When Van Berg left the garden he thought he had learned to understand
Ida almost as clearly as he saw the pebbly bed of the little brook
through the limpid current that flowed over it, and yet within a
brief half-hour another baffling mystery had arisen. Why did she
dislike Jennie Burton? Why she HAD disliked her was plain, but it
seemed to follow inevitably that one who could love old Mr. Eltinge
must also find a congenial friend in the woman he so greatly admired.
As the remainder of the day passed, this new cloud darkened and
seemed to shadow even himself. While he could detect no flaw in
her courtesy, he could not help feeling that she made a conscious
effort to avoid them both. At dinner she conversed chiefly with
her cousin. Van Berg's eyes would wander often to her face, but
she never looked towards him unless he spoke to her. When he or
Miss Burton addressed her there was not a trace of coldness in her
manner of responding; a superficial observer would merely think
they were people in whom she was not especially interested.
"Poor child," thought Jennie Burton, "she acts her part well," and
she puzzled the artist still further by taking less notice of Ida
than usual.
"But when I think of it," he mused, "it's just like my unique little
friend. Only those in trouble interest her, and Miss Mayhew is on
a straight road to happiness now, she believes, although the young
lady herself seems to dread a world full of thorns and thistles, and
her father and mother, at least, will insure an abundance of both
in her own home. But her repulsion from Miss Burton, the very one
towards whom I supposed she would be attracted in her new life,
is what perplexes me most. I imagine all women are mysteries when
you come to scrutinize their motives and impulses closely. The two
who have occupied my thoughts this summer certainly are, and I'll
stick to painting if I ever get out of this muddle."
After dinner he found a chance to ask Stanton if Mr. Mayhew was
expected that evening.
"Yes," was the reply. "In memory of last Sunday he wrote he would
not come, but Ida sent a telegram asking him to be here without
fail. I took it over to the station for her, and made sure that
my uncle received it. She will puzzle him more than she has the
rest of us, I suppose, and I am quite curious to see the result."
The artist made no reply, but went to his room and tried to work on
his pictures. He was more than curious--he was deeply interested,
but felt that he was trenching on delicate ground. The relations
between the father and daughter were too sacred, he believed, for
even sympathetic observation on his part.
He soon threw aside his work. The inspiration of the morning was
all gone, and in its place had come an unaccountable dissatisfaction
with himself and the world in general. He had left the garden with
a sense of exhilaration that made life appear beautiful and full
of richest promise. He had been saved from disaster that would
have been crushing; his object in coming to the country had been
accomplished, and the Undine he discovered HAD received a woman's
soul that was blending the perfect but discordant features into an
exquisitely beautiful face. The result, certainly, had not been
brought about as he expected, nor in a way tending to increase his
self-complacency, but he felt that he would be a broader and better
man for the ordeal through which he had passed. He also realized
that the changes in Ida were not the superficial ones he had
contemplated. he had regarded her face and character as little
better than a piece of canvas on which there was already a drawing
of great promise, but very defective. By erasures here and skillful
touches there he had hoped to assist nature in carrying out her
evident intentions. The tragedy that well-nigh resulted taught
him that human lives are dangerous playthings, and that quackery
in attempting spiritual reform involved more peril than ignorant
interference with physical laws.
And yet that morning had proved that the desired change had been
accomplished, even more thoroughly than he had hoped. The dangerous
period of transition had been safely passed, and the beautiful
face expressed that which was more than womanly refinement, thought
and culture. These elements would develop with time. But the
countenance on which he had seen the impress of vanity, pride,
and insincerity, and later the despair of a wronged and desperate
woman, had grown open and childlike again as she told him her story
and read to Mr. Eltinge; and in it, as through a clear transparency,
he had witnessed the kindling light of the Christian faith his
mother had taught him to respect at least, long years before.
He had left the garden with the belief that he had secured the
friendship of this rare Undine, and that she would bring to his
art an inspiration like that of which he was so grandly conscious
while making the picture in which she formed the loveliest feature.
