"She made one step towards me and seized me by the wrist. 'Janet,' she
said, 'I will do it.' And she did it that day. At present there is no
House of Martha."

I sat and gazed at Miss Laniston without comprehending what I had heard.

"No House of Martha!" I ejaculated.

"That is precisely the state of the case," she answered; "the
establishment was dissolved at noon yesterday. As I had had all the
trouble of bringing this thing about, I considered that I had a right to
tell you of it myself. I thought it would interest me to see how you
took it."

I rose to my feet; I stepped towards her.

"No House of Martha," I gasped,--"and Sylvia?"

"Sylvia will go home to her mother, so she told me yesterday. I was
present at the dissolution. I think she will probably come to the city
this afternoon."

I snatched up my hat. "I must go to her instantly," I said. "I must see
her before she reaches her mother. I have lost time already."

"Upon my word!" exclaimed Miss Laniston, "your way of taking it is
indeed interesting. Not a word of thanks, not a sign of recognition"--

I had nearly reached the door, but now rushed back and seized her by the
hand. "Excuse me," I said, "but you can see for yourself"--and with one
violent shake I dropped her hand, and hurried away.

"Oh, yes," she cried, "I can easily see for myself," and as I left the
house I heard her hearty laugh.

I sprang into my cab, ordering the man to drive fast for the railroad
station. It mattered not to me whether Walkirk went to Europe or not.
All I cared for was to catch the next train which would take me to
Arden.




XLVIII.

IN A COLD, BARE ROOM.


When I reached Arden I took one of the melancholy vehicles which stand
at our station, and very much astonished the driver by ordering him to
take me, not to my own home, but to the House of Martha.

"You know they're busted up, sir," said the man, turning to me, as his
old horse hurried us along at the best of his speed.

"But the sisters have not left?" I eagerly asked.

"Not all," he said, "but two or three of them went down this morning."

"Drive on quicker," I replied, "I am in a hurry."

The man gave the horse a crack with his whip, which made no difference
whatever in our rate of speed, and said:--

"If you've got a bill agin any of them, sir, you needn't worry. The
Mother is still there, and she's all right, you know."

"Bill? Nonsense!" said I.

"I'm sorry they're busted," said the man; "they didn't do much hackin',
but they give us a lot of haulin' from the station."

As I hurried up the broad path which led to the front of the House of
Martha, I found the door of the main entrance open, something I had
never noticed before, although I had often passed the house. I entered
unceremoniously, and saw before me, in the hallway, a woman in gray,
stooping over a trunk. She turned, at the sound of my footsteps on the
bare floor, and I beheld Sister Sarah. Her eyes flashed as she saw me,
and I know that her first impulse was to order me out of the house. This
of course she now had no right to do, but there were private rights
which she still maintained.

"I should think," she said, "that a man who has done all the mischief
that you have done, who has worked and planned and plotted and
contrived, until he has undermined and utterly ruined the sisterhood of
pious women who ask nothing of this world but to be let alone to do
their own work in their own way, would be ashamed to put his nose into
this house; but I suppose a man who would do what you have done does not
know what shame is. Have you come here to sneer and jibe and scorn and
mock, and gloat over the misfortunes of the women whose home you have
broken up, ruined, and devastated?"

"Madam," said I, "can you tell me where I can find Miss Sylvia Raynor?"

She looked as if she were about to spring and bite.

"Atrocious!" she exclaimed. "I will not stay under the same roof,"--and
she marched out of the door.

I made my way into the reception room. I met no one, and the room was
empty, although I heard on the floor above the sound of many footsteps,
apparently those of the sisters preparing for departure.

I looked around for a bell, or some means of making my presence known.
The room appeared harder, barer, emptier than when I had seen it before.
In a moment it was filled with all the light and beauty of the world. A
door opened, and Sylvia entered.

"I saw you come," she said, advancing with outstretched hands, "and
hurried down as soon as I could."

She was in her gray dress, but without shawl or head covering. Her face
was filled with the most charming welcome. I hastened towards her. I did
not take her hands, but opening my arms I folded her in them, and kissed
her over and over again. With flushed face she pushed herself a little
from me.

