ANOTHER SPELL THAN BEAUTY'S.
De Forrest tried to laugh at his discomfiture when he appeared at
the dinner-table, but he was evidently annoyed and vexed with its
author.
"It was very nice of you, Mr. Hemstead," said Lottie, "to permit
youself to be pelted by us. You evidently did not think us worthy
of your steel. But I fear you gave Julian a strong compliment."
"I only returned one of his."
"But he did not hit you."
"He meant to. We form our most correct judgment of people sometimes
from what they intend, rather than what they do."
"Well, I thank you for my share of the sport."
"And I thank you for mine."
"What occasion have you to thank me, when I almost put your eyes
out with snow?"
"You did not so blind them but that I could see a face aglow with
exercise. That made a pleasing contrast to the cold white snow."
"Frank, Frank, you will make Lottie vain," said Mrs. Marchmont.
"I did not know that complimenting was permitted to you."
"That is all right, sister," said Mr. Dimmerly. "That's where
he shows his good blood and connection with an old family. He is
gallant to the ladies. They can't get that out of him, even at a
theological seminary."
Hemstead's blushing confusion increased the laugh at this speech.
"O, mother," exclaimed Addie, "we are all going on a frolic to-night.
You know that poor, forlorn little minister at Scrub Oaks, who
has six children, and gets but six hundred a year? Well, they are
going to give him a donation to-night, so a dilapidated pillar of
the church told us. We were invited to come, and Lottie wants to
go."
"Very well, my dear, since you and our guests wish it."
"Now, auntie, that's very sweet of you to answer so," said Lottie.
"I want to see the queer, awkward country people who go to such
places. They amuse me vastly; don't they you, Mr. Hemstead?"
"They interest me."
"O, it wouldn't be proper for you to say 'amuse.'"
"Nor would it be exactly true."
"Why, Lottie," said Addie, "you know that ministers only think of
people as a sad lot that must be saved."
"We'll help make a jolly lot there, to-night," said Lottie, with a
swift glance at Hemstead's contracting brows. "Moreover, auntie,
I want to see what a minister that lives on six hundred a year
looks like. We give our pastor ten thousand."
"You need not go so far for that purpose, Miss Marsden," said
Hemstead, quietly: "that is all I shall get."
"What!" she exclaimed, dropping her knife and fork.
"That, in all probability, will be my salary at first. It may be
but five hundred."
"Is that all they pay you for going out among the border ruffians?"
"That is the average."
"I wouldn't go," she said indignantly,
"You may rest assured I would not, for the money."
"Frank will change his mind before spring," said his aunt; "or a
year at least among the 'border ruffians,' as you call them, will
cure him, and he will be glad to take a nice church at the East."
"What do you say to that, Mr. Hemstead?"
"Perhaps I would better answer by my actions," he replied.
"But I can see from the expression of your eyes and mouth a very
plain answer to the contrary. Mr. Hemstead, you could be a very
stubborn man if you chose."
"I hope I could be a very resolute one."
"Yes, so we explain ourselves when we will have our own way. I
think Aunt Marchmont's suggestion a very good one."
"If we go to the donation we shall have to take something," said
Bel.
"O, yes," exclaimed Addie; "I am told all sorts of queer things are
brought. Let us take the oddest and most outlandish we can think
of. Uncle, there is your old blue dresscoat; we will take that
for the minister. Wouldn't he look comical preaching in it? And,
mother, there is your funny low-necked satin dress that you wore
when a young lady. I will take that for his wife."
"I understand everybody brings pies to a donation," said Harcourt.
"I shall be more pious than any of them, and bring over fifty
from town this afternoon. I will buy all the bake-shops out, in my
zeal,--enough to give the parson and all his people the dyspepsia
for a month."
"If he lives on six hundred, nothing could give him the dyspepsia
save his own sermons, I imagine," said De Forrest. "My young lady
friends have half filled one of my bureau drawers with smoking-caps.
I have one with me, and will give it to the minister."
"You vain fellow," laughed Lottie. "I never gave you one."
"Rest assured, no minister--even were he a minister to the Court
of St. James--should get it, if you had."
