The Day Before Christmas. ——
“Why, Auntie! What a quantity of lunch you are putting up. You don’t expect me to take my Christmas dinner on the cars, do you?”
“Stranger things than that have come to pass, even though you should,” Aunt Ruth said, tucking in another half-dozen biscuits. “Massachusetts is a long way off, and Christmas is pretty near at hand. You’ll have sharp work to get through by Christmas, I’m thinking. The connections will have to be very good, and no set-backs on the way. That don’t always happen in winter, you know. Trains will be behind time, or there ’ll be a bridge down, or something. Then as you get on toward the East there will be snow-storms—snow you up for a week, maybe—better stay till after Christmas yet.”
“Aunt Ruthie, don’t! Please don’t prophesy such terrible things; I shall get on all right, I am sure. Good-by, dear own auntie!” And the young girl wound her arms about the elder woman’s neck, and laid her brown head close to the gray one.
“Good-by, dearie!” Aunt Ruth said in broken tones. “The Lord bless you and keep you—and see here, child, I’ll tuck these two little books into your basket, and some more biscuits, then if you should have to spend a week on the way, you will have something to feed soul and body both.”
A last loving look into Aunt Ruth’s eyes, and Marian sprang into a light wagon by Uncle Eli’s side, and two ponies trotted off over the smooth country road. The frosty air, the crackle of dry leaves and twigs, the morning sun, the fragrant cedars, and the flutter of gay-winged birds, made the heart of this girl, whose eye and ear were open to all sweet influences of nature, sing for joy—the mere joy of being—on this glorious morning. And truly a winter morning in the poetical, picturesque southwest, with its balmy airs, green fields, and gay birds, at Christmas time, can but seem to a New Englander the presage of that morning when all things shall be made new.
Aunt Ruth watched them far down the road, then she went into the house with a slow step and a heavy heart. She wiped away the tears as she gathered up Marian’s woody treasures that she had forgotten—lichens, moss twigs, and purple berries. The house was empty and dull. The bright young creature who had filled it with an atmosphere of warmth and gladness was gone. How grim and desolate it seemed!
For two months Aunt Ruth had lived a charmed life. Marian, the daughter of her favorite niece, whom she loved as her own child, had come from her far city home for a brief visit—to honor one whom her mother prized so highly. Her stay was protracted far beyond what duty required, though. The girl enjoyed the free, unconventional life, the novel experiences, and the almost idolatrous love bestowed upon her.
It was hard to say which was most delighted with the other. The younger one painted scenes of the gay, busy world, that seemed to the elder, hard-worked woman like the tales of Aladdin. Then she, in turn, in quaint speech, seasoned with wit, poured into the young ears the privations and romances of frontier life, as well as the love tales of long ago, which were far more delightful than one could find in a book, because they had been lived out before Aunt Ruth’s eyes. She knew whether the fine gold of the marriage day had become dim; what they did, and how they lived, and so on to the very last chapter. With graphic words she made them live again for her eager listener—a long line of ancestors—sketching her characters with no mean skill, her charitable nature hiding their faults behind their graces, so that they were most fascinating as heroes and heroines. In short, Aunt Ruth was to Marion a delightful old book, full of wisdom and strong sweetness. And while Marian was to her aunt a revelation of grace and loveliness, she was besides gifted with an active brain, and was the very soul of truth and candor, so that she seemed to the New England woman like a breath of air fresh from the old Massachusetts hills. Aunt Ruth always disparaged the East in contrast with the West when she re-visited it, and yet she loved its rocky hills with all her heart. At the same time, anything or anybody of Eastern make or birth, was held up to Western people as a model of all excellence.
“She is just wonderful,” the old lady would declare, in confidential chats with Uncle Eli. “There she has been brought up in a great city, her folks are rich, and she has everything she wants, and yet she isn’t spoiled a mite. You might have thought she would have brought a trunk full of novels to this out of the way place, and only us two old folks here, but not a bit of it! She’s devouring the old yellow books in the bookcase as if her life depended on it. The other morning she got down the ‘History of the Reformation,’ and there she sat the whole forenoon, never stirred or looked up as I went in and out—so deep in her book. In the afternoon, when I sat down to my mending, we had a great visit over Luther. She told me things that I forgot years ago. His reasons for getting a wife tickled her wonderfully. Forgot them, have you? I had, too. They were: ‘That he might please his father, spite the Pope, and vex the devil.’ Said she, ‘I should have wanted him to have one more reason, Auntie, if I had been his Katy—the only reason—because he loved me.’ She looked so sweet and pretty, I spoke right out before I thought, and I said, ‘Of course he would. How could anybody help loving you, dearie?’ You ought to ‘a’ seen her pretty blush, then; exactly like my tea-rose in the window there. She’s reading ‘Paradise Lost,’ now. She knows the Catechism from beginning to end, and she is up in the doctrines, and knows about missions. She’s a regular old-fashioned girl. Sarah Brewster wrote me that they didn’t raise such girls around Boston any more. She said they spent the whole time dressing and going, and reading novels and embroidering, and that they couldn’t stand a June frost, physically or morally, that they hadn’t any piety nor anything else—nothing but pretty faces. Now, there’s Marian, she can walk three miles, and she took hold and helped me with the baking and churning, and swept the whole house. Besides all that, she’s truly pious. She isn’t going to make one of the strong-minded kind, either—stiff, and hard, and high-stepping, and homely as a hedge fence. She’s as sweet as a rose, and as humble as a chipping-bird. I never thought I should set such store by her, when I looked out of the window that day she came, and saw her coming up the walk, sort o’ dancing along, with her big hat on, and her curls blowing about her eyes. I said to myself, ‘Yes, there she comes! A fine Boston lady, and she will mince about and make fun of us with her saucy airs, and then take herself off in two days, and I shall not be sorry, even if she is my great-niece.’ But here she has been, week after week, and don’t want to go home yet.”