"Isn't this taking a great deal for granted?" she said.

"Granted!" I exclaimed, "think of what has been denied. Think of the
weeks, the months"--

"We would a great deal better think somebody may come in here and see
us," said Sylvia, pushing herself still farther from me.

"But didn't you expect me to rush to you the instant I heard you were a
free woman? Did you suppose there was anything to be taken for granted
between us?"

"Oh no," she said, "I think we understood each other pretty well, but
then, don't you see, I didn't suppose it would be like this. I am
expecting a trunk from New York every minute, and I thought when it came
I should be dressed like other people. Now that I am not a sister, I did
not want you to see me in these dreary clothes. Then I would go to my
mother's house, and I thought you would call on me there, and things
would go on more regularly; but you are so impetuous."

"My dearest love," said I, "it fills me with rapture to take you in my
arms in the same dress you wore when I fell in love with you. Often and
often as I looked at you through that grating have I thought that it
would be to me the greatest joy on earth if I could take you in my arms
and tell you that I loved you."

"You thought that!" exclaimed Sylvia; "it was very wrong of you."

"Right or wrong, I did it," said I, "and now I have her, my dear little
nun, here in my arms."

She ceased to push and looked up at me with a merry smile.

"Do you remember," she said, "the morning the wasp came near stinging
me?"

"Indeed I do," I said vehemently.

"Well, before that wasp came," she continued, "I used to be a good deal
afraid of you. I thought you were very learned and dignified, but after
I was so frightened, and you saw me without my bonnet, and all that, I
felt we were very much more like friends, and that was the very
beginning of my liking you."

"My darling," I exclaimed, "that wasp was the best friend we ever had.
Do you want to see it?" and releasing her, I took from my pocket the
pasteboard box in which I had placed our friend Vespa. As she looked at
the insect, her face was lighted with joyous surprise.

"And that is the same wasp?" she said, "and you kept it?"

"Yes, and shall always keep it," I said, "even now it has not ceased to
be our friend." And then I told her how my desire to take with me this
memento of her had held me back from the rolling Atlantic, and brought
me to her. She raised her face to me with her beautiful eyes in a mist
of tenderness, and this time her arms were extended.

"You are the dearest man," she said.

In less than a minute after she had spoken these words, Mother Anastasia
entered the room. She stood for a moment amazed, and then she hastily
shut the door.

"Really," she exclaimed, "you two are incomprehensible beings. Don't you
know that people might come in here at any moment? It is fortunate that
I was the person who came in at this moment."

"But you knew he was here?" said Sylvia.

"Yes. I knew that," the other replied, "but I expected you would both
remember that at present this house might almost be considered a public
place."

"My dear Marcia," said Sylvia, "if you knew him as well as I do, you
would know that he would never remember anything about a place."

I turned to the ex-Mother Superior, who had already discarded the garb
of the sisterhood, and was dressed in a dark walking suit.

"If you knew me as well as I know myself," I said, reaching to her both
my hands, "you would know that my gratitude towards you is deeper than
the deepest depths of the earth." She took one of my hands.

"If you have anything to be grateful for," she said, "it is for the
lectures I have given you, and which, I am afraid, I ought to continue
to give you. As to what was done here yesterday I consider myself as
much benefited as anybody, and I suppose Sylvia is of the same opinion
regarding herself. But there is one person to whom you truly ought to be
grateful--Miss Laniston."

"I know that," I said. "I have seen her; she told me what she did, and I
treated her as I would treat a boy who had brushed my coat, but I shall
make amends."

"Indeed you shall," said Sylvia, "and I will go with you when you do
it."

"But you must not set yourself aside in this way," said I, addressing
the older lady, "it was you who fanned my hopes of winning Sylvia when
there seemed no reason why they should not fade away. It was you who
promised to help me, and who did help me."

"Did you do that, Marcia?" asked Sylvia.