"What will you take, Mr. Hemstead?" asked Lottie, noting his grave
face.
"I shall not go."
"Why not? You spoke as if you would, this morning."
"I cannot go under the circumstances."
"Why not?" asked Addie, rather sharply.
"Could we take such gifts to a gentleman and lady, Cousin Addie?"
"Well, I suppose not," she answered, reddening.
"I see no proof that this clergyman and his wife are not in the fact
that they are compelled to live on six hundred a year. Besides, I
have too much respect for the calling."
"Don't you see?" said De Forrest to Addie, in a loud whisper. "'Our
craft is in danger.'"
"Your explanation is more crafty than true, Mr. De Forrest," said
Hemstead, looking him straight in the eyes.
"Come," cried Lottie, "my party is not to be broken up. Mr.
Hemstead, you need not look so serious or take the matter so much
to heart. As you declared once before to-day, we were only 'talking
in jest.' You cannot think we would willingly hurt the feelings of
your brother clergyman. Surely, if you thought they were serious,
it was good of you to stand up for him. We will all give money:
that must be the thing the poor man needs most sorely."
"I will give twenty-five dollars if you will, Mr. Hemstead," said
De Forrest, with a malicious twinkle in his eye.
"That's liberal of you, Julian. That's action in the right
direction," said Lottie; and she turned to Hemstead, expecting a
prompt response. But the moment she saw his face she surmised the
truth and De Forrest's motive in making the offer, and what had
appeared generous was now seen to be the reverse. But she determined
that Julian should give the money, nevertheless. Still she did not
at once interfere, but watched with no little curiosity, to see
how Hemstead would extricate himself.
The young man was much embarrassed. He had an innate horror of
seeming niggardly, and the course he had taken made his position
more delicate. But his simplicity and truthfulness came to his
aid, and he said firmly, although with a crimson face, "I am sorry
I cannot accept your generous proposition, but I will give in
accordance with my ability. I can give only five dollars."
Mr. Dimmerly and Mrs. Marchmont looked annoyed, while Addie gave
utterance to an audible titter. Bel laughed, and then looked as if
she had done wrong.
But Lottie, with graceful tact, which was still only good acting,
said: "And that, I am sure, is all that can be asked of Mr. Hemstead
or of any one. But the poor man shall not lose the money, Julian,
for I will supply Mr. Hemstead with what is lacking."
"Pardon me, Miss Marsden, I cannot take it."
"Not even for this needy minister with his six children?"
"I cannot sacrifice my self-respect for any one," he said. "Why
cannot Mr. De Forrest give what he wishes without imposing a
condition which leaves it doubtful whether he is to give at all?"
"O, yes, he is to give," said Lottie, promptly. "I take your offer,
Julian. It's delightful to have such a genuine object of charity
as a minister living on six hundred a year."
This was spoken very innocently, but was in reality a keen thrust
at Hemstead, who had so recently stated his prospective income at
that sum. That the others understood it as such was shown by their
significant glances, as they rose from the table.
Hemstead could not discover from Lottie's face whether she meant
a covert allusion to himself or not.
Harcourt drove over to town, promising to be back in time. The
other young people said that the long drive had made them drowsy,
and retired to their rooms for a nap. Hemstead went to the parlor and
tried to read, but his thoughts wandered strangely. The beautiful
face of Lottie Marsden haunted him, and the puzzling contradictions of
her words and manner kept rising in his mind for solution. After
a prolonged revery, he came to the conclusion: "I have left nothing
ambiguous about myself. If she is friendly after this she knows
just who and what I am. It's plain the others think me no addition
to their company, and I'm almost sorry I accepted aunt's invitation.
However, I can shorten the visit if I choose;" and he turned
resolutely to his book.
Instead of donning her wrapper, as did Bel, Lottie sat down before
the fire, and, as was often her custom, commenced half-talking to
her friend and familiar, and half-thinking aloud to herself.
"Well, he is the frankest and most transparent man I ever saw. I
have been acquainted with him but a few hours, and I feel that I
know him better than I do Julian, with whom I have been intimate
so many years."
"He's sincerely, honestly good, too," said Bel. "I think it's too
bad, Lottie, that you all treat him so. It's really wicked."