He had expected with instinctive certainty that she would now be drawn
towards the woman he hoped to make his wife, and that friendships
would be cemented that would last through life.
But in suggesting this hope and expectation to Ida it had been as
if a cloud had suddenly passed before the sun, and now the whole
sky was darkening. Jennie Burton seemed more shadowy and remote
than ever--more wrapped up in a past in which she had no part; and
the maiden into whose very soul he thought he had looked became
inscrutable again in the distant courtesy of her manner. Even
during the brief hour of dinner he was led to feel that he had no
inevitable place in the thoughts of either of the ladies, and this
impression was increased as he sought their society later in the
day.
Moreover, in his changed mood he again began to chafe irritably at
Ida's associations. She herself had been thoroughly redeemed in
an artistic point of view, and it was his nature to look at things
in this light. While he shuddered at her terrible purpose he
recognized the high, strong spirit which in it perversion and wrong
had rendered the deed possible, and her dark design made a grand
and sombre background against which the maiden he had sketched that
morning was all the more luminous. Hitherto everything connected
with her change of character had been not only conventional, but
had appealed to his aesthetic temperament as singularly beautiful.
The quaint garden with its flowers, brook, and allegorical tree
were associations that harmonized with Ida's loveliness, while
Mr. Eltinge, who had rendered such an immeasurable service to them
both, realized his best ideal of dignified and venerable age.
But when he compared her spiritual father with the man she expected
that night, he found his whole nature becoming full of irritable
protest and dissatisfaction.
"This morning," he muttered, "she appeared capable of realizing a
poet's dreams, but already I see the hard and prosaic conditions
of her lot dwarfing her growth and throwing their grotesque shadows
across her beauty. What can she do while inseparable from such
a father and mother? The more unlike them she becomes the more
hideous they will appear. Mrs. Mayhew is essentially lacking
in womanly delicacy, and mere coarseness is more tolerable than
fashionable, veneered vulgarity. Mr. Mayhew is a spiritless wretch
whose only protest against his wife's overbearance and indifference
has been intoxication. Linked on either side to so much deformity,
what chance has the daughter unless she escapes from them and
develops a separate life? But are not the ties of nature too close
to permit such escape, and would it not be wrong to seek it? It
certainly would not be Christian, and I am confident Mr. Eltinge
would not advise it. Her lot is indeed a cruel one. No wonder she
clings to Mr. Eltinge and the garden, and that the outside world
seems full of thorns and thistles. Well, I pity her from the depths
of my heart, and cannot see how she will solve the harsh problem
of her life. I imagine she will soon become discouraged and seek
by marriage to obliterate her present ties as far as possible."
Having reached this unsatisfactory conclusion he threw his sketch
impatiently aside and went down to the piazza. Ida and her mother
were already there, for it was about time for arrivals from the
earlier train. Van Berg felt almost sure that Ida must have been
aware that he was standing near her, but she exhibited no consciousness
of his presence. When a little later they met in promenade she
bowed politely but absently, and in a way that would lead any who
were observing them to think that he was not in her thoughts. So
he was led to believe himself, but Miss Burton, who was reading in
one of the parlor windows, smiled and whispered to herself, "Well
done."
Ida was in hopes that her father would take the first opportunity
of reaching the Lake House, and she was not disappointed. The telegram
had flashed into his leaden-hued life that day like a meteor. Did
it portend good or evil? Evil only, he feared, for it seemed to
him that evil would ever be his portion. It was therefore with a
vague sense of apprehension that he looked forward to meeting his
wife and daughter.
As he emerged from the stage with the others he found Ida half-way
down the steps to greet him.
"I'm so glad you've come!" she said in a low earnest voice, and
she kissed him, not in the old formal way, as if it were the only
proper thing to do, but as a daughter greeting her father. Then,
before he could recover from his surprise, his light travelling
bag was taken from him and the young girl's arm linked lovingly in
his, and he led to Mrs. Mayhew, who also kissed him, but in a way,
it must be admitted, that suggested a duty rather than a pleasure.
