A HERO, OR A HEROINE?
CHAPTER XVI.
GOOD-NIGHT.
During the latter part of Margaret's stay at Shellbeach, the doctor noticed that he never saw her alone; and as formerly he had observed, with amusement, Miss Spelman's many admirable reasons for leaving the room, he imagined that Miss Lester had been the cause of the change. "She wants to prevent my going too far," he said to himself; and then with a rather bitter laugh, "She need not be afraid." He often met her riding alone on the Marchioness, or caught sight of her at sunset on the beach with her little dog, but they had very little satisfactory conversation of any kind together. Once or twice she made allusions before him to a "period of importance," or to a "momentous decision," or to the "turning-point of her existence," which was at hand; but it was always as a joke, and she seemed to enjoy his surprise and embarrassment.
"She does not want me to forget July 18th, the date of our absurd agreement," he said mentally. "What a fool I was to allow such a nonsensical arrangement! I wish I were well out of the scrape."
At last, on the evening of the appointed day, Miss Spelman gave a little tea-party and Dr. James was present. He had resolved that he would decline; but he was curious to see what Miss Lester would do and say, and so, at some inconvenience to himself, he made his appearance among the guests. He happened once to have expressed his dislike to pink bonnets, and indeed to that color for any part of a lady's dress; and lo, on this occasion Margaret came to meet him, radiantly smiling in rose-colored muslin, with delicate roses to match in her hair and on her breast! It was extremely becoming, the doctor perceived, and he saw also that her spirits were at their height. He inwardly groaned at the prospect of the evening before him. It was pleasant, however; even he acknowledged it. Margaret's mischievous remarks were few, and she seemed to have the power of drawing people out and making every one appear his best; every one, the doctor felt, except himself. In vain he exerted himself to be agreeable and unconscious; he was grave and preoccupied. The thought of that dreadful letter which he had promised to write that very evening weighed on his mind, and he was perplexed by doubts and questions concerning it, himself, and Miss Lester. Was he not taking her words too literally? Had she the remotest idea of writing to him? or would it not end in his making an utter fool of himself? No; never before had she been so handsome, so gay, so universally kind. Little Miss Spelman caught the infectious cordiality, and beamed upon her guests with overflowing hospitality.
The windows and doors stood open, the sweet breath of roses was in the air, and suddenly from the garden came the sound of instruments. A serenade! Miss Spelman and every one looked at each other in surprise, for the music was not such as was obtainable in Sealing. But a glance at Margaret convinced all that she was the author of this unexpected pleasure. She said in a low voice to her aunt, "This is my contribution to the general festivity;" and it was indeed a delightful addition. The band played at intervals through the evening, the music varying from grave to gay, from solemn to pathetic.
The Shellbeach tea-parties were early affairs, and at ten o'clock the guests reluctantly departed, almost all driving home to Sealing, and a few from the neighboring houses walking slowly along the road, with the sweet notes of the music still in their ears. Dr. James lingered. Why, he could not have told; and it was with a start that, turning away from the window, he saw that he was the very last. He apologized; but Miss Selina coming to him, kindly took his hand,
"You are a true friend, you know, Dr. James," she said, "and should feel yourself at home."
Margaret was at the door, bidding good-night to the last guests, when the doctor, after warmly shaking Miss Spelman's hand, came into the hall for his hat. She walked with him down the little path to the front gate, while the air of the "Last Rose of Summer" came to them from the garden, and for the first time that evening he saw that her face was serious.
"I would like to walk home with you, in this lovely moonlight," she said.
"Well, will you not come? I will gladly accompany you back."
"No; there will not be time. You forget that you and I have an engagement at eleven o'clock this evening." Then, as he did not know how to reply, she continued, "I shall send you a note, to-morrow morning, at seven, and the boy will bring me back, not an answer, for it will not be that, but a corresponding note from you."
"Yes, Miss Lester, it shall be ready, if you say so."
"I do. Good night, Dr. James. Give me your hand; we are friends, are we not?"
"I believe we are. Yes, Miss Lester, I know we are friends to-night."
"And we shall be friends to-morrow; remember that I say so. Good-night."
She leaned on the little gate, and watched him as he walked away without once turning back. The music stopped, and a voice was heard calling, "Margaret!" She slowly walked into the house, and, sitting quietly down by her aunt on the sofa, told her that Jessie Edgar's marriage was fixed for the first day of September, and she was going to Newport, to be with Jessie till the wedding.
"Yes, my dear," returned Miss Selina rather plaintively. "I must not be selfish; but when do you think of leaving me?"
"To-morrow."
Poor Miss Spelman was astounded, shocked, and hurt; but Margaret pacified and consoled her. She assured her that it was a great deal better than if they had had this separation hanging over them for weeks, and if she had been obliged to take a formal leave of every body.
"Now I have bidden them good-by in the pleasantest way," she said; "they are all pleased with me, and so must you be, too, dear, dear Aunt Selina! We are too good friends to disagree about this."
"But you will come back after the wedding, dear? You feel this is your home, do you not?"
"I will come back, but not immediately. I mean to pass next winter in New York; and you will come and make me a long visit, to make up for my living on you so long here." And Margaret drew so bright a picture of the good times they would have together in New York that Miss Spelman bade her good-night quite happily. Margaret's movements were always so sudden that the quiet old lady was not, after all, as surprised as might have been expected.
"It was just like her," she said; "such decision of mind, such energy of character!"
CHAPTER XVII.
CONQUERED BY CONQUERING.
Margaret, meanwhile, who had quietly completed all her arrangements and packed her trunks, went to her room, and, after laying aside her rose-colored dress, and putting on her wrapper, sat down to her table and wrote her letter. It did not seem at all difficult to her to write, though she once or twice laid down her pen and thought for a few minutes, with a grave face.
She wrote no rough copy, and made no alterations; but went on firmly, line by line, till she had signed her name, when she read it carefully over, sealed and directed it. It took her about half an hour, and then she went directly to bed, and slept as soundly as a child.
