MARY CLIFFORD'S PROMISE KEPT.
It was the day after a storm. The morning had been cool, almost cold; banks of cloud were piled up on the horizon; the summits of the friendly Franconias were shrouded; the White Mountains were invisible, and the wind whistled and howled, reminding one of "the melancholy days" to come. By afternoon, however, there was a change. Every cloud had magically disappeared, the wind had gone down, fields and young maples seemed to have renewed their early green, and everything stood out in clear relief, bathed and steeped in September sunshine. Not a red-letter day, but a golden day; one to be remembered.
I believe I shall remember it all my life, even if there should be days as bright and far happier in store for me. I was in an open buggy with a gentleman named Mr. Grey, I driving and he calling my attention to one thing after another, and both of us rejoicing in a light-hearted way in the sun, and sky, and yellow leaves, and roadside trees laden with crimson plums; in the golden-rod, and purple asters, and the bee-hives, and picturesque, bare-footed, white-headed children; and in ourselves and each other, and in our youth and strength; and in the sunny present, and the mysterious, enchanted future.
"I never knew the animal go so well before," said Mr. Grey; "you seem to understand how to make him do his best. Only remember that the faster we go, the sooner we shall get home. Will you not sacrifice your fancy for fast driving, to my enjoyment of the drive? Give me time to realize how much I enjoy it."
"You always seem to feel as if stopping to think about it will make the time go slower," I said.
"It does to me, I assure you, at least at the moment. Yet I do not find, in looking back, that this past month has flown any less fast, for all my little arts to detain it. Here comes the stage, crowded as usual, inside and out. I wonder whether we make a part of the picture to them, and whether they will remember us with it? The mountains before them—look back, Miss Clifford, and see; that crimson maple on your side of the road; and this green hill with its firs and rocks on mine."
I laughed. "I don't believe they will ever think of us again."
"Then they are not appreciative. Don't think I mean to take any of their supposed notice to myself, except so far as I am with you. To me, all the rest, all that we can see and admire, is the frame, the setting as it were, to your face. It has been so ever since I came here."
I found this somewhat embarrassing, of course, though Mr. Grey spoke in a simple, matter-of-fact way, that had the effect of veiling the compliment. He did not seem to expect an answer, and continued, "That reminds me of 'In Memoriam.' Do you recall the lines about the 'diffusive power'?"
"No; I don't know what you mean. Repeat them, won't you?"
"I have no doubt you will find them familiar, yet I will repeat them, because I like them so much." And he recited these lines, which I write down, because they bring before me the whole scene, and I seem to hear again the low voice and the appreciating accent with which he spoke:
"Thy voice is on the rolling air;
I hear thee where the waters run:
Thou standest in the rising sun,
And in the setting thou art fair.
"What art thou, then? I cannot guess;
But, though I seem in star and flower
To feel thee some diffusive power,
I do not therefore love thee less.
"My love involves the love before;
My love is vaster passion now;
Though mixed with God and nature thou,
I seem to love thee more and more.
"Far off thou art, but ever nigh;
I have thee still, and I rejoice,
I prosper, circled with thy voice;
I shall not lose thee, though I die."
"Can you imagine feeling so about any one?" asked Mr. Grey.
"I can imagine it. Do you suppose that Mr. Tennyson's friend was really so much to him?"
"Perhaps," he said gravely. "I'll tell you, Miss Clifford, what I think about that. It is not right to feel so about anybody, because that is exactly the way we ought to feel about God. Don't you see that it is? If everything reminded us of him, it would be just right."
"I can't believe it would be possible to make God so personal to us. We think naturally of what we know and have seen, not of what we merely believe in."
"Ah! but God may be 'personal to us,' as you say. You forget that he is near us, with us, and even in us. That would be the only way, it seems to me, of loving him with our mind, and soul, and strength, because we can't help loving all this beauty in everything. Just as Tennyson says,
'My love involves the love before,
I seem to love thee more and more.'"
There was a bough of deep-red leaves overhead, and I looked longingly at it, for they were just the color that I liked to wear in my hair; yet I did not want to ask for it, lest Mr. Grey should think that I had not been attending to him. He must have seen the look, though, for he jumped out of the buggy and ran up the bank to get the branch. I stopped the horse, thinking, as I watched the capturing of the prize, "I might have known my wish would be anticipated. Every one but he waits to be asked and thanked." When he came back, I told him I was tired of driving, and asked him to take the reins.
"May I spin the drive out?" he asked. "You are not in a hurry to have it over, are you? Do you know it is the only time we have ever driven together?"
"Why, I thought we had taken a great many other drives. What are you thinking of?"
"We have driven often, as you say, with parties of other people, but have we ever taken a drive by ourselves before?"
"No," I returned; "you are right."
