"A LESSON WITH A SEQUEL."
"How strange that any one should be so superstitious!" said Emily Mahon. Rosemary Beckett had been telling a group of girls of the ridiculous practices of an old negro woman employed by her mother as a laundress.
"People must be very ignorant to believe such things," declared Anna
Shaw, disdainfully.
"Yet," observed Miss Graham, closing the new magazine which she had been looking over, "it is surprising how many persons, who ought to know better, are addicted to certain superstitions, and cannot be made to see that it is not only foolish but wrong to yield to them."
"Well," began Rosemary, "I am happy to say that is not a failing of mine."
"I think everything of the kind is nonsensical," added Kate Parsons.
"I'm not a bit superstitious either," volunteered Emily.
"Nor I," interposed Anna.
"I despise such absurdities," continued May Johnston.
"My dear girls," laughed Miss Graham, "I'll venture to say that each one of you has a pet superstition, which influences you more or less, and which you ought to overcome."
This assertion was met by a chorus of indignant protests.
"Why, Cousin Irene!" cried Emily.
"O, Miss Graham, how can you think so!"
"The very idea!" etc., etc., chimed in the others.
Everybody liked Miss Irene Graham. She lived with her cousins, the Mahons, and supported herself by giving lessons to young girls who for various reasons did not attend a regular school. Her classes were popular, not only because she was bright and clever, and had the faculty of imparting what she knew; but because, as parents soon discovered, she taught her pupils good, sound common-sense, as well as "the shallower knowledge of books." Cousin Irene had not forgotten how she used to think and feel when she herself was a young girl, and therefore she was able to look at the world from a girl's point of view, to sympathize with her dreams and undertakings. She did not look for very wise heads upon young shoulders; but when she found that her pupils had foolish notions, or did not behave sensibly, she tried to make them see this for themselves; and we all know from experience that what we learn in that way produces the most lasting impression.
The girls now gathered around her were members of the literature class, which met on Wednesday and Saturday mornings at the Mahons'. As they considered themselves accomplished and highly cultivated for their years, it was mortifying to be accused of being so unenlightened as to believe in omens.
"No, I haven't a particle of superstition," repeated Rosemary, decidedly. "There's one thing I won't do, though. I won't give or accept a present of anything sharp—a knife or scissors, or even a pin,—because, the saying is, it cuts friendship. I've found it so, too. I gave Clara Hayes a silver hair-pin at Christmas, and a few weeks after we quarrelled."
"There is the fault, popping up like a Jack-in-the box!" said Miss Irene. "But, if I remember, Clara was a new acquaintance of yours in the holidays, and you and she were inseparable. The ardor of such extravagant friendship soon cools. Before long you concluded you did not like her so well as at first; then came the disagreement. But is it not silly to say the pin had anything to do with the matter? Would it not have been the same if you had given her a book or a picture?"
"If I'm walking in the street with a friend, I'm always careful never to let any person or thing come between us," admitted Kate Parsons. "It's a sure sign that you'll be disappointed—"
"Oh, it will be all right if you remember to say 'Bread and butter!'" interrupted Anna, eagerly.
They all laughed; but Miss Irene saw by the tell-tale faces of several that they clung to this childish practice.
"We used to do so in play when we were little girls," said Emily, apologetically; "and I suppose it became a habit."
"The other day," Miss Graham went on, "I heard a young lady say: 'If you are setting out upon a journey, or even a walk, and have to go back to the house for anything, be sure you sit down before starting off again.' It is bad luck not to do so.'"
Emily colored.
"Yes, we are very particular about that!" cried Rosemary, impulsively, as her companions did not contradict the avowal; it was evident that she knew what she was talking about.
The conversation turned to other subjects. Presently Anna and Rosemary were planning an excursion to a neighboring town.
"To visit Elizabeth Harris, who was at the convent with us last year," explained the latter. "Suppose we go to-morrow?"
"I have an engagement with the dentist," was the doleful reply.
"Well, the day after?"
"Let me see," mused Anna. "Oh, no!" she added, hastily. "I could not start on a journey or begin any work on a Friday; it would not be lucky, you know!" Then she flushed and looked toward Miss Irene, who shook her head significantly and wrote in her note-book, "Superstitious practice No. 4."
