MISUNDERSTOOD.
Lottie was conscious of a strange lightness of heart when she
awoke on the morrow. It seemed as if her life had been unexpectedly
enriched. She could not understand it, nor did she seek to, being
contented with the fact that she was happy. She had always been
seeking her own enjoyment, and now she was happier than ever before.
She was not a philosopher who must analyze everything. She widely
differed from some prudent people who must take an emotion to pieces,
and resolve it into its original elements, and thus be sure that
it is properly caused and wholesome before enjoying it. Many seem
to partake of life's pleasures as did the members of the royal
family of their feasts, in the days of the ancient Roman empire,
when it was feared that poison lurked in every dish.
We have seen, however, that Lottie was not morbidly conscientious.
She had gathered honey everywhere, and often in spite of conscience's
protest. But now, for a rarity, conscience appeared with, and not
against her. She was satisfied with the fact that she felt better
than ever before; and the majority of even somewhat experienced
Christians ask, as their ground of confidence, not "What is truth?"
"What has God promised?"--but, "How do I feel to-day?" Little
wonder, then, if inexperienced Lottie, with everything to learn,
was content with being happy.
She had always looked upon religion as a painful necessity at some
remote and desperate emergency of the future; but, after the hours
spent with Hemstead, it seemed a source of joy beyond all the
pleasures of her highly favored life. She was like one who had
been living in the glare of artificial light, brilliant enough, it
is true, but who had suddenly come out into the natural sunshine,
and found it warmer, sweeter,--in brief, just what she craved and
needed.
The distrust of these exalted and emotional states is general, and
often well-founded, especially when experienced by such mercurial
temperaments as that of Lottie Marsden. And when it is remembered
that her ideas of true religion were of the vaguest kind, the
conservative will think, "Whatever may take place in a book, the
morning dew would be the type of all this feeling in real life."
And this would be true--alas, it is true of multitudes--had she
been stirred by merely human causes, as sympathetic excitement,
or appeals to her feelings or fears. But, as we have said before,
she had looked upon the face of the Son of God. Circumstances, and
the story of Lazarus, had concentrated her mind on Jesus Christ,
as in that old and touching record He stands before the world in
one of His most winning attitudes. She did not understand how she
connected with Him the hope and happiness she felt. She was no doubt
like many who, eighteen centuries ago, knew little of Christ, but
in the midst of their pain and anguish suddenly felt his healing
touch, and exulted with great joy, forgetting that only one disease had
been cured, or one trouble banished, and that they still remained
in a world where pain and trouble threatened to the very end.
But here was the ground of hope for those whom Jesus touched, as
well as for Lottie: in curing one evil, He had proved His power
and willingness to remove every evil, and when pain of body and
the suffering of guilt again oppressed, the true source of help
was known, and so Christ eventually became their Good Physician,
intrusted with the entire care of their spiritual health.
No doubt at the time of Christ many a heart was stirred and borne
heavenward, on the wings of strong emotion, by the eloquence of
some gifted rabbi, by a gorgeous ceremonial in the Temple, or by
the chantings of the multitudinous priests. But the emotions passed
away, as they do now; and men and women relapsed into their old,
material, selfish lives. They may have looked back with regret
upon the ecstasy that once thrilled them, and wished that it could
always have been maintained; but they found this impossible. So,
now, the emotion goes, and the combinations that once produced it
never return, or fail to inspire it again. Looking to themselves
and their own feelings,--to inadequate means of help,--such persons
are of course disappointed; and so gradually grow hard and legal,
or apathetic and unbelieving. When in trouble, when the natural
springs of life begin to fail, there seems no real and practical
help.
If human experience proves anything it is that every life needs
the personal and practical help-the direct touch and word--of One
who is Divinely powerful and Divinely patient.
Many days of folly--of sin, sorrow, and deep despondency--are
before Lottie still; but she has seen her God weeping from sympathy
with weak humanity, and a moment later rescuing from the hopeless
extremity of death and corruption. Here is not some vague thing
like a half-forgotten emotion or an exalted religious experience
in which to trust, but One who, instead of being a vanished,
half-forgotten sensation, a philosophy, or even a sound creed and
a logical doctrine, is a living personal and powerful Friend, who
can put forth His hand and sustain, as He did the timid Apostle
who was sinking in the threatening waves.
The temple of Lottie's faith was yet to be built; but she had been
so fortunate as to commence with the true "corner stone."
