LOOKING FORWARD.
"Fetters and warder for the Graeme!"
Scott. Lady of the Lake.
The two months that followed passed very quickly for Nora, more quickly than they did for Roland, in the hot, dusty town. She had her visitors from Minton,—Mr. Alden, who, came down, an ever-welcome guest, for a fortnight's rest, and told her of Roland's unwearied labors and his growing influence in Minton; and Miss Spencer, who came for a few days of refreshing change from her hospital wards. Lizzie Mason and her family were now settled in the cottage that Nora had secured for them. And Lizzie was intensely happy in the possession of a tiny flower-garden; though it was only too evident that she was in a settled decline, and would not, probably, see another summer. But, though quite aware of this, she was full of a serene peace that often recalled to Nora the "Story of Ida," which she had lent to Lizzie, in the days of their first acquaintance, and which had not been without results in a nature so fitted to receive its teaching.
One warm evening, late in August, Nora was slowly returning from a visit to Lizzie, when she heard a rapid step behind her, and, looking back, saw to her surprise, the very person she was at that moment thinking about—Roland Graeme.
"Why," she exclaimed, with astonishment, "I had no idea you were so near!"
"I only came down by this evening's train," he said, in a grave tone, as he shook hands, looking earnestly at her with an expression that brought the color to her cheek; "and I was just coming to report myself. There were some things I wanted to be the first to tell you."
They walked on, very slowly, up the drive, and turned aside to the seats under the beech-tree, Roland saying little till then. Both, indeed, seemed to have very little to say.
"I suppose," he began, "you have heard of Mr. Dunlop's sudden death."
"Yes,—Will wrote to us about it," she replied. "I knew it would be a great sorrow to you. You would miss him so much."
"I do,—more than I could have believed," he said, warmly. "He was so honest, so true, so practical, so kind-hearted, under all the seeming roughness. He has been the kindest of friends to me."
And he was silent for a little. Nora was silent, too. The whippoorwill in a neighboring thicket, indefatigably piping away at his interminable refrain, had it all to himself for awhile.
Then Roland spoke with an effort: "I almost hate to say it," he said, "for it seems heartless to speak of such things now; but Mr. Dunlop always said he would rather die suddenly, like that. And—I must say it some time—he has left the bulk of his property to me. Why, I cannot tell."
"Oh," exclaimed Nora, "I am so glad!"
"It is," he said, "in some measure, a trust. He left it to me, he said, in his will, because he knew that I should use it as he should wish it used, and could trust me fully. And in this light I mean to regard it. I have made my plans already. But there's one thing that it makes possible for me, that was not possible before,—to ask you for something that would be better than all this world's treasure to me. Can't you guess what it is,—dear?"
The last words were scarcely audible, as he bent to meet her sweet upward glance. Again the whippoorwill had it all to himself, and piped away more cheerily and industriously than ever, as if inspired, in his own love-making, by a human example. What he may have afterwards heard—is not to be repeated here. Philanthropists and reformers are not much wiser than other people, in such circumstances, and it would not be fair to "report" them. Besides, it might get into the "Minerva"—a thing, which of course, would be most distasteful to both.
They sat, for a long time, planning for the future, and trying to realize the present. It all seemed so natural, now. Their lives had been running so long in the same current of views, feeling, hopes, aspirations, that it seemed inevitable that the two streams should become one. Roland was not afraid, however, to speak of Grace, whose sweet memory, he said, he could never cease to cherish. His life would be the better always, for his reverential affection for her and for the uplifting effect of her death.
"And so," he said, after a long talk, "I shall keep up The Brotherhood, of course. By and by it may have a real influence in the country. I shall not go on with law, though I am glad to have learned what I know; it will be so useful to me, hereafter. And a few of us are planning starting a factory in Minton, on the coöperative plan, as an experiment in that direction. I expect to be able to give a lecture, now and then, and I hope, also to do something by writing, outside of The Brotherhood. I have had an article accepted already by the American Review.
"Oh, have you!" exclaimed Nora, delighted.
It was like Roland not to have said this till now.
"And I am to help Mr. Alden in his 'Good-fellows' Hall'—give them a Sunday afternoon address, sometimes. Perhaps—I don't know—but, some time, I might be even 'a preacher,' of Mr. Alden's sort. You would like that, dear, I know." Nora did not speak, but the expression of her glad eyes was enough.
