“Do you know that to-morrow will be Easter?” I said, when we had but two days left. “We must ask Mr. Hoffman to take us out this evening to hear the Minorcans sing; to-morrow we will go to the Episcopal church, and then, on Monday, ho! for the bonny North.”
“Very bonny!” said Sara.
“Do you agree to the programme, mademoiselle?”
“All save the church-going.”
“We are not Episcopalians, I know, but on Easter-Sunday—”
“Oh, it isn’t that, Martha. I don’t want to go to church at all. I am not in the mood.”
“But, Sara, my dear—”
“Yes, and Sara, my dear! Religion is for two classes—the happy and the resigned. I belong to neither. I am lost out of the first, and I haven’t yet found the second. I took this journey to please you, Martha. I don’t blame you; it was all chance; but—You think you know all my life. You know nothing about it. Martha, I was once engaged to John Hoffman.”
“What! engaged?”
“Yes, for six short months. But it was ten years ago, and I was only eighteen. He had forgotten both it and me, as I could see by his face when you first introduced him on that New York steamer. I am only one of a succession, I presume,” continued Sara, in a bitter tone. (I thought it very likely, but did not say so.) “I was at home up in the mountains then, and he came that way on a hunting expedition. It was the old, old story, and I was so happy! I knew little and cared less about his social position. I was educated, therefore I was his peer. But he was stern, and I was proud; he was unyielding, and I rebellious; he wished to rule, and I would obey no one, although I would have given him freely the absolute devotion of every breath had he not demanded it. We parted, still up in the mountains, where he had lingered for my sake, and I had never seen him since that day until, when fairly out at sea, he appeared on the deck of that steamer. He took the initiative immediately with his calm politeness, and I was not to be outdone. I flatter myself that not one of you suspected that we had ever met before. And now, Martha, not one word, please. There is nothing to say. We shall soon be parted again, very likely for another ten years, as he does not return North with us. Do not fancy that I am unhappy about it. I am like Esther in Bleak House, when, after that unwished-for and unpleasant offer of marriage, she nevertheless found herself weeping as she had not done since the days when she buried the dear old doll down in the garden. It is only that the old chords are stirred, Martha dear; nothing more.”