toward the group; but the woman had perceived my approach, and to my
surprise came toward me. I quickly saw that it was Mother Anastasia. My
heart sank; without any good reason, it must be admitted, but still it
sank.
The face of the Mother Superior was slightly flushed, as she walked
rapidly in my direction. Saluting her, I inquired what had happened.
"Nothing of importance," she answered; "a trace has broken."
"I will go and look at it," I said. "Sometimes that sort of mishap can
be easily remedied."
"Oh, no," said she, "don't trouble yourself. It's broken in the middle,
and so you cannot cut a fresh hole in it, or do any of those things
which men do to broken traces. I have told the boy that he must take out
the horse, and ride it back to the stable and get another set of
harness. That is the only thing to be done. I shall wait here for his
return, and I am very glad to have met you."
Naturally I was pleased at this. "Then you have something to say to me?"
I remarked.
"Yes," she answered, "I have a good deal to say. Let us walk on to a
more shaded place."
"Now it strikes me," said I, "that the most pleasant place to wait will
be in the carriage; there we can sit and talk quite comfortably."
"Oh, no," she said, with a sort of half laugh, "it is stuffy and horrid.
I greatly prefer the fresh air. I have reason to suppose you do not
object to conversing under a tree. I see a promising bit of shade a
little farther on."
"Would it be wise to go so far from the carriage?" I asked. "Have you
left in it anything of value?"
Mother Anastasia was more animated than I had ever seen her before when
in the uniform of the house.
"Oh, pshaw!" she answered. "You know the people around here do not steal
things out of carriages. Let us step on."
"But first," I said, "I will run down and pull the carriage out of the
way of passing vehicles. It now stands almost across the road."
With a movement of impatience, she put her hand upon my arm. "Don't
trouble yourself about that hack; let it stand where it is. I wish to
speak with you, and do not let us waste our time."
I had no objection to speaking with Mother Anastasia, and, giving no
further thought to the abandoned vehicle, I walked with her to a spot
where a clump of straggling locust-trees threw a scanty shade upon the
sidewalk. I could not but feel that my companion had something important
to say to me, for she was evidently a good deal agitated. She stepped a
little in front of me, and then turned and faced me.
"There is no place to sit down here," she said, "but I'm not tired, are
you?"
I assured her that I was not, and would as soon talk standing as
sitting.
"Now, then," she began, "tell me about yourself. What have you been
doing? What are your plans?"
"My plans!" I cried. "Of what importance are my plans and actions? I
thought you wished to speak to me of Sylvia."
She smiled. "There is really nothing to say about that young person, of
whom, by the way, you should not speak as 'Sylvia.' She is now a full
member of the sisterhood, and has accepted the name of 'Sister Hagar.'
We found that the other sisters would not like it if an exception were
made in her favor, in regard to her name."
"'Hagar!'" I groaned. "Horrible!"
"Oh, no," replied Mother Anastasia, "there is nothing horrible about it.
'Hagar' is a little harsh, perhaps, but one soon gets used to that sort
of thing."
"I can never get used to it," I said.
"My dear Mr. Vanderley," said the Mother Superior, speaking very
earnestly, but with a gentleness that was almost affectionate, "I wish I
could impress upon your mind that there is no need of your getting used
to the name of our young sister, or of your liking it or disliking it.
You ought thoroughly to understand, from what she has told you, and from
what I have told you, that she never can be anything to you, and that,
out of regard to yourself, if to no one else, you should cease to think
of her as I see you do think."
"As long as I live in this world," I replied, "I shall continue to think
of her as I do think."
Mother Anastasia gave a sigh. "The unreasonableness of men is something
inexplicable. Perhaps you think I am not old enough to give you advice,
but I will say that, for your own sake, you ought to crush and
obliterate the feelings you have toward our sister; and if you do not
choose to do it for your own sake, you ought to do it for her sake and
that of our sisterhood. It makes it extremely awkward for us, to say the
least of it, to know that there is a gentleman in the village who is in
love with one of the sisters of the House of Martha."
