A dreary sunless December day had drawn to a close, prematurely
darkened by a slow drizzling rain, that brought the gloom of early
night, where sunset splendours should have lingered, and deepened the
sombre desolation that mantled the parsonage. In anticipation of the
arrival of the new minister, who was expected the ensuing week, the
furniture had been removed and sold, the books carefully packed and
temporarily stored at the warehouse of a friend, and even the trunks
containing the wearing apparel of the occupants had been despatched
to the railway depot, and checked for transmission by the night
express.
The melancholy preparations for departure were completed, friends had
paid their final visits, and only Esau the sexton waited with his
lantern, to lock up the deserted house, and take charge of the keys.
The last mournful tribute had been offered at the grave in the
churchyard, where the beloved pastor slept serenely; and the cold
leaden rain fell upon a mass of beautiful flowers, which quite
covered the mound, that marked his dreamless couch.
Since that farewell visit to her brother's tomb, Mrs. Lindsay seemed
to have lost her wonted fortitude and composure, and was pacing the
empty library, weeping bitterly, giving vent to the long-pent anguish
which daily duties and business details had compelled her to
restrain.
Impotent to comfort, Regina stood by the mantlepiece, gazing vacantly
at the wood fire on the hearth, which supplied only a dim fitful and
uncertain light in the bare chill room, once the most cosy and
attractive in the whole cheerful house.
How utterly desolate everything appeared now, with only the dreary
monotone of the wintry rain on the roof, and the occasional sob that
fell from the black-robed figure walking to and fro.
It had been such a happy, peaceful, blessed home, where piety,
charity, love, taste, refinement, and education all loaned their
charms to the store of witchery, which made it doubly sad to realize
that henceforth other feet would tread its floors, other voices echo
in its garden and verandahs.
To the girl who had really never known any other home (save the quiet
convent courts) this parsonage was the dearest spot she had yet
learned to love; and with profound sorrow she now prepared to bid
adieu for ever to the haven where her happiest years had passed like
a rosy dream.
The dreary deserted aspect of the house recalled to her mind--
"How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed"--
of Charles Lamb's quaint tender "Old familiar faces," as full of
melancholy pathos as human eyes brimming with unshed tears; and from
it her thoughts gradually drifted to another poem, which she had
first heard from Mr. Lindsay during the week of his departure, and
later from the sacred lips that were now placidly smiling beneath the
floral cross and crown in the neighbouring churchyard.
To-night the words recurred with the mournful iteration of some
dolorous refrain; and yielding to the spell she leaned her forehead
against the chimney-piece, and repeated them sadly and slowly:
"'We sat and talked until the night
Descending, filled the little room;
Our faces faded from the sight--
Our voices only broke the gloom.
We spake of many a vanished scene,
Of what we once had thought and said,
Of what had been, and might have been,
And who was changed, and who was dead;
And all that fills the hearts of friends,
When first they feel with secret pain,
Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,
And never can be one again.
The very tones in which we spake
Had something strange, I could but mark;
The leaves of memory seemed to make
A mournful rustling in the dark.'"
Attracted by the rhythm, which softly beat upon the air like some
muffled prelude striking only minor chords, Mrs. Lindsay came to the
hearth, and with her arm resting on the girl's shoulder, stood
listening.
"How dearly my Douglass loved those lines."
"And on the night before he died, Mr. Hargrove repeated them, asking
me afterward to select some sweet solemn sacred tune with an organ
accompaniment, and sing them for him. But what music is there that
would suit a poem, which henceforth will seem as holy as a psalm to
me?"
"Perhaps after a while you and I may be able to quiet the pain, and
set it to some sweet old chant. Just now our hearts are too sore."
"After a while? What hope has after a while? It cannot bring back the
lost; and does memory ever die? After a while has not given me my
mother; after a while has not taught me to forget her, or made me
more patient in my waiting. After a while I know death will come to
us all, and then there will be no more heartache; but I can't see
that there is any comfort in after a while, except beyond the grave.
Mrs. Lindsay, I do not wish to be wicked or rebellious, but it seems
very hard that I must leave this dear quiet home, and be separated
from you and Mr. Lindsay whom I dearly love, and go and live in a
city, with that cold, hard, harsh, stern man, of whom I am so much
afraid. He may mean well, but he has such unkind ways of showing it.
