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A Face Illumined, a novel by Edward Payson Roe |
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Chapter 54. Life And Trust |
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_ Chapter LIV. Life and trust
These words caught her attention, and in accordance with the simplicity and directness of her nature she built upon them her only hope for the future: "HE THAT LOSETH HIS LIFE FOR MY SAKE SHALL FIND IT!" She sighed: "I have lost that which is life and more than life to me, and it was for Christ's sake. It was because he forgave me and was kind in that awful moment when my crime was crushing my soul. I could not have given up my chance of happiness just because it was right, but the thought that he asked it and that it was for his sake, turned the wavering scale; and now I will trust him to find my life for me again in his own time and way. As far as this world is concerned, my life probably will be an increasing care of father and others, who, like myself, have, or have had 'a worm i' the bud.' But be the future what it may, I've made my choice and I shall abide by it." Then she turned to the xiv. chapter of St. John, that window of heaven through which the love of God has shone into so many sad hearts; and by the time she had read the words--"Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid"--she found that the peace promised--deep, quiet, sustaining--was stealing into her heart as the dawn turns night into day. Simple-minded Ida Mayhew believed that Jesus Christ had kept his word, for that was all faith meant to her. The rationalist practically maintains that such effects are without causes, and the materialist explains that they are physical conditions to be accounted for, by the state of the nervous system. Ida went down to supper, and spent the evening with her mother in the parlor. She resolved to take up her burden at once, and that there should be no sentimental sighing in solitude. Though so sorely wounded, she meant to keep her place in the ranks and win from society something better than pity. Jennie Burton looked at her wistfully and wonderingly many times, for the impress of the spiritual experience of that day was on her face, and made it more than beautiful. The blending of sadness and serenity, of quiet strength with calm resolve, was apparent to one possessing Miss Burton's insight into character. "Can it be," she thought, "that Van Berg has discovered her secret, and finds that while he can give her warm friendship and sympathy in her new life, he cannot give any more, and has made as much apparent to her by his manner? I thought I detected a different tendency in his mind before he went to the city. Something has occurred between them evidently, that to poor Ida means giving up a hope that is like life to a woman. I wish she would let me talk with her, for I think we could help each other. There is certainly a sustaining element in her faith which I do not possess or understand. Year after year I just struggle desperately to keep from sinking into despair, and the conflict is wearing me out. How to meet to-morrow with all its memories I do not know. I can see from the expression of Miss Mayhew's face how I ought to meet this anniversary of a day that once seemed to me like heaven's gate; but all I can do is just cling to my hope in God, while I cry like a child that has lost itself and all it loves in a thorny wilderness. I DO wish we could talk frankly, but she is utterly unapproachable." Poor Stanton stalked up and down on the piazza without, smoking furiously and muttering strange oaths. If the troubles that preyed upon the two maidens towards whom his heart was so tender, were outward enemies, the smallest grain of discretion would have kept them out of his way that night, and if Van Berg had quietly walked up the piazza steps as Ida was expecting, he would have received anything but a friendly greeting. That he did not come was a disappointment to Ida, and yet deep in her heart there was a secret satisfaction that he found it so difficult to enter on the task that duty and honor demanded. "I shall see him at breakfast, however," she thought; "and he'll be quiet, sane, and true to his pledge." But when she did not see him the next morning, and also learned from Stanton that he had not been in his room during the night, forebodings of some kind of evil began coming like prowling beasts of he night that the traveler cannot drive very far away from his camp-fire. Could he have broken his promise to her, and have fled from duty after all? She felt that she would love him no matter what he did--for poor Ida could not love on strictly moral principals, and withdraw her love in offended dignity if the occasion required; but her purer and womanly instincts made her fear that if he forfeited her respect her love might degenerate into passion. Her wish that he would come grew more intense every moment, and from her heart she pitied Jennie Burton as she saw her turn away from an almost untasted breakfast, and with a face that was so full of suffering that she could not disguise it. "If he fails her utterly she'll die," murmured Ida, as she climbed wearily to her room. "Merciful Saviour, forgive me that I tried to tempt him from her." She watched from her window, but he did not come. She saw Jennie Burton hastening away on one of the lonely walks to which she was given of late. She saw Stanton drive off rapidly, and when a few hours later he came back, she went down to meet him, and asked hesitatingly: "Have you seen or heard anything of Mr. Van Berg?" "Confound him! no. I don't see what the deuce he means by his course! Burleigh says he has not seen or heard a word from him since early Monday morning when he started off with his sketch-book, and Burleigh also says he seemed very glum and out of sorts when he joked him a little. I've been to the landing and depot, and no one has seen him. Unless Van can give a better account of himself than I expect, he and I will have a tremendous falling out." "No, Cousin Ik, you will leave him to himself, for anything like what you threaten would wound two hearts already sad enough." "Well, curse it all! I must do something or other, or I'll explode, I can't sit by and twirl my thumbs while two such women as you and Miss Burton are in trouble. When a man breaks a girl's heart I feel like breaking his head." "Merciful heaven! See--quick--Miss Burton--she's beckoning to you." Stanton sprang from the piazza at a bound, and was almost instantly at Jennie Burton's side, who sank into a seat near, and gasped: "Do as I bid--no words--a carriage, and a stout man with yourself--take brandy. Haste, or Mr. Van Berg will die." "O God! don't say that," Ida sobbed, kneeling at her feet with a low shuddering cry. Jennie stooped over and kissed her and said: "Courage, Miss Mayhew, all will yet be well. Be your brave self, and you can help me save him. Tell Mr. Burleigh to come here. Have a physician sent for." Ida almost dragged the bewildered host from his office. Under the inspiration of hope her motions were lithe and swift as a leopard's. Within five minutes after Miss Burton's arrival, a carriage containing herself, Stanton, and two stout men, dashed furiously towards the ravine in which Van Berg was lying, and a buggy was sent with equal rapidity for a physician. Then came to poor Ida the awful suspense and waiting, which is so often woman's part in life's tragedies. "Oh, can it be," she thought, with thrills of dread and horror, "that he has attempted my crime?" and she grew sick and faint. Then she resolutely put the suspicion away from her as unjust to him. "Will they never return? O God, if they should be too late!" She stood on the piazza with eyes dilated and strained, in one direction, caring not what any one saw or surmised; but in the increasing excitement, as the rumor spread and grew, she was unnoticed. At last the carriage appeared, and it was driven so slowly and carefully that it suggested to the poor girl the deliberate and mournful pace of a funeral procession, when