EASTER LILIES.
The next afternoon Jim and I kept our appointment with the Van Arsdel's.
We found one of the parlors transformed to a perfect bower of floral
decorations. Stars and wreaths and crosses and crowns were either just
finished or in process of rapid construction under fairy fingers. When I
came in, Eva and Alice were busy on a gigantic cross, to be made
entirely of lilies of the valley, of which some bushels were lying
around on the carpet. Ida had joined the service, and was kneeling on
the floor tying up the flowers in bunches to offer them to Eva.
"You see, Mr. Henderson, the difference between modern religion and the
primitive Christians," she said. "Their cross was rough wood and hard
nails; ours is lilies and roses made up in fashionable drawing-rooms."
"I'm afraid," said Eva, "our _crown_ may prove much of the same
material!"
"I sometimes wonder," said Ida, "whether all the money spent for flowers
at Easter could not better be spent in some mode of relieving the poor."
"Well," said Eva, "I am sorry to bring up such a parallel, but isn't
that just the same kind of remark that Judas made about the alabaster
vase of ointment?"
"Yes," said I; "what could be more apparently useless than a mere
perfume, losing itself in the air, and vanishing entirely? And yet the
Saviour justified that lavish expenditure when it was the expression of
a heart-feeling."
"But," said Ida, "don't you think it very difficult to mark the line
where these services and offerings to religious worship become
excessive?"
"Of course it is," said I; "but no more difficult on this subject than
any other."
"That's the great trouble in this life," said Eva. "The line between
right and wrong seems always so indefinite, like the line between any
two colors of the prism--it is hard to say just where one ends and
another begins."
"It is the office of common sense," I said, "to get the exact right in
all such matters--there is a sort of _instinct_ in it."
"Well, all I have to say about it is," said Eva, "since we do spend
lavishly and without stint in our houses and in our dress for adornment,
we ought to do at least as much for our religion. I like to see the
adornment of a church generous, overflowing, as if we gave our very
best. As to these lilies, I ordered them of an honest gardener, and it
goes to help support a family that would be poor if it were not for
these flowers. It is better to support one or two families honestly, by
buying their flowers for churches than it is to give the money away. So
I look on it."
"Oh, well," said Alice, "there is no end to anything. Everything you do
tends to something else; and everything leads to something; and there is
never any knowing about anything; and so I think it is best just to have
as good a time as you can, and do everything that is agreeable, and make
everything just as pretty as it can be. And I think it is fun to trim up
the church for Easter. There now! And it don't do any harm. And I just
like to go to the sunrise service, if it does make one sleepy all day.
What do you say, Mr. Fellows? Do you think you could go through with the
whole of it?"
"Miss Alice, if you only go you will find me inspired with the spirit of
a primitive Christian in this respect," said Jim. "I shall follow
wherever you lead the way, if it's ever so late at night, or ever so
early in the morning."
"And Mr. Henderson," said she, "may we depend on you, too?"
"By all means," said I, as I sat industriously gathering up the lilies
into bunches and tying them.
"Mr. Henderson is in a hopeful way," said Eva. "I think we may have him
in the true church some of these times."
"I am afraid," said Ida, "that Mr. Henderson, having seen you only in
Lent, won't be able to keep track of you when the Easter rejoicings
begin, and the parties recommence."
"Oh dear me!" said Eva, with a sort of shudder, "To think of that horrid
wedding!"
"That's just like Eva," said Alice. "She's been, and been, and been to
these things till she's tired out with them; whereas, I am just come
out, and I like them, and want more of them. I don't think they are
horrid at all. I am perfectly delighted about that Elmore wedding. One
will see there all the new things, and all the stunning things, and all
the latest devices from Paris. I was in at Tullegig's the other day, and
you never saw such a sight as her rooms are! Somebody said it looked as
if rainbows had been broken to pieces and thrown all round. She showed
me all the different costumes that she was making up for the various
parties. You know there are to be seven bride's-maids, and each of them
is to wear a different color. Madame thinks '_C'est si gentil_.' Then,
you know, they are making such grand preparations up at that _chateau_
of theirs. The whole garden is to be roofed in and made a ball room of.
I think it will be gorgeous. I say, Mr. Fellows, if you and Mr.
Henderson would like it, I know I could manage cards for you."
Jim assented, heartily, for both of us; and I added that I should like
to see the affair; for I had never seen enough of that sort of thing to
take away the novelty.
After tea we all sallied out to the church with our trophies. We went in
two carriages, for the better accommodation of these, and had a busy
time disembarking at the church and carrying them in. Here we met a
large committee of co-workers, and the scene of real business commenced.
Jim and I worked heroically under the direction of our fair
superintendents. By midnight the church was a bower of fragrance and
beauty. The chancel seemed a perfect bed of lilies, out of which rose
the great white cross, shedding perfume upon the air. The baptismal font
was covered with a closely woven mosaic of fragrant violets, and in each
panel appeared an alternate red or white cross formed of flowers. The
font was filled with a tall bouquet of white saint's-lilies, such as
gardeners force for Easter.