You have no idea how dreadful the future looks to me."
She spoke drearily, and in the fitful flashes of the firelight the
young face looked unnaturally stern.
"My dear child, you must not despond; at your age one must try to see
only the bright side. If I expected to remain in America, I would not
give you up without a struggle; would beg your mother's permission to
keep you until she claimed you. But I shall only wait to learn that
Douglass has arranged for my arrival. As you know, my sister and
brother-in-law are in Egypt, and if I were with them in Cairo, I
could hear more regularly and frequently from my dear boy. I wish I
could keep you, for you have grown deep into my heart, but my own
future is too uncertain to allow me to involve any one else in my
plans."
"I understand the circumstances, but if mother only knew everything,
I believe she would not doom me to the care of that man of stone. Oh,
if you could only take me across the ocean, and let me go to Venice
to mother."
Mrs. Lindsay tightened her arm around the erect slender figure, and
gently stroked back the hair from her temples.
"My dear, you paint your future guardian too grimly. Mr. Palma
is very reserved, rather haughty, and probably stern, but
notwithstanding has a noble character, I am told, and certainly
appears much interested in and kindly disposed toward you. Dear
Peyton liked him exceedingly, and his two letters to me were full of
generosity and kind sympathy. As I believe I told you, his stepmother
resides with him, and her daughter Miss Neville, though a young lady,
will be more of a companion for you than the older members of the
household. Mr. Palma is one of the most eminent and popular lawyers
in New York, is very ambitious, I have heard, and at his house you
will meet the best society of that great city; by which I mean the
most cultivated, high-toned, and aristocratic people. I am sorry that
he has no religious views, habits, or associations, as I inferred
from the remarks of the lady whom I met in Boston, and who seemed
well acquainted with the Palma household. She told me 'none of that
family had any religion, though of course they kept a pew in the
fashionable church.' But, my dear little girl, I hope your principles
and rules of life are sufficiently established to preserve you from
all free-thinking tendencies. Constant attendance at church does not
constitute religion, any more than the _bonâ fide_ pulpit means the
spiritual Gospel; but I have noticed that where genuine piety exists,
it is generally united with a recognition of church duties and
obligations. The case of books I packed and sent with your trunks
contains some very admirable though old-fashioned works, written by
such women as Hannah More, Mrs. Chapone, Mrs. Opie, and others, to
mould the character of girls, and instruct them in all that is
requisite to make them noble, refined, intelligent, useful Christian
women. Hannah More's 'Lucilla Stanley' is one of the loveliest
portraitures of female excellence in the whole domain of literature,
and you will find some of the passages marked to arrest your
attention. In this age of rapid deviation from the standard rules
that governed feminine deportment and education when I was a
girl, many of the precepts and admonitions penned by the authors
I have mentioned are derided and repudiated as 'puritanical,'
'old-fashioned,' 'strait-laced,' 'stupid and prudish'; but if these
indeed be faults, certainly in the light of modern innovations they
appear 'to lean to virtue's side.' In fashionable society, such as
you are destined to meet at Mr. Palma's, you will find many things
that no doubt will impress you as strange, possibly wrong; but in all
these matters consult the books I have selected for you, read your
Bible, pray regularly, and under all circumstances hold fast to your
principles. Question and listen to your conscience, and no matter how
keen the ridicule, or severe the condemnation to which your views may
subject you, stand firm. Moral cowardice is the inclined plane that
leads to the first step in sin. Be sure you are right, and then
suffer no persuasion or invective to influence you in questions
involving conscientious scruples. You are young and peculiarly
isolated, therefore I have given you a letter to my valued old friend
Mrs. Mason, who will always advise you judiciously, if you will only
consult her. I hope you will devote as much time as possible to
music, for to one gifted with your rare talent it will serve as a
sieve straining out every ignoble discordant suggestion, and will
help to keep your thoughts pure and holy."
"I suppose there are wicked ways and wicked people everywhere, and it
is not the fashion or the sinfulness that I am afraid of in New York,
but the loneliness I anticipate. I dread being shut up between brick
walls: no flowers, no grass, no cows, no birds, no chickens, none of
the things I care for most."
