The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Attic Guest, by Robert E. Knowles This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: The Attic Guest A Novel Author: Robert E. Knowles Release Date: March 4, 2018 [EBook #56675] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATTIC GUEST *** Produced by Al Haines THE ATTIC GUEST A NOVEL By ROBERT E. KNOWLES Author of "The Web of Time" "St. Cuthbert's" etc. New York Chicago Toronto Fleming H. Revell Company London and Edinburgh Copyright, 1909, by FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY New York: 158 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 80 Wabash Avenue Toronto: 25 Richmond Street, W. London: 21 Paternoster Square Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street To My Father FOREWORD This story, which the authoress herself entitled "The Attic Guest," would probably have never been given to the world but for an incidental visit which I paid to a certain manse. It was then and there that the following chapters, now first presented to the public, were entrusted to my hands. The hands which placed the manuscript in my own were those of a lady of much charm, modest, cultured, winsome; and no one could know her without feeling that her qualities of heart were even greater than of intellect. She was a minister's wife, as I need hardly say; and the busy years in that most mellow of all vineyards had given her face much of its own spiritual beauty, something of the deep harvest-joy shining through her eyes. Tranquil eyes were hers, chastened by many a sorrow, yet aglow with a native merriment that the stern schooling of a lifetime seemed powerless to subdue. She asked that I would read her story; "and send it forth," said she, "if your heart approve." Her plea for asking this service at my hands was that I had had some humble association with the world of letters. Mayhap she thought this pleased me well—and perhaps it did. I urged her to send her book forth with her own name upon it—but this she firmly refused. She shrank from the publicity it would involve, she said, as must any Southern lady. I believed her implicitly. "Especially," she went on—dwelling earnestly on this—"since my book is the frank and artless story of the most sacred things of life, of a woman's life at that. Some will smile," said she, "and some deride, and many disbelieve; but the story is the story of my inmost work and life and love. Let it see the light if you think it worthy." I promised; and thus my promise is redeemed and my humble part is done. ROBERT E. KNOWLES. Galt, Ontario. CONTENTS I. The Light Fantastic II. Just Eighteen III. The Bridge That Lay Between IV. The Danger Zone V. An Alternative VI. The Glint of the Heather VII. "The Glory of Their Strength" VIII. Dealings with the Samaritans IX. Love's Tutorship X. The River Leading to the Sea XI. A Mother Confessor XII. The Wail of the Lowly XIII. The Lynching XIV. Girding on the Armour XV. "Our Lady of the Snows" XVI. A Knightly Guest XVII. My Ordination XVIII. The Dayspring from on High XIX. The Taint of Heresy XX. Harold's Sister—and Another XXI. "Love's Old Sweet Song" XXII. When Joy and Sorrow Meet XXIII. "The Voice of Rachel" XXIV. "Come, Ettrick; Yarrow, Come" XXV. A Select Congregation XXVI. The News a Broker Brought XXVII. Where Gus Cast Anchor XXVIII. "To Old Point Comfort, Dear" XXIX. The Hour of Healing XXX. Eden in the Attic THE ATTIC GUEST I THE LIGHT FANTASTIC "That room in the third story is good enough for any elder," my mother was saying as I came into the library; "more than likely they'll send us a country elder anyhow, and he'll never know the difference—he'll think it's the spare room, I reckon." I was only eighteen then, and I didn't care much where elders slept, or whether they slept at all or not. Besides, it was already nine o'clock, and I was going to a little party where "Tripping the light fantastic" was to be the order of the evening. By the way, I only found out the other day that Milton was the author of that fantastic toe phrase—and the news startled me about as much as if some one had told me Cromwell invented "Blind Man's Buff." "Has Dinah got me buttoned right?" I asked, backing up to my Aunt Agnes. Aunt Agnes was my mother's sister. I can see her yet, her hands going up in an abstracted kind of way to correct one of Dinah's oversights; for she was still revolving the great question of the elder and the attic, the attic and the elder. "You're all right now, honey," she said in a moment, giving me a gentle push away, her whole mind reverting to the subject of family concern. "I'm sure," she went on in the same breath, "it's going to be an elder from the country. Mr. Furvell told me to wait after prayer-meeting last night; and he said the billeting committee sat till two in the morning trying to divide the ministers and elders as fairly as they could—and he thought we were going to get an elder from Pollocksville." "Let us hear what Henry thinks about it," my mother suddenly interrupted, her face turned towards the door as she spoke. "Sit here, Henry," as she made room on the sofa for my uncle; "sister Agnes thinks it will be dreadful to send our delegate to the attic if he's to be a minister—but she doesn't mind a bit if he's an elder." My uncle smiled as he took his place beside my mother. And the face that was turned in fondness upon his wife at the other side of the room had a look of kindly drollery. For uncle was the tenderest of men, and his countenance reflected the purity and gentleness of his heart. He was a gentleman of the old school, was uncle. His great-grandfather before him had been born in our quaint little Virginian town, and the gracious culture of a century and a half had not been for nothing. The mist of years lies between me and that April evening when we discussed the approaching Presbytery that was to honour our little town by convening in our midst, pondering our approaching guests as solemnly as though they had been envoys from a royal court; but I can still see the tall athletic form, not yet bowed with age—he was less than fifty—and the