IN WHICH TWO COUPLES TAKE A WALK.
Dr. Ellis proceeded to tell Mary of his boyhood; how he was employed by
a bookseller, who, in return for the lad's services, only continued to
withhold the merited compensation.
"I remained with him for two years," he went on to say. "Of course I was
fed, and clothed, after a fashion, but I had no other incentive to work
with him except fear."
"Why did you not run away?" questioned Mary, with reason.
"I did, but only to suffer the more from each attempt to gain my
freedom. I was invariably caught. Banks would hear no petitions, and the
curious crowd who witnessed my captures thought little of a runaway lad.
As for interfering, why, the thought of coming between father and son
never entered their heads. When Banks insisted that he was my father, he
was believed, and the word of a child was nothing. Each time I tried to
escape I was flogged, not before others, for the man was too sharp for
that, and was all kindliness when there were spectators. I was
threatened with worse ills if I did not obey. I can see Banks yet, and
hear his voice, as he said, 'You see, your word is doubted. I can prove
that you have apprenticed yourself to me.' Oh, the horror of it!"
"Was the man usually cruel?"
"No; only when I crossed him or appeared dissatisfied. It was the
humiliation of it that troubled me, child that I was. I was constantly
watched, and seldom allowed to play with boys of my own age. I believe
now that he feared I should discover that he had no power to control my
movements."
"And how did you finally obtain your release?"
"Through the death of Banks, though I would have effected my escape
sooner or later, I feel sure. Banks died, and his nephew fell heir to
all that the former had so carefully hoarded. That same nephew had not
cultivated the society of his uncle while living, strange though you may
think it. Afterwards I took a position in a drug store; the study of
pharmacy doubtless produced in me a desire to use the medicines I had
been analyzing."
Mr. Bayne here strolled past the two who were thus earnestly engaged in
converse, and, noticing that they were too much engrossed to observe his
proximity, ejaculated, in an undertone, "Well, I declare! Dot _is_
beginning young, if her secret had aught to do with this affair. She
certainly gave me the impression that her secret was a most important
one, but who would have dreamed that she meant this--and she but a
baby?" Here sheer astonishment ended the monologue, for ere he had taken
many steps another couple appeared, walking toward him. "Now, which did
Dot mean?" he began again; then he checked himself, and turned to see if
he had erred; but, no, there were the two behind him, just where he had
left them, or rather, passed them, as much interested as ever, each with
the other. In front he beheld this new couple possessing an equal
appreciation of the advantages of communication with a desirable
companion. That each did think the other a desirable companion was not
to be doubted for a moment. Dot, in the meantime, had not consciously
betrayed her secret or broken her word; still, older people may guess
at childhood's secrets without trying to elicit confidences, and this
child was habituated to the feeling that her father must share her
thoughts. Now, the very fact that there was something to conceal,
perhaps for the first time in her little life, only tended to give her
an air of importance which was in itself a betrayal. Poor Dot had
followed her father around until in pity he questioned his diminutive
daughter. A few words were all that were necessary to give him an
inkling of what had passed.
"How did oo know, Papa?" This was equivalent to saying that his surmises
were correct, but he comforted the innocent informant by telling her
that her promise had not been broken, so that she ran off, relieved that
Papa should know, and at the same time congratulating herself upon her
ability to act as confidante. With an omniscient father, what was she to
do?
Mr. Bayne would have passed on with only a cheerful salutation, had not
Adelina seen his wistful look, and kindly proposed that she and Ralph
should retrace their steps and join him in his homeward walk. Was there
ever one who enjoyed human companionship more than he, or, for that
matter, the companionship of animals either? He seemed to love all
things and wanted to be with them, but it was only his friends who could
really appreciate the man. There was a look in his eyes which appealed
to one; and why? Not because they asked for pity, but rather that they
gave it, even when you knew that he was suffering himself. His wife had
died when Pet was two years old, and Mr. Bayne had hidden his grief
nobly; yet the tell-tale eyes seemed at times to hold depths of sorrow
patiently borne, for would he not see her again, that one who had been
to him all love and tenderness? Had not the light in her dying eyes
bidden him "Wait?" What is the look which comes to our loved ones' dying
eyes? Is it a look of surprise as they are about to enter into a new
life? Surely that look comes but once in a life, and that when the
earthly life is drawing to its close, to be renewed in the glory of an
endless one. How strange it is, that we, who have watched and been at
the bedside of those loved ones, can follow no further, can never
penetrate that mystery or lift the curtain till we, too, are called to
take the same pathway. We turn to find the impress of a smile stamped
on the face, giving to it peace, and seeming to tell of contentment and
well-earned repose.
