A WALK IN THE SHRUBBERY.
It was Sunday and Nan and Emily were sitting together on the
vine-covered porch of the parsonage, trying to while away the long
hour between church time and the midday dinner.
Nan gave a prodigious yawn, and stretched herself out in the
comfortable steamer chair.
"Oh, dearie me," she sighed, "I wonder if it would be a crime for me
to admit how bored I was in church this morning."
"Well, I don't think it would be in very good taste, considering your
father preached," replied Emily severely.
"I can't help it if he did. I was tired, and moreover," crossly, "I am
always bored."
Emily raised her eyebrows.
"I am afraid, Nan, your soul longs for Gregorian chants and tapering
candles."
"Of course it does; and acolytes, incense, and embroidered altar
cloths. Yes, I admit it frankly, I should have belonged to The
Church," she ended, with great emphasis.
"I know, Em," she continued, after waiting a moment to observe the
effect of her last words, "you will think it absurd; but, I tell you,
I really envy the Lawrence girls. To think that they attend that
dear, delightful Episcopal chapel, while I----" and the sentence ended
with a laugh. "Why, Em, of course you won't sympathize with me, but I
do think it is bad form."
Emily looked really shocked.
"Nan Birdsall, I am ashamed of you. What would uncle think of you?"
"Well," replied Nan, with a perverse expression on her face, "I don't
intend that the ministers' sons shall have it all their own way. I
have just as good a right to live up to the old saying as any of
them."
Emily would not stay to listen to another word, and with a great air
of dignity, she arose, and swept into the house. Very soon the soft
tinkling of a bell told Nan that the noonday meal was ready. Old Mr.
Birdsall stood at one end of the table, his hands folded on the back
of the chair before him, waiting for Emily and Nan to appear. When
they were come the long grace was spoken slowly and impressively, and
no one watching Nan's demure face would have guessed at her outbreak
of the morning.
They were a somewhat incongruous trio, and what little conversation
there was consisted chiefly of good-natured banter of Emily by the
irrepressible Nan, to which Mr. Birdsall listened somewhat
abstractedly.
The dinner hour had not as yet assumed a position of importance to
either of the girls, and as soon as possible they pushed back their
chairs, and once more sought the shady porch. Emily gave one furtive
glance over her shoulder to assure herself that her uncle was not
following them, and then picked up a novel from a neighboring table,
and opened it with a great show of interest. Nan watched the bit of
deception, and a smile spread itself over her face.
"Puss," she cried, stooping to lift up a little white kitten which was
brushing against her skirt, "it is now our turn to be shocked and
horrified."
Her remark being received in contemptuous silence, for a while she
played languidly with the little creature in her lap, then her hand
dropped at her side, her head fell back against the cushions, and Nan
was fast asleep. The air was heavy and drowsy, all about the insects
hummed so lazily and the very atmosphere lulled one into
forgetfulness. By and by, the crunching sound of footsteps on the
graveled path roused Nan to sudden consciousness.
"Oh! dear, Nan," Emily was whispering in a tone of suppressed
excitement, "please wake up. Here comes Mr. Dudley. I forgot to tell
you that I was going for a walk with him."
"That's all right," Nan interrupted her sleepily. "I am going in so he
won't see me," and lifting herself lazily from her chair, she slipped
into the house through one of the French windows.
Within the house there reigned the solemn stillness of the Day of
Rest. The door of the study stood part-way open, and Nan could see her
father lying on his lounge, his white head shining like silver against
the dark leather of the cushion. She stole in on tip-toe to avoid
awakening him, caught up a bright-colored afghan and threw it over
him.
"How sweet he looks," she thought with great tenderness, as she
stooped and gently kissed him. She paused a moment by the large
writing table to find, amid a litter of papers, an old hymnbook,
shabby from long usage, and opening it marked the hymns selected for
the evening service. Then she passed out and closed the door softly
behind her. She waited a few moments until she heard Emily and Mr.
Dudley leave the porch, then put on her hat, and started across the
lawn to the manor. Coming out upon the drive-way she met Helen walking
briskly along.
"Well," she cried, "where are you going?"
"To evening prayers, Nancy. Won't you come with me?"
"Yes, indeed I will. I thought you never left the children Sunday
afternoon."
"I don't usually, but to-day I felt just in the humor for church."
There was a note of sadness in Helen's tone, which ordinarily Nan
would have readily detected, but to-day the girl was possessed by a
sense of personal dissatisfaction and restlessness, and so, absorbed
in her own mood, this was lost upon her. There was a pause of brief
duration, then Helen drew a long breath, and resumed more lightly:
"How sweet and sunny it is, isn't it, Nan? I love these first early
days of summer when everything is so fresh and green. The country
doesn't begin to look so lovely later in the season."
