look about her, and at the same time made a movement with her right
hand, which I often before had noticed in women. It was the involuntary
expression of the female soul, longing for a fan. A fan, however, made
up no part of the paraphernalia of a sister of the House of Martha.
"Allow me," I said, and, taking off my straw hat, I gently fanned her.
Mother Anastasia laughed. "This is really too much; please stop it. But
you may lend me your hat. I did not know the morning would be so warm,
and I am afraid I walked too fast. But we are losing time. Will you tell
me precisely what it is you wish to know of me?"
"I can soon do that," I answered; "but I must first say that I believe
you will suffocate if you try to talk from under that cavernous bonnet.
Why don't you take it off, and get the good of this cool shade? You had
discarded all that sort of thing when I last talked with you, and you
were then just as much a Mother Superior as you are now."
She smiled. "The case was very different then. I was actually obliged,
by the will of another, to discard the garb of our sisterhood."
"I most earnestly wish," said I, "that you could be obliged to do
partially the same thing now. With that bonnet on, you do not seem at
all the same person with whom I talked on Tangent Island. You appear
like some one to whom I must open the whole subject anew."
"Oh, don't do that," she said, with a deprecating movement of her
hand,--"I really haven't the time to listen; and if my bonnet hinders
your speech, off it shall come. Now, then, I suppose you want to know
the reason of my change of position in regard to Sylvia and you." As she
said this she took off her bonnet; not with a jerk, as Sylvia had once
removed hers, but carefully, without disturbing the dark hair which was
disposed plainly about her head. I was greatly relieved; this was an
entirely different woman to talk to.
"Yes," I replied, "that is what I want to know."
"I will briefly give you my reasons," she said, still fanning herself
with my hat, while I stood before her, earnestly listening, "and you
will find them very good and conclusive reasons. When I spoke to you
before, the case was this: Sylvia Raynor had had a trouble, which made
her think she was the most miserable girl in the whole world, and she
threw herself into our sisterhood. Her mother did not object to this,
because of course Sylvia entered as a probationer, and she thought a few
months of the House of Martha life would do her good. That her daughter
would permanently join the sisterhood never occurred to her. As I was a
relative, it was a natural thing that the girl should enter a house of
which I was the head. I did not approve of the step, but at first I had
no fears about it. After a while, however, I began to have fears. She
never liked our life and never sympathized with it, and her heart was
never enlisted in the cause of the sisterhood; but after a time I found
she was endeavoring to conquer herself, and when a woman with a
will--and Sylvia is one of these--undertakes in earnest to conquer
herself, she generally succeeds. Then it was I began to have my fears,
and then it was I wished to divert her mind from the life of the
sisterhood, and send her back to the world to which she belongs."
"Then it was you gave me your promise?" I added.
"Yes," she answered; "and I gave it honestly. I would have helped you
all I could. I truly believed that in so doing I was acting for Sylvia's
good."
"I thank you from the bottom of my heart," I said; "and tell me, did
Mrs. Raynor know, when I was on the island, of my affection for Sylvia?"
"She knew as much as I knew," was the answer, "for I went to the island
on purpose to consult with her on the subject; and when you confided in
me, and I gave you my promise to help you, I also told her about that."
"And did she approve?" I asked anxiously.
"She did not disapprove. She knew all about you and your family,
although she had never seen you until you were at her island."
"It is strange," said I, "that I should have happened to go to that
place at that time."
"Yes," she continued, "it does seem rather odd. But, as I was going to
say, a letter came not more than an hour after we had had our
conversation, which totally altered the face of affairs. Sylvia wrote
that she had resolved to devote her life to the sisterhood. This was a
great blow to her mother and to me, but Mrs. Raynor had firmly resolved
not to interfere with her daughter's resolutions in regard to her future
life. She had done so once, and the results had been very unfortunate. I
was of an entirely different mind, and I resolved, if the thing could be
done, to change Sylvia's purpose; but I failed, and that is the end of
it. She is not to be moved. I know her well, and her conviction and
determination are not to be changed. She is now on a visit to her
mother, and when she returns she will enter the House of Martha as an
inmate for life."