Often Mr. Bayne walked about the Tracy grounds, and he was doing so now,
with the palpable hope that he might meet one, at least, of the
household. He never thought of intruding, and it did not occur to him
that his conversation could be welcomed save by those who were
especially interested in him, and who had honored him by their
friendship and leniency, as he chose to express it. He had no cause for
this overweening modesty. Few in rural districts could be more beloved
than he, not that there is not as much individual capacity for loving,
but aggregately there cannot be as much love, owing to the restricted
populace. Individually, he was certainly the object of much love and
veneration. Wherever he went he appeared to carry peace, without
apparent effort. He may have begun by cultivating with persistency the
means of giving comfort, but later one felt that whatsoever he gave of
comfort was given spontaneously. He loved all; what did it matter if
they did not love in return? His mission was to alleviate suffering
when possible; if not, then to impart such truths as would enable the
sufferer to bear the anguish, mental or physical, as the case might be;
not, as before stated, to question whether the love he bestowed so
freely was in any measure returned. That was no concern of his. In his
own immediate family he was in a measure dependent upon the attention of
each member. He had always lived with it. Though it is true that that
affection may have been taken naturally, yet he was always grateful for
it; the fullest reciprocation followed. When the crucial test came he
was willing to surrender all without a murmur. Would the curious
onlookers pronounce him heartless in consequence? There had never been,
and it is safe to add there never would be, a crowd curious alone as to
his welfare, provided he had ever mingled with the crowd. Respect
attended him wherever he went, whether it was in the homeliest of
cottages or at the most elaborate of functions. The latter he did not
have the opportunity or the desire to attend, except at long intervals.
Mr. Bayne was not solicitous regarding the extent of the intervals; the
longer the space, the better.
"Were you going to run off without even asking how I was?" queried
Adelina, reproachfully.
"That question was answered the moment I beheld you," responded the
rector, with admirable policy.
"What a flatterer you are. Of all people in the world, you are the last
who should use deceit."
"Is not what I intimate most true, Mr. Bamford?" asked Mr. Bayne,
turning to him for confirmation of his asseveration.
"Most assuredly," returned Ralph, adding mischievously, "Miss Fiske does
not appear to think it possible that you may refer to the healthiness
her countenance portrays, and not the beauty of it." This remark showed
that he and Adelina must be on the best of terms. A few hours previous
he would not have ventured such an utterance, nor would he have had even
the inclination, after the estrangement resulting from what he was
pleased to call Adelina's cruel treatment of him. Afterwards he would
have done anything to condone for having had a single derogatory thought
of her.
"What in the world have you there?" said Adelina. Could she believe the
evidence of her eyes? If so, then Mr. Bayne had taken to the perusal of
such books as related to the latest feminine modes of dress. Without
impertinence she could ask about them, when her elderly friend was
displaying the plates with such openness and disregard of public
opinion.
"Oh, these? They are for Dot. Miss Carey, the mantua-maker, had told her
to stop for them, but as I chanced to be passing that way I thought I
might act as purveyor with equal safety." This was said in a deprecatory
manner, as though he had been caught in some act of which he ought to be
ashamed; but until Adelina put the question to him it had never occurred
to him that the carrying of such literary matter and accompanying
illustrations was not the most natural thing for a minister to be
interested in.
"Dot, you see," he continued, in an explanatory way, "cuts out the
pictures. Doubtless she will read about them when she is older." This
was intended for Adelina's benefit, but she pretended to ignore the
fact.
"If she does wait to profit by their suggestions until she is older, her
outfit will be a little beyond the times," Adelina could not resist
saying.
"She calls them paper dolls," he further elucidated.
"Well," said Adelina, laughing heartily, as they reached the rectory
gate, "tell Dot I'll help keep house for the dolls."
"Wasn't he an old dear?" cried she, ecstatically, watching Mr. Bayne's
retreating form.
"Who beside would have thought of carrying such things for a child?"
"I, that is, I would do as much for you," Ralph promptly responded.
"Oh, would you? I have a notion to put you to the test, and see what
would come of your fine promises. I suppose I, in turn, should be
expected to follow the child's example, simply to save your feelings,
after you had so inconvenienced yourself, and betake myself to dolls'
housekeeping, too."
"Why not do it in reality--on a larger scale?" retorted Ralph, who had
the propensity for turning things to his own advantage. Adelina said
nothing. Ralph, feeling that he had possibly scored in his favor,
continued to expatiate on the pleasures of housekeeping.
"I do not think that your experience can quite justify you in giving an
opinion on the subject," replied Adelina, congratulating herself on not
letting him have everything his own way.
"No; but experience teaches, and how am I to gain it alone? I am very
docile, dear, and quite willing to learn of you."
Adelina softened visibly. "Perhaps," she said, thoughtfully, "if you had
me to take care of you, you would be more prudent concerning your
health."
"I am sure I would," eagerly. "Even Dr. Ellis says I am not careful
enough."
"Why do you say _even_ Dr. Ellis? It would be more exact to say Dr.
Ellis, together with all rational beings, believes that of you."
"But you see I do not flatter myself that all rational beings do think
of me," returned Ralph. "If you think of me, it does not seem to signify
whether the rest do or not."
"How ungrateful to the rest of your friends!" she cried, wilfully
misunderstanding him.
"You know well enough what I mean, dear. I could live without them, and
their opinions."
"What a delicately implied compliment. You could live without me, too,
if you only thought so."
