IT was some weeks afterwards that I heard from Alice herself the rest
of the story.
On that Sabbath afternoon she had been bustling about her room making
ready for the evening service, singing snatches of sacred song, with no
more thought of the words than had the wood robin just then singing his
evening song. "I never thought words," she vehemently told me; "they
had always seemed to me like so much necessary machinery on which to
exhibit the tune."
While she fluttered from bureau to dressing table, then loitered a
moment by the open window trilling her song, from the open window of
the next house, separated from her only by a narrow passage way, came a
voice, distinct and tremulous with earnestness. It took but a moment to
realize that it was Auntie Barber at prayer.
"And I heard her pray for me," said Alice, her voice awe-stricken as
she told of it. "You never heard such a prayer! At least, I never have.
I was not used to hearing people pray for me. And she asked the Lord to
get me ready to sing with the angels. Think how that must have made me
feel! I, who had never thought about angels, and was afraid to die, and
afraid to hear about death! But she prayed more than that. She asked
God to let me sing for some soul that night; sing it a song that would
make it want Christ for a friend. Think of it; I sing for a soul! It
frightened me. I turned from that window feeling all white and faint. I
thought I could not sing at all, and yet I must. But I cannot describe
to you what an evening it was. I could not get away from that prayer.
It seemed to float all about me. Try as I would, I could not put it
aside. What if Auntie Barber's prayer should be answered, and I should
sing some soul into peace with God, and there was I, afraid of Him!
But that last hymn just stabbed me. Standing up there, all alone, and
singing those awful words:
"'Take my voice, and let me sing
'Always, only for my King.'
"It seemed to me that I mocked Him with the words; that I had always
been mocking Him, and I was afraid. I had just found out that it was
a fearful thing to be able to sing. You remember that I called out to
Auntie Barber as she passed, and went away with her? But I said hardly
anything to her that I meant to. I began: 'O, Auntie Barber, you don't
know me. You think I sing for God, but I don't. I've been mocking Him
with just words all my life, and I am frightened, frightened!' She
interrupted me just there.
"'Dear heart,' she said, 'He knows all about you, and he loves you, and
is waiting for you. Come in, and tell Him the whole story.' And she
drew me into that very room where she had prayed for me!
"The rest of the story isn't long to tell," said Alice, smiling on me
with eyes that glistened; "but it will take eternity to live it! I
finished the hymn that evening in Auntie Barber's room:
"'Take myself, and I will be
Ever, only, all for Thee!"
And she meant the words.
I wish I had time to tell you the rest of the story about our church
choir. Once more it was reconstructed. He declared that all our singers
were either ill-humored or hysterical, and every one of them flatted.
Then our Boston guest took up the burden. For three weeks she preached
the Gospel to us in song, alone, utterly unsustained, save by the
organist, who bravely held the fort with her. During those three weeks
she worked. She gathered the girls about her—those elements of power in
every church, if they were only understood. "Let us have a new choir,"
she said; "let us take this for our motto:
"'Take my voice, and let me sing
Ever, only for my King.'"
She printed those words in illuminated text, and framed them and hung
them in the choir gallery.
In process of time they found a leader, one who was willing to sing
by the new motto. I will not tell the story; it is long. But, in its
details, it shows what we each need to more fully realize; the power of
reconstruction which lies in one young consecrated life. Three months
our borrowed songstress stayed with us, and when she went away she left
our choir singing by the motto; the essential difference between their
music and all others which we had ever enjoyed being embodied in that
one brief sentence: They meant the words.
The last time I heard Alice Haviland sing was in our church, on a
week-day afternoon, just as the autumn leaves were beginning to fall.
She stood near to an open coffin, in which lay an old, worn body, a
wrinkled face, crowned with white satin hair, and the most reposeful
smile that ever Auntie Barber's dear old face had ever worn. And the
young singer, looking down on the quiet sleeper, breathed out the words
to wondrous melody:
"Forever with the Lord,
Amen, so let it be;
Life from the dead is in that word,
'Tis immortality.
"Servant of Christ, well done;
Praise be thy new employ;
And while eternal ages run.
Rest in thy Saviour's joy."
And as the voice ceased, and the singer turned toward me with
tear-dimmed eyes, while they closed the coffin-lid, she murmured: "I am
sure Auntie Barber has already joined the choir. Her soul was just full
of song. And, oh! How she can sing now. And she will always mean the
words."
HIS FRIEND.
———
CHAPTER I.
IT would have puzzled many of his friends to understand what possible
interest Mr. Thornton could have had in the old cottage which he
stood surveying. What was there in the dingy, cobwebby place to call
for so much thought as he seemed to be putting upon it? He was not
a real estate agent estimating its value, nor a mechanic contriving
how he might make it good as new; for his cultured face had not the
sharp business look of the one, neither did his elegant attire belong
to the latter. The old place might have been picturesque in its day,
but now the luxuriant growth of lawn and garden were all in a tangle;
the maples and elms were locking arms, and that "gadding vine," the
woodbine, had strayed away to the top of the tall hemlock.
It may be that Mr. Thornton was musing upon the possibilities of the
forlorn little house, thinking it pitiful that even houses, trees and
vines should not make the most of themselves. He had a passion for
bringing up human ruins from depths of sin. It would not be strange if
this divine outgoing widened and extended to inanimate things.
People said that Mr. Thornton was very peculiar. He puzzled the world
in which he moved in more ways than one. It was incomprehensible to
them why a man with thousands to bestow in charity, did not sit in
his easy chair, and with a few flourishes of his pen make munificent
gifts to public institutions, which would trumpet his praises far and
near, instead of giving it out in driblets as he did, and half of the
time nobody ever heard of it, except by chance; giving himself such
extra trouble, too, hunting out objects of charity that nobody else
would ever think of. Ah! That was just what he did accomplish; things
that most people would not think of doing; little helps given here and
there, tiding a discouraged man over it rough spot, saving the home
to a widow, giving a month's rest to a poor sewing woman, a barrel of
flour or load of coal to a family suddenly driven to straits who would
starve rather than beg. And money was not all he gave; no one but God
and themselves ever knew how he followed young men in and out, bringing
them back from the very door of the pit to respectability and to Christ.
Among the poorest classes he was a most successful worker, because,
like his Master, he brought not only the bread of life, but also the
material, homely loaf for fainting bodies.
Whatever could possess one of intellectual tastes, with wealth and
leisure and the wide world before him to spend time in such a strange
way? People who could see no farther than the outside said that
he wanted to be a sort of patron saint to the unfortunate; others
explained it by that convenient word "eccentric." That which really
was the true motive power of this life they could not understand or
appreciate.
Every person finds his greatest pleasure in some particular way. It
was natural for Mr. Thornton to find his in making others happy. As a
boy, he often gave a bit of silver to a beggar or a rose to a forlorn
woman, because he so loved to see the face change from dullness to glad
surprise. Of late years, though, there had come into his life something
stronger and purer as a controlling power. He had been taken into near
companionship with the Lord Jesus. He consulted with him in every small
affair of his life, and received special guidance, consequently he had
no worries and anxieties; he was under orders, not as servant only,— it
was more as one might carry out the least wish of a dear absent friend.
The beneficence that flowed from his purse was simply dispensing
another's bounty. Every flower or kind word bestowed, were the cups of
cold water given in the Friend's name, for none of which he claimed
merit.
After many years spent abroad Mr. Thornton had returned to his native
city. This neglected cottage, along with other pieces of property,
had fallen into his hands at the death of an old aunt, and with the
rest had much needed his attention for some time past. It was an
old-fashioned house with low ceilings, small windows, wide fireplaces
and broad hearthstones. Outside, there were broad verandas, a garden
full of roses, shrubs and vines; a disorderly mass now, but capable of
being a delight.
True to himself, he immediately set to work—in imagination—transforming
the shabby house into a thing of beauty. His artistic eye could see how
charming the parlor would be with the sunlight and the roses peeping
through white-curtained windows, the lawn a velvety green, cleared of
all but one grand oak, and the garden with trained vines and trimmed
walks. What wonders might not paper, and paint, and pruning-knife
accomplish! He grew enthusiastic over it as he went on. But what of it
all when it was finished? It would be easy to give it into the hands of
an agent to dispose of, and so have no further trouble about it, but
he had an impression that in some way this house might be used for the
comfort and help of some one in the Father's family, and he resolved to
dedicate it to that purpose.
He sat on the porch and thought it all out while the shadows of the
vines danced over him and the morning-glories nodded approvingly. Yes,
he would make the place fresh and fair, and it should be to refresh the
heart of some old saint who was homeless and friendless, with nothing
left but memories of the past and hopes of the future.
"She will train these vines into orderliness and sit with her knitting
in this shade," he said to himself, as he turned the key in lock
and went his way. So eager was he to have the work commenced that
he brought out his knife and clipped disorderly branches from the
sweet-brier that overhung the gateway as he passed through.
