Mr. Mayhew attended church with his family that morning--a thing
that he had not done for years--and in the afternoon Ida took
him to see her spiritual birthplace, and to call on her spiritual
father. The welcome that old Mr. Eltinge gave, and the words he
spoke, did much towards establishing in the man who had been so
disheartened, hope that a new and better future was opening before
him.
When about to part he put his left arm around his daughter, and
giving his hand to Mr. Eltinge, said, with a voice broken by his
feelings:
"I am bewildered yet. I can't understand my happiness. Yesterday
I was perishing in a boundless desert. To-day the desert has
vanished, and I'm in this sweet old garden. There are no flowers
or fruits in it, however, that can compare with the love and truth
I now see in this child's face. I won't speak of the service you
have rendered us both. It's beyond all words."
It was indeed greater than he knew, for Id had concluded never
to speak again of her terrible secret. God had forgiven her, and
nothing was to be gained by any reference to a subject that had
become inexpressibly painful. "Remember," said the staunch and
faithful old man as they were about to drive away, "nothing good
lasts unless built up from the Author of all good. Unless you act
on this truth you'll find yourself in the desert again, and all
you are now enjoying will seem like a mirage."
Poor Mr. Mayhew could not endure to lose a moment of his daughter's
society, for the long thirst of years was to be slaked. They
took a round-about way home, and the summer evening deepened into
twilight and dusk before they approached the hotel.
"See, father, there is the new moon, and it hangs over your right
shoulder," cried Ida, gleefully.
"It's over your right shoulder, too, and that thought pleases me
better still. I wish I could make you very happy. Tell me what
I can do for you."
"Take me to New York with you to-morrow," said Ida, promptly.
"Now you are trying to make a martyr of yourself for me. You forget
how hot and dusty the city is in August."
"I'm going with you," she said decisively, "unless you say no."
"I'm going to spend part of the time with you until your vacation
begins next month, and then we'll explore every nook and corner of
this region."
"There Ida, say no more to-day. My cup is overflowing now, and
the fear is already growing that such happiness won't last--can't
last in a world like ours."
"Father," said Ida, gently, "I've found a Friend that has promised
me more than present happiness. He has promised me eternal life.
He is pledged to make all seemingly evil result in my final good.
How it can be I don't see at all, but I'm trying to take him at
his word. You must not worry if I'm not always in good spirits. I
suppose every one in the world has a burden to carry, but I don't
think it can crush us if our Saviour helps us carry it. My faith
is very simple, you see; I feel I'm like one of those little children
he took in his arms and blessed, and I'm sure his blessing is not
an empty form. It has made me love and trust him, and that's all
the religion I have or know anything about. You must not expect
great things of me; you must not watch me too closely. Just let
me take my own quiet way in life, for I want my life henceforth to
be as quiet and unobtrusive as the little brook that runs through
Mr. Eltinge's garden, that is often in the shade, you know, as
well as in the light, but Mr. Eltinge lets it flow after its own
fashion; so you must let me. I'll always try to make a little
low, sweet music for you, if not for the world. So please do not
commence puzzling your poor tired brain how to make me happy or
gay, or want to take me here and there. Just leave me to myself;
let me have my own way for awhile at least; and if you can do
anything for me I promise to tell you."
Ever since her drive with Van Berg the previous day, there had been
a deep undercurrent of thought in Ida's mind, and she had at last
concluded that she could scarcely keep her secret with any certainty
while under his eyes, and especially those of Miss Burton. She was
too direct and positive in her nature, and her love was too strong
and absorbing for the cool and indifferent bearing she was trying
to maintain. Her eyes, her cheeks, her tones, and even words,
might prove traitors at any time and betray her. She longed to be
alone, and teh large empty city house seemed the quiet refuge that
she needed. At the same time it would give her deep satisfaction
to be with her father after hs return from business, and make amends
for years of neglect.
He looked at her wistfully, feeling, in a vague way, that he did
not understand her yet. There was a minor chord in her voice,
and there had been a sadness in her eyes at times which began to
suggest to him that he had not learned all the causes that were so
marvellously transforming her form her old self. Her mother would
question and question. He, on the contrary, would wait patiently
till the confidence was given, and so he merely said gently,
"All right, little girl; I'll try to make you happy in your own
way."
