Chapter XV.

"The Coming Of The Messenger."

All through that terrible day, the two staid by Mr. Granger's bedside, holding his hands, cooling his fevered face, and watching for a sign of consciousness that came not. At evening there was a struggle, short but sharp, and before they had breathed forth the breath they caught as he started up, the soul had broken loose, and a lifeless form sank back upon the pillow.

Do they listen to us when they are gone? Could he, in the first surprise of sudden freedom, hear the cry, like that of a bereaved Lear, that sought to follow him, "Oh! stay a little!" or the weeping testimony of the other, "There stopped the noblest, kindest heart that ever beat"?

But, listen though he might, from one he heard no word of mourning or appeal after that. Since he was happy, and had no longer any need of her, and since she had done all in her power to do for him, she could now remember herself. That his humiliating offer of an empty hand had been kindly meant, did not lessen her resentment, but rather increased it. However confident he had been that his interpretation of her perfectly frank conduct was the true one, he should never have allowed her to know it, she said. Her heart seemed hardened toward him, and all her friendship dead. "How I have wasted myself!" was the bitter comment with which she turned away from taking her last look at him.

More than once, in the first days of their loss, that fiery anger of an insulted heart broke forth. On their way home, as she sat on the steamer-deck at night, slowly touching bead after bead of her rosary, not praying, but waiting for a prayerful feeling that might come, there came, instead, a recollection of the year before. It rose and painted itself, like a picture, between her and the wide, cool shade and sparkle of midnight sea and sky. There was the home parlor, the window where she sat that day after her retreat was over, so happy, half with heaven and half with earth, the curtain fanning her, the vines swinging in and out in the light breeze. She saw Mr. Granger come to her side and drop a rosary into her hands, saw the silver glitter of his pretty gift, and heard the words that accompanied it, "And indeed, it should have been of gold, had not Jupiter been so poor."

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The words caught a new meaning as she recollected them.

"If not gold, then nothing!" she exclaimed; and, leaning over the rail, flung his gift as far as she could fling it out over the water.

The waning moonlight ran around the frosted chain and pearl beads, as if some spirit hand had swiftly told every Pater and Ave of them in expiation of that rash act. Then the waters caught them, and they slipped twinkling down through the green deeps.

Margaret left the deck, and went down to where Mr. Lewis walked to and fro, keeping his mournful watch. His face was pale, and his eyes heavy. He looked perfectly grief stricken.

"What is the matter?" he asked. "Has any one spoken to you?"

"No; but I have been thinking." She leaned on his arm, and looked down upon the casket at their feet. "That man thought that I wanted him to marry me. Is it only a wicked pride, I wonder, that rises up in revolt when I remember it? Should not there be a better name? I could not be angry then, because he was dying; and I forgot it till the next night, after all was over, when I went in to see him. I was full of grief then, and had some silly notion, just like me! of telling him, and that he would hear. The wind had blown the hair over his forehead, and just as I started to put it back, I recollected, and caught my hand away and left him. I had nothing to say to him then, nor since. What did he want to kill my friendship so for? His memory would have been sweet to me.

It is poisoned." "Well," Mr. Lewis said, with a sort of despair, "women are queer beings, and you are ultra womanish. One day you will risk your life for a man, and the next you will look with scorn upon him in his coffin. A better name than pride, do you say? I call it the most infernal kind of pride. Where is your gratitude, girl, toward the man who never had any but a kind word and thought for you? He arranged everything for you, that first night, just as much as he did for Dora, and made me promise that you should never want for a friend while I live. You ought to humble yourself, Margaret, and beg his pardon."

"Do you think so?" she asked faintly. "I hope that you are right. I would rather blame myself than him."

"Of course I think so!" he answered indignantly. "Did he ever give you one unkind look, even? Did he ever prefer any one else before you? Did he ever allow any one to speak against you in his presence? I never, before nor since, saw him take fire as he did once when some one criticised you to him."