"Yes," said I, after a little pause, "I know that. I saw her a few days
ago, and she told me of her purpose."
"What!" cried Mother Anastasia, "you have seen her! A few days ago! She
told you all this! Why did you not say so? Why did you come to me?"
"Do not be displeased," I said, and as I spoke I seated myself beside
her on the stone. She made no objections. I think she was too much
agitated even to notice it. "I had no intention of keeping anything from
you, but I first wanted to hear what you had to tell me. Sylvia did not
tell me everything, nor have you."
"Met her, and talked with her!" ejaculated Mother Anastasia. "Will you
tell me how this happened?"
She listened with the greatest attention to my story.
"It is wonderful," she said, when I had finished. "It seems like a
tantalizing fate. But it is well you did not overtake Mrs. Raynor. It
would have been of no good to you, and the interview would have greatly
troubled her."
"Now tell me," I asked, "what I most want to know: what was the reason
of Sylvia's sudden determination?"
Mother Anastasia fixed her dark eyes on mine; they were full of a tender
sadness. "I thought of you nearly all last night," she said, "and I
determined that if you should ask me that question to-day I would answer
it. It is a hard thing to do, but it is the best thing. Sylvia's resolve
was caused by her conviction that she loved you. Feeling assured of
that, she unhesitatingly took the path which her conscience pointed out
to her."
"Conscience!" I exclaimed.
"Yes," said Mother Anastasia, "it was her conscience. She was far more
in earnest than we had thought her. It was conviction, not desire or
sympathy, which had prompted her to enter the sisterhood. Now her
convictions, her conscience, prompt her to crush everything which would
interfere with the life she has chosen. All this she has told me. Her
conscience stands between you and her, and you must understand that what
you wish is absolutely impossible. You must be strong, and give up all
thought of her. Will you promise me to do this?" and as she spoke she
laid her hand upon my arm. "Promise it, and I shall feel that I have
devoted myself this morning to as true a mission of charity as anything
to which our sisters vow themselves."
I did not respond, but sat silent, with bowed head.
"I must go now," said Mother Anastasia. "Reflect on what I have said,
and your heart and your practical sense will tell you that what I ask
you to do is what you ought to do and must do. Good-by," and she held
out her hand to me.
I took her hand and held it. The thought flashed into my mind that when
I released that hand the last tie between Sylvia and myself would be
broken.
Presently the hand was adroitly withdrawn, Mother Anastasia rose, and I
was left alone, sitting in the shadow of the tree.
XXXVII.
THE PERFORMANCE OF MY UNDER-STUDY.
On the next day, when Walkirk came back, I received him coolly. To be
sure, the time of his return was now of slight importance, but my manner
showed him that on general principles I blamed his delay.
I did not care to hear his explanations, but proceeded at once to state
the misfortunes which had befallen me. I told him in detail all that had
happened since I left the floating grocery. I did not feel that it was
at all necessary to do this, but there was a certain pleasure in talking
of my mishaps and sorrows; I was so dreadfully tired of thinking of
them.
As I told Walkirk of my interview with Mother Anastasia on the Maple
Ridge road, he laughed aloud. He instantly checked himself and begged my
pardon, but assured me that never had he heard of a man doing anything
so entirely out of the common as to make an appointment with a Mother
Superior to meet him under a tree. At first I resented his laugh, but I
could not help seeing for myself that the situation, as he presented it,
was certainly an odd one, and that a man with his mind free to ordinary
emotions might be excused for being amused at it.
When I had finished, and had related how Mother Anastasia had proved to
me that all possible connection between myself and Sylvia Raynor was now
at an end, Walkirk was not nearly so much depressed as I thought he
ought to be. In fact, he endeavored to cheer me, and did not agree with
Mother Anastasia that there was no hope. At this I lost patience.
"Confound it!" I cried, "what you say is not only preposterous, but
unfeeling. I hate this eternal making the best of things, when there is
no best. With me everything is at its worst, and it is cruel to try to
make it appear otherwise."
"I am sorry to annoy you," he said, "but I must insist that to me the
situation does not appear to be without some encouraging features. Let
me tell you what has happened to me since we parted."
