Stephen Duncan had taken the boys West, and would be gone a month or
more. They had grown so much, Mrs. Whitcomb said, and were almost men.
“Which do _you_ like best?” asked Fan.
“I think Louis will make the nobler character. Stuart would rather
take life just as it is, picking out the best for himself, to be sure,
and not minding much what scraps fall to other people. He may feed the
hungry after he is satisfied, he never will before.”
“Everybody likes him,” I replied.
“Yes. He is fascinating.”
“And you don’t need real virtues to be fascinated with,” I said rather
blunderingly, the thought being more than the sentence.
“No, only outside pleasantnesses. That is, they answer. Sometimes
when you are down deep in the heart of things, you cannot take quite
so much pains with the finishing. Not but what I consider finishing
a great deal. Clean paths beautify a garden so much, but I have seen
people just hoe off the tops and sprinkle gravel or sand over them. The
weeds spring up after a rain.”
“Has not Louis the outside and inside faults as well?” asked Fan.
“Yes. Only his weeds are seldom covered up. Some folks never can cover
up anything. He cannot be good outside until he has killed the weeds
inside. Stuart may be fair all his life without any fighting.”
“He _is_ good-tempered;” I subjoined.
“He has a pleasant, sunny temper, perfect health, and no nerves to
speak of. It is no effort for him to be jolly. He is gentlemanly
by instinct, he likes to be in the centre, shooting rays in every
direction. Is it wonderful if somebody comes within their radius? The
somebody may think this particular brightness is meant for him, but in
an instant Stuart may wheel round and leave this very person in the
dark.”
“I am glad you have some hope of Louis;” I said.
She seemed to study Fan, the great column of wisteria and me, all at
the same moment.
“There are some special providences in this world, I do believe,” she
began. “Mr. Duncan’s coming here was one, and your taking the boys
another.”
“Which we should not have done if we had _not_ been very poor,” said
Fan with an odd pucker in her face.
“Well, we will give poverty the credit. Mr. Duncan’s visit here taught
him some new ideas of duty. Not but what he would have been a just,
even a kind brother in any event. But relationship counts for so little
now-a-days. Very few people expect to be their brothers’ keepers. They
are willing to do grand things for others, for the heathen, for some
great accident that stirs up the sympathy of the whole world, but the
common every day duties are tiresome.”
“They are,” said Fan. “It may be heterodox, but it is true all the
same.”
“That is just it,” and Mrs. Whitcomb gave her sweet, tender smile that
was worth a week of June sunshine. “God knew how tiresome they would
be, or he would not have given such continual lessons of patience and
love, of working and waiting. Think of the mustard seed and the corn,
and the candle; the piece of money and the one lost sheep. It is nearly
all little things. And when He saith—‘If a man love not his brother
whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath _not_ seen.’ It is
the home love that is going to save the world. Stephen saw it here, and
it roused his dormant affection.”
“You see it would not do for us to quarrel,” said Fan drolly. “We
are packed in like peas in a pod, or birds in a nest, or bricks in a
sidewalk. There isn’t any room.”
“I am glad you have learned that. I think too, it is the lesson you are
all to teach the world.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Fan with a blush of real humility.
“We must be poor and barren indeed, if we do not teach something.
And the influence last summer did a great deal for Louis. It was the
beginning of his salvation. It was the beginning of Stephen’s higher
life, also. Before that he would have saved his brothers for pride’s
sake, now he will endeavor to do it for God’s sake, because he has been
redeemed in the love, as well.”
“It is sermons in everything,” said Fanny.
“Mrs. Whitcomb,” I began presently, “do you know anything about—Louis
when he came home?” Somehow I could never have asked Stephen, much as I
wanted to know.
“It was late in the afternoon, just growing dusky. I did not know him
when he asked for Mr. Duncan, but before I had crossed the hall I
guessed, so I took him to the library, and summoned Stephen from his
room up stairs. They talked for a long while and then Stephen asked
that tea might be brought to them. Louis lay on the sofa while I spread
the little table. I could hear the sound of tears in Stephen’s voice
at every word he spoke. At nine, perhaps, he took Louis up to the
chamber that had been prepared for him. When he came down I was busy
putting the library in order. I just asked—‘Is it all right?’ and he
answered—‘It is the beginning of right.’ And then he added—shall I tell
you Rose?—‘I think Louis and I will owe something of what is best in
our lives to Rose Endicott!’”
“I wish they wouldn’t;” I cried in distress. “But it _is_ all made up
between them?”
“Yes, in a better manner than if the trouble had not happened. Out of
it all they have learned to love each other. Louis has a great, shy,
morbid, hungry heart, and a most unfortunate temper.”