"And how are Kitty and Mr. Waldberg?" asked Nora, by and by, with natural fellow-feeling.
"Oh, as happy as turtle-doves!" said Roland. For lovers can always see something amusing in the devotion of another pair of lovers, serious as is their own. "Waldberg is already looking out for the cottage of the future. He has steadied down, and forsworn speculation forever. Mr. Dunlop left him a legacy, too."
"And what of Harold Pomeroy? Has he found consolation yet?"
"I don't imagine he needed any. I don't know much of him. I met that poor Nelly, the other day, very much overdressed. I don't think she works in the mill, now."
"I wonder if he kept his promise to me," said Nora thoughtfully.
"Oh, some men's promises are poor things!" he replied. "By the way, I haven't told you of Miss Pomeroy's engagement to Mr. Archer. It's just been announced. I asked him if I might congratulate him, and he said, in his usual way, he supposed I might if I liked,—it wouldn't do any harm."
Nora laughed outright. But not then, nor for long after, did Roland know all the reason for her amusement.
"And Wharton's gone for a trip to Europe," he continued. "People say he's gone to look up Miss Harley; he says it's to inquire into the labor question over there. Whether she or Mr. Jeffrey converted him, I don't know; but he has certainly changed his position very much."
"And have you seen Mr. Chillingworth lately?" asked Nora.
"Yes," he replied, "I see him, now and then. His manner is always wonderfully kind, though I'm sure he can't have the pleasantest associations with me."
"Oh," said Nora, "I think you are wrong, there! He told Aunt Margaret that you had been of the greatest use to him, in helping him to realize, once more, truths that seemed to be drifting from his grasp."
"I'm sure I don't know how!" said Roland, simply, "but I'm glad if it is so. I hope poor little Cecilia will be happy with him. She will be a wonderful comfort and interest to him, by and by."
"I think," said Nora, "that she really is getting to be a little fond of him. She was a great deal with him, while he was here, and he is making all sorts of plans for her education. Oh, I hope——"
Roland understood the thought which she did not express.
"I think," he said, quietly, "that she has enough of her father's self-contained nature to help to keep other things in check. We must hope for the best. But Mr. Chillingworth is certainly a greatly changed man. I heard him preach lately, and there was such a new note in him, less 'eloquence,' but much more of human sympathy! Well, we've all our limitations; and I've learned to see that 'The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small!' I can see that I've been too much in a hurry for results that must take time to bring about."
"Yes; that's a mistake that we are all apt to make, in some way," said Nora, with a sigh. "But some lines of Browning that I read, the other day, were quite a comfort to me, in thinking of our mistakes. Let me give them to you.
"'God's gift was that man should conceive of truth,
And yearn to gain it, catching at mistake,
As midway help till he reach fact indeed.'"
"If we ever do!" replied Roland, sighing, in his turn. "But, even if it be only a 'midway help,' I can't help still hoping to see some reforms, like the 'eight-hours movement' and some other restrictive measures, carried out in my lifetime. The abolition of slavery looked much more hopeless, a generation or two ago!"
"But even these won't bring perfection and happiness, alone," said Nora, thoughtfully. "There must also be a higher moral ideal, and a higher strength in which to attain it."
"Oh, yes, I've learned that lesson," he replied, quickly. "I know that Law is not Love, nor the knowledge of right, alone, the power to reach it. I know, too, that, as Mr. Alden so often says, there's only one thing that can set this poor world really right, and that is, the growth of the brother-love! And that must come from the Source of Love. Yet, we must all help on, as far as we can. I take comfort in a thought I found in my Thoreau—'The universe constantly and obediently answers to our conceptions; whether we travel fast or slow, the track is laid for us. Let us spend our lives in conceiving them. The poet or the artist never yet had so fair and noble a design, but some of his posterity at least could accomplish it.'"
"'And still it moves!'" quoted Nora, softly; and there was a long silence, once more. And, in the quiet dusk of the August evening, the whippoorwill piped on untiring; as the world, after all, is always singing its old songs over again, if only our ears are not too dull or too tired to hear them.