I resumed the seat from which I had risen to stride up and down the
room, and Walkirk began his narrative.
"I do not know, sir," he said, "that I ever have been so surprised as
when I went on deck of the grocery boat, a short time before breakfast,
and found that you were not on board. Captain Jabe and his man were
equally astonished, and I should have feared that you had fallen
overboard, if a man, who had come on the boat at a little pier where we
had stopped very early in the morning, had not assured us that he had
seen you go ashore at that place, but had not thought it worth while to
mention so commonplace an occurrence. I wished to put back to the pier,
but it was then far behind us, and Captain Jabe positively refused to do
so. Both wind and tide would be against us, he said; and if you chose to
go ashore without saying anything to anybody, that was your affair, and
not his. I thought it possible you might have become tired with the slow
progress of his vessel, and had left it, to hire a horse, to get to
Sanpritchit before we did.
"When we reached Sanpritchit and you were not there, I was utterly
unable to understand the situation; but Mrs. Raynor's yacht was there,
just on the point of sailing, and I considered it my duty, as your
representative, to hasten on board, and to apprise the lady that you
were on your way to see her. Of course she wanted to know why you were
coming, and all that; and as you were not there to do it yourself, I
told her the nature of your errand, and impressed upon her the
importance of delaying her departure until she had seen you and had
heard what you had to say. She did not agree with me that the interview
would be of importance to any one concerned, but she consented to wait
for a time and see you. If you arrived, she agreed to meet you on shore;
for she would not consent to your coming on board the yacht, where her
daughter was. I went ashore, and waited there with great impatience
until early in the afternoon, when a boy arrived, who said he had
started to bring you to Sanpritchit, but that you had changed your mind,
and he had conveyed you to a railroad station, where you had taken a
western-bound train.
"I went to the yacht to report. I think Mrs. Raynor was relieved at your
non-arrival; and as she knew I wished to join you as soon as possible,
she invited me to sail with them to a little town on the coast,--I
forget its name,--from which I could reach the railroad much quicker
than from Sanpritchit."
"She did not object, then," said I, "to your being on the yacht with her
daughter?"
"Oh, no," he answered, "for she found that Miss Raynor did not know me,
or at least recognize me, and had no idea that I was in any way
connected with you. Of course I accepted Mrs. Raynor's offer; but I did
not save any time by it, for the wind fell off toward evening, and for
hours there was no wind at all, and it was late the next afternoon when
we reached the point where I went ashore."
"Did you see anything of Miss Raynor in all that time?" I inquired.
"Yes," he replied; "she was on deck a great deal, and I had several
conversations with her."
"With her alone?" I asked.
"Yes," said he. "Mrs. Raynor is a great reader and fond of naps, and I
think that the young lady was rather tired of the companionship of her
uncle and the other gentleman, who were very much given to smoking, and
was glad of the novelty of a new acquaintance. On my part, I felt it my
duty to talk to her as much as possible, that I might faithfully report
to you all that she said, and thus give you an idea of the state of her
mind."
"Humph!" I exclaimed; "but what did she say?"
"Of course," continued Walkirk, "a great deal of our conversation was
desultory and of no importance, but I endeavored, as circumspectly as I
could, so to turn the conversation that she might say something which it
would be worth while to report to you."
"Now, Walkirk," said I, "if I had known you were doing a thing of that
sort, I should not have approved of it. But did she say anything that in
any way referred to me?"
"Yes, she did," he answered, "and this is the way it came about.
Something--I think it was the heat of the windless day--caused her to
refer to the oppressive costume of the sisters of the House of Martha,
and she then remarked that she supposed I knew she was one of that
sisterhood. I replied that I had been so informed, and then betrayed as
much natural interest in regard to the vocations and purposes of the
organization as I thought would be prudent. I should have liked to bring
up every possible argument against the folly of a young lady of her
position and prospects extinguishing the very light of her existence in
that hard, cold, soul-chilling house which I knew so well, but the
circumstances did not warrant that. I was obliged to content myself with
very simple questions.
"'How do the sisters employ themselves?' I inquired.
"'In all sorts of ways,' she said. 'Some nurse or teach, and others work
for wages, like ordinary people, except that they do not have anything
to do with the money they earn, which is paid directly to the house.'
