Part 25 (1/2)
She came on quickly, her gray dress appearing heavier and more sombre against the sun-lighted gra.s.s and foliage than it had appeared in the dreary room of the House of Martha. As she approached the tree I advanced to meet her.
”You made me come too far,” she said reproachfully, as soon as we were near each other. ”The lane which leads to the house I came to visit is a quarter of a mile behind me.”
”I am sorry,” I replied, ”that I have made you walk any farther than necessary on such a warm morning, but I did not know that you intended to turn from this road. Let us step into the shade of this tree; we can talk more comfortably there.”
She looked at the tree, but did not move. ”What I have to say,” she remarked, ”can be said here; it will not take long.”
”You must not stand in the sun,” I replied; ”you are already heated.
Come into the shade,” and, without waiting her answer, I walked toward the tree; she followed me.
”Now, then,” said I, ”here is a great stone conveniently placed, upon which we can sit and rest while we talk.”
She fixed her large eyes upon me with a certain surprise. ”Truly, you have no regard for conventionalities. It is sufficiently out of the way for a sister of the House of Martha to meet a gentleman in this manner, but to sit with him under a tree would be ridiculously absurd, to say the least of it.”
”It does not strike me in that light,” I said. ”You are tired and warm, and must sit down. You came here on my account, and I regard you, in a manner, as a guest.”
She smiled, and looked at the rock which I had pointed out. It was a flat one, about three feet long, and it seemed as if it had been put there on purpose to serve for a seat.
”I am tired,” she said, and sat down upon it. As she did so, she gave a look about her, and at the same time made a movement with her right hand, which I often before had noticed in women. It was the involuntary expression of the female soul, longing for a fan. A fan, however, made up no part of the paraphernalia of a sister of the House of Martha.
”Allow me,” I said, and, taking off my straw hat, I gently fanned her.
Mother Anastasia laughed. ”This is really too much; please stop it. But you may lend me your hat. I did not know the morning would be so warm, and I am afraid I walked too fast. But we are losing time. Will you tell me precisely what it is you wish to know of me?”
”I can soon do that,” I answered; ”but I must first say that I believe you will suffocate if you try to talk from under that cavernous bonnet.
Why don't you take it off, and get the good of this cool shade? You had discarded all that sort of thing when I last talked with you, and you were then just as much a Mother Superior as you are now.”
She smiled. ”The case was very different then. I was actually obliged, by the will of another, to discard the garb of our sisterhood.”
”I most earnestly wish,” said I, ”that you could be obliged to do partially the same thing now. With that bonnet on, you do not seem at all the same person with whom I talked on Tangent Island. You appear like some one to whom I must open the whole subject anew.”
”Oh, don't do that,” she said, with a deprecating movement of her hand,--”I really haven't the time to listen; and if my bonnet hinders your speech, off it shall come. Now, then, I suppose you want to know the reason of my change of position in regard to Sylvia and you.” As she said this she took off her bonnet; not with a jerk, as Sylvia had once removed hers, but carefully, without disturbing the dark hair which was disposed plainly about her head. I was greatly relieved; this was an entirely different woman to talk to.
”Yes,” I replied, ”that is what I want to know.”
”I will briefly give you my reasons,” she said, still fanning herself with my hat, while I stood before her, earnestly listening, ”and you will find them very good and conclusive reasons. When I spoke to you before, the case was this: Sylvia Raynor had had a trouble, which made her think she was the most miserable girl in the whole world, and she threw herself into our sisterhood. Her mother did not object to this, because of course Sylvia entered as a probationer, and she thought a few months of the House of Martha life would do her good. That her daughter would permanently join the sisterhood never occurred to her. As I was a relative, it was a natural thing that the girl should enter a house of which I was the head. I did not approve of the step, but at first I had no fears about it. After a while, however, I began to have fears. She never liked our life and never sympathized with it, and her heart was never enlisted in the cause of the sisterhood; but after a time I found she was endeavoring to conquer herself, and when a woman with a will--and Sylvia is one of these--undertakes in earnest to conquer herself, she generally succeeds. Then it was I began to have my fears, and then it was I wished to divert her mind from the life of the sisterhood, and send her back to the world to which she belongs.”
”Then it was you gave me your promise?” I added.
”Yes,” she answered; ”and I gave it honestly. I would have helped you all I could. I truly believed that in so doing I was acting for Sylvia's good.”
”I thank you from the bottom of my heart,” I said; ”and tell me, did Mrs. Raynor know, when I was on the island, of my affection for Sylvia?”
”She knew as much as I knew,” was the answer, ”for I went to the island on purpose to consult with her on the subject; and when you confided in me, and I gave you my promise to help you, I also told her about that.”
”And did she approve?” I asked anxiously.