careless-fitting, becoming clothes that wrapped it in sober black, and the easy dignity of his poise as he held out his hands to the fire—above all, there rises clear before me the grave and noble face, strength and gentleness blending in the mobile mouth and aquiline nose, while the large gray eyes looked out with the loving simplicity of childhood upon the little circle that was so dear to him and to which he was so dear. Yet there was latent fire in those gentle eyes; when in complete repose, they looked out like two slumbering furnaces that needed only to be blown—and any one familiar with the best type of Southern gentlemen would have descried the old Virginian looking through them, the native courage, the inborn anger against meanness, the swift resentment of a wrong, the reverence of womanhood, the pride of family, that were such salient features of the old-time patrician of the South. "What's your say on the subject, Uncle Henry?" my mother asked again, breaking the silence. For my uncle's gaze had wandered from his wife's face and was now fixed upon the fire. It was April, as I have said, but a generous flame was leaping on the hearth. So generous, indeed, that the back window whose tiny panes looked towards the west was open; this is a form of conflicting luxuries which only Southern folks indulge in. "I just think the other way round," Uncle Henry finally responded; "different from Agnes, I mean," his eyes smiling as they met his wife's. "I'd send him to the attic if he's a preacher; a minister wouldn't be so apt to misunderstand, because they're trained to sleep anywhere at a moment's notice—and they know what it is to have to stow their own company away in every nook and corner. Besides, it's those same preachers that make heaps o' folk sleep sitting right bolt up in church. But an elder," Uncle Henry went on reflectively, "an elder kind o' wants to make the most of it when he's visitin'—it's more of an event to him, you see; they look on going to Presbytery as a kind of rehearsal for going to heaven." "Then they ought to be glad to get the highest place," broke in my Aunt Agnes triumphantly, for she had a ready wit. "Depends on how you get there," retorted Uncle Henry after a very brief but very busy pause; he had no mind to be worsted in an argument if he could help it. "Everything depends on how it's given to you. There's all the difference in the world between being lifted and being hoisted—I saw a fellow tossed by a bull one day out at Cap'n Lyon's farm; he got the highest place, all right, but he didn't seem to relish the promotion." My mother, who was accustomed to act as umpire in these little contests, turned a humorous eye towards Aunt Agnes. The latter, we all knew, was fumbling frantically for some response which seemed to elude her; my mother's pose reminded me a little of the man who had held the watch the week before, down at Jacksonville, when two gentlemen of the ring had paid their respects to each other. I knew all about how they're counted out if they don't show up within a certain time; yet it isn't likely I'd have known anything about it if Mr. Furvell hadn't warned us from the pulpit that we mustn't read the account of the affair—he said the details were shocking. So I had to wait till Aunt Agnes was finished with the paper. I really do not know how the argument concluded, for at this juncture a very sable face appeared suddenly at the door and a liquid voice announced: "Please, Miss Helen, Misteh Slocum's waitin' fo' yeh in de parluh." I was ready for the intimation, for I had heard the old brass knocker muttering a minute or two before—and I was just at the age when I knew the different knocks of different gallants. And not a few of these latter were wont to lift that frowning brass face on our front door and let it fall again—the wonderful thing about it was, that the oftener they came the more gentle grew the knock—but this is the way with all knockers at all Southern homes that shelter comely maidens. And I am neither modest enough nor untruthful enough to deny that I deserved the adjective aforesaid— especially as this story may never see the light till my eyes give it back no more. "I'm hoping he'll be a minister," I volunteered, as I turned a moment at the door. "Why?" cried my mother. "What for?" chimed my Aunt Agnes. "Well," I answered, "elders pray too long—I went to sleep one night at worship when that elder from Hickory was here at the Synod. And he said I was a devout worshipper, don't you mind, when I kept kneeling after you all got up. I don't think that was very nice for a religious man to say," I averred, tugging at a reluctant glove. "He wouldn't think so if he saw you now—starting for a dance," suggested my Aunt Agnes. "But you look mighty sweet, honey—though I don't believe you've got enough on for a chilly night like this. Be sure you have something round you when you're coming home." "Mr. Slocum will see to that," assured Uncle Henry, his expression interpreting his words. "Hush," said my mother chidingly; "the child doesn't know what you mean." Every word of that evening's conversation is vivid to me yet, as it well might be; and I have often wondered why my mother held such a sanguine view of my simplicity. I don't remember much about the succeeding frivolities of that April evening. Sometimes I catch again a few fugitive snatches of the melody that inspired the mazy throng; I remember what I wore—it served long years of umbrageous usefulness as a lamp shade after I was through with it; and I think I danced nearly every dance, no foreboding of soberer days chastening the gladness. And I forgot all about the elder question, wondering no more where he might lay his devoted head. But before Mr. Frank Slocum bade me good-night as I disappeared within the heavy oaken door of my uncle's house, he unwittingly recalled the subject. "You're expecting a visitor to-morrow, aren't you?" he said. "Oh, yes," I answered, suddenly remembering. "Yes, we're going to have one of the men attending the Presbytery; I think it's to be an elder—and I'm afraid it's him for the attic," I concluded. It was half-past two