were now described. Each piece of furniture, -the speaker declared, had been directly given in answer -to special prayer and by a marvellous interposition. If -any natural means had been at work by which persons -in sympathy with their efforts were led to supply their -obvious needs, these were not mentioned. Plainly it -was Mrs. Westervelt’s conception of a perfect relation -to God that the one sustaining it should receive constant -miraculous testimony of the divine favour. The privilege -of attaining this condition was presented with fervid -emphasis. It was the high and perfect life! Who -would live on the old plane when this was what God -had for them? Oh, how beautiful it was to trust! -Why should we ever doubt, when we were so plainly -told that <em>whatsoever</em> we ask we shall receive?</p> - -<p class='c011'>As Mrs. Westervelt went on, many of her hearers -were moved to tears, and a continuous response of sympathetic -looks and subdued exclamations followed her -recital of her surprising experiences. The wealthy -women present felt that this was certainly a fine thing -for those who could not get what they wanted by ordinary -business methods, but were, perhaps, secretly glad -that they were not themselves called upon to test their -relation to God quite so pointedly. The poorer and -humbler guests wept profusely, thinking how long they -had stumbled on in the dull and inferior practice of -working painfully for many needed things, which might -all have been miraculously given them, if they had only -been favourites of God, like Mrs. Westervelt, or, as she -<span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>would have said, “had only just stepped out into the -fulness.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna Mallison sat and listened in unspeakable astonishment.</p> - -<p class='c011'>This was as absolutely new a gospel to her as the -gospel of Christ to a disciple of Buddha. It was her -first contact with sentimental religion.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The God of her father had been the immutable and -eternal Creator, the high and holy One inhabiting eternity, -the Judge of all the earth. Through the Incarnation -the just anger of this Holy Being toward sinful men -had been appeased. But although in Christ there had -been found access to God and an Intercessor, never had -it entered into the heart of Samuel Mallison or those -whom he led to regard themselves as occupying a position -other than of deepest humility, self-distrust, awe, -and reverence.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mrs. Westervelt’s phraseology was almost like a foreign -tongue to Anna. The constant use of terms of -familiar endearment in speaking of the Almighty; the -application of affectionate and flattering adjectives on all -sides; the sense of a peculiar and intimate relation established -between herself and God; and the free-and-easy -conversational, in fact, rather colloquial, style in which -she held herself privileged to communicate with him,—were -almost amazing to her. And beneath all these -superficial marks of a new cult, lay the deeper sense -of the inherent disparity. Religion to Anna had been, -it has been said earlier, a system of prohibitions, of self-denials, -of self-abasement, with only at rare intervals the -illumination of a profound sense of the love of God. -Here was a religion which held up a species of luxurious -spiritual enjoyment, of unrestrained freedom in approaching -<span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>God, of an indubitable sense of being personally on -the best of terms with him, as the privilege of all true -believers.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The conception of prayer which Mrs. Westervelt had -demonstrated was not less surprising to Anna. She knew -that there were wide and sweeping scriptural promises -with regard to prayer, but she had always felt a deep -mystery attaching itself to them. For herself, she had -never ventured to intrude her temporal gratifications and -designs upon the attention of her God, but had rather -felt a sober silence regarding these things to best befit a -sinful creature coming before a holy Creator. Half revolting, -but half smitten with compunction, the thought -now flashed through her mind that, if she had only prayed -after this new sort, her father might have received the -oranges for which he had sorely longed in the months -before his death. This luxury was not to be obtained -in Haran, and had therefore been patiently foregone, -heaven and Burlington having seemed equally inaccessible -at the time.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mrs. Westervelt sat down, and the meeting broke up, -a swarm of enthusiastic, tearful women rushing to surround -her and pour out their effusive appreciation of her -wonderful address. Anna stood bewildered and alone, -doubting within herself. Had it all been the highest -consecration, as it undoubtedly desired to be? or had it -been the highest presumption, the old temptation of -spiritual pride, assuming a new guise?</p> - -<p class='c011'>Two clergymen of the city, who had been attentive -listeners during the whole evening, not being moved to -pour out their admiration upon either speaker, quietly -strayed across the hall into Mr. Ingraham’s library. -The senator himself was absent.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>“Well, Nichols,” said Dr. Harvey, the older man, -who had a shrewd, kindly, smooth-shaven face, “what -do you think of that for Old Testament exegesis?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It was pretty stiff to have the responsibility for it -given to the Lord,” returned his friend. “I almost felt -like interrupting her to say that, with all due respect, the -Lord never told her any such thing, her interpretation -being monstrously untrue.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It was awful, simply awful,” said the other, with slow -emphasis. “Such fantastic tricks before high heaven -might make men, as well as angels, weep. And then -her familiarity with the Lord, Nichols,—why, man, she -positively patronized the Almighty!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It is true, and yet, do you know, Doctor, that woman -has some extraordinary elements for success in such -work?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“If she hadn’t, she would be of no importance, my -dear fellow. She has a fine homiletic instinct. That is -just where the danger lies. But, after all, she represents -only one danger—there are others. She is simply the -modern mystic—a kind of latter-day, diluted Madame -Guyon. Too much of the thing is a trifle nauseous, -perhaps, but it represents the revolt of devout souls, in -every age, from formalism, and is inevitably an excess, -like all revolt. Doubtless there will be such revolt, -world without end, and it will have its uses.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It was fairly pathetic to see how eagerly those -women rushed forward to receive her; evidently that’s -the message they are pining for. They don’t go for us -that way, Doctor.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No; and they didn’t for that first speaker, Mallison’s -daughter. I knew him. Poor man, what a mystic he -might have made, if he had let himself go! This girl is -<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>much like him—the old New England type; religion -with all colour and sentiment clean purged out of it. -Cold as ice, chaste as snow, the antipodes of the -Guyon-Westervelt danger. Talk of holiness,—poor -Mallison,—he was the holiest man I ever knew, and in -this life the least rewarded,” and the old clergyman -shook his head with a mournful smile.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I fancied, when I heard her speak, although I had -no idea who she was, that this daughter of his had not -exactly revelled in the luxury of religion.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No; but I tell you, Nichols, she is none the worse -for that, at her age. There is a hardihood, an unconscious, -sturdy fortitude in that earlier type, which we -mightily need in the world to-day. To me, that girl -was positively beautiful, because—notice what I say, -Nichols—she is absolutely true.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Very likely.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes; but when you have thought it over, tell me, -some day, how many men and women you know of -whom you can say that. If you know one, you will do -well.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Dr. Harvey, as he said these words, rose to leave the -library, but stopped and stood, as there appeared at that -moment at the hall door the figure of a man who was -apparently passing through the hall. So silent and so -sudden was his coming, and so singular his aspect, that -the younger of the two men, perceiving him, started violently -in involuntary surprise, and was conscious of a -disagreeable sensation along the course of his veins.</p> - -<p class='c011'>This man, who had approached the door with noiseless -steps, might have been young, or might have been -old. He was of unusual height, with narrow shoulders, -short body, and disproportionate length of limb. His -<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>face, an elongated oval, was of as smooth surface as that -of a woman, and of the shape and pale even colour of an -egg. The enormous forehead, the eyes, small and narrow, -set wide apart and obliquely, the flattened nose, the -straight, wide, almost lipless mouth, combined with an -expression of crafty complacence to give the man a singularly -alien semblance. As he stood, he smiled slowly, -a smile which emphasized both the craftiness and the -complacency of his expression, and remarked in a high, -thin voice:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Just going, Doctor? Make yourself at home here, -that’s all right.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>He carried a rather large, morocco-bound note-book -in one hand, and a silver pencil-case in the other. His -hands were extremely delicate and white, with sinuous, -flexible fingers, of such phenomenal length as to suggest -an extra, simian joint. They conveyed to the young -clergyman a sense of expressing the same craft as the -face, and a yet more palpable cruelty. The unpleasant -impression became more pronounced, for, seeing the -hands, young Nichols involuntarily shivered.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Probably this fact was not noticed by the newcomer, -but, having thus spoken and smiling one more chilling -smile, he passed on to the other end of the hall.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Eyes rather than voice asked in astonishment, “Who -is that?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oliver Ingraham, the senator’s son,” was the elder -clergyman’s reply, as they left the library together, “the -son of his first wife.” Dr. Harvey was Mrs. Ingraham’s -pastor.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Incredible!” cried the other, under his breath. “I -never saw him, never heard of his existence.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The other shook his head with gravely troubled look.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>“He is only here when it becomes impossible to keep -him elsewhere.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Is he insane? imbecile? what is he?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Not the first, not the second. I cannot answer the -third question.”</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER X</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>She sitteth in a silence of her own;</div> - <div class='line'>Behind her, on the ground, a red rose lies;</div> - <div class='line'>Her thinking brow is bent, nor doth arise</div> - <div class='line'>Her gaze from that shut book whose word unknown</div> - <div class='line'>Her firm hands hide from her; there all alone</div> - <div class='line'>She sitteth in thought trouble, maidenwise.</div> - <div class='line in38'>—<span class='sc'>R. W. Gilder.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>An October morning, and breakfast-time in the Ingraham -household. Great doors stood open into the -dining room, where the vast round table could be seen -with its glittering array of silver, and the grace and -colour of exquisite flowers.</p> - -<p class='c011'>A slender girl, as graceful and charming in her simple -morning dress as the flowers she had just placed on the -table, stood in the doorway, waiting, a shade of impatience -on her face. Behind her, at one of the dining-room -windows, stood Oliver Ingraham, her half-brother. -Mrs. Ingraham, with her other daughters, one older, one -younger, were in the adjoining library. Outside, in the -hall, a man paced up and down with impatience which -he did not attempt to conceal. This was Mr. Ingraham -himself, a man of good height, fine, erect figure, -and youthful energy of motion and bearing. His hair -was grey, as also his heavy mustache and imperial; -his eyes grey also, keen, clear, but inclined to wander -with disconcerting swiftness; he had a high, beaklike -nose, and a fine, carefully kept skin, in which a network -of dark red veins betrayed the high liver. He was at -<span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>once peremptory and gracious, military and courtly, a -man of the world and of affairs on a large scale.</p> - -<p class='c011'>With watch in hand he entered the library and approached -his wife.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Cornelia,” he said, smiling with good-tempered sarcasm, -“does it strike you that the show is a little late in -opening? I dislike to mention it, but it is already ten -minutes past eight. I am not familiar with the social -customs of Abyssinia, nor even of Macedonia, but in -the United States it is considered good form for guests, -albeit lions, to come to breakfast on time. Even the -Hyrcan tiger, I understand, is usually prompt in his -attendance on that function—”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Papa!” cried his youngest daughter, Louise, “you -are perfectly dreadful.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mrs. Ingraham looked up into her husband’s face -with her mild, conciliating smile.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am so sorry, Justin,” she said softly, “but I suppose -the poor dear creatures are very tired after the -meeting last night, and their journey, and all—”</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was a slight noise on the stairs as she spoke, -and Mr. Ingraham faced about with military precision to -receive in succession a number of ladies, who filed into -the room, and were warmly greeted and promptly presented -to him by his wife. Two were visitors from -New York, substantial “Board women”; other two, -returned missionaries from Japan; the last to enter was -a shy, brown little person with soft dark eyes, a native -Hindu, who could only communicate with her host by -a gentle, pleading smile. All were in attendance on -a great missionary conference held in Burlington that -week, drawing its supporters from all New England -and New York.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>“Shall we go to breakfast, Cornelia?” Mr. Ingraham -asked, having infused sudden courage into the trembling -breast of the little native by his gallant attention. “Are -we all here?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Why, no, papa,” interposed his youngest daughter; -“we must wait for Mr. Burgess.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Mr. Burgess?” repeated her father, in a musing -tone. “I do not recall that I have met him. Is the -gentleman an invalid?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“At least the gentleman is here, papa,” murmured -Louise, directing his attention to a young man who at -the moment entered the room, and approached Mrs. -Ingraham with a few words of courteous apology.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Meeting him, Mr. Ingraham saw a slender, youthful -figure, somewhat below the average of masculine height, -a man of delicate physique, perhaps five and twenty -years old, with a serious, sensitive face, and earnest blue -eyes looking out through glasses; a young man who -presented himself with quiet self-possession, and bore -the unmistakable marks of good breeding.</p> - -<p class='c011'>As they took their places around the breakfast table, -Keith Burgess, for this was the young man’s name, -found himself seated opposite Oliver, with whom he -was not drawn to converse, and between the second -Miss Ingraham and the little Aroona-bia. Conversation -with the latter being necessarily of an extremely limited -nature, her gentle lisping of “yes” and “thank you” -being somewhat indiscriminate, the guest found himself -shortly occupied exclusively with his very pretty neighbour.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You know, Mr. Burgess,” she was presently saying, -“I almost feel that I know you already.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“How so?” asked Keith, simply. It was plain that, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>although accustomed to the refinements of life, this was -not a man accomplished in social subtleties. There -was, in fact, a curiously unworldly expression in the -young fellow’s eyes, and somewhat of thoughtful introspection.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Why, you see mamma and some of her friends who -heard you speak last spring have told us so much about -you.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith bowed slightly, without reply.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“And you can’t think, Mr. Burgess, how delighted -we are to have you come to Burlington. We were so -afraid you would leave for the East before we could -hear you, and I assure you that would have been a great -disappointment. I think you sail in the spring, do you -not?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, in May, as soon as I graduate.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“And it is for India?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I suppose so. It is not fully determined, but that -would be my choice, and I believe the Board incline -that way.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The pretty Miss Ingraham, whose name was Gertrude, -sighed a very little.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It is all so wonderful, so almost incredible, to me -that any one young and like other people, don’t you -know? can really go,” she said gently. “There <em>are</em> -people to whom it seems perfectly natural. Mamma -has a new protégée who is to go out as a missionary -teacher a year from this fall. She is very young, only -twenty-one, and we all think she is lovely; but still, for -her it seems really the only thing to be expected. She -has the genuine missionary air already, and you would -know she could not be anything else, somehow.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith looked civilly, but not keenly, interested.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>“I wonder if it is any one I have heard of,” he remarked. -“It is our Board that sends her?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes. Her name is Mallison, Anna Mallison. Her -father was a country minister up in the mountainous -part of the state. Poor thing! She will find India -quite a change after Vermont winters, I should think.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“An improvement, perhaps,” said Keith, smiling. -“But really, Miss Ingraham, going back to what you -said a moment ago, why should it seem so incredible for -a man who has devoted himself to the service of God, -truly and unreservedly, to be willing to go where what -little he can do is most needed? Many men go to foreign -countries and remain the better part of their lives -for business purposes: men in the navy; Englishmen, -of course, of social and political ambitions, by hundreds. -Do you ever feel that there is anything extraordinary or -superhuman in what they do?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gertrude Ingraham was looking at the young man -with almost devout attention.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No,” she answered, shaking her head with pretty -humility, seeing which way he led.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Then why,” pursued Keith Burgess, leaning over to -look steadily in her face with his earnest eyes, and lowering -his voice to a deeper emphasis, “why do you -wonder that now and then a man should be willing to -do for the Lord Jesus Christ and the salvation of souls -what a hundred men do as a matter of course for their -own selfish ambition and the gaining of money?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The girl looked down, the brightness of her face softened -by serious feeling.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“The only wonder, Miss Ingraham, is that so few -do it. For my own part I do not see how a fellow -who goes into the ministry, as things are now, can do -<span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>anything else,” and Keith turned back to his neglected -breakfast. Thereafter he was drawn into conversation, -across the mute languor of the little Hindu, with his -host, who had questions to ask regarding Fulham, which -had been his college.</p> - -<p class='c011'>At four o’clock that afternoon, Keith Burgess, sitting -in a large congregation in Dr. Harvey’s stately church, -listening with consciously declining interest to a long -statistical report which was being read from the pulpit, -felt himself touched on the shoulder. Looking up he -saw the Rev. Frank Nichols, pastor of a mission church -in the city. He had known him well in college, a clear-eyed, -well set-up young cleric. Nichols invited him by -a word and look to follow him, and together they quietly -left the assembly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When they had reached the street and the crisp -autumn air, Keith shook himself with a motion of -relief.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Is there anything more tiresome than such a succession -of meetings?” he exclaimed. “Shall we walk? -I am in a hurry to climb one of these hills.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“We must do it later,” returned Nichols; “but if -you are not too tired I want to take you down this -street and on a block or two to my church. The -women are having a meeting there this afternoon.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, yes, I remember; but will it be in order for -us to intrude?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, that will be all right. The brethren drop in -quietly now and then, and are welcome. You needn’t -stay long, for you are tired, I know by your face; but I -tell you what it is, Burgess, I want you to hear Anna -Mallison.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna Mallison! again that name which he had heard -<span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>in the morning. It began to have a strangely musical -quality to Keith’s ears.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I have heard her name. She is under appointment, -I believe. A good speaker?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No, not a particularly good speaker, but, as Dr. -Harvey once said to me, an absolutely true nature. She -is a young woman of strong personality, but singularly -destitute of the desire to impress herself, and with a certain -touch of the unconsciously heroic about her which -you feel but cannot describe. I have never met a girl -of precisely her type before, myself, and I am curious to -know what you will think of her.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Entering the small, unpretentious church, Nichols and -his friend sat down in the first row of seats, next to the -central aisle. The room was nearly full; several women -were upon the platform, from which the pulpit had been -removed. One woman was speaking in a high-keyed, -plaintive voice.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was not a stable or quiet audience; some were -leaving their seats, others coming in, many turning -their heads to catch glimpses of expected friends. Behind -the young men came in two girls who remained -standing close beside them in the aisle for a little space. -One of these girls had pretty, fair hair and peachy cheeks; -she was dressed in deep blue with touches of gilt cord -and buttons, giving a kind of coquettish military jauntiness -to her appearance. She wore a small round hat, of -dark blue, which set off her pretty hair charmingly. Her -manner was full of quick, eager animation; she smiled -much and whispered to her companion continually. This -companion stood motionless and unresponsive to the frequent -appeals made to her, a quiet face and figure, a dress -and bonnet of plain and unadorned black, ill suited to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>her youth; but it was her face and figure rather than -the other to which Keith Burgess found his attention -riveted. He knew intuitively, before Nichols told him, -that this was Anna Mallison; but without this knowledge -he felt that he must still have kept his eyes upon her -face. The repose of it, the purity and elevation of the -look, the serene, serious sweetness, were what he had -seen in the faces of angels men have dreamed of rather -than of women they have loved. But that she was -after all a woman, with a woman’s sensitiveness and -impressibility, he fancied was manifest when, having -perhaps felt his look resting thus intently on her face, -Anna turned and their eyes met in an instant’s direct, -uninterrupted gaze, whereupon a deep flush rose and -spread over the clear brown pallor of her face, and she -turned, and bent to speak to her friend, as if to cover a -slight confusion.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The friend was Mally Loveland, and she was finding -her position a particularly satisfactory one at the moment, -being aware that Mr. Nichols was so placed as to take -in the best points of her new fall costume in a side view. -It was for him, not for Anna, that she had been using so -much of nervous energy in the last few minutes.</p> - -<p class='c011'>A lady who had left the platform for the purpose now -came down the aisle, and, taking Anna Mallison by the -hand with a word of welcome, conducted her to the front -of the church. Mally, thus left alone, fluttered into a -place made for her, seeming to discover Mr. Nichols as -she turned, and smiling surprise and pleasure upon him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Just before Anna began to address the gathering, while -a hymn was sung, Keith Burgess quietly made his way -to a seat near the front of the church, at the side of the -platform. He had excused himself to Nichols, who had -<span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>then asked and obtained permission to sit beside Mally, -an incident productive of a vast amount of conscious and -fluttering delight on the part of that young lady.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The austerity of Anna Mallison’s religious life had, -under the influence of Mrs. Westervelt and her disciple, -Mrs. Ingraham, relaxed within a few months to a marked -degree. New conceptions of a relation of joyful assurance, -of conscious acceptance with God, had risen within -her, with the perception that religion was not exclusively -prohibition, and conscience its only energy. Something -of warmth and brightness had been infused into her chill, -colourless, outward life, furthermore, by the intercourse -with the Ingrahams which had followed her first visit. -She was still in a manner ice-bound in her interior life -and in her capacity for expression, but the ice was -beginning to yield and here and there to break up a -little.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Thus, in the manner with which she spoke on this -occasion, there was something of gentleness, and a less -uncompromising self-restraint than when she had first -spoken before an audience. She was still noticeably -reserved, still innocent of the orator’s arts, or of conscious -seeking to produce an effect; she still delivered -herself of her simple message as if it were a duty to be -discharged rather than an opportunity to be grasped. -But through the coldness of all this neutrality there -pierced now and then a ray of the radiant purity and -loftiness of the girl’s inner nature, and this time those -who heard her did not pity or patronize her in their -thoughts.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith Burgess watched her from the place he had -chosen. Her tall, meagre figure in its nunlike dress was -sharply outlined against a palely tinted window opposite, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>through which the October sun shone. She stood without -support of table or desk, her hands falling straight at -her sides, and looked directly at the people she addressed, -fearless, since burdened with the sense of immortal -destinies, not with a consciousness of herself. Keith -noted the hand which fell against the straight black folds -of her dress; its fine shape and delicate texture alone -expressed her ladyhood. She could not have been called -pretty, but her face thus seen in profile was almost beautiful, -the hollowness of the cheeks and the stringent -thinness of all the contours being less obvious.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But Keith Burgess was not occupied with Anna’s face -and figure to any serious degree. He knew instinctively -that she was of good birth and breeding; he saw that, -though severe and angular in person and manner, she -was womanly, noble, refined. He divined, as no one -could have failed to divine, the essential truth and purity -of her nature. From her simple, unfeigned utterance -he perceived the high earnestness and consecration with -which she was entering upon missionary labour. Perceiving -all those things, the young man looked and listened -with a sudden, momentous question taking swift shape -in his mind.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He remained until the close of the meeting and met -Anna, introducing himself, as he preferred doing. She -received his few expressions of satisfaction in hearing her -with scant response, and apparently with neither surprise -or gratification. He did not like her the less for -that.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The Ingrahams found Keith sober and preoccupied at -dinner that night, but, as he was to be chief speaker at -the evening session of the convention, they thought this -natural and in order. He was liked and was treated with -<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>especial consideration by them all, and even Mr. Ingraham -did him the honour of going to the church to hear -him speak. He had no sympathy with his wife’s penchant -for missions, but he thought Burgess was “a -nice little fellow,” and he wanted to see what kind of -a speech he could make.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The different members of the family and their guests -came home one after another late in the evening, and, -as they met, exchanged enthusiastic expressions concerning -the eloquence of Keith Burgess. Mrs. Ingraham and -the Board ladies thought the dear young man had a -wonderful gift; Aroona-bia smiled tenderly in assent; -the girls said he was simply perfect; and Mr. Ingraham -admitted that, when he had worked off some of his -“sophomoric effervescence,” he might make a good deal -of an orator, and added, under his breath, it was nothing -less than a crime to send a delicate, talented boy like that -to make food for those barbarians, whose souls weren’t -worth the sacrifice, even if he could save them, which he -couldn’t.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Very true, dear,” rejoined his wife; “no man can -save another’s soul; he can only lead him to the dear -Lord’s feet.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The senator bit short a sharp reply, and just then -Keith himself appeared, looking pale and exhausted, -deprecating wearily the praise they were eager to bestow -upon him, and begging to be excused if he withdrew at -once to his room.</p> - -<p class='c011'>As the sound of his footsteps was lost in the hall -above, Mrs. Ingraham said:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am sorry Mr. Burgess was so tired. I invited -Anna Mallison to come here for the night, and I wanted -him to meet her. Mrs. Churchill has asked the opportunity -<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>for a little talk with Anna in the morning, and it -will be convenient for her to be here. It is so far to her -rooms, you know.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I should think the house was full already, mamma,” -remarked Gertrude Ingraham. “Where can we put -her?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, she will not mind going up to the south room -in the third story, my dear. I told Jane to have it in -order.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Just then Miss Ingraham came into the house and -Anna Mallison was with her.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XI</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>The Moving Finger writes; and having writ,</div> - <div class='line'>Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit</div> - <div class='line in2'>Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,</div> - <div class='line'>Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.</div> - <div class='line in38'>—<span class='sc'>The Rubaiyat.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>In a few moments after he had reached his room -Keith Burgess heard a knock at his door. Opening it, -he found a neat, white-capped maid who bore a tray; -entering demurely, she placed it upon a small table, remarking -that Mrs. Ingraham thought he would need -refreshment. The tray held an exquisite china service -for one person, a pot of chocolate, and delicate rolls and -cakes.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Miss Gertrude said I was to light your fire,” the -maid said, proceeding to remove the fender and strike a -match for the purpose.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Very well,” replied Keith, walking to the other side -of the room. The night air was sharp, and he liked the -notion.</p> - -<p class='c011'>A moment later the maid withdrew, with the noiseless, -unobtrusive step and movement of the well-trained servant, -and Keith, when he turned, found the room already -enlivened by the firelight. The table was drawn -to a cosey corner on the hearth-rug, a deep cushioned -easy-chair beside it. The fragrant steam of the hot -chocolate rose invitingly, and as Keith threw himself -with a long sigh of comfort into the chair, he detected -another fragrance, and perceived, lying upon the plate, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>a single rose, and around the stem a slip of white paper. -On the paper, Keith found a few words written: “You -must let me thank you for the great uplift you have -given me to-night. <span class='sc'>Gertrude Ingraham.”</span></p> - -<p class='c011'>The young man, rising, put the flower in a clean -glass vase on his mantle, and the note in the inner compartment -of his writing-case, touching both with careful -gentleness. Then, returning to the fireside, he fell to -drinking and eating with cordial satisfaction in all this -creature comfort; but as he ate and drank and grew -warm, he was thinking steadily.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He was not minded to flatter himself unduly, but -what was he justified in inferring from Gertrude’s action -and from other small signs which he had seen? Simply, -that she liked him; honoured him above his due; probably -idealized him; possibly, if he sought her deeper -regard, might respond.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He liked her thoroughly. What man would not? -She was very pretty, and her beauty was enhanced by -faultless dress,—no small thing in itself. Her manners -were charming, with the charm of a sweet nature, aided -by the polish of high social intercourse; she had the -thousand little nameless, flattering graces of the woman, -who, old or young, instinctively knows how to put a -man at his best. Furthermore, Keith was not insensible -to the background against which this girl was set. The -aristocratic, powerful family connection, the magnificent -home, the wealth and grace and ease of life, the fine -manners and habits of thought and conduct belonging to -the Ingrahams, were not matters of naught to him. He -liked all these things. What was more, he knew perfectly -that there was no element of temptation in them -to lead him from his chosen path of altruism; Mrs. Ingraham’s -<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>well-known missionary ardour and Gertrude’s -delicate sympathy were guarantee for that. They understood -perfectly that within six months he would depart -for an exile of perhaps a lifetime, in an alien and -uncongenial land, where he would work under conditions -of life repulsive and depressing to the last degree. -Nevertheless, he believed without vanity that Gertrude -Ingraham, knowing all, foreseeing all, could care for him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith Burgess had come, suddenly perhaps, but definitely, -to the conclusion that he wanted a wife; and, -furthermore, that he wanted a wife who would go out -with him to India six months hence. Consequently, as -he sat by the fire which Gertrude Ingraham had lighted -for him, he pursued this line of thought with significant -persistence.</p> - -<p class='c011'>A curious condition, however, attended his reflections. -While he sat by Gertrude’s fire, tasted her dainty food, -inhaled the fragrance of the rose she had sent him, and -thought of her in all her beauty and grace, he did not <em>see</em> -her. Instead of her figure, there stood constantly before -the eye of his mind the tall, austere form of Anna Mallison, -in the unsoftened simplicity of her manner and -apparel, and in her passionless, unresponding repose. -He thought of Gertrude Ingraham, but he saw Anna -Mallison.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She had travelled the way that he had come. Outwardly -there might be coldness between them, but inwardly -there must be the profoundest basis of sympathy. -The same master conviction had won and held their two -souls. He could not have known her better, it seemed -to him, had he known her all his life. The things -which would have repelled another man were what -drew him all the more to her. It was not the passion -<span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>of love which had so suddenly awakened within him, -but a mighty longing for what Keith Burgess had thus -far gone through life without,—a true and satisfying -sympathy with his religious life and its aspirations. A -girl like Gertrude Ingraham might accept his religion -and the shape it took, but it would be because she cared -for him; a girl like Anna Mallison might, perhaps, -accept him, but it would be because of his religion and -the shape it had taken. At this crisis of his life the -enthusiasm for his calling ruled him as no human love -could, and by it all the issues of life must stand or fall.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Hours passed. The fire died out to a core of dull -red embers, the single rose drooped on its stem, the tray -of food stood despoiled and indifferent; the words of the -small white paper were forgotten, and Keith Burgess, -throwing himself upon his knees, prayed thus to God:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, my Lord, if thou wilt grant me so great a good -as to win her for my wife, if thou wilt bless me in seeking -her, if it is according to thy will that our lives should -be united, and that together we should carry the cross -of Christ to the lost, grant me, O Lord, a sign. But if -it be not thy will, make this, too, known to me. Thy -will I seek, O my God, in this, in all things.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then, being wearied in brain and body, he slept heavily -until morning.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When, just before the breakfast hour, Keith stepped -into the hall, he paused a moment, hearing a step on the -stairs above him leading from the third story rooms. -He advanced slowly to the head of the next staircase, -and not until he reached it did he see who it was descending -from above. Then, lifting his eyes, he saw -Anna Mallison.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Her presence in this house, at this hour, so surprising, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>so unlooked-for, so almost unnatural, since her -home was elsewhere in the city—what did it mean? -It was the sign he had craved. How else could he -interpret it?</p> - -<p class='c011'>The blood rushed in sudden flow to his heart, leaving -his face colourless.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna, not being surprised to meet him thus, was -simply saying “Good morning,” and passing down the -stairs. Keith put out his hand and stopped her going.</p> - -<p class='c011'>So marvellous did her presence seem to him that he -forthwith spoke out with unconventional directness the -thought in his mind.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I think you do not know just what it means that -you are here, in this house, this morning.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mally Loveland would have flashed some pert rejoinder -to a comment like this; Gertrude Ingraham, in -a similar situation, would have looked at Keith Burgess -with pretty wonder and smiling question.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna Mallison, seeing the pallor and emotion of his -face, and having become wonted to the supernatural -interpretation of the small events of human life, only -said gravely and without obvious surprise:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I do not, perhaps, know all that it means. I trust -it means no trouble to any one—to you.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No,” he answered, a slight tremor in his voice; “I -cannot believe that it does. You came under the divine -leading, no matter how or why you seemed to yourself -to come. You came as a sign. I had asked a sign of -God. I did not dream of your presence in this house. -Seeing you now, so unexpectedly, how can I doubt any -further? It is the will of God.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna looked straight into Keith’s face, a deep shadow -of perplexity on her own, but she did not speak.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>He smiled slightly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You cannot understand, and no wonder, I am -speaking to you as I have no right to—in the dark. -It is for you to say whether, by and by, before I go -to-morrow morning, I may explain my meaning and try -to make clear to you what is so clear to me.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was Anna now who grew perturbed, for the significance -of his words, although veiled, was manifest. She -turned and descended the stairs without speaking, Keith -Burgess following her in silence. She did not herself -understand her own sharp recoil and dismay, but all the -maiden instinct of defence was in alarm within her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>At the foot of the stairs they both paused for an -instant, and Keith asked in a low voice:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Will you walk with me on these hills somewhere, -alone, this afternoon at four o’clock?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>A sudden great sense of revolt arose in the girl’s -heart, and broke in a faint sob upon her lips. She did -not want to walk on the hills with him—with any man. -She did not want to hear what he had to say. But he -had said it was the will of God, their thus meeting. He -had sought that awful, irrefragable will, and she had acted, -it seemed, in obedience to it in coming to this house. -What was she, to be found fighting against God?</p> - -<p class='c011'>She felt herself constrained to say yes.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XII</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c015'>... I made answer to my friend: “Of a surety I have now set my feet -on that point of life beyond the which he must not pass who would return.”</p> - -<div class='lg-container-r c013'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>—<cite>The New Life</cite>, <span class='sc'>Dante</span>.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>“I ask you, Anna Mallison, to go out with me to -my work in India in May, as my wife.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Thus Keith Burgess, having recounted the story of -the lights and leadings of the past twenty-four hours.</p> - -<p class='c011'>They were standing, and faced one another in a yellow -beech wood where the sky above their heads was -shut out by the sun-lightened paving of the clustering -leaves.</p> - -<p class='c011'>As she came down the woodland path Anna had -broken off a long stem of goldenrod, and she held it -hung like an inverted torch at her side, like a sad vestal -virgin at some ancient funeral rites.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Forgive me for bringing this to you so swiftly. I -know it seems hasty, perhaps unreasonably so. But to -me no time or acquaintance, however extended, could -change my wish. And, you see, my time is so very -short, now!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith Burgess looked with his whole soul’s sincerity -into Anna’s face, and the integrity of his purpose, of -his whole nature, could not be mistaken.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It is not the suddenness, I think,” she replied slowly, -with unconscious coldness; “like you, I feel that the -great facts of God’s will and providence may be made -clear to us instantly.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then she hesitated and paused.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>“Please go on,” the young man said gently.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It is only,” she answered, with a pathos which a -woman would have understood, “that I did not want to -be married at all. I had never thought of it as being a -thing I needed to be troubled about.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith Burgess smiled faintly at her frankness, which -was not cruel of intention, he knew, but his smile touched -Anna’s heart.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I did not wish to trouble you,” he said quietly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Please do not misunderstand me. It was not the -way to express it—my words sounded unkind, I am -afraid. I should learn better ways of gentler speaking. -Other women seem to have them naturally.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I like it that you are honest, even if it hurts,” said -Keith, steadily.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I did not mean that you trouble me—not exactly. -Only that my life looked so plain and clear to me, and -this is so surprising—it seems to change things so.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Only by a little outward difference. I should not -dare to ask you to go as my wife if I did not believe -that you could work more effectively so, perhaps,” he -added timidly, “even more happily, if I had strength -and protection to give you, and a home of some sort, -however poor, in that strange land.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Something in the quality of his voice brought swift -tears to Anna’s eyes. It was so new to have some one -thinking and caring for her ease and happiness. It had -so long been her part to do this for others, to forget -herself, and take it quite for granted that others should -forget her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He saw his advantage, and sought to follow it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“The thought of marriage is unwelcome to you,” he -said earnestly, “because it is foreign and unfamiliar. I -<span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>think you are very different from most girls of your age, -and have lived a different inward life, higher and purer, -and free from personal aims in a wonderful way. But -even so, regarding marriage I believe you are wrong. -You think of it as an interruption, almost as a decline -from the life you had meant to live. On the contrary, -God has made it to be the very best life, the normal and -fulfilled life, in which each is at the strongest and best. -Where my work for God and men might fall utterly to -the ground, you, by your purer insight, might help me -to make it availing; and perhaps the poor service I could -give might help a little to carry forward your work.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna lifted her hand in a slight, expressive gesture.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Look at the whole thing a moment,” cried Keith, -with sudden boldness, “as if you were not you and I -not I. Here are two persons, man and woman, of the -same age within two or three years, led of the same -Spirit to the same purpose and consecration and calling; -both ready to go out to the same unknown land, lonely -and apart, and there to work as best they may far from -any human being they have ever seen or known. Such -were we. And now God, looking upon us, sees that -each needs the other, and in his good providence he -leads us here to this place. I see you, and instantly my -heart goes out to you as the companion, the other self, -I need. My soul recognizes in you its counterpart. -God, in answer to my prayer that he will make known -his will, suddenly, most unexpectedly, as I start on the -new day, brings you before me before I have spoken or -met with man or woman, as the first, best light of morning. -What does God mean? Ask yourself, Anna Mallison, -ask him. For my own part, I cannot doubt his -will. I have no right to thrust my conviction upon -<span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>you forcibly, but to me this is as clearly the call of God -as my call to the foreign field or to the divine service.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>They were still standing face to face, and while Keith -spoke Anna looked into his eyes with the serious directness -of one listening to an argument of weighty but -impersonal import. With all his conviction and earnestness, -he was as passionless as she, save for his religious -passion. A strange wooing!</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna turned now and walked on along the mossy path -in silence.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Take time to consider,—all the time you need. Do -not try to decide now,” said Keith, walking at her side. -She made no reply; in fact, she did not realize that he -spoke. Her mind was working in intense concentration.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith Burgess alone she would have turned away -without a moment’s doubt, but he had, or seemed to -have, a mighty Ally. She did not fear him in rejecting -nor desire him in accepting, but to reject God!—that -she feared; to accept God in every manifestation of -his will was her deepest desire.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But what if Keith were wrong in his conviction? -Her pale face flushed with a flame of indignation as she -thought of it, that a man, whom she had never met or -known, sought or desired, could suddenly invade the -very citadel of her will, and summon her to surrender -her very life into his keeping, in the great Name, when, -perhaps, he was self-deceived, was coming in his own -name, to do his own will. She looked aside at Keith’s -face as he walked by her, in sudden distrust. It wore -no flush of passion, and in the blue eyes was the light -less of earthly love than of heavenly. It was a look -pure and high, such as a man might fitly wear as he -approached the sacrament. A sudden awe fell upon -<span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>Anna, as if she were looking upon one who had talked -with God, and her eyes fell, the lashes weighted with -heavy, unshed tears.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“He is better than I,” she thought; “a man like this -could not lead me wrong.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>White and cold, and with a strange sinking at her -heart, she turned to him soon, and stopped where she -stood.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He looked into her face, his own suffused with emotion. -She held out both her hands, the goldenrod, -which she had held until now, falling to the ground. -Keith Burgess took them in both his, and Anna felt -that his hands trembled far more than did her own.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I believe you were right,” she said simply. “It is -the will of God.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>He kissed her then on her brow and on her lips, the -salutation disturbing her no more than if he had been -her brother.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Please, will you let me go home now, alone, Mr. -Burgess?” she asked humbly, like a child.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith was disappointed, but consented at once.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Only,” he said, “you should not call me Mr. Burgess. -My name for you is Keith.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Not yet,” she answered. “In outward things and -ways remember, please, that we are perfect strangers. It -is only in the spirit that we have met.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then she left him, and Keith Burgess stood watching -the tall, dark figure swiftly receding down the wood walk -in the yellow light. His look was wistful. He longed -to go after her, but he forebore.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna hastened down into the city streets and to the -hospital where she was on duty every afternoon. There -was plenty of work awaiting her, and not for a moment -<span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>was she free or left alone to think her own thoughts. -Six o’clock found her back in her own rooms at Mrs. -Wilson’s. They were low and dull after the fine spaciousness -of the Ingraham house, but that was a matter -of little note to Anna.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mally was there with a friend whom she had brought -home with her to tea. Anna washed the dishes while -these two diligently revised the trimming of their hats -which in some particular, wholly imperceptible to Anna’s -untrained eye, fell below the standard of latest fashion.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was not until the girls left the house, at seven -o’clock, and all her duties, trivial and homely and wearying, -were done, that Anna, alone at last, could yield to -the overpowering weariness which was upon her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She carried the lamp, whose flame seemed to pierce -her aching eyes, into the next room, and then, lying on -the hard haircloth sofa with her head propped on one -hand, she closed her eyes, thankful at last to be where -she could let a few tears fall with no one to wonder or -question. The quiet patience inbred in the constitution -of the girl’s nature controlled her mood; there was no -struggle of revolt from the vow she had taken and the -future to which she had pledged herself, but an unspeakable -homesickness had taken possession of her. She -liked and reverenced Keith Burgess, no doubt she would -love him very truly by and by, but just now he seemed -to have turned her out of her own life and to have taken -control where she had hitherto, with God, been supreme. -It all gave her the same feeling she had suffered when, -after her father’s death, they had been obliged to give -up their home for the coming in of a new leader for the -little flock her father had led so long. She knew there -was no real analogy between the two experiences, she -<span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>could reason clearly against herself, but she could not -control the piteous heart-sickness which settled down -upon her in the dim room, in the silent, empty house.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Many women have suffered a reaction like this in the -hour of committing themselves, from the fear that this is -not the supreme love, the love of the lifetime; the misgiving -lest this man is not, after all, the man for whom -they can forsake all others and unto whom they can -cleave with a perfect heart to the end. These were not, -however, the considerations which weighed upon Anna -Mallison. It was, as she had herself expressed it, very -simply, that she had not thought about marriage at all. -She had no ideal of manhood in her mind from this -point of view. It was not that she craved the love of a -stronger man or a man abler or better in any way than -Keith Burgess; she merely preferred no man. She had -not awakened to love; the deeper forces of her woman’s -nature were sleeping still.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But there was not for an instant, in Anna’s mind, the -thought of withdrawing from her plighted word to Keith. -She believed that he had come to her, as he believed, -under the divine light and leading. She turned to walk -in the new path marked out for her, faithfully and obediently, -but pausing a moment to look with aching eyes -and heart down the dear, familiar path which she was -leaving. But Anna was too tired to think long, or even -to feel, and so fell asleep shortly, in the stiff, angular -position in which she lay, the tears undried upon her -cheeks. The sound of the knocker on the house door, -hard, metallic, but without resonance, suddenly roused -her, and she sprang up hastily, remembering that Mrs. -Wilson had gone to the great missionary meeting, and -that she was alone in the house.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>She took her lamp and went down the narrow stairs -into the bit of entry. When she opened the door, -Keith Burgess himself was standing there.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He looked at her, smiling half mischievously, and she -felt a sudden warmth at her heart as she met the sweet, -true look of his eyes.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Didn’t you ever expect to see me again?” he said, -and laughed as he stepped into the house and closed the -door.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She smiled, too, and held out her hand. He took it -and kissed it in a gallant way, which she found wholly -wonderful, being quite unused to such feats, and unread -in romances.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It will be a bore, won’t it,” he went on quaintly, -“this having a man around to bother you? Perhaps I -ought not to have come, but, you see, I go in the morning, -and I thought you might have something to say to -me before I left.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes,” Anna said; adding naïvely, “but where shall -I take you? It is so new. I have not had a call like -this before.” She felt shy about inviting him up to her -own sitting room.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“In there?” he queried, pointing to the door of Mrs. -Wilson’s drear little closed parlour.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, no,” replied Anna, “Mrs. Wilson never lets us go -in there. It is too fine for anything but funerals and—” -she was about to say weddings, but broke off confused, -and they both laughed, looking at each other like two -children with their innocent eyes.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I can sit here,” said Keith, pointing, as he spoke, to -the steep, narrow stairs. There was a red and green -striped carpet on them, and a strip of grey linen over for -protection. The little entry was bare of furniture, save -<span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>for the small uncovered table on which Anna had placed -her lamp.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Very well,” she said, “I will borrow a chair from -Mrs. Wilson’s kitchen;” and she forthwith brought out -a clean wooden chair painted a light yellow, and placed -it at the side of the stairway for herself, there being no -room at the foot.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I was going to say,” remarked Keith, musingly, as -Anna sat down, “that these stairs are rather wide, and -if Mrs. Wilson is particular about lending her chairs, I -could make room for you here,” and he looked at her -soberly between the stair-rails. Anna shook her head, but -suddenly there came over them both a sense of the ludicrousness -of the little scene they would have presented, -had any one been able to look in upon them, and they -laughed again, as Anna had not laughed since she was a -child, something of exhaustion aiding to break down her -wonted restraint.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It is so funny, oh, it is so funny!” she cried, “to -see you looking out between those bars as if you were -a lion in a cage. Just think of the people at the meeting! -What if they were to see us two. Wouldn’t they -think it was dreadful?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Would you mind putting your hand into the -cage?” asked Keith. “I assure you it is perfectly safe. -This is not the man-eating variety.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You are sure?” Anna asked, with a woman’s instinctive -coquetry swiftly developed, but giving her hand.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It is such a beautiful hand,” he said, laying it very -gently on his own right hand, which he had placed on -the stair beside him, and at this, the first word of flattery -which any man had ever spoken to her face, Anna blushed -and grew positively pretty, as he looked at her.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>All this laughing and light nonsense between them, -did for her what a season of prayer and serious discussion -of their situation could not have accomplished. -Anna felt, with a sudden sense of comfort and release, -that this new relation was not exclusively a solemn -religious ordinance, but a dear human companionship, -the joyousness of simple, upright hearts, and the sympathy -of kindred minds.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XIII</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Now die the dream, or come the wife,</div> - <div class='line in4'>The past is not in vain,</div> - <div class='line'>For wholly as it was your life</div> - <div class='line in4'>Can never be again,</div> - <div class='line in6'>My dear,</div> - <div class='line in4'>Can never be again.</div> - <div class='line in32'>—<span class='sc'>W. E. Henley.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>At Anna’s earnest request, Keith Burgess consented -that their engagement should be announced to no one -save his mother until spring. Mally observed the -regularity of Keith’s weekly letters, and attempted to -tease Anna into acknowledging that there was “something -in it”; but Anna’s dignity, which on occasion had -its effect even upon Mally’s vivacious self-confidence, -ended this line of attack in short order. A few weeks -after Keith left Burlington Anna received the following -note:—</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='sc'>My Dear Miss Mallison</span>: My son, Keith Burgess, -has confided in me the fact that you have -consented to enter into an understanding with him -which, if Providence should favour, will doubtless eventually -terminate in marriage. Your name has been -mentioned to me by members of our Woman’s Foreign -Missionary Board, and I am led to believe that -my dear son has been graciously led of the Lord in -his choice of a companion in the path of duty upon -which he has entered. That my son is a godly young -<span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>man and of an amiable disposition, I need hardly take -this occasion to tell you. Similarity of views and of -religious experience would seem to furnish a satisfactory -basis for a union productive of mutual good and the -glory of God.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Trusting for further acquaintance before you depart -for foreign shores,</p> - -<div class='lg-container-r c013'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>I am yours very truly,</div> - <div class='line in10'><span class='sc'>Sarah Keith Burgess.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>If this letter were stiff or cold, Anna, not looking for -warmth and freedom, did not miss them. She knew that -Keith was the only son of his mother, and she a widow. -She took it for granted that they were poor like herself; -she had not known many people who were other than -poor, none who were in the ranks of missionary candidates. -Such a thing would have seemed singularly incongruous -because unfamiliar. She had a distinct picture of -Mrs. Burgess, whom she knew to be in delicate health, as a -woman of sweet, saintly face and subdued manner, living -in a small white cottage in an obscure street of Fulham, -perhaps not unlike the Burlington street in which Mrs. -Wilson’s house stood. She fancied her living alone—indeed, -Keith had told her that this was so—in a plain -and humble fashion, a quiet, devoted, Christian life, a -type with which her experience both in Haran and Burlington -church circles had made her familiar. There -were some geraniums in the little sitting room window, -she thought, and it was a sunny room with braided mats -over the carpet, and a comfortable cat asleep on a patchwork -cushion near the stove. There would be a small -stand beside Mrs. Burgess’s rocking-chair with a large -Bible and a volume or two of Barnes’s “Notes,” a spectacle -<span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>case and a box of cough medicine; perhaps it was a -bottle, Anna was not sure, but she inclined to the hoarhound -drops, and almost smelt them when she thought -of the room. She imagined the dear old lady carefully -and prayerfully inditing the epistle to herself, and thought -it most kind of her, and wrote thus to Keith.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The winter passed for Anna in hard and unintermitting -work. Mally allowed herself lighter labours, and, having -raised her eyes with admiration to the Rev. Frank -Nichols, now shook herself free as far as she could conveniently -from her more frivolous Burlington friends, and -renewed her earlier interest in religion with extraordinary -zeal. She felt that Dr. Harvey’s church was too worldly -for her ideals, and that Mr. Nichols’s beautiful work -among the humbler classes offered far more opportunity -for religious devotion. Her regular attendance at all the -meetings of the church was a great satisfaction to Anna, -who looked on with characteristic blindness, glad to see -her friend returning to a more consistent walk and -conversation.