"'I think,' I then remarked, 'that there are a good many employments
which would give the sisters very pleasant occupation, such as
decorative art or clerical work.'
"At this her face brightened. 'Clerical work is very nice. I tried that
once, myself.'
"'Was it book-keeping?' I asked.
"'Oh, no,' she answered; 'I shouldn't have liked that. It was writing
from dictation. I worked regularly so many hours every morning. It was a
book which was dictated to me,--sketches of travel; that is, it was
partly travel and partly fiction. It was very interesting.'
"'I should think it would be so,' I answered. 'To ladies of education
and literary taste, I should say such employment would be highly
congenial. Do you intend to devote yourself principally to that sort of
thing?'
"'Oh, no,' said she, 'not at all. I like the work very much, but, for
various reasons, I shall not do any more of it.'
"I endeavored mildly to remonstrate against such a decision, but she
shook her head. 'I was not a full sister at the time,' she said, 'and
this was an experiment. I shall do no more of it.'
"Her manner was very decided, but I did not drop the subject. 'If you do
not fancy writing from dictation,' I said, 'why don't you try
typewriting? I should think that would be very interesting, and it could
be done in your own room. The work would not require you to go out at
all, if you object to that.' Now this was a slip, because she had not
told me that she had gone out, but she did not notice it.
"'A sister does not have a room of her own,' she answered, 'and I do not
understand typewriting;' and with that she left me, and went below,
looking very meditative.
"But my remark had had an effect. I think it was not half an hour
afterward when she came to me.
"'I have been thinking about your suggestion of typewriting,' she said.
'Is it difficult to learn? Do you understand it? What use could I make
of a machine in the House of Martha?'
"I told her that I understood the art, and gave her all the information
I could in regard to it, taking care to make the vocation as attractive
as my conscience would allow. As to the use she could make of it, I said
that at present there was a constant demand for typewritten copies of
all sorts of writings,--legal, literary, scientific, everything.
"'And people would send me things,' she asked, 'and I would copy them on
the typewriter, and send them back, and that would be all?'
"'You have put it exactly,' I said. 'If you do not choose, you need have
no communication whatever with persons ordering the work.'
"'And do you know of any one who would want such work done?'
"'Yes,' I said; 'I know people who would be very glad to send papers to
be copied. I could procure you some work which would be in no hurry, and
that would be an advantage to you in the beginning.'
"'Indeed it would,' she said; and then her mother joined us, and the
subject of typewriting was dropped. The only time that it was referred
to again was at the very end of my trip, when Miss Raynor came to me,
just as I was preparing to leave the yacht, and told me that she had
made up her mind to get a typewriter and to learn to use it; and she
asked me, if I were still willing to assist her in securing work, to
send my address to the Mother Superior of the House of Martha, which of
course I assured her I would do."
"Why in the name of common sense," I cried, turning suddenly around in
my chair and facing Walkirk, "did you put into Miss Raynor's head all
that stuff about typewriting? Did you do it simply because you liked to
talk to her?"
"By no means," he replied. "I did it solely on your account and for your
benefit. If she learns to copy manuscripts on the typewriter, why should
she not copy your manuscripts? Not immediately, perhaps, but in the
natural course of business. If she should make me her agent, which I
have no doubt she would be willing to do, I could easily manage all
that. In this way you could establish regular communications with her.
There would be no end to your opportunities, and I am sure you would
know how to use them with such discretion and tact that they would be
very effective."
I folded my arms, and looked at him. "Walkirk," said I, "you are
positively, completely, and hopelessly off the track. Mother Anastasia
has shown me exactly how I stand with Sylvia Raynor. She has vowed
herself to that sisterhood because she thinks it is wrong to love me.
She has made her decision, and has taken all the wretched steps which
have rendered that decision final, and now I do not intend to try to
make her do what she religiously believes is wrong."
"That is not my idea," answered Walkirk. "What I wish is that she shall
get herself into such a state of mind that she shall think the
sisterhood is wrong, and therefore leave it."
