EDITH’S YES.
In the opinion of their old friends in Boston, the Yorke family had
lost something during their sojourn in the wilderness. It was not
that they were less charming, less kind, less well-bred, but they
were not so orthodox in religion. Mrs. Yorke, it is true, resumed
her regular attendance at Dr. Stewart’s church; but her husband
seldom accompanied her now, and, it was ascertained, absented
himself with her permission.
“I would not have him go for my sake, when he does not wish to go
for his own,” she remarked tranquilly.
The time had been when Mrs. Yorke would have been horrified at such
a defection, and would have called in the doctors of the church
to exhort the backslider. She was evidently growing lax in her
religious principles.
Melicent always accompanied her mother, and had the true
down-drawn, regulation countenance; but Clara was seldom seen in
their pew, and boldly answered, when questioned on the subject,
that she sometimes went to the Catholic churches to hear the music.
“I go wherever I can hear Wilcox play the organ,” she said. “I
never tire listening to him. Others play difficult music with
dexterity, and you admire their skill; but he plays the same, and
you forget that there is any skill in it. Such bewitching grace!
Such laughter running up and down the keys! Such picturesque
improvisations! He played last Sunday something that called up to
me a scene in Seaton--that bit of meadow on East Street, Edith.
There was some sort of musical groundwork, soft and monotonous,
with little blossoming chords springing up everywhere, and over
it all swam a lovely, meandering melody with the _vox humana_.
When the bell rang, at the Sanctus, he caught the sound, and ran
straight up into the stars, as though some waiting angel had flown
audibly up to heaven to announce the time of the consecration. It
is delightful to hear him. In his graver music, and his choruses,
I do not so much distinguish him from others; but he is the only
organist I know who gives an idea of the play of the little saints
and cherubim in heaven, their dancing, their singing, their swift
flights to the earth and back again, and all their exquisite loves,
and pranks, and delights--their very worship like the worship of
birds and flowers.”
Not a word about doctrines, about the iniquities of Rome, the
superstition of Papists, the idolatry of the Mass!
What wonder if these good people, who considered it blasphemy to
associate cherubic music with any more rapid motion than that
of the semibreve and minim, should think Miss Clara Yorke in a
dangerous way? It was hoped, however, that when Dr. Stewart and
Melicent were married, his influence would recall her to a sense of
duty.
The doctor did try, carefully, though, warned by his wife, and
by some sharp, though tacit, rebuffs from Mr. Yorke and Edith.
He spoke one day philosophically of the obnoxious _Review_, as
though there were no question of truth, but merely of cleverness
in handling certain subjects, and, in a careless _à propos_,
offered Mr. Yorke the loan of certain volumes, which, he privately
believed, would triumphantly controvert the controversialist. The
doctor had not read any of these Catholic authorities.
“Thank you!” Mr. Yorke replied. He wished to be friendly, and
really liked the doctor when he let theology alone. Besides, he was
dining there, and could not be disagreeable.
After dinner, Melicent slipped out of the room a few minutes; and
when her father went home, she said sweetly, “By the way, papa, I
put up those books the doctor spoke of to you, if you like to take
them now. They lie on the hall table.”
“Let them _lie_!” replied Mr. Yorke, with a glance and an emphasis
which were not even doubtful.
He might permit Dr. Stewart to exhort him, but he would not be
schooled by his own daughter.
There was but little to tell of the family for a while. Mr. Yorke
employed a part of his time in attending to Carl’s and Edith’s
pecuniary affairs, everything being entrusted to his management.
Patrick was his assistant occasionally, and was also Edith’s
coachman; for the only carriage they kept belonged to Edith.
Betsey was Mrs. Yorke’s special dependence. She was a sort of
housekeeper, as well as nurse. When the lady was ill, no one else
could lift, and serve, and watch as Betsey could; and when she was
in low spirits, Betsey could scout her vapors very refreshingly,
when the others increased them, perhaps, by indulgence. On all her
little journeys, Betsey accompanied Mrs. Yorke. Her quaint, country
ways were a constant source of amusement, her faithful affection
and sturdy good sense a staff to lean on.
Mrs. Yorke had, at the last moment, concluded not to bring the
young Pattens to Boston, but had secured them places with the
family who had taken her house. “I do not approve of children being
separated from their parents,” she had said, “and being placed in
such different circumstances that their childish associations seem
discordant to them. I know no situation more cruel than that where
a child is ashamed of its parents’ poverty and ignorance. Besides,
I think it my duty to rescue these poor Catholic girls.”