all need for haste is past forever, and she sprang down the steps in her intense anxiety, and took some swift steps before she controlled herself. Then pressing her hand on her side, she sank into the seat which Miss Burton had occupied a little before. Jennie Burton waved a handkerchief--that meant life. "Thank God!" she murmured, and tears of joy rushed into her eyes. She now saw that Stanton was supporting Van Berg. She sprang up the steps again, broke through the excited and curious throng on the piazza, and was back with a strong arm-chair from the office by the time the carriage stopped at the door. "That's a sensible girl, Ida," said Stanton, "that's just the thing to carry him in. Now, Van, rally and do your best a few moments longer, and you're all right." At the sound of Ida's name he lifted his head and looked around till he met her eyes, and then smiled gladly. His smile satisfied her completely, and she stepped quietly into the background. "He has not broken his pledge, even in thought," she murmured. "I can trust him still." He was carried up the steps and stairs to his room, followed by all eyes. Ida stole to Jennie Burton, and kept near her as she sought to quietly gain her room by a side stairs. "You are faint, Miss Burton," she said gently, "lean on me," and Jennie did lean on her more and more heavily until she reached her room, and then her blue eyes closed, and the day she so dreaded was over, as far as she had consciousness of it. So slight and fragile had she become that even Ida was able to carry her to her couch. Her swoon of utter exhaustion was long and deep, and when she rallied from it there were symptoms which led the physician to say that she must have absolute quiet and sleep, and he gave her strong opiates to insure the latter. Jennie only reached out her hand for Ida and whispered: "Don't leave me," and then passed into a slumber that seemed like death. With her old imperious manner Ida silenced all who entered the room, or motioned them out if they had no business there. Stanton whispered: "You know I will be within call any moment." But Ida's reply was: "If you lover her, if you care for me, don't leave him; make him live." Thus, in restoring rest and patient vigils the night wore away. The physician found that while Van Berg's leg was much bruised and wrenched, it had received no permanent injury; and in regard to Miss Burton he said: "If she wakes quiet and sane, all danger will be past, I think." His hopes were fulfilled. With the dawn her deep stupor passed into a light and broken slumber, in which she tossed, and moaned, and whispered, as if the light of thought were also streaming into her darkened mind. At last she opened her eyes and looked at Ida, who smiled reassuringly. In a few moments the events of the past day came back to her, and she started up and asked earnestly: "Mr. Van Berg--is he safe?" Ida stooped down and kissed her as she replied; "Mr. Van Berg is rallying fast, and is out of all danger." Jennie leaned back among her pillows with a smile of deep content, and closed her eyes. When she opened them again Ida had gone, and Mrs. Burleigh had taken her place as watcher. But the need of such care passed speedily. The doctor, after his morning call, said that the critical moment of danger had gone by. So it had, but his understanding of Jennie's case was superficial indeed, and he ascribed to his opiate a virtue that it had never possessed. The balm that had soothed her wounded spirit was the thought of saved life and the happiness that might result to those in whom she was deeply interested. The dreaded anniversary had passed, and she was profoundly grateful that it had ended in physical exhaustion rather than in vain and agonized regret. She readily obeyed the physician's injunction to keep very quiet for two or three days, for memory during the past few weeks had caused a fever of mind that was scarcely less wearing than would have been the disease against which rest was the best safeguard. The condition in which she found Van Berg suggested some light on the dark problem of her life, but she only sighed deeply: "I shall never know in this world why he does not come." When told how Ida had taken care of her and watched till all danger was passed, she murmured to herself, "Brave, noble Ida Mayhew! but I may be able to reward her yet." She needed very little care, and felt no surprise that Ida now permitted others to render these attentions, contenting herself with brief but gentle inquiries concerning her welfare. Jennie only took pains to learn that Ida would not leave the Lake House till Monday of the following week, and then rested and waited. She was not sure of Van Berg, and until she was she would shield Ida as herself. But if it were true, as she surmised that Van Berg imagined that honor and loyalty bound him to her, while his heart was disposed to reward the maiden who had given him hers, she hoped that a little wise diplomacy on her part might do no harm. She very justly feared that Van Berg's gratitude to herself would be so strong that he would consider nothing else, and she also feared that in order to accomplish her kind intentions towards them, it might become necessary for her to tell him the sad story of her life--a story which she had never yet put in words. Therefore she sought to obtain the strength and tranquility of mind which this effort might tax to the utmost. She also imagined that if she could only see Ida and Van Berg together a few times, her course would be clearer. Van Berg's vital forces had not been drained by weeks of mental distress, and he rallied rapidly. Stanton took care of him with a sort of grim faithfulness which his friend appreciated, but neither of them made any reference to the subject uppermost in their minds. On the afternoon of the day following his rescue, he was able to use crutches, and seated in his arm-chair was carried down to the hotel parlor. The guests thronged around him with congratulations, and Ida came forward promptly with the others but her manner was the most undemonstrative and quiet of any who spoke to him. His earnest look and the pressure of his hand meant so much to her, however, that she soon retreated to the solitude of her room, and her smile was almost glad as she murmured: "Oh, how much better it is to just take God at his word and do right! If I had yielded to my strong temptation I would not have won him, for now he is bound to Miss Burton by every motive. But by doing right I have kept his respect. Thank God for the glance I have just received, for it is worth far more than any expressions of dishonorable passion. My conscience is light, if my heart is heavy!" In the quiet and friendly courtesy that Van Berg and Ida maintained towards each other, a casual observer would have seen nothing to excite remark, and the gossips at the house believed they had been misled by the facts that the artist had followed Ida to the city, and returned with her as if by arrangement. They now all agreed that he could not do less than bestow himself as a reward upon the "pretty little school ma'am," as some of the tattling genus persisted in calling Miss Burton. Mr. Mayhew had written that unexpected business complications had arisen which required his whole attention, and as he was acting in trust for others he could not give his time just then to making the change that Ida had wished, but that he would arrange matters so he could enter on his vacation the following week, and then would take Ida wherever she wished to go. He wrote daily, and his letters were sources of double cheer to Ida, for she read between the lines her father's deep sympathy and in the lines found increasing proof that he was a changed man. Now that events had taken their strange and unexpected turn, she was not sorry to remain. She had no belief that change of place would make any difference in her feelings, and she found that her heart clung strongly to the scenes with which were associated her recent deep experiences. There was nothing in Van Berg's manner now that made it embarrassing for