"Good-mornin'," he said. "Don't often see strangers here so airly. Did
ye come on the grocery boat? I saw her puttin' in. Do ye want a room?
Time for a good nap before breakfast."

I answered that I did not want a room, but the remark about breakfast
made me feel that I should like a cup of coffee, and perhaps I might get
it here. It might have been a more natural thing to go back to the boat
and ask Abner to make me the coffee, but I did not want to go back to
the boat. I did not want to wake Walkirk. I did not want to have him
with me on shore. I did not want to have him talk to me. My present
intention was to go to the yacht as soon as it was reasonable to suppose
that its passengers were awake, to see Mrs. Raynor, and say to her what
I had to say. I did not feel in the proper spirit for this; but, in the
spirit in which I found myself, the less I was trammeled by advice, by
suggestions of prudence, and all that sort of thing, the better it would
be for me. So I was very glad that my under-study was asleep on the
grocery boat, and hoped that he would remain in that condition until I
had had my talk with Sylvia's mother.

I put my request to the man and he smiled. "Ye can't get no coffee," he
said, "until breakfast time, and that's pretty nigh two hours off. There
is people in the place that have breakfast earlier than we do, but we
keep boarders, ye know. We've only got Captain Fluke now, but generally
have more; and ye couldn't ask a man like Captain Fluke to git up to his
breakfast before half past seven. Then ye don't want yer baggage sent
fur? Perhaps ye've come ter see friends, an' it's a little airly ter
drop in on 'em? Come in, any way, and take a seat."

I accepted the invitation. Sitting indoors might possibly be less dreary
than walking out-of-doors.

"Now I tell ye what ye ought to do," continued the man. "Ye ought to
take a nip of whiskey with some bitters in it. It's always kinder damp
airly in the mornin', and ye must feel it more, bein' in a strange
place. I've always thought a strange place was damper, airly in the
mornin', than a place ye're used ter; and there's nothin' like whiskey
with a little bitters to get out dampness."

I declined to partake of any Central Hotel whiskey, adding that the one
refreshment I now needed was a cup of coffee.

"But there's no fire in the kitchen," said he, "and there won't be for
ever so long. That's how whiskey comes in so handy; don't have to have
no fire. Ye jes' pour it out and drink it, and there's the end of it."

"Not always," I remarked.

"Ye're right there," said he, with a smile. "A good deal depends on how
much ye pour." He turned away, but stopped suddenly. "Look here," said
he; "if ye say so, I'll make ye a cup of coffee. I've got an alcohol
lamp up there that I can boil water with in no time. I'm out of alcohol,
but, if you'll pay for it, I'll fill the lamp with whiskey; that'll burn
just as well."

I willingly agreed to his proposition, and the man immediately
disappeared into the back part of the house.

I sat and looked about the little bar-room, in which there was
absolutely nothing of the quaint interest which one associates with a
country inn. It was a bare, cold, hard, sandy, dirty room; its air
tainted with the stale odors of whiskey, sugar, and wood still wet from
its morning mopping. In less than fifteen minutes the man placed before
me a cup of coffee and some soda biscuit. The coffee was not very good,
but it was hot, and when I had finished it I felt like another man.

"There now," cried the bar-keeper, looking at me with great
satisfaction, "don't that take the dampness out of ye? I tell ye there's
no such stiffener in the airly mornin' as whiskey; and if ye don't use
it in one way, ye can in another."

Truly the world seemed warmer and more cheerful; the sun was brighter.
Perhaps now it was not too early to go on board the yacht. At any rate,
I would go near where she lay, and judge for myself. I made inquiries of
the innkeeper in regard to Mrs. Raynor's yacht.

"Yacht!" he said. "There's no yacht here."

"You must be mistaken!" I cried. "A yacht belonging to Mrs. Raynor
sailed for Sanpritchit on Saturday, and it was not to leave here until
this morning."

"Sanpritchit!" he exclaimed. "This is not Sanpritchit."

"What do you mean?" I asked in amazement. "That boat was bound direct
for Sanpritchit."