Van Berg, going out for a walk after tea, again heard the girlish
voice singing the quaint hymn tune that had awakened the memories
of his childhood the previous day. He instantly concealed himself
by the roadside, and in a moment or two Ida and her father drove
by. He was able in the dusk to note only that her head rested on
her father's shoulder, and her voice was sweet and plaintive as
she sang words that he could not hear distinctly, but which were
as follows, as far as he could catch them:
I know not the way he is leading me
But I know he is leading me home;
Though lonely the path and dark to me,
It is safe and it wends to my home.
Home of the blest,
Home that is rest
To the weary pilgrim's feet, to the weary pilgrim's heart.
and then her words were lost in the distance.
With an impulse he did not think of resisting he followed them back
to the hotel and waited patiently till she and her father came out
from supper.
"Miss Mayhew," he said, a little discontentedly, "I have scarcely
had a chance to say a word to you to-day, and it seems to me that
I have a great deal to say."
She looked at him with some surprise as she replied, "Well, I think
I might at least become a good listener."
"Do you mean a patient one?"
"I never had any patience," she answered, with something like a
smile.
"And I was never so possessed by the demon of impatience as I have
been this afternoon. There hasn't been a soul around that I cared
to talk with, and if you knew how out of conceit I am with my own
company, you would feel some commiseration. How I envied you your
visit to the garden this afternoon, for I felt sure you took your
father thither. May I not go with you again to-morrow, or soon? I
wish to make my sketch more accurate before beginning your picture."
She hesitated a moment, and he little know how he was tempting her.
Then she replied, so quietly and decisively as to seem almost cold,
"Mr. Eltinge, I'm sure, will be very glad to see you, but I shall
go to the city with my father in the morning and remain in town
all the week." She was puzzled at his unmistakable expression of
regret and disappointment, and added, hastily, "Mr. Van Berg, you
are taking far too much trouble. I would be more satisfied--I
would be delighted with such a sketch as you made to-day, with the
omission of myself."
"But if, instead of being trouble, it gave me great pleasure to
make the picture with the utmost care?"
"I suppose," she replied, "that you have a high artistic sense that
must be satisfied, and that you see imperfections that I cannot."
"You are too severe upon me, Miss Mayhew, but since you have such
good reason, I cannot complain. Still, in justice to myself, I
must say that satisfying my artistic sense was not my motive."
"I did not mean to be severe--I do not mean what you think," Ida
began, very eagerly. Then she checked herself and added, after a
moment, with a slight tinge of sadness in her tone, "I fear we are
fated to misunderstand each other. Good-night, Mr. Van Berg," and
she turned decisively away and joined her father who was talking
with Stanton.
The artist was both hurt and perplexed, and he abruptly left the
hall and started again on the walk which had been so unexpectedly
interrupted. He strode away through the starlight with a swiftness
that was scarcely in harmony with the warm, still summer night.
Before he was aware of it he was a mile away. Stopping suddenly
he muttered:
"I won't be so baffled and puzzled. I will learn to understand
this Ida Mayhew before this summer is over. It's ridiculous that
I should be so dull and stupid. She says she fears we are 'fated
to misunderstand each other.' I defy such a blind stupid fate. I
used to have some brains and tact before I came to this place, and
I scarcely think I've become an idiot. I am determined to win that
girl's friendship, and I intend to follow her career and watch the
rare and beautiful development of her character. That one hour in
the garden yesterday taught me what an inspiration her exquisite
beauty can be in my profession, and surely with the vantage-ground I
already possess I ought to have skill enough to win a place among
her friends," and he walked back almost as quickly as he had stalked
away.