"I suppose so," returned Nan laconically. "I am such a country girl
that I don't half see the beauties about me. When you are so used to
things I don't think you are apt to be so keenly alive to them."
"I dare say that is true; you see I go away just enough to appreciate
this dear place when I come back to it."
"While I," grumbled Nan, "have never been away from Hetherford but two
or three times in my whole life. One year is just like another. There
is always father, deeply interested in church matters, and looking
upon me as an enigma; and cross old Bridget who runs the house and
disapproves of me. I often long to dance a jig before father and to
throw something at Bridget's head, just to relieve the monotony."
Helen laughed softly as Nan's grievances multiplied, knowing full well
how it diminishes one's annoyances to be able to give voice to them.
"Then Emily comes," continued Nan, with a scowl, "and tells me that my
clothes are awful and that I look like a fright, and wonders why I
can't cultivate a slight interest in men. I tell her," laughing
dubiously, "that I would if I found them eager to do their share."
"You silly child," and Helen squeezed Nan's arm affectionately. "I
won't have you depreciate your dear self."
But Nan was not to be so easily diverted.
"I do hope that some day I shall see something of the world," she
replied. "I would like to lead an exciting life, full of incident and
adventure, and oh, dear me, who could lead one less so. I wish
something new and interesting would happen."
"O Nancy," Helen said to her gravely, "don't be so anxious to have
things happen. It is so much better when they don't, little girl."
Nan looked up at Helen and felt rebuked for her egotism, as she saw
the shadow clouding her friend's pale face.
Dissimilar as these two girls were in character, a very warm
friendship existed between them. Helen dearly loved Nan for her ready
wit, easy-going ways, warm heart, and sunny nature, and Nan simply
adored Helen, looking up to her with the greatest admiration, and
deferring readily to her judgment in all things. There was a very
romantic side to Nan's nature, hidden away though it was, beneath so
much nonsense and jollity, and Helen's love affair and its sad ending
had touched her keenly. She thoroughly liked Guy, and he, on his part,
had always shown a preference for her above the other girls. Perhaps
he had guessed at her strong love for Helen and partisanship for
himself, for to her alone had he spoken of Helen on his return from
that last unhappy interview. His words had been few, but Nan had seen
the real grief in his honest eyes, and her heart had ached for him.
She made a pretty shrewd guess at the real state of affairs, and she
found her firm belief, that Helen's heart belonged to Guy and that it
would all come out right in the end, greatly strengthened by her
friend's present unhappiness and discontent. To-day she was full of
sympathy for Helen, but she respected her reticence too deeply to
broach the subject, so she consoled herself with the thought that this
mood scored a point in Guy's favor. Her reverie was broken in upon by
Helen's voice saying gently:
"I consider it a most fortunate thing, Nan, that I am carrying you off
to church; I am sure the service will do us both good."
"Well, there's room for improvement in me," laughed Nan. "You should
have seen Em's face this morning when I told her that my one ambition
was to imitate the proverbial minister's son."
"Nancy, I am ashamed of you," Helen remonstrated, with a reluctant
smile. "Come, be a good girl, for we are just at the church door. Let
us give our hearts and minds to the service," she added with sweet
gravity, "and we will see how much peace will come to us."
"I will, dear," Nan whispered as they started up the aisle to the
Lawrences' pew.
The rector of St. Andrew's leaned somewhat toward ritualism, and no
form nor observance that to his mind lent beauty and solemnity to the
service was omitted. As the girls took their places the solemn chords
of the Stabat Mater inclined their hearts to reverential prayer. In a
moment more the doors of the vestry swung open and the organ took up
the sweet strains of the soul-inspiring hymn, "Hark, hark, my soul."
Slowly the choristers filed by; first the cross-bearer, his young face
full of dignity, then the singers, two by two, and as their numbers
swelled their fresh young voices filled the church.
The grace and beauty of the Episcopal form of worship appealed to Nan.
The rhythmic lines of the confessional, "We have erred and strayed
from Thy ways like lost sheep," etc., moved her to a heartfelt
penitence for her shortcomings, and inspired her with an earnest
desire to live more nobly and unselfishly. One by one her petty trials
took their flight, and only a sense of great peace remained. When the
benediction had been pronounced and the girls had left the church,
they were both somewhat subdued and silent. The slanting rays of the
sun fell softly athwart the quaint old churchyard, and on the faintly
stirring breeze was borne the sweet perfume of roses and honeysuckle
which grew in such profusion against the low stone wall. Passing
through the gateway they strolled side by side along the road.