"It is a part of the whole," continued he. "I have been in a kind of dream for a month. I dread the awakening, though everything reminds me of it now. It has been a new experience to me, this boarding with other people and seeing them so familiarly. There is no way of getting into easy and friendly relations with others in a very short space of time so effective as this; and, as the household has happened to be a very pleasant one, I have enjoyed the experiment greatly; though it is strange to think that I may never see any of our number again."
"You are really very flattering, Mr. Grey," I said, a little hurt. "Then I am never to see you again! I am glad you have given me warning, or I might have invited you to visit us in Boston, next winter."
"You are kind, very kind," he answered hastily; "nothing would give me greater pleasure than to meet you, but I shall not be in America next winter. I hope to be in Rome."
"Really!" I exclaimed. "Why are you going to Rome? To be a priest?"
"No, I am not so fortunate as to have that vocation. I am going abroad to try to find a wife, singular as it may appear."
"It does seem strange that a man with such strong American feelings as you should wish to have a foreign wife."
"I want to marry a Catholic," he said, switching off the tops of the golden-rod with the whip.
"And are there no Catholic wives to be obtained here?" I asked, smiling.
"No doubt; though I have not yet found the one I am looking for. Among converts there are girls who suffer for their faith, who are called upon to make sacrifices, to lose position, and the approbation, even the affection, of their friends. 'It is so odd!' they say, 'so unnecessary, to break away from early associations, and from forms of worship which have been sufficient for all their friends—and very good people too—and embrace a foreign religion.' Haven't you heard such remarks?"
I acknowledged that I had, adding, "And I don't wonder at it."
"Among these brave girls," he continued, not noticing my remark, "one meets heroism, fervor, and a practical recommendation of the religion for which they are proud to suffer; but I also want to see what I shall find in other countries—women who have grown up in a Catholic atmosphere, and acquired their faith unconsciously, as the breath of their lives. These have developed into beautiful forms of grace and piety, as delicate as flowers, and, like them, breathing innocence and purity such as no other education can give or even preserve."
"Do you mean to say that innocence and purity cannot be found among Protestant girls?" I asked sarcastically.
"I am sure I hope they can," he answered earnestly; "yet do not be offended if I say, not in the same degree. You cannot conceive, Miss Clifford, of the beauty of a soul which has been guarded and sustained from infancy by the graces and sacraments of the church, and has kept its baptismal whiteness without stain. It is not often found, even within the church, and is, I believe, nearly impossible outside it."
"I hope you'll find this angel next winter. Please let me know when you discover her, for I should like to see her."
He was silent, and as I was thinking about a good many things, we drove on very quietly for some time.
It may seem strange that I should remember so well what Mr. Grey said to me that golden September afternoon, and as I think I know the reason of it, I will write it down as frankly as I have written the description of our drive so far, and as I mean to put down all I recall of it to the end.
Mr. Grey had boarded for a month in the same house with me and my sister, and a dozen other people, all of whom we met for the first time. My sister and I were the only persons whose society he seemed to seek, and as she, not being strong, was obliged to keep quiet, I had seen more of him than any one else. He was very polite and pleasant to every one, and the whole household liked him; yet he never talked to the other ladies as he did to me, nor paid them the same watchful little attentions. He thought me pretty, and had a curious, unconscious way of alluding to it that did not seem offensive like common flattery, and there was a delicacy and appreciation about his treatment of me that was original and very, very pleasant.
True, he was a Catholic, and a very devout one, having his religious books and papers always with him, and talking of his faith with real enjoyment to any one who showed the smallest interest. Rose, my sister, had talked with him once or twice, and to her he very soon expressed his disapproval of marriage between Catholics and non-Catholics (as he called them), and declared his determination never to marry at all if he could not have a Catholic wife. Rose had alluded to this in my presence, so he knew that I understood what his intentions were. On account of this understanding, there was more freedom and less constraint in our intercourse than would otherwise have been; and as he was a gentleman, and an educated one, I found great pleasure in being with him and in his sympathy. His attentions, unobtrusive, thoughtful, and constant, were not only acceptable to me, but in that short month I had come to depend upon them more than I was aware of, forgetting that when they ceased it would be harder for me than if I had never received them.
Mr. Grey had never talked to me exactly in the way that he did that afternoon, and because I thought it unusual I have been able to recall what he said in nearly his very words.
We were on our way home, walking up a long hill, when he said:
"I have thought a good deal of you lately, and of a feeling I have had about you from the first—as if it were a great merit in you to be so lovely, and sweet, and charming, and that any one who felt and appreciated your loveliness as I have owed you a kind of debt, as it were, which it would be an honor and a happiness to try to pay."
His face was turned from me, and he trailed the whip-lash in the road, while I, leaning back, could not help looking at him, and, because I did not know what to say, I laughed.