I gave a snort of despair and disgust, and began to stride up and down
the room. Presently, however, I recovered my temper. "Walkirk," said I,
"I am quite sure that you mean well, and I don't intend to find fault
with you; but this sort of thing does not suit me; let us have no more
of it."
XXXVIII.
A BROKEN TRACE.
As soon as my grandmother heard that I was at Arden, she terminated her
visit abruptly, and returned home. When she saw me, she expressed the
opinion that my holiday had not been of any service to me. She did not
remember ever seeing me so greatly out of condition, and was of the
opinion that I ought to see the doctor.
"These watering places and islands," she said, "are just as likely to be
loaded down with malaria as any other place. In fact, I don't know but
it is just as well for our health for us to stay at home. That is, if we
live in a place like Arden."
I had no desire to conceal from this nearest and dearest friend and
relative the real cause of my appearance, and I laid before her all the
facts concerning Sylvia and myself.
She was not affected as I supposed she would be. In fact, my narrative
appeared to relieve her mind of some of her anxieties.
"Any way," she remarked, after a moment or two of consideration, "this
is better than malaria. If you get anything of that kind into your
system, it is probable that you will never get it out, and it is at any
time likely to affect your health, one way or another; but love affairs
are different. They have a powerful influence upon a person, as I well
know, but there is not about them that insidious poison, which, although
you may think you have entirely expelled it from your system, is so
likely to crop out again, especially in the spring and fall."
To this I made no answer but a sigh. What was the good of saying that,
in my present state of mind, health was a matter of indifference to me?
"I am not altogether surprised," continued my grandmother, "that that
secretary business turned out in this way. If it had been any other
young woman, I should have advised against it, but Sylvia Raynor is a
good match,--good in every way; and I thought that if her working with
you had made you like her, and had made her like you, it might be very
well; but I am sure it never entered my mind that if you did come to
like each other she would choose the sisterhood instead of you. I knew
that she was not then a full sister, and I hadn't the slightest doubt
that if you two really did fall in love with each other she would leave
the House of Martha as soon as her time was up. You must not think, my
dear boy," she continued, "that I am anxious to get rid of you, but you
know you must marry some day."
I solemnly shook my head. "All that," I said, "is at an end. We need
speak no more of it."
My grandmother arose, and gently placed her hand upon my shoulder.
"Come! come! Do not be so dreadfully cast down. You have yet one strong
ground of hope."
"What is that?" I inquired.
My grandmother looked into my face and smiled. "The girl isn't dead
yet," she answered.
I now found myself in a very unsettled and unpleasant state of mind. My
business affairs, which had been a good deal neglected of late, I put
into the charge of Walkirk, who attended to them with much interest and
ability. My individual concerns--that is to say, the guidance and
direction of myself--I took into my own hands, and a sorry business I
made of it.
I spent a great deal of my time wondering whether or not Sylvia had
returned to the House of Martha. I longed for her coming. The very
thought of her living within a mile of me was a wild and uneasy
pleasure. Then I would ask myself why I wished her to come. Her presence
in the neighborhood would be of no good to me unless I saw her, and of
course I could not see her. And if this could be so, what would be worse
for me, or for her, than our seeing each other? From these abstract
questions I came to a more practical one: What should I do? To go away
seemed to be a sensible thing, but I was tired of going away. I liked my
home, and, besides, Sylvia would be in the neighborhood. It also seemed
wise to stay, and endeavor to forget her. But how could I forget her, if
she were in the neighborhood? If she were to go away, I might be willing
to go away also; but the chances were that I should not know where she
had gone, and how could I endure to go to any place where I was certain
she was not?
During this mental tangle I confided in no one. There was no one who
could sympathize with my varying view of the subject, and I knew there
was no one with whose view of the subject I could agree. Sometimes it
was almost impossible for me to sympathize with myself.
It suited my mood to take long walks in the surrounding country. One
morning, returning from one of these, when about half a mile out of the
village, I saw in the road, not very far from me, a carriage, which
seemed to be in distress. It was a four-wheeled, curtained vehicle, of
the kind to be had for hire at the railroad stations; and beside the
raw-boned horse which drew it stood a man and a woman, the latter in the
gray garb of a sister of the House of Martha.