The beautiful woman who had been Mother Anastasia flushed a little, as
she answered:--

"Yes, dear, but then you were only a sister on probation."

"And you wanted me to marry him?"

The other smiled and nodded, and in the next moment Sylvia's arms were
about her neck, and Sylvia's lips were on her cheek.

I was very much affected, and there is no knowing how my feelings and
gratitude might have been evinced, had not the clumping of a trunk upon
the stairs and the voices of sisters at the door called me to order.




XLIX.

MY OWN WAY.


When I went home to my grandmother, she was greatly surprised to see me,
and I lost no time in explaining my unexpected appearance.

"Really, really," she exclaimed, "I was just writing you a letter, which
I intended to send after you, so that you would get it when you arrived
in London; and in it I was going to tell you all about the breaking up
of the House of Martha, of which I first heard half an hour after you
left me. I was glad you had not known of it before you started, for I
thought it would be so much better for all the changes to be made while
you were away, and for Sylvia to be in her mother's house, where she
could get rid of her nunnish habits, and have some proper clothes made
up. Of course I knew you would come back soon, but I thought your own
mind would be in much better order for a little absence."

"My dear grandmother," I cried, "in mind and body I am in perfect order,
and it is presence, not absence, which made me so."

"Somehow or other," said she, smiling, "the fates seem to help you to
have your own way, and I am sure I am delighted that you will stay at
home. And what has become of Mr. Walkirk?"

"Upon my word!" I exclaimed--"I do not know."

Towards evening Walkirk returned, looking tired and out of spirits. I
truly regretted the carelessness and neglect with which I had treated
him, and explained and apologized to the best of my ability. He was a
good-natured fellow, and behaved magnanimously.

"Things have turned out wonderfully well," he said, as he took a seat,
"but I shall be more delighted with the state of affairs when I am a
little less fatigued. Minor annoyances ought not to be considered, but I
assure you I have had a pretty rough time of it. As the hour for sailing
drew near, and you did not make your appearance, I became more and more
nervous and anxious. I would not allow our baggage to be put on board,
for I knew a conference with a lady was likely to be of indefinite
duration, and when at last the steamer sailed, I went immediately to
Miss Laniston's house to inform you of the fact, and to find out what
you proposed to do; but Miss Laniston was not at home, and the servant
told me that a gentleman--undoubtedly you--had left the house nearly an
hour before, and his great haste made her think that he was trying to
catch a steamer.

"'People would not hurry like that,' she said, 'to catch a train, for
there's always another one in an hour or two.'

"Then I began to fear that in your haste you had gone on board the wrong
steamer--two others sailed to-day, a little later than ours, and I went
to their piers and made all sorts of inquiries, but I could find out
nothing. Then I went to your club, to your lawyer's office, and several
other places where I supposed you might go, but no one had seen or heard
of you. Then a fear began to creep over me that you had had some greatly
depressing news from Miss Laniston, and that you had made away with
yourself."

"Walkirk!" I exclaimed, "how dared you think that?"

"Men in the nervous condition I was," he answered, "think all sorts of
things, and that is one of the things I thought. Finally I went to Miss
Laniston's house again, and this time I found her, and learned what had
happened. Then I went to the pier, ordered the trunk sent back here, for
I knew there was no question now of the trip to Europe, and here I am."

It was easy to see that whatever pleasure the turn in my affairs may
have given Walkirk, he was disappointed at losing his trip to Europe;
but I thought it well not to reopen his wounds by any allusion to this
fact, and contented myself by saying the most earnest and cordial things
about what he had done and suffered for me that day, and inwardly
determining that I would make full amends to him for his lost journey.

In about ten days I received a message by cable from Liverpool, which
was sent by my stenographer, informing me that he had gone aboard the
steamer, as per agreement, and being busy writing letters to send back
by the pilot, had not discovered that Walkirk and I were not on board
until it was too late. The message was a long one, and its cost, as well
as that of the one by which I informed the stenographer that he might
come home, and the price of the man's passage to Liverpool and back,
besides the sum I was obliged to pay him for his lost time, might all
have been saved to me, had the fellow been thoughtful enough to make
himself sure that we were on board before he allowed himself to be
carried off. But little rubs of this kind were of slight moment to me at
that time.

