When alone with his friend after supper, Stanton broke out, "Since
Ida can't exist without the sight of that wretch, Sibley, I wish
she would follow him to New York. If she dotes on such scum, they
had better be married, as far as such people can be, and so relieve
her relatives of an incubus that is well-nigh intolerable."
"Are you absolutely sure that she does dote on Sibley, and that
he is the cause of her evident trouble?" asked Van Berg, with a
perplexed frown lowering on his brow.
"I'm not sure of anything concerning her save that she was born to
make trouble. I know she was with him all the time he was here,
and since he was metaphorically kicked off the premises she has
sulked in her room. I suppose, of course, that she is mortified,
and hates to meet people. Indeed, from a remark she made, some
one must have snubbed her vigorously to-day; but her course makes
everything a hundredfold worse. I am besmirched because of my
relationship. I can see this in the bearing of more than one, and
even Miss Burton, who could not be consciously unkind to any one,
keeps me at a distance by barriers, which, although seemingly
viewless, are so real I cannot pass them."
Van Berg surmised that the evasive tact which Miss Burton exercised
towards his friend was not caused by his relationship to Ida, and
yet was compelled to admit that her frank and friendly bearing
towards himself was scarcely less dispiriting. Her manner, as a
rule, was so plainly that of a friend only, that were it not for
occasional and furtive glances which he intercepted, he would deem
his prospects little better than Stanton's, in spite of all that
had passed between them. Even in these stolen, questioning, longing
glances, there was an element that trouble and perplexed him, and
the strange thought crossed his mind that when she looked most
intently she did not see Harold Van Berg, but an intervening vision.
Her mystery, however, rendered her only the more attractive, and
she seemed like a good angel that had come from an unknown world
concerning which she could not speak, and perhaps he could not
understand.
Her society was like a delicate wine, delightfully exhilarating
while enjoyed, but whose effect is transient. He was provoked at
himself to find how well he endured her absence, and how content
he was with the genuine friendship she was evidently forming for
him. Sometimes he even longed for more of the absorbing passion
which he saw had wholly mastered Stanton; but tried to satisfy
himself by reasoning that his love was in accordance with his nature,
which was calm and constant, rather than impulsive and passionate.
"All the higher faculties of my soul are her allies," he thought,
complacently. "I admire honor, and even reverence her. She could
walk through life as my companion, my equal, and in many respects,
my superior;" and so with all the delicate and unobtrusive tact of
which he was the master he proposed to press his suit.
Since Jennie Burton had plainly intimated that, like King Lear,
she had lost her woman's kingdom--her heart--and so was not able
to reward such suit and service, how came it she kept poor Stanton
at a distance, but welcomed the society of Van Berg? Possibly her
intuition recognized the fact that in the case of Stanton she had
touched the heart, but had won the mind of the artist. The first
seemed disposed to give all and to demand all. Stanton's all
did not count for very much thus far in her estimation. She had
recognized the character he had brought to the Lake House--that of
a pleasure-loving man of the world--and she was far too modest to
suppose that she could work any material change in this character.
Self-indulgent by nature, she believed that he had proposed to
enjoy a summer flirtation with one whom he would easily forget in
the autumn, and, while this impression lasted, she punished him by
requiring that he should be the chivalric attendant of every forlorn
female in the house. When she believed, however, that such heart
as he possessed was truly interested, she became as unapproachable
as the afternoon horizon, whose rich glow is seemingly near, but
can never be reached. While she recognized the genuineness of
his passion, she did not, as before intimated, regard it as a very
serious affair.
"Good dinners and fairer faces than mine will comfort him before
Christmas," she thought.
Few know themselves--their own capabilities of joy, suffering, or
achievement. As with Ida, Stanton was at a loss to understand the
changes in his own character. It was quite possible, therefore,
that Miss Burton should misunderstand him. Indeed he had, as yet,
but little place in her sad and preoccupied thoughts.
For some reason, however, Van Berg's society had for her a peculiar
fascination that she could not resist. She scarcely knew whether
she derived from it more of pleasure than of pain. She often asked
herself this question:
"Which were better for a traveller in the desert--to see a mirage,
or the sands only in all their barren reality?"
Her judgment said, the latter; but when the elusive mirage appeared,
she looked often with a longing wistfulness that might well suggest
a pilgrim that was athirst and famishing.
In spite of her quickness, Van Berg occasionally caught something
of this expression, and while he drew encouragement from it, he
was too free from vanity and too acute an observer to conclude that
all would result as he hoped. The unwelcome thought would come
that he was only the occasion and not the cause, of these furtive
glances. Was her heart already wedded to a memory, and was she
interested in him chiefly because for some reason he gave vividness
and reality to that memory? If this were true, what more had he to
hope for than Stanton? If this were true, was he not in a certain
sense pursuing a shadow? Woud success be success? Would he wish
to clasp, as his wife, a woman whose heart had been buried in a
sepulchre from which the stone might never be rolled away?
