Was It Right to Forgive? Part 22

"Then love wisely. I have read that St. Bernard thought that at the Last Day we shall not be asked what we have done, nor yet what we have believed, but _what we have loved_. That will indeed be a supreme test of character."

Harry became very thoughtful, and clasped Adriana's hand tighter; and just then Miss Alida's lawyer called, and she was compelled to leave her company for a while. So the Professor and Peter began to talk of Free Will and Calvinism, and Harry and Adriana withdrew to the curtained window, where they sat in happy silence, listening to that speech which is heard with the heart, and yet dimly conscious of the argument in progress. This way and that way it veered, Peter holding grimly fast to his stern plan of sin and retribution; the Professor doubting, qualifying, extolling free grace, and averring he would "consider the burning of all Calvin's books to be most justifiable Libricide"--making the statement, however, with such sweet, calm good nature, that it was impossible to be angry, even had Peter desired to be so. But Peter was far too firmly fixed on his foundation to feel anger; his opposition took the form of a sublime confidence, and he closed the discussion with a sudden outburst of enthusiasm it was impossible not to respect.

"Say what you will about the deadness of our faith, Professor!" he cried, "there is life in the old kirk yet!"

He rose to his full stature with the words, his face kindling, and his head thrown back and upward with the aspiring a.s.sertion. Adriana felt the magnetism of his faith and stood up also, and the Professor answered, gently:

"Mr. Van Hoosen, I respect your sentiments with all my intellect and all my heart. One thing in your st.u.r.dy creed makes it omnipotent--the utter absence of such an enfeebling thought as that this life was meant to be a pleasure-house. How, indeed, could it fit into your creed? and yet, to make life happy, to have pleasure, is not this the question of existence to a majority?"

"Duty, not pleasure, was John Calvin's central idea. We are to obey, not to grumble, or to desire. We are to receive all life's ills as plain facts of discipline:

'Willing from first to last to take The mysteries of our life as given; Leaving the time-worn soul to slake Its thirst in an undoubted heaven.'"

Then Miss Alida's entrance broke up the conversation, and the Professor bade them "good-night." And in some way he made them feel that he had received help and strength, and not merely pleasure, from the interview. The clasp of his hand went to the heart, and both in his eyes and in Peter's eyes there was that singular brilliance which is the result of seeing, as in a vision, things invisible.

Suddenly every one was weary. Harry went away with the Professor, promising to come early the following evening, which was to be the last of Adriana's visit. The next day she would return to Woodsome with her father, and her trunks were already packed for the flitting.

However, a week or two later Miss Alida was to follow her, and in the interval Adriana looked forward with some pleasure to a life of reflection and rest. She meant to cast up accounts with herself, and see whether she had been a loser, or a gainer, by the winter's experience.

The next morning both the ladies were silent and weary, and not inclined to movement. They preferred to dawdle over their coffee, to wonder whether Rose was seasick, and to discuss the smaller details of the ceremony, that had been too insignificant for the first prime criticism. Then the newspaper accounts were to praise and to blame, and the morning pa.s.sed in a languid after-taste of the previous day.

In the afternoon the sun was bright and warm and New York in one of her most charming moods. "Let us have a last drive in the Park," said Miss Alida, "for we shall have to content ourselves with woodland ways and dusty roads for the next few months. Put on your hat and your new suit. We may meet Harry, and if so, we can bring him back with us."

Full of pleasant expectations, Adriana dressed herself in the suns.h.i.+ne, and came downstairs in an unusually merry mood. Miss Alida looked curiously at her. "How fond she is of Harry!" she thought, "and he is not worthy of her." But worthy or unworthy, it was evident that Adriana was watching for and expecting her lover. "It is so unreasonable of me," she said to her cousin, "for I told Harry last night that I should not leave the house to-day. He wanted me to drive with him, and I said, 'No.' My last drive with him was so happy I feared to spoil its memory. One never knows what might occur to do so--a shower, a cold wind, a bit of temper, or a tight shoe, or something, anything, for which neither of us would be responsible."

"To be sure!" answered Miss Alida, vaguely. She had a feeling that Adriana had a feeling, and that there was an unacknowledged presentiment between them. So they drove, and drove, and Adriana's high spirits suddenly left her. Miss Alida also became quiet, and the hour grew monotonous and chilly and gray, and as the best carriages were leaving the drive she gave the order to return home.

They were nearing the Plaza when Miss Alida directed Adriana's attention to an approaching carriage. It was in a glow of color, and as it drew nearer the colors became robes and wraps of gorgeous shades, and reclining among them was a certain well-known operatic divinity. Harry was with her. His eyes were looking into her eyes, and his whole being was absorbed in the intoxicating sensuous loveliness of his companion. He never saw Adriana. She looked directly at her recreant lover, and he never saw her. There was no need for words. The event was too positive and too flagrant to admit of doubt or palliation.

"To-morrow I shall go to Woodsome," said Adriana, as they stood a moment in the hall; "to-night, dear cousin, make an excuse for me, if you please."