So Mary and Anne had been brought to Boston, and were now living in
a blissful state of affectionate gratitude toward their employers,
and rapture with their church.
In Seaton, Catholics were still in an almost Babylonish captivity.
Their church had been burned a few weeks after the Yorkes left
town; but toward spring they had a priest--not Father Rasle--who
came once in two months, and said Mass for them in a private house.
He was not molested.
Edith had not forgotten her friends there, and, among other gifts,
had sent to Mrs. Patten a small library, chiefly of controversial
books. So Boadicea was now investigating the Catholic religion. She
examined it severely and critically, through a pair of round-eyed,
horn-bowed spectacles, missing not a sentence, nor date, nor word
of title-page in those volumes. She meant to show everybody that
she was searching the subject in an exhaustive manner, and that the
doctors of the church would have to exert themselves to the utmost,
and bring all their learning and eloquence to bear, if they wished
to convince her. But, underneath this vain pretence, her heart
yearned to enter that fold where her lost little one had found
refuge, and where she had seen such examples of Christian endurance
and charity.
And so, with no event in the family save Melicent’s marriage, the
winter and summer passed away, and another winter came. In that
winter, Edith had news of an event for which she had been looking
and longing ever since Carl went away. His letters had all been
addressed to his mother, but in one of them, about Christmas-time,
came a note for Edith. He was in Asia, and his letter was dated at
Bangkok. He had been across Cambodia, from the Menam to the Mekong,
as far as the country of the savage Stiens. “And here, in this wild
place, my dear Edith,” he wrote, “I gave up, and was baptized. I
had thought, while talking with Monsignor Miche, vicar-apostolic of
the mission to Cambodia and Laos, that, as soon as I should reach
Europe, I would enter the church. Indeed, while I heard this, an
accomplished gentleman, tell of the persecution he had suffered
when he was a simple missionary in Cochin-China, the imprisonment,
the beating with rods which cut the flesh so that blood followed,
the asking for and taking himself the blows intended for a
companion too frail to bear more--a story, Edith, which carried
my mind back to St. Paul, yet which was told with a boyish gaiety
and simplicity--while I heard this, my impulse was to throw myself
at his feet, and ask to be baptized by his consecrated hand. But,
you know, enthusiasm does not often overcome me; and, since he
did not urge me then, the good minute went. When, afterward, he
exhorted me, I promised him that I would not long delay. But, when
I reached the Stien country, over that miserable route of swamps,
cataracts, and forests filled with wild beasts, and found another
soldier of Christ living there, in that horrible solitude, sick,
suffering, but undismayed, my Teutonic phlegm deserted me. The
chief citizens of Father Guilloux’s republic are elephants, tigers,
buffaloes, wild boars, the rhinoceros; and the most frequent and
intimate visitors at his house of bamboos are scorpions, serpents,
and centipedes. And yet, all the complaint this heroic man made
was that he had but few converts. The savages are so joined to
their idols, he said. Edith, tears ran down my face. My whole heart
melted. ‘Father,’ I said, ‘here is a savage convert, if you will
take him. I cannot stay one hour longer out of the church which
gives birth to such children!’ And so I was baptized. And, my sweet
girl, I thought then that, if the time should ever come when I
should be so happy as to make Edith my wife, I should like to have
the same saintly hands join us. I told Father Guilloux of you, and
he sends you his blessing. You see I have heard all about Mr. Rowan.
“And now I turn my face homeward, though my route will not be very
direct. Since I am here, where I shall probably never come again, I
think it best to carry out my programme. But the intention of it
is somewhat different; for I find that a Catholic does not need to
travel abroad to find out how men should be taught and governed.
“I am sure that you pray for me constantly; and, believe me,
your name has been as constantly uttered by me during the whole
length of my wanderings, and is strung, Edith on Edith, like a
daisy-chain, two-thirds round the world.”
It was thus Carl first told Edith his wishes; and, from the moment
of that reading, she considered herself betrothed to him.
She carried her letter to her aunt, who already knew from her own
letter that Carl had entered the church and, placing it open in her
hand, knelt before her while she read it.
Mrs. Yorke took the hands that trembled in her lap, and gazed into
the fair face uplifted to hers. Edith’s cheeks were like crimson
roses, her beautiful eyes shone through tears, her lips were
parted by the quickened little breaths that told of her quickened
heart-beats.
“There is no mistake this time?” Mrs. Yorke asked, smiling. “You
say yes with all your heart?”
“Aunt Amy,” Edith exclaimed, “I’m one yes from head to foot, and
the gladdest yes that ever was spoken!”