"But if I do not think so, it comes to the same thing in the end. We are
not happy unless we think we are."
"I don't know whether happiness _is_ produced by asking ourselves
continually if we have reached that state. It seems to me the less
concern we give ourselves regarding our own welfare, the happier we are
in reality. I don't instigate improvidence, however. After all,
happiness may not be the best for us," she added, virtuously. I wonder
if she would have been willing to resign her present contentment.
"Well, surely you would prefer for me to have joy if possible, and you
certainly know wherein my happiness consists."
"Oh, Ralph," said Adelina, with a suspicious moisture about the eyes,
"can you ever forgive me for the horrid thoughts I had about you?"
"On one condition," he responded. "I only wonder now, dear, how you
could have had so much patience with an alleged lunatic."
"Don't, please, Ralph." Seeing that she was really troubled, he
hastened to say, "Dearest, it is all right now; you were not at fault."
"I'll never again, as long as I live, judge any one or anything by
appearances."
"I, too, have learned a lesson, for was I not misjudging you when you
were doing all in your power to save my feelings at the expense of your
own?"
It was in the evening when our friends were assembled in the little
church of which Mr. Bayne was the rector. Adelina and Ralph were ushered
in first, then came Miss Tracy and a stranger, not her brother, as was
taken note of by the wondering congregation; in fact, Mr. Tracy had
taken a seat in the rear of the church, and had permitted this stranger
to monopolize his sister. Such a thing had never been known to occur, in
the recollection of the Deanmouth people; but as the service had already
commenced, surely that fact ought not to have been taken cognizance of,
nor ought the congregation to have been diverted from the lesson Mr.
Bayne was proceeding to read. The two were utterly oblivious of the
intense interest they were creating. Had Dr. Ellis noticed the movements
betokening restlessness, proofs of inattentiveness, he would not for a
moment have thought that he, a perfect stranger, was eliciting such
interest; and yet it was for that very reason that such was the case.
But soon there was not one in the congregation that was not all
attention, hanging upon each word of the minister's with breathless
interest, and impatiently awaiting the next. It was an address, not a
sermon, and Mr. Bayne had entitled it "The Sea of Misunderstanding." How
that struck home to five of his auditors! Yet Mr. Bayne was ignorant of
the circumstances which were so vividly recalled to some of his hearers
by his words. Strange to say, not one of the friends so much as glanced
at any of the others, but each knew what was going on in the minds of
the others. Had the minister himself ever misjudged any one? I think
not; yet why should he dwell at such length upon this subject, and so
judiciously interweave the text from whence had arisen his ideas? That
earnest air, that placid face, seemed to bear conviction to those who
heard, and it might not be going too far to say that such might have
been the case had he been conversing in a foreign tongue. I say
"conversing," because it always seemed to his auditors that he was only
talking to them just as he would if he had not been occupying the
pulpit. That is why his manner and the dulcet tones of his voice had in
them alone a certain inexplicable power to produce conviction, even
though the purport of the words had been misinterpreted; not that he
made use of abstruse statements to display his own acumen, as some
speakers obviously do, for he sought only to convey in the simplest
manner to others the truths he had already ascertained. His mission was
being fulfilled.
All who had attended the service were very quiet on their return home.
Perhaps Adelina and Ralph found more to say than any of the others.
Two months later they were on board a steamer bound for Liverpool. They
were on the deck, and Adelina had produced a letter from Mary, for about
the fifth time. She was reading it to her husband, and both were
enjoying its contents as though ignorant of what had already been
laughed over and discussed a score of times. Ralph was infinitely amused
to find that Adelina was not even looking at what she was supposed to
be reading--to tell the truth, she knew from memory all that Mary had
written.
"How many times has she mentioned Dr. Ellis?" asked Ralph.
"One, two, three," counted Adelina, "four--oh, do you remember Tom
Burnett?" she said, breaking off, and losing count, as her eyes caught
the young man's name. That part she had not read to Ralph before.
"Yes, I remember him, but what has Mary said about him? I thought some
one else took up her whole attention--and letter."
"Oh, it is only some of her foolishness. Tom is much interested in Lucy
Malcolm."
"But that is not all," pursued Ralph, seeing that she was keeping
something back.
"You provoking boy." Her looks belied her words. "If you must know, Mary
only said he was consoling himself with Lucy."
"And you wanted to keep the knowledge of that conquest from me?" he
asked, readily taking in the situation--and her hand.
"No, dear. I'll never keep anything from you now, I fear."
"And you don't regret anything?"
"You surely don't mean Tom?"
This was said with such intense surprise that Ralph could not refrain
from laughing; however, he added, "Are you sure you will never be sorry
you married me?"
"Never," Adelina said, vehemently.
And the answer seemed to satisfy him.
[Illustration: THE END]
Transcriber's Notes: There were a few printer's errors which have been
corrected. The original title page of this book was missing and a mock
one has been produced. Words wrapped in underscores (_word_) indicate
that the word was published in italics.
End of Project Gutenberg's A Singular Metamorphosis, by May Evelyn Skiles