"I suppose you would have me exile myself," I replied, "leave forever my
home, my grandmother, everything that is dear to me, and all for the
sake of the peace and quiet of your sisterhood. Let me assure you I do
not care enough for your sisterhood to do that."
The Mother Superior smiled ironically, but not ill-naturedly. "I am very
much afraid," she remarked, "that in this matter you care for no one but
yourself. There is nothing so selfish as a man in love."
"He needs to be," I answered. "But tell me, is Sylvia here?"
"Sylvia again," said she, half laughing. "Yes, she has returned to the
House of Martha, and you can see for yourself that, if you continue in
your present state of mind, it will be impossible for her ever to go
outside of the house."
"I shall not hurt her," I answered.
"Yes, you will hurt her," quickly replied Mother Anastasia. "You will
hurt her very much, if you meet her, and show by your words, looks, or
actions that your former attitude toward her is not changed." She came
nearer to me, looking into my face with her eyes full of an earnest
tenderness, and as she spoke she laid the tips of her fingers gently
upon my shoulder. She had a very pleasant way of doing this. "I do
wish," she said, "that you would let me prevail upon you to do what your
conscience must tell you is right. If you have ever loved the girl who
was once Sylvia Raynor, that is the best of reasons why you should cease
to love her now. You owe it to her to cease to love her."
I looked steadily into the face of the Mother Superior.
"You promise me that you will do that?" she said, with a smile upon her
lips and a light in her eyes which might have won over almost any man to
do almost anything. "You promise me that you will allow our young
sister, who has hardships enough to bear without any more being thrust
upon her, to try to be happy in the way she has chosen, and that you
will try to be happy in the way you should have chosen; that you will go
out into the world and act your part in life; that you will look upon
this affair as something which has vanished into the past; and that you
will say to your heart, 'You are free, if not by my will, by the
irresistible force of circumstances'?"
I looked at her a few moments in silence, and then answered, very
quietly, "I shall do nothing of the kind."
She gave her head a little toss and stepped backward, and then, with a
half laugh which seemed to indicate an amused hopelessness, she said:
"You are utterly impracticable, and I am certain I do not know what is
to be done about it. But I see that the boy has returned with the horse,
and I must continue my journey. I am going to the Iron Furnace to see a
sick woman. I wish you would think of what I have said, and remember
that it was spoken from the depth of my soul. And do not think," she
continued, as I turned and accompanied her toward the carriage, "that I
do not appreciate the state of your feelings. I understand them
thoroughly, and I sympathize with you as perhaps only a woman can
sympathize; but still I say to you that there are some things in this
world which we must give up, and which we ought to give up promptly and
willingly."
"Do you think," said I, "that if Sylvia were to learn typewriting there
would be any objection to her copying manuscript for me?"
Mother Anastasia burst into a laugh. "You ought to be ashamed of
yourself for making a person of my position behave so giddily in the
presence of a hack-driver."
We now reached the carriage, and I assisted her to enter it.
"Good-morning," she said, her face still perturbed by her suddenly
checked merriment, "and do not forget the counsels I have given you."
I bowed and stepped back, but the driver did not start. He sat for a
moment irresolute, and then, turning toward Mother Anastasia, asked,
"Shall I wait for the other sister?"
"Oh, go on!" cried the Mother Superior. "There is no other sister."
The boy, startled by her tone, gave his horse a cut, and the equipage
rattled away. I walked slowly homeward, meditating earnestly upon Mother
Anastasia's words and upon Mother Anastasia.
XXXIX.
A SOUL WHISPER?
My meditations upon the Mother Superior of the House of Martha were not
concluded during my homeward walk; the subject occupied my mind for the
greater part of the rest of the day. I do not call myself a philosopher,
but I am in the habit of looking into the nature and import of what
happens about me. My reflections on Mother Anastasia gradually produced
in me the conviction that there was something more in her words, her
manner, and her actions than would appear to the ordinary observer.
