Faith Gartney's Girlhood Part 37

She saw always something that was beyond; something she might not attain; yet, expectant of nothing, but blindly true to the highest within her, she lost no glimpse of the greater, through lowering herself to the less.

Her soul of womanhood a.s.serted itself; longing, ignorantly, for a soul love. "To be cared for, so!"

But she would rather recognize it afar--rather have her joy in knowing the joy that might be--than shut herself from knowledge in the content of a common, sordid lot.

She did not think this deliberately, however; it was not reason, but instinct. She renounced unconsciously. She bore denial, and never knew she was denied.

Of course, the thought of daring to covet what she saw, had never crossed her, in her humbleness. It was quite away from her. It was something with which she had nothing to do. "But it must be beautiful to be like Miss Faith." And she thanked G.o.d, mutely, that she had this beautiful life near her, and could look on it every day.

She could not marry Luther Goodell.

"A vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast";

But, unlike the maiden of the ballad, she could not smother it down, to break forth, by and by, defying the "burden of life," in sweet bright vision, grown to a keen torture then.

Faith had read to her this story of Maud, one day.

"I shouldn't have done so," she had said, when it was ended. "I'd rather have kept that one minute under the apple trees to live on all the rest of my days!"

She could not marry Luther Goodell.

Would it have been better that she should? That she should have gone down from her dreams into a plain man's life, and made a plain man happy? Some women, of far higher mental culture and social place, have done this, and, seemingly, done well. Only G.o.d and their own hearts know if the seeming be true.

Glory waited. "Everybody needn't marry," she said.

This night, with those words of Mr. Armstrong's in her ears, revealing to her so much, she stood before that window of his and watched the fire.

Doors were open behind her, leading through to Miss Henderson's chamber.

She would hear her mistress if she stirred.

If she had known what she did not know--that Faith Gartney stood at this moment in that burning mill, looking forth despairingly on those bright waters and green fields that lay between it and this home of hers--that were so near her, she might discern each s.h.i.+ning pebble and the separate gra.s.s blades in the scarlet light, yet so infinitely far, so gone from her forever--had she known all this, without knowing the help and hope that were coming--she would yet have said "How beautiful it would be to be like Miss Faith!"

She watched the fire till it began to deaden, and the glow paled out into the starlight.

By and by, up from the direction of the river road, she saw a chaise approaching. It was stopped at the corner, by the bar place. Two figures descended from it, and entered upon the field path through the stile.

One--yes--it was surely the minister! The other--a woman. Who?

Miss Faith!

Glory met them upon the doorstone.

Faith held her finger up.

"I was afraid of disturbing my aunt," said she.

"Take care of her, Glory," said her companion. "She has been in frightful danger."

"At the fire! And you----"

"I was there in time, thank G.o.d!" spoke Roger Armstrong, from his soul.

The two girls pa.s.sed through to the blue bedroom, softly.

Mr. Armstrong went back to the mills again, with horse and chaise.

Glory shut the bedroom door.

"Why, you are all wet, and draggled, and smoked!" said she, taking off Faith's outer, borrowed garments. "What _has_ happened to you--and how came you there, Miss Faith?"

"I fell asleep in the countingroom, last evening, and got locked in. I was coming home. I can't tell you now, Glory. I don't dare to think it all over, yet. And we mustn't let Aunt Faith know that I am here."

These sentences they spoke in whispers.

Glory asked no more; but brought warm water, and bathed and rubbed Faith's feet, and helped her to undress, and put her night clothes on, and covered her in bed with blankets, and then went away softly to the kitchen, whence she brought back, presently, a cup of hot tea, and a biscuit.

"Take these, please," she said.

"I don't think I can, Glory. I don't want anything."

"But he told me to take care of you, Miss Faith!"

That, also, had a power with Faith. Because he had said that, she drank the tea, and then lay back--so tired!

"I waited up till you came, sir, because I thought you would like to know," said Glory, meeting Mr. Armstrong once more upon the doorstone, as he returned a second time from the fire. "She's gone to sleep, and is resting beautiful!"

"You are a good girl, Glory, and I thank you," said the minister; and he put his hand forth, and grasped hers as he spoke. "Now go to bed, and rest, yourself."

It was reward enough.

From the plenitude that waits on one life, falls a crumb that stays the craving of another.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

AUNT HENDERSON'S MYSTERY.

"Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, And I said in underbreath,--All our life is mixed with death, And who knoweth which is best?

"Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, And I smiled to think G.o.d's greatness flowed around our incompleteness,-- Round our restlessness, His rest."

MRS. BROWNING.

"So the dreams depart, So the fading phantoms flee, And the sharp reality Now must act its part."

WESTWOOD.