Daybreak
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Chapter VIII.
The Lord Answered Job Out Of A Whirlwind.
Mr. Southard was perfectly confident in his expectation of being able to convince Miss Hamilton of her mistake. He knew her well enough to be sure that she would fearlessly acknowledge her error as soon as it should be made plain to her; and he did not doubt that the power to produce that conviction on her mind would be given him.
He would not allow that first twinge of wounded personal pride and dignity of office, with which he had seen how light she held his authority in matters of religion, to stand in the way of his endeavors. The first dignity of his office was to perform its duties. Exacting respect was secondary.
Mr. Southard had one confident: his journal. The day the books were left on his table he wrote in it: "Tonight I am to read Milner's End of Controversy. O my God! may I read it by the light of thy Gospel! May a ray of heavenly truth fall on each page, expose its hidden falsehood, and teach me how best to prove that falsehood to this stray lamb who has been lured from thy fold into the den of the wolf."
Two or three days passed, the book was read, and read again; but the refutation was not ready. Mr. Southard was too honest and too manly to think that personal abuse was a proper answer to theological argument. He remembered that when St. Michael set his foot upon the neck of Satan, and chained him to the rock, he did not use infernal weapons, or walk in loathsome ways; but his sword was tempered in heaven, and there was no mire upon his sandals.
"When I fight for the Lord," the minister said, "I will use the weapons of the Lord."
He laid aside the first book, and took another. Again a few days, and yet he was not prepared to undermine his adversary.
"I am astonished at the ingenuity and subtlety of these writers," was the record he made in those days. "All the resources of minds richly dowered by nature, highly cultivated by education, and inspired by some strange infatuation for what they call the church, have been brought to bear upon this question of polemics. How skilfully they mingle truth with falsehood! What beautiful, what touching, what sublime sentiments they drop in places where one would not go save so lured! It reminds me of my boyish days, when the scarlet blossom of a cardinal-flower would entice me down steep banks, and into dangerous waters, or some bloomy patch of ripe berries would draw my feet into a treacherous swamp. I begin to perceive the attraction which the Roman Church exercises on the unwary."
It will be perceived that Mr. Southard had the rare courtesy not to use the word "Romish." He was so much a gentleman that he could not call nicknames, not even in theological controversy.
But as his days of study lengthened into weeks, a change came over him. The obstacles in his way made him nervous, feverish, and, it must be owned, rather ill-tempered. His political opposition to Mr. Lewis was expressed with unusual asperity. He was very haughty with Miss Hamilton. He entirely absented himself from luncheon, and he sometimes dined out, rather than sit beside that smiling papist who was doubtless triumphing over him in her heart, taking his silence for defeat. He groaned as he heard her light step pass his door every morning on her way to early mass. That step was his réveil. Should he, the Gospel watchman, sleep while the foe was awake and at work?
"Why cannot truth inspire as much ardor as error awakens?" he wrote one morning. "Why cannot we bring back the old days of faith, when God was to man a power, and not a name; when the tables of the law were stone to the touch; when he who made flood, and fire, and death was more terrible than flood, fire, or death? The author of Ecce Homo is right; no virtue is safe that is not enthusiastic. A cold religion is a worthless religion. O Lord! have mercy on Zion; for it is time to have mercy on it."
But, angry as he was with her every morning, when Mr. Southard met Margaret coming in again from mass, her face smiling, her cheeks red from the cold, he could but forgive her. It is hard to frown on a bright face, happiness looks so much like goodness.
Mr. Granger took notice of these early walks, Mr. Lewis alternately scowled upon and laughed at them. Mrs. Lewis and Aurelia exclaimed, How dared she go out alone before light!
The wicked people, if there were any, were all asleep, Miss Hamilton said, sitting down to breakfast with a most unromantic appetite, and a general preponderance of rose-color and sparkle in her countenance. At six o'clock on winter mornings no one was abroad but papists and policemen. It was the safest hour of the twenty-four.
"My good angel and I just go about our business, and nobody molests us," she said with a spice of mischief; for the mention of anything peculiarly Catholic usually had the effect of producing a blank silence, and a general elongation of visage.
"But such a magnificent spectacle as I saw this morning! I came home round the Common. The sleet-storm of last evening had left all the trees crusted with ice to the very tips of their twigs, and set an ice-mitre on every individual arrow-head of the iron fence. There were the ghosts of all the bishops from Peter down. There wasn't any sky, but only a vast crystalline distance. I took my stand on the Beacon and Charles street corner. Every other person who was so happy as to be out looked also. Then the sun came up. Park street steeple caught fire at the ball, and flamed all the way down. There was a glimmer on the topmost twigs, then the trees all over the Common were in an instant transfigured into flashing diamonds. The malls were enough to put your eyes out—nothing but glitter from end to end. It was a grand display for the frost-people. The trees will talk about it all next summer."
The winter slipped away; and Mr. Southard had not fulfilled his promise to Miss Hamilton. Neither had he relinquished his studies. Shut up with his books hour after hour and day after day, in silence and solitude, he scarcely knew how the world fared without. For him the war had suddenly dwindled. Through long and weary vigils that wore his face thin and his eyes hollow, he studied, and thought, and prayed, not the humble petition of one who places himself before God, and passively awaits an inspiration, but the impassioned and fiery petition of one who will not doubt the justice of his cause, and will not be denied. Then, leaning from the window to cool his heated eyes and head in the fresh early dawning, a peace that was half exhaustion would settle upon him. Sleep came pitifully in those hours, and pressed on the throbbing brain too much expanded by thought, and for a little while soothed the tormented heart.
His journal bore traces of the conflict.
"I will resist the seduction! This is my time of trial; but I will conquer! In the name of God, I will yet confound the doctors of the Roman Church. O God! who didst nerve the arm of David against Goliath, strengthen thou me!"
At every step he was baffled. Catching at what appeared a mere theological weed, thinking to fling it out of his way, he found it rooted like an oak. Approaching dogmas with the expectation of cutting them down like men of straw, he was confronted by mailed giants.
He found himself among crowds and clouds of Catholic saints—shadows, he called them—that would fly from his path when he should hold up the torch of truth. But, looking in that light, he saw steadfast eyes, and shining foreheads, and palm-branches that brushed his shrinking, empty hands. And out from among them, with a look of gentle humility that smote him like a blow, and with a tremulous radiance gathering about her pure forehead, came one whom he had frowned upon, and striven to discrown. What was she saying? "All nations shall call me blessed!" Not great, not glorious, not even lovely, but blessed!
"Well—she—was blessed," admitted the minister.
The next moment he started out of his chair, muttered some kind of exorcism, caught his hat, and went out for a walk. Though it was mid-April, a north wind was blowing thank heaven for that! Nothing murky about the north wind. It would soon blow away all these pestilential vapors that came up from the sun-steeped lowlands of his soul; pagan places where, though his iconoclastic will had again and again gone about breaking images, no sooner did it rest than there they were again, Bacchus, and Hebe, and Diana, and the rest. Or from yet more dangerous because more deceptive regions, wide, bright solitudes of the soul, arid and dazzling, where the unobstructed sky seemed to lean upon the earth—the region of mirages, of New Jerusalems, that shone and crumbled—of sacred-seeming streams that fled from thirsty lips—of cool shadows that never were reached.
In one of these impetuous walks, Mr. Southard came across an old minister, and went into his study with him, and told him something of his difficulties. He was too well aware of his own excitement to venture on a full explanation. Moreover, there was something soothing and silencing in the look of this man, in his tranquil, rather sad expression, his noble face, and snowy hair.
The old doctor leaned back in his chair, and calmly listened while his younger brother spoke, smiling indulgently now and then at some vivid turn of expression, some flash of the eyes, some impatient gesture.
Elderly ministers were always pleased with Mr. Southard, who would ask advice and instruction of them with a docility that was almost childlike. Such respect was very pleasant to those who seemed to have fallen upon evil days, who saw the prestige of the ministry departing, to whom boys had ceased to take off their caps, to whom even women did not look up as of yore.
"My dear brother," said the doctor gently when the other had ceased speaking, "you have made a mistake in attempting this work. I tell you frankly, we can never argue down the Catholic Church. All the old theologians know that, and avoid the contest. For perfect consistency with itself, and for wonderful complexity yet harmony of structure, the world has not seen, and will not again see its equal. It is the masterwork of the arch-enemy."
"So much the more reason why we should attack it with all our might!" exclaimed the other.
"No," replied the doctor, "That does not follow. There are dangers which must be shunned, not met; and this is one. As with wine, so with Romanism, 'touch not, taste not, handle not!'"
"That might be said to the laity," Mr. Southard persisted. "But for us who teach theology, we ought to search, we ought to examine. It is essential that we know the weapons of our adversary in order to destroy them."
"Truth has many phases, and so has belief," was the quiet reply. "We begin by believing that the doctrines we hold are the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and that everything else is unmitigated falsehood. But after a while, according to the degree of candor of which we are capable, we begin to admit that every religion on earth has something reasonable to say for itself. There is a grain of good in Mohammedanism, in Brahminism, in Buddhism. We are now credibly assured that the old story of people throwing themselves under the wheels of Juggernaut is a myth. Hindu converts say that there were sometimes accidents at these religious celebrations, on account of the crowd, as we have accidents on the fourth of July; but that Juggernaut was a beneficent deity who took no pleasure in human pain, and whose attributes were a dim reflection of Christianity. I used to tell that story in perfect good faith whenever a collection was wanted for the missionaries. I don't tell it now. At last we learn to choose what seems to us best, to present its advantages to others, but not to insist that all shall agree with us under pain of eternal loss. When I hear a man crying out violently against the purely religious opinions of others, I always set him down as a man of narrow heart and narrower head. The principal reason for my well-known hostility to Catholicism is a political one.
"The fact is, brother, God's light falling on the mind of man, is like sunlight falling on a prism. It is no longer the pure white, but is shattered into colors which each one catches according to his humor. We ministers are not like Moses coming from the mountain with the whole law in his two hands, and a dazzling face to testify for him that he had been with God, he alone. I wish we were, brother! I wish we were!"
"But faith," exclaimed the other, "is there no faith?"
"We believe in the essentials; and they are few."
"How shall we prove them?"
"As the Catholic Church proves them. She holds the whole truth tangled in the midst of her errors, like a fly in a spider's web."
Mr. Southard sat a moment, looking steadily, almost sternly, at his companion.
"Then you and I have no mission," he said. "We are not divinely called."
"Whithersoever a man goes, there is he called," said the doctor, sighing faintly. "We among the rest. We have a mission, too, and a noble one. We make people keep the Sabbath, which, without us, would fall into disuse; we remind them of their duties; we check immorality; we keep before the eyes of worldlings the fact that there is another world than this. In short, we spend our breath in keeping alive the sacred fire on the desecrated altar of the human soul. Is that nothing?"
In speaking, the doctor lifted his head, and drew up his stately form. His voice trembled with feeling, and his eyes were full of indignant tears. His look was proud, almost defiant; yet seemed directed less against his companion, than combating some voice in his own soul. All the enthusiastic dreams of his youth, though they had long since been subdued, as he thought, by common sense and necessity, stirred in their graves at sound of the imperious questioning, at sight of the clear, searching eyes of this young visionary who fancied that in the troubled spirit of man the full orb of truth was to be reflected unblurred.
"In short," Mr. Southard said, rising to go, "you believe that the spirit of evil can propose a problem which the Holy Spirit cannot solve."
"Not so!" was the reply; "but the spirit of evil may propose a problem which the Holy Spirit may not choose to solve for us till the end of time."
Chapter IX.
Noblesse Oblige
On his way home that day, the minister met Mr. Granger, and the two stopped to look at a Vermont regiment that was marching through the city from the Maine depot to the New York depot. As they stopped, the regiment also was stopped by some obstruction in the street.
The attention of the gentlemen was presently attracted to a boy in the rank nearest them, a bright, resolute-looking lad, with a ruddy face and smiling lips. But it needed not a very keen observer to see in that smile the pathetic bravado of a boy who had just torn himself away from home, and was struggling to hide the grief with which his heart was swelling.
"What is a boy like you in the army for?" Mr. Granger asked.
The young soldier looked up, his bright eyes bold with excitement. "When men won't go, the boys have got to go," he answered. "Do you want to take my place?"
Mr. Granger said no more.
Beside this boy stood a middle aged man who had an uncommonly good face. He was tall, somewhat awkward, and had that look of unsophisticated manliness, honest candor, and plain common sense, which is found only in the country. One could not fancy him a dweller among masked city faces, breathing air pent in narrow streets, walking daily on pavements, and knowing no shades but those of brick and stone. His place was tramping through wild forests, not with any romantic intent, but measuring with practised eyes the trunk of some tree in which he saw what woodsmen call a "good stick," and chopping steadily at it while the chips flew about him, and above him the spreading branches shivered at every stroke; or plodding slowly through still country roads beside his slow oxen; or, in the sultry summer days, swinging the scythe through thick grass and clover, mowing them down ankle deep at his feet. He had the flavor of all that about him. Now he had to wade through other than that fragrant summer sacrifice, to break through other ranks than serried clover and Mayweed, and those strong arms of his were to lay low something greater than pine or cedar. You could see that this thought was in his mind, that he never lost sight of it, but, also, that he would not shrink. Such men have not much to say; but in time of need they put into action the heroism which others exhale in glowing language.
This man had been looking straight before him; but at the sound of a childish voice he turned his head quickly. A little girl leaning from the curbstone was admiring the bunch of flowers on the soldier's bayonet, and stretching longing hands toward them.
The fixed look in the man's face broke up instantly. "Do you want them, little dear?" he asked.
"Oh! yes."
He lowered his rifle, removed the flowers, and gave them to the child, looking at her with a yearning, homesick smile that was more pitiful than tears. At that moment the drums began to beat. The soldier laid his bronzed hand on the happy little head, then, with trembling lips and downcast eyes, marched on, and out of sight for ever.
Mr. Granger turned abruptly away. "I feel as if I were a great lazy coward!" he exclaimed. "I can't stand this any longer!"
The minister looked at him with a startled expression; but any reply was prevented; for just then they met Mrs. Lewis coming out of a flower-store, with her hands full of Mayflowers done up in solid pink bunches, without a sign of green.
"Poor things!" she said. "The sight of them always reminds me of the massacre of the Innocents. See! they look like so many pretty little pink and white heads cut off. Massed so, without any green, they are not at all like flowers. Are we going home to dinner? My husband will be late, and we are not to wait for him. He has gone to see who is drafted in our ward."
The family had nearly finished dinner when Mr. Lewis came in. "Our house is favored," he said immediately. "Granger, both you and I are drawn."
Mr. Granger looked up, but said nothing. "I got my substitute on the spot," Mr. Lewis continued. "He is a decent fellow whom I can depend on. I asked him if he knew of any one for you, and he thought he could get somebody."
Mr. Granger made no reply, seemed to be occupied in waiting on his little girl who sat beside him.
"How sober he is!" thought Miss Hamilton; but did not feel troubled, his gravity was so gentle.
Dora looked up in her father's face, and laughed, half with love, half with delight. "You nice papa!" she cried, and gave his arm an enthusiastic hug. He laid his hand on those sunny curls, as he had seen the soldier do in the street, but did not smile.
Glancing at Mr. Southard, Margaret met a look at once anxious and searching. His eyes were instantly averted, but his expression did not change. What could it mean? After dinner, he went directly to his room.
Mr. Granger sat apart in the parlor with Dora, petting her, and telling her stories. When her bed-time came, he went out with her, and was gone longer than usual. The evening was cool, and they had a fire in the grate. Mr. Lewis sat before it reading the evening paper, and the three ladies gathered in one corner, and talked in whispers.
"How sober and strange everything seems this evening!" Margaret said, shivering. "I feel cold. It isn't like spring, but like fall. Hold my hand, Aura dear. What does chill me so?"
"It is because Mr. Southard looked at you in such an odd way," Aurelia said gravely, holding Margaret's cold hand between her warm ones.
"I know what ails me," Mrs. Lewis said, in a tone of vexation. "It is that substitute. My husband will preach poverty for six months to come. Charles," raising her voice, "does your substitute look as if he had swallowed a new black silk dress with little ruffles all over it?"
"He has very much that expression of countenance," growled Mr. Lewis from behind his newspaper.
"O dear! And does he look as if Niagara Falls had disappeared down his throat, and as if he were just chewing up a little trip to the mountains?"
"You describe him perfectly," her husband replied with grim courtesy.
Mr. Granger came in presently, and stood awhile by one of the windows, looking out into the twilight. Then he took a seat by the fire.
It was getting too dark to read without a light, and Mr. Lewis laid his paper aside. "I will see about your substitute to-morrow," he said, "and send him up to the bank, if you wish."
"Thank you," Mr. Granger replied. "And as soon as I get a substitute, I shall immediately volunteer."
There was an exclamation from the ladies, and a sound as if one caught her breath.
