MOTES IN THE SUNSHINE.
That sleep was, humanly speaking, Magdalene's salvation.
At the greatest crisis of her life, when reason hung in the
balance,--when the sudden influx of joy might have paralyzed the
overwrought heart and brain,--at that moment physical exhaustion saved
her by that merciful, overpowering sleep.
When she woke, it was to the resurrection of her life and love. Months
afterwards she spoke of that waking to Phillis, when she lay in her
bed weak as a new born babe, and the early morning light streamed full
on the face of her slumbering husband.
They were alone; for Miss Mewlstone had just crept softly from the
room. Her movement had roused Magdalene. Herbert, who was utterly worn
out by his long watching, had just dropped asleep, with his head
resting against the wood-work. He was still sitting in the arm-chair
beside her, and only the thin profile was visible.
The previous night had been passed by Magdalene in a semi-conscious
state: delirious imaginations had blended with realities. There were
flashes and intervals of comparative consciousness, when the truth
rushed into her mind; but she had been too weak to retain it long.
That she was dreaming or dead was her fixed idea: that this was her
husband's greeting to her in paradise seemed to be her one thought.
"Strange that the children do not kiss me too," they heard her say
once.
But now, as she opened her eyes, there was no blue misty haze through
which she ever feebly sought to pierce. She was lying in her own room,
where she had passed so many despairing days and nights. The window
was open; the sweet crisp morning air fanned her temples; the birds
were singing in the garden below; and there beside her was the face so
like, yet so unlike, the face from which she had parted four years
ago.
For a little while she lay and watched it in a sort of trance; and
then in the stillness full realization came to her, and she knew that
she was not mad or dreaming. This was no imagination: it was reality.
With incredible effort, for she felt strangely weak, she raised
herself on her elbow to study that dear face more closely, for the
change in it baffled her. Could this be her Herbert? How bronzed and
thin he had grown! Those lines that furrowed his forehead, those
hollows in the temples and under the eyes, were new to her. And, oh,
the pity of those gray hairs in the place of the brown wavy locks she
remembered! But it was when she laid her lips against the scarred
wrist that Herbert woke, and met the full look of recognition in his
wife's eyes, for which he had waited so long.
Now he could fall upon his knees beside her, and crave that
forgiveness for words and acts that had seared his conscience all
these years like red-hot iron. But at the first word she stopped him,
and drew his head to her breast:
"Oh, Herbert, hush! What! ask forgiveness of me, when I have sinned
against you doubly,--trebly,--when I was no true wife, as you know?
Oh, do not let us ask it of each other, but of God, whom we have so
deeply offended! He has punished us; but He has been merciful too. He
has taken our children because we did not deserve them. Oh, Herbert!
what will you do without them?--for you loved Janie so!" And then for
a little while the childless parents could only hold each other's
hands and weep, for to Herbert Cheyne the grief was new, and at the
sight of her husband's sorrow Magdalene's old wounds seemed to open
and bleed afresh; only now--now she did not weep alone.
When Miss Mewlstone entered the room, shortly afterwards, she found
Magdalene lying spent and weary, holding her husband's hand.
Joy had indeed returned to the White House, but for a long time it was
joy that was strangely tempered with sorrow. Upstairs no sound greeted
Herbert from the empty nurseries; there were no little feet pattering
to meet the returned wanderer, no little voices to cry a joyous
"Father!" And for years the desolate mother had borne this sorrow
alone.
As the days passed on, Magdalene regained her strength slowly, but
neither wife nor husband could hide from each other the fact that
their health was broken by all they had gone through. Herbert's
constitution was sadly impaired for the remainder of his life: he knew
well that he must carry with him the consequences of those years of
suffering. Often he had to endure intense neuralgic agony in his limbs
and head; an unhealed wound for a long time troubled him sorely.
Magdalene strove hard to regain strength, that she might devote
herself to nurse him, but, though her constitution was superb, she had
much to bear from her disordered nerves. At times the old irritability
was hard to vanquish; there were still dark moods of restlessness when
her companionship was trying; but it was now that Herbert proved the
nobleness and reality of his repentance.
For he was ever gentle with her, however much she might try him. Some
talk he had had with her doctor had convinced him that she was not to
blame for these morbid moods; that the nerves had become disorganized
by those years of solitary misery. "We must bear all our troubles
together," as he often told her; and so he bore this, as he did the
trial of his children's loss, with grave fortitude, and a patience
that surprised all who knew him.
And he was not without his reward, for, the dark fit over, Magdalene's
smile would greet him like sunshine after a storm, and she would thank
him with tears and caresses for his forbearance.
"I can't think what makes me still so horrid, when I am so happy," she
said once to him, when the first year of their reunion had passed. "I
do my best to fight against these moods, but they seem stronger than
myself and overcome me. Do not be so good to me next time, Herbert;
scold me and be angry with me, as you used in the old days."
"I cannot," he answered, smiling. "I never loved you in the old days
as I do now. I would not change my wife, in spite of all the trouble
she gives me, for any other woman upon earth. You believe this, love,
do you not?" looking at her beautiful face anxiously, for it had
clouded a little at his last words.
