As age creeps on, there are other deaths than those we mourn openly. Sometimes hope dies, or faith, or love—and from the infinite blackness of such loss, may God in His mercy keep us!—sometimes it is ambition, or friendship, which is worse. But all death is sad, except, as perhaps we shall find, our own, for that should mean recovering again some good things which we have lost.
Claudia went through several phases at this time. It was not extraordinary; most men and women do after a crisis, particularly a crisis which has in it anything humiliating. She fancied that her old occupation would give her interest, and forced herself into working furiously at certain plans. When they failed, or seemed to fail, she lost heart, and believed herself incapable. By way of expiation, she sat humbly at Emily’s feet, printing hundreds of leaflets in the palest and most uninviting inks, and dutifully attended Anne when she paid visits in the Close, and, far from flaunting nineteenth-century aims in the eyes of her listeners, tried to fling herself into the pettiest of local interests.
“If she goes on like this, by-and-by she will elope with the Dean, or do something equally sinful,” announced Philippa one day as she snipped withered flowers in the garden.
“I know,” said Anne uneasily. “But I don’t know what to suggest. And I fancied she would be better for finding out for herself.”
“Get her to go bicycling again.”
“I suppose,” Anne hesitated and sighed—“I suppose it would not do to have Harry? He is dying to come.”
“No, indeed. You prudent people are always the most reckless. We are all boring her to death just now, and Harry would be only another element of boredom. No; the bicycle.”
It was not easy, because the bicycle had unavoidable associations, and also made part of a certain untold scheme of renunciation. But restlessness, together with an inevitable reaction from the life into which she was squeezing herself, came to Anne’s help. The burdens we choose for ourselves often gall and fret, while those which God lays on us are moulded to our use by the great Master’s hand. The girl was growing sore and impatient over her self-imposed tasks, and Philippa was right. For now she went off by herself, and fought hard battles under fresh windy skies, often through rain and storm, and came back with wet cheeks and uncurled hair, but with the old glow and brightness awakening in her eyes.
“I told you so!” cried Philippa, not in the least above that feminine weakness. “And I have another idea. She wants a playfellow, and Harry shall send her a dog.”
“A dog!” exclaimed Emily in dismay. “But you would never have one here on account of Belisarius.” Belisarius was the cat, and he ruled Philippa with a rod of iron.