IN ARCADY.
"And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays."
The familiar lines rose to Roland's lips, as he came out of the quiet
little country inn at Rockland, on a charming Sunday morning in that
fairest of months. He had arrived late the evening before; and had put
up, in the first instance, at the little hotel. As he took a stroll that
morning about the outskirts of the pretty village, nestling under the
shelter of wooded hills, beside a placid little inland lake reflecting
in its liquid mirror the weeds and hills in their first summer verdure,
he thought of Thoreau's "Walden," and wished that he could set up a
little hermitage of his own, somewhere amid these green recesses. But a
hermitage would never have contented Roland Graeme. He was, first and
essentially, a lover of man. Even now, his eye rested with strongest
interest on the large group of buildings, surrounded by neat white
cottages, which he knew by instinct was Mr. Foster's "model mills."
But, this morning, as be whiled away an hour or two before church-time,
in leisurely lingering through the "vernal wood," the balmy odors and
the birds carolling among the trees seemed of themselves to breathe a
refreshing influence--smoothing out, as if by magic, the creases of the
winter's toil and worry, and inspiring with new life his somewhat jaded
spirits and overtaxed nervous system. And a stranger thing than this
happened to him. With the new, marvellous beauty of the summer
landscape, that burst on his gladdened eyes like a revelation, there
seemed interfused a higher, more subtle influence. How, he knew
not--such things pass our knowing--and doubtless many things led up to
it; but there and then, it seemed to him that the chilling mists of
doubt had almost passed away from his soul He felt that once more the
beliefs of his childhood were realities to him, though in an infinitely
grander and more spiritual conception of them. He felt the divine Father
and Saviour, the brooding Spirit of love and strength, closer and more
real than the lovely vision around him. And he felt that he should never
lose them more.
After that moment of exaltation, it was pleasant to go into the pretty
little church, and sit there, in a remote corner, while the people
passed in silently, in little groups. He soon saw Miss Blanchard and
Cecilia, the latter, in a pretty white dress and broad straw hat, grown
much taller than when he had first seen her, and showing now; he
thought, traces of resemblance to her father, as well as to her mother.
With them, he easily recognized the tall, portly, white-haired old
gentleman to be "Squire Blanchard," as the people called him; and the
lady with the silver curls clustered on a broad forehead, and the calm,
loving, earnest eyes, as the "Aunt Margaret" of whom Nora had so often
spoken. Only Cecilia, however, looking about her as children do, espied
him, with a grave look of recognition, but without drawing the attention
of any one else to his presence. It was pleasant too, after the service,
and the simple, earnest sermon, to wait at the church door for Nora's
bright, glad look of recognition, as she warmly greeted him and
introduced him to her father and aunt. Mr. Blanchard pressed him to
return with them at once, but he declined this, promising to come over
in the afternoon and take up his quarters for a few days in the
hospitable old-fashioned house, which could always accommodate half a
dozen guests, if need were.
Accordingly, after the early dinner at the hotel, Roland made
arrangements to have his traps sent to Mr. Blanchard's next morning, and
set out with his satchel for the large white house which had been
pointed out to him, on a gentle slope beside the lake. He passed the
little rapid, stream that rushed into the lake at the outskirts of the
village, affording water-power to the busy mills, and, after a pleasant
walk by the lake shore, reached the large old house with its pillared
portico and side piazza, standing at some distance from the road, and
approached by a pretty drive, winding through a clump of pines and
varied shrubbery. As he approached the house, he saw a graceful,
white-robed figure, with a white-trimmed garden hat, rise from a shady
corner of the lawn and come toward him, book in hand.
"This is our out-door drawing-room," Nora said, as she conducted him to
a wide-spreading beech, under whose shade stood some garden-seats, where
were seated her father and aunt. Cecilia, hovering about in the distance
with a fine mastiff, came up and met his kindly greeting with evident
pleasure. Mr. Blanchard, who thoroughly justified Mr. Alden's
description, as "a worthy representative of an old Puritan family,"
entered at once into a conversation with Roland on his favorite
subjects, in which the elder Miss Blanchard joined, with a clear insight
and breadth of thought that surprised and impressed the guest, who
speedily felt thoroughly at home. The lovely June afternoon passed only
too quickly under the beech, till they were called in to the hospitable
tea-table, tempting in its dainty simplicity, in the large dining-room,
where the fragrant evening air came in through open windows which framed
charming pictures of the lawn without, and the trees waving in the
slanting sunlight.