Her husband scarcely gave to her a glance, however, but kept his
eyes fixed on his daughter.
"Ida is bewitched," said Mr. Mayhew.
"And I hope you will find me bewitching, father, for I want as
much of your society as you will give me during this visit." She
tried to speak playfully and naturally, but tears were gathering in
her eyes, for his expression of perplexity was singularly pathetic
and full of the keenest reproach. "O God," she murmured, "what have
I been that he should be speechless from surprise, when I merely
greet him as a daughter should!"
Van Berg turned hastily away, for he felt that scenes were coming,
on which he had no right to look. There was nothing yet to indicate
a wish on Ida's part to avoid inartistic associations, and deep in
his heart he was compelled to admit that she had never appeared so
supremely beautiful as when she looked love and welcome into the
eyes of the smirched and disheartened man to whom nature gave the
best right to claim these gifts.
"Come with me, father," said Ida, trying to give him a reassuring
smile, "and I will answer your scared and questioning glances in
your room," and he went with her as if walking in a dream.
Tears now gathered in Jennie Burton's eyes, but she smiled again
as she thought, "Better done still, Ida Mayhew, and Mr. Van Berg,
who is stalking away so rapidly yonder, is not the man I think
him, if you have not now made your best and deepest impression on
his heart."
"Ida," her father faltered, after they had reached the privacy of
his room, "what does your telegram mean? What is important?"
"YOU are to me. O father, please, please forgive me," and she put
her arms around his neck and burst into a passion of tears.
The bewildered man began to tremble. "Can it--can it be that my
daughter has a heart?" he muttered.
"Yes, father, but it's broken because of my cruel treatment of you;
I now hope better days are coming for us all."
He held her away from him and looked into her face with a longing
intensity that suggested a soul perishing for the lack of love and
hope.
"Father, father, I can't bear that look. Oh, God forgive me, how
I have wronged you!" and she buried her face on his shoulder again.
"Ida," he said, slowly and pleadingly, "be very careful--be sure this
is not a passing impulse, a mere remorseful twinge of conscience.
I've been hoping for years--I would have prayed, if I dared to--for
some token that I was not a burden to you and your mother. You
seemed to love me some when you were little, but as you grew older
you grew away from me. I've tried to forget that I had a heart.
I've tried to become a beast because it was agony to be a man. why
I have lived I scarcely know. I thought I had suffered all that I
could suffer in this world, but I was mistaken. I left this place
last Monday with the fear that my beautiful daughter was giving
her love to a man even baser than I am, base and low from choice,
base and corrupt in every fibre of his soul and body, and from
that hour to this it has seemed as if I were ground between two
millstones," and he shuddered as if smitten with an ague. "Ida,"
he concluded piteously, "I'm too weak, I'm too far gone to bear
disappointment. This is more than an impulse, is it not? You will
not throw yourself away? Oh, Ida, my only child, if you could be
in heart what you were in your face as you greeted me to-night, I
could die content!"
For a few minutes the poor girl could only sob convulsively on his
breast. At last she faltered brokenly:
"Yes, father--it is an impulse--an impulse from heaven; but I shall
pray daily that it be not a passing one. I--I have lost confidence
in myself, but with my Saviour's help, I will try to be a loving
daughter to you and make your wishes first in everything."
"Great God!" he muttered, "can this be true?"
"Yes, father, because God IS great, and very, VERY, kind."
His bent form became erect and almost steely in its tenseness. He
gently but firmly placed her in a chair, and then paced the room
rapidly a moment or two, his dark eyes glowing with a strong and
kindling excitement. Ida began to regard him with wonder and almost
alarm. Suddenly he raised his hand to heaven, and said solemnly:
"This shall be no one-sided affair so help me God!"
Then opening his valise, he took out a bottle of brandy and thew
it, with a crash, into the empty grate.
Ida sprang towards him with a glad cry, exclaiming, "O father, now
I understand you! Thank God! thank God!"