Dr. James's state of mind grew worse and worse, as he approached his home, and, after leaving Rosanna at her stable, he walked up and down before the house many times, before he went in to write his letter. Never before had any letter given him such trouble. He wrote and rewrote it; left it and walked about his room; took refuge in a book, and then put it down in despair. At last he resolved to try for the last time, and keep what he should write; and this was his letter:
"My Dear Miss Lester: I have a humiliating confession to make to you; but before I make it (afterward it would be impossible) I feel obliged to say to you that your conduct since you have been at Shellbeach has compelled my respect and admiration. I appreciate the courage and earnestness with which you adopted your change of life, and, instead of seeking in it only your own amusement, made your stay here not only a pleasure to your friends, but a blessing to persons whose number I can only guess at, but whom your own heart knows.
"I know, Miss Lester, you are wealthy; I knew it long before you came here. And your wealth, I acknowledge it to my shame, has been a temptation to me. I believe you consider all men mercenary, and fortune-hunters. I think you are mistaken; and I wish you to take the humiliation of what I am going to say as a proof that you are wrong. Miss Lester, I know I do not love you, and here is the proof: If I think of you as my wife, the thought of what your money would be to me comes first to my mind. Having said that, I can say no more; but I am, always yours faithfully,
"Francis James.
"Shellbeach, July 18, 1868."
The clock struck one as the doctor signed his name, tore up the unfinished letters which lay around him, and hastened to extinguish his light and go to bed. He was angry with himself, and disgusted with his letter; and for the first time for years, found that he could not sleep. One minute he repented of what he had done, and called himself a fool; the next, he said to himself, "I must tell her the truth; she deserves it." He then asked himself what she did deserve? It was plain to him what her plan of action was to be: she wished to part friends, because she supposed that she would by her letter give a dreadful blow to his hopes, and consign him to despair. At this, he laughed with pleasure, to think that his letter would undeceive and disappoint her. Then rose up clearly before him the always recurring temptation of his great need of money, and all the good he could do with it. What a chance had been offered him! Would he ever have such another? Might he not, if he had gone to work differently, won her heart? Other men had done such things; and he was better worthy of her, he was sure of it, than the society-men she had so often spoken of with contempt. Had he not heard that "any man can have any woman"? No, that was not right; it was, "Any woman can have any man." Then, had she tried to ensnare him? had she really endeavored to please him? He could not say she had; but he remembered, with some discomfiture, her apparent enjoyment in shocking and teasing him. She was an enigma; but he believed her honest, and was glad he had told her the truth.
To tell all Dr. James's reflections of that night, would take considerably longer than it took him to make them, which was two or three hours; so we will leave him to his uncomfortable pillow, and not return to him till he opened his chamber-door, at seven o'clock in the morning, and saw Tommy McNally waiting with a letter in his hand. The doctor handed the boy his own, and walked into his study, where he sat down at his table and contemplated the square white envelope and graceful monogram, and his own name written in a large, firm hand. He slowly opened the letter, struck by its neatness and the fair, distinct writing, and read as follows:
"Sweet Brier Cottage,
July 18, 1868."My Dear Dr. James: When, six months ago, I promised to write you this letter, I certainly had no idea that I should say in it what I am about to say now. Whether, if this possibility had occurred to me, I should have made that promise, or whether I should have come to Shellbeach at all, it is profitless to consider.
"I know you always speak the truth frankly, and I am resolved, in all my dealings with you, to do the same; for I feel that I shall thus best show my appreciation and approbation of your character, and of the plain truth which I know you will write to me to-night. You deserve honest treatment, and you shall have it. I consider the time I have spent here to be the great lesson of my life, and one which I on no account regret, though I weigh well the significance of the words. I have learned to know and value the useful and unselfish life and work of one man, and from him to believe in the capacity for noble things in other people whom I once despised. In recognizing your superiority, I have grown humble; and from your wisdom and good sense, I have come to be aware of my own ignorance and conceit. I know how strongly you will object to hearing this, but be patient a little longer. You have given me a lesson you will be glad to hear of, and it is this: I believe that a useless life will never again content me, and that to do some active good will be the only way to make my life happy.
"But you will say all this is not to the purpose, and not in the bond. You are very right; and though I beat round the bush, I do not mean to beg the question, and I know very well that honor, esteem, appreciation, good resolutions, etc., etc., were not to be the subjects of this letter. Truly then, I love you, and I have never loved before. I believe that to be your wife, in this little town, with no society and no excitements, to share your work and your poverty, (if poverty indeed it were,) would be a happy lot. I tell you this, because I trust you; I know it is not maidenly, but it is honest. I shall not see you again; for I know you do not love me, and that your letter will tell the truth. I thank you for your kindness, and your wise and good advice. I hope it has not all been lost upon me. I hope you will sometimes let me know what you are interested in, and how you are prospering.
"Good-by, and believe me your true friend,
Margaret Lester.
"Once more, I do not regret any thing."
Poor Dr. James! He read the last word, and sat like a man in a dream staring at the letter before him. Suddenly he started up, seized his hat from its peg, put it on, and rushed to the door; then came back, threw his hat away from him and sat down again, burying his face in his hands. Fool, fool that he had been! What had he thrown away? Was there ever a woman like this? What would it not be for him, for any man, to go through life with such a companion; who would never hold him back from what was right; who would not fear to meet any thing for the sake of truth and justice? What woman in a hundred would have done this? knowing, too, that her love was not returned. And how did she know it? Oh! how much more clear-sighted she had been than he, with all his wisdom and experience! If he had not shut his eyes, if he could have had the least suspicion of this, what a difference might it not have made? Then he resolved to seek her, to go through fire and water if need be, if he could only find her, and bring her back, and never let her leave him again.
At that moment, the words he had written to her came before him, and threw him again into despair. No; all was lost! He had insulted her, causelessly and needlessly; he had said that he valued her money more than herself! Her money! Would she had not a cent; would she were dependent and friendless, that he might work for her, share with her all that he had, and win name and fame for her!