and I was too tired to bother about grammar. "I wasn't thinking about the Presbytery," returned Mr. Slocum, and he smiled in the moonlight. "Somebody else is coming, isn't he?" Whereat I hope I blushed; it was the time for that mystic operation. For I knew he referred to Charlie, dear old Charlie, who made his pious pilgrimage once a month—and I was the shrine. "Yes, he's coming," I said, toying with the knocker as I spoke. "You don't seem as jubilant about it as you ought to be," ventured Mr. Frank. "You don't know how I feel," said I; "maybe I'm jubilant inside." "Then you shouldn't sigh," pursued my escort. "I didn't know I sighed—but, even if I did, perhaps sighs are like dreams, and go by contraries," I returned, making the best stand I could. "A maiden's heart is an unknown sea," I affirmed, quoting from some distant poem. "Besides," Frank went on, disdainful of all poetry, "if you really cared like you ought to, you wouldn't be out so late the night before; you'd be having your beauty sleep right now, just to be lovely when he came—or, at least, to be even lovelier," he amended; for Frank was a Southern gentleman. "I never had it bad enough to go to bed over it," I admitted; "but he'll be here to-morrow—he'll be here to- morrow," I chanted, as ecstatically as I could. Yet I felt at the time that the words didn't ring much; it was a little like trying to peal a chime on a row of pillows. Then, before I knew it, I yawned, yawned brazenly into the face of the brass knocker on the door. "Exactly!" said Frank, his hand moving to his hat, "that's just about the size of it—Miss Helen, you're a little idiot," and his honest eyes shone bright with their candour of affection. "Sir!" said I, employing a splendid intonation. And I gave a little stamp on the stone step beneath me—all true Southern girls love to stamp. "Sir!" I repeated, "you forget yourself." "But I don't forget you," Frank retorted swiftly, his face quivering a little; "though I wish I could, a little more. And I know you don't care anything about him, the way he thinks you do—or the way he wants you to. And God help him— and you too—if something doesn't happen; you have either gone too far, or not far enough, Miss Helen," he declared boldly, looking straight into my eyes in the moonlight. And I couldn't help gazing back, for his look and his words both had a kind of fascination for me; I reckon I knew they both were true. So I didn't get angry—only a lot of things, all connected with the past, rushed like a flood before me. But I will tell them all in another chapter. I had no mind to discuss them with Frank just then. So I simply said "Good-night, I'm going in." And Frank said good-night with great respect and turned to go away. I peeped through the crack just before I closed the door, and I could see that his eyes were on the pavement and his step was slow. Yet I cared nothing for that, except as it boded what might be of interest to myself. II JUST EIGHTEEN As I sit and look back on it all now, I feel almost sure that a girl's real life begins at somewhere about eighteen years of age. A boy is different; his life begins at a great many different times. To start with, he has a distinct promotion at four or five—he casts off skirts forever, with contempt, and that itself is a promotion. Then he takes on the uniform of manhood, glorying in the frank two-leggedness of his kind; and in quite a real sense this marks the beginning of his manhood. Indeed, a boy has mile-posts all along the way. Top boots come next, and the first pair, clothing his knees with their red leather crown, give life a rosy splendour. This pales, of course, as does all other glory—but the day reappears in divers forms. His curls are one day amputated, falling fast, the hour of their doom still bright with an undaunted sheen—and the young Samson shakes himself gleefully in this new token of manly strength. Then comes his first game of ball, or his first venture with tools; or he is one day permitted to hold a slumbering butcher-horse while its master steps within; in return, he is allowed to drive a block or two—trifling enough, as some one smiles and says, but every boy remembers it and it marks a new stage of power. About this time he learns to swim; all the past is forgotten, the future all despised, till he becomes amphibious. Then comes his first watch—time is annihilated in the tumult of that hour; then a gun of his own—its first report is heard around the world. And so it goes on, ever onward, from one lock to another in life's long waterway. By and by the stream widens far; he must choose his profession—then his partner— then someone, and the romance seems never at an end. But a girl's life has no such variety; skirts are her abiding portion, from swaddling clothes to shroud. And her curls, undisturbed, thicken with the years. No top boots for her, nor game of ball, nor wizardry of tools; for her nothing but the long drab way of girlhood, beginning with the nursery and ending with the same. Till she is about eighteen. Then comes, or almost always comes, the first waterfall in the stream of time. And what a wild cataract it is, leaping with the tidal movement of her soul! And how mystically deep that spring of love which is its far-off source! And how the light of heaven plays upon it all! I was just eighteen when this first came to me. And all my eighteen years before seem now, as I recall them, like a placid afternoon such as slips by unnoticed in the summer-time; the clock strikes the hour, I suppose, but no one hears it. I was born in 187-. No woman is ever quite content to tell the very year, but the decade does not matter. And my mother has often told me what a lovely October day it was—my dawn was mingled with the deepening twilight, and the flowers were still abloom in the garden, and some darky children were playing in the dusty road before the door, and the soft autumn sky was now wreathed in smiles, now bathed in tears, fitting symbol of the checkered life that lay before me. My father died when I was two and a half. My only recollection of him is an impression of his great height and strength