This agitating episode in Lily’s life was a relief to her from her own
prevailing troubles. They all apologized to her for bringing her into
the midst of their annoyances, but it was, in fact, nothing but an
advantage. To contrast what she had herself to bear with the lot of
Helen even was good for Lily. If she had but known a little sooner how
long and sweetly that patient creature had waited, how many years had
passed over her head, while she did her duty quietly, and neither
upbraided God nor man, Lily thought it would have shamed herself into
quiet, too, and prevented, perhaps, that crowning outcome of impatience
which had taken place in the Manse parlor on that January night. Did she
regret that January night with all its mystery, its hurry, and tumult of
feeling? Oh, no! she said to herself, it would be false to Ronald to
entertain such a thought; but yet how could she help feeling with a sort
of yearning the comparative freedom of her position then, the absence of
all complication? Lily had believed, as Ronald told her, that all
complications would be swept away by this step. She would be freed, she
thought, at once from her uncle’s sway, and ready to follow her husband
wherever their lot might lie. Every thing would be clear before her when
she was Ronald’s wife. She had thought so with certain and unfeigned
faith. She might perhaps have been in that condition still, always
believing, feeling that nothing was wanted but the bond that made them
one, if that bond had not been woven yet. Poor Lily! She would not
permit herself to say that she regretted it. Oh, no! how could she
regret it? Every thing was against them for the moment, but yet she was
Ronald’s, and Ronald hers, forever and ever. No man could put them
asunder. At any time, in any circumstances, if the yoke became too hard
for her to bear, she could go unabashed to her husband for succor. How,
then, could she regret it? But Helen had waited through years and years,
while Lily had grown impatient before the end of one; or perhaps it was
not Lily, but Ronald, that had grown impatient. No, she could not
shelter herself with that. Lily had been as little able to brave the
solitude, the separation, the banishment, as he. And here stood Helen,
patient, not saying a word, always bearing a brave face to the world,
enduring separation, with a hundred pangs added to it, terrors for the
man she loved, self-reproach, and all the exactions of life beside,
which she had to meet with a cheerful countenance. How much better was
this quiet, gentle woman, pretending to nothing, than Lily, who beat her
wings against the cage, and would not be satisfied? Even now what would
not Helen give if she could see her lover from time to time as Lily saw
her husband, if she knew that he was satisfied, and, greatest of all,
that he was unimpeachable, above all reproach? For that certainty Helen
would be content to die, or to live alone forever, or to endure any
thing that could be given her to bear. And Lily was not content, oh! not
at all content! Her heart was torn by a sense of wrong that was not in
Helen’s mind. Was it that she was the most selfish, the most exacting,
the least generous of all? Even Ronald was happy--a man, who always
wanted more than a woman--in having Lily, in the fact that she belonged
to him; while she wanted a great deal more than that--so much more that
there was really no safe ground between them, but as much disagreement
as if they were a disunited couple, who quarrelled and made scenes
between themselves, which was a suggestion at which Lily half laughed,
half shuddered. If it went on long like this, they might turn to be--who
could tell?--a couple who quarrelled, between whom there was more
opposition and anger than love. Lily laughed at the thought, which was
ridiculous; but there was certainly a shiver in it, too.
Duff had gone away before her short visit to the Manse came to an end.
He disappeared after a last long interview with Helen under the bare
lilac bushes, of which the little party in the parlor was very well
aware, though no one said a word. The minister shifted uneasily on his
chair, and held his paper with much fierce rustling up in his hands
toward the lamp, as if it had been light he wanted. But what he wanted
was to shield himself from the observation of the others, who sat
breathless, exchanging, at long intervals, a troubled syllable or two.
Mr. Douglas had, perhaps, strictly speaking, no right to be there,
spying, as the old minister thought, upon the troubles of the family,
and, as he himself was painfully conscious, intrusively present in the
midst of an episode with which he had nothing to do. But he could not go
away, which would make every thing worse, for he would then probably
find himself in face of Helen tremblingly coming back, or of the
desperate lover going away. A consciousness that it was the last was in
all their minds, though nobody could have told why. Lily sat trembling,
with her head down over her work, sometimes saying a little prayer for
Helen, broken off in the middle by some keen edge of an intrusive
thought, sometimes listening breathless for the sound of her step or
voice. At last, to the instant consciousness of all, which made the
faintest sound audible, the Manse door was opened and closed so
cautiously that nothing but the ghost of a movement could be divined in
the quiet. No one of the three changed a hair-breadth in position, and
yet the sensation in the room was as if every one had turned to the
door. Was she coming in here fresh from that farewell? Would she stand
at the door, and look at them all, and say: “I can resist no longer. I
am going with him.” This was what the old minister, with a deep distrust
in human nature, which did not except Helen, feared and would always
fear. Or would she come as if nothing had happened, with the dew of the
night on her hair, and Alick Duff’s desperate words in her ears, and sit
down and take up her seam, which Lily, feeling that in such a case the
stress of emotion would be more than she could bear, almost expected?