her to meet him. While in his honest effort to keep his pledges, she saw that he apparently gave the most of his thoughts to Miss Burton, and daily had conveyed to her room the rarest flowers and fruits he could obtain, sending to the city for them as well as having the country scoured for its choicest treasures, she also occasionally caught a glimpse of the truth that he honored and reverenced her from the depths of his heart. Although in her sincere diffidence she did not regard herself as worthy of such esteem, still the poor girl, who had been so deeply humiliated and discouraged, was comforted and sustained by his strong and silent homage. She would also be very sorry to forego her daily visits to Mr. Eltinge. As Thursday was warm, Van Berg spent the greater part of it on the cool piazza, for he was now able to move about on crutches very well. He had no lack of company, but all found him reticent concerning his accident and the causes which had led to it. The most persistent gossip in the house learned no more than the bare facts, and was inclined to believe there was nothing more to learn. That Stanton was so distant was explained by the fact that he was an unsuccessful rival. Both Van Berg and Ida puzzled Stanton as far as he gave them thought, but in his honest loyalty his heart was in the darkened room in which poor Jennie was resting, more from her long passionate struggle with a sorrow she could not bury than from the exhaustion caused by her rescue of Van Berg. Friday morning happened to be very warm, and Ida did not visit Mr. Eltinge, but ensconced herself in a distant corner of the piazza with a book, the pages of which were not turned very regularly. "I wonder," she thought, "when, if ever, we shall have another friendly talk. What a strange, deep hush, as it were, has come after the passionate joy and desperate sorrow and fear of the past week! It is the type of what my inner life will be. But I must not complain; thousands of hearts, no doubt, are the burial-places of as dear a hope as mine; and One is pledged to give me back my life in some way, and at some time. "Miss Ida," said a voice that made her start and crimson in spite of herself, "may I come out and talk with you a little while?" and she saw that Van Berg was speaking to her through the window blinds of one of the private parlors. "Yes," she said hesitatingly, "if you think it is best." He went around and came openly to her side, bringing a small camp-chair with him. as he steadied himself against a piazza column in taking his seat, and leaned his crutches on the railing, her looks were very sympathetic. With a smile he took on of his crutches in his hands as he said: "I have come to these very properly at last, and you must have seen their significance. It is my spiritual and moral lameness, however, that now troubles me most, Miss Mayhew. When lying at the bottom of that ravine, expecting death, I vowed, like most sinners in similar circumstances, I suppose, that if I ever escaped I would become a Christian man. I intend to keep the vow if it is a possible thing. But I make no progress. I prayed then, and I have prayed and read my Bible since, but everything is forced and formal, and the thought will come to me continually, that I might as well pray to Socrates or Plato as to Christ. I wish you could teach me your faith." "Mr. Van Berg," replied Ida, with a troubled face, "I'm not wise enough to guide you in such a matter. I would much rather you would talk with Mr. Eltinge or some learned, good man." "I shall be glad to see Mr. Eltinge, but I don't care to go to the learned man just yet. We might get into an argument, in which of course I should be worsted, but I fear not convinced. I have never known anything so real as your faith has seemed, but I can obtain nothing that in the least corresponds with it. I ask, but receive no more response than if I spoke to the empty air. Then comes the strong temptation to relapse into the old materialistic philosophy, which I had practically accepted, and to believe that religious experiences are imaginary, or the result of education and temperament. At the same time I have found this philosophy such a wretched support, either in life or in the prospect of death, that I would be glad to throw it away as worthless." "I fear to speak to you on this subject," she said, "and shall not for a moment attempt to teach you anything. They say facts are stubborn things, and I'll tell you a few, which to my simple, homely common-sense are conclusive. To a man's reason they may count for little. My religious experiences are not the result of education or temperament, but are contrary to both; and if they are imaginary, all my experiences are imaginary. Perhaps I can best tell you what I mean by an illustration that is a pleasant one to me. There is a partially finished picture in your studio that I hope to hang some day in my own sanctum at home. How shall I ever know that I have that picture? How shall I ever know that you have given it to me? I shall know it because you keep your promise and send it to me. I shall have it in my possession, and I shall enjoy it daily. Are not hope, patience, peace, when the world could give no peace, as real as your picture? Is not the honest purpose to overcome a nature that you know is so very faulty, as real a gift as any I could receive? If the Friend I have found promises me such things, and at once begins to keep his word, why should I not trust him? But remember, you must not expect from me very much at first, any more than did Mr. Eltinge from the little pear-tree he lifted up and gave a chance to live. Now, with one more thought, my small cup of theology is emptied. To go back to my illustration: Suppose some person should say that he had not a picture of Mr. Eltinge; that would be no proof that I did not have one, or that you had not given one to me. I don't see, Mr. Van Berg, that the fact that you have no faith this morning, is anything against the fact that I and Mr. Eltinge, and so many others do have faith, with good reasons for it, and are able to say, "I KNOW that my Redeemer liveth.' The testimony of other people counts for something in most matters. Why must such men as Mr. Eltinge be set down either as deceivers or deceived, when they state some of the most certain facts of their experience?" "I knew you were the right one to come to," he said, looking at her so earnestly that her eyes fell before his; "but why is it, do you think, that I receive no answer?" "As I told you, my little cup of knowledge is empty, but it seems to me that in your happy, wonderful rescue you were answered. You have promised to become a Christian, Mr. Van Berg. You certainly did not limit your effort to this week. Surely to be a Christian is worth a lifetime of effort." "I understand you again," he said with a smile; "you leave me no other choice than to make a lifetime of effort. But I fear it will be awfully up-hill work. The Bible seems to me an old-world book. Many parts take a strong hold on my imagination, and of course I know its surpassing literary merit; but I don't find in it much that seems personally applicable or helpful. Do you? I admit, though, that when I read words this morning to the effect that 'a brutish man knoweth not, neither doth a fool understand.' I felt that the good old saint must have had his prophetic eye on me at the time of writing." "You are as unjust towards yourself as ever, I see," she said. "I have found another Psalm that to me meant so much that I have committed the first part of it to memory. You can understand why the following words are significant," and in the plaintive tones that had vibrated so deeply in his heart when she read to Mr. Eltinge, she repeated: "I love the Lord because he hath heard my voice and my supplication. "Because he hath inclined his ear unto me, therefore will I call upon him as long as I live. "The sorrows of death compassed me, and the pains of hell got hold upon me: I found trouble and sorrow. "Then called I upon the name of the Lord; O Lord, I beseech thee, deliver my soul. "The