Eva and I worked side by side this evening, and never had I seemed to
know her more intimately. The fact is, among other dangerous situations
to a young man's heart, none may be mentioned more seductive than to be
in a church twining flowers and sorting crosses and emblems in the still
holy hours of the night. One's head gets, somehow, bewildered; all
worldly boundaries of cold prudence fade away; and one seems to be
lifted up to some other kind of land where those that are congenial
never part from each other. So I felt when, our work being all done, I
retired with Eva to the shadow of a distant pew to survey the whole
result. We had turned on the gas-light to show our work, and its beams,
falling on thousands of these white lily-bells and on all the sacred
emblems, shed a sort of chastened light. Again, somehow, as if it had
been a rose-leaf floating down from heaven, I found that little hand in
mine; and we spoke low to each other, in whispers, of how good and how
pleasant it was to be there, and to unite in such service and
work--words that meant far more than they seemed to say. Once, in the
course of the evening, I saw her little glove where it had fallen into a
nest of cast-off flowers, and, as no one was looking, I seized upon it
as a relic, and appropriated it to my own sacred memories. Nor would I
surrender it, though afterward I heard her making pathetic inquiries for
it. Late at night I went home to think and dream, and woke with the
first dim gray of morning, thinking of my appointment to meet her at the
church.
It is a charming thing to go out in the fresh calm morning before any
one is stirring. The bells for early service were dropping their notes
here and there, down through the air, as if angels were calling men to
awake and remember that great event which happened so silently and so
unregarded, many, many years ago. I thought as I walked through the dim
streets and saw here and there an early worshiper, prayer-book in hand,
stealing along, of the lonely women who, years ago, in Jerusalem, sought
the sepulchre to see where they had laid Him.
Little twittering sparrows filled the ivy on the outside of the church
and made it vibrate with their chirpings. There was the promise in the
brightening skies of a glorious sunrise. I stood waiting awhile, quite
alone, till one by one the bands of youths and maidens came from
different directions.
I had called Jim as I went out, but he, preferring to take the utmost
latitude for sleep, looked at his watch and told me he would take
another half hour before he joined us.
Eva was there, however, among the very first. The girls, she said, were
coming. We went into the dim church together and sat ourselves down in
the shady solitude of one of the slips waiting for the morning light to
pour through the painted windows. We said nothing to each other; but the
silence was sociable and not blank. There are times in life when silence
between two friends is better than speech; for they know each other by
intuition.
Gradually the church filled with worshipers; and as the rising sun
streamed through the painted windows and touched all the lilies with
brightness, a choir of children in the organ-loft broke forth into
carols like so many invisible birds. And then, the old chant,
"Christ, being raised from the dead, dieth no more,"
seemed to thrill every heart.
After the service came a general shaking of hands and greetings from
neighbors and friends, as everybody walked round examining the
decorations.
"Now, Mr. Henderson," said Eva, as she stood with me surveying this
scene, "is not a church which preserves all these historical memorials a
most lovely one? Ought we not thus to cherish the memory of that
greatest event that ever happened in this world? And how beautiful it
is to bring up children year after year by festivals like these, to mark
off their life in acts of remembrance."
"You speak truly," I said, sharing her enthusiasm. "I could wish the
church of all good people had never ceased to keep Easter; indeed, they
who do disregard it seem to me a cold minority out of the great
fellowship. I think it is fortunate that the Romish and the Episcopal
churches are bringing us, descendants of the Puritans, back to those
primitive customs. I, for one, come back willingly and joyfully."
[Eva Van Arsdel to Isabel Convers.]
_My Darling Belle_:--I have been a naughty girl to let your letter lie
so long. But my darling, it is not true, as you there suggest, that the
bonds of sisterly affection, which bound us in school, are growing
weaker, and that I no longer trust you as a confidential friend. Believe
me, the day will never come, dearest Belle, when I shall cease to unfold
to you every innermost feeling.
And now to come to the point about "that Mr. Henderson." Indeed, my
love, your cautions are greatly mistaken. It is true that, much to my
surprise, he has taken a fancy to visit quite intimately at our house,
and has made himself a general favorite in the family. Mamma, and Aunt
Maria, and all the girls like him so much. But, then, you must know he
is generally set down as Ida's admirer. At all events Ida and he are
extremely good friends; and when he calls here he generally spends the
largest part of the evening in her sanctum; and they have most edifying
conversations on all the approved modern topics--the Darwinian theory,
woman's rights, and everything else you can think of. One thing I admit
is a little peculiar--he notices everything that _I_ say in
conversation--I must own. I never saw such an observing creature. For
example, the first evening he was at our house, I just accidentally
dropped before him the remark that I was going to early morning
services in Lent, and would you believe it?--the next morning he was
there too, and walked home with me. I was the more astonished, because
he does not belong to the Church--so one would not expect it, you know.