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The letters which passed between Anna and Keith -would hardly have been called love-letters. They dealt -with religious experience and views of “divine truth,” -for the most part. Not even at start or finish of any -letter was place found for the endearing trifling common -to lovers. This correspondence might all have been -published, omitting nothing—without dashes or asterisks, -even in that day when it was thought unseemly to reveal -the innermost secrets of hearts, and to speak upon the -housetops that which had been whispered in the ear. -There were few personal allusions on the part of either, -beyond Keith’s occasional mention of his health being -below the mark. At Christmas Keith sent Anna a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>volume of “Sacred Poetry”; on the fly-leaf he had -written:—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Anna Mallison</span>,</div> - <div class='line in4'>From her sincere friend and well-wisher,</div> - <div class='line in24'><span class='sc'>Keith Burgess</span>.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c011'>He had abstained from warmer terms on account of -Anna’s wish to withhold the knowledge of their engagement -for the present.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Poor Anna, having nothing wherewith to provide a -gift for her lover, the small savings for her education -being now nearly exhausted, made shift to sew together -sheets of note-paper, on which she copied her favourite -passages from Paley and Butler and various theologians. -This humble offering was sent to Keith, who was highly -gratified, and treasured the little gift affectionately.</p> - -<p class='c011'>For two weeks following Christmas Anna received no -letter, but she was not greatly surprised, as she knew -Keith was to start early in January for a tour of various -New England towns, where he was expected to present -the cause of Foreign Missions. He was now completing -his last year in the theological seminary near Boston, and -his unusual gifts in public speech induced the faculty to -send him out frequently on such missions.</p> - -<p class='c011'>At half-past eight of a zero morning in the second -week of January, Anna, with her threadbare black jacket -buttoned tight to her throat, her arm full of books, was -leaving Mrs. Wilson’s door on her way to school, when -she saw a boy stop in front of the house with a telegram -in his hand. Taking it, she found, greatly amazed, that -it was for herself—the first telegram she had ever -received.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The boy, accustomed to see people receive his messages -<span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>with changing colour and nervous hands, glanced at -her coolly, then turned and went his way back, plunging -his hands into his pockets against the biting cold. In -the little entry Anna opened the despatch. It was -dated Portland, Maine, and signed by Keith Burgess. -It told her that he was very ill; that he was alone, it -being impossible for his mother to go to him. It asked -her to come to him at once.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna’s mind, in the half-hour which followed, worked -with intense rapidity. She found from a newspaper that -by a ten o’clock train she could reach Boston that evening, -and she decided to take that train, and go on to Portland -by night. She wrote a note to Mally, in which -she told her of her engagement to Keith and of what -had occurred. She packed a satchel with what was -necessary, and last of all drew out of her little square -writing-desk, where she kept it carefully locked away, an -envelope containing all the ready money she possessed. -She found that there remained exactly twelve dollars. -This, to Anna, was a large amount of money, and, -although her heart sank a little at the thought of spending -so much at once, the prospect for the weeks to come -before she could draw upon her mother again being -blank enough, she knew that this was justified by the -emergency.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Soon after nine Anna again departed from the house, -the books replaced by the satchel, the worn and faded -black gown and jacket unchanged, starting alone and -unsped upon her long and anxious journey.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She went first to the Ingrahams, walking the long mile -in the sharp cold, carrying her heavy bag with a benumbed -hand, since the reckless extravagance of a carriage might -not for a moment be considered.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>Mrs. Ingraham was ill and could not see Anna, but -her daughter Gertrude came into the parlour and greeted -her cordially. The issues of the hour were too strong -upon Anna to permit any trace of embarrassment or -personal feeling in her manner, although she felt that it -would have been easier to say what she felt must be said, -to Mrs. Ingraham.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Will you be so good as to tell your mother,” she -began, “that I could not go away on this journey, which -I must take, without explaining it to her? She has been -so very kind. We did not mean to announce it quite -so soon, but Mr. Burgess, whom I met here in the fall, -and I are engaged to be married.” Anna was too preoccupied -to perceive the flush which slowly and steadily -rose in Gertrude Ingraham’s face.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“We expect to go out together in May,” Anna proceeded. -“Mr. Burgess has not been strong for several -months, perhaps he is never very strong; but this morning -I have a telegram from him asking me to come to -Portland, as he is very ill, and his mother cannot be with -him.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Shall you go, Miss Mallison?” asked Gertrude, -with visible constraint.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna looked at her then, surprised, and instantly felt -the indefinable coldness of her reception of her little story.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am on my way to take the ten o’clock train east,” -she said simply, her voice faltering slightly. For all her -courage and steadiness, her heart was crying out for a -little touch of another woman’s gentleness; the way -before her was not easy, and there was a sense of loneliness -upon her which began to make itself acutely felt.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gertrude Ingraham rose and said:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am so very sorry for Mr. Burgess. We liked him -<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>very much. You must let me go and speak to mamma -a moment, for I know she would wish to give you some -message. I will not keep you long.” And she hurried -from the room.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna sat alone and watched the minute-hand of a -French clock on the mantel moving slowly along the -gilded dial, a heavy oppression on her spirit. She had -not consciously expected sympathy, but Gertrude’s aloofness -hurt her strangely.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Some one came softly into the room behind her just -then, so softly that she turned rather because she felt a -presence than because she heard a step. It was Oliver -Ingraham.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The peculiar personality of this mysterious man inspired -Anna always with an aversion hardly less than -terror, and although she had become familiar with his -presence in her frequent visits, it had never become less -painful to her. Indeed, latterly, a new element of discomfort -had been added to her feeling toward him, since -he had shown a marked disposition to follow her about, -and intrude a manner of unpleasant gallantry upon her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He greeted her now almost effusively, and, perceiving -that she was prepared as if for a journey, asked at once:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Not going away? The painful hour of parting is -not here yet, surely?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna made a vague and hurried reply.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Because, you know,” pursued Oliver, lowering his -voice to an offensive tone of familiarity, and maliciously -mimicking the phraseology of his stepmother’s friends, -“we could hardly spare our dear young sister yet; she -is becoming really indispensable to us,” and he held out -one long hand as if to clasp that of Anna, leering at her -repulsively.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>Anna rose hurriedly and moved away from him, her -heart beating hard with fear and antipathy. To her -great relief she heard Gertrude Ingraham’s step in the -hall, and Anna, with her face paler than it had been, -met her at the door, while Oliver slunk away to a little -distance, and appeared to be looking out of a window -unconcernedly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gertrude Ingraham carried a pocket-book open in her -hand, and as she spoke she looked at it, and not at -Anna.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Mamma is so very sorry, and sends her best wishes -and hopes for Mr. Burgess’s quick recovery. She hopes -you will let her know; and, Miss Mallison,” Gertrude -was evidently embarrassed, “mamma says it is such a -long and expensive journey, and she wishes you would -just take this with you to make everything as comfortable -as may be.” And she drew out a crisp twenty-dollar -note, which she essayed to put in Anna’s hand.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna had not known before that she was proud. She -did not know it now, but Gertrude Ingraham did, and -was touched with keen compunction. She understood -that her mother would have been more successful.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was only the swift, unconscious protest of Anna’s -hand, the pose of her head as she turned to go, and the -quiet finality with which she said:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Will you thank Mrs. Ingraham for me, and say I -did not need it? She is always kind. Good-by.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>A moment later Gertrude watched from the window -the slender figure in its faded, scanty black, with the -heavy, old-fashioned satchel, passing down the windswept -lawn, under the grey and bitter sky.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Within was warmth and luxury and protection, and -yet Gertrude’s heart leaped with a strong passion of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>desire to forego all this and take Anna Mallison’s place, -that so she might start on that long journey which should -bring her, at its end, to the side of Keith Burgess.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Small, unseen tragedies in women’s lives such as this, -never once, perhaps, expressed, and never forgotten, -work out the heroic hypocrisies which women learn, -since such is their allotted part.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You might have known better than to offer money -to that girl,” Oliver’s high, shrill voice behind Gertrude -said. “She’s as confoundedly proud as all the other -saints. But she’ll have to come down yet. We shall -see some day.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Thus unpleasantly interrupted in her reverie, Gertrude -rose impatiently, and left the room.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was eight o’clock that evening when Anna reached -Boston. Dismayed by the small remainder of money -left her after her railway ticket was bought, she had not -dared to spend anything for food through all the day, -and had tried to think the cold, dry bread, a few slices -of which she had put into her satchel, was sufficient for -her needs.</p> - -<p class='c011'>In Boston a change of stations made a cab a necessity -if she would not lose the Portland train, and this -she must not do, since she had telegraphed Keith from -Burlington that she would be with him in the morning. -Anna alighted at the station of the Maine Railroad and -heard the cabman say that his fee was two dollars with -a sensation hardly less than terror. She paid him without -a word, then entering the station, sat down in the -glare of light amid the confusion of the moving crowd, -and looked into her poor little purse, a sharp contraction -at her throat as she counted, and found less than three -dollars left.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>The train would leave in fifteen minutes. Anna went -with as brave a face as she could manage, to the office, -and asked what was the fare to Portland. The curt -reply of the agent proved the glaring insufficiency of her -small remaining store. Trembling with weakness and -dismay, Anna turned back to her place and sat down, -closing her eyes while she prayed. She had friends in -missionary circles in Boston, who would gladly have lent -her money, but time failed to seek them out. She -thought, as she prayed, of the money which Gertrude -Ingraham had proffered in the morning, and, humbled, -asked forgiveness for the ignorance and pride which had -led her to reject it. The thought of Keith watching, -perhaps in vain, for her coming in his loneliness and -great need, perhaps in his extremity, overwhelmed her -with pity and penitence. Having prayed for forgiveness -and for guidance, and for a way out, and a way to Keith -that night, she opened her eyes, astonished for the moment -at the harsh light and the motley scene about her, -her actual surroundings having been for the time forgotten -in the complete abstraction of her mind. She gazed -for a few moments languidly before her, her face so -colourless and sorrowful that many persons who passed -her looked back at her in curiosity and concern. Presently -the space before her became clear; there was a -pause in the fluctuating course of passers-by, and nothing -interposed, for the instant, between her and the window -of the ticket office.</p> - -<p class='c011'>An elderly gentleman in a long travelling cloak and -silk hat, carrying a snug and shiny travelling bag, came -up to the window with the confident and assured bearing -of the experienced traveller. Anna heard him ask for a -ticket to Portland. She recognized him at once, for it -<span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>was Dr. Durham, the missionary secretary who had once -been her father’s guest.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When he turned from the window, the doctor found -the pale, quiet girl in black standing just behind him; -she spoke to him with a radiant light in her face, such as -he had never met before. To herself, Anna was saying -with a sense of exquisite joy in her heart, “God is near,” -feeling herself close touched by the Almightiness. To -her father’s friend she told her story and her need in few -words, without hesitation or doubt, declaring, necessarily, -her engagement to Keith Burgess, and the fact that she -was hastening to reach him on account of his serious -illness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Amazing, my dear,” exclaimed Dr. Durham, taking -off his hat and wiping the large shining baldness of his -head, “amazing indeed! I am myself on my way to -Burgess, and we can make the journey together. Poor -fellow! It is a sad case. I had a telegram yesterday, -but it was impossible to start until to-night. It seems -he has had a hemorrhage. But we will talk all this over -on the way,” and the good old gentleman made haste to -buy Anna’s ticket, which he said it was only the part of -the Society to do, and she must never mention it again. -This done, they hastened on together to the train.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XIV</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c015'>How true it is that our destinies are decided by nothings, and that a small -imprudence helped by some insignificant accident, as an acorn is fertilized by a -drop of rain, may raise the tree on which perhaps we and others shall be -crucified....</p> - -<p class='c014'>Poor, sorely tried Faith! She has but one way out of the difficulty—the -word Mystery. It is in the origins of things that the great secret of destiny lies -hidden, although the breathless sequence of after events has often many surprises -for us too.—<span class='sc'>Amiel.</span></p> - -<p class='c010'>The incredible luxury of her breakfast the next -morning in the hotel in Portland made an impression -upon Anna which she could never forget, since she was, -in fact, very nearly starved. The rich coffee, the delicate -and sumptuous food, the noiseless assiduity of the -sleek black waiters, the great glittering room, all partook -of the marvellous to her exhausted senses.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then she was conducted through endless passages -where her feet trod in baffling silence upon the lanes of -thick crimson carpet, for a few moments she was alone -in a room to bathe and prepare herself, and then a low-voiced -woman, stout and motherly, met her at the door, -and she was led to Keith.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He was lying, fully dressed, on a broad velvet sofa, in -a richly furnished room, which was full of flowers, and -bright with the light of the snowy winter morning and -a blazing wood fire. His eyes were luminous, his colour -better than she had known it, and he did not look ill. -The nurse left them alone, and they met with unfeigned -but quiet happiness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Was I selfish to ask you to come this long journey, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>just for me?” Keith asked anxiously, holding her hands. -Anna found his hot and tremulous, and soothed them -with a slow, strong motion of her own.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No, not selfish,” she said.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You see, I am not very ill; in fact, I am sure the -worst is over now, and I shall be just as well as ever in a -few weeks; but I had a terrible cold and coughing so -there was a little hemorrhage,—simply from the throat, -we understand it now,—but at the time the doctor himself -was alarmed, and so was I. If I had known how -slight an affair it really was, I should not have asked so -much of you, but I cannot be sorry, Anna. I shall -have to stay right here for several weeks, they say, and -it will be everything to have you near me, don’t you -see?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am most grateful to be with you, Keith.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“And will you talk to me about India, and about -our home there? I have thought of it so continually -since I have been sick. It almost seems as if I had -seen it, and you in it. I love it already, Anna. Please -say that you do too, just a little.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Tell me about it. Of course I shall love it.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It is all made of bamboo, you know, the house, and -perched up in the air, and there are great, wide rooms, -with cool shade, and a sound of water flowing; there -are broad bamboo lattices at the windows, and it -is still and peaceful, and the servants go about softly, -and you are there in a white dress, Anna,—oh, how I -want to see you in that white dress! It has tiny -borders of gilt and coloured embroidery, and it suits you -so much better than this hard black gown. Will you -have a dress made soon like that?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna smiled and pressed her hand over Keith’s eyes, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>which were full of childish imploring. She was beginning -to see his weakness with a new pain at her heart.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She sat with him an hour, and then, the doctor coming -in, she was sent to her room to sleep until noon, -while Keith should rest, and have an interview with -Dr. Durham, their fatherly friend.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When Anna reached her room, she found on a table -a large jar of roses, rich in colour and fragrance, and -a basket of hothouse grapes. The day was bitterly -cold, and it was snowing hard, the thick snowflakes -melting against the broad, thick glass of her window.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The extravagant luxury of such fruit and flowers in -this depth of midwinter astonished and disturbed her. -There was no one of whom she could ask questions, -but how could it be right for Keith to spend so much -money? To remain for weeks in such a hotel as this -seemed to Anna to involve an impossible expenditure, -and she lay down on the great luxurious bed with a -bewildering confusion of questions to which no answers -were forthcoming. From the pinching cold and hunger -of yesterday to the luxurious ease of to-day was -like the transformation of a fairy tale; and Keith, with -his weak hands, and his bright eyes, and his wistful -eagerness was formidable in his appeal to her. She did -not know what might be coming, but she felt anew that -she had surrendered herself and was pledged now to do -another’s will.</p> - -<p class='c011'>At noon Anna had a moment’s conference with -Keith’s physician. He assured her that there was a remarkable -change for the better in his patient,—in fact, -that he looked now for a speedy convalescence, adding -that her coming had produced a most favourable effect.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The whole afternoon of that January day, Keith and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>Anna were left alone together. The nurse, glad of a -brief release, took her “afternoon out”; the various -doctors of medicine and divinity betook themselves to -other places; and word was given the page that Mr. -Burgess could not receive visitors, so that flowers and -cards accumulated, and interruptions were postponed. -There was justice in what Keith said, that they had -never yet had a chance to get acquainted, and now the -afternoon was turned to good account.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Experience and instinct made Anna a nurse. Keith -was sure he had never been so wholly comfortable as -she made him, and the effect of her personal presence -was like health and healing to him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“How dear you are, Anna, and how absolutely necessary -to me,” he said fondly, as he watched her quiet -way of preparing his food and medicine. “I foresee -plainly that I can never let you leave me.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>When twilight gathered and the room grew dusky, -they had no lights, but sat by the fire, Anna on a low -seat beside the sofa, and silence fell. When Keith spoke -again, his voice betrayed a rising emotion, and an appeal -before which she trembled within herself.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Anna,” he said, “why should you leave me again? -Why need we be separated any more? I need you. I -can get strong far faster with you beside me, for you -inspire me with a new life. Everything seems sure and -strong when you are with me. But I want you wholly -mine without fear or favour. Marry me, dear, to-night, -to-morrow! What have we to wait for? It is only -three months before our marriage was to be, you know.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Concealing her agitation, and speaking quite steadily -and soothingly, Anna answered:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“But you know, Keith, I must go back in a few -<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>weeks, and finish my work in the school and hospital. -I have still so much to learn before I can make a really -useful missionary, and so little time before May to learn -it in. You know I have cut my preparation short a -year, now, so that we may go out together. I am sure -we ought to wait until May.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, Anna!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The words, so spoken, had all the force of an inarticulate -cry from the man’s heart. They told what hours -of argument and pleading could not have conveyed,—the -yearning need for her presence and her upholding. -Anna lifted her eyes to Keith’s, and saw that they were -dim with tears. She did not feel them to be unmanly -tears, knowing his physical exhaustion, and they moved -her profoundly. She rose and walked to the window, -looking out into the snowy street. Again that sense -that her life was taken out of her own hands came upon -her; she felt like those of old who feared as they entered -into the cloud. She feared, but, nevertheless, she -went back to Keith, and said, very gently, but without -hesitation:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“If we should be married to-morrow night, would -that please you, Keith?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>He caught her hand and pressed it to his cheek with -pathetic eagerness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, my girl, am I wrong to move you to do this -for my sake? Forgive me, leave me, if I am leading -you faster, farther, than you wish to go.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I will not leave you, Keith,” Anna replied, taking -her low seat again at his side, “never, any more. It is -the will of God.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The next day Keith was much stronger. He was -able to walk about the room, to sit up for an hour at a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>time, and to talk and plan to his heart’s desire. His -spirits were high, and he was full of irrepressible happiness, -and yet a wistful, grateful question always rose in -his eyes when they rested upon Anna. The marriage -was arranged to take place in Keith’s room at six o’clock. -Dr. Durham had consented to remain and perform the -ceremony, returning to Boston that night. Keith’s physician -had interposed no objection to the plan, and even -regarded the inevitable excitement as likely to be a benefit -rather than an injury to his patient.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“He needs you, Miss Mallison,” he remarked with an -emphasis which Anna felt to be peculiarly significant, -finding him a man of few words.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was five o’clock, and Anna had gone to her room -to make ready for the ceremony. At Keith’s urgent -desire, and by the aid of one of the many efficient -friends whom the circumstances of his illness had gathered -around him, a white dress had been ordered for her. -She found it now, lying in delicate tissue wrappings -upon her bed, and beside it a box of orange flowers whose -fragrance filled the room.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She was becoming a little inured to luxury; colour, -warmth, perfume, delight to sense, seemed here to be -the natural order. A vague perplexity lay below it all, -but she had ceased now to ask questions.</p> - -<p class='c011'>As she bent to take her wedding-gown from its wrappings, -some one knocked at her door. It was Dr. Durham. -There was a shade of anxiety upon his kind old -face, and he asked her to come with him into an alcove -at the end of the hall. With an uneasy stirring at her -heart, Anna followed him. Keith’s physician was standing -by a table in the alcove, evidently awaiting them.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna looked into his face, waiting without speaking -<span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>for what he might have to say. Surely it was impossible -that Keith could be worse; it was not ten minutes -since she left him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Miss Mallison,” said the doctor, gravely, “I have -been having a little conference with your friend, Dr. -Durham, and we find that there is a chance that you -may be under some misapprehension of the actual conditions -under which—under which you are about to -take an important step.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I did not understand it myself, my dear girl, until -within the last hour,” interposed Dr. Durham; “and -I really don’t know now what we ought to do. Still, -perfect frankness, perfect understanding, you know, may -be better for all parties.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The good old man was visibly oppressed with the -burden of the part he had to bear in the interview. -Motionless Anna stood, only turning her eyes from one -man to the other in troubled wonder.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“The facts are simply these,” the physician took up -the word again, “and I am greatly surprised, and I may -add greatly pained, that they have not apparently been -understood before. Mr. Burgess will recover from this -attack, and may have years yet of moderate health, but -as for carrying out his purpose to go out as a foreign -missionary, it is absolutely impossible. Such a course -would simply be suicidal, and must not be considered -for a moment.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Not now, perhaps,” Anna spoke very low, in a -strange, muffled tone; “but it may be—later—?” and -she turned her imploring eyes from the face of one man -to the other.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“To be perfectly frank, my dear,” said Dr. Durham, -pressing his hands nervously together, “after what the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>doctor has told me of the condition of our dear friend, -the organic difficulty, and all that, you see—I fear that -I can only, in justice to all concerned, state plainly that -our Board would not be justified in sending him. I assure -you the blow is a severe one to me in my capacity -as secretary; for we regard Keith Burgess as, perhaps, -the most promising candidate who has ever come before -us. It is a dark Providence, and you will believe me -that only a sense of our duty in the matter has led us to -put the case so plainly before you.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna did not speak.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I was not aware, Miss Mallison,” said the physician, -“until an hour ago, that you were yourself under -appointment as a missionary. When I learned this fact, -it seemed to me that you should not enter upon the -proposed line of action without knowing clearly that it -involves giving up your chosen career,” and with these -words the doctor bowed and turned to withdraw.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna turned to Dr. Durham.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Mr. Burgess does not know that he must give -up—?” she asked.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No, oh, no,” was the reply; “the doctor says that -he must on no account be allowed to learn it until he is -stronger. His heart is so entirely bound up in this -noble purpose, that the blow will be a terrible one when -it comes.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“We must wait, Miss Mallison, until he is as far as -may be recovered, before we allow him to even suspect -the actual state of the case;” the doctor added this, -looking at Anna’s face with surprise and concern. “If -I can serve you in any way, do not fail to call upon me. -For the present I must say good evening,” and he -hastened away.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>Dr. Durham followed, walking along the hall by his -side. The look in Anna’s face awed him. He felt -that it was not his right to share in an hour of such -conflict as this bade fair to be to her, for he perceived -already something of what her missionary vocation -meant to her. Anna, however, did not notice that he -had gone; the crisis was too great to permit her paying -heed to the accidental circumstances around her. A -voice in her heart seemed crying with constant iteration, -“Father! Father! What does God mean?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>For ten minutes Anna stood alone in the alcove, -looking steadily before her, but in her bewildered pain -seeing no outward thing, while in the far dim reaches -of the hall the good old clergyman paced noiselessly to -and fro.</p> - -<p class='c011'>On one side Anna saw her father’s life, with all its -deep renunciation, its pure aims, its defeat, and its one -final hope of fulfilment in herself; she saw the look in -his eyes as he bent above her in the little church that -night, when she declared her purpose to become a missionary; -she remembered his <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Nunc Dimittis</span></i> as he blessed -her with dying eyes; she lived again through the solemn -hour of dedication, just after her father’s death, when -the sense came upon her that she was called of God to -carry on what her father began, to be in herself the -continuance, and through divine grace the fruition, of -his life. Since that hour life had meant only one thing -to Anna; no other purpose or desire had ever entered to -divide or diminish its control over her: she was set -apart to carry the gospel of Christ to the heathen; this -one thing only would she do.</p> - -<p class='c011'>This on the one side, strong as life itself, inwoven -into the very texture of her soul and her consciousness.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>On the other side Keith Burgess, even now scarcely -better than a stranger, and yet, by the will of God as -she believed, bound to her by sacred and indissoluble -vows. To be faithful to those vows, to save him from -despair, perhaps from death, she must cut off all her -past, must read her life all backward, must annul and -declare vain and void the most solemn purposes of her -soul.</p> - -<p class='c011'>From his retreat, watching, Dr. Durham at length -saw Anna advancing down the hall toward the door -of her room. He met her there, a question he did not -dare to speak in his tired, kind old eyes. Her face was -as the face of one who has even in the moment received -a spiritual death-blow.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He held his watch in his hand. Without speaking, -Anna motioned to him, and he replied:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It is nearly half-past five, my dear.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Very well,” she said, her voice dull and toneless; -“I will be ready at six o’clock.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>As if in a dream she prepared herself for her marriage. -She moved as if in response to another will than her -own; her own will seemed to lie dead before her, a -visible, tangible thing, done to death by her own hand. -The white gown, Keith’s gift, seemed less a wedding-garment -than a burial robe, and a strange smile crossed -her face when she caught her reflection in the glass, and -saw that, save for her eyes, her face was wholly colourless, -the pale flowers on her breast hardly paler, hardly colder.</p> - -<p class='c011'>At the clock-striking of the appointed hour, Anna -entered the room, and, taking her place beside Keith, -whose face was full of tender gladness, she lifted her -eyes steadily to the old clergyman’s face, listening as -for life and death to his words.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>“In sickness and in health, ... for richer for poorer, -... and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him.” -Yes, all others. God only knew the significance of -those words, for they seemed to mean God himself just -then; but God would pity. He would help. Her -response came low but unfaltering, and then, with bowed -heads, standing side by side in their youth, their innocence, -their patience of hope, they two listened solemnly -to the last irrevocable words.</p> - -<p class='c011'>So steadfastly Anna held herself until the end, but -hardly had the final word of blessing been pronounced, -when, with a low cry for help, she wavered as she stood, -and fell fainting.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span> - <h2 class='c006'>BOOK II<br /> <span class='large'>AFTERNOON</span></h2> -</div> -<div class='lg-container-b c016'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Hear now our cry for strength to bear the weight of prayers unanswered.</div> - <div class='line in48'>—<span class='sc'>Maarten Maartens.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XV</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c017'>The evil base of our society eats right through; that our wealthy homes -are founded on the spoliation of the poor vitiates all the life that goes on within -them. Somehow or other, it searches through and degrades the art, manners, -dress, good taste of the inmates.—<span class='sc'>Edward Carpenter.</span></p> - -<p class='c010'>It was a month later, when a train from the east, -entering the Fulham station at five o’clock of the February -afternoon, brought Keith Burgess and his wife -home.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith was apparently in fairly good physical condition, -and looked and carried himself much as he had when -Anna first knew him, although she could now detect -the underlying weakness which he strove hard to conceal. -He had been told in due time of what was -involved in his illness. The shock had been severe -both to mind and body, and for a while a serious relapse -had seemed imminent. Those days had brought the -young wife and husband into a new union of sympathy -and suffering, as each strove to bear the burden of their -thwarted lives bravely for the other’s sake. Not at that -time nor at any later period was it possible for Anna to -let Keith know to the full the meaning of this renunciation -to her. He knew that to her, as to him, the abandonment -of the missionary purpose was a profound and -poignant sorrow; he did not know that it was the overthrow -of all that had made her life hitherto, and that, -whatever new forces and motives might produce out of -the elements of her character, the old life, the first Anna -Mallison, was slain.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>Keith had told her little of what lay before them in -his mother’s home, which was now to be theirs; they -had been too deeply absorbed in the present emergency -to take much thought for the future. This much, however, -had been accomplished in a week’s sojourn in -Boston: Keith would shortly be appointed to fill a missionary -secretaryship, which involved much travel and -speaking in the interests of the cause, but permitted him -to make his residence in Fulham. The strong hope -which Anna clung to silently for herself, as the last -pitiful substitute for the calling now denied her, was -that she, too, might still accomplish something for the -work so urgent in its claims upon her, by presenting it, -as occasion offered, among Christian women in her own -land. But she knew that her life was no longer in her -own hands to shape and direct as she might will; not -only was Keith now to be her care, her chief concern -and interest, but she looked forward to daughterly duties -toward his invalid mother, to whom it was in her mind -to minister with loving and faithful devotion.</p> - -<p class='c011'>As the train now drew into the Fulham station, Keith -remarked, casually:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“There’s Foster, all right. I knew he would be on -hand.” And, looking from the car platform, Anna saw -a grey-haired man-servant in plain livery, who saluted -Keith respectfully as he hastened to the spot, and wore -an expression of solicitude and responsibility which -stamped him at once as an old family servant. As they -gave over their hand luggage to this man, and followed -him out to the street where a plain closed carriage stood -in waiting, an unostentatious “B” on the door showing -it to be private, a deep perplexity and confusion began to -rise in Anna’s mind. She had gradually become accustomed -<span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>to the luxuries of the life in the Portland hotel, -and had regarded them as incident to the passage of a -grave crisis, and justified, perhaps, by the necessities of -the case; but she had not been interested in thinking -farther along the line of the Burgesses’ worldly status, -least of all minded to make it a matter of inquiry, consequently -the sight of the man-servant and the family -carriage smote her with a sharp sense of entering a new -and undreamed-of outward life. In them was the first -obvious token which had ever been given her of her -husband’s home surroundings and worldly position. A -vague anxiety and dread were awakened in Anna by -these small signs of a life and habit so widely at variance -with her own past of austere privation. She saw the -low white cottage figured heretofore in her thought, in -the narrow street, fading before her; the geraniums in -the window, the cat on the cushion, the braided mats, the -wooden rocking-chair, the little table with the Bible and -cough-drops, wavered in all their outlines, and fell like a -house of cards. How would it be with the figure of the -sweet, saintly, patient invalid to whom she was to minister? -Must that go too? Anna ceased to speculate, but -she sat silent beside her husband, and her heart beat hard.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When the carriage stopped, it was in a fine old quiet -street lined with substantial dwellings, and before a large -brick house painted a dull drab. The house stood with -its broad, low front close to the street; there were many -small-paned, shining windows, and a brass knocker on -the panelled black front door. Nothing could have been -plainer or less pretentious, and yet the house bore, to -Anna’s first intuitive perception, its own unmistakable -expression of decorous and inflexible dignity and quietly -cherished family pride.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>As they entered the wide, low-ceiled, oak-wainscoted -hall, a neatly dressed middle-aged woman advanced -and, speaking in a low voice to Anna, asked if she -would follow her up to her rooms, Keith introducing -her pleasantly as his mother’s indispensable Jane. -No one else was in sight; but Mrs. Burgess’s invalid -condition seemed to account sufficiently for this, -although Anna had supposed her able to move about -the house, and even to go out under favouring conditions.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith joined Anna on the stairs, taking her hand in -his. He smiled tenderly as he looked into her face, but -there was a nervous eagerness upon him which he could -not conceal. Was he thinking that he had chosen his -wife for far other scenes and a widely different life? -She could not tell.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“This was my old room, Anna,” Keith was saying -now, as they stood in the doorway of a spacious bedroom -with old-fashioned mahogany furniture and handsome but -faded chintz hangings. There was a marble chimney-piece, -over which hung a large picture of Keith, with a -boyish, eager face.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Jane now threw open a door from this room into -another of equal size.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“If you please, I was to tell you this is to be Mrs. -Burgess’s own sitting room,” she said respectfully, “and -the dressing room and bath beyond the bedroom will be -for your own use entirely after this,” and she crossed to -open another door.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith drew Anna on into the sitting room.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Well, now, this is certainly very kind of my mother,” -he said, a flush of grateful pleasure rising in his sensitive -face. “See, Anna, this has always been the state apartment, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>the guest-chamber of the house, and she has had -it refitted for our use.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“How very kind,” said Anna, warmly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The room was, indeed, in its own manner, grave and -subdued, a luxurious parlour, with good pictures, handsome -hangings, and soft, pale-tinted carpet.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I must go down at once and tell the dear mother -how we thank her,” said Keith, and Anna, left alone, -returned to the bedroom and began to remove her travelling -hat.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Jane was beside her at once, giving unneeded assistance.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Shall I unpack for you directly?” she asked, looking -at Keith’s small trunk, which was quite adequate to -Anna’s few belongings, added to her husband’s. Anna -felt her colour deepen as she declined the offered help, -and sat down with a little sigh in a great easy-chair. -But she submitted perforce when the maid knelt at her -feet, and, quite as a matter of course, removed her shoes. -It was the first time since babyhood that this office had -been performed for Anna by other hands than her own, -and she felt all her veins tingle with a shy reluctance, -but sat motionless.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Rising, Jane looked about, Anna thought with a -shade of dissatisfaction that there was thus far so little -to be done, so scanty a display of the small belongings -of luxury.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“When you are ready to dress for dinner,” she said, -with a touch of coldness, “I will come if you will just -ring the bell. The bell is here,” and she indicated the -green twisted cord and heavy silk tassel at the head of -the bed. “Mrs. Burgess said she could spare me to -wait on you for what you needed to-night,” she added.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>“Thank you,” said Anna, gently, but with the quiet -unconscious loftiness of her own reserve. “Mrs. Burgess -is very good to think of it, but I am accustomed to -caring for myself, and so I shall not need to trouble -you.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Very well, that will be just as suits you, ma’am. I -should be pleased to wait on you any time Mrs. Burgess -doesn’t need me. Dinner will be at six o’clock, then, -if you please.” Thus saying the maid withdrew.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Keith,” said Anna, with a perplexed countenance, -when a few moments later he joined her, “I find I -ought to dress for dinner, but I have nothing better to -wear than this black gown. You ought to have told me, -dear.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith looked down at the straight fashionlessness of -Anna’s black figure with unconcealed concern.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I ought to have thought,” he said, “but it never -occurred to me about your clothes. We must get you -a whole lot of new things straight away, dear. We will -do it together, and have a great time over it, won’t we? -And you will put off the black now for my sake? I -want to see you in wine-red silk and good lace.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, Keith!” cried Anna, “I cannot imagine myself -masquerading like that. It would never do. But for -to-night—that is the trouble now.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Why, wear your wedding-gown, sweetheart; that is -just the thing. What luck that we did get that!” and -Keith was down on his knees before the trunk on the -instant, and soon produced the dress which, being of -fine white cashmere, with a little lace about the neck, -was, in fact, altogether appropriate.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna looked puzzled. It seemed to her almost -sacrilegious to put on that dress for everyday use, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>the association with it made her shiver, even now, but -she did not dispute the matter.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Just before six o’clock Keith ushered his wife into -the library downstairs, where his mother sat waiting to -receive them. It was the sort of a library which Anna -had read of but had not seen—lined with books, furnished -with massive leather-covered chairs and darkly -gleaming mahogany, a dim old India carpet on the floor.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna saw by the shaded drop-light the form of a small -woman of fragile figure, dressed in silver-grey silk, with -a white shawl of cobweb fineness of texture about her -shoulders. There were several good diamonds at her -throat and on her hands, her grey hair was beautifully -dressed in soft waves and fastened with a quaint silver -comb of fine workmanship. Her face was pale and the -features delicately cut; her movement as she advanced -to meet Anna was slow, and, in spite of her diminutive -size, stately, and there was a crisp, frosty rustle of her -grey gown.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She took both Anna’s hands in hers with a cold, kind -smile, and kissed her twice on her forehead, Anna bending -low for the purpose. She seemed to be at an incalculable -height above the fine little lady, and singularly -young and immature. At twenty-two she had felt herself -a woman for long years, with her sober cares and -grave purposes; but to-night, before Keith’s mother, she -suddenly seemed to become a shy, undeveloped girl again.</p> - -<p class='c011'>While they spoke a little of the journey and the night, -Keith Burgess turned on his heel and affected to be examining, -with critical interest, an engraving above the -fireplace, which he had seen in the same spot all his life; -but he was watching them both aside narrowly as he -stood. He was perfectly satisfied.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>If Anna had been never so much prettier, and possessed -of all of Mally Loveland’s confident social facility; if -she had met his mother as the country girl of this type -would have done, with eager and affectionate appeal that -she should at once stand and deliver motherly sympathy -and affection in copious measure,—there would have been -only disappointment and chagrin. But Mrs. Burgess’s -bearing was not more reserved than that of her daughter-in-law. -At twenty-two Anna’s grave repose of manner -was in itself a distinction, and one which had its full -weight with the elder woman. Plainly, she had not a -gushing provincial beauty on her hands to curb and fashion -into form. As for good looks, there was a certain -angular grace already in figure, an unconscious dignity of -attitude and bearing which suited Keith’s mother, while -for her face, the eyes were good, the brow very noble, -and the expression peculiarly lofty. The succession of -strong and sudden emotional experiences through which -Anna had recently passed had wrought a subtle change -already in her face; there was less severity, less of hard, -conscientious rigour in its lines; a certain transparent, -spiritual illumination softened the profound sadness -which was her habitual expression.</p> - -<p class='c011'>At dinner, a delicately sumptuous meal, served with -some state, Anna acquitted herself perfectly, having the -instincts of good breeding, the habit of delicate refinement, -and having learned at Mrs. Ingraham’s table many -of the small niceties which she could hardly have acquired -in Haran.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Already, within the first hour, while seeing that her -mother-in-law had been physically entirely able to meet -her children at her door at their home-coming, Anna -perceived the inevitable consistency of her waiting to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>receive them in due form and order. Formality and -form were essentials of life in this house. This did not -oppress Anna particularly, and she liked to look at the -cameo-cut delicacy of Mrs. Burgess’s face. Still, perhaps -never in her life, never in the cheerless chambers -of Mrs. Wilson’s poor house, had Anna known the -homesickness with which she ate and drank—that -night at her husband’s table.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Poverty and obscurity were old and tried friends to -Anna; among them she would have been at home. -From wealth and social prominence she shrank with -instinctive dread and ingrained disfavour. The familiar -austerities of poverty were, to her, denotements of mental -elevation, while the indulgences of wealth bore to her -thought an almost vulgar pampering of appetite and -ministering to sense. The trained perfection of the -silent attentive service in itself was an offence to her. -Why should those people be turned into speechless automatons -to watch every wish and wait upon every need -of three other people no more deserving than themselves? -Could it ever seem right to her?</p> - -<p class='c011'>She excused herself early. Left alone with him, Mrs. -Burgess laid her small hand on Keith’s, saying without -warmth but with significant emphasis:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You have done very well, Keith, in marrying Miss -Mallison. I confess I was not without some apprehension -lest the wife who would have been a perfect helpmeet -and companion for you in the foreign field might -appear at some disadvantage in the life now before you -in the ordering of Providence.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Anna is so absolutely true, mother, that she cannot -be a misfit anywhere, except among false conditions.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mrs. Burgess bowed her head.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>“I can see that she is a thoroughly exemplary young -woman, and while she may have much to learn of social -conditions in a place like Fulham, the foundation is all -right.” She paused a little, and added reflectively: “Her -eyes and hands are extremely good. Her figure will -improve. I understand that her father belonged to the -Andover Mallisons.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was a little flicker of Keith’s eyelids, but he -made no reply, taking up casually from the table a book -at which he looked with mechanical indifference. It -was a volume of Barnes’s “Notes.” This much only -of Anna’s vision had had foundation.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XVI</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c015'>For the most part people do not think at all. They have little phrases -and formulas which stand in their minds for thoughts and opinions, and they -repeat them parrotlike. Most of their notions and ideas and prejudices are -mere extraneous accretions, barnacled on to them by men and books in their -passage through life, as shells are on a vessel, but not growing out of them or -really belonging to them.—<span class='sc'>Anon.</span></p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Life in her creaking shoes</div> - <div class='line in2'>Goes, and more formal grows,</div> - <div class='line'>A round of calls and cues.</div> - <div class='line in30'>—<span class='sc'>W. E. Henley.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>At the end of the week, on Saturday morning, Anna -Burgess was sitting on a low stool in the middle of her -bedroom, surrounded by a curious confusion and medley -of miscellaneous things. Before her was an open cedar -chest of large proportions; its pungent odour was mingled -with the spicy smell of winter apples, dried fruits, and -maple sugar. From the half unpacked chest, quilts of -calico patchwork and soft home-woven blankets were -overflowing; piles of snowy linen sheets and pillowcases, -finely hemstitched and bordered with delicate -thread-work, lay about the floor, together with body -linen of equal daintiness, and books in dull and faded -binding, while the red apples, rolled everywhere, studded -the confused array as commas do a printer’s page.</p> - -<p class='c011'>In the chest still lay some old-fashioned furs and -other clothing. Anna, as she sat, had her lap heaped -with a quantity of yellowed lace, and a number of small, -thin silver spoons. She was reading a letter, and, as she -read, unconsciously tears were running down her cheeks.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>“You must have known,” wrote Gulielma Mallison, -“that I could not let my dear daughter go empty-handed -to her new home. The box has been long, -however, in being made ready, but I know your husband -and his mother will make excuses, the marriage having -been so sudden. Lucia and I have taken comfort in -sorting out and preparing the things. The linen is, -much of it, what was left of my own bridal outfit, -but we have bleached it on the snow, and it is still -strong. The silver I have tried to divide equally among -you all. This is your portion. The little porringer, you -know, came over from Germany with my mother, then -the Jungfrau Benigna von Brosius.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I regret that I am unable to provide you with more -dresses, etc., but there is little to do with and little to -choose from in Haran. Indeed, I hardly ever get to -Haran any more, my rheumatism is so bad, and the -going has been terrible this winter. We got Lucia’s -husband’s sister to buy the white cotton cloth, and sent -it back by Joseph when he went down with a load of -wood. The brown cloak I shall not be likely to need -any more, going out so seldom, and Lucia says she -doesn’t begrudge it to you at all, being much too long -for her, and it would be a shame to cut off any of that -material to waste. You know it is the best of camlet -cloth, and there is no wear out to it. I have given Lucia -the melodeon, and she says it is only fair that you should -have the cloak and the brown silk dress. We got -Amanda Turner to make that over for you by an old waist -we had of yours. She was here three days, right through -the worst snowstorm we have had all winter, and there -was nothing to interrupt us. We turned the silk and -made it all over. I think we succeeded pretty well. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>I thought you really ought to have one silk dress, now -you are going to live in this country. Of course you’ll -be invited out to tea some, there in Fulham. The -grey merino will do for afternoons. I made you four -aprons, two white, and two check to wear about your -work, and you’ll need them afternoons for taking care -of your husband’s mother. Please give her my best -respects. I send the dried fruit to her,—maybe it will -tempt her appetite a little,—and part of the maple sugar, -that in the little cakes. Lucia ran it for her especially. -We thought maybe they wouldn’t have it down there -in Fulham, that was pure.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am sorry we haven’t anything better to send Mr. -Burgess, but I put in your dear father’s quilted dressing-gown -as my particular present; his health being so poor, -Lucia and I thought it might be acceptable. The books -are for him, from your father’s library....”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The letter dropped in Anna’s lap, and covering her -face with both hands, she burst into passionate tears. -Her old life, in all its homely, simple sweetness called -her mightily, and the sharp sense of her own separation -from it now and forever tore her heart. Her mother’s -inability to comprehend the new conditions, the eager -self-sacrifice which had gladly shorn her own poor life -bare of every lingering superfluity of possession that she -might equip her child with such small dower as was -attainable, had to Anna a pathos which seemed almost -too poignant to endure. How well, oh, how well she -understood the planning and contriving, the simple joy -in each small new object gained; the delight which her -mother and Lucia had shared in picturing to themselves -her own grateful surprise in the manifold treasures stored -in the dear old chest, itself an heirloom of impressive -<span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>value in the Mallison family. And she was grateful -beyond words to tell, and pleased and proud to come -thus set out to her husband; and yet, these possessions, -so unspeakably precious to her, would, she knew only -too well, wear a rustic and incongruous aspect in the -Burgess household. She knew that Keith and his mother -would be gentle and respectful in thought as in word, -but she knew the faint embarrassment which they would -try to conceal in receiving gifts for which they would -have no use; she knew the delicate, half-pitying, well-meaning -sympathy, which could never understand, try -as it would.</p> - -<p class='c011'>On Sunday morning, Anna attended church with her -husband and his mother for the first time, the latter -making a great effort, since church-going was far beyond -her usual invalid routine. When Anna presented herself -in the hall ready to start, Mrs. Burgess, or Madam -Burgess as she was generally styled after this time, had -bit her lip and almost gasped, such was her amazement -and dismay. However, she had said nothing, the situation -being plainly hopeless, and she sat in the carriage -in speechless anxiety, while Keith’s face reflected the -same emotion. He had felt it impossible to interfere -with Anna’s arraying herself as she had for church, seeing -with his sensitive perception that the garments fashioned -and sent her from her home by the hands of her -mother and sister, for such a time as this, were in her -eyes sacredly beyond criticism or cavil.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna now preceded him, following his mother, down -the broad aisle of the stately and well-filled church, -drawing to herself unconsciously the attention of many -eyes. She wore over the soft overshot silk gown the -brown camlet cloak which had formed in her mother’s -<span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>eyes the chief glory of her simple trousseau. It was a -long, circular cape, falling to the hem of her dress, -drawn up about the throat and shoulders with quaint -smocking after a forgotten art, and tied with a long, -loose bow of changeable brown ribbon. The outlines -of this garment were so simple and so natural that it -could never, at any period or by any shift of fashion, -become awkward, but it had at that time an effect of -Puritan-like quaintness. She wore a dark, broad-brimmed -hat with falling plumes, according well in simplicity as -in colour with her cloak.</p> - -<p class='c011'>As she passed down to the Burgess pew, her height -and bearing, the flowing outline of her costume, the -purity and unconscious, childlike seriousness of her face -with its clear brune pallor, the steady light of her hazel -eyes, the lustreless masses of her dark hair, all combined -to make a singular impression of mediæval loveliness, of -something rare and fine and wholly distinct from the -prevalent type of women in the ambitious little city. -There were some who, seeing her, smiled and whispered -at the quaintness of her dress; there were others who -found their eyes irresistibly drawn again and again by -the picturesque harmony of her figure; there were one -or two persons who, watching the proud, pure severity -of her face as she sat with her soul lifted to God and -heedless of outward things, saw in her a woman fit for -reverence and wonder, one whose spirit had been most -evidently nourished on the greatness and simplicity of -spiritual realities, and who was yet untouched by “the -world’s slow stain.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>And so it came about that Keith Burgess and his -mother, who had been dismayed at the lack of conformity -to fashion in Anna’s dress at this first appearance in -<span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>their world, found themselves met, the service over, by -men and women who had admiration and interest, sober -and sincere, to express, and much to say aside of the -singular distinction, the aristocratic dignity and charm, -of the bride. Madam Burgess was not slow to produce -the good points of Anna’s ancestry of which she had -quickly possessed herself, thus enhancing the favourable -impression, and she was ready to accept Anna, cloak -and all, herself, when the son of one of Fulham’s leading -men, Pierce Everett, an artist newly returned from Paris, -came to her with a respectful but eager wish that Mrs. -Keith Burgess would at some future day grant him the -notable favour of sitting to him for some saint’s face and -figure.</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was a little crowd about them as they passed -out to their carriage, and much kind and deferential courtesy -pressing upon Anna’s notice. A group of young -girls on the church steps watched her with shy, awed -glances, and murmured to each other that they adored -her, she was so different from any bride they had ever -seen; she was grave and quiet, and something of pathos -and mystery seemed to remove her far from the conscious, -fluttering pink-and-white brides of their experience.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The young artist, Pierce Everett, joined a friend, a -professor of literature in the local university, Nathan -Ward, as he walked away from the church.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“What a study for a saint!” he exclaimed, with -enthusiasm. “I did not suppose there was such a -woman left in the world. Where can she have been -saved up to keep that super-earthly look?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Professor Ward smiled. After a silence he said,—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Here’s a conundrum, if it is Sunday: Why is Keith -Burgess like St. Francis of Assisi?”</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>The answer not being forthcoming, Professor Ward -presently volunteered it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Because he has espoused Poverty, Chastity, and -Obedience. In Mrs. Keith these three are one.”</p> - -<p class='c010'>Fulham was a small city with a college of no great -reputation, which called itself a university by reason of -having a divinity school affiliated. Furthermore it was -a seaboard town and had had a large shipping trade in -former years, now slowly dying a natural death. The -aristocratic circle of Fulham—there was but one—was -as definitely marked and as strongly defended from -invasion as it is possible for such a circle to be, even -in an old New England town. In fact, it existed more -obviously for its own defence and preservation from the -ineligible than for any other reason; and only two classes -of citizens were eligible,—namely, those who had some -connection with “the university,” and those who inherited -either poverty or riches from ancestors engaged -in foreign commerce. These two agreed in one, and -agreed to rule out all others. Thus the aristocratic -circle was necessarily small and its social functions -painfully mechanical and monotonous; its maidens -were proverbially lacking in personal charms, and its -young men, with rare exceptions, fled, escaping to more -interesting and varied scenes; but it was supremely satisfied, -rejoiced in the distinction of its unattainable exclusiveness, -and looked with cold and unrelenting disfavour -upon all strangers, newcomers, or fellow-citizens, however -meritorious, who failed to possess the sole claims to its -ranks.