It was a trial to Sarepta Towne that the sun did not rise and set in the
west, for in that case her bay window would have been perfect.
Dinah had named this window "summer time:" on each side ivy was climbing
in profusion; on the right side stood a fuchsia six feet in height;
opposite this an oleander was bursting into bloom; a rose geranium and a
pot of sweet clover were placed on brackets and were Tessa's special
favorites; one hanging basket from which trailed Wandering Jew was
filled with oxalis in bloom, another was but a mass of graceful and
shining greens.
In the centre of the window on a low table stood a Ward's case; into
this Dinah had never grown tired of looking; Professor Towne had
constructed it on his last visit at home, and one of the pleasures of it
to Miss Sarepta had consisted in the talks they had while planning it
together. Among its ferns, mosses, berries, and trailing arbutus they
had formed a grotto of shells and bits of rocks; the floor was bits of
looking-glass; tufts of eye-bright were mingled with the mosses and were
now in bloom, and Miss Sarepta was sure that the trailing arbutus would
flower before Tessa could bring it home to her from the woods.
"This room is full of Philip and Cousin Ralph," Sarepta had said; "his
picture is but one of the things in it and in this house to remind me of
Cousin Ralph."
"Sarepta breathes Philip," her mother replied.
"We are twin spirits like Blaise and Jacqueline Pascal. Do you know
about them, Tessa?"
"I know that he was a monk and she a nun."
"That is like me, and not like Philip," said Miss Sarepta; "he shall not
be a monk because I am a nun!"
"His wife will be jealous enough of you, though," said Mrs. Towne; "not
a mail comes that he does not send you something. How would she like
that?"
"Philip could not love any one that would come between us. Tessa, do you
admire my brother as much as I wish you to do?"
"I admire him exceedingly," said Tessa, looking up from her twenty-fifth
block of the basket quilt; "he is my ideal. I knew that I had found my
ideal as soon as I saw him; I did not wait to hear him speak."
And that he was her ideal she became more and more assured, for in
February he spent a week at home and she had opportunity to study him at
all hours and in any hour of the day. He had lost his fancied
resemblance to Dr. Towne, or _she_ had lost it in thinking of him as
only himself. The long talks, during which she sat, at Miss Sarepta's
side, on a foot cushion, work in hand, the basket blocks, or some more
fanciful work for Miss Sarepta, she remembered afterward as one of the
times in her life in which she _grew_. She told Miss Sarepta that she
and her brother were like the men and women that St. Paul in his
Epistles sent his love to. "He ought to marry a saint like Madame Guyon;
I think that it would be easier to revere him as a saint than to marry
him. I can't imagine any woman forgiving him, or loving him because he
_needs_ her love; he stands so far above me, I could never think of him
as at my side and sometimes saying, 'Help me, Tessa,' or, 'What do _you_
think?'"
"Now we know your ideal of marriage," laughed Mrs. Towne. "Philip is a
good boy, but he sometimes needs looking after."
"Stockings and shirt buttons!"
"And other things, too. He is forgetful, and he's rather careless. How
much he is taken up with that reading class!"
"In a monkish way," smiled Miss Sarepta. "He was full of enthusiasm
about Ralph, too, mother."
"How is it, Miss Tessa, do you admire Dr. Towne as much as you do St.
Philip?" inquired the old lady with good-humored sarcasm.
"He is not a saint," said Tessa, "he needs looking after in several
matters besides stockings and shirt buttons."
"Philip talks about him! What is it that he says he is, Sarepta?"
"In his profession just what he expected that he would be,--quick, quiet,
gentle, sympathetic, patient, persevering; he has thrown himself into it
heart and soul. Philip used to wonder if he would ever find his
vocation; his life always had a promise of good things--"
"But he was slow about it; not quick like Philip; he should have begun
practice ten years ago. What has he been doing all this time?"
"We can see the fruit of his doing, mother; it does not much matter as
to the doing itself. Don't you know that six years are given to the
perfecting even of a beetle?"