as he once bore me on his shoulder, when I had toddled a few yards from the door to meet him. My mother tells me I often started forth on very uncertain feet, as often borne back with my arms about his neck—but there lingers with me the memory of only one such pilgrimage. Yet it is distinct and vivid, I am thankful to say, and I can see yet the low brick fence, with its cope of stone, all vine-entangled as it was; and to this day I never catch the breath of the magnolia without seeing again the full-bloomed beauty that stood close to the steps within the wall. I think I plucked a spray as I was borne past it that evening on my father's shoulder. Both my mother and my aunt thought it strange that I have no recollection of my father as he lay in the calm majesty of death; for my mother took me with her alone into the parlour and shut the door upon us three when she took her last farewell—so she has often told me, her voice breaking as she spoke. And she says I wanted to linger after she turned to go, gazing steadfastly upon the silent face, fascinated by the master mystery of life; it seems, too, that even in her grief she noticed my disdain of the lovely flowers that ensconced the coffin, though I had the child's passion for those gratuities of God, so all-absorbing was the witchery of death. And I have been told, though none of my kinsfolk ever mentioned it—the old undertaker told me himself one day when I was playing among the shavings in his shop—how pitifully hard I fought when they began to shovel in the clay after my father had been lowered to his grave. It is one of our Southern customs for the ladies, veiled past recognition, to follow their dead to the uttermost; and it was in the cemetery I dropped my mother's hand and began my unavailing struggle to rescue my father from suffocation and eternal night. I was borne away, probably easily beguiled, and my father was left to his long loneliness. But I remember nothing of either of these incidents, great and tragical as I thought them, and still think them to be; even yet, I never turn away from a new-filled grave without a sense of selfish cruelty—there seem such oceans of God's fresh air everywhere, yet denied to those we leave behind. And I have never been able to free myself from the pain of this bitter helplessness —that there comes a time when the best we can do for our nearest and dearest is to leave them all alone beneath the darkening sky. Those who knew her best say that my mother was never the same again. No melancholy, or despondency, or indifference to life came to mark the change, but her soul took new depth under the influence of sorrow and her outlook was more to the eternal. There was plenty of brightness and merriment—frank laughter, too—all of her after life; but it was the play of the sunlight upon the noble gloom of ocean, stirred gently by some influence from afar. She soon abandoned her own home, leaving it to strangers; they saw no white face on the pillow in the front room up-stairs—they gave dances in the parlour, and no recumbent form disturbed the revelry. My mother's sister was Mrs. Lundy, my Aunt Agnes; her husband was Henry Lundy, my Uncle Henry. To their home we went to live, I in unconscious glee, my mother in hope of healing. There my life was spent till I was eighteen years of age—and later; but my story begins with that particular year, which, as I have hinted, is to so many a maiden's life like the month of April to the Northern river—for then the ice breaks up and the stream moves outward to the sea. I was eighteen when I fell in love. That is, if I fell at all—concerning which I have my doubts. For many a girl thinks she has fallen in love when all the time she walked in. Ah me! those days are far past now; but the words I have just written gave my pen a good half hour's rest while I mused on all the meaning of them. For after a girl becomes a mother, after she has children of her own—which is about the same thing—she is far more fastidious about love, and far more solicitous that it should be genuine, than when she was choosing for herself. And she knows then, what she knew not at eighteen, that the difference between falling in love and walking into it, is just the difference between Heaven and—Hades. (What a convenient word "Hades" is! It was made, I reckon, expressly for woman's use.) Well, I am afraid I walked in, the first time I got in love. Yet I feel it is a sort of blasphemy to say the first time— for no true girl is ever really in love but once; born, loved, died, thus stand the mountain peaks of life, and each can rise but once. So I must amend by saying that the first time I tried to be in love, and everybody else thought I really was, I got there by the pedestrian route. I rather think I honestly wanted to be in love, had almost resolved to be; and when a girl's face is once set in that direction she will see land ahead, though half an ocean lie between—or, to change the figure, she is like those silly chanticleers that crow at midnight, thinking it the dawn. One other thing, too, I must tell in my defense. I was pushed in. A dearer and more devoted mother than mine no girl ever had. But this I will dare to say—and I am old enough to know—I do believe every true mother-heart has, somewhere in its great expanse, a cavity that aches, never to be filled till some one who loves her daughter comes to dwell there evermore, bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh by the great adoption of their united love. Two streams, both different—but the confluence is mighty. And then there is another cavity, farther in, its ache more poignant still— and that place is never filled, that pain never banished, till she scans some baby face, her leaping heart descrying the likeness to her own, all the lovelier because the image of the adopted mingles with it. I am right well aware how horrified my mother would have been if any one had dared to hint that she, or any other gentlewoman, cherished the hope of some day being either mother-in-law or grandmother—or both; and I cannot help a little shudder as I write those terms myself. But the