Four Phases of Love Part 2

CHAPTER V.

Her friends remarked with astonishment, the next morning, the change which had pa.s.sed over her. The rector's wife could not but believe that Mary had overheard their conversation through the part.i.tion.

"So much the better." said the rector; "now I shall have nothing more to say." Most moving was the lovingness of manner which Mary showed towards Clement and his parents. She wished for nothing more than to be permitted to belong to them. She received their love almost with surprise, as something to which she had no claim.

She did not, indeed, speak much more than before, but what she said was cheerful and kindly. There was a deprecating shrinking expression about her whole being, as if she was silently entreating forgiveness. She took Clement's arm again when they walked. She often begged that she might be allowed to sit down and rest, not that she was tired, but in order to leave the boy in freedom to clamber where he would. She smiled when he returned and told her all that he had seen: her old jealousy had disappeared since she had begun to demand nothing more for herself than the happiness of knowing him happy.

Thus strengthened and fortified, she ended the journey. And happy for her that she was so strengthened; for, when she arrived at home, she found her mother lying ill of a dangerous complaint, which ended fatally a few days after her return. And now, after the acute sorrow of the first few weeks had become lessened, her sad and altered life demanded duties from her which formerly she would hardly have been equal to. Her household cares occupied her early and late. In spite of her privation, she knew every cranny of the small house thoroughly, and if she herself was but seldom able to help with her own hands, yet she was clever and full of forethought in ordering all things so that her sorrowing father should want for nothing. A wonderful power and confidence came over her. Where in old times it had taken many a squabble to induce man and maid to do what was right, now a single gentle word from her sufficed. And if anything wrong happened, or work was done with an ill will, a steady glance from those large blind eyes quelled the most rebellious.

Since she felt that she must be cheerful for the sake of her father--since she understood that she must work and shape her life herself--the hours became ever rarer in which she felt the separation from Clement so painfully; and at last, when he was obliged to go to the high school in the town, she was able to say farewell to him, even more composedly than the others. It is true that she went about for weeks as in a dream--as if the best half of her being had been torn away from her. But soon she was as cheerful as before, sang her favourite songs to herself, and rallied her father till she won a smile from him. When the rector's wife came across with letters from the town? and read her news and messages from Clement, her heart beat quickly, and she lay longer at night without sleep visiting her eyelids. The next morning she was bright and cheerful as before.

At the vacation Clement returned to his parents, and his first walk was to the sacristan's house. Mary distinguished his step already in the distance, remained fixed where she was, and listened whether he would ask for her. She smoothed her hair, which still rolled in tresses down her slender neck, hastily with her hands, and rose from her work. As he entered the door every trace of excitement had vanished from her features. Cheerfully she gave him her hand, and begged him to sit near her and to talk to her. Then he forgot how the time flew by, and had to be called by his mother, who begrudged his long absence from her; for he seldom remained the whole vacation at the village, but wandered into the mountains, to which his growing affection for natural science attracted him.

The years rolled on their accustomed way; the old people withered slowly, and the young ones bloomed rapidly. When Clement returned once again at Easter, and Mary arose from her spinning wheel, he was astonished to see how tall and stately she had grown since the autumn.

"You are quite a woman," he said; "and I, too, am no longer a child; only feel how my beard has grown over my winter studies." A blush flitted across her cheek as he took her hand and placed it on his chin, to let her feel the newly-sprung down. He had, too, many more things to tell her than the first time he returned. The tutor with whom he lived had daughters, and these daughters had lady friends. He was obliged to describe them one and all with the greatest accuracy. "I can make nothing out of the girls," he said; "they are silly and frivolous, and chatter too much. There is one, Cecilia, that I can endure a little better than the others, because she can hold her tongue, and does not make grimaces in order to look pretty. But what do they bother me for?

The other evening, when I went into my room, I found a bunch of flowers on my table, and let it lie, and never took the trouble to put it in water, though I was sorry for the flowers; but it annoyed me. And the next day there was such a giggling and whispering amongst the girls that I could not speak to them for anger. Why cannot they leave me alone? They know that I have no time for their nonsense!"