"Did he? Did he?" exclaimed Margaret, kneeling by the casket, and laying her cheek to the cold wood. "Ah! that was indeed friendship!"

In that softened mood she reached home.

When death, in visiting a household, is unaccompanied by sordid cares, the lost one being necessary to our hearts alone; when the living have no remorse for the past and no terror for the future of their friend; when the silent face is peaceful; and when the earth that opens to receive it is warm and full of life, like the bosom of a mother where a sleeping child hides its face--then death is more beautiful than life.

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Thus this celestial visitant came to the Granger household; and if an angel had alighted visibly in their midst, and folded his white wings to tarry there a day, the presence could not have been more sacred or more sweet. Every sign of gloom was banished. The light was no more shut out than it always was in summer; all the rooms were perfumed with flowers; and the master of the house was not left alone, but lay at the front end of the long parlor suite, in full sight of the family as they came and went.

Among the many callers who came that day was the Rev. Dr. Kenneth, the old minister with whom we have seen Mr. Southard taking theological counsel. This gentleman listened with astonishment and indignation while Mrs. Lewis told him that Mr. Granger had died a Catholic, and would have a requiem mass the next morning.

"He must have been unduly influenced, madam!" said the minister excitedly. "Mr. Granger would never have taken such a step of himself. It is impossible!"

Somewhat embarrassed, Mrs. Lewis drew back, and disclosed Miss Hamilton sitting in the shadow behind her, and, at the first word of reply, gladly left the room, having no mind to stand between two such fires, though the doctor's opponent looked too pale and quiet to be very dangerous.

"With God all things are possible, Dr. Kenneth," was what Margaret said. He regarded her sternly; yet after a moment softened at sight of the utter mournfulness of her face.

"O child of many prayers!" he exclaimed, "whither have you wandered?"

"Please don't!" she said. "I can not bear anything; and we don't want any harsh words while he is here."

The doctor hesitated, and turned to go; but she stopped him.

"While I saw you standing out there and looking at him, I remembered how often you used to come to my grandfather's, and how you petted me when I was a little girl. One day I was trying to carry you the large Bible, and I fell with it. Grandfather scolded me; but you patted my head when you saw that I was on the point of crying, and said that the Highest and the Holiest fell, not once only, but thrice, under his burden. And you pulled my curls, and said, laughing, that if strength dwelt in length of locks, then I ought to be able to carry not only the Bible, but the house. What makes the difference now? Are you harder? or am I in less need of charity?"

"You have your friends," he said coldly, "those for whom you left us."

"Not so," she replied. "I have those in this house; but in the church I had only him out there. My church, here, at least, does not receive converts as yours does. I suppose it must be because they know that we are only coming home to our own Father's house, and they think it would be presumptuous in them to come to meet us, as if we needed to be welcomed."

"What! was no courtesy, no kindness shown you?" he asked incredulously.

"Scarcely a decent civility," she replied. "But no matter about that. Only, I want you to remember it, and to send my old friends back to me. If they will not come, then their talk of religious freedom is hardly sincere; and if you do not tell them, then I shall think you unchristian. Indeed, doctor, when you have passed me ill the street, without any notice, I haven't thought that you were very good just then."

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The doctor looked at her keenly. "I will be friends with you on one condition," he said.

"And that?"

"Let Mr. Southard alone!" he said with emphasis.

Before she could utter a protestation, he had left the room.

The day crept past, and the night, and another day; and then there was nothing for them to do but take up their life, and try to make the best of it.

The first event to break the monotony came in September, when Dora was baptized. All the family attended the ceremony, for the time putting aside whatever prejudices they might feel. Then they began to look eagerly for Mr. Southard's return.

He might be expected on the first Sunday of October, he wrote most positively, but, for the rest, was very indefinite. He wrote so vaguely, indeed, that his congregation were rather displeased. His leave of absence had expired, yet he seemed to consider his coming home a furlough. Rather extraordinary, they thought it.