truth as I first set it down, free from those rude bald words, is not to be denied. It was at the seaside that I first met Charlie Giddens. Mother and I met him the same evening, in the midst of a merry dance on the grand piazza. He was tall and dark, and his hair was gloriously rebellious, every way for Sunday. We both noticed that he looked at us a little long, a little earnestly, I thought—but he asked mother to dance first, and that's where his head was level. "Don't fill your program all up, Helen," she whispered as she handed me her fan, gliding out with the tall figure, so handsome in his spotless ducks. "Did you notice how gracefully he handed me to my seat?" mother said after he had left her; "he has the manners of a cavalier." For the old-time Southern lady puts gracefulness next to grace. "He dances like a Dervish of the Desert," I remarked, a little maliciously perhaps—for he had bowed and left us. "Like a courtier, you mean," my mother amended, her eyes still following him. "And his father's a ship owner in Savannah, and his mother comes from one of the oldest families in South Carolina," concluded my mother, naming the ancient house. "That's why you like his dancing," I suggested; "old families all dance exquisitely—the older, the sprightlier, it seems." "He has such a delicate way of putting things," pursued my mother; "he was describing his mother to me, and he said she had a lovely figure, just about my size," surveying somewhat hopefully her rather substantial form the while. For this was a very live issue with my mother; she lived in daily horror of growing stout, and any such reassuring word was balm of Gilead to her. But what's the use of going on with this? This story's main concern is not with my dancing days, and what I have written, or yet shall write, regarding them, is only a streamlet leading towards the river of my life. And my story—if it be ever finished, or however far it roam, must follow the winding current of my changeful years. Yet this I must record, that Mr. Giddens came back that night and stood once again beneath the swinging lanterns that cast their fitful light on mother's face and mine. And he asked for another dance—but it was not from mother. And whenever we swirled before her as we compassed the great piazza, I could see how mother's eyes followed us approvingly, more approving than I had ever known them to be before. And thus it all began—all that never should have been begun at all. That is what I meant when I said, a little farther back, that I was pushed into love—and by my own dear mother. Oh, it all seems so terrible, so cruel to me now, looking back over all the happy years, beautiful in the uncreated light of love—it is really awful to reflect how often the hands that love her most are the fateful hands to many a girlish life, pushing the poor protesting heart, so gently, yet so relentlessly, pressing it on, on to the dark abyss of a loveless union. Mr. Giddens was of gentle birth, I know; he was handsome, cultured, charming,—and he was very rich. All these shed their light about him, and my mother gloried in their radiance. Their light, I said—but it was artificial. The summer sun of love had never shined on me at all; so that while I could not but feel the effulgence of it all, yet only one room of my life was lighted, and that the hallway—the vast world within was still wrapt in darkness. I knew all the time that I did not really love Mr. Giddens. Yet I could not see why I should not—and there the great peril lay. It was that fatal path that misled me. All the outward sign-posts pointed my way as leading towards his own—but these sign-posts were marked by human hands alone, and my mother never tired of spelling out their message. "There's not a girl in Virginia," she said one day, "but would give her head for him. He's aristocratic, and handsome, and rich." "And the greatest of these is rich," quoth I. "For shame!" cried my patrician mother, "that's the least of it." "Not at all," I retorted. "For if a girl doesn't love a man as fiercely as——" "As what!" exclaimed my mother, shocked. "As devotedly as she should," I revised, "she won't get much comfort out of his blue blood—and she can't do much with his beauty—but his cash is a different matter," I affirmed; "she could get her little hands on that all right." "Helen, you're a foolish child," said my mother gravely. "That's what I often think myself," said I, more gravely still. Well, that was the way it went on. I told him "yes" one night. I do not believe he heard me, but he seemed to know I yielded, for he did what he had never done before—nor ever other man beside. And thus life's greatest, holiest moment was stained to me; and the sacred altar was lighted with far different fire than that for which God meant it. I had never been kissed before—at least not that way—and even then I felt how I was cheated of my birthright, and I marvelled at the sense of shame. But that can never be recalled, so I try not to dwell upon it. Nor can it be amended, and the loss is to eternity. I have known the rapture since then, the primal bliss—but the virgin joy was tempered with the cruel thought that it had all been rehearsed before. And the bitterest feature of it all is this, that it had never been, except for her who loved me with a mother's love. But her ambition mingled with her love—and these two are enemies. If I had been a little more in love, I reckon mother would not have tried so hard to urge me on. But I was not—I was a little less. And mother kept kneeling beside the poor little flame on the mean altar of my heart, to quote the old hymn, and she kept the bellows going pretty steadily, if haply she might make the fire burn. Or if I had been a little less in love, perhaps she would have given over—for I was dear to her. But I was not; I admitted he was rich, and handsome, and superior—and these seemed quite enough reason to a girl's mother why there should be true affection. So I was neither a little more, nor yet a little less, in love with Charlie—and that is Hades, to use the convenient word again, when it has to do duty for the real