Celia Murray had gone to her room and locked the door. It was just after
church, and aunt Hannah was busy in the kitchen. It was the only time
during the day when she might hope to have entire possession
undisturbed, of the room which she shared with her aunt. She could not
remember a time in her life before, when she would have cared whether
her aunt came in upon her, or came to the door and found it locked, or
not, but this time she did. She wanted to be entirely alone and face her
own heart.
The winter had passed by on rapid feet, and they were well on into the
spring. The meetings which had been held in the little chapel had
continued for several weeks, and during that time Harry Knowles and
Mamie Williams and Bob Yates had professed publicly their faith in Jesus
Christ. The University student had taken his church letter out of its
hiding-place in his trunk and put it into Mr. Stafford’s church, and the
school-teacher had sent to his far-away home for his and both were
working hard for the salvation of others. Family worship had been
established daily in the boarding-house, not in the morning, because the
coming and going of the boarders was at such different hours that it
would scarcely have been possible to get them all together, but in the
early evening, just after the six o’clock dinner, while they still sat
about the table. No one was obliged to stay, but all chose to, unless
called away by something urgent. Mr. Stafford conducted it, and read a
very few verses and prayed. Once or twice, when he had been absent for a
day, Miss Grant had read part of a chapter, and asked Harry Knowles
once, and once the brakeman to pray, and they had each done so;
stumblingly and with few words, it is true, but Miss Hannah had been
glad and gone about her daily work feeling joy at the place in which the
Lord had set her.
They had grown to be a very pleasant family, in spite of the various
elements of character and up-bringing which they represented. They
talked about their abiding-place as HOME, and each one felt it to be
that in the true sense of the word. Miss Grant had taken care to observe
each birthday with some little unusual festivity in the way of eatables,
and at Christmas and other holidays they made merry enough to forget,
most of them, that they were away from their own kindred.
Mr. Stafford had grown to be a part of the household so fully that it
would have brought dismay to each one if there had been a thought of his
leaving. Even Celia had unbent, and he and she had become good comrades
in a way, though there was always a dignified barrier which Celia kept
up, which prevented his showing her any of the ordinary attentions which
young men like to show to the young women whom they admire. Having
quieted her conscience by keeping up this wall of conventionality and
excusing herself from anything of a social nature which he offered her,
she shut her eyes to consequences and enjoyed his presence in the house.
How could she do otherwise? She read the books he loaned her, and
conversed about them with him afterward, and she visited the poor and
sick for him sometimes and took them little delicacies. There had been
times, it is true, when it troubled her that she let herself enjoy his
society as much as she did, but she had been learning during the winter
months to put this aside and think no more about it. Occasionally she
prayed to be delivered from a trouble which she sometimes saw hovering
like a shadowy cloud over her own life, and looking at aunt Hannah
resolved to trust the Lord to make her what he would have her to be,
even if it must be in spite of sorrow, as he had done with her aunt. But
now a time had come when Celia must face her heart and understand
herself. If it was to be that she must come out of the ordeal bowed in
spirit, then she must face it and accept it, but she must understand
herself now.
It had come to a sudden crisis in this way.
Mr. Stafford had been away for nearly two weeks. A telegram had come to
him, when Miss Grant was out. Molly had taken it up to him and a little
while afterward had been surprised to see him standing in the kitchen
door, his grip and umbrella in hand, and a drawn, anxious look upon his
face. He told Molly to tell Miss Grant he had been called away by
tidings of sudden illness and did not know how long he would be gone.
They had heard nothing from him until Saturday evening of that week,
when his friend Roger Houston had called to get some church notices from
Mr. Stafford’s room to hand to the minister who was to supply the pulpit
the next day.
It was Celia who opened the door for him and showed him to the second
story front room. With a possible view to prosecuting his petition that
she would give him a sitting some time, he lingered a moment.
“It is very sad indeed,” he remarked to Celia, as though she knew all
about the matter. “You knew there was no hope of her life? Oh, haven’t
you heard? Well, I suppose Stafford has had his hands too full of other
things to think of writing. He gave me no particulars, only said all
hope was gone and she could linger but a few days longer at most. He
asked me to get this man to preach, and arrange everything for him. It
will be very hard for him, he depended upon her so much. There was a
peculiarly close relationship between them. He never missed writing to
her regularly and some of her letters were wonderful. He read bits of
them to me once or twice. She was a wonderful character. He will miss
her immeasurably.”