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Madam Burgess enjoyed a double title to membership -in this exclusive circle. Her fathers before her, for several -<span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>generations, had been shipowners residing in the -house now her own, to which her husband, the Reverend -Elon Burgess, had come, as an eminently suitable -adjunct upon their marriage. Mr. Burgess had filled a -minor chair in the divinity school for the ten years of -their married life; he had not filled even this particularly -well, being a man of small calibre, lacking in any trace -of original power or talent, but his name was in the -university catalogue, and hence his place in the ranks -of Fulham’s high social circle safe forever. But, although -of limited ability, Professor Burgess was fine of grain and -fine of habit, and sincerely pious in a day when to be -called pious did not awaken a smile. In the fear and -faith of God and in true humility he had lived and -died, leaving perhaps no very large and irreparable -vacancy, and no overwhelming sense of loss or desolation -even to his wife and son, and still having borne—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in8'>“without reproach</div> - <div class='line'>The fine old name of gentleman.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c011'>As a girl Sarah Keith had given satisfactory evidence -of a “change of heart,” and in a time of profound missionary -awakening she had declared herself strongly in -sympathy with foreign missions. To the position thus -taken she had consistently adhered. All boards and auxiliaries -to which she was available claimed her name on -their lists. Missionary literature was always scattered -abundantly in her library, her gifts were large, and her -allegiance to religious interests was so completely taken -for granted that it would no more have been questioned -in Fulham than her place in its aristocracy. Certainly -she never doubted herself that she was essentially a -religious woman. Nevertheless, religion, whether personal -<span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>or in its outreaching toward a world which she -would have unhesitatingly called “lost,” consisted for -her now in a series of mechanical observances, and in -tenacious orthodoxy of opinion it had become a dry -husk enclosing a dead seed. The brief blossoming of -the religious impulse of her young years over, she had -fixed her affections on the small adventitious trappings -of “this transitory life,” and denied unconsciously the -power of that other life, the form of which she so punctiliously -maintained.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Her invalidism was becoming, not inconvenient on -the whole, and not wholly imaginary. Such was the -woman who was now by the ordering of Providence to -rule and direct the unfoldings of Anna’s early womanhood, -since Keith Burgess cherished a respect and -submission to his mother which would have found -something akin in Chinese ancestor-worship. He had -reproduced in his own young life his mother’s early -missionary fervour; that it was long dead in her case -he did not suspect. With Keith this experience had received -a strong accent from the temper of his college -life, and from the possibility of an actual dedication of -himself to the missionary vocation. It had thus become, -as we have seen, for a time nobly and completely dominant -with him, the strongest passion his life had known. -He was himself surprised to find, on his reaction from -the crisis of loss and disappointment connected with his -illness and the abandonment of a missionary career, how -natural and, on the whole, how satisfactory it was to -settle back into his own place in his old home, to fall -back into the small, comfortable interests of Fulham, -and to find full soon an aspect of unreality and even of -incongruity clothing his former ardent dream.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>Not so Anna.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The ordered precision, the formal, stiff monotony, -repeated day after day in her husband’s home, the cold, -conventional courtesies, the absence of any purpose save -to maintain things in existing form without progress or -alteration, for a time exerted upon her an almost paralyzing -effect. A torpid dulness, a physical oppression, -came upon her when shut up alone to the companionship -of Madam Burgess, against which she found it -impossible to struggle successfully. Accustomed to -serious mental work, to much strenuous bodily labour, -to the wholesome severity of long walks in all weathers, -and more than all to the stimulus of a great, immediate -purpose ennobling every homeliest task and smallest service,—the -present life of inaction, of sluggish ease, of -absence of responsibility of motive or purpose, was like -the life of a prison. A heavy, spiritless apathy overbore -every motion to fresh endeavour or to new hopes and -incitements. She “fluttered and failed for breath,” and -at times her heart seemed bursting with its longing, the -old wild, girlish longing, grown still and deep, for freedom -and for power.</p> - -<p class='c011'>With mechanical indifference she accompanied Madam -Burgess on her daily drives, paid and received visits, -shopped, and attended the various prescribed social -functions, read aloud to Keith, and made a feint of embroidering -the great ottoman cover which her mother-in-law -had contrived for her leisure. It was a stag’s -head with impossible square eyes, the head partially -surrounded by a half-wreath of oak leaves and acorns, -staring out of an illimitable field of small red stitches, -numberless as the sands of the seashore, and significant, -Anna thought wearily, of her endless, monotonous hours.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>All the while, just below the surface, repeated -through the long days, was the bitter conflict of her -spirit, her perpetual, unanswered questioning, Why had -God thus dealt with her? Why, with all power -to save or heal, had he permitted the illness to come -upon Keith which had thus brought to naught what -she had supposed was the very and sacred purpose of -her creation.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Upon the intensity of youth and a nature of profound -and passionate earnestness this thwarting of her dedicated -purpose, this apparent rejection of herself from the service -of God, worked piteous havoc. Anna did not grow -sullen or rebellious, but she felt her whole interior life -to be in hopeless confusion. Her sense of an immediate -and personal relation to a fatherly God had suffered something -like an earthquake shock. All the high faith, the -sacred and filial purpose, the profound self-dedication of -her girlhood, seemed to have been flung aside by the God -whom she had sought to know and serve, with cold, blank -indifference, without sign or suggestion of pity, of love, -or of amends. The God of whom Mrs. Westervelt had -taught her, a conception which she had gradually absorbed -and assimilated as her own, a God closer than -breathing, nearer than hands and feet, to whom the heart -was never lifted in vain, whose presence could be indubitably -felt and known, who answered every holy and -devout prayer of his children, and who led them immediately -in every thought and action—where was he? -Either he existed only in imagination, or she was herself -rejected by him as unworthy; and, in a depth below -the depth of burning grief, she saw her father likewise -despised and rejected.</p> - -<p class='c011'>A great protest, honest and indignant, rose up in -<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>Anna’s heart. She knew that, as far as mortal man -could be holy and harmless in the eyes of his God, her -father had been; and she knew that her own purposes -had been blameless and sincere. She refused to quibble -with herself in regard to these facts; something staunch -and sturdy in her mental constitution—not obstinacy, -not pride, but sheer inward honesty—refused to seek -accommodation in any forced paroxysm of humility or -blind submission. With a sorrow which a lighter nature -could not have comprehended, but with characteristic -conclusiveness, she said to herself, the stress of her -inward conflict spent, “I do not know God,” and -composed her spirit in silence to wait.</p> - -<p class='c011'>At the end of a month Keith returned to his class in -the Massachusetts Divinity School, with which he was -to graduate in June. Immediately thereafter he expected -to enter upon the duties of his missionary secretaryship, -and make his home in Fulham with his wife and -mother.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Thrown thus upon the sole companionship of Madam -Burgess, and forced either to make the best of the situation -or to appear the crude, undisciplined provincial -who sullenly refuses to adapt herself to new conditions, -Anna’s native good sense came to her rescue. With -strong will she crowded down her mental conflict, while -with conscientious earnestness she addressed herself to -the duty of making herself a cheerful and sympathetic -companion to her husband’s mother, and of filling the -social position in which she was undeniably placed, however -inscrutable the reasons therefor. New influences -came out to meet and win her on every side, and she -responded with a social grace, and even facility, which -amazed all who had seen her first as the cold, pale, silent -<span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>girl whose marriage altar had seemed rather an altar of -sacrifice.</p> - -<p class='c011'>An effect of singular charm was produced by this -new mental attitude, the opening out of a nature until -now so closely sealed. The native seriousness, the fine, -direct simplicity, of Anna’s girlhood remained; but they -seemed flooded with a new and warmer light, welcome -as daily sunshine while the hardness, the rigour, and the -severity melted away. She submitted without further -protest to the comparative luxury of her surroundings, -found it surprisingly agreeable, and discovered a fresh, -forgotten joy in simple physical existence, which carried -her bravely through the long, dull days of the Burgess -order of life.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Notwithstanding all these things, below the surface of -her life, often below the surface of her thought, lay an -unplumbed depth of spiritual loneliness, a sense of double -orphanhood, a voice which cried and would not be -stilled; for while men and women had come near, of -God she had become shy, feeling toward him as toward -a dearest friend grown cold.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But one night, as she lay alone and wakeful, tears -painful, not easily flowing, wetting her pillow, a sudden -thought stung her by its throbbing wonder and delight, -seeming great enough to reconcile all things, even God, -who had filled her with bitterness, and hedged her about -in all her ways.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She said to herself, “It may be I shall have a child,” -and the deep places of her nature called to each other in -joy and exultation; and she knew that, if this grace -should be given her, all would yet be clear, and she could -still believe in God’s love, and in his purpose in her -life.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>So, blindly groping through the rough and thorny -way by which humanity has sought God through many -ages, this human soul, sincere and humble, perpetuated -the heart-breaking fallacy of conditioning the Divine -Love, the Eternal Power and Godhead, on the small -mutations of her own life, seen at short range.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XVII</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Affections, Instincts, Principles, and Powers,</div> - <div class='line'>Impulse and Reason, Freedom and Control—</div> - <div class='line'>So men, unravelling God’s harmonious whole,</div> - <div class='line'>Rend in a thousand shreds this life of ours.</div> - <div class='line'>Vain labour! Deep and broad, where none may see,</div> - <div class='line'>Spring the foundations of that shadowy throne</div> - <div class='line'>Where man’s one nature, queen-like, sits alone,</div> - <div class='line'>Centred in a majestic unity.</div> - <div class='line in34'>—<span class='sc'>Matthew Arnold.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>To some minds there is nothing more pathetic in -human experience than the patient resignation with -which average men and women accommodate themselves -to the most disastrous and distorting of griefs -and disappointments, nothing more amazing than their -power to endure. If something of the brute nature is -in us all, it is not always and altogether the animalhood -of greed or of ferocity, but far more commonly the -mute, uncomprehending submission of sheep and oxen. -Though the futility of revolt is so apparent, the infrequency -of it in human lives does not cease to surprise. -The modern Rachel mourns for her children, and will -not be comforted, but she goes about the streets in conventional -mourning, orders her house with decent regularity, -and probably, in the end, goes abroad for a time, -and returning, enters with apparent cheerfulness into the -social round. The modern Guelph or Ghibelline, banished -from the political or intellectual activities which -made life to him, finds readily that raving against time -and fate is no longer good form, reads his daily paper -<span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>with unabated interest, and enjoys a good dinner with -appetite unimpaired. Very probably the man’s and the -woman’s heart is broken in each instance, but what -then? Life goes on, and the resiliency of the mainspring -in a well-adjusted piece of human mechanism -may be usually guaranteed, with safety, to last a lifetime.</p> - -<p class='c011'>In a year after her marriage Anna Burgess was diligently -at work along the conventional lines of activity of -her day for religious young women at home,—writing -missionary reports, distributing literature, collecting dues. -She saw nothing better to do. Her own private and -innermost relation to God, it was true, had been dislocated, -but the heathen remained to be saved.</p> - -<p class='c011'>One morning, Keith being away from home, Anna -came into Madam Burgess’s sitting room, her cheeks -slightly flushed, her eyes shining, a letter in hand.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“May I read you this?” she asked eagerly; “I have -been invited to give an address at the foreign missionary -conference next month in H——. What if I could! -I should be so glad.” Her eyes told the new and eager -hope which this summons had stirred within her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>An added degree of frost settled upon her mother-in-law’s -face.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You can hardly mean, Anna,” she said, “that you -would be willing to speak in public?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“But our missionaries do, and sometimes others,” -Anna replied anxiously.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“The case of missionaries is, of course, entirely exceptional; -and they should never be heard, in my opinion, -before mixed audiences. As for other women making -spectacles of themselves, it would seem to be enough to -remind you, Anna, of the words of the Apostle Paul on -<span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>that subject. You would hardly attempt, I think, to -explain them away.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna was silent.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“A woman who has a noble Christian husband, my -dear,” continued Madam Burgess, more gently, feeling -her case now won, “as you have, who is already at work -in this very field of labour, has no occasion to leave the -sacred shelter of her own home, and lift up her voice -and exhibit her person in public gatherings.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Keith always said that I might still have a chance -to do a little work in this way; I am sure he approved,” -and Anna’s low voice faltered, her heart full just then of -the memory of those first days of their common sorrow.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You have a very indulgent husband, and it is not -strange if, in the first fond days of your married life, he -may have unwisely yielded to some mistaken sense of -duty on your part, and apparently committed himself to -a purpose which he would later realize to be impracticable. -Understand me clearly, my dear,” and the term -of endearment sounded, from Madam Burgess’s lips, as -sharp as the point of an icicle, “my son’s wife can never, -without flying in the face of all her holiest obligations, -both to God and man, present herself before an audience -of people as a public speaker. A woman who does this -violates the very law of her being, she ceases to be -womanly, ceases to be modest, and loses all that feminine -delicacy which is woman’s chief ornament.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The finality of these remarks clearly perceived, Anna -rose from her chair, and left the room in silence. She -never returned to the subject, but simply buried in her -heart one more high hope of service.</p> - -<p class='c011'>This was the first time that Anna’s inexperience and -young ardour had joined direct issue with Madam Burgess’s -<span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>social creed. For a while everything had gone so -smoothly that Anna’s first sense of disparity had been -soothed to rest; all things being new, she had failed to -see the full significance of certain limitations which -hedged her in. Little by little she learned this, and -learned the inevitable submission. She never appealed -to Keith from his mother, controlled by a sense of the -essential ugliness and vulgarity of a domestic situation -in which the different elements are working and interworking -at variance with each other. Furthermore, she -learned very soon that, however sympathetic and gentle -Keith might show himself toward her, he would, in -the end, range himself on his mother’s side of every -question.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Stratagem and indirection were alike alien to Anna’s -nature and habit, but she inevitably learned, in process -of time and experience, to avoid leading Madam Burgess -to a declaration of definite positions, while she sought to -enlist her husband’s sympathies in her own undertakings -before his mother was made acquainted with them. Any -plan which was brought before her by her son was comparatively -acceptable to the elder woman. Thus wisely -ordering her goings as women learn to do, Anna succeeded -in reaching a fair degree of independence and at the same -time a harmonious outward order. Her sacrifices and -disappointments, the gradual paring down of her larger -hopes and the dimming of her finer aspirations, she kept -to herself.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Pierce Everett, the young artist who had spoken of -Anna’s fitness for a model of a saint, had carried out -his purpose, and had formally requested her to pose for -him. With the cordial approval of both Madam Burgess -and Keith, Anna had consented, and late in the winter -<span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>the sittings began in Everett’s studio, which was in his -father’s house. Madam Burgess brought Anna to the -house for the first sitting. They were received by the -mother of the artist, an intimate friend of Madam Burgess, -and the older ladies then laughingly gave Anna over into -Everett’s hands while they enjoyed a discussion of certain -benevolent committee matters.</p> - -<p class='c011'>In the studio a little talk ensued regarding the projected -sittings, and various considerations involved in -them. These matters understood, Anna said composedly:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am ready, Mr. Everett, if you will tell me just -what you wish. I do not even know for what I am to -be painted.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“And you will not object, Mrs. Burgess,” said -Everett, quickly, “if I do not tell you now? It is in -a character which could not, I am sure, displease you, -but I think it would be decidedly better that we should -not discuss it, and that you should have no definite -thought of it. Is this satisfactory to you?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Entirely so.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Very well.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Immediately upon this Everett took his place at the -easel and began a first rapid sketch of Anna’s head. He -was a slight fellow, below the medium height, with a -delicate, almost transparent face, a red Vandyke beard, -and large and brilliant brown eyes. Quick and nervous -in speech and gesture, he had the clear-cut precision of a -man who knows both his means and his end.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna thought him very interesting.</p> - -<p class='c011'>At the second sitting their talk chanced to turn upon -the relation of the ideals of men and women to their -practical lives, and Everett told Anna the old story of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>Carcassonne, which was new to her. The train of -thought thus suggested soon absorbed her, so that she -forgot him and what he was doing. The sacred hope -of her own life, yet unfulfilled, still centring in the hope -of her father, the ever receding purpose of which she -never spoke, cast its powerful influence upon her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>For half an hour neither spoke. Then Everett’s -friend, Professor Ward, came into the room in familiar -fashion, and the two men talked of many things.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When Anna left Nathan Ward said, looking over his -friend’s shoulder:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“If you can keep that look, you will make a great -picture.” Then he added, “But don’t fail to get her -hands. They have the same expression.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>After that it became an habitual thing for Ward to -drop into the studio at these sittings. It never occurred -to Anna that her presence had anything to do with his -coming. She supposed he had always come. He talked -very little with her, but she liked to listen to his talk -with Everett. It was distinctly novel to her—light, -rambling, touch-and-go, and yet full of underlying -thought and suggestion. Anna had known few men -at best, none of the order to which these two belonged, -men conversant with art and literature, music and -poetry, and modern life on all its sides. Much that -they said puzzled and perplexed her, but she found an -eager enjoyment in it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then one day Professor Ward said to her, apropos of -Shelley, of whom they had been speaking:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You do not join in this discussion, Mrs. Burgess. -I am quite sure you could give us opinions much wiser -than ours.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna’s colour deepened as she answered:—</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>“I have not read Shelley in a great many years. Indeed, -I know nothing of literature.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was a little silence; Anna hesitated, half -inclined to say a word in explanation of a fact which -she plainly saw the two men found very surprising, but -finally, finding the explanation too personal and too serious, -remained silent.</p> - -<p class='c011'>As she started to walk home from the Everett’s, Professor -Ward joined her, asking to walk with her. He -was a man of forty, with a wife and a flock of little -children. Anna knew the family slightly, but pleasantly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Mrs. Burgess,” the professor began, as they walked -down the quiet street, “I do not want to intrude or to -be found inquisitive, but I am so puzzled by what you -said a little while ago that I really wish you felt inclined -to enlighten me. I know you never speak with the -exaggeration and inaccuracy which is so much the habit -of young ladies, and so I accept what you said as to your -ignorance of literature as sober truth. But you are a -well-educated woman. How can it be?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna was almost glad of a chance to explain. She -was facing many new questions in these days, and she -felt the need of light. She answered therefore at once, -with frankness:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I deliberately gave up study on all these lines when -I became a Christian. I supposed them to be contrary -to the absolute consecration of my life to God.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Professor Ward looked perplexed.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You cannot understand,” Anna said timidly. “I -have felt since I have been in Fulham as if the language -of my religious life in those days would be an unknown -tongue here. I see that I am right. To you, Professor -Ward, I am sure such a sense of duty as I speak of is -<span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>unintelligible, but I can still say it was sincere. And it -was not an easy sacrifice to make, for I had already -grown fond of poetry, and longed to know more in a -way I could never express.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I see,” said her companion, gravely; “you felt that -the study of the work of men like most of our poets, -whose religious positions were vague and not formulated -according to our creeds, was likely to act unfavourably -upon your spiritual life and experience.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes. To divide my heart, to dim my sense of a -one, single aim in life.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“And that aim?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“To serve God directly in every thought and word. -That, and to try to save the souls of the lost.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Professor Ward had no key to the profound sadness -with which Anna spoke, but he watched her face with -earnest interest. She spoke with the unconsciousness -of absolute sincerity. He was reflecting, however, on -how much easier life might be if one could sustain, undisturbed, -such bare simplicity of conception of human -relations.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“And so,” he said slowly, “you were going to -prune away every instinct, every faculty of your nature -which did not serve the immediate purpose of -furthering what men call sometimes ‘the cause of religion,’ -and know and feel and be one thing only?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna bent her head in assent.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“That is precisely what men and women do who -seek monastic life.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna looked up at Professor Ward in quick surprise -and instinctive protest.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes,” he said, with emphasis, “it was just as noble -and just as cowardly, just as weak and just as strong, as -<span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>the impulses which make monks and nuns. It is what -people do who are afraid of life, who do not dare to -encounter the whole of it, who have not reached the -highest faith in either God or man.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Then you think such a resolution, such a scheme -of life, produces weak natures, not strong ones?” asked -Anna, looking up with her honest, steadfast gaze into -his eyes.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I should say narrow natures, and yet I fear I ought -to say weak ones too. Mrs. Burgess, do you not see -yourself the weakness, the narrowness, of the position? -It is what might be called the department system of -human life,” and Professor Ward, with rapid gestures, -indicated the drawing of sharp lines. “It is as if you -said to your ego, your soul—yourself—whatever,—Go -to now, this department of your life is religious; it -sings hymns, reads a collection of sacred writings at regular -hours, prays, gives away money to build churches, -and performs various other exercises definitely stamped -as godly. This other department loves nature, exults in -beauty, pours itself into poetic thought, rejoices in music, -expresses itself in art: but all this is secular, pagan—all -men may have this in common who have not accepted -my particular conception of the divine nature and its -dealings with men; consequently all this is to be cut off—effaced, -fought with to the death. Am I right?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna nodded, her face very grave, her breath quickened.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Does that seem to you a reasonable or even a noble -conception? There was nobleness, I grant you, in the -struggle, just as there was in the fortitude of the Spartans; -but who feels now a desire to imitate that sheer, -barbaric effacing of human feeling? No, no. That -<span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>day has passed. We can begin to see life whole to-day; -we can see God in nature, in poetry, in beauty, in ugliness -even. He is all and in all. All things are ours -and we are God’s! I wish I could make this clear to -you.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You have, in part,” said Anna, simply.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No way, however tortuous, by which men have -groped after God can be indifferent to us, if we have the -right sense of humanity. Trust yourself, Mrs. Burgess; -trust the human heart throughout the ages. Believe me, -with all the drawbacks, all the falls, and all the blunders, -it has been an honest heart and is worthy of reverence -and devout study. ‘Trust God: see all, nor be -afraid.’”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I have seen only one side of life, one conception of -human nature.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“That, at least, was a high and lofty one. For stern -heroism of thought, commend me to that old New England -Calvinism in which I see you were nurtured. It -was fine; I glory in it, just as I glory in heroism everywhere, -builded up on however mistaken a foundation. -The worst of it, however, is that it completely deceives -the human heart as to itself. It is terrible in its power -to mislead. The elect are not as elect by half as they -suppose. Calvin himself helped to burn Servetus, which -was not really fine of him, you know. But I have said -enough. I hope I have not wounded you?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I do not think so,” said Anna, smiling faintly, “but -I am amazed beyond everything. All that you say is -so new.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>They had reached Professor Ward’s house, which -was very near that of Madam Burgess.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I wish you would come in a moment,” said Ward, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>very gently; “you know my wife always likes to see -you, and I want to show you some books in which I -think you would be interested.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Without reply, Anna passed through the gate which -he held open for her, and they entered the house together. -Mrs. Ward met them, and they all went into -the professor’s study.</p> - -<p class='c011'>In a few moments Anna was lost in the realm of -books so long self-closed to her experience. She sat at -his desk, and Ward handed her and heaped about her -rare and beautiful volumes until she became bewildered -with the sense of intellectual richness and complexity. -She looked up at last, as he bent over her, turning the -leaves of a beautiful old Italian edition of Dante’s -“Commedia,” and, with a smile beneath which her lips -trembled, she asked, like a child:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Tell me truly, is all this for me, righteously, -safely?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Did I not tell you?” he asked gently. “‘All things -are yours, and you are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s.’”</p> - -<p class='c011'>With that day Anna returned to the long-sealed books -of her father’s love and her own. She read and studied -under Professor Ward’s guidance and direction, steadily -and with eager delight. She did this with no further -misgiving or doubt. He had succeeded in satisfying her -conscience, and she moved joyfully along the clear lines -of her inherited intellectual choice.</p> - -<p class='c011'>As for her father and the example of renunciation he -had given her, her heart was at rest. That which was -perfect being come for him, was not that which had -been in part done away?</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XVIII</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Are you the new person drawn toward me?</div> - <div class='line'>To begin with take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose;</div> - <div class='line'>Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'> · · · · ·</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloyed satisfaction?</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'> · · · · ·</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Do you see no further than this façade, this smooth and tolerant manner of me?</div> - <div class='line'>Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic man?</div> - <div class='line'>Have you no thought, O dreamer, that it may be all maya, illusion?</div> - <div class='line in54'>—<span class='sc'>Walt Whitman.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>In her sittings in the studio of Pierce Everett, Anna -had found from time to time numbers of an English -magazine devoted to social reform. Some of these, at -Everett’s suggestion, she had taken home with her and -read with care. Coming to the studio one May afternoon, -for the work had been laid aside for a time for -various reasons, and only resumed with the spring, Anna -laid down on a table three or four of these magazines -with the remark:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I wish I knew who John Gregory is.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Everett glanced up quickly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I mean the man who wrote those articles on the -‘Social Ideals of Jesus,’” added Anna.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Do you like them?” asked Everett.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I do not know how to answer that question,” said -Anna, musingly; “perhaps you hardly can say you like -what makes you thoroughly uncomfortable. What he -says of the immorality of a life of selfish ease appeals to -me powerfully.”</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>“It is a great arraignment,” said Everett, working on -in apparent absorbedness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“What stirs me so deeply,” continued Anna, “is -that this writer not only says what I believe to be true, -but that he makes you feel a sense of power, authority, -finality almost, in the way he says it. And by that, you -know, I do not mean that he is authoritative or autocratic; -it is simply that he writes as one who sees, who -knows, who has gone beyond the mists of doubt and has -a clear vision.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You are quite right, Mrs. Burgess,” said Everett, -quietly, looking up from his work, his eyes kindling -with unwonted light. “John Gregory is a man of his -generation—a seer; as you say, one who sees. He is -my master. You did not know, perhaps, that I am a -socialist?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No,” Anna said simply; “I do not even rightly -know what a socialist is.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It is, as far as my personal definition is concerned,—there -are a dozen others,—a man who believes that -the aim of individual and private gain and advantage, -to the ignoring of the interests of his fellow-men, is -immoral; this, whether it is the struggle for the man’s -salvation in a future life, or his social or material advancement -in this.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna looked very sober. In a moment of silence, -she was asking herself, “I wonder what becomes of -people who are forced into lives of selfish inaction; -who have to live luxuriously when they don’t want to; -who are obliged to go in carriages when they far prefer -walking; and who find their hands tied whenever they -seek any line of effort not absolutely conventional?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Looking up then with a sudden smile, she exclaimed, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span>“I should like to ask this Mr. Gregory a few questions!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Perhaps you may be able to some time. He is in -this country now, and he is so good as to honour me -with his personal friendship. However, he passes like -night from land to land; one can never count upon his -coming, or plan for his staying an hour. But if I -can bring it about, Mrs. Burgess, you shall meet some -time.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Thank you. What is he? A clergyman, a teacher, -or what?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You found something a little sermonic in his articles?” -and Everett smiled. “I believe he can never -throw it off entirely. He is an Oxford man, a scholar, -and a writer on sociology. He is first and last and -always, however, a Christian in the purest and most -practical sense.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“That seemed to me unmistakable.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“He used to be a preacher; in fact, he was for a number -of years a famous evangelist in England, and also -in this country. He was led into that work by a sense -of obligation. I should almost think you must have -heard of his wonderful success. John Gregory—his -name was in everybody’s mouth a few years ago.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna tried to recall some vague sense of association -with the name, which failed to declare itself plainly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“He was holding great revival meetings somewhere -in New England, simply sweeping everything before -him; all the great cities were seeking him, you know -his income could have been almost anything he would -have made it. All this I know, but I never heard a -word of it from Gregory himself.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“He is not doing this still?”</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>“I will tell you. Really to understand, you must try -to imagine something of the man’s personality. He has -in the highest degree that indefinable quality which we -usually call magnetism. He has an almost irresistible personal -influence with many people. Well, on a certain -night, four or five years ago, I should think, during the -course of a most successful meeting, it suddenly became -clear to him that he was bringing the people in that audience -to a religious crisis, and to a committal of themselves -to a profession of a knowledge of God, by doubtful means. -I cannot tell you the details, I have forgotten them; but -I know that he went through something like agony in -that meeting, and that in saying the words ‘The Spirit -is here,’ he had an overwhelming sense of presumption -and even of blasphemy. He did not know that the -Spirit was present. He was not sure but the influence -at work was the product of music, of oratory, of his -own will and personality, of the contagion of an excited -crowd—in short, was purely human. If this were so, -what could the results be but confusion and dismay -when the hour of reaction should come? He was -borne down by a sense of pity and remorse even for -the coming spiritual doubts and struggles of the people -who were at that hour placed almost helplessly in his -hands, and abruptly he left the place—hall, whatever -it was. That night in his hotel he made no attempt -to sleep, but studied the situation, its dangers, its losses, -its benefits, with the result that he never again held that -order of revival meetings. Whatever good other men -might do with the forces at work and put into their -hands to wield at such crises, for himself he was convinced -that the human had usurped the divine, and made -of him, not only an unauthorized experimenter with -<span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>souls, but a violator of their sacred rights, albeit hitherto -unconsciously to himself.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“What has he been doing since?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Studying. He has gone deeply into social and religious -problems, has travelled largely, has seen and talked -with many of the most famous leaders of modern thought, -and I think he has now some large plans which are -maturing slowly. Meanwhile he writes such things as -you have read.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The following week Anna was again in Everett’s -studio. This sitting, he promised her as it drew to a -close, should be the last, as he could finish the picture -without her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Am I to see it now?” asked Anna, timidly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Not quite yet, if you can be patient still after such -long forbearance,” was the answer, given with a bright -but half-pleading smile. “I want you to like the thing -if you can, Mrs. Burgess, and I know my chances are -better if you see it when the final touches are on.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Very well. I am not in a hurry.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>When Anna left the studio the sun was low and the -room fast growing shadowy. Seeing how hard and intensely -Everett was working to use the last light of the -day, she insisted that he should not come down the three -long flights of stairs with her. The studio was at the -top of the house. They parted, therefore, with a brief, -cordial good-by, and earnest thanks from the young -artist, whose admiration and reverence for his model had -grown with every hour spent in her presence.</p> - -<p class='c011'>On the second flight of stairs Anna encountered the -housemaid coming up, a tray with a card in her hand. -Otherwise the house seemed strangely still and deserted -that evening. As she descended slowly from the broad -<span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>landing of the main staircase, where a window of stained -glass threw a deep radiance from the western sky like a -shaft of colour down into the dim hall below, Anna perceived -that some one stood there, waiting.</p> - -<p class='c011'>As she looked, amazement and a strange, deep joy took -hold on her. The man who stood with arms crossed -upon his breast where the shaft of light fell full upon -him in the gathering shadow was of heroic height and -stature, with a large leonine head, grey hair thrown carelessly -from his forehead, strong features, and eyes stern -and grave in their fixed look straight before him as he -stood.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was not the first time that Anna Mallison had confronted -this face. Twice in her girlhood she had seen -it as she saw it now. It was the face of her dream, the -dream which for years secretly dominated her inner life -as a vision of human power and greatness touched with -supernatural light. Even in later time, in this year of -her Fulham life, she had at intervals recalled that presence -and influence distinctly, and never without quickened -pulses and mysterious longing. And now she saw -bodily before her the very shape and substance of her -dream.</p> - -<p class='c011'>With her heart beating violently and her breath painfully -quickened, she proceeded down the stairs, through -the hall, and so past the place where the stranger stood. -When she reached him he became aware of her presence -for the first time. Throwing back his head slightly with -the action of one surprised, he met Anna’s eyes lifted -with timid joy and dreamlike appeal to his face, and -smiled, bending slightly as if in spiritual bestowment, and -shedding into her heart the inexplicable delight which -she had known before only as the effluence of a dream.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>Neither spoke. The house door opened and closed, -and Anna hastened down the street alone under the -pale, clear sky, with a sense that the greatest event of -her life had befallen her, but she knew not what it was. -As she went on her homeward way she seemed to herself -to be palpably taken up and borne onward by a power -beyond herself, as of some rushing, mighty “wind of -destiny.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>She found her husband at home, alone in the dusky -library by an oppressive fire. She wanted to tell him -what had happened; but when she sought to do this she -found that nothing had happened; there was nothing to -tell unless she should seek to put into words that mysterious -dream of her past, and this she found impossible. -The dream was her own. No one else could understand.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith had returned from a long and tiresome journey -in her absence, and Anna was filled with penitence that -she had not been in the house to receive him and make -him comfortable. He looked worn and dispirited, and -complained of the weather, which she had thought celestial, -but which prostrated his strength.</p> - -<p class='c011'>In her quiet, skilful way she ministered to him, hiding -in her heart the deep happiness in which no one -could share, and as she bathed his head he caught her -hand and kissed it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, my wife,” he said, so low that she could hardly -hear, “you are too beautiful, too wonderful for a miserable -weakling of a man like me; but how I love you, -Anna! Tell me that I do not spoil your life.”</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XIX</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>I am holy while I stand</div> - <div class='line'>Circumcrossed by thy pure hand;</div> - <div class='line'>But when that is gone again,</div> - <div class='line'>I, as others, am profane.</div> - <div class='line in28'>—<span class='sc'>Robert Herrick.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>John Gregory stood in the studio with his friend, -the first greetings over.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“May I look at your work?” he asked, approaching -Everett’s easel. The younger man stood behind him -with sensitive, changing colour, and something almost -like trepidation in the expression of his face.</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was a certain quality of command in John -Gregory, of which he was himself, perhaps, usually -unconscious, which produced in many minds a disproportionate -anxiety to win his approval. As he stood -now before Everett’s easel, however, he was not the -awe-inspiring figure of Anna’s dream, or even of its -sudden fulfilment, but simply an English gentleman in -his rough travelling tweeds, a man of fifty or thereabout, -noticeable for his height and splendid proportion, -for a kind of rugged harmony of feature, and for the -peculiarly piercing quality of his glance. His manner -was characterized by repose which might have appeared -stolidity had not the fire in his eyes denied the suggestion; -his voice was deep and full, and he spoke with -the roll and rhythm of accent common to educated Englishmen. -The aspect of the man produced, altogether, -an effect of almost careless freedom from form, the sense -<span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>that here was one who had to do with what was actual -and imperative, not with the adventitious and artificial; -in fine, an essentially masculine and virile individuality,—a -man born to lead, not to follow.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Beside him, Pierce Everett, with his delicate mobility -of face and the slender grace of his frame, looked boyish -and even effeminate, but there was nothing of superiority -or patronage in Gregory’s bearing toward the young -artist, but rather a kind of affectionate comradery peculiarly -winning, and he entered into the study of the -young man’s work with cordial and sympathetic interest.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The canvas before them was not a large one; the -composition extremely simple; the single figure it presented -was set in against a background of cold, low tones -of yellow. A crumbling tomb of hewn stone, with tufts -of dry grass growing in the crevices, hoary with age, -stained with decay, was set against a steep hillside of -sterile limestone. Leaning upon a broken pillar of this -tomb stood the figure of a young girl, her hands dropped -carelessly upon the rough stone before her, her head -lifted and encircled by a faint nimbus, the eyes fixed in -absorbed contemplation, and yet with a child’s passionless -calm. The outlines of the figure, in white Oriental -dress, were those of extreme youth, undeveloped and -severe, the attitude had an unconscious childlike grace, -the expression of the face was that of awe and wonder, -with a curious mingling of joy and dread. The subject, -easily guessed, was the Virgin in Contemplation in early -girlhood.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The picture was nearly finished, only the detail of the -foreground remained incomplete.</p> - -<p class='c011'>John Gregory stood for some time in silence. The -face and figure before him possessed the expression of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>high, spiritual quality common to the early Florentines; -there was little of fleshly or earthly beauty, but an aura -of celestial purity, of virginal innocence and devout aspiration, -was the more perceived.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You have painted, like Fra Angelico, Everett, with -heaven in your heart.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory spoke at last. The artist drew a long breath -and turned away, satisfied. They both found chairs -then, and settled down for an hour of talk.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Where could you find a model for such a conception? -It would be most difficult, I should think, in our self-conscious, -sophisticated, modern life.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It was my model who created my picture,” replied -Everett. “Mrs. Keith Burgess is the lady’s name. -Seeing her at church, when she came here a bride, gave -me my first thought of the thing.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory looked at him meditatively.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It is most remarkable that a woman who was married -could have suggested your little Mary there, with -that child’s unconsciousness in her eyes, that obviously -virginal soul. When a woman has loved a man, she has -another look.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Everett was surprised at this comment from Gregory, -who had never married, and who was peculiarly silent and -indifferent commonly when the subject of love or marriage -was touched in conversation. He answered presently:</p> - -<p class='c011'>“When Mrs. Burgess was married and came here, she -was in a sense a child. She was thoughtful and serious -beyond her years in religious concerns, but quite undeveloped -on all other lines, and as inexperienced in the motives -and energies of the modern world as a child—I think one -might have described her then as a very religious child.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Has she changed greatly?”</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>“Not so much, and yet somewhat. She has begun to -read, you see, which she never had done except on certain -scholastic and religious lines; she has begun to think -for herself somewhat, and in a sense, one could say, she -has begun to live.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>John Gregory did not reply, but he said to himself -that if she had begun to love she could not have furnished -his friend with the inspiration and the model for -just that picture.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He had come to Fulham only for the evening, being -on his way to take a steamer from Montreal back to -England. The two men had dinner together, and then, -returning to the studio, conversed long and earnestly. -Gregory spoke freely but not fully of plans which -absorbed him, but which were not yet matured. Some -theory of social coöperation was in full possession of -his mind, and he had small consideration for things outside. -Everett listened with serious attention to all that -he said, and when he rose to make ready for departure -he remarked:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Mr. Gregory, when the time comes that you are -ready to carry into execution any plan embodying this -principle of brotherhood, count on me, if you think me -worthy. I am ready to follow you—anywhere.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory looked down upon the young man with his -grave and winning smile.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Thank you, Everett; I shall remember. But do you -know, my dear fellow, I want to ask a tremendous favour -of you now, this very night?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Say on,” returned the other.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory had crossed the room to the easel, and now -stood with a look intent on the picture of the young -Virgin.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span>“It is a bold request, but I want to buy this picture -of you now—before you have a chance to touch it -again. Who knows but you may spoil it? It interests -me unusually, and I want to take it with me to England,—to -do that it must go with me to-night. I will pay -you any price you have in mind. I want it for a purpose, -Everett.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“What! you mean that I should let it go to-night, -before I have finished it, or shown it to Mrs. Burgess -herself even?” and Everett looked almost aghast. “She -has never seen it, even once, you know.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes,” said the other, looking fully into the artist’s -excited face with undisturbed quietness; “that is exactly -what I ask of you. I will promise to return the painting -to you at some future date if that should be your wish. I -shall be over here again in a year.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Everett stood for a moment, reflecting.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am very fond of the picture,” he said slowly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“So am I,” said the other, smiling.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Everett glanced up, and caught the smile, and felt a -strange control in it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You will have to take it,” he said, with a nervous -laugh. “There is no other way.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Then, put a good price on it, my boy,” said -Gregory, with matter-of-fact brevity.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You will agree not to exhibit it anywhere, publicly?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Certainly. I could not do that without Mrs. -Burgess’s consent.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“How I shall make my peace with her, I am sure -I cannot imagine,” murmured Everett, as he took the -painting from its place, and laid it on the table preparatory -to packing it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Will you tell her, please,” said Gregory, quite -<span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>unmoved, “that I wanted the picture, and will agree to -make good use of it?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>A sudden clearing passed over Everett’s clouded face.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, to be sure, to be sure!” he cried; “Mrs. -Burgess has read your recent articles in the <cite>Economist</cite>, -and she is quite enthusiastic over them. It will be all -right.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am sure it will,” said John Gregory. He was -thinking of Anna’s face as she had passed him in the -hall below, but he did not mention the fact that they -had met to Everett.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XX</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c015'>That which has caused the miserable failure of all the efforts of natural -religion is that its founders have not had the courage to lay hold upon the hearts -of men, consenting to no partition. They have not understood the imperious -desire for immolation which lies in the depths of every soul, and souls have taken -their revenge in not heeding those too lukewarm lovers.</p> -<div class='c018'>—<cite>Life of St. Francis.</cite> <span class='sc'>Sabatier.</span></div> - -<p class='c014'>To be content to have while others have not, to be content to be right while -others are bound and crushed with wrong, to be content to be saved apart from -the common life, to seek heaven while our brothers are in hell, is deepest perdition -and not salvation; it is the mark of Cain in a new form.—<span class='sc'>G. D. Herron.</span></p> - -<p class='c010'>In the few years which followed her early married -life, the cords of convention, slender, and strong as -threads of silk, were wound closer and closer about -Anna Burgess outwardly. As she grew older, Keith’s -mother grew more immovable in her social creed, and -ruled her family more rigidly. Anna might read and -study, but if she would please her mother-in-law, it must -be in the mildest of manners, and on strictly suitable -and ladylike lines; religious biography was recommended, -while all literature which conveyed a touch of -freedom in thought, or a suggestion of a change in social -conditions, was viewed with horror.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna might also be charitable, but this too must be -on strictly conventional lines. There were numerous -benevolent organizations upheld by Fulham’s fashionable -women; the name of Mrs. Keith Burgess might -figure frequently on these,—to this there would be no -opposition, but individual and sporadic work among the -poor was uniformly discouraged. The family carriage -<span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>was often sent into the slums of the city on errands of -bestowal as from the wealthy to those “less favoured,” -but when Anna would have liked the carriage to take -her on social calls on equal terms, in respectable but -unfashionable regions, she met with a cold disfavour and -unyielding lack of compliance.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Malvina Loveland, who had been married to the -Rev. Frank Nichols, not long after Anna’s marriage, -had come again within Anna’s horizon. Through -Keith’s personal influence, exerted at Mr. Nichols’s -request, a call had been extended to him to the pastorate -of a church in Fulham. This church was not very -large and not particularly prominent; furthermore, it was -not in the “right” part of Fulham geographically, which -was as distinctly limited as the social circle.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The Nicholses, delighted to come to Fulham as a -university town of some importance, and to a church -far more promising of obvious success than the mission -enterprise in which they had worked in Burlington, -innocently rented a cosey modern house on a pleasant -street which, had they but known it, distinctly stamped -them as socially ineligible from the day of their arrival.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mally, dreaming of nothing of the kind, entered upon -what she expected to be a somewhat brilliant life socially, -into which she saw her husband and herself conducted -easily and naturally by the Keith Burgesses.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna had received her old friend with most affectionate -cordiality, and had spent days of hard work in helping -her to order her house, which, as there was a baby -and but one servant, was not a small undertaking. -Madam Burgess had submitted with patience to the long -absences and the preoccupation of her daughter-in-law -<span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>thus involved, and had even responded without demur -to Anna’s timid request that they might have her old -friends to dinner.</p> - -<p class='c011'>This dinner closed the Nichols episode from the -social point of view. The guests were full of cheerful -and unfeigned admiration, eager to please, easy to be -pleased, but their good will availed them nothing. Even -Anna could not fail now to perceive poor Mally’s -inherent provincialness, but had she been apparently to -the manner born, it would have made no difference with -Madam Burgess. The essential qualifications to entrance -into her world being lacking, her punctilious and attentive -courtesy for the occasion simply covered the inevitable -and absolute finality of it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The Nicholses themselves, while by no means perceiving -that the social career to which they had looked -forward in Fulham was ended with this visit instead of -begun, departed from the Burgess mansion with a vague -sense of chill which all Anna’s efforts could not counteract. -They were never invited there again. Madam -Burgess had done her duty by her son’s wife’s early -friends, and the incident, as far as she was concerned, -was closed.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna, burning with a desire to make up to Mally for -the inevitable disappointment which she foresaw, and -hotly, although silently, resenting the social narrowness -which excluded all men and women whose lives had not -been run in the one fixed mould, devoted herself personally -to her old friend with double ardour. More than this she -could not do. Mally wondered, as the months passed -and they settled down to the undivided intercourse of -their own obscure church and neighbourhood, that Anna -made no attempt to introduce her into her own aristocratic -<span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span>circle. Over and over she bit back the question -which would reach her lips, “Why?” Her heart fermented -with bitterness and resentment, and her husband -was taxed to the utmost to subdue and sweeten the tumult -of her wounded feeling.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Another year brought Mally another baby, greatly to -her own dissatisfaction. Poor Anna, the great passion of -motherhood within her still baffled and unfulfilled, poured -out her soul upon mother and child in vicarious ecstasy, -and went home to lie awake for many nights with her -ceaseless, thwarted yearning for a child; and thus these -two women each longed passionately for what the other, -possessing, found a burden rather than a joy.</p> - -<p class='c011'>As time went on, Anna, bound to a certain outward -course of life alien to her natural bent, lived her own -life just below the surface, a life like a flame burning -beneath ice. All the master motives of her nature -unapplied; all the initial motives with which life had -begun, neutralized and made ineffective, she reached, five -years of married life over, the point which in any human -development is one of danger,—the point when great -personal forces are dammed up by barriers of external -circumstance, when the prime powers and passions are -without adequate expression.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Meanwhile Keith Burgess, his young enthusiasms -having lost their first freshness, the limitations of -physical weakness and suffering making themselves -more and more felt, settled into a narrow routine of -life and thought. As his physique gradually seemed to -shrivel and his delicacy of form and feature to increase, -a resemblance to his mother, scarcely observable in his -younger manhood, became at times striking. His missionary -activity passed from its original fresh ardour into a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>system of petty details, increasingly formal and perfunctory, -even to Anna’s reluctant perception.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Perhaps it was due to Keith’s protracted absences -from home, perhaps partly to his physical exhaustion, -which made him dull and unresponsive when with her, -but Anna felt, against her own will, a growing divergence -in thought and interest between them. He was delicately -sympathetic, chivalrously attentive, to her in all outward -ways; but when she longed with eager craving for his -participation in the life of thought and purpose which -was stirring the depths of her nature in secret, she found -scant response.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Driven inward thus at every point, Anna’s essential -life centred itself more and more upon the new message -of social brotherhood which she had found in the writings -of John Gregory; and, unconsciously to herself, the -ruling figure in her mind, as the symbol of the human -power and freedom for which she longed, was his. The -“counterfeit presentment” of this man in her dream had -ruled her girlish imagination; and now his actual presence, -though but once encountered, exercised an influence -over her maturer life no less mysterious and no less -profound. To this influence fresh strength was given by -the relation, never-so-slight, which existed between them -by reason of Gregory’s possession of the picture painted -by Everett. How she was represented was still all unknown -to her, still unasked; but must it not be that, -owning this mysterious image of her face, his thoughts -would sometimes turn to her? This thought stirred -Anna with a thrill, half of joy, half of fear.</p> - -<p class='c011'>An interruption in the routine of their Fulham life -occurred after Keith had served the missionary society -for a period of five years. An illness which manifested, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>as well as increased, his physical inability to continue in -his difficult duties brought Keith and Anna to a sudden -course of action. Keith resigned his official position, -and, as soon as he was able to travel, they sailed for -Europe for a year’s absence.