AMICE ASCENDE SUPERIUS.
St. John's coming did not prove much help to her. It separated her from
her mother, and gave her a more lonely feeling even than before. She was
further off than ever from sympathy with them. She was smarting over the
loss of what they were giving up. Their lives looked heavenward, hers,
she did not disguise it from herself, looked, earthward, and earthward
only. Their exalted faith had upon her simply the effect of depressing
her own. She had a supreme estimate of common sense. She quite made it
her rule of life just now. Whatever was opposed to it, she was ready to
condemn; and, it must be admitted, there was a good deal in the lives of
St. John and his mother that did not bear its stamp. Tried by its
standard alone, in fact, it would have been difficult to find two people
who were wasting their time more utterly. This Missy was not backward in
saying to herself, and in suggesting to them, as far as she dared. That
was not very far, for there was something about St. John that prevented
people from taking liberties with him. His reality, sincerity, and
simplicity of aim commanded the respect that his humility never claimed.
No one felt it possible to remonstrate with him, however much inclined
to blame. Dignity would have been his last aspiration, rather his
abhorrence; but his self-less-ness answered pretty much the same
purpose. The thing we are most apt to resent in others is personal claim
to--anything. When a man claims nothing, and has given himself away, we
can't quarrel with him, however poor a bargain we may consider he has
made. Neither was it possible to pity St. John, or to feel contempt for
him. The natural force of his character forbade that, and (those who
sympathized with him would say) the grandeur of his purpose.
So it was that his aunt fretted and scolded about him to his mother, and
made her life a burden to her, but in his presence was quite silent
about the matter of his vocation, and much more agreeable and well
behaved than in anybody else's presence. And Mrs. Hazard Smatter was
quite unable to ask him questions or to gain information from him. Very
soon after his arrival, oppressed no doubt by the mediæval murkiness of
the atmosphere, and the unfamiliarity of the situation, she quietly
gathered up her notes and queries and prepared to wing her way to more
speculative regions and a freer air. Even Goneril's tongue was tame when
he was by, though she beat and brushed and shook his black habit as if
it were the Pope, and harangued about the Inquisition to her
fellow-servants by the hour together.
This same black habit was a great snare to Missy. She always spoke of it
to her mother as "his costume," as if it had come from Worth's; and it
was a good many days before she could be resigned to his walking
through the village. She even importuned her mother to beg him to give
it up during his visit home.
"In the name of common sense, mamma," she exclaimed, "why need he
disedify these country people, over whom he has some influence, by this
puerile affectation? What virtue is there in that extra yard or two of
cloth? He could save souls in a pea-jacket, I should think, if he were
in earnest in the matter."
It was rather hard on Mrs. Varian to have to bear all these criticisms.
That she had to bear them came of her natural sweetness and softness,
which led every one, beginning with Missy, to dictate to her. But there
was something even harder than this, that fell to her share of the
oblation. She had to tell Missy of something very bitter, and to
endeavor to reconcile her to it. She had prepared herself for it, in
many silent hours, but it is hard, always, to give pain, harder, to some
natures, than to bear it.
It was one evening, when Missy came to her room for her good-night kiss,
that she chose. St. John had gone away to be gone two or three days, and
it is probable that the hour had been settled upon for a long while. But
prepared as she was, there was a tremble in her voice when she said:
"Come and sit down by me for a little while. I have something to say to
you," that made Missy feel, with a sharp tightening across her heart,
that there was something painful coming.
She sat down where the light of the lamp did not fall upon her and said,
with a forced calmness, as she bent forward to do something to the fire,
"Well, mamma, what is it? If you have anything to say to me, of course
it must be nice."
"You don't always think so, I'm afraid, my child," said her mother, with
a sigh. "I wish that I might never have anything to tell you that did
not give you pleasure."
"Which is equivalent to telling me you have something to tell me that
will give me pain. Pray don't mind it. I ought to be used to hearing
things I don't like by this time, don't you think I ought?"
"Most of us have to hear things that are painful, more or less often in
our lives--and change is almost always painful to natures like yours,
Missy."
"Oh, as to that, sometimes I have felt, lately, that change would be
more acceptable than anything. So don't be afraid. Perhaps you will find
it will be good news, after all."
"I earnestly wish so. Of this I am confident, one day you will feel it
was what was best, whether it gave you pain or not at first."