"Captain Jabe's boat?" said the man. "Yes, and so she is. She sails fur
Sanpritchit every Monday mornin', and generally stops here when she's
got any freight ter leave fur the store, though I never knowed her ter
come so airly in the mornin'."

"My conscience!" I exclaimed. "I must get on board of her."

"Aboard of her!" said he. "She's been gone more 'n half an hour. She
don't often stop here more 'n ten minutes, if she's got the tide with
her, which she had this mornin', strong."




XXXV.

MONEY MAKES THE MARE GO.


I rushed out of the Central Hotel, and looked over the water, but I
could see nothing of the grocery boat: she had disappeared beyond the
bluff, behind which I had stupidly taken it for granted Mrs. Raynor's
yacht was lying.

"Oh, she's clean gone," said the bar-keeper, who had joined me, "an'
she's not likely to come back ag'in' wind an' tide. They must have
thought you was asleep in your berth."

This was undoubtedly the truth, for there was no reason to suppose that
any one on the boat knew I had gone on shore.

"Where can I get a boat to follow them?" I cried.

"Can't say exactly," said the man. "We've got a big catboat, but she's
on the stocks gettin' a new stern post put in. You can see her mast
stickin' up over the bluff, there. I don't think there's any other
sailboat in the place jes' now, and Captain Fluke's havin' his fresh
painted. I told him it was a bad time o' the year to do it in; but he's
Captain Fluke, and that's all there's to say about it. There's rowboats;
but Sanpritchit's eight miles from here, and it's a putty long pull
there and back, and I don't know anybody here who'd care to take it. If
ye want to go to Sanpritchit, ye ought to go in a wagon. That's lots the
easiest way."

"Where can I get a horse and vehicle?" I asked quickly, so much enraged
with myself that I was glad to have some one to direct my movements.

"That's more 'n I know, jes' this minute," said the man; "but if ye'll
step inside and sit down, I'll go and ask 'em at the store what they can
do fur ye. If it ain't open yet, I'll know where ter find 'em. If
anybody comes along for a mornin' drink, jes' tell 'em to wait a minute,
and I'll be back."

In about fifteen or twenty minutes the bar-keeper returned, and
announced that I could not hire the horse at the store, for one of his
hind shoes was off, and they wanted to use him any way. He had asked two
or three other people, also, for the village was waking up by this time,
but none of them could let me have a horse.

"But I'll tell ye what ye can do," said the man, "if ye choose to wait
here a little while. The boss of this house went over to Stipbitts last
night to see his mother, and I expect him back putty soon, and I guess
he'll let ye have his hoss. Ye see the people about here ain't used to
hiring hosses, and we is. People as keeps hotels is expected to do it."

There was nothing for me to do but to wait for the return of the
landlord of Central Hotel; and for very nearly an hour I walked up and
down the main street of that wretched little hamlet, the name of which I
neither heard nor asked, cursing my own stupidity and the incapacity of
the waterside rustic.

When the "boss" arrived he was willing to let me have his mare and his
buckboard, and a boy to drive me; but the animal must be fed first, and
of course I would not start off without my breakfast. As I had to wait,
and the morning meal was almost ready, I partook of it; but the mare
gave a great deal more time to her breakfast than I gave to mine. I
hurried the preparations as much as I could, and shortly after eight
o'clock we started. My little expedition had the features of a useless
piece of trouble, but I had carefully considered the affair, and
concluded that I had a good chance of success. Almost any horse could
take me eight miles in an hour and a half, even with poor roads, and,
from what I knew of the industrial methods of this part of the country,
I did not believe that the necessary supplies would be put on the yacht
before half past nine: therefore, I did not allow myself to doubt that I
should reach Sanpritchit in time to see Mrs. Raynor.

The mare was a very deliberate traveler, and the boy who sat beside me
was an easily satisfied driver.

"We must go faster than this," said I, after we had reached what
appeared to be a highroad, "or I shall not get to Sanpritchit in time to
attend to my business there."