He kissed her tearful, upturned face again and again, as if he
found there the very elixir of life.
"Ida, my dear little Ida," he said, huskily, "you have saved your
father from a drunkard's end--from a drunkard's grave. I was in
a drunkard's hell already."
Mr. Mayhew requested that supper should be served in his own room,
for neither he nor his daughter was in a mood to meet strangers
that evening. Ida called her mother, and tried to explain to her
why they did not wish to go down, but the poor woman was not able
to grasp very much of the truth, and was decidedly mystified by the
domestic changes which she had very limited power to appreciate,
and in which she had so little part. She was not a coarse woman,
but matter of fact, superficial, and worldly to the last degree.
Van Berg could scarcely believe his eyes when Mr. Mayhew came down to
breakfast with his family Sunday morning. The bondman had become
free; the slave of a degrading vice had been transformed into
a quiet, dignified gentleman. His form was erect, and while his
bearing was singularly modest and retiring, there was nothing of
the old cowering, shrinking manner which suggested defeat, loss of
self-respect, and hopeless dejection. All who knew him instinctively
felt that the prostrate man had risen to his feet, and there was
something in his manner that made them believe he would hold his
footing among other men hereafter.
The artist found himself bowing to the "spiritless wretch" with a
politeness that was by no means assumed, and from the natural and
almost cordial manner in which Mr. Mayhew returned his salutation,
he was very glad to believe that Ida had not told him the deeper
and darker secrets of her experience during the past week.
"This is her work," he thought, and Ida's radiant face confirmed
the impression. She then felt that after her father's words, "You
have saved me," she could never be very unhappy again. A hundred
times she had murmured, "Oh, how much better God's way out of
trouble has been than mine!"
Mr. Mayhew had always had peculiar attractions for Miss Burton,
and they at once entered into conversation. But as she recognized
the marvellous change in him, the pleased wonder of her face grew
so apparent, that he replied to it in low tones:
"I now believe in your 'remedies,' Miss Burton; but a great deal
depends on who administers them. My little girl and I have been
discovering how nearly related we are."
Her eyes grew moist with her sympathy and gladness. "Mr. Mayhew,"
she said, "I'm inclined to think that heaven is always within a
step or two of us, if we could only take the right steps."
"To me it has seemed beyond the farthest star," he replied, very
gravely. "To some, however, the word is as indefinite as the place,
and a cessation of pain appears heaven. I could be content to ask
nothing better than this Sabbath morning has brought me. I have
found what I thought lost forever."
Jennie Burton became very pale, as deep from her heart rose the
query, "Shall I ever find what I have lost?" Then with a strong
instinct to maintain her self-control and shun a perilous nearness
to her hidden sorrow, she changed the subject.
It was touching to see how often Mr. Mayhew's eyes turned towards
his daughter, as if to reassure himself that the change in her
manner towards him was not a dream, and the expression of her face
as she met his scrutiny seemed to brighten and cheer him like a
coming dawn.
"What heavenly magic is transforming Miss Mayhew?" Jennie Burton
asked of Van Berg, as they sauntered out on the piazza.
"With your wonted felicity, you express it exactly," he replied.
"It is a heavenly magic which I don't understand in the least,
but must believe in, since cause and effect are directly under my
eyes. It has been my good fortune to witness as beautiful a scene
as ever mortal saw. Since she refers naturally and openly to the
friends whom she has visited during the past week, I may tell you
about Mr. Eltinge's influence and teaching without violating any
confidence," and in harmony with the frank and friendly relations
which he now sustained to Miss Burton, he related his experience
of the previous day, remaining scrupulously reticent on every
point, however, that he even imagined Ida would wish veiled from
the knowledge of others. "I cannot tell you," he concluded, "how
deeply the scene affected me. It not only awoke all the artist in
me, but the man also. In one brief hour I learned to revere that
noble old gentleman, and if you could have seen him leaning against
the emblematic tree, as I did, I think he would have realized your
ideal of age, wholly devoid of weakness and bleakness. And then
Miss Mayhew's face, as she read and listened to him, seemed indeed,
in its contrast with what we have seen during the past summer, the
result of 'heavenly magic.' It will be no heavy task to fulfil the
conditions on which I was permitted to enter the enchanted garden.