"Proceed, mamma, proceed! If there is anything that rasps my nerves it
is to see the knife gleaming about in the folds of your dress, while I
see you are trying to hide it, and I am doubtful which part of me is
doomed to the stroke. Anything but suspense. What is it, who is it this
time? We don't slay the slain, so it can't be St. John. You are not
going to ask me to mourn him again?"
"No, Missy, and I am not going to ask you to mourn at all."
"Oh, excuse me. But you know I will mourn, being so blinded and carnal.
Mamma, let me have it in plain English. What sacrifice am I to be called
upon to make now? Is it you, or my home, or what?"
"Both, my child, if you will put it so--I cannot make it easy."
Missy started to her feet, and stood very pale beside her mother's sofa.
"You have shown so little sympathy with St. John's plans, that I have
been unable to ask you to share in their discussion, as day after day
they have matured. You know the house belongs to him, he has given up
all--you can see what it involves."
"I see, and his mother is to be turned out of house and home, to satisfy
his ultra piety."
"Missy, let me speak quickly, and have done. I cannot bear this any
better than you. It is impossible for me to give myself up as St. John
has given himself. I have no longer youth and health to offer. But there
is one thing I can do, and that is not to stand in his way--and another.
Hear me patiently, Missy; I know it will be pain to you; I am going to
identify myself with his work in a certain way."
"You! What am I hearing? Are you going to India, to Africa?--I am
prepared for anything."
"No, Missy. Your brother's India is very near at hand. His order are
establishing a house in one of the worst parts of the city. Next to the
church which they have bought--"
"With his money," interpolated Missy.
"With his money, if you choose; next to the church which they have
bought--there is a house which I am going to buy. It may be the starting
point for the work of a sisterhood, it may be a refuge, a shelter for
whoever needs refuge or shelter. It is given--its uses will be shown if
God accepts it."
"And you?" said Missy, in a smothered voice, standing still and
white-faced before her.
"And I--am going to live there, Missy, and do the work that God appoints
me, or bear the inaction that He deems to be my part. It is a poor
offering and no sacrifice, for it is the life I crave. Only as to the
suffering I lay on you, I shrink from. God knows, if you could only
sympathise with me and go too--what a weight would be lifted off my
heart;--but I feel I cannot hope for that. It is always open to you, and
I shall always pray that it may come to pass, and we shall not really be
separated so very much. I shall not, perhaps, be bound by any rule, and
if my health suffers or if you need me ever, I shall always be free to
come to you--"
"Let me understand," said Missy, in an unnatural voice, sitting down
upon the nearest chair. "You go too fast for me. Where am I to be, when
you are to feel free to come to me? This house is no longer to be our
home, you say. What is to be my home? What plans, if any, have you made
for me? Don't go any further, please, till I comprehend the situation of
things a little better. This staggers me, and I--don't know exactly what
it all means."
She put her hands before her face for a moment, but then quickly
withdrew them and folding them in her lap, sat silent till her mother
spoke.
"The house was inevitable, of course I always knew that--and St. John is
now of age. I do not know whether you had thought of it, I supposed you
had."
"It never had occurred to me. I had forgotten that the house was left to
him."
"And our united income, Missy, yours and mine, would have been
seriously crippled if we had attempted to buy it from him, and to keep
it up. This is an expensive place, and it would make you unhappy to see
it less well kept than formerly. Even if--if I had not resolved upon
this step for myself, it would scarcely have been possible to have
remained here, at least, as we have been. This has been a great care and
anxiety to me for many months. It would have been a great relief to me
to have spoken to you, but your want of sympathy in St. John's work,
made it impossible for me to talk to you about it. It has seemed so to
St. John and me--we have given it much anxious thought--that the income
from your father's property which I have settled all on you, is ample
for your maintenance any where you choose to live. But--to me it has
seemed a good plan, that you should take the old Roncevalle house across
the way, with Aunt Harriet, and live there. It is vacant now you know,
it is comfortable, the rent is low--"
Missy's eyes gave forth a sudden glow of light; she started to her feet,
but then sank back upon her chair again.
"Mamma, that is too much--that is more than I can stand. The home is to
be broken up--my whole life is to be laid waste. I am no longer set in a
family--I am adrift--I am motherless and homeless--but that is not what
I complain of. I only ask, why am I to take up the unpleasantest duty of
your life? Why am I to be burdened with a blind, infirm and hateful
woman who is in no way related to me by ties of blood or of affection? A
beautiful home you have mapped out for me! An enchanting future! It
seems to me you must think better of me than I have ever been led to
believe you did, if you think me capable of such self-sacrifice."
"It is for you to take it up or lay it down as suits you, Missy. If
Harriet will come with me, you know she will have a home and all the
care that I can give her. But you can see that it is of no use to make
such a proposition now. When she is older and more broken, she may be
glad of the refuge we can give her, but now it would be in vain to think
of it. And you, oh my child, do not be unkind when you think of what I
have done. Reflect that I have given you my life, for all these many
years. All that I have had has been yours, all that I have would still
be yours, if you would share it in the consecrated retirement to which I
now feel called. It would be the dearest wish of my heart fulfilled, if
I could have you with me there. There would be scope for your energy,
for all your talents, in the work that lies before us. But, I know I
must not dream of this till you see things differently."
"No," said Missy, in a cold, hard tone. "You have one child, with whom
your sympathy is perfect. He must suffice. Live for him now; I have had
my share, no doubt."
"Missy! do not break my heart; I am not going to live for St. John. I am
not going away from you for any human companionship. How can I talk to
you? How explain what I feel, when you will not, cannot understand?"
"No, I cannot understand," cried Missy, with a sudden burst of tears.
"Oh mother, mother, how can you go away from me? How can you leave me in
this frightful loneliness? I am not to you what you are to me or you
would never do it."
"Missy, you could have done it. I have not read your face in vain for
these last few weeks. You could have done it, and you would. I cannot
make a comparison between the affection that would have satisfied you to
leave me--and the--the feeling of my heart that draws me out of the
world into stillness, retreat, consecration. I cannot explain, cannot
talk of it. If you do not understand, you cannot. It is no sacrifice,
except the being separated from you--that will be the pain hidden in my
joy, as it would have been the pain hidden in your joy if you had
married. The pain would not have killed the joy, nor made you give it
up. This is not the enthusiasm of a moment, Missy. It is what has come
of long, long years of silence and of thought. A way has opened, beyond
my hopes--possibilities of acceptance--of advance. There is a great work
to be done: I must not hold it back from humility, from timidity. It
seems so unspeakable a bliss that I--stranded--useless--wrecked--should
be made a part of anything given to the glory of God. I daily fear it
may be presumption to dream of such a thing, and that I shall be rebuked
and checked. But even if I am, my offering is made--all--for Him to take
or leave. All! ah, poor and miserable all, 'the dregs of a polluted
life!' Would that from the first moment that I drew my breath my soul
had reached up to Him with its every affection--with its every
aspiration! Oh 'that I might love Him as well as ever any creature loved
Him!' That patience and penitence might win Him to forget the wasted
past, and restore the blighted years that are gone from me!"
She hid her face in her hands, and Missy, sinking down on the floor
beside her, cried out, with tears:
"Why cannot you serve Him and love Him here as you have always done, all
your good and holy life! Why can't you worship Him in the old way, and
be satisfied with doing your duty in your own home, and staying with
those who need you, and whom He has given you to love and care for! Oh,
mamma, this is some great and terrible mistake. Think before it is too
late!"
"Listen, Missy," she said, after a few moments; her brief emotion
passed. "Listen, and these are words of truth and soberness. I am
useless here. There is a possibility _there_ I might be of some humble
service. You are more capable of managing and directing in every day
matters than I ever was. You are no longer a young girl. I leave you
with conventional propriety, for your Aunt Harriet is all that is
requisite before the world. If you make it a question of family duty,
St. John is many years younger than you, and may need me more. The home
here is expensive, luxurious. The money is wanted for the saving of the
souls and bodies of Christ's poor. To me there seems no question. I wish
there might not be to you. If it were a matter of the cloister, I might
waver, it is possible. I am not permitted to go that length in my
oblation. I am now only separating myself from you by the length of time
that you choose to stay away from me. In a house such as this is
designed to be, you could always have your place, your share of work and
interest. We shall win you to it, dear child; when you see what it is,
your prejudice will wear away."
"Prejudice!" cried Missy, passionately. "What is not prejudice? Yours
and St. John's have cost me dear. Oh, mamma, how could you have had such
an alien child? Why must we see everything in such a different light?
You and St. John are always of one mind. I am shut out from you by such
a wall. I am so lonely, so wretched, and perhaps you can't understand
enough to pity me. Oh, mamma, you are all I have in the world! Don't go
away and leave me! Don't break up this home, which must be dear to you;
don't turn away from what your heart says always. It can't be wrong to
love your home, it can't be wrong to be sorry for your child. Oh, what
misery is come upon me! Mamma, mamma, you will kill me if you go away!
You must not, cannot, shall not go!"
From such scenes as this, it is better, perhaps, to turn away. When men
are not of one mind in a house, how sore the strife it brings--how long
and bitter the struggle when love is wrestling with love, but when self
is mixed up in the war. It was a longer and crueller struggle than she
had foreseen. Missy could see no light in the future, and grew no nearer
being reconciled. Day after day passed, scene after scene of
wretchedness, alternate pleading and reproaching, reasoning and
rebellion. From St. John, Missy could not bear a word. She refused to
treat with him, but threw herself upon her mother. Those were dark and
troubled days. St. John looked a little paler than usual; the mother was
worn and tortured, but gave no sign of relenting. A gentle, pliant
nature seems sometimes more firm for such an assault as this. At last,
all discussion of it was given up; Missy, hardening herself, went about
the house cold-eyed, imperious, impatient. St. John was absent much of
the time--Miss Varian had not yet been informed what was in store for
her; all tacitly put off that very evil day.
Meanwhile the preparations for the change went quietly on. The old
Roncevalle house was one that belonged to the Varians; having been
bought by Mr. Varian in those lordly days, when laying field to field,
and house to house, seems the natural outlet of egotism and youth. Felix
Varian, young and used to success, had the aspirations of most young and
wealthy men. He proposed in the first flush of satisfaction in his home,
to make it a fine estate, worthy of his name and of the yellow-haired
baby, who had now grown up to wear a black habit and a girdle round his
waist. He bought right and left, and made some rather unprofitable
purchases. His early death left matters somewhat involved, but yet, when
all was settled up, the Varians were still a wealthy family, and the
young heir had a good deal to take with him to his work in that dirty
down-town street, of which Missy thought with such loathing and
contempt, and he with such fervor of hope. Missy's father had had a
comfortable little property, which had been thriftily managed, and this
was now to be hers exclusively. It was by no means a princely
settlement, but it was quite as much as an unmarried woman needed to
live comfortably upon, and she felt that her mother had done quite right
in not offering her a cent of the Varian money, which she never would
have touched. She had hated her stepfather fervently as a child; now she
felt strangely drawn to him, and as if they had a common injury. How he
would have scorned this infatuation, and resented this appropriation of
his gorgeous and luxurious gold.
The Roncevalle house had always been kept in order, and rented
furnished. It was a comfortable looking house, standing close to the
street, with a broad piazza, and having a pretty view of the bay. It was
very well--but oh! as a home, coming after the one she had grown up in!
Poor Missy loathed it. She had made it part of her capable management of
things to keep this house furnished from the overflow of their own. It
was a family joke that this was the hospital for disabled and repaired
furniture, the retreat to which things out of style and undesirable were
committed. If a new carpet were coveted at home, it was so good an
excuse to say the Roncevalle carpets needed renovating, and it was best
to put the new ones on the floors at home. When Missy's dainty taste
tired of a lamp or a piece of china, it was ordered over to the
Roncevalle. It may be imagined with what feelings she contemplated
living over those discarded carpets, eating her dinner off that
condemned china, being mistress of that third-rate house.
But to do her justice, this formed a very small part of her trial. She
was of a nature averse to change, firm in its attachments. To give up
her home would have been heart-breaking, even though she should still
have had the companionship of her mother. But when that was broken, and
the whole face of her life changed, it seemed to her, indeed, a bitter
fate. She could see no righteousness in it, no excuse, no palliation.
She felt sure that it was but the beginning of the end, and that her
mother could but a short time survive the fanatical sacrifice she had
made. She imagined her in the reeking, filthy streets of midsummer,
surrounded by detestable noises and sights, without the comforts to
which she was accustomed.
"Nothing prevents my coming to you, if I am ill," said her mother. "And,
Missy, if I can live through _this_, I can endure anything, I think."