Ida had seen his departure and recognized the fact that she had
hurt his feelings. It was strange that so little a thing could
depress her so greatly, for she felt that the first real Sabbath
she had ever spent and which had been in truth a SUN-day to her
thus far, was now ending in shadows darker than the night. "How
weak I am," she thought; "I must go away as soon as possible,
or else I shall be sorry. The companionship that he can give so
easily and frankly when Miss Burton is not at hand to occupy him is
impossible for me, and would only end in the betrayal of a secret
that I would hide even more anxiously than the crime I could
not conceal from him. My duty and my father must be everything
hereafter," and she turned resolutely to him, saying:
"Father, take a seat in the parlor while I go and find mother. I
want these people to see that you have a family who at least show
that they appreciate all the luxuries and comforts you are providing
for them."
Mr. Mayhew was more deeply gratified by her words than she
could understand, for any recognition of his manhood and rightful
position which was quiet and unobtrusive, was balm and healing to
his wounded self-respect. Hitherto he had believed correctly that
his family wished to keep him out of sight, and at no time before
had he realized the change that had taken place in Ida more keenly
than when she made this simple and natural proposition. His grateful
smile as he complied with her request did her good, but she soon
discovered that in her mother she had a very difficult subject
to manage. She found that lady in her room wearing a gloomy and
injured expression.
"You have condescended at last to come and see whether I was alive,
I see," she said, as Ida entered the room.
Her daughter went directly to her and kissing her replied, "We haven't
intended to leave you so long or to neglect you in the least, and
I'll explain."
"Oh, no need of explaining. Excuses always make matters worse.
Here is the fact--I've been left all the afternoon to myself."
"Have you noticed no other fact to-day, mother?" asked Ida, gravely.
"Yes, I've noticed that you and your father have been so wrapped
up in each other that I'm nobody, and might as well be Mrs. John
Smith as Mrs. Mayhew."
"Pardon me, mother, you are exaggerating," said Ida, firmly.
"Father was very polite to you at breakfast and dinner, and he went
to church with you this morning, and I can scarcely remember when
he has done this before. I am chiefly to blame for keeping him
away so long this afternoon, for I wanted him to see and talk with
my friend Mr. Eltinge, who has done me so much good. I thought
he might help father too, and I truly believe he has. I repeat to
you again, in all sincerity and love, that we have not intended to
neglect you, and father now wishes you to come down and join him in
the parlor, so that we can, as a family, at last appear as we ought
before the world. In the name of all that is sacred, encourage dear
father now that he is trying to be what we have so often wished."
But Mrs. Mayhew's pets were like spells of bad weather and would
run their course. She only looked more gloomy and injured than
ever as she replied:
"It's all very well to talk. Mr. Mayhew must be encouraged and
coaxed to do what any man ought to do. I might have enjoyed a ride
this evening as well as your father."
"You said it was too warm to go out after dinner."
"Well, you might have waited till it wasn't too warm."
A sudden scarlet burned in Ida's cheeks, and there came an ominous
sparkle in her eyes. "Mother," she said so abruptly and sternly
that the lady looked up wonderingly, and encountered an expression
in her daughter's face that awakened an undefined fear. In tones
that were low, indignant, and authoritative Ida continued:
"I request--I demand that you cease this nonsense at once. As
a Christian woman you ought to be on your knees thanking God that
your husband is not lying intoxicated on that sofa, as he was last
Sunday at this time. You ought to be thanking God that he is
becoming his former self, and winning respect by acting like a true
gentleman. It was our unutterable folly that was destroying him,
and I say this folly must and shall cease. I will not permit my
father's sensitive nature to be wounded as it has been. You shall
not spoil this first bright day he has had after so many years.
If you care for him why don't you try to win his affection? and
whoever heard of a heart being won by whining and fault-finding?
But of this be sure, you shall not spoil this day. I charge you as
a wife and a lady to cease this childish petulance, and come down
at once."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Mayhew, rising mechanically, "if you are going to
make a scene---"
"I am going to prevent scenes," said Ida, with all her old time
imperiousness. "I insist that we appear in the future like a quiet,
well-bred family, and I warn you that I will permit my father to
be trifled with no longer. He SHALL have a chance. Wait, let me
help you make a more becoming toilet for Sunday evening."
