THE REVELATION.
Clara Anderson had taken a long walk that day. She had plenty of
leisure, for work, which had come in more and more slowly, was withheld
now altogether, and but for the cunning devices by which Ben smuggled
help into the house the wolf would have been howling at her door, as
that other wild beast, slander, was hunting her down in the community.
On all sides the darkness of utter despair was settling around this poor
girl. Since that accident in the river, and the excitement of her ride
to the falls which followed it so quickly, the magnificent health which
had given her beauty such rare glow and coloring had broken down. At
night she was feverish and incapable of sleep, her appetite fled, her
strength waned, and her step, as she walked by the river side that day,
was painfully heavy. She sat down on the bank and watched the waters
flow by with a strange longing to drift on with them and be carried out
of sight forever.
The canoe, which Ben had rescued from a ruck of drift wood far below the
deep hole, a day or two after it had been wrecked, lay in the stream,
rocking like a cradle under a curtain of drooping willow boughs. Why had
it failed in its work that night? Why had not Ben allowed her to sink
and end her weary battle of life then and there?
These questions haunted the girl. She was afraid of them, with that
tempting water in sight, and arising, with a dreary spirit of
resistance, went toward the house.
She did not feel like going to her grandmother’s room just then. The old
woman had grown gentle and kind as a lamb in their misfortunes, and she
did not like to trouble her with a sight of her own face when these fits
of despondency came over her.
Entering the kitchen, she sat for a long time in her low chair in the
darkest corner of the room, her hands folded upon her lap and her eyes
fixed upon the floor.
Then the stillness of the house grew oppressive, and, forcing a look of
calm to her face, she went to her grandmother’s room. It was empty!
Where had the old woman gone? The least thing had power to disturb Clara
then. She feared that her grandmother had been taken ill, and was
perhaps lying helpless in some other room. She might be dead.
With this awful thought came a wild cry that rang through the house
laden with terror.
“Grandmother! Grandmother!”
No answer; no sound.
Clara went through that old home, room by room, wailing that one cry
until every nook and corner had been searched.
As each new disappointment struck her she looked wildly about and
listened—she almost fancied that she heard the old woman calling upon
her for help. It required a strong effort to subdue the feeling, and the
alarm left her so pale and weak that she was forced to relinquish her
lonely walk and sit down again.
There she sat, listening to every sound from without, longing to rush
from the house and seek her grandmother, almost expecting to see some
door open and a terrible shape appear to keep her company. A sort of
nightmare which she was powerless to break, and could only crouch in
passive misery under its thrall.
At length she heard the slow tread of a horse—her own horse—approaching
the house. She arose at once, and, opening the front door, met her
grandmother halfway down the yard.
“Grandmother! What is this? Where have you been?”
Those wild eyes, that earnest, white face, seemed to wither the woman
into decrepit old age again. She faltered in her walk, stooped feebly,
and, missing the support of her cane, searched around her with a
half-frightened look, as if she expected to find it in her need.
“Grandmother, speak to me! Have you gone wild? What is the horse doing
here?”
“I—I have been riding him, Clara. It is unhealthy staying in the house
so much.”
“Riding him! You? Oh, grandmother, what does this mean?”
“I wanted to see my minister, Clara. It is so long since I have been to
meeting. One cannot always stay indoors.”
The old woman walked into the house with difficulty, pausing a moment as
she uttered each word. Clara followed her until she sank, white and
nerveless, into her own great easy-chair.
“Grandmother, you are faint. You have done enough to kill yourself,”
said Clara, kneeling down by the chair.
“No, child, tired—tired, that is all,” gasped the old lady, trying her
best to smile.
“Why have you done this, grandmother? Do you wish to leave me utterly
alone? What should I do—what should I do then?”
The slow tears which come with such pain to the aged rose singly into
those eyes in which the unnatural fire had been long since quenched.
Stooping forward the old woman laid her hand solemnly on the girl’s
head.
“You have been a good child, Clara, wonderfully good; I have not praised
you much, but this has been in my heart always—always. Much speaking is
not my gift—I may be vexatious and cross: that is because I am so old
and unable to help myself; but I want to tell you now, my darling—don’t
that word sound strange, Clara? I never used it to you before. Did I
now? But it has been in my heart like a hymn ever since you began to
take care of me. Yes, you are good; and remember, God takes care of
such. If I never speak to you again remember I said that with my last
breath.”
“Oh, grandmother!”, cried Clara, struck with fresh panic.
“Let me lie down now, child; my words should not frighten you so: they
are only those of an old woman who feels herself tired. Come now, shake
up my pillow a little: rest is what I want most.”
Clara almost lifted the slight form in her arms and laid it on the bed
she had prepared. Spreading a soft woollen shawl over her, she knelt
down and laid her head on the pillow from which that pallid old face
looked out with but little appearance of rest.
“Now, grandmother, tell me what it is that troubles you. Is it because
the work comes in so slowly?”
The old head was weakly shaken on the pillow.
“Is it because you think I am not quite happy, then?”
Again the same negative movement.
“But something has happened. Did any letters come while I was out?”
“Yes, one. I laid it down somewhere, but can’t recollect where.”
“Did it bring bad news?”
“I don’t know, Clara; I did not open it.”
“Did not read it! Then something else took you away. What was it,
grandmother? Has any one said cruel things to you?”
“Cruel as the grave, Clara.”
“Ah! tell me. It must have been something terrible to send you away from
home. Tell me!”