The first fifty miles of Marian’s journey was unmarked by anything of special interest. This brought her to the junction where she was to change cars for the main line. But there, to her dismay, she discovered that the train with which she was supposed to connect had been gone for an hour, her own train being late. There was nothing to be done but to wait at a forlorn little hotel for the next one, which would not be until noon of the next day. It was of no use to feel provoked, or to fret, so Marian set herself to bear it patiently. She walked about the small village, and on into the country, made the acquaintance of children gathering Christmas greens, and returned with her hands full of evergreen and bitter-sweet berries.
The time did not hang so heavily as she had anticipated, although she was heartily glad when the long train glided in, and she was once more seated in the car, and on her homeward way. As it was to be a long journey, she was not a little interested in her surroundings. So she began to scrutinize her fellow-passengers, to measure, and classify, and determine, by those few swift glances, their standing—mental, social and moral—and whether they were agreeable, or selfish and ill-natured. She reached her conclusions—unjust ones in some instances, perhaps; and yet the intuitions of some fine natures are a little short of divine. When she wearied of that, she brought out pencil and paper, and scribbled a voluminous letter to Aunt Ruth. Having a talent for sketching, she embellished her sheet here and there with portraits of her fellow-travellers, “to cheer up Auntie,” she told herself, albeit the artist seemed to enjoy her work immensely, and to put a deal of painstaking into it. There was a scornful big woman with a pug-nosed dog, a laughing baby, a great pompous man asleep with his mouth open, the sweet face of an old lady biding away under a deep bonnet, and at last, with careful touches, the profile of a young man who sat just ahead of her; a fine scholarly face, bent over a book.
That letter made two old people happy for more than one evening. What if our cheery words went oftener to brighten lonely homes!
Stuart Lynde, a young lawyer returning from a business trip, who sat just below, across the aisle, was not in the least interested in those about him. They were simply a number of strangers with whom he had no possible concern. He had not raised so much as an eyelid to discover who sat before or behind him. He was absorbed in a book, and would have been amazed had he known that an excellent portrait of himself had just been executed and was about to travel back over the road he had come. That which first attracted him from the fascinating pages was a ray of golden light falling across his book; then he put it aside and gave himself up to the enjoyment of the sunset, which was unusually fine. Marian made a mental note of the fact that few watched the glorious picture hung in the sky: three or four only besides herself; the old lady, the young man, a tired-looking mother, and a plain farmer with a “gospel face.” As for the lap-dog woman, and the pompous man, they never saw a sunset. “Eyes have they, but they see not,” applies to more than heathen idols. It is always so: God’s best things are for the few; the many do not throng into the inner temple; hearts are stony, ears are dull, and “their eyes they have closed.”
Those who did watch the first red bars steal into the blue of the evening sky, and the blue change to the vast golden sea, with soft violet clouds sailing over it, could scarcely repress exclamations of delight. It was to some of them as if the end of their journey was near—the end of all journeyings—and that rushing train was speeding on straight to the golden glory shining before them, where they should meet the King in his beauty at the gate of his temple, and be welcomed in, to go no more out forever. The old lady and the tired mother and the farmer wished from their souls it was. But Marian Chester and Stuart Lynde, if the thought had occurred to them, would have said, “No, no! Not yet. We want to test the world ourselves, even though you old people say it is a rough and thorny road. We will find the roses. We are not afraid.”
It was not strange that as Marian watched the fading light she unconsciously and softly sang,—
“‘Day is dying in the west,
Heaven is touching earth with rest;
Wait and worship while the night
Sets her evening lamps alight—’”
Followed by Keble’s sweet evening hymn,—
“‘Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour dear,
It is not night if Thou be near.’”
Hymn and song came one upon the other, but the refreshment was for none but herself. Stuart Lynde caught once or twice a low, sweet strain, and looked about him to see whence it came, but the din of the cars drowned all but a stray, occasional note. Although he listened intently, the music did not rise above a soft murmur. By turning slightly in his seat, his eyes had the range of the car, and he was not long in determining the probable singer, more by the attitude than directed by any sounds. By the waning light he could see a slight figure in a sealskin sacque, a small brown velvet cap resting on a coil of brown hair. The face leaning on one hand was pressed close against the glass, and while her eyes watched the fading colors in the sky, her lips framed the words of song, as absently and unconsciously as if she had forgotten that she were not leaning from her own chamber window. It was a charming picture, and he enjoyed it.