"Ye can't drive a hoss too fast when ye first set out," answered the
boy. "Ye'll hurt a hoss if ye do that. After a little while she'll warm
up, and then she'll go better. Oh, she can go if she's a mind ter. She's
a rattler when she really gets goin'."

"I don't want her to rattle," said I; "but what is her ordinary rate of
travel,--how many miles an hour, do you suppose?"

"Don't know as I ever counted," the boy said. "Some miles she goes
faster, and some miles she goes slower. A good deal depends on whether
it's uphill or downhill."

"Well," said I, taking out my watch, "we must keep her up to six miles
an hour, at least, and then we shall do the eight miles by half past
nine, with something to spare."

"Eight miles!" repeated the boy. "Eight miles to where?"

"Sanpritchit," replied I. "That's what they told me."

"Oh, that's by water," said the driver; "but this road's got to go
around the end of the bay, and after that 'way round the top of the big
marsh, and that makes it a good seventeen miles to Sanpritchit. Half
past nine! Why, the boss told me, if I didn't get there before twelve, I
must stop somewhere and water the mare and give her some oats. I've got
a bag of them back there."

I sat dumb. Of course, with this conveyance, and seventeen miles between
me and Sanpritchit, it was absurd to suppose that I could get there
before the yacht sailed. It was ridiculous to go an inch farther on such
a tedious and useless journey.

"Boy," I asked, "where is the nearest railroad station?"

"Stipbitts," said he.

"How far?"

"Five miles."

"Take me there," I said.

The boy looked at me in surprise. "I can't do that. I was told to take
you to Sanpritchit: that's where I'm goin', and I'm goin' to bring back
a box belongin' to Captain Fluke. That's what I 'in goin' to do."

"I cannot get there in time," I said. "I didn't know it was so far. Take
me to Stipbitts, and I will give you a dollar; then you can go along and
attend to Captain Fluke's box. I have already paid for the drive to
Sanpritchit."

"Have you got as much as a dollar and a half about you?" asked the boy.

I replied that I had.

"All right," said he; "give me that, and I'll take you to Stipbitts."

The bargain was struck, I was taken to Stipbitts, and an hour afterward
I was on my way to my home at Arden.

There was one very satisfactory feature about this course of action: it
was plain and simple, and needed no planning. To attempt to follow the
yacht would be useless. To wait anywhere for Walkirk would be equally
so. He would be more apt to find me at my home than anywhere else. It
was his business to find me, and there was no doubt that he would do it.
I did not like to defer my intended interview with Mrs. Raynor, but it
could not be helped. And as for Sylvia, if she had resolved to return to
the House of Martha, the best place for me was the neighborhood of that
institution.




XXXVI.

IN THE SHADE OF THE OAK.


I found my home at Arden very empty and dreary. The servants did not
expect me, my grandmother had not returned, and the absence of Walkirk
added much to my dissatisfaction with the premises.

I was never a man who could sit down and wait for things to happen, and
I felt now that it was absolutely necessary that I should do something,
that I should talk to somebody; and accordingly, on the morning after my
arrival, I determined to walk over to the House of Martha and talk to
Mother Anastasia. For a man to consult with the Mother Superior of a
religious institution about his love affairs was certainly an uncommon
proceeding, with very prominent features of inappropriateness; but this
did not deter me, for, apart from the fact that there was no one else to
talk to, I considered that Mother Anastasia owed me some advice and
explanation, and without hesitation I went to ask for it.

When I reached the House of Martha, and made known my desire to speak to
the head of the institution, I was ushered into a room which was barer
and harder than I had supposed, from Walkirk's description of it. It did
not even contain the religious pictures or the crucifixes which would
have relieved the blankness of the walls in a Roman Catholic
establishment of the kind.

As I stood gazing about me, with a feeling of indignation that such a
place as this should ever have been the home of such a woman as Sylvia,
a door opened, and Mother Anastasia entered.