Mr. Lewis stared at the speaker, turned very red, then started up, and went out of the room, banging the door behind him. A minute later, he flung open the door of Mr. Southard's study, and marched in without the least ceremony. "What is the meaning of this nonsense of Mr. Granger's volunteering?" he demanded, stammering with anger.
Mr. Southard had been sitting with a Bible open before him, and his face bowed forward and resting on it. He rose with cold stateliness at this abrupt invasion. "Will you sit, sir?" he said, pointing to a chair.
"No, sir, I will not!" was the answer. "I want you to go down and put a stop to his making a fool of himself. I won't say a word to him; I haven't patience to."
"If Mr. Granger thinks it his duty to go, I shall not attempt to dissuade him," said the minister calmly, reseating himself. "He is his own master, and I am in no way responsible for his action in the matter."
"When a man plants an acorn, we hold him responsible for the oak," was the retort. "You have indirectly done all you could to make him ashamed of staying at home, and to make him believe that the more pieces a man gets cut into the more of a man he is. If you don't prevent his going, I shall hold you responsible for whatever may happen."
For a moment the minister's self-control deserted him, and a just perceptible curl touched his lip with scorn. "Can you see no nobler destiny for a man," he asked, "than to eat three meals a day, make money, and keep a whole skin?"
Mr. Lewis's face had been red: now his very hands blushed with anger. He opened the door to leave the room, and turned on the threshold. "Yes, sir, I can!" he replied with emphasis. "But it is not in staying at home and sending another man out to die, especially when that man may be in your way!"
Banging the door behind him, Mr. Lewis ran against his niece who was just coming up-stairs. She looked terrified. She had overheard her uncle's parting speech.
"Oh! how could you!" she exclaimed. "Aunt was afraid that you were going to say something to Mr. Southard, and she sent me to beg you to come down. How could you, uncle?"
"I could a good deal easier than I couldn't," he replied. "Come into the chamber here and talk to me. I don't want to be left alone a minute. I shan't go down-stairs again to-night; and I would advise you and your aunt to get out of the way, and give Miss Hamilton a chance to talk or cry a little common sense into Mr. Granger."
Meantime Mr. Granger had been explaining somewhat to the two ladies left with him, and exonerating Mr. Southard from all responsibility.
"I know that Mr. Lewis will blame him," he said; "but that is unjust to both of us. It is paying me a very poor compliment to say that in such a matter I would allow another person to think for me."
"You must remember that my husband's excitement will be in proportion to his regard for you," Mrs Lewis said, with tears in her eyes. "He has a rough way of showing affection; but he is fonder of you than of any other man in the world; and I'm sure we all—" Here her voice failed.
Mr. Granger turned hastily toward her as she got up to go out. "I don't forget that," he said. "I know he thinks a good deal of me, and so do I of him. We shan't quarrel. Don't be afraid. I found out long ago that he has a kind and true heart under that rough manner."
"I'm going to bring him back," Mrs. Lewis said, and went out, wiping her eyes.
Mr. Granger had not dared to look at Miss Hamilton, or address her directly. After having spoken, the thought had first occurred to him that he should have been less abrupt in announcing his intention to her. She might be expected to feel his departure more keenly than the others would. He waited a moment to see if she would speak. She sat perfectly quiet in the dim light, her cheek supported by her hand, her elbow on the arm of her chair, and her eyes fixed on the fire. There is an involuntary calmness with which we sometime receive the most terrible news, and which even an acute observer would take for perfect indifference, but which, though not assumed, is utterly deceptive. Perhaps it is incredulity; perhaps the sudden blow stuns. Whatever it may be, no human self-control can equal it. Fortunately, this phenomenon worked now for Miss Hamilton. She would scarcely have forgiven herself or Mr. Granger if she had lost her self-possession.
"Nothing will be changed here," he said presently, slightly embarrassed by the continued silence. "All will go on just as it has. In case of any uncertainty, when it would take too long to hear from me, you can consult Mr. Barton, who is my lawyer. He knows all my wishes and intentions. Of course you have full authority regarding Dora. I feel quite at ease in leaving her to you."
So Mr. Barton had known all about it, and so had Mr. Southard, and others, perhaps. Miss Hamilton recollected herself with an effort. She was in Mr. Granger's employment; he was, in some sort, her patron. She had made the mistake of thinking that they were friends. But that is not friendship where the confidence is all on one side.
"I shall try to do my duty by Dora," she said rather coldly. "But what does 'full authority' mean?"
"She is too young to learn theology," he replied; "but everything else is free. I spoke lest some one might interfere during my absence, though that isn't likely."
Margaret waited a moment, then said, "Dora tells me that you hear her say the Our Father every night and morning. Of course, I shall hear it when you are gone. If you are willing, I would like to teach her to bless herself before praying, and to say a little prayer to the Mother of Christ for your safety. I won't make her say 'Mother of God.'"
Mr. Granger was touched. "That cannot hurt her nor me," he said. "Do as you please."
Presently he spoke again, "I received yesterday a letter which my cousin Sinclair wrote me the day before he was killed. It was given to a soldier who was taken prisoner, and is only just exchanged. That letter surprised and affected me; and if I had a lingering doubt as to my own course, it was dispelled then. He was driving to the steamer, it seems, when he met the Seventh Regiment marching through Broadway to take the cars south. As they marched, they sang 'Glory Hallelujah' with a sound like a torrent. He was electrified. There he was on the point of going abroad for distraction when here at home was the centre toward which the eyes of the whole civilized world were turned. He blushed for the slothful ease and aimlessness of his life. Here was manly employment. He took no thought for the causes of the war, since he was not responsible for them; and circumstances had decided which side he was to take. To him it was a great gymnasium in which men enervated by wealth, or cramped by petty aims, were to wake up their nobler powers, string anew their courage, 'ventilate their souls,' as he expressed it, and, finding what they were themselves capable of achieving, take back thus their faith in others. When he saw those gallant fellows march singing off to battle, the dusty, stale old life broke open for him, and a new golden age bloomed out. He did not feel that they were rejoicing over the shedding of blood, or the winning of victories; but they sang their emancipation from littleness, they sang because they caught breath of a higher air, they sang because they had found out that their souls were greater than their bodies. Then first it seemed credible to him that the Son of God took flesh and died for man; for then he first perceived that man at his best is a glorious creature. 'I am happy,' he added. 'It is like getting out of a close room into the fresh air. I am going through a picture-gallery more magnificent than any in the old world, and listening to strains of an epic grander than Homer's. I feel as if I were just made new.'"