</p> - -<p class='c011'>This was a year of rapid development and of abounding -happiness to Anna. Alone and unguarded in their -life together for the first time since their marriage, the -husband and wife grew together in new sympathy, and -fed their spirits on the beauty and wonder of art and the -majesty of nature in fond accord. The fulness and richness -and complexity of the working of the human spirit -throughout the ages were revealed to Anna; the grandeur -and purity of dedicated lives of creeds unlike and -even hostile to her own opened her eyes to a new and -broader view of human and divine relations. Reverence, -love, and sympathy began to usurp the place of dogma, -division, and exclusion in her mental energies. She -began to perceive that the righteous were not wholly -righteous, nor the wicked wholly wicked. The old -ground plan of the moral universe with which she had -started in life looked now a mean and narrow thing. -Larger hopes and a bolder faith awoke in her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>And so in mind, and also in body, Anna grew joyously -and freely; even her attitudes and motions expressed a new -harmony, while suavity and grace of outline succeeded to -the meagre and angular proportions of her youth.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The return to Fulham came, when it could no longer -be postponed, as an unwelcome period to their best year -of life. Madam Burgess received her children with -affectionate, albeit restrained, cordiality, and watched -Anna with keen eyes on which no change, however -slight, was lost.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>When mother and son were left alone on the night -of the return, as on the night when Keith brought his -wife home a bride, Madam Burgess spoke plainly and -directly of Anna. She had never discussed her characteristics -from that night until the present, but she felt -that another epoch was reached, and a few remarks -would be appropriate.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“My son,” she said, “do you remember the night -when you brought Anna home to this house as a -bride?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Perfectly, mother.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“So do I. I have been going back continually in -thought to-night to that time. Without undue partiality, -Keith, I think we are justified in a little self-congratulation. -Anna has developed slowly, but she has now -reached the first and best bloom of her maturity. You -brought her here a shy, angular, country-bred, undeveloped -girl, although I will not deny that she had distinction, -even then; to-night you bring her again not only -a <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">distingué</span></i> but a beautiful woman,—yes, Keith, I really -mean it,—a beautiful woman, and with a certain charm -about her which makes her capable of being a social -leader, if she chooses to exert her power. I understand -she has purchased some good gowns in Paris. I have -about concluded to give a reception next month in -honour of your return, if my health permits.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The reception, which Madam Burgess’s health was -favoured to permit, proved to be as brilliant an event -as social conditions in Fulham rendered possible. The -fine old house was radiant with flowers and wax-lights, -and the company which was gathered was the most distinguished -which the little city could muster. In the -midst of all the gay array stood Keith and Anna,—he -<span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>with his small, slight figure, his scrupulously gentlemanly -air, his thin, worn face and nervous manner; she -tall and stately, with her characteristic repose illuminated -by new springs of thought, perception, and feeling, full -of swift and radiant response to each newcomer’s word, -overflowing with the first fresh joy of her awakened -social instinct.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Professor Ward stood with Pierce Everett aside, and, -watching Anna, said in a lowered voice:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Mrs. Burgess is a woman now, through and through. -Would you know her for the girl whom Keith brought -here half a dozen years ago?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I could not find my little maiden Mary in that -queenly creature!” exclaimed Everett.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No; you were just in time with that mysterious disappearance -of yours, bad luck to you that you made -way with it, however you did!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It has taken her a good while to accept the world’s -standards and fit herself to the world’s groove, but -Madam Burgess has been patient and diligent, and I -think she has succeeded at last,” said Everett gravely; -“she will run along all right after this.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You think Mrs. Keith will live to sustain the family -traditions hereafter, do you? And Keith, what is to -become of him? He seems to have dropped off his -missionary enthusiasm with singular facility.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Precisely. You will have to create a nice little -chair for him in the university now, to keep him in the -correct line of his descent. By and by, you know, he -will have the estate to administer. That will be something -of an occupation.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Then he probably will take to collecting things,” -Ward added, “coins or autographs—”</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>“Oh, come, Ward, you’re too bad,” laughed Everett. -“You don’t know Keith Burgess as well as I do.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Later in the evening Anna was summoned from her -guests to speak with some one who had called on an -urgent matter which could not be put by until another -time.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The fine hall, as she passed along it, was alive -with lights, fragrance, music, and airy gayety; her own -elastic step, her exquisite dress, her joyous excitement -in the first taste of social triumph which the evening -was bringing to her, accorded well with the environment. -For the first time in her life, Anna had seen that -she was beautiful; had felt the potent charm of her own -personality; had found that she could draw to herself the -homage and admiration of her social world. These -perceptions had not excited her unduly, but they had -given her a new sense of herself, a strong exhilaration -which expressed itself in the lustre of her eyes, the -brightness of every tone and tint of her face, in the way -she held her head, in the clear, thrilling cadence of her -voice.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Once again, after long dimness and confusion, life -seemed about to declare itself to her, and the energies of -her nature to find a free channel. At last she might -move in the line of least resistance, and fill the place she -was expected to fill, without further conflict or question.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It looked a pleasant path that night, and submission a -sweet and gracious thing.</p> - -<p class='c011'>With a half smile still on her lips, and the spirit of -the hour full upon her, Anna came to the house door and -opened it upon the outer vestibule, where she had been -told the messenger would await her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The man who stood there was John Gregory.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>Anna softly closed the door behind her, and looked up -into his face. It wore a different aspect from that which -she remembered, for it was stern and unsmiling, and -more deeply grave and worn than she had seen it. But -even more than before the person of the man seemed to -overawe her with a sense of power and command.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Do you remember me, Mrs. Burgess?” he asked -simply.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“And I know you through my friend, through the -picture he painted once of you. You must pardon my -intruding upon you to-night. I could not do otherwise. I -have a message for you, and I am here only for to-night.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna did not speak, but her eyes were fixed upon his -in earnest question, as if in some mysterious way he -held destiny in his hands.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No man could paint that picture from you now,” -he proceeded slowly, gently, and yet with a kind of -unflinching severity; “you had the vision then. You -have lost it now. You saw God once. To-night you -see the world. Once your heart ached for the sorrows -of others; now it thrills with your own joys. You -have given up great purposes, and are accepting small -ones. I have been sent to say to you: keep the word -of the kingdom and patience of Christ steadfast to the -end, and hold that fast which was given that no man -take your crown.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>These words, spoken with the solemnity of a prophetic -admonition, pierced Anna’s consciousness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>A faint cry, as if in remonstrance, broke from her -lips, but already Gregory had turned, and before she -could speak she found herself alone.</p> - -<p class='c011'>With strong control Anna returned, and mingled with -<span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span>her guests without perceptible change of manner. When, -however, the last carriage had rolled down the street, -and the house itself was dark and still, she escaped -alone to her own room to live over and over again that -strange summons and challenge of John Gregory.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Now the sense of what he had said roused her to -burning indignation and protest, and again to contrition. -She knew that she was blameless and approved if tried -by the standards of the people now about her, and they -were the irreproachable, church-going people of Fulham. -She was simply conforming to the demands of an orderly -and balanced social life, and pleasing those most interested -in her. But she also knew that, as tried by the -standards of her father, and her own early convictions, -in the social and intellectual ambitions which now -animated her, she was learning to love “the world and -the things of the world,” to know “the lust of the -flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life.” -The voice of her past spoke clearly through the voice -of John Gregory and must be heard. The things which -she had thought to put away forever in the solemn -dedication of her girlhood had gradually returned, and -silently established themselves in her life in the guise of -duties, necessities, conformities to the wishes of others.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But of late she had come to regard those early scruples -almost as superstitious. Where lay the absolute right—the -truth? the will of God concerning her? Why -was life so hard? Why was it impossible to even know -the good? What right had John Gregory to spoil, as -he had spoiled, this latest development of life for her, -and give her nothing in its place? She resented his -interference, and yet felt that she should inevitably yield -herself to its influence.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XXI</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>My thwarted woman-thoughts have inward turned,</div> - <div class='line'>And that vain milk like acid in me eats.</div> - <div class='line'>Have I not in my thought trained little feet</div> - <div class='line'>To venture, and taught little lips to move</div> - <div class='line'>Until they shaped the wonder of a word?</div> - <div class='line'>I am long practised. O those children, mine!</div> - <div class='line'>Mine, doubly mine: and yet I cannot touch them,</div> - <div class='line'>I cannot see them, hear them—Does great God</div> - <div class='line'>Expect I shall clasp air and kiss the wind</div> - <div class='line'>For ever? And the budding cometh on,</div> - <div class='line'>The burgeoning, the cruel flowering:</div> - <div class='line'>At night the quickening splash of rain, at dawn</div> - <div class='line'>That muffled call of birds how like to babes;</div> - <div class='line'>And I amid these sights and sounds must starve—</div> - <div class='line'>I, with so much to give, perish of thrift!</div> - <div class='line'>Omitted by his casual dew!</div> - <div class='line in38'>—<span class='sc'>Stephen Phillips.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>The next morning Anna was sent for to go to Mrs. -Nichols, whom she had hardly seen since her return -from Europe.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She found her sitting in her nursery with her two -little children playing about her feet. She was near her -third confinement, and in the shadow of her imminent -peril and the heavy repose laid upon body and spirit by -her condition there was an indescribable dignity about -her which Anna had never felt until now.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Before she left, Mally, with wistful eyes, looked up to -her, and said, timidly:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Anna, you love little children. No one that I ever -saw takes mine in her arms as you do—not even I who -am their mother.”</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span>“Oh, Mally!” Anna cried, sharp tears piercing their -way. “If that is true, it must be because my heart -never stops aching for a child of my own. I know now -that we shall never have children, and I try to be reconciled; -but you can never know, dear, how I envy you.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Do not envy me,” Mally answered, her lips trembling. -“You do not know what it means to sit here -to-day and see the shining of the sun on the children’s -hair, and touch their little heads with my hand, and -smell those roses you brought, and yet think that to-morrow -at this time I may be gone beyond breath, sight, -the sun, the children—”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Dear, don’t, don’t,” Anna pleaded; “you must not -think so. You have been helped through safely before; -you will be again. People always have these times of -dread.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mally shook her head, but answered quietly:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I have never felt before like this, but only God -knows. But this is why I sent for you: If my little -baby lives, and is a perfect child, and I am taken away, -would you, Anna, do you think you could—take my -baby for your own, for always?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, if I could!” and all Anna’s heart went out in -the cry, and Mally saw the love which shone in her -eyes and wondered at her strange beauty.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am sure you will come through safely as you have -before,” she said, “but this I promise you, Mally,” -taking her friend’s hand and holding it fast, “if you -should be taken from your children, and they will let -me,—I mean if my husband and his mother should -consent, for I am not quite free, you see,—I will take -your little baby and it shall be my very own, and I will -be its mother while we both live, God helping me.”</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>A look of deep joy and relief in Mally’s poor pale -face was full response, and the two parted with a sense -of a deeper union of spirit than they had ever known -before.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Early on the following morning, after a wakeful and -anxious night, Anna hastened to the Nicholses’ home.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mally’s husband met her with a stricken face, for a -swift and sudden blow had fallen; her trial had come -and his wife had died, hardly an hour before. There -had been no time to send for Anna, although Mally had -spoken her name almost at the last.</p> - -<p class='c011'>They stood together in the poor, gay little parlour -which Mally had adorned with high hopes of the -abundant life into which she fancied herself entering,—the -young husband with his grief-wrung, ashy face, -Anna with her heart melted in sorrow and compassion. -While neither could speak for their tears, the faint wail -of a little child smote upon the silence from a room -within.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“The baby?” Anna asked under her breath.</p> - -<p class='c011'>A deeper darkness seemed to settle upon Nichols’s -face.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, a boy. A fine little fellow, they say; but I feel -as if I could not look at him. I have not seen him.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna turned and left the room, and in another moment, -in the dark inner room where she had sat with -Mally in the sunshine the day before, she took Mally’s -baby into her arms, and bent her head above it with a -great sense of motherhood breaking over her spirit like -a wave from an infinite sea.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She stood and held the tiny creature for many moments, -alone and in silence, while joy and sorrow, life and death, -passed by her and revealed themselves. Then she laid -<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>the baby down and went up to the room where Mally -lay, white and still, with something of the beauty of her -girlhood in her face, and the great added majesty of -motherhood and death. On her knees Anna bent over -the unanswering hand which yesterday she had seen laid -warmly on the fair curls of her little children, and, in the -hush and awe of the place, spoke again her solemn promise -of yesterday.</p> - -<p class='c011'>After that she came down to the children and their -father, and took quietly into her own hands the many -cares which the day had brought.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was late in the evening when Anna, exhausted and -unnerved, returned home. She found Keith and his -mother waiting for her in the library,—Keith hastening -to welcome her with tender sympathy, Madam Burgess -a shade colder than usual beneath a surface of suitable -phrases of solicitude and condolence. She had been -absolutely indifferent to Mrs. Nichols in life, and did -not find her deeply interesting even in death. Furthermore, -she always resented Anna’s spending herself upon -that family, and in the present affliction she felt that -flowers and a ten-minute call would have answered every -demand.</p> - -<p class='c011'>If Anna had been steadier and less under the influence -of the piteous desolation of the home she had left, less -absorbed in her own ardent purpose, she would have -realized that this was not the time or place in which -to make that purpose known. If she had waited, if -she had talked with her husband alone, the future of -all their lives might have taken a different shape. But -with the one controlling thought in her mind, forgetting -how impossible it was for these two, not highly gifted -with imaginative sympathy, to enter into her own deep -<span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>emotion, she spoke at once of Mally’s request that in the -event of her death she should take her baby; of her own -conditional promise, and of her deep desire to fulfil it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was a little silence, chill and bleak, and then -Keith said, in a half-soothing tone as if she had been an -excited child, hurrying in with a manifestly impossible -petition:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It was a very sweet and generous wish on your part, -Anna; so like you, dear.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna looked at him in silence, her lips parted.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Madam Burgess gave a dry cough, and partook of a -troche from a small silver box which she carried in a -lace-trimmed bag.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, as Keith says, my dear, it was a kind impulse -on your part, but it certainly was a very singular action -on that of your friend. She was probably too ill, poor -thing, at the time to realize just what she was asking. -I have no doubt you were quite excusable for giving her -some sort of a conditional promise, considering all the -circumstances. But you need have no sense of responsibility -in the matter; infants left like that never live. It -will only be a question of a few weeks’ care for any -one.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna turned her eyes from her mother-in-law back to -her husband in mute amazement and appeal. They could -not mean to deny her this sacred right! It was impossible. -And yet a sudden sense of the incongruity of poor -Mally’s baby in that house smote sharply upon her for -the first time.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“If it had been God’s will that we should have had -children of our own, Anna,” said Keith, in answer to -her look, “we should have learned to fit ourselves to -the many cares and responsibilities involved, I do not -<span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>doubt, as others do; but it is very different to go out -of our way to assume such cares, not ours in any legitimate -sense. I think the question is more serious than -you realize in the very natural and proper emotion which -you are passing through in the death of your friend. We -certainly could not ask mother to take this strange child, -and all that would be involved in such a relation, into -her house; and we are, I am sure, as little prepared to -leave mother and break up our natural order of life,” -and Keith smiled with kind conviction into Anna’s face. -She rose slowly and stood with eyes fixed before her, -and a strange light was in them, which her husband had -never seen before.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“That is all perfectly true, Keith,” said Madam Burgess, -as if to finish up the case against poor Anna; “and -even if all this were not so, there would remain one insuperable -obstacle to adopting this infant—an absolutely -insuperable obstacle.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“What is it?” asked Anna, very low.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Blood, my dear. I believe in blood, and never, with -his mother’s consent or approval, could my son give his -name, and all that that means, to a child of alien stock. -Never.” And Madam Burgess closed her lips firmly -and folded her hands peacefully upon her grey silk gown -with the consciousness of occupying a perfectly unassailable -position.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna moved toward the door, a curious effect in her -step and bearing as of one physically wounded, her head -drooped slightly as if in submission, her eyes downcast.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When she reached the door, however, a swift change -passed over her; a sudden energy and power awoke in -her, and she turned, and, looking back at mother and -son, her eyes flashing light, and a smile they had never -<span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>seen before upon her lips, said quietly, but with slow -emphasis:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You have decided this matter. You have each -other; you are satisfied. I shall submit, as you know. -Once more you have taken my life—its most sacred -promise and its highest purpose—out of my hands. -This time another life, too, is involved. One thing -only you must let me say, <em>I wonder how you dare</em>!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Facing them for an instant in silence, she turned, and -went alone to her room.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XXII</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c015'>One by one thou dost gather the scattered families out of the earthly light into -the heavenly glory, from the distractions and strife and weariness of time to the -peace of eternity. We thank thee for the labours and the joys of these mortal -years. We thank thee for our deep sense of the mysteries that lie beyond our -dust.—<span class='sc'>Rufus Ellis.</span></p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>By Thy Rod and Thy Staff comfort us.</div> - <div class='line in28'>—<span class='sc'>Christina Rossetti.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Two days later, in response to a note from Pierce -Everett, Anna went to the studio. He wrote that John -Gregory had passed through Fulham and had left the -picture, in which she might still feel some lingering -interest.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna left Keith and his mother diligently occupied in -their daily task of arranging and copying Keith’s European -letters and journals, interspersing them with careful -and copious notes from Baedeker. From this laborious -undertaking, which absorbed mother and son in mutual -and sympathetic devotion, Anna was self-excluded, -simply because she found the letters of merely passing -interest, but not of marked or lasting value and concern. -Madam Burgess confessed that she could think of no -occupation more graceful or becoming a young wife -than this of putting in permanent form the beautiful -and instructive correspondence of her beloved husband, -and she found a new cause for disapproval in Anna’s -indifference to the work. In her own heart Anna hid -a great protest against the substitution of puerile and -unproductive work like this, for the serious altruistic -<span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span>endeavour to which she still felt that she and Keith were -both inwardly pledged. But this was an old issue, and -one, indeed, to-day almost forgotten before her passionate -grief concerning Mally, buried yesterday, and the -promise to her which might not be fulfilled. The pitiful -cry of Mally’s baby seemed to sound continually in her -ears.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But another, even deeper, consciousness was that of -the condemnation, brief, sharp, conclusive, of herself by -John Gregory. She believed now that his judgment of -her and of the line along which she was developing was -in a measure just—but what then? It had suddenly -become definitely declared in Anna’s thought, with no -further shading or disguise, that a life of worldly ease, -of self and sense-pleasing, of fashionable charity and -conventional religion and of intellectual stagnation, was -the only life which could be lived in harmony with the -spirit of her home. Her soul lay that day in the calm -which often falls upon strong natures when profound -passions and powers are gathering in upheaval just below -the surface. To conform, or to revolt, or to lead the -wretched life of spiritual discord which seeks to avoid -alike conformity and freedom, were the hard alternatives -before Anna, as she thought, that day.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Pierce Everett, meeting her at the door of his studio, -was startled by the pallor and sadness of her face, like -that of her earlier years, but forebore to question her. -He had expected to see her in the joyous bloom of his -last view of her; he had looked for her to fulfil his -prophecy.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The light tone of badinage and compliment with -which he had involuntarily started to receive her fell -from him now as impossible, seeing her face, and in -<span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>almost utter silence he led her across the room and -pointed to the picture of the Girlhood of Mary.</p> - -<p class='c011'>After a few moments Anna said simply, without -turning to Everett, her eyes still on the picture:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Did <em>I</em> once look like that?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Mr. Gregory said no one could paint this from me -now,” Anna said slowly, as if to herself, not knowing -that tears were falling down her cheeks.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You are older, that is all,” said Everett, gently.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No, that is not all. I have lost something which I -had then.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“We all lose something with our child-soul, Mrs. -Burgess,” cried Everett, earnestly; “but you have gained -more than you have lost. John Gregory was not fair -to you to leave you with a word like that. You were a -child then; now you are a woman. That face in my -picture is not the face of a Madonna, yet. It did not -seek to be, but we do not blame it for that. Should we -blame the Mater Dolorosa that she has no longer the -face of a child?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Thank you,” Anna said humbly, and held out her -hand, which the young man caught in his and held with -reverence.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She left the studio hastily, not daring to say more, a -childless mother of sorrows. The very emptiness of her -grief, since no sweet substitution of motherhood could -be granted her, made it the more intolerable.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Instinctively she went from the Everett’s straight -across the city to the unfashionable new quarter and to -the Nicholses’ home. She found Mally’s baby properly -cared for, but coldly, by hired and unloving hands, and -took it into her own arms with yearning motherliness and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>cried over it, easing her heart and murmuring the tender -nonsense, the artless art which mothers always know, -but seldom women who have not known motherhood.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mr. Nichols came in and she told him,—leaving the -baby that she might surely control herself,—that on -account of Madam Burgess’s feeble health it had been -found impossible for her to carry out Mally’s wish and -her own. The disappointment of the poor fellow, with -his almost impossible burden and scanty income, was -evident; but he rallied well, and showed a simple dignity -in the matter which made Anna like him even better -than she had before.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I shall watch over the baby, you may depend, and -come as often as I can,” she said in leaving.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He thanked her, and she made him promise to send -for her without delay or hesitation if there were illness -among the children or other emergency, and so came -away.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The frail little life, unwarmed and unwelcomed by -the love which had been bestowed on the other children, -seemed to feel itself in an alien air, and failed from -week to week. Anna spent every moment she could -with the child, and sought to cherish and shield the tiny, -flickering flame of life, but in vain. The baby lingered -for a month, and then, on a bleak March evening, Anna -was sent for, to speed its spirit back into the unknown -from which it had scarcely emerged. She sat all night -with the child upon her knees, the young father asleep -in the leaden sleep of unutterable weariness on a sofa in -the room adjoining. It is not given to a man to know -the absolute annihilation of the body by love which -makes the endurance of long night watches and the -supreme skill in nursing the prerogative of women.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>The nurse came and went at decent intervals with -offers of help and of food, but Anna quietly declined -both. She knew that she was about to partake of the -sacrament of death, and she wished to receive it fasting, -and, if it might be, alone. She knew that she only on -earth loved the little child and longed to keep it, and -she meant that it should die in loving arms, if they had -been denied it for living.</p> - -<p class='c011'>In the slow hours which were yet too swift, as she -bent over the small pinched face, brooding tenderly over -the strange perfection of this miniature of humanity, the -delicately pencilled eyebrows, the fine moulding of the -forehead, the exquisite ear with soft fair hair curling -about it, the little, flower-like hands, Anna wondered, -as she never had thought to wonder before, at the -wastefulness of nature. All this exquisite organism -made perfect by months of silent upbuilding, a life of -full strength paid for its faint breath, and then, this too -cut off before the dawn of consciousness!</p> - -<p class='c011'>Harder to bear was the thought, which would not -leave her, that if she could have taken the child for her -own its life could have been saved. A photograph of -Mally on the bedroom wall in her wedding-gown -looked down upon her through the yellow gloom of the -night lamp, and the eyes seemed to Anna full of sad -upbraiding.</p> - -<p class='c011'>In bitterness of soul she groaned aloud:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, Mally, Mally, I wanted to keep your baby, but -they would not let me! He is going back to you, dear. -Oh, if I knew that you were glad, that you forgive me!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>At the sound of her voice the child on her knees, -which had been asleep or in a stupor, opened its eyes, -and lifted them to hers. They were large blue eyes like -<span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>Mally’s, and for a moment their look was fixed upon her -own,—a clear, direct look, and, with a thrill of awe, Anna -felt a <em>conscious</em> look. The instant of that mutual glance -with all of mystery, of joy, and of wonder which it held, -passed; the waxen whiteness of the lids fell again, but, -as it passed, a sense of great peace fell upon Anna’s spirit. -The last look of that newborn soul, pure and undefiled, -had searched her heart, had found her love, had shed the -glory of its passing into her bruised and cabined spirit.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Now go, little child, go to God and be at rest; we -have known each other, and you are mine after all,” she -whispered fondly, her tears falling like spring rains upon -white blossoms.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The dawn-light came into the room, dimming the -lamp-light with which it could not blend; a tremor -passed through the tiny frame, the breath fluttered once -or twice upon the lips, and the baby died. Anna had -called the father, and he stood by, watching in heavy -oppression.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Quietly, with the great submission of spirit which -death brings, Anna washed and dressed the little body, -putting on the garments of fairylike texture and proportion -which she had seen Mally making with warm, dexterous -fingers, a few weeks before. Then, having prayed, -she left the place and walked home alone through the -silent streets, with the consecration of the hour full upon -her.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XXIII</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c015'>He who professeth to believe in one Almighty Creator, and in his Son Jesus -Christ, and is yet more intent on the honours, profits, and friendships of the -world than he is, in singleness of heart, to stand faithful to the Christian religion, -is in the channel of idolatry; while the Gentile, who, notwithstanding -some mistaken opinions, is established in the true principle of virtue, and humbly -adores an Almighty Power, may be of the number that fear God and work -righteousness.—<span class='sc'>John Woolman.</span></p> - -<p class='c010'>A physician’s carriage stood before the house when -Anna reached it, and within there was a stir unusual for -that early hour. Jane met her on the landing, and answered -her questions.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, ma’am; Mrs. Burgess, she was all right as far -as I could see when I helped her get to bed, but I hadn’t -got her light out when I heard her give a queer kind of -groan, and when I got to her, her face was that twisted -all to one side, that it would make your heart ache to see -her. But that isn’t so bad now; you’d hardly notice it. -And she don’t seem paralyzed; she moves ’most any way.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Then she is better?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Well, ma’am, I don’t know as you could say so -much better. The worst of it is, her mind ain’t right. -She looks sort of blank, and when she talks it ain’t natural, -but all confused like, and it’s hard, poor lady, for her -to get anything out; she talks thick and slow, so different -from herself.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>A moment later Anna saw Keith, and heard the verdict -of the physician. Madam Burgess had suffered a -paralytic seizure of a somewhat unusual character. He -should watch the case with great interest. There was -<span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span>evidently a small clot on the left side of the brain which -affected the mental equilibrium, and produced something -like delirium. The ultimate result could only be fatal, -and it was doubtful whether full consciousness would -return before death.</p> - -<p class='c011'>That afternoon Anna was permitted to go to her -mother-in-law’s bedside. Keith followed her, full of -eager hope that for her there might be the clear and -unquestionable recognition which had thus far been -denied him. It was a strangely painful thing to Anna -to see the familiar figure of a woman so graceful, -so precise, so secure in her high-bred self-possession, so -decided in her conscious self-direction, prostrate, dull, -lethargic; to hear in place of the cold, clear modulations -of her voice a meaningless, half-articulate muttering. -She stood for a moment beside the bed, her heart sinking -with the piteousness of the sight, herself apparently -unnoticed by the stricken woman.</p> - -<p class='c011'>At the foot of the bed Keith, standing, cried out as if -in uncontrollable pain:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Mother, do you see Anna? She wants to speak with -you.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Slowly his mother turned her eyes, which had been -fixed straight before her, until they rested full upon -Anna in a curious, disconcerting stare. This continued -in silence for some throbbing seconds, and then, with thick -utterance and unaccented monotony of modulation, she -said, very slowly:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“If you had married differently you might have had -children of your own.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>This laboured sentence, in its violent discordance with -the filial tenderness and sympathy which alone filled the -hearts of Keith and Anna at the moment, smote them -<span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span>both as if with a harsh and incredible buffet. Anna -turned away from the bed white and appalled, and left -the room at the motion of the nurse while Keith, bowing -his head upon the bed-rail, groaned aloud. Even in -the moment their mother had fallen back into unintelligible -confusion of speech. To them both this sinister and -unlooked-for expression revealed something of the weary -ways in which the clouded mind was straying. Some -haunting sense of remorse and accountability, vaguely -felt and deviously followed, was torturing the dimness -of mental twilight. Again and again during the days -following, Anna, sitting just outside the bedroom door, -heard the question reiterated in the harsh, toneless -voice:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Did that baby die?” And always, when answered, -there came the same response, “I said it would, I said -it would that night.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Filled with pity and compunction as she recalled the -severity of her own utterance in that interview, the memory -of which with the sick woman had plainly outlived all -other, Anna went once more on the third night into -the sick-room, knelt by the bed, and took the hand of -the sufferer in both her own.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Mother,” she said, in a strong, comforting voice, -“mother dear, this is Anna. Will you forgive me for -my unkindness that night?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was no reply.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Dear mother,” Anna went on, with gentlest kindness, -“I wanted to tell you that the little baby has gone -to its own mother. It is all right, and I am satisfied.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was a faint response as of relief and acquiescence.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then, as Anna still held the limp, unresisting, unresponding -hand and looked tenderly in the grey, changed -<span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span>face, Sarah Burgess spoke once more. Broken and falteringly -came the words:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am ... sorry ... you have ... no child,” -and, as she spoke, large, slow tears rolled down her -face.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was the first time in all their intercourse that she -had opened her heart to Anna in motherly pity. Perhaps -she could not before, the defences of pride and reserve -were sunk too deep. But the few words, the tears, the -glimpse of a heart which, whatever its hardness, itself -knew the passion of motherhood and could understand -her pain, broke down for the younger woman the last -remaining barriers which had stood between these two -who had lived together so coldly. Anna laid her head -on the pillow and kissed the face of the dying woman -again and again, their tears mingling, while pity and -tenderness overflowed the coldness and all the silent -resentments of the past.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Two days later Madam Burgess died, not having -spoken again, although she had plainly recognized -Keith and watched him with wistful eyes.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The burial and the various incidents connected with -the close of a long life, and one of social eminence, over, -Keith and Anna turned back to the home, now wholly -their own, and looked about them wondering what was -in the future. Like all men and women of gentle will, -they blotted out, at once and forever, every impression -of unworthiness or selfishness which their dead had ever -made upon them. They idealized her narrow character, -and loved her better than they ever had, perhaps, in life; -but underneath all this dutiful loyalty Anna found in -her own heart a recognition of great release, and at -times, in spite of her will, her pulses would bound and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span>leap with the sense of new possibilities in life for them -both.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Just what these possibilities might be was by no -means clear to Anna, nor how far Keith would sympathize -with her own vague but dominant desires for a -return in some sort to the working motives which had -swayed their earlier lives. She was greatly encouraged -by the response which she received to her timid approach -to the subject of some slight changes in their outward -method of life in favour of simpler and more democratic -habits. The horses and carriage and liveried servants -had long been a source of distress to Anna’s conscience, -as marks of a privileged and separate class. She had -always avoided employing them as far as was possible. -She had never, since she had begun reading the social -essays of Gregory, driven in the family carriage without -longing to apologize to every working man and woman -whose glance rested upon her, for a luxury which she -felt to be in their eyes divisive, while all the time her -heart was crying out for brotherhood and burden-sharing -with the lowliest and most oppressed among them.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Somewhat to her surprise she found that Keith was -not without a similar consciousness, any expression of -which, even to Anna, he had scrupulously avoided in -his mother’s lifetime. Finding herself met here, and -thus emboldened, Anna came to her husband one evening -with a question which involved serious doubt and -difficulty for her. It was two months since the death -of Madam Burgess, and Anna was to start the following -morning for Vermont for a visit of several weeks to her -mother and Lucia. Keith was too busy with the details -of settling his mother’s estate to accompany her, but it -had been planned that he should meet her in Burlington -<span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span>on her return, late in May, and together with her make -a visit, long-promised and long-postponed, at the Ingrahams’, -whose friendship for them both had remained -unchanged by the years.</p> - -<p class='c011'>And now the postman had brought Anna a note from -Mrs. Ingraham which took her back strangely to her -girlhood, and to one March night when she had first -received a like request from the same source. This -note asked her to come, when she came for the promised -visit, prepared to give a missionary address at a -meeting which would take place at that time in Burlington.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna handed the note to her husband, and, as he finished -the perusal of it, she said hesitatingly:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Keith, I don’t know what to do.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Why, dear? Why not simply do as Mrs. Ingraham -asks? You would like to, would you not?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Once I would have, only too gladly,” and Anna -paused a moment, recalling the opposition to which she -had yielded so unwillingly in the time past. That outward -and forcible opposition was now wholly removed, -but another restraint, subtle and subjective, had gradually -taken its place, although Anna had until now -scarcely recognized the existence of it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am afraid, if I tell you,” she resumed, “you will -be shocked and pained. Perhaps I cannot even put it -into words, and not overstate what is in my mind; but -the trouble is, Keith, I am afraid I don’t believe everything -just as I used to.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith Burgess looked at her with his gentle smile.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Go on,” he said quietly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Dear, it is very strange,” and Anna spoke with -sudden impetuousness; “but I suppose I have not -<span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>really a right to speak for missions, for I cannot, any -more, believe that God will condemn to everlasting -torment all the heathen who do not believe in a means -of salvation of which they have never heard.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Neither can I.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Keith!” Anna felt her breath almost taken away -by this sudden admission of what, in the seventies, -was rank heresy in strictly orthodox circles. “Why -have you never let me suspect such a change in your -views? Has this had something to do with your giving -up the secretaryship? Was it not then quite all -your health? Oh, Keith, if you knew how I have been -troubled!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The tumult of Anna’s surprise broke out in this swift -volley of questions, for which she could not wait for -answers.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“How have you been troubled? Tell me that first, -Anna.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna’s colour came and went. It was not easy to -speak, but honesty and frankness were the law of -speech with her. Very seriously she said:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It seemed so strange to me that you grew, after the -first few years, into what often appeared a kind of -official and perfunctory way of working—letting the -details cover the great purposes. It seemed little, and -different from what I had expected. Tables and figures -and endless reports—it was all business, and almost -like other business.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith Burgess nodded gravely. “Go on,” he said, -as before.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“And then, you see, all at once you dropped it. -Of course you had that illness, and I could see how -tiresome and troubling the work had come to be; but -<span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>I used to think—forgive me, Keith; I hated myself that -I did—that you dropped the whole missionary endeavour -and purpose and point of view as easily as you might -have dropped a coat that you had worn out—”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“In short, that it was all officialism.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, even that—that it had come to be. And you -know how different it was at first, when it was your -only life.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, Anna,” and the delicate, sensitive face of the -man showed something of the profound pain which he -could not speak; “it has been a hard experience. I -have kept it to myself because I did not think it was -fair to lay upon you the same burden of doubt and -conflict. I see how naturally you came to look upon -the change in me as you have described. Perhaps -your view is in a measure just, too, but I think not -altogether.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Tell me, Keith.” Anna was waiting for him to go -on with sympathetic eagerness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It was simply that, some way, I hardly know how,—perhaps -it was in part worldliness and selfishness, but I -think not altogether,—my views gradually have changed. -Perhaps it was in the air, perhaps I took it in unconsciously -from what I read, and from my deeper thought -of God and his grace. What I learned of the various -forms of heathen religions influenced me somewhat, and -also observation of the workings of our own system in -our own country even under most favouring conditions. -I cannot tell, only I came definitely at last to the point -where I could no longer go before the churches and -plead with them to send their money to foreign missions -to save the heathen from immediate eternal perdition -and torment, because they did not believe in the plan of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_213'>213</span>salvation by a Saviour of whom, as you say, they had -never heard.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“What did you do?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You see,” Keith went on, not noticing her question, -“according to our confession there is no salvation -even in any ordinary knowledge of Christ, but only for -the elect few who experience personal regeneration by -conscious acceptance according to the line laid by such -men as Calvin and Edwards. Now we know that judged -by this test a very large percentage of any so-called -Christian community is doomed to eternal punishment, -and when you come to the heathen, it grows unthinkable—do -you see?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, I <em>feel</em>.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I went very soon to Dr. Durham, and poured out a -full confession of my ‘unsoundness.’”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“What did he say?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Anna, that was what settled me. I almost think -that if he had said, ‘Stop where you are, and wait until -you can see it differently,’ I might have come back to -my early convictions in some sort, at least sufficiently -to give me a motive for working on. What he did say, -in his large, hearty way, was: ‘Oh, my dear fellow, there -is nothing more common than such doubts and questions! -They naturally arise from time to time with us all. -Probably not half the men who are at work in this -cause actually believe literally in the common conception -that the heathen who do not know of Christ are -all condemned. Oh, no, I ceased to hold any such -opinion long ago.’ ‘Then why don’t you say so openly?’ -I asked; to which he replied impressively: ‘Don’t you -see, Burgess, that if we told our change of views to the -churches at large we should <em>cut the very nerve</em> of the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_214'>214</span>missionary motive? We may hold these slightly modified -views on eschatology ourselves without detriment, -perhaps, or danger, although of course they must be held -well in hand; but if we should speak them out to the -rank and file, the result would be an instant falling off -in the receipts of our treasury, and the Lord knows they -are small enough and inadequate enough as it is. The -average man would reason, if the heathen can be saved -after all in some other way, it is not necessary for me to -deny myself in order to send them the gospel. So keep -still, my dear Burgess, just keep your views to yourself -as some of the rest of us do. Go right along as you -have been doing, and there will be no harm done.’”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Keith, dear Dr. Durham did not know it, but that -is Jesuitism!” exclaimed Anna, with flashing eyes.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I thought it was,” he replied quietly, “and the result -was I gave up my office, partly on account of my health, -partly because I could not continue what would actually -have been, for me, getting money under false pretences.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Still, Keith, it is not only to save the heathen from -everlasting punishment that we want to send the gospel, -but to give them the present salvation from sin.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Certainly. There are other motives left. I think -they may be sufficient to energize our work far beyond -what the Gospel of Fear could do, but they are not at -present the popular motives to which I am expected to -appeal. The future of the cause is not clear to me. If -Durham is right, and the nerve of missions will be cut -when people cease to believe that the heathen are necessarily -damned because they have not accepted Christ, -why then I have little hope, because it seems to me impossible -for thinking people to hold this view much -<span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span>longer. But I must admit that it is hard enough to get -them to give money when they believe implicitly in the -immediate and hopeless doom of every heathen soul -departing to judgment.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Keith, they <em>don’t</em> believe it! Nobody <em>believes</em> it! It -is monstrous. If we really believed such things as practically -taking place, we should all lose our reason. Our -only escape from insanity, I believe, is that, while with -our mouths and with our opinions we have declared such -things, in our hearts and in our deeper conviction we -have denied them, knowing that they would be treason -to God. What misleads us all, Keith, I am beginning -to believe, is that we have felt bound to accept a system -which theologians have worked out, and which has involved -a paring down of both God and man to make -them fit into the narrow grooves they have assigned -them in the hard logic of their formulas.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Well, let us make this question concrete; illustrate -it from life,” said Keith, leaning back languidly in his -arm-chair. “How is it with yourself? You have been -taught, and have believed until very recently, this doctrine -of universal condemnation of all heathen ‘out of -Christ,’ and now, it seems, you have begun to question -it. What is the effect on the missionary motive in your -case? Would you feel as eager as ever to go as a missionary? -Does the subject appeal to your conscience -as powerfully as before?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna looked at Keith for a moment in thoughtful -silence, and then shook her head.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You see Dr. Durham was right,” said Keith, sadly. -“If this is true of you, who have all your life been -pledged to this work,—and I admit that it is true of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_216'>216</span>myself,—what can be expected of the careless crowd, -indifferent at best?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna had been walking restlessly up and down the -library. Now she came back to the heavy black oak table -at which her husband was sitting, sat down, and, resting -her elbows on the table, propped her chin in both hands, -and so sat silently for many moments. Then she began -to speak, but very slowly, rather as if thinking aloud:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I have been accustomed, and so have you, all our -lives, to the stimulus, the spur, of a piercingly powerful -motive, the most powerful possible, I should think.—To -save somebody from immediate death when the means -of rescue is in your hands is a motive to which every -human being must respond, instinctively. Suppose this -motive is shown to be, in some degree at least, based -upon a misunderstanding, and we find that we are asked -to alleviate suffering instead of to save life, why would -it not be perfectly natural, almost inevitable, that at first -there should be a reaction? Accustomed to the stronger -stimulus, just at first our motives and purposes would -languish, I think. Mine <em>do</em>. I can’t help owning it, -Keith. But I can imagine that deeper knowledge of -God, higher conceptions of human brotherhood, of what -they call the solidarity of the race—things like that—which -I only dimly realize yet, might reënforce our poor -wills, and knit again the nerve if it has been cut. Don’t -you think so?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith watched his wife as she sat thus speaking, and -a great tenderness was in his eyes.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You are a very wonderful woman, Anna,” he said; -“your thought always goes beyond mine.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>She did not seem to hear what he said, for she went -on in the same musing tone:—</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_217'>217</span>“In a way, it seems to me, sometimes, as if every -hope, every purpose, every controlling motive with which -I started out in life, had slipped away from me, this of -missionary work with the rest. All that I thought I -could do or become has been rendered impossible in one -way or another, and whatever capacity or force there is -in me is unapplied. I can’t even be a comfortable society -woman; other people won’t let me, even if I can -let myself, and you know how I find it impossible to fit -into conventional charities. Everywhere I seem to be -superfluous, out of harmony with my environment. I -thought once, I was vain enough to think, that God -wanted me for some special service,—that he would give -me a work for him and for his children; but I am thirty -years old now, Keith, and what have I done?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You have been a dear wife and a faithful child,—a -true Christian woman,—is that not enough?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna smiled wistfully.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It is not good for any one to simply <em>be</em>, and bring -nothing to pass. But to-night I feel that whatever new -wine life is to bring me will have to be put into new -bottles. The old motives and forces have spent themselves, -and the old hopes; and the forms which held -them, have gone with them, for me.”</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_219'>219</span> - <h2 class='c006'>BOOK III<br /> <span class='large'>NIGHT</span></h2> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c016'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>O Holiest Truth! how have I lied to thee!</div> - <div class='line'>I vow’d this day thy sacrifice to be;</div> - <div class='line in4'>But I am dim ere night.</div> - <div class='line'>Surely I made my prayer, and I did deem</div> - <div class='line'>That I could keep in me thy morning beam,</div> - <div class='line in4'>Immaculate and bright.</div> - <div class='line'>But my foot slipp’d; and, as I lay, he came,</div> - <div class='line'>My gloomy foe, and robb’d me of heaven’s flame.</div> - <div class='line'>Help thou my darkness, Lord, till I am light.</div> - <div class='line in34'>—<span class='sc'>John Henry Newman.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_221'>221</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XXIV</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c015'>Christianity has hitherto only partially, feebly, and waveringly taught its -great doctrine. Christendom has not believed its own gospel. Forsaking the -vital religion of Jesus, and of all the heroes and saints as impracticable, men have -put up with a sort of conventional Christianity, from which the great essential -ideas of the Golden Rule and the real presence of God were dropped out.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-r c013'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>—<span class='sc'>C. F. Dole.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>“I have spoken for three nights in this place, and for -three nights you have heard me patiently. I have not -regarded the favour of any man, but neither have I -wished to bruise or wound. And yet, as I stand here -now for the last time, I must declare the whole truth as -it has been given to me. I have charged upon our -present social and industrial conditions grave responsibility. -To-night I declare plainly that you who calmly -accept and profit by them, whether you know it or -whether you know it not, are rejecting Jesus of Nazareth -and his kingdom.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The speaker was John Gregory, the place a large hall -in the city of Burlington, crowded to its utmost with -eager listeners, for the theories which he proclaimed -were new and startling in that day.</p> - -<p class='c011'>As in his earlier revival preaching, so now, Gregory’s -utterance was attended with peculiar power. There was -this difference, however, between his relation to his -audience now and in that other time: then a familiar -appeal was reënforced, even though involuntarily and -unconsciously, by the full weight of his personal and -psychic influence; now he relied wholly, it appeared, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_222'>222</span>upon the dynamic of his message. His manner was -more impassioned than in that earlier time, but less -exciting.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith and Anna Burgess, from their places in the -audience with Mrs. Ingraham, whose guests they were, -watched and listened with almost breathless intensity of -interest. They had not heard it on this wise before.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Do you remember,” continued Gregory, with searching -emphasis, “that on a certain day the Master said, -‘Verily I say unto you, That a rich man shall hardly enter -into the kingdom of heaven’? Do you remember how -the twelve men who followed him were said to have been -‘exceedingly amazed’? From the fourth century, when -the Church and the world formed their unhallowed union, -down to the present day, men have continued to be -‘exceedingly amazed’ at a saying so inconvenient and -so revolutionary, and have set themselves to blunt its -sharp edge or to explain it away altogether.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“To-night I am here to say to you plainly, This is a -faithful saying, worthy of all acceptation, and woe unto -him who seeks to take it away from the words of Christ. -Put with it, if you will, other like words from the lips -of Christ and his Apostles, rather than seek to abate the -force of these. But why are the rich condemned? -Surely they are the most law-abiding, most influential -class in every community! Because the riches of the -rich man are founded upon a lie! This is the lie: <em>that -a man has the right to build up his own prosperity and enjoyment -upon the suffering and privation of his fellow-men</em>.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Ask yourselves, men who listen to me now, do I -tell the truth?</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You made your money in trade; very well—is trade -just? Could you, under present conditions, have made -<span class='pageno' id='Page_223'>223</span>money, had you dealt justly and loved mercy? had you -lived the truth, shown the truth? Could your trade -have prospered if you had followed the simplest rule -of Christ, ‘Do unto others as ye would have them do -unto you?’</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Is not the very basis of your trade and of your gains -that you force other men into failure, dejection, and -poverty, and rise upon the wreck of them? Well has -it been said, ‘A rich man’s happiness is built up of a -thousand poor men’s sorrows.’</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Many men make their money in manufacture, perhaps -not largely so in this city; but the conditions are -familiar to us all. Very well, is manufacture true to -God, true to men?</p> - -<p class='c011'>“The profits, we will say of a given manufacture, -were not great enough last year; the owners had a large -income, but not as large as they wanted; some of the -rich stockholders grumbled. What did they do? They -reduced the beggarly wages of the toilers in their iron -prisons, sent them home to their wives and children -with less than sufficed to give them daily bread and -shelter, and they knew it. They sent pure girls to the -life of shame, and honest men to the black refuge of -despair. Thus they declared their dividend, and their -rich neighbours praised their business genius and pocketed -their share of the gains complacently; and the rich grew -richer, and the poor, poorer. This done, they come -before God with pious words; they pass boxes in the -churches to gather the widows’ and the orphans’ mites -whose burdens they do not lift, no, not with one finger; -they build a hospital now and then; they found a university, -and their names are exalted; they sit in their -homes with all their treasures of art, of intellect, and of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_224'>224</span>refinement about them, and thank the Lord that they -are not as other men are, or even as that poor fellow -they hear reeling, profane and drunken, down the street, -because <em>no</em> home is his, no hope, no God.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Hear the words which God hath sworn by his holy -prophets:</p> - -<p class='c011'>“‘Forasmuch, therefore, <em>as your treading is upon the -poor</em>, and ye take from him burdens of wheat; ye have -built houses of hewn stone, but ye shall not dwell in -them; ye have planted pleasant vineyards, but ye shall -not drink wine of them.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“‘For I know your manifold transgressions and your -mighty sins; they afflict the just, they take a bribe, and -they turn aside the poor in the gate from their right.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“‘Woe to the City of Blood!</p> - -<p class='c011'>“‘Woe unto them that join house to house, that lay -field to field, till there be no place, that they may be -placed alone in the midst of the earth!