The vacant cottage stood on a pleasant street that stretched itself
on out into the country, and Mr. Thornton, lured by the beauty of the
autumn days and the flaming colors hung out on a piece of woods not far
distant, turned his steps thitherward, pausing a moment on the brow
of the hill to take in all the beauty. He was rewarded by a tableau
of surprising loveliness. Nature, growing lavish with the dying year,
had again festooned the old tree trunks and brown limbs with royal
hangings. Red maples, yellow elms and the pine's dark green, wove such
tapestry of gorgeous tints and rare blending as Persian looms might
assay in vain to imitate.
Under one of the maples, standing on tiptoe, and reaching up to the
bright branches, was a young girl. The little figure was trim and neat
in soft gray suit and well-fitting thick boots. She was no sylph-like
maiden that a breath might blow away. Every curve of her form was
instinct with life and energy, yet the attitude was the personification
of grace. Her broad-brimmed hat had fallen back on her shoulders, and
the upturned face was eager and rosy as a child's as she reached a
plump hand far above her head, and almost grasped the coveted scarlet
branch; like a child's, too, in the wave of disappointment that swept
over it when she found her utmost efforts unavailing. She picked up
the basket at her feet, already half filled with ferns, and moved
on a few steps; then her face glowed again, and her eyes beamed on
some new discovery. This was apparently no city maiden, come out for
a sentimental stroll, for down she went on her knees before a clump
of wood violets growing about an old stump. Eagerly she seized her
trowel, carefully loosened the earth about them, and lifted them almost
reverently into her basket.
Mr. Thornton was a devout admirer of the beautiful in art and nature,
but he had not lived thirty years without knowing that a fair face
and form may hide a hollow heart. He had studied, in the galleries
of Europe, perfect faces, painted by the old masters; he had met in
society women gifted with glorious beauty, and discovered that one was
no more soulless than the other, consequently mere external charms
failed to impress him deeply. And yet, screened by the friendly sumach,
he watched with keen interest the pretty pose under the tree, and the
childish attitude on the ground, as the energetic little worker lifted
root after root of the homely plants into her basket. And this, not
alone because she made a pretty picture, but it was refreshing as a
breath of mountain air to discover one who could bring such enthusiasm
to autumn leaves and a few wildwood plants, and step about with that
joyous, unconscious air as if it were not in her nature to think of
herself, or do anything for the mere sake of effect.
She fitted in well with the bright sky, bracing air and song of birds.
He loved simple pleasures so much himself that he shared in her
delight. As she disappeared into the woods far enough away for him to
escape observation, he came and stood under the tree that had refused
to give her one of its branches. From his height it was easy to reach
the very one the little hand had aspired to; he broke it off, and
several other bright sprays still higher up, then he dropped two or
three of the finest just in the path by which she must return. And this
he did, not from mere sentimentality; he would have done the same for
any wrinkled old woman. It was this man's nature to help everybody to
what they wanted, if it were right and he could do it.
He had the satisfaction after a little to see her come down the path,
pause with a puzzled look beside the branches in her way, send a
swift reconnoitering look about her, then with a smile and a murmured
expression of delight, place them in her basket, the crowning glory
of the whole. Then another scrutinizing sweep of her eyes, all about
her,—half-frightened this time, as if she just realized that she was
not alone, and she took up her basket and sped away like the wind.
Had she only known how true and good a man stood guard over her she
need not have put herself in such a flutter. She walked steadily on,
bearing her burden as bravely as though it were customary for the young
ladies to walk through city streets carrying large baskets.
Lily Winthrop's home was on one of the broad avenues; a large old
mansion that had been palatial in its day, but now owed its chief
attraction to its location, and the fine grounds surrounding it. She
was met in the broad gateway by a tall, silver haired old gentleman,
who looked reproachfully at the basket and said:
"Lily, my child, is it possible you have brought that through the
streets? Why did you not take Gretchen with you to carry it?"
"O, Grandpa! it is not at all heavy, and Gretchen was busy. See my
spoils; look at that lovely bright maple branch. It is the strangest
thing where that came from. I tried so hard to get it, but it was above
my reach, and when I came back that way, there it lay right in the
path! It must have been some good fairy or friendly squirrel who took
pity on me. Aren't these ferns beautiful?"
"What if you had met the Berkeleys or the Madisons, and you carrying a
great basket like any market woman?"
"I would have made my best bow to them, Grandpa, exactly as if I had
nothing in my hand, and with my best clothes on, was sailing out to
kill time; and I would have shown them all my worldly treasures, and
perhaps I would have given them this lovely little bouquet which I will
now give to you, my best grandpa, if you don't scold me any more." And
she fastened on his coat a small bunch of scarlet berries, tiny white
flowers, and dark leaves.
The old gentleman smiled down into her merry eyes, despite his
vexation, and put his arm about her fondly.
"Poor child!" he said. "How can you keep a gay heart under such crosses
as you have to carry!"
"All the crosses I carry are good for me, dear Grandpa. I have had a
delightful time in the woods this afternoon. Now let us go in to tea.
After that I have a fresh newspaper for you."
She stepped to her room and freshened herself with a soft lace necktie
and a few bright leaves in her hair and at her throat, so that
Grandpa's old eyes might imagine he had a lady in full dress at his
table. Then she sat down and presided over the tea-urn with all due
dignity and grace, taking care to have everything just as he liked
it; the table in faultless array, and Gretchen with spotless apron
in waiting, and certain other little ceremonies that he was fond of
keeping up.
Supper over, and Mr. Winthrop comfortably established with his paper,
Lily slipped off to the greenhouse to pot her ferns and violets. This
was her workshop; here she toiled early and late, surreptitiously
often, for it grieved the grandfather sorely that his darling had been
brought to such straits, so she managed by various small strategies to
keep from him the full extent of her labors.
It was the old story—unfortunate speculations—signing a note for
another, etc., and a fortune had taken wings. Affluence and luxury
had been exchanged for poverty, debts and anxieties. Lily had been
bequeathed to her grandfather at the death of her widowed mother. So
they two, the first and the last of the family, had been left alone
in the old homestead; and it had been a happy life until this great
change. Mr. Winthrop came out of the storm with nothing left but a
small bank account.
A lifelong friend bought the residence at auction sale, telling Mr.
Winthrop to stay just where he was; that when he needed the place he
would let him know, giving him plainly to understand, however, that
probably he should never ask him to leave it. And now the question
arose as to what could be done to eke out a support without consuming
at once the little they possessed. Mr. Winthrop had long since given
up active business life; if there had been anything for him to do he
was too feeble and aged to attempt it. Lily was a proficient in music,
but, alas! there were many teachers and much competition. She succeeded
by dint of great exertion in obtaining two or three pupils. They had
many friends in their prosperous days who were "very sorry" for them
now, but who considered it their solemn duty to employ none but German
professors.
An inspiration came to Lily one day in this form: There was the
greenhouse well stocked with plants, why should it not be a source
of profit to them? It had always held a sort of fascination for her.
She had watched John for hours, and asked questions innumerable,
had even learned how to arrange flowers in different styles, little
thinking the knowledge would ever prove useful to her. John had been
dismissed, but she felt quite sure that by the aid of books she could
care for the plants and realize a sum—with their other sources of
income—sufficient for their wants. But there were difficulties in the
way of accomplishing this. Her grandfather was a born aristocrat, and
held to the belief that a lady, especially a Winthrop, must be hedged
about with all sorts of dainty care, must not harden her hands with any
manual labor, above all things must not engage in petty traffic like
any huckster, in fine, that she was a rare and delicate flower that the
winds must not visit too roughly, and that some chivalrous man must
guard and cherish, as he had cared for her, and as he meant to do until
this horrible thing had come upon them. "No, indeed, she must not think
of putting her own hands to such work. If worst had come to worst, and
they must make merchandise of the plants, then John must be recalled
and the thing done up properly."
Poor Lily sighed, and tried to make her unpractical grandfather see
that John would swallow up all the profits; but he was inexorable,
declaring that as long as he lived she should never thus demean
herself. Meanwhile, he should get into some business, he was sure. And
now he cast about to see what he could do. Ah, yes, what? His business
for forty years had been to direct others. He had been president of
a bank and of a railroad company; but such offices are not open to
men over seventy. He put pitiful little advertisements in the papers
to the effect that "a skilled financier, one of large experience in
railroading and banking desired a position." Then growing humbler
would come down to "a ready accountant, a skillful penman, wishing a
situation," forgetting that his poor old brain could scarcely add a
column of figures correctly if life depended upon it, and that the
trembling hand could no longer make graceful curves.
Day after day he sat and waited for the postman's ring; it sometimes
came, but the longed-for letter did not come; then he was sure he
should hear something to-morrow, and so the hours passed in trembling
expectancy. While this was going on, Lily was hard at work pruning,
potting, gathering out dead leaves and transferring plants from lawn to
greenhouse, working in the early mornings while her grandfather slept.
She must have it all in order, for she hoped to win him to consent to
her plan after a time. And so it proved; by many womanly manœuvres
she brought it about. She made her grandfather see that it was highly
necessary to her health and happiness to be among the plants; then—"the
shelves were getting crowded; would he sell a few young plants to Mr.
Harris, the grocer."
At this, the old gentleman was nettled, saying, "Oh, that is small
business; give Mr. Harris a few plants if he wishes them; we have more
than enough."