This recital was to Margaret like some reviving essence to a fainting person. Her heart, drooping inward on itself, expanded again.
"If I knew him now!" she said. "If he would-come to me now!"
"Here is something that will interest you," Mr. Granger added; "I will read it from the letter."
He lighted the gas and read: "The last time I was in Washington, I went to see Lieut. A——, who is laid up in one of the hospitals in charge of the Sisters of Charity. Everything was quiet and orderly. A. was enthusiastic about the sisters, calls them doves of peace and charity, says their bonnets look like wings of great white birds. I talked with one of them when I went out.
"'How can you, who are the children of peace, bear to come among us who are the sons of strife?' I asked.
"'Where can the children of peace more fitly go than among the sons of strife?' she returned.
"'But we must seem to you cruel, and unworthy of gentle ministrations,' I said. 'You must think that we deserve our pains.'"
"A swift, almost childlike smile just touched her lips, 'We cannot be everything,' she replied. 'Each has his place; and the judgment-seat belongs to God. I am only the nurse.'
"'You must look upon war as the carnival of Satan,' I said.
"'God permits it,' she replied tranquilly. 'And the thought has occurred to me that it may be some times a preparation for religion. In the army men learn to suffer, and to sacrifice, and to be patient and obedient—lessons which perhaps they would not learn in any humbler school. And having acquired these virtues, they may use them in nobler ways, perhaps in preventing war. But,' she added hastily, 'it is not for me to explain the designs of the Almighty. Here is my mission!'
"She bowed, and glided away. A minute later I saw her raising the head of a dying soldier, and as his eyes grew dim, repeating for him, 'Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!'
"As I went away, I said to myself, 'I have seen one wiser than Solomon!'"
As Mr. Granger finished reading, the door opened, and Mr. Southard came in, but stopped on seeing the two alone.
"I am glad you have, come," Miss Hamilton said quickly, "I want you to assure Mr. Granger that, though we shall miss him, and be anxious about him, we will not let our weakness stand in the way of his strength."
No matter if she had been slighted! No matter if the confidence had been all on one side!
"Will you not bid me also Godspeed?" Mr. Southard asked.
"You?"
"I have asked, and am likely to receive, a year's leave of absence from my congregation," he said. "I do not know how it will be; but I hope to go in the same regiment with Mr. Granger."
"Well," Margaret sighed as she climbed wearily up-stairs, "I have had one happy year. But could I have dreamed that Maurice Sinclair would be the one to reprove my weakness at such a time?".
Chapter X.
A Broken Circle.
Having made up his mind to go, Mr. Granger lost no time. He who had been the most leisurely of men, whose composure and deliberateness of manner had often given him the appearance of haughtiness, was now possessed by a spirit of ceaseless activity. His slow and dignified step became prompt, he spoke more quickly, his misty eyes cleared up, and a color glowed in his swarthy cheeks.
There was no more lounging on a sofa, and reading; no more theatre nor concert; no more lingering in picture-galleries, and looking about with that fastidious, dissatisfied expression of his till his eyes lit sparkling on something that pleased him; no more dreaming along, with a cigar in his mouth, under the trees at twilight. He was busy, happy, and full of life.
It did not take long to complete his arrangements. Like Madame Swetchine, he thought those obstacles trifling which were not insurmountable.
The family found themselves infected by his cheerfulness. Mr. Lewis's lugubrious visions of wooden arms and legs, and patches over the eye, he swept away with a laugh. The wistful glances, often dim with tears, with which the ladies looked at him, following his every step, listening to his every word, he chid more gently, and also more earnestly.
"How women can weaken men with a tear or a glance!" he said. "It will be hard for me to leave you. I love you all. I have been very happy here, and hope to be as happy here again. But I must go. I can't see poor men leaving their families, and boys torn away from their homes, and not go. I should never again respect myself if I staid at home. But there is something else. The feeling that draws me is something that I cannot explain. It is irresistible. The breeze has caught me, and I must move. Margaret has a smile for me, I know. It's in her. She comes of a Spartan stock."
Could she disappoint his expectation? No. Henceforth, at whatever cost to her, he should see no sign of weakness. But, oh! she thought, sometimes those who stay at home fight harder battles than those who go.
"And my little girl," said the father. "She wants me to have beautiful gold straps on my shoulders, and splendid large gilt buttons on my coat."
Dora was enchanted. Soldiers were to her the most magnificent of beings. "Yes, papa! And little gold cuffs to your sleeves, and stripes on your pantaloons."
"Precisely. And a sword, and a belt, and spurs at my heels, and a feather in my hat. Papa will be as fine as a play-actor. And in order to have all these things, my pet is willing that I should go away awhile?"
The child said nothing, but looked steadily at her father. The smile still lingered on her lips, but large, slow tears were filling her eyes.
"Not for a very great while," he added. "You know we must pay in some way for all we get. You pay money for your dresses, and study for your education, and for these shoulder-straps of mine you must pay by letting me go a little while."
The child struggled hard to keep down the swelling in her throat, and dropped her eyes to hide the tears in them.