"You, who have this all the time, can scarcely appreciate the beauty of
it," remarked Roland, enthusiastically. "It takes eyes tired of the
sights and sounds of a busy city, to enjoy these pictures as they
deserve."
"Yes," said Mr. Blanchard; "I suspect contrast is an element that enters
into all our enjoyment at present. Yet, I suppose the contrast need not
always be between the fair and the ugly, but may be between different
kinds of beauty."
"I hope so!" said Nora, eagerly. "I don't want contrasts like those
wretched houses of Mr. Pomeroy's to help me to enjoy this. By the way,
Mr. Graeme, I must show you to-morrow the cottage I hope to get in a
week or two for the Masons. And Mr. Foster will take Jim in, if he will
come. Lizzie of course can't work now."
"I think Jim will be glad to come, now," replied Roland. "One of the men
told me that Nelly had thrown him over altogether. And I fancy he'll be
glad to get out of Minton."
"Well, perhaps it's the best thing for _him_!" said Nora. "But what of
Nelly?"
"That I don't know," replied Roland, while Aunt Margaret asked Nora if
she couldn't get hold of this poor girl, too; for she had already heard
the history of all of Nora's friends.
"You will be glad to hear," said Roland, "that Willett has parted
company with the mill. He gave warning because he said he couldn't keep
things straight, if Mrs. and Miss Pomeroy _would_ come about
interfering. And Mr. Pomeroy had the good sense to accept his warning.
So, now, my friend Turner has the place. And a very good manager he will
make."
"Oh, I am glad of that!" said Nora. "And so Mrs. Pomeroy really does
take an interest in the girls generally?"
"Oh, yes! she has quite waked up about it, I hear through Mr. Archer.
She has begun to take quite a motherly charge of them. She is very
anxious that Lizzie Mason should recover; indeed she feels most unhappy
about it."
"Poor Lizzie!" said Nora, with a sigh. "And how is Mr. Farrell?"
"Much the same, I believe. He is very much like a child, and seems to
take no interest in money matters now. The smallest things are
sufficient to amuse him. Mr. Dunlop goes to see him sometimes. He's got
an idea that he may have a similar experience, and he says it's a lesson
on the vanity of human things to see Farrell now, after his long
struggle for riches which would be nothing to him now if he had them."
"Ah," exclaimed Aunt Margaret, "how true it is, that, as a quaint old
poet says, 'We dig in dross, with mattocks made of gold'!"
"And how is Kitty?" asked Nora.
"Oh, I am always hearing her praises sung," said Roland, smiling.
"According to Waldberg, there never was such a girl. She is so bright,
so contented, so helpful, such a support to her poor, weak mother, in
the necessary retrenchments, the going to a small house, and all that!
But I am sure that her own real happiness has a good deal to do with
it."
"Dear little Kitty!" said Nora. "I am glad she has come out so well. She
is a good-hearted little thing, though she used to seem to me a little
frivolous."
"She would have been, I'm afraid," Roland remarked, "if adversity hadn't
come in time to save her."
"Ah, I see that you're something of a philosopher," remarked Mr.
Blanchard. "You believe that 'Sweet are the uses of adversity.'"
"I've found them so, myself," he replied, simply; "if it were only in
enabling me to sympathize more with the troubles of others."
Nora amply fulfilled her promise of showing Roland everything that she
thought would interest him about Rockland. He went, with much interest,
over Mr. Foster's well-managed establishment, saw with pleasure its
well-ventilated work-rooms, its well-stocked reading-rooms, the neat
cottages of the _employés_, each with its little garden, and all the
arrangements by which economy and convenience were combined. He had some
long talks with the public-spirited proprietor, and found that that
gentleman fully agreed with him, in all his ideas about hours,
remuneration, etc., and put them in practice as far as it was possible
to do under the present system.