Then Lily would fix her innocent brown eyes on her grandfather's and
say, "Grandpa, I suppose I don't know much about business, but when you
come right down to it, isn't it about the same thing to receive four or
five dollars from Mr. Harris who wants our plants, as for you to have
received four of five thousand dollars when you were a banker from men
who wanted your services?"
At this grandpa laughed and said, "Go on, child, have your own way; you
are a real Winthrop. If I once you take a thing into your head, you'll
never give up till it is accomplished." He said to himself, "Sure
enough, when you put it in that way, what is the difference?"
And now business began in a lively manner. Lily rose before the sun,
cut her flowers and arranged them in attractive style, and Gretchen
carried them to the market—transmuting rosebuds into beefsteak for the
morning meal.
These bouquets were much in demand among people of good taste; they
were not the stiff, ungainly things one usually sees, but were grouped
loosely and tastefully together with a rare grace that could not be
imitated. She possessed true womanly tact, and succeeded in interesting
her grandfather in the structure and habits of plants. She brought
books from the library, scientific and practical, and, during the long
evenings they studied them together until the elder student began to
catch some of the enthusiasm of the younger, and both grew to be wise
in plant lore. Mr. Winthrop even came into the greenhouse himself and
made bungling efforts to be useful. It touched Lily to the heart to
see her stately, dignified grandfather, who had never dealt much with
details of any sort, sitting before a basket of flowers, sorting out
heliotrope, primroses and smilax with painful precision.
As for herself she was perfectly in love with the work; busy and happy
she hind almost forgotten to notice that her many dear friends had
nearly all ceased to visit her, so she had ample time for her new
pursuit. Bringing to it such zeal and love, success was sure. Shut in
her little green world, that other world where she had flitted about
with gay butterflies of fashion, seemed far off—another state of
existence; this greenery was a better, purer world; it was easier to
remember the Heavenly Father when intimate with his delicate creations.
Perhaps the work he gave man to do for the new-born earth always
has peculiar blessings attending it. However it was, new color and
roundness came to her cheek and unwonted love and consecration to her
heart.
So two years passed away in quiet contentment. With much economy they
were more than comfortable, were even able to pay a small rent which
added not a little to the happiness of the proud-spirited old gentleman.
Just as they were looking forward to another winter of pleasure and
profit everything was changed in the space of a few hours. Satan long
ago intruded himself among vines and flowers and here he came again—in
the person of a sharp, covetous man who claimed the property as his
own. The friend, to whose generosity they owed so much, passed to
another world without so much as a moment's warning. It had been his
purpose to bequeath the Winthrop estate to its lifelong owners, but he
had neglected to add this to his will. Much of the property now fell
into the hands of a distant relative who claimed the last dollar that
the law allowed him, although knowing the often expressed intention of
the one whose wishes and words, as far as this life is concerned, had
forever come to an end.
This very September morning, when the golden sunshine seemed full of
blessing, the cruel order came to vacate the premises within three
months. This was a heavy blow indeed, and Mr. Winthrop was almost
crushed beneath it. To be turned out into the world without a home
at his age was bad enough, but to bring this upon the dear child was
fearful. All the old struggle of regret and remorse returned. To
think that he should have imperiled all, when he had such a treasure
entrusted to him. He walked the floor nights and days calling himself
by all hard names, sometimes trying to pray, but in despair declaring
that he had been so proud and covetous the Lord had forsaken him in his
old age.
"Poor child!" he would exclaim to Lily. "What a pity it is that you
belong to such a senseless old dolt."
Lily did not try to talk much at such times. She would sing low and
tender in bird-like notes some sweet assuring words, oftenest his
favorite hymn that he had sung and believed for fifty years:
"How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,
Is found for your faith in his excellent Word."
The grand words of promise were sure to bring relief, and by the time
she came to:
"I'll never, no, never, no, never, forsake—"
the poor heart was calmed.
"Here is a good place to read to-night, Grandpa," she sometimes said,
turning the leaves of the large Bible to some chapter where God's
loving heart whispers words that have comforted sad souls in all ages.
When he had again realized these gracious promises it was easier to
kneel and commit all to "Him who careth for us."
And so for the time being it seemed necessary that the learner turn
teacher, and keep constantly before the fainting heart the unfailing
Refuge.
"It will all come out right, dear Grandpa. You told me long ago that
God cares for each of his children exactly as if that one were all
alone in the world," she would say when the next dark cloud began to
settle over him. "The Heavenly Father knows we need another home. He is
surely getting it ready for us. We haven't suffered any yet; I know it
will come in time."
Then Grandpa would murmur, "Blessed child, you shame my feeble faith."
Strong as Lily's confidence was, however, she went about the work of
seeking some employment exactly as if everything depended upon her
own efforts. Day after day with untiring perseverance she answered
advertisements, seeking interviews with this and that one, but "the
place was just filled," or they "needed no more help," or they "would
consider her case." Nothing definite opened, though, through rain and
mud, late and early, in schools, offices and families, she pursued her
inquiries for a situation as copyist, teacher, governess—anything;
pursued them without avail. "In all God's fair, wide world no corner
for me," another might have bitterly murmured, but when he sweetens a
spirit, what can make it bitter?
"It is His way for me, it must be the best way," she continually told
herself as she plodded on, "walking with God in the dark," knowing
that it was "better than to walk alone in the light;" then brought a
cheerful face home to her grandfather, made his tea, sung his evening
song each time as fresh and sweet and hopeful as if she had just
concluded an engagement at a salary of a thousand or two a year. There
were times, though, when it required all her fortitude to bear up
against impertinent stares or cold rebuffs as she pushed her way into
places where she would never have gone but from necessity. She was
often obliged to struggle to keep back tears as she withdrew from some
place where she had been rudely repulsed.
CHAPTER II.
AH! It is pitiful—a woman knocking at iron doors and tugging with
feeble fingers at heavy bars, watching eagerly if perchance the great
gates may open never so little and let them into a niche—to work for
bread. It is not the laborers, at their posts from sun to sun, who
need our sympathy, after all. It is the long line of discouraged men
and women who cannot get the work to do, who do what is harder than
work—wait.
One morning in November, business took Mr. Thornton to one of the banks
of the city. While he stood waiting for his account to be balanced, he
heard a low, clear voice not far from him that thrilled and interested
him at once, because there was trouble in the tones. One needed only to
be in misfortune to possess strong attractions for Mr. Thornton.
A young girl stood at the counter below, conversing with one of the
bank officers. The interview was not intended to be public, but the
tones of one speaker were gruff and loud naturally, and could not
easily be softened, while those of the other were clear and penetrating
as a flute.
"Mr. Haines," she said, "would you not be so kind as to allow us to
remain in our—in your house for the winter? We can pay a small rent,
and it will relieve us of much embarrassment and distress if you will."
The voice matched the face, pure, true, and sweet, and the brown eyes
looked pleadingly into the dead eyes of the speaker.
Not a muscle of his face changed as he said, "The time cannot possibly
be extended beyond what I mentioned—Christmas week."
How could he speak of the glad Christmas-tide, the blossoming out of
"peace on earth, good will to men," in that stony way and with that
eager face before him!
"Sir," she said, and a little flash came into the eyes now, "I would
never ask it for myself, but my grandfather is growing old. It is very
hard for him to be turned out of the home where he has lived for forty
years. Will you not have pity on an old man?"
"My plans are all made; I regret that I cannot accommodate you, Miss
Winthrop. You must excuse me now, as I have an engagement," was the
answer to the appeal, in the same business-like tones that he would
have used if reading from his ledger. Then he walked away, and she
stood for a moment, indignation, mortification and disappointment
struggling together in her face.
As she turned to go, her eyes met Mr. Thornton's; such true, kind eyes
they were; if only this man were Mr. Haines!
And Mr. Thornton, looking down at her, thought, "If only she were a
little girl, or an old lady, I could go to her and say, 'Tell me your
trouble, won't you?' But now, how can I help her?"
While he asked it, she was gone, and, as he stood wondering where he
had seen the face before, there came a dim memory floating about it
like a frame, of a blue September sky, bright leaves and ferns, and
then he knew where. He resolved to know more of one apparently in deep
trouble of some kind. He searched the directory, found the street and
number, and soon after walked by the house. Yes, there was the name
"Winthrop" on the door-plate, the letters nearly defaced by time, and
the grand old place giving evidence that its owner had been growing
old and poor. He saw the grand-looking old man, too, walking up and
down the long veranda, his white hair blowing in the November wind, his
hands crossed behind him, his head down, musing, the young man thought,
on the past that had been lived in that house, and the future that was
to be lived—where?
His heart went out in tender pity over him, and Mr. Thornton's pity was
not wont to spend itself in mere emotions. He stepped into a street-car
on his way home. There were but two passengers besides himself for
several squares—two ladies, who, living in the same vicinity, and
having just passed the house, were, naturally enough, discussing the
very persons who occupied his thoughts just then.