Ida was very strongly aroused, and the superior nature mastered the
weaker. Mrs. Mayhew became as wax in her hands, although she made
many natural and irritable protests against her daughter speaking
to her as she had done. Ida paid no heed to her mother's words,
and after giving a few finishing touches to her dress relieved her
sternness by a judicious compliment, "I wish you to take the seat
father is reserving for you," she said, "and appear the charming
lady that you know how to be so well;" and without further parley
they went down together.
Once in the social eye it would be Mrs. Mayhew's strongest impulse
to make a good impression, and she behaved beautifully. Something
in Ida's manner puzzled her father, but she smiled so reassuringly
that he gave himself up to the quiet enjoyment of the situation
that was so natural and yet so novel. He listened with a pleased
expression to the music, and noted, with deep satisfaction, the
friendly and respectful bearing of those near, towards both his
wife and himself; but he exulted in the evident admiration that
his daughter excited. The people at the Lake House had already
discovered that there was a decided change for the better in the
Mayhew family, and they greeted the improvement with a kindly but
well-bred and unobtrusive welcome that was creditable to human
nature. Of course there was a great deal of whispered surmise,
but nothing offensive to the eye.
Stanton came and asked Ida to join in the singing at the piano,
but she shook her head decidedly.
"Who has been hurting your feelings?" he asked, in a low tone.
By a scarcely perceptible gesture, she put her finger on her lips
and said quietly, "They are waiting for you, Cousin Ik." Then she
added, with a smile, "Somewhere I've heard a proverb expressing
surprise that Saul should be among the prophets. I hardly think
it will be in good taste for me to appear among them just yet."
"And I once believed her to be a fool," thought Stanton as he
returned to his place.
Again, on this Sunday evening, keen eyes were watching her from
the dusky piazza, but so far from being wolfish and ravenous, they
were full of sympathy and admiration.
As Van Berg approached the parlor windows after his return, he saw
Stanton standing by the piano at Jennie Burton's side, and she was
looking up to him and speaking in a very friendly manner. He was
not conscious of any appropriate pangs of jealousy, and indeed
did not miss their absence, but he looked eagerly around for the
problem his philosophical mind was so bent on solving.
At first the favorable impression made by the reunited family caught
his attention, and he muttered, "There is some more of her magic.
But what is the matter with Miss Mayhew herself. Her eyes are
burning with a fire that is anything but tender and sacred, and
there are moments when her face is almost stern, and again it is
full of trouble."
Some one discovered him on the piazza, and there was a general
wish expressed that he should sing with Miss Burton a duet that
had become a favorite. After this and one or two other pieces,
he again sought his place of observation. The color and fire had
now wholly faded from Miss Mayhew's face, and she looked pale and
sad. Her father turned to her, and said:
"Ida, I fear you don't feel well."
"I'm very tired, and think I had better go to my room."
He rose instantly, and gave her his arm, but on the way she reassured
him: "A night's sleep, and the rest I shall have with you in the
city are just what I need; so don't worry, for I shall be ready to
take the train with you in the morning;" and Mr. Mayhew rejoined
his wife, and completed a happier day than he ever expected to see
again.
But poor Ida, when left alone, buried her face in her hands
and sobbed, "I've wounded HIS feelings, I've given way to my old
passionate anger, I've spoken to mother as a daughter never should.
What will ever become of faulty Ida Mayhew? The worm-eaten emblem
is true of me still."
Then, as if whispered to her by some good angel, the words Mr.
Eltinge had spoken recurred to her. "Your Saviour will be as tender
and patient with you as a mother with her baby that is learning to
walk."
"Oh," she cried, in a low, passionate tone, "that is the kind of
a God I need!"
She also remembered the reassuring words that Mr. Eltinge had
quoted--"As one whom his mother comforteth so will I comfort you,"
and the promise was made good to her.
"Stanton," said Van Berg, a little abruptly, before they parted
that evening, "I fear, from your cousin's appearance, she was ill
when she left the parlor."
"I've given up trying to understand Ida. When she came down with
her mother, she looked like an incensed goddess, and when she
returned she reminded me of the fading white lily she wore in her
hair. I give it up," concluded Stanton, whose language had become
a trifle figurative and poetic of late.
"I don't," muttered the artist, after smoking the third consecutive
cigar in solitude.