During the morning hours she was the object of considerable and
perplexed thought on the part of several of the household. There
was in her face the sweet spiritual radiance of the evening before,
and the same gentleness and considerateness of manner marked her
action. Mrs. Marchmont and her daughter said, "It is one of Lottie's
moods." Bel surmised that she was a little sentimental over Hemstead,
and was indignant that she should herself indulge, and awake in the
student, feelings that doubtless, on Lottie's part, would end with
the visit. As for De Forrest, he was thoroughly puzzled. The idea
that Hemstead could be anything to her was perfectly preposterous;
and as for religion, that was a decorous thing of form and ceremonial
pertaining to Sunday, and this was Monday. And yet, from some cause,
Lottie seemed different from her old self.
He could not complain, however, for she had never been kinder to
him; and if her eyes did seek Hemstead's face rather often, she
could see nothing there which for a moment could compare with his
own handsome features. He also concluded that it was a "mood"; but
liked the new and gentle Lottie quite as well as the piquant, and
often rather brusque girl of other days.
But to Hemstead, as with chatting and reading they whiled away
the morning hours around the parlor fire, Lottie was the bright
particular star. Her face, now transfigured in its spiritual light,
captivated his beauty-loving soul; while her words and manner
suggested the hope that she, with himself, had found her way into
the Holy of Holies. If this could ever be true, he felt that he
could go to his work in the Western wilds, content and grateful,
and that a long and toilsome life would be illumined by this dear
memory. He, too, like Lottie, was on the Mount; but both would soon
have to come down to the plain where the "multitude" was, and some
of them "lunatic"; and when in the plain they would be very much
like the multitude.
After dinner, in compliance with an invitation from Dr. Beams,
they all went over to the church, to aid in decorating it with
evergreens. They found Miss Martell and several other ladies at
work; also a sprinkling of gentlemen and a few young men who were
on the border line between boys and beaux, and who were frequently
passing from one character to the other.
Miss Martell greeted Hemstead more cordially than she did any of
the others in the party from Mrs. Marchmont's; and seemed slightly
surprised at Lottie's gentle and hearty salutation.
De Forrest remained closely at the latter's side, but Hemstead
noted with deep and secret satisfaction that there was in her
grave kindness nothing responsive to his constant and lover-like
attention. Her brow often contracted, as if his sentiment annoyed
her, and she treated him as one who, for some reason, must be borne
with patiently.
"She is probably engaged, but is ceasing to love him," he thought.
"She never could have respected him, and now he has forfeited whatever
affection she may have had. Still she feels that she is chained
to him, and must endure the life-long martyrdom of an ill-mated
marriage"; and his heart overflowed with a great pity.
It did not occur to him that he was a miracle of disinterestedness
when Lottie was concerned; and that her troubles moved him more than
the woes of all the world beside. Like many another life-voyager,
with hand upon the helm, he thought that he was directing his course,
when in feet a strong and subtile current was sweeping him he not
whither.
He and Lottie did not have much to say to each but their eyes
often met, and at times, in his frank impulsiveness, he looked at
her so earnestly and sympathetically that she turned away to hide
her heightened color. She was becoming conscious, with a secret
wonder, that he, as no man ever before, had the power to cause her
blood to ebb and flow in the most unaccountable manner.
A short time after their arrival he wandered over to the side of the
chapel where Miss Martell was working, and she seemingly fascinated
him. They apparently became so absorbed in each other's words as
to think of no one else, and Lottie grew pale and quiet, feeling,
in the mean time, an unreasonable resentment towards Miss Martell.
If Lottie has received a little grace, she is, and ever will be,
the natural possessor of abundance of human nature. Is this pale
and silent girl the one whose cheeks, a little before, were aflame,
and every nerve tingling with the most unwonted sensations, and
for no better reason apparently than that Hemstead had seen her
tugging at a fibrous spray of hemlock, and had severed it with his
knife? That was all the others had seen; but there was a great deal
more, for in the act their hands had touched, and both had seemed
in a positive state in the power to give, and in the negative
in readiness to receive, a subtile influence, compared with which
electricity is a slow and material agent. And he had lifted his
large gray eyes to hers full of--he did not realize what, nor did
she--but the cause was there, and the effect followed.
But now, with secret uneasiness, Lottie notes that he seems oblivious
of her in his eager talk with Miss Martell.
Soon after joining the latter, Hemstead had said, in his
straightforward manner, "You intimated to Mr. Harcourt yesterday
that you were 'sorry he heard my sermon.'"