He is a member of the Bethany Church himself, but he seems delighted
with our services, and talks about them beautifully--as well as our
rector could. I really wish you could have heard him! He seems to have
such an earnest, thoughtful mind; and what I like in him is, that he
never flatters, and talks that matter-of-course complimentary nonsense,
that some men think is the thing to be talked to ladies; neither has he
that way of _talking down_ to one that superior men sometimes have, when
they are talking with us girls. I read somewhere this sentiment--that we
may know the opinion people have of us by the kind of conversation they
address to us--and if this is so I ought to be flattered by the way Mr.
Henderson talks to me; for I think he shows quite as much anxiety to
find out my opinion on all subjects as he does Ida's. You will, perhaps,
think it rather peculiar if I tell you that ever since that first
morning he has been as constant at the morning services as I have, and
always walks home with me. In this way we really are getting quite
intimately acquainted. Now, Belle, don't put on that knowing look of
yours, and intimate that there is anything _particular_ in all this, for
there is _not_. I do assure you there is not a bit of nonsense in it.
You would be perfectly astonished to hear how gravely and
philosophically we talk. We moralize and philosophize, and as Jim
Fellows would say, "come the high moral dodge" in a way that would
astonish you.
And yet, Belle, they wrong us who are called fashionable girls, when
they take for granted that we are not capable of thinking seriously, and
that we prefer those whose conversation consists only of flattery and
nonsense. It is mainly because I feel that Mr. Henderson has deep,
serious purposes in life, and because he appreciates and addresses
himself to the deepest part of my nature that his friendship is so
valuable to me. I say _friendship_ advisedly, dear Belle, because I
insist upon it that there _can_ be friendship, pure and simple, between
a gentleman and a lady; in our case there is "only this and nothing
more."
How very teasing and provoking it is that there cannot be this
friendship without observation and comment! Now I am very careful to
avoid any outward appearance of special intimacy that might make talk,
and he appears to be very careful also. After the first day at morning
service he did not join me immediately on going out of church, but went
out at another door and joined me at the next corner. I was so thankful
for it, for old Mrs. Eyelett was there with her sharp eyes, and I know
by experience that though she is a pillar of the church she finds
abundance of leisure from her devotions to watch all the lambs of the
flock; and I am one that everybody seems to keep specially in mind as
proper to be looked after. If I only speak to, or look at, or walk with
the same person more than once, the airy tongues of rumor are busy
engaging and marrying me. Isn't it horrid? I would not have old Mrs.
Eyelett get anything of this sort into her head for the world; it's so
disagreeable to have such a thing get to a gentleman's hearing when he
knows there is no truth in it; and the world has condescended to
interest itself so much in my fortunes that it seems dangerous for
anybody to be more than civil without being set down as an aspirant.
The only comfort there is in being persistently reported engaged to Mr.
Sydney is that it serves to keep off other reports, and I sometimes
think of the old fable of the fox who would not have the present swarm
of flies driven off lest there should come a new one in its place. How I
wish people would let one's private affairs alone! Here I must break
off, for there is company down stairs.
_Wednesday Eve_.
I have let this thing lie some days, dear Belle, because there has been
so much going and coming, time has flitted away. Mr. H. has been at our
house a good deal. I have made a discovery about him. He has a
beautiful cousin that he thinks everything of--"Cousin Caroline"--and
she is a very superior woman. So you see how silly all your suggestions
are, Belle. For aught I know he may be engaged to this cousin Caroline.
I believe she is coming to New York, and I am just wild to see her. You
know I want to see if I shall like her. She must be just the thing for
him; and I _hope_ I shall like her. Ida thinks she shall. Aunt Maria,
who wants to portion off the fate of mortals, has made up her mind that
Mr. H. _must_ be an admirer of Ida's; and in short, that they are to be
for each other.
Ida looks down on all this sort of thing with her placid superiority.
She has a perfect contempt for it, so _very_ perfect that it is quiet.
She does not even trouble herself to express it. Ida _likes_ Mr. H. very
much, and has a straightforward, open, honest friendship with him, and
doesn't trouble her head a bit what people may say.
_Saturday Morning_.
We are all busy now about Easter decorations. We have ordered no end of
flowers, and are going into adornments on a great scale. We press all
hands in that we can get. Mr. Henderson and Jim Fellows are coming
to-night to tea to help us carry our things to church and get them up.
_Monday Morning_.
I am so tired. We were up nearly all night Saturday, and then at the
sunrise service Easter morning, and services all day. Beautiful! Lovely
as they could be! But if one has a good time in this world, one must pay
for it--and I am all tired out.
Mr. Henderson was with us through the whole affair. One thing seemed to
me quite strange. I dropped my glove among some flowers, while I was
busy putting up a wreath of lilies, and I saw him through a bower of
hemlock trees walk up to the spot, and slyly confiscate the article. In
a moment I came back, and said, "I dropped my glove here. Where can it
be?" The wretched creature helped me search for it, with every
appearance of interest, but never offered to restore the stolen goods.
It was all so quiet--so private! You know, gentlemen often pretend, as a
matter of gallantry, that they want your glove, or a ribbon, or some
such memento; but this was all so secret. He evidently thinks I don't
know it; and, Belle--what should _you_ think about it? EVA.