THE FOSTER-SISTERS.
Summer day glided silently after summer day, and at Brackenside Farm
Earle Moray was re-telling for himself the story of Eden--the love of
one man for one woman, to him the only woman in the world. Alas, that
his had not been a more guileless Eve! The love-making was patent to
every one, and the family at the farm wondered where it would end. Mark
Brace was truly sorry that Earle had set his heart on the lovely,
fantastic Doris; and yet, honest man, he did not wonder that any young
fellow should be beguiled by so fair a face, and he could not but be
heartily amused at the queenly airs with which the farm foundling,
believing herself a tenant-farmer's child, received the homage of Earle
Moray, poet and gentleman, owner of the little estate of Lindenholm.
Good Patty Brace was, on her part, greatly perplexed. With woman's keen
intuition in love, she perceived the intense sincerity of Earle's
passion for Doris, and saw as well that Doris was entirely without heart
for him. The girl admired him, loved his flattery, desired to be some
one's chief object, but would have tossed him aside as easily as an old
glove if a more dashing adorer had made his appearance. Besides, if
Doris gave consent to Earle's wooing, would Mrs. Moray be well pleased
with her son's choice? Mrs. Moray of Lindenholm was a thoroughly
practical woman, and would see at a glance that the idle young beauty
would be a very unreliable wife for any man, especially for one of
moderate means.
"What fools men are in love matters," quoth Patty to herself--"at least
most men!" with a thought backward to Mark's sensible choosing. "This
dreamer and verse-writer would have done well to choose our Mattie, who
would help him on and make him happy his life-long. But Doris is only
fit to marry a lord, as no doubt she sprung from a lord; but where a
lord is to come from as a suitor goodness knows, not I."
And, of all who saw the summer wooing, Mattie was the most deeply
touched, but gave no sign. When she felt the sharpness of the pain when
Doris asserted empire over Earle, then Mattie first guessed that she had
set her love upon him; and she gave herself the task of rooting out
lover's love, and planting sisterly affection in its stead. Her gentle
face grew graver, her soft brown eyes had a more wistful light, but not
a thought of jealousy, or anger, or envy. God was good to Mattie in that
no ill weeds throve in her maiden soul. Doris did not find the sweetness
she had expected in tormenting her, for Mattie gave no signs of
torment--rather for Earle than for herself she was sad, and that with
reason.
It is sad to see a young man love absorbingly, madly, giving up all for
love. Doris became his one idea. Even his mother, while she knew he was
attracted by a pretty daughter of Mark Brace, did not guess his
infatuation. Scarcely an hour in the day were the young pair parted.
Earle had told Doris of the poet's old recipe for a lovely complexion,
washing in morning dew; and Doris, to preserve the most exquisite
complexion in the world, went out, when the sun rose, to bathe her
cheeks and brow with the other lilies and roses in the dews of the
dawning. Earle met her and rambled with her through flowery lanes. When
his supposed studies in farming began, he was rather lounging at the
feet of Doris than learning of Mark Brace; yet so eagerly did he hurry
off to the farm, that his mother blessed his unwonted attention to his
duty.
He dined at home, not to leave his mother lonely, then off again, and
his farm studies consisted in reading poetry or tales to Doris, under
trees, or wandering far into the gloaming with her in Brackenside
garden. His heart poured itself out in Herrick's grand old song "To
Anthea:"
"Thou art my life, my soul, my heart,
The very eyes of me--
Thou hast command of every part,
To live and die for thee."
His rich young voice rolled forth these words with deep feeling.
Doris laughed at the song at first, but his earnestness in singing it
touched her a very little.
"I shall always think of you when I hear that song," she said.
"Think of me! Yes, but if it means that we are to be parted, and you
think--just to remember--Doris, I should die!"
He was fervid, handsome, romantic, brilliant in love's first golden
glow, hard to resist.
She smiled at him.