"I guess, papa," she said, nervously twisting his watch-chain as she leaned against him, "I guess it's no matter about the shoulder-straps. I'd rather have you without' em."
He tried to laugh. "And the feather, and the sash, and the sword, and the spurs, do you forget them?"
She broke down completely at that. "I don't want 'em; I'd rather have you than everything else in the world!"
"Even than stripes on my pantaloons?"
"O papa!" she sobbed, "what makes you laugh at me when I'm most dead?"
"Margaret," exclaimed Mr. Granger, "don't let this child miss me!"
"Not if I can help it," she replied.
He was to do staff duty till the bloom of his ignorance should be rubbed off, Mr. Granger said. One whose sole idea of a wheel was that it was something round with spokes in it, whose only forward had been learned of the dancing-master, and who knew no worse charge than the grocer's—such a person could scarcely be expected to lead men in battle array. He was going down there to get some of the little boys to teach him drill.
It was impossible to resist his delightful humor. Even Mr. Lewis relented.
"If ever the doing of a thing could be forgiven for the sake of the manner in which it is done," he said, "then I could forgive you. But I can't promise to turn back all at once from bonny-clabber to new milk."
"Oh! scold away," was the laughing reply. "I begin to think that there is a certain pleasure in being abused in a discriminating manner."
"Your going to Fortress Monroe helps to reconcile me," Mr. Lewis continued. "It's a pleasant place, and a strong place. My wife calls it Fortissimo. I supposed that you would insist on going straight to the front to do picket-duty, or post yourself in a tree as a sharpshooter. I'm glad to see that you've got a little ballast left aboard. I wish that Mr. Southard were to be with you, instead of going to New Orleans at this time of year. I spent a year at New Orleans when I was a young man, and I know all about it. It isn't a city, it's a deposit. You have to hold on with hands and feet to keep from being melted away by the heat, or washed away by the water."
"O the oleanders!" sighed Mrs. Lewis in an ecstasy.
Almost before they knew, Mr. Granger was gone. They had heard his last pleasant word, met his last smile, and seen the carriage that bore him away disappear down the street. Both Mr. Southard and Mr. Lewis accompanied him as far as New York.
When they had seen him off, the three ladies returned to the parlor, and the servants went sorrowfully back to their places. The neighbors who waved him away left their windows, and the friends grouped on the steps and the walk went each his way.
Dora, repulsed by Miss Hamilton, went to Aurelia for comfort. Margaret walked uneasily about the room, putting books in their places, pushing intrusive vine-leaves out the windows, arranging and rearranging the curtains. Then she seated her self by a table, and began cutting the leaves of a new magazine.
Presently Mrs. Lewis approached her, and after leaning on the arm of her chair a moment without being noticed, touched her on the shoulder.
"Margaret," she said, "why will you be so terribly proud? I think you might be willing to shed tears when Aurelia and I do. Why shouldn't you grieve over the absence of your friend? He is a kind and true friend to you."
Aurelia rose quietly, and led Dora from the room.
Margaret persisted a moment longer in her silence and her leaf-cutting. But the book and the knife shook in her hand, and presently dropped from her grasp. Turning impulsively, she hid her face in that kind bosom, and sobbed without control.
"He will soon come back, I am sure of it," Mrs. Lewis said soothingly. "And you know we shall hear from him constantly. We all feel bad. Mr. Lewis choked up whenever he thought of it, and the only way he had of turning off his emotion was in scolding. I dare say his last word to Mr. Granger will be an abusive one. And you are almost as bad."
"I can't bear to be misunderstood, and watched, and commented on," Margaret said, trying to control herself. "Most people seem to think hate more respectable than affection, and if they see that you care about a person, they sneer."
"I know all about it, dear," Mrs. Lewis said. "You can't tell me anything new about meanness and malice. I have suffered too much from them in my life. But we are friends, real friends, here. We respect each other's reserve. But too much reserve is not good nor wholesome."
Margaret looked up, and wiped her tears away. "How you help me!" she said. "I don't feel very bad now," with a faint smile. "It is suppression that kills me. If we could say just what we think and feel, and act with perfect openness, how good it would be! Looking back, my life seems to me a cemetery of stifled emotions. My heart is full of their bones and ashes. It's an awful weight! You are very good, Mrs. Lewis. You do beautiful things sometimes. I grow fonder of you every day. By and by," smiling again, "I shall not be able to do without you. And now, that poor child! I must go to her. Wasn't I cruel to put her away? But it is very hard to have to comfort others when you are yourself in need of comfort."
The next day the two gentlemen came home with the last news of Mr. Granger, and they spent the evening more cheerfully than they could have expected. Mr. Lewis had apologized for his rudeness to the minister, and had begun to perceive that Mr. Southard had, as he said, some grit in him. So they were all harmonious enough.
"Mr. Granger's generosity of disposition would lead him to danger unnecessarily, if he were not warned," Mr. Southard said, as they sat together that evening. "I talked to him very plainly about it. There is sometimes an unconscious selfishness under those impulses. Exulting in the sense of their own fearlessness, men put themselves in peril, without thinking what others may suffer in their loss, and that the real good to be attained does not, perhaps, counterbalance the evil done. All that is accomplished is a generous deed."
"It is something to accomplish a generous deed," said Miss Hamilton. "I own, I have not the highest admiration for that 'rascally virtue' of discretion."
"But when the real cost of that 'sublime indiscretion' falls on some other than the hero, then I object to it," said the minister firmly. "And Mr. Granger agreed with me."
There are times when to hear those dear to us praised is painful. It oppresses the heart, by placing the beloved object too far above us. But a gentle blame, which hints at no serious fault, while it does not wound our feelings, soothes our sense of unworthiness, and, without lowering the friend, brings him within our reach. Listening to such gentle censure, we get a comfortable human feeling toward one whom we were, perhaps, in danger of apotheosizing.