“Wait a little, Clara; I am so tired, so dizzy and weak. Sit by me, but
don’t speak a while.”
Clara saw by the old woman’s faint gasping for breath that she was in
fact unable to speak, and bending her head to the pillow, waited, in
dumb, patient fear for the new evil which she felt was pending over her.
A knock at the door made her start up with nervous apprehension. It was
Mrs. Vose, who had seen the horse at the door, and came in dreading the
effect of that strange ride. The old woman’s eyes were closed, so Clara
made a sign to Mrs. Vose, and stole out with her into the next room.
Standing there in the gathering gray of a clouded twilight, she began to
question the washerwoman.
“What does this mean, Mrs. Vose? Can you tell me what drove my
grandmother to this dangerous ride?”
“Oh! Miss Clara, I cannot tell you!”
“Why do you hang back and look so frightened, Betsey Vose? If my poor
old grandmother has had trouble brought to her, surely I ought to know
it.”
“Oh! Miss Clara, why will you ask? Why do people hate you so?”
“Hate us! Oh, indeed! Why? If ever I wronged a human being among them it
was unconsciously.”
“I know that, miss, and have allus said it and will. Why they should
want to drive you out is beyond me. But you don’t begin to know.”
“Know what?”
“What people are saying.”
Then a new fear came over Clara: she felt that it was something more
real and terrible than she had anticipated—something which concerned
herself. Nothing else could have moved her grandmother to the strange
step she had taken.
“About me?” she asked, in a voice which sounded calm enough, though a
slight tremor betrayed the tempest within. “Things that they say about
me?”
Mrs. Vose nodded her head in assent.
“Oh, they nearly drove me crazy!” she burst out. “I didn’t know what to
say or think! When I came home and saw you sitting there looking as
innocent as a lamb—”
“What have they told you?” Clara asked again. Even then she could think
of nothing more painful than the stories which had already reached her
of an unwomanly attempt to lure young Lane into a marriage.
“Such dreadful things!” groaned the poor woman. “They told me the
minister was coming here to talk to you.”
Clara started to her feet, and all her fire and strength came back. She
recollected her conversation with Judge Lane. No other human being
should ever insult her with such counsels. Doubtless this powerful man
had urged the clergyman to do this: it was all his work. Clara’s pride
rose, and the whirl in her brain increased.
“I will not be lectured!” she exclaimed. “Neither that man nor his
friends shall come here to annoy me.”
“It isn’t what you think,” faltered Mrs. Vose. “Worse, worse than that!”
“What can be worse?” demanded Clara.
“Disgrace, miss, shame—slanders and lies! These are worse; they wound
like knives; they kill like poison!”
Clara stood wildly gazing on the woman. She could not comprehend the
full meaning of her words.
“Disgrace! shame!” she repeated. “What have we to do with them? They can
never reach us.”
“God help us, they have come!” said the woman, desperately. “They have
taken away your good name. They’ll kill your old grandmother.”
For the first time a perception of the truth broke upon the girl.
“What have they said of me?” she whispered.
The words which Mrs. Vose strove to utter seemed to burn her lips. She
could not bear to blast the life of a young creature she had known from
infancy by a revelation of the trouble which had befallen her.
“Tell me,” persisted Clara. “I am not as weak as you think. I can endure
it, and you will feel easier when you have told me.”
“Not now, not now!” Mrs. Vose begged piteously, as if there could be any
hope of comfort in putting off the disclosure.
“I would rather hear it from you than any one else.”
“I cannot tell you, Miss Clara.”
“Some one else will tell me, and more harshly. I must hear it.”
“How wild you look, Miss Clara! Don’t stare at me so; you make me
afraid.”
The woman put up her hands to shut out the sight of the pallid face
which was bent toward her with such keen anxiety.
“Will you tell me, Betsey Vose?”
There was something painful, in the icy coldness of these whispered
tones. Mrs. Vose could neither answer nor look at her.
“I will know! If you can’t tell me, I shall find some one who will.”
She leaned both hands hard against the back of a chair, and supporting
herself in that manner, rose to her full height and turned toward the
door.
“Miss Clara!” cried Mrs. Vose, “where are you going? What is it you mean
to do?”
“I am going to some one who will tell me the whole truth, Betsey Vose.”
“Come back! come back!” exclaimed the widow, despairingly. “I will tell
you! I will tell you!”
The girl returned, bowed her head and pressed her lips hard. The touch,
as they clung together, was like that of frosty steel.
“Tell me, Betsey. Don’t stop. I can bear it.”
Mrs. Vose could not speak aloud. She whispered the story in short,
broken words. Clara did not interrupt her by a movement or an
exclamation. She stood there so pale and still that it seemed almost as
if the woman were talking to a statue.
When Mrs. Vose had finished, Clara stood upright, pressing her hands
against her forehead, her lips parted in a struggle for breath.
“I have killed her!” groaned the woman.
“Hush!” said Clara, “hush! I can bear it!”
“And you won’t mind it? You won’t let it break you down? Oh, do say
that!”
“No, no!”
Clara was benumbed with the shock of that monstrous falsehood. She
neither felt ashamed nor afraid. Why should she blush and shrink when
women could so outrage the sweet modesty of nature, and dare accuse her
of things that carried infamy in the very thought? Was it not enough
that she had lost her means of livelihood? Must these female birds of
prey rend her good name also?
The thought made her wild and strong: for the moment she was lifted out
of her weakness. If the minister came to rebuke her she would meet him.
Why not? She was innocent in thought and deed as himself, servant of God
though he was.