LOVE IS BLIND.
Next morning after breakfast the house began to echo with the singing of
the inmates. Mona sang to the baby in an upper room, the Deacon thrummed
the piano and hummed to himself in the raucous voice peculiar to most
churchmen. Judy in the kitchen meditatively crooned to her maids an
ancient lamentation, and out on the lawn, Arthur sang to his mother an
amorous ditty in compliment to her youthful appearance. Honora, the
song-bird, silent, heard with amusement this sudden lifting up of
voices, each unconscious of the other. Arthur's bawling dominated.
"Has the house gone mad?" she inquired from the hallway stairs, so
clearly that the singers paused to hear. "What is the meaning of all
this uproar of song. Judy in the kitchen, Mona in the nursery, Louis in
the parlor, Arthur on the lawn?"
The criminals began to laugh at the coincidence.
"I always sing to baby," Mona screamed in justification.
"I wasn't singing, I never sing," Louis yelled from the parlor.
"Mother drove me to it," Arthur howled through the door.
"I think the singin' was betther nor the shoutin'," Judy observed
leaning out of the window to display her quizzical smile.
A new spirit illumined the old farmhouse. Love had entered it, and hope
had followed close on his heels; hope that Honora would never get to her
beloved convent. They loved her so and him that with all their faith,
their love and respect for the convent life, gladly would they have seen
her turn away from the holy doors into Arthur's reverential arms. With
the exception of Anne. So surely had she become his mother that the
thought of giving him up to any woman angered her. She looked coldly on
Honora for having inspired him with a foolish passion.
"Come down, celestial goddess," said Arthur gayly, "and join the Deacon
and me in a walk over the bluff, through the perfumed woods, down the
loud-resounding shore. Put on rubbers, for the dew has no respect for
the feet of such divinity."
They went off together in high spirits, and Mona came down to the
veranda with the baby in her arms to look after them. Anne grieved at
the sight of their intimacy.
"I have half a mind," she said, "to hurry Honora off to her convent, or
to bring Sister Magdalen and the Mother Superior up here to strengthen
her. If that boy has his way, he'll marry her before Christmas. He has
the look of it in his eye."
"And why shouldn't he?" Mona asked. "If she will have him, then she has
no business with the convent, and it will be a good opportunity for her
to test her vocation."
"And what luck will there be in it for him?" said the mother bitterly.
"How would you feel if some hussy cheated Louis out of his priesthood,
with blue eyes and golden hair and impudence? If Arthur wants to marry
after waiting so long, let him set eyes on women that ask for marriage.
He'll never have luck tempting a poor girl from the convent."
"Little ye think o' the luck," said Judy, who had come out to have her
morning word with the mistress. "Weren't ye goin' into a convent yerself
whin Pat Dillon kem along, an' wid a wink tuk ye to church undher his
arm. An' is there a woman in the whole world that's had greater luck
than yerself?"
"Oh, I know you are all working for the same thing, all against me,"
Anne said pettishly.
"Faith we are, and may the angels guide him and her to each other. Can't
a blind man see they wor made to be man an' wife? An' I say it, knowin'
that the convent is the best place in the world for anny girl. I wish
every girl that was born wint there. If they knew what is lyin' in wait
for thim whin they take up wid a man, there wouldn't be convents enough
to hould all that wud be runnin' to thim. But ye know as well as I do
that the girls are not med for the convent, except the blessed few...."
Anne fled from the stream of Judy's eloquence, and the old lady looked
expressively at Mona.
"She's afraid she's goin' to lose her Artie. Oh, these Irish mothers!
they'd kape a boy till his hairs were gray, an' mek him belave it too,
if they cud. I never saw but wan mother crazy to marry her son. That was
Biddy Brady, that wint to school wid yer mother, an' poor Micksheen was
a born ijit, wid a lip hangin' like a sign, so's ye cud hang an auction
notice on it. Sure, the poor boy wudn't lave his mother for Vanus
herself, an' the mother batin' him out o' the house every day, an' he
bawlin' for fear the women wud get hould of him."
Honora had observed the happy change in Arthur, her knight of service,
who had stood between her and danger, and had fought her battles with
chivalry; asking no reward, hinting at none, because she had already
given him all, a sister's love. What tenderness, what adoration, what
service had he lavished on her, unmarred by act, or word, or hint! God
would surely reward him for his consideration. Walking through the
scented woods she found it easy to tell them of the date fixed for her
entrance into the convent. Grand trees were marshalled along the path,
supporting a roof of gold and green, where the sun fell strong on the
heavy foliage.
"September," said Arthur making a calculation. "Why not wait until
October and then shed your colors with the trees. I can see her," he
went on humorously, "decorously arranging the black dress so that it
will hang well, and not make her a fright altogether before the other
women; and getting a right tilt to the black bonnet and enough lace in
it to set off her complexion."