Mr. Southard was not one of those pastors who live in a chronic deluge of worsted-work from their lady friends. On his first coming to the pulpit, there had been symptoms of such an inundation; but he had checked them with characteristic promptness, representing to the fair devotees the small need he had of four-score pairs of pantoufles, even should his life be prolonged as many years, and suggesting that those who had so much leisure might profitably employ it in visiting and sewing for the poor. But the repulse was given with such simplicity and candor, and so utterly unconscious did he appear that any motive could have prompted their labors save a profound conviction that their pastor was shoeless, that even the most inveterate needle-woman forgave him. He was not in the least sentimental, he was indeed strict, and often cold, though never harsh.

Still, though he lacked many of the qualities of a modern popular minister, his people were much attached to him. They trusted him thoroughly, and they were proud of him. He had talent, culture, and a high character and reputation. He was not a sensational preacher; but his directness and earnestness were unique, and occasionally his hearers were electrified by some eloquent outburst, full of antique fire kindled at the shrines of the prophets. It also did not go against him that he was the handsomest man in the city, a bachelor, and rich enough in his own right to dispense with a salary.

Great, therefore, was their delight when his return was positively announced, and they set about preparing for it with a good will.

The church was renovated, a new Bible and a sofa were purchased, and a beautiful Catharine-wheel window, full of colored glass, was put in over the choir. Receptions were arranged, flowers bespoken, committees appointed, the barouche which was to take him home from the depot was chosen, and the two dignitaries who were to occupy it with him were, after due deliberation, selected. All this was done decently and in order. Mr. Southard's people were far from being of the vulgar, showy sort, and prided themselves on being able to accomplish a good deal without any fuss whatever. Even the newspaper chorus which proclaimed each progressive step of the minister's homeward journey, as Clytemnestra the coming of the sacred fire, sang in subdued language and unobtrusive type. At last, all that was wanting was the final announcement, in the Saturday evening papers, that the reverend gentleman had arrived. {725} Indeed, the notice had been written, with all particulars, the evening before, and had almost got into print, when it was discovered that Mr. Southard had not arrived. The barouche had returned from the depot without him, the two dignified personages who went as escort suffering a temporary diminution of dignity and an access of ill-temper. It is rather mortifying to see people look disappointed that it is only you who have come, and to know that not only have you lost the glory which was to have been reflected on you from the principal actor in the scene, but that your own proper lustre is for the time obscured. +

It was found, however, that a letter had been written by Mr. Southard, not a pleasing one, by any means, to his disappointed masters of ceremonies. He would be in his pulpit on Sunday morning, he informed them; and after Sunday would be happy and grateful to see any of his dear and long-tried friends who would be so kind as to call on him. But till that time he did not feel equal to the excitement of any formal reception. He had scarcely recovered his strength after a long illness, he was fatigued with travel, and also, he was returning to a house made desolate by the death of one of his oldest and dearest friends.

"They are terribly wilted," Mr. Lewis said, as the family sat around the centre-table that evening. "You never saw anybody so grumpy as the deacons are. They are scandalized, moreover, in view of the only way in which he can come now. Of course, he will have to travel all night, and come into town Sunday morning. There's Sabbath-breaking for you."

"One good thing," Mrs. Lewis said; "they have stopped ringing the door-bell. I do believe there have been a hundred people here to-day to ask if Mr. Southard had come."

"Auntie," said Aurelia, with a look of mild horror, "you don't know what uncle said to the last gentleman who came. He told him that when the minister made his appearance, he would hang out a flag over the portico, and fire rockets from the front windows."

The three ladies were sewing, and Dora sat beside Margaret with a catechism in her hand, learning the Acts.

"Aunt Margaret," whispered the child, "what do you think God told me when I said, 'O my God! I firmly believe'? Says he,' Oh! what a lying little girl you are!'"

"Why should he say that?" was the grave inquiry.