“And we are as poor as church mice, and angelic;” said Fan in her
gayest mood. “After all, the gifts and graces are pretty fairly
distributed.”
We went into supper and had other topics of conversation. One of the
most important was sending papa away for a little vacation. When Mr.
Churchill heard of that he held up both hands, and they were not empty.
Papa must stay over one Sunday and he would see about a clergyman. It
was very odd to be without a head to our household that length of time.
He went to Long Island, to Cape May and Philadelphia, bringing Daisy
home with him.
In the meanwhile Fan and I were in the midst of a small excitement.
Jennie Ryder was to be married and wanted us both for bridesmaids,
“that is,” she said—“I want you, and Richard wants Fan. And I don’t
wish you to make a bit of fuss. I am going to be married in church at
eight in the morning, in white organdie, because Richard loves white so
much. Otherwise I should take my traveling dress. We do not intend to
send out any invitations, and you must be simple, so as not to outshine
me.”
“I am glad you have instructed us. We _might_ have rushed into some
extravagance. May we have our white gowns done up fresh, please?” asked
Fan comically.
Jennie laughed. She was very happy, one could see that. A connection
had come to stay with Mrs. Ryder while Jennie was away, for Richard had
insisted upon Niagara and the Canadas. Afterward they were to move into
the great house.
Papa came home on Saturday night, looking brown and bright and rested.
On Tuesday morning Jennie was married. Winthrop came to stand with Fan,
I think he would not have trusted any one else. He was troubled with an
insane belief that every body wanted Fan, “which is _werry_ flattering
on his part,” said Fan, “considering that the only other lover I ever
had has gone off and married some one else, never breaking his heart a
bit!”
“Would you have had him, Fanny?”
“No, little goosie! And he has the best wife that he could have found
in the wide world.”
The fact had been noised abroad, and the marriage was quite largely
attended. It provoked various comments. I think there were some who did
envy Jennie Ryder her good fortune, and many who rejoiced in it. Still
there was a feeling that Richard’s mother would not quite approve. He
had written to her and Kate, not giving them time to answer by the
marriage date.
I felt my own heart beat as I stood there so still and solemn. There
was a great awe in going out of the old life and putting on the new,
belonging to yourself one moment, and the next having the sense of
ownership irrevocably taken away. I shivered a little wondering how any
one could be glad to do it. Some day Fan would stand there, and I would
feel her gone out of my life.
Then Mrs. Whitcomb had to return to get the house in order. Louis
expected to enter Columbia College. Stephen thought it better on
account of his health, and the home influence. Stuart would be away
another year.
Enclosed in her letter was a note to mamma. Would it be agreeable for
Louis to spend a week or ten days with us? He was very anxious so to
do.
“Of course,” answered mamma.
Indeed we were pleased with the opportunity of seeing him. Somehow he
had become quite a hero in our eyes.
I really do not think I should have known him elsewhere. I was up in my
room sitting on the low window-sill in the breeze, reading a magazine.
The blinds were tied a little apart, bowed, and as I heard the gate
click I looked down. He was nearly as tall as Stephen, and though
slender had filled out to a certain manly roundness. He nodded to some
one, threw back his head and laughed, and he was positively handsome.
His complexion was dark but no longer sallow, it had the bronze tint of
exposure and a healthful red in the cheeks. His black hair was cropped
pretty close, but it showed his broad forehead, and there was a tiny
line of dark moustache that contrasted with the fresh scarlet of his
lips.
I ran down. Mamma and Edith were on the porch. I do really believe that
mamma had been kissing him, at all events his face was flushed and his
eyes had a soft, dewy look.
“You are the same, you haven’t altered a bit! It was so good of you to
let me come.”
“Why, we wanted to see you,” replied mamma.
He was still holding my hands, and I could not help blushing under his
steady gaze.
“But you have grown and changed out of all reason.”
“Minnesota did that! For the first time in my life I am not absolutely
scrawny! We had such a splendid tour! Stephen was just royal, as much
of a boy as either of us. We have climbed mountains, camped out, hunted
and fished and everything! I did not want to come back.”
“I am glad to see you so much improved,” and mamma glanced him over
with a sort of motherly pride.
He sat down on the step at her feet, and began to play with Edith who
affected baby shyness. We did not have him long to ourselves though,
for Nelly came and in a moment or two the children. They were all
surprised.
I watched him as he talked. He was so much more fluent and
self-possessed. It was not Stuart’s brightness, but more like Stephen’s
reliance, and a peculiar command of self, an earnestness that sat well
upon him.