"But, my dear child, you forget that you have entered your fifteenth
year, and as you grow older you will gradually lose your inordinate
fondness for pets. Your childish tastes will change as you approach
womanhood."
"I hope not. Why should they? When I am an old woman with white hair,
spectacles, wrinkled cheeks, and a ruffled muslin cap like poor
Hannah's, I expect to love pigeons and rabbits, and all pretty white
things, just as dearly as I do now. Speaking of Hannah, how I shall
miss her? Since she went away, I shun the kitchen as much as
possible,--everything is so changed, so sad. Oh! the dear, dear
old-dead-and-gone-days will never, never come back to me."
For some time neither spoke. Mrs. Lindsay wept, the girl only groaned
in spirit; and at length she said suddenly, like one nerved for some
painful task:
"When we separate at the depot, you to take one train and I another,
we may never meet again in this world, and I must say something to
you, which I could mention to no one else. There is a cloud hanging
over me. I have always lived in its cold shadow, even here where
there is, or was, so much to make me happy, and this mystery renders
me unwilling to go into the world of curious, harsh people, who will
wonder and question. I know that Orme is not my real name, but am
forbidden to ask for information until I am grown. I have full faith
in my mother: I must believe that all she has done is right, no
matter how strange things seem; but on one point I must be satisfied.
Is my mother's name Minnie?"
"I cannot tell you, for it was the only secret dear Peyton ever kept
from me. In speaking of her, he always called her Mrs. Orme."
"Do you know anything about the loss of a valuable paper, once in Mr.
Hargrove's possession?"
"A great many years ago, before you came to live with us, some one
entered this room, opened the secret drawer of Peyton's writing desk,
and carried off a tin box containing some important papers."
"And suspicion rested on my mother?"
"My darling girl, who could have been so cruel as to distress you
with such matters? No one----"
Regina interrupted her, with an imperative motion of her hand:
"Please answer my question. Truth is better than kindness, is more to
me than sympathy. Did not you and Mr. Hargrove believe that mother
took--stole that box?"
"Peyton never admitted to me that he suspected her, though some
circumstances seemed to connect the disappearance of the papers with
her visit here the night they were carried off. He accused no one."
Regina was deeply moved, and her whole face quivered as she answered:
"Oh! how good, how truly charitable he was! I wonder if in all the
wide borders of America there are any more like him? If I could only
have told him the facts, and satisfied him that my mother was
innocent! But I waited until Hannah could get away in peace, and
before she was ready to start God called him home. In heaven of
course he knows it all now. I promised Hannah to tell no one but him,
and to defer the explanation until she was safe, entirely beyond the
reach of his displeasure; but since you suspected my mother, it is
right that I should justify her in your estimation."
Very succinctly she narrated what had occurred on the evening of the
storm, and the incidents of the ensuing morning, when she followed
Hannah into the churchyard. As she concluded, an expression of relief
and pleasure succeeded that of astonishment which had rested on Mrs.
Lindsay's worn and faded face.
"I am heartily glad that at last the truth has been discovered, and
that it fully exonerated your mother from all connection with the
theft; for I confess the circumstances prejudiced me against her. Let
us be encouraged, my dear little girl, to believe that in due time
all the other mysteries will be quite as satisfactorily cleared up."
"I can't afford to doubt it; if I did, I should not be able to----"
She paused, while an increasing pallor overspread her features.
"That is right, dear, believe in her. We should drink and live upon
faith in our mothers, as we did their milk that nourished us. When
children lose faith in their mothers, God pity both! Did you learn
from Hannah the character of the paper?"
"How could I question a servant concerning my mother's secrets? I
only learned that Mr. Hargrove had given to my mother a copy of that
which was burned by the lightning."
"In writing to her, did you mention the facts?"
"I have not as yet. I doubted whether I ought to allude to the
subject, lest she should think I was intruding upon her confidence."
"Dismiss that fear, and in your next letter acquaint her fully with
all you learned from poor Hannah; it may materially involve her
interest or welfare. Now, Regina, I am about to say something which
you must not misinterpret, for my purpose is to comfort you, to
strengthen your confidence in your mother. I do not know her real
name, I never heard your father's mentioned, but this I do
know,--dear Peyton told me that in this room he performed the
marriage ceremony that made them husband and wife. Why such profound
secrecy was necessary your poor mother will some day explain to you.
