would have been much more satisfactory. I expect one of the other
sisters will be here before very long, and before she comes I wish you
would tell me how you are getting on with your book. I have been
thinking about it, ever and ever so much."
"I am not getting on at all," said I; "without you there will be no
book."
At this Sylvia knit her brows a little, and looked disturbed.
"That is not a good way to talk about it," she said, "unless, indeed,
the book could be made a part of the brotherhood work, in some way. The
publisher might want a typewritten copy, and if I should make it, I
should know the end of the story of Tomaso and Lucilla. You know I had
almost given up ever knowing what finally happened to those two."
"You shall know it," said I; "we shall work together yet. I can think of
a dozen ways in which we can do it, and I intend to prove that my
brotherhood idea is thoroughly practicable."
"Of course it is," said Sylvia; "isn't this practical?" and she bedewed
the patient's brow so liberally, that some of the perfume ran into his
eyes, and made him wink vigorously.
"_Merci, mademoiselle_," said he, "_mais pas beaucoup, mais pas
beaucoup_!"
"A capital practical idea has just occurred to me," I said; "do you
think you shall be here to-morrow?"
"I expect to come here," she answered, "for I take a great deal of
interest in this old man. Mother Anastasia is still away, and I expect
that Sister Sarah will send me again, for this is the kind of work she
believes in. She has a very poor opinion of typewriting; but, of course,
a sister will come with me."
"There is one coming to join you now," I said; "I see her gray figure on
the top of the hill. As she will not understand matters, and as I do not
wish to talk any more about my plans, until I am better able to show how
they will work, I think it will be well for me to retire; but I shall be
here to-morrow morning, and it would suit my plans very well if another
sister comes with you."
Sylvia looked around at the approaching gray figure.
"I think that is Sister Lydia," she said, "at least, I think I recognize
her walk, and so it might be well for you to go. If it were Sister
Agatha it wouldn't matter so much. Of course, when your plan is all
explained and agreed to, it will not make any difference who comes or
goes."
"Very true," said I, "and now I think I will bid you good-morning. Be
sure and be here to-morrow."
She shook hands with me, across the prostrate form of the rheumatic
Frenchman, who smiled, and murmured, "_Bien, bien, mes anges_," and she
assured me that I might expect her on the morrow.
XLV.
I MAKE COFFEE AND GET INTO HOT WATER.
I do not like to do anything which looks in the least underhanded, but I
must admit that I left that wretched cottage by the back door, and
taking a path through some woods, made a wide circuit before returning
to the village.
As soon as I reached my house, I called Walkirk from his writing, and
rapidly gave him instructions in regard to the execution of an idea
which had come into my mind during my brotherhood labors of the morning.
I told him to hasten to the scene of my building operations, and to take
away all the carpenters, painters, and plasterers he could crowd into a
two-horse wagon, and to go with them to the house of the rheumatic
Frenchman, from which I knew the sisters would have departed before he
reached it. I promised to join him there, and at the same time that he
set out on his errand, I hurried to a shop in the village, the owner of
which combined the occupations of cabinet maker and undertaker, and who
generally kept on hand a small stock of cheap furniture. From this I
selected such articles as I thought would be suitable or useful in a
small house, which at present contained nothing too good for a bonfire,
and ordered them sent immediately to the Frenchman's cottage.
I reached this wretched little house a few minutes before the arrival of
Walkirk and the wagon-load of mechanics. My under-study had entered
heartily into my scheme, and by his directions the men had brought with
them everything needed to carry out my plans, and in a very short time
he and I had set every man to work.
There were carpenters, plasterers, painters, paper-hangers, and a tinner
and glazier, and when they learned that I wanted that little house
completely renovated in the course of the afternoon, they looked upon
the business as a lark, and entered into it with great spirit. The
astonished woman of the house did not understand what was about to
happen, and even when I had explained it to her, her mind seemed to take
in nothing except the fact that the house ought to be cleaned before the
painting and paper-hanging began, but there was no time for delays of
this sort, and the work went on merrily.
When the furniture arrived, the woman gave a gasp, for the last time the
vehicle which brought them to her house had been there, it had taken
away her previous husband. But a bureau and table and a roll of carpet
assured her of its different purpose, and she turned in with a will to
assist in arranging these articles.