As it was Emily's birthday, the girls had been invited to stay for luncheon. Emily now led the way to the dining-room, where a pretty table was spread. Everything was as dainty as good taste and handsome auxiliaries could make it: the snowy damask, fine glass, and old family silver; the small crystal bowls filled with chrysanthemums, and at each plate a tiny bouquet.
Mr. Mahon was down town at his business, but there stood Mrs. Mahon, so kind and affable; and the boys and girls of the family were waiting to take their seats. The party paused, while, according to the good old-fashioned custom (now too often neglected), grace was said; and Cousin Irene, contemplating the bright faces and pleasant surroundings, thought she had seldom seen a more attractive picture. But now she noticed that May, after a quick look around, appeared startled and anxious. The next moment the foolish girl exclaimed:
"O Mrs. Mahon, there are thirteen of us here! You do not like to have thirteen persons at your table, do you? Pardon me, but I'm so nervous about it!"
A shadow of annoyance flitted across Mrs. Mahon's motherly countenance, but she answered gently: "My dear, I never pay any attention to the superstition. Still a hostess will not insist upon making a guest uncomfortable. Tom," she continued, addressing her youngest son, "you will oblige me by taking your luncheon afterward."
Tom scowled at May, flung himself out of his chair, mumbled something about "stuff and nonsense;" and, avoiding his mother's reproving glance, went off in no amiable humor.
May was embarrassed, especially as she felt Miss Irene's grave eyes fixed upon her. But Mrs. Mahon was too courteous to allow any one to remain disconcerted at her hospitable board. With ready tact she managed that the little incident should seem speedily forgotten. After a momentary awkwardness the girls began to chatter merrily again, and harmony was restored.
On their return to the drawing-room, May whispered to Miss Graham: "I hope Mrs. Mahon will excuse me for calling her attention to the number at table. I did not mean to be rude, and I suppose it is silly to be so superstitious; but, indeed, I can not help it."
"Do not say that, dear; because you can help it if you wish," was the gentle reply, "Mrs. Mahon understood, I am sure, that you did not intend to be impolite; but I know she must have felt regret that you should give way to such folly." Then, turning to the others, Miss Irene continued: "Well, girls, considering the revelations of this morning, perhaps you will admit that you have, after all, a fair share of superstition."
"I'm afraid so," acknowledged Rosemary; and no one demurred.
"Do you know how these superstitions originated, Miss Graham?" asked
Anna, who was of an inquiring mind.
"Many of them are very ancient," replied Cousin Irene. "That which predicts that the gift of anything sharp cuts friendship probably dates back farther than the days of Rome and Greece, and is almost as old as the dagger itself. No doubt it originated in an age of frequent wars and quarrels, when for a warrior to put a weapon in the hands of a companion was perhaps to find it forthwith turned against himself. In those days of strife also, when men were more ready in action than in the turning of phrases, and so much was expressed by symbolism, the offering of a sword or dagger was frequently in itself a challenge, and a declaration of enmity. Thus, you see, that what was a natural inference in other times is meaningless in ours. The adage which advises the person obliged to turn back in his journey to be careful to sit down before setting out anew, was at first simply a metaphorical way of saying that having made a false start toward the accomplishment of any duty, it is well to begin again at the beginning. The custom which restrained comrades in arms, or friends walking or journeying together, from allowing anything to come between them, had also a figurative import. It was a dramatic manner of declaring, 'Nothing shall ever part us,—no ill-will nor strife, not even this accidental barrier, shall interrupt our friendly intercourse.' In the times, too, when there were few laws but that of might, when danger often lurked by the wayside, it was always well for a traveller to keep close to his companion, and not to separate from him without necessity.
"Many other superstitions, as well, have a symbolical origin. But the nineteenth century does not deal with such picturesque methods of expression. We pride ourselves upon saying in so many words just what we mean; therefore much of the poetic imagery of other days has no significance in ours. And is it not symbolism without sense which constitutes one of the phases of superstition? As for your bread-and-butter exorcism, Anna, I presume it was simply the expression of a hope that nothing might interfere between hungry folk and their dinner. This is, indeed, but a bit of juvenile nonsense; just as children will 'make believe' that some dire mishap will befall one who steps on the cracks of a flagged sidewalk; and so on through a score of funny conceits and games, innocent enough as child's play, but hardly worthy of sensible girls in their teens.