When Mrs. Day, his housekeeper, put her head into his room, exclaiming that the breakfast-bell had rung half an hour ago, he followed her to the dining-room and swallowed his cold coffee without a word, with a meekness that touched the heart of his Gorgon. She proposed boiling him an egg, or cutting a few shavings of ham; but the doctor declined her attentions (to her great relief) and hurried to the stable for Rosanna. He drove twenty miles away to his most distant patient, whom he alarmed by his gloomy face and abrupt manner; he drove Rosanna back to Sealing at a rate she was unaccustomed to, and walking up the street—it was then late in the afternoon—encountered Tommy McNally, roaring at the top of his voice, and rubbing his eyes as if he wished to leave in them no powers of vision. Dr. James stopped and asked rather crossly what ailed him:
"O doctor! she's gone away, and she's given me this," holding up a dollar bill and continuing to cry, "and one for each of us; and she's gone away, and we won't see her any more!"
"Do you mean Miss Lester?"
"Yes, doctor," said Tommy, beginning to dry his eyes. "I've been to the station and seen her go off; and she told me to be a good boy and help mother."
"Mind you do it," said the doctor, hurrying away and home to his cold dinner. That evening he called on Father Barry, and heard that Margaret had been there on her way to the cars, and had left directions for all her protégés, especially the McNallys. Father Barry seemed quite dejected about her departure, and much surprised at it; but the doctor, of course, chose to throw no light on the subject.
CHAPTER XVIII.
"THE HEARTBREAK OF TO-MORROW."
A few days after, as soon as Dr. James could make up his mind to do so, he called on Miss Spelman, and found the house quite as forlorn as he had expected, and his old friend very glad to receive sympathy. She said she had heard from her niece that very day.
"It was an amusing, affectionate letter," said Miss Selina, "just like her. Poor child! she will be easy now she is with her friend. She was very much changed, doctor."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, she had grown so quiet and so strange—that is, she seemed to me strange; she would sit so long without speaking a word; and then she was much more affectionate—I mean more demonstrative—than when she first came; but she seemed to have lost her good spirits."
"I thought she seemed much as usual whenever I saw her."
"Yes, she was gayer than ever when any one was here; but that was only put on. Poor child! she felt Jessie's marriage, and that she was so soon to be separated from the friend of her childhood."
Miss Spelman seemed to think the doctor needed consolation, and from little remarks and insinuations, he imagined that she considered him suffering from disappointment; he did not try to undeceive her, for was it not true?
He found Martha Burney a great comfort; to her he sometimes talked of Margaret, and from her he learned to understand things in her character which had been puzzling to him before. And the more he became convinced that Margaret had spoken the truth in saying that she loved him, the more he wondered at and admired her for so completely concealing it from him in their intercourse; and the better he understood that her apparent levity and exaggerated spirits were no doubt assumed in order to hide her deeper feelings. He thought much of all these things, and wondered more; but he kept his secret and hers, and only suspected sometimes that Miss Burney knew more than any one else about the matter.
Dr. James was a disappointed man, and he made no effort to disguise it from himself; but he was not a man to sit down in despair and waste his life in regrets. So, recognizing the fact that he had thrown away a great chance of happiness, and been wholly to blame for it, he resolutely turned the energy of his thoughts into other channels, and worked harder than ever. But Sealing became unutterably wearisome to him; it was only by iron determination that he went through with his daily round of duties, and as for society, he confined himself exclusively to making the calls that he imposed on himself, and going for relaxation to Father Barry and Miss Burney.
In the middle of August he left Richards in charge, and went for a week to his mother and sisters in Maine.
CHAPTER XIX.
A LAST LOOK.
Soon after Dr. James's return from Maine, he was apprised by his friend Philip of his approaching wedding, to take place at Newport, on September first. Philip urged his and Jessie's wish that he should be a groomsman; but this Dr. James, knowing that Margaret would of course be a bridesmaid, declared would be out of the question. He unwillingly promised to be present at both wedding and reception, because he had no reason to give for declining; and he looked forward to the day with mingled feelings of dread and impatience. He bought a dress suit for the first time for years; and when he was arrayed in state, gloves and all, surveyed himself from head to foot with strong disapprobation. He had spent the night at a hotel in Newport, and, having completed his toilet, descended to the parlor, where he had an opportunity of beholding his tout ensemble in the long glass between the windows.
"I look like the ass in the lion's skin," he said to himself; "only I suppose that was too big for him, while every thing I have on is too small for me. I sha'n't be myself again till I get off these vanities."
He arrived at the church full half an hour before the time, he was so afraid of being late, and chose his seat up-stairs, where he could see better without being conspicuous. He observed the showy dresses and latest fashions with wonder and disapproval, and speculated on the probable cost of the ladies assembled to their husbands and fathers, till the clock pointed to twelve and the bridal party arrived. First came a troop of little girls in white, with pink and blue sashes, carrying baskets of flowers; then Mrs. Edgar with Philip; the six bridesmaids followed, headed by Margaret, each accompanied by her groomsman, and the doctor noticed that Miss Lester's companion was a tall, handsome fellow, with a fair mustache; last came the bride, on the arm of an elderly man, whom Dr. James supposed to be her uncle.
The ceremony was soon over, and the church rapidly becoming deserted, when Dr. James descended from his post of observation, and got into a carriage to go to Mrs. Edgar's house. He found the two handsome parlors quite full, and stood for a few minutes at the door observing the scene before him.
The bride and bridegroom stood at the end of the room, with the pretty children playing in the bay-window behind them. Philip looked as proud and beaming as might have been expected, and Jessie was just what the doctor thought she would be: very pretty and refined, looking timid and rather flushed at receiving so many congratulations. His eyes scarcely rested on her; for he was immediately conscious of Margaret standing near her, apparently dividing her attentions pretty equally between three gentlemen. Her dress was white, very rich and flowing; she held a beautiful bouquet, and there were rose-buds in her hair and on her dress. The next thing he knew, one of the gentlemen-managers was asking his name, he was led up and presented, and found himself embraced by Philip, and greeted with a sweet smile by Jessie.
"He is the best fellow in the world," said the bridegroom; and Jessie added,
"We are very glad to see you, Dr. James; it was very kind of you to come."
Then he turned to find Margaret by his side, with the smile he knew so well, and the cordial, outstretched hand. His face flushed painfully, but he was not called upon to speak, for Philip remarked,
"Oh! yes, you are old acquaintances, are you not? Where is Mrs. Edgar? I want her so much to see him. Oh! there she is at the end of the other room. I suppose it wouldn't do for me to leave Jessie." And he turned to his bride with a face full of happiness.