But Miss Alida followed Adriana to her room and answered: "Make an excuse for you! Nonsense! See Harry, and tell him what you saw. I hate those sulky quarrels where people 'think it best to say nothing.'"

"How can I tell him?"

"The plainest way is the easiest way. Tell him you saw him driving in the Park, and ask him very sweetly whom he was driving with. If he tells a lie----"

"I will not tempt him to lie. What could he do else?"

"I would humble him to my very feet."

"Then I might as well say, 'Farewell forever,' for a man at my feet could never be my lover and husband. Oh, cousin, I must say 'farewell'

in any case. I am so wretched! so wretched!"

"Poor girl! I have always told you not to put your trust in a broken reed--alias man. You did so, and you have got a wound for your pains.

But, Yanna, my dear, what is now the good of crying for the moon; that is, for a man who is not a broken reed? I advise you to see Harry."

"I cannot. See him for me. Please."

"What am I to say? You know how apt I am to speak the uppermost thought."

"You will say nothing wrong. Do not tell father anything."

"There I think you are wrong. Cousin Peter has intuitive wisdom--woman's wisdom, as well as man's craft."

"However, say nothing to-night. Make some excuse for me; for I must be alone."

So Miss Alida left the sorrowful girl; but as she disrobed herself, she muttered: "What a miracle of ill-luck! I thought something unpleasant would come of Yanna's high spirits--the girl was what the Scotch call _fey_. Harry Filmer is a born fool, and a cultivated fool, and a reckless fool, and every other kind of a fool! Indeed, he is not _a_ fool, he is _the_ fool of the universe. Everything in his hand, and he could not hold it! I will give him a lecture to-night--if he comes to-night, which I doubt. That siren has him in a net, he will go to the opera to see her dance; he will forget Yanna, and then, to-morrow, he will talk of a headache--or an important engagement--and Yanna will despise him far more than if he told the whole truth.

To-morrow, of course, for I am sure he will not come to-night; and it is Yanna's last night in the city, too. Men take the heart out of you if you mind their goings-on."

Miss Alida was right. Harry did not call, and Peter sat and talked with Miss Alida, worrying a little all the time about his daughter's sickness. And he was glad when Yanna sent to ask him if he could be ready for the early train; for Peter felt that the end of the visit had come, and that no pleasure could be obtained by drawing out what was already finished. So, while it was yet very early in the morning, Peter and Yanna went away; and Yanna was unavoidably sad, and yet, in the midst of her sadness, she was conscious of that strange gratification which we may call a sense of completeness. Even to the painful events of her visit, it gave her that bitter-sweetness that all experience when they watch a lover out of sight or the last red spark die out of the gray ashes that were once love letters. One chapter of life was finished. Yes, she told herself, quite finished in some respects. She had watched Harry leave her in a way that she felt must be final. And Antony and Rose had gone to their own life. When they returned, Antony would be changed, and Rose would be changed, and she also would be changed. Nothing could ever again be just as it had been.

A few hours after Peter and his daughter had left the city, Miss Alida was sitting with an open book in her hand. Her life had not been without love and lovers, and she was remembering rather than reading when she saw Harry coming up the steps to the door. She knew that he expected to take lunch with Adriana and then go with her to the Railway Station; and she smiled faintly at the disappointment in store for him. As he came near the parlor door, she let her eyes fall upon the book, and she did not lift them until Harry said:

"Reading, Cousin Alida! Pray, what interests you so early in the day?"

"For my sins, I am reading a philosophical novel. Our very story-tellers are getting serious and instructive; and as I read for amus.e.m.e.nt, I shall turn to Talmage's sermons."

"Where is Yanna?"

"Yanna left for Woodsome early this morning. She is at home by this time."

"That is too bad! She promised to let me go to the train with her."

"She expected you last night."

"I could not possibly come. I was ever so sorry."

"Why could you not come?"

"I was engaged--unexpectedly--and I was not feeling right. You know very well there are things that a man must attend to, whether he wants to do so or not."

"Harry Filmer! You are a worse moral coward than the first of your kind. You cannot even say: 'The woman beguiled me.' Generally speaking, a man in a mess can get out of it by throwing the blame on the woman with him."

"Oh, if it comes to that, I hope I am not cad enough to put my sin on any woman. How much do you know, Miss Van Hoosen? Who has been telling tales?"

"We were in the Park yesterday afternoon, and we met you driving with----"

"I know. Was Yanna with you?"

"Yanna was with me."

"Confusion! What did she say?"

"Not much. She went home by the first train this morning."

"She will never forgive me!"

"I should say, never."

"I did not mean that. She will be angry, of course, but she will not be angry forever. I am awfully sorry to-day. But how can I tell her so? What would you do? Come now, cousin, you are a sensible woman, and you know men must have a little lat.i.tude--and really, I was caught so suddenly--and if you would listen, you would understand that there is some excuse for me."