Before dark the work was all done. The rheumatic Frenchman was lying on
a shining new bedstead, a box of Pepper Pod Plasters had been placed in
the hands of his delighted wife, a grocery wagon had deposited a load of
goods in the kitchen, the mechanics in gay spirits had driven away, and
Walkirk and I, tired, but triumphant, walked home, leaving behind us a
magical transformation, a pervading smell of paint and damp wall-paper,
and an aged couple as much dazed as delighted with what had happened.
Soon after breakfast the next day, I repaired to the bright and tidy
little cottage, and there I had my reward. Standing near the house a
little in the shadow of a good sized evergreen-tree, which I had ordered
transplanted bodily from the woods into the little yard, I beheld Sylvia
approaching, and with her a sister with a bandaged face whom I rightly
supposed to be the amiable Sister Agatha.
When the two came within a moderate distance of the cottage they
stopped, they looked about them from side to side, and it was plain to
see that they imagined they were on the wrong road. Then they walked
forward a bit, stopped again, and finally came towards the house on a
run.
I advanced to meet them.
"Good morning, sisters," said I. The two were so much astonished that
they did not return my greeting, and for a few moments scarcely noticed
me. Then Sylvia turned.
"How in the world," she exclaimed, "did all this happen? It must be the
same house."
I smiled. "It is very simple," said I; "this"--and as I spoke I waved my
hand towards the cottage--"is an instance of the way in which the
brothers of the House of Martha intend to work."
"And you did this?" exclaimed Sylvia, with radiant eyes.
I explained to the eagerly listening sisters how the transformation had
been accomplished, and with a sort of reverent curiosity they approached
the house. Sister Agatha's astonishment was even greater than that of
Sylvia, for she had long known the wretched place.
"It is a veritable miracle," she said, "see this beautiful white fence,
and the gate; it opens on hinges!"
"Be careful," said I, as they entered the little yard, "some of the
paint may yet be wet, although I told them to put as much drying stuff
in as was possible."
"Actually," cried Sylvia, "a gravel walk up to the house!"
"And the outside a daffodil yellow, with fern green blinds!" said Sister
Agatha.
"And the eaves tipped with geranium red!" cried Sylvia.
"And a real tree on each side of the front door, and new steps!"
exclaimed Sister Agatha.
When they entered the house the amazement and delight of the two sisters
was a joy to my soul. They cried out at the carpet on the floor, the
paper on the walls, the tables, the chairs, the bureau, the
looking-glass, the three framed lithographs on the wall, the clock, and
the shining new bedstead on which their patient lay.
"If Mother Anastasia could but see this," cried Sylvia, "she would
believe in the brotherhood."
"He sez yer angels," said the woman of the house, coming forward,
"that's what he sez; an' he's roight too, for with thim Pepper Pod
Plasters, an' the smell of paint in the house which he hates, he'll be
out o' doors in two days, or I'm much mishtaken."
Sylvia and I now approached the old man to see what he thought about it.
He was very grateful, and said nothing about the smell of paint, but we
found him with a burning desire in his heart which had been fanned into
flames by the arrival of the groceries on the day before. He eagerly
asked us if we could make coffee; when he was well he could make it
himself, but since he had been lying on that bed, he had not tasted a
drop of the beloved liquid. His wife did not drink it, and could not
make it, but as we could speak French, and had sent coffee, he felt sure
that we could compound the beverage, so dear to the French heart.
"The angels make coffee," he said, in his best patois, "otherwise what
would Heaven be?"
Both of the angels declared that the good man should have some coffee
without delay, but Sylvia said to me, that although she had not the
least idea how to make it, she was quite sure Sister Agatha could do it.
But that sister, when asked, declared that she knew nothing about
coffee, and did not approve of it for sick people, but if the man did
not like the tea his wife made, she would try what she could do.
But this offer was declined. The old man must have his coffee, and as
there was no one else to make it, I undertook to do it myself. I thought
I remembered how coffee had been made, when I had been camping out, and
I went promptly to work. Everybody helped. The old woman ground the
berries, Sister Agatha stirred up the fire, and Sylvia broke two eggs,
in order to get shells enough to clear the liquid.
