THE SPELL BREAKS
That spot in Miss Belinda's heart which had softened toward her niece
in the latter's misery of bereavement bid fair to harden over again
every time she thought of Linda's attitude toward Bertram King. It
was bad enough to harbor the absurd theory that so young a man had
been able to mould the opinions and actions of his employer; but it
was unthinkable that in this time of grief and stress the girl had
been able to sneer at him, and so evidently cut him to the heart with
her accusation. Every time that scene rose before Miss Barry's mental
vision her earrings quivered again. What did these weary days that she
was undergoing amount to? Linda was civil to her, but indifferent to
everything and everybody. The girl made no effort to conceal that the
visits of her own sister were a weariness, and, unthinkable to Harriet,
she made excuses not to see little Harry.
Day after day of the big empty house and the silent girl, the constant
whirr of motors through the wide-open windows, caused Miss Barry to
find that she was guilty of nerves. Again and again she hinted to Linda
that the sea air was what she needed. The girl was usually deaf to
the suggestion, or else returned, gently and civilly, it is true, to
pleading with her aunt not to remain longer, protesting that she was
entirely recovered and able to be left alone.
One day her answer became more frank.
"Mrs. Porter has written me that she is trying to get Bertram to come
there to rest," she said.
Miss Barry gazed at the speaker. "Sits the wind in that quarter?"
thought she. Her earrings quivered again, and she counted ten. Of what
use was it to contend with a statue? At last she spoke.
"I only wish we could do something for him," she said, "but it won't
be that. I met him on the street yesterday, and he said it wouldn't be
possible for him to get away before autumn."
Linda making no reply to this, Miss Barry stared at her for a minute
more, then sought her own pleasant, spacious room. Hers was not the
pen of a ready writer, but she sat down now at her well-appointed desk,
and wrote a letter.
_Dear Mrs. Porter_,--
I begin to see a loophole of light on our situation. I wrote you a
week ago how crazy I am to come home. I'd like to burn every devilish
automobile in Chicago, I'm so sick of their noise; but Linda's kept
on just as obstinate as a mule, saying she must stay, but wanting me
to go. I can't go unless she does. She's taken against everybody.
Harriet thinks she's out of her mind because she refuses to see the
wonderful baby; and I assure you I'd be squeamish about leaving her,
for I couldn't be sure she wouldn't do away with herself, she's so
morbid. I haven't told you the greatest proof of her morbidness
(perhaps it ought to be morbidity, but no matter)--she acts like the
devil incarnate to your cousin Bertram King. You know you told me he
wanted to marry her. Well, I guess he's graduated from that notion. At
any rate, it seems she thinks he led her father into the business deal
that brought on most of this trouble--that big irrigation project out
West. My brother wasn't anybody that could be led by the nose, but
Linda won't hear to reason, and my patience with her is exhausted.
Well, this morning when I returned to the charge about going home, it
came out that she was afraid Mr. King was going to you. Now he isn't,
because he can't get away for months to come. So won't you write her
that you've given up trying to get him, and that you want to see
her--if you can make up your mind to a whopper--and that you hope for
my sake she'll exert herself and bring me home! That's a good one!
Bring me home! If any one can persuade her, you can, for so far as I
can find out you're the only person on earth she hasn't taken against.
Sometimes I speak of you, sort of carelessly, and say I hope you ain't
feeling it too much responsibility to take care of the cottage when
you'd _hoped_ to have an entire rest! And if she hears what I say she
looks at me real human for an instant.
Once I asked her if she wouldn't sit down to that little piano in her
sitting-room and let me hear her voice. Law! You ought to have seen
the way her eyes turned on me. Truly I never saw anybody who could
look so near as if they had a knife in their heart as she can.
I'm getting as nervous as a cat. After we've dragged through a day,
then comes on the night, when everything on wheels goes past our
house. If Gatling guns came small enough I'd rig one in my window and
do some of the shooting myself.
Now, you do your best to fix it up, Mrs. Porter, and if you can
just get us to the Cape, then you can go off somewhere else where
there won't be any wet blanket to spoil your fun. Linda ought to be
outdoors; but I've never got her out once since we came back from the
cemetery. She asks every day if the cars are sold. She has it on the
brain to pay back everybody who lost anything in the catastrophe.
I'm hanging all my hopes on you, and am
Yours truly,
BELINDA BARRY.
While reading this letter Mrs. Porter's cheeks grew pink, and upon
finishing she fell into a prolonged brown study. So it was not
mercenary considerations which had altered Bertram's aspirations. Her
heart went out to him. She had never known till now how much she cared
for Bertram. The impulse attacked her to leave this peaceful scene and
take the first train for the spot where her loved ones were in such
distress; but Miss Barry's adjuration must be heeded. To get Linda away
from those scenes and associations was surely the first necessity.
Mrs. Porter found she had to meet and banish some resentment toward
the unhappy girl who could so ruthlessly add to another's woe. But she
had Linda's appeal. When one is bleeding one may be ruthless without
realizing; so again Mrs. Porter sat down and addressed herself to the
task of helping the sufferer:
_My dear Linda_ (she wrote),--
I'm not on the warm, breezy rocks to-day. A nor'easter is gathering,
and I am sitting in Miss Barry's living-room, where her good little
Blanche has let me build a roaring, glorious fire of birch logs. It
seems almost wicked to burn anything so beautiful as the white birch,
and yet anything so airy and poetical should not, perhaps, be allowed
to wither and fall into decay. Better, perhaps, that it should be
caught up in a chariot of flame.
If you knew how lovely it is here, how sweet the smells, how pure and
clear the silence of all save Nature's sounds, you would, I am sure,
take the first train out of Chicago. I have given up the hope of
persuading Bertram to leave. He would far rather die right there than
leave one duty to your father unperformed. I shall hope to go back in
August and get him to go West with me for a time before my teaching
begins.
I think of you every day, my little Linda. I received your note. We
do bleed when we are wounded; but blessed are they that mourn, for
they shall be comforted. The blessing of mourning is the finding of
real comfort--spiritual comfort; the oil of joy for mourning; the
realization that we need never mourn; that this world is not all; that
no good thing will He withhold from them that walk uprightly; that no
blessing is ever taken away from God's child.
We hear people say, "Shan't I believe the evidence of my own senses?"
I once heard a lecturer enlarge upon that theme, showing that our
whole education is largely for the purpose of instructing us away
from the evidence of our senses, from learning that the sun does not
rise or set,--through the whole list of deceitful appearances. If I
believed what I see now, I should say that the sun had left the world
to storm and darkness, but we know that the glorious sun and cloudless
firmament are there to-day as truly as on the brilliant yesterday, and
we have no fear that we shall not see it again.
The deceitful appearance which you have now to recognize is that your
father has died and left you. Life never dies, and Love is immortal.
Life is progress, too, and he knows more and greater and happier
things than he knew here. Every right motive and act of his life
is receiving its logical reward, and opening out new channels for
progress. Let us not think of him in the flesh, but in the spirit. Let
us not dwell sadly on his mortal harassment or disappointments. How do
we know but such thoughts are a drag upon his spirit? Let us speed him
on with our own love and courage, and let us try every day to harbor
no thought that will hamper our souls and make us less fit to join him.
It is easier to sink down under a blow than to rise and go on; and yet
rising and going on is what will make you keep step with your loved
one and not be left behind. Your sister has an advantage over you,
because she _must_ rise and go on. If you are finding that the strong
leading-spirit, Linda Barry, is faltering and weak now, you are making
a blessed discovery; finding that the strength of the human will is
not the true strength, and that like a little child you can turn to
your Heavenly Father, and receive from Him strength which no mortal
blow can destroy. Keep the fire of Love glowing in your heart, and you
will find that it is the fuel that will make strong and bright every
faculty. Unselfishness follows where that fire burns; but withdraw the
fuel and the heart is cold, and those about you feel the chill.
I am hoping daily to hear that you are ready to bring your aunt home.
Has she ever told you the pretty story of her girlish day-dreams on
these rocks, and how her barefooted brother resolved mentally that he
would be a prosperous man some day, and give her a home right here? He
was able to fulfill that boyish resolve, and somehow this cottage is
to me very full of him. Many men would have forgotten in the rush of
business to carry out such a plan, but not your father. I can imagine
with just what refreshment his thoughts flew here from the clatter of
the city. I am sure Miss Barry's come here every day, and I am sure
she will be very happy when you decide to leave. I know you are not
detaining her willingly, but in her place I should feel as she does
about coming without you. Do you know that I want very much to see
you? Here in the nest of your dear father's generous, loving thought,
I am resting, and waiting for you to rest too. You'll feel nearer to
him than in the crashing city. Come and try.
Yours lovingly,
MAUD PORTER.
Miss Barry had brought this thick letter to her niece, and though her
hands were busied with some work as she sat at a distance from her, she
glanced furtively at the girl from time to time, striving to glean
from her face some hope as to its effect.
When Linda finished reading, she dropped the sheets and looked up so
quickly that she caught her aunt's inquiring glance. Miss Barry flushed
guiltily, and looked back at her work.
"How soon do you think we could go to the Cape, Aunt Belinda?"
In her excitement and eagerness Miss Barry's words stuck in her throat.
"Why--ahem!--how about--how about to-morrow?"
"Let us go to-morrow," said Linda.