Part 22 (1/2)
”Do you know how these superst.i.tions originated, Miss Graham?” asked Anna, who was of an inquiring mind.
”Many of them are very ancient,” replied Cousin Irene. ”That which predicts that the gift of anything sharp cuts friends.h.i.+p probably dates back farther than the days of Rome and Greece, and is almost as old as the dagger itself. No doubt it originated in an age of frequent wars and quarrels, when for a warrior to put a weapon in the hands of a companion was perhaps to find it forthwith turned against himself. In those days of strife also, when men were more ready in action than in the turning of phrases, and so much was expressed by symbolism, the offering of a sword or dagger was frequently in itself a challenge, and a declaration of enmity. Thus, you see, that what was a natural inference in other times is meaningless in ours. The adage which advises the person obliged to turn back in his journey to be careful to sit down before setting out anew, was at first simply a metaphorical way of saying that having made a false start toward the accomplishment of any duty, it is well to begin again at the beginning. The custom which restrained comrades in arms, or friends walking or journeying together, from allowing anything to come between them, had also a figurative import. It was a dramatic manner of declaring, 'Nothing shall ever part us,--no ill-will nor strife, not even this accidental barrier, shall interrupt our friendly intercourse.' In the times, too, when there were few laws but that of might, when danger often lurked by the wayside, it was always well for a traveller to keep close to his companion, and not to separate from him without necessity.
”Many other superst.i.tions, as well, have a symbolical origin. But the nineteenth century does not deal with such picturesque methods of expression. We pride ourselves upon saying in so many words just what we mean; therefore much of the poetic imagery of other days has no significance in ours. And is it not symbolism without sense which const.i.tutes one of the phases of superst.i.tion? As for your bread-and-b.u.t.ter exorcism, Anna, I presume it was simply the expression of a hope that nothing might interfere between hungry folk and their dinner. This is, indeed, but a bit of juvenile nonsense; just as children will 'make believe' that some dire mishap will befall one who steps on the cracks of a flagged sidewalk; and so on through a score of funny conceits and games, innocent enough as child's play, but hardly worthy of sensible girls in their teens.
”You know, the practice of refraining from beginning a journey or undertaking on Friday,” continued Miss Irene, ”arose from a religious observance of the day upon which Our Lord was crucified. As the early Christians were accustomed to devote this day to meditation and prayer, it followed that few went abroad at that time, or set about new temporal ventures. Superst.i.tion early perverted the import of this pious custom. As on that day Satan marshalled all the powers of evil against the Son of G.o.d, so, said the soothsayers, he would beset with misfortune and danger the path of those who set forth on a Friday. As regards the case in point, since we do not go into retreat once a week, I presume Anna and Rosemary have not this reason for refusing to visit their young friend on Friday.”
There was a general laugh, after which Miss Irene went on:
”For the rest, we know G.o.d's loving providence carefully watches over us at all times, and constantly preserves us from countless dangers; that nothing can betide us without His permission, and that He blesses the work of every day if we ask Him. Far from being influenced by the common superst.i.tion with regard to Friday, it would seem as if we should piously prefer to begin an undertaking (and in this spirit seek a special blessing on the work thus commenced) on the day of the week which commemorates that most fortunate of all days for us, on which was consummated the great act of Redemption.
”The superst.i.tion with reference to thirteen at table dates from the Last Supper, of which Our Lord partook with His twelve Apostles on the eve of His crucifixion. Hence the saying that of thirteen persons who sit down together to a repast, one will soon die. I think it was originally the custom to avoid having thirteen at the festive or family board, not so much from this notion, as to express a horror of the treachery of Judas. Such would be, for instance, the chivalrous spirit of the Crusaders. We can understand how, in feudal times, a knight would consider it an affront to his fellows to bid them to a banquet spread for thirteen. In those days, when a feast was so apt to end in a fray,--when by perfidy the enemy so often entered at the castle gate while the company were at table, and frequently a chief was slain ere he could rise from his place,--the circ.u.mstance would point an a.n.a.logy which it has not with us, suggesting not merely mortality but betrayal; a breach of all the laws of hospitality; impending death by violence.