"I don't know about beetles and things; I know that I used to think that
my boy would outstrip Lydia's boy."
"Mother! mother!" laughed Sarepta, "you mind earthly things. I shall
never run a race with anybody. Can't you be a little proud of me?"
Sarepta Towne had her brother's eyes, but her hair was brighter, with
not one silver thread among its short curls; her fair, fresh face was
certainly ten years younger than his. In summer her wrappers were of
white; in winter she kept herself a bird in gay plumage; always the
singing-bird, in white or crimson. When Philip Towne said "My sister,"
his voice and eyes said "My saint."
Once, after a silence, Tessa asked about her "Shut-ins." "How did it
come into your heart at first?"
"It is a long story; first tell me what your heart has been about. It
has been painting your eyes darker and darker."
"It is a very foolish heart then; it was only repeating something that I
learned once and did not then understand. I do not know that I can say
it correctly, but it is like this:
"'God's generous in giving, say I,
And the thing which he gives, I deny
That He ever can take back again.
He gives what He gives: be content.
He resumes nothing given; be sure.
God lend? where the usurers lent
In His temple, indignant He went
And scourged away all those impure.
He lends not, but gives to the end,
As He loves to the end. If it seem
That He draws back a gift, comprehend
'Tis to add to it rather, amend
And finish it up to your dream.'"
"Well?" said Miss Sarepta.
"Once,--a long time ago, it seems now,--He gave me something; it was love
for somebody; and then He took it--or I let it go, because it was too
much trouble to keep it; I did not like His gift, it hurt too much; I
was glad to let it go, and yet I missed it so; I was not worthy such a
perfect gift as a love that could be hurt in loving; I could love as I
loved all beauty and goodness and truth, but when I found that love must
hold on and endure, must hope and believe, must suffer shame and loss, I
gave it up. God was generous in giving; He gave me all I could receive,
and when He would have given me more, I shrank away from His giving and
said, 'It hurts too much. I am too proud to take love or give love if I
must be made humble first. I wanted to give like a queen, not stooping
from my full height, and I wanted to give to a king: instead, I was
asked to give--just like any common mortal to another common mortal, and
that after we had misinterpreted and misunderstood each other, and I had
written hard things of him all over my heart, and what he had thought
me, nobody knows but himself! And now I think, if I will, that I may
have the love again finished up to my dream; finished above any thing
that I knew how to ask or think, and it is altogether too good and
perfect a gift for me; so good that I can not keep it, I must needs give
it away."
Tessa had told her story with quickened breath, not once lifting the
eyes that were growing darker and darker.
Miss Sarepta's "thank you" held all the appreciation that Tessa wished.
"And now," after another silence, for these two loved silences together,
"you want to know about my dear Shut-ins. Philip named them from the
words, 'And the Lord shut him in.' It began one day when I was sitting
alone thinking! I am often sitting alone thinking; but this day I was
thinking sad thoughts about my useless, idle life, and I had planned my
life to be such a busy life. There was nothing that I could do to help
along; I had to sit still and be helped; and I shouldn't wonder if I
cried a little. That was five years ago, we were living in the city
then; in the middle of my bemoanings and my tears, I spied the postman
crossing the street. How Philip laughed when I told him that I loved
that postman better than any man in all the world! That day he brought
me several lovely things: one of them a book from Cousin Ralph, and a
letter from Aunt Lydia; that letter is the beginning of my story. She
told me about a little invalid that she had found and suggested that I
should write one of my charming letters to her. Of course you know that
I write charming letters! So I wiped away my naughty tears and wrote the
charming letter! In a few days, my hero, the postman, brought the reply.
That was my first Shut-in letter. Bring me the album, I will show you
Susie."
Tessa brought it and Miss Sarepta opened it on her lap to an
intelligent, serious, sweet face.
"She has not taken a step for many years; she is among the youngest of
many children; her great love is love for children, she teaches daily
thirteen little ones. The one thing in her life that strikes me is her
_faithfulness_. There is nothing too little for her to be faithful in.
One of her great longings used to be for letters; oh, if the postman
would only bring her a letter! For a year or two I wrote every week, the
longest, brightest, most every-day letters I could think of. And one day
it came to me that if _we_ had such a good time together, why should we
not find some other to whom a letter or a book would be as a breath of
fresh air. I pondered the matter for a month or two, but I couldn't
advertise for an invalid, and none of my friends knew of any. One
morning I glanced through a religious paper, and tossed it aside, then
something moved me to pick it up again, and there she was! The one I
sought! That was Elsie. Look at her pale, patient face. For fourteen
years she has lived in one room. And hasn't she the brightest, most
grateful, happiest heart that ever beat in a frail body or a strong one?
Her poems are graceful little things; I will show you some of them. She
had been praying six months for a helpful friend, when she received my
first letter. Her letters are gems. You shall read a pile of them. And
she had a Shut-in friend, to whom I must write, of course. She is Mabel.
I have no picture of her. When she was well, they called her the
laughing girl; she has lain eleven years in bed!"
"Oh, dear me!" sighed Tessa.
"Don't sigh, child. She writes in pencil as she can not lift her head. I
call her my sunbeam. She often dates her letters 'In my Corner.' So
another year went on with my three Shut-ins. I forgot to cry about my
folded hands and useless life. One day it came into my mind to write a
sketch and call it, 'Our Shut-in Society'; to write all about Mabel and
Elsie and Sue, and send it to the paper in which I had found Elsie's
first article.
"And that sketch! How it was read! I received letters from north, south,
east, and west concerning it. Was there really such a society, and were
there such happy people as Mabel, Elsie, and Susie? One who had not
spoken aloud for fourteen years would love to write to them; another who
had locked her school-room door one summer day, and come home to rest,
had been forced to rest through eight long years, and was so lonely,
with her sisters married and away; another, quite an old man, who had
lain for six years in the loft of an old log-cabin, was eager for a word
or a paper. How his letter touched us all! 'The others have letters, but
when the mail comes naught comes to me,' he wrote. But you will be tired
of hearing my long story; you shall see their letters; you must see
Delle's letters; she sits all day in a wheelchair, and has no hope of
ever taking a step; she has a mother and a little boy; the brightest
little boy! Her poems have appeared in some of our best periodicals; we
are something beside a band of sufferers, Miss Tessa; some of us are
literary! My most precious letters are from Elizabeth; her fiftieth
birthday came not long since; for ten years her home has been in one
room; she has written a book that the Shut-ins cry over.
"And oh, we have a prisoner! A Shut-in shut up in state's prison. A
young man with an innocent, boyish face; he ran away from home when he
was a child and ran into state's prison because no one cared what became
of him. His letters are unaffected and grateful; he does want to be a
good boy! Thirty-six are on my list now; I would find more if I had
strength to write more; some of them have more and some less than I;
many of them have Shut-ins that I know nothing about. We remember each
other on holidays and birthdays! The things that postmen and country
mail-carriers have in their mail-bags are funny to see: flower seeds,
bits of fancy work, photographs, pictures, any thing and every thing!
"They all look forward to mail-time through the night and through the
day.
"And, speaking humanly, my share in it, all I receive and the little I
give, came out of my self-bemoanings and tears; my longing to be a
helper in some small way!
"Now if you want to help me, you may cut some blocks of patch-work for
me. One of the Shut-ins is making a quilt to leave as a memorial to her
daughter, and I want to send my contribution to the mail to-night; and
you may direct several papers for me, and cover that book, 'Thoughts for
Weary Hours.' I press you into my service, you see."
"Miss Sarepta, I am ashamed."
"Shame is an evidence of something; go on."
"I am ashamed that I am such a dreamer."
"Philip says that you are a dreamer."
"I care for my writing."
"Mowers work while they whet their scythes," quoted Miss Sarepta.