During the evening people dropped off at the different stations along the way, until only the few through passengers remained, who wearily counted the miles to the city where the sleeping coach should be attached. They were doomed to disappointment, however, for even while they were flying on at a high rate of speed, the train suddenly came to a stand still. A broken engine and a delay of several hours, was the word that quickly passed about. As if to add to the gloomy state of things, a severe storm had set in. The violet clouds that at sunset were lovely pictures, had grown into black, overhanging monsters. The wind howled and blew with a force that threatened to sweep all before it, and the rain fell in torrents. It was not a thing to be desired—standing in the midst of what seemed a boundless prairie, exposed to the fury of the storm, miles from any station, with telegraph wires down. It was curious how this changed state of affairs was met by different ones. Some who had been amiably dozing the last few hours were now thoroughly wide awake, going out and in, slamming doors and scolding the company because they did not provide engines that could not break down; others fretted, or were pale with fright, fearing lest the cars should be blown from the track, or there be a collision.
Stuart Lynde wore a calm face; whether the calmness of stoicism, or of trust, who could tell? The old lady, who had learned patience through a long life of disappointments, was philosophical. “What can’t be cured, must be endured,” she remarked to Marian as she took off her bonnet and hung it up, brought out a hood in its place, and made other little preparations to spend the night just where she sat. To herself, she said, “I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me to dwell in safety.’”
If only she had said those words aloud!
Marian, too, took a text for her pillow, curled herself up comfortably in her seat, and went to sleep.
“What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee,” makes a soft pillow.
Mr. Lynde resolved that he would not waste his time in sleep. It was a good quiet time for thought. So he revolved in his mind the chief points in an important law case, wishing he were entirely alone, so that he might speak aloud the words of the plea, rushing to his brain, which he expected to make on the morrow, or did expect to—probably this miserable detention would spoil all his plans, at which he groaned inwardly. He was scarcely aware that another process was going on in his mind at the same time; that he was casting occasional glances at the face of the sleeper nearly opposite, and comparing it with a certain piece of statuary which was a favorite. Although strangers were distasteful to him, he was fond of tracing different types of faces, and this fair Grecian profile, outlined against the cushions, with closed eyes and rounded cheek, was a pleasant study. The hand put up to shade the face had slept at its post, and had fallen down and folded itself over the other one across the chest. The childlike mouth looked as if the lips had closed themselves on,—“I will trust.” It was a calm, sweet picture of innocent sleep, and Stuart Lynde found himself thinking as he gazed, “If only a soul ever matched a fair face!”
If she had but known, how quickly the blood would have rushed into the cheek, and the statue would have sprung up and away! Marian was not a girl to pose for stranger eyes, nor any other. It was a little singular that a connoisseur of faces should bestow all his attention upon one, and not have noticed just beyond, the fine old face crowned with snowy hair, and radiant with calm content.
The old lady, between her naps, watched the sleeper, too, feeling a sort of motherly responsibility concerning her, because she was alone. “Dear lamb,” she murmured to herself, “she is taking a good sleep.”
Marian kept some vigils, too. She straightened herself up after a few hours, wondering vaguely where she was, and why the train was standing still. The ghostly light, the silence and the rough men in a seat not far away—one of them—an evil-faced fellow, happening to glare at her just then, filled her with shudderings. She glanced swiftly over to a certain seat to see if it had changed occupants. It had not, and she felt relieved. The man who sat there might be cold and proud, but he was honorable and chivalrous; he could defend a whole car full of people, she was sure. Then there was the old lady beaming out even in the gloom and darkness, as she just now roused up, saying, “How are you getting on, my dear?” There was a world of comfort in that “my dear.”
Mr. Lynde had succumbed to the power of weariness, and was fast asleep himself now, and Marian had opportunity to retaliate, had she but known her grievances. She ventured only a few stolen glances to see if closer scrutiny would confirm her first intuitions. It was a shapely head thrown back against the corner of the seat; the face of a high, fine type, intellectually strong, and yet a trifle marred by something. Perhaps it was the suspicion that the mouth might easily take shape in a satirical smile; and there were other curves and lines suggestive of the idea that sarcasm was one of the weapons of his warfare he was fond of wielding. However, it was, as Marian decided, “a face to trust;” she composed herself to sleep again, comforted by the nearness of her two protectors.
When the day dawned matters had not mended. The rain had come down in sheets through the night; the whole country was flooded, and help had not yet come to the disabled engine. It was truly a dismal outlook for all concerned.
The fortunate ones were those who had some breakfast. The nice old lady had a snug little lunch basket, and she looked about her to see with whom she should share it. This particular car was nearly deserted, the men spending most of their time in the smoking car. Mr. Lynde was moodily gazing through the window upon the watery world, when the old lady trotted briskly over to him and, holding out her lunch basket, begged him to help himself to a sandwich and a doughnut, “for I’m sure you must be all tuckered out by this time,” she added sympathetically. But this the gentleman most emphatically declined to do, assuring her that he was not suffering, and that he could not possibly think of depriving her of what she might greatly need before the end of the journey.
She looked disappointed as she went back, and Marian, who saw the refusal, but did not hear the kindly, courteous words, inly resolved that he should have no opportunity to decline any contributions from her stores. She could have furnished him an excellent breakfast, she told herself, without fear of coming to want, either. It was good, too; wonderfully fresh and nice, considering the long time it had been on the way, but then she had providently taken precautions when detained at the hotel to keep it in good condition.
It went sorely against Marian’s nature to enjoy her nice breakfast, knowing that one who sat so near was hungry, and not offer to share with him. She would have felt the same if he had been a shaggy old man instead of an attractive young one. If only she were an old lady, now, she would go and insist that he should not starve himself. She might get courage to do it even yet, if, now that he was awake, he did not look so haughty and self-sufficient; the very curl of his moustache, as she glanced at him, was proud. Why would he not decline her kindness, too, with a grand air? No, no! He might go hungry until he attained to more humility.