In considering this matter, I went back to the very first of my
intercourse with this beautiful woman, who, divested of the dismal
disguise of her sisterhood, had produced upon my memory an impression
which was so strong that, whenever I now thought of Mother Anastasia,
she appeared before my mental vision in a white dress, with a broad hat
and a bunch of flowers in her belt. In the character of a beautiful and
sensible woman, and not at all in that of a Mother Superior, she had
warmly commended my suit of Sylvia Raynor. With our regard for Sylvia as
a basis, we had consulted, we had confided, we had shown ourselves to
each other in a most frank and friendly manner.
Suddenly she had changed, she had deserted me without a word of
explanation, and the next time I saw her she was totally opposed to my
maintaining any connection whatever with Sylvia.
But there had been more than this. This woman, beautiful even in her
gray garb, had shown an increasing interest in the subject, which could
not be altogether explained by her interest in Sylvia. If she truly
believed that that young sister would devote her life to the service of
the House of Martha, that matter might be considered as settled; and
what was her object in so earnestly endeavoring to impress upon my mind
the fact that I could not marry Sylvia? It might be supposed that, in
the ordinary course of events, I should be compelled to admit this
point. But not only did she continually bring up this view of the
subject, but she showed such a growing interest in me and my welfare
that it made me uneasy.
It is almost impossible truly to understand a woman; most men will admit
this. I could not say that I understood Mother Anastasia. At times I
hoped I did not understand her. From what I knew of the constitution of
the sisterhood, some of its members were vowed to it for life, and
others for a stated period. Putting together this and that which Mother
Anastasia had said to me about the organization, it did not appear to me
that she felt that devotion to it which a sister for life would
naturally feel. She had used all the art of a logician to impress upon
me the conviction that Sylvia was a life sister, and could be nothing
else. Was it possible--I scarcely dared to ask myself the question--that
she had used the arts of a woman to intimate to me that she might be
something else? It did not cross my mind for an instant that anything
that Mother Anastasia had said to me, or anything that could be deduced
from her manner, was in the slightest degree out of the way. A woman has
a right to indicate her position in regard to a fellow-being, and in
this age she generally does indicate it. If the true nature of Mother
Anastasia had so far exerted itself as to impel her, perhaps
involuntarily, to let me know that she was as much a woman as she was a
Mother Superior, and that in time she would be all of the first and not
any of the latter, she had truly done this with a delicate ingenuousness
beyond compare. It had not been the exhalation by the flower of inviting
perfume or its show of color; it had been the simple opening of the
blossom to the free sun and air before my eyes.
My last interview with Mother Anastasia had crystallized in my mind a
mist of suppositions and fancies which had vaguely floated there for
some time. It is not surprising that I was greatly moved at the form the
crystal took.
When Walkirk came, the next day, to make his usual reports, I talked to
him of Mother Anastasia. Of course I did not intimate to him how I had
been thinking of her, but I gave him as many facts as possible, in order
that I might discover what he would think of her. When I had finished my
account of the interview of the morning before, I could see that a very
decided impression had been made upon him. His countenance twitched, he
smiled, he looked upon the floor. For a moment I thought he was going to
laugh.
"This amuses you," I remarked.
"Yes," he replied, his face having recovered its ordinary composure, "it
is a little funny. Mother Anastasia seems to be a good deal of a
manager."
"Yes," I said reflectively, "that is true. It is quite plain that,
perceiving an opportunity of a private conference with me, she took
advantage of the circumstances. We could have had an ordinary chat just
as well in one place as another, but it was easy to see that she did not
wish the boy who was unhitching the horse to hear even the first words
of our conversation. As you say, she is a good manager, and I had my
suspicions of that before you mentioned it." As I said this I could not
help smiling, as I thought how surprised he would be if he knew in what
direction my suspicions pointed. "Do you know," I continued, "if it is
necessary that the head of a sisterhood should be a life member of it?"
"I have never heard," he answered, "but I have been informed that the
organization of the House of Martha is a very independent one, and does
not attempt to conform itself to that of any other sisterhood. The women
who founded it had ideas of their own, and what rules and laws they made
I do not know."
For a few moments I walked up and down the room; then I asked, "How did
Mother Anastasia come to be the Mother Superior?"