"Six months later," said the Deacon taking up the strain, "she will do
better than that. Discarding the plain robes of the postulant, she will
get herself into the robes of a bride...."
"Oh, sooner than that," said Arthur with a meaning which escaped her.
"No, six months is the period," she corrected seriously.
"In wedding finery she will prance before her delighted friends for a
few minutes, and then march out to shed white silk and fleecy tulle. A
vengeful nun, whose hair has long been worn away, will then clip with
one snip of the scissors her brown locks from her head...."
"Horror!" cried Arthur.
"Sure, straight across the neck, you know, like the women's-rights
people. Then the murder of the hair has to be concealed, so they put on
a nightcap, and hide that with a veil, and then bring her into the
bishop to tell him it's all right, and that she's satisfied."
"And what do they make of the hair?" said Arthur.
"That's one of the things yet to be revealed."
"And after that she is set at chasing the rule, or being chased by the
rule for two years. She studies striking examples of observing the rule,
and of the contrary. She has a shy at observing it herself, and the
contrary. The rule is it when she observes it; she's it when she
doesn't. At this point the mother superior comes into the game."
"Where do the frowsy children come in?"
"At meals usually. Honora cuts the bread and her fingers, butters it,
and passes it round; the frowsy butter themselves, and Honora; this is
an act of mortification, which is intensified when the mistress of
novices discovers the butter on her habit."
"Finally the last stage is worse than the first, I suppose. Having
acquired the habit she gets into it so deeply...."
"She sheds it once more, Arthur. Then she's tied to the frowsy children
forever, and is known as Sister Mary of the Cold Shoulder to the world."
"This is a case of rescue," said Arthur with determination, "I move we
rescue her this minute. Help, help!"
The woods echoed with his mocking cries. Honora had not spoken, the
smile had died away, and she was plainly offended. Louis observant
passed a hint to Arthur, who made the apology.
"We shall be there," he said humbly, "with our hearts bleeding because
we must surrender you. And who are we that you need care? It is poor
Ireland that will mourn for the child that bathed and bound her wounds,
that watched by her in the dark night, and kept the lamp of hope and
comfort burning, that stirred hearts to pity and service, that woke up
Lord Constantine and me, and strangers and enemies like us, to render
service; the child whose face and voice and word and song made the
meanest listen to a story of injustice; all shut out, concealed, put
away where the mother may never see or hear her more."
His voice broke, his eyes filled with tears at the vividness of the
vision called up in the heart of the woods; and he walked ahead to
conceal his emotion. Honora stopped dead and looked inquiringly at the
Deacon, who switched the flowers with downcast eyes.
"What is the meaning of it, Louis?"
He knew not how to make answer, thinking that Arthur should be the first
to tell his story.
"Do you think that we can let you go easily?" he said. "If we tease you
as we did just now it is to hide what we really suffer. His feeling got
the better of him, I think."
The explanation sounded harmless. For an instant a horrid fear that
these woods must witness another scene like Lord Constantine's chilled
her heart. She comforted Arthur like a sister.
"Do not feel my going too deeply. Change must come. Let us be glad it is
not death, or a journey into distant lands with no return. I shall be
among you still, and meanwhile God will surely comfort you."
"Oh, if we could walk straight on like this," Arthur answered, "through
the blessed, free, scented forest, just as we are, forever! And walking
on for years, content with one another, you, Louis, and I, come out at
last, as we shall soon come out here on the lake, on the shore of
eternity, just as life's sun sets, and the moon of the immortal life
rises; and then without change, or the anguish of separation and dying,
if we could pass over the waters, and enter the land of eternity, taking
our place with God and His children, our friends, that have been there
so long!"
"Is not that just what we are to do, not after your fashion, but after
the will of God, Arthur? Louis at the altar, I in the convent before the
altar, and you in the field of battle fighting for us both. Aaron,
Miriam, Moses, here are the three in the woods of Champlain, as once in
the desert of Arabia," and she smiled at the young men.
Louis returned the smile, and Arthur gave her a look of adoration, so
tender, so bold, that she trembled. The next moment, when the broad
space through which they were walking ended in a berry-patch, he plunged
among the bushes with eagerness, to gather for her black raspberries in
his drinking-cup. Her attempt to discuss her departure amiably had
failed.
"I am tired already," said she to Louis helplessly. "I shall go back to
the house, and leave you to go on together."
"Don't blame him," the Deacon pleaded, perceiving how useless was
concealment. "If you knew how that man has suffered in his life, and how
you opened heaven to him ..." she made a gesture of pain ... "remember
all his goodness and be gentle with him. He must speak before you go. He
will take anything from you, and you alone can teach him patience and
submission."