Stuart Lynde had arrived at some conclusions also. Under half-closed eyelids, he had critically looked his fair neighbor over again by the morning light, after she had made her toilet, by shaking out her wrinkles, twisting her long hair into the smooth coil, running her fingers through the short curls on her temples and setting her little hat in its place. After that she looked fresh, and in order, with none of that forlorn and dishevelled appearance some women take on after having sat up all night in the cars.
But the conclusions: It must be confessed that this face from the first fascinated and attracted him. It was of as fine a type as he had ever seen, but her dress and air stamped her as belonging to the fashionable world; and had he not long ago decided that nothing good could come out of fashionable society, such a hollow, decayed, deceitful mass as it was? How many girls he daily met who had fair faces and innocent eyes, but when they spoke—their lips rarely dropped pearls, oftener slang; they were loud, actually coarse, some of them, or they were inane and silly. Most of them cared for no book except a novel, and even that they knew nothing of when once it was devoured. To give an analysis of a single character would be as impossible as to speak in Chinese. They had no thoughts—not more than humming-birds; they had never been taught to think; the few exceptions—in his experience—were those who possessed no personal attractions. A pretty head was sure to be an empty one; and this girl with a head like Diana, was probably a “society girl,” with not an idea above dressing, dancing and flirting. It would be but courteous to address a sympathizing word to her, under these extraordinary circumstances, with this long, tedious day before them, and no companionship of any sort. But then, what good? She would probably reply in a few parroty phrases, and that would be the end, or she would resent his remark as an impertinence from a mere fellow passenger, an utter stranger, or she would imagine him desperately smitten, and would place him on one of her pretty fingers as the tenth one ensnared by her within a fortnight. No, indeed, he should make no advance toward acquaintance whatever. Upon which heroic resolution, he dived into his satchel and brought out piles of depositions, knit his brows over them, and tried to forget that he was hungry and growing more so. An hour or two of hard work on these, then he produced a volume of essays to see what consolation there might be in that for a hungry man. This reminded Marian for the first time that she had two little books herself that she had entirely forgotten. She took out the small package wrapped in brown paper, and another inner wrapping of soft white paper as if it held something precious. There was a little volume of “Daily Food” Scripture texts, arranged for each day in the year, and a copy of Thomas à Kempis’ “Imitation of Christ,” daintily bound in morocco and gilt. On the fly-leaf of each was written in Aunt Ruth’s round cramped hand, “Marian Chester:” “The Lord bless thee and keep thee.” “Dear aunt Ruth,” she murmured. “What would she say if she knew where I am? And what will they think at home?” She just began to realize how forlorn and lonely she was, and actually two large tears stood on her cheeks.
Mr. Lynde was returning from one of his visits to the engine, and was just in time to catch, for an instant, the flash of that tear. A smile was a hollow thing to him. His coat of mail was proof against a whole battalion of the most bewitching; but a tear! He bowed in reverence before a tear; and, acting on that impulse, paused, and before he had given himself leave to speak was saying, “I beg your pardon, but can I do anything for you?”
Poor Marian! It was so sudden, and she was so mortified to be caught crying like a baby, that her tones were defiant and her answer curt: “No, sir, I thank you, not anything.”
When she raised her eyes he was gone. Then, her sense of desolation was lost in vexation, that she had made herself an object of pity to him and requited his attempt at kindness by what must have seemed extreme rudeness.
The rained had ceased, but this was not an advantage in one way, for the air at once became intensely cold, so making it more difficult to repair damages, as washouts and bridges swept from swollen streams were reported ahead. As if to bring dreariness to a culminating point, the supply of coal was low and the cars were becoming chilly. Adversity was apparently having a good effect upon Mr. Lynde; he was developing under it, and waking up to some interest in humanity that was not in a book. He was not in general a close observer of the dress of ladies, but he knew the difference between a long sealskin cloak and an old black cashmere shawl. Consequently he was very sure where the large, soft lap robe he carried was most needed. Thereupon he took it over to the old lady, and begged her with as much deference as if she had been a duchess, to accept it. She demurred, but he insisted and folded it about her as a son might have done, and the lines about his mouth relaxed into sweetness as she showered her thanks upon him.
“Why did I not think to do that?” Marian said to herself, casting regretful eyes on her own warm shawl. It was too late now, so she drew it over herself and retired into her book.
Aunt Ruth spoke better than she knew when she talked of food for the soul. Some darkened minds would call it “cant,” but those who know the secret of the Lord, know that as a few drops of stimulant revive a fainting body, just as surely will a strong, comforting word from the Scriptures send the lifeblood tingling again through a benumbed soul, if that soul belong to Christ.
So when Marian read in her “Daily Food”:—
“The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms;”
“The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them;”
“The beloved of the Lord shall dwell in safety by him, and the Lord shall cover him all the day long;”
“Thou art my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance.”
Then her faith and courage returned, and her heart already sang songs of deliverance.
Mr. Lynde had already done all that travellers usually do in such emergencies. He had stood in the teeth of a keen wind and talked with the brake man and engineer and conductor as to the extent of the accident, and what the probabilities were of soon resuming the journey; had stepped out and walked briskly up and down, and the old lady remarked as he strode by, “He’s a handsome young fellow; straight as an arrow, and he walks with a kind o’ spring, just like my Benjamin,” and Marian had given in response an amused smile.