"I'm sure I don't know what they are to do?" one said. "They are
obliged to leave that house by Christmas. Just think of that! As many
grand Christmas doings as they have had there! Pretty gay the old house
used to be when Lily's father and mother were living. I should think it
would break the old man's heart to go then; the contrast would be so
sharp; his children gone, his wife gone, and now the old place must go,
too."
"Yes, it is hard," the other lady replied, "but he has a great deal to
be thankful for yet. He has his religion left, and the dearest comfort
in Lily that anybody ever had. Lily is a noble girl. It is perfectly
marvelous what she has accomplished. She has taken the entire care
of the greenhouse and worked like any market woman; sold plants and
flowers enough to realize a nice sum, besides teaching two or three
music scholars. They have a little money left yet, I hear, and could
probably get along nicely, situated as they were, but, as you say,
I don't see just what they will do now. Old Mr. Winthrop is so much
respected people would help them, I dare say, if they thought of it,
but he is the last one to give hints, or even let them know how he
is situated; pretty proud, the old gentleman is, but it is not to be
wondered at, he's always been up, and he don't know how to come down."
"Everything would have turned out all right," said the first speaker,
"if Mr. Walters had just put into his will what he intended to. He
mentioned to several that he should give the place in the end to Lily.
If only people would not procrastinate."
"If only he had given it to her then, you mean," returned the other.
"It is a good deal better to help people over a rough place when they
need it, I think, than to leave them a great sum at death, just as they
are getting ready to die, and are beyond wanting any help. If I had
much money to give away I am sure I should want to see it doing good as
I went along."
They said much more, thoroughly discussing the situation as two women
will who have no troubles of their own on their minds, and are free to
attend to their neighbors. But then this was not ill-natured gossip,
and Mr. Thornton really felt obliged to them for telling him so many
things he wished to know.
Later in the day Mr. Thornton called upon Mr. Haines to inquire about
the property, hoping that he might be able to get it into his own
possession, but he was informed that it was not for sale—that the
location was the choicest in the city, and the house was soon to be
remodeled for the owner's own residence. Moreover, he could not extend
the time, as carpenters were to commence work on the inside as soon as
possible. He considered it a marked favor that he gave the family as
much time as he did, but then, some people were always ungrateful.
The more Mr. Thornton heard of this family the more interested did he
become. This old man to be turned out of his home; this fair, brave
girl battling with poverty appealed to everything sacred and chivalrous
in his nature. How much he wished they were friends of his that he
might say, "Share my home with me." He passed the house frequently
the next few days and hunted his brain for a pretext for calling. The
opportunity came in an unlooked-for way. One morning while he was
passing, Mr. Winthrop happening to be coming down the stone steps
leading from his lawn, lost his footing and would have fallen forward
on the pavement had not Mr. Thornton sprang to his aid. As it was,
one of his ankles was injured so that he was obliged to lean on Mr.
Thornton's arm and return to the house. On examination both gentlemen
agreed that it was probably only a slight sprain, not requiring the
attendance of a surgeon. Mr. Thornton remained and assisted in bathing
and bandaging it with his own hands, declaring that he was experienced
inasmuch as he once had a sprained ankle himself.
Mr. Winthrop was slow to take in strangers, but who could wrap himself
in cold reserve before the fascination of Mr. Thornton's manner? It was
the perfection of kindness and delicate politeness. Mr. Winthrop found
himself conversing with the freedom of an old friend, and begged him
when he took leave, to come again.
Mr. Thornton in turn was perfectly captivated with the old gentleman.
A most delightful plan began to loom up in his mind, and he betook
himself to his favorite retreat to perfect it. The cottage had passed
through the renovating process and was now as neat and pretty a home as
could be desired.
Inside, it was finished up according to Mr. Thornton's own taste,
which was of the best. He had pleased himself by fitting up one room
in the style of the olden time. The modern wall-paper adorned with
morning glory vines, and the fern leaf carpet chimed in with the idea
sufficiently well. He procured a wide lounge covered with chintz, two
high-backed old rocking-chairs, and several others of antique patterns
and splint-bottoms. From an old aunt's possessions, he begged a tall
secretary and bookcase, curiously carved, a table with claw feet, and
a stand with three legs. He put tall candlesticks of silver on the
high mantel, brass andirons in the broad fireplace, and when he had a
veritable hickory log snapping on them, the firelight dancing on the
wall, and gayly flowered damask curtains at the windows, he delightedly
pronounced the room as much like his great-grandmother's as he could
make it.
To-night he dropped the curtains, drew the arm-chair to the fire, and
settled himself to the solving of a problem. He often came to this
room when he wanted to be specially quiet; indeed, so fascinated was
he by it that he would have enjoyed taking up his abode there. The old
lady for whom all this comfort was intended, had not yet appeared. He
had been quietly waiting and watching, certain that in due time his
offering would be needed, and now he felt assured the time had come.
But how to bestow it on Mr. Winthrop without bringing him under a sense
of obligation that would be embarrassing whenever they met, for he had
no idea of dropping the acquaintance just begun! His sympathies had a
wide scope, and yet his friends were few and choice; he hoped to number
this pure-hearted, clear-headed old man among them, and, mayhap, this
maiden of heroic deeds.
Open fires must be favorable to untying hard knots, for after knitting
his brows for a time he seemed to have arrived at some conclusion that
pleased himself, at least, and he turned to his table and wrote a
letter, sealed and addressed it, then sank back in his chair with the
air of one who has dispatched his business and is free to dream dreams
of firelight.
The letter was not the only result of the cogitations. It was but a
day or two after that when workmen were busy with shovel and saw and
hammer engaged in building a greenhouse. The season favored the plan;
the frosts not having penetrated the ground yet. Mr. Thornton was
there continually, directing, watching with as much interest as if he
contemplated taking up the vocation of a florist at once.
One evening the postman brought a letter of importance to the
Winthrops. It was just at dusk, and Lily, returned from another day of
fruitless wanderings, sat by the fire, feeling more depressed in heart
than was at all usual with her. The day had been "dark and cold and
dreary," and chilled her through and through, soul as well as body.
None of this appeared, though, in the cheerful words she forced herself
to speak to her dispirited grandfather, who had almost lost hope,
though struggling hard to keep up. He did not know that in the dark and
drizzle of the November night a light was on the way to him.
And now appeared Gretchen with a letter for Mr. Winthrop. Lily turned
it over curiously, noting, as she passed it to her grandfather, that
it was a city letter, and a feeble hope sprang up that Mr. Haines had
relented, and would allow them to remain until spring.
Mr. Winthrop read it slowly through, once and again, and then almost
sprang to his feet, forgetting his lameness in the excitement. "Lily,"
he called, "come here, quick! This is most extraordinary; read
that—read it aloud! It must be that I have made some mistake." And Lily
read:
"MR. WINTHROP:
"Dear Sir: I write to inform you that I have been entrusted by a dear
friend of yours—who is at present absent—with a piece of property which
he desires to bestow upon you as a Christmas gift. The cottage is in
the city, pleasantly located, with a fine greenhouse in good order. The
key and the deed of it will be sent to you in the course of a month,
when it will be ready for occupancy. I advise you thus early that you
may shape your plans accordingly.
"Yours truly,
"A. HATHAWAY.
"Now, dear child, what is the meaning of all this? Could anybody play
such a cruel joke upon us?"
"Oh, no, no, Grandpa," Lily said, her face radiant. "It is the answer
to our prayers. Have we not asked and asked Him for a home, and now he
has sent it to us?"
Grandpa closed his eyes, and there was silence for a moment; each knew
that the other was whispering thanksgivings too deep for spoken words.
"Bless the Lord, O my soul," Grandpa murmured at length. "This
deliverance came for the sake of you, his little one; such stupid
unbelief as mine could never have brought the blessing. But who is Mr.
Hathaway, and why in reason did he not tell me the name of my friend? I
will write to him this very evening, and know something more about this
wonderful transaction."
It was as good as a play could have been to others, and much better
than one could possibly be to Mr. Thornton, when he called later in the
evening to inquire after the sprained ankle, to observe the change in
the manner of both. The grandfather appeared to have chopped off ten
years of age, and seasoned his speech with lively sallies and sparkles
of wit as he had not done for a long time. The girl's eyes, too, had
lost their look of patient care and sparkled with repressed joyousness.
She seemed like one in possession of some happy secret, and in haste
to be alone that she might turn it over and look at it. This was pure,
exquisite pleasure to turn sighs into smiles. He knew us well who said,
"It is more blessed to give than to receive."
"Hathaway" was Mr. Thornton's middle name, after one of his ancestors,
"Allan Hathaway." He had never lived in that vicinity, so his namesake
knew that he might safely hide behind it, especially as there was no
one of the same name in the city. He felt too that he could truthfully
say that he acted under the directions of another, who was Mr.
Winthrop's dear friend, for was not the Lord whom they served both
Master and Friend, and who but he had put it into his own heart to
remember his servant?