</p> - -<p class='c011'>“‘Woe to them that are at ease in Zion!... that -lie upon beds of ivory and stretch themselves upon their -couches, and eat the lambs out of the flock, and the -calves out of the midst of the stall, that chant to the -sound of the viol and invent to themselves instruments -of music, ... that drink wine in bowls and anoint -themselves with the chief ointments; but they are not -grieved for the affliction of Joseph!</p> - -<p class='c011'>“‘Woe to him that buildeth a town with blood, and -establisheth a city by iniquity!</p> - -<p class='c011'>“‘Neither their silver nor their gold shall be able to -deliver them in the day of the Lord’s wrath.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“‘For, behold, the Lord said unto me, What seest -thou? And I said, A plumb-line. Then said the -Lord, Behold, I will set a plumb-line in the midst of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_225'>225</span>my people Israel: I will not again pass by them any -more.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“‘For judgment will I lay to the line and righteousness -to the plumb-line: and the hail shall sweep away -the refuge of lies, and the waters shall overflow the -hiding-place.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“‘For ye have said, We have made a covenant with -death, and with hell are we at agreement; we have made -lies our refuge, and under falsehood have we hid ourselves.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“‘But your covenant with death shall be disannulled -and your agreement with hell shall not stand.’”</p> - -<p class='c011'>As the speaker went on marshalling and massing with -stern conviction the tremendous indictments and declarations -of the Hebrew prophets, which the people before -him had never heard thus definitely applied to their own -social conditions, the dramatic effect became irresistible. -A mighty blast of wind seemed to bow their heads, and -many trembled and grew pale.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Suddenly John Gregory, whose whole face and figure -had been rigid and set with the awe of what he spoke, -stepped out to the very edge of the platform, and, with -a gesture of gentleness and reconcilement, and a smile -which relaxed the tense mood of his hearers, cried:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“But this is not all! Never did the prophets leave -the people without a ray of hope—never did they withhold</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“‘Belief in plan of God enclosed in time and space,</div> - <div class='line'>Health, peace, salvation.’</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“‘Is it a dream?</div> - <div class='line'>Nay, but the lack of it a dream,</div> - <div class='line'>And failing it life’s love and wealth a dream,</div> - <div class='line'>And all the world a dream.’”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_226'>226</span>These words were spoken with no less conviction -than those which had gone before, but the change of -voice, of expression, of attitude and gesture, were those -which only a master of oratory could have so swiftly -effected. The audience, now wholly under his control, -felt a new thrill of comfort, of hope, even of exultation.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“The Spirit of God is brooding in the bosom of all -this chaos, and a new day dawns. Fear not, but look -within. Your own heart confesses the bond of brotherhood -which unites you to all the race. Let your heart -speak.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Men everywhere see the new light, and confess and -deny not that it is the true light, the light which lighteth -every man coming into the world, until sin and selfishness -quench it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“The day is come when men shall no longer greedily -seek their own salvation; the straitened individualism -of the fathers has had its day; even the passion for personal -perfection is refined selfishness from the new point -of view. Many Christian souls have been misled in the -past by the mistaken idea of self-sacrifice and renunciation, -not for their results to humanity, but for the perfecting -of self, a fruitless, joyless, Christless thing. The -continual seeking for the safety here and hereafter of the -individual—the man’s own advantage, what if spiritual?—held -up always as his chief and noblest aim, -have resulted in Christianity becoming a symbol for sublimated -selfishness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“A greater, nobler motive is ours to-day—no new -gospel, but a right reading of the old, a deeper insight -into his purpose who said, ‘If any man serve me, let him -follow me.’</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Here may we, at last, and perhaps for the first time -<span class='pageno' id='Page_227'>227</span>in long years of blind and baffled longing for the fellowship -of Christ our Sacrifice, learn the awful joy of dying -in our own lives that so we may not live alone.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Your soul cannot rise toward God, my brother, -while you are treading down other souls beneath your -feet. Cease the hopeless effort. Take the world’s burden -on your heart, and you shall know Christ. Refuse -the joys which can only be for the few and the rich. -Take nothing but what you can share. Learn poverty -and simplicity and hardihood; unlearn luxury, exclusiveness, -epicureanism. Be pioneers in the new state, apostles -of the new-old gospel—the Gospel of Brotherhood, -of Fellowship, of Sacrifice.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>As Anna Mallison, in her early girlhood, had responded -with swift, unquestioning response to the simple -appeal of the missionary, and had offered herself unreservedly -to the work of seeking lost souls in the heathen -world, so now, in the maturity of her womanhood, her -inmost soul confessed that her hour had come. The -message of John Gregory, heard vaguely and partially -before, had now reached her fully, and she found its -claim upon her irresistible.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Where this leads, I follow,” a voice said in her heart; -“I follow though I die! It is for this I have waited.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Turning, she looked into her husband’s face, and their -eyes met. Keith Burgess read what he intuitively expected -in the deep awe of Anna’s eyes; while she read in -his a sympathy and response, real, and yet strangely sad.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory had been about to leave the platform, his -address ended; but the audience sat unmoving, as if they -would hear more. A man rose up then, in the middle -of the hall, and spoke.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Mr. Gregory,” he said, “some of the people are -<span class='pageno' id='Page_228'>228</span>saying that, having told us so much, you ought to tell us -more. If it is true that you have some scheme or system -by which people like us could live such a life as you -describe, we want to hear about it.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Having so said, he sat down.</p> - -<p class='c011'>John Gregory turned about and came slowly back to -his former place. Here he stood, confronting the people -with a gravely musing smile. Again, as she saw him, -there swept over Anna’s memory the sense that this was -the presence of her girlish dream, and the old indefinable -sense of joy in the power of this man was shed into her -heart.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You want to hear me say something about Fraternia, -I suppose,” said Gregory, slowly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am not here for that purpose. I covet no man’s -silver or gold for my project, let that be distinctly understood -first of all. Fraternia has not had to beg for support, -thus far. Men and women who are like-minded -with ourselves are welcome to join themselves to us. -No others need apply,” and he smiled a peculiar, -humorous smile of singular charm.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Fraternia,” he continued, “is an experiment. It is -only a year old. Is is what may be called a coöperative -colony, I should think; that is, a little community of -people who believe that no one ought to be idle and -no one ought to overwork, and accordingly all work a -reasonable number of hours a day. We also believe -that an aristocratic, privileged class is not a good thing, -not even a necessary evil, but a mere gross product of -human selfishness. We have none, accordingly, in -Fraternia, nor anything corresponding to it. We are -all on a precisely equal footing. That bitterest and -tightest of all class distinctions, the aristocracy of money, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_229'>229</span>is unknown among us. Those who have joined us have -thus far put their property into the common treasury, and -all fare alike. We propose to work out this social problem -on actual and practical lines. We all work and all -share alike in the results of our work.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You will ask what we do. Fraternia lies in a valley -among the foothills of southwestern North Carolina. We -raise all kinds of fruit, some grain, and some cotton. We -have water-power, a mountain stream as beautiful as it is -useful, and so we have built a cotton mill. We have -made it as pretty as we could, this mill,—better than -any man’s house, since the house is for the individual, -and the mill for the use of all. By the same token our -church and our library are to be finer than our houses -when we advance so far as to build them. We have -nothing costly or luxurious in Fraternia, but our mill is -really very attractive. We all like to work in it. You -know it is natural to like to work under human and -decent conditions. I believe no man ever liked absolute -idleness. It is overwork and work under hideous and -unwholesome conditions against which men revolt.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“In our personal and home life, simplicity and hardihood -are the key-notes. No servants are employed, for -all serve. Our luxuries are the mountain laurel and pine, -the exquisite sky and air, the voices of the forest, the -crystal clearness of the brook. In these we all share. -So do we in the books and the few good pictures which -we are so happy as to own; in the best music we can -muster and in the service of divine worship. Life is -natural, homely, simple, joyous. Its motive: By love, -serve one another. From no one is the privilege of service -withheld. Thank God, we have no forlorn leisure -class.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_230'>230</span>“Our mission, however, is not to ourselves alone, but -to the world outside. We are holding up, by our daily -living, a constant object-lesson. We are preaching coöperation -and social brotherhood louder than any voice -can ever preach it, and the small child and the simple -girl can preach as well as the cultured woman and the -strong man.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Who are we? We are mostly from England, many -from the slums of London, others from its higher circles, -some Germans and Scandinavians, and thus far not more -than a dozen American families. Some of us had nothing -to begin with, and some had large property; some were -so unfortunate as to belong to the number of those who -oppress the poor in mills and mines, while others were -simple peasants. We have no difficulty in living happily -together on the broad basis of a common human nature, -a common purpose, and a common hope.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“But there is another side to this adventure, friends,” -and Gregory spoke with deeper seriousness. “Fraternia -is nothing unless it is builded on the immutable laws of -God and of righteousness. Never, never can we succeed -if sin grows little to us and self large. Our message will -be taken from us, our arm will be paralyzed, if the day -shall ever come when the lust of gold, the lust of power, -the lust of pride, shall taint the free air of our high valley.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“So then, if any among you would join our ranks, see -that you shrive your souls and come to us seeking only -the Kingdom of God and his righteousness.”</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_231'>231</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XXV</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c015'>Sin and hedgehogs are born without spikes, but how they wound and prick -after their birth we all know. The most unhappy being is he who feels remorse -before the deed, and brings forth a sin already furnished with teeth in its birth, -the bite of which is soon prolonged into an incurable wound of conscience.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-r c013'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>—<span class='sc'>Richter.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>On the steps of the rostrum, as he descended them, -John Gregory was met by a man of singular aspect, a -man who has been encountered by us before, in the -house of Senator Ingraham,—his son, Oliver.</p> - -<p class='c011'>As the two clergymen whom he had then addressed -had been disturbed, and even dismayed, by this strange -face and figure, the smooth, egglike face with its enormous -forehead, narrow eyes, and wide, thin-lipped -mouth, so now Gregory drew back instinctively, finding -the singular apparition thus suddenly before him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mr. Oliver Ingraham did not appear to notice the -movement, but, smiling his peculiarly complacent smile, -held out one long, sinuous hand, and as Gregory took -it, not over eagerly, he remarked in his high, feminine -voice:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I liked your line very much, Mr. Gregory. Nothing -would suit me better than to see these rich men -brought to book. They’ll get their come-uppance in the -next world, anyway; but I sometimes get tired of waiting. -It would be a satisfaction to see Dives, Esquire, -taking his torments here once in a while, don’t you -think so?” and the malevolent leer with which the question -was accompanied gave Gregory a chill of disgust.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_232'>232</span>Oliver held in his left hand a handsomely bound -note-book and silver pencil-case which it was his custom -to carry everywhere. Gregory, now about to pass on, -and greet the crowds who were waiting to speak with -him just below, was again stopped.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Just a moment, Mr. Gregory,” said the other, slipping -off the elastic, and opening the note-book with the -dexterity of constant habit; “I want you to help me a -little in gathering some very valuable statistics. It’s -rather in your line, I take it. I have been engaged in -this work for several years, and find it extremely interesting.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory noted the long, white, flexible fingers of the -man, and the look, half of deficient intellect and half of -cunning, in his face.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Please make haste, Mr. Ingraham,” he said shortly, -“there are others waiting.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am making a computation,” Oliver continued -imperturbably, “in fact, a carefully tabulated record, according -to nations, of the probable number of souls from -each nation now in Sheol—it is considered polite now -to call it Sheol, I believe. We used to say hell when -we were boys, didn’t we, Mr. Gregory?” and Oliver -laughed his low, cruel laugh.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Excuse me,” exclaimed Gregory, impatiently; “I -could not give you any information on that subject. I -have never been there. Allow me to pass on, if you -please.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Oliver closed his book as if not unaccustomed to -rebuffs; but, as Gregory’s forward movement obliged him -to retreat down the steps, he remarked slyly:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I had a message to you from the senator, if you only -weren’t in such a hurry. He is one of the fellows that -<span class='pageno' id='Page_233'>233</span>will have to go to now, weep and howl. He has the -shekels, I can tell you! What he wants of you is more -than I can figure out. I should suppose Ahab would -as soon have sent for Elijah.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Did your father send for me?” asked Gregory, -surprised. They were now at the foot of the steps, and -the crowd was gathering about them.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes; he would like to see you in his office on this -same block, next building, as soon as you can get away -from here. You work him right, and you can get something -out of him for your Utopia.” The last words were -called back aloud with a series of confidential nods, as -Oliver turned and plunged into the crowd, who seemed -to make a way for him with especial facility. Gregory -saw him go with a keen sense of heat and discomfort.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Half an hour later, Gregory found himself in the -office of Senator Ingraham, seated in a substantial office-chair -by the well-appointed desk, while Mr. Ingraham, -himself in evident and most unusual mental disturbance, -walked up and down the room. Suddenly he wheeled, -and confronted Gregory, as if with sudden, though difficult, -resolution.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Mr. Gregory,” he said, low, and with the stern, -terse brevity of a man who finds himself forced to -speak what he would rather leave unsaid, “for over -thirty years I have carried certain facts in my personal -history shut up in my own memory. Not one other -being, to the best of my belief, has shared my knowledge. -To-night, I cannot tell how, I do not know why, I feel -that I must break silence, and before you—stranger as -you are—unload my burden. A strange compulsion -seems upon me to disclose the things I have hitherto -lived to conceal. What there is in you or in what I -<span class='pageno' id='Page_234'>234</span>have heard you say, to bring me to this point, I cannot -understand; but I feel in you something which makes -you alone, of all men I have ever met, the one to whom -I can speaks—and must. Are you willing to hear -me?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>John Gregory noted the set, hard lines in the lawyer’s -face, the knotted cords in his hands, and the tone, -half of defiance, half of self-abasement, with which he -threw out this abrupt question. Accustomed to encounters -with men in their innermost spiritual struggles, -Gregory was in no way astonished or excited by this -surprising beginning of their interview, and simply nodded -gravely in token that Ingraham should proceed.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I will not affront you by demanding secrecy on -your part,” the latter began haughtily; “if it were -possible for you to betray my confidence, it would have -been impossible for me to give it to you. I understand -men.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>He paused. Gregory made no remark in confirmation -of this assertion, but the direct, unflinching look with -which he met the appeal in the eyes of the speaker was -full guarantee of good faith. There was promise of -profound and sympathetic attention in Gregory’s look, -there was also judicial calmness and reserve; in fine, the -characteristics of the priest and the judge were singularly -united in him, and it was to the perception of this fact -that he owed the present interview.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I do not know whether I am a respectable citizen -or a murderer,” Ingraham now began, turning again to -walk the floor, while an uncontrollable groan as of -physical anguish accompanied this unexpected declaration. -“Imagine, if you will, what thirty years have been -inwardly with this uncertainty as food for thought, served -<span class='pageno' id='Page_235'>235</span>to me by conscience, or some fiend, morning and night. -If I could have forgotten for one blessed day, it has -been ingeniously rendered impossible, for sin in bodily -form is ever before me. You have seen my son.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>With this sentence, harsh and curt, Ingraham paused, -glanced aside at Gregory, who assented, and then continued -to walk and speak. His voice and manner alike -showed that he was holding himself in control by the -effort of all his will. Strange distorting lines appeared -in his face, and there was heavy sweat on his forehead.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I was twenty-five years old when I was married, -and was alone in the world save for one brother,—Jim, we -always called him,—two years younger than I. We had -inherited a good name, strong physique, and some little -property from our parents, and started in life shoulder to -shoulder. In Burlington, where we first began business -life together, we became intimately acquainted with a -family in which there were two daughters. The elder, -Cornelia, was very pretty and singularly attractive. Men -always fell in love with her. I did, desperately. The -younger sister was a commonplace, uninteresting girl, -rather sentimental perhaps, not otherwise remarkable.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I shall make this story as short as possible. I offered -myself to Cornelia after long wooing, and was refused. -I was bitterly wounded, angry, defiant. While I was in -that state of mind, it became apparent to me that I was -secretly an object of peculiar interest to the younger sister. -Like many another fool, half in spite and half in heart-sickness, -I sought her hand, and was at once accepted, -and our marriage followed quickly. Within the year -Cornelia and Jim became engaged. There was a hard, -silent grudge against Jim in my heart from the day I first -suspected that it was he who had stood between Cornelia -<span class='pageno' id='Page_236'>236</span>and me, and their engagement increased the grudge to -hate.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“We had, before this, put the whole of our inheritance -into mining fields in what was then the far West, buying -up a large tract of land, divided equally between us. The -year after my marriage we moved West for a time, and I -started out on a prospecting tour of our land; Jim to follow -me when he had finished establishing a kind of business -office in pioneer quarters, in a small town as near the base -of our operations as was feasible. My wife remained in -this town.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“On horseback, with two engineers and a copper -expert and an Indian guide, I rode through our possessions. -Miners were already at work, and had pursued -the lead far enough to prove pretty distinctly that, -while Jim’s part of the tract was likely to be fairly productive, -the vein stopped short of mine, which was thus -practically worthless.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I rode back to our camp in a black mood. Jim, it -seemed, was to succeed in everything; all that he sought -was his, and for me there was nothing but failure and -defeat. All the way back I brooded bitterly on the -contrast between us, until I was in a still frenzy of -jealousy when I reached the camp. The contrast -between Cornelia, for whom I still had a wild, hopeless -passion, and my wife, sickly, dull, indeed disagreeable -to me already, was maddening, and had been -sufficiently so before. But now, when I thought of -Jim, with Cornelia for his wife and the certain prospect -of large wealth to add to his elation, while I was without -a penny or a prospect of any sort, the rage and fury in -my mind became almost intoxicating.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“We had encountered hostile Indians on the trail as -<span class='pageno' id='Page_237'>237</span>we returned, but our bold, dare-devil dash through this -danger made slight impression on me. I think death -would have been welcome to me that night. God -knows I wish I had met it then. My heart was evil -enough, but at least it had not the guilt that came later.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I suppose, Mr. Gregory, that I am answerable for -my brother’s death—not in the eye of the law, but -before God. And yet—if you could tell me that I -am mistaken, that I exaggerate, that other men would -have done the same and held themselves guiltless—if -that could be—” Ingraham broke off and fixed his eyes -on Gregory’s face once more, as if in appeal for his life.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Please go on,” was Gregory’s response, but the -words were gently spoken, as the words of a physician -when he is diagnosing a manifestly mortal disease.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Very well,” said Ingraham, harshly. “Jim was at -the camp, and was boy enough to parade a letter from -Cornelia before me. We quarrelled fiercely, about what -I cannot remember, but I could not restrain the storm -of rage and jealousy in me. It had to break loose somewhere. -I refused to tell Jim what I had discovered -regarding the lead, and he declared he would go and find -out for himself. I said he would be a fool if he did, -but gave him no hint of the fact that there were hostile -Indians on the way. He knew nothing of the conditions, -nor the character of the people about us, having -never been in the country before. It was early in the -morning. We had ridden all night, and the men had -gone to their tents and were sleeping off the effects of -our struggle. I told Jim he could not get a guide. He -merely whistled in a light-hearted, careless way he had, -and started off to a neighbouring camp, in search, as I -inferred, of some escort. I saw him no more, and made -<span class='pageno' id='Page_238'>238</span>no attempt to govern his actions, and did not even know -whether he had started. Who and what the guide was -whom he obtained, I learned later.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I slept most of that day, after Jim disappeared, exhausted -in body and mind, and continued to sleep far -into the night, keeping my tent door securely closed, as -I wished to see and speak to no one. It was, perhaps, -three o’clock of the morning following when I was -roused by a strange noise at my tent door. Starting up -from my bed on the ground, I saw that some one had -cut open the fastenings, and that the flap was drawn -back. In the opening thus formed stood the shape -of an Indian rider on horseback, perfectly motionless. -The moonlight, which was unusually brilliant, fell full -upon the face of this man, and I recognized him at -once, with a horrible chill of foreboding, as a half-witted -Indian who sometimes acted as guide, but only to those -who knew no better than to accept his services, which -were worthless and treacherous. He was a half-breed, -an odious, repulsive being, with only wit enough to be -malicious, and of abnormal treachery and cruelty even -for his kind. Never can I forget that face of his in the -moonlight. He spoke not one word, but simply sat -his horse and looked at me with his narrow, gleaming -eyes, a malignant grin making his ugliness fairly fiendish. -If you want to get a faint idea of his look, recall -the face of Oliver—my son;” Ingraham’s voice sunk -to a whisper, and he added, “I can never escape it.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory’s brows knit heavily, and his face reflected -something of the tortured misery of the man before -him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It was not,” said Ingraham, “until I had staggered -to my feet that I saw that across his saddle-bow this -<span class='pageno' id='Page_239'>239</span>creature carried a dead body—Jim. There was an -Indian arrow in his side.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No matter, no matter for the rest; I understand,” -said Gregory, hastily.</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was silence for a moment, and then Ingraham, -with a strong effort, rallied himself to conclude his story.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I was Jim’s heir.” These words were spoken with -hard and scornful emphasis. “That was a feature of -the case which presents complications to a man in forming -a judgment. Perhaps you will believe me when I -say that this issue had not entered my mind in letting -the boy go to his death. Indeed, the whole series of -events was without deliberation, but under the influence -of blind, sullen anger.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I believe you,” said Gregory.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“All the same, I profited by his death. The mines -proved immensely valuable, and are even to-day. They -have made me rich—and incomparably wretched. A -word or two more, and you will know the whole story. -Jim was brought home, here, for burial, my wife and I -returning with his body. All through that journey, and -continually, for many months, I saw before me, waking -or sleeping, that face of cruelty incarnate, the half-witted -Indian guide, as I had seen him on that awful night. -That face was my Nemesis. It is still.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Within the year my wife gave birth to a son, -Oliver,—a strange perversion, made up of moral obliquity, -mental distortion, and physical deformity, like an -embodiment of sin. On his face was stamped by some -strange trick of nature the image which had haunted -me—as if the Fates, or the Fiends, or God himself, had -feared I might forget, and know a day of respite.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“My wife died when Oliver was a few months old,—died -<span class='pageno' id='Page_240'>240</span>of cold, I believe, the chill of our loveless marriage. -Two years later Cornelia and I were married. I -believe she has been happy. I have been prospered, -and have risen to a position of some influence, and we -have all that could be desired in our home, in our three -daughters. But when, to-night, I heard you pronounce -the judgments of God on men who had built up prosperity -upon a lie, I was like a man struck in his very -heart. I felt that I could no longer endure my hidden -load, and must confess to one human being my past, and -make restitution, if by any means it is yet possible. -The Romish Church is merciful, when it provides the -possibility of confession to sinful men.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“What have you to say to me? Have you healing -for such a sore as mine?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>With these abrupt words Ingraham threw himself -into a leather-covered arm-chair with the action of complete -exhaustion. His aspect was changed from that of -the alert, confident man of the world and of affairs, to -that of a broken down and shattered age.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_241'>241</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XXVI</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c015'>Sin is not a monster to be mused on, but an impotence to be got rid of.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-r c013'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>—<span class='sc'>Matthew Arnold.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c014'>Use sin as it will use you; spare it not, for it will not spare you; it is your -murderer and the murderer of the world: use it, therefore, as a murderer should -be used. Kill it before it kills you; and though it kill your bodies, it shall not -be able to kill your souls: and though it bring you to the grave, as it did your -Head, it shall not be able to keep you there.—<span class='sc'>Baxter.</span></p> - -<p class='c010'>John Gregory met the demand thus made upon him -with all the moral and spiritual resources of which he -was master, for all were needed. The full strength of -the man’s personality was brought into action, the lofty -severity, the unflinching hate of sin, and yet the clear -vision which could see beyond the torture and taint of it, -and sound the depth of a nature which thus agonized for -redemption and for righteousness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“The only sin,” he said, in the words of another, -“which is unforgiven is the sin which is unrepented of. -That early yielding to a paroxysm of jealousy and rage -had a fearful, and yet it may even be a merciful, result. -There are those who have given way to worse, and, no -result following, have lived on in hardness of heart and -contempt of God’s law. Christ’s inflexible law, far -more rigorous than the old law of Moses, says he that -hateth his brother is a murderer. Murder, then, is the -commonest of social sins, rather than the rarest. Christ -also says that it was for sinners that he came to die, not -for the righteous. His love overflows all our sin, and -finds no halt at the degrees of guilt which men emphasize -<span class='pageno' id='Page_242'>242</span>in their shallow judgment. Men judge by consequences, -by outward events; God looks upon the heart.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Looking upon the heart, as far as we may, with -God, I say then, you have been guilty of murder, but so -have other men. Many a man has cherished a spirit of -bitter revenge and hatred against one who had injured -him, who has not suffered what you have, not having -caused or profited by the death of that person, directly -or indirectly; but before God you are perhaps equally -guilty.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I do not count your sin slight. I would not seek to -make it small in your own eyes, but I believe that you -are released from the guilt and burden borne so long, and -should no longer stagger under it. Has not Almighty -God given to his servants power and commandment to -declare to those who are penitent the absolution and -remission of their sins?</p> - -<p class='c011'>“What did our Lord say to the leper who sought his -cleansing? ‘I will, be thou clean.’ Even this he says -to you. Throw off that old yoke of bondage. It is -your right. Go free in the liberty of the sons of God, -but go to sin no more.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>These words, spoken with the authority of a priest, -and with the solemnity of absolute conviction, brought -something of light and release to the troubled heart of -Ingraham.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The hour was late, indeed, morning was at hand, -when, lifting his face upon which a certain calmness had -settled, he said to Gregory, earnestly:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I believe I grasp the truth of what you say, and -that there is for me a certain peace, a partial release, -although forgetfulness never. But this is not enough; -the cry of my whole soul is to make restitution in some -<span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span>sort, somewhere, although how and to whom I cannot -see. I still have the stain that I profit by my sin. -What can you tell me? Do you see a way for me?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>John Gregory looked at Ingraham steadily for a -moment before speaking, and then said very slowly:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Do you remember what the Master said to a certain -ruler, ‘Sell all that thou hast, and distribute unto the -poor, and come, follow me’? If you are in earnest, Mr. -Ingraham, and if you feel that, as your experience of sin -has been in no light and common form, but in a depth -of agony which few men ever know, so your repentance -should be along no mild and easy lines, but should reach -to the foundations of your life—if, I say, you see things -thus, and can bear so strong a prescription, I should repeat -to you <em>literally</em> what Christ said to the rich ruler. -It is a hard saying; not every man can receive it.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The two men faced each other in silence for a moment, -and Gregory saw the leap of a sudden question in -the other’s eyes.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No,” he said sternly, as if in answer to a spoken -inquiry, “I am not advising you with an eye on my -own advantage. My thought was not of my own cause, -but of the cause of humanity anywhere. Pardon me if -I speak plainly; I could not use a farthing of your -money, were it all at my disposal, for building up the -work I am seeking to establish in Fraternia. Recall -what you heard me say to-night of the true Kingdom -of God. I could not use your money, Mr. Ingraham, -in seeking to show forth that kingdom; but I could use -you, should you wish to come with us, if you came -empty-handed.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The lawyer felt the pitiless severity of Gregory’s -moral standard and all that this dictum implied, but he -<span class='pageno' id='Page_244'>244</span>did not resist it. His humiliation and submission were -sincere, and, for the time at least, controlling; but doubt -and conflict were plainly read in his face.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Is it a hard saying?” John Gregory asked, with a -slight smile.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, harder than you know. I could do what you -say, were I alone to be considered; but to reduce my -family to beggary, to cut short my career and stain my -reputation by the cloud which would inevitably rest -upon it in the community by such an unheard-of course -of action, to take my wife and daughters from their -social world to follow me, sent like a scapegoat into -some wilderness—really, Mr. Gregory, what you name -is beyond reason!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory made absolutely no response. After a long -silence, Ingraham said thoughtfully:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“This is about the way I see for myself: from this -time on I shall seek to live a humbler and a sincerely -Christian life, and shall strive in every way open to me -to aid and further the cause of righteousness, with my -money and with my influence. In this way I shall -bring happiness and satisfaction to my wife, to whom -I owe the highest obligation, next to God, instead of -destroying her comfort by dragging her with me into -some late missionary endeavour or eccentric experiment. -Pardon me, Mr. Gregory, if I too speak plainly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“But this is not all. Although I feel no individual -call in the direction of your coöperative colony, and am -not over sanguine of its success, I do believe profoundly -in you, personally, as I must have shown you. Now I -want you to reconsider what you said a little while ago. -Frankly, this discriminating between money made in -one way or another savours to me of superstition. This -<span class='pageno' id='Page_245'>245</span>money, which is mine, cannot be destroyed; even you -would hardly advise that. Why not put it to a good use, -the best possible from your point of view? I have never -given away money largely, but I am able to, and I want -to seal our interview to-night with a substantial gift.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>As he spoke, Ingraham turned to his desk and -touched a check-book which lay upon it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Mr. Gregory, I want to write my check for fifty -thousand dollars to be placed unconditionally in your -hands. You want a little church down there in your -settlement, and you want it beautiful, worthy of its -purpose; you want a library—both are necessary to -carry on the kind of work you project. Here they are,” -and again he touched the little leather book with his -forefinger; “let me do that much as a memorial of this -night and what you have done for me.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>John Gregory met the look of sincere and even -anxious appeal with which these words were spoken -with unyielding, although not unkindly, firmness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“This is a generous impulse on your part, Mr. Ingraham. -Do not for a moment think I fail to appreciate -it. You are right; the money must be used, and will -be, I hope, promptly and wisely. You must pardon me -a certain over nicety perhaps in preferring not to build -my church in Fraternia, or even my library, with it. -You will find plenty of men less fastidious, and no one -but myself will, I suppose, have reason to entertain such -scruples.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory had risen, and was ready now to go. It was -four o’clock, he found, by his watch, and it had been a -long vigil; but, while Ingraham’s face was haggard and -even ghastly, that of Gregory was unchanged in its massive -firmness and its strong, fine lines.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_246'>246</span>Ingraham stood at his desk plainly chagrined and ill at ease.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“In your eyes, I see,” he said ruefully, “I am still -in the place of the man who went away sorrowful because -he had great possessions.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Perhaps,” said Gregory; “it is too soon to tell.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Every man must judge for himself, Mr. Gregory, -when it comes to the supreme acts of his life.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes,” said the other, sadly; “to the supreme acts -or to the supreme compromises. Will you excuse me -now? I believe that I must go.” Gregory held out -his hand, which Ingraham grasped with eagerness. -“You have honoured me by your confidence and your -generosity. Count me your friend if you will. Good -night.”</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_247'>247</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XXVII</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>I tire of shams, I rush to be.—<span class='sc'>Emerson.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Gertrude Ingraham was still unmarried, still -pretty, still charming in her dainty, high-bred way.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Perhaps the thought crossed Keith Burgess’s mind -as he joined her in her father’s library that evening, -after their return from Gregory’s lecture, that she -would have been, as a wife, a shade less <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">exigeante</span></i> than -Anna.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna, shrinking from the small coin of discussion of -so great themes, had gone directly to their room,—the -room which had been Keith’s on his first visit to Burlington. -Keith remained in the library to accept the -refreshment which Gertrude had prepared for their return, -and found the situation altogether pleasing. It -was a rest to a sensitive, nervous man like himself to -sit down with a pretty woman who had no startling -theories of life and conduct; one who had always -moved, and who would always choose to move, on the -comfortable lines of convention, instead of seeking some -other path for herself, rough and lonely.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Perhaps Keith lingered all the more willingly to-night -because he perceived a rough and lonely path opening -visibly before him, into which he must in all probability -turn full soon.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“What did you think of Mr. Gregory?” asked -Gertrude Ingraham over her tea-cups.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“He is a tremendous speaker,” said Keith, soberly; -<span class='pageno' id='Page_248'>248</span>“I never heard a man who could mould an audience to -his will as he does. You were not there to-night.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No, but I heard him before you and Mrs. Burgess -came, night before last. I think he has the finest physique -of any orator I ever heard. Don’t you think that is -one source of his power? There is something absolutely -majestic about him when he is speaking. He seems to -overpower you—you <em>must</em> agree with him, whether you -do or not.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Then do you accept this new doctrine of his, Miss -Ingraham?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You mean that there should be no social distinctions, -no aristocratic and privileged class, no wealth and no -poverty, and all that? I do not know what he said -to-night, you see, but that is the line on which he has -been speaking.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, that is what it all comes to.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Why, no, of course I don’t believe in it, when I get -away from Mr. Gregory,” said Gertrude, laughing prettily; -“because I really think he is going against the fundamental -laws of God. There have always been rich -people and poor people, and it was intended that there -always should be, I think.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It does seem absolutely impracticable to carry out -any such theory in actual life. Certainly it would be -under existing conditions. It can only be done by -radical, by revolutionary methods. Have you heard -what Mr. Gregory is actually doing to illustrate his -theory? Have you heard of Fraternia?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gertrude Ingraham lifted her chin with a roguish little -movement and nodded with a charming smile.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, I have heard of Fraternia too! Isn’t it droll? -That is why I didn’t go to-night, you see. I was afraid -<span class='pageno' id='Page_249'>249</span>Mr. Gregory would get hold of me with that irresistible -power of his, and then I should have to go and work in -a cotton mill!” and with this Gertrude lifted her eyebrows -with an expression of plaintive self-pity which -Keith found very taking. “I’m afraid I shouldn’t like -it,” she added archly; “it would be so new, and one’s -hands would get so horrid!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>They laughed together, Keith naturally noting the -delicacy of the small white hands which were manipulating -the transparent china on the low table between -them. Then Mrs. Ingraham and others coming into -the room after them, Keith rose with graceful courtesy -to serve them and to draw them into the conversation. -But all the while Keith had a sense that he was -turning against himself the sharpest weapons which -could have been found, nothing being so instinctively -dreaded by him as to put himself in an absurd situation, -to awaken ridicule, even his own.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Just below the surface of his thought there lay two -formidable facts, like sunk, threatening rocks seen darkly -under smooth water. He knew that Anna would propose -to him that they should throw themselves into Gregory’s -enterprise, and become disciples of the new school; -and he knew that having cut off hitherto, involuntarily or -otherwise, each deepest desire of her soul for the service -of others, he should not dare to thwart her in this. If -she wished to do this thing, he must join her in it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith had himself been deeply moved by Gregory. -The old passion for sacrifice and self-devotion had stirred -again within him. He felt the high courage, the generosity, -the strong initiative of Gregory; he was thrilled -at the sight of a man who could throw himself unreservedly -into a difficult and dangerous crusade, simply -<span class='pageno' id='Page_250'>250</span>for an ideal, with all to lose and nothing to gain. He -too had once marched to that same music; his blood was -stirred, and he felt something of the enthusiasm of his -student years, rising warm within him. He perfectly -understood the motions of Anna’s spirit, and shared in -them, up to a certain point. This point was reached -when he touched the limit set by his inborn and inherited -conservatism, his constitutional preference for things as -they were, and his quick dread of making himself absurd. -And now, Gertrude Ingraham with her pretty mocking had -suddenly put the whole thing before him in the light he -dreaded most.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna was not thus divided in her mind, and could not -have been. Something of the steadfast simplicity of her -ancient German ancestry preserved her from this characteristically -American form of sensitiveness. She could -have adopted without hesitation, any outward forms, -however out of conformity to usage, however grotesque -in the eyes of others, if she had felt the inward call. -Gregory’s stern and lofty utterances had come to her -with full prophetic weight, and had left nothing in her -to rise up in doubt or gainsaying.</p> - -<p class='c011'>In this mood Keith found her. She was standing, -still fully dressed, before the chimney-piece, where he -had sat one night and dreamed at once of her and Gertrude -Ingraham. Her hands were clasped and hanging -before her; her face was slightly pale, and her eyes -strangely large and luminous. Standing before her, -Keith took her clasped hands between his, and looked -at her with a questioning smile.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Well, dear,” he said, “what is it?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You know,” she answered softly. “Was it not to -you what it was to me? Is it not the very chance we -<span class='pageno' id='Page_251'>251</span>wish, to redeem our poor lost hopes of service?—to -leave all the luxuries and privileges and advantages, -and share the world’s sorrows? to become poor and -humble as our Master was? to give what we have -received? Oh, Keith, is it to be, or must another hope -go by?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>As Anna thus cried out, the solemn appeal of her -nature, austere, and yet full-charged with noble passion, -breaking at last through the barriers which had long -held it back, gave her an extraordinary spiritual grandeur. -There was something of awe in the look with which -her husband regarded her. Weapons of fear and doubt -and cavil fell before that celestial sternness in her eyes,—a -look we see sometimes in the innocent eyes of -young children.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It is to be, Anna. You shall have your way this -time, my wife.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The words were spoken reverently, with grave gentleness, -and Keith’s own sweet courtesy. Was it Anna’s -fault that she failed, in the exaltation of her mood, to -catch the sadness in them?</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith was hardly conscious of it himself. He was -thinking, on an unspoken parallel, that he would rather -be privileged to adore Anna Mallison in a moment like -this, even though she led him in a rough and lonely -path, than to dally with another woman in smoothness -and ease.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_252'>252</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XXVIII</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>I took the power in my hand</div> - <div class='line'>And went against the world;</div> - <div class='line'>’Twas not so much as David had,</div> - <div class='line'>But I was twice as bold.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>I aimed my pebble, but myself</div> - <div class='line'>Was all the one that fell.</div> - <div class='line'>Was it Goliath was too large,</div> - <div class='line'>Or only I too small?</div> - <div class='line in30'>—<span class='sc'>Emily Dickinson.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c014'>We all have need of that prayer of the Breton mariner, “Save us, O God! -Thine ocean is so large and our little boats are so small.”—<span class='sc'>Farrar.</span></p> - -<p class='c010'>“Trunks checked for Utopia! Direct passenger -route without change of cars! Ye gods, it doth amaze -me!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Thus Professor Ward, with a sardonic and yet discomfited -smile, standing in the studio of his friend -Pierce Everett, in Fulham. The room was in the disorder -of a radical breaking up; packing boxes standing -about and litter strewn everywhere.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Everett in his shirt sleeves was piling on a table a -mass of draperies which he had taken from the wall. -He was covered with dust, but his face was full of -joyous excitement.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, my good friend—straight for Utopia now!</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“‘Get on board, chil’en,</div> - <div class='line'>Get on board, chil’en,</div> - <div class='line'>For there’s room for many a more.’”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_253'>253</span>Everett trolled out the old negro chorus with hilarious -enjoyment.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“<i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Quos Deus vult perdere</span></i>—” began Ward, grimly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, we’re all mad, you know. We are simply not -so mad as the rest of you,” interrupted Everett, gayly. -“We have intervals of sanity, and are taking advantage -of one of them to get out of the mad-house, leaving -you other fellows to keep up your unprofitable strife -with phantoms by yourselves, while we actually—yes, -we even dare to believe it—<em>live</em>. Think of that, -Ward, if you have the imagination!” Ward shook his -head. “No, you haven’t; that is so. If you had, you -could not have listened to Gregory unmoved.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Confound Gregory,” muttered Ward. “What did -you ever get the man here for, turning our world upside -down!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“That has been the occupation of seers and prophets -from the beginning, I believe,” retorted Everett, carelessly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Seers and prophets!” cried Ward, angrily, “that is -what I can stand least of all. This posing as a kind -of nineteenth century John the Baptist strikes me as -exquisitely ridiculous.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Everett’s eyes flashed dangerously, but he made no -rejoinder.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I saw your John the Baptist this morning in the -Central Station buying his railway ticket and morning -paper like any other average man. The locusts and -wild honey were not in evidence.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No, he doesn’t take nourishment habitually in railway -stations,” put in Everett, coolly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I didn’t see any leathern girdle about his loins, -either, although of course he may wear it next the skin -<span class='pageno' id='Page_254'>254</span>for penitential purposes. His clothing appeared to be a -species of camel’s hair—”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Falsely so called,” put in Everett; “it is really -English tweed. Very good quality.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, I’ll venture to say that is true. Your prophet -of the wilderness strikes me as knowing a good thing -when he sees it. Plague take the fellow! He has -just that sort of brute force and sheer overbearing personal -dominance, which you idealists and credulous take -for spiritual authority.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Come now, Ward, we may as well keep our tempers -and treat this matter decently. Nothing is gained by -calling names. You are naturally prejudiced against a -man who attacks the existing social order, and suggests -that even the rulers of the synagogue and the great -teachers of the schools have something yet to learn. -Gregory is radical, revolutionary perhaps, but not a -whit more so than the New Testament makes him. He -is an absolutely conscientious man; he has given up -every personal ambition, wealth, position, all that most -men cling to—”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“In order to become a Dictator, in a field where -there is very little competition.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Everett suppressed the irritation which this interposition -aroused, and continued in a lighter tone,—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You are enough of a dictator yourself to see this -point, which had escaped the rest of us. I can see that -it is a little bitter to you to have Mrs. Burgess seeking -another spiritual and intellectual adviser,—going after -other gods, as it were.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes,” said Ward, gravely; “it makes me sick at -heart to see a woman like Mrs. Burgess, with all that -glorious power of self-devotion of hers, throwing herself -<span class='pageno' id='Page_255'>255</span>blindly into this wild, Quixotic experiment—sure to -end in disappointment and defeat. It is mournful, -most mournful,” and Ward shook his head in melancholy -fashion. “And when it comes to Keith,” he -resumed, “alas! our brother! Poor Keith, with his lifelong -habits of luxurious ease, his conventional views -of duty, his yardstick imagination, and his wretched -health—to think of such a man being torn from all -the amenities of a refined Christian home, and carted -across lots, Government bonds and all, to be set down -in some malarial swamp to dig ditches with a set of -ploughmen, to prove, forsooth! that all men are created -free and equal,” and Ward groaned and bent his head -as if overcome by the picture he had called up.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Lifting his head suddenly, he added in a tone of pensive -rumination.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“He is one of those men Thoreau tells of, who would -not go a-huckleberrying without a medicine chest; and -he would perish, I am convinced, if deprived of improved -sanitary plumbing.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“All very clever,” said Everett, “but I will take the -liberty of mentioning the fact that the Burgess’s physician -hails the North Carolina project as the very best -thing which could happen for Keith’s health.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Hardly had he finished the sentence when a light -knock was heard on the half-open door of the studio, -and Anna Burgess, at Everett’s word, stepped into the -room.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She wore a thin black gown, for the day was warm, -and a broad-brimmed hat of some transparent black substance -threw the fine shape of her head and the pure -tints of her face into striking relief. A handful of white -jonquils was fastened into the front of her gown, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_256'>256</span>the freshness of the June day seemed to enter the dusty, -despoiled studio with her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Both men stood at gaze before her with deference and -admiration in every line and look. With a delicate flush -rising in her cheeks, Anna gave her hand to each, and -spoke a word of greeting in which her natural shyness -and her acquired social grace were mingled to a manner -of peculiar charm.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I ran up to hand you these papers for Mr. Gregory,” -she said to Everett, a vibration of suppressed joy in her -full, low voice which he had never heard before. “You -know he said he would like it if you would bring them,” -and she placed a long envelope in his hand. “No, I -cannot stop a moment, Keith is waiting for me in the -carriage. I did not give the papers to the maid because -I wanted to say to you, Mr. Everett, that Keith does not -see it any differently,—about the estate, you know. He -pledges the income, freely, altogether, but he feels that -the estate itself should be kept intact.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Thank Heaven, he has a spark of reason left!” -exclaimed Ward under his breath, adding quickly,—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Pardon me, Mrs. Burgess, but you know I am not -a Gregorian psalm myself, yet.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna turned to him with her rare smile, less brilliant -than clear and luminous.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“But I was so glad you came to the house, Professor -Ward, and heard Mr. Gregory,” she said with gracious -courtesy; “we cannot expect every one to follow out -these new theories practically as we hope to do, but at -least we want every one we care about to know really -what they are.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Do you think that many of those present at your -house that afternoon were inclined to accept Mr. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_257'>257</span>Gregory’s gospel, if I may so call it?” asked Ward, -respectfully.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Of course not,” interjected Everett, “there was no -one there but cranks and critics.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna’s face clouded a little. “No,” she said simply. -“Fulham is not a good field for such a message; it was -quite different in Burlington. Most of them went away -saying it would be very fine if it were not wholly impossible.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“And it does not occur to you, does it, Mrs. Burgess,” -Ward pressed the question with undisguised earnestness, -“that perhaps they were right? that there is something -to be said for the old order, as old as the race? that -possibly certain distinctions are inherent in the nature of -things? Such distinctions, for instance, as separate -you,” and Ward gave the pronoun a freight of significance -to carry, “from that man,” and he indicated a -labourer who had just left the room with an immense box -of merchandise on his broad, bent shoulders, and whose -slow, heavy steps could now be heard on the stairs -below.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He had struck the wrong chord.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Professor Ward,” cried Anna, her voice even lower -than its wont, but her emphasis the more intense, “did -that man choose to be reduced to the life and little more -than the faculties of a beast of burden, to be a brother -to the ox, to live a blind, brutalized, animal existence, -with neither joy nor star?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>She paused a moment, and then added, with indescribable -pathos dimming the kindling light in her eyes:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It is that man, Professor Ward, and what he stands -for, that sends me to Fraternia, if perhaps I can yet -atone. It is I that have made that man what he is, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_258'>258</span>you, and all of us who have clung gladly to our powers -and privileges, and dared to believe that we were made -for the heights of life, and men like him for the abyss. -If we could read our New Testament once as if it were -not an old story! If we, for one moment, could lay our -social cruelties beside that pattern shown us in the -mount!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The deep heart of her and the innermost motive -power broke forth from Anna’s usual quiet and reserve -in these last words with thrilling influence upon both -men. She was beautiful as she spoke, but with the -beauty of some Miriam or Cassandra,—a woman, as -had been said of her long before, “to die for, not to -play games with.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Professor Ward, the irritation of his earlier mood -quite gone, stood regarding Anna as she spoke with -a sadness as profound as it was wholly unaffected. -Having spoken, she turned to go.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Let me say one word, Mrs. Burgess,” he said, extending -his hand to detain her a moment. “I sympathize -deeply with your purposes, and I am not wholly -incapable of appreciating your motives. From my -heart I shall bid you God-speed on your way when your -time comes to go out into this new spiritual adventure. -It will be none the less noble because it is impossible.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Good-by,” she said, and smiled.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_259'>259</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XXIX</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring?</div> - <div class='line in6'>O sweet Content!</div> - <div class='line'>Swim’st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in thine own tears?</div> - <div class='line in6'>O Punishment!</div> - <div class='line'>Then he that patiently Want’s burden bears</div> - <div class='line'>No burden bears, but is a king, a king.</div> - <div class='line in6'>O sweet Content, O sweet, O sweet Content!</div> - <div class='line'>Work apace, apace, apace, apace,</div> - <div class='line'>Honest labour bears a lovely face.</div> - <div class='line in34'>—<span class='sc'>Thomas Dekker</span>, 1600.</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>A valley, two thousand feet above the sea level, -narrowing at its upper or northern end to a ravine -piercing thickly wooded hills, but widening gradually -southward, until, a mile lower down the mountain -stream which issues from the gorge, it becomes a broad -sunny meadow land.</p> - -<p class='c011'>On a day in the middle of March, when the sun -shone warm and a turquoise sky arched smiling over -this valley, signs of human activity and energy prevailed -on every side. In the bottom lands men were ploughing -the broad level fields; here the river had been dammed, -forming a pond, on the bank of which stood a large -picturesque building sheathed with dark-green shingles. -From the wide and open windows of this building the -sound of whirring spindles and the joyous laughter of -girls and men issued.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Higher up the valley men were at work building a -light bridge of plank across the creek, while others were -carting newly sawed lumber, with its strong pungent -<span class='pageno' id='Page_260'>260</span>smell, from the sawmill below. On the eastern side -of the valley, between this bridge and the mills half a -mile south, were scattered or grouped at irregular intervals, -forty or fifty small cabins, some of log, others of -unplaned boards; thatched, or covered in red tile. Men -and women were at work in the damp mould of the -gardens by which these cabins were surrounded, and -fresh green things were shooting up. On the opposite -side of the stream, on a wooded knoll, stood a large, -low, barrack-like building with a red roof, and near it -a few cabins. It was opposite this group of buildings -that the foot-bridge was in process of making, to supersede -a single plank and rail which had hitherto connected -the banks of the stream. Down the valley from -this small and separate settlement stretched fields already -under cultivation, for corn, potatoes, and cotton.</p> - -<p class='c011'>There were no streets in this rustic settlement. Footpaths -led to the cottage doors through the thin, coarse -grass, and along the eastern side of the little river; and -between its bank and the houses ran a rough wagon -road, deeply rutted now by the wheels of the lumber -wagons in the soft, red soil. To the north and east the -hills rose abruptly, covered with oak and pine, and the -aromatic fragrance of the latter was in the air, mingling -with the scent of the soil. Beyond the lower hills to -the west loomed the shoulders of dim, blue mountains, -while looking south, down the shining river, beyond a -belt of woodland, the valley broadened out to the sunny -plain stretching to the horizon line.