With a little embarrassment she replied, "I do not think that Mr.
Harcourt was in the right condition of mind to be benefited by your
line of thought."
"Do you think that any one could be benefited by it?"
She was a little puzzled. Was he, like some young clergy-men she
had known, eager for a few crumbs of praise for his first crude
efforts? She was not one to give any faint and hollow commendation,
and yet she did not wish to hurt his feelings. But her reply had
a tinge of satire in it, for she had no patience with the weakness
of vanity.
"I will hardly venture an opinion. You, who have given so much time
and thought to these subjects, ought to be a better judge than I."
He felt, rather than saw, the delicate barb, and flushed slightly
as he replied, "I admit that perhaps I ought to be, but whether
I am or not, is quite another question. I am sure that your views
upon the subjects treated yesterday are far truer than mine were.
The wretched, heretical sermon that I inflicted upon you has already
justly suffered an auto da fe. Before the day was over I saw that
instead of preaching the gospel I had been elaborating, from a
partial premise, a crude view of my own. I shall no longer preach,
that is, if I preach at all, as if human nature were the raw material
which God intended to work up without any regard to the process,
or how much refuse there was, or what became of it. Is not Christ
weeping from sympathy at the grave of Lazarus a true manifestation
of God's feeling toward us?"
"Mr. Hemstead," Miss Martell exclaimed, "I cannot tell you how glad
I am to know your change of views. Most emphatically I say yes to
your question. God is seeking to develop my character; only He is
more patient and gentle than my good, kind father. But why do you
say, 'If I preach at all'?"
His head bowed in honest humility, as he replied, in a low tone,
"I often doubt whether I am worthy,--whether I am called."
She now saw that she had misjudged him, and was eager to reassure
and confirm his purpose for life; and the converse that followed
had grown so absorbing as to cause Hemstead to forget for the time
one, who by some right, divine or otherwise, had suddenly taken
possession of his thoughts with a despotism as sweet as absolute.
But while Miss Martell was speaking most earnestly to Hemstead,
she saw some one enter the chapel door. Her color came and went.
The sentence upon her lips faltered to a lame conclusion, and though
she became deeply absorbed in the process of twining the fragrant
cedar with the shiny laurel, she did not work as deftly as before.
Looking round to see the cause, Hemstead caught one of Lottie's
reproachful glances, and was soon at her side with a sense of almost
guilty neglect.
Addie Marchmont found work of any kind, even preparation for the
Christmas festival, stupid and tiresome; therefore she welcomed
the diversion of Harcourt's coming with double zest; and with
extravagant exclamations of delight summoned him to her side. Miss
Martell stood at some distance, and had turned her back towards
them. Harcourt did not see her at first, but the quest of his
restless eyes indicated his hope that she was there. In the mean
time he laughed and jested with Addie in something of his old-time
style.
Lottie Marsden, like many of her young American sisters, could be
decidedly pronounced at times; but a certain amount of grace and
good taste characterized her manner. Addie had never been taught
restraint of any kind, and to her a church was just the place for
a little wild nonsense, and all present were compelled to feel that
both her words and manner went beyond the limits of good taste,
to say the least. To Harcourt, in his present state of mind, they
were so annoying as to be almost offensive, and, thinking that
Miss Martell was not present, he was about to leave the church in
order to escape.
But Miss Martell, with her back towards them, had no means of knowing
that Harcourt was not encouraging Addie, and that her freedom with
him was not warranted by their relations.
"I have an engagement," said Harcourt, abruptly; and he was about
to hasten away, when between intervening groups his eye caught a
glimpse of a figure rising for a moment out of one of the high-backed
pews, and suggesting to him the object of his thoughts. As he
stepped over to speak to Lottie, his eye lingered in that direction.
Instead of going directly out, he strolled to the farther end of
the audience room, speaking and bowing to one and another, but not
permitting his eyes to wander long from the bent figure of a lady
who sat with her back towards him, apparently wholly absorbed in
wreathing evergreens.
She felt that he was coming towards her,--she heard his voice, and
soon knew that his eyes were scanning her downcast face,--but she
would not look up till he spoke.
"Won't you deign me even a glance, Miss Martell?" he asked.
The color deepened somewhat in her cheeks, but she looked him full in
the face, and said quietly, "Why use the word 'deign,' Mr. Harcourt?"
"I suppose because my conscience suggests that from you I deserve
glances of dis-dain."