"How long...." she began. He divined what she would have asked.
"Mona has known it more than a year, but no one else, for he gave no
sign. I know it only a short time. After all it is not to be wondered
at. He has been near you, working with you for years. His life has been
lonely somehow, and you seemed to fill it. Do not be hasty with him. Let
him come to his avowal and his refusal in his own way. It is all you can
do for him. Knowing you so well he probably knows what he has to
receive."
Arthur came back with his berries and poured them out on a leaf for her
to eat. Seated for a little on a rock, while he lay on the ground at her
feet, she ate to please him; but her soul in terror saw only the white
face of Lord Constantine, and thought only of the pain in store for this
most faithful friend. Oh, to have it out with him that moment! Yet it
seemed too cruel. But how go on for a month in dread of what was to
come?
She loved him in her own beautiful way. Her tears fell that night as she
sat in her room by the window watching the high moon, deep crimson,
rising through the mist over the far-off islands. How bitter to leave
her beloved even for God, when the leaving brought woe to them! So long
she had waited for the hour of freedom, and always a tangle at the
supreme moment! How could she be happy and he suffering without the
convent gates? This pity was to be the last temptation, her greatest
trial. Its great strength did not disarm her. If twenty broke their
hearts on that day, she would not give up her loved design. Let God
comfort them, since she could not. But the vision of a peaceful
entrance into the convent faded. She would have to enter, as she had
passed through life, carrying the burden of another's woe, in tears.
She could see that he never lost heart. The days passed delightfully,
and somehow his adoration pleased her. Having known him in many lights,
there was novelty in seeing him illumined by candid love. How could he
keep so high a courage with the end so dark and so near? Honora had no
experience of love, romantic love, and she had always smiled at its
expression in the novels of the time. If Arthur only knew the task he
had set for himself! She loved him truly, but marriage repelled her
almost, except in others.
Therefore, having endured the uncertainty of the position a week, she
had it out with Arthur. Sitting on the rocks of an ancient quarry, high
above the surface of the lake, they watched the waters rough and white
from the strong south wind. The household had adjourned that day for
lunch to this wild spot, and the members were scattered about, leaving
them, as they always did now, by common consent alone.
"Perhaps," she said calmly, "this would be a good time to talk to you,
Arthur, as sister to brother ... can't we talk as brother and sister?"
For a change came over his face that sickened her. The next moment he
was ready for the struggle.
"I fear not, Honora," said he humbly. "I fear we can never do that
again."
"Then you are to stand in my way too?" with bitterness.
"No, but I am not going to stand in my own way," he replied boldly.
"Have I ever stood in your way, Honora?"
"You have always helped me. Do not fail me at the last, I beg of you."
"I shall never fail you, nor stand in your way. You are free now as your
father wished you to be. You shall go to the convent on the date which
you have named. Neither Ireland, nor anything but your heart shall
hinder you. You have seen my heart for a week as you never saw it
before. Do not let what you saw disturb or detain you. I told your
father of it the last day of his life, and he was glad. He said it was
like ... he was satisfied. Both he and I were of one mind that you
should be free. And you are."
Ideas and words fled from her. The situation of her own making she knew
not how to manage. What could be more sensible than his speech?
"Very well, thank you," she said helplessly.
He had perfect control of himself, but his attitude expressed his
uneasiness, his face only just concealed his pain. All his life in
moments like this, Arthur Dillon would suffer from his earliest sorrow.
"I hope you will all let me go with resignation," she began again.
"I give you to God freely," was his astonishing answer, "but I may tell
you it is my hope He will give you back to me. I have nothing, and He is
the Lord of all. He has permitted my heart to be turned to ashes, and
yet gave it life again through you. I have confidence in Him. To you I
am nothing; in the future I shall be only a memory to be prayed for. If
we had not God to lift us up, and repay us for our suffering, to what
would we come? I could not make my heart clear to you, show you its
depths of feeling, frightful depths, I think sometimes, and secure your
pity. God alone, the master of hearts, can do that. I have been generous
to the last farthing. He will not be outdone by me."
"Oh, my God!" she murmured, looking at him in wonder, for his words
sounded insanely to her ear.
"I love you, Honora," he went on, with a flush on his cheek, and so
humble that he kept his eyes on the ground. "Go, in spite of that, if
God demands it. If you can, knowing that I shall be alone, how much
alone no one may know, go nevertheless. Only bear it in mind, that I
shall wait for you outside the convent gate. If you cannot remain
thinking of me, I shall be ready for you. If not here, then hereafter,
as God wills. But you are free, and I love you. Before you go, God's
beloved," and he looked at her then with eyes so beautiful that her
heart went out to him, "you must let me tell you what I have been. You
will pray for me better, when you have learned how far a man can sink
into hell, and yet by God's grace reach heaven again."