SAFE HAVEN
"The human heart finds shelter nowhere but in human kind."
--George Eliot.
For many days Pepeeta's life hung in the balance, her spirit hovering
uncertainly along the border land of being, and it was only love that
wooed it back to life.
When at length, through careful nursing, she really regained her
consciousness and came up from those unfathomable abysses where she had
been wandering, she opened her eyes upon the walls of a little chamber
that looked out through an alcove into the living room of the Quaker
house.
Dorothea had finished her afternoon's work and was seated before the
great fireplace, while by her side stood Steven, speaking to her in
whispers, and looking often toward the cot on which Pepeeta lay. An
almost sacred stillness was in the room, for since the advent of the
sufferer, even the quiet of that well-ordered household had deepened and
softened.
The silence was suddenly broken by a voice feeble and tremulous, but
very musical and sweet. It was Pepeeta, who gazed around her in
bewilderment and asked in vague alarm, "Where am I?"
Dorothea was by her side in an instant, and taking the thin fingers in
her strong hands, replied: "Thee is among friends."
Pepeeta looked long into the calm face above her, and gathered
reassurance; but her memory did not at once return.
"Have I ever been in this place before? Have I ever seen your face? Has
something dreadful happened? Tell me," she entreated, gazing with
agitation into the calm eyes that looked down into hers.
"I cannot tell thee whether thee has ever seen us before, but we have
seen thee so much for a few days that we feel like old friends," said
Dorothea, pressing the hand she held, and smiling.
Pepeeta's eyes wandered about the room restlessly for a moment, and then
some dim remembrance of the past came back.
"Did I come here in a great storm?" she asked.
"Thee did, indeed. The night was wild and cold."
"Did I fall on the threshold?"
"Upon the very threshold, and let us thank God for that, because if thee
had fallen at the gate or in the path we should never have heard thee."
Pepeeta struggled to a sitting posture as her memory clarified, fixed
her wide open eyes upon Dorothea and asked, pathetically, "Where is he?"
"I do not know who thee means," said Dorothea, laying her hand on the
invalid's shoulders and trying gently to push her back upon her pillow.
"David!" she exclaimed, "David. Tell me if you know, for it seems to me
I shall die if I do not hear."
"I do not know, my love. It is a long time since we have heard from
David. But thee must lie down. Thee is not strong enough to talk."
She did not need to force her now. The muscles relaxed, and Pepeeta sank
back upon her pillow, sobbing like a little child, while Dorothea
stroked her forehead. The soothing touch of her hand and her gentle
presence calmed the agitated and disappointed heart. The sobs became
less frequent, the tears ceased to flow, and sleep, coming like a
benediction, brought the balm of oblivion.
The boy, with his great brown eyes, looked wonderingly from the face of
the invalid to that of his mother, who sat silently weaving in her
imagination the story of this life, from the few strands which she had
seized in this brief and broken conversation.
The next morning when Pepeeta awakened she was not only rested and
refreshed by this natural sleep, but was restored to the full possession
of her consciousness and her memory.
When Dorothea came in from her morning duties to see how her patient
fared, she was startled by the change, for the invalid had recovered
that calm self-possession which she had lost before beginning her
journey, and now that her uncertainty was ended had already begun to
face disappointment with fortitude and resolution.
The nurse seated herself by the patient, who said humbly:
"May I talk now?"
"If thee feels strong enough and can do it without exciting thyself,
thee may. But if thee cannot, thee had better wait a little longer. Thee
is very weak."
"But I am much better, am I not?"
"Yes, thee is much better, but thee is far from well."
"Yes, I am far from well; but it will do me good to talk. I have much to
tell, and I cannot rest until I tell it all."
"Thee need not hurry--need thee?"
"Yes--I feel in haste. I have no right to all this kindness, for I have
done this household a great wrong and I must confess it. It is a sad,
sad story. Will you listen to it now?"
"If it will do thee good instead of harm, I will."
"Then prop me up in bed, if you please. Place me so that I can talk
freely. There, thank you. You are so gentle and so kind. I have never in
all my life had any one touch me so gently. And now, if you are ready,
be seated in the great chair and turn your face to the wall."