"Yes," said Lottie, meditatively. "It's a good deal more wicked
than I thought it would be."
"Then you will give it up."
"No indeed. I haven't said that."
"How can you do it, Lottie, when you know it is wrong?"
"I knew it was wrong when I commenced. I only know now that it is
a little more wrong. Why should I give up my fun on that account?
I might as well die for an old black sheep as a speckled lamb."
Bel yawned at the rather peculiar and tragic ending that Lottie
suggested for herself, and was soon dozing on a lounge. But
either a restless spirit of mischief, or a disturbed conscience,
prevented Lottie from following her example.
It would at times seem true that, when engaged in something that
conscience forbids, the very opposition incites and leads to
the evil. The conflict between inclination and the sense of right
creates a feverish unrest, in which one cannot settle down to
ordinary pursuits and duties. If principle holds the reins, and
the voice of conscience is clear and authoritative, the disturbed
mental and moral state will end in the firm choice of duty, and
consequent peace and rest. But if, as in the case of Lottie Marsden,
impulse rules in the place of principle, and conscience is merely
like a half-dreaded, reproachful face, this unrest is the very hour
and opportunity for temptation. Some escape from self and solitude
must be found; some immediate excitement must engross the thoughts;
and the very phase of evil against which conscience is vainly
protesting has at the same time the most dangerous fascination.
So Lottie escaped from her own self-reproaches as a naughty child
runs away from a scolding, and was soon at the parlor entrance with
a noiseless tread, a grace of motion, and a motive that suggested
the lithe panther stealing on its prey. The door was ajar, and
a hasty glance revealed that the object of her designs was alone.
Her stealthy manner changed instantly, and she sauntered into the
room with quiet indifference, humming an air from Faust.
"O, you are here!" she exclaimed, as if suddenly becoming aware
of his presence. "Why do you not take a nap like the others? I hope
you are not troubled by a bad conscience."
"What suggested a bad conscience, Miss Marsden?"
"Your sleeplessness."
"I am glad it was not your own. Why are you not taking a nap? I
thought you started for one."
"So I did, but found I did not want it. But you are not a Yankee
that you must answer my question with another. What are you reading?
Won't you read it to me?"
"I would rather not read this book to you; but I will any other
that you wish."
"You must learn human nature better, Mr. Hemstead. Don't you know
that you have said just enough to make me wish that book and no
other? What is it about?"
"I feel sure that it will have no interest for you. It is one of
the latest infidel attacks upon the Bible."
"O, you are afraid to have me read it."
"Yes; but not for the reasons implied in your tone."
"Don't you see that you are taking the very course to awaken my
curiosity, and to make me wish to hear just that book? If you had
said, 'Certainly, I'll read it to you, but you won't like it, for
it's only a dry, heavy book upon a heavy subject,' I would never
have looked into it, but would have asked for something else."
"That would hardly be true, Miss Marsden. Though I regard it as an
evil and dangerous book, it is exceedingly clever, and well written,
and it is quite popular in some circles. I suppose it has been
sent up to Aunt Marchmont with other new books of note."
"I must certainly read it, since you won't read it to me. Forbid
a child to do a thing, you know, and you have given the strongest
motive for doing just that thing."
"You are not a child, Miss Marsden."
"What am I, then?"
"I hardly know; but you are capable of realizing one's best ideal,
almost."
"Almost! thank you."
"Perhaps my language is stronger than you realize. The woman who
could answer to my ideal would be nearly perfect."
"And do you think such a paragon would go out among the border
ruffians with you?"
"No, nor anywhere else with me. I was speaking of my ideal."
"You do not expect to marry your ideal, then?"
"I suppose love transfigures the one we love, and that this is the
only way we can ever meet our ideal in this life. But sometimes we
see one who it seems might approach even the ideal of our unbiased
fancy."
"It is well that you admire these exquisite creatures at a distance,"
she said, dryly. "I can't see why men will always be so foolish
as to think pretty women are good women. But if I am not a child
why may I not read that book? You intimate that it will not shake
my belief."
"I do not think it would,--at least I hope it would not."
"You are not sure."