On the day after things had been taken for granted between Sylvia and
myself, I saw her at her mother's house, and I must admit that although
it had given me such exquisite pleasure to feel that she was mine in the
coarse gray gown of a "sister," it delighted me more to feel she was
mine in the ordinary costume of society. She was as gay as a butterfly
ought to be which had just cast off its gray wrappings and spread its
wings to the coloring light.

I found Mrs. Raynor in a somewhat perturbed state of mind.

"I cannot accommodate myself," she said, "to these sudden and violent
mutations. I like to sit on the sands and stay there as long as I
please, and to feel that I know how high each breaker will be, and how
far the tide will come in, but these tidal waves which make beach of sea
and sea of beach sweep me away utterly; I cannot comprehend where I am.
A week ago I considered you as an enemy with active designs on the peace
of my daughter. I was about to write you a letter to demand that you
should cease from troubling her. But I heard you were going to Europe,
and then I felt that henceforth our paths would be smoother, for I
believed that absence would cure you of your absurd and objectless
infatuation; but suddenly, down goes the House of Martha, and up comes
the enemy, transformed into a suitor, who is loved by Sylvia, and
against whom I can have no possible objection. Now can not you see for
yourself how this sort of thing must affect a mind accustomed to a
certain uniformity of emotion?"

"Madam," said I, "it will be the object of my life to make you so happy
in our happiness that you shall remember this recent tumult of events as
something more gratifying to look back upon than your most cherished
memories of tranquil delight."

"You seem to have a high opinion of your abilities," she said, smiling,
"and of the value of what you offer me. I am perfectly willing that you
try what you can do; nevertheless I wish you had gone to Europe.
Everything would have turned out just the same, and the affair would
have been more seemly."

"Oh, we can easily make that all right," said I. "Sylvia and I will go
to Europe on our bridal trip."

As I finished these words Sylvia came into the room, accompanied by Miss
Laniston.

"Here is a gentleman," said my dear girl to her companion, "who has
declared his desire to thank you for something you have done for him,
and he has spoken so strongly about the way in which he intended to pour
out his gratitude, that I want to see how he does it."

"Mr. Vanderley," said Miss Laniston, "I forbid you to utter one word of
that outpouring, which you would have poured out yesterday morning, had
it not been so urgently necessary to catch a train. When I am ready for
the effusion referred to, I will fix a time for it and let you know the
day before, and I will take care that no one shall be present at it but
ourselves."

"Any way," said Sylvia, "he will tell me all about it."

"If he does," said Miss Laniston, "you will re-enter a convent."




L.

MY BOOK OF TRAVEL.


When the House of Martha had been formally abolished, the members of the
sisterhood made various dispositions of themselves. Some determined to
enter institutions of a similar character, while others who had homes
planned to retire to them, with the intention of endeavoring to do what
good they could without separating themselves from the world in which
they were to do it. Sister Sarah was greatly incensed at the dissolution
of the House, and much more so because, had it continued, she expected
to be at the head of it. She declared her intention of throwing herself
into the arms of the Mother Church, where a sisterhood meant something,
and where such nonsense and treachery as this would be impossible.

I did not enjoy the autumn of that year to the extent that I should have
enjoyed it had I been able to arrange matters according to my own ideas
of what was appropriate to the case.

Sylvia lived in the city, and I lived in the country, and although I
went to her whenever I could, and she and her mother dined several times
with my grandmother, there were often long stretches, sometimes
extending over the greater part of the day, when I did not see her at
all.

Thus it was that I had sometimes to think of other things, and one
morning I said to my under-study, "Walkirk, there is something I regret
very much, and that is the non-completion of my book. I shall never
finish it, I am sure, because every thing that has ever happened to me
is going to be made uninteresting and tedious by what is to happen.
Travel and life itself will be quite another thing to me, and I am sure
that I will be satisfied with enjoying it, and shall not want to write
about it. And so, good-by to the book."