Then Mr. Houston looked up from the papers he had selected from the
minister’s table, to the face of the girl who stood silent in the
doorway. He was wondering whether he dared venture to ask her to let him
sketch her face some time, but when he looked at her he remembered his
friend’s words, “She is not that kind of a girl,” and concluded that his
friend had been right, and it would be better not to ask her this time.
He wondered what it was about her that made it seem impossible for him
to speak to her about it, as he would to many another pretty girl just
as nice and refined as she was. He fancied as he looked again that she
was white about the mouth, but, of course, that must have been all his
fancy.
It was not until late the next Saturday night, after all the house had
retired, that Horace Stafford returned to Philadelphia, and letting
himself quietly in with his latchkey, went to his room. They did not
know he had returned the next morning at breakfast time, for one and
another were wondering who would preach, and saying they wished their
own minister was back, that they did not know whether they cared to go
to church or not, and all those other things people will say when they
love a minister, just as if he was their God, that they went to church
to worship him, and when he was absent they had no object for worship.
He had called to Molly, as she passed through the hall early in the
morning, and asked her for a cup of coffee, and told her not to mind if
he did not come to breakfast, as he needed all his time for preparation,
having been away so long. He had gone to church early, while those who
were going out were dressing, so that it was not until she was seated in
church and saw the little study door open, and the minister walk out and
into the pulpit, that Celia knew that Horace Stafford was back with them
again.
She had gone through many changes of feeling since the night when Roger
Houston had spoken those few commonplace words to her. She had not asked
him then what he meant, nor who it was who was lying so low, who was so
dear to Mr. Stafford. Instinctively she knew. It was the young woman of
the pictured face, so sweet and lovely, within that velvet frame.
Something had arisen in her throat while she listened, that froze the
words she would have spoken, an expression of sympathy for him, and her
heart was filled with conflicting emotions. She had dreaded Mr.
Stafford’s return. It was as if she had had her convictions verified
now, and knowing his heart was engaged she wished to put him entirely
from her thoughts. It seemed impossible though, for constantly the
surmises would come up among the boarders, why Mr. Stafford was away,
when he would return, etc. She obliged herself to repeat a few of Mr.
Houston’s sentences, a very few it is true, so few that the boarders
were left in doubt as to whether the one who was lying so low and
keeping the minister away was man, woman or child, and when Miss Burns
asked if she knew whether it was one of the family, his mother, perhaps,
Celia answered briefly, “He did not say,” and then wondered if she had
done wrong in not telling what she was so certain of, though she
silenced her conscience by saying that Mr. Stafford might not care to
have them know he was engaged at all. Then Celia had tried to fill the
week with earnest hard work. She had succeeded in persuading Dobson &
Co. to let her induct Mamie Williams into the ribbon business, with a
view to possibly succeeding her sometime in the future, and she found
that she was able to keep busy. Mamie was a tractable enough pupil, and
growing quick to appreciate the fine distinctions in manner and actions
which Celia strove to inculcate. But there was still room for
improvement, and Celia worked early and late at her chosen task,
moulding the young woman’s character as carefully and eagerly as though
she had been an artist making a model for some marvelous statue.
“When you get her done, Celia dear, I’m afraid she will be too good for
the engineer, and I can see he wants her,” said Miss Hannah, with a
quiet smile.
“Well, that’s all right, auntie dear,” said Celia, with a thoughtful
sigh. “He’ll make her a good husband, and I don’t believe she’ll be too
good for him. It seems to me her influence on him has been wonderful. He
seems to change as fast as she does. I never would have dreamed it last
fall.”
“I thought so, dear. Do you remember the talk we had about him some time
ago? There is more good in most people than we suspect. You have to live
with them awhile to find it out,” said Miss Grant.
“You mean _you_ have to live with them, auntie, and _I_ have to live
with _you_ to find out about them. I never would have found all these
boarders out in the world, if you hadn’t been here with your ‘saint’s
eyes’ to read them.”