Speaking of the much that they would hear from these soldier friends of theirs, both Margaret and Mr. Southard urged Mrs. Lewis to resume her long unused pen. It seemed that every one who had the talent to do it ought to preserve thus some of the many incidents of the war. But she was resolute in refusal.
"Of writing many books there is no end," she said. "And I have a terrible vision of a coming deluge of war-literature. Everybody will write, soldiers, nurses, chaplains, (all but you, Mr. Southard!) philanthropists, novelists, rhymsters—all will write without mercy. The dilemma of the old rhyme will seem to be on the point of realization:
'If all the earth were paper,
And all the sea were ink,
And all the trees were bread and cheese,
What should we do for drink?'
"No, don't ask me to join in that rout. Besides, no one but a scribbler knows a scribbler's afflictions. No 'Heavenly Goddess' has yet sung those direful woes. First, there is the printer. You spend all your powers on a certain passage which is to immortalize you, and under his hands, by the addition, or the abstraction, or the changing of a word, that passage has taken the one step more which carries it from the sublime to the ridiculous. Put in a fine bit of color; he changes your umber to amber, and the picture is spoilt. Refer to the well-known fact that Washington Allston put a great deal of character into the hands and feet he painted, and this fell patriot drops the Allston, and gives the credit to the father of his country. Then there are your dear friends. They know all your virtues, so their sole effort is now to find out your defects. It won't do to praise you, lest you should become vain; so, with a noble regard for your truest good, they dissect your writings before your eyes, and prove clearly their utter worthlessness. Then, there are your gushing acquaintances who want you to write about them, and tell you their histories, insisting that they shall be put into print. As if you should carry cherry-stones to a cherry-tree, and say, Here, grow cherries round these! If you should answer ever so humbly, Thank you! but I grow stones to my own cherries, such as they are, people would be disgusted. Of course, if I had a great genius, it would scorch up all these little annoyances. But I have only a pretty talent. Perhaps the worst is, that they will apply your characters. When I was a girl, I wrote a rhymed story, and everybody pointed out the hero. I stared, I bethought myself, I re-read my romance. Imagine my horror when I found that the description fitted the man perfectly, even to the wart on his nose. Then, not long ago, I wrote a little idyl addressed to my first love, and my husband came home with the face of an Othello. You know you did, Charles. The fact was, I never had a first love!"
Mr. Lewis laughed. "And she twitted me with Diana. Diana was a tall, superb, serene woman whom I got acquainted with in Washington, before I was married. I admired her excessively. I didn't know that she was a goose. I would talk, and she would listen, and smile at all my jokes; and I thought that she was very witty. I spoke of books, and she smiled and said 'Yes!' and I was sure that she was a well-read person. I ranted about music, and she smiled and said 'Yes!' and I was positive that she was a fine musician. Presently I began to grow bashful in the society of such a superior woman. I couldn't talk, so she had to. Well, at first I admired her simplicity, then I stared at her simplicity. And at last I saw that there was
'No end to all she didn't know.'
"One day I'd been there, up in the parlor, and when I left, she went down to the door with me. There was a large hat on the entry-table, and we heard a man's voice in the sitting-room.
"'Who's talking with pa?' she asked of a servant.
"'Daniel Webster, miss,' was the answer.
"Daniel Webster was my hero. If our hats had been of the same size, I would have swapped fervently, though mine was new, and Daniel's a little shabby. I remembered what somebody had said of Samuel Johnson; and pointing to the table, I exclaimed with enthusiasm, 'That hat covers a kingdom!'
"Diana looked at it with a mild, idiotic perplexity, and stretched her long neck to see on the other side. 'Hat covers a kingdom,' she repeated vaguely to herself, as if it were a conundrum.
"'When it's on his head!' I cried out in a rage.
"'Oh!' she said, and smiled, but without a particle of speculation in her eyes.
"I bounced out of the house, and I never went to see Diana again. Shortly after, I met that little woman, and I married her because she is smart."
Chapter XI.
The Mountains Whence Help Cometh.
Mr. Granger was one of those persons whom we miss more than we expect to, their influence is so quiet, their stability has so little of hardness. As has been beautifully said, such characters are "like the water-lily, fixed yet floating." We do not know how much we rest on them till the support is withdrawn.
They heard from him constantly, the letters being directed to Mr. Lewis, but intended for all the family.
Evidently his good spirits had not deserted him. Never before had he been so much alive, he wrote. The excitement, the uncertainty, the very restraints which reminded of power, and of great interests at stake, all kept his thoughts in a brisk circulation, and threw the bile off his mind.
Miss Dora had, however, her separate correspondence, letters directed to herself, which Miss Hamilton read to her, and answered from her dictation.
In those days the child learned a new prayer: "O Mother in heaven, take pity on me who have no mother on earth, and whose father has gone to the wars. Watch over him, that I may not be left an orphan. Pray for him, and for me, and for whoever loves us best. Do not forget me, O Mother! for if you do, my heart will break."
"Who is it that loves us best?" the child asked the first time she said this prayer.
"I do not know," was the reply. "We can never be sure who loves us best. But God knows, and the good Mother can find out."
"I thought it was you," said Dora. Margaret's voice sank to a whisper. "Perhaps it is, dear."
In a few weeks Mr. Southard also left then, not cheerfully, but with a gloom which he took no pains to conceal.
And the few weeks grew to many weeks, and months multiplied. The summer was gone, and the autumn was gone, and winter melted like a snow-flake on the mantle of time. When our eyes are fixed in anxious longing on some future day, the intermediate days slip through our fingers like sands through an hour-glass, and keep no trace of their passage.
If, when the spring campaign opened, and both the absent ones were in active service, our friends watched with some sinking of the heart for news, it was no more than happened in tens of thousands of other homes. Heart-sickness was by no means a rare disease in those days.