Since we can not live forever, among every a.s.semblage of individuals there is likely to be one at least whose life may be nearly at its close. The more persons present, the greater the probability; therefore there is really a greater fatality in the numbers fourteen, twenty, thirty, than in thirteen.
”But to return to the point from which we started--no, Emily, it is not necessary to sit down. You will observe that many persons who declare emphatically that they are not superst.i.tious, are nevertheless influenced by old-time sayings and practices; some of which, though perhaps beautiful originally, have now lost all significance; others which are simply relics of paganism. Men are often as irrational in this respect as women; and, notice this well, you will find superst.i.tion much more common among non-Catholics than among Catholics.
As we have seen, however, some of us do not realize that what we are pleased to call certain harmless eccentricities, are very like the superst.i.tious practices forbidden by the First Commandment.”
Kate and Emily were not giving to this little homily the attention it deserved. They had begun to trifle as girls are wont to do. Catching at the tiny bisque cupid that hung from the chandelier, Emily sportively sent it flying toward Kate, who swung it back again. Thus they kept it flitting to and fro, faster and faster. Finally, Emily hit it with a jerk. The cord by which it was suspended snapped; the dainty bit of bric-a-brac sped across the room, and, striking with full force against a mirror in a quaint old secretary that had belonged to Mr. Mahon's uncle, s.h.i.+vered the gla.s.s to pieces. Instantly every trace of color fled from her face, and she stood appalled, gazing at the mischief she had done. There was, of course, an exclamation from her companions, who remained staring at her, and appeared almost as disturbed as herself.
Cousin Irene went over and patted her on the shoulder, saying, ”Do not be so distressed, child. I know you are sorry to have damaged the old secretary, which we value so much for its a.s.sociations. But there is no need of being so troubled. We can have a new mirror put in.”
”It is not only that,” faltered the silly girl; ”but to break a looking-gla.s.s! You know it is a sure sign that a great misfortune will befall us--that there will probably be a death in the family before long.”
”Oh, but such sayings don't always come true! There are often exceptions,” interposed Kate, anxious to say something consolatory, and heartily wis.h.i.+ng they had let the little cupid alone.
”Too bad; for it really is dreadfully unlucky to have such a thing happen!” sighed Rosemary, with less tact.
”I know it,” murmured May.
”Yes, indeed,” added Anna.
Miss Graham drew back astonished. ”Young ladies, I am ashamed of you!”
she said, reproachfully, and went out of the room.
There were a few moments of discomfiture, and presently the girls concluded, one after another, that it was time to be going home.
Left alone, Emily approached the secretary and examined the ruined mirror. It was cracked like an egg-sh.e.l.l,--”smashed to smithereens,”
Tom said in telling the story later; but only one or two bits had fallen out. Idly attempting to fit these into place again, Emily caught sight of what she supposed was a sheet of note-paper, that had apparently made its way in between the back of the mirror and the frame.
”An old letter of grandpa's, probably,” she said aloud, taking hold of the corner to draw it out. It stuck fast; but a second effort released it, amid a shower of splintered gla.s.s; and to her amazement she found in her possession a time-stained doc.u.ment that had a mysteriously legal air. Trembling with excitement she unfolded it, and, without stopping to think that it might not be for her eyes, began to read the queer writing, which was somewhat difficult to decipher:
”In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.
Amen. I, Bernard Mahon, being of sound and disposing mind, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament.”
”Uncle Bernard's will!” gasped Emily. ”It must be the one father always said uncle told him about, but which never could be found.
Perhaps he slipped it in here for safe-keeping.” Eagerly she scanned it, crying at last, ”Yes, yes! Hurrah! O Cousin Irene!” she called out, hearing the latter's step in the hall.