Not one word of all this did Mary lose, and spun an endless thread of strange thoughts out of it. She was almost in danger of injuring herself with fruitless dreamings, if a too well grounded cause of anxiety and real sorrow had not saved her. Her father, who had for a long time been able to do his duty with difficulty, had a paralytic stroke, and lay nearly a year perfectly helpless, until a second attack put an end to his sufferings. Not for an hour did his child leave his side. Even when the vacations brought Clement home again, she only permitted herself to talk to him during his short visits to the sickroom.

She grew ever more firm, ever more self-denying. She complained to no one, and would have required the help of none had her blindness permitted her to do all herself. And thus her misfortune, which had tutored her soul, accustomed her also to household duties, neglected by many a seeing one. She kept the strictest order over all things of which she had the care, and no amount of cleanliness could satisfy her, as she was unable to judge by the eye when the least speck of dust was removed. The tears sprang into Clement's eyes when he saw her busied was.h.i.+ng her crippled father, or combing out his thin locks. She had grown pale in the close air of the sick-room; but her brown eyes had a deeper light from that very cause, and in all her common household work, the true n.o.bility of her whole being only became the more evident.

The old man died, his successor took possession of the cottage, and Mary found a welcome refuge in the rectory. Clement, who in the mean time had gone to a distant university, and who was unable to visit home twice a-year as formerly, was informed of all these changes by letters, which reached him but rarely, and were answered irregularly. Now and then his letters contained a note for Mary, in which he expressed himself condescendingly and jestingly, so unlike his old self, and addressed her as if she were still a child, so that his mother shook her head and said nothing of it before his father. Mary had these strange letters carefully read to her, begged them, and preserved them.

After her father's death she received a short excited letter from him, in which he neither endeavoured to comfort her nor said a word showing a partic.i.p.ation with her sorrow, only earnest entreaties to take care of her health, and to be quiet, and to let him know exactly how she was. This was in winter, and this letter the last to Mary. They expected a visit from him at Easter. He remained away, and wrote that he could not resist the opportunity of accompanying a celebrated professor on a botanical tour. His father was satisfied, and Mary succeeded at last in calming the mother's disappointment.

He arrived unannounced at Whitsuntide on foot, untired by a long march since daybreak, with healthy cheeks, and he was a full-grown man. So he entered the quiet house, in which his mother was sitting alone, for it was the Sat.u.r.day evening before the feast-day. With a cry of joy the startled woman clasped him round the neck. "So you," she cried, as she loosened herself from his arms, and took a step backwards to measure the long absent one with the full gaze of love, "So you have returned to us once again, unkind, forgetful one. You still remember the way to your father and mother. G.o.d be praised! I thought that you had made up your mind never to return till you were a professor, and then perhaps my poor old eyes might never have rejoiced in the sight of you again _here below_. But I will not scold you. You are faithful. You are the old Clement. And you will give me such a Whitsun feast as I have not had for many a day, to me and your father, and to us _all_.

"Mother," he said, "how happy I am to be here once again! I could not bear at last to remain longer away. I do not know how it happened, I made no resolution beforehand. I felt that I must get home. One bright morning, instead of going to lecture, I walked through the town-gates, and strode away as if I fled from sin. I accomplished such journeys as I had never made before, good as I used to be on foot. Where is my father? where is Mary?"

"Don't you hear him." said the mother, "your father is above in his study." They heard the firm step of the old man as he paced to and fro above them. "All is as it used to be," continued the mother. "That has been his Sat.u.r.day's walk for the twenty years that I have known him.

And Mary is out in the field with our people. I have sent her out because she will not let me do anything. When she is at home she would make me sit in the corner with my hands in my lap, if she had her own way, and do everything herself. We have some new servants now, and I like her to look over them until they have got used to her. How astonished she will be to find you here! But come, I will bring you to your father, just to let him see you, and it will soon be dinner time.

Come, he will not be angry at _your_ disturbing him."