The sprained ankle, though doing well, yet gave Mr. Thornton continued
pretexts for calling very often. He brought in new books and the daily
papers, and sometimes stopped to read the news to the invalid; then the
two held many arguments and discussions on the topics of the day. Their
views were too nearly alike to make the discussions very lively, though
the fact gave each an exalted opinion of the other. Lily seldom joined
them; not that she was indifferent to the fascination of such brilliant
society, but there was much work to be done, now that they were not
to be bereft of their beloved plants, and she took the opportunity to
attend to it while her grandfather was being so pleasantly entertained.
Perhaps too, the fact that the visitor seemed indifferent to either
her absence or presence made her less anxious to be present. She was
not one to thrust herself upon any person's notice. She had not done
that when she was a courted heiress, certainly not now, when in the
estimation of the world she had fallen from a great height. Had her
spirit, been less sweet she might have felt a degree of pique at not
being considered the chief attraction in the house, especially to
gentlemen from whom she had received homage enough to spoil an ordinary
girl. She settled finally down to the theory that Mr. Thornton was
a philanthropist, not a wholesale one, but a grand, loving-hearted
Christian, doing his Master's will in small things as faithfully as if
they were great; and that he considered it his Christian duty probably
to extend kindness and good cheer to her grandfather—and that he was
only one of many objects of his charity—for of course he must know by
this time about their reduced circumstances. She would have enjoyed the
sweet savor of his conversation, as did everybody who ever talked with
him, but she declared within herself, "He shall never have a shadow of
cause to imagine that I appropriate these visits to myself, and so be
annoyed and cease to come—that is probably the reason he never inquires
for me at the door. I do want him to come, he is such a comfort to
Grandpa."
With this tormenting suggestion, that some officious elf thrust into
her mind, she allowed herself but seldom to remain in the room during
his visits, and, depriving herself of a pleasure she would have enjoyed
exceedingly, rarely joined in the conversation, only occasionally
forgetting ugly suggestions of prim propriety, and putting in her
vivacious word or merry laugh with such childlike abandon as made Mr.
Thornton remember the maple leaves and the violets.
He did not mean to be an artful man, but the truth was, that there was
not a look or tone or motion of this maiden's but he noted and studied,
no matter how absorbed he pretended to be with the subject in hand. It
puzzled him not a little that she seemed to avoid him, for he too was
accustomed to being considered a person of importance. And yet it was
almost refreshing to meet a young lady who did not constantly seek his
society, oppress him with attention and smile approval upon him. Always
smiling, it was restful to meet this face that could be grave, and
lips that could be silent, or speak of something besides trifles and
inanities.
And so the visits and the—studies—continued, twice, three times a week;
if he were late, the old gentleman would fidget like a maiden waiting
for her lover.
And now the greenhouse was completed, furnished with all the
appurtenances that such an establishment requires. Some little changes,
too, had been made in the cottage in consideration of the choice
spirits who were to occupy it; in short, nothing more could be asked
for it in the way of taste and convenience. The deed and the key had
been sent as promised, and the Christmas gift had been searched out
and found to be no myth, but a joyful reality; two delighted people
had pronounced it "cosy," "lovely," "home-like." They were still in
wonder and perplexity as to the donor. Mr. Winthrop lay awake nights,
going as far back among the families of the city as his memory would
travel, to find the name "Hathaway," but could get no clue. He turned
over in his mind the names of all his acquaintances whom he knew to be
abroad, and surmised it to be this one, and then that one, to whom he
was indebted for this princely gift, but could never settle permanently
upon any one. As much at home as Mr. Thornton had become in a short
time in the household, Mr. Winthrop had never mentioned the matter to
him; with true Puritan reticence, he kept his personal affairs, if
possible, within his own family. So, as the time drew near for removal,
the former could scarcely conceal a smile when Mr. Winthrop, with a
touch of his old stateliness in his manner, said that he must make a
disclosure that, perhaps, should have been made long ago; that he never
liked to sail under false colors, and, while he would not hint that
wealth was the sole standard Mr. Thornton set up for his friendships,
still he wished him to know that he himself was a poor man, that his
home had been taken from him, in fact, he was to leave it in a few days
forever, for a small property that "was given to us by some unknown
friend, and for which we hourly thank God," he said with moist eyes.
"But that is not all," he went on, as if determined to further mortify
his remaining pride. "We are to be known hereafter as those who earn
their daily bread by the toil of their own hands. I have been among the
fools who thought it a disgrace to do so, but I have been rebuked for
my foolish pride of birth, and now I lay it down forever; but I wish
every one who seeks friendship with us to know the truth."
Mr. Thornton heard this speech with kindling eyes, and simply said, as
he gave him a warm hand clasp, "Then, sir, you may have fewer friends,
but truer.
"'The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel.'
"May I be so happy as to be one such friend?"
"What a thing it would be, eh? To be the father of such a son!" Mr.
Winthrop said within himself, as he watched the young man spring
lightly down the steps and walk away; and there were tears in the old
eyes as he remembered a handsome profligate son who had found an early
grave.
A few days before Christmas found the Winthrops established in their
new home, happy, grateful souls as ever opened eyes on Christmas
morning. The delightful old-fashioned house reminded one of a hen and
chickens, so many small rooms joined on here and there clustering
about it. Inside, it seemed to open in all directions, so that when
you stood in the center you had a peep into every room. And each room,
fitted up by Lily's artistic taste with articles that had long been
heirlooms in the family, had an individuality of its own. The living
room, warm and bright in rich colors, the dining room, with antique
sideboard and a few old pieces of silver shining on it, the tiny green
carpeted library, glimpses into one fair and white, the guest chamber,
and another in rose tints, such as girls love, then the old-time room,
which Mr. Winthrop declared was to be his the moment he saw it.
"It carries me back sixty-free years to my mother's knee," he said.
Mr. Thornton had come as soon as possible after the settlement of the
new home and taken a delighted survey. He could scarcely have believed
it to be the same, evidences of refined taste and deft fingers were
everywhere.
"The most charming effect without exception that I ever saw in any
house," he told his happy host, who took almost a childish pleasure in
displaying his new possession, carrying his visitor at last in triumph
to his own room and seating him in the arm-chair, with "Now did you
ever see anything to equal this, even to the candlesticks and snuffer
tray, all complete? This room does me more good than anything that has
come to me in years."
And Mr. Thornton, looking into the old man's happy face, the firelight
throwing a halo about his white hair; thanked God for money. His
pleased eyes took in the fact, too, that the room remained unchanged in
every particular, a tribute, he smilingly thought, to the taste of Mr.
Hathaway.
CHAPTER III.
ON Christmas Day, while her grandfather was safe in his room taking his
afternoon nap, Lily resolved to surprise him, as well as commemorate
this wonderful Christmas. Bringing out her store of pressed ferns and
autumn leaves, together with some evergreens she had supplied herself
with, she turned the little house into a bower of beauty. Vines
festooned the pictures, and vines of bright autumn leaves ran along
the gray walls. Evergreens wreathed the doorways, and chrysanthemums
bloomed out unexpectedly from everywhere. She prepared the table
in spotless old damask and shining silver, for their six o'clock
dinner—sumptuous repast, by the way, which was not often indulged in,
these days.
When all was done she put on a dress that she did not often have
occasion to wear in her workaday world—a white cashmere, her
grandfather's favorite. She put roses in her hair and at her belt,
for grandpa's favorite flower was a rose. Then trembling with delight
at the success of her plans, she tinkled the little bell and waited
for him. He, too, had made some little attempts at festivity; had
exchanged his dressing-gown for his best black coat. And now when he
came into the room, ablaze with light, with odors of heliotrope and
roses in the air, and a lovely vision in white demurely waiting to
receive him, sweeping a low courtesy with "A merry Christmas to you,
sir; happy and oft this day return to thee," he rubbed his old eyes in
amazement and thought time had gone back forty years. There were two
lookers-on in this scene, Gretchen standing just inside the kitchen
door, her face in a broad smile of delight, and a gentleman who was
guilty of pausing just for a moment on the porch, taking advantage
of a forgotten uplifted curtain to enjoy the exquisite picture. He
murmured "Beautiful!" but whether it referred to the charming room, the
faultless table, the lovely girl, or the grand old man, who can tell?
He came in presently, bearing a basket of rare fruits; oranges, white
grapes and bananas, which he presented with a "Merry Christmas" to Mr.
Winthrop.
"You have friends with you?" he said, glancing about him.
"Oh, no, indeed! My little girl got up all this festive appearance
to please her old grandfather. If you would honor us so much, Mr.
Thornton, what pleasure it would give us could you remain and take a
seat at our table. A friend is the only article we lack to make our
Christmas a happy one."
So sincere an invitation needed little urging, especially as the guest
experienced a sudden consciousness of the truth that in all the world
there was not a table or a company that he would prefer. It was a most
enjoyable Christmas dinner; not alone because the fare was delicious
and delicate, but that these three, meet as often as they might, never
lacked either topics or thoughts for conversation.
In the course of the evening, as they were discussing plants, Mr.
Winthrop turned to Lily, saying, "My dear, take our friend out and show
him that rare rose that opened to-day. I think there is not another
plant like it in this country."
"Here is something finer than roses," Lily said, pausing at the
entrance of the greenhouse by pots of English violets, white with
blossoms.