"In regard to your book," said Walkirk, "I feel it my duty to say to you
that there is no occasion for you to bid good-by to it."

"You are wrong there!" I exclaimed. "I shall never write it. I do not
want to write it."

"Nevertheless," said Walkirk, "the book will be written. I shall write
it. In fact I have written a great part of it already."

"What in the name of common sense do you mean?" I cried, staring at him
in astonishment.

"What I am going to say to you," replied Walkirk, "may displease you,
but I earnestly hope that you may eventually agree with me, that what I
have done is for the general good. You may remember that when you first
talked to me of your travels, you also handed me some of the manuscript
you had prepared for the opening chapters of your book and gave me an
outline of the projected plan of the work. Now as I have often told you,
I considered the material for a book of travels contained in your
experiences, as recited to me, as extremely fresh, novel and
entertaining, and would be bound to make what publishers call a 'hit' if
properly presented, but at the same time I am compelled to say that I
soon became convinced that there was no probability that you would
properly present your admirable subject matter to the reading world."

"Upon my word," said I, "this is cool."

"It is hard to speak to you in this way," he answered, "and the only way
in which I can do it is to be perfectly straightforward and honest about
it. I am at heart a literary man, and have, so far as I have the power,
cultivated the art of putting things effectively; and I assure you, sir,
that it gave me actual pain when I found how you were going to present
some of the incidents of your journey, such as, for instance, your
diving experiences in the maelstrom, or at least in the place where it
was supposed to be, and where, judging from your discoveries, it may
under certain conditions and to a certain extent really exist.

"There were a good many other points which I believe could be made of
startling interest and value, not only to ordinary readers, but to
scientific people, if they were properly brought out. I saw no reason
that you would so bring them out, and I felt not only that I could do
it, but that it would delight me to do it.

"My feeling on the subject was so strong that, as you may remember, I
declined to act as your secretary. I am perhaps over-sensitive, but I
could not have written your book as you would have dictated it to me,
and as you did indeed dictate it to your various secretaries."

"Go on," I said, "I am perfectly charmed with my power of repressing
resentment."

"Therefore it was," he continued, "that I set to work to write the book
myself, founding it entirely upon your daily recitals. My plan was to
write as long as I found you were in the humor to talk, and, in fact, if
you lost interest in me as a listener I determined that I would then
declare what I had done, show you my work, and implore you, if you felt
like it, to give me enough subject matter to finish it.

"I have now stated my case, and I place it entirely in your hands. I
will give you what I have written, and if you choose to read it and do
not like it, you can throw it into the fire. The subject matter is
yours, and I have no rights over it. But if you think that the work
which you have decided to discontinue can be successfully carried on by
me, I shall be delighted to go ahead and finish it."

"Walkirk," said I, "you have the effrontery of a stone sphinx; but let
me see your manuscript."

He handed it to me, and during the rest of the morning, and for a great
part of the night, after I had returned in a late train from the city, I
read it. The next day I handed it to him.

"Walkirk," said I, "as my under-study go ahead and finish this book. You
never came nearer the truth than when you said that that material is
vastly interesting."

Walkirk was delighted and took up the work with enthusiasm. Whenever I
had a chance I talked to him, and whenever he had a chance he wrote.
However, at that time, I gave so much of my business to my under-study
that he was not able to devote himself to his literary work as
assiduously as he and I would have desired. In fact, the book is not yet
finished, but when it appears I think it will be a success.




LI.

A LOOSE END.


I was now a very happy man, but I was not an entirely satisfied one.
Looking back upon what had happened, I could see that there were certain
loose ends, which ought to be gathered up before they were broken off
and lost, or tangled up with something to which they did not belong.

It has always been my disposition to gather up the loose ends, to draw
together the floating strands of circumstance, tendency, intention, and
all that sort of thing, so that I may see what they are and where they
come from. I like to know how I stand in relation to them, and how they
may affect me.

One of the present loose ends was brought to my mind by a conversation
with Sylvia. I had been speaking of her cousin Marcia Raynor, and
expressing my pleasure that she was about to enter a new life, to which
she seemed so well adapted.