"I will go with Dr. James," said Margaret at once; and he found himself walking, with her on his arm, through the crowd of people, some of whom regarded him with curiosity.
"You were at the church, were you not?" began Margaret at once; "and was she not a lovely bride? I was very much afraid it would be a showery wedding; but Jessie behaved very well, only she arrived at home a perfect Niobe, and had to be consoled in private before she could face all these people."
"Why should she have to be consoled?"
"Now, that's just what I say, Dr. James; why does she marry him if it doesn't make her happy? Philip, however, seems to understand her, and I leave to him the task of comforting. She is very fond of her mother, and it is very hard for her to live so far away, you know."
"Miss Lester, you look thin and pale," the doctor said very abruptly; he did not mean to say it, the words came almost involuntarily.
"Yes, this has been a wearing time for all of us; I am glad it is nearly over. Here we are. Mrs. Edgar, this is Philip's friend and mine, Dr. James."
The doctor received the kindest greeting, and was overpowered with questions about his mother, who had been a school friend of Mrs. Edgar, and his sisters. He tried to answer them intelligibly, thinking, however, only of Miss Lester, and conscious that she had turned away to be polite to other guests. Mrs. Edgar then introduced him to Jessie's sister Isabel, a fresh little girl of sixteen, who looked full of fun and mischief, and she in turn presented him to a friend, a tall young lady, who immediately began to talk to him so fast that he could hardly keep up with her. Mrs. Edgar suggested that he should get some ice-cream for himself and them, and then occupied herself with other people, considering that her duties of hospitality to him were performed. Dr. James went obediently into the next room and returned, after some difficulties, with ices and cake, and did his best to be polite. Soon Isabel was sent into the other room to see about the children, and the talkative young lady became engaged in conversation with an equally voluble young gentleman, so that Dr. James found himself again alone. He put down his untasted cake, and seeing a glass of wine near him, which seemed to belong to no one, he drank it and felt rather better. The solitariness one sometimes feels in a crowd came over him, and he looked from one strange face to another, feeling himself completely out of place. Mrs. Edgar was absorbed in duties of hospitality; Jessie and Philip in the distance, during a pause in the stream of guests, were engrossed in each other; even Margaret seemed to have completely forgotten him, and he saw her earnestly talking with her handsome groomsman. He regretted that he had refused to be a groomsman; no doubt he would have been assigned to Margaret, as the corresponding "best friend," and then she would have been talking to him instead of to that fellow; from which it will be seen that he had already arrived at a stage of lover-like inconsistency, since his sole motive for declining his friend's invitation had been his dread of encountering Miss Lester.
He saw that many people were going, and it came to him as a happy thought that he might go too. He interrupted Mrs. Edgar to shake hands again with her, observed that Margaret was near the door, and next made his way to Philip, with whom he had a little talk, unsatisfactory, of course, but one's best friend must be excused for being preoccupied on such an occasion. Philip parted from him with resignation, saying that he must come to California and settle, that he would do splendidly there and make a fortune. Such a prospect seemed to the doctor dreary in the extreme; and owning to himself that he did not at all begrudge to Philip his pretty and delicate bride, he bade her a friendly farewell, and approached Margaret. He was glad to interrupt the groomsman in the sotto voce remarks he was making, and to have Margaret turn at once to him and leave her companion to his own reflections.
"Good-by, Miss Lester. I go back to Sealing this afternoon."
"Good-by, Dr. James. I am very glad you came." That was all; how soon these words were said! Again he met the straightforward look of those clear, brown eyes; again he felt the kind pressure of her hand. Her glove was off and so was his, (not accident on his part,) and he felt that her hand was cold. He was on the point of saying, "How pale you are!" but remembered just in time, that he had made that remark before.
In another minute he was outside the door, and driving to the hotel. As he drew his tight boots from his aching feet, and resumed his comfortable, familiar clothes, he said to himself,
"This episode in my life is closed. I must shut her completely out of my existence, and go on as if there were no such woman as Margaret Lester."
So he took the five o'clock train, and arrived safely in Sealing that night.
CHAPTER XX.
MISS BURNEY LEAVES SHELLBEACH.
One evening, two or three weeks after the wedding at Newport, Dr. James was sitting with Miss Burney in her little parlor. They often used that privilege of fast friends, silence; and it was after an unbroken pause of full a quarter of an hour that Martha looked up from her sewing, and said:
"Why did you never notice that I have not resumed my school-work this year?"
"I have noticed it; but supposed you had some good reason, which you would tell me when you were ready."
"I am ready now. I have given up teaching for the present, and perhaps for ever." The doctor made no reply, only showing by his attentive face that he was listening.
"Margaret has offered me a home, and I have accepted it."
"I imagined you were too proud to accept assistance from any body."
"From any body else except her. In the first place, she is rich and can afford it; secondly, it makes her happy to help people; thirdly, I love her and she loves me, and that is the best reason of all."
"You are right; and what decided you to take this step?"
"It seems she has had it in her mind ever since last spring; however, she only said to me, just before she left here, that she hoped I would make no arrangements for the winter, without first telling her my plans. Two weeks ago, I received a letter from her, saying that she had decided not to live any longer with Mrs. Edgar; but, after passing the month of September at Newport, to take a house for herself in New York. She said she could not live alone, and that she must have some one for company and for the sake of appearances. She begged me to be that somebody, because there was no one else with whom she could feel independent, and free to do what she chose. I considered the subject a week, and then wrote her my consent to do as she wished, for next winter at least. It will be a great advantage to me, of course, as well as a pleasure. Still I should not think of it on that account for a moment, if I did not believe that such an arrangement would be a good thing for her as well as for me. I do believe so, and therefore I am going to try the experiment."
"You will not repent it, I am sure. And when do you go?"
"Next week."
"Has she bought her house?"
"She has not decided yet, and wants my help about furnishing, etc.; so the sooner I go the better."
"Is she in New York now?"
"Yes, at a private boarding-house, where I am to stay with her till the house is ready."
Dr. James had made up his mind that nothing would astonish him again, yet this did take him by surprise; after he thought about it, however, he only wondered such an arrangement had not occurred to him before. Miss Burney was a great loss to him; for there was no other woman whose society was any pleasure to him, and Father Barry was now the only person with whom he had any sympathy, and of him he saw more and more.