"Yes, but I do not like to trouble you: it is that that frets me. I
wanted to be a comfort to you, and never to give you a moment's
uneasiness; but I cannot help myself, somehow. I love you, I don't
believe you know yet how I love you, Herbert; but it seems as if I
must grieve you sometimes."
"Never mind; I will hear your trouble and my own too," he answered,
cheerily; and in this way he always comforted her. But to Magdalene
her own self ever remained a mystery; the forces of her own nature
were too strong for her, and yet she was not a weak woman. She had
expected that in her case love and happiness would have worked a
miracle, as though miracles were ever effected by mere human
agencies,--that she would rise like a Phoenix from the ashes of her
past, reborn, rejuvenated, with an inexhaustible fund of moral
strength.
Now she had Herbert, all would go smoothly; she would no longer mourn
for her little ones. Since her husband was there to comfort her, with
his constant presence to sustain her, all must be well; never again
would she be nervous, irritable, or sarcastic. Poor Magdalene! she was
creating heaven for herself upon earth; she was borrowing angels'
plumes before the time; she had forgotten the conditions of humanity,
"the body of the flesh," which weighed down greater souls than hers.
There are Gethsemanes of the spirit to the weary ones of earth, hours
of conflict that must be lived through and endured. Nature that
groaneth and travaileth cannot find its abiding place of rest here. To
the end of time it seems to be written in enduring characters that no
human lot shall be free from suffering: sooner or later, more or
less,--that is all! Magdalene had still to learn this lesson
painfully: that she was slow in learning it, proved the strength and
obduracy of her will. True, she was rarely sarcastic,--never in her
husband's presence, for a word or a look from him checked her, and she
grew humble and meek at once. It was her unruly nerves that baffled
her; she was shocked to find that irritable words still rose to her
lips; that the spirit of restlessness was not quelled forever; that
thunder still affrighted her; and that now and then her mind seemed
clouded with fancied gloom.
She once spoke of this to Miss Middleton, with tears in her eyes.
"It is so strange," she said. "Herbert is different, but I am still so
unchanged."
"The conditions of your health are unchanged, you mean," answered
Elizabeth, with that quiet sympathy that always rested people. "This
is the mistake that folk make: they do not distinguish between an
unhealthy mind and a diseased soul: the one is due to physical
disorganization, the other to moral causes. In your case, dear Mrs.
Cheyne, one may safely lay the blame on the first cause."
"Oh, do you think so?" she asked, earnestly. "I dare not cheat my
conscience in that way: it is my bad temper, my undisciplined nature,
that ought to bear the blame."
"No; believe me," answered Elizabeth, for they had grown great friends
of late, "I have watched you narrowly, and I know how you try to
conquer this irritability; there is no black spot of anger in your
heart, whatever words come to your lips. You are like a fretful child
sometimes, I grant you that, who is ailing and unconscious of its
ailment. When you would be calm, you are strangely disturbed; you
speak sharply, hoping to relieve something that oppresses you."
"Oh, yes!" sighed Magdalene; "and yet Herbert never speaks crossly to
me."
"He never will, for he knows what you suffer. Well, dear friend, what
of this? This is a cross that you must carry perhaps all your life.
You are not the only one who has to bear the torment of disordered
nerves: it must be borne with resignation, as we bear other troubles.
Once you felt you could not love God; you ceased to pray to Him; now
you love Him a little. Go on loving; thank him for your husband's
patience, and pray that you may have patience with yourself. One is
weary of always living with one's self, I know that well," finished
Elizabeth, with a charming smile.
Mr. Drummond would have verified Miss Middleton's opinion that
Magdalene was not so unchanged as she believed herself to be.
At his first interview with her after Herbert Cheyne's return, he
could almost have sworn that she was a different woman.
Phillis, who spent all her spare time at the White House,--for they
both made much of Herbert's "good angel," as he still called her
jestingly,--was sitting alone with Mrs. Cheyne when Archie was
announced.
His old enemy greeted him with a frank smile.
"This is kind of you, Mr. Drummond," she said, quite warmly. "How I
wish my husband were not out, that I could introduce him to you! I
have told him how good you have tried to be to me, but that I was
ungrateful and repulsed you."
Archie was shaking hands with Phillis, who seemed a little disturbed
at his entrance. He turned around and regarded the beautiful woman
with astonishment. Was this really Mrs. Cheyne? Where was the hard,
proud droop of the lip, the glance of mingled coldness and _hauteur_,
the polished sarcasm of voice and manner? Her face looked clear and
open as a child's; her eyes were brilliant with happiness.
Magdalene was in one of her brightest moods when she was most truly
herself.
"I have met him just now. He stopped and introduced himself. We had
quite a long talk outside of Mrs. Williams's cottage. I called upon
him there, you know, but he had good reasons for refusing my visits.
Mrs. Cheyne, you must allow me to congratulate you most earnestly. You
will own now that Providence has been good to you."