"Marcia is a fine woman," she said, "and I love her ever so much, but
you know she has caused me a great deal of pain; that she has actually
made me cry when I was in bed at night."

I assured her that I had never imagined such a thing possible.

"Of course," Sylvia continued, "I do not refer to the way she acted just
before the House of Martha was broken up. Then she opposed everything I
wanted to do, and would listen to no reason, but I wouldn't listen to
her reasons either, and I was entirely too angry with her to think of
crying on her account. It was before that, that she made my very heart
sick, and all on your account."

"She was severe upon me, I suppose."

"Not a bit of it," said Sylvia, "if she had been severe, I should not
have minded it so much, but it was quite the other way. Now just put
yourself in my place and try to think how you would have felt about it.
Here was I, fixed and settled for life in the House of Martha, and here
were you, perfectly convinced--at least I was afraid you were
convinced--that there was nothing for you to do but to give me up, and
here was Marcia, just about to step out into the world a free woman, and
at the same time taking a most wonderful interest in you, and trying to
make you understand that you ought to let me alone, and all that sort of
thing."

"In which she did not succeed at all," I said.

"So it appears," said Sylvia, "but I couldn't be sure about that at the
time, you know, and if she had succeeded there was no earthly reason why
you should not have become as much interested in her as she was in you,
and then--but it's too dreadful to talk about; it used to make me fairly
boil."

"You mean to say," said I, "that you were jealous of your Cousin
Marcia."

"Yes," she answered, "there is no use in calling it by any other name; I
was jealous, savagely so, sometimes."

Now this was a very high compliment, and I did not fail to express my
satisfaction at having been the subject of such emotions. But one of the
results of Sylvia's communication was to remind me of the existence of a
loose end. I had never understood Mother Anastasia's feelings towards
me. It had been very interesting to me to make conjectures about those
feelings, and now that I could safely do more than conjecture I wished
to do more, and to find out, if possible, if there had been any reasons
for the construction I had placed upon the actions of the beautiful
Mother Superior. Of course this was of no real importance now, but one
cannot be brought into relations with such a woman as Marcia Raynor
without wanting to know exactly what those relations were.

I had far too much prudence, however, to talk on this subject with
Sylvia; if I talked with any one I must do it very cautiously. One
morning I called upon Miss Laniston. That lady was informed on a great
many points, and, moreover, was exceedingly free-spoken. I did not
expect any direct information from her, but she might say something from
which I might make inferences.

She thought I had come to thank her for what she had done for me, but I
assured her that this ceremony must be postponed for the present, for
Sylvia had instructed me to write my gratitude in a letter, which she
thought would be a much preferable method than for me to pour it out in
a private interview.

"Your Sylvia seems to be a jealous little body," she remarked.

"Oh, no," said I, "although, of course, it is natural enough for persons
in our state of mind to have tendencies that way. By the way, one of
these tendencies on her part was rather odd. Do you know that at one
time she was almost jealous of her cousin Marcia, at that time a
gray-bonneted sister? As you know so much of our affairs I do not think
I am going too far in telling that."

Miss Laniston seemed to be considering the subject.

"It is the commonest thing," she said presently, "to make mistakes about
matters of this sort. Now, for instance, I once put some questions to
you which seemed to indicate that there might be some reason for
Sylvia's uneasiness. Didn't you think they pointed that way?"

"Yes, I did," I replied.

"And have you ever thought of it since?" she asked.

"Occasionally. Of course the matter is of no vital interest now. But at
the time you spoke of it, I could not help wondering if I had said or
done anything during my rather intimate acquaintance with Mother
Anastasia which would give you good cause to put the questions to which
you just now alluded."

"Well," said Miss Laniston, "you seemed to me, at the time, to be in a
decidedly unbalanced state of mind, but I think I acted most
unwarrantably in speaking of Marcia as I did. In fact, I often act
unwarrantably. It is one of my habits. And to prove it to you, I am
going to act unwarrantably again. Having brought the elder Miss Raynor
before you in a way that might have led you to have undefined ideas
about her, I am going to bring her before you again in order that those
ideas may be exactly defined. It is all wrong, I know, but I like to set
things straight, whether I do it in the right way or wrong way."