"You know, the practice of refraining from beginning a journey or undertaking on Friday," continued Miss Irene, "arose from a religious observance of the day upon which Our Lord was crucified. As the early Christians were accustomed to devote this day to meditation and prayer, it followed that few went abroad at that time, or set about new temporal ventures. Superstition early perverted the import of this pious custom. As on that day Satan marshalled all the powers of evil against the Son of God, so, said the soothsayers, he would beset with misfortune and danger the path of those who set forth on a Friday. As regards the case in point, since we do not go into retreat once a week, I presume Anna and Rosemary have not this reason for refusing to visit their young friend on Friday."
There was a general laugh, after which Miss Irene went on:
"For the rest, we know God's loving providence carefully watches over us at all times, and constantly preserves us from countless dangers; that nothing can betide us without His permission, and that He blesses the work of every day if we ask Him. Far from being influenced by the common superstition with regard to Friday, it would seem as if we should piously prefer to begin an undertaking (and in this spirit seek a special blessing on the work thus commenced) on the day of the week which commemorates that most fortunate of all days for us, on which was consummated the great act of Redemption.
"The superstition with reference to thirteen at table dates from the Last Supper, of which Our Lord partook with His twelve Apostles on the eve of His crucifixion. Hence the saying that of thirteen persons who sit down together to a repast, one will soon die. I think it was originally the custom to avoid having thirteen at the festive or family board, not so much from this notion, as to express a horror of the treachery of Judas. Such would be, for instance, the chivalrous spirit of the Crusaders. We can understand how, in feudal times, a knight would consider it an affront to his fellows to bid them to a banquet spread for thirteen. In those days, when a feast was so apt to end in a fray,—when by perfidy the enemy so often entered at the castle gate while the company were at table, and frequently a chief was slain ere he could rise from his place,—the circumstance would point an analogy which it has not with us, suggesting not merely mortality but betrayal; a breach of all the laws of hospitality; impending death by violence. Since we can not live forever, among every assemblage of individuals there is likely to be one at least whose life may be nearly at its close. The more persons present, the greater the probability; therefore there is really a greater fatality in the numbers fourteen, twenty, thirty, than in thirteen.
"But to return to the point from which we started—no, Emily, it is not necessary to sit down. You will observe that many persons who declare emphatically that they are not superstitious, are nevertheless influenced by old-time sayings and practices; some of which, though perhaps beautiful originally, have now lost all significance; others which are simply relics of paganism. Men are often as irrational in this respect as women; and, notice this well, you will find superstition much more common among non-Catholics than among Catholics. As we have seen, however, some of us do not realize that what we are pleased to call certain harmless eccentricities, are very like the superstitious practices forbidden by the First Commandment."
Kate and Emily were not giving to this little homily the attention it deserved. They had begun to trifle as girls are wont to do. Catching at the tiny bisque cupid that hung from the chandelier, Emily sportively sent it flying toward Kate, who swung it back again. Thus they kept it flitting to and fro, faster and faster. Finally, Emily hit it with a jerk. The cord by which it was suspended snapped; the dainty bit of bric-a-brac sped across the room, and, striking with full force against a mirror in a quaint old secretary that had belonged to Mr. Mahon's uncle, shivered the glass to pieces. Instantly every trace of color fled from her face, and she stood appalled, gazing at the mischief she had done. There was, of course, an exclamation from her companions, who remained staring at her, and appeared almost as disturbed as herself.
Cousin Irene went over and patted her on the shoulder, saying, "Do not be so distressed, child. I know you are sorry to have damaged the old secretary, which we value so much for its associations. But there is no need of being so troubled. We can have a new mirror put in."
"It is not only that," faltered the silly girl; "but to break a looking-glass! You know it is a sure sign that a great misfortune will befall us—that there will probably be a death in the family before long."
"Oh, but such sayings don't always come true! There are often exceptions," interposed Kate, anxious to say something consolatory, and heartily wishing they had let the little cupid alone.
"Too bad; for it really is dreadfully unlucky to have such a thing happen!" sighed Rosemary, with less tact.
"I know it," murmured May.
"Yes, indeed," added Anna.
Miss Graham drew back astonished. "Young ladies, I am ashamed of you!" she said, reproachfully, and went out of the room.
There were a few moments of discomfiture, and presently the girls concluded, one after another, that it was time to be going home.