"I wish I could always attend St. Andrew's," mused Nan, slipping her
hand within Helen's arm. "I really believe I would be a better girl.
The ritual impresses me so deeply, and seems to bring religion home to
me in such a convincing sort of way."
"I don't think that is at all unnatural; but as time goes on, Nan, I
believe you will find that your love for outside things will diminish,
in proportion as your dependence upon what is deep and vital grows."
"I would not fret about it in the least if it were not for my dear
father," and Nan's face grew tender as she spoke, "but I know that
this disposition of mine toward forms and symbols is a source of
sorrow to him. He would have me a strong adherent to the old school of
Presbyterianism, and he feels that my tendencies are leading me
rapidly along the highway to Rome," and Nan's puzzled eyes met Helen's
with a frank appeal for advice.
Helen was silent for a moment, and then spoke slowly and
meditatively.
"Of course, Nan, each person has to decide such a question for
himself, but it seems to me that when two people love each other
dearly yet differ in their views, each should be willing to make some
concessions and thus grow more generous and lenient with each
other--Love is such a great power."
"Indeed it is," cried big-hearted Nan, "and I know that the larger
share of yielding should be mine, for dear father has grown old in his
opinions, and it must be very hard for him to have me branch out for
myself."
They had reached a turn in the road where their paths diverged, and
Nan asked:
"You will come over and sing hymns this evening, won't you, Helen?"
"Certainly. Are they coming over from the inn?"
"I suppose so," and then with a friendly nod each went on her way.
It was close upon eight o'clock that evening when Helen and Nathalie
started out for the parsonage. The lovely twilight hour was almost
over. High in the heavens rode the crescent moon, and, as the slowly
fading daylight vanished, its white light penetrated the soft gloom
which lay like a shroud over the manor park, and trees and lawns and
winding paths came suddenly to life, as by the touch of a fairy wand.
A sighing breeze stirred the leaves, from a fountain near at hand came
the soft splash of falling waters and the night air vibrated gently
with the myriad sounds of insect life.
There was a rush and a scamper, and around the corner of the house
the children raced and threw themselves upon Helen, with a shout of
delight.
"You naughty youngsters," chided their sister gently. "You ought to be
in bed this minute, everyone of you."
"We's going right off," cried Gladys breathlessly. "On'y we wants to
be kissed first."
Helen stooped down to fulfill their clamorous demand.
"Now, be off," she laughed, straightening herself up and shaking a
mildly reproachful finger at them, "and don't forget to go in and say
good-night to Auntie," and then she and Nathalie proceeded leisurely
on their way.
They found the vine-covered porch of the parsonage quite overflowing
with people. Wendell Churchill and Farr stepped hastily forward, and,
after an interchange of cordial greetings, found seats for them.
"How late you are," called Nan, from somewhere in the background. "I
thought you were not coming."
Helen left apologies and explanations to Nathalie, and turned to
answer an inquiry from Farr in regard to Jean.
"I am sorry to say she is deep in a book," she said, looking up at him
with a smile, "and we could not persuade her to leave it. However, she
promised to follow us shortly."
"And does Miss Jean always keep her promises?" Farr asked lightly.
"I think she does," Helen rejoined, meeting his eyes for an instant.
"Come, Helen. Start some of the good old hymns."
At Mollie's suggestion Helen's clear soprano took up the refrain of
"Lead, kindly light," and the others joined in heartily. From long
practice their voices blended beautifully.
They had been singing for nearly an hour when Farr rose quietly to his
feet.
"Miss Lawrence," he said, bending over her chair, "don't you think
Miss Jean should be brought to a realizing sense of her delinquencies
and coerced into making some reparation?"
"Indeed, I do," she assented with a frank laugh, "but what are we
going to do about it?"
"I don't think my desertion would be noticed if I should go in search
of her," Farr suggested, lowering his voice. "Do you?"
Helen gave him a swift glance of amusement.
"'I would not hear thine enemy say so.' But go and see what your
persuasive powers can do."
"You have put me on my mettle now," he rejoined, as he stepped over
the low railing and dropped noiselessly on to the grass below, and it
was with a sense of amusement that he recognized his own impatience
and eagerness as he set out for the manor.