“You cannot think how I wanted to see this place once more. How good
you were to me when I lay sick up-stairs. Miss Rose, do you remember
getting me some honeysuckle blooms one afternoon? I shall always
associate them with you. I shall be glad to the latest day of my life
that Stephen sent me here, though I made a desperate fight to go to
Lake George with some school-fellows.”
“It was fortunate that you did not, for you would have been ill in any
event,” answered mamma quietly.
“Yes. How is—everybody? And that Mr. Fairlie is married? Does Miss
Churchill come as she used?”
She was still among our best friends, we told him. Fanny was there
spending the day.
Presently papa returned and he was full of joy at the improvement. Why,
it was almost like having a boy of one’s very own! I would not have
believed that he could be so agreeable if I had not seen it, or else I
wondered if we had not made a mistake last summer.
There was supper and music after that, and Fan’s return, and the next
day papa invited him to go over the river with him, as he had a horse
and wagon. Consequently I saw nothing of him until evening. Mamma asked
me to take some grapes to a sick parishioner.
“Allow me to accompany you;” he said, getting his hat.
It was very foolish but I could not help the color coming into my face
as we walked down the path. He had such a grown-up, gentlemanly air; he
opened the gate and closed it again, and took the outside of the walk
and glanced at me in a kind of protecting fashion.
“Do you know that you are very little?” he began presently.
“Fully five feet.”
“But then I am getting to be such a great fellow!”
I looked at him and laughed.
“What now?” and he colored suddenly.
“I was thinking—of something so absurd! Fan used to accuse me of
preaching—”
“And very good sermons they were. I may want you to preach again.”
“I should be afraid,” glancing up at him.
He laughed then. After a moment or two another expression crossed his
face, and it grew more and more serious.
“I believe the sermons saved me. There was a time when I should have
hated to own such a thing—and from a woman, too; so you may know how I
have conquered myself.”
“The best of all victories.”
“Looking back at myself I wonder how you tolerated me last summer. I
was ill and nervous to the last degree, but I had a frightful temper. I
was proud and sullen, and—ungrateful.”
“Not always that.”
“I think I hated almost everybody. I did not want to be governed or
counseled. And Stephen was so—rigid and prompt. He treated me like a
little boy—”
“Oh, hush!” I interrupted.
“Some of it is true. He admits it. And when that awful affair happened
I expected he would disown me. He is so proud, then he never did
anything bad in all his life. So I felt that I had no mercy to expect
from him.”
“But you were mistaken,” I said eagerly.
“I couldn’t have gone there and in that way but for you. Perhaps he has
told you—” and his eyes questioned mine.
“No,” I answered, glad that we had not discussed it.
“I went to him. I believe it was the first manly step of my life. But,
oh, I felt so forlorn and miserable—I can’t tell you! If he had been
cold and cross I believe I should have gone and thrown myself in the
river.”
“He was not.”
“Oh, Rose, it was like the story of the prodigal son. ‘Fell upon his
neck and kissed him.’ I remember his kissing me the day father was
buried, and I do not believe any one ever did since till then. It
melted all my soul. Somehow I think he is wonderfully changed. His
goodness is so tender.”
“And you love him?”
“Love isn’t any word. I absolutely adore him! I did not think it was in
me, or in him. And all through the weeks that followed, for I was very
ill and miserable, he was so good. I never talked to any one before,
except you, somehow I could not. But he found his way to my heart and
said he would help me, that we would both try together, for he had many
faults to correct, that God had given us the tie of brotherhood for a
high and holy purpose, that we were to help and strengthen each other;
as if, Rose—as if I _could_ do anything for him!”
“Yes, you can,” I replied. “You can keep him tender and cordial and
brotherly.”
“So he said. We did not come to this all at once, and Mrs. Whitcomb’s
cheerfulness helped. I had to try hard to be patient. I was so used
to flying out at everything. You see, at uncle’s they all knew that I
had a bad temper, they expected me to explode or sulk on the slightest
provocation, and only laughed or tormented me. If I had been taught to
control myself, it would never have been so dreadful.”
“It is good to have the lesson learned now.”
“I never can forget it, never! I am not an angel yet, Rose, cherubim or
seraphim, I suppose Miss Fanny would say;” and he smiled oddly, “but
I _am_ trying. I do not disdain the helps as I used to. I do not feel
that patience and self-control are exclusively girlish virtues.”
“No,” I returned, “we girls will not rob you of them.”
“You are generous. But then you always were. I am beginning to learn
that the grand corner-stones for the human soul are truth and love, the
truth that leads us to be fair and just to others, and the love to our
neighbor.”