"They are wonderfully sweet," he said, bending over them, "but I have
a great partiality for their less pretentious American sisters, sturdy
little souls, who push up green leaves through the snows fairly, and
open their blue eyes smilingly in all sorts of weather. They are not
exclusive, either; they make up for what they lack in fragrance by
scattering themselves about the woods so that poor people may have them
as freely as water or air."
"I can show you some of those, too," she said. "I brought them from the
woods for the sake of old times. Here is my pet corner."
This was a moss-covered rock, the water trickling over it, tall ferns
behind it, and clusters of wood violets nestling at the foot.
"This is a bit of the woods, you see, Mr. Thornton, except that the
ferns are in pots, and the violets in boxes. Will not these violets be
astonished when they wake up in this strange place instead of down by
the stump in the woods where I found them?"
It seemed that Mr. Thornton's lips opened of themselves to say, "Yes, I
very well remember the day."
And Lily, just then, remembered the day, too, and the curious
circumstance that had often puzzled her—the maple branch broken off
and laid in her path, and yet no one appeared to be in the woods but
herself. "Was Mr. Thornton there, too?" She gave him a quick look, but
he was absorbed in studying the violets with a perfectly grave face,
and she put the idea from her as absurd.
"He is very absent-minded," she told herself; "is in haste to be gone,
and considers me tiresome."
He came over again to the English violets and took long breaths of
their sweetness, then said, "I have a friend who calls this her flower,
and these blossoms are not more fragrant than is her spirit. Will you
kindly cut a few for her?" And drawing out his watch, "It is quite time
I was gone." He took his violets, lingered again outside, admiring the
beauty of the scene. Everything was clear-cut against a cloudless sky
and white moonlit earth.
"Gloriously beautiful, is it not?" he said. "Think of looking up at
such a sky as that,—
"'In the solemn midnight, centuries ago,'
"searching for the one star."
"Think of seeing a multitude of angels appear in such a sky," she said,
with upturned face.
The pure, rapt expression and the white robes made her companion
fear for an instant that she would vanish out of his sight, and he
involuntarily drew her hand through his arm and moved on.
"After all, Mr. Thornton," she said, "my thoughts are rather on the
earth than the sky, to-night. 'Peace on earth, good will to men.'
I've been singing it all day. The Lord has been very kind to us this
Christmas. He sent us this lovely home for our very own—Grandpa told
you, did he not? See it in the moonlight! Does it not look like a dear
little gray dove nestled down among the snows and the evergreens?"
It was a glowing face Mr. Thornton turned to her. These were precious
words to hear, and he rejoiced that his secret had been well kept.
In lieu of other friends this young florist held much converse with her
flowers, fairly investing them with souls. She went back to them now,
and looked them over lovingly.
"He has a friend who loves white violets," she told them. "Do you
suppose she is like him?" but the perfumed breath did not answer.
"You darling!" to a white rose, "I'm so glad you have come; I have
watched for you so long; perhaps she is like you, my queen," and
she touched her lips to the delicate petals. "What if she were like
you, Madam Camelia, in stiff white silken robes, or you, Lady Calla,
beautiful, and white, and cold—not sweet? What if she be some little
plain, humble creature like you, my mignonette, he would love her none
the less, I am sure. But none of you tell me about her. You pansies,
in your new purple and buff velvets, you are full of thoughts. Is she
wise and good? She must be like him," she whispered to the heliotrope,
putting her face down amid its sweetness, "or he could not have
called her life fragrant." She put a sharp, quick check just then on
both tongue and fancies, and reminded herself that she was taking an
unwarrantable amount of interest in Mr. Thornton's affairs, and had
enjoyed the evening far too much for one who had made such resolutions
as she had. What a happy evening it had been! She had forgotten to
put on her mantle of reserve when she donned her white cashmere. She
had shown such pleasure at his coming, too, and so he was obliged to
take early leave to impress it upon her that it was not she he sought;
that his visits were purely benevolent. Speaking of his friend, too,
as if to say, "Be careful, do not set your heart upon me." She felt
vexed with herself. She talked no more to the flowers, but went about
preparations for the next day's work with a resolute, business-like
air. She clipped off blossoms energetically, and made them swiftly into
little knots or graceful handfuls for the next day's market, for people
would need flowers, even though Christmas had come and gone. Somehow
the day had left a weight upon her spirits, indefinable and vague, but
the very touch of the soft flowers and the cool green leaves calmed
her, and brought sharp rebukes from her conscience. What ingratitude!
It should end up in gladness, this day of days to them, and she shut
the door on all disturbing thoughts, and broke out in song—snatches of
old Christmas hymns. If she had but known that the violets travelled
as fast as they could go to "The Old Ladies' Home," and gave out their
fragrance by the bedside of an invalid who loved English violets as she
did no other flower, because it was a breath from her native land; had
she known, too, that the giver of them hastily plucked out a few before
he parted with them, carefully placed them in an inner pocket, then
stored them among his treasures when he reached home!
Life had settled down in the cottage to calm content. Mr. Winthrop
seemed to have forgotten that he was ever other than a dweller in a
humble home, with no more important business than sorting flowers and
pruning plants.
Sturdy Gretchen was still at her post, maid of all work. In the time of
the deepest trouble Lily had told her she must go as they had no means
of paying her, but she shook her faithful head, saying, "No, no, I will
stay. I haf leetle money, petter days come for you. You die if I leaf
you; you haf so too much work; you good to me, I not go," whereat Lily
bestowed upon her a warm embrace, thus forging the last link that bound
her in loving servitude to the family.
By many skillful manœuvres Mr. Thornton had contrived to have his
own gardener relieve them of much of the drudgery in the greenhouse,
assuring Mr. Winthrop that the man must have more to keep him from
idleness. Mr. Thornton himself was the best patron the greenhouse had,
paying his own prices, which were exorbitant. One might suppose he
furnished flowers for all the weddings and parties in the city. Certain
it is that all his friends, and public charities with which he had to
do, were kept well supplied. Plants, too, bloomed in attic windows that
had been bare, and every old lady in the "Home" had her pet in the
shape of a plant of his giving.
The winter was gliding away, and Mr. Thornton still spent long evenings
at the cottage. He did not longer conceal from himself the fact that it
was not benevolence alone that drew him thither, nor because a fireside
and a welcome from a genial old friend awaited him. He had come to know
that while he enjoyed Mr. Winthrop's conversation, and the room was as
cosy as ever, yet there was a painful void about it all unless a maiden
stole in, dropped the curtain, shaded the lamp, stirred the fire and
sat in the corner opposite him, where his eyes might often meet hers;
indeed she could converse well with her eyes, and give one a tolerable
impression of her thoughts and convictions without spoken words, as
they thoughtfully gazed into the fire, rested in smiling affection
upon her grandfather, or flashed an appreciative look at some word of
his own. If he had sometimes made reply to a profound opinion of Mr.
Winthrop's in words that were floating through his mind, they might
have been these:—
"A sweet attractive kinde of grace,
A full assurance given by lookes,
Continuall comfort in a face
The lineaments of Gospell bookes."
And yet he had by no word or look to her given a sign of all this.
The truth was, Mr. Thornton had been engaged in an intricate though
delightful study. His heart was pleading to go in a certain direction,
and he, holding it back, declared it never should, unless reason and
conscience approved.
There was a cause for this excessive caution. He had seen much
hollowness and deceit in society, had found a low standard among
young ladies themselves, and their pleasure being so universally the
aim of life, that he was tempted to believe that sterling worth in
womankind had died with his mother and grandmother. Moreover, he had
in early manhood a bitter experience; had been carried captive by a
beautiful face, and came near linking his life to one who proved to
be empty-headed and empty-hearted, and yet she was fair as an angel,
and counterfeited all virtues and graces most admirably. It was a
keen disappointment, and inclined him to place no confidence in mere
appearances. And so he had watched this lovely flower unfolding day
by day before him, hardly daring to hope that the self-sacrifice, the
consecration and sweetness were genuine, trembling lest some day he
should discover the hideous blight spot.
It had come to be a matter of course that as often as Mr. Thornton
came, he carried away a knot of white violets for his friend, and Lily,
while she made it up with care, made up also a pretty little romance.
She pictured his friend a fair, sweet creature, arrayed in garments
of finest texture and softest tints, with rare old laces and jewels,
and a hint odor of violets always about her. How blest and happy must
she be, having the right to wait and watch for him, to be glad at his
coming—always with her flowers! How lovely she must be when that rare,
delicate fragrance typified her to him!
If sometimes while she worked, a tear sparkled on the white blossoms,
she dashed off the intruder and took herself sternly in hand. What was
this? Was she growing envious? Jealous? What? Ah! She must look well
to her heart, treacherous heart repining at another's happiness. This
was only momentary weakness that nobody guessed aught of—that she did
not admit even to herself. She still went her daily rounds, cheerful,
trusting, thankful, looking with brave eyes into the future that
promised only a life of toil.
It so happened that Mr. Thornton sometimes sought her in the
greenhouse, as the evening waned and she did not appear; but she
seemed absorbed in her work, and determined to take for granted that
it was a purely business call with a pertinacity that was both amusing
and annoying; annoying in that the chief subject of Mr. Thornton's
perplexed musings in these days was, not what estimate to put upon her,
but to discover, if possible, what one she put upon him.
