Part 15 (2/2)
”Madam,” I exclaimed, ”I love Sylvia, and therefore could not speak freely to her.”
”Your distinctions are wonderfully clear-cut,” she said; ”but why do you wish to talk of me? I suppose you want to know why I am Mother Superior of the House of Martha?”
”Yes,” I answered, ”that is a thing I cannot understand; but of course I should not feel justified in even alluding to it if, yesterday, you had not so kindly given me your confidence in regard to yourself and Sylvia.”
”It seems to me,” she remarked, ”that, as you decline to recognize the name given to that young woman by our inst.i.tution, you should call her Miss Raynor; but I will say no more of that.”
”It would be well,” said I. ”She is Sylvia to me. You must remember that I never met her in the circles of conventionalism.”
She laughed. ”This whole affair is certainly very independent of conventionalism; and as to your curiosity about me, that is very easily gratified. Nearly five years ago I connected myself with the House of Martha. Although there were sisters older than myself, I was chosen Mother Superior, because I possessed rather more administrative abilities than any of the others. I think I have governed the House fairly well, even if, in regard to the matter of furnis.h.i.+ng secretaries to literary men, there has been some dissatisfaction.”
”You allude to Sister Sarah?” said I.
”Yes,” she answered; ”and had she been head of the House, your peace of mind would not have been disturbed. But what I did in that case I did conscientiously and with good intent.”
”And you are not sorry for it?” I asked.
”It may be that I shall be sorry for you,” she replied, ”but that is all I have to say on that point. In a very short time I shall return to my duties and to my sombre bonnet and gown, and these interpolated days, which in a manner have been forced upon me, should be forgotten.”
”But one thing you must not forget,” I exclaimed: ”it was in this time that you promised me”--
”You selfish, selfish man,” she interrupted, ”you think only of yourself. I shall talk no more of yourself, of myself, or of Sylvia. My friends are at the other side of the house, and I am going to them.” And she went.
While Walkirk and I were sailing that afternoon, he managing the boat and I stretched upon some cus.h.i.+ons, I told him of my conversations with Mother Anastasia. I considered him worthy of my confidence, and it was pleasant to give it to him.
”She is a rare, strange woman,” said he. ”I thought her very handsome when I visited her at the House of Martha; but since I have seen her here, dressed in becoming clothes, I consider that she possesses phenomenal attractions.”
”And I hope,” I remarked, ”that she may be phenomenally good-natured, and give me some chances of seeing Sylvia Raynor.”
”That would indeed be phenomenal,” said Walkirk, laughing, ”considering that she is a Mother Superior, and the young lady is a member of the sisterhood. But everything relating to the case is peculiar, and in my opinion Mother Anastasia is more peculiar than anything else.”
That evening we were invited to dine at the house of the Sand Lady. It was a delightful occasion. Everybody was in good spirits, and the general tone of the conversation was singularly lively and unrestrained.
Mother Anastasia would not play cards, but we amused ourselves with various sprightly social games, in which the lady who preferred to be called a Person showed a vivacious though sometimes nipping wit. I had no opportunity for further private talk with Mother Anastasia, nor did I desire one. I wished to interest her in my love for Sylvia, but not to bore her with it.
The next day, at about eleven o'clock, the Sand Lady and the Sh.e.l.l Man walked over to our little bay, where they found Walkirk and me fencing upon the level beach.
”Stop your duel, gentlemen,” said the lady. ”I come to give you the farewells of the Interpolation. She was sorry she could not do this herself, but she went away very early this morning.”
”Went away!” I cried, dropping my foil upon the sand. ”Where did she go?”
”She sailed in our yacht for Sanford,” answered the Sand Lady, ”to take the morning train for her beloved House of Martha. My brother accompanied her to the town, but he will be back to-day.”
I was surprised and grieved, and showed it.
”We are all sorry to have her go,” said the Sand Lady, ”and sorry to see her wearing that doleful gray garb, which my brother allowed her to a.s.sume this morning.”
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