It was a good while before the coffee was ready, but at last it was
made, and Sylvia carried it to our patient in a great bowl. She sat down
on one side of the bed to administer the smoking beverage with a spoon,
while I sat on the other side and raised the old man's head that he
might drink the better. After swallowing the first tablespoonful, the
patient winked.
"I hope it did not scald his throat," said Sylvia, "Do you know what
'scald' is in French?"
"I cannot remember," said I, "you had better let the next spoonful cool
a little,"--but the patient opened his mouth for more.
"_C'est potage_," he said, "_mais il est bon_."
"I am sorry I made soup of it," I said to Sylvia, "but I am sure it
tastes like coffee."
We continued to feed the old man, who absorbed the new-fangled broth as
fast as it was given to him, until a voice behind me made us both jump.
"Sister Hagar," said the voice, "what does this mean?"
"Goodness, Mother Anastasia," cried Sylvia, "you made me scald the
outside of his throat."
At the foot of the bed stood Mother Anastasia clad in her severest gray,
her brows knit and her lips close pressed.
"Sister Hagar," she repeated, "what is all this?"
I let down the old man's head, and Sylvia, placing the almost empty bowl
upon the table, replied serenely:--
"Mr. Vanderley is making a beginning in brotherhood work--the
brotherhood of the House of Martha, you know. I think it would work
splendidly. Just look around and see what he has done. He has made this
charming cottage out of an old rattle-trap house. Everything you see in
one afternoon, and lots of provisions in the kitchen besides. Sisters
alone could never have done this."
Mother Anastasia turned to me.
"I will speak with you, outside," she said, and I followed her into the
little yard. As soon as we were far enough from the house to speak
without being overheard, she stopped, and turning to me, said:--
"You are not content with driving me from the life on which I had set my
heart, back into this mistaken vocation, but you are determined to make
my lot miserable and unhappy. And not mine only, but that of that
simple-hearted and unsuspecting girl. I do not see how you can be so
selfishly cruel. You are resolved to break her heart, and to do it in
the most torturing way. But you shall work her no more harm. I do not
now appeal to your honor, to your sense of justice; I simply say that I
shall henceforth stand between you and her. What misery may come to her
and to me from what you have already done I do not know, but you do no
more."
I stood and listened with the blood boiling within me.
"Marcia Raynor," I said--"for I shall not call you by that title which
you put on and take off as you please--I here declare to you that I
shall never give up Sylvia. If I never speak to her again or see her I
shall not give her up. I make no answer to what you have charged me
with, but I say to you that as Sylvia's life and my life cannot be one
as I would have it, I shall live the life that she lives, even though
our lives be ever apart. For the love I bear her, I shall always do the
work that she does. But I believe that the time will come when people,
wiser than you are, will see that what I proposed to do is a good thing
to do, and the time will come when a man and a woman can labor side by
side in good works, and both do better work because they work together.
And to Sylvia and to my plan of brotherhood, I shall ever be constant.
Remember that."
Without a word or change in her expression she left me, went into the
house, and closed the door behind her. I did not wish to make a scene,
which would give rise to injurious gossip, and therefore walked away,
though as I did so I turned to look in at the open window, but I did not
see Sylvia; I only saw the bandaged face of Sister Agatha looking out at
me, more mournful than before.
As I rapidly walked homeward, I said to myself, "Now I declare myself a
full brother of the House of Martha. I shall take up their cause, and
steadfastly work for it whether they like it or not."
XLVI.
GOING BACK FOR A FRIEND.
When I reached home, I looked up my grandmother and told her everything
that had happened. My excitement was so great that it was necessary I
should talk to some one, and I felt a pang of regret when I remembered
that latterly I had given no confidences to her.
My grandmother listened eagerly and without interrupting me, but as I
spoke she shook her head again and again, and when I had finished, she
said:--
"My dear boy, if you understood the world and the people in it as well
as I do, you would know that that sort of thing could never, never work.
Before long you and Sylvia would be madly in love with each other, and
then what would happen nobody knows. It may be that Mother Anastasia has
not fully done her duty in this case, or it may be that she has done too
much, and other people may have acted improperly and without due thought
and caution; but be this as it may, it is plain enough to see that your
poor heart has been dreadfully wrung. I wish I had known before of this
brotherhood notion, and of what you intended to do, and I would have
told you, as I tell you now, that in this world we must accept
situations. That is the only way in which we can get along at all.