One evening he strayed in and laughingly declared that she "must
suspend industry for a time, and turn cicerone, as there were doubtless
many points of interest in her flowery kingdom that he had not yet
visited."
The enthusiastic florist was always pleased to do this, much more when
one could open up such treasures of riches on any theme as could this
devout student of nature. And so, all unawares as they went about,
she was drifted into a sea of most delightful talk. They discussed
families and the different members, as if people and not plants were
being analyzed. He described some of the curious relatives of these
families that he had met in foreign lands. Then they came down to the
broad plane; the wonderful variety in form, color and fragrance, of
God's beautiful creations, the thought of us in it all; and here there
were so many things to be said, such perfect harmony of thought, that
the talk flowed on and on, until Lily had forgotten that she was to
maintain a dignified reserve toward this friend of her grandfather's.
They came at last to clusters of lilies of the valley—just putting
forth creamy bells.
"Dear little hardy things," Mr. Thornton said, bending over them.
"These are petted children, but their poor relations come trooping out
before winter has fairly left us. They are my favorite lilies, so brave
and sweet and modest."
"You surely forget," Lily said, "that the lily family is a large one."
"Yes, I know. There's that immense one, all purple and gold and
crimson; you may admire it in the distance. Then the day lilies are
sweet, but they are stiff and ungraceful. The tiger lilies are showy,
but mere show never commends itself to me; they have no fragrance."
"You forget the queenly calla."
"No; she is grand and beautiful, with stately manners, but you cannot
take her right into your heart like these tiny creatures. These fit
everywhere. They may fasten the bride's veil or strew the dead baby's
pillow. You may give a handful to a beggar, or lay them in a sick, weak
hand, and their perfume will steal softly up and bring comfort. They
are such drooping, graceful bells, humbly hiding away in their green.
I repeat, I love them best. Will you give me a few for my friend? She,
too, is a lover of them."
Lily was vexed at herself that her cheek just then took on the hue of
the rose that it brushed against.
"His 'friend!' alway that friend. Why did she seem like an unwelcome
spectre?"
While she clipped the stems and put them together, he talked on.
"I said these were the flower of flowers to me; I should have excepted
one other."
Has she not been so occupied in controlling the disturbance that "my
friend" aroused, she would have noticed a quality in the tones that had
not been there before, as well as the look that searched her face when
she raised her eyes, after a little pause, with "Well?"
"This flower that I have in mind is a very hardy one, also. It will
flourish in almost any climate; indeed, the more rocky the soil, and
the rougher the winds that blow upon it, the more beautifully it
develops."
"That is strange," she said, intent on fashioning her bouquet.
"What is stranger still, it blooms all the year round."
"Is it fragrant?"
"Wonderfully so. Not a flower that ever I saw can compare with its
delicate fragrance."
"What color is it?"
"White, with a delicate flush of rose."
"It must be lovely," she said, holding off her flowers to get the
effect of the arrangement. "Where are those flowers found?"
"They are very rare. I never saw but one."
"Did you say it was a lily?"
"A lily."
"Where did you see it, Mr. Thornton?"
"Not far from this very spot, in the woods, under a maple tree, one
autumn day, was where I first saw it," he said, looking into her eyes.
And now the cheeks took on the rose hue again and went down among the
green leaves. In a flash it came to her—his meaning—and the maple bough
in the path; it was he, then, who broke it off and left it there for
her.
What words these would be to her if it were not for this bouquet she
was making that reminded her of "his friend." What right had he,
though, to trifle with her, making her show all her heart in her face?
Without speaking, she hastily broke off a few white violets, twisted
them together, and, with the lilies, pushed them toward him, saying
coldly: "Here are your friend's flowers. Excuse me, Mr. Thornton, but I
must go in. I think my grandfather is waiting for me—" "As your friend
probably is for you," she wanted to add.
Mr. Thornton did not seem quenched in the least, but he smiled in the
darkness as he walked behind the cool little lady into the house, while
the full meaning of white violets and "your friend" dawned upon him.
Here was another bright leaf in the unfolding of this rare flower—she
would have none of what rightfully belonged to another.
As Mr. Thornton took leave of her grandfather, he said to Lily,—
"Do you feel like performing a charitable deed to-morrow? Will you go
with me to see a dear old saint who has not long to live, and who would
be cheered, no doubt, by a visit from you?"
She hesitated a moment, and her grandfather answered for her:
"Why, certainly she will go; she never refuses a call of that kind. You
can go to-morrow, can't you, dear?"
And Lily answered "Yes" to her grandfather, but did not look at Mr.
Thornton, not even when he said "that he would call for her at four,
and would she please have some cut flowers ready for him?" Then he said
"Good-night!" and went.
It was not a very good night for her, though. She went over and over
that strange evening. How happy and how miserable it had been! He
probably meant nothing, after all, but a joke, and her foolish vanity
had made so much of it; but then, he looked so much more than he said.
What right had he to do that? Was he, after all, nothing but a trifler?
And what if she were mistaken, and he had no friend of the sort she
had imagined? Ah! That thought made her heart stand still when she
remembered the words he had but just spoken, the grave, tender tones,
and earnest looks. But there were the white violets, and he had said
she was like them—this friend.
She was ready punctually when the carriage came, with a bouquet she
had prepared for the old lady and the flowers he had ordered. The talk
on the way did not extend beyond the beauty of the day and the objects
they happened to pass. Arriving at the "Old Ladies' Home," they were at
once taken to the room of the invalid.
Aunt Phœbe, as all her friends called her, had a calm, pleasant face,
with gray hair parted beneath a white muslin cap, and eyes that did not
seem to belong to a sick person, they were such cheerful, satisfied
eyes. She had given her best days to Christian service, and "had now
sat down to rest a bit before she went home," she said. Her face broke
into a smile at sight of Mr. Thornton, as if he were a welcome visitor.
"Aunt Phœbe," he said, "I have brought you my friend, Miss Winthrop;
Miss Winthrop, this is Aunt Phœbe—my friend."
"Are you feeling bright to-day?" he asked, putting into her hand—with
as courtly grace as if she were a duchess—the bunch of white violets.
As he did so, he bestowed on Lily one look that meant many words;
then he left her free to do much thinking while he gave his attention
entirely to Aunt Phœbe.
They talked of books and men and women and work. They spoke glad words
to each other of Christ and Heaven, and Hope and Love. Somehow as Lily
listened she found herself repeating, "I believe in the communion of
saints."
They rose to go, and Lily bent forward and whispered a word of love as
she put the roses and heliotrope in Aunt Phoebe's hand.
"Bless you! Dear child," whispered back the old lady. "I've known you
this long time. You are a dear flower yourself. I've got more good in
looking at your young face while you sat here, never speaking a word,
than from some very long speeches." The last few words reached Mr.
Thornton's ears, who said:
"That is a blow aimed at me," then taking up the basket of flowers,
"Will you come with me, Miss Lily, and help me distribute my blessings?"
So they went, knocking at each old lady's door, leaving handfuls of
flowers, and receiving in return benedictions. "But why did you not
tell me?" Lily said, "and I would have made them into bouquets."
"Because they enjoy them best in this shape; they love to sort them
over and arrange them as they please. Then some have favorite flowers,
and I let them choose."
Here, then, was where the rare flowers went that Mr. Thornton
purchased. How many revelations were being made!
On the way home Mr. Thornton gave the history of Aunt Phœbe, as well
as that of "The Home," its organization, management, workings, etc.,
leaving nothing whatever for Lily to say, for which she was thankful.
He simply said "Good-night!" when he left her at her own door, and
drove away, giving no sign that he ever expected to come back. He came,
though, two hours afterward; he guessed where he should find her: in
the greenhouse, by the lilies. He came over to her and asked,—
"How did you like my friend? Did she look as you expected her to?" The
vision of his friend that her imagination had pictured came up before
her in such ludicrous contrast to the reality that she laughed merrily,
and Mr. Thornton joined it. There was no more talking in enigmas after
that.
While the moonbeams fell upon their heads like a benediction, there
were more revelations, as each read pages that no other eyes had looked
upon. The tale was long, but the violets, nor the nodding roses, nor
the lily bells ever breathed a word of it to anybody.
Weeks afterward it occurred to Lily to ask Mr. Thornton what the "H" in
his name represented.
"Hathaway," he promptly responded, and immediately knew that his secret
was out.
Lily and her grandfather exchanged wondering looks.
"Is it possible that you are—that you can tell me—who the friend is to
whom I am so much indebted?" Mr. Winthrop said, his voice trembling
with emotion.
"Thy Heavenly Friend," said Mr. Thornton reverently.
"MY AUNT KATHERINE."
———
"IT is perfectly absurd that she should occupy the best room in the
house. What difference can it possibly make to an old lady where she
is, so she is comfortable? She ought to be thankful that you allow her
to stay here at all."
This was said in an excited tone, by a tall, thin lady with thin lips
and flashing, light blue eyes.