"To the wall?"
"Yes, to the wall. I cannot bear to see the reproaches that must fill
those kind eyes."
"But, my dear, thee shall not see any reproaches in my eyes. Who am I
that I should judge thee? We are commanded in the holy Bible to judge
not, lest we be judged again. Tell thy story without fear. Thee shall
tell it to ears that shall hear thee patiently, and a heart that is not
devoid of pity."
"I cannot, cannot," cried Pepeeta, "do as I pray! Look out of the
window. Look anywhere but at my face. Let me lie here and look up. Let
me tell my story as if to God alone. It will be easy for me to do that,
for I have told it to Him again and again."
Fearing to agitate her, Dorothea did as she desired.
"Are we alone?"
"Yes, all alone."
"Well, then, I will begin," Pepeeta said, and in a voice choked with
emotion, the poor sufferer breathed out the tale of her sin and her
sorrow. She told all. She did not shield herself, and everywhere she
could she softened the wrong done by David. It was a long story, and was
interrupted only by the ticking of the great clock in the hallway,
telling off the moments with as little concern as when three years
before it had listened to the story told to David by his mother. When
the confession was ended a silence followed, which Dorothea broke by
asking gently:
"May I look, now?"
"If you can forgive me," Pepeeta answered.
The tender-hearted woman rose, approached the bedside and kissed the
quivering lips.
"Have you forgiven me?" Pepeeta asked, seizing the face in her thin
hands and looking almost despairingly into the great blue eyes.
"As I hope to be forgiven," Dorothea answered, kissing her again and
again.
A look of almost perfect happiness diffused itself over the pale
countenance.
"It is too much--too much. How can it be? It was such a great wrong!"
she exclaimed,
"Yes, it was a great wrong. Thee has sinned much, but much shall be
forgiven if thee is penitent, and I think thee is. No love nor pardon
should be withheld from those who mourn their sins. Our God is love! And
we are so ignorant and frail. It is a sad story, as thee says, but it is
better to be led astray by our good passions than by our bad. I have
noticed that it is sometimes by our holiest instincts that we are
betrayed into our darkest sins! It was heaven's brightest light--the
light of love--that led thee astray, my child, and even love may not be
followed with closed eyes! But thee does not need to be preached to."
Astonished at such an almost divine insight and compassion, Pepeeta
exclaimed, "How came you to know so much of the tragedy of human life,
so much of the soul's weakness and guilt; you who have lived so quietly
in this happy home?"
"By consulting my own heart, dear. We do not differ in ourselves so much
as in our experiences and temptations. But thee has talked enough about
thy troubles. Tell me thy name? What shall we call thee?"
"My name is Pepeeta."
"And mine is Dorothea."
"Oh! Dorothea," Pepeeta exclaimed, "do you think we shall ever see him
again?"
"I cannot tell. We had made many inquiries and given up in despair. And
now when we least expected news, thee has come! We will cherish hope
again. We were discouraged too easily."
"Oh! how strong you are--how comforting. Yes, we will cherish hope, and
when I am well I will start out, and search for him everywhere. I shall
find him. My heart tells me so."
"But thee is not well enough, yet," Dorothea said, with a kind smile,
"and until thee is, thee must be at rest in thy soul and, abiding here
with us, await the revelation of the divine will."
"Oh, may I stay a little while? It is so quiet and restful here. I feel
like a tired bird that has found a refuge from a storm. But what will
your husband say, when he hears this story?"
"Thee need not be troubled about that. His door and heart are ever open
to those who labor and are heavy laden. The Christ has found a faithful
follower in him, Pepeeta. It was he who first divined thy story."
"Then you knew me?"
"We had conjectured."
"Then I will stay, oh, I will stay a little while, and perhaps,
perhaps--who knows?" she clasped her hands, her soul looked out of her
eyes, and a smile of genuine happiness lit up her sad face.
"Yes, who knows?" said Dorothea, gently, rearranging the pillows and
bidding the invalid fall asleep again.