REA'S ATONEMENT. THE NEW MOTHER SUPERIOR.
"When little girls tell tiny fibs,
We turn all roary tory;
And tell how lions ate the child,
Who told one naughty story.
But when the girls adorn themselves,
With hair dye, paint and chignon;
They look so nice, that in a trice,
We alter our opinion."
—Anon.
The rain comes down in a dull, ceaseless pour, making the icy streets still more dangerous to walk safely on. A regular January thaw, after a freezing spell of bitterly cold weather. Rea Severn, sitting in a large invalid chair, looks out on the dreary scene. She is thinking long, and hardly, and bitterly on her past life. No one would recognize the bright vivacious Rea in the distressed looking creature sitting there, in her white dress, the dress no whiter than the wearer's face. Her eyes look as if she had cried all the brightness out of them. Rea has been very ill; at one time it was understood she could not recover. The habit of eating opium had taken full possession of her, and now she is but a skeleton of her former bright self. She had eaten only a little at first, because it put color in her otherwise colorless face. It helped to brighten her eyes; made her high spirited. But after a time its deadly work began. She could no longer exist without a double portion of the deadly drug. The habit, of which she had been warned against by the Gipsy, during her visit to the Island, with the other members of the party which were on board the Hon. Jerry's yacht, was certainly doing its best to kill her, if she did not kill it. And Rea felt almost powerless to battle any longer. People said she most certainly must put something on her face, it was such a strangely, pinkish-creamy tint. Rea denied it to all but Arial St. James, and it was to be said to Arial's credit, that she was shocked when she discovered the girl had recourse to such means. She persuaded her to stop, but Rea persisted, and made Arial promise secrecy. During her spells of low-spiritedness, the only one who could sympathize with her was Mrs. St. James. During the past three years, no one but the girl herself knew how she had suffered; how many battles she had tried to fight against it; how many prayers she had offered up, but all seemed of no avail; and at last, when death had almost claimed her, she seemed ready to lay down the weapons at the enemy's feet and give up all further efforts in despair.
When Sister Jean came to take care of her, she it was who changed the whole current of Rea Severn's life. She offered to help her daily; she told of the quiet, peaceful convent life; of the good waiting to be done, if there were any to do it. She braced Rea's spirits up and brought her to see that there are more things in the world to live for beside one's own selfishness. And the Heavenly hand she had almost began to think had failed her, was stretched out to Rea to assist her future life, to guide her steps into a safer path than she had been treading. For the first time for many months and years her mind was calm and satisfied; she found a peaceful calm and quiet settle around her after hearing Sister Jean's gentle voice, telling her of the helpfulness to many of the convent sisters. The wind howls around the house dismally. Rea shivers and looks from the dreary outside to the cheerful fire roaring in the pretty room within. There is a peal of silvery laughter comes floating up-stairs, followed by Mrs. St. James' lovely self. She could not wait any longer for the storm to clear, but had taken a cab and come over to cheer up her invalid friend. She comes into the pretty room, smilingly serene as usual.
"Arial, how good of you to come to me, and on such a miserable day, too." Mrs. St. James takes the easy chair opposite Rea. She looks over toward the other window, with a very scornful smile on her very beautiful lips. She has no smile, no word of greeting for the other occupant of the room. It is quite foreign to her to take any notice of the charity sister, whom it has been Rea's fancy to make so friendly of. Most decidedly Mrs. St. James does not approve of Sister Jean. Does it ever enter the scornful lady's mind that she may and would live to see the day when she would do anything reasonable or otherwise to be recognized by the girl over there in the window, who never raises her sweet, pale face from her sewing? Perhaps not, we do not know, in these days of possibilities, what is likely to happen within a short period.
"Have you heard about Gordon Aubrey, my dear? What will you say when I tell you? Prepare for a shock to your feelings." Rea smiles languidly.
"Poor Gordon, what has he been up to now?" she asks, indifferently. She has always been fond, very fond of Gordon. And Gordon? Well, the path he has marked out for himself now, goes to show how fond he was of charming Rea.
"He went somewhere with some friends, fishing; they came across some girl, and Gordon, of course, as usual, was immediately captivated with her pretty face; he only knew her a week, when, to use Whitehead's words,
'In short she blushed, she looked consent,
He grasped her hand, to church they went.'
And Gordon is lost to us all forever and aye." Arial is hardly prepared to see Rea take her words so coolly.
"And so he has been and gone and done it? May every happiness follow him and his pretty wife, whoever she be," are Rea's gracious words.
"I should not like to be her; in a week he will tire of her. You know he is not one of the constant sort." Mrs. St. James shrugs those beautiful shoulders of hers. She is really quite disgusted at Gordon's lack of taste. A girl with no education whatever, and in those days, too, when every person has a chance to learn, if they so please. She hopes he will repent, and that bitterly, in the bargain.
"Such a nice fellow young Lord Streathmere has become; they say his mother and he, accompanied by Sir Barry Traleigh, were at the ball last night. Sir Barry gets nicer every day; what a pity he does not marry."
Sister Jean's spool of thread falls on the floor: she stoops to pick it up and then glides from the room. This is the first time sister Jean heard of Lord Streathmere, but her heart beats with grateful affection at the mention of Sir Barry Traleigh.
"I cannot understand how you can have that girl here, Rea; she would give me the chills to have her gliding so noiselessly around. Another thing, you are nearly well now; I don't see why you need her any longer."
The clouds are breaking away, the storm is over, and a glimmer of sunlight, peeping from a rift in the sky, falls on Rea's pale face, and lights up the tired eyes.
"What makes you so prejudiced against her, Arial?" she asks, looking at Mrs. St. James' cold, handsome face.
"I have no patience with that class of people; my advice to you is to get rid of her as soon as you can." Mrs. St. James feels she has not all the confidence of Rea. She used to tell her everything, but since sister Jean's arrival, Rea never has any confidence to make, and Arial feels she is gradually being rivalled, and by a charity sister. It is all very bitter for Arial to believe.
Some days later, the cosy library at Mrs. St. James is bright with light, and warmth.
"Something to interest you, my dear," Mr. St. James says, passing his wife the evening paper. Very quietly Arial looks up from her book. She takes the paper, and a red, deep crimson spot burns on both her perfect cheeks as she reads. It has come to pass what she has been dreading.
"It is to be regretted by all who have known her worth of goodness, that mother St. Marguerite, the sympathetic Mother Superior of the Convent of St. Marguerite, is about to give up the position she has begun and succeeded with so famously. Her place will be supplied by one whom we all hope may prove herself as worthy of esteem as her valuable predecessor. The new Mother Superior is a lady who lately adorned the most brilliant and fashionable society circles—Miss Rea Severn."