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The limpid clearness of the air, the fragrance of the -forest and the earth, the musical flow of the little river, -the wonderful brilliancy of the sky, with the vast uplift -of the mountains, gave a sense of wild perfection to the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_261'>261</span><em>ensemble</em>. Such was Fraternia in the morning of its -second spring.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was during that decade which saw the sudden -springing into life of so large a number of communistic -organizations and settlements throughout the country, -mainly in the south and west. Many of these experiments -were crude and obscure; most of them were -shortlived. They were founded on widely different -social conceptions, ranging from those of unlimited -license and rank anarchism up to the high ideals of the -life of Christian brotherhood set forth in the early -church.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The latter was the foundation of John Gregory’s -colony in Fraternia. Inflexible morality and blamelessness -of Christian living were his cardinal laws. Built -upon them was the superstructure of economic and -social equality, of labour sharing, and of domestic simplicity.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Thus far unusual promise attended the adventure, -and peace and good will reigned in the little community.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Toward the upper end of the village half a dozen -men were at work around a circular excavation not -more than five or six feet in diameter, which had been -lined with irregular slabs and blocks of stone patched -together with clay. In blue overalls thickly bespattered -with red mud and the sticky clay, a man was working -on his knees at the edge of this basin. It was Keith -Burgess. Near him, measuring with rule and line and -marking out the width of the coping, stood the artist, -Pierce Everett. Their fellow-workmen were two Irishmen—big, active fellows, with honest eyes—and a wiry -little black-a-vised Jew, a quondam foreman in a New -York sweat-shop. He was mixing clay and laying the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_262'>262</span>stone of the coping, while the Irishmen were at work -in an open trench through which ran the pipe which -was to conduct the water from a spring in the ravine -above into the new reservoir.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Emerging from the woods below the dam a little -crowd of children came straying up the valley, laughing -and shouting, and jumping gayly over the pools of red -mud in the road. Their hands were full of wild flowers,—bloodroot, -and anemones, and arbutus; their hair -was blown about in the wind; their eyes were shining. -Among them, giving her hand to a little girl who -walked with a crutch, walked Anna Burgess, her face -as joyous as theirs, and a free, unhampered vigour and -grace in every line of her figure. She was the head -teacher in the village school, and was known to her -scholars, and, indeed, quite generally in the little community, -as “Sister Benigna.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>This name, “Benigna,” which had come down in -Anna’s family for generations, and had been given her -as a second name, had not been used for many years, -save by her mother, who still clung loyally to the full -“Anna Benigna.” Who it was in Fraternia who had -revived the beautiful old Moravian name was not -known, but the use of it had been quickly established, -especially among the children and the foreign folk.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The habit of using “Brother” and “Sister” with the -given name in ordinary social intercourse was common, -although not universal, in Fraternia. Anna’s assistants -in the school—a pale, little English governess, who had -apparently never known stronger food than tea and -bread until she came to Fraternia, and a rosy-cheeked -German kindergartner—were among the little flock, their -hands overflowing with wild flowers, and their faces -<span class='pageno' id='Page_263'>263</span>with the high delight the spring day brought them. It -was Saturday morning, and a holiday.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Suddenly there was a shout from some boys who -were foremost in the company, and they came scampering -back to Anna exclaiming that the “fountain” was -almost finished, and, perhaps, the water would soon be -turned into it. By common consent the whole party -hastened on and soon encircled the workmen at the -basin with noisy questions and merry chatter. It was -to be so fine not to have to go up to the spring in the -ravine with pails and pitchers any more. Could they -surely have the water here for Sunday? Then Fräulein -Frieda told them how the girls in her country came to -such fountains with their jugs, and carried them away -full on their heads. She showed them with a tin pail, -found lying in the clay, just how it was done, walking -away with firm, balanced step, the pail unsupported on -her pretty flaxen-haired head, on which the sun shone -dazzlingly. The little girls were greatly delighted, and -all declared they should learn to carry their water pots -home on their heads from the <i><span lang="de" xml:lang="de">Quelle</span></i>, as Fräulein Frieda -called it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna stood at the edge of the basin, Keith at her -feet, on his knees, with the trowel in his hands, -smiling up at her, the little lame girl still at her side, -a trace of wistfulness in her eyes as she watched the -others.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“We will not carry our water pails on our heads, you -and I, will we, little Judith?” Anna asked, kind and -motherly. “<em>We</em> want our brains to grow, and it might -crowd them down; don’t you think so?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The swarthy Jew looked up from the clay he was -mixing with quick, instinctive gratitude. Judith was -<span class='pageno' id='Page_264'>264</span>his child. He grinned a broad and rather hideous grin, -and exclaimed in a broken dialect:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Das ist so, Kleine; shust listen to our lady! She -knows. She says it right.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Pierce Everett’s dark eyes flashed with sudden enthusiasm. -Turning to Anna he bowed profoundly and said -low to Keith, as well as to her:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“There you have it! Barnabas has found your title—‘our -lady’!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna looked into Everett’s dark eager eyes with her -quiet smile, and was about to speak, when a sudden -noise of grating and rattling and horses’ hoofs behind -them caused them all three to turn and look down the -river. A horse and stone drag were approaching rapidly, -driven by John Gregory, who stood on the drag, which -was loaded with big clean pebbles from the river-bed. -He wore a coarse grey flannel shirt, the collar turned -off a little at the throat, and rough grey trousers -tucked into high rubber boots, which reached to the -thighs. The cloth cap on his head with its vizor bore -a certain resemblance to a helmet, and altogether the -likeness of the whole appearance to that of a Roman -warrior in his chariot did not escape the three friends -who watched its approach in the motley crowd around -the basin.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory drove his drag close up to the edge of the -coping, now nearly laid, greeted the company with a -courteous removal of his hat and a cordial Good-morning, -then discharged the load of pebbles in a glinting -heap on the soft red earth.</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was no conscious assumption of mastery or -direction in Gregory’s manner, nothing could have been -simpler or more democratic than the impartial comradery -<span class='pageno' id='Page_265'>265</span>with which he joined the others, nevertheless the sense -that the master was among them was instantly communicated -throughout the little group. Up in the trench, -nearly to the base of the cliffs which marked the entrance -to the ravine, one Irishman said to the other, in -a tone of satisfaction not unmixed with good-natured -sarcasm:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Himsilf’s come now. The gintlemin masons will git -to rights or they’ll lose their job, d’ye mind, Patrick?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, ay,” said the other, “an’ the same to yersilf, if -ye ivir noticed it.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was a little silence even among the chattering -children as Gregory stooped by Everett’s side, pulled up -with the ease of mighty muscle two or three stones, -took the trowel from Keith’s hand and a hod of mortar -from the waiting Barnabas, and set the stones over on a -truer line, laughing the while with the men and turning -aside the edge of criticism with frank self-disparagement, -as being himself but a tyro.</p> - -<p class='c011'>A curious consequence of Gregory’s appearance on -the scene after this sort, was the dwarfed effect of the -men around him, who suddenly seemed to have shrunk -in stature and proportions, and whose motions, beside -the virile force and confident freedom of his, appeared -incompetent and weak.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna had drawn back from her place near the basin’s -edge. Gregory had not looked at her nor she at him -directly. In fact, they habitually, for some reason they -themselves could not define, avoided each other, and yet -could not avoid a piercing consciousness, when together, -of every look and word of the other. A sudden shyness -and subduing had fallen instantly upon Anna’s bright -mood, and, while the others watched every look and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_266'>266</span>motion of Gregory with almost breathless interest, she -stood apart and arranged little Judith’s flowers with apparent -preoccupation.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Tossing the trowel back to Keith, with whom he -exchanged a few words of question, Gregory next hastened -with long strides up the line of the trench to the -place where the Irishmen were at work. Here was a -primitive moss-grown trough, into which the water of -the spring had hitherto been conducted, and to which -all the people had been obliged to come for their supply -of drinking water. The new iron pipe already replaced -the rude wooden conduit which had done duty until -now, but the water still flowed into the trough, and -would do so until, the basin completed, the connection -might be made between the two sections of pipe.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Under Gregory’s direction this was now effected, and -the water of the spring, if there was no flaw, should -now flow unimpeded into the basin below. To test the -basin, it was Gregory’s purpose to make the experiment -at once.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Presently there was a shout, exulting and joyous, from -the company below.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“The water is here! The water! The water!” -rose the cry into the stillness of the valley. The men -at work upon the bridge left their work, and hastened -to join the little crowd.</p> - -<p class='c011'>With strides even longer than before, Gregory came -down again, the Irishmen following him in a scramble -to keep up. Joy was in all their faces, and the -deepest joy of all in that of Gregory. They stood -together and watched the jet of water as it sprang from -the mouth of the pipe, turbid at first, but gradually -becoming clear and sparkling, and fell with a gentle, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_267'>267</span>musical plashing into the stone fountain. There was -complete silence for a little space, as they looked -intently at the increasing depth of the gathering pool, -and then, bringing down his hands with a will on the -shoulders of Keith and Everett, Gregory exclaimed:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Men, you have done well, all of you! It holds, do -you see? It is tight as a ship. Hurrah!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>They all joined in a great cheer, and then, swiftly -finding where she stood, or knowing, as he always -seemed to know, instinctively, Gregory’s eyes sought -Anna Burgess.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Will Sister Benigna come up here?” he asked -quietly, with the unhesitating steadiness of the man who -knows just what he means to do.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna came slowly forward, and stood on the new-laid -coping, by the side of Gregory, greatly wondering. -Just beyond her was Keith, side by side with Barnabas -Rosenblatt. Meanwhile, Gregory had taken from his -pocket a small folding drinking cup of shining metal, -which he had held in the flow of the spring water until -it was thoroughly purified. Turning now to look at all -those who stood round about, he said:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Brothers, sisters, little children, this water is the -good gift of God. Let this fountain be now consecrated -to all pure and holy uses. By the wish which I -believe to be in every one of you, let the first who shall -drink of this living water from the new fountain be our -Sister Benigna.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>With these words Gregory filled the cup from the -sparkling outgush of the spring, the water so cold that -the polished cup was covered with frosty dimness, and -with simple seriousness handed it to Anna. Affection and -reverence were in the eyes of all the people as they -<span class='pageno' id='Page_268'>268</span>watched her while with uncovered head, calm brow, -and the fine simplicity of unconsciousness she took the -cup and drank. But with the first touch of her lips to -the cup the hand in which she held it trembled; and -when she drained the last drop, it trembled still. As -Anna stepped back, having drunk, into the ranks, Gregory -lifted his hand, and with the gesture which commands -devotion repeated the ancient words,—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“‘O most high, almighty, good Lord God, to thee -belong praise, glory, honour, and all blessing!</p> - -<p class='c011'>“‘Praised be my Lord for our brother the wind, and -for air and cloud, calms and all weather, by the which -thou upholdest in life all creatures.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“‘Praised be my Lord for our sister, water, who is -very serviceable unto us, and humble, and precious, and -clear.’”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then with a deeper solemnity and significance in -face and voice, he continued:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“‘If thou knewest the gift of God and who it is -that saith to thee, Give me to drink; thou wouldest have -asked of him and he would have given thee living water.’</p> - -<p class='c011'>“‘Jesus said, If any man thirst, let him come to me -and drink.’”</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was noon, and turning they all dispersed, each to -his own place, a deepened gladness in their faces. But -as for Anna Burgess, a dimness was upon her joy, a -thrilling undercurrent of dread and wonder which she -could not understand; for she had drunk of the Cup -of Trembling—and knew it not.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_269'>269</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XXX</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>We’ve toiled and failed; we spake the word;</div> - <div class='line in2'>None hearkened; dumb we lie;</div> - <div class='line'>Our Hope is dead, the seed we spread</div> - <div class='line in2'>Fell o’er the earth to die.</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>What’s this? For joy our hearts stand still,</div> - <div class='line in2'>And life is loved and dear,</div> - <div class='line'>The lost and found the cause hath crowned,</div> - <div class='line in2'>The Day of Days is here.</div> - <div class='line in34'>—<span class='sc'>William Morris.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>The Burgesses had come to Fraternia in the preceding -December, although Keith had soon left again, -having still many business concerns to recall him to -Fulham. The house there was now closed, and the -life there for them presumably ended, and, late in February, -Keith had returned to Fraternia.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna had employed the months between their decision -to join the coöperative colony and their actual -journey to the South, in taking a short course in nursing -in a Fulham hospital, reviving her old knowledge of the -subject, gained in her girlhood in Burlington. She had -it in mind to fit herself thus as thoroughly as the brief -interval allowed, for the duties of a trained nurse to the -little community, this being an occupation at once congenial -to herself and important for the general good. -For uniformity of service was by no means according -to John Gregory’s plan, and Gertrude Ingraham might -not have found herself shut up to the cotton mill even -if she had done so incredible a thing as to throw in her -<span class='pageno' id='Page_270'>270</span>fortunes with Fraternia. All must labour, and all must -labour for the general good,—one of Gregory’s prime -maxims being, If a man will not work, neither shall -he eat; but as far as practicable that labour was to be -on the line of each person’s best capacity, choice, and -development. Thus Keith Burgess’s feat of stonelaying -had not been enforced, but self-chosen, as an expression -of his good will in the sharing the coarser labours of -the people. The work to which he had been assigned -by Gregory was clerical, not manual, being that of -secretary to the colony.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna, thus far, had had no opportunity for any especial -use of her vocation as nurse, the families of Fraternia -being remarkably healthy under the simple and wholesome -conditions of their life, and serious illness unknown -during that winter. Her trained and well-equipped -mind obviously fitted her for a work of intellectual rather -than industrial character, and the duties of teaching -the children of the colony five hours a day—the required -time of service for the women—were given to her by -common consent.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Neither at the time when she was chosen to this -service, nor at any other, had John Gregory directly -communicated his wishes to Anna or discussed his plans -with her; and yet, from the day of her arrival in Fraternia -he had perhaps never formed a plan which was not -in some subtle manner shaped by unconscious reference -to her. In her own way, Anna’s personality was hardly -less conspicuous than his; and these two invisibly and -involuntarily modified each the other’s action and deliberation -as the orbits of two stars are influenced by -their mutual attraction and repulsion.</p> - -<p class='c011'>By the whole habit and choice of his life John Gregory -<span class='pageno' id='Page_271'>271</span>was a purist in morals and in his personal practice -of simplicity. The most frugal fare and the simplest -domestic appliances served his turn by preference, although -he had been born and bred in comparative luxury. -He was free and fraternal with men; gently -respectful to women, whom he yet never treated as if -they were superior to men by force of their weakness, -but rather as being on a basis of accepted equality; -while to little children he always showed winning tenderness. -Socially, however, he scrupulously avoided -intercourse with women, with a curious, undeviating -persistency which almost suggested ascetic withdrawal. -The other men of the colony, several of whom were -men of some social rank and mental culture, found it -pleasant to stop on the woodland paths or by the stream, -all the more in these soft spring days, and exchange -thought and word, light or grave, with the girls and -women, but never once had Gregory been seen to do -this, or to visit the households presided over by women -on any errand whatever. Whether a line of action -which thus inevitably separated him more and more -from the domestic life of the people, was pursued by -deliberate purpose or by the accident of personal inclination -was not clear, but certain it was that the fact -contributed to the distinction and separation which -seemed inevitably to belong to Gregory. With all -his simplicity of life and democratic brotherliness of -conversation, he lived and moved in Fraternia with -an effect of one on a wholly different plane from the -others, and with the full practical exercise of a dictatorship -which no one resented because all regarded him -with a species of hero-worship as manifestly the master -of the situation.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_272'>272</span>His residence was in one of the small cabins on the -western side of the river, to which the bridge gave convenient -access. The other cabins served, one as a -rude, temporary library, the other as storehouse, while -the large barrack-like building furnished bachelor quarters -for the unmarried men. Gregory, since Everett’s arrival, -had shared his house with the artist. Their meals -were taken in common with the other men. No one -was in the habit of entering the house, Gregory having -a kind of office, agreeably furnished, at the cotton mill, -where he was usually to be found when not at work in -field or wood. This was, however, often the case, for -he never failed to discharge the daily quota of manual -labour which he had assigned himself; and it was noticeable -to all that if any task were of an offensive or difficult -nature, he was the one to assume it first and as a matter -of course. It was owing to this characteristic, perhaps -more than to any other, save his singular personal -ascendency, that the silent dictatorship of Gregory in -the little community was so cheerfully accepted. Nominally -the government of the village was in the hands -of a board of directors, with an inner executive committee, -and of which Gregory was chairman. Several -women served on the larger board. Keith Burgess was -a director; Anna’s name had not been proposed for the -office. There had been but one vacancy in the board -on their arrival, which was sufficient reason. The -councils of the directors were held weekly in Gregory’s -office, and thus far a good degree of harmony prevailed.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Again it was Saturday morning. A week had passed -which had brought many days of heavy rain. The -river, swollen and yellow, dashed noisily down from the -gorge and filled its channel below with deep and urgent -<span class='pageno' id='Page_273'>273</span>current. On its turbid flood appeared from time to -time newly felled logs, floated down from the regions -above, where Fraternia men were at work, taking advantage -of the swollen river for conveying their lumber to -the sawmill. A west wind, the night before, had -blown the clouds before it, and this morning the sun -shone from an effulgent sky; the wind had died to a -soft breeze laden with manifold fragrance; and in place -of the chill of the north, the air possessed the indescribable -softness and balm of the southern spring.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was again a busy morning in Fraternia, and everywhere, -and in all the homely tasks, thrilled the unchecked -joy in simple existence of innocent hearts living out their -normal bent for mutual help and burden-sharing. In -the garden ground around their house, which was high -up the valley in a group of three others, one of which -contained the common kitchen and dining room for the -inmates of all, Anna Burgess was at work in her garden, -sowing and planting in the damp soil. Glancing down -the valley, she could see Everett hard at work with another -man, who had been an architect in Burlington, -erecting a little thatched pavilion, of original design, -graceful and rustic, to protect the new and precious -fountain from the sun, and keep its water clean and serviceable. -Across the river, in the library, Keith, she -knew, was at work at his bookkeeping, and also at the -task of collecting excerpts from the writings of social -economists for use in an address which he was preparing. -A new mental activity had been stimulated in -Keith by the change of climate and conditions, and the -influx of new ideas; and the ease and cheerfulness with -which he had adapted himself to the primitive habits of -pioneer life, would have amazed his friend Ward.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_274'>274</span>Barnabas had been gathering one or two sizable -slabs of stone which had been left from the lining and -coping of the fountain, and Anna watched him a moment -as, having loaded them into a wheelbarrow, he -proceeded to carry them down to the new bridge, and -so across to the west side of the river. She hardly -cared to wonder what he was about to do, being otherwise -absorbed, and her eyes did not follow him as he -wheeled his burden on up the knoll on which were the -library and the house of Gregory, set in their bit of pine -wood.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The door of Gregory’s cabin stood open, as was customary -in Fraternia in mild weather. Barnabas dropped -the burden from his barrow just before the open door, -stood to wipe the sweat from his forehead, and then, -kneeling, began the self-imposed effort of placing the -stones together for a low step, which was yet lacking to -the rudely finished house. As he worked, he now and -then lifted his eyes and glanced into the interior of the -house which he had never entered. It had the walls -and ceiling of unplaned, uncovered boards of all the -Fraternia houses; the floor was absolutely bare and -absolutely clean, damp in spots and redolent of soap -from recent scrubbing. The open windows let in the -sun-warmed, piney air, but the light was obscured, the -trees growing close to the house, and a dim gold-green -twilight reigned in the silent room. A door stood open -into the second room where two narrow iron beds came -within the field of vision. There was the ordinary -chimney, built of brick, of ample proportions, with a -pine shelf running across, and in the fireplace logs of fat -pine laid for a blaze in the evening, which was still sure -to be cool. Plain wooden arm-chairs stood near the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_275'>275</span>hearth; an uncovered table of home manufacture, -clumsy and heavy, in the middle of the room, was -thickly strewn with books and papers and writing materials. -It was the typical Fraternia interior,—bare, and -yet not comfortless, and with its own effect of simple -distinction, conveyed by absolute cleanness, order, and -the absence of the superfluous.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But it was none of these details which caught the eye -of Barnabas. Above the chimney there was fastened -by hidden screws close against the wall, so that it had -the effect of a panel, a picture, unframed, showing the -figure of a slender girl with uplifted head and solemn -eyes, set against an Oriental background. It was -Everett’s study of the Girlhood of the Virgin, and -besides it there was no picture nor decoration of any -sort in the place.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Each time he lifted his eyes from the stones before -him to the picture whose high lights gleamed strangely -through the dimness of the room within, Barnabas was -more impressed with some elusive resemblance in the -face; and at last, striking the stone with his hand, he -murmured to himself in his native tongue, “Now I -have it! The damsel there is like our lady when she -prays.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Meanwhile the river ran between and thundered over -the dam below; the red roofs gleamed warm in the sun, -and Anna, down on her knees like Barnabas, on a bit -of board, was tending her bulbs with loving hands, -while within her was springing a very rapture of poetic -joy. Almost for the first time in her life she was conscious -of unalloyed happiness. Was it because the sky -was blue? or because the vital flood of spring beat and -surged about her in the river, in the forest, in the air? -<span class='pageno' id='Page_276'>276</span>Not wholly; nor even because under these kindly influences -all the dormant poetic and creative instincts of her -nature were stirring into luxuriant blossoming, although -all these things filled her with throbbing delight. The -deeper root of her joy was in the satisfaction, so long -delayed, of her passion for brotherhood with lowly men -and poor; the release from the constraint of artificial -conventions, and from the painful sense, which she could -never escape in the years of her Fulham life, that she -owed to every weary toiler who passed her on the street -an apology for her own leisure, her luxury and ease.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Suddenly Anna rose, and stood facing the west, her -eyes full of light. A voice within her had called and -said:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I can write poetry now, and I will!” The fulness -of energy of joy and fulfilment in her spirit sought expression -as naturally as the mountain spring sought its -outlet in the fountain below.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Just then her neighbour, in the house on the left,—it -was the dining-house,—put her head out of the window -and said, reflectively:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Say, Sister Benigna, I wish I knew how to get the -dinner up into the woods to the men-folks. It’s half-past -eleven and time it went this minute, and Charley -has gone down to Spalding after the mail; but I suppose -it’s late or something. Anyway he ain’t here, and -I’ve got the rest to wait on.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Why, I could take the dinner pails up to them, -Sister Amanda,” answered Anna, obligingly. The -“men-folks” alluded to were of her own group of families -and were felling lumber in the woods north of the -valley.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You couldn’t do it alone, but Fräulein Frieda, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_277'>277</span>she’d be tickled to death to go with you. There she -is now,” and Sister Amanda flew to the cabin door -through which a neatly ordered dinner table could be -seen, and shouted down the slope to the young German -teacher who had just come over the bridge with some -books on her arm from the library.</p> - -<p class='c011'>A few moments later Anna sallied out from the house -with Frieda, both carrying well-stored dinner pails.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No matter,” said Anna, smiling at the sudden diversion -from her poetic inspiration; “it is better to live -brotherhood than to sing brotherhood. But some day, -maybe, yet, I shall sing.”</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_278'>278</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XXXI</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in8'>Heaven’s gift takes earth’s abatement!</div> - <div class='line'>He who smites the rock and spreads the water,</div> - <div class='line'>Bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him,</div> - <div class='line'>Even he, the minute makes immortal,</div> - <div class='line'>Proves, perchance, but mortal in the minute,</div> - <div class='line'>Desecrates, belike, the deed in doing.</div> - <div class='line in38'>—<span class='sc'>Robert Browning.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Relays of men had been at work in the woods clothing -the steep banks of the ravine above Fraternia for -three days, even while the rain was falling in torrents. -It was absolutely necessary to secure the lumber while -the river was of a depth to carry it down stream, and for -a time all other work was in abeyance.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory had worked steadily with the rest at the -wood cutting, but Keith had told Anna the night before -that on Saturday morning he would be obliged to -go down to Spalding, the small town in the plain below -the valley, on urgent business concerning notes which -were coming due and must be extended if possible.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was therefore with great surprise that Anna, as -they approached the spot where the men were at work, -heard Frieda exclaim:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“There is the master himself; see, Sister Benigna!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>They had had a merry scramble up the gorge, but a -hard one. The swollen stream had submerged the narrow -path by which the ascent was commonly made, -and it was only by finding the footholds cut out by the -men with their axes in the earth of the dripping, slippery -bank above, that Anna and her companion had been -<span class='pageno' id='Page_279'>279</span>able to make their way on. Holding their pails with -one hand and clinging to overhanging branches or roots -of ferns and laurel with the other, shaking the splashes -of rain from the dripping leaves as they struck their -faces, the two had scrambled breathlessly forward; and -now, at length, the welcome sound of the axe greeted -their ears, and they saw a little beyond, strewing the -underbrush, the new chips and shining splinters of -stripped bark which told that trees had recently been -felled.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna had just stopped to exclaim:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“How good it smells, Frieda,—such a wild, pure -smell!” and was laughing at her own choice of adjectives, -when Frieda had called her attention to John -Gregory. He was standing at no great distance from -them in the midst of the rapid, roaring creek where the -water reached nearly to the tops of his high boots, and, -with a strong pole in both hands, was directing the -course of the logs, which were eddying wildly about him -on the surface of the torrent, into the proper channel -which should carry them down stream.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Frieda’s voice attracted his attention to their approach, -and without pause he strode through the water, leaped -up the bank and was promptly in the path, if it could be -called such, before them, holding out both hands to -relieve them of their burdens, and smiling a cordial -greeting.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna’s cheeks wore a vivid flush.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Then you did not go to Spalding?” she asked, -seeking to quiet the confusion of her surprise and -the immoderate beating of her heart. Frieda, she -saw gratefully, was quite as excited; it was so unusual -for Mr. Gregory to bestow attentions of this sort upon -<span class='pageno' id='Page_280'>280</span>them; it was not strange that one should be a little -stirred.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No,” he said, leading on in the now broadening -path, “I found I could send a letter by Charley, and -the men rather needed a long-legged fellow like myself -up here this morning. But I see that my doing this has -reacted unexpectedly upon you. Charley not being on -hand to bring the dinner, our ladies have had to take -his place,” and Gregory turned toward them as he -spoke with regret and apology which were evidently -sincere.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Are you very tired?” he asked simply, looking at -Frieda but speaking to Anna.</p> - -<p class='c011'>They both declared that it had been great fun and -they were not in the least tired; and indeed the bright -bloom of their cheeks, and the laughter in their eyes, -and the elastic firmness of their steps were sufficient -reassurance.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I think, Mr. Gregory,” said Anna, quite at her ease -now, “that Fraternia women can never know anything -of that disease of civilization, nervous prostration. It -will become extinct in one spot at least.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“‘More honoured in the breach than the observance,’” -quoted Gregory, “we shall hail its loss.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Soon they reached a little clearing, where, the underbrush -trampled down, the rugged steepness of the bank -declining to a gentler slope, and the sun having found -full entrance by reason of the removal of the larger trees, -there was a possibility of finding a dry place to rest. -Here they were soon joined by half a dozen men, several -of whom had brought their dinner with them, and preparations -were made for a fire to heat the coffee which -filled one of the pails brought by Anna and Frieda. The -<span class='pageno' id='Page_281'>281</span>other was solidly packed with sweet, wholesome brown -bread and butter and thick slices of meat.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The fat pine chips and splinters burned readily in -spite of the all-pervading dampness, and the coffee-pail, -suspended over this small camp-fire from a hastily improvised -tripod, was soon sending up a deliciously fragrant -steam.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The men treated the two women as if they had been -foreign princesses, covering a great tree-trunk with -their coats for a kind of throne for them, and serving -them with coffee in tin cups with much flourish of mock -ceremony. This part of the proceedings John Gregory -watched from a little distance, leaning against a tree, -a smile of quiet pleasure in his eyes. He refused the -coffee for himself, drinking always and only water, but -ate the bread and meat they handed him with hearty -relish and a vast appetite.</p> - -<p class='c011'>By a sort of inevitable gravitation, almost before the -meal was concluded, Frieda had strayed off into the -woods with Matt Taylor, son of Anna’s neighbour, -whose devotion to her was one of the especial interests -for Fraternia folk that spring. A certain view from the -crest of the hill beyond the little clearing was by no -means to be missed. Then, one after the other, the men -took up their axes and returned to their work; but John -Gregory kept his place, and still stood leaning against the -tree, facing Anna, the smouldering embers of the fire -between.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He had been speaking on a subject in which all had -been interested,—the prayer test advocated by Mr. -Tyndall, which had attracted the attention of the -scientific and religious world of that time. The men -had gone away reluctantly, leaving the conversation to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_282'>282</span>these two. Heretofore Anna had hardly spoken, but -now with deepening seriousness she said:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I feel the crude, incredible impertinence of such a -test as this which Mr. Tyndall has proposed, and yet -it brings up very keenly to me my own attitude for -many years.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory looked a question, but did not speak, and -Anna went on:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“A good woman whom I once heard speak at Mrs. -Ingraham’s in Burlington gave me an idea of prayer, -quite new to me then, but which I at least partially -accepted, and which has had its effect on my inner life -ever since.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It was—?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“That we were to pray to God for every small -material interest of life, and were to expect definite, -concrete, physical return. That if such was not our -experience it was because we were not dwelling near -God, and were out of harmony with him. This life of -answered prayer and perfect demonstrable union which -she described was called the ‘higher life.’”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“What was your own experience?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It has been a long experience of spiritual defeat. -I prayed for years for every temporal need, asked for -whatever I deeply desired, and—never—perhaps there -was one exception, but hardly more—received an -answer to my praying which I could fairly assume to be -such.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna’s face was profoundly sad, as she spoke, with -the sense of the baffling disappointments of years.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“In the end what has been the effect on you?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I have ceased to pray at all, Mr. Gregory. I know -that sounds very harsh, perhaps very wrong, but I lost -<span class='pageno' id='Page_283'>283</span>the expectation of a response, and the constant defeat -and failure made me bitter and unbelieving. God seemed -only to mock my prayers, not to fulfil. It seemed to -me at last that I was dishonouring him by praying, and -that waiting in silence and patience was shown to be my -portion. Do you think that was sinful?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna raised her eyes timidly to Gregory’s face with -this question, and met the repose and steady confidence -of it with a swift presentiment of comfort.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No,” he answered; “I think you were simply struggling -to release yourself from the meshes of the net -which a mercenary conception of prayer cannot fail to -throw over the soul. It was said of John Woolman, -and a holier man never lived, that he offered no prayers -for special personal favours. I believe the theory of -prayer of your Burlington friend not only mistaken, -but dangerous and misleading. Instead of such a habit -of mind as she described being a ‘higher life,’ I should -call it a lower one. The nearer the man comes to God, -the less he prays, not the more, for definite objective -things and externals; the more he rests on the great -good will of God. Prayer was not designed for man to -use to conform a reluctant God to his will, to get things -given him, but to conform the man’s own blind and -erring will to the divine. By this I do not mean to -say that no prayers for temporal objects are granted. -Many have been, but the soul that feeds itself on this -conception of prayer as a system of practical demand -and supply lives on husks.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“But there are many promises?” Anna said with -hesitation.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes,” said Gregory, with the emphasis of sure conviction, -crossing the space between them to stand -<span class='pageno' id='Page_284'>284</span>directly before her, forgetting all his usual scruples; -“but you must interpret Scripture by Scripture, by the -whole tendency and purpose, not by isolated mottoes -which men like to drag out for spiritual decoration, -breaking off short all their roots which reach down into -the solid rock of universal Truth! Look at our Lord -himself—did he ask for ‘ease and rest and joys’? -It is only as we enter into his spirit that our prayers are -answered, and that almost means that we shall cease to -pray at all for personal benefits. He prayed, often, -whole nights together, but was it that he might win his -own cause with the people about him? Was it not -rather for the multitudes upon whom he had compassion, -and that God the Father should be made manifest in -himself? Ah, Sister Benigna, few of us have sounded -the depths of this great subject of prayer. It is one of -the deepest things of God; and, believe me, it is not -until we have cast out utterly the last shred of the notion -of childish coaxing of God to do what will please us, -that we can catch some small perception of its meaning. -But let me say just one thing more: you are too young -to count any prayer unanswered. At present you see -in part and interpret God’s dealings only in part. At -the end of life your interpretation will be larger, calmer -than it is now. We ‘change the cruel prayers we made,’ -and even here live to praise God that they are broken -away ‘in his broad, loving will.’”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna sat in silence, her eyes downcast, slowly passing -in review the nature of her own most ardent prayers and -the deep anguish and doubt of their non-fulfilment. -Not one, she saw, could bear the high test of likeness to -the mind of Christ, not one but had its admixture of -selfishness, not one but seemed poor and vain in this -<span class='pageno' id='Page_285'>285</span>new light. A nobler conception of the relation of her -soul to God seemed to dawn within her. She looked up -then, and saw upon Gregory’s face that inner illumination -which belongs to the religious genius. The look -of it smote her eyes as if with white and dazzling -light, and they fell as if it were impossible to bear it. -Then she rose, and they stood for a moment alone and -in silence, while a sense of measureless content overflowed -Anna’s spirit, and for an instant made time and -space and human relations as if they were not. So strong -upon her was the sense of uplift from the contact with -the spirit of Gregory. She hardly knew at first that the -incredible had happened. John Gregory had taken her -hand in his, with reverent gentleness, for some seconds. -He was asking her if he had been able to help her in -any wise, and asking it as if he cared very much. She -said “yes,” quite simply, and turned to go. Frieda -was coming back, and they were lingering over long. -Slowly they descended the rugged path before them, for -a strange trepidation had come over Anna,—a vague, -new, disturbing joy.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_286'>286</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XXXII</h3> -</div> - -<p class='c015'>What went ye out into the wilderness for to see?... A man clothed in -soft raiment? Behold, they which are gorgeously apparelled, and live delicately, -are in kings’ courts.—<cite>St. Luke’s Gospel.</cite></p> - -<p class='c014'>Instead of the masterly good humour, and sense of power, and fertility of resource -in himself; instead of those strong and learned hands, those piercing and -learned eyes, that supple body, and that mighty and prevailing heart, which the -father had, whom nature loved and feared, whom snow and rain, water and land, -beast and fish, seemed all to know and to serve, we have now a puny, protected -person, guarded by walls and curtains, stoves and down-beds, coaches, and menservants -and women-servants from the earth and the sky.—<span class='sc'>R. W. Emerson.</span></p> - -<p class='c010'>The spring passed in Fraternia, and the summer. -Not again did John Gregory and Anna come into direct -personal communication. They went indeed their several -ways with a steadier avoidance of this than before, -from an undefined, but instinctive, sense of danger. -Nevertheless, the fact that they breathed the same air -and shared the same lot in life sufficed to yield in the -heart of each an unfailing spring of contentment; while -now and again it would happen that Anna, in her schoolroom -or cottage, and Gregory, at his work, lifting their -eyes at a footstep or a shadow, would be aware that the -other had drawn near and passed by, and contentment -would give place to nameless joy.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The poetic impulse which Anna had inherited from -both parents, but the expression of which had been -stifled by the deadening of her high desires which life in -Fulham had brought, now developed unchecked. Many -influences promoted this development: her clear child-delight -in the rich life of nature about her, the release -<span class='pageno' id='Page_287'>287</span>of her long-cabined spiritual energy, and the stimulation -of her powers of discernment and interpretation by contact -with the strong intellectual power of Gregory.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory was, in the simple system of life in Fraternia, -at once prophet, priest, and king; and his most potent -influence over the people was manifest in the Sunday -services and in the evening lectures which, for lack of -a church, were held in a large empty room on the upper -floor of the cotton mill. Anna found in these sermons -and lectures the strongest intellectual and spiritual food -upon which she had ever fared, and throve apace, having -good faculty of assimilation. The verses which she -wrote at intervals from a sudden and almost irresistible -impulsion were always, when completed, turned over to -her husband. Proud and pleased at this new gift of -Anna’s, it was Keith’s habit to take them straightway to -Gregory. Anna never knew this. She knew, however, -that her poetry found its way into print, and now and -then, she found, into the hearts of sincere people. This -was new food for unaffected gladness, and she was -glad.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The summer, although its fierce continuous heat had -been hard to bear, was yet the season <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">par excellence</span></i> for -Fraternia, and peace and plenty reigned in the valley. -But with the autumn came a change, gradual at first, but -later strongly accented. The wholesome occupations of -the spring and summer came, of necessity, to a standstill. -There was now little vent for the energy and -working force of the people, while the scant resources -of the narrow valley offered nothing to counteract a dull -ennui which settled like a palpable cloud upon them. It -had been a bad year for all their crops; the cotton crop -had been a total failure, and the mill was shut down. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_288'>288</span>This threw nearly fifty of the little community into enforced -idleness, and a smouldering resentment was bred -by the discovery that there had never been a profit, but -rather a sustained loss, on the output of the mill by reason -of Gregory’s scruple against selling at any advance -beyond the bare cost of production. This principle -might have a fine and lofty sound from the lips of an -orator, speaking on broad, general lines; but the hard -business sense of average men and women rebelled -against the concrete results of its application to their -own isolated case.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“If other people did the same, it might work. For -one manufactory alone to attempt it is simply commercial -suicide,” they said to each other, and with justice.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It became known, moreover, throughout the community, -that a heavy mortgage had been placed on the -land, held by a rich cotton planter in South Carolina, -and that a wide chasm yet intervened between their -present condition and that of self-support. A more -serious disappointment and a more immediate difficulty, -however, lay in the inadequacy of their food products -to the needs of the people, and the consequent demand -for ready money wherewith to buy the necessities of life.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The fare, hitherto of the simplest, was gradually made -coarser and less palatable, since better could not be. -Winter was coming on; open-air life had become impossible; -fierce winds coming down through the gorge -swept the valley, and scattered the foliage of the forest, -while a grey and sullen sky hung over, and every day -brought chilly rains. There was some sickness, of a -mild nature, but it emphasized the discomfort and inconveniences -of the homes. The prospect for the coming -months in Fraternia grew grim. The enthusiasm -<span class='pageno' id='Page_289'>289</span>of novelty had tided the little community over the two -preceding winters, but some stronger upholding must -evidently now be interposed; for the people openly murmured, -and began to say to each other sullenly, as once -another company, “Were we brought out into this wilderness -to die? As for this food, our soul loathes it.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keenly conscious of the criticism of which he was -now the subject, Gregory withdrew proudly more and -more within himself, and touched less and less familiarly -the life of those about him. It was well known that he -deprived himself of all better fare than coarse bread and -the water from the spring, that he had unhesitatingly -devoted his last dollar to the enterprise so near his heart, -and the patience and courage of the man were unfailing. -But what of that? It was his own enterprise, with -which he must stand or fall. Why should he not risk -everything and bear everything? For the rest it was -different. They, too, had given their money, and -they had left their ceiled houses and their goodly fleshpots -and their pleasant social commerce to further his -project! They at least expected Christian food!</p> - -<p class='c011'>Crossing the bridge from the library, on a raw afternoon -late in November, Anna Burgess met a woman of -her own age, a woman of cheerful, sensible temperament -and habit, the wife of the architect, whom she had -known in Burlington. The husband, George Hanson, -had surrendered with unconditional devotion to Gregory’s -teaching, and the wife, in loyal sympathy, although -herself by no means an idealist, had gathered her little -brood of children and a few household treasures together, -and had come to Fraternia with him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>As she approached the bridge, Mrs. Hanson, holding -up her wet skirts with both hands, cried to Anna:—</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_290'>290</span>“Oh, how I hate this red mud! Don’t you? It -seems to me I could stand it better if it were not this -horrid colour. One can never get away from it, or lose -sight of it.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna, who thus far, with only a few others, still kept -heart and courage unbroken through this gloomy season, -replied cheerfully that she rather liked the colour.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Mrs. Hanson gave a mournful sigh.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You like Fraternia anyway, don’t you, Sister Benigna? -You always did?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna smiled at the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">naïveté</span></i> of the question, and assented.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I must like what I have chosen above all other -things.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Well, I confess I never did like it, and I never shall. -Oh, it will do very well for a summer vacation if one -could be sure of getting safe home at the end. But as -for a life like this! and when it comes to bringing up -children here!—” and Mrs. Hanson’s voice broke into -a suppressed sob.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am sorry,” said Anna, gently.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, Sister Benigna!” cried the other, letting loose -the floodgates of her tears, while they still stood on the -bridge in the piercing rain, “I never was so homesick -in my life! When I hear my children asking if they -are not going home to see grandma pretty soon, it just -breaks my heart. They have no appetite for this hard -meat and coarse bread, and they look so white and thin, -and plead so for a good old-fashioned turkey dinner! -I have a little money of my own, and I would spend -every cent of it for better food for them, but Mr. Hanson, -he says that would be unjust to the rest who cannot -have such things, and that all must share alike. He -<span class='pageno' id='Page_291'>291</span>says it would cost a hundred dollars to give one such -dinner as the children want to the whole village.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I suppose that is true,” said Anna, seriously; “and -then it would only be harder to come back—”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“To prison fare,” Mrs. Hanson interjected with -unconcealed bitterness. “Well, all I have to say is -that, if this is coöperation, I’ve had all I want of it. As -for ‘the brotherhood of man,’ I wish I may never hear -of it again as long as I live! I believe we have some -duties to ourselves.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>With this she passed slowly on, and Anna hastened -homeward, a deep pang in her heart.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Entering her own house, she found Keith, pale and -dispirited, leaning with outstretched hands over the fire -in an attitude unpleasantly suggestive of decrepitude and -want. He looked up as Anna came in, and smiled -faintly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I think I have taken a fresh cold,” he said hoarsely; -“this climate is lovely half the year, but the other half—” -and he left the sentence unfinished, coughing sharply.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna sat down by the hearth and removed her mud-sodden -shoes, afterward hastening to prepare such scanty -remedies for Keith as the cabin afforded. There was a -dispensary down at the mill. She would go down for -medicine as soon as she had made him comfortable. -On the surface of her mind lay the habit of sympathy -and care for her husband’s fragile health, but in the -depth below was a sense she could not have formulated -to herself of resentment at his lack of courage and fortitude. -For Keith, although too finely courteous to share -in the open murmuring of the people, was himself in -the full swing of reaction from the comparative enthusiasm -which he had felt six months ago. The fall weather -<span class='pageno' id='Page_292'>292</span>had brought on ague, which, added to his chronic physical -weakness, made him altogether wretched; and while -he punctiliously avoided contributing to the public discontent, -Anna perceived and understood perfectly his -weariness with the enterprise. For the first time in -their married life his patience and sweetness of temper -failed; he had grown irritable, and fretted at small inconveniences -in a way which chafed Anna’s hardier -spirit indescribably.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am very sorry, Keith, you are so miserable to-day,” -Anna said now, with half-mechanical commiseration. -It chanced that, as she had come on her way -home from the little conversation with Mrs. Hanson, -a new sympathy had taken possession of her for the -lonely man upon whom fell the full burden of all this -reaction, but who bore it with such unflinching patience, -albeit so silently. Almost inevitably, her mind being -thus absorbed, the sympathy with Keith in his familiar -ailments and complaints was rendered perfunctory for the -time, and by comparison his weakness wore to her some -complexion of unmanliness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Perhaps Keith discerned a shade of coldness in her -tone, and was stirred by it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am sure I do not know,” he said with significant -emphasis, “how long I can stand this condition of -things. You must see, Anna, that I am losing ground -from day to day. Look at my hands!” and he held -out his left hand to her, clammy and cold, for all the -yellow blaze, wasted and thin even to emaciation.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna took the hand in hers, and caressed it with -womanly gentleness, murmuring that it was too bad, -and something must be done; he certainly was not properly -nourished.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_293'>293</span>“Why, Anna,” the poor fellow cried, warmed by her -compassion, “I would give all my ‘incomes from dreamland,’ -all the fine-spun theories of economic religion and -social salvation that Gregory or any other idealist ever -dreamed of, to be for just one day in our own dear old -library, warmed all through, floor warm, walls warm—everything, -you know; to see you, beautifully dressed -again, at your own table, with its silver and damask; to -have the service we always had; and once, just once, -Anna—to have all the hot water I want for a bath!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna smiled, but forebore to speak. The echo of -Mrs. Hanson’s wail was almost too much for her, and -yet she pitied and understood. Pioneers must be made -of sterner stuff, that was all; men who, like Emerson’s -genius, should “learn to eat their meals standing, and to -relish the taste of fair water and black bread.” Were -there such men? She knew one. She almost began to -doubt if there were any more. A few moments later -she brought Keith a tray containing tea and toast, served -with such little elegance as was possible, and with the -daintiness of shining linen and silver.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“We must find a way for you to spend the winter -in a different climate,” she said, as she stood beside him. -She spoke very kindly, but with the inward sense of concession -as of the stronger to the weaker. “You certainly -cannot remain here if this ague continues.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith watched her gratefully, as she prepared to go -out again, sure of some effective help when her strong -determination was enlisted. The last six months had -revealed his wife to him as six years had not done -before. As she was about leaving, he said thoughtfully:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Anna, I am not the only one to be anxious about. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_294'>294</span>Perhaps you do not know it fully, but the whole scheme -of Fraternia is on the edge of collapse.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“How do you mean, dear?” she asked, alarmed.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Through lack of funds. He says very little, but I -can see that Gregory has practically reached the end of -his resources and expectations.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna’s face showed her great concern.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I did not know it was so bad,” she answered. -“Oh, Keith, would you not be willing to help out a -little more? I know you have been wonderfully generous, -but some one must come up to the point of real -sacrifice and save the day. You could sell the Mill -Street property, you know?” and the timid tone of her -final question contrasted strangely with that in which -she had begun speaking.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was the expression of Keith’s face which had -dashed Anna’s confidence. She had never seen him -look so much like his mother as when he replied.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No, my dear, I shall have to stand my ground,” he -said, “and abide by the terms I first proposed. My -mother’s estate is not to be sacrificed for this doubtful -experiment. More than ever before I feel the problematic -nature of Gregory’s scheme. We must provide -for our own future as well as for his present crisis.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was hard, Anna felt, as she started out again alone -into the wind and rain, not to reflect that, perhaps, the -sooner the experiment proved a failure the better Keith -would be satisfied. She struggled against a rising sense -of anger which the separation of their interest from -Gregory’s gave her, at the characteristic caution, the -irritating prudence, the old familiar inflexibility, so like -his mother. Keith’s decision chafed her all the more -because something warned her, in her own despite, that -<span class='pageno' id='Page_295'>295</span>he was after all justified in it. But the contrast between -his softness of yielding toward his own desires for luxury, -and the hardness of his withholding from the bare -needs of another, came just then into unfortunate juxtaposition.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The attitude of Keith toward Gregory was complex -and peculiar. When in the immediate presence of this -man he was brought under his personal influence to a -degree which even Anna often found surprising. Gregory’s -intensely masculine and forceful nature appeared -to exert an almost irresistible control over the younger -man so long as they were together. As soon, however, -as Keith was removed from that immediate influence, -he reverted at once to an attitude not only critical -toward Gregory, but at times, and as if instinctively, -antagonistic.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna went on her way down the valley to the cotton -mill with a sore and heavy heart. On other days -she could rejoice even in a leaden sky, in the muddy, -sullen stream, in the stripped branches of the forest; but -to-night, for twilight was falling now, all seemed clothed -in that oppressive ugliness of Tennyson’s picture:—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“When the rotten woodland drips,</div> - <div class='line'>And the leaf is stamped in clay.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c011'>Reaching the mill, dark and silent otherwise, she noted -a light in Gregory’s office and the sound of voices, but -the door was closed. She passed through the corridor -to the small room beyond which was used as a dispensary. -Pushing open the door she found the room empty; -the young man whose charge it was seemed to have -betaken himself otherwhere over early. However, -Anna’s knowledge of drugs was not inconsiderable, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_296'>296</span>in this case she knew precisely what Keith needed -and where to find it. So she proceeded without delay -to place on the small polished counter which stretched -across the narrow room, the necessary ingredients for -a certain powder, and then carefully mixed these in the -proportion called for by her simple prescription. While -she was thus occupied she noticed with a sense of discomfort -that the voices in the office, only divided from -her now by a thin partition, grew louder and took on a -disagreeable quality. Presently the door of the office -was opened, and some one hastened from the building -in evident impatience, leaving the door wide open. -There was complete silence for a moment, and then -Anna heard John Gregory speak. She could not fail -to hear every word, although his voice was not raised, -and its wonted quietness and courtesy were unchanged.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You will bear me witness, nevertheless, Mr. Hanson,” -he said, “that I never promised an easy life for -those who came with me to Fraternia. I declared -plainly that simplicity and poverty and roughness were -to be accepted as necessary conditions.