Lord preserveth the simple: I was brought low and he HELPED me. "Return unto thy rest, O my soul; for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee. "For thou hast delivered my soul from death, mine eyes from tears, and my feet from falling. "And this is my conclusion, Mr. Van Berg, 'I will walk before the Lord in the land of the living.' I am going to find plenty of good, live, wholesome work to do 'in the land of the living,' and I intend to do it as if I enjoyed it; indeed, I think I shall enjoy it," and she rose and left him with a genial and cheery smile. But he sat still and thought long and deeply. At last he muttered in conclusion: "'By their fruits ye shall know them.' Once more, God bless Ida Mayhew for all she has been to me!" When they were gathered at dinner, Jennie Burton walked in and took her seat in the most quiet and matter of course way possible. Van Berg laid down his knife and fork and exclaimed: "You have stolen a march on us. We designed giving you an ovation when you came down." "Will you please pass me the bread in its place, Mr. Van Berg?" she replied in her former piquant, mirthful way. "With the appetite that is coming back to me, one of Mr. Burleigh's good dinners is far more to my taste than an ovation which I now decline with thanks." Very pale and slight she certainly had become, but they saw her old cheery, indomitable spirit once more looked out of her blue eyes and vibrated in the tones of her voice. With the changes indicated, she was the same bright little "enigma in brown" that had so fascinated Van Berg the first day of her arrival, and led him to make the half-jesting prediction to Stanton that had been so thoroughly fulfilled. In spite of themselves her irresistible grace, wit, and humor created continuous and irrepressible merriment at their table, which Ida seconded with a tact and piquancy but little inferior to that of Miss Burton herself. Straightforward and rather slow-witted Stanton rubbed his eyes and vowed between the first hearty laughs he had known for many a long day that he was practised upon, and that he intended to have Miss Burton indicted as a witch, and Ida as an accomplice. But Jennie Burton could not escape the ovation, for she had won a secure and large place in the esteem, and in many instances, in the affections of her summer associates. After dinner, no matter which way she turned, hands were extended and hearty words spoken, and while at dinner even the colored waiters grinned approvingly whenever she looked towards them. Mr. Burleigh finally brought the congratulations and jollity to a climax by hoisting the flag and trying to drum "Hail Columbia" on a gong. "That's his way," said Mrs. Burleigh in an aside to Jennie; "but would you believe it, the poor man has scarcely eaten or slept since you have been ill. If it had been any one else but you I'd been jealous." But Van Berg knew well that all this geniality was like the ripple and sparkle that play above deep waters. Occasionally he found Miss Burton's eyes directed towards himself in a way that caused him deep anxiety, and he had an uneasy consciousness that she was reading his innermost thoughts. While he exerted his utmost power to banish everything from his mind that was not loyal to her, he made no effort to avoid Ida or say little to her at the table and during the afternoon, but rather took pains to treat her with frank and cordial courtesy; however, in spite of himself, he could not keep out of his eyes at all times the reverence and gratitude with which his very soul overflowed; for he felt that he owed to Ida, who had saved his manhood, far more than to Jennie, who had saved his life only. Ida also observed Miss Burton's slight and carefully disguised scrutiny with a fluttering heart. "I suppose he does the best he can," she thought; "but she'll surely find him out; there is no use of trying to hide anything from a woman who loves. Well, well, let her but remain discreetly blind for a little time, and with her powers of fascination she will win him heart and soul." Before Jennie slept that night her mind was clear as to her course. "I think," she murmured, "I understand them both now. His manner towards Miss Mayhew is certainly not that of a conventional lover; but as I have seen him look at her twice as if he could say his prayers to her, I think I'll venture on the only match-making I ever attempted. But what to do with Mr. Stanton, I don't know. Poor man! he might as well love a shadow as me, and yet he seems so simple, honest, and real himself. He is disappointing me daily, and I have wronged him very much. I thought him a selfish man of the world, but he persists in offering me a chivalric, unselfish devotion, for which he asks nothing in return. Alas! I can give him nothing--nothing compared with what he gives." "I am going to make my last visit to Mr. Eltinge and the old garden," said Ida to Van Berg as she passed him on the piazza the following morning. He looked after her so wistfully, and sighed so deeply, that Jennie Burton, unseen herself, smiled as if she had discovered something that gave her deep satisfaction. "Mr. Van Berg," she said a few moments later "can you give me a little of your valuable time to-day?" "All of it," he said promptly. "Thanks. I shall take, then, all I want. Come with me to yonder shady rustic seat, for I long to be out of doors again; and you have learned to hobble so gracefully and deftly that you can manage the journey, I'm sure." He accompanied her, wondering a little at her words and manner. When they had reached the seclusion she sought her manner changed, and she became very grave and earnest, for she felt that it might be the crisis moment of two lives, and she was not one who could self-complacently and confidently seek to shape human destiny. "Mr. Van Berg," she said, "I shall not use any tedious circumlocution, for your time is precious this morning; more so than you think at this moment. Nor shall I try to entrap you by guile and feminine diplomacy; but you made me a very explicit pledge when I found you last Tuesday morning." "Yes, Jennie Burton, I am yours, body and soul." "But how about your heart, Mr. Van Berg?" "My heart overflows with gratitude to you," he said promptly, but with rising color; "and as I said when you rescued me, so now I vow again, I dedicate my life to you. I do not ask you to forget the past all at once--I do not ask you to forget it at all--but only to let me aid you in taking the bitterness out of those memories that now are destroying as sweet and beneficent a life as God ever gave. I have suspected that you had some unselfish guile in that last promise you obtained from me, but I shall be loyal to the promise I intended to make, and which was in my mind; I shall be loyal to the promise I made you at first, to win you if I could, and I shall wait till I can." "What, then, will Ida Mayhew do?" she asked looking him full in the face. He colored still more deeply, but meeting her searching gaze without blenching, he said, firmly and quietly: "She will always do what is right and noble, God bless her!" Miss Burton appeared a little perplexed and troubled for a moment, and then said, slowly: "I called you my friend last July, and when I speak in the mood I was in then I mean all that I say. Friends should be very frank when the occasion requires, or else they are but acquaintances. I am going to be very frank with you to-day, and if I err, charge it to friendship only. Ida Mayhew loves you, Mr. Van Berg; she has loved you almost from the first; and now that her life has become so noble and beautiful, I am greatly mistaken if you do not return her affection. If this be true, what are you offering me?" "I HAVE given you, Miss Burton, my truth and loyalty for all coming time. You may decline them now--you probably will--but you cannot change my attitude towards you or alter my course. I shall not attempt to hide anything from you. Indeed, to do so would be vain, and I have never been intentionally insincere with you." Then he told her of the freak of fancy that had led him