"Because I told him that I believed all the sacred truths; and how can I believe when I don't know 'em? This is what I did; I said, 'Please don't listen to me now, O Lord! I'm not talking to you. I'm only learning my lesson.'"

"Come to bed now, my dear," said Margaret, "and we will talk about it."

"I did not expect Mr. Southard to show so much feeling," Mrs. Lewis said, when the two had gone out. "He received the news of Mr. Granger's change of religion with such silent displeasure that I supposed he would discard even his memory. He shows courage, too, in still speaking of him as a friend; for some of his people will be displeased."

"I'm sure, aunt," Aurelia replied rather hastily, "no one can say that Mr. Southard ever lacked the courage to utter his sentiments."

"No," Mrs. Lewis said in a very moderate tone, but looked sharply into her niece's drooping face.

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Aurelia had not looked up in speaking, and seemed to be engrossed in her work; but there was a glistening of tears through the thick lashes, and the delicate rose in her cheeks had grown crimson-hearted. She seldom spoke with spirit; but when she did, it always woke that rich bloom.

The bell rang again, and in a few minutes the parlor-door opened, and the Rev. Doctor Kenneth came in.

"The servant told me that Mr. Southard has not arrived," he said; "but as she did not absolutely forbid me, I came in to see the rest of you."

They welcomed him cordially. The doctor had got in the way of dropping in occasionally, and they were always glad to see him. The venerable gentleman was something of a courtier, and knew how to make himself all things to all men.

"I have my colleague at last," he said, "and to-morrow I promise myself the pleasure of hearing Mr. Southard, if he comes."

Margaret returned to the parlor, and was pleasantly saluted by the doctor who made room for her to sit beside him. She took the place willingly, being especially pleased with him just then; for, by his influence, her old friends were beginning to gather about her, coldly at first, it is true, but that would mend in time.

They resumed the conversation which her coming had interrupted.

"I have never denied that Mr. Maurice Sinclair might possess some noble qualities," the doctor said, in his stateliest manner. "And I have never said nor thought that he could rightly be called a base man. But I have said, and I still think that he was a dangerous man; and moreover, that last letter of his, instead of softening my judgment, makes me condemn him all the more; for it shows unmistakably what light he sinned against."

"But, doctor," interposed Aurelia's soft voice, "he seemed to be a Christian at last."

"By no means, my dear," the doctor answered decidedly. "His unbelief was nobler, that is all. The Christian soul strains upward, and drops off the earthly; the pagan soul strains outward, and grasps what is greatest on earth. He was a pagan. I have always, during my whole ministry, had more fear of those who stand on the border-lands between good and evil, than of those who are clearly in the enemy's country. Do you want to take wine with a drunkard? Certainly not. The faithful can resist a glaring tempter; but let one of these gallant chieftains come up with his mouth full of fine sentiments, and presto,

'All the blue bonnets are over the border!'

But what can we preachers do when the ladies decide to canonize a man? I'm afraid they are disposed to believe that a fine head must deserve a fine crown."

"There's one exception, doctor," Mr. Lewis said, pointing to his wife.

The lady appeared not to notice the allusion to herself, but spoke in a musing, silvery voice, her eyes fixed dreamily on space.

"What a wise arrangement of Providence it is, that interesting masculine penitents should awaken the gushing philanthropy of ladies, gentlemen standing aloof; while interesting feminine penitents almost as invariably excite the pious charity of men, ladies, in their turn, holding off. In both cases, there are the feast and the skeleton quite correct. I recollect, doctor, hearing you preach, years ago, a sermon on the Magdalen. It was very edifying; but I was sorry that you found it necessary to mention her golden hair. Indeed, I have always thought that the old painters would have made a better point if they had represented her as a plain, middle-aged woman, with great haggard eyes, like pits of darkness through which the soul was struggling, only a spark, but kindled to a conflagration which should consume with holy fire that poor, desecrated clay of hers. That is the true Magdalen; not your light Correggio, who might be a _danseuse_ reading a French novel after the ballet."