"But, of course," he said, "there must be either concerted or
legislative action, before they can be fully carried out."
Then there were pleasant country expeditions with Miss Blanchard and
Cecilia; walks and drives, or rides, and some delightful rows on the
beautiful little lake, exploring its rocky shores and picturesque
woodland nooks. And in these happy loiterings, the dreamy and poetical
side of Roland's nature came out more prominently than Nora had ever
seen it, kept down, as it had been, by his philanthropic cares. He was
full of little poetical fancies, and many a favorite quotation rose
readily to his lips, as they slowly rowed or walked home in the sunset
light. Nor did he enjoy less their musical evenings, when Nora sang to
him the songs he asked for, and little Cecilia was delighted to exhibit
her own attainments, which were certainly very remarkable, considering
her age, and the short period of training she had enjoyed.
The days passed all too swiftly for Roland; perhaps for Nora, too. They
stood out through the hot busy weeks that followed, like Arcadian days,
or rather like an interlude of inexpressible happiness, or flowing
streams in a thirsty land. Such similes, at least, Roland's fancy easily
found for them in abundance.
One evening, shortly before the too early close of Roland's visit, Mrs.
Blanchard arrived with the children, for a lengthened stay. She was
expected, but she brought with her an unexpected visitor--Mr.
Chillingworth. Both Roland and Nora felt as if the unalloyed pleasure of
the preceding days was somewhat shadowed now, but they were sincerely
sorry for the pale and altered man. Cecilia, too, shrank shyly away from
his awkward efforts to be affectionate to her.
"Mr. Graeme," said Mrs. Blanchard, "my husband wants you to take Mr.
Chillingworth in hand, while you're here--to take him out to walk or
fish, or anything you can get him to do. He's sunk into such a state of
nervous depression, the doctor's quite afraid for him."
And Roland did his best, though at the cost of some self-sacrifice, for
this, of course, put an end to the pleasant wanderings with Nora.
The evening before Roland was obliged regretfully to take his departure
for Minton, as they all sat enjoying the pleasant summer twilight
without--just passing into a glorious moonlight, Mr. Chillingworth was
asked to give them a poetical reading, and, at Nora's request, made
choice of Lowell's "Vision of Sir Launfal." He read it with heartfelt
expression, especially in the stanzas that described the experiences of
the returned and awakened Sir Launfal:
"Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate,
For another heir in his earldom sate;
An old, bent man, worn out and frail,
He came back from seeking the Holy Grail;
Little he recked of his earldom's loss,
No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross,
But deep in his soul the sign he wore,
The badge of the suffering and the poor.
* * * * *
The leper no longer crouched at his side,
But stood before him glorified,
Shining and tall and fair and straight
As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate,--
Himself the Gate, whereby men can
Enter the temple of God in Man
* * * * *
And the voice that was calmer than silence said,
'Lo, it is I, be not afraid
In many climes, without avail,
Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail;
Behold it is here,--this cup which thou
Didst fill at the streamlet for Me but now;
This crust is my body, broken for thee,
This water His blood that died on the tree;
The Holy Supper is kept, indeed,
In whatso we share with another's need,
Not what we give, but what we share,--
For the gift without the giver is bare;
Who gives himself with his alms feeds three,--
Himself, his hungering neighbor, and Me'
Sir Launfal woke as from a swound--
'The Grail in my castle here is found!
Hang my idle armor up on the wall,
Let it be the spider's banquet hall;
He must be fenced with stronger mail
Who would seek and find the Holy Grail.'"
As he ended, he closed the book, and went silently out to stroll in the
moonlight that was flecking the lawn with silvery lights and soft
shadows from the spreading trees, while Nora and Roland also stepped out
on the piazza, to enjoy the beauty of the night.
"I think Chillingworth has found out _that last_ truth for himself,"
said Roland. "And I know I've found, too, that I needed stronger mail
than I once supposed. I too have been seeking for a 'Grail'--a panacea
which is to be found only where I had stopped looking for it! But I
think, if all Christian teachers were like Mr. Alden, I should have
found it sooner."
Nora looked up with an eager look of pleasure. And then she turned away
her eyes, glistening with a happy light and a glad emotion she could not
quite conceal.