He continued: "Yet with that thought came the realization of its injustice; for you cannot help your prettiness, and you are clever because it is natural to you; and I thought, 'Now, if I am just, I shall pay my debt not to her, who did not make herself, but to God, who made her. I shall love not only the beauty, but also the Giver and Perfecter of it.' Would not that be better, Miss Clifford?"
"Yes, I suppose so. I understand what you mean. Only, then, why have you been so good to me?" I had to look away, for my voice trembled and my eyes were suddenly full of tears.
"Why? Because it has made me happy, and I have been unjust; because I have said to myself, 'This is a dream—a sweet and charming dream. Soon I shall wake and go back to real life; for the present, let me be weak and enjoy it.'"
The glory of the sunshine was departing, the hills were in deep shadow, and the slanting rays were no longer warm and cheering. Mr. Grey wrapped my shawl round me, just as I remembered that I had one in case I should need it.
When I could speak steadily, I remarked: "Something that you have said makes me think of the parable of the talents. It has always perplexed me. Will you tell me if you think I have a talent, and what I am to do with it? I don't want to bury it in the ground."
"Your talents are clear enough, I am sure," he answered. "Your power of pleasing and making yourself loved is one."
"And what am I to do with it?"
"Why, do good with it. You have done me good."
"Ah! but that is because you are good, not because I am," I said sadly.
"I am not good, though perhaps the reason why you have done me good lies more with me than you. I don't suppose—forgive me for saying it—that your beauty was given you only to win men's hearts, because that does not make them happy, or better."
"You are thinking, I suppose, of Mr. Falconer. I am sure I did not want him to fall in love with me, and make such a fuss. It was very uncomfortable."
"And don't you think you might have helped it? Really, now, Miss Clifford?"
"Well, yes, I might perhaps have stopped him if I had been rude and disagreeable to him."
"I don't believe you are ever that to any one. You try to please everybody."
"There! that is just it!" I exclaimed. "Why, isn't that using my talent, taking for granted I have it? What ought I to do with it?"
"I know what a Catholic girl would think of, because Catholics are taught in all things to acknowledge God, and to refer all to him. Think what this gift of beauty is—the key to all hearts; it challenges and receives love as soon as seen. Don't you feel instantly attracted by a beautiful face, and turn with pleasure and affection toward the possessor, before she has given any evidence of other claims to be loved?"
"Yes; and for a person who can't help wanting to please and to be loved, it is an advantage, isn't it?"
"It is more than that, it is the gift of God; and therefore intended for good. The saints were in the habit of saying, 'God created all this beauty in order to lead me to love him.' Now, if a woman thinks of this, she will not prize her beauty for the purposes of vanity, but to lead her admirers to something higher than herself. I grant you this is not common, nor would a woman think of it, unless she had been taught to think of God as the first principle of her life. But I will not preach any more."
"You remind me of my little 'Mrs. Barbauld.' How long it is since I have thought of it! 'The rose is beautiful; but he that made the rose is more beautiful than it. It is beautiful; he is beauty.'"
"I have been unusually serious, perhaps because I have felt the end of the dream drawing very near. I am going away the day after to-morrow."
The sunset clouds had faded away, and the stars were coming out above our heads. We had reached the top of one more long hill, and there was the little meeting-house before us, and we saw beyond our own white cottage, with a light in the parlor-window, showing that tea-time was passed. Mr. Grey spoke again.
"Have you enjoyed this drive?"
"I have very much."
"Have I said anything to hurt or offend you?"
"No, indeed, Mr. Grey. On the contrary, you have given me something to think about. No one ever spoke to me in this way before."
"And do you think you shall be likely to remember this afternoon? and with pleasure?"
"I shall not be likely to forget it."
"Well, then, I have an odd fancy, and it is this. I want you to promise me, after I have left this beautiful place and you, that you will write a description of this drive, as if to an unknown third person, with the details and necessary explanations. I will do the same. Then, if we meet again, you can read mine and I yours, if we like, and look back to this time. Will you promise?"
I considered a minute, and then said, "I think I can see that such a description will not be an easy thing to me; yet, if it is your wish, of course, Mr. Grey, I promise."
"We may meet after many years, you an old lady and I an old man; and these accounts will bring back to us this perfect day, and all that we have seen and felt."
I looked at him and smiled. "Mr. Grey, I have been invited to spend a year abroad with some friends, and my father says I may go if I choose. We may meet next winter, in Rome."
And in Rome we did meet, sure enough—that Rome to which "all roads lead." I began to take one of those roads soon after Mr. Grey's departure. I found it a road "so plain that a fool could not err therein," a "path of peace." And when we stood side by side in the Rome of the Seven Hills, he made up his mind to share the seventh sacrament with a "convert girl."