thing. But mother kept on encouraging me, saying she knew I'd be very happy, and drawing lovely pictures of the position I would occupy and the leadership in society that would be mine; and mothers can make ashes look like bread—only they don't have to eat them through the hungry years. III THE BRIDGE THAT LAY BETWEEN "Do you think we're a star chamber?" I said to my mother, as she stood at the parlour door with a cushion under either arm. "Think you're what? Think who's what?" she queried in amazement. "Where are you taking those cushions to?" I pursued, glancing at her burden. "To the up-stairs sitting-room. You know uncle always takes a nap before he goes to bed." Which was true enough; uncle fancied he didn't sleep well if he neglected this preliminary canter on the sofa. That was where he was wont to try divers notes till he struck the proper key for the night's performance. "That's where you all are going to stay this evening," I averred. "Uncle will snooze there while you and aunty play cribbage." "Yes, of course—why?" answered my mother wonderingly. "You and Mr. Giddens will be in the parlour, won't you?" "That's what I meant about the star chamber," I rejoined. "I think it's right foolish, the way you all take to your heels when Charlie spends an evening here. There's a plenty of room in the parlour for us all." "There shouldn't be," my mother made reply; "I never saw the room big enough for more than two when your father and I were lovers—which we were the longest day he lived," she added, her voice softening to the romantic note. "And did you always want to be alone?" I asked seriously; "always alone together—before you were married, I mean?" My mother smiled, her eyes half closing in reminiscent thought. "Yes, child," she answered slowly, "alone— together; I believe those two words describe nearly all the joy of life—alone—together. Don't you know what I mean, Helen?" and there was a deep tenderness in her voice as she dropped one of the cushions on a chair, coming close and taking me in her arms; "doesn't my dear one know the meaning of it? Oh, Helen, I want you to be so happy. And you will be, won't you—you are, aren't you, my darling? You love him, don't you, Helen?" My face was hidden in her bosom. After a minute's silence she drew back, that she might look into my eyes. "You love him, don't you, dear?" "Yes," I said, again seeking the shelter of her breast. "I'm so glad, my darling," she murmured. Then she picked up the fallen cushion and went on her way up-stairs. I stood by the piano, listlessly fingering some music sheets that lay on top of it. Suddenly the stillness was broken by my mother's voice. "Helen," she cried; "oh, Helen." "Yes, dear," I answered, stepping to the door. "I forgot to tell you the news; our Presbytery guest isn't coming till to-morrow. They sent us word just this afternoon—and they're almost sure it's going to be an elder." "Then 'it' will have to go in the attic," I rejoined, shouting the opprobrious pronoun up the stairs. "Helen, dear," the tender voice remonstrated, "how can you speak like that—calling him 'it.' That isn't respectful, child." "It's your word," responded I; "you said it's going to be an elder." "But I didn't actually call him it," my mother defended. Her answer was rather long in coming; I could tell she was struggling with the verbal problem. "Oh, well, I beg his pardon," I conceded; "anyhow he won't care what we called him, when he strikes the attic," and the argument ended in a duet of laughter. "And, Helen," resumed my mother, by this time one or two steps down-stairs, "don't you think you'd better dress? Mr. Giddens ought to be here right soon now, shouldn't he? I think you ought to wear your pink organdy—he says he loves you in pink, you know." "He ought to love me in buckskin," I flung back, "if he loves me at all. He ought to love me for my own sweet self undecorated—you see, mother, how romantic you're making me. If he's really got the frenzy he won't need any pink things to infuriate him," I insisted, laying Spanish bull-fights under tribute. "Please yourself, child," my mother responded as she disappeared, "but I know, when your father was courting me ——" "You ought to write a book on the subject, mother," I interrupted gaily; "you've evidently had it down to a science. If you'd write a book and call it 'First Principles of Courtship' or 'Love-making for Beginners' you'd help things on a lot." But by this time mother was beyond the range of conversation and my literary counsel met with no response. I went back to the parlour. The music sheets were fumbled once again. Then I tried to read, but found it impossible to settle down. I turned once more to the piano and presently found myself softly singing a little love-verse, familiar since my childhood. I crooned it once or twice: Still must you call me tender names Still gently stroke my tresses; Still shall my happy answering heart Keep time to your caresses. The words made me lonely—like a phantom song. I involuntarily smiled a little as I caught myself sighing while the piano notes died away; perhaps it was the gathering twilight that gave me such a plaintive feeling in the region of my heart. Suddenly a voice came from above. It was Aunt Agnes this time. "Hear that, Helen?" she sang out. "There's music in that screech, isn't there?" "What screech?" I answered back, a little suspicious that she referred to my simple warblings. Yet I knew she could scarcely have heard. "The locomotive," she promptly replied. "Didn't you hear that engine whistle?