He begged Martha Burney to write to him, but she was a miserable correspondent; her letters were few and far between, and never told him what he wanted to know. He was obliged to go to Miss Spelman for all his information regarding these two people in whom he was so deeply interested. He heard from her that Margaret had bought a very pretty little house, furnished it, and was comfortably established with Martha. She said Margaret always wrote in excellent spirits, and seemed to her to be enjoying her winter very much.
The doctor's "young man" Richards, thanks to the careful instructions and preparation he had received, was now become of great assistance, and, being left in charge, had very successfully treated several cases, and even performed very well one or two surgical operations, so that people began to feel considerable confidence in him. Dr. James encouraged this as much as possible; for the idea of giving up his practice at Shellbeach and vicinity had taken strong hold on him. Finding that he left his patients in competent hands, he often went away on business for a week at a time, and felt his own work considerably lightened.
At Christmas time, Miss Spelman went to New York, and staid a month, and returned eloquent about the delights of her niece's establishment, and the charming people she had met. The doctor, by careful questions, learned from her that Margaret was occupied with countless good works and charities, though Miss Selina seemed to have only a vague idea what they were. She described to her attentive auditor how she breakfasted in her own room, every day, at ten o'clock, or as much later as she liked, (which had always been her idea of comfort,) and then had the carriage to do what she chose till luncheon at two, when she saw Margaret for the first time; for she was always full of her charitable engagements till one, when she came home to dress. After luncheon, in time for which some pleasant person always dropped in, they drove, visited, or shopped, and dined at six. Then Miss Spelman told of the opera, and concerts, and a dinner-party that Margaret gave while she was there, and of the old friends she had met, and of the many calls and great attention she had received; and she went on, telling about herself, with only now and then a word about Margaret, till the doctor was quite tired of listening. He was very curious about Margaret's morning work; of that his old friend, having seen nothing, could give no information; and after the account of the gayeties of Miss Lester's household, Doctor James grew more restless than ever.
CHAPTER XXI.
SEEK YE FIRST THE KINGDOM OF GOD.
January wore away, and February, and at last, on one of the first days of the first month of spring, a raw and dreary day, when Dr. James had been glad that no patient needed his attendance, he had made a bright little fire, and was sitting in his study chair, deeply engaged with the last number of The Catholic World, which Father Barry had lent him. Richards came in from the post-office, laid the doctor's mail upon the table, and then went home to his mother's house. Dr. James very deliberately finished the article he was reading, stared at the fire for a few minutes, and then carelessly took up his letters and glanced at the handwritings. There was one from his sister Lucy, one from a medical friend at the West, and—what was this?—one in a clear, firm hand, which gave him a start, and brought him very quickly out of his reverie.
"From Margaret Lester! What can she have to say to me?"
A misgiving came over him as he held the letter in his hand, and he delayed opening it. What might not her boldness and independence be capable of! He smiled contemptuously as he realized that his imagination was running away with him.
"She is engaged, I suppose," and he quickly broke the seal.
"My Dear Friend: I write to you because this is the very happiest day of my life, and because I owe that happiness, after God, to you.
"Do you remember your words, 'For the direction of practical, systematic good works, I advise you to go to the Catholic priest'? Well, I established myself in New York with the object of making myself happy by doing as much good to the poor as I was able; and as soon as I asked myself how I should begin, I thought of your words, and said to myself, 'I found how true that advice was in that quiet little town; now, why should it not hold good in a great city like this, where there is so much more misery, and where opportunities for doing good are so much greater?' So I said to my cook, whom I found to be a good Catholic, going to her confessions and communions regularly, 'Where does your priest live? For I want to go and see him.' She gladly told me where to find him, and I went where she directed me, and found an old, white-headed Frenchman with most courtly manners, before whom I felt as unpolished as a school-girl. I told him the simple truth, and asked to be instructed as to how I could aid the poor. Well, we sat down, and he gave me a little sketch of the different Catholic charities in New York, and each one, as he described it, seemed to me best of all; and I saw how much more good I could do by aiding those perfectly organized charities than by working on my own responsibility. He ended by telling me of a lady who would take me with her and show me all these institutions.
"From that day began for me a life of revelations. I had always dreamed of lives of heroism; and I began to see that they were not only possible, but of every-day occurrence among those men and women devoted to works of mercy. Then came the question, What is it that inspires such self-sacrifice, such complete abnegation and ignoring of self, such all-embracing charity and purity of motive? For in no case could I see a trace of any personal advantage to be gained from these almost superhuman labors. And then, Dr. James, I began to look into the doctrine of that church which all my life I had been taught to regard as the teacher of falsehood, superstition, and idolatry.
"The result has been that a week ago I was baptized a Roman Catholic, and this day, for the first time, I have received our Lord Jesus Christ in the most holy communion.
"O my friend! God's goodness has been great to me, and I am as happy as a person should be who has found there is such a thing as heaven upon earth. This is why I have written to you, because my heart, in its gratitude to God, turns next to you; and also because I wish you to hear from no one except myself of this great change in my life.
"And now, I cannot end my letter without one more word. I have another saying of yours in my mind; was it not this? 'Do as well as you know how, and then be at peace.' That is true; yet it is not all that will be required of us. We ought to try to know the best thing, and then do what we know as well as we can.
"Good-by, and God bless you.
"Margaret.
"P.S.—Martha Burney, after trying her best to dissuade me, had the justice to examine what I was about, and she was received into the church this very day."
Father Barry received this news by the same mail as Dr. James, and from him Margaret heard at once. The pious priest wrote a letter full of joy and congratulation, of good advice and blessing; but to her other letter no answer was received. Two weeks passed, and no word came. Miss Selina had written a reproachful and admonitory letter, assuring Margaret that it was not too late, and while life was spared her she could draw back. She insinuated that a plan of rescue could be easily arranged, and offered her home as an asylum to the fugitive.