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“That is all very well,” a voice replied, which Anna -recognized as that of the Burlington architect, whose -wife had evidently been working upon him; “but -when simplicity means starvation for delicate women -and children, and poverty begins to look like bankruptcy, -the situation strikes me as pretty serious. All -I have to say is,” and the man’s voice rose to a pitch -of high excitement, “you are the dictator here, and -you are responsible; you’ve got us into this scrape, Mr. -Gregory, by working upon our emotions, and all that, -and now you’ve got to get us out of it, somehow!” and -with these words Anna heard the speaker leave the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_297'>297</span>office with rapid steps, and a moment after the outer -door of the mill closed upon him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna had dropped the powders which she was dividing -now into their papers, and had started to go to the -door and close it that she might hear no more; but -before she could do this a step in the corridor which -she knew sent her back to her place with a beating -heart, and in another instant John Gregory stood in -the doorway.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna had never seen his face changed by any mental -agitation, nor was it now, save for a touch of weariness -and an unwonted pallor. There was a deep, sunk glow -in his eyes, which, together with the careless sweep of -the grey hair flung off his forehead, recalled with peculiar -emphasis the leonine effect Anna had often noticed. -The habitual grave composure of his manner was in no -way disturbed; and although he could not have known -of her presence in the dispensary, it did not seem to -cause him surprise.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Is some one ill at your house?” he asked with -evident concern but characteristic abruptness. He was -one of those few persons who do not find it necessary -to explain what is self-evident.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Mr. Burgess is not very well,” Anna replied, hesitating -somewhat, unwilling to strike another dart into -the soreness of his spirit, which she felt distinctly, for -all his outward firmness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I fear,” Gregory said thoughtfully, “that Mr. Burgess -ought not to remain in Fraternia this winter. I am -very much afraid that his health will suffer. Both of -you deserve a little change,” he continued, with a slight -smile, the pathos of which Anna felt sharply. “Fraternia -is not so pleasant at this time of year. Why do you -<span class='pageno' id='Page_298'>298</span>not go North for a few months? You would come back -to us in the spring—perhaps?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The apparent carelessness which he wished to convey -to this question contrasted strangely with the piercing -anxiety of the look with which Gregory’s eyes searched -Anna’s face. She understood the instinctive desire to -forestall another attack, to take for granted an impending -blow.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Quietly working at her powders, laughing a little, by -sheer effort of will, since tears were near the surface, she -replied:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I could not be spared, Mr. Gregory, this winter. I -see you are a little disposed to undervalue my services. -There are several cases of sickness now, and I am vain -enough to think I am needed. Besides, you know, I -love Fraternia. I do not want to go away from home.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The minor arts of coquetry were all unknown and -foreign to Anna, but the genius of her woman’s nature -and intuition was thrown into the last sentence with -full effect.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The strong spirit of Gregory, which could meet the -assaults and buffets of reproach and detraction without -shrinking, and which would have rejected express sympathy, -was mastered for a minute by the delicate comprehension -and implied fidelity of Anna’s words.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She knew better than to see the momentary suspicion -of dimness in his eyes, or to note the silence which for -a little space he did not care to break. When at last -he spoke, it was to ask, in a wholly matter-of-fact -manner:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Have I not heard that Mr. Burgess was a particularly -successful public speaker?” Anna looked up -quickly then.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_299'>299</span>“You may have heard it, for I am sure it is true,” -she said. Another pause for reflection, and then Gregory -said:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It is becoming urgently necessary that the purpose -and future of Fraternia should be promoted by some -one capable of going about, particularly in the cities, -and presenting our aims publicly—before audiences of -people.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna had gathered up her powders now and put -them in her pocket and stood ready to go but she -stopped, and her face kindled with swift recognition -and welcome of the thought in Gregory’s mind.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“And you have thought that Mr. Burgess might do -this, and so still serve the cause and yet do it for a -while under easier conditions?” she exclaimed. “Mr. -Gregory, I cannot tell you how glad I should be if this -plan could be carried out. I am really a little anxious -about my husband. I am sure this would work well for -every one, and it might solve several problems at once.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>He smiled, a little sadly, at her confident eagerness, -said they must consider it seriously, and then stood -aside to let her pass out and go home. It was not -necessary for him to say, as he bade her good night, that -he wished it were expedient for him to walk home with -her. She understood his theory of what was wise for -himself in such matters. She approved it. Nevertheless, -she found it hard to leave him alone just then in -the deserted mill. Half-way back she met Everett, -plodding through the mud, with his hands in his pockets, -and whistling, to keep his spirits up, she fancied.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Be extra good to Mr. Gregory to-night,” she said, -womanlike, unable to resist the longing to help, as he -paused a moment.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_300'>300</span>“Why?” he asked, frowning; “have they been at -him again?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna nodded and passed on, afraid to say more.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Fools!” he murmured between his teeth, and -plunged on against the wind.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But Anna went home with a beatific vision to soothe -her spirit, of Keith comfortable at last in a good hotel, -with menus and waiters, bells and bathrooms, in an -infinite series.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_301'>301</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XXXIII</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in20'>“Lo, fool,” he said, “ye talk</div> - <div class='line'>Fool’s treason; is the king thy brother fool?”</div> - <div class='line'>Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrill’d,</div> - <div class='line'>“Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools!</div> - <div class='line'>Conceits himself as God that he can make</div> - <div class='line'>Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk</div> - <div class='line'>From burning spurge, honey from hornet combs,</div> - <div class='line'>And men from beasts—Long live the King of fools!”</div> - <div class='line in44'>—<span class='sc'>Tennyson.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>But yours the cold heart and the murderous tongue,</div> - <div class='line in2'>The wintry soul that hates to hear a song,</div> - <div class='line in2'>The close-shut fist, the mean and measuring eye,</div> - <div class='line'>And all the little poisoned ways of wrong.</div> - <div class='line in42'>—<span class='sc'>The Rubaiyat.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>Everett had improvised a studio in a low loft over -the bachelors’ quarters, contiguous to the cabin which he -and Gregory shared.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was necessary, he said, for him to get down to -hard work now. That hedging and ditching nonsense -was great sport for a man’s holidays, but he had no -more time to play; he must paint. The work he had -produced in Fulham had not been, often, especially salable -or popular in its character, a certain mystic quality -pervading it not readily understood by casual observers. -All that, he declared, was now to be rigidly excluded -from his painting; he should paint to sell—cheap, pretty -things, picturesque, palpable. With this purpose he -had set to work with a will, and by February had a few -hundred dollars to turn over to the treasury as the fruit -<span class='pageno' id='Page_302'>302</span>of his industry. His pictures were sold in the North -through Keith Burgess as intermediary.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He was hard at work in the studio at nine o’clock on -a night in February, laying in the outline for a bit of the -valley which he declared he could paint now with his -eyes shut, he had done it so often, having found it “a -good seller,” when he heard Gregory’s step on the stairs. -That the boy had just brought the mail up from Spalding -Everett knew, having heard the horse galloping over -the bridge, and stopping before the house.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory came in now with several letters in his hand, -one open. He did not speak at first, and Everett let -him walk up and down the place undisturbed, seeing -that he was peculiarly perplexed, probably by the open -letter, which Everett noticed was in Keith Burgess’s -handwriting. After a few moments he remarked slowly, -but with an unusually incisive quality in his tone:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Burgess is a singularly prudent little man. Did it -ever strike you so?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“He has some capacity, however, for the opposite -quality.” Everett threw out this remark with no manifestation -of especial interest, and it seemed to pass unnoticed.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Having it in his power,” Gregory continued, with -the same incisive deliberation, “to extricate us from our -whole present difficulty himself, with the utmost ease, -he yet jogs about the country after a comfortable fashion, -presenting the subject publicly as occasion offers, -and sends me back such letters as this.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Lifting the sheet in his hand, Gregory read from it:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I held a meeting last night in Grand Rapids, to -which I have been working up carefully for over a week -through the press, etc. The attendance was fair, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_303'>303</span>the people listened well. I regret, however, to be -obliged to report that the practical results of the meeting -were not all that we could have wished—” and -dropping the letter, Gregory added:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“And so on, copiously, through nearly four pages of -matchless ambiguity and polite phrases, which could all -have been condensed to the usual sum total of his reports; -thus far, nothing!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Still, Mr. Gregory, we must remember that he did -pretty well for the first few weeks.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes,” said Gregory, nodding a short assent, “while -he was covering the field which was ready for harvest—seeing -the men already committed to the cause. We -can evidently expect nothing more from him. What -kind of a speaker is he, Everett?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Good, really very good as a special pleader. He -had very fair success when he was missionary secretary.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I wonder at it,” murmured Gregory,—“a mild, -prudent little man like that with his perpetual fears and -scruples; I cannot fancy his ever letting himself go.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Everett, unwontedly sober and silent, worked on. -Gregory paced the room for a little while. He wanted -to ask Everett how Keith’s marriage with a woman like -Anna could ever have come about, but he could not -bring himself to frame the question, and presently left -the studio.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Hanging about the door below, Gregory found Barnabas -Rosenblatt, apparently waiting to speak with him.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Hello!” said Gregory, not unkindly, but shortly. -“Do you want me?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Well, shust a minit, if Herr Gregory vas not too -busy,” and the little Jew shuffled along by Gregory’s -side until they reached the door of the cabin.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_304'>304</span>Gregory brought his visitor in and gave him a chair, -then stirred up a smouldering fire and threw on a piece -of pine, which, flaring up into a sudden blaze, made -other light unnecessary. The reflection of the yellow -flames played weirdly over the walls, and Barnabas -seemed unable to withdraw his eyes from the picture -above the chimney.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Our lady,” he said simply, nodding across at Gregory, -and closing his eyes impressively.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Well, Barnabas, what is it you want?” asked his host.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It’s our lady,” said Barnabas, sniffing quite vigorously; -“das is it. How she fall off!” and he shook -his head with a slow, mournful motion.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Fall off what? I do not understand, Barnabas. -You are speaking of Sister Benigna?” Gregory’s face -changed.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“So—so—” and the little man nodded emphatically. -“She’s got awful poor! Oh, my! Her bones -comes right through zu next. My Kleine, she say our -lady don’t eat notin’s, shust only leetle, leetle milk, an’ -work, work, work, like a holy angel everywheres at one -time, up an’ down the valley; sick folks an’ well folks, -all derselbe. Light come all place she come!” and -Barnabas relapsed into meditative silence, having found -his vocabulary hard tested by this prolonged statement.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Do you mean that Sister Benigna is sick?” asked -Gregory, with slight sharpness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Ja, ja, Herr Gregory; she has went home sick -heut’ abend from the sew class down to der mill. -When she go, all go. Fraternia ohne Sister Benigna,” -and the little man drew his shoulders quite up to his -ears in a characteristic shrug strongly expressive of a -thing unthinkable.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_305'>305</span>Gregory rose, Barnabas following his example.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I will go over and inquire,” he said, taking his hat, -and they left the house at once.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The night was cold, a light fall of snow lay over the -valley, and the stars glittered from a frosty sky.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When they reached the neighbourhood of Anna’s cottage -Gregory sent Barnabas up to the door, while he -waited at a little distance. In a few moments Frieda, -who now shared Anna’s cabin, joined him, while Barnabas, -with the action of a waiting watch-dog, humble, -and yet with a due sense of responsibility, hung about -near by. Frieda’s account was reassuring, as far as -immediate solicitude for Anna was concerned; she had -come home ill from the afternoon sewing class, and had -a chill, headache, and fever. She was resting now, and -would doubtless be up again in a day or two.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Nothing can keep her down, Mr. Gregory,” Frieda -said in conclusion. “I am not frightened just now, but -we all see plainly that Sister Benigna is killing herself -by inches. She eats hardly anything, and yet works as -if there were no limit to her strength. Sometimes I -think she is just laying down her very life for us here in -Fraternia, and we’re not worth it,” and with this Frieda’s -voice broke a little, and without stopping to say more -she hurried back.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory bade Barnabas good night hastily, and then, -instead of going home, he walked rapidly down the -rough road to the mill, unlocked the door, and went into -his office and sat down at his desk. His face had -changed strangely; it had grown grey and his lips were -tightly compressed. He sat long in motionless silence, -thinking intensely. Although he had himself watched -Anna with growing uneasiness, the suggestions of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_306'>306</span>Frieda and Barnabas came upon him with startling effect. -He asked himself now with unsparing definiteness -whether this was indeed the final turn of the wheel of -torture on which he was bound, or whether he could -wait for another. The conviction was upon him, stark -and stern, that in the end he should yield and seek the -one means of escape which was still open to him, and -which he had been holding off with almost dogged resolution. -He recalled the shaping of events in Anna’s -life during the last few months, and his face softened.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Late in November, when Keith went North, she had -accompanied him, having been sent for by her sister -Lucia. Their mother, Gulielma Mallison, upon whom -age and infirmity had increased heavily, had conceived -a controlling desire to return to her childhood home, -the Moravian town of Bethlehem, to end her days. -Anna had visited Haran therefore, and had brought her -mother back to her early home, establishing her there in -the quiet Widows’ House in peace and satisfaction.</p> - -<p class='c011'>At Christmas, when she returned alone to Fraternia, -Anna had seemed to bring with her a new infusion of -active and aggressive force. Relieved of anxiety for -Keith, whom she had left in good spirits, and from the -constant ministration to his comfort, she was now wholly -free to devote herself to the common good. With new -and contagious ardour she had thrown herself therefore -into the life of the discouraged little community, cheering -the faint-hearted and rekindling the flagging purposes -of the fickle. She taught the girls and women -quaint fashions of embroidery and work on linen which -she had learned from her mother, and inspired them -with the ambition to earn something with their needles, -thus dispelling their listlessness. She seemed at times -<span class='pageno' id='Page_307'>307</span>to possess in her own enthusiasm and courage sufficient -motive power to energize them all; she worked and -moved among them as if no less a task had been given -her, and with a sweetness and sympathy that never -failed.</p> - -<p class='c011'>All who watched her wondered at the power in her, -and many who had murmured hitherto now declared -themselves ashamed, and responded willingly. John -Gregory marvelled more and more at the qualities of brilliant -leadership which she now developed. Within him -a voice, which he could not always silence, sometimes -whispered that if such a nature as that which had been -gradually revealed to him in Anna Burgess, in its plenitude -of power and its greatness of purpose, could have -been allied to his own, a movement far beyond what he -had even dreamed of in Fraternia might have been -possible.</p> - -<p class='c011'>But while a certain reënforcement of courage had -followed Anna’s strong initiative, and while in some -respects the domestic conditions of the people had been -improved and their murmurings for the time partially -silenced, the gravity of the situation and of the prospects -for the future as Gregory saw them remained unchanged. -Keith’s mission had proved unproductive, as the letter -just received emphasized afresh. Gregory himself could -not leave Fraternia at this juncture without manifest -peril. Only his personal influence now availed to hold -together many discordant elements which were very -actively at work and arrayed against each other. From -no quarter could he discern any hope of substantial -support.</p> - -<p class='c011'>And now, last of all, she was laid low; worse, they -told him she was laying down her life in her devotion -<span class='pageno' id='Page_308'>308</span>to his cause—she, his one high-hearted, intrepid, -dauntless ally! Bitterly Gregory said to himself that -she who had freely left wealth and station was starving -and working to her death to save him from defeat, and -all in vain, unless—Should he calmly sit by and -permit the sacrifice? Great of heart as she was, all her -work could not avail, nor his, unless aid of another -kind could be found, and that at once.</p> - -<p class='c011'>And it could be found; of that he had little doubt. -To find it he must, indeed, make a certain compromise, -but it was one which involved only himself, his own position,—perhaps, -after all, only his own pride. Had he -not himself preached against the subtle selfishness which -underlies the passion for individual perfection? Did not -the common good and the larger interests of his cause -call for the sacrifice?</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory rose at last and went to the outer door of -the mill. It was five o’clock of the February morning, -and off to the east a faint yellowish light was climbing -up the sky. The mill pond lay dead in its stillness -below him; the water fell quietly, stilled with ice, over -the dam; the valley stretched out white and cold; a -mile below was the black belt of the forest, and beyond, -the dim plain, with the stars shining over. It was pure -and cold and pitiless. In sky or earth no sign of relenting, -no suggestion of a gentler day. But Gregory was -not looking for signs, or reckoning with omens, save -the omen which had come unasked and taken up its -abode in his mind. He was thinking, not of the scene -before him, nor of the sleeping village behind, nor even -of the outline of the future, nor of Anna in her pain -and patience.</p> - -<p class='c011'>An old story was repeating itself within him of the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_309'>309</span>ancient king to whom the sibyl came bringing nine -books, which, being offered, he rejected; and of how, in -the end, it had been the fate of the king to desire the -three which alone were left, and to obtain them at a -threefold price.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Presently the door of the mill was closed, and Gregory -returned to his desk. There was sternness in his -face as he set about writing a letter, and self-disdain -and humiliation; but he wrote on, and finished the letter, -which he signed and sealed. Then, without further -hesitation or pause, he crossed the road to the mill -stables, brought out and saddled his own horse, a tall -roan, fit to carry a man of his proportions, mounted it, -and rode away down the valley toward Spalding. The -letter which he chose to mail with his own hand was -addressed to Senator Ingraham, and it stated briefly that -the writer had come to the conclusion that his rejection -of the generous gift offered him on a certain night known -to them both was ill advised, and that if the same or -any part of it were offered him now for the furtherance -of his coöperative work, it would not be refused.</p> - -<p class='c011'>A week passed, and Anna, protesting that she was as -well as ever, had returned to her regular round of cares. -The only change in her appearance was a peculiar -whiteness of the tints of her skin, such that her face at -times seemed actually to emit light. The contrast of -this whiteness of tint with the masses of her dull, dark -hair and the large, clear eyes, full of the changing lights -which lurk in hazel eyes, gave her at this time a startling -beauty, startling because it suggested evanescence. -Most marked, Fraternia people said, was this phase of -Anna’s appearance on a night near the end of another -week, when a large company was gathered in the hall -<span class='pageno' id='Page_310'>310</span>over the mill for an entertainment. Anna had been -much interested through the winter in a series of -author’s evenings, and this chanced to be the occasion -for the closing programme of the series. The subject -was Lowell, and prose had been read and poetry declaimed; -the changes rung on all,—humorous, pathetic, -and patriotic. The little hall was full and the audience -eager for the closing number, because it was to be given -by Anna herself, who had a charming gift in rendering -poetry.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She had chosen a number of passages from the “Commemoration -Ode,” and as she stood on the platform with -its dark crimson background and drapery, dressed, as -she was habitually when indoors, in white, her eyes -kindling as she spoke the noble words of the noblest -American poem, the audience watched her face with an -attention even closer than that with which they listened -to her voice. This, indeed, showed a slight weakness, -but the eloquence and energy of her spirit subdued it to -a deeper pathos, while its impressiveness was most -marked when she reached the close of the fifth strophe, -every word of which to her meant John Gregory:—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in8'>“But then to stand beside her,</div> - <div class='line in8'>When craven churls deride her,</div> - <div class='line'>To front a lie in arms and never yield,</div> - <div class='line in8'>This shows, methinks, God’s plan</div> - <div class='line in8'>And measure of a stalwart man,</div> - <div class='line in8'>Limbed like the old, heroic breeds,</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'> · · · · ·</div> - </div> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Fed from within with all the strength he needs.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c011'>She was half-way through the lines when a striking -and incomprehensible change passed over her. Her -<span class='pageno' id='Page_311'>311</span>eyes dilated, then drooped, her breath almost forsook -her, and her quiet hands clasped each other hard. She -continued to speak, but her voice had lost its tone and -timbre. Almost mechanically she kept on to the close -of the part she had selected, but those who loved her -feared to see her fall before the end. When she reached -the room behind the stage, the faithful Frieda was waiting -to receive her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>What had happened? Was it merely that Sister -Benigna was still weak from her illness? As they -broke up, these questions were repeatedly asked among -the people. Some of them called attention to the fact -that while she was speaking a stranger had tiptoed into -the hall so noiselessly that only a few persons had been -aware of his coming, but he was a man of so singular -a physiognomy and an expression so repellent that a -vague connection was felt to link Anna’s agitation with -his appearance.</p> - -<p class='c011'>This man was Oliver Ingraham.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna, with Frieda, hurrying out of the mill alone -into the blackness of the starless and stormy night, -and turning homeward, heard steps approaching, heavy -and hard. Some one passed them. Anna knew only -by the great height and breadth of shoulder, dimly -discerned through the dark, that it was Gregory. She -stopped, and he turned, catching a glimpse of her white -face.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Mr. Gregory,” she said, “Oliver Ingraham is here. -What can it mean?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Here already!” he cried almost harshly. “I have -only this moment received a despatch!” and he hastened -forward, as if he might yet interpose some obstacle to -this most unwelcome arrival.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_312'>312</span>The words in the despatch, crumpled fiercely and -thrust into Gregory’s pocket, were these:—</p> - -<p class='c014'>“My son will be the bearer of the funds required. -Trust you will give him the opportunity he desires for -study of social problems.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-r c013'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“<span class='sc'>Ingraham.</span>”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c011'>It was the first word of reply to his letter which Gregory -had received, and it was a word which made him -set hard his teeth and groan like a wounded lion.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Perhaps it is fair,” he said to himself, as he crossed -the bridge; “but Ingraham’s Nemesis as the price is a -higher one than even I expected.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Above, in the mill hall, Oliver was mingling with the -people who were in the habit of remaining together for -an hour of social interchange after the programme, on -these occasions. He quickly found his old townsman, -Mr. Hanson, who seemed more amazed than rejoiced to -greet him in Fraternia.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Stopped over, eh, to see our village?” he asked. -“On your way North, I suppose?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, no,” said Oliver, smiling complacently; “I -have come straight from home. I have a commission -for your czar from my father, and I rather look to throwing -in my fortunes with you folks. I want to see how -this experiment works; study it, you know, on all -sides. If I like it, I guess I shall stay.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, really,” said Hanson, a little aghast.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“How are you getting on, anyway?” proceeded -Oliver, craftily. “Rose-colour washed off yet? Has it -been pretty idyllic this winter? Say, I should think -catering for a crowd up in this valley would be quite a -job. Don’t get salads and ices every day, I take it.”</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_313'>313</span>Hanson shook his head impatiently, longing to get -away from the questioner.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Well,” said Oliver, “I suppose by this time Gregory -the Great has issued his edicts and made all the -poor people rich, hasn’t he? and all the rich people -poor? That seems to be the method of evening up. I -don’t wonder the poor fellows like it. Should think -they would.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You will know better about us when you have been -here awhile, Mr. Ingraham.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Oliver nodded cheerfully. “Oh, yes, of course. I am -going to take notes, you see. Perhaps I’ll write it up -by and by,” and he tapped the neat note-book which -protruded from a pocket of his coat. “Are all the -sinners saints by this time?” he added.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Hardly.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Well, then, we’ll put it the other way,” said Oliver, -with a peculiar significance in his high voice, “are the -saints all sinners yet?” The malicious leer with which -this question was accompanied seemed to turn it into -a hateful insinuation, which Hanson, with all his half-suppressed -discontent, resented hotly. He was about to -make a hasty reply when Gregory came up and spoke -to Oliver, to whom he held out his hand. His manner -was as cold as could be with decent courtesy, and when -Oliver had shaken his hand he passed his handkerchief -over it with the impulse a man has after touching a slug -or a snake.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Oliver noticed the gesture, and rubbed his long white -hands together reflectively.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_314'>314</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XXXIV</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been;</div> - <div class='line in2'>I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell;</div> - <div class='line in2'>Unto thine ear I hold the dead sea-shell</div> - <div class='line'>Cast up thy Life’s foam-fretted feet between;</div> - <div class='line'>Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen</div> - <div class='line in2'>Which had Life’s form and Love’s, but by my spell</div> - <div class='line in2'>Is now a shaken shadow intolerable,</div> - <div class='line'>Of ultimate things unuttered, the frail screen.</div> - <div class='line in2'>Mark me, how still I am!</div> - <div class='line in40'>—<span class='sc'>D. G. Rossetti.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>It was mid-April and the afternoon of a day of perfect -weather, of summer rather than spring.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The hills around Fraternia were covered now in sheets -of flame-colour, white and rose, from the blossoming of -the wild azalea and laurel. The air was laden with -perfume and flooded with sunshine.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was at the close of the afternoon school when -Anna, a company of the children with her, started to -climb the eastern hill which rose a little beyond the -mill pond, to gather flowers.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory, from the open window of his office in the -mill, watched the pretty troop as they threaded their -way up the steep path and were soon lost to sight in the -woods. He heard them speak of Eagle Rock as the goal -of their expedition,—a favourite point of view, less than -a mile to walk, and nearly on the crest of the hills.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna was dressed in the coarse white cotton of Fraternia -manufacture which was the usual dress of the girls -and women of the village in the house and out in dry, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_315'>315</span>warm weather, simply made, easily laundered, cleanly, -and becoming. Her tall figure, the last to disappear up -the woodland path, had attracted the eyes of another, as -well as of John Gregory.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Oliver Ingraham, in these two months grown an all-too-familiar -figure in Fraternia, finding his way stealthily -and untiringly to every favourite nook and corner of the -valley, had also watched the start from some lurking-place. -It was half an hour later when Gregory noticed -him sauntering casually along the foot of the hill, and -with an air of indifference striking into the same path -which Anna and the children had taken. Gregory -watched him a moment fixedly, his eyebrows knit together, -and he bit his lip with impatience and disgust. -Of late Oliver had shown an ominous propensity to -haunt Anna, whose dislike of his presence amounted -well-nigh to terror. More than once Gregory’s watchful -eyes, which never left Oliver’s movements long unnoted, -had observed attempts on his part to follow or to -overtake her, to seek her out and attach himself to her. -Invariably Oliver found himself foiled in these attempts, -although he had no means of attributing the interference -to Gregory. Thus far the intervention had been -accomplished almost unnoticeably, but none the less -effectively.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The afternoon was a busy one for Gregory. The -mill, no longer silent and deserted, was running now on -full time; and, to the great satisfaction of a majority -of the colonists, Gregory had withdrawn his scruples -against selling the products of their manufacture at a -reasonable profit. He was finding it easier and easier -to compromise with his initial scruples. It had also -become more imperative to try to meet, in so far as -<span class='pageno' id='Page_316'>316</span>was reasonable, the demands of the people, since already -Fraternia had suffered serious defections. A number of -substantial families had withdrawn earlier in the spring, -among them the Hansons and the Taylors, who had -taken the pretty Fräulein Frieda with them, to Anna’s -great regret. Others talked of leaving, and, in spite of -the greater financial easiness, criticism and jealousy were -at work in the little company at first so united. The -almost insuperable difficulties attending the experiment -had now fully declared themselves.</p> - -<p class='c011'>However, there was plenty of work to do, which was -a material relief. Gregory glanced now at the pile of -papers before him on his desk, and then once more -through the window at the figure of Oliver, receding up -the hill. No, he could not run the risk of allowing -him to overtake and annoy Anna. The work must -wait. Taking his hat, he left the mill hastily; but, instead -of choosing the path behind Oliver, Gregory -turned and went up the valley a little distance, struck -through behind the houses, crossed a bit of boggy ground -which lay at the foot of the hill in this part of the valley, -and so mounted the hill below Eagle Rock in a line to -intercept Oliver before he could overtake Anna, if such -were his purpose.</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was no path up this side of the hill, but Gregory -found no trouble in striding through the deep underbrush -which would have swamped the women and -children completely. Soon he reached a point from -which he commanded a sight of Eagle Rock, and a -glance showed him the fluttering dresses of the children -already on its summit. In another moment he dashed -up on a sharp climb, for the hill was very steep at this -point, and reached the path only a short distance from -<span class='pageno' id='Page_317'>317</span>the base of the rock. He looked up, but no one was in -sight; then down the path, and in a moment Oliver -came into view walking much more rapidly than fifteen -minutes before, when he had entered the woods. He -slackened his pace as he caught sight of Gregory slowly -approaching down the path, and sought to hide a very -evident discomfiture with his evil smile.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You got up here in pretty good time, didn’t you, -Mr. Gregory?” he asked, as he reached him. “I saw -you, seems to me, in your office when I came along. -I’ve taken my time, you see. A beautiful day for a -walk.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Oliver’s small green-grey eyes twinkled wickedly as -he spoke these apparently harmless words, for he saw, -or felt, that beneath every one of them Gregory’s anger, -roused at last, reached a higher pitch. Oliver perfectly -understood what he was here for.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I have a word to say to you,” said Gregory, stormily. -“You will have to stop haunting the women and children, -and annoying them with your attentions. I speak -perfectly plainly, Mr. Ingraham; they are not agreeable -and they must be stopped.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You rule with a rod of iron here, Gregory,” said -Oliver, his long fingers twining together; “what you -say goes. Still, you know, you might go a little too -far.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory did not reply, but stood watching him as a -lion might watch a reptile.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am willing to stay in Fraternia, under favourable -conditions,” Oliver proceeded, with hideous cunning; -“but I should think, as I am paying pretty well for my -accommodations, I ought, at least, to get the liberty of -the grounds. What do you say?”</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_318'>318</span>“I say, Go, this minute, or I’ll throw you neck -and crop down that bank,” said Gregory, with unmistakable -sincerity, at which Oliver, suddenly cowed, and his -weak legs trembling under him, faced about promptly -and retreated down the path. He paused at a safe distance, -while Gregory’s hands tingled to collar him, and -called back, in a loud, confidential whisper:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You can have her all to yourself this time. That’s -all right,” and with this he hurried off, his thin lips -writhing in a malicious smile, and his hands clenched -tightly and cruelly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>For a moment Gregory stood still in the path. A -dark flush had mounted slowly even to his forehead. -He was irresolute whether to follow and find Anna, or -to return directly to the valley. Something in Oliver’s -ugly taunt acted like a challenge upon him, it seemed, -for, turning, and catching through the trees the glimmer -of Anna’s white dress, he hastened on up the path.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He found her sitting on a mossy rock at the foot of -the cliff, where there were trees and shade and a fair -view of the valley, and the blue billowing sea of the -mountain ranges beyond. Her strength and colour had -returned with the out-door life of the spring, and she -looked to-day the embodiment of radiant health. -Greatly astonished at Gregory’s appearance, she yet -welcomed it with unaffected gladness, starting to rise -from her low seat with the impulses of social observance -which she could not quite outgrow even in the wilderness; -but he motioned to her to sit still. All around -her the children had flung their branches of laurel and -azalea, running off to gather more and bring her, and the -delicate suffusion of colour made an exquisite background -to the picture. The picture itself, Gregory thought, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_319'>319</span>Everett ought to have painted for a Madonna; for in -Anna’s lap leaned a sturdy, fair-haired boy, with a cherub -face, a child of less than four years, his head thrust back -against her shoulder as he looked out from that vantage -ground with serene eyes at Gregory, while Anna held -one round little hand in hers and looked down upon the -child with all the wistful fondness of unfulfilled maternal -love.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Do not smile,” said Gregory, with affected sternness -at last, as she glanced up from the child to him -with a questioning smile, expecting some explanation -for his presence here; “I have come this time to scold -you.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“O dear!” said Anna, with a gay little laugh of surprise. -“My turn has come!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, your turn has come,” he continued gravely. -“Do you not know that when you come away on such -long, lonely climbs as this, even with the children, you -give us anxiety for you, and trouble? I have had to -come all this distance to take care of you.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna shook her head, much more puzzled than -penitent.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“What is there to be troubled about?” she cried.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory did not answer at once. He found it impossible -to make mention of Oliver in her presence. -He fixed his eyes on the little child, who was on his -knees now, by Anna’s side, pouring out into her white -dress a small handful of scarlet berries, and letting -them run like jewels through his fingers, laughing to -see them roll.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Do you not know,” he began again, very slowly, -“that we fear for your strength, for your endurance, -upon which you will never, yourself, have mercy?”</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_320'>320</span>Anna began to protest a little, her colour deepening at -some vague change in his tone and manner.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Do you not know,” he continued, not heeding her -interruption, “that you are the very heart of our life, -here in Fraternia? that we all turn to you for our -inspiration, our hope, our ideal? Should we not -guard you, since without you we all should fade and -fail?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Never before had Anna heard this cadence of tenderness -in Gregory’s voice, nor in the voice of man or -woman; the whole strength of his protecting manhood, -of his high reverence and his strong heart, was in it, -but there was something more. What was it? A -tremor ran through Anna’s heart. Could she dare to -know? She lifted her eyes at last to meet his look, and -what she read was what she had never dreamed of, -never feared nor hoped—the supreme human love which -a man can know. Reading this, she did not fear nor -faint nor draw her own look away, but rather her eyes -met his, full of awe and solemn joy; for at last, in that -moment, her own heart was revealed to itself.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“O Anna!—O Benigna!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory spoke at last, or rather it seemed as if the -whole deep heart of the man breathed out its life on -the syllables of those two names.</p> - -<p class='c011'>In the silence which followed Anna sat quite quiet -in her place, the sun and the soft shadows of the young -oak leaves playing over her face and figure. The child -still tossed his red berries with ripples of gleeful laughter -over the whiteness of her dress, and not far away could -be heard the busy voices of the older children as they -ruthlessly broke away the blossoms from their stems. -And in the sun and shade and the stillness Anna sat, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_321'>321</span>while wave after wave of incredible joy broke over her -spirit. For the first time in her life she knew love, -knowing it for what it was. She had not asked to -know it, nor mourned that she had missed its full -measure, nor dreamed that it could yet be hers; but -it had come, not stayed by bonds nor stopped by vows. -It was here! The man whose strong spirit, in its -freedom and power, had cast its spell upon her mysteriously -even before she had seen his face save in a dream, -loved her, with eyes to look like that upon her and that -mighty tenderness! Life was fulfilled. Let death come -now. It was enough!</p> - -<p class='c011'>The moment, being supreme in its way, was not one -to leave room for outward excitement, for flutter and -trepidation. Anna rose now from her place with perfect -calmness, and bent to take the little, laughing child -by the hand, while she went to call the others together. -Gregory had turned away slightly, and with his arms -crossed over his breast was leaning hard against the -rugged wall of the cliff, his head thrown back against -it, his face set, his whole aspect as of some granite -figure of heroic mould, carved there in relief. Anna -heard a sound like a groan break from his lips, and -turning back, with an irresistible impulse, laid her hand, -light as a leaf, upon his arm.</p> - -<p class='c011'>From head to foot Gregory trembled then.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Don’t,” he said sternly, under his breath.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“What is it?” asked Anna, confused at his sudden -harshness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It is the end,” he said, with low distinctness and the -emphasis of finality.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then, only then, did Anna waken to perceive that -what in that brief moment of joy she had taken for -<span class='pageno' id='Page_322'>322</span>glory, was only shame and loss and undoing, unless -smothered at the birth.</p> - -<p class='c011'>An inarticulate cry broke from her then, so poignant, -although low, that the little child, pulling at her dress, -began to cry piteously. She stooped to comfort him, -gave him again the hand which she had laid on Gregory’s -arm, then, turning, walked slowly away.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory made no motion to detain her or to follow, -but stood as she left him, braced against the rock. Anna -gathered her little flock, and they hastened down the hill -in a gay procession, with the waving branches of April -bloom, and the merry voices of the children. Only -Sister Benigna, as she walked among them, little Judith -noticed, was white and still.</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_323'>323</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XXXV</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung,</div> - <div class='line'>And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day</div> - <div class='line'>Went glooming down in wet and weariness;</div> - <div class='line'>But under her black brows a swarthy one</div> - <div class='line'>Laugh’d shrilly, crying: “Praise the patient saints,</div> - <div class='line'>Our one white day of Innocence hath past,</div> - <div class='line'>Though somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it.”</div> - <div class='line in46'>—<span class='sc'>Tennyson.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>At nine o’clock that evening Barnabas Rosenblatt, -working around the mill stables, was startled at the sudden -appearance of Gregory, who passed him without -speaking, as he went hurriedly into the stall and brought -out his horse. The day had been followed by a night -of brilliant moonlight, and Barnabas saw, as distinctly as -if it had been day, that his face, usually firm and composed, -was drawn and haggard to a degree. He started -to speak to him, but an imperious gesture of Gregory -silenced him. Without a word Barnabas therefore assisted -him in saddling the horse, and then stood perplexed -as he watched him gallop away down the valley in the -moonlight.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Straight on through a narrow bridle-path which led -by a short cut through the stretch of oak wood to the -little hamlet of Spalding, Gregory galloped. He had -reached the outskirts of the woods, and was in sight of -the level meadows and the cluster of lights of the village -beyond, when he suddenly perceived the figure of a man -on foot approaching him from the direction of Spalding. -A few steps more, and Gregory saw, with surprise and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_324'>324</span>strange perturbation, that it was Keith Burgess. He -reined up his horse and stood motionless, until Keith had -reached him, and called out a greeting as he stood in the -path, looking a pigmy beside the Titanic proportions of -the horse and rider. The moonlight showed Keith more -thin and wan than ever. He had returned to Fraternia -once before this spring, in March, but, after a week, had -been glad to go back to Baltimore, with some rather -vague commission. His return at this time was wholly -unexpected, even by Anna.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith had long since come to stand to Gregory for -something like a concrete embodiment of his many -disappointments and vexations, by reason of his lukewarm -participation in his own purposes, his ineffective -labours, and his continual draft upon Anna’s sympathies. -As Gregory looked down upon him, thrown at this -moment so unexpectedly in his path, a singular hardness -toward the man came upon him, for he was hard beset by -passion; and while he meant to have no mercy upon -himself, he was not in the mood to have mercy upon -another man, least of all, perhaps, upon Keith.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You are going back to Fraternia?” he asked coldly, -his tone striking Keith with chill surprise. The latter -assented as a matter of course.</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was a moment of silence; Keith felt something -sinister in the nature of it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Why should you go back there?” Gregory asked -now, with the same careless coldness; “you have no -heart in Fraternia or its purposes.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith was stirred, and answered pointedly:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I have at least a wife in Fraternia, Mr. Gregory.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory looked at him a moment with a measuring -glance, noting his wasted and feeble appearance.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_325'>325</span>“I suppose you do need nursing,” he said slowly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith Burgess turned ashy pale. Was this wanton -injury? Did Gregory wish to insult him? What did -it mean? Gregory did not know himself. He knew -only that, in the agony of that night, for he had fully -resolved himself to see Anna no more, the sight of -Keith Burgess worked like madness in his brain.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Mrs. Burgess,” he said now, with the deliberation -of strongly suppressed excitement, “is more highly endowed -for great issues than any person I have ever -known. It is almost a pity that she should not have -freedom to use her powers in the greater activities to -which she is fitted.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Each sentence, cruel with all the cruelty which the -climax of pride and passion could inspire, pierced the -heart of Keith like a shaft barbed with steel. He stepped -backward and leaned against a tree, breathing hard. -The occult, mysterious quality of the moment’s experience -to him was that he saw himself, distinctly and as if -by an inexorable necessity, turning away from Fraternia, -and going back by the way which he had come.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Without another word, Gregory tightened his rein -and galloped on, out through the wood’s edge and so -down to the plain. He did not see, in the high excitement -of the moment, the figure of a man lurking stealthily -among the trees at no great distance from where -Keith stood. When the sound of the horse’s hoofs had -died away, this figure stepped softly out from its shelter -and passed along the bridle-path, peering inquisitively in -the face of Keith as he still stood where Gregory had -left him. But neither did Keith observe him, nor -care who he was, and so he went on his way toward -Fraternia. He looked back once or twice. His last -<span class='pageno' id='Page_326'>326</span>look showed him that Keith had gathered himself together -and was walking slowly away, in the direction -from which he had come.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Keith walked blindly on, not knowing why he went, -nor where he went, like a man who has suffered a heavy -blow upon his brain, and moves only automatically without -thought or will. On the outskirts of the village, -near the railroad, he passed a barn, rickety and disused, -but there was old hay in a heap on the floor of it, it -offered shelter, and shelter without the contact with -others from which he shrunk as if he were in disgrace, -and fleeing for his life. Accordingly Keith went -into this place, drawing the broken door together as far -as he could move it on its rusty hinges, threw himself -on the heap of hay, and slept until five o’clock in the -morning. The one passenger train of the day passing -through Spalding eastward was due at five o’clock. -Keith was wakened by the long whistle announcing -its approach, and came dizzily out into the chill and -wet of a miserable morning.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The train slowed down as it neared the place where -he stood. He swung himself upon it with the brief but -tense nervous energy of great exhaustion, sank into a -vacant seat in the foul, unventilated car, and was carried -on, whither he did not know or care.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna, coming back from the walk to Eagle Rock, -had gone to her own house alone. Here she spent the -earlier hours of the evening in the deepest travail of soul -she had ever known. The purity and unworldliness of -all her life, both the life of her girlhood and that with -Keith, had served to keep far from her familiarity with -possibilities of moral danger. She was as innocent of -certain kinds of evil as a child, and the thought that a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_327'>327</span>temptation to a guilty love could assault her would, -until this day, have appeared to her incredible. And -now, in the fierce struggle of this passion, the only one -she had ever known, she knew herself not only capable -of sin, but caught at last in its power.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Not that for a moment she dreamed of any compromise -of outward fidelity; such a thought she rejected -with horror as inconceivable either to herself or to -Gregory, whom she firmly believed to be far stronger -than she. But the flaw in faithfulness had come -already, beyond recall, beyond repair. Her whole soul -moved toward this man, who had so long secretly dominated -her inner life, with a mighty and overwhelming -tide.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Her relation to Keith had been that of gentlest consideration, -kindliness, and affection. More it had never -been; and to-night it seemed as powerless to stay the -flood of passion as a wall of sand built on the shore of -an infinite sea by the hands of a child.</p> - -<p class='c011'>So Anna thought, so she felt. She went to the door -of her cabin with this thought mastering her, driven by -restlessness, and longing to feel the coolness of the night -air on her face. For a moment she stood in her open -door, and saw mechanically that the moonlight was shed -abroad in the valley; she heard the voices of the men -across the river singing in a strong, sweet chorus.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then, suddenly, as if the words had been spoken in -her ear, the thought came to her, “But Keith needs me; -he needs me now!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>What was it? She did not know. She never understood. -The sense was strong upon her that Keith was -near her; that he was in some danger, and needed her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Without pause to consider what she did, Anna flew -<span class='pageno' id='Page_328'>328</span>down the river path and reached the mill breathless. -The pond lay in the moonlight, motionless. The air -did not stir. The mill was still and dark and deserted. -The woods were dim with their night mystery. She -looked down the valley, and up, and across the river, -and everywhere was perfect peace, save in her own -heart. Then in the silence she heard a step approaching -from the direction of the woods below. She drew -back hastily into the protection of the mill porch and -waited for the steps to pass. Whoever it was paused -for a little time above the mill, and Anna’s heart beat -hard with a sense of dread and danger. Finally she -heard the steps pass on, and when she returned to the -road she recognized the unmistakable figure of the man -now moving on in the unshadowed moonlight to the -bridge above. It was Oliver Ingraham.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Slowly Anna returned to her own cottage, not daring -to do otherwise, a heavy oppression on her heart.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Early in the morning, which was cold and rainy, -Oliver was at her door, and she answered his summons -herself, full of a vague, trembling anxiety. He scanned -her face narrowly; it was careworn and hollow-eyed, -for she had slept not at all.</p> - -<p class='c011'>In silence he handed her a letter, broken at the edges, -and soiled with long carrying about. She glanced at -the address. It was Keith’s, written by herself perhaps -a month before; not a recent letter. She looked at -Oliver in speechless perplexity.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I found that lying on the ground down near Spalding -last night,” he said, still eying her craftily, and with -that hurried off, giving her not another word.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna went in, closed the door, and drew out the -letter. It was unimportant, insignificant, simply an -<span class='pageno' id='Page_329'>329</span>ordinary letter of wifely affection and solicitude, but one -which had evidently been much read, being worn on the -folds. Who could have carried it save Keith himself? -Had he, then, been really near her the night before? -Was he really coming?</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna knew already that it was for this she longed -supremely.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Noon brought to Everett a special messenger with -a letter from Gregory, who brought with him also the -roan horse ridden the night before to the county -town, C——, and evidently ridden fiercely. At C—— -was the bank where Gregory transacted all his business. -This letter stated, first of all, that he had suddenly -reached the conclusion that it was important and imperative -that he should go at once to England in the -interests of the colony. He should not return to Fraternia -before sailing. He wished to empower Everett -to act in his place during his absence, which would not -be for more than three months.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Various items of business were enumerated, and the -letter closed with this remarkable statement: “The -funds furnished by Mr. Ingraham of Burlington have -been returned to him with the exception of the five -thousand dollars already used, which I shall restore at -my earliest opportunity. This removes the obligation -from us of counting Mr. Oliver Ingraham as one of our -number, and I beg that you will signify to him my -conviction that his continued presence in Fraternia is -impossible. Do not allow him to stay a day if you can -help yourself, and keep him under your eye while he -remains.”</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_330'>330</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XXXVI</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line in18'>I said farewell;</div> - <div class='line'>I stepped across the cracking earth and knew</div> - <div class='line'>’Twould yawn behind me. I must walk right on,</div> - <div class='line in10'>... Fate has carried me</div> - <div class='line'>’Mid the thick arrows; I will keep my stand,</div> - <div class='line'>Not shrink and let the shaft pass by my breast</div> - <div class='line'>To pierce another: oh, ’tis written large</div> - <div class='line in10'>The thing I have to do.</div> - <div class='line in34'>—<span class='sc'>George Eliot.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>The following morning Anna sent for Oliver. -Word had reached her that he was about to leave -Fraternia. In the depth of her present distress and -perplexity a thought which “had no form, a suffering -which had no tongue” had arisen. Gregory, she -knew, had left the village hastily that night under stress -of powerful emotion, perhaps in a condition of mental -excitement exceeding his own control. It seemed to -her possible that somewhere on the way from Fraternia -to Spalding he might have encountered Keith. The -letter brought by Oliver indicated, she was more and -more convinced, that he had really been on his way -to her. If this were true, some event had interposed, -something had occurred to hinder his coming. What -could it have been, supposing him to have been but two -miles away, save some mysterious, unthinkable effect -of an interview with Gregory, if such there had been? -It was no longer possible, no longer justifiable, to await -events. She must herself discover all that Oliver knew, -even if the discovery were to mean despair.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_331'>331</span>Alone, in her own cabin, she received Oliver. If -Keith had been in Fraternia, or John Gregory, it would -not have been permitted; but her intense anxiety and -suspense overbore her usual shrinking from contact with -the man, and Everett yielded to her wish to see him -alone.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Oliver entered the cabin, noting its simple appointments -with his characteristic curiosity. Anna pointed -to a chair which he took, although she herself remained -standing. Her face was as white as her dress, her eyes -deeply sunken, her manner sternly imperious.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You are going away from Fraternia to-day?” she -asked, with swift directness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes,” said Oliver, nodding with his peculiar smile; -“this precious demigod or demagogue—whichever you -please—of yours, your imperial Gregory, has issued a -ukase against me, in short, has done me the honour to -banish me from the matchless delights and privileges -of Fraternia!” The last word was spoken with a slow -emphasis of condensed contempt.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“There is something really a little queer about it,” -Oliver continued, in a different tone. “I am on to -most of what happened between my father and Gregory, -but I’ve missed a link now somewhere. You see, the -governor, in a fit of temporary aberration, offered Gregory -a magnificent contribution for his socialist scheme -down here; but Gregory was pretty high and lofty just -then, and, ‘No, sir,’ said he—I heard him, though he -and the governor don’t know it—‘No, sir, I couldn’t -touch your money. I am just that fastidious.’ The -governor had been confessing his sins to Gregory, the -worse fool he! It seemed that his money had come to -him in a way that might make some men squeamish, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_332'>332</span>Gregory, oh, dear, no! he wouldn’t have touched those -ill-gotten gains as he was feeling then—not with the -tip of one finger.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“But the joke is,” Oliver went on, “that he had to -come to it. Oh, yes; he got down on his marrow bones -to the governor here about three months ago, and wrote -to him that he had reconsidered the matter, and saw his -mistake,” and Oliver gave a low chuckle; “so the -governor had to come down with the lucre, more or -less filthy as it was, and I don’t think he was quite so -much in the mood for it either as he was at the first, to -tell the truth. But he sent it all the same, and sent -me with it, don’t you see? I came as the saviour of -Fraternia, although I have never been so recognized. The -whole town has been run the last month or two on -Ingraham money, and it seems to have greased the -wheels about as well as any other money, for all I see. -But now comes the unexpected! Off goes Gregory to -England, sends back the governor’s check, so I hear -from Everett, and kindly writes me to take myself off. -What brought him to that is what I don’t quite see -through yet.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I have no doubt,” said Anna, concealing her dismay -at Oliver’s malign disclosure with a manner of cold -indifference, “that Mr. Gregory had good reasons for -thinking it better for you to return to Burlington.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You’re right there,” retorted Oliver, quickly; “oh, -yes, he had excellent reasons, the best of reasons. A -man who knows too much is often inconvenient, you -know.