Helen did none of these things. She was heard, or rather felt, to go
upstairs, and then there was an interval of utter silence, which only
the rustling of the minister’s paper, and a subdued sob, which she could
not disguise altogether, from Lily, broke. And presently Helen came into
the room, paler than her wont, but otherwise unchanged. “It is nine
o’clock, father,” she said; “I will put out the Books.” The “Books”
meant, and still mean, in many an old-fashioned Scotch house, the family
worship, which is the concluding event of the day. She laid the large
old family Bible on the little table by his side, and took from him the
newspaper, which he handed to her without saying a word. And Marget came
in from the kitchen, and took her place near the door.
Thus Helen’s tragedy worked itself out. There is always, or so most
people find when their souls are troubled, something in the lesson for
the day, or in “the chapter,” as we say in Scotland, when it comes to be
read in its natural course, which goes direct to the heart. Very, very
seldom, indeed, are the instances in which this curious unintentional
_sortes_ fails. As it happened, that evening the chapter which Mr.
Blythe read in his big and sometimes gruff voice was that which
contained the parable of the prodigal son. He began the story, as we so
often do, with the indifferent tones of custom, reverential as his
profession and the fashion of his day exacted, but not otherwise moved.
But perhaps some glance at his daughter’s head, bent over the Bible, in
which she devoutly followed, after the prevailing Scotch fashion, the
words that were read, perhaps the wonderful narrative itself, touched
even the old minister’s heavy spirit. His voice took a different tone.
It softened, it swelled, it rose and fell, as does that most potent of
all instruments when it is tuned by the influence of profound human
feeling. The man was a man of coarse fibre, not capable of the finer
touches of emotion; but he had sons of his own out in the darkness of
the world, and the very fear of losing the last comfort of his heart
made him more susceptible to the passion of parental anguish, loss, and
love. Lower and lower bowed Helen’s head as her father read; all the
little involuntary sounds of humanity, stirrings and breathings, which
occur when two or three are gathered together, were hushed; even Marget
sat against the wall motionless; and when finally, like the very climax
of the silence, another faint, uncontrollable sob came from Lily, the
sensation in the room was as of something almost too much for flesh and
blood. Mr. Blythe shut the book with a sound in his throat almost like a
sob. He waved his hand toward the younger man at the table. “You will
give the prayer,” he said in what sounded a peremptory tone, and leaned
back in the chair, from which he was incapable of moving, covering his
face with his hands.
It was hard upon the poor, young, inexperienced assistant and successor
to be called upon to “give” that prayer. It was not that he was
untouched by the general emotion, but to ask him to follow the departure
of that prodigal whose feet they had all heard grind the gravel, the
garden gate swinging behind the vehemence of his going--the prodigal who
yet had been all but pointed out as the object of the father’s special
love, and for whom Helen Blythe’s life had been, and would yet be, one
long embodied prayer--was almost more than Helen Blythe’s lover,
waiting, if perhaps the absence of the other might turn her heart to
him, could endure. None of them, fortunately, was calm enough to be
conscious how he acquitted himself of this duty, except, perhaps, Mr.
Blythe himself, who was not disinclined to contemplate the son-in-law
whom he would have preferred as “cauld parritch,” Duff’s contemptuous
description of him. “No heart in that,” the old minister said to himself
as he uncovered his face and the others rose from their knees. The
mediocrity of the prayer, with its tremulous petitions, to which the
speaker’s perplexed and troubled soul gave little fervor, restored Mr.
Blythe to the composure of ordinary life.
Helen said little on that occasion or any other. “He will be far away
before the end of the week,” she said next morning. “It’s best so, Lily.
Why should he bide here, tearing the heart out of my breast, and his
own, too? if it was not for that wonderful Scripture last night! He’s
away, and I’m content. And all the rest is just in the Lord’s hands.”
The minister, too, had his own comment to make. “She’ll be building a
great deal on that chapter,” he said to Lily, “as if there was some kind
of a spell in it. Do not you encourage her in that. It was a strange
coincidence, I am not denying it; but it’s just the kind of thing that
happens when the spirits are high strung. I was not unmoved myself. But
that lad’s milk and water,” he added, with a gruff laugh, “he let us
easy down.” The poor “lad,” time-honored description of a not fully
fledged minister, whose prayer was milk and water, and his person “cauld
parritch” to the two rougher and stronger men, accompanied Lily part of
the way on foot as she rode home, Rory having come to fetch her, while
the black powny carried her baggage. He was very desirous to unbosom his
soul to Lily, too.
“Miss Ramsay, do you think she will waste all her heart and her life
upon that vagabond?” he said. “It’s just an infatuation, and her friends
should speak more strongly than they do. Do you know what he is? Just
one of those wild gamblers, miners, drinkers--it may be worse for any
thing I know, but my wish is not to say a word too much--that we hear of
in America, and such places, in the backwoods, as they call it--men
without a spark of principle, without house or home. I believe that’s
what this man Duff has come to be. I wish him no harm, but to think of
such a woman as Helen Blythe descending into that wretchedness! It
should not be suffered, it should not be suffered! taking nobody else
into consideration at all, but just her own self alone.”
“I think so, too, Mr. Douglas,” said Lily, restraining the paces of
Rory, “but then what can any one say if Helen herself----”
“Helen herself!” he said almost passionately; “what does she know? She
is young; she is without experience. She is very young,” he added, with
a flush that made it apparent for the first time to Lily that he was
younger than Helen, “because she is so inexperienced. She has never been
out of this village. Men, however little they may have seen of
themselves, get to know things; but a woman, a young lady--how can she
understand? Oh, you should tell her, her friends should tell her!” he
cried with vehemence. “It is a wicked thing to let a creature like that
go so far astray.”
“I agree with you, Mr. Douglas,” said Lily again, “but if Helen in her
own heart says ‘Yes,’ where is there a friend of hers that durst say
‘No’? Her father: that is true. But he will never be asked to give his
consent, for while he lives she will never leave him.”
“You are sure of that?” the young minister asked.
“If it had not been so, would she have let him go now? She will never
leave her father, but beyond that I don’t think Helen will ever change,
Mr. Douglas. If he never comes back again, she will just sit and wait
for him till she dies.”
“Miss Ramsay, I have no right to trouble you. What foolish things I may
have cherished in my mind it is not worth the while to say. I thought,
when the old man is away, what need to leave the house she was fond of,
the house where she was born, when there was me ready to step in and
give her the full right. It’s been in my thoughts ever since I was named
to the parish after him. It’s nothing very grand, but it’s a decent
down-sitting, what her mother had before her, and no need for any
disagreeable change, or questions about repairs, or any unpleasant
thing. Just her and me, instead of her and him. I would not shorten his
days, not by an hour--the Lord forbid! but just I would be always ready
at her hand.”
“Oh, Mr. Douglas,” cried Lily, “her father would like it--and me, I
would like it.”
“Would you do that?” cried the young minister, laying his hand for a
moment on Lily’s arm. The water stood in his eyes, his face was full of
tender gratitude and hope. But either the young man had pulled Rory’s
bridle unawares, or Rory thought he had done so, or resented the too
close approach. He tossed his shaggy head and swerved from the side of
the path to the middle of the road, when, after an ineffectual effort to
free himself of Lily, he bolted with her, rattling his little hoofs with
triumph against the frosty way. It was perhaps as well that the
interview should terminate thus. It gave a little turn to Lily’s
thoughts, which had been very serious. And Rory flew along till he had
reached that spot full of associations to Lily, where the broken brig
and the Fairy Glen reminded her of her own little romance that was over.
Over! Oh, no, that was far from over; that had but begun that wonderful
day when Ronald and she picnicked by the little stream and the accident
happened, without which, perhaps, her own story would have gone no
further, and Helen’s would never have been known to her. Rory stopped
there, and helped himself to a mouthful or two of fresh grass, as if to
call her attention pointedly to the spot, and then proceeded on his way
leisurely, having given her the opportunity of picking up those
recollections which, though so little distant, were already far off in
the hurry of events which had taken place since then. Had it been
possible to go back to that day, had there been no ascent of that
treacherous ruin, no accident, none of all the chains of events that had
brought them so much closer to each other and wound them in one web of
fate, if every thing had remained as it was before the fated New Year,
would Lily have been glad? That the thought should have gained entrance
into her mind at all gave a heavy aspect to the scene and threw a cloud
over every thing. She did not regret it: oh, no, no! how could she
regret that which was her life? But something intolerable seemed to have
come into the atmosphere, something stifling, as if she could not
breathe. She forced the pony on, using her little switch in a manner
with which Rory was quite unacquainted. Let it not be thought of, let it
not be dwelt upon, above all, let it not be questioned, the certainty of
all that had happened, the inevitableness of the past!