The soldier in charge of the soldier's news-room on Kneeland street became very much interested in one of the few visitors who used to go there that summer. Nearly every say, surely every day when there had been a battle, a pale-faced young lady would open the door, enter quickly, and without looking to right or left go directly to the frames that held the lists of killed and wounded, and read them through from end to end. The soldier got to have an anxious feeling about this lady. Unnoticed by her, he watched her face while she read, and hushed his breath till he saw that terrible look go out of her eyes. The lists finished, she would pull her veil down, sigh wearily, and go out as quietly as she had entered.
"When she finds the name she is looking for, I hall see her drop," he thought.
But Margaret did not drop, though often enough she was in danger of it, as her eyes fell on some blurred name, or some name very like the one she dreaded to see.
It was too wearing. Both flesh and spirit were sinking under this constant strain. Where was the help that religion was to give her? Leave everything to God, trust all to him, she was told. But how? Her thoughts were clenched in these interests; and, in spite of faith, it seemed as though, if she should let go her hold, they would fall. She found that her religion was only of the surface. It had grown in the sunshine, and was not rooted against the storm. She tried to put into practice the precepts she listened to, but the daily distractions of life constantly neutralized her efforts. There was but one way, and for the first time Margaret made a retreat.
The place selected was a convent a little out of the city.
Here in this secluded asylum was all that her soul needed for its restoring; quiet, leisure, the society of those whose lives are devoted to God, and, to crown all, the presence of the blessed sacrament of the altar.
One feels very near heaven when one hears only praying voices, sees only happy, peaceful faces, is looked upon only by kind eyes, and can at any hour go before the altar, alone, undisturbed by those distractions which constantly environ our ordinary worship. How still we become! In that presence how our little troubles and sorrows exhale, as mists lift from the rivers at sunrise, and leave all clear and bright! How cramped and feverish all our past life has been! Everything settles into its true place. Sorrow and death lose their sting. We are safe, for we partake of the omnipotence of God. To think that the same roof that shelters our heads when we lie down to sleep shelters also the sacred head of the Son of God—that drives every other thought from the mind. It is marvellous, it seems incredible, and yet the wonder of it is lost in the sweetness. The moonlight coming in at the window lies white and silent on the bare white floor. You rise to kiss that luminous spot, for just beneath is the altar. Peace rises to exultation, for you perceive more and more that the Father holds us all in his hands, those near and those afar, and that we have but to lift our eyes, and we shall behold the mountains whence help cometh. We want to run out and tell everybody. It seems as if we have just discovered all this, and that no one ever knew it before. We forget that we are sinners. It isn't much matter about us any way. We will think of that afterward. We will make acts of contrition when we get away from here. Now we can make only acts of adoration and of joy.
The superior of the convent directed Margaret's retreat, and on the last morning of it she and all the nuns received communion, and there was the benediction after mass.
The others had gone out, but Margaret still lingered before the altar. Out in the early sunshine, the trees rustled softly, and the breeze waved the curtains of the chapel windows. Occasionally, one of the nuns would come to the door, look in, and go away again smiling, though Miss Hamilton's breakfast was spoiling over the fire, and there was a gentleman waiting in the parlor for her.
"She is in the chapel at her devotions," the sister had told him.
"Don't disturb her on any account," he had answered. "There is no haste."
Margaret was not praying, was not thinking; her soul was silent, lost in God, like a star in the day.
Presently she came out, and, meeting one of the nuns in the hall, embraced her tenderly. "Sister," she said, "this is the most beautiful world that ever was made."
The gentleman had been waiting some time when he heard a step, and in the door there stood a slight, black-robed lady with a veil thrown over her head, a bright face, and a smell of incense lingering about her. She lifted both hands when she saw him.
"My cup runneth over!"
"You are not a nun?" asked Mr. Granger.
"You're not an apparition," she returned. "Oh! welcome!"
"And now," he said, delighted to see her so happy, "if you are ready, we will go home. I have only a few days' furlough, and I want to make the most of it."
Margaret went to take a hasty leave of the nuns, and also to step into the chapel for one moment.
Then she went out from under that happy portal, and down the steps to the carriage that was waiting for them. One of the sisters stood in the door looking after her, and others here and there in the grounds looked up with a pleasant word of farewell as she passed. She stooped to gather from the lower terrace a humble souvenir, two or three grass-blades and a clover-leaf, then stepped into the carriage. As they drove slowly down the avenue, she looked up into the overhanging branches and repeated:
"'Above him the boughs of the hemlock trees
Waved, and made the sign of the cross,
And whispered their Benedicitis.'"
The family were in raptures over Mr. Granger's return. They could not look at him enough, listen to him enough, do enough for him. "And how nice you look in your uniform!" said Margaret, feeling as if she were about six years old.
"And how nice you look in anything!" he retorted, at which they all laughed. It took but little to make them laugh in those days.
Mr. Granger, on his part, was as merry as a boy. He was full of adventures to tell them, glad to be at home, happy in their confidence and affection, and hopeful of the future.
Margaret could scarcely believe her own happiness. She would turn away, shut her eyes, and think, "I have imagined it all. He is hundreds of miles away, I do not know whether he is sick or well. He may be in peril. He may be dead. O my friend! come home, come home! Are we never to see you again?"
Then, when she had succeeded in tormenting herself sufficiently, when her heart was sinking, and her eyes overflowing with tears, she would turn quickly, trembling between dream and reality, and see him there alive and well, and at home.
"Oh! there he is, thank God!"
And so every day she renewed in her vivid imagination the pain of his absence and the delight of his return, till too soon the day came when she no longer dared to play such tricks with herself, for he was again gone out of their sight. But the lessons of the retreat were not forgotten, and every morning brought refreshment.
To Be Continued.