Part 15 (1/2)
”I know not, Cousin Peter.” Her face became thoughtful, and she added, with some seriousness:
”The thing we intend is sure to bring with it lots of things we did not intend, and often of far superior importance; but----”
”Our times are always in His hand. We do not shape our own destiny, cousin.”
”Oh, indeed! I should like to dispute that point with you; but the train is no respecter of persons, so we must let its settlement wait on our convenience.”
With these words she waved an adieu to Adriana, and Peter drove her away. Then Adriana sat down to try to realize the change that had so suddenly come over her circ.u.mstances. Her first thought was the glad one that she had voluntarily made her father happy before this invitation came. How mean she would have felt if she had not done so!
He might then have been pleased to get rid of her sad face and melancholy ways; and she could not have written to him about her pleasures in New York. She would have been ashamed to do so. And on many other accounts, she understood at this hour that unselfishness pays no one so well as it pays those who practice it.
It was Friday afternoon, and the interval was full of pleasant talk and antic.i.p.ations; though naturally on the Sabbath the tone of both was subdued to the day and its holy observances. In the bare old Dutch Reformed Church, Adriana was an object of interest to the maidens wors.h.i.+pping there; almost as much so as if she were going to be married. A strange destiny had fallen upon this girl, who had been their playmate and schoolmate, and they could not help wondering what quality she possessed capable of attracting to her so much good fortune. She was pretty, but then they also were pretty; some of them lived in larger and finer homes than Adriana's; and as for her plain tweed gowns, they thought their own styles far superior.
”It must have been something she learned at college,” said one speculative girl, in their future discussion of this subject. ”No,”
said another, ”it is the Dutch in her. Mother says the Van Hoosens have always stuck together. There never was a poor one among them, or, if there was, they all helped him until he could stand on his feet and fight his own battle.”
And certainly Alida Van Hoosen's interest in Antony and Adriana--only very distant relatives--seemed to warrant this explanation. For a good family tree has far-spreading branches and roots, and the crown of leaves on the topmost branch, and the tiniest fibre that offshoots from the trunk, are part and parcel of the same life. And no other tree is just like it. Now, Alida Van Hoosen was one of those women who ripen well and improve by keeping--a much sweeter woman at sixty than she had been at forty; for though age turns a frivolous nature into a hard one, it makes a serious woman tender and tolerant and humanly sympathetic. And Miss Alida, having wearied her capacity for travel and change, was fortunately in need of a living object on which to bestow her time and her affections. So that the unlooked-for appearance of Antony, and the handsome appearance of Adriana, allied with circ.u.mstances so singularly fitting into her love of race and family, supplied her with an interest promising to be both sufficiently active and sufficiently lasting.
”Here am I,” she said to herself, ”provided by my good fortune with two sons and two daughters, just at their most interesting age; all their childish tempers and troubles over, their education finished, and their love affairs pleasantly tangled up. I am grateful to Peter Van Hoosen and Henry Filmer for finding me a vocation so suitable for my age and my position as the good genius of the Van Hoosens.” And with this pleasant idea underlying all her other ideas, she awaited the arrival of Adriana.
Monday morning proved to be fine and frostily exhilarating; and Peter took his daughter to the train in a cheerful mood. He knew better than to offer her advice about a life of which he was entirely ignorant; besides, he had faith in Adriana's religious nature and clear judgment; and he felt it to be sufficient as he held her hand at parting to say: ”Be a good girl, Yanna, 'unspotted from the world'--you know what that means, my dear. And try to do something for Antony.”
She smiled a.s.sent to both commissions, and with this comfort at heart, Peter drove leisurely home, and began to settle his life to its new order. He was resolved to work more in his barn and his greenhouse, and to begin writing a little book, which he had long contemplated, upon the culture of bulbs. On the whole, he was sure he could manage to enjoy his solitary life very well; for love destroys all egotisms; it can be happy in the happiness of others.
Antony was the first person Adriana saw when she reached New York. He had come with the carriage to meet his sister, and he was smiling a welcome to her, before he had any opportunity to speak it. ”What do you think?” he said to Yanna, as soon as they were together. ”Cousin Alida sent for me on Sat.u.r.day, and when I answered her note, she entreated me to be her guest during this winter. She told me she expected you to-day, and that a gentleman in the house was necessary for comfort and safety--and respectability. She pretended to be afraid of burglars and servants, and made out such a hard condition for herself and you that I finally consented to accept her invitation. But I am afraid I have done a very foolish thing.”
”Indeed, you have not, Antony. You are looking pale and ill; certainly you want some one to care for you. What is the matter, dear brother?”
”Nothing.”
”Do you mean Rose Filmer, when you say 'nothing'?”
”Far from it. Rose is everything.”
”You love Rose so much? Tell me about it, Antony. It will do you good.”
”I love Rose so much, Yanna, that I only live to love her.”
”Well, then, you will soon meet her often, and under very favorable conditions. She will be sure to visit me, and in the quiet of Cousin Alida's house you may influence her when you could not do so in a crowd.”
”I have thought of that. And, oh, Yanna! you must help me to keep my Rose sweet and pure. She has so many temptations; she is so weak, and you are so strong. Surely you will help me to help Rose!”
”With all my heart. Miss Alida told me----”
”Do not mind what you are told--the dear girl is in danger, and I love her all the more. Oh, Yanna, the love has got into my soul, and whatever Rose is, or whatever she does, cannot affect it. Deep down, below all the folly and cruelty she is sometimes guilty of, she loves me. Do I mind, then, the accidentals of her position? Not at all. Her heart is mine. Some day she will find that out. I am not to be discouraged by pouts or tempers--no, nor yet by graver faults.”
And Yanna felt at once that there was no reasoning with a love like this. Also, it had her most living sympathy. Just in this unreasonable way, she would fain have been loved herself. She looked with admiration on the man capable of it. As he talked of Rose, of her beauty, her sweetness, her facile temper responding to every breath of opinion, to every whim and wish, he talked with an astonis.h.i.+ng eloquence; for the highest poetry is struck from the eternal strings of the human heart, and every word Antony said came thrilling from them. It was evident that he had learned this eloquence in the school of pain; Yanna could see through his shy, sensitive, uncomplaining manner that he had suffered, and was still suffering from the conditions he described so graphically.
”We are at home,” he said at length. ”And, oh, Yanna! it has done me so much good to speak to you. I have never said a word to any one before. I felt this morning as if my heart must break.”
”Come to me with every fresh joy or sorrow, Antony. What is a sister for? See, there is cousin at the door!”