His first impression, that Miss Burton had passed through
some experience, some ordeal of suffering that separated her from
ordinary humanity, often reasserted itself more strongly than ever.
At times her flame-like spirit would flash up with a glow and
brilliancy that lighted and warmed his very soul, but the feeling
began to grow upon him that this genial fire consumed the costliest
of all offerings--self. Did not her own broken heart and shattered
hopes supply the fuel? Instead of brooding apart over some misfortune
that would have crushed most natures, was she not seeking to make
her life an altar on which she laid as a gift to others the best
treasures of her woman's soul?
The more closely he studied her character, and the controlling
impulses of her life, the more sincere became his admiration,
and the deeper his reverence. He felt with truth that she WAS of
different and finer clay from himself.
So strong was this impression, that the thought occurred to him that
in this and kindred reasons might be found the explanation of the
peculiar regard he felt for her. He had virtually offered himself,
and would again if he could find the opportunity. If he were sure
the he would win her, he would exult as one might who had secured
the revenue of a kingdom, the purest and largest gem in the world, or
some other possession that was unique and priceless. The whole of
his strong intellectual nature would be jubilant over the great
success of his life. He was also conscious that some of the
deepest feelings of his soul were interested. She was becoming
like a religion to him, and he imagined that his regard for her
was somewhat akin to that of a devout Catholic for a patron saint.
And yet he was compelled to admit to himself that he did not
lover her as he supposed he would love the woman he hoped to make
his wife. Why was his heart so tranquil and his pulse so steady?
Certainly not because of assured success. Why did his regard differ
so radically from Stanton's consuming passion? Should Stanton
win her he felt that he could still seek her society and enjoy her
friendship. The prospect of never winning her himself did not rob
life of its zest and color. On the contrary, he believed that she
would ever be an inspiration, an exquisite ideal realized in actual
life. As such he could not lose her any more than those women whom
poetry, fiction, and history had placed as stars in his firmament,
and this belief so contented him as to awaken surprise.
As he returned from a long and solitary stroll on Monday evening
he soliloquized complacently, "I am making too great a mystery of
it all. She is not an ordinary woman. Why should I feel towards
her the ordinary and conventional love which any woman might evoke?
There is more of spirit than of flesh and blood in her exquisite
organization. Sorrow has refined away every gross and selfish
element, and left a saint towards whom devotion is far more seemly
and natural than passion. She awakens in me a regard corresponding
to her own nature, and I thank heaven that I am at least finely
enough organized to understand her and so can seek to win her in
accordance with the subtle laws of her being. She would shrink
inevitably from a downright, headlong passion like that of Stanton's,
no matter how honest it might be or how good the man expressing
it. No hand, however strong, will ever grasp this 'rara avis,'
this good angel, rather. Her wings must be pinioned by gossamer
threads of patient kindness, delicate sympathy, nice appreciation,
and all woven and wound so unobtrusively that the shy spirit may
not be startled. What a fool I was to blurt out my feelings last
evening! What rare good fortune is mine in the fact that she
gives me the vantage-ground of friendship from which to urge a suit
wherein must be combined sincerity with consummate skill. I fear
I must efface some other image before I can implant my own. How
fortunate I am that my cool and well-poised nature will enable me
to work under the guidance of judgment rather than impulse."
Feeling that he had much to gain and was in danger of irretrievable
loss, he lightly mounted the steps of the hotel, bent on finding
at once the object of his thoughts.
He saw her leaving a group in the parlor, of which Stanton was one,
and he hastened to intercept her in the hall-way. Just as he was
about to speak to her, Mr. Burleigh came bustling up and said:
"Miss Burton, a stranger--not to fame or fortune, nor to you
probably, but a stranger to me--is inquiring for you--a stranger
from the South. He would not give his name, and--good heaven, Miss
Burton! are you ill?"
Van Berg led her into a private parlor near. She certainly had
grown very white and faint. But after a moment there came a flash
of hope and eager expectation into her face that no words could
have expressed.
"His name--his name?" she gasped.
Mr. Burleigh looked at her a second, and then said: "Stay quietly
here, I'll bring him to you; and then, Mr. Van Berg, perhaps you
and I might form an enormous crowd."
"Had I not better leave you at once?" the artist asked when they
were alone.
"Wait a moment. I--I--am very weak. It cannot be--but hope dies
hard."
Trembling like a leaf, and with eyes aflame with intense, eager
hope, she watched the door.
A moment later Mr. Burleigh ushered in a middle-aged gentleman,
who commenced saying:
"Pardon me, Miss Burton, for not sending my name, but you would
not have known it"--then the young lady's appearance checked him.
The effect of his coming was indeed striking. It was as if a gust
of wind had suddenly extinguished a lamp. The luminous eyes closed
for a moment, and the face became so pallid and ashen in its hue as
to suggest death. It was evident to Van Berg that her disappointment
was more bitter than death.
"Miss Burton took a long walk this afternoon," he said, hastily,
"and, I fear, went much beyond her strength. Perhaps she had better
see you to-morrow."