"I will own that and everything," returned Magdalene, joyously. "I
will own, if you like, that I treated you shamefully, and took a
pleasure in tormenting you; and you were so patient,--oh, so patient,
Mr. Drummond! I could have called you back sometimes and apologized,
but I would not. In my bitter moments I felt it was such a relief to
mock at people."
"Never mind all that. Let bygones be bygones. I wish I could have
served you better." And then, as he changed the subject, and spoke
feelingly about the miracle of her husband's restoration, Mrs. Cheyne
looked at him rather wistfully.
"Oh, how good you are!" she said, softly. "Do you know, the world
seems full of good people to me now; and yet once it appeared too bad
a place for any one to live in. We create our own atmosphere,--at
least so Herbert tells me. But you are looking thin, Mr.
Drummond,--thin and pale. You must be working too hard."
"Oh, as to that, hard work never hurts any one," he replied,
carelessly; but there was something forced in his tone.
Phillis, who had been sitting apart quite silently, raised her eyes
involuntarily from her work. Was it her fancy, or had some undefinable
change passed over him? They had seen him so little of late. Since all
this had happened at the White House he had called once or twice; and
once Nan had been there, and he had spoken to her much as usual. No
one would have detected any difference in his manner, except that he
was a little grave and preoccupied. Nan had not noticed anything; but
then she was singularly blind in such matters. Had she not vaguely
hinted that his visits were on Phillis's account?--that mere hint
conveying exquisite pain to Phillis.
Now, as she stole a glance at him, the conviction was strong within
her that the arrow had gone deep. He certainly looked a little thin
and care-worn, and something of a young man's vigor and hopefulness
seemed temporarily impaired. But, as it happened, that girlish
scrutiny was not unperceived by Archie. In a moment he was on the
alert. His eyes challenged hers boldly, and it was Phillis who flushed
and looked conscious.
It was as though he said to her, "Ah! you think you know all about it.
But you need not trouble yourself to be sorry for me; you do not know
what a man's strength can do. And I am determined to bear this by
myself, and to myself; for in silence there is power."
It certainly seemed as though a new strength had come to Archie. He
had been a man who was prone to speak much of his feelings. Irritable
and sensitive, he had demanded much sympathy from his womankind. His
was a nature that craved support in his work; but now, not even to
Grace, could he speak of this trouble that had befallen him.
Was it a trouble, after all, this vague shadow that lay about his
path? No one but he himself knew the sweetness and graciousness of the
dream that had come to him. It had only been a dream, after all; and
now he was awake. The vision he had conjured up to himself had faded
into unreality. She was not his second self: never by look or word had
he wooed her; she was only the woman he could have loved. This was how
he put it; and now he would bury this faint hope that was
still-born,--that had never had breathed into it the breath of life.
And if for a little while his future should be cloudy and bereft of
its sunshine, was he the only one to whom "some days must be dark and
dreary"?
Phillis's unspoken sympathy drooped under this stern repression; and
yet in her heart she reverenced him all the more for this moral
strength,--for there is nothing a true woman abhors more than weakness
in a man. After this silent rebuff, Archie took himself well in hand,
and began to speak of other things: he told Mrs. Cheyne, being certain
now of her interest, of his sister's intended marriage, and how he and
Mattie were going down to the wedding.
"He is a very good fellow, this intended brother-in-law of mine,--a
sort of rough diamond; but hardly good enough for Isabel," he said.
"Oh, yes, he is very rich. My poor little sister will have her head
turned by all her magnificence; for his parents are so generous: they
quite load her with gifts." And he smiled to himself at the notion of
the little sister, just fresh from her narrow school-room life,
rejoicing over her trousseau and her handsome house, and driving away
from the church in her own carriage. No wonder his father and mother
were pleased. As for the bridegroom-elect, Archie spoke of him with
half-contemptuous amusement: "Oh, he was a good fellow,--no one wished
to deny that;" but there was a want of culture and polish that grated
upon the susceptibilities of the Oxford fellow.
Phillis listened with undivided interest--especially when he mentioned
Grace.
"Mattie and I are in hopes that we shall bring her back with us; but,
at all events, my mother has promised to spare her at Christmas." This
time he addressed himself to Phillis.
"Oh, that will be nice for you!" she returned a little eagerly. "You
have told us so much about her that I quite long to know her."
"I should say you would suit each other perfectly," he replied, as he
rose to take his leave. "Sometimes you remind me of her, Miss
Challoner; and yet you are not really alike. Good-bye, if I do not see
you again before we go to Leeds." And Phillis gave him her hand, and a
cordial smile.
But when he had gone out of the room, his hostess accompanying
him--for she had a word for his private ear,--Phillis sat down, and
thought over those last words with a strange feeling of pleasure:
"Sometimes you remind me of her, Miss Challoner." Was it possible that
he could trace any resemblance between her and this dearly-beloved
sister, this Grace, whom he seemed to regard as absolute perfection?
"Oh, I hope she will come! I am sure we shall be such friends," she
said to herself: and from this time Phillis looked anxiously for Grace
Drummond's arrival.