—that's his train, you know. I reckon you were listening for it all right." I rose and moved to the window, grimly wondering if ever lover had so many assistants in the business. I could see the white puffs of smoke as the train steamed slowly into the distant station. The dreamy ringing of the bell floated in through the open window, mingling with the pensive sounds of evening. And I was lonely, so lonely! I knew that Charlie had just alighted from the train, doubtless hurrying even now to his hotel. He would soon shake its dust from off his feet, I knew, and old "Rastus"—Rastus knew Charlie's orbit and kept a keen lookout for him—would bring him with fitting haste to me. My cheek reddened, then paled, as I seemed to see Charlie's eager face, his impatient arms, his ardent lips. I quivered a little, and tore two or three of the petals from a rose I had chosen from a bowlful on the table; the harmless things floated to the pavement beneath the window. Suddenly a bird's rich full note fluttered in and fell upon my ear. I listened. And his mate responded—full and sweet and tremulous the answer came. The love-throb pulsed vibrant through it. I thought it beautiful; and I listened, enchanted, as the tender message came again and again. Soon the note grew fainter—and I think I caught a glimpse of the winged lovers as they glided close together into their bridal chamber in the deep shade of the magnolia tree. The rich blossoms hung like curtains, quivering a little where the mated pair had passed within—that fragrant retreat was holy. Still gazing, my attention was diverted by the sound of feet upon the brick pavement that went past our house. I listened, watching. And a minute or two later, all unconscious of my presence, a youth and maiden passed beneath the window. Neither was speaking, and their steps were slow, as if they cared not where they led. Somehow they compelled my interest at once. I knew them both, though their station was quite different from mine. She collected belated accounts for a local laundry—he drove their horse, delivering from door to door. I watched them wistfully as they passed on, by and by leaning out the window to follow their career. They turned to the left and made their way out on to the bridge. And I saw him once—though the dusk was deepening—I saw him take her hand; she withdrew it quickly, but he gently recovered it a moment later, this time without resistance. And thus they went on together, far out on the lonely bridge, every step taking them farther from everybody else, but nearer to each other. The twilight hid them soon; and they were alone together in the shelter of the gathering dark. Then was a wild tumult surging in my heart. I wondered what made it, and why the lump rose so persistently in my throat, even while I feared to know. For she was only a working girl, I thought, and he a swain who drove a beast of burden. Yet I knew that that old bridge, rickety and worn, lay between me and the Celestial. And I wondered who it was that wrote that song about the tender names and the tresses so gently to be stroked. I went back towards the piano; for I heard the distant sound of wheels. Then I rang the bell; a servant appeared in an instant. "Lyddie," I said, "light the gas, please." "Yes, Miss Helen. I done seen a transfeh drivin' to the fwont doah, Miss Helen," as she returned with the taper. "I heard it too," said I. IV THE DANGER ZONE The stealthy dawn was just laying its gray hand on the slowly waking world as I crept the next morning into my mother's room. I was shivering a little, for our April mornings are often far from warm. Besides, I was excited—and the night had been passed in sleeplessness. "Is that you, child?" my mother asked, starting suddenly. "Yes, are you asleep?" "What's the matter? Are you sick?" "No," I answered, creeping in; "but I want to talk to you. I'm frightened." "What frightened you?" and my mother's tone was louder—"anybody trying to break in?" "Oh, no, nothing like that," as I cuddled closer. "But I want to talk to you—Mr. Giddens frightened me." My mother was all awake. "Mr. Giddens, child," she exclaimed, rising a little on the bed; "how on earth could he frighten you? Tell me how," the note in her voice more imperative now. I was silent a moment, not knowing just how to begin. Perhaps I felt a little ridiculous too. "Tell me, Helen," my mother said presently, and quite firmly; "I'm waiting." "Well," I began hesitatingly; "well, it's this—he wants me to get married." My mother made an impatient poke at the bed-clothes. Then she partly rose on her elbow. Then she turned her pillow, finally laying her head back upon it. "Helen Randall," she broke out, and her voice, like the dawn, had a gray tinge about it, "Helen Randall, you're a silly little goose—coming in here trembling, and waking me up and scaring me half to death, only to tell me that the man you're engaged to wants to marry you." "But, mother," I began earnestly, "it's different—you don't understand." "Nonsense, child," she interrupted, "there isn't anything to understand. What do folks get engaged for? What does any lover want, except to get married? And this is the great fright you got; it seems that you got engaged to a man, and then he alarms you by suggesting you get married! Let's go to sleep," and my mother patted the pillow with her cheek, preparing to resume the operation I had interrupted. "But I won't go to sleep," persisted I. "You don't understand—Mr. Giddens wants to marry me right off—right away soon." My mother turned her head a little on the pillow. She was wakening fast. "What's that you say?" she said. I knew she had heard me quite well, but I repeated it willingly enough. "I say he wants to get married—very soon. His family is going to Europe shortly—and it seems his father says we can spend the first part of our honeymoon on the Sea-Nymph, and then join them all in Europe later on. And so Charlie has quite made up his mind that——" "What's the Sea-Nymph?" interrupted my mother eagerly. "It's the name of the yacht—a new yacht they've got." "A yacht? A private yacht?" breathlessly asked my mother. "Yes, a private yacht," I answered, not much elated about it either. "I knew a family in Norfolk once that had a private yacht," my mother reflected, just a little reverently. "And all those rich New York people keep yachts at Newport," she added in a kindred tone. "That doesn't matter much," I said, a trifle acridly; "half of the people on them seem to be divorced, if you can believe the papers. But Charlie's quite set on this plan of his—of theirs—and I'm distressed to death about it. I don't want to just go right away so soon," and my voice shook in spite of myself as I nestled a little