Sylvia Raynor has gone, soul and body, into this Martha House, which is
the same as a convent, and to all intents and purposes she is the same
as a nun. Now there is no use fighting against that sort of thing. Even
if she should consent to climb over the wall, and run away with you, I
do not believe you would like a wife who would do that, after all she
had vowed and given her solemn word to."
"My dear grandmother," I said, "all that you say may be true, but it
makes no difference to me; I shall always be faithful to Sylvia."
"Perhaps so, perhaps so," said my grandmother, "but you must remember
this: it may be all very well to be faithful, but you should be careful
how you do it. In some respects Mother Anastasia is entirely right, and
your faithfulness, if injudiciously shown, may make miserable the life
of this young woman." I sighed but said nothing. My grandmother looked
pityingly upon me.
"I think you can do nothing better than to go and travel as you have
proposed. Stay away for a year. Dear knows, I do not want to keep you
from me for all that time, but the absence will be for your good. It
will influence your life. When you come back, then you will know
yourself better than you can possibly know yourself now. Then you will
be able to see what you truly ought to do, and I promise you that if I
am alive I will help you do it."
I took the dear old lady in my arms, and her advice to my heart. I
acknowledged to myself that at this conjuncture the wisest thing, the
kindest thing was to go away. I might not stay away for a year, but I
would go.
"Grandmother," I said, "I will do what you advise. But I have something
to ask of you: I have vowed that I will be a brother of the House of
Martha, and that I will do its work, with or without the consent of the
sisters, and with or without their companionship. Now if I go, will you
be my substitute? Will you, as far as you can, assist the sisters in
their undertakings, and do what you think I would have done, had I been
here?"
"I cannot change a dilapidated hut into a charming cottage in one
afternoon," she said, placing both hands on my shoulders as she spoke,
"but I will do all that I can, and all that you ought to do, if you were
here. That much I promise."
"Then I will go," I said, "with a heavy heart, but with an easier
conscience."
Walkirk entirely approved of an immediate start upon the journey which I
had before proposed. I think he feared that if it was postponed any
longer, I might get some other idea into my head which would work better
than the brotherhood scheme, and that our travels might be postponed
indefinitely.
But there was a great deal to be done before I could leave home for a
lengthy absence, and a week was occupied in arranging my business
affairs, and planning for the comfort and pleasure of my grandmother
while I should be away. Walkirk engaged the stenographer, and was the
greatest possible help to me in every way, but notwithstanding his
efforts to relieve me of work that was a busier week for me than any
week in my whole life. This was an advantage to me, for it kept me from
thinking too much of the reason for my hurried journey.
At last the day arrived on which the steamer was to sail, and the
generally cool Walkirk actually grew nervous in his efforts to get me
ready to start by the early morning train for the city. In these efforts
I did not assist him in the least. In fact had he not been with me I
think that I should not have tried to leave home in time to catch the
steamer. The more I thought of catching the steamer, the less I cared to
do so; the more I thought of leaving home, the less I cared to do so. It
was not that I was going away from Sylvia that made me thus reluctant to
start. It was because I was going away without taking leave of
her,--without a word or even a sign from her. I ground my teeth as I
thought of how I had lost the only chance I had had of bidding her
farewell, and of assuring her that, no matter what happened, I would be
constant to her and to the principles in which we had both come to
believe. I had been too much excited on the morning I had left her in
the Frenchman's cottage to think that that would be my last chance of
seeing her; that thereafter Mother Anastasia would never cease to guard
her from my speech or sight. I should have rushed in, caring for
nothing. People might have talked, but Sylvia would have known that
prohibitions and separations would make no difference in my feeling for
her.
And now I was going away without a word or a sign, or even the slightest
trifle which I could cherish as a memento of her. There was a blankness
about it all which deadened my soul.
But Walkirk was inexorable. He made every arrangement, and even
superintended my farewell to my grandmother, and gently but firmly
interrupted me, as I repeated my entreaties that she would speedily find
out something about Sylvia, and write to me. At last we were in the
carriage, with time enough to reach the station, and Walkirk wiped his
brow, as would a man who had had a heavy load lifted from his mind.