He paused to light a cigarette, then strode on over the soft turf,
revolving many and varied thoughts in his mind. The brightness died
out of his eyes, and the lines of the mouth were stern and
compressed, for to-night the past with its perplexities and
disappointments rose vividly before him. In his thirty years of life
fortune had dealt him some severe blows and had set him adrift with
more doubts than beliefs, more cynicism than sentiment. His was a very
reserved and sensitive temperament, and under the garb of laziness and
indifference his troubles were jealously hidden from curious eyes. The
man's best self lay dormant, and some influence was sorely needed to
rouse him to the necessity of facing his difficulties and conquering
them before they should conquer him.
He had left the hedge behind him, and, as he came out on the
drive-way, a gleam of light from the manor house shot out through the
trees and brightened his path. Involuntarily he started, and a vision
of Jean Lawrence's face came between his mind and all painful memories
and robbed them of their sting.
Reaching the veranda steps, he threw away his cigarette, mounted them
and crossed to where the outer door stood hospitably open, revealing
the wide hall within, its shadowy recesses softly penetrated by the
light from a quaint lamp swung from the low, studded ceiling. He
lifted the hand knocker, and let it fall, then pushing his hat back on
his head, stared meditatively before him, while waiting for a response
to his summons. Not a sound broke the stillness, and at length he took
his hat in his hand and stepped across the threshold, and made his way
to the entrance of the drawing-room, across which the portières were
partly drawn. His footfalls on the soft rugs scarce heralded his
approach. The scene which met his eyes was indeed a pretty one, and
for a brief space he stood motionless.
On a low divan in a far corner of the room, Jean had thrown herself
with unconscious grace of pose. The warm coloring of the Oriental rug
and bright-colored cushions made a charming background for the slender
white-clad figure. A tall lamp shed a bright light across the open
page of her book, on which her eyes were riveted. Her face was flushed
with interest, her soft hair in fine disorder. Farr noted everything,
from the golden head, resting upon the silken cushions, to the dainty
slippered foot, just peeping beneath the hem of her gown.
A slight movement on his part discovered him to Jean, and she started
up in dismay.
"Well, Mr. Farr, you did give me a fright," she cried, laughing
confusedly, for his steady gaze disconcerted her somewhat. "I should
think you would be ashamed of yourself for having startled me so."
"I am," recovering himself with a slight effort, for the swift change
that had swept over Jean's expressive face at his unexpected
appearance had set his heart to beating with unwonted emotion. "You
will forgive me, will you not?" he finished, as he stood at her side
and looked penitently down at her.
"Why, yes, but I don't advise your making a practice of strolling into
people's houses, and appearing suddenly in their drawing-rooms; you
might be mistaken for a burglar, and I have heard," with a malicious
little laugh, "that it is unpleasant to be shot."
"Oh, come now, Miss Jean, you are very unfair to me; if you only knew
the real facts of the case."
But Jean was still a little resentful, for she felt that she had been
taken at a disadvantage.
"Really?" she answered incredulously, with a mischievous shrug of the
shoulders.
"Yes, very," he protested, with a glance of amusement into her
upraised eyes. "I did everything I could to gain admission in the
regulation way, but was quite unsuccessful."
"What a shame," she said, interrupting him with softened voice. "I
suppose the maids were all out in the garden for a stroll this fine
night, and I was so absorbed in my book that I didn't hear the
knocker."
"And then," he resumed, with a valiant disregard of the truth, "I came
in making as much ado as I conveniently could, without calling out or
overturning the furniture."
"Under the circumstances I see that you must be forgiven. Won't you be
seated, Mr. Farr? I don't know what I have been thinking of, to allow
you to remain standing all this while."
"Thank you, no. On the other hand, I want to persuade you to arise."
"Why?"
"Because I am here on a mission. I have come to reproach you for not
keeping your promise to join us at the parsonage."
"And to whom am I indebted for this kind and flattering interest?"
"None other than myself."
"Oh, you are too good," she cried laughingly, springing to her feet,
and making him a sweeping obeisance.
"If that is your honest opinion, Miss Jean, suppose you prove it by
going back with me."
"I can't be a traitor to my words," and she tossed her book on to the
table, and preceded him out into the hall-way.
"Is it cool enough for a wrap?"
Farr surveyed her muslin gown with a critical eye.
"Indeed, it is."
"All right," she yielded carelessly, "but I never take cold."
She picked up a coat from the rack, and Farr helped her on with it,
and then they wandered out into the night.
"Is it not delicious?" Jean sighed, as they sauntered leisurely along.
"It seems so to me," he returned, with a glance into the girl's eyes.
"Miss Jean," he began, after a brief silence, "Did you not tell me
once that there was a pretty walk through the shrubbery?"
"Yes?" with a note of interrogation.