Until then, be patient."
"Thank you, Mrs. Lindsay. It does comfort me to know that Mr.
Hargrove was the minister who married them. Of course it is no secret
to you that my mother is an actress? I discovered it accidentally,
for you know the papers were never left in my way, and in all her
letters she alluded to her 'work being successful,' but never
mentioned what it was; and I always imagined she was a musician
giving concerts. But one day last June, at the Sabbath-school
Festival, Mrs. Potter gave me a Boston paper, containing an article
marked with ink, which she said she wished me to read, because it
would edify a Sunday-school pupil. It was a letter from Italy,
describing one of the theatres there, where Madame Odille Orme was
playing 'Medea.' I cut out the letter, gave it to Mr. Hargrove, and
asked him if it meant my mother. He told me it did, and advised me to
enclose it to her when I wrote. But I could not, I burned it. People
look down on actresses as if they were wicked or degraded, and for
awhile it distressed me very much indeed, but I know there must be
good as well as bad people in all professions. Since then I have been
more anxious to become a perfect musician, so that before long I can
relieve mother from the necessity of working on the stage."
"It was wickedly malicious in Mrs. Prudence to wound you; and we were
all so anxious to shield you from every misgiving on your mother's
account. Some actresses have brought opprobrium upon the profession,
which certainly is rather dangerous, and subjects women to suspicion
and detraction; but let me assure you, Regina, that there have been
very noble, lovely, good ladies who made their bread exactly as your
mother makes hers. There is no more brilliant, enviable, or stainless
record among gifted women than that of Mrs. Siddons'; or to come down
to the present day, the world honours, respects, and admires none
more than Madame Ristori, or Miss Cushman. Personal characteristics
must decide a woman's reputation, irrespective of the fact that she
lives upon the stage; and it is unjust that the faults of some should
reflect discreditably upon all in any profession. Individually I must
confess I am opposed to theatres and actresses, for I am the widow of
a minister, and have an inherited and a carefully educated prejudice
against all such things; but while I acknowledge this fact, I dare
not assert that some who pass their lives before the footlights may
not be quite as conscientious and upright as I certainly try to be. I
should grieve to see you on the stage, yet should circumstances
induce you to select it as a profession, in the sight of God who
alone can judge human hearts, your and your mother's chances of final
acceptance and rest with Christ might be as good, perhaps better,
than mine Let us 'judge not, lest we be judged.'"
"The world has not your charity, but let it do its worst. Come what
may, my mother is still my own mother, and God will hold the scales
and see that justice is done. Perhaps some day we may follow you to
India, and spend the remainder of our lives in some cool quiet
valley, under the shadow of the rhododendrons on the Himalayan hills.
Who knows what the end may be? But no matter how far we wander,
or where we rest, we shall never find a home so sweet, so peaceful,
so full of holy and happy associations, as this dear parsonage has
been to me."
The fire burned low, and in its dull flicker the shadows thickened;
while the rising wind sobbed and wailed mournful as a coranach
around the desolate old house, whence so many generations had glided
into the sheltering bosom of the adjoining necropolis.
Across the solemn gloomy stillness ran the sharp shivering sound of
the door-bell, and when the jarring had ceased Esau entered with his
lantern in his hand.
"The carriage is at the gate. The schedule was changed last week, and
the driver says it is nearly train time. Give me the satchels and
basket."
Slowly the two figures followed the lantern-bearer down the dim bare
hall, and the sound of their departing footsteps echoed strangely,
dismally through the empty, forsaken house. At the front door both
paused and looked back into the darkness that seemed like a vast
tomb, swallowing everything, engulfing all the happy hallowed past.
But Regina imagined that in the dusky library, by the wan flicker of
the dying fire, she could trace the spectral outline of a white
draped table, and of a tall prostrate form bearing a Grand Duke
jasmine in its icy hand. Shuddering violently, she wrapped her shawl
around her and sprang down the steps into the drizzling rain, while
Mrs. Lindsay slowly followed, weeping silently.
"Were it mine I would close the shutters,
Like lids when the life is fled,
And the funeral fire should wind it,
This corpse of a home that is dead."