Margaret laughed over this letter, and showed it to her friends with great glee. However, she wrote back a kind and soothing answer, which softened her aunt a little, though the subject continued a very sore one for a long time. To think that she should have been a month in the same house with Margaret, never suspecting the machinations of which the poor child was being made the victim! But when she applied to Dr. James for sympathy, he said abruptly,
"I don't agree with you at all, ma'am. Miss Lester has done right because she has consulted her own conscience, and been brave enough not to stop for what the world or her friends would say or think."
He then changed the subject; and Miss Spelman was so much scandalized that she never spoke of it again.
CHAPTER XXII.
ALL THINGS SHALL BE ADDED UNTO YOU.
On the 18th of March, Margaret had returned to luncheon from visiting some sick persons; Martha had staid at home to cut out work to be given to poor women. She entered Margaret's room as she was dressing, holding one hand behind her.
"I have had a note from Dr. James to-day," said Martha. "He is in the city, and we shall see him to-morrow."
Margaret looked up inquiringly.
"You have something else to tell! I see it in your face. Why do you make me wait?"
"I have something else to tell, and this shall tell it for me," she answered, laying a letter down on Margaret's table, and going out of the room. Margaret, with trembling fingers, tore it open and read as follows:
"New York, March 18.
"My Dear Miss Lester: It has not been from disapprobation, nor neglect, nor indifference that I have left your letter so long unanswered. It is because I earnestly desired, if possible, to give you some good news in return for that which you sent me.
"You speak of owing your conversion partly to me, and I am very happy that this should be true; but your letter has done a greater work for me than you thought it could when you wrote it. Miss Lester, I ought to have been where you are now a year ago; but pride of intellect, perversity of will, and, latterly, another obstacle, have stood in my way, and I might have kept on blind and miserable for the rest of my life. You have found the church of God through its treasures of charity, displayed in its works of mercy to the poor, the weak, and the sinful; it was your heart, so to speak, that carried you there. I have found the same church entirely by my mind. I have seen repeatedly shallow prejudices, groundless suspicions, and fanatical attacks met by calm, strong, logical arguments. I have seen the carping opinions of sects dwindling away before the majesty of a revealed faith. I have recognized that intellect, learning, science, philosophy, shine brightest in that church which the scoffers of the day assert to be in her dotage and dissolution. I have been forced at last, to admit her divine authority, and the consequent infallibility of her teaching, and there was but one thing left for me to do. How long would I have resisted light, conviction? I cannot tell. Cowardice, pride, and something else held me back; then your letter came, as a push from a friendly hand to a wretch clinging to the feeble branch which threatens to give way in his grasp and precipitate him into the abyss below, yet fearing to take the leap which will land him on firm ground.
"We have landed on the rock—you and I. God grant that we may stand on it for ever.
"I have much more to say, but can write no more. I have been for a week making a retreat at the house of the —— fathers, and I shall be baptized in their church to-morrow morning, Feast of St. Joseph, after the nine o'clock mass. You will come, will you not? Pray for me.
Francis James."
Margaret read this letter steadily through to the end, and then fell on her knees by her little table, where Martha found her some time after, when she came to summon her to luncheon.
"He has asked me to be his godmother," remarked Martha, as they were sitting at the dining-table.
"Has he? I should think he would have asked me," responded Margaret.
"Don't you remember what you told me once about the spiritual relationship between sponsors and their god-children, and what it precludes?"
Margaret slightly smiled, and the subject was dropped.
On arriving next morning at St. —— church, Margaret found that the first pew was reserved for Martha and herself, and soon Dr. James appeared and knelt with them. To the surprise and delight of Margaret, who should enter the sanctuary to celebrate mass but Father Barry; and it was he who, at the conclusion of the holy sacrifice, administered the sacrament of baptism.
Margaret's cup of happiness was very full when, going into the house afterward, by invitation, she was able to exchange congratulations with her good friend Father Barry, and grasp, with a glowing face and speaking eyes, the hand of the newly-baptized. They both agreed to dine with her; and then she went home with Martha, wondering over the changes which one year had brought about in her life, and thanking God in her heart for her conversion and for that of the person dearest to her in the world.
The dinner that evening was a very delightful one. Margaret and the doctor were surprised to find all embarrassment between them gone. All their past intercourse seemed far away and like what had happened in a dream, and they felt that they were beginning their friendship over again on a new and true basis.
Margaret had many questions to ask of Father Barry about Sealing, and the different families she was interested in, and he had a great deal to tell her, as well as questions to ask in his turn. And Margaret told all about the beautiful religious houses she had visited, and about kind Abbé Saincère, who had done her so much good, lent her books and led her gently on till she was safely in the fold.
Martha Burney had to tell of her horror when she found what Margaret was wrapped up in; how she scolded, and argued, and ridiculed, and at last went in secret to see the abbé, to remonstrate with him. How she was won by his gentleness and courtesy, and how, still in secret and with his assistance, she read and learned about the church, till on Margaret's asking one day why she made no more fuss about her becoming a Catholic, she said the reason was because she was going to be one herself as soon as she could be prepared.
Then Dr. James told about his plans: how Richards was all ready to step into his place, and in a great hurry to have the establishment, dispensary, etc., under his own control; how he was a good-hearted young fellow, and the doctor thought would be merciful to the poor; and his mother would come and live with him, and take the place of the tyrannical housekeeper. Then, for himself, Dr. James announced his intention of removing to New York as soon as his affairs at Shellbeach were settled.
Margaret was quieter than usual, and more simply dressed than the doctor had ever seen her before, in a plain black silk absolutely without ornament, except that she wore round her neck an amber rosary, which she said she had obtained abroad when she was a heathen. There was in her face an expression of serenity and quiet happiness that was new to it, and Dr. James thought he had never seen her so attractive and lovable.
The evening flew away; Father Barry was to return to Sealing the next day, and the doctor with him for a week or two, but he would soon come back to New York to live. At parting he said in a low voice to Margaret,
"I am to receive communion in Father Barry's church a week from Sunday; you will pray for me?"
"I will not forget," she answered with a happy smile.
CHAPTER XXIII.
MARGARET'S BIRTHDAY.
The story draws to a close, and there is little more to tell; the rest is such plain sailing that it might almost be taken for granted. There is one little scene, however, pleasant to write and possibly pleasant to read, which took place on August 15th of that same year, in the church at Sealing; and in explanation of which a short account should be given of what happened after Dr. James had come to live in New York.