Left alone, Emily approached the secretary and examined the ruined mirror. It was cracked like an egg-shell,—"smashed to smithereens," Tom said in telling the story later; but only one or two bits had fallen out. Idly attempting to fit these into place again, Emily caught sight of what she supposed was a sheet of note-paper, that had apparently made its way in between the back of the mirror and the frame.
"An old letter of grandpa's, probably," she said aloud, taking hold of the corner to draw it out. It stuck fast; but a second effort released it, amid a shower of splintered glass; and to her amazement she found in her possession a time-stained document that had a mysteriously legal air. Trembling with excitement she unfolded it, and, without stopping to think that it might not be for her eyes, began to read the queer writing, which was somewhat difficult to decipher:
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. I, Bernard Mahon, being of sound and disposing mind, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament."
"Uncle Bernard's will!" gasped Emily. "It must be the one father always said uncle told him about, but which never could be found. Perhaps he slipped it in here for safe-keeping." Eagerly she scanned it, crying at last, "Yes, yes! Hurrah! O Cousin Irene!" she called out, hearing the latter's step in the hall.
When Miss Graham entered Emily was waltzing around the room, waving the document ecstatically. "See what I've found!" she cried, darting toward her with an impulsive caress.
Cousin Irene took the paper, and, as she perused it, became, though in a less demonstrative fashion, as agitated as Emily. "Your father!" she stammered.
Mr. Mahon had come into the house and was now in the little study, which he called his den. Cousin Irene and Emily almost flew thither, and a few minutes later his voice, with a glad ring in it, was heard calling first his wife and then the children to tell them the joyful news.
The will so long sought, so strangely brought to light, made a great change in the family fortunes. By it Bryan, the old man's son, who was unmarried and dissipated, was entitled to merely a certain income and life-interest in the estate, which upon his demise was to go to the testator's nephew William (Mr. Mahon) and Cousin Irene. In fact, however, at his father's death, Bryan, as no will was discovered, had entered into full possession of the property; and when within a year his own career was suddenly cut short, it was learned that he had bequeathed nothing to his relatives but a few family heirlooms.
"I did not grudge Bryan what he had while he lived," said Mr. Mahon; "but when, after the poor fellow was drowned, we heard that he had left all his money to found a library for 'the Preservation of the Records of Sport and Sportsmen,' I did feel that, with my boys and girls to provide for and educate, I could have made a better use of it. And Cousin Irene would have been saved a good deal of hard work if she could have obtained her share at the time. Thank God it is all right now, and the library with the long name will have to wait for another founder."
The girls of the literature class soon heard of their friends' good fortune, and were not slow in offering their congratulations.
One day, some two years after, when Anna and Rosemary happened to call at the Mahons', a chance reference was made to the discovery of the will. "Only think," exclaimed Rosemary, "how much came about through the spoiling of that mirror! Emily, you surely can never again believe it unlucky to break a looking-glass?"
"No, indeed!" replied Emily, thinking of the uninterrupted happiness and prosperity which the family had enjoyed since then.
"It was a fortunate accident for us," said Cousin Irene; "but I should not advise any one to go around smashing all the looking-glasses in his or her house, hoping for a similar result. It certainly would be an unlucky sign for the person who had to meet the bill for repairs."
"Miss Graham, how do you suppose this superstition originated?" asked Anna, as eager for information as ever. After a general laugh at her expense, Cousin Irene said:
"The first mirrors, you must remember, were the forest pools and mountain tarns. As the hunter stooped to one of these to slake his thirst, if perchance so much as a shadow should break the reflection of his own image in its tranquil depths, he had reason to fear that danger and perhaps death were at hand; for often in some such dark mirror a victim caught the first glimpse of his enemy, who had been waiting in ambush and was now stealing upon him from behind; or of the wild beast making ready to leap upon him. But the popular augury that the mere fact of breaking a looking-glass portends death, is, you must see, senseless and absurd. And so, as I think you have become convinced, are all superstitions. It is true we sometimes remark coincidences, and are inclined to make much of them; without noting, on the contrary, how many times the same supposed omens and signs come to nought. When God wills to send us some special happiness or trial, be assured He makes use of no such means to prepare us for it; since He directs our lives not by chance, but by His all-wise and loving Providence."