“Here we are,” I said. “Do you want to come in?”
He followed me and we did our errand.
“I could not understand last summer why you loved to do these things;”
he began when we were homeward-bound.
“You considered it an evidence of a depraved taste?”
He smiled rather sadly.
“I supposed people consulted their _own_ pleasure first. Doing any
rather distasteful deed and hunting around until you found a bright
side to it was like so much Sanscrit to me.”
“He came not to please—Himself;” I said solemnly.
“I understand a little now. Yet when He had redeemed the world there
must have been a great joy in His own mind, as well as in heaven.”
“We cannot do anything like that,” I said. “But as He loved us, so we
are to love the brethren, the whole world.”
“To be willing to do for them. To seek not our own pleasure altogether.
It is very hard, Rose, and sometimes I get discouraged. Then Stephen
tells me of his failures. It doesn’t go on continually. It is a little
doing all the time, work and healing, and he says it will have to be so
in this world.”
“Yes,” I answered. “We cannot hinder nor change. God sets the work
before us, and though the pleasant fields are all about us, we have no
right to choose our own paths. He knows best in what ways He wants us
to walk.”
“I talked to your father yesterday. I did not think I could talk to
anybody but you and Stephen. I was sorry for all the pain and anxiety I
had caused him—and—it was almost like having a father of one’s own. I
don’t wonder that you all have such sweet pleasant natures.”
We met Lily and Tim taking a walk, their hands full of grasses and wild
flowers, so we turned them about and all went home together.
The visit proved a very delightful one. We went to the Cascade one day,
taking a lunch with us, and on another day the Churchills sent their
family carriage over and we had a royal time, crowding it full, and
taking turns in driving.
We all noticed the great change in Louis. Not that he was perfect or
saintly. In fact I think he was more of a boy, when it came to that,
than the summer before. He still had a dangerous tendency to quickness
of temper, sometimes he would flush deeply when annoyed, but he always
spoke afterward in a low, even tone of voice, as if he had gained
the mastery within. His feelings were more healthy-toned, he had a
heartsomeness that was genuine. You never mistrusted it as you did
Stuart’s.
We ended the festivities with a croquet and tea-party on Saturday
afternoon, asking in a half dozen young people who all enjoyed
themselves amazingly. To the surprise of everybody, right in the midst
of the gayety who should drop down upon us but Stephen Duncan.
“I was homesick to see you all,” he began, with a comically lugubrious
face.
“If you think you are going to be purely ornamental you are much
mistaken;” declared Fanny. “Here is a mallet and here is a place.”
“If you will excuse me—”
“But I will not. No running away to the study to talk with papa, or to
play with Edith. If you will come uninvited to a party you must take
the consequences.”
“Can I not soften your heart, if like the old man I should ‘sit on the
stile and continue to smile?’”
“Not any smiles. I am obdurate.”
He pretended to be much aggrieved, but in reality he was very gay. I
had never seen him so amusing and entertaining.
“I don’t see how you get acquainted with such loads of nice people;”
said Allie West. “And you always have such good times here.”
The good times came without any trying. There are numberless gates
called Beautiful all along life, at which you give such as you have,
and find it more precious than silver or gold.
It was a lovely moonlight night, so after supper we walked part of the
way with the merry crowd. It did not seem to me that I had ever been
so happy in my life. I could not tell why but I felt as if I must have
wings somewhere that were lifting me off the ground at every step.
We rambled around under the trees and by the way side. Louis came back
to my vicinity and we fell into a rather grave talk about the future.
“I never thought I should _want_ to stay here so much,” he said. “I was
glad enough to get away last summer. I cannot forgive myself for being
such a boor! Now I shall want to come again and again.”
“Well why not?” I returned.
“I am afraid you will become tired of me.”
“Try us and see. We are not easily wearied.”
“You are all so generous with yourselves.”
I smiled a little. “Why not give of your best?”
“True.” Then there was a silence. We reached the gate presently. “Do
not go in just yet;” he pleaded, so we remained in the silvery light
that was flooding the whole earth. Moonlight always stirs the tender
and thoughtful side of one’s soul.
“I am glad that to-morrow will be Sunday. I can just think how I shall
enjoy going to church and hearing your father preach.”
This from him who had despised religion and sneered at sermons. It did
startle me.
“And to have Stephen here.”
“I am rejoiced that you feel so kindly toward one another,” I replied.
“You are getting to be brothers indeed.”
“And then will come weeks and weeks of study,” he went on in a musing
tone. “I like it. Books seem to me—well, better than some people.