Now he had come back again and settled himself down to endure, with grim fortitude, what could not be cured; not with the same spirit, though, as the old saint who sat just beyond him, for, she said, “It ’ll all turn out for the best somehow, and we’ll likely see it some day.” It would take long to convince him, though, that the important case to which he was hurrying home could possibly be bettered by his absence. But he tried to be a philosopher. He turned up his coat collar, as men do when they are cold and seem to think they have made all reasonable provisions for comfort, put his eyes on his book, and tried to merge his thoughts into the author’s; but when a man is hungry, and ever so slightly cold, the circumstances are not favorable for metaphysical research.
It was noon, and the time for those who had any dinner to eat it; so Marian took down her lunch basket again. If only she had somebody to enjoy it with her! She glanced about the car; the men had gone. The old lady, thanks to the warmth of the lap robe, was enjoying a nice nap. There was just one person on whom to exercise her benevolence.
She amused herself by laying together in a fresh napkin three or four biscuits, some slices of chicken, and some cake; then, while she thoughtfully put bits into her own mouth, debated the question with herself after this fashion: I ought, I really ought to do it, but how can I? I wish he would go out; I would slip it into his seat, and he would think the ravens or something had been sent to feed him. If I should carry this over there and he should decline it with a lofty air, how could I endure such humiliation? To be sure, I did reply very haughtily when he spoke to me, and whatever possessed me, I’m sure I don’t know.
The head at which she was casting furtive glances, went down at this juncture, wearily down, on the seat before him, and the action decided her.
Stuart Lynde thought he had, in that moment, dropped asleep, and was in a blissful dream, for a soft voice just behind him, said, “Sir, I was mistaken; I would like to ask a favor of you.”
The head was erect in an instant, and he began,—
“I shall be most happy;” but when he saw this haughty lady changed into a blushing girl with a half shy, and altogether winning manner, and heard her say, “Will you not please accept part of my lunch, for I have a great abundance?” then the fluent speech for which he was noted, forsook him, and he stammered out some incoherent words, and then—they looked squarely into each other’s eyes, and, by a common impulse, broke into a merry laugh.
The ludicrous side of it all was too irresistible.
After that they felt acquainted and it was easy to accept the appetizing favor with a gay grace, and insist that she had been entirely too generous, although in truth, he felt equal to any number of biscuits.
“That is because you do not know what a capacious lunch basket I possess, nor how well it is stored, thanks to Aunt Ruth,” Marian said, while she hastened to get ready a donation for the old lady, who had wakened, and was wondering at the cheerful sounds about her. It “quite chirked her up,” she said, “to hear something going on once more.”
The two young people talked together some minutes before they recollected that the rules of etiquette required that strangers should have introductions. Then the gentleman produced a card,—
“STUART LYNDE,
Attorney and Counsellor at Law.”
And Marian said simply, “I am Marian Chester of Massachusetts.”
It would seem as if their tongues rejoiced at privilege of speech again, for the talk flowed on most delightfully. Themes were endless—the accident, the surrounding country, and people, and the advantages and disadvantages of both East and West. They compared notes finally on favorite authors, and travelled over countries both had visited, until they almost forgot that they were wrecked on a dreary prairie, miles from anywhere.
Mr. Lynde was somewhat puzzled to find a young lady who had read biographies, history, Shakespeare, and the other standard poets, and yet seemed to be ignorant of the works of well-known writers of fiction, and was obliged to confess that she had not read “Jane Eyre,” old as it was, nor “Romola,” nor even the lighter novels that most schoolgirls have devoured by the time they are fifteen.
“No,” she said, “I know almost nothing of them; my father has his own ideas in regard to these things,” and she said it reverently and sweetly, as if “anything that my father wishes is good and right;” not; “My father is an old fogy, and I, a martyr, am obliged to suffer the consequences—”
“His theory is that a taste for solid reading should first be formed, and that whatever of fiction is indulged in, should be by the best writers and quite simple. With the exception of a few books, rather juvenile in character, I am to read my first novel this winter with father. I read aloud to him a great deal, and he is my dictionary and encyclopædia. We have most delightful times, and we read all sorts of books. Perhaps, if one were to come down to my level in the line of light reading, I might intelligently discuss the merits of some works,” she said archly; “I know almost by heart ‘Hans Andersen’s Fairy Tales’ and the ‘Tanglewood Tales;’ as well as ‘Alice in Wonderland,’ and ‘Water Babies,’ and several other lovely stories.”
Happy daughter! To read her first novel—some pure, noble work of his choosing—with her father, instead of stealthily devouring a vile, yellow-covered thing at midnight, when she should have been sleeping, or secreting it under her desk at school, and snatching a guilty morsel when she should have been studying.
The father’s theory had been well carried out, and he must have been delighted with results, for the girl could enjoy a scientific research, or a simple story, one of which would have been voted dull, and the other childish, by those reared on more highly seasoned mental food. Then there was in her a cheery freshness, and a hearty enjoyment of simple pleasures, in sharp contrast with many specimens of restless, languid young ladyhood, interested in nothing on earth or under it—nothing except themselves.