He had taken rooms in that city and begun to work among the poor, doing much although with small means. He began to go regularly every day to Miss Lester's house in the afternoon; then they walked and drove together, and learned to know each other well. He was often with her in the morning, too, and together they visited many a sick and suffering soul, leaving behind them comfort, encouragement, and substantial relief. They every week knelt together at the altar of the little French chapel Margaret loved so well, and received God's greatest gift of love to man, and it was a time of pure, unclouded happiness.
It was June; and there had been a week of very warm weather. The fashionables had fled from the city, or shut themselves up in their houses, excluding every ray of light and sun. Dr. James, weary from his morning's labors, had been home, refreshed himself a little, and then, at about five o'clock in the afternoon, stood on the steps of Margaret's house, and was ushered into the shady parlor. The green blinds were closed, the carpets were gone, cool white matting was on the floors, and great bunches of roses stood about on tables and mantel-pieces. Margaret came to meet him, fresh and cool in her light dress, and holding in her hand a very beautiful line engraving of the Dresden "Madonna and Child."
"See, Dr. James, what Martha has given me for a birthday present."
"Why did you not tell me beforehand that this was your birthday, that I might have given you a present?"
"Truly, because I forgot it till I found this on the breakfast-table this morning. It seems I told Martha at Shellbeach that this was my birthday, and she remembered it. Was she not kind?"
"I want to speak to you about leaving the city," said the doctor; "the hot weather has come, and it will not be healthy for you to be here. The cholera may be about, they say, and you go into places where you will be sure to catch it."
"So do you."
"But a doctor is pretty safe; he can guard against infection in a great measure."
"Well, a great many other people stay in New York and do not get sick. The religious and priests stay in their houses, and they go among more wretched people than I do."
"Yes; but Miss Lester, you are not a religious; your life has not been wholly consecrated to God, as theirs have."
"I can't see why, because I have not a vocation for a religious life, that should make any difference."
"Plainly, then, because your life is precious, if not to yourself, to other people; to me. It should not be lightly thrown away."
"I shall not throw it away; I don't believe in contagion. God will preserve my life, if he wishes it to be spared."
"Yes; but God is not called upon to work a miracle in your behalf; and if you wilfully expose yourself to danger, he may not interpose to avert the consequences."
Margaret was silent, and the doctor continued, with an effort,
"I said your life was precious to me; and though you did not notice it, I say it again. I have never had courage till to-day to speak to you about the letter I wrote you at Shellbeach; but it is possible for me to do so now. You did not seem angry with me when I saw you at the wedding. Had you forgotten it, or didn't you care for my rudeness?"
"I cared for it; that is, of course, I was sorry, perhaps hurt; still, not for a moment angry or offended. I knew that you were not cruel but kind, for you told the truth; and any thing except the truth would have been unkindness. I honored you for writing it."
"Yet it was not the truth; although in writing it I sincerely and honestly believed it to be the truth. I said I did not love you; I believed I did not love you; but I had no sooner read your letter than scales seemed to fall from my eyes. You see, I was sure that you were perfectly indifferent to me; and I thought you would write me a polite letter, expressing friendship, esteem, etc., and regret if I had suffered disappointment; and then that you would go off to New York and leave me to support the downfall of my hopes as best I might. I was sure of this, and your parting words that night seemed to confirm me in it. 'She wishes to part friends,' I thought to myself, 'because she believes she is going to ruin my hopes of happiness.' I was filled with unpleasant and bitter feelings. I read your letter, and the ground seemed to go from under my feet, and I realized what a blind fool I had been. I felt then but one longing, which I feel still, although I know its uselessness and absurdity: that you might be, by some chance, stripped of your fortune to the last cent, that I might lay my poor little pittance at your feet and implore your acceptance of it.
"Oh! if I could tell you what I endured. Shellbeach became unbearable to me; all life and interest seemed to have left me. How I missed you! You can never imagine it, and I cannot describe it. The more I thought of you, the more wretched I became, and after that wedding I felt tenfold worse. I went home to my mother for a change; and then resolved to put you completely out of my head, and, as an assistance, resumed my study of Catholicity, that I had for a time neglected. Then, though I blush to own it, and would not risk my standing in your estimation by telling you of it except that it proves my love for you, the only thing which deterred me from entering the church was the thought that I should lose your esteem, and that it would completely cut me off from any chance I might ever have again of winning you for my wife. Your second letter came, and seemed as an answer from heaven, 'Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith?' You know the rest—but I cannot go on. Even supported by the blessed sympathy we have in our faith, I cannot ask for what my heart craves."
"Dr. James, you seem to feel as if you were before me as a criminal before his judge. Now you have done only what was right and true toward me, and you owe me no apology for any thing. You and I, I believe, have done each other real good, and we have mutually helped each other into the church; we stand on equal ground, and I will accept no other position."
Dr. James looked searchingly at her, and said in a low voice,
"You do me good and make me feel like myself. Then, Margaret, though I am not worthy of you, will you be my wife?"
Margaret laid her hand in his,
"I will, if God allows me so much happiness."
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE SEVENTH SACRAMENT.
Margaret was unwilling to leave New York; but the doctor insisted, and a compromise was effected. She was to stay through July, and complete the preparations for her marriage; for that was to take place in August, and they would go for their wedding journey to visit Mrs. James in Maine. Margaret expressed a strong wish to be married at Sealing, and the plan was very pleasant to Dr. James; so a week before the day appointed, she went to her aunt, Miss Spelman's. There she spent a happy week, visiting her friends among the poor, and hearing from them about the goodness and kind deeds of their favorite doctor, whom they seemed to regard in the light of a good angel. Martha Burney was also at Miss Spelman's, and the doctor came two days before the fifteenth, so it was a very merry and happy household.
The feast of the Assumption of Our Lady was as beautiful a day as ever shone on a happy bride; the bells rang as if for a public celebration; for Dr. James was beloved by every one and Margaret was very popular. The time was nine o'clock; for the bride and bridegroom were fasting. Margaret's dress was white, with veil, orange-blossoms, and every thing as it should be; she had inclined very much to be married in her travelling dress; but the doctor wanted white, and she thought besides, that a gay, showy wedding would give pleasure to many of the guests.