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Mr. Ingraham,” Anna asked hastily, apparently -ignoring this insinuation although she trembled now -from head to foot, “I am not interested in the business -<span class='pageno' id='Page_333'>333</span>relations of your father and Mr. Gregory. It was -not to hear of them I sent for you. You brought me a -letter yesterday which I think must have been not long -ago in my husband’s possession. I wish you to tell me -if, on the night when you found this letter, that is the -night before last, you saw my husband in the neighbourhood -of Fraternia?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, yes,” replied Oliver, as if it were quite a matter -of course; “were you not expecting him?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Where did you see him?” The question came quick -and sharp.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Well,” said Oliver, reflectively, “you would like me -to be exact, I suppose. Let me see, how shall I describe -the place so that you will recall it—distinctly.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was a certain cold deliberation in the articulation -of these words which gave them a sickening cruelty. -They called up strange visions of dread and dismay to -Anna’s tortured imagination.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Speak more quickly,” she commanded, rather than -asked, “the precise spot makes no difference.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It was near the edge of the woods, on the Spalding -side, that I saw him first. The night was quite bright -with moonlight, if you remember. I had taken a stroll -down to Spalding myself for some of those little luxuries -which Fraternia doesn’t furnish, and was on my way -back when I first noticed Mr. Burgess. He was just -striking into the path, there by that dead oak tree; you -may remember it. I noticed it because it stood out so -white in the moonlight, and it was just at the foot of it -that I picked up that letter. I did not know that he -had dropped it, nor whose it was until after I got -home.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Undoubtedly false,” thought Anna; “you had not -<span class='pageno' id='Page_334'>334</span>had the chance to read it, that was all,” but she did not -speak. Oliver too was silent, as if he had answered her -question, and was done.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Please go on.” Anna kept her patience and control -still.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh!” exclaimed Oliver, as if surprised, “you want -to hear more, do you? All right. I guess likely I’m -the only man that can tell you, being the only witness, -in fact.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Witness of what?” Anna cried importunately.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Well, that’s it. That’s what I’ve asked myself -more than once since that night, and I rather guess as -good a description as I could give would be to call it -a kind of moral murder; a moral murder,” and Oliver -repeated the phrase as if gratified by the acuteness of -his perception in forming it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He watched her face closely, and beginning to fear -from the bluish shade which tinged her pallor that Anna -would soon be released from his power to torture by -unconsciousness, hastily took another line.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, you’ve nothing to worry about, Mrs. Burgess, -nothing at all. That was just a little fancy of mine, -just my metaphorical way of stating things. It was a -very simple little incident, nothing which need affect a -man unpleasantly in the least. It just happened, you -see, that Gregory was galloping down the path toward -Spalding, and he met your husband, and they had a little -talk together,—a mere quiet conversation for a few moments,—and -Mr. Burgess seemed to change his mind -about going to Fraternia just then, and turned back -toward the village. That was all. I watched him a -little, to be sure he didn’t need any help, you know, -afterward. Gregory galloped right along; he was going -<span class='pageno' id='Page_335'>335</span>to catch a train, I suppose, at C——, and that made him -in something of a hurry, of course.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Why should my husband have needed help, Mr. -Ingraham? Will you be good enough to explain yourself -clearly, and in as few words as possible?” Anna -spoke more calmly now, but her eyes were like coals of -fire.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Certainly, certainly. I cannot repeat Gregory’s -language, not literally, but it seemed to cut Mr. Burgess -up a good deal at the time,—at least I fancied so. -That is what I meant by that little simile of mine -awhile ago. He’s all over it now, of course. It was -only a few words anyway. Just that Gregory said, in -that short way he has once in awhile—Probably -you’ve never heard him; he wouldn’t be apt to speak -so to you,” and Oliver decorated the sentence with one -of his most insinuating smiles.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Mr. Gregory said—?” Anna asked, looking into -his face with an unflinching directness, before which -Oliver’s eyes wandered nervously.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Why, he seemed surprised that Mr. Burgess should -be coming back so soon, and he gave him to understand -that a man like him, who was sick all the time, and not -much of a Fraternian, either, was rather a drag on such -a woman as you, don’t you see? and it might be fully -as well if he should keep away and give you your freedom -most of the time.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Did my husband make any reply that you heard?” -asked Anna, huskily, this hideous distortion of unformulated -traitor thoughts which had lurked in the background -of her own consciousness confronting her now to -her terror, and her heart doubly sick with the loathing of -being forced to ask such information from such a source.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_336'>336</span>“He said you were at least his wife, I remember that. -I guess that was about all. It struck me at the time -that there was something in what he said, with all due -respect for Gregory. He rules everything here, of -course, though, I suppose,—even to the relations between -husbands and wives.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The last words were lost upon Anna.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“You may go now, if you please, Mr. Ingraham,” -she said calmly. Her look and an unconscious gesture -of dismissal were imperative, and Oliver, not daring to -disobey, left the place without another word.</p> - -<p class='c011'>For two days Anna sat alone and in silence, waiting -for the summons which she knew by a sure intuition -must come.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Oliver’s story had been confirmed in so far that it -had been learned that Keith had been seen in Spalding -on the night of Gregory’s departure, and had been known -to take an east-bound train on the following morning. -Nothing further was discovered regarding his movements, -and it was useless to try to follow and find him. Anna -could only wait.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When the message came it was, as she had known it -would be, urgent and ominous. Keith was in Raleigh; -he was very ill; she must go at once.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Everything was ready, and with a strange composure -and quietness as of one carrying out a line of action -fully foreseen, Anna went on her journey, so like and -yet so unlike that other journey to Keith which she had -taken in her girlhood, ten years before. That had ended -in their marriage. How would this end?</p> - -<p class='c011'>Reaching the city in the afternoon, Anna was driven -with the haste she demanded to the address named in -the message which had come, not from Keith himself, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_337'>337</span>but from a physician. It was not that of a hotel, as she -had expected, but of a boarding-house of very moderate -pretensions in a quiet street. Even the small details of -the place, in their cheap commonness, smote her heart. -Was it in places like this that Keith had, after all, been -living, instead of in the well-appointed hotels in which -she had always fancied him?</p> - -<p class='c011'>The landlady, a kindly, careworn woman, plain of -dress and of speech, received Anna with a mournful -face, but forebore explanations, seeing that it was time -rather for silence, and led her down a long corridor to -the door of a dim and silent room.</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was a little stir as Anna stood in the open -door; the physician came out and spoke to her, and -she saw a nurse sitting quietly by a window. But Anna -did not know that she saw or heard them; her sense -took in only her husband, with eyes closed and the -shadow of death upon his face, lying upon the strange -bed in this place of strangers.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She was by his side and his hands were in hers, when -presently he opened his eyes. Seeing her, a sudden -light of clear recognition illuminated his face, a triumphant -ray of joy and satisfaction. He tried to speak, -but could not, but Anna felt the faint pressure of his -hand.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Once more his lips moved, and Anna saw rather -than heard the words:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Good-by, darling,” and with them the same look -of ineffable love and peace. Then his eyes closed and -he sank again into unconsciousness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The physician, leaning over, said softly, “He will not -rouse again. This was most unexpected. He has been -unconscious since morning.”</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_338'>338</span>The end came soon after midnight, unconsciousness -falling into death without pain or struggle.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Of the days which followed Anna could never recall -a distinct or coherent impression. Detached scenes and -moments alone lived in her memory.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She knew that Everett was there and that they started -for Fulham. Somewhere on the way Professor Ward -met them, and Foster, the old family servant. Nothing -seemed strange and nothing seemed natural; all passed -to her as in a dream.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She was at Fulham; she remembered afterward that -she sat in the library which Keith had longed for so, -and his body lay beside her, below the mantelpiece -where she had so often seen him lean. The old servants, -hastily summoned for the occasion, went and -came, and looked at her, she thought, with eyes of cold -respect and mute reproach. Then Everett stood there, -and she saw that tears were on his face as he looked -upon his old friend, but she did not cry. Only when -Everett turned toward her she said, very simply, with a -motion of her hand which signified all that the place -meant:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Keith gave his life—for me.” Then Everett had -looked at her as if alarmed at what he saw in her face, -and had gone out hastily and sent some woman to her, -whom she did not want.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The incidents of the funeral seemed to pass by unnoticed. -She remembered the moment at the grave when -at last she fully realized that this was the end. Then -she was at the Fulham railroad station, and Professor -Ward had come to her on the train and had held her -hands strongly in his, and had said with urgent emphasis:—</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_339'>339</span>“You must always remember that Keith’s physician -and all his old friends believe that his life was prolonged -rather than shortened by your living in the South. Do -not for a moment dwell on the opposite thought.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>She had felt her dry lips tremble then and her eyes -grew dim, but she did not speak. The train had moved -out soon, and she knew that kind eyes watched her, -but she could not meet their look.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Of the journey down into the West to her mother -that night she remembered nothing, save that the incessant -jar of the train seemed to follow in a rhythmic endless -repetition the familiar refrain of the old passion hymn,—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“Was ever grief like mine?”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_340'>340</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XXXVII</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>From the unhappy desire of becoming great;</div> - <div class='line'><em>Preserve us, gracious Lord and God.</em></div> - <div class='line in30'>—<cite>Old Moravian Liturgy.</cite></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c014'>There is a time when religion is only felt as a bridle that checks us, and -then comes another time when it is a sweet and penetrating life-blood, which -sets in motion every fibre of the soul, expands the understanding, gives us the -Infinite for our horizon, and makes all things clear to us.—<span class='sc'>Lacordaire.</span></p> - -<p class='c010'>On the quiet street of the hill town of Bethlehem -stands the quaint and ancient building set apart in the -Moravian economy as the Widows’ House.</p> - -<p class='c011'>In the interior of the old stone house, with its massive -walls and rows of dormer windows, are wide, low-ceiled -halls, and sunny, sweet-smelling chambers, clean -and orderly, chaste and simple, as those of a convent. -Here in mild monotony and peace the women of the -“Widows’ Choir” live their quiet life, and here in -September we find Anna Burgess, who had fled to this -haven of her mother’s abiding-place, as to a sanctuary.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The evening was warm, and the windows of Gulielma -Mallison’s room were open to the sunshine and the sweet -air. Flowers blossomed in the deep window-sills; the -bare floor was as white as scrubbing could make it; the -appointments of the room were cheerful and refined, albeit -homely, and the atmosphere was that of still repose. -By the window Gulielma Mallison sat knitting, her face -beneath its widow’s cap calm and strong in its submissive -sadness. Opposite her on the sofa lay Anna, each line -of her face and figure expressing the suffering of a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_341'>341</span>stricken heart. There had been months of slow, wearisome -illness and of grievous mental suffering, in which -her days had been a Purgatorio and her nights an -Inferno; and now weeks of convalescence, which were -bringing life back into her wasted frame, still failed to -bring healing to her mind.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The mother’s fond eyes, glancing unperceived across -her knitting, noted the listless droop of the long white -hands upon the white dress, the marblelike pallor of the -forehead from which the hair was so closely drawn, the -hollow cheeks, the piteous sadness of the mouth, -the glassy brightness of the eyes, fixed in the long, still -gaze of habitual introspection.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Surely,” sighed Gulielma Mallison to herself, as she -had before a hundred times, “there is more than the -bitterness of death in her face; widowhood alone to -the Christian brings not such havoc as this. It is in -some place of danger that her thoughts are dwelling. I -should fear less for her if she could only speak!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>But Anna’s grief could not find its way to words. -How could her mother, in her sober, ordered existence, -her decorous and righteous experiences of life and love -and death, comprehend what it was to live with shadows -of faithlessness, even of blood-guiltiness, for perpetual -company? For to Anna’s thought Keith had been -driven to his lonely death by the hardness of Gregory, -by words which had issued from the white heat of his -passion for her, a passion unrebuked by her,—nay, -rather, shared to the full. Was she then guiltless of -her husband’s death?</p> - -<p class='c011'>Not for a moment could Anna divide herself from -Gregory in responsibility for the action which Oliver -had characterized as “moral murder.” Unsparingly -<span class='pageno' id='Page_342'>342</span>just to herself, she bore to the very limit of reason all -the fellowship which was imposed upon her by the -mastery of a love so long lived in its unconsciousness -and silence, so soon cut off, once perceived and acknowledged. -It has been said that “all great loves that have -ever died, dropped dead.” Anna’s mighty passion had -been stillborn, slain by the words which had sent Keith -on his dim way to death. For she had never doubted -that Oliver’s rehearsal of the scene in the woods between -Gregory and Keith had been substantially true. She -knew there had been spiritual violence done, and her -soul recoiled from the very strength and power which -had once enchained her. Something of diabolical pride -seemed to her now to invest even the austere morality -of Gregory. He would have spurned a yielding to the -weakness of the flesh, his moral fastidiousness would -have made it impossible; but he fought the fire of love -fiercely with the fire of pride, not humbly with the -weapons of prayer. No shield of faith nor sword of the -spirit had been his in the hour of temptation, for all his -high ideals, but the sheer, elemental force of human will. -He had conquered, or rather had grappled with, the one -passion; but the very force by which he had conquered -turned again and conquered him, and his very power -became his undoing.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Beside this conception of Gregory which had now -taken possession of Anna’s mind, Keith’s gentleness, -his faithful, patient life, above all, the greatness of the -silent sacrifice which he had made for her sake when he -embarked on the Fraternia adventure, became sacred -and heroic. She saw at last what his leaving his normal -life had been; she believed, as she had said to Everett, -that he had literally given his life for her, and the sense -<span class='pageno' id='Page_343'>343</span>of his devotion, so little understood, so scantily recognized, -wore ceaselessly at her heart. Her one drop of -balm was the memory of Keith’s last smile of triumphant -love and faith; the bitterest drop in her Cup of -Trembling that not one last word had been given her to -show her by what paths his soul had fared, and whether -thoughts of peace had lightened his sufferings. Having -loved her, he had loved her to the end,—this only she -knew. His faithfulness had not failed.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Words which her father had spoken to her shortly -before his death, vaguely comprehended at the time, -haunted her now, “<em>With greatness we have nothing at -all to do; faithfulness only is our part.</em>”</p> - -<p class='c011'>If only she had earlier discerned their meaning!</p> - -<p class='c011'>Such shape did these two men take to Anna now; -the one who had moulded all her outward life and touched -her inner life hitherto so faintly, the other who had -mastered her in her innate longing for power and freedom, -and controlled her inner life for many years: Keith -seemed to her now like some spirit of gentle ministration, -humble, faithful, undefiled; Gregory, like some proud spirit, -even as Lucifer, son of the morning, who had said, ‘I will -ascend into heaven,’ but who had been brought down to -hell, dragging with him all that was highest and holiest. -And she had thought him so different! Like another, -her heart would cry out:—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“I thought that he was gentle, being great;</div> - <div class='line'>O God, that I had loved a smaller man!</div> - <div class='line'>I should have found in him a greater heart.”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c011'>Once, some weeks earlier, there had come to her a -brief note from Gregory, written soon after his return to -Fraternia. It said only:—</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_344'>344</span>“I have sinned deeply, against God; against him; -most of all against you. I cannot even venture to ask -you to forgive. I can only say to you, the penalty is -wholly mine to bear. You are blameless.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Having read the note, Anna threw it into the fire, and -wrote no word in return.</p> - -<p class='c011'>And for herself—?</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was no softness of self-pity in Anna’s remorse. -Dry and tearless and despairing, she saw herself, after -long years of spiritual assurance, of established and unquestioned -righteousness, overwhelmed at last by sin; not -by the delicate and dainty and inconclusive discords -which religious experts love to examine and analyze, but -by a gross ground-swell of primitive passion, linking her -with men of violence and women of shame.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Looking back upon her girlhood, Anna thought with -sad self-scorning of her young desire for “a deeper -sense of sin.” It had come now, not as the initial stage -in a knowledge of God, and of her relation to him, but -as a tardy revelation of the possibility of her nature, undreamed -of in her long security. The cherished formulas -of the old system, its measure of rule and line applied -to the incalculable forces of the human spirit; its hard, -inflexible mould into which the great tides of personal -experience must be poured, seemed to lie in fragments -about her now, like wreckage after a storm. She remembered -that Professor Ward had once spoken to her of her -inherited religious conceptions as terrible in their power -to mislead, to deceive the heart as to itself; she saw the -danger of a belief founded not on infinite verities, but on a -narrow mediæval logic. She knew sin at last, and knew -that it was not slain in the hour of spiritual awakening.</p> - -<p class='c011'>She thought of the night preceding her union with -<span class='pageno' id='Page_345'>345</span>her father’s church, and the recoil of nameless dread -with which she had seen passing under her window the -village outcast whom she supposed to be incredibly -guilty and cut off from fellowship with all who, like -herself, were seeking God. And it was that very night -that she had first dreamed of the mighty personality, -the embodiment of power and greatness, which she had -thought to find in Gregory. Though late, she now -clearly perceived that in no human being could that ideal -of her dream find full manifestation.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Such thoughts as these were passing behind the pale -mask of Anna’s pain-worn face, which her mother’s -eyes were watching. The impress of suffering which -they gave was hard to see, and a long involuntary sigh -escaped Gulielma Mallison’s lips.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna looked up with eyes as sad as those of Michel -Angelo’s Fates.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Mother dear,” she said, her voice strangely dulled -from its former clear cadence, “why do you sigh? Do I -make you unhappy?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I cannot comfort you, Anna Benigna,” said the -mother, sorrowfully. “It is for that I sigh.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No,” Anna said slowly, her eyes falling again from -her mother’s face; “you cannot do that, no one can. -No one lives who can comfort your child, mother.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I have often thought, Anna, that you may have -suffered,” the mother ventured almost timidly, “as many -others have, from the sad mistakes so common to people -who regard the Christian life and the married life as -ends, instead of beginnings.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gulielma noticed a slight quickening of interest in -Anna’s eyes, and went on thoughtfully, with her simple -philosophy of life:—</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_346'>346</span>“To read the books that are written, and to hear the -things that are said, young people can hardly help supposing -that when they become Christians they will -know no more of sin, and when they are married they -will have only joy and perfect union. To my way of -thinking, these wrong ideas are responsible for a great -deal of needless unhappiness. The Christian life is -really a school, with hard discipline and harder lessons. -As for marriage—”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Well,” said Anna, as her mother paused, “as to -marriage?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It may be a crown,” said Gulielma, slowly, “but it -is sure to be in some measure a cross. It is a testing, -a trial, a discipline, like the rest of life. Only, whether -it happens to be happy, or happens to be hard, it is -equally to be borne faithfully and in the fear of God.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>There was silence for a little space, and then a laughing -voice in the street outside, called:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Mrs. Mallison!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gulielma rose and stepped to the window, looking -out over the crimson and purple asters into the street. -A young girl who stood there handed her up a letter.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I don’t know whether it belongs to Mrs. Burgess or -not. The address has been changed so many times, -but the postmaster said I was to ask you.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Very well,” was the answer, and as Gulielma -turned back, a letter in her hand, she found Anna sitting -up, leaning upon her elbow, her eyes strangely -eager. She held out her hand, not speaking, and -received the letter. The upper line, which struck her -eyes instantly, was her own name, and it had been -written by Keith. She could not be mistaken. The -mother’s anxious eyes saw every trace of colour ebb away -<span class='pageno' id='Page_347'>347</span>from Anna’s face and lips, and then stream back until -the faint flush rose to her forehead. She had not -stopped to decipher the many addresses written below, -crossed and recrossed by many pens, but, seeing her own -name written by the dear dead hand, she pressed the -letter hard against her heart and so lay a moment, silent.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Soon she looked up and met her mother’s eyes. A -wistful, heart-breaking request was in her own, which -she hardly dared to speak.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“May I be all alone, mother?” she asked faintly; -“my letter is from <em>him</em>. It has gone wrong, but it has -come to me, you see, at last. In the morning I will see -you. I will tell you then—all.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>In another minute, the door quietly closing, Anna -found herself alone. Breaking the seal, she saw that the -letter had been written three days before Keith’s death. -An error in the original address, doubtless due to his -exhaustion, had sent it far astray. The letter said:—</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='sc'>My own Anna</span>,—I am here in Raleigh in a comfortable -house, and with kind people, but I fear that -I am very ill, and that the end is now not far away, -and I want you as soon as you can come to me. I -hope there will be no need of alarming you with a telegram, -for I know that you will start as soon as this -reaches you, and that will be in good time.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Do not think that this crisis is sudden and unforeseen. -The physician in Baltimore told me plainly that I -could have but a short time to live, and when I knew -that I hastened to reach you as quickly as I might. It -was for you only, Anna, in all the world that I longed. -I believed that a few weeks of quietness were for us, -not harder than we could bear, being together.</p> - -<p class='c014'><span class='pageno' id='Page_348'>348</span>I think you will know that something turned me -back almost at my journey’s end. John Gregory is -honest, and he will tell you, if indeed he knows himself.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I do not know now what he said to me, I do not -care to remember. Whatever it was it should have had -no weight, being spoken, I know, under some strong excitement, -but with it there went that strange, irresistible -influence which Gregory exerts over me, and before -which I was, or seemed to myself, powerless. I felt -his will was for me to go back, not onward to you, and -I yielded as if unable to do otherwise. I do not know, -I cannot understand. I wish it had not been so, but -rather for him than for myself, for I know that in his -higher mood the thought of that night must be hateful -to him.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I want to say now while I can that neither you nor -he must look upon these events in a way to exaggerate -or overemphasize their importance. I can see that you -with your sensitive conscience and he with his great -moral severity may judge over hardly. The difference -to me has not been great. The end was very near, and -is not hastened, and I shall see you yet before it comes. -If I had not been weak I should have kept on my way. -It was my weakness that sent me back rather than the -outward compulsion.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I shall not want to talk of this when I see you, -Anna, and so I will write to-day some things which have -come to my mind this winter, for I have come to see -many things in a new light.</p> - -<p class='c014'>John Gregory loves you. I do not blame him for -that, nor wonder. “We needs must love the highest -when we see it.” He is a man of great power and of -the highest spiritual ambition. He is far nearer to you -<span class='pageno' id='Page_349'>349</span>in ability than I; he could enter more deeply into your -purposes and sympathize in fuller measure with your -intellectual life. I believe you could have loved him, if -you had been free, and that the union of two such -natures would have been nobly effective for good. But -I found you first, and with my fond dream that a sign -was given me, won you for my wife. What then?</p> - -<p class='c014'>It fell to my part, although not of my own will, to -give your life the shape it has taken. Sometimes I see -plainly that I, a poor, pale, colourless fellow, wholly -beneath both you and John Gregory, have maimed both -your lives, so much stronger and more potential than -mine could ever be.</p> - -<p class='c014'>And yet, Anna, for all this I cannot wish the past -undone. I claim you wholly, heartily, for my own, and -whatever the future may hold for you, and however the -past has tried you, I believe in your love for me, and in -the union of our spirits. My heart is at rest. My trust -in you is absolute and beyond hurt or harm, and all the -joy my life has known has come through you, my true -and faithful wife. Never doubt this if you love me -and would honour my name.</p> - -<p class='c014'>I wish to lay no hint of limitation or direction upon -your future. Wherever you go, the dear Lord will go -with you, and you will bring peace and consolation. -You cannot go astray, nor your work be brought to -naught, for God is with you. All that I have is yours -without reserve or condition, beyond the few legacies I -have named in a letter to my lawyer in Fulham. Use -what was ours together freely wherever you will, -whether to establish Fraternia, or in any line of effort -which appeals to you. My keenest regret is that heretofore -I have withheld from you what you desired. Forgive -<span class='pageno' id='Page_350'>350</span>me. Those scruples look small and mean to me -to-day.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Good night, my Anna—my Benigna, my highest -grace and blessing.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Do not think of me as left comfortless. I am not -alone. The King is at the door, and I hear his voice. -He has even come in and will sup with me and I with -him.</p> - -<p class='c014'>Let his peace be upon us both.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-r c013'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Keith.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<hr class='c012' /> - -<p class='c011'>It was morning.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Entering her room, Gulielma Mallison found Anna -fully dressed, standing in a stream of sunshine, with a -brighter light than that of the sun upon her face.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, mother!” she cried, stretching out both her -hands, “I can live. I can sleep. I can even cry now. -Oh, these tears! how they have fallen like rain on a -thirsty ground. See, mother; after all I am young still -and strong. Feel my pulse, how full it is this morning, -how strong and steady! I am at peace. The peace -of God has come to me at last. Keith has comforted -me.”</p> - -<div> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_351'>351</span> - <h3 class='c001'>CHAPTER XXXVIII</h3> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun,</div> - <div class='line'>To spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won</div> - <div class='line'>God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain</div> - <div class='line'>And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain.</div> - <div class='line in48'>—<span class='sc'>Sidney Lanier.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c014'>While we are not to forget that we have fallen, we are not always to carry -the mud with us; the slough is behind, but the clean, clearly defined road -stretches ahead of us; skies are clear, and God is beyond. We were made for -purity, truth, and fidelity, and the very abhorrence of the opposite of these -qualities bears testimony that our aspirations are becoming our attainments. The -really noble thing about any man or woman is not freedom from all the stains -of the lower life, but the deathless aspirations which forever drive us forward.... -Better a thousand times the eager and passionate fleeing to God from a -past of faults and weaknesses, with an irresistible longing to rest in the everlasting -verities, than the most respectable career which misses this profound impulse.</p> - -<div class='lg-container-r c013'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>—<span class='sc'>Anon.</span></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c010'>It was Easter morning in Bethlehem. The stars -still shone in the sky, and the little town lay in the hush -and stillness which precede the earliest dawn, when suddenly, -far off, like a whisper from the sky, the tones of -the trumpets could be heard announcing the risen -Christ.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Down through the quiet streets passed the solemn -choir, the trombones blowing their deep-breathing melody -in full and thrilling power. They stopped for a -little space upon the bridge, and as their herald choral -swelled and grew and filled the air, lights came out in -visible response here and there throughout the sleeping -town; and as they passed on down the streets, under -<span class='pageno' id='Page_352'>352</span>the starlit sky, groups of men and women joined them -in quiet fashion until the procession grew to a great -though silent throng.</p> - -<p class='c011'>From the Widows’ House Gulielma Mallison and -Anna came out and stood together for a moment in the -dusk, watching the approaching stream of people as it -moved forward in the gloom, and listening to the strains -of music which called to their ears:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Rise, heart; thy Lord is risen!”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Soon the procession had reached their door, and, joining -it with humble gladness, mother and daughter followed -with the rest, greeting their friends and neighbours -in simple, heartfelt kindliness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The church was reached, and within it a solemn service -was begun, and continued until the brightening of the -eastern sky gave token of the sunrise. Then, as with -one accord, and with the quietness of dear and familiar -custom, the great congregation streamed out into the -twilight of the early dawn, and, again forming in procession, -moved forward up the winding hill to the cemetery, -the choir with the pastor leading the way.</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was an early spring, and on the air was the thrill -of awakening life. As she stood in the midst of the -reverent throng now waiting, as if expectant, in the still -churchyard, Anna felt the deep significance of the time -as it had never been given her to feel it before.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Again the trombones poured forth their deep, yearning -music in the ancient Easter hymn, the people singing -in full chorus:—</p> - -<div class='lg-container-b c009'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'>“Amen! Come, Lord Jesus! Come, we implore thee;</div> - <div class='line'>With longing hearts we now are waiting for thee;</div> - <div class='line in14'>Come soon, O come!”</div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_353'>353</span>Then followed, in slow, rhythmic chant, the noble -words of the old Moravian liturgy:—</p> - -<p class='c014'>“This is my Lord, who redeemed me, a lost and undone -human creature, purchased and gained me from all sin, from -death and from the power of the devil;</p> - -<p class='c014'>“Not with gold or silver, but with his holy, precious blood, -and with his innocent suffering and dying;</p> - -<p class='c014'>“To the end that I should be his own, and in his kingdom -live under him and serve him in eternal righteousness, innocence, -and happiness;</p> - -<p class='c014'>“So as he, being risen from the dead, liveth and reigneth -world without end.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>With awe and joy came back the great volume of -the response:—</p> - -<p class='c014'>“<em>This I most certainly believe.</em>”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Keep us, oh Lord,” came then the prayer, “in everlasting -fellowship with those of our brethren who since -Easter Day have entered into the joy of their Lord and -with the whole Church triumphant, and let us rest -together in thy presence from our labours.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>The sun rose. The quiet God’s Acre was gilded -with its misty beams, and the pale opal tints of the -morning clouds reflected its glory. From the whole -assembly burst forth the mighty hallelujahs of the hymn -of praise, borne up by the deep diapason of the trumpets:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“The Lord is risen. He is indeed risen.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>As Anna came out of the churchyard in the sunrise -light, the peace of God was in her look, and the victory -of the Resurrection morning shone in her eyes.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Hardly had she reached the street, when some one -<span class='pageno' id='Page_354'>354</span>who had stood, awaiting her coming, put out his hand -and greeted her. It was Pierce Everett.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I saw you in the churchyard,” he said. “I wish -to speak to you now, if I may.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna welcomed him with quiet gladness, and they -walked on together through the street, until they were -beyond the crowd. Then Anna asked:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Do you come from Fulham?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, no,” was the answer, “from Fraternia, or from -what was Fraternia. My home is there now, and will -be.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I did not know,” Anna said simply, not finding it -easy to say more.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“There is little left there now of the old village or -of the old life. Even the name is gone. They call it -Gregory’s now.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I heard that the land had gone into the hands of -the man who held the mortgage.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, it is all gone now; all except the bit of ground -that Mr. Gregory’s house stands on. The house and -land we have kept for our own.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“And there you live alone? Are all the others gone?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Nearly all. Some stay and work in the cotton mill, -which has been enlarged, but the cabins are mostly used -now by the coloured people who work the land, and are -employed also in the mill.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>They were silent for a moment, and then Everett -said:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“We have heard that you are going soon to India. -Is it true?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, I go next month.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“As a teacher?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, partly, but I am also to be connected with a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_355'>355</span>hospital. You know that is work which I have always -liked, and this is to be a new hospital, bearing my husband’s -name.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Everett was silent, and Anna noted as she had not -before the profound sadness of his face. Presently he -looked at her with undisguised anxiety and asked a question -which she had already begun to dread.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Would you be willing to see Mr. Gregory before -you go?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>A painful change passed over Anna’s face.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I cannot,” she replied quickly; “it is not necessary. -Is he here, Mr. Everett? Did he come with you?” -and he noticed that she trembled and lost colour.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No,” he answered very gently; “do not be troubled. -He is not here. He will not seek to find or follow you. -He will never leave Fraternia again.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Her eyes questioned his face, for it was impossible not -to detect some melancholy significance in his words.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Mr. Gregory has received a severe injury,” Everett -went on, as if in answer to her look. “It was a month -ago. He was at work with the lumbermen up in the -ravine. He was working midway of the river, which -was unusually high, and he slipped and fell. Before he -could get to his feet, a heavy log which was carried forward -very swiftly by the current struck him with tremendous -force and stunned him. We were near enough -to reach him almost immediately, but the blow was on -the spine, and it produced instantaneous paralysis. He -will never walk again.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Swift changes had passed over Anna’s face. In a -softened voice she said:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“How strange, how very terrible. Is he himself in -other ways?”</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_356'>356</span>“Perfectly. His mind was never clearer nor more -active. I think he was never stronger in spirit. His -body is a magnificent wreck, that is all.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“And he does not wish to leave Fraternia?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“No, I think nothing could suit him so well as our -little stronghold in the solitude there. He does not -mind the changes even, as one would expect. There -is no bitterness. He is too large-minded for that. He -acknowledges himself defeated, but his faith is still -strong in his cause.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“And how about yourself?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am with him, heart and soul,” Everett answered, -with strong emphasis; “nothing could take me from -him now,—unless my presence ceased to be acceptable -to him. He is, in spite of all that has passed of failure -and defeat, my leader, and will be to the end. He is -imperfect, being human; perhaps there are men least -in the kingdom of heaven who are greater than he. -Nevertheless, he is the bravest man I have ever known -and the most sincere,—I would almost add, the humblest. -So we live on together. He writes, I paint. Barnabas -takes care of the house for us, and little Judith gives us -the touch of womanhood we need to humanize us. An -oddly assorted family perhaps, but we are satisfied.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna listened with intense eagerness to every word, -and found sincere satisfaction in the simple picture -which Everett had thus drawn for her.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“And you have come to Bethlehem—” Anna hesitated, -and Everett took up the word quickly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I have come all the way from Fraternia to ask you -to go back with me and see John Gregory once more. -He may live for a number of years, but it is hardly -probable that you ever will see him again. He asks this -<span class='pageno' id='Page_357'>357</span>as the greatest kindness you can do him, but he told -me to say that, if you do not feel that you can go, he -will still be perfectly sure that you are doing right.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Something in the new note of humility, of submission, -in the implied finality of the request, most of all the -vision of the strong man in his present helplessness and -acknowledged defeat, wrought powerfully upon Anna’s -resolution.</p> - -<p class='c011'>They walked on silently for some moments, and then, -turning abruptly to retrace her steps into the town, -Anna said:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, I will go with you. We will start to-morrow -morning.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>It was late on Tuesday afternoon when they reached -the valley. As they drove past the mill Anna gave a -sudden exclamation of dismay as she caught a passing -glimpse of a well-remembered figure which she least -expected to see again in Fraternia.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“That could not be Oliver Ingraham,” she cried, -“and yet no other man could look like him.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It was Oliver himself,” said Everett, smiling a little.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“How can it be? What has happened?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“To begin with, I should tell you that Mr. Gregory -succeeded in paying back, even to the last dollar, Mr. -Ingraham’s contribution.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna’s face grew brighter.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am glad,” she said.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, it was better, I am sure. But when this was -accomplished a sense of compunction seized him toward -Oliver for some fancied harshness in the past. Six -months ago he sent for him to come if he would, and he -appeared promptly. Mr. Gregory had conceived the -idea that something better could be made of the man -<span class='pageno' id='Page_358'>358</span>under right influences, and he determined to make the -attempt.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Can you see any change?” asked Anna, still incredulous.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It was rather hopeless for a time, only that he so -evidently, for all his former spleen and spite, came to -have a regard for Mr. Gregory, himself, approaching -worship. But when the accident happened up in the -woods and he saw Mr. Gregory helpless as he is now, -it seemed to produce an extraordinary change in the fellow. -He is softened and humanized in a marvellous degree. -He can never be wholesome exactly to ordinary -mortals. I sometimes think he is a snake still, but a snake -with its poisonous fangs drawn. Yes, Mr. Gregory has -made it possible to hope for good even from Oliver.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Only a great nature could have made that possible,” -said Anna, musingly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes,” responded Everett, “and only then a great -nature which had learned obedience by the things which -it suffered.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Anna was silent. This action of Gregory’s seemed -very great to her, so wholly was it in opposition to his -deep, instinctive antipathy toward Oliver. This man -had seemed to embody in himself the evil forces which -had entered Fraternia to destroy all of highest hope and -purpose with which it had been established. And now -Gregory had stooped to lift up, even to draw to himself, -the man in all his hideous moral ugliness. Idealist as -Anna had ever been, she saw in the nature thus revealed -to her, in spite of failures and falls, a more robust virtue, -a higher spiritual efficacy, than any of which she had -known or dreamed. Again she found herself convicted -of a too narrow and partial view of the working of the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_359'>359</span>human spirit in her passionate withdrawal from Gregory -in his time of temptation.</p> - -<p class='c011'>They had crossed the bridge now, and up the wooded -slope Anna saw Barnabas and little Judith standing -before the door of Gregory’s cabin. With simple and -unaffected delight they welcomed her, and then suffered -her to enter the house alone.</p> - -<p class='c011'>When the door had closed behind her, Barnabas came -up quietly and took his place upon the rude steps which -his hands had laid, and so sat, throughout the interview, -as one self-stationed, to keep guard.</p> - -<p class='c011'>The interior of the cabin was as it had always been, -with its rude furniture and its one picture, save that -a broad and capacious couch covered with leather stood -with its head just below the south window. On this -couch, with a rug of grey foxskin thrown over his -limbs, lay John Gregory, his head and shoulders -propped high, his powerful hands lying by his sides with -their own expression of enforced idleness.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He lifted his head as Anna entered, and leaned forward, -raising his right hand in a pathetic salutation of reverence -and gratitude.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Overcome by the new and more august repose of his -face and by the pathos of his look and gesture, Anna -crossed to where Gregory lay, and fell upon her knees -by his side, her tears bathing his hand, although this she -did not know.</p> - -<p class='c011'>For a space neither spoke nor moved. Then, as she -rose from her knees, Anna said under her breath:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Life is greater than I thought.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Life is great,” returned Gregory, “because we live -in God.” Then he asked humbly, all the fire of his -earlier habit of speech quenched,—</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_360'>360</span>“Do you then forgive me?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, I have forgiven you,” she said softly. “I -could not until, months after my husband’s death, a -letter came to me from him, which had been lost long -in reaching me. It was so noble, so great, so reconciling, -that it sufficed for all—even that,” she added, with -unsparing truthfulness. Then, even more gently:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It is altogether from him that I am here to-day. -I could never have seen you again if it had not been for -that letter.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Then I owe to him the greatest mercy of my life,” -said John Gregory, solemnly, “and it is fitting that I -should. He was a gentler man than I, a better man. I -did not rightly appreciate him when he was among us.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“He had no noisy virtues,” Anna said. “I think -none of us perceived fully what he was until he was -gone.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then with great delicacy she told Gregory all that -the letter had brought of reconcilement, and especially -the word to him. He heard it in brooding silence, and -his face grew very calm.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I wanted you to know,” Gregory began after a -long pause, “that my feeling toward you has not been -evil or base or wholly selfish. From the time I first -saw that picture,” and he pointed to that above the fireplace, -“you became to me a kind of religion. You -stood to me for the absolute purity of my ideal, untainted -by self and sin and even sorrow. That picture -gave you to me as a virgin soul in the first dawning of -a great and noble expectation. It was a picture which -a Galahad might have worshipped. But alas! I was no -Galahad.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I was bringing the picture back to this country, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_361'>361</span>it happened, although you never knew it, that I crossed -on the same ship with you.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“How could it have been,” cried Anna, “that I never -saw you?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I was with my East London people in the other -part of the ship. But I used often to see you with your -husband and with the many friends who always made a -circle about you, and I fancied I saw a change in your -look,—a change which betokened a gradual dimming of -your higher vision, a fading of your ideal. I thought the -people about you were changing you to their own likeness -in some degree, and the thought haunted and disturbed -me more than I had a right to let it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I came to Fulham with the picture, which I had -promised to return to Everett. When I reached his -house late in the evening, his mother received me and -told me that he and ‘all the world’ were at a great reception -at your house. She further told me that your -husband’s mother had confided in her her hopes and -her confidence that a new era of social leadership was -now before you, and added that you were indeed already -quite ‘the fashion’ in Fulham’s aristocratic circle.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I had hardly an hour in Fulham—hardly a moment -to reflect. I acted on my impulse and sought you and -called you out from your brilliant company. You know -what I said. My motive was pure, I think, whether the -action were well judged or ill. When I saw you before -me in that brief interview, in your loveliness, and in the -docility which underlay your frank and candid joy, a -strange impulse arose in me to gain some spiritual control -over you, to have an essential influence over your -thinking and to direct your development and your activity -as I believed would be noblest and best.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_362'>362</span>“Naturally I had no opportunity to carry out such an -impulse for a long period, but I think it never left me. -When I saw you that night in the audience at Burlington, -I knew that you would go to Fraternia. I determined -in my own heart that if it could be right, you should. -There was no thought then or for many months that -anything could arise between us which could impair our -faith and duty. Indeed, I never knew myself that it -was you who had wholly mastered me rather than I you, -until that day on Eagle Rock. When I left Fraternia -that night, I knew all—to the very depth. I understood -the blindness and tyranny of my passion, and I left, -meaning never to see you again. Benigna, I did not have -it in my heart to do you wrong, least of all to do wrong -to your husband. It was the suddenness of his coming -before me, and the struggle I was myself undergoing, -which threw me at the moment into a kind of still -frenzy of evil impulse. Gladly would I have died to -atone for it.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Now, looking back, I almost think I can see that -I was permitted, so far as my individual life was concerned, -to reach some climax of pride and passion, that I -might be brought low in my humiliation. Perhaps in no -other way could I have learned the way of the Cross -than through seeing the failure of my own strength, in -which God knew, I see now, I had taken an unconscious -pride.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“There is nothing left of it. No drop of the wormwood -and gall has gone untasted. But I believe -solemnly to-day in the forgiveness of sins, and rest -in a good hope of salvation through our Master, -Christ.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Again silence came between them, a silence which -<span class='pageno' id='Page_363'>363</span>was full of peace, and then, with something of his old -abruptness, Gregory said:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“And now you will tell me about your going to India. -You are glad to go; so much I understand.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes,” Anna replied, “it is a great fulfilment. I -have lived a whole round of life since I first felt the call -to this service, and now I come back to it with a purpose -and conviction even deeper than those which first -inspired me.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Then the larger hopes of final destiny do not, in the -end, weaken the missionary motive, you think?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, no. That fear belonged only to the time of -transition. The message I have now is a far mightier -and a more imperative one than I had at first. I know -something now of the reality of sin and its terrible -fellowship, and at least far more than in those old days, -both of law and of love. I have learned also a greater -reverence for man as well as for God.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes,” he said quietly; “it is true. You have been -in training for your work.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I am gladder than I can tell you,” continued Anna, -“that I was withheld from going out on such a mission -with the hard and narrow message which was all I had -then to give. It was you, Mr. Gregory, who opened -to me the great truth of the unity of the race, you who -taught me to see that ‘redemption is the movement of -the whole to save the part.’ I share the burden of sin -and suffering with all my fellow-men, and I simply seek -to lift that burden so far as I may where it presses most -sorely. Can there be any doubt that this is where Christ -is not known,—among pagan nations?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>John Gregory thought for a moment before he replied. -“I believe you are right,” he said finally. “The -<span class='pageno' id='Page_364'>364</span>needs there are grosser than here, and they are actual -and intolerable; inherent in the system, not artificial. -You have the gift of high ministry. You used it without -stint for our people here in Fraternia, but the -issues were inadequate to your powers; for the conditions -were, after all, abnormal, being produced voluntarily -rather than by necessity.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Then do you feel, Mr. Gregory, that the message -of brotherhood, of equality, cannot be spread by such -means as we tried in Fraternia?” Anna asked timidly, -and yet without fear.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I believe that such isolated, social experiments, for -many years at least, will be as ours has been, premature -and ineffective. They are symptoms rather than -formative agencies. They have significance as such, -but are otherwise unproductive.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“I have not learned this lesson easily,” he added -with a faint return of his rare smile, and the swift, -strong gesture with which he had always been wont to -dash the hair from his forehead. Anna knew without -words that in the fall of Fraternia his dearest hopes, his -most cherished plans, and highest pledges had fallen too. -It was not necessary to open the old wound that she -should know his pain.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“There are more steps between the clear perception -of a condition and the application of remedial measures -than I supposed before I started our colony here. I was -in a hurry, but God seems to have plenty of time. -There must be years, generations, perhaps—I sometimes -fear it—centuries still of education and training -before men understand that they are not created oppressors -by the grace of God, nor oppressed by the will of -God. I read this the other day,” he continued, taking -<span class='pageno' id='Page_365'>365</span>a book from the table beside him; “it will show you -what I mean: ‘When a man feels in himself the upheaval -of a new moral fact, he sees plainly enough that -that fact cannot come into the actual world all at once—not -without first a destruction of the existing order of society—such -a destruction as makes him feel satanic; -then an intellectual revolution; and lastly only a new -order embodying the new impulse.’</p> - -<p class='c011'>“That is good,” he commented, laying the book -down, “but what is said there in a few sentences may, -in actual fulfilment, require several centuries.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It is hard to wait,” said Anna.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes, it is hard,” Gregory repeated, his eyes resting -on her face with that sympathetic response to her -thought which, she was startled to find, could still stir -the old warm tremor in her heart; “but I can wait, can’t -you? You can if you believe, as we are bound to believe, -in a ‘divine event toward which the whole creation -moves.’ I believe, I thank God, also, that, unworthy and -powerless as I am in this marred soul and destroyed body -of me, I can still hope, still work, still greet the unseen -and expect the impossible.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>They talked long, and Anna rose at last to go.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Oh, you will be leaving now!” John Gregory cried, -as if he had forgotten that she did not belong to Fraternia.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes,” Anna said gently, “I am to return to Spalding -in an hour for the night, and I start home from -there in the morning.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Yes,” he said, “that is right. You must go;” -but with the thought all colour left his face, and his -breath came hard and fast. She saw the physical -change in him then. She had hardly seen it before.</p> - -<p class='c011'><span class='pageno' id='Page_366'>366</span>“Can I help you? Can I bring you anything you -need?” she asked quickly.</p> - -<p class='c011'>He pointed to a glass on the mantel, and said, smiling -faintly:—</p> - -<p class='c011'>“It is so new to make others wait on me. It is not -quite easy to lie here and submit to be served,—even -by you, Benigna.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>As she brought him the glass, the simple act of service -bore with it a peculiar power of suggestion and -produced upon Anna herself an effect far beyond its -apparent importance; for, as she thus served Gregory -in his helplessness, a wave of yearning compassion and -pure womanly tenderness broke over her heart. He -would lie here for years, perhaps, prostrate, defeated, -suffering, and she who had so loved him would go her -way and leave him alone and uncomforted! Could it -be right?</p> - -<p class='c011'>Before the imperious power of this question all other -motives lost their significance.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Gregory had recovered from the sharpest effect of his -agitation, and raised his eyes again, full of patient and -quiet sorrow.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“Tell me,” she cried low and breathlessly, “shall I -stay? I said I wished only to go where was most need -of me. Is it here? Oh, I trust you wholly now, John -Gregory! If you need my service, I will serve you -while we both live.”</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then, as they faced each other with looks of solemn -question, Anna saw into the depth of the man’s strong -spirit, and she was prepared for what would follow.</p> - -<p class='c011'>“That might have been,” he said very slowly, and as -if he were pronouncing his own doom, “even that -unspeakable joy; but I myself, my child, made it impossible. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_367'>367</span>Do you no longer see the great gulf fixed between -you and me?”</p> - -<p class='c011'>He was holding both her hands now, and his own -were firm and steady, but his face reflected the stern -agony of the moment, while that of Anna was white as -death. A throbbing silence filled the room, and all the -air seemed to vibrate with the fierce pulsations of their -hearts, for in both the cry arose that their punishment, -self-inflicted, was greater than they could bear.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Then calmness fell, for as with one consent their eyes -met again, and each perceived the light of a final spiritual -conquest, and the shadow of an ultimate renunciation.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Again, as once before, John Gregory said, “It is the -end,” and thus, most quietly, they parted.</p> - -<hr class='c012' /> - -<p class='c011'>It was evening when Anna left Fraternia. As the -road entered the woods where the valley widened to the -plain, she turned and caught a last glimpse of the solitary -light which shone from the lowly house on the -river’s farther side.</p> - -<p class='c011'>Through all the years and changes which remained to -her, never did Anna lose the vision of that light, shining -apart in the high valley. But John Gregory she never -saw again.</p> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> -<p> </p> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> -<p> </p> - <hr class='pb c003' /> -<p> </p> -</div> -<div class='tnotes'> - -<div class='section ph2'> - -<div class='nf-center-c0'> -<div class='nf-center c004'> - <div>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE</div> - </div> -</div> - -</div> - - <ol class='ol_1 c002'> - <li>Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. - - </li> - <li>Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed. - </li> - </ol> - -</div> - -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<hr class="pgx" /> -<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WOMAN OF YESTERDAY***</p> -<p>******* This file should be named 63526-h.htm or 63526-h.zip *******</p> -<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> -<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/3/5/2/63526">http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/5/2/63526</a></p> -<p> -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed.</p> - -<p>Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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