Mr. Lynde was charmed. Here was an anomaly, a rare study: a girl not made up of artificialities, nor morbid sentimentalism.
The time passed pleasantly away, despite the gloomy surroundings, until Marian was called to account by Dame Propriety, who administered so sharp a reprimand that the color came to her cheeks, and she grew suddenly demure and silent. She conversing with a stranger! What would her father think? And what did the stranger himself think? Who would have believed that she could have been guilty of making advances, of drawing the attention of anybody, much less one of whom she knew utterly nothing? She had heard of others doing such things, and she had judged them severely. It was too humiliating! Her transparent face reflected her inner self like a mirror, so, when she became suddenly silent and wore a troubled look, Mr. Lynde divined the cause and reverenced her for it. He had a strong impression that he ought to go back to his own seat, and leave this sensitive plant to itself, but it was dreary work to sit alone and think over one’s misfortunes, and her society was so charming; so he lingered, taking the burden of talk upon himself, and managing so adroitly as to necessitate few replies; and Marian listened, taking very little part in the conversation, as she supposed. She forgot, though, that eyes and mouth can talk when tongues are still, and it would have been an obtuse person, indeed, who would not have felt flattered with the responses he received from the eloquent face of his listener, as the eyes lighted with a smile or grew dark with shadows of thought. When he went away at last he asked her to take pity on him, and lend him a book, as he had exhausted his library.
“And this is the extent of mine,” Marian said, producing her little books, “my Christmas present from a dear old auntie,” and she gave them into his hands, and received his volume of essays.
It had been such a pleasant diversion from the wearisome monotony, this new acquaintance, with his varied knowledge, his fascinating conversation and graceful courtesy, and yet Marian felt ill at ease and disturbed by what she had done. He would never have noticed her, she told herself, if she had not invited his attentions. But how could she do otherwise? It was a mere act of humanity. She did not compel him to talk with her all the afternoon, though it was too true that she felt acquainted with him at once and talked on as if he had been an old friend, and that encouraged him. Perhaps he was the greatest villain in the world; but even as the thought flashed through her mind, it was indignantly repelled. He was good and noble; she was sure of it, and she set herself to work to see what proof she possessed on that point. His conversation was refined; he liked good books; he was kind to an old lady, and he had remarked that his chief regret at the detention was that his mother would be wretchedly anxious at his nonappearance in his home. A bad man would not care for his mother, nor concern himself as to the comfort of old ladies.
During the afternoon the condition of things changed for the better. Food was obtained for the nearly famished passengers, and at last the train was in motion again, moving heavily and slowly, and with many a jerk and jar, as if in remonstrance at being obliged to move at all. With much effort and many detentions they arrived late at night at their long-wished-for destination. Among those that were obliged to change roads at this point, necessitating a walk of a few blocks across the city, were Marian and Mr. Lynde. He took possession of her shawl and basket as if he were, without question, her protector. It was pleasant to be taken care of, too, amidst the clanging of many trains among bewildering tracks. She had expected to make this transfer by daylight. It would have been decidedly dreary in the darkness, at this late hour, without an escort, although there was quite a procession of other travellers bound for the same train.
All hint of storms had passed away. The far off sky was full of stars, and the air was keenly cold. Just twelve o’clock. The Christmas morning already begun. This thought came to at least two of the travellers as they stepped out into the calm night, and there stole into the mind of each a strain of that wondrous Christmas poem, beginning—“Within that province far away.”
“‘In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago,’”
quoted Mr. Lynde.
Marian was surprised into saying: “How very singular! The same words were running through my own brain at that moment, and I was about to ask if you recollected what night this is, and if you were familiar with that poem.”
“Ah, you are fond of it, too! Is it not fine, especially these lines:
“‘The earth was still—but knew not why,
The world was listening—unawares.
How calm a moment may precede
One that shall thrill the world forever!
To that still moment none would heed,
Man’s doom was linked, no more to sever,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago.”
To Marian there came also at this moment a sharp consciousness of something else. She was walking at midnight in a strange city with a stranger. That, she could not help, but to discover that she was positively enjoying it, had the effect to make her “good-night” seem cold as the winter air as they stepped on the sleeping car and she vanished into the section assigned her.
It had been arranged by Marian and her friends that she should travel alone only to a certain city. There, an uncle would join her, and accompany her home. The distance was not great, and it was not to be supposed that any difficulties would attend so short a journey. In the uncertain state of things caused by the storm it was quite improbable that he could make connections so as to keep his appointment. Marian had decided in case he did not appear, to proceed alone, feeling by this time quite like a veteran traveller.
In the gray dawn of the Christmas morning they reached the city. They had just entered the depot, and Mr. Lynde was inquiring of Marian how he could serve her as to checks and tickets, when a stout, gray-haired gentleman bustled up with, “Ah, Marian, here you are!” bent and kissed her cheek, saying in the same breath, “So glad you came this morning, my dear. We are not going on to-day, however. My old friend, Col. Winslow, wishes me to spend Christmas with him, and I have accepted the invitation for you, too.” Marian’s face put in a protest.
“Oh! you will enjoy it, my dear; the house is filled with young people; you will have a gay time. Come, let us hasten, the carriage is waiting.”
As soon as she had opportunity to speak, Marian presented Mr. Lynde, as one who had been kind to her. Accordingly the uncle bestowed on him a hurried bow, and a penetrating glance, from keen, gray eyes under shaggy brows. Then he tucked Marian’s hand under his arm and was moving off.