"Oh, certainly, certainly; I will remain, if there is need," the
gentleman began.
By a strong and evident effort Miss Burton regained self-control,
and said, with a faint smile that played over her face a moment
like a gleam of wintry sunshine:
"You strong men often call women weak, and we, too often, prove you
right. As Mr. Van Berg suggests, I am a little overtaxed to-night.
Perhaps I had better see you in the morning."
"I am a transient guest, and ought to be on my way with the first
train," said the gentleman. "My errand is as brief as it is
grateful to me. Do not leave, sir," he said to Van Berg. "If you
are a friend of Miss Burton it will be pleasant for you to hear
what I have to say; and, I warrant you that she will never tell
you nor anyone else herself."
"May I stay?" he asked.
She felt so weak and unnerved, so in need of a sustaining hand and
mind that she looked at him appealingly, and said:
"Yes. This gentleman cannot disgrace me more than I have myself
this evening."
"Disgrace you! Miss Burton," exclaimed the gentleman. "Your name
is a household word in our home, and our honor for it is only
excelled by our love. You remember my invalid daughter, Emily
Musgrave--our only and unfortunate child. She attended the college
in which you are an instructress. Before she came under your
influence her infirmities were crushing her spirit and embittering
her life. So morbid was she becoming that she apparently began to
hate her mother and myself as the authors of her wretched existence.
But by some divine magic you sweetened the bitter waters of her
life, and now she is a fountain of joy in our home. In her behalf
and her mother's, I thank you; and even more, if possible, in my own
behalf, for the reproachful, averted face of my child was killing
me;" and tears stood in the strong man's eyes.
There was nothing conventional in the way in which Jeannie Burton
received his warm gratitude. She leaned wearily back in her chair,
and for a moment closed her eyes. There was far more resignation
than of pleasure in her face, and she had the air of one submitting
to a fate which one could not and ought not to resist.
"Your three lives are much happier then?" she said, gently, as if
wishing to hear the reassuring truth again.
"You do not realize your service to us," said Mr. Musgrave, eagerly.
"Our lives were not happy at all. There seemed nothing before us
but increasing pain. You have not added to a happiness already
existing merely, but have caused us to exchange positive suffering
for happiness. Emily seems to have learned the art of making every
day of our lives a blessing, and she says you taught her how. I
would go around the world to say to you, 'God bless you for it!'"
"Such assurances ought to make one resigned, if not content,"
she murmured in a low tone, as if half speaking to herself. Then
rising, by an evident effort, she cordially gave her hand to Mr.
Musgrave, and said:
"You see, sir, that I am scarcely myself to-night. I think I could
give you a better impression of your daughter's friend to-morrow.
Give her my sincere love and congratulations. She is evidently
bearing her burden better than I mine. You cannot know how much
good your words have done me to-night. I needed them, and they
will help me for years to come."
The gentleman's eyes grew moist again, and he said, huskily:
"I know you are rather alone in the world, but if it should ever
happen that there is anything that I could do for you were I your
father, call on John Musgrave. There, I cannot trust myself to
speak to you any more, though I have so much to say. Good-night,
and good-by;" and he made a very precipitate retreat, thoroughly
overcome by his warm Southern heart.
"I dread to leave you looking so sad and ill, or else I would say
good-night also," said Van Berg.
She started as if she had half forgotten his presence, and kept
her face averted as she replied:
"I will say good-night to you, Mr. Van Berg. I would prove poor
company this evening."
"Before you go I wish to thank you for letting me stay," he said,
hastily. "As Mr. Musgrave asserted, you would indeed never have
told me what I have heard, and yet I would not have missed hearing
it for more than you will believe. How many lives have you blessed,
Jennie Burton?"
"Not very many, I fear, but I half wish I knew. Each one would be
like an argument."
"Arguments that should prove that you ought to let the dead past
bury its dead, and live in the richer present," he said, earnestly.
"The richer present!" she repeated slowly, and her face grew almost
stern in its reproach.
"Forgive me--in the present you so enrich, then," he said, eagerly.
Again she averted her face, and he saw that for some reason she
wished to avoid his eyes.
"I am too weak and unnerved to do more than say good-night again,"
she said, trying to smile. "You are fast learning that if you
would be my friend you must be a patient and generous one."
"Thank heaven I came to the Lake House!" ejaculated the artist as
he strolled out into the star-light. Thank heaven for this mingling
mystery and crystal purity. It does me good to trust her. There
is a deep and abiding joy in the very generosity she inspires. I
am learning the spell under which Emily Musgrave came. But how
strange it all is! She expected some one to-night, whom she would
have welcomed as she never will me. "The only rival I have to fear
may not be dead, as I supposed, and yet my perverse heart is more
full of pity for her than jealousy. I had no idea that I was capable
of such self-abnegation. Has she the art of spiritual alchemy,
and so can transmute natures full of alloy into fine gold?"
Van Berg was an acute observer, and had large acquaintance with
the world in which he lived, and its inhabitants. He was in the
main, however, an unknown quantity to himself.