"I'm sure it will not shake the Bible. Every age has teemed with
infidel books. Yet God's Word stands to-day as strong and serene
as that mountain yonder, to which the setting sun has given a crown
of light."
"Your figure is pretty, but unfortunate. The sun is indeed 'setting,'
and soon the mountain will lose its crown of light and vanish in
darkness."
"But does it vanish," he asked quickly, "in the transient darkness,
like a cloud tipped with light? Such a cloud is a fit emblem of
this brilliant book, and of multitudes like it that have preceded,
but which, like lurid vapors, have vanished from men's thought and
memory. Even with my immature mind I can detect that this clever
work is but an airy castle, soon to fall. What infidel book has
ever gained or kept a lasting hold upon the popular heart? Let the
darkness swallow up the mountain there. If we go where it is at
midnight, we shall find it intact, and just as firm as when the
sun is shining upon it. The searching light of every day, from year
to year and age to age, will find it there just the same. The long
night of moral darkness which culminated in the fifteenth century,
though it hid the Bible, did not destroy it. Luther at last found
and brought it out into the broad light of general study and
criticism. For generations it has been assailed on every side, but
it stands in the calm, unchanging strength that yonder mountain
would maintain, were it surrounded by children shooting against it
with arrows. Believe me, I do not fear for the Bible. If all the
light of human knowledge were turned upon it in one burning focus,
its intrinsic truth would only be revealed more clearly; and if
superstition, as in the past, or infidelity, as was the case in
France, creates temporary darkness, the moment that, in the light
of returning reason, men look for the Bible, they find it like a
great solemn mountain, that cannot be moved while the world lasts,
just where God has placed it."
"Mr. Hemstead, don't you know that young gentlemen do not talk to
young ladies as you do to me?"
"You know very well that I am not a society man."
"O, I'm not complaining. I rather like to be talked to as if I
had some brains, and was not a doll. If you are so sure about the
Bible, why do you fear to have me read arguments against it?"
"I am not so sure about you. If I should listen to a plausible story
against you, without knowing you or giving you a fair hearing, I
might come to be prejudiced,--to believe you very unworthy,--when
the reverse would be true. So the minds of many, from reading books
of this nature, and not giving the Bible a fair hearing, become
poisoned and prejudiced."
"Then why do you read it?"
"For the same reason that would influence a physician to study a
disease,--not that he may catch it, but that he may understand and
know how to treat it. This book is a mental and moral disease, and
I do not wish you to run the risk of catching it, though I do not
think it would prove fatal if you did. Your own heart and experience
would probably correct the error of your head. Such books as these
won't answer in times of illness or deep trouble. We turn from
them as instinctively and certainly as we do from noise, glare,
and gayety."
The mountain without was now in the shadow. The early twilight of
the December evening had darkened the wintry landscape; but the
ruddy glow of the hickory fire revealed how beautiful Lottie's face
could be, when composed into womanly truth and thoughtfulness.
"I have never had a serious sorrow or illness, and I wonder what
I should do if I had?" she queried musingly, as these sombre events,
which sooner or later must come into every life, rose up before
her.
"I know well what you will do when they come, as come they will to
us all," said Hemstead, gently. "As surely as you would cling to
a strong arm were you sinking in deep waters, just so surely you
will turn to the Bible, and to Him who said, 'Let not your heart
be troubled, neither let it be afraid.'"
The truth, if given a hearing, is ever powerful,--the truths of
our own sad experience,--the answering and remedial truth of God.
Unexpectedly and unintentionally on her part, both these phases
of truth had gained the ear of Lottie Marsden. The sorrowful and
suffering days of the future threw back their shadows upon her,
and her heart sank at their prospect; and with the certainty of
intuition she recognized the answering truth, and felt that she
would indeed be glad to cling to One who had the right and power
to utter such tender, reassuring words as Hemstead had quoted.
Of all spells, that of truth is the strongest. Under it the impulsive
girl buried her face in her hands and, with a quick sob, cried, "O
that I were better!"
Then, springing up, she gave Hemstead a strange, earnest look through
her tears, as if she would read his soul. But she saw only honest
sympathy.
He was about to speak again, but she abruptly left the room.