"That is exactly my disposition," I replied; "I always want to set
things straight."

She left the room, and soon returned with a letter.

"When I decide positively to do a thing," she said, sitting down and
opening the letter, "I think it just as well to drop apologies and
excuses. You and I have decided that matters ought to be set straight,
and so, here goes. Marcia has just written me a long letter in which she
says a good deal about you and Sylvia, and I am going to read you a part
of it which I think will straighten out some things which I may have
made crooked, in my efforts to do good to all parties concerned--a
dangerous business, I may say.

"'It is delightful to think,' thus Marcia writes,--'that Sylvia's life
is at last settled for her, and that, too, in the right way. Of course,
neither you nor I would be satisfied with a match like that; but Sylvia
is not only satisfied with Mr. Vanderley, but I have no doubt that she
will be perfectly happy with him. More than that, I believe she will
supply his shortcomings, and strengthen his weaknesses, and as he has a
naturally good disposition, and an ample fortune, I think Sylvia is to
be sincerely congratulated. When we first spoke of this matter a good
while ago I thought that if the Sylvia-Vanderley affair could ever be
arranged, it would be a good thing, and I have not changed my opinion.'
The rest of the letter," said Miss Laniston, folding it as she spoke,
"chiefly concerns the new college, and I do not suppose it would
interest you."

I agreed with her, and took my leave. The loose end had been gathered
up.




LII.

I FINISH THE SICILIAN LOVE-STORY.


It might have been supposed that my little experience in gathering up
loose ends would have deterred me from further efforts in this
direction, but it did not.

I had left Miss Laniston without asking some questions I had intended to
put to her. I wished very much to know--I thought it was my right to
know--something definite about the Mr. Brownson who had formerly been
connected, so to speak, with the Misses Raynor. I hated this subject as
I hated the vilest medicine, but I felt that I must get the matter
straightened in my mind, yet I could not say anything to Sylvia about
it. And after what Miss Laniston had read to me I could not ask her
anything, even if my mind had been sufficiently composed to formulate
questions. She was a very plain-spoken person. Too much so, perhaps.

Walkirk was very different; in fact, I think he erred on the other side.
I am sure that he would have liked to conceal from me anything that
would give me pain. In the course of his life he had met a great many
people; he might know something about Brownson. Any way, I would throw
out some feelers in that direction.

"Yes," I remarked to him, in the course of a conversation about the late
Mother Superior, "what she is going to do is a very fine thing,--a noble
enterprise, and she is just the sort of person to go into it, but after
all I would rather see her married to the right sort of man. A woman
like that owes it to society to be married."

"I fancy," said Walkirk, "that she has permanently left the marrying
class. When she broke with Brownson, I think she broke with marriage."

"What were the points of that?" I asked. "Did you ever happen to hear
anything about him?"

"I knew him very well," answered Walkirk. "Those were his prints I was
cataloguing just before I entered your service. He had then been dead a
year or more, and I was working for the estate."

I arose and went to the window. I wiped my forehead, which had become
moist. If this man had known Brownson, why should he not know all? Was
he familiar with both engagements? It made me sick to think of it. There
was no sense or reason in such emotion, for it was not likely that
Sylvia's engagement had been a secret one; but I had a proud soul and
could not bear to think that people about me, especially Walkirk, should
be aware of Sylvia's attachment, slight as it may have been, to another
than myself. I heartily wished that I had not spoken of the subject.

Still, as I had spoken of it, I might as well learn all that I could.

"What sort of a man was this Brownson?" I asked. "What reason was there
that Miss Marcia Raynor should have cared for him?"