Her appearance shocked me. I had in my mind the figure of a woman with
whom I had talked,--a woman glowing with the warmth of a rich beauty,
draped in graceful folds of white, with a broad hat shadowing her face,
and a bunch of wild flowers in her belt. Here was a tall woman clothed
in solemn gray, her face pale, her eyes fixed upon the ground; but it
was Mother Anastasia; it was the woman who had talked to me of Sylvia,
who had promised to help me with Sylvia.

Still gazing on the floor, with her hands folded before her, she asked
me what I wished. At first I could not answer her. It seemed impossible
to open my heart to a woman such as this one. But if I said anything, I
must say it without hesitation, and so I began.

"Of course," I said, "I have come to see you about Sylvia Raynor. I am
in much trouble regarding her. You promised to aid me, and I have come
to ask for the fulfillment of that promise. My love for that girl grows
stronger day by day, hour by hour, and I have been thwarted, mystified,
and I may say deceived. I have come"--

"She of whom you speak," interrupted Mother Anastasia, "is not to be
discussed in that way. She has declared her intention to unite herself
permanently with our sisterhood, and to devote her life to our work. She
can have nothing more to do with you, nor you with her."

"That will not do at all," I said excitedly. "When I last saw you, you
did not talk like that, and the opinions you expressed at that time are
just as good now as they were then. I want to go over this matter with
you. There are things that I have a right to know."

A little frown appeared upon her brow. "This conversation must cease,"
she said; "the subjects you wish to discuss are forbidden to our
sisterhood. You must mention them no more."

I tried hard to restrain myself and speak quietly. "Madam"--said I.

"You must not call me 'madam,'" she broke in. "I am the Mother Superior
of this house."

"I understand that," I continued, "and I understand your feeling of
duty. But you have other duties besides those you owe to your
sisterhood. You made me a promise, which I accepted with an honest and
confiding heart. If you cannot do what you promised, you owe it to me to
explain why you cannot do it. I do not know what has happened to change
your views and her views, and, so far as I am concerned, the whole
world. You can set me right; you can explain everything to me."

The frown disappeared, and her face seemed paler. "It is absolutely
impossible to discuss anything of the sort in this house. I must
insist"--

I did not permit her to finish her sentence. "Very well, then," I
exclaimed, "if you cannot talk to me here, talk to me somewhere else.
When you desire it, you go outside of these walls, and you speak freely
and fully. You have so spoken with me; and because you have done so, it
is absolutely necessary that you do it again. Your own heart, your
conscience, must tell you that after what you have said to me, and after
what I have said to you, it is unjust, to say no more, to leave me in
this state of cruel mystification; not to tell me why you have set aside
your promise to me, or even to tell me, when we talked together of
Sylvia, that we were then at the home of Sylvia's mother."

For the first time she looked at me, straight in my eyes, as a true
woman would naturally look at a man who was speaking strongly to her. I
think I made her forget, for a few moments at least, that she was a
Mother Superior. Then her eyes fell again, and she stood silent.

"Perhaps," she said presently, and speaking slowly, "I ought to explain
these things to you. It is a great mistake, as I now see, that I ever
said anything to you on the subject; but things were different then, and
I did not know that I was doing wrong. Still, if you rely on me to set
you right, you shall be set right. I see that this is quite as necessary
from other points of view as from your own. I cannot speak with you
to-day, but to-morrow, about this time, I shall be on the road to Maple
Ridge, where I am going to visit a sick woman."

"I shall join you on the road," I answered, and took my leave.

For the rest of the day I thought of little but the promised interview
on the morrow. To this I looked forward with the greatest interest, but
also with the greatest anxiety. I feared that Mother Anastasia would
prove to me that I must give up all thoughts of Sylvia. In fact, if
Sylvia had resolved to devote herself to the service of the House of
Martha,--and she had told me herself that she had so resolved,--I was
quite sure she would do so. Then what was there for Mother Anastasia to
say, or me to do? The case was settled. Sylvia Raynor must be nothing to
me.

