Part 48 (1/2)

The rector had hurried down the entry to find Jean, who indeed needed no rousing, for Sally had told her who had come. ”Let me know when Miss Helen is comfortable,” he said.

And when the old woman, awed by Helen's still, white face, told him his niece was in bed, he came up again, holding the decanter by the throat, and begging her to take another gla.s.s of wine. But she only turned her head away and asked to be alone. She would not say anything more, and did not seem to hear his a.s.surances that it would be ”all right in the morning,” and that ”she must not worry.”

It was the kindest thing to her, but it was very hard for the rector to go down to his library still in ignorance. The spell of peace had been rudely broken, and his fire was out. He lifted Helen's bonnet, still heavy with rain, and laid it on the cloak she had thrown across a chair, and then stood and looked at them as though they could explain the mystery of her return. The tall clock on the stairs struck eleven, and outside the storm beat and complained.

Dr. Howe was up early the next morning. He went through the silent house before Sally had crept yawning from her room, and, throwing open the doors at each end of the hall, let a burst of suns.h.i.+ne and fresh wind into the darkness and stillness. Then he went out, and began to walk up and down the porch as a sort of outlet to his impatience. Over and over he said, ”What can it be?” Indeed, Dr. Howe had asked himself that question even in his dreams. ”I hope there's no woman at the bottom of it,” he thought. ”But no; Ward's a fool, but he is a good man.”

He stopped once, to lift a trailing vine and twist it about a support.

The rain had done great damage in the night: the locust blossoms had been torn from the trees, and the lawn was white with them; the soft, wet petals of the climbing roses were scattered upon the path by the side of the house; and a long branch of honeysuckle, wrenched from its trellis, was p.r.o.ne upon the porch. These small interests quieted the rector, and he was able soon to reason himself into the belief that his niece's return was a trifling affair, perhaps a little uncomfortable, and certainly silly, but he would soon make it all right; so that when he saw her coming slowly down-stairs, with Lois creeping after her, almost afraid to speak, he was able to greet her very tranquilly.

”Are you rested, my child? After breakfast, we'll have a good talk, and everything shall be straightened out.”

Breakfast was a dreary affair. Helen's abstraction was too profound for her to make even the pretense of eating. Once or twice, when Lois's voice pierced through the clouds and reached her heart, she looked up, and tried to reply. But they were all glad when it was over, and the rector put his arm gently over his niece's shoulders, and drew her into the library.

”If any one comes, Lois,” he said, ”you had better just say Helen changed her mind about going yesterday, and has come back for a few days.”

”No,” interrupted Helen slowly. ”You had better say what is the truth, Lois. I have come back to Ashurst to stay.”

”Now, my dear,” remonstrated the rector when they were in the library, and he had shut the door, ”that is really very unwise. These little affairs, little misunderstandings, are soon cleared up, and they are even forgotten by the people most interested in them. But outsiders never forget. So it is very unwise to speak of them.”

Helen had seated herself on the other side of his writing-table, brus.h.i.+ng away the litter of papers and unanswered letters, so that she could lean her elbow on it, and now she looked steadily across at him.

”Uncle,” she said, calmly ”you do not know. There is no misunderstanding.

It is just what I told you last night: he thinks it best that I should leave him indefinitely. I know that it is forever. Yes, it seems to him best. And I am sure, feeling as he does, he is right. Yes, John is right.”

Dr. Howe threw himself back in his revolving chair, and spun half-way round. ”Helen,” he said, ”this is folly; you must talk like a sensible woman. You know you cannot leave your husband. I suppose you and Ward, like all the rest of the world that is married, have had some falling out; and now, being young, you think your lives are over. Nonsense!

Bless my soul, child, your aunt and I had dozens of them, and all as silly as this, I'll be bound. But I'm sure we did not take the public into our confidence by declaring that we would live apart. I should have given you credit for more sense, indeed I should.”

Helen did not notice the reprimand.

”Now tell me all about it,” he continued. ”You know you can trust me, and I'll write your husband a letter which will make things clear.”

Helen shook her head wearily. ”You will not understand. Nothing can be done; it is as fixed as--death. We can neither of us alter it and be ourselves. Oh, I have tried and tried to see some way out of it, until it seems as if my soul were tired.”

”I did not intend to be severe, my child,” the rector said, with remorseful gentleness, ”but in one way it is a more serious thing than you realize. I don't mean this foolishness of a separation; that will all be straightened out in a day or two. But we do not want it gossiped about, and your being here at all, after having started home, looks strange; and of course, if you say anything about having had a--a falling out with Ward, it will make it ten times worse. But you haven't told me what it is?”

”Yes, I'll tell you,” she answered, ”and then perhaps you will see that it is useless to talk about it. I must just take up the burden of life as well as I can.”

”Go on,” said the rector.

”John has been much distressed lately,” Helen began, looking down at her hands, clasping each other until the skin was white across the knuckles, ”because I have not believed in eternal punishment. He has felt that my eternal happiness depended upon holding such a belief.” Dr. Howe looked incredulous. ”Some weeks ago, one of his elders came to him and told him I was spreading heresy in the church, and d.a.m.ning my own soul and the souls of others who might come to believe as I did,--you know I told Mrs.

Davis that her husband had not gone to h.e.l.l,--and he reproached John for neglecting me and his church too; for John, to spare me, had not preached as he used to, on eternal punishment. It almost killed him, uncle,” she said, and her voice, which had given no hint of tears since her return, grew unsteady. ”Oh, he has suffered so! and he has felt that it was his fault, a failure in his love, that I did not believe what he holds to be true.”

”Heavens!” cried the rector explosively, ”heresy? Is this the nineteenth century?”

”Since I have been away,” Helen went on, without noticing the interruption, ”they have insisted that I should be sessioned,--dealt with, they call it. John won't let me come back to that; but if that were his only reason, we could move away from Lockhaven. He has a n.o.bler reason: he feels that this unbelief of mine will bring eternal misery to my soul, and he would convert me by any means. He has tried all that he knows (for oh, we have discussed it endlessly, uncle Archie!),--argument, prayer, love, tenderness, and now--sorrow.”

The rector was sitting very straight in his chair, his plump hands gripping the arms of it, and his lips compressed with anger, while he struggled for patience to hear this preposterous story through.

”He makes me suffer,” Helen continued, ”that I may be saved. And indeed I don't see how he can do anything else. If a man believes his wife will be d.a.m.ned for all eternity unless she accepts certain doctrines, I should think he would move heaven and earth to make her accept them. And John does believe that. In denying reprobation, I deny revelation, he says, and also the Atonement, upon which salvation depends. So now you see why he says I shall not come back to him until I have found the truth.”