Only—if you could all come down in the winter. Stephen and Mrs.
Whitcomb were planning for it, but there! it was a secret and I have
betrayed it.”
“I can keep secrets;” and I smiled up into his remorseful face.
“Yes; I have proved that. Rose”—after a pause—“I have half a mind to
tell you another, to ask some—advice; at least, I would like to know
how it appears to you.”
“Will it be of any real avail?” I asked, noting the perplexed lines
on his countenance. “I am not as wise as you think. Because I just
happened to stumble into one matter without making a mess of it—”
“This is only an idea. I cannot ask Stephen. I think it would please
him and he might judge wrongfully.”
“If I _can_ help you;” I replied encouragingly.
“It is about the future. It may never come to anything to be sure, and
perhaps I never _can_ be good enough. Stuart will go into business. He
does not love study and he needs an active life. He wanted Stephen to
put him in a store this Autumn. But I—”
I knew then what he meant. Somehow I could not help laying my hand on
his arm with a touch of confidence.
“Whether I ever _could_ so govern my temper and my impatient desires;”
bowing his head humbly. “But if I had some guard about me, if I felt
that I _must_ try continually—would it be wrong to think of it?”
“Surely not;” I returned warmly. “Nor to do it if God gives the
strength and the grace.”
“I like to think of that grand, earnest Saint Paul, with his ‘thorn in
the flesh.’ Perhaps it was some giant temper or desire. I fancy it must
have been, for you know how he persecuted the Christians unto death.
And though God would not take it away, there was the promise of His
grace being sufficient.”
“As it is, always.”
“There are some years to live before I decide positively. But if they
were spent in a worthy manner, and I mean them to be, with God’s help.”
“Oh, you could, surely. And papa would be your best friend;” I rejoined
eagerly.
“Keep my secret—I have your promise,” he said in a hurried manner, for
a step sounded on the walk.
“It is sacred to me until you wish to take others into your confidence.”
Stephen spoke and we turned, walking slowly up to the house. Louis
sat down on the step beside papa. I stood undecided whether to go in
or not, when Stephen took my arm and drew me around the corner of the
porch. There was a long grape arbor whose gloom was made a pleasant
twilight by the silver sifted through the openings between the leaves,
and we took a turn up and down.
“I want to tell you,” he began almost abruptly, and his voice had a
hard, strained sound, “that I heard—the last of what you said. I could
not help it. And I know your secret.”
I was a trifle annoyed, but I controlled myself.
“Oh,” I said, “then you will be tender and helpful and do all in your
power to strengthen Louis. He feels so humble. I would hardly have
thought it of him. And there are so few young men who have any desire
to take such a life upon them. With his means and his talents he can do
so much good.”
He stopped suddenly. “Rose, what are you talking about?” he asked. “Did
not Louis—”
“He confessed to me his desire—no, it was hardly that, as he is afraid
he can never be good enough for a clergyman. But you _will_ assist
him—you do not disapprove of it?”
“Louis! Ah, I understand. It would be the delight of my heart. But I
thought—I knew he liked you so much. Oh, my little darling!”
He turned and gathered me in his arms. My heart beat and my cheeks were
in a blaze as the whole story came to me, dazing me with its strange,
sweet suddenness. I believe I cried and then I laughed hysterically,
but somehow the cool, steady voice quieted me and made me feel the
truth and earnestness of what he was saying, so presently I grew still
with a great awe.
“You will come,” he was saying. “We both need you. We want just this
steady, cheerful, loving influence. I think I have a tendency to be
impatient when people cannot see my ways, perhaps requiring a little
too much, and your sweetness will temper this. Then we can both help
him.”
Could I? How strange that any one should care for me alone. Not for
mamma, or Fanny, but to want _me_!
“Mr. Duncan,” I began as we were going back to the porch—“have you
forgotten that my hair is—red?”
“Well, what of that?” in a gay tone.
“I do not believe you—like it.”
“You foolish little girl, set your heart at rest. Do you remember when
I came upon you suddenly last summer? You were standing on the porch
in a tiny glint of sunshine, and looked like some of the old pictures!
Why, I believe it _was_ your hair that I fell in love with first of
all.”
“I am glad it was, for I am not half as good as you imagine I am.”
“Children,” mamma said, standing on the porch step. “Do you realize how
late it is?”
I felt that she knew all, perhaps had known it long before, indeed. But
I was glad that the knowledge had come to me so suddenly, and not any
sooner. Even now I was half afraid of it. Her kiss and tender clasp
re-assured me.
“Mother!” Stephen Duncan said with reverent sweetness.