"I have been told," said Walkirk, "that she gave most of the money for
the founding of the institution, and it was natural enough that she
should be placed at the head. I have an idea that she would not have
been willing to enter the House except as its head."
"It is about four years since it was established, is it not?" I asked;
and Walkirk assured me that I was correct.
All this information ranged itself on the side of conviction. She was
just the woman to try a thing of this kind for a stated time; she was
just the woman not to like it; and she was just the woman whose soul
could not be prevented from whispering that the gates of the bright
world were opening before her. But why should her soul whisper this to
me? The whole matter troubled me very much.
I determined not to base any action upon what had thus forced itself
upon my mind. I would wait. I would see what would happen next. I would
persist in my determination never to give up Sylvia. And I will mention
that there was a little point in connection with her which at this time
greatly annoyed me: whenever I thought of her, she appeared before me in
the gray dress of a sister, and not as I had seen her on the island. I
wished very much that this were not the case.
XL.
AN INSPIRATION.
I now found myself in an embarrassing situation. All my plans and hopes
of tidings from Sylvia, or of any possible connection with her, were
based upon Mother Anastasia. But would it be wise for me to continue my
very friendly relations with the Mother Superior? On my side these
relations were extremely pleasant, though that did not matter, one way
or another. But would it be kind and just to her to meet with her on the
footing I had enjoyed? In every point of this affair I wished to be
honorable and considerate. Acting on these principles, I went away for
two weeks. It was very hard for me to absent myself for so long a period
from Arden, but it was my duty. To take the chances of another meeting
with Mother Anastasia, following close upon the recent one, which had
made so forcible an impression upon me, would be imprudent. A moderate
absence might be of great advantage.
On my return I took to strolling about the village, especially in the
neighborhood of the House of Martha; and if, in these strolls, I had met
the Mother Superior, I should not have hesitated to accost her and ask
news of Sylvia. For more reasons than one, I felt it was highly
desirable that I should impress it on the mind of Mother Anastasia that
my interest in Sylvia had not in the least abated.
But several days passed, and I met no one clad in gray bonnet and gown.
I was disappointed; there were a good many questions about Sylvia which
I wished to ask, and a good many things in regard to her that I wished
to say. I might go to the House of Martha and boldly ask to see the
Mother Superior; but a step like that might produce an undesirable
impression, and naturally the position in which I had placed myself
regarding Sylvia would prevent my going to visit her.
As I could do nothing for myself in this matter, I must ask some one to
help me, and there was no one so willing and able to do this as my
grandmother. She could go to the House of Martha and ask what questions
she pleased. I went to the dear old lady and made known my desires. She
laid down her knitting and gave me her whole attention.
"Now tell me exactly what it is you want," she said. "You cannot expect
to be asked to take tea with the sisters, you know, though I see no
reason why you should not. Say what they will, they are not nuns."
"What I want," I replied, "is to know how Sylvia is, what she is doing,
all about her. I do not even know that she is still there."
"My dear boy," said my grandmother, very tenderly, "I suppose that even
if you are obliged to give up all hope of ever having Sylvia for your
own, you will want to know every day for the rest of your life just how
she is getting on."
"Yes," I answered, "that is true."
"Poor fellow," said the old lady, her eyes a little dimmed as she spoke,
"the fates have not been using you well. Is there anything else you want
me to inquire about?"
"Oh, yes," I answered. "I take a great interest in the institution."
"Which is natural enough, since Sylvia is there," interpolated my
grandmother.
"And I should be glad," I continued, "to know anything of interest
regarding the sisterhood, from the Mother Superior down."
"Mother Anastasia is a very fine woman," said my grandmother, "and I
should think you would be likely to be greatly interested in her. I am
going to make some inquiries about the rules of the House of Martha. I
see no reason why the sisters should not occasionally accept invitations
to tea."
This remark startled me, and I was prompted to make a cautionary
observation. But I restrained myself; in cases like this interference
would be likely to provoke comment, and by my grandmother's desire I
went to order the carriage.
In less than an hour she returned. I was promptly at hand to receive her
report.
"Well," said she, "I have visited the sisters, but I am sorry I did not
see Mother Anastasia. She was away."