to follow Ida to the country in the first instance, and much that followed since, making no reference, however, to her dark purpose against herself. In conclusion he said: "Of late, for reasons obvious to you, she has had strong fascinations for me, but above and beyond these has been her influence on the side of all that's right, manly, and true. I have never spoken of love to Miss Mayhew. Honor, loyalty, unbounded gratitude, and deep affection bind me to you, and shall through life. Please say no more, Miss Jennie, for if any question was ever settled, this is." "Then you propose to sacrifice yourself and Miss Mayhew for the shadowy chance of making me a little happier?" "I shall not be sacrificed, and Ida Mayhew would justly reject me with scorn were I disloyal to you. I can give you more love, Jennie Burton, than I fear you will ever give me, but I shall wait patiently. When months and years have proved to you the truth of my words, you may feel differently. Let us leave the subject till then." "Oh, Mr. Van Berg, I shall have to tell you after all," she said burying her face in her hands. "You need not now," he replied gently. "You have been ill and are not strong enough for this agitation. You never need to tell me unless it will make your burden lighter." "It will make my burden lighter to-day," she said hurriedly. "Pardon me if I tell my story in the briefest and most prosaic way. You are the first one that has heard it. It may not seem much to you and others; but to me it is an awful tragedy, and I sometimes fear my life may be an eternal condition of suspense and waiting. You have been very generous in taking me so fully on trust, but now you shall know all. I am the only daughter of a poor, unworldly New England clergyman. My mother died before I can remember, and my father gave to me all the time he could spare from the duties of a small village parish. He and the beautiful region in which we lived were my only teachers. One June morning Harrold Fleetwood came to the parsonage with letters of introduction, saying that his physician had banished him from books and city life, and he asked if he could be taken as a lodger for a few weeks. Poor and unworldly as father was, for my sake he made careful inquiries and learned that the young man was from one of the best and wealthiest families of Boston, and bore an unblemished reputation. Then, since we were so very poor, he yielded to Mr. Fleetwood's wishes, hoping thus to be able to buy some books, he said, on which our minds could live during the coming winter. "To me, Harrold Fleetwood was a very remarkable character. While he always treated me with kindness and respect, he did not take much notice of me at first; and I think he found me very diffident, to say the least. But, as he had overtaxed his eyes, I began to read to him; and then, as we became better acquainted, he resumed a habit he had, as I soon learned, of speaking in half-soliloquy concerning the subjects that occupied his mind. He said that an invalid sister had indulged him in this habit, and he had tried to think aloud partly to beguile her weariness. But to me it was the revelation of the richest and most versatile mind I have ever known. At last I ventured to show my interest and to ask some questions, and then he gradually became interested in me for some reason." "I can understand his reasons," said Van Berg emphatically. "He did not know at first how much time father had given me and to what good uses we had put the books we had. Well, I must be brief. Every day brought us nearer together, until it seemed that we shared our thoughts in common. I ought not to complain, for perhaps in few long lives does there come more happiness than was crowded in those few weeks. It was the happiness of heaven--it was the happiness of two souls attuned to perfect harmony and ranging together the richest fields of truth and fancy. Dear old father was blind to it all, and I had scarcely thought whither the shining tide was carrying me until last Tuesday five years ago, Mr. Fleetwood said to me, 'Jennie, our souls were mated in heaven, if any ever were, and I claim you as the fulfillment of what must have been a Divine purpose.' I found that my heart echoed every word he said. "Then he appeared troubled and said that I must give him time to untangle a snarl into which he had drifted rather than involved himself. His family were wealthy and ambitious, and they had always spoken of his marriage with a cousin who was an heiress, as a settled thing. He had never bound himself by word or act, and often laughingly told his parents that they could not arrange these matters on strictly business principles, as did aristocrats abroad--that the young lady herself might have something to say, if he had not. But he was wrapt up in his studies--he was preparing for a literary life--and events drifted on until he found that every one of his house hold had set their hearts on this alliance. All that he could say against it was that he was indifferent. The lady was pretty and tried to make herself agreeable to him; while he felt that they had little in common, and was also led to believe that she would good-naturedly leave him to his own pursuits, and so he entered no protest to the family schemes, but drifted. That was the one defect of his character. He was a man of thought and fancy rather than of decision and action. "When he returned home and told his parents of his attachment for me, they were furious, and wrote very bitter letters to both father and myself, accusing us of having intrigued to obtain a wealthy alliance. Thank God! father never saw the letter, as he died suddenly, before he knew how sore a wound I had received. Nor did I ever show the letter to Mr. Fleetwood, for my father had trained me too well to sow dissension between parents and son. "An aunt took me to her home. She was a kindhearted old lady, but very matter-of-fact and wholly engrossed in her housekeeping, and I told her nothing. I waited till Mr. Fleetwood sought me out, which he soon did. I saw that his family were moving heaven and earth to break off his engagement with me, and it evidently pained him deeply that he must so greatly disappoint his parents. But the consideration that weighed most with him was this: they urged upon him in every possible way that hopes had been raised in the heart of the young lady herself, and although he was always very reticent in regard to her. I think she seconded the family scheme, for the marriage would have joined two very large estates. Although my heart often stood still with fear while he apparently wavered a little, I can honestly say I left him free to make his own choice. They persecuted and urged him to that extent, and so confused his sense of right and wrong, that, in order to escape from his dilemma, he managed to get a lieutenant's commission in the army in spite of his physician's protest, and before his family realized what they regarded as an immeasurable disaster he was in the Union ranks at the front. It HAS proved an immeasurable disaster to me. "He came to see me before he went south, and told me that he preferred death to any other bride than myself. In sad foreboding I begged him to give me up rather than go into that awful war with his imperfect health. But he went. The rest of my story is soon told. Life in the field seemed to brace him up every way. He wrote me that he had lived hitherto in books and dreams, and that contact with strong, forceful men was just what he needed. He wrote almost daily, and I lived on his letters. He grew strong and heroic in his exposure to danger and hardship, and won promotion on the simple ground of merit. At last, after an arduous campaign, he was slightly wounded and greatly worn, and he received a long leave of absence after the troops went into winter quarters. He wrote then that he was coming home to marry me, and no power on earth could prevent it except my 'own little self,' as he expressed it--oh! I can repeat all those letters word for word. He wrote me the very day and hour on which he would start, and I