THE BREAKING OF ANOTHER DAY AND WAY
Alva slipped into her cape, and drawing some fur up round her throat,
set swiftly forth upon the Long Bridge--for the last time, she told
herself.
The snow was falling fast, but not thickly as yet, and she had it in her
heart to steal under cover of the fast-approaching twilight to her
house, and look upon that also for the last time. Her sorrow was too
deep to leave any room to mourn the background of her dream, but the
background was consecrated by the dream and she longed to stand once
more close to those walls, even if only to sob her heart out alone under
the rustle of dead leaves, amidst the fast deepening snow.
There was in her that awful strength that saves one's reason in the
first shock of the otherwise unbearable. Years were ahead and yet her
heart did not shrink; endless gray duties stretched between their
mile-stones, but to her it mattered not. Nothing mattered, she told
herself over and over. Life would go on, other lives in especial would
go on; their demands would be hers to meet, their cares and troubles,
their joys and sorrows would be hers to reflect, but to her personally
nothing would--nothing could--matter more. Her unseeing eyes looked out
over the gorge; the matchless beauty, for the preservation of which her
dead love had fought so hard, came to a blind market now; she could not
see, she could not feel, for her life and all that makes life worth
living was over.
So she swept on, her dark cape fluttering wide like wings on either side
of her steady swiftness. The snow crystals clung to the wool and quickly
starred its night with stars, but she saw no night except her own, and
noted no stars. "And yet I must not give way too much," she thought
suddenly, with a quick stabbing sense of proving unworthy; "if I am what
I have told Lassie that one should be--if I am what one who has truly
loved should surely be--I shall be strong and live resolutely as he
lived, even though I have been so crushed. Pain could not crush his
spirit; shall sorrow crush mine? I _will_ be strong."
The letter which she had brought out with her came to her mind then, and
she paused and read it. It was from the surgeon and told her what she
had lately mistrusted,--that there had never been the slightest chance
of moving him, that she had been sent away as a child is banished from a
painful scene, and that she had been beguiled as a child is beguiled.
She did not resent the truth, she was too big to resent such a truth;
but she felt freshly mournful, and the home that was to have been seemed
to fade utterly out of her consciousness, leaving her with no desire to
ever see it again.
But there was another sheet within the envelope. She took that out, too.
It was printed--in a hand that trembled. Her heart contracted as she saw
the crooked lines,--so much ran deep between them.
ALVA:--I have struggled. I shall not give up. I believe
sometimes God has given a new body to serve a needed end. I
cannot go. I must come back. Not for your sake. But for
theirs--for the sake of those who will never know. If I come,
help me again. For you and for me help is the only bond. I am
not sure that there is any other that endures. Not in this
present world of ours.
She shook a little. Something especially cold and piercing struck to her
heart. She raised her eyes quickly, and there, close beside her on the
bridge, the dead man stood.
His bright dark eyes looked straight into hers.
"Don't you know who I am?" he said.
She would have fallen but for his quick grasp, and the grasp choked the
cry that was rising, for it was the grasp of flesh and of strength.
"Don't you know who I am?" he asked again. "I thought that I saw in your
eyes that you knew. I thought that she had described me to you. I'm
Lisle Bayard. You wrote to me, you know."
She drew away from him, and leaned heavily against the bridge-rail. If
it were true that this were he! A new body to serve a great purpose. If
that Mystery that is the rooting of all that is or is to be had been
building this man and this hour, and weaving and twisting and shaping
both to its ends! She seemed to stand motionless, but within herself she
was dizzy and reeling. "He moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to
perform."
"You have freed them?" she said, divining truth with a prescience that
startled herself.
"Oh, yes," he said, "I have been to Geneseo. They are free. But you
never really believed that I had any interest in them, did you?"
His voice was no strange voice in her ears, nor was his manner that of a
stranger. She had to press her temples hard with her two hands. "You are
like the man whom I loved," she said; "he--he died yesterday. That was
what drew me to her; she described you and said that you loved her."