One moment she lingered. There was a brief hand clasp, some murmured thanks, and she was gone.
To say that Mr. Lynde was astonished, would but feebly express it. Who was this man, and where had he taken her? She evidently went most reluctantly. He felt as if he ought to pursue them and recover her. He remembered now that she had said something about an uncle who, perhaps, would join her on the way. He discovered that he had been looking forward to a day’s travel in her company with keenest pleasure. Now it had all changed; travelling was the depth of drudgery.
In his half-dazed, disappointed state, he nearly forgot the imperative need of haste on account of business, etc., and barely escaped being left as he sprang on the train at the last moment. He realized presently that a certain volume of essays was no longer in his possession. He did not regret it, though, much as he valued it, inasmuch as he had in its stead two tiny books he should greatly prize. He brought them out now, and looked at them, brought, too, from his side pocket, a sprig of evergreen that he had surreptitiously broken from the bunch fastened to the basket he had carried, partly because he enjoyed the fragrance, and partly—he knew not why. He laid it with the books. And that was every trace there was left of the bright presence that, he was obliged to confess to himself, he missed intolerably. Soon he tossed them all into his satchel almost fiercely, and called himself a fool for allowing any influence to take possession of him in that manner. He brought out his law papers again, and sternly set himself a task. But a face, that two days before he had not known, came between him and the cumbersome phrases, so that, instead of defining and arranging the strong points of the case, he went to puzzling his brain to determine whether or no there was just the least shadow of regret in her eyes as she took leave of him. Then he went over all their conversation, treasured up words and tones of hers, and pictured again her attitude and look of sweet gravity, like some veritable angel when she came to minister to his necessities. “Not one in a hundred would have done that so simply and gracefully, if they would have done it at all, indeed,” he told himself.
The thing that tried him most was his own stupidity that he had not obtained her address; “Massachusetts,” that was all he knew.
He took out the books again. Possibly there was a clue. Her name was there: “Marian Chester.” What a fair name it was; how it just suited her. That was all, though. No tell-tale sign of where she lived, or where Aunt Ruth lived. He read the line below: “The Lord bless thee and keep thee.” It was long since Stuart Lynde had prayed, but he found his heart re-echoing that prayer.
As for Marian, she found the last half of her journey dull in comparison with the first, and she was dimly conscious why. The thought sent bright flushes into her cheeks, but she did not sit down and analyze and define it, or recall looks and tones and words. She shut the door on that corner of her heart and locked it. She told herself that it was a matter of perfect indifference to her who or what he was, and yet when her uncle asked, “Who was the young man you introduced to me, my dear?” and she produced his card, she was more than pleased to hear Col. Winslow declare that he knew him well by reputation; that he was one of the most brilliant young lawyers in the State, and, morally, was without blemish.
In the busy months that followed, it was becoming a habit with Mr. Lynde to refresh himself with a look into one or other of the little books he kept among his treasures. Even when most pressed by business matters, he was sure to snatch a brief moment through the day or night to glance at a verse. He did this at first because they belonged to “the maiden,” he called her in his thought; that old-fashioned sweet word just fitted her, and seemed to single her out as above and beyond all others. Then the words of Thomas à Kempis charmed him; he studied that book for the quaint simplicity of its style, and wondered that he had not before discovered such a gem. And, while he thought it childish in him, he noted with not a little curiosity the text for each day in the “Daily Food.” When he went a journey, it amused even himself that he always slipped the little books into some pocket, and they went along.
One night at the close of a triumphant day, when he had come off victor in a difficult case, and had been congratulated and complimented until he was surfeited, he opened the small book to search out the text for that day. To one conscious of having gloried not a little in the very gratifying success of that day, it was almost startling to read—
“Let not the wise man glory in his wisdom, neither let the mighty man glory in his might; let not the rich man glory in his riches. Let him that glorieth, glory in this, that he understandeth and knoweth me, that I am the Lord which exercise loving kindness, judgment and righteousness in the earth; for in these things I delight, saith the Lord.”
Not since he was a boy at his mother’s knee, had a word of Scripture come into his heart with power such as this.
He knew he had gloried in his wisdom and power; had been proud of his triumph, and proud of his spotless life and high morality, but now how it all flashed upon him in an instant, that he was weak and foolish and sinful before God. He could speak in many tongues, and understand mysteries of science, but he did not know and understand the Lord. The one thing in which it would be right to glory, he did not possess. When a boy, he had the habit of prayer, but, as he grew toward manhood, lost his faith by reading skeptical writers, so for many years he had not spoken to God until he came into possession of these two precious books, then, curiously enough, he had begun to pray one petition: “The Lord bless her and keep her.” But now, when the sense of the utter worthlessness of all he attained, and God left out, was flashed upon him, he cried, “Teach me to know and understand thee,” and the first answer to that prayer was to show him that he was blind and poor and in need of all things. His eye fell upon words just then which told that another soul, generations ago, had gone by the same road to find his God, for Thomas à Kempis said:
“But if I abase and know myself to be nothing, if I renounce all self-esteem and (as I am) account myself to be but dust; thy grace will be favorable unto me, and thy light will be near unto my heart.
“And all self-esteem, how little soever, shall be swallowed up in the deep valley of my nothingness, and perish everlastingly.