She led her son, stepping lightly before him, but still holding his hand in hers, up the stairs. Gently she opened the door, beckoned to Clement, and stepping backwards herself, pushed him in. "There he is,"

she cried; "at last you have him." The old man started as out of deep thought. "Who?" he asked, almost impatiently. Then he looked in his son's face, brightly lighted by a gleam of sun. "Clement," he cried, between astonishment and joy, "you here?" "I longed for home," said the son, and pressed the proffered hand warmly. "I shall stay here for the feast, father, if you have room for me, now that Mary is under your roof." "How can you talk so," interrupted his mother, quickly; "if I had seven sons I could find place for them all. But I will leave you to your father. I must go to the kitchen and the garden, they will have spoilt you in the town, you must be content for love's sake." She was already gone, as the father and son stood silently opposite each other; "I have disturbed you," said Clement, at last; "you were writing your sermon; tell me if I shall go." "You only disturb one who has disturbed himself. Since this morning have I paced to and fro, thinking on my text, but grace was not with me, and the grain hath not brought forth.

I have felt strangely; a gloom is over me that I cannot shake off." He went to the little window that looked out towards the church, the way to which lay through the churchyard. There it glowed tranquil with its flowers and glittering crosses in the midday sun. "Come here, Clement,"

said the old man, gently; "place yourself by me. Do you see that grave to the left, with primroses and monthly roses? You have never seen that one before. Do you know who sleeps there? My good, true friend, the father of our Mary!" He left the window at which his son, deeply struck, remained standing. He paced again to and fro through the chamber, and in the silence they could hear the sand crackle under his steady tread. "Aye!" said the old man, with a deep sigh, "no one knew him as I knew him; no one gained so much from him, no one lost so much with him as I did. What knew he of the world and its wisdom; that is but folly before G.o.d. What he knew was all revealed to him from within, and from the Holy Book, and from sorrow. He has become blessed, because he _was_ blessed."

After a pause he spoke again: "Whom have I now to shame when I am proud of heart, and save me when my faith wavers; and to decide the thoughts that accuse and excuse me? The world grows too wise for me! What I hear I understand not, and what I read my soul _will_ not understand, for it is grief to it! How many rise up and think that they speak with tongues? and, behold! it is but lip-work! And the mockers hear it and rejoice therein. Mine old friend, would I were where thou art."

Clement turned. He had never before heard his father talk of the sorrows of his own soul. He went to him and sought for words of consolation. "Cease, my son," said the old man, checking him, "What can _you_ give me, that Heaven could not have given me better? See, it was shortly after his death, I slept above here. The night awoke me with its storm and rain; I felt sad, even to death; then he appeared to me--a light shone about him--he was in his garments as when he lived--he spoke not, but stood at the foot of my bed, and looked calmly down upon me. At first, it oppressed me sorely! I was not enough grown in grace to look on the face of a glorified being. The next day I felt the peace that it had left behind it. From that time it came not again until last night. I had been reading a book in the evening, blasphemous against G.o.d and G.o.d's word; I had gone to my bed in anger--then it was that, after midnight, I again started suddenly from my sleep, and he stood before me--dressed as at the first time, but with the Bible in his hand, open, and written with letters of gold. He pointed to a pa.s.sage with his finger, but there came a gleam from out the leaves, so that I gazed on it in vain, and for the fullness of the light could read never a word! I drew myself nearer to him, half rising up; he stood--pity and love in his face, which changed to grief as I strove to read and could not. Then the tears sprang to my eyes--from the brightness, they grew dark---and he vanished softly away, and left me weeping."

The old man had gone again to the window, and Clement saw a strong shudder pa.s.s over him. "Father!" he cried, and seized his nerveless hand--it was damp and cold; "Father, you alarm me! You should send for the physician."

"To the physician!" cried the old man, almost angrily, and stretched himself up in every limb, "I am well. Therein it lies. My soul longs and strives for death, and my body selfishly withstands it!"

"These dreams, father, agitate you."

"Dreams! I tell you that I was awake, as I am at this moment."

"I do not doubt, father, that you were awake; but so much the more does this severe attack, which pursues you with visions even when you are awake, alarm me. See! even now you are quite overcome by the mere recollection, and your pulse rises. I know, little of a doctor as I am, that you had fever last night and are under its influence now."

"And you think that you know as much as _that_ poor worm!" cried the old man. "Oh, the marvellous wisdom! Oh, the gracious science! But what right have I to complain? Do I not deserve punishment for blurting out G.o.d's secrets, and making my full heart a mark for the scorner? Is this the fruit of your learning? Do you expect to gather figs from this bramble? But I know you well--you miserable ones, who make new G.o.ds for the people, and in your hearts wors.h.i.+p yourselves alone--your days are numbered."