"He was a fine man," said Walkirk. "He was educated, good-looking, rich.
He was young enough, but had been a bachelor too long, perhaps, and had
very independent ways. It was on account of his independence of thought,
especially on religious matters, that he and Miss Marcia Raynor had
their difficulties, which ended in the breaking of the engagement. I am
quite sure that she was a good deal cut up. As I said before, I do not
think that she will consider marriage again."

I took in a full breath of relief. Here Walkirk had told the little
story of Brownson, and had said nothing of any subsequent engagement.
Perhaps he knew of none. This thought was truly encouraging.

"Perhaps you are right," I said, "she may know better than any of us
what will suit her. Any way I ought to be satisfied; and that reminds
me, Walkirk, that I have never expressed to you, as strongly as I wished
to do it, my appreciation of the interest you have taken in my varied
relations with Miss Sylvia Raynor, and for the valuable advice and
assistance you have given me from time to time. For instance, I believe
that your reluctance to have me go away from Tangent Island was due to
your discovery that the island belonged to Sylvia's mother, and,
therefore, there was some probability that she might come there."

Walkirk smiled. "You have hit the truth," he said.

"I have sometimes wondered," I continued, "why a man should take so much
interest in the love affairs of another. When one engages an
under-study, he does not generally expect that sort of thing."

"Well," said Walkirk, "when a man engages as an under-study, or in a
similar capacity, he often performs services, without regard to his duty
and salary, simply because they interest and please him. Now it struck
me that it would be a curious bit of romantic realism if two beautiful
women, who on account of one man had become nuns in a convent, or what
was practically the same thing, should both be taken out of that convent
and brought back to their true life in the world by another man."

"Two women"--I gasped.

Walkirk smiled, and his voice assumed a comforting tone.

"Of course that sort of thing has its rough points for the second man,
but in this case I do not think they amount to much. Brownson's affair
with the younger lady would have come to an end as soon as she had
discovered the rocks in his character, but her mother broke it off
before it came to that. But I do not think she would have gone into the
sisterhood, if it had not been for the man's death very soon after the
breaking of the engagement. This affected her very much, but there was
no reason why it should, for he was killed in a railway accident, and I
am positively certain that he would have married some one else if he had
lived long enough."

I had nothing to say to all this. I walked slowly into my study and shut
the door. Surely I had had enough of picking up loose ends. If there
were any more of them I would let them flap, dangle, float in the air,
do what they please; I would not touch them.

       *       *       *       *       *

That evening I spent with Sylvia. In the course of our conversation she
suddenly remarked:--

"Do you know we have had so much to do and so much to talk about, and so
much to think about and plan, that I have had no chance to ask you some
questions that I have been thinking about. In the first place I want you
to tell me all about Mr. Walkirk. How long has he been with you? Are you
always going to keep him? What does he do? What was his business before
he came to you? Was he always an under-study for people? It has struck
me that that would be such an odd occupation for a man to have. And then
there is another thing,--a mere supposition of mine, but still something
that I have had a sort of curiosity about: supposing that the House of
Martha had not been broken up, and it were all fixed and settled that I
should stay there always, and supposing cousin Marcia had left us, and
had gone into her college work, just as she is doing now--do you think
that you would have had any desire to study medicine?

"And then there is another thing that is not a question, but something
which I think I ought to tell you,--something which you have a right to
know before we are married."

"Sylvia," said I, interrupting her, "let me give you a little piece of
wisdom from my own experience: The gnawings of ungratified curiosity are
often very irritating, but we should remember that the gnawings of
gratified curiosity are frequently mangling."

"Indeed!" she exclaimed, "is that the way you look at it? Well, I can
assure you that what I have to tell is of no importance at all, but if
you have anything to say that is mangling, I want to hear it this very
minute."

"My dear Sylvia," said I, "we have had so much to do and so much to talk
about, and so much to think about and plan, that I have had no chance to
finish the story of Tomaso and Lucilla."

"That is true," she cried, with sparkling eyes; "and above all things I
want to hear the end of that story."

I sat by her on the sofa and finished the story of the Sicilian lovers.

"In some ways," she said, "it is very much like our story, isn't it?"

"Except," I answered, "that the best part of ours is just beginning."