“There thou showest thyself unto me, what I am, what I have been, and whither I am come; for I am nothing and I knew it not.
“And if I be left to myself, behold, I become nothing and all weakness.
“But if thou lookest upon me, I am made strong.”
The light had entered the darkened soul. The Spirit used a few texts of Scripture and the devout words of an old monk to teach him “that all our righteousness is as filthy rags,” and that “the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin.” The old miracle was repeated in him. In silence and quiet the change went on. A proud, ambitious, self-seeking man, learning to pray with that other saint:
“Grant me, O, most gracious and loving Jesus, to rest in thee above all creatures:
“Above all health and beauty, above all glory and honor, above all power and dignity, above all knowledge and subtlety, above all riches and arts, above all joy and gladness, above all hope and promise, above all desert and desire; above all gifts and presents that thou canst give and impart unto us: above all joy and triumph that the mind of man can receive and feel.”
A year went away, and the stars of Christmas night glowed in the sky as brightly as long ago, “when shepherds watched their flocks by night,” and “the angel of the Lord came down.” Mr. Lynde, as he walked and thought—thought of that night, “within that province far away,” to which his destiny was now “linked” in a peculiar and tender relation. He would not have been human not to have recalled that other night, too, a year ago. So he walked the silent, moonlight streets, and repeated softly—
“‘In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago,’”
He might walk and walk miles, though, it would not bring that other one who walked by his side then. He might not have sighed so heavily at that thought if his vision could have compassed distance and known who watched the stars with him.
That these two paths should ever cross again, would seem as impossible as that two small ships adrift on the wide ocean should “speak” each other.
The ingenuity and perseverance with which he had prosecuted the search all these months was something remarkable. As Boston is the metropolis of Massachusetts, he made business trips to Boston, and the “business” was to walk the streets, haunt picture galleries, attend lectures and concerts, always searching for one face. He read Boston papers, especially the list of marriages and deaths. He took the westward journey many times, hoping she might have repeated the visit to Aunt Ruth. Once he ventured to send her a letter through the Boston post-office, and it came back to himself.
“She knows where I am,” he would tell his unreasoning self. “How easily she could send me some little sign, but, such as she never would, even though she cared.”
All this time Marian was hidden away in a suburban town ten miles from Boston, in her father’s country home, though spending much time in the city. Why did not one or the other of their good angels cause them to turn their eyes in the right direction that day they almost brushed against each other in the crowd?
Through the year she had stoically crushed out pleasant remembrances of the brief acquaintance, never allowing the thought that possibly they might meet again, and yet she always searched an audience with a keener interest than had been her wont. It might just be possible, but how preposterous, after all! He lived far away in a Western city. Why should he come to Boston?
’Tis true, too, that on Christmas night she indulged herself in a bit of dreaming, lingering purposely at her chamber window, looking out on the white world until the clock in the steeple should chime out twelve, feeling, unconsciously, that she was keeping an indefinable tryst with some mythical being by so doing. She, too, went in memory over the walk and the poem, recalled the excellent rendering of the few lines recited, and then being dimly conscious that it would be the most delightful thing in life to go on and on in an interminable walk, with that one voice sounding always in her ears, she brought her reverie to an abrupt ending, drew her curtains and shut out the witching moonbeams with tantalizing memories,—like a sensible maiden that she was.
Mr. Lynde’s book had been diligently studied by her, partly because it was his, and for the reason that it was in rather a different line from anything she had read. She did not at once comprehend its subtle logic, and her ambition required that she should. Her well-trained mind was not long in discovering that this book was not all gems and pearls, as she had supposed when the fascinating rhetoric attracted her. There were half-truths, skeptical suggestions, and flings at doctrines dear to Christian hearts. It filled her with sorrow and surprise that such high, beautiful thoughts should be so marred.
Did Mr. Lynde believe these things? From a remark he dropped, she half-feared he did. From that time his name came into her daily prayer as she asked that her little books might not be lost, but be seed that should spring up and bear fruit.
It was not in a crowded assembly, nor on the city streets, nor on a railroad train, that Mr. Lynde finally found his treasure. He was returning from a trip in the Northwest, and near the end of a day’s travel was obliged to wait at a small town a few hours, in order to take an express train. Finding the time hang heavily, he walked out and turned his steps into a little foot path that led out into the country.
It was a perfect day. The clear sky, the tinted woods, the stream, the “rare blue hills,” made lovely pictures on all sides.
He had not the most remote idea that this noisy brook bounded Aunt Ruth’s farm, and that the next bend in the road would reveal a charming picture that would make his pulses stand still with joy.
A narrow footbridge spanned the stream, and leaning over the railing, intently watching the hurrying waters, her white dress fluttering in the breeze, stood Marian. He knew her in an instant, and came forward, his heart in his face. Marian looked up quickly, in a startled way, at the sound of a footstep, and the joyful radiance that lighted her eyes when he said, “At last I have found you,” revealed the whole story. There was scarcely need of question and answer.
And then? They sauntered along the bank of the winding stream, and began a walk that did not end till life ended.
The express train went its way without the traveller, and they two came up through the lengthening shadows to the old farmhouse, where Aunt Ruth sat on the porch. They told the whole long story to her, and she listened, with now a smile and then a tear, and when it was finished she laid a hand on the head of each, and said sweetly and solemnly, “Children, the Lord bless thee and keep thee!”