"Poor thing," he said, simply.
"And that you pursued her," Alva went on; "you can think that I
befriended her then. I tried to help her. Because I, too, loved--and
hoped."
"It was good of you," he said; "but they are mere adventuresses--not
worth your troubling."
"But you have helped them?"
"I? Oh, yes. But," he hesitated; "I am tired of my life," he added
suddenly. "I've turned over a new leaf--I've reformed."
"Since when?"
"Since yesterday."
She held hard to the bridge-rail. "Since yesterday," she repeated;
"since yesterday?"
"Yes, since yesterday."
Her eyes were staring into his now. "Tell me about it?" she cried, as
the starving cry out for food--"at once."
"I don't know about it. I just turned in disgust from myself. It was all
in a minute. I wandered about all day and all last night. I tried to
drink--you know I drink?--and then all of a sudden I realized what a
beast I'd been, and I turned from it all. Something stronger than myself
drew me to Geneseo this morning; something stronger yet drew me here;
what led me out upon the bridge was strongest of all. I don't know what
it all means, but perhaps you do."
For a long minute she looked at him, and then she spoke. "The man who
died is guiding you," she said; "I know it is that."
He smiled a little. "Can I trust him?" he asked.
"I think so," she answered; "because his appeal is to your better self.
You will learn."
"And you will teach me?" he said, quickly.
She was silent.
"You will teach me?" he repeated.
"I am going home," she said. "I live far from here. I have duties which
will chain me there for life. You will learn of him alone. You will be
guided; do not fear."
He looked at her, and his eyes blazed suddenly. She shrank back with a
cry. "Oh, no--not that--not that!" she exclaimed; "I loved him and he is
dead. His work descends on us to do, that is all. All!"
The man, looking down at her with the dead man's eyes, was silent.
"I am not able to talk to you," she said, "I can hardly control my
voice. He died yesterday, and to-day you speak to me with his voice. And
it is so strange,--your coming. It is all so strange."
"Yes, it is all strange," he said; "but it cannot stop here, you know.
The Purpose that has brought this about will not cease to exist now."
She felt herself agitated, unnerved, trembling. She took hold of the
bridge-rail again. "The Purpose works for great ends," she said; "we
must learn that. I have learned it. Even a little respite from daily
life is not allowed, when one has once crossed the border and left self
behind. I have had to learn that in a bitter school. For God's sake,
lift burdens; do not add to them. And do not make my lot harder than it
is to be. You are not him, and I know it. Do not seek friendship with
me; it is torture."
"But if I were he," he said, "if I do his work, live towards his goal,
accomplish his purposes. Who shall say what soul I bear? I never had a
soul till yesterday. I have one now. Where did it come from, this new
soul of mine. Perhaps from him. I've read stories like that."
"I cannot bear it," she said, suddenly; "my head refuses to understand.
All that I have believed is rolling and crashing around me. Let us say
good-by. In a few hours I shall be far away. Oh, I shall be glad--so
glad--to go."
"But I shall remain," he declared. "I shall take up the battle, and I
shall win his unfinished fight. Let us leave the future wrapped in its
mystery. I have been impatient all my life, but now I can wait."
She walked away through the snow.
And then suddenly, as she moved, she felt her steps stayed--she stopped.
It was not the man who had stayed her; he was standing where she had
left him, behind her--there on the bridge. But she was stopped by a
thought; at that thought she turned.
"If you are to live here," she said faltering, her voice quite unlike
its usual firm, low purpose,--"if you are to live here, you will want a
home. There is a house--"
She paused. Her hand had drawn a key from her pocket, and without
further explanation she held it out to him.
He approached and took the key. He asked no question. He spoke no word.
They did not even exchange a glance.
Five minutes later a veil of snowflakes divided them, and the gorge lay
black between.
What is there to be said further? Nothing unless perhaps the single line
that can so fitly begin and end all:
"He moves in a mysterious way."
* * * * *
_An International Love Comedy_
A WOMAN'S WILL
By ANNE WARNER
Author of "Susan Clegg and Her Friend Mrs. Lathrop."