have waited ever since; and I have vowed before God that I will wait till he comes." And she bowed her head, her eyes were tearless, and she went on still more hurriedly. "I afterwards learned from a brother officer, and also from the papers, that he left his regimental headquarters at the time he said, but that he had to ride through a region infested with guerrillas, and that is absolutely all I know. I am sure he wrote to his family of his intentions in regard to me, but they have never recognized me in the slightest way. The young lady to whom they would have married him wore mourning a year, and then was led to the alter by another man. But, as my Harrold said, God mated our souls, and I shall wait till he joins our lives. Your name startled me greatly when I heard it last June for the first time since I had spoken it myself to one who has seemingly vanished but is ever present to me, and while you do not resemble him in appearance to any close extent, there is at times something in your expression that is singularly like his; and this fact must explain and excuse all the weak exhibitions of myself this summer. And now, my friend, permit me to say that your rather ardent words on one or two occasions never deceived me for a moment. You mistook your warm sympathy for love. I, who had seen and known the love of Harrold Fleetwood, could not make such a mistake. You do love Ida Mayhew, and she is worthy; and in no possible way could you do so much to add to my happiness, now and always, as by aiding that beautiful girl develop her new and beautiful life. Harold Van Berg, I would regard it as an insult if you ever spoke to me of love and marriage after what I have told you to-day. I shall always value your friendship very, very much, for I am now alone in the world, and I think I have found in you a friend in whom I can trust absolutely, and to whom I could go in case there should be need. Probably there never will be, for, in my simple, busy life, I have few wants. You may tell Mr. Stanton what you think best of my story after I am gone. I regret unspeakably that he should think of me as he does, for I have learned to respect him as a true, noble-hearted gentleman. It is one more of life's strange mysteries. Mr. Van Berg," she said, springing up, "you have made to me one pledge that you can keep--only one. You have promised to 'make me happy in my own way.' Brave Ida Mayhew caught me in her arms when I fainted last Tuesday, and she watched at my side till morning. Yes, she did; the noble and generous girl! But I promised myself the pleasure of rewarding her, if possible. Now, if you wish to do something for me that demands prompt, heroic action, scramble into a buggy and let one of Mr. Burleigh's men drive you to that old garden before she leaves it. She found her new spiritual life there, let her also find her happy earthly life in the same loved place. Not a word, but go at once if you have any regard for my feelings and wishes. As I have told my story, your sympathetic face has been more eloquent than any words, and leaves nothing to be said. I refuse to see you or speak to you again till you have fulfilled the only promise I ever asked or wished you to make," and she left him and quickly disappeared. Ten minutes later Van Berg was being driven towards Mr. Eltinge's place, at a speed which threatened, in case of accident, to place him beyond the use of crutches. As he rode along in front of the house he saw that Ida's old horse and low phaeton were still in the shade of the trees; therefore, dismissing his driver, he hobbled with singular alacrity across the lawn and suddenly presented himself before Mr. Eltinge and Ida, much to the surprise of the latter, who hastily wiped her eyes and sought to hide the fact that her thoughts had not been very cheerful. "Pardon me," he said, "but I left my sketchbook here some days since; and I especially wished to bid Mr. Eltinge good-by and to thank him with all the warmth and fulness that can be put into words." Mr. Eltinge was cordially and gravely kind in his reception, but Ida kept her face averted, for she knew that the traces of grief were too apparent. After a few moments Mr. Eltinge said: "Since this is your last visit, I cannot think of letting either of you go back before dinner, and, if you will excuse me for a little time, I soon can see that our simple arrangements are made." "I shall be very glad to remain," said Van Berg, so promptly that Ida turned and looked at him with surprise. She was still more surprised when, as soon as they were alone, he hobbled to the rustic seat and sat down beside her. "Miss Ida," he said, "you have always given me such admirable advice that I come to you again. Miss Burton refuses me absolutely and irrevocably, and in language that renders it impossible for me ever to address her again on the subject. You thus perceive what a forlorn object is before you--a rejected man and a cripple!" "Miss Burton refused you!" exclaimed Ida in utter amazement. "You were but a cold wooer, I imagine," she added reproachfully, and she rose from the seat and stood aloof from him. "You know well, Miss Ida," he said earnestly, "that a falsehood would be impossible in this place, and I assure you I honestly did the best I could. We have plighted our faith in a friendship that will be a brother's love on my part, but she said solemnly that she would regard offers of marriage from me, now or at any future time, as an insult. In brief, she has at last told me her story. Her lover is dead, and it was because she detected certain resemblances in my appearance to him that she looked at me sometimes in the way you described. I had surmised as much before, but at one time hoped that this accidental resemblance might give me a vantage-ground in winning her from a past that I knew must have been very sad indeed. My resemblance was only an outward one, the man himself was immeasurably my superior, and on the principle of contrast alone Jennie Burton could never think of me. But her love for Harrold Fleetwood is her life. It is a strange, unearthly devotion that time only increases. I felt weeks since that I could worship her as a saint far easier than I could love her as a woman, and I now know the reason. It would indeed be an insult for any man to speak to her of love and marriage, if he knew what I have learned to-day." "Then poor Cousin Ik has no chance either," said Ida, with tears in her eyes. "No, I do not think he has, although she has learned to appreciate him. She spoke of him as a 'true, noble-hearted gentleman,' and such terms from the lips of a woman like Jennie Burton are better than a king's title. As far as my complacent and deliberate wooing of last summer is concerned, I believe that when it did not pain and annoy her she was rather amused by it. She had seen the genuine thing, you know, and thus I was the only one imposed upon by a sentiment which at the time received the unqualified approval of my infallible reason and judgment. The very superior Mr. Harold Van Berg once declined your acquaintance, as you may remember. Take your full revenge upon him now, for you see to what a battered and dilapidated condition of body and mind he has been reduced. He has developed a genius for blundering and getting himself and other people into trouble, that is quite sublime. If ever a man needed daily advice and counsel, he does, and the incalculable service that you have rendered him in this respect leads him to come to you again." "Indeed, sir," said Ida, turning away with a crimson face, "I have no further advice to give you. Mr. Eltinge will soon be back; take him as your counsellor. I'm going to gather some flowers for dinner." He at once was on his crutches and in close pursuit, but she flitted away before him till in despair he returned to the rustic seat. Then she shyly and hesitatingly began to approach, apparently absorbed in tying up her flowers. "Haven't you observed that I am a cripple?" he asked. "I have observed that you are a very nimble one." "I think you are very cruel to treat a helpless man in this