"Let us fancy we will not be parted," she said sweetly.
Earle came hurrying up one day after dinner.
"Now for a long evening in the garden!" he cried. "I have brought a new
drama; the poetry is exquisite. We will sit in the arbor under the
honeysuckle, and while the summer wind is full of the breath of flowers,
I will read you the sweeter breathing of a poet's soul. Come,
Doris--come, Mattie--let us off to the garden."
Mattie's face flushed with joy; it was so sweet to find some pleasure
she could share with him.
Earle read; his voice was full of fire and music. Mattie listened
entranced. Doris half forgot her favorite dreams of herself in gorgeous
crowds, the center of admiration. The gloaming fell as he read the last
lines.
"It is beautiful, in its poetry," said Mattie, "but not in its idea. I
cannot love the heroine, though her face is fair. Beauty should be
united to goodness, and goodness has not this cruel pride. To think of a
woman who would let a brave man die, or risk death, to win a smile! I
always hated the lady who threw the glove, and I think the knight served
her well, to leave her when he returned the glove, for she had no idea
of true love."
"Beauty has a right to all triumphs," cried Doris, "and men have always
been ready to die for beauty's smile."
"A good man's life is worth more than any woman's smile," said Mattie.
"The man's life, the woman's life, are Heaven's gifts, to be spent in
doing good. We have no right to throw them idly away, or demand their
sacrifice. I never liked these stories of wasted affection. They are
too pitiful. To give all and get nothing is a cruel fate."
"Oh, you little silly country girl," laughed Doris, "you do not think
that beautiful women are queens, and hearts are their rightful kingdom,
and they can get as many as they like, and do what they please with
them."
"You talk to amuse yourself," said Earle, "that sweet smile and voice
fit your cruel words as little as they would suit an executioner's
sword."
"What is slaying by treachery in love better than murder?" asked Mattie,
eagerly.
"It is a very exciting, piquant, interesting form of murder," retorted
her wicked little sister.
"How can any one enjoy giving pain," cried Mattie. "I have read of such
women, but to me they seem true demons, however fair. Think of
destroying hope, life, genius, morals--for what? For amusement, and yet
these sons all had mothers."
"You are in earnest, Mattie," said Earle, admiringly.
"I feel in earnest," said Mattie, passionately.
"Pshaw, there is much spider and fly in men and women," laughed Doris.
"Women weave silvery nets in the sun, and the silly men walk straight
in. Who's to blame?"
"You talk like a worn-out French cynic," cried Mattie.
"Well, who _is_ to blame?" persisted Doris; "pretty women for just
amusing themselves according to their natures? or silly men for walking
into danger, being warned?"
"It should not be a woman's nature to set traps for hearts or souls. You
know better, Doris," urged Mattie.
"If I could be rich and great, and go to London, and live in society,
you'd see if I would _do_ better," retorted Doris.
"You two remind me of verses of a poem on two sisters," said Earle.
"Their lives lay far apart.
"'One sought the gilded world, and there became
A being fit to startle and surprise,
Till men moved to the echoes of her name,
And bowed beneath the magic of her eyes.'"
"Yes, that means me," said Doris, tranquilly.
"'But she, the other, with a happier choice,
Dwelt 'mong the breezes of her native fields,
Laughed with the brooks, and saw the flowers rejoice;
Brimmed with all sweetness that the summer yields.'"
"That, then, is Mattie."
Mattie looked up in gratified surprise.
"If you are complimenting Mattie, I won't stay and hear it; I reign
alone!" cried Doris, half laughing, half petulant, and darting away she
sought her own room, and refused to return that night.
It was often so. When she had sunned Earle with her smiles she withdrew
her presence, or changed smiles to frowns; so he was never cloyed with
too much sweetness. When Doris withdrew, in vain he sang under the
window, or sent her love-full notes. The summer sun of his love had its
settings, its shadows, its thunder-clouds, yet Earle loved and was
happy.