closer to my mother. "What did you tell him, Helen?" she asked in a whisper. "I said no—at first." "And what after?" "Nothing—that's the worst of it." "Why? Why the worst of it?" pursued my mother. "Because he thinks I will—and it frightens me." "Helen," and mother's voice was quite reproachful, "I can't make you out at all, child. You've promised to marry him—and I can't understand you. Why, when your father wanted me to marry him I couldn't get too early a day—and we didn't have any yacht either." "No, but you had father," I interposed. "That's foolish," said my mother. And I thought it was myself, although I felt my rejoinder had a meaning I couldn't just explain. We talked till the sun was pouring in through the eastern window; yet we determined little else than this—that mother thought I should and I was almost sure I couldn't. I think we all felt better in the morning. Mother and I certainly did; even Europe and a yacht didn't impress me so formidably as in the ghostly dawn. We had shad for breakfast, fresh from its briny home; and if shad be skillfully cooked it can colour all the succeeding day. Wherefore, when we were all gathered on the porch in the glorious sunshine mother immediately became communicative. She had previously advised me that it would be better to say nothing to Uncle Henry or Aunt Agnes about the subject that engrossed us both; this of itself was almost a guarantee to me that mother would tell it all, for she generally took this means of reserving that luxury to herself. So it wasn't very long till she had told them all about it. Before she was through, the private yacht had grown to dimensions of a man-of- war fitted up in oriental splendour—and I had been all but presented to half the crowned heads in Europe. "And I've been telling Helen how foolish she is," she concluded earnestly, looking to my aunt and uncle for confirmation of her view. "It isn't every girl gets a chance of a honeymoon on a yacht, is it, Henry?" nodding towards me over her shoulder. But uncle didn't seem as agitated as he should have been. "Oh, I don't know," he replied drawlingly, "it depends on your position on the yacht. I suppose there'll be women aboard, cooks and such like, that nobody'd envy very much." "Position!" my mother ejaculated vigorously; "I should think the wife of the owner would have position enough for anybody." "Yes—if she owns him," replied my uncle slowly. "Owns what?" echoed my mother. "What do you mean, Henry?" "I mean if she owns him," repeated uncle cheerfully; "if she loves him enough, you know—and if he does the same. Sooner be on an old raft—if they really own each other," uncle went on quite seriously, "than the finest ship in the world —if they don't." "You're great on love," said mother; "and that's all right for a beginning—but there are other things besides. I think love needs a good solid foundation to build on," as she nodded emphatically towards my uncle. "Yachts aren't very solid things," retorted the latter calmly; "and Europe's a long piece away. And if my views on love aren't what they ought to be, blame Agnes there," as he looked in unevasive tenderness towards his wife. I caught the look she cast back at him; it made me think of the lonely bridge. I glanced, too, at the bloom-laden magnolia—and the thought flashed through my mind that an old raft, as uncle said, might be made heavenly enough. "When is Mr. Giddens going to call again?" my mother suddenly enquired. "I heard him say he was going home on Monday." "He's coming now," Aunt Agnes announced in a low voice; "yonder, look—he's just coming past the Hickey's boat-house," her keen eye studying the distant figure. "And who's that with him?" she exclaimed a moment later; "why, it's Mr. Furvell, sure as the world. I reckon he's coming here too—some news about the elder, likely enough. I didn't know he and Mr. Giddens were acquainted." "Neither they are," said my mother. "I reckon they just happened in with each other." "Shouldn't wonder if the dominie's shadowin' him," uncle ventured gravely; "lookin' for a job, you see—this'll be worth two hundred to him at the least, won't it, Helen?" as he looked quizzingly at me. "At the very least," I answered; "I'm pretty expensive—as well as dear," which little playfulness seemed to tickle uncle immensely. He was proceeding to expound the humour to the others when mother interrupted. "Run to the door and meet them, Helen. And bring them right out to the porch." "I'd rather not," I demurred—"I'm shy." But the knocker had already sounded and Lyddie had already started for the door. Uncle Henry immediately arose and made his way to meet our friends. A minute later we were all mingled in a kind of hand-shaking reel on the piazza. "Mr. Giddens and I met at the wharf," explained Mr. Furvell; "we were both taking a look at our noble river—it's superb in the morning sunshine. So we walked up together." "Most happy to see you both, I'm sure," said my Aunt Agnes cordially. "Quite appropriate, I think, that we should hunt in couples," continued Mr. Furvell, a significant twinkle in the minister's eye; "we're here in different capacities—yet they naturally go together," he enlarged, evidently desiring to be questioned. Everybody waited. "Miss Helen will understand," he then went on facetiously; "you see, I'm here as a preacher, and Mr. Giddens as a worshipper," wherewith, much pleased at the success of his little jest, Mr. Furvell led the chorus of applause himself. "Well, if you're as earnest about your part as I am in mine, we've both found our proper callings," rejoined Mr. Giddens, making a courtly bow. "Let's take up the collection," said I, blushing furiously, and not knowing what else to say. "That'll come later," interjected my uncle, winking reverently at the pastor. The pastor seemed to understand right well and took it nothing amiss. My mother's gaze was directed in undisguised admiration upon Charlie. And very handsome he looked, I must admit, his face a little flushed by the satisfaction of his happy speech, his eyes bright and tender, his whole frame lithe and strong with abundant health. Then, besides...