He went towards the door; his bare forehead was flushed. He did not look towards Clement, who stood gazing on the floor; suddenly he felt his father's hand on his shoulder.

"Tell me openly, my son, are you as far gone already as those whose ravings I have read of with shuddering? Do you already hold, with those sleek materialists, that the miracle is ridiculous, and the _spirit_ but a tale told from one to another, and to which man listens? Has neither thy youth, nor the seeds of thankfulness G.o.d sowed in your heart, been able to choke those weeds? Answer me, Clement!"

"Father," said the young man, after some consideration, "how shall I answer you this thing? I have dedicated my whole life to the consideration of this question. I have heard it decided in different ways, by men whose opinions I revere. Amongst my dearest friends are some who think what you condemn. I hear and learn and do not venture as yet to decide."

"He who is not for me is against me, saith the Lord."

"How can I be against _Him_? How can I be against the _Spirit_? Who ventures to ignore the spiritual, even though he binds it to the material? Do not its miracles remain what they were, even though they may be the result of natural causes? Is it a disgrace to a n.o.ble statue that it is hewn out of stone?"

"You speak like them all; so they intoxicate you with dark similes, so they deafen you with high sounding words, that you may not hear the still small voice within you; and you have come to keep Whitsuntide holy with _us_?"

"I came because I loved you."

There was silence between them. Several times the old man opened his mouth as if about to speak, and then pressed his lips firmly together again. They heard Mary's voice below in the house, and Clement stepped, listening, back from the window, at which he had been standing sorrowfully. "It is Mary," said the old man; "have you forgotten _her_ too? Did the recollection of your childhood's playmate never pa.s.s before your soul, when your blasphemous companions endeavoured to destroy your pure, G.o.dly childishness of heart with their miserable sneers? Did _she_ never remind you of the wonders the spirit can perform--even when it is deprived of sense--alone, out of itself. I should say of G.o.d, in a humble heart, which is rich in faith?"

Clement repressed the answer which rose ready to his lips. They heard the light step of the blind girl on the stairs. The door opened, and with flus.h.i.+ng cheek Mary stood on the threshold; "Clement," she cried, fixing the bright brown eyes on the spot where he really stood. He approached her and took the hand that waited for his. "Oh! what pleasure you have given your parents! Welcome, welcome! How quiet you are!" she added.

"Dearest Mary, yes, I am here once again. I was _obliged_ to come to see you all. How well you look, and you have grown so tall."

"I have gained a fresh life since the spring. The winter was heavy for me. I am so happy with your father and mother, Clement! Good day, dearest father." she added, "we went out so early that I could not press your hand;" she took it now. "Go below my child;" said the old man, "Clement will go with you--you can show him your garden. There is yet a little time before dinner. Think on my words, Clement."

The young people went. "What is the matter with the father?" asked Mary, when they were below. "His voice sounded strangely, and yours too. Was he angry with you?"

"I found him excited. He seems ill. Has he not complained of anything?"

"Not to me; but he has been restless, and sometimes silent for hours together. It struck my mother, too. Has he been harsh towards you?"

"We had a discussion about serious things; he asked me, and I could not deny my opinions."

The girl became thoughtful; not until they reached the open air did her face brighten. "Is it not beautiful here?" she asked, spreading out her hands.

"I really did not recognize it again," he answered. "What a wonderful place you have made out of the little barren spot! Ever since I can remember there were only a few fruit trees, and mallows and alders; and now it is full of roses!"

"Yes," she said. "Your mother used not to care about the garden then, and now she delights in it The sacristan's son, who has learned gardening in the town, gave me the first rose bush, and planted it himself; then we added others and now it is quite beautiful. But the finest are not in flower yet."

"And you take care of them yourself?"

"You are astonished at it, because I cannot see," she said gaily; "but I understand what is good for plants. I can tell by the scent when one is fading, or going out of flower, or wants watering; they always tell me. But, indeed, I cannot gather you a flower; for they p.r.i.c.k my fingers."