"Away!" I exclaimed. "Where has she gone?"
"She went to Washington more than a week ago," was the answer.
"For a long stay?" I asked quickly.
"The sisters did not know," continued my grandmother, "but their
impression is that she will return in a few days."
I knitted my brows.
"You are disappointed, and so am I. I intended to ask her here to tea
next Friday, and to urge her, if she did not too greatly object, to
bring Sylvia with her. There is nothing like quiet intercourse of that
kind to break down obstacles."
"Alas," I said, "I am afraid there are obstacles"--
"But do not let us talk about them," she interrupted. "Nobody knows what
will happen, and let us be as happy as we can."
"Did you see Sylvia?" I asked.
"Oh, yes," she answered, "and I had some talk with her, but it did not
amount to much. She is trying to make a regular nun of herself,--that
is, if a Protestant can be a nun,--but I do not think she will ever
succeed. She admitted that she greatly disliked the ordinary work of the
sisters, and wished to employ herself in some way which would be just as
lucrative to the institution, and yet not so repugnant to her. Now you
can see for yourself that that will not do. If she intends to be a
sister of the House of Martha, she must do as the other sisters do. She
cannot always expect to be an exception. At present she is learning
typewriting."
I gave a great start. "Typewriting!" I exclaimed.
"Yes," said my grandmother. "Is it not odd that she should have taken up
that? She has a machine, and practices steadily on it. She showed me
some of her printed sheets, and I must say, so far as I am concerned,
that I should prefer plain handwriting, where the letters are not so
likely to get on top of one another. She wanted to know if I could give
her any advice about getting work, when she thought she could do it well
enough; but of course I know nothing about such things. My hope is that
she will get to dislike that as much as she does nursing and apothecary
work, and to find out that her real duty is to live like an ordinary
human being, and so make herself and other people truly happy."
I do not know that there is any inherent connection between a
typewriting machine and the emotions and sentiments of love, but in this
case such a connection instantly established itself in my mind. It
seemed plain to me that Walkirk's suggestion to Sylvia had taken root;
and why did she wish to typewrite, if she did not wish to typewrite for
me? Was this an endeavor of her tender heart to keep up a thread of
connection with me which should not be inconsistent with the duties, the
vows, and the purposes of her life? Dear girl! If the thing could be
managed, she should typewrite for me as much as she wished, even if she
piled the letters on one another as high as the Great Pyramid.
With much enthusiasm, I communicated to Walkirk my intention to employ
Sylvia in typewriting, and requested his assistance in regard to the
details of the business. I could easily furnish her material enough. I
had lots of things I should like to have copied, and I was ready to
prepare a great deal more. My under-study made no allusion to my
previous reception of his suggestion about typewriting, but brought his
practical mind to bear upon the matter, and advised that preliminary
arrangements should be made immediately. In a case like this it was well
to be in time, and to secure the services of Miss Raynor at once. I
agreed with Walkirk that it was very wise to take time by the forelock,
but Mother Anastasia was the only person who could properly regulate
this affair, which should be instantly laid before her; and as it was
impossible to find out when she would return to Arden, I felt that it
was my duty to go to her. When I mentioned this plan to Walkirk, he
offered to go in my place, but I declined. This was a very delicate
affair, to which no one could attend as well as I could myself.
"Walkirk," said I, "do you suppose that the Mother Superior will appear
in Washington under her real name, or as Mother Anastasia? And, by the
way, what is her real name?"
"Is it possible," exclaimed Walkirk, "that you do not know it? It is
Raynor,--Miss Marcia Raynor. She is a cousin of the younger lady."
"Oh, yes, I know that," I replied; "but it never occurred to me to
inquire what name Mother Anastasia bore before she entered the House of
Martha. The first thing for me to do is to get her Washington address."
"And may I ask," continued Walkirk, "how you are going to do that?"
I was not prepared to give an immediate answer to this question.
"I suppose," I remarked presently, "that it would not do to ask for the
address at the House of Martha, but I could go to Sylvia's mother. I
should like to call there, any way, and I have no doubt she would know
where Mother Anastasia would be likely to stop."