Father Barry said that it was like the marriage feast in the Gospel; for the deaf, the halt, and the blind were well represented. Margaret's "friends" were many, and the more aristocratic inhabitants of Sealing and Shellbeach were rather surprised to find themselves in close neighborhood with the McNallys, O'Neills, and O'Flahertys, who were put in the best places, and were perfectly at home in their own church.
The high altar, and those of the Blessed Virgin and St. Joseph, were covered with flowers; and a fine new set of vestments and sacred vessels, presented by the bride and bridegroom elect, were used for the first time.
It seemed to Margaret and to Dr. James a beautiful circumstance, though a natural one, that they had neither of them ever seen a nuptial mass before this, their own. Nor had they realized what marriage might be, until they studied the wonderful office of that church that has elevated the natural union of man and woman to the dignity of a sacrament, which St. Paul declares to be typical of the union of our Lord with his spouse, the church. They were profoundly impressed with the thought that the holy of holies was to be offered upon the altar on that day, the happiest of their lives—for them, for their happiness and blessing; and that, as God was to descend from heaven, as it were, in their honor, so they should offer their new life for his greater honor and glory.
How is it possible that Catholics should ever forego this privilege of the nuptial mass, and avail themselves only of the form absolutely required by the church? Do they not realize that in sanctifying the first day of their wedded life by assisting together at the sacrifice of the mass, and as their first united action, receiving their Lord unto their hearts, they draw down a blessing on all that is to follow?
Never had Margaret felt so pure a joy as when, kneeling beside the one she loved best in the world, she heard the solemn benediction pronounced upon them, and the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob besought to "himself fulfil his blessing" upon them. Never had Dr. James realized so fully his happiness as when he heard the beautiful prayer offered for his bride, and the virtues of Rachel, Rebecca, and Sarah invoked for her.
And when, in the little instruction which Father Barry gave them, he said they might indeed hope that Jesus and Mary had been present at their wedding, as at that of Cana in Galilee, they felt as if they had received a favor similar to the one then bestowed; for, as the water was turned into wine, was not their natural rejoicing changed into a joy more pure and sublime than earth can bestow?
The married couple, and every Catholic in the church, remained on their knees for some time after mass was ended, and, as one of the spectators afterward said, "The happy pair behaved as if they were by no means the most important persons present." Martha Burney heard the remark, and immediately replied,
"You must remember that they recognized the presence of the Lord Jesus, surrounded by legions of holy angels;" to which remark the first speaker was too much astonished to make any answer.
On his return to Miss Spelman's house, Dr. James was greatly surprised to find standing at the gate an elegant little doctor's chaise, with a very beautiful horse; a plainly dressed man stood by its head, whom the doctor recognized as a mechanic whose life he had saved when he was lying at death's door with smallpox. As he spoke to him pleasantly, the man took off his hat and said,
"If you please, doctor, this is a present from all your patients."
It was the kind thought of a kind heart, and the author of it, himself indebted to the doctor's devoted care, had gone in person to every house within twenty miles, inquiring who had been treated by Dr. James, and proposing to each a small contribution.
"They only wanted to give too much," he said to the doctor afterward; "but all, even the very poorest, gave something."
CHAPTER XXV.
THE MISTRESS OF A POOR MAN'S HOUSEHOLD.
After a fortnight spent very happily in Maine, Dr. and Mrs. James came back to New York, bringing with them the doctor's youngest sister, Lucy, to make a long visit. Martha Burney had been left in charge of the house, and had received a warm invitation to consider it her home; but she only replied that she would think about it.
On arriving at home, (for it was decided to begin their married life in the house that Margaret had already bought and furnished,) and asking eagerly for her friend, Margaret was informed that Miss Burney had gone away that day, and left a note to explain. It was as follows:
"My Dearest Margaret: Do not think, by my leaving your house, that I do not appreciate the hospitality that you and your husband have offered me, or that I am ungrateful for it. But I could never consent to live upon you always; and I thought it better, while I am strong and healthy, to enter on the life in which I should be glad to be found at death. I have consulted with M. Saincère, and he encourages me to hope that my vocation may be a religious one; and the sympathy and affection I feel for the Sisters of Charity, which I believe you share with me, leads me to seek my home and work among them, at the house we visited together on the Hudson River. There I shall remain for the present as a boarder, till I am quite sure what is God's will for me; but I may tell you, in confidence, that I have in mind the work of teaching the poor and abandoned little ones of this great city.
"I cannot express the joy which comes to my heart when I think that my life, which since my father's death has seemed to me aimless and unprofitable, may be devoted in the humblest way to the service of God and his holy church. Rejoice with me, my dear friend, in the midst of your own great happiness. God grant that we may both be worthy of the favors he has bestowed on us! I pray him to grant his blessing to you and yours.
"With love and congratulations to you and your husband; I remain, in the heart of Jesus, your faithful friend,
"Martha Burney.
"New York, Sept. 1."
That evening, when Lucy, tired with her long journey, had gone up-stairs, Margaret and Dr. James sat together in the parlor talking. The windows were open, and there was a refreshing breeze; the moonlight lay brightly on the floor, but except that, the room was dark.
"I tremble sometimes," said Dr. James, "when I think of the broad path of sunshine in which I am walking, and see that every wish is fulfilled. I have left Shellbeach with none but friends behind me; I have health and strength; money enough for necessaries, superfluities, and charities; the noblest and handsomest wife in the world; the best and only religion to love and serve with her; the angels and saints for friends and comrades; a living God to worship, and the hope of heaven hereafter. But O Margaret! the words of St. Paul are very often with me now, 'But God forbid that I should glory, save in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ.' We have not much to make us remember the cross now; but let us try, at least, to be ready for it when it comes to us."
"We will not forget it. I will write those words this night in the prayer-book Father Barry gave me for my wedding present."
And when they said their prayers, Margaret opened the blank page at the beginning of the book, and, showing it to her husband, pointed to this inscription, written by Father Barry, "The Lord is merciful to those whom he foreknoweth shall be his by faith and good works;" and below she had herself added these words,
"But God forbid that I should glory, save in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ."