After Mr. Van Berg and Miss Burton finished the selection from the
Oratorio mentioned in the previous chapter, the old white-haired
gentleman at whose side the latter had been sitting in the earlier
part of the evening rose and said:
"I want to thank all the singers, and especially the young lady
and gentleman now at the piano, not only for the pleasure they have
given us all, but also for the comforting and sustaining thoughts
that the sacred words have suggested. My enjoyments in this world
are but few, and are fast diminishing; and I know that they will
not refuse an old man's request that they close this service of song
by each singing along some hymn that will strengthen our faith in
the unseen Friend who watches over us all."
Van Berg looked at Miss Burton.
"We cannot refuse such an appeal," she said.
"I fear that I shall seem a hypocrite in complying," Van Berg
answered, in a low tone. "How can I make a distinctly recognized
effort to strengthen faith in others when lacking faith myself."
Her eyes flashed up to his, in sudden and strong approval. "I
like that," she said. "It always gives me a sense of security and
safety when I meet downright honesty. In no way can you better
strengthen our faith than by being perfectly true. You give me a
good example of sincerity," she added slowly, "and perhaps my hymn
will teach submission more than faith. While I am singing it you
may find something that will not express more than you feel."
In her sweet, low, yet penetrating voice, that now had a pathos which
melted every heart, she sang the following words, which, like the
perfume of crushed violets, have risen in prayer from many bruised
and broken sprits:
"My God, my father, while I stray
Far from my home on life's rough way,
Oh teach me from my heart to say,
Thy will be done.
What though in lonely grief I sigh
For friends beloved no longer nigh;
Submissive still would I reply,
Thy will be done.
Renew my will from day to day;
Blend it with Thine, and take away
Whate'er now makes it hard to say,
Thy will be done.
Then when on earth I breathe no more,
The prayer oft mixed with tears before,
I'll sing upon a happier shore,
Thy will be done."
Stanton, warm-hearted and genuine with all his faults, retired well
into the shadow of the hallway and looked at the singer through
the lenses of sympathetic tears.
"Poor orphan girl," he muttered. "What a villain a man would be
who could purpose harm to you!"
Van Berg, in accordance with his cooler and less demonstrative
nature, kept his position at her side, but he regarded her with
an expression of respect and interest that caused Ida Mayhew, who
was watching from her covert near, a sense of pain and envy that
surprised her by its keenness.
With a sudden longing which indicated that the wish came direct
from from her heart, she sighed:
"What would I not give to see him look at me with that expression
on his face!"
Then, startled by her own thought, so vivid had it been, she looked
around as if in fear it was apparent to her companion.
His eyes were in truth bent upon her, and in the dusk they seemed
like livid coals. A moment later, as with a shrinking sense of
fear she furtively looked at him again, his eyes suggested those of
some animal of prey that is possessed only with the wolfish desire
to devour, caring for the victim only as it may gratify the ravenous
appetite.
He leaned forward and whispered in her ear:
"Miss Ida, you do not know how strangely, how temptingly beautiful
you are to-night. One might well peril his soul for such beauty
as yours."
"Hush," she said imperiously, and with a repelling gesture, she
stepped further into the light towards the singers.
"Then, when on earth I breathe no more," sang Miss Burton.
The thought was to the heart of the unhappy listener like the touch
of ice to the hand. There was a kindling light of hope in Miss
Burton's face, and something in her tone that indicated the courage
of an unfaltering trust as she sang the closing lines:
"I'll sing upon a happier shore,
Thy will be done."
But the words brought a deeper despondency to Ida Mayhew. In
bitterness she asked herself, "What chance is there for me to reach
'that happier shore,' with the tempter at my side and everything
in the present and past combining to drag me down?"
"There, thank heaven 'meetin's over,'" whispered Sibley, as Miss
Burton rose from the piano. "I'm sick of all this pious twaddle,
and would a thousand-fold rather listen to the music of your voice
out under the trees."
"You 'thank heaven'!" she repeated with a reckless laugh. "I'm
inclined to think, Mr. Sibley, from the nature of your words, you
named the wrong locality."
The answering look he gave her indicated that she puzzled him.
She had not seemed to-day like the shallow girl who had hitherto
accepted of his more innocent compliments as if they were sugar-plums,
and merely raised her finger in mock warning at such as contained
a spice of wickedness and boldness. There seemed a current of
thought in her mind which he could not fathom, and whether it were
carrying her away or toward him he was not sure. He understood and
welcomed the element of recklessness, but did not like the way in
which she looked at Van Berg, nor did it suit his purposes that
she should hear so much of what he characterized as "pious twaddle."
He whispered again bolder words than he had ever spoken to her
before.
"I wish no better heaven than the touch of your hand and the light
of your eyes. See, the moon is rising; come with me, for this is
the very witching hour for a ramble."
She turned upon him a startled look, for he seemed the very embodiment
of temptation. But she only said coldly:
"Hush! Mr. Van Berg is about to sing," and she stepped so far into
the lighted room that the artist saw her.
When Miss Burton rose from the piano she did not return to her
seat in the parlor, but stood in the shadow of the door-way leading
into the hall. The thought of her hymn had come so directly from
her heart, that her eyes were slightly moist with an emotion that
was more plainly manifest on many other faces. The old gentleman
who had asked her to sing had taken off his spectacles and was
openly wiping his eyes.
Stanton, ashamed to have her see the feeling she had evoked,
turned his back upon her and slowly walked down the corridor. She
misunderstood his act and thought it caused by indifference or
dislike for the sentiment she had expressed. He had seemed to her
thus far only a superficial man of the world, and this act struck
her as characteristic. But beyond this passing impression she
did not give him a thought, and turned, with genuine interest, to
listen to Van Berg who had said to her:
"I remember a few simple verses which have no merit save that they
express what I wish rather than what I am."
With much more feeling, and therefore power, than was his custom,
he sang as follows:
"I would I knew Thee better--
That trust could banish doubt;
I wish that from 'the letter'
Thy Spirit might shine out.
I wish that heaven were nearer--
That earth were more akin
To the home that should be dearer
Than the one so marred by sin.
I wish that deserts dreary
Might blossom as the rose,
That souls, despairing, weary,
Might smile and find repose."
Before singing the next stanza he could not forbear looking to see
if Miss Mayhew were listening, and thus it happened that his glance
gave peculiar emphasis to the thought expressed. She was looking
at him with an intensity of expression that he did not understand.
Nothing that he did escaped her, and the quick flash of his eyes
in her direction unintentionally gave the following words the force
and pointedness of an open rebuke;
"I wish that outward beauty
Were the mirror of the heart,
That purity and duty
Supplanted wily art."
He did not see that with a sudden flame of scarlet in her face she
stepped back on the dusky piazza as abruptly as if she had received
a blow. Had he done so, he might not have sung as effectively the
remaining verses. After the first confused moment of shame and
resentment passed, she paused only long enough to note with a sense
of relief that others had not seen or made any such application of
his words as she believed he had intended, and then she took Mr.
Sibley's arm and walked away, leaving the remaning two verses
unheard--
"I wish that all were better
And nearer to their God--
That evil's broken fetter
Were buried with His rod;
That love might last forever,
And we, in future, find
There is no power to sever
The strong and true in mind."
As he sang the last verse there was also a rapid change
in the expression of Miss Burton's face. There was something of
her old pallor that has been mentioned before. She looked at him
questioningly a moment as if to see if he were consciously making
an allusion that touched her very nearly, and then, seemingly
overcome by some sudden emotion that she would gladly hide, she
quickly vanished down the dimly lighted hallway, and was seen no
more until she came down to breakfast the following morning, as
smiling and cheery as ever.
"Confound you, Van," said Stanton, as the artist escaped from the
thanks of the audience into the hall, "What did you put in that last
verse for? You made her think of seeing her dead friends again,
and so she was in no mood to speak to us poor mortals who are still
plodding on in this 'vale of tears.' I'd give my ears for a quiet
chat with her to-night. By Jove, I never was so stirred up before,
and could turn Christian, Mohammedan, Buddhist, or anything else,
if she asked me to."
"In either case, Ik," said Van Berg, "your worship would be the
same, I imagine, and would never rise higher than the priestess."
"Curse it all," exclaimed Stanton impetuously, "I feel to-night as
if that were higher than I can ever rise. I never was afraid of
a woman before; but no 'divinity' ever 'hedged a king' like that
which fills me with an indescribable awe when I approach this
unassuming little woman who usually seems no more formidable than
a flickering sunbeam. I agree with you now. She has evidently
had some deep experience in the past that gives to her character
a power and depth that we only half understand. I wish I knew her
better."
"Good-night," said Van Berg, a little abruptly; "I think that
after this evening's experience, neither of us is in the mood for
further talk."
Stanton looked after him with a lowering brow and muttered: "Is
he so sensitive on this subject? By Jove. I'm sorry! I fear
we must become rivals, Van. And yet," he added with a despairing
gesture, "what chance would I have with him against me?"
"I could not hear distinctly," Sibley had remarked as Ida took
his arm and walked away from her post of observation. "Were you
disgusted with his pious wail on general principles, or did something
in his theology offend you?"
"It's enough that I was not pleased," she replied briefly.
"Little wonder. I'm surprised you stood it so long. Van Berg and
Stanton are nice fellows to lead a conventicle. I think I'll take
a hand at it myself next Sunday evening, and certainly would with
your support. I'll say nothing of the singer, but if you will go
with me to the rustic seat in yonder shady walk, I'll sing you a
song that I know will be more to your taste than any you have heard
this evening."
"Please excuse me, Mr. Sibley; I'm afraid of the night air."
"You are unusually prudent," he said, a little tauntingly.
"Which proves that I possess at least one good quality," she replied.
"Perhaps if Mr. Van Berg asked you to go you would take the risk."
"Perhaps I might," she admitted, half unconsciously and from the
mere force of habit, giving the natural answer of a coquette.
"He had better not cross my path," said Sibley, with sudden
vindictiveness.
"Come, come!" replied Miss Mayhew, with a careless laugh, "let's
have no high tragedy. I'm in no mood for it to-night, and you
have no occasion for alarm. If he crosses your path he will step
daintily over it at right angles."
At that moment Van Berg came out on the piazza. Although he could
not hear her words, her laugh and tones jarred unpleasantly on his
ear.
"Yonder is a genuine affinity," he muttered, "which I was a fool
to think I could break up;" and with a slight contemptuous gesture
he turned on his heel and went to his room.
"I cannot altogether understand you this evening, Miss Mayhew,"
said Sibley, with some resentment in his tone.
"You are not to blame for that, Mr. Sibley, for I do not understand
myself. I have not felt well to-day, and so had better say
good-night."
But before she could leave him he seized her hand and exclaimed,
in his soft, insinuating tones:
"That then is the only trouble between us. Next Saturday evening
I shall find you your old charming self?"
"Perhaps," was her unsatisfactory answer.
With a step that grew slower and heavier every moment, she went
to her room, turned up the light, and looked fixedly at herself in
the glass,
"I wish that outward beauty
Were the mirror of the heart,"
she repeated inaudibly, and the her exquisite lip curled in
self-contempt.
"Ida, what IS the matter with you?" drawled her mother, looking
through the open door-way of her adjacent room. "You act as if
you were demented."
"Why did you make me what I am?" she exclaimed, turning upon her
mother in a sudden passion.
"Good gracious! what are you?" ejaculated that matter-of-fact lady.
"I'm as good as you are--as good as our set averages, I suppose,"
she answered in a weary, careless tone. "Good night;" and she
closed and locked her door.
"Oh, pshaw!" said Mrs. Mayhew, petulantly; "those hymns have made
her out of sorts with herself and everything. They used to stir
me up in the same way. Why can't people learn to perform their
religious duties properly and then let the matter rest;" and with
a yawn she retired at peace with herself and all the world.
Ida threw herself on a lounge and looked straight before her with
that fixed, vacant stare which indicates that nothing is seen save
by the eye of the mind.
"Father's drunk to-night," she moaned; "I know it as surely as if
I saw him. I also know that I'm in part to blame for it. Could
outward beauty mask a blacker heart than mine? It does not mask
it from him who sang those words," and she buried her face in her
hands and sobbed, until, exhausted and disheartened, she sough such
poor rest and respite as a few hours of troubled sleep could bring.