It is a relief to take up a volume so absolutely free from
stressfulness. The love-making is passionate, the humor of much of the
conversation is thoroughly delightful. The book is as refreshing a bit
of fiction as one often finds; there is not a dull page in
it.--_Providence Journal._
It is bright, charming, and intense as it describes the wooing of a
young American widow on the European Continent by a German musical
genius.--_San Francisco Chronicle._
A deliciously funny book.--_Chicago Tribune._
There is a laugh on nearly every page.--_New York Times._
Most decidedly an unusual story. The dialogue is nothing if not
original, and the characters are very unique. There is something
striking on every page of the book.--_Newark Advertiser._
A more vivacious light novel could not be found.--_Chicago
Record-Herald._
Illustrated by I. H. Caliga. 360 pages. 12mo.
Decorated cloth, $1.50.
LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS, BOSTON
_At all Booksellers'_
_New Edition with Pictures from the Play_
THE REJUVENATION OF AUNT MARY
_By_ ANNE WARNER
_Author of "Susan Clegg and Her Friend Mrs. Lathrop," "A Woman's Will,"
etc._
Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.50
Always amusing and ends in a burst of sunshine.--_Philadelphia Ledger._
Impossible to read without laughing. A sparkling, hilarious
tale.--_Chicago Record-Herald._
The love story is as wholesome and satisfactory as the fun. In its class
this book must be accorded the first place.--_Baltimore Sun._
The humor is simply delicious.--_Albany Times-Union._
Every one that remembers Susan Clegg will wish also to make the
acquaintance of Aunt Mary. Her "imperious will and impervious eardrums"
furnish matter for uproarious merriment.... A book to drive away the
blues and make one well content with the worst weather.--_Pittsburg
Gazette._
Cheerful, crisp, and bright. The comedy is sweetened by a satisfying
love tale.--_Boston Herald._
LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS
254 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON
_An exceedingly clever volume._--BOSTON GLOBE
AN ORIGINAL GENTLEMAN
_By_ ANNE WARNER
Author of "The Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary," the "Susan Clegg" books, etc.
Frontispiece by Alice Barber Stephens. Cloth. $1.50
Merry reading indeed.--_New York Tribune._
All are humorous.... In none is dialect used.--_New York Sun._
The book brings out new possibilities in the author's work and will add
much to her popularity.--_Springfield Republican._
Humor and novelty of plot characterize most of the stories, and they are
entirely worthy of the creator of "Susan Clegg" and "Aunt
Mary."--_Syracuse Herald._
Crisply told, quaintly humorous.... Only a woman with discernment and
tenderness, and only an artist could make characters live and breathe as
hers do.--_Boston Transcript._
Exhibits her cleverness and her sense of humor.... Show much of that
humor in the conception and that skill in droll delineation of character
which first brought Anne Warner into notice with her "Susan Clegg"
stories.--_New York Times._
LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS
254 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON
_Anne Warner's "Susan Clegg" Books_
SUSAN CLEGG AND HER FRIEND MRS. LATHROP
_By_ ANNE WARNER
With Frontispiece, $1.00
Nothing better in the new homely philosophy style of fiction has been
written.--_San Francisco Bulletin._
One of the most genuinely humorous books ever written.--_St. Louis
Globe-Democrat._
Anything more humorous than the Susan Clegg stories would be hard to
find.--_The Critic, New York._
_By the Same Author_:
SUSAN CLEGG AND HER NEIGHBORS' AFFAIRS
With Frontispiece, $1.00
All the stories brim over with quaint humor, caustic sarcasm, and
concealed contempt for male and matrimonial chains.--_Philadelphia
Ledger._
SUSAN CLEGG AND A MAN IN THE HOUSE
Illustrated by ALICE BARBER STEPHENS. $1.50
Susan is a positive joy, and the reading world owes Anne Warner a vote
of thanks for her contribution to the list of American humor.--_New York
Times._
LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS
254 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON