Chapter 21

"Christian writers fall into worldly ways. There are lovely girls and lovely women in the world; we meet them every day. But if we think of beauty, and write of it, and exalt it unduly, we are making a use of it that God does not approve; a use that he does not make of it himself. How beauty and money are scattered everywhere. God's saints are not the richest and most beautiful. He does not lavish beauty and money upon those he loves the best. I called last week on an Irish washerwoman and I was struck with the beauty of her girls--four of them, the eldest seventeen, the youngest six. The eldest had black eyes and black curls; the second soft brown eyes and soft brown curls to match; the third curls of gold, as pretty as Prue's, and black eyes; the youngest blue eyes and yellow curls. I never saw such a variety of beauty in one family. The mother was at the washtub, the oldest daughter was ironing, the second getting supper of potatoes and indian meal bread, the third beauty was brushing the youngest beauty's hair. As I stood and looked at them I thought, how many girls in this city would be vain if they owned their eyes and hair, and how God had thrown the beauty down among them who had no thought about it. He gives beauty to those who hate him and use it to dishonor him, just as he gives money to those who spend it in sinning. I almost think, that he holds cheaply those two things the world prizes so highly; money and beauty."

After a moment Marjorie said: "I do not mean to live for the world."

"And you do not sigh for beauty?" smiled Miss Prudence.

"No, not really. But I do want to be something beside short and stout, with my hair in a knot."

The fun in her eyes did not conceal the vexation.

"Miss Prudence, it's hard to care only for the things God cares about," she said, earnestly.

"Yes, very hard."

"I think _you_ care only for such things. You are not worldly one single bit."

"I do not want to be--one single bit."

"I know you do give up things. But you have so much; you have the best things. I don't want things you have given up. I think God cares for the things you care for."

"I hope he does," said Miss Prudence, gently. "Marjorie, if he has given you a plain face give it back to him to glorify himself with; if a beautiful face, give that back to him to glorify himself with. You are not your own; your face is not yours; it is bought with a price."

Marjorie's face was radiant just then. The love, the surprise, the joy, made it beautiful.

Miss Prudence could not forbear, she drew the beautiful face down to kiss it.

"People will always call you plain, dear, but keep your soul in your face, and no matter."

"Can I help Deborah now? Or isn't there something for me to do upstairs? I can study and practice this afternoon."

"I don't believe you will. Look out in the path."

Marjorie looked, then with a shout that was almost like Linnet's she dropped her work, and sprang towards the door.

For there stood Linnet herself, in the travelling dress Marjorie had seen her last in; not older or graver, but with her eyes shining like stars, ready to jump into Marjorie's arms.

How Miss Prudence enjoyed the girls' chatter. Marjorie wheeled a chair to the grate for Linnet, and then, having taken her wraps, kneeled down on the rug beside her and leaned both elbows on the arm of her chair.

How fast she asked questions, and how Linnet talked and laughed and brushed a tear away now and then! Was there ever so much to tell before? Miss Prudence had her questions to ask; and Morris' mother, who had been coaxed to come in to the grate, steamer chair and all, had many questions to ask about her boy.

Marjorie was searching her through and through to discover if marriage and travel had changed her; but, no, she was the same happy, laughing Linnet; full of bright talk and funny ways of putting things, with the same old attitudes and the same old way of rubbing Marjorie's fingers as she talked. Marriage had not spoiled her. But had it helped her? That could not be decided in one hour or two.

When she was quiet there was a sweeter look about her mouth than there had ever used to be; and there was an assurance, no, it was not so strong as that, there was an ease of manner, that she had brought home with her. Marjorie was more her little sister that ever.

Marjorie laughed to herself because everything began with Linnet's husband and ended in him: the stories about Genoa seemed to consist in what Will said and did; Will was the attraction of Naples and the summit of Mt. Vesuvius; the run down to Sicily and the glimpse of Vesuvius were somehow all mingled with Will's doings; the stories about the priest at Naples were all how he and Will spent hours and hours together comparing their two Bibles; and the tract the priest promised to translate into Italian was "The Amiable Louisa" that Will had chosen; and, when the priest said he would have to change the title to suit his readers, Will had suggested "A Moral Tale." This priest was confessor to a noble family in the suburbs; and once, when driving out to confess them, had taken Will with him, and both had stayed to lunch. The priest had given them his address, and Will had promised to write to him; he had brought her what he called his "paintings," from his "studio," and she had pinned them up in her little parlor; they were painted on paper and were not remarkable evidences of genius. Not quite the old masters, although painted in Italy by an Italian. His English was excellent; he was expecting to come to America some day. A sea captain in Brooklyn had a portrait of him in oil, and when Miss Prudence went to New York she must call and see it; Morris and he were great friends. That naughty Will had asked him one day if he never wished to marry, and he had colored so, poor fellow, and said, 'It is better to live for Christ.' And Will had said he hoped he lived for Christ, too. The priest had a smooth face and a little round spot shaven on top of his head. She used to wish Marjorie might see that little round spot.

And the pilot, they had such a funny pilot! When anything was passed him at the table, or you did him a favor, he said "thank you" in Italian and in English.

And how they used to walk the little deck! And the sunsets! She had to confess that she did not see one sunrise till they were off Sandy Hook coming home. But the moonlight on the water was most wonderful of all! That golden ladder rising and falling in the sea! They used to look at it and talk about home and plan what she would do in that little house.

She used to be sorry for Morris; but he did not seem lonesome: he was always buried in a book at leisure times; and he said he would be sailing over the seas with his wife some day.

"Morris is so _good_" she added. "Sometimes he has reminded me of the angels who came down to earth as young men."

"I think he was a Christian before he was seven years old," said his mother.

At night Marjorie said, when she conducted Linnet up to her chamber, that they would go back to the blessed old times, and build castles, and forget that Linnet was married and had crossed the ocean.

"I'm living in my castle now," returned Linnet. "I don't want to build any more. And this is lovelier than any we ever built."

Marjorie looked at her, but she did not speak her thought; she almost wished that she might "grow up," and be happy in Linnet's way.

With a serious face Linnet lay awake after Marjorie had fallen asleep, thinking over and over Miss Prudence's words when she bade her goodnight:--

"It is an experience to be married, Linnet; for God holds your two lives as one, and each must share his will for the other; if joyful, it is twice as joyful; if hard, twice as hard."

"Yes," she had replied, "Will says we are _heirs together_ of the grace of life."

XXI.

MORRIS AGAIN.

"Overshadow me, O Lord, With the comfort of thy wings."

Marjorie stood before the parlor grate; it was Saturday afternoon, and she was dressed for travelling--not for a long journey, for she was only going home to remain over Sunday and Monday, Monday being Washington's Birthday, and a holiday. She had seen Linnet those few days that she visited them on her return from her voyage, and her father and mother not once since she came to Maple Street in September. She was hungry for home; she said she was almost starving.

"I wish you a very happy time," said Miss Prudence as she opened Marjorie's pocketbook to drop a five-dollar bill into its emptiness.

"I know it will be a happy time," Marjorie affirmed; "but I shall think of you and Prue, and want to be here, too."

"I wish I could go, too," said Prue, dancing around her with Marjorie's shawl strap in her hand.

There was a book for her father in the shawl strap, "The Old Bibie and the New Science"; a pretty white cap for her mother, that Miss Prudence had fashioned; a cherry-silk tie for Linnet; and a couple of white aprons for Annie Grey, her mother's handmaiden, these last being also Miss Prudence's handiwork.

"Wait till next summer, Prue. Aunt Prue wants to bring you for the sea bathing."

"Don't be too sure, Marjorie; if Uncle John comes home he may have other plans for her."

"Oh, _is_ he coming home?" inquired Marjorie.

"He would be here to-day if I had not threatened to lock him out and keep him standing in a snowdrift until June. He expects to be here the first day of summer."

"And what will happen then?" queried Prue. "Is it a secret?"

"Yes, it's a secret," said Miss Prudence, stepping behind Marjorie to fasten her veil.

"Does Marjorie know?" asked Prue anxiously.

"I never can guess," said Marjorie. "Now, Kitten, good-bye; and sing to Mrs. Kemlo while I am gone, and be good to Aunt Prue."

"Marjorie, dear, I shall miss you," said Miss Prudence.

"But you will be so glad that I am taking supper at home in that dear old kitchen. And Linnet will be there; and then I am to go home with her to stay all night. I don't see how I ever waited so long to see her keep house. Will calls the house Linnet's Nest. I'll come back and tell you stories about everything."

"Don't wait any longer, dear; I'm afraid you'll lose the train. I must give you a watch like Linnet's for a graduating present."

Marjorie stopped at the gate to toss back a kiss to Prue watching at the window. Miss Prudence remembered her face years afterward, flushed and radiant, round and dimpled; such an innocent, girlish face, without one trace of care or sorrow. Not a breath of real sorrow had touched her in all her eighteen years. Her laugh that day was as light hearted as Prue's.

"That girl lives in a happy world," Mrs. Kemlo had said to Miss Prudence that morning.

"She always will," Miss Prudence replied; "she has the gift of living in the sunshine."

Miss Prudence looked at the long mirror after Marjorie had gone down the street, and wished that it might always keep that last reflection of Marjorie. The very spirit of pure and lovely girlhood! But the same mirror had not kept her own self there, and the self reflected now was the woman grown out of the girlhood; would she keep Marjorie from womanhood?

Miss Prudence thought in these days that her own youth was being restored to her; but it had never been lost, for God cannot grow old, neither can any of himself grow old in the human heart which is his temple.

Marjorie's quick feet hurried along the street. She found herself at the depot with not one moment to lose. She had brought her "English Literature" that she might read Tuesday's lesson in the train. She opened it as the train started, and was soon so absorbed that she was startled at a voice inquiring, "Is this seat engaged?"

"No," she replied, without raising her eyes. But there was something familiar in the voice; or was she thinking of somebody? She moved slightly as a gentleman seated himself beside her. Her veil was shading her face; she pushed it back to give a quick glance at him. The voice had been familiar; there was still something more familiar in the hair, the contour of the cheek, and the blonde moustache.

"Hollis!" she exclaimed, as his eyes looked into hers. She caught her breath a little, hardly knowing whether she were glad or sorry.

"Why, Marjorie!" he returned, surprise and embarrassment mingled in his voice. He did not seem sure, either, whether to be glad or sorry.

For several moments neither spoke; both were too shy and too conscious of something uncomfortable.

"It isn't so very remarkable to find you here, I suppose," he remarked, after considering for some time an advertisement in a daily paper which he held in his hand.

"No, nor so strange to encounter you."

"You have not been home for some time."

"Not since I came in September."

"And I have not since Will's wedding day. There was a shower that night, and your mother tried to keep me; and I wished she had more than a few times on my dark way home."

"It is almost time to hear from Will." Marjorie had no taste for reminiscences.

"I expect to hear every day."

"So do we. Mrs. Kemlo watches up the street and down the street for the postman."

"Oh, yes. Morris. I forgot. Does he like the life?"

"He is enthusiastic."

She turned a leaf, and read a page of extracts from Donald Grant Mitchell; but she had not understood one word, so she began again and read slowly, trying to understand; then she found her ticket in her glove, and examined it with profound interest, the color burning in her cheeks; then she gazed long out of the window at the snow and the bare trees and the scattered farmhouses; then she turned to study the lady's bonnet in front of her, and to pity the mother with the child in front of _her_; she looked before and behind and out the windows; she looked everywhere but at the face beside her; she saw his overcoat, his black travelling bag, and wondered what he had brought his mother; she looked at his brown kid gloves, at his black rubber watch chain, from which a gold anchor was dangling; but it was dangerous to raise her eyes higher, so they sought his boots and the newspaper on his knee. Had he spoken last, or had she? What was the last remark? About Morris? It was certainly not about Donald Grant Mitchell. Yes, she had spoken last; she had said Morris was--

Would he speak of her long unanswered letter? Would he make an excuse for not noticing it? A sentence in rhetoric was before her eyes: "Any letter, not insulting, merits a reply." Perhaps he had never studied rhetoric. Her lips were curving into a smile; wouldn't it be fun to ask him?

"I am going to London next week. I came home to say good-bye to mother."

"Will you stay long?" was all that occurred to her to remark. Her voice was quite devoid of interest.

"Where? In London, or at home?"

"Both," she said smiling.

"I must return to New York on Monday; and I shall stay in London only long enough to attend to business. I shall go to Manchester and to Paris. My route is not all mapped out for me yet. Do you like school as well as you expected to?"

"Oh, yes, indeed."

"You expect to finish this year?"

"I suppose I shall leave school."

"And go home?"

"Oh, yes. What else should I do?"

"And learn housekeeping from Linnet."

"It is not new work to me."

"How is Miss Prudence?"

"As lovely as ever."

"And the little girl?"

"Sweet and good and bright."

"And Mrs. Kemlo?"

"She is--happier."

"Hasn't she always been happy?"

"No; she was like your mother; only hers has lasted so long. I am so sorry for such--unhappiness."

"So am I. I endured enough of it at one time."

"I cannot even think of it. She is going home with me in June. Morris will be glad to have her with mother."

"When is Mr. Holmes coming here?"

"In June."

"June is to be a month of happenings in your calendar."

"Every month is--in my calendar."

He was bending towards her that she might listen easily, as he did not wish to raise his voice.

"I haven't told you about my class in Sunday school."

"Oh, have you a class?"

"Yes, a class of girls--girls about fourteen. I thought I never could interest them. I don't know how to talk to little girls; but I am full of the lesson, and so are they, and the time is up before we know it."

"I'm very glad. It will be good for you," said Marjorie, quite in Miss Prudence's manner.

"It is, already," he said gravely and earnestly "I imagine it is better for me than for them."

"I don't believe that"

"Our lesson last Sunday was about the Lord's Supper; and one of them asked me if Christ partook of the Supper with his disciples. I had not thought of it. I do not know. Do you?"

"He ate the passover with them."

"But this was afterward. Why should he do it in remembrance of his own death? He gave them the bread and the cup."

Marjorie was interested. She said she would ask her father and Miss Prudence; and her mother must certainly have thought about it.

The conductor nudged Hollis twice before he noticed him and produced his ticket; then the candy boy came along, and Hollis laid a paper of chocolate creams in Marjorie's lap. It was almost like going back to the times when he brought apples to school for her. If he would only explain about the letter--

The next station would be Middlefield! What a short hour and a half! She buttoned her glove, took her shawl strap into her lap, loosening the strap so that she might slip her "English Literature" in, tightened it again, ate the last cream drop, tossed aside the paper, and was ready for Middlefield.

As the train stopped he took the shawl strap from her hand. She followed him through the car, gave him her hand to assist her to the platform, and then there was a welcome in her ears, and Linnet and her father seemed to be surrounding her. Captain Rheid had brought Linnet to the train, intending to take Hollis back. Linnet was jubilant over the news of Will's safe arrival; they had found the letter at the office.

"Father has letters too," she said to Hollis; "he will give you his news."

As the sleigh containing Linnet, her father, and Marjorie sped away before them, Captain Rheid said to Hollis:--

"How shall I ever break it to them? Morris is dead."

"Dead!" repeated Hollis.

"He died on the voyage out. Will gives a long account of it for his mother and Marjorie. It seems the poor fellow was engaged to her, and has given Will a parting present for her."

"How did it happen?"

Will has tried to give details; but he is rather confusing. He is in great trouble. He wanted to bring him home; but that was impossible. They came upon a ship in distress, and laid by her a day and a night in foul weather to take them off. Morris went to them with a part of the crew, and got them all safely aboard the _Linnet_; but he had received some injury, nobody seemed to know how. His head was hurt, for he was delirious after the first night. He sent his love to his mother, and gave Will something for Marjorie, and then did not know anything after that. Will is heartbroken. He wants me to break it to Linnet; but I didn't see how I can. Your mother will have to do it. The letter can go to his mother; Miss Prudence will see to that.

"But Marjorie," said Hollis slowly.

"Yes, poor little Marjorie!" said the old man compassionately. "It will go hard with her."

"Linnet or her mother can tell her."

The captain touched his horse, and they flew past the laughing sleighload. Linnet waved her handkerchief, Marjorie laughed, and their father took off his hat to them.

"Oh, _dear_," groaned the captain.

"Lord, help her; poor little thing," prayed Hollis, with motionless lips.

He remembered that last letter of hers that he had not answered. His mother had written to him that she surmised that Marjorie was engaged to Morris; and he had felt it wrong--"almost interfering," he had put it to himself--to push their boy and girl friendship any further. And, again--Hollis was cautious in the extreme--if she did not belong to Morris, she might infer that he was caring with a grown up feeling, which he was not at all sure was true--he was not sure about himself in anything just then; and, after he became a Christian, he saw all things in a new light, and felt that a "flirtation" was not becoming a disciple of Christ. He had become a whole-hearted disciple of Christ. His Aunt Helen and his mother were very eager for him to study for the ministry; but he had told them decidedly that he was not "called."

"And I _am_ called to serve Christ as a businessman. Commercial travellers, as a rule, are men of the world; but, as I go about, I want to go about my Father's business."

"But he would be so enthusiastic," lamented Aunt Helen.

"And he has such a nice voice," bewailed his mother; "and I did hope to see one of my five boys in the pulpit."

XXII.

TIDINGS.

"He giveth his beloved sleep."

Sunday in the twilight Linnet and Marjorie were alone in Linnet's little kitchen. Linnet was bending over the stove stirring the chocolate, and Marjorie was setting the table for two.

"Linnet!" she exclaimed, "it's like playing house."

"I feel very much in earnest."

"So do I. That chocolate makes me feel so. Have you had time to watch the light over the fields? Or is it too poor a sight after gazing at the sunset on the ocean?"

"Marjorie!" she said, turning around to face her, and leaving the spoon idle in the steaming pot, "do you know, I think there's something the matter?"

"Something the matter? Where?"

"I don't know where. I was wondering this afternoon if people always had a presentiment when trouble was coming."

"Did you ever have any trouble?" asked Marjorie seriously.

"Not real, dreadful trouble. But when I hear of things happening suddenly, I wonder if it is so sudden, really; or if they are not prepared in some way for the very thing, or for something."

"We always know that our friends may die--that is trouble. I feel as if it would kill me for any one I love to die."

"Will is safe and well," said Linnet, "and father and mother."

"And Morris--I shall find a letter for me at home, I expect. I suppose his mother had hers last night. How she lives in him! She loves him more than any of us. But what kind of a feeling have you?"

"I don't know."

"You are tired and want to go to sleep," said Marjorie, practically. "I'll sing you to sleep after supper. Or read to you! We have 'Stepping Heavenward' to read. That will make you forget all your nonsense."

"Hollis' face isn't nonsense."

"He hasn't talked to me since last night. I didn't see him in church."

"I did. And that is what I mean. I should think his trouble was about Will, if I hadn't the letter. And Father Rheid! Do you see how fidgety he is? He has been over here four times to-day."

"He is always stern."

"No; he isn't. Not like this. And Mother Rheid looked so--too."

"How?" laughed Marjorie. "O, you funny Linnet."

"I wish I could laugh at it. But I heard something, too. Mother Rheid was talking to mother after church this afternoon, and I heard her say, 'distressing.' Father Rheid hurried me into the sleigh, and mother put her veil down; and I was too frightened to ask questions."

"She meant that she had a distressing cold," said Marjorie lightly. "'Distressing' is one of her pet words. She is distressed over the coldness of the church, and she is distressed when all her eggs do not hatch. I wouldn't be distressed about that, Linnet. And mother put her veil down because the wind was blowing I put mine down, too."

Linnet stirred the chocolate; but her face was still anxious. Will had not spoken of Morris. Could it be Morris? It was not like Will not to speak of Morris.

"Will did not speak of Morris. Did you notice that?"

"Does he always? I suppose Morris has spoken for himself."

"If Hollis doesn't come over by the time we are through tea, I'll go over there. I can't wait any longer."

"Well, I'll go with you to ease your mind. But you must eat some supper."