We had not gone a quarter of the distance when the thought suddenly
struck me, Why should I go away without a memento of Sylvia? Why had I
not remembered my friend Vespa, the wasp, whose flight around my
secretary's room had made the first break in the restrictions which
surrounded her; had first shown me a Sylvia in place of a gray-bonneted
nun? That dead wasp, pinned to a card on the wall of my study, was the
only thing I possessed in which Sylvia had a share. I must go back and
get it; I must take it with me.
When I shouted to the coachman to turn, that I must go back to get
something I had forgotten, Walkirk was thrown into a fever of anxiety.
If we did not catch this train we would lose the steamer; the next train
would be three hours later. But his protestations had no effect upon me.
I must have Sylvia's wasp, no matter what happened.
Back to the house we dashed, and up-stairs I ran. I took down the card
to which the wasp was affixed, I found a little box in which to put it,
and while I was looking for a rubber band by which to secure the lid, a
servant came hurriedly into the room with a telegram for me. I tore it
open. It was from Miss Laniston and read thus:--
"Come to me as soon as you can. Important business."
"Important business!" I ejaculated. "She can have no business with me
that does not concern Sylvia. I will go to her instantly." In a few
seconds I was in the carriage, shouting to the man to drive as fast as
he could.
"Yes, indeed," said Walkirk, "you cannot go too fast."
I handed my companion the telegram. He read it blankly.
"It is a pity," he said, "if the business is important. All that can be
done now is to telegraph to her that she must write to you in London by
the next steamer."
"I shall do nothing of the kind," said I, "I am going to her the instant
we reach New York."
Walkirk clenched his hands together, and looked away. He had no words
for this situation.
My temper was very different.
"What a wonderful piece of luck!" I exclaimed. "If we had kept on to the
station, by this short cut, the telegraph boy, who of course came by the
main road, would have missed me, and there would not have been time for
him to get back to the station before the train started. How fortunate
it was that I went back for that wasp."
"Wasp!" almost screamed Walkirk, and by the way he looked at me, I know
he imagined that I was temporarily insane.
We caught the train, and on the way I explained my allusion to the wasp
so far as to assure Walkirk that I was no more crazy than men badly
crossed in love are apt to be.
"But are you really going to Miss Laniston?" he said.
"I shall be able to drive up there, give her fifteen minutes with five
as a margin, and reach the steamer in time. You can go directly to the
dock, and attend to the baggage and everything."
My under-study sighed, but he knew it was of no use to make any
objections. He did not fail, however, to endeavor to impress upon me the
importance of consulting my watch while listening to Miss Laniston's
communication.
My plan was carried out; we separated as soon as we reached the city,
and in a cab I rattled to Miss Laniston's house.
XLVII.
I INTEREST MISS LANISTON.
When I reached Miss Laniston's house that lady was at breakfast, but she
did not keep me waiting long.
"Truly," she said, as she entered the drawing-room, "you are the most
expeditious person I ever knew. I knew that you would come to me, but I
did not suppose you would even start as soon as this."
"I had already started when I received your telegram," I said.
"To come here?"
"No, to sail for Europe."
"Well, well!" she exclaimed, "from this moment I shall respect my
instincts, a thing I never did before. When I woke this morning my first
thought was of the message I intended to send to you, and I intended to
attend to it immediately after breakfast; but my hitherto unappreciated
instincts hinted to me that no time should be lost, and I called my
maid, and dispatched the telegram immediately. Moral: Do all the good
you can before you get up in the morning. Why are you starting for
Europe?"
"I haven't time to tell you," I said, "in fact, I can only remain a few
minutes longer, or I shall lose the steamer. Please tell me your
business."
"Is Sylvia the cause of your going away?" she asked.
"Yes," I said; "is she the reason of your wishing to see me?"
"Most certainly," she answered; "when does your steamer start?"
"By ten o'clock," I said.
"Oh, bless me," she remarked, glancing at the clock, "you have quite
time enough to hear all I have to say, and then if you do not catch the
steamer it is your own fault. Sit down, I pray you."
Very reluctantly I took a seat, for at last the spirit of Walkirk had
infected me.