Her husband was a silent man, with a horror of discord. It had taken
him but a short time to discover that the only means of avoiding it was
to let his new wife have her own way, so he held his peace and looked
out of the window, and the lady went on.
"If she had any delicacy, she would not wish to remain now that she has
no possible claim upon you. There is the 'Old Lady's Home,' why could
she not go there? It is a magnificent building, with beautiful rooms."
New wife though she was, she had overshot the mark this time. The tall
silent man drew himself up two inches taller and answered sternly:—
"Laura, you are mistaken! My mother-in-law will always have a claim
upon me. As long as I have a home she shall share it with me. What do
you take me for? As if I would ever turn my Margaret's mother out upon
charity! She is, besides, very dear to me for her own sake. She is a
remarkable example of unselfishness, and that is a rare quality in this
world."
There were two stings in this speech, which was a long one for Mr.
Agnew. The selfish woman who heard it bit her lip in vexation, and all
the jealousy in her nature rose up at the words "My Margaret"; jealous
of that other wife who had been in her heavenly home for five years;
whose husband, albeit, was more to be pitied now than when she first
left him desolate; because he was that phenomenon—over which men and
angels might weep—a true, noble man, joined for life to a selfish,
heartless, coarse-grained woman, and that of his own deliberate choice.
If some men should shut their eyes and marry the first woman they
happened to open them on, they could not make more fatal mistakes than
they do.
When Margaret Agnew selected this particular room for her mother it
was because it was large and convenient and sunny; because one window
looked off to distant hills, and another one to the busy street, while
from another you stepped into the flower garden. It was, it is true,
in many respects the best room in the house, and into it was gathered
whatever of comfort and beauty the loving daughter could devise.
As soon as the second Mrs. Agnew stepped into the house she set
covetous eyes on this room and resolved, to use her own elegant
language,—"that she would oust the old lady from that."
Whatever such women resolve to have, they usually get. After the
rebuff on the part of her husband she did not again approach him on
the subject, but planned the attack differently. By means of hints
and disagreeable thrusts she managed to make the sensitive old lady
feel quite ill at ease until she was established in one of the back
chambers. It was a dreary room. She missed the cheerful outlook, and
it was not easy, with a slight lameness, to get up and down stairs,
but, for peace's sake, she forebore to complain. So skillfully was
everything managed that it was several days before her son-in-law knew
of her removal; then he was indignant, and insisted that she must
return, but this she would not consent to do. She even displayed so
much cheerfulness that he was deceived into thinking she preferred the
change. It was a hardened nature that could not be won by her sweet
spirit. She was like her Master; she followed her copy closely; "when
she suffered she threatened not," and she had much to bear: a system of
petty annoyances that only female ingenuity could devise.
After she had passed through this furnace and suffered loneliness and
desolation, another crisis in her life arrived. Mr. Agnew fell suddenly
ill. While his life hung in the balance and reason was shaken, his
wife induced him to make his will, leaving to herself the whole of
his property. Then he died, and the chief emotion that throbbed in
the heart of his widow and hid behind the blackest and deepest crape
was—triumph!
Not for worlds would Mr. Agnew have so arranged his affairs had it
not been that in his half-delirious state he was subject to the will
of another. He had always intended to settle a competence upon Mrs.
Lyman—his mother-in-law. He had expected to live years yet. Who does
not?
Mrs. Agnew lost no time. As soon as the funeral services were over she
questioned Mrs. Lyman as to her plans for the future. The poor old lady
felt bewildered at having to make any plans, so lovingly had she been
cared for all her life. She had scarcely realized as yet that her one
protector was gone; above all, that he had made no provision for her.
Homeless and penniless and nearly seventy years of age, where should
she go? What should she do? Where would a helpless being go in straits
but to the One who plans and governs our lives? And thither she went.
She well knew the road. Old friends gathered about her with kindly
offers of aid, but she believed she saw her path plainly, and declined
their many invitations to tarry with them for a time. She had a little
money of her own, enough to insure her entrance into the "Home for Aged
Women," and there she determined to go. Mrs. Lyman had occasionally
driven with her daughter through the grounds of the "Home." She had
admired the stately edifice, and remarked that it was a grand charity;
she had also contributed to it; but it had not entered her mind that
she was ever to become one of its inmates. She thought of it that
afternoon as the carriage which conveyed her there wound slowly up the
avenue. The trials of the past few days had been peculiarly sharp. She
had gone out from the dear home, with its precious memories, forever.
She could not, without contention, claim even her daughter's gifts to
herself; contend she would not, so she left them: so many things that
almost had a tongue to speak of other days. There were no tears in her
eyes, and the old face was placid as she leaned back and looked up at
rows and rows of windows. She even repeated to herself some favorite
lines:
"That's best which God sends.
'Twas his will; it is mine."
The room Mrs. Lyman shortly found herself in was a strong contrast to
the one her daughter had carefully fitted up for her. It was spotlessly
clean and trim; the walls were high and white, the furniture of the
plainest, the floors bare except for the strip of carpet by the bed and
one by the window, where the occupant would be supposed to sit in the
cane-seat rocker. It depended entirely on one's previous surroundings
what her first impressions of life in this place would be. Old Mrs.
Carter, who had lived at sixes and sevens all her life, with scarcely a
corner that she could call her own, thought her room was next to Heaven
itself. To Mrs. Lyman it simply looked bare and dreary. The buzz in the
long dining room, mingling with the clatter of cups and spoons, was
cheerfulness itself to Mrs. Carter, while to Mrs. Lyman's refilled ears
and sensitive nerves it was positively distressing. It was trying to
her, too, to mingle with all sorts of natures, to listen to garrulous
complaints and garrulous stories from gossipy old women. She would much
have preferred to shut herself in with her books and her own thoughts,
but she did not. Her Master was always kind and helpful to the most
uncongenial people; so would she be, for his sake. Necessarily, though,
it was a lonely, monotonous life for her. Old friends were too remote
and too busy to remember her often.
One afternoon she sat at her window looking down into the street, when
a carriage drew up, and a young lady stepped lightly out. The coachman
handed her a basket of flowers, and she almost ran up the broad stone
steps, with that childlike eagerness of manner which is in refreshing
contrast to the languid air of many of her class.
Mrs. Lyman listened eagerly as her fresh young voice was heard in the
hall. The golden hair, and eyes as blue as the hyacinths she carried,
brought to her visions of another girl as bright and graceful. Just so
she looked, years ago, her dear lost Margaret. Then the mother's heart
went back over the girlhood and womanhood of her darling, and just as
she was wondering how it was possible for Robert Agnew ever to have
fancied he loved that other woman, when his life had been so blessed
with Margaret, there came a knock at the door, and the matron brought
in the bright-haired girl with her flowers, saying:—
"Mrs. Lyman, I have brought Miss Harlowe in to see you. She's come on
ahead to tell you that spring is coming some day."
She looked sweet and fair enough to be spring's herald in very truth,
coming in, as she did, out of the snow and sleet of the winter day,
roses in her hands and roses on her cheeks, looking up almost shyly
into the face of the stately old lady.
Each regarded the other for a moment with surprise and admiration, and
Esther Harlowe, yielding to a sudden impulse, reached up and left a
kiss soft as a rose leaf on the faded old cheek; then selecting the
choicest of the roses, begged her to accept them.
They both forgot themselves. The young lady forgot that she was being
kind to a "poor old body" in "The Old Lady's Home."
This dignified, handsome old lady was surely one of the friends of
their family. And Mrs. Lyman, too, imagined for a moment that she
was welcoming a young visitor to the Agnew mansion. They fell into
conversation as naturally as if this were the case, and, in the short
interview, they gained more than a glimpse of each other's lives.
"How strange that you should be here," Esther said. "I have often
passed Mr. Agnew's house; perhaps you were sitting at the window
looking out. But isn't it dreadful to you? How can you endure it?"
"No, not 'dreadful,' dear; sometimes it is a little lonely, and
this way of living is all new to me; but I daresay I shall soon get
accustomed to it. I ought to feel continually grateful that when I am
old and poor, there is such a place provided for me."
"How can you, when you have lived so differently? I'm sure I should
die. I knew you didn't belong here as soon as I saw you. It is a shame!"
"If God put me here, I must belong here, child. He makes no mistakes,"
the old lady said, smiling at her visitor's impetuous manner.
"But how can you be so calm and good about it? I should think you would
go distracted."
"I wonder if she will understand," Mrs. Lyman said, after searching the
young face a moment; then asked, "Did you ever read these lines?—
"'To will what God doth will, that is the only science
That gives us any rest.'
"The secret of calmness is in that: having God's will our will. It is
called a science, you see, and it is deep and difficult, or rather,
people make it so. It takes some of them years to learn it. I learned
it very slowly myself, but once acquired, it is forever after easier to
bear hard things. It does bring peace."
"Oh! Show me how to learn it, then," said Esther, tears starting to her
eyes. "There are so many hard things in my life."
"Poor dear! Have they come to you so early?" The motherly voice and
pitying eyes were like sunshine to this girl who was not much more than
a child, and whose heart was hungry.