They expect more pencil sketches, but I shall eventually give them
as truthful a picture as I am capable of painting, for it is rare
good fortune to find themes so inspiring."
Guarded as Van Berg was in his narrative, Miss Burton was able
to read more "between the lines" than in his words. He did not
understand her motive when she said, as if it were her first obvious
thought:
"The picture which you have presented, even to the eye of my fancy,
is uniquely beautiful, and I think it must redeem Miss Mayhew
in your mind, from all her disagreeable associations. But in my
estimation she appeared to even better advantage in the greeting
she gave her father last evening. Was there ever a more delicious
surprise on earth, than that poor man had when he returned and
found a true and loving daughter awaiting him? With her filial
hands she has already lifted him out of the mire of his degradation,
and to-day he is a gentleman whom you involuntarily respect. O
Mr. Van Berg, I cannot tell ou how inexpressibly beautiful and
reassuring such things are to me! You look at the changes we are
witnessing from the standpoint of an artist, I from that of poor
wounded humanity; and what I have seen in Ida Mayhew and her father,
is proof to me that there is a good God above all the chaos around
me, which I cannot understand and which at times disheartens me.
Their happier and ennobled faces are a prophecy and an earnest of
that time when the sway of evil shall be broken, when famishing
souls and empty hearts shall be filled, when broken, thwarted lives
are made perfect, and what was missed and lost regained."
She looked away from him into the summer sky, which the sun was
flooding with cloudless light. There were no tears in her eyes,
but an expression of intense and sorrowful longing that was far
beyond such simple and natural expression.
"Jennie Burton," said Van Berg, in a low, earnest voice, "there
are times when I could suffer all things to make you happy."
She started as if she had almost forgotten his presence, and answered
quietly: "You could not make me happy by suffering. Only as I
can banish a little pain and gloom here and there do I find solace.
But I can do so very, very little. It reassures me to see God
doing this work in his grand, large way. And yet it seems to me
that he might brighten the world as the sun fills this sky with
light. As it is, the rays that illumine hearts and faces glint
only here and there between the threatening clouds of evil. Mr.
Van Berg, you do not know--you never realized how shadowed humanity
is. Within a mile of your studio, that is full of light and beauty,
there are thousands who are perishing in a slow, remorseless pain.
It is this awful mystery of evil--this continuous groan and cry
of anguish that has gone up to heaven through all the ages--that
appalls my heart and staggers my faith. But there--after what I have
seen to-day I have no right to such gloomy thoughts. I suppose my
religion seems to you no more than a clinging faith in a far-away,
incomprehensible God, and so is not very attractive? I wish I could
suggest to you something more satisfactory, but since I cannot I'll
leave you to find better influences."
"It does seem to me that rash, faulty Ida Mayhew has a better
faith than this," he thought; "she believes she has found a near
and helpful Friend, while my sad-eyed saint has only a God, and is
always in pathetic doubt whether her prayer can bridge the infinite
distance between them. Who is right? Is either right? I used to
be impressed with how much I knew; I'm glad the opposite impression
is becoming so strong, for, as Miss Burton says, the hopeless fools
are those who never find themselves out.
"She was right. Ida Mayhew will ever appear to better advantage
in aiding her poor father to regain his manhood, than by the most
artistic combination of circumstances that I could imagine. All
the man in me recognizes the sacredness of the duty and the beauty
of its performance. And yet but yesterday I was stupid enough to
believe that her best chance for development was to escape from her
father and live a separate life. It has taken only a few hours to
prove how superficial was my philosophy of life. Guided simply by
the instinct of love and duty, this faulty girl has accomplished
more than I had supposed possible. But her mother will continue
a thorn in her side," and Van Berg was not far astray.