Miss Hannah smiled, but she watched Celia furtively and wished that she
could read _her_, and understand what made the little cloud which seemed
to settle down upon her usually bright girl and make her heavy hearted
these days.
But to go back to church. Celia’s heart throbbed painfully when she saw
the minister walk into the pulpit. She knew by his face that his dear
one was dead. It was not that his face wore a look of bitter grief, it
was rather one of chastened exaltation. He preached a sermon about
heaven that morning that seemed as though it had been written by one who
had recently been very near to the portals, seen them open and caught
glimpses of friends, and of Jesus within. Celia forgot her heart throbs
and listened, forgetting, too, for the time who was preaching, in the
absorption of the words he spoke. She had had a struggle to keep back
the tears during the closing hymn, when they sang;
“And with the morn those angels’ faces smile,
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.”
She knew why Mr. Stafford had selected it. He sat during the singing
with shaded brow and bowed head. Celia could not sing. She felt as if
she were choking. She turned as soon as the benediction was pronounced
and the solemn hush following it broken, to hide her tears by searching
for her umbrella which had rolled beneath the seat. When she rose again
and turned around, the minister was standing in the aisle beside her. He
put out his hand and clasped hers, and a light of joy lit up his face
which looked pale and worn, as he said, “I am so glad to see you again.”
They were commonplace words. He might have used them to any member of
his congregation; yes, and with the same tone and look too, perhaps, she
told herself as she hurried excitedly homeward, but they sent a thrill
of mingled joy and sorrow through the young girl which she did not
understand and could not control. One minute she was fiercely glad, and
the next minute she was plunged in a whirl of shame and despair that it
had affected her so. And now she was locked into her room. She took off
her hat and coat and sat down, but she could not think. She could only
feel the joy, and the certainty that it was not hers. She tried to face
herself and shame herself with saying plainly to her heart, “Celia
Murray, you have fallen in love with Mr. Stafford. Yes, and you did it
when you knew he belonged to another woman. Yes, you knew it well
enough, though you wanted to pretend that maybe it was not so, because
no one had told you so. But now you love him and he _does not love you_!
He has just buried his heart, and you know you would not consider him
the noble gentleman you think he is, if he should forget that love that
was ‘so peculiarly close in its relationship.’ And you love him in the
face of that! Aren’t you ashamed! He does not love you, and he never
will, and you must not _let_ him, and oh—_what_ shall I do?”——
The poor girl threw herself upon her knees and begged for forgiveness
and help. She felt she had done wrong to let her heart grow interested
so easily. She tried to remember some of God’s gracious promises for
help, and to remember that he would bear her trouble for her, but her
head seemed in a whirl of excitement and she could not think
connectedly. She heard the dinner bell ring, and she rose and bathed her
face, but decided she would not go down. She wanted to be by herself.
Molly came up pretty soon and asked what was the matter. She told Molly
to tell aunt Hannah she had a headache, and would not come down now, and
then she bathed her throbbing temples and lay down to try and grow calm
before aunt Hannah should come as she felt sure she would.
Wise aunt Hannah! She knew something was amiss! She had not watched her
girl in vain. She had seen the start and the change of color when the
minister came into the pulpit and again when he took her hand; she had
seen other things during the months which had passed. Just what the
trouble was she did not understand, and she would not ask Celia yet. If
Celia needed counsel, she felt certain she would confide in her sooner
or later. In the meantime she could pray.
Miss Hannah did not go up to her room for some time. Instead, she
arranged a dainty tray with a tempting little lunch and a fragrant cup
of tea. Under the corner of the napkin she had slipped a little note
which was merely a scrap of poetry with the penciled words above it,
“Dear child;” written hastily. It read:
“Dear child:
“‘God’s plans for thee are graciously unfolding,
And leaf by leaf they blossom perfectly,
As yon fair rose from its soft enfolding,
In marvelous beauty opens fragrantly.
Oh, wait in patience for thy dear Lord’s coming,
For sure deliverance he’ll bring to thee;
Then, how thou shalt rejoice at the fair dawning
Of that sweet morn which ends thy long captivity.’”
Then she laid beside it a lovely rosebud which Harry Knowles had brought
her the night before, and sent the tray up by Molly. She herself went to
the third story, and read to Mrs. Belden nearly all the afternoon.