"Such 'glances' are not becoming from any one, and certainly not
from me. Besides," she added, a little bitterly, at the thought of
such a brainless, frivolous girl as Addie Marchmont enchaining a
man like Harcourt, "people do not get their deserts in this world."
"You certainly will not."
"How is that?" she asked quickly, not taking his meaning,
"The world is not rich enough to give it you."
Her brow contracted into a sudden frown, and she said, a trifle
coldly, "I do not enjoy that style of compliment, Mr. Harcourt."
"Is there any that you do enjoy?"
Her head bent over her work; her thoughts were swift and many,
and in the quiet moment that Harcourt waited for an answer to his
commonplace question, she fought and iron a battle which, if never
known on earth, would never be forgotten in heaven. She mastered
self and selfishness, in the very citadel of their strength. Fierce
though brief was the struggle that took place beneath that gentle,
calm exterior, for the human heart is ever the same,--wilful,
passionate. With many it is often like the wild storm that will
spend itself to the end, no matter how much of wreck and ruin is
wrought. With such as Miss Martell, it is like the storm which, at
its height, heard the words of the Divine Master, "Peace, be still."
"Let him marry Addie Marchmont if he will," she concluded. "I will
be kind and gentle to him all the same, and, cost me what it may,
I will still see him, and seek to make him a true, good man."
So with woman's tact she turned his question, which savored only
of sentimental gallantry, to good account, and said quietly, "You
know the only 'style of compliment' that I like, and you enriched
me with it at Mrs. Byram's company,--the promise you made me."
Harcourt sighed involuntarily. She seemed too angelic,--too far
above and beyond him. As with a ministering spirit from heaven,
her only thought was to win him from evil. Her face was pale from
the hidden conflict which had cost her more dearly than he would ever
know. Her eyes beamed upon him with a gentle, yet sweet, strange,
spiritual light. She scarcely appeared flesh and blood. But he was
very human, and his heart craved from her human love and earthly
solace. Though now, as at other times, this seemed as presumptuous
to him as if some devotee had sacrilegiously fallen in love with
his fair patron saint, still he felt a sudden and strong irritation
that they should be so far apart.
She misunderstood his sigh, and added, "Am I a hard task-mistress?"
He shook his head, but there was dejection in his tone as he replied,
"There have been many forms of idolatry in the world, but I have
thought that those who worshipped the stars must have become a
little discouraged at times,--they are so far off."
Her face had the pained expression of one misunderstood, but who
cannot well explain. She said only, "Idolatry is ever profitless."
She meant to hint, he thought, that his worship of her certainly
would be.
He was chilled at heart. His quick, impetuous spirit prompted him
towards recklessness. She saw that he was about to leave abruptly.
As she played to win him, not for herself, but heaven, she saw that
she had made a mistaken move, though she could not understand his
manner. In her maidenly pride and delicacy, she would have let him
go if she had thought only of herself; but, conscious of her other
motive, she could seek to detain him, and asked, "What did you
mean, Mr. Harcourt, by your fanciful allusion to star-worship?"
"I meant," he replied bitterly, "that to ordinary flesh and blood,
kneeling in the cold before a distant star, be it ever so bright,
is rather chilling and discouraging. The Greeks were shrewder.
They had goddesses with warm, helping hands, and with a little
sympathetic, human imperfection."
It hurt her cruelly that he so misjudged her; and in her confusion,
she again said that which he interpreted wrongly.
"It is folly, then, to worship anything so cold and distant." She
was about to add plainly, "I am neither a star nor a goddess, but a
sincere, human friend,--human as yourself." She was about to make
some delicate allusion to the time when he often sought her sisterly
advice. But he, in the blindness of strong feeling, saw in her
words only rebuke for the presumption of his love, and he harshly
interrupted her.
"No doubt it is; but let me remind you of a fact often true
in missionary experience. After the poor devils have been bereft
of the objects of their fond and credulous worship, by proof that
their deities are indifferent, they cease to have any faith at
all"; and with a cold and rather formal bow he left her side and
also left the church.
Miss Martell's head bent lower than ever over her work, and it
was a long time before she lifted it or spoke to any one. But the
others were occupied with themselves, and no one had noted this
little side scene save Addie, who pouted that Harcourt had remained,
but not at her side, after his expressed intention of leaving. No
one surmised that two who had been present were sorely hurt. When
we receive our slight cuts and bruises through life, there are
usually outcry and abundant sympathy. But when we receive our deep
wounds, that leave scars, often only God knows; and it is best so,
for He can heal, but the world can only probe.