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The lady had dropped her careless air, and was speaking almost vehemently. It seemed, indeed, that some personal experience lent a poignancy to her convictions on the subject.

"I am glad of the chance to express my opinions," she said, "and glad that you have made me angry enough to have courage to speak. I protest against this pernicious indulgence which latter-day Christians show to vice, persuading themselves that they are charitable.'Swear him, and let him go,' as the soldier said of the rattlesnake. When I see these sentimentalists seek out real penitence where it hides speechless and ashamed, then I will call them charitable, and not before. But no; real penitence is not interesting. It cannot attitudinize, it stammers, it has red and swollen eyes, it shrinks almost from being forgiven, it never holds its head up again."

"But, madam," said the doctor, somewhat disconcerted, "all are liable to mistakes; and in being too strict with doubtful penitents, we may discourage the true ones."

"They are easily distinguished," she said curtly. "Besides, you lose sight of another risk you run. You appear to take for granted that none are tempted save those who fall. How do you know how many may be holding on to their integrity by a mere thread, struggling desperately but silently, needing every help, in so precarious a condition that a breath, a word, may destroy them? Such people do not speak; you hear nothing of them but the crash of their fall. Or, if they fall not, you never know. To me, that conflict is more pathetic, more tragical, than all the paraded sighs and tears of those who have found that dishonesty doesn't pay. Those who do right simply and purely for God's sake are few and far between. Most people need the support of public opinion and the approbation of those whom they look up to. Let it be seen that, do what they may, if only they can excuse themselves prettily and plausibly, they will be easily forgiven, and set still higher than before, and what will be the result? You can see it in society to-day. Charity, so-called, has increased; has virtue increased?"

"If good women would not make themselves so disagreeable, as they often do," Mr. Lewis said gruffly.

"Try to please them," his wife replied. "Praise them a little; be agreeable yourselves, and see if they don't improve in that respect. Meet a person with a glum face, and if that person is sincere and sensitive, you are not likely to get smiles in return."

Aurelia leaned toward her aunt, put an arm around her, and whispered, "Dear auntie, you're an angel; but please don't say any more."

"I do not like to hear men and women criticise each other," the doctor said calmly, introducing a switch into the track of the conversation. "They are neither of them fitted to think for and judge the other. They, in the moral universe, are like earth and sea in the physical. And as air is common to earth and sea, so spirit, and all higher influences, are common to man and woman alike."

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"Yes," Miss Hamilton said, "and while the earth has gold, and silver, and iron, and gems, the sea has only pearls, and they are tears, woman's proper _parure_. And while the earth maintains its place, and is not moved, the sea goes moaning about, breaking itself on rocks, and climbing even to heaven, only that it may fall again upon the land."

"Blessed showers!" said the doctor, who had watched her smilingly while she spoke. "Be sure, Margaret, sooner or later those for whose sakes you and your sisters have climbed to heaven with such toil and pain will see some heavenly likeness in you, and hail you as welcome messengers. Don't lose courage, dear. Don't join the bitter waves that break themselves against the rocks, or the sly, insidious waves that steal away the land and drag it down. But let your part be with those who visit us by the way of heaven. Wouldn't you rather we should look up when we want you, though it were seldom, than look down, though it were often?"

She looked up, bright and blushing for a moment, like her old self, trembling with gladness, she knew not why. It seemed to be a prophecy of good tidings.

Into the silence that followed a deep sigh broke. They all looked up, then rose, speechless, changed suddenly into a group of mourners. For Mr. Southard stood before them with that in his countenance which showed how much more plainly than even their living faces he saw the shadow of one who was gone for ever.

Pallid with sickness, fatigue, and trouble, he came forward to receive their almost voiceless welcomes.

"God knows," he said, "that if the choice had been with me, my place, rather than his, should have been made vacant."