style." "Indeed, sir, I have not taken away your crutches. When you spoke of a helpless man, to whom did you refer?" "I thought you once said that mercy was 'twice bless'd.'" "That's a truism that has become a little trite. Don't you think Mr. Eltinge will like my bouquet?" "Here is a flower that to me is worth all that ever bloomed. Come and tell me if you still recognize it," and he took out the little note-book in which was pressed the imperfect and emblematic rose-bud. "Poor little thing!" Ida sighed, looking over his shoulder, "how faded it has become!" By a motion that was almost instantaneous he dropped the note-book and caught her hand. "Yes, Ida," he said eagerly, it is faded, but it grows dearer to me daily, as you will long after the exquisite color has faded from your face. Ida Mayhew, the brook has stopped now because it cannot help itself, nor will it ever go on again, even in spring or summer, unless it bears you away with it." She turned and looked him full in his eyes, in accordance with her custom when she felt that she must know the innermost thoughts of the speaker. "Mr. Van Berg," she said very gravely, "let that little emblem there remind you that you are speaking to a very faulty and ignorant girl. I cannot regain in a few weeks what I have lost in a wasted life. You may regret---" "Hush, Ida; for once I will not listen to you. When I believed myself dying my chief thought was of you, and when I heard sounds near me, in my half unconscious state I called your name." "Oh, that it had been my privilege to answer," she sighed. "You saved me when I was in far worse peril," he resumed in words that flowed like a torrent. "You saved my honor, my manhood; you saved me from folly that would have blasted my life. I owe far more to you than to Jennie Burton, and I know at what cost to yourself. Ida, I shall never hide anything from you. I came back last Monday for my sketch-book, and I heard you say: 'It would be easier for me to die than give him up for your sake, Jennie Burton.' Then only I learned your secret; then for the first I understood your self-sacrifice for the sake of honor and duty. Until then I thought the struggle to forget would be on my part only. From that moment never did a man honor a woman more than I honor and reverence you. My mother gave me this ring and told me never to part with it until I found a woman that I could love and honor even more than her, and I never shall part with it till I put it on your hand," and she had scarcely time to glance down, before she saw a diamond glittering on her engagement finger. "I gave up that which was life to me for His sake, and thus soon He gives back to me far more," Ida murmured, and she rested her head on Van Berg's shoulder with a look of infinite content. A moment later she added: "Oh, I'm so glad for father's sake." "Are you not a little glad for your own?" "Oh, Harold! compare this--God's way out of trouble with the one I chose!" "The past has gone by forever, Ida, and you have received your woman's soul in the good old-fashioned way. In my heart of hearts I have changed your name from Ida to Ideal." They had not noticed that Mr. Eltinge had come down the garden walk to summon them to dinner. The old gentleman discovered that there had been a transformation scene in his absence, although he took off his spectacles twice, and wiped them before he seemed fully satisfied of its reality. "Ahem! I fear our plain dinner will be a very prosaic interruption; but---" he began. "Oh, Mr. Eltinge," cried Ida, springing to him, her cheeks putting to shame any flower of his garden, "I owe all this to you!" "Mr. Van Berg," said Mr. Eltinge, with the stately courtesy of the old school, "with your permission I now shall take full payment," and stooping down he kissed her tenderly, with a fervent "God bless you, my child! God bless you both! I thought it would all end in this way." It was late in the day when Ida drove up to the steps of the Lake House and assisted Van Berg to alight with a care and solicitude that Stanton, who was grimly watching them, thought a trifle too apparent. She gave a hasty side-glance to her cousin, but would not trust herself to do more in the presence of others. "Mr. Van Berg, I would like to see you alone a few moments," said Stanton in a low tone. The artist hobbled cheerfully into one of the small private parlors, and stretched himself out very luxuriously on the sofa, saying as he did so, "Take the rocking-chair, Ik." "No, sir," said Stanton stiffly. "I shall trespass but a few moments on your time--only long enough to keep a promise and perform a duty. In circumstances that you can scarcely have forgotten, you assured me that I was in honor bound to give my cousin, Miss Mayhew, a brother's care. You asserted very emphatically that with her peculiar temperament she ought to be saved from any serious trouble. What I then promised from a sense of duty I now perform from warm affection. As far as a brother's love and care is concerned, Ida Mayhew is my sister, and as a brother I insist, in view of your relations with Miss Burton, that you do not give to her so much of your society. Not that I mean to insinuate in the faintest possible way, that my cousin entertains for you anything more than an ordinary and friendly regard. It is my intention only to remind you that your course has been a little peculiar of late, to say the least, and that it is often far better to prevent trouble than remedy it." "The mischief is all done, Ik; you are too late." "What do you mean, sir?" "Well, one thing at a time. Miss Burton has refused me absolutely." "I don't wonder!" said Stanton indignantly. "Nor I either, Ik. You are a hundredfold more worthy of her than I am or ever was. I once regarded myself as slightly your superior, Isaac, but circumstances have proved that you have enough good metal in you to make a dozen such men as I am." "I want explanations, not compliments," said Stanton sternly. "Sit down, and I'll tell you everything. Then you can brain me with one of the crutches, if you wish," and Van Berg related to Stanton substantially all that occurred between himself and Jennie Burton. "She said I could tell you after she was gone, but I think it is best you should know before. She understands and honors you, and you should understand her. Her heart is buried so deep in some unnamed, unmarked grave that it will find, I fear, no resurrection on earth. I told you the first day she came to this house that she had had an experience that separated her from ordinary humanity, and also predicted that she would wake you up and make a man of you. She has made you a prince among men. You are my elder brother, Ik, from this time forth, and I won't put on any more airs with you. As I said, your remarks in regard to your cousin came a little late. You see, my ring is gone, and you know I have often laughingly told you that my mother gave it to me on conditions that made it very safe property. I have parted with it, however, and very honestly too; but you will see it again, soon." "Van," said Stanton, with a slight quaver in his voice, and a very sickly attempt at his old humor, "I have forfeited my wager that followed your prediction, which I thought so absurd at the time; but I'll forgive you everything, and bestow my blessing on you and Ida, if you will paint me a portrait of Miss Burton." "The best I can possibly make, Ik, and she shall look as she did when she called you a true, noble-hearted gentleman." Van Berg now found no difficulty in bringing about a friendship between Ida and Jennie Burton, and the two maidens spent the greater part of Sabbath afternoon together. Ida hid nothing in her full confidence, not even the crime that had been in her thoughts, and which might have destroyed the life that now was growing so rich and beautiful. When her pathetic story was completed, Jennie said: "Mr. Van Berg has told me some things in your favor that you have omitted. I cannot flatter myself now that my love is stronger than yours, but you are stronger, you are braver. What is the secret of your strength? Your religion seems to do you more good than mine does me." "Well, Jennie," said Ida musingly, there seems to me this difference. "You have a God, I have a Saviour; you have a faith, I have a tender and helpful Friend. Jesus Christ has said to those who love and trust him: 'Let not your hearts be troubled.' He said these words to men who were to suffer all things, and did so, Mr. Eltinge told me. It's just the same as if he said, You don't know, I do; leave everything to me, and it shall all be for the best in the end. See how all my trouble this summer has just prepared for this happiness, and I believe, Jennie, that your eternity of happiness will be made all the richer for every sad day of your unselfish life. The souls of such men as Harrold Fleetwood are God's richest treasures, and he whose name is Love surely kindled such love as yours and his. The God that the Bible reveals to me will not permit it to be lost," and with Jennie's head on her bosom she sang low and sweetly:
Ida did so. "O Ida! God's good angel to me as well as to Harold Van Berg," said Jennie, smiling through her tears. "I bless you for those hopeful words. They will repeat themselves in my heart till all is clear and our souls that God mated are joined again. My Harrold was not one who said 'Lord, Lord' very often, but I know that he tried to 'do the will of his Father which is in heaven.' I am going to your Friend, Ida, for if ever a poor mortal needed more than mortal help and cheer, I do. I shall just give up everything into his hands, and wait patiently." "The life he will give you again, Jennie, will be infinitely richer than the one you have lost." Early in the following week Miss Burton returned to her college duties. Before parting she said to Ida: "I do not think I shall ever give way again to my old, bitter, heart-breaking grief." Almost every one in the house wanted to shake hands with her in farewell. Poor Mr. Burleigh tried to disguise his feelings by putting crepe on his hat and tying black shawl of his wife's around his arm; but he blew his nose so often that he finally said he was "taking cold on the piazza," and so made a hasty retreat. Ida and Van Berg accompanied Jennie to the depot, but Stanton was not to be found till they reached the station, when he quietly stepped forward and handed Jennie her checks. She was trying to say something that she meant should show her appreciation, when the train thundered up, and he handed her into a palace car, in which she found he had secured her a seat, and before she had time to say a word her tickets were in her hands and he was gone. When, after several hours' riding, she approached a station at which she must change cars and recheck her trunks, a friendly voice said to her: "Miss Burton, if you will give me your checks I will attend to this little matter for you." "Mr. Stanton!" she exclaimed. "What does this mean?" "It means that since I am on the same train with you, I can do no less than offer so slight a service." She looked at him very doubtfully, as she said: "I don't know what to think of this journey of yours. Let me now pay you for my ticket." "Mr. Van Berg handed me the money you gave him for that purpose. It's all right. Your checks please; there is but little time." His manner was so quiet and assured, that she handed them to him hesitatingly, and a moment later stepped out on the platform. In a few moments she called: "Oh, Mr. Stanton, you have lost your train." "Not at all. I am going to Boston. There are your checks once more, and here is your train and seat," he added, as he accompanied her to it. Then he lifted his hat, and was about to depart, when she said: "Since you are on the same train, perhaps you will venture to take this seat near me. I never was curious about a gentleman's business before; but it strikes me as a rather odd coincidence that you are going to Boston to-day." "A great many people go to Boston," he replied. "It's for my sake you are taking this long journey, Mr. Stanton," she said, regretfully. "Yes," he replied, in the same quiet, undemonstrative manner that he had maintained towards her for some weeks past; "this journey is for your sake, and for your sake I shall take a very different journey through life from the one I had marked out for myself. I know your sad story, Miss Burton. I expect nothing from you, I hope for nothing, and I shall never ask anything, except a little confidence on your part, so that I can render you an occasional service. Never for a moment imagine that I am cherishing hopes that I know well you cannot reward." "Mr. Stanton, this is beyond my comprehension!" "There seems to me nothing strange or unnatural in it," he said. "You found me a pleasure-loving animal, and through your influence I think I am becoming somewhat different. You have taught me that there is a higher and better world than that of sense. How good a work I can do in life I will let the years prove as they pass. But I do not think my feelings will ever change towards you, save as time deepens and strengthens them. Van thinks all the world of you, as well he may; but his life will be very happy and full of many interest. I shall think of you alone, and the work I do for your sake until I can add another motive. Of course I believe in a heaven--such lives as your make one necessary; and I mean to find a way of getting there. In the meantime, you are my motive; but my regard for you shall be so very unobtrusive that I trust you will not resent it, and the thought of my unseen care and watchfulness may in time come to be a pleasant one." There was nothing in his tone or manner to indicate that to their fellow-travelers that he was not speaking on the most ordinary topic; and he looked her full in the face with his clear dark eyes, in which she saw only truth and faithfulness. She was very, very deeply touched, and she could not keep the tears out of her eyes as she leaned towards him and said in tones that no others could hear: "I am no longer the friendless orphan I was when I came to the Lake House. In Mr. Van Berg I have found a friend whom I can trust; in you, Ik Stanton, a brother that I can love." If the reader's patience has not failed him up to this long-deferred moment, it shall now be rewarded by a few brief, concluding words. Mrs. Mayhew felt considerably aggrieved that she had had so little part in Ida's engagement with the wealthy and aristocratic Mr. Van Berg, and in later years she complained that they were very unfashionable, and spent an unreasonable amount of time in looking after all kinds of charitable institutions. Mr. Mayhew drank ever deeper at the full fountain of his child's love, and is serenely passing on to an honorable old age. Mr. Eltinge is now beyond age and weakness, but Ida often murmurs with tears in her eyes as she looks at his portrait, "He is just speaking to me as he did when my heart was breaking." Stanton's city friends say that he has greatly changed and might stand very high as a lawyer and politician if he were not so quixotic and prone to take cases in which there was no money, but he receives letters from New England which seem to compensate him for lack of large fees. Van Berg has not yet regretted that he entrusted "faulty Ida Mayhew" with his happiness, and he is more anxious than ever to lure her to his studio. For a long time he had to take the truth of her faith on trust but at last he stood by her side at God's altar and confessed that Name which has been the lowliest and grandest of earth. Ida is still very human, but with all her faults, her husband often whispers in her ear: "Not Ida, but Ideal." She is continually giving up her life for Christ's sake, and as often finds it coming back to her in some richer, sweeter form; and by her simple, joyous faith has led many to the Friend she found in the quaint old garden, and who says of all who come, "I will give unto them eternal life." Jennie Burton is still waiting; but at the end of each day of faithful work she sings the song of hope that Ida taught her: [THE END] _ |
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