"In which direction would it lead us, if we should take it now?"
"To the parsonage, eventually, but," hesitatingly, "by a much longer
way than by the path through the hedge."
"The longer, the better--for me."
"I don't know what they will think has become of us," she demurred.
Farr laughed easily.
"I never trouble myself too much about what people think."
"I don't doubt that you are in no way different from the rest of your
sex. I believe it is generally conceded that selfishness is its
salient characteristic."
"A popular fallacy. Do I not prove it to you, Miss Jean?"
"Oh, of course you are the exception that proves the rule," she
returned with gentle sarcasm.
He stopped suddenly, midway in the path they were traversing, and
looked straight down at her. There was a ring of deeper feeling in his
voice as he spoke:
"I want you to think just as well of me as you can, and I cannot
imagine having a more earnest desire than that I might always prove
worthy of your kindest thoughts."
There was a tinge of defiance in Jean's manner as she answered him
flippantly:
"Don't you think I would be using my time rather aimlessly, Mr. Farr,
were I to give it up to thoughts of you?"
An expression of keen displeasure crossed Farr's face.
"I beg your pardon," he said stiffly.
Instantly Jean repented of her foolish words, and was heartily sorry
to have wounded her companion, but the slight tremor at her heart
warned her that to confess would be unwise.
"I think of you quite as much as you deserve," she ventured with a
nervous little laugh, and she began to walk on toward the shrubbery at
a brisker pace.
Farr made no immediate rejoinder, and when he spoke again it was in an
altered tone.
"There is quite a fragrance to this box-wood, is there not?"
"Yes, indeed, and a very pleasant one. The perfume is heavy these warm
nights after the sun has been shining on it all day."
"You have no idea what a charm the country has for me. I have really
been in it so little since I was a boy."
"But your home is in the country, is it not?"
"Yes, but my family spend the winters in Washington, and our country
home is only open during the summer months. I don't often get a chance
to go down there. My mother keeps the house pretty well filled, for my
two married brothers live at home."
"And have you no sisters?"
Farr's voice, which had sounded a little cold when speaking of his
home, changed to sudden tenderness.
"Yes, one, and she is the dearest little girl in the world."
"I suppose you love her dearly, and do your best to spoil her?"
"Well, Clarisse and I are certainly great chums," he assented.
"How nice it must be to have an older brother. We girls have always
regretted so that we did not have one, although," with a sad little
sigh, "we used to have a dear old friend who was just as good as a
brother; but he has gone away now."
"I suppose that there are times when they are of some use," said Farr,
"although men are so hopelessly selfish."
"I would not think of contradicting you," Jean laughingly averred.
"Come, we are talking a great deal, and not making much headway, and
it must be growing late."
"I am all tangled up in this maze of by-paths. In which direction is
the parsonage from here?"
"If you don't mind climbing a stone wall, we can turn to our right,
and take a short cut, and we will be there in no time."
Farr agreed, and they walked on in silence until they had emerged from
the shrubbery into a small clearing, skirted on the further side by a
wall, its line broken at a certain point where some stones had been
thrown down. Farr sprang lightly across, and turned back to assist
Jean. Just then the moon, which had slipped under a cloud, shone out
again, its soft rays falling directly on the girl's face. She had one
foot already on the first stepping stone when he put up his hand to
stay her.
"Well," she asked, as he did not speak. "What is it? Are you not going
to help me?"
"Of course I am, but," leaning a little toward her, "this wall is a
sort of a Rubicon. Once crossed we cannot go back, for we are then in
the parsonage grounds. It has been a pleasant walk, and one to be
remembered, has it not?"
"Yes," she murmured, with a quick indrawing of her breath.
"I wish----" he began impetuously.
"Mr. Farr," she interposed with gentle decision, "will you please help
me over."
He gave her his hand, and gravely assisted her to the ground on the
other side.
They were nearing the porch, and already the sounds of gay voices
reached them through the stillness of the summer night, when Jean
turned abruptly to the man at her side.
"By the way, Mr. Farr, we are to have a visitor shortly, and I hope
you men will help us to make it pleasant for her."
He uttered some polite commonplace, and Jean went on:
"Perhaps you know Helen's friend, a Miss Stuart of New York."
A sudden recollection flashed through Farr's mind.
"Not one chance in a thousand that it should be the same," he thought,
as he answered indifferently, "I think not."
"I thought possibly you might have met," she said carelessly. "She
seems to know almost everyone."
He half turned to put a question to her, but already they were at the
vine-covered porch, and Nan's jolly greeting lost him the opportunity.