I greatly wished for Walkirk. I knew he would encourage me, in spite of
the obvious blackness of the situation. It was impossible for me to
encourage myself. But, however black my fate might be, I longed to know
why it had been made black and all about it, and so waited with a savage
impatience for the morning and Mother Anastasia.

Immediately after breakfast, the next day, I was on the Maple Ridge
road, strolling from our village toward the top of a hill a mile or more
away, whence I could see the rest of the road, as it wound through the
lonely country, and at last lost itself in the woods. Back again to
Arden I came, and had covered the distance between the village and the
hilltop five times, when, turning and coming down the hill, I saw, far
away, the figure of a woman walking.

I knew it was Mother Anastasia, but I did not hasten to meet her. In
fact, I thought the further she was from the village, when our interview
took place, the more likely she would be to make it long enough to be
satisfactory. I came slowly down the hill, and, reaching a place where a
great oak-tree shaded the road, I waited.

She came on quickly, her gray dress appearing heavier and more sombre
against the sun-lighted grass and foliage than it had appeared in the
dreary room of the House of Martha. As she approached the tree I
advanced to meet her.

"You made me come too far," she said reproachfully, as soon as we were
near each other. "The lane which leads to the house I came to visit is a
quarter of a mile behind me."

"I am sorry," I replied, "that I have made you walk any farther than
necessary on such a warm morning, but I did not know that you intended
to turn from this road. Let us step into the shade of this tree; we can
talk more comfortably there."

She looked at the tree, but did not move. "What I have to say," she
remarked, "can be said here; it will not take long."

"You must not stand in the sun," I replied; "you are already heated.
Come into the shade," and, without waiting her answer, I walked toward
the tree; she followed me.

"Now, then," said I, "here is a great stone conveniently placed, upon
which we can sit and rest while we talk."

She fixed her large eyes upon me with a certain surprise. "Truly, you
have no regard for conventionalities. It is sufficiently out of the way
for a sister of the House of Martha to meet a gentleman in this manner,
but to sit with him under a tree would be ridiculously absurd, to say
the least of it."

"It does not strike me in that light," I said. "You are tired and warm,
and must sit down. You came here on my account, and I regard you, in a
manner, as a guest."

She smiled, and looked at the rock which I had pointed out. It was a
flat one, about three feet long, and it seemed as if it had been put
there on purpose to serve for a seat.

"I am tired," she said, and sat down upon it. As she did so, she gave a
look about her, and at the same time made a movement with her right
hand, which I often before had noticed in women. It was the involuntary
expression of the female soul, longing for a fan. A fan, however, made
up no part of the paraphernalia of a sister of the House of Martha.

"Allow me," I said, and, taking off my straw hat, I gently fanned her.

Mother Anastasia laughed. "This is really too much; please stop it. But
you may lend me your hat. I did not know the morning would be so warm,
and I am afraid I walked too fast. But we are losing time. Will you tell
me precisely what it is you wish to know of me?"

"I can soon do that," I answered; "but I must first say that I believe
you will suffocate if you try to talk from under that cavernous bonnet.
Why don't you take it off, and get the good of this cool shade? You had
discarded all that sort of thing when I last talked with you, and you
were then just as much a Mother Superior as you are now."

She smiled. "The case was very different then. I was actually obliged,
by the will of another, to discard the garb of our sisterhood."

"I most earnestly wish," said I, "that you could be obliged to do
partially the same thing now. With that bonnet on, you do not seem at
all the same person with whom I talked on Tangent Island. You appear
like some one to whom I must open the whole subject anew."

"Oh, don't do that," she said, with a deprecating movement of her
hand,--"I really haven't the time to listen; and if my bonnet hinders
your speech, off it shall come. Now, then, I suppose you want to know
the reason of my change of position in regard to Sylvia and you." As she
said this she took off her bonnet; not with a jerk, as Sylvia had once
removed hers, but carefully, without disturbing the dark hair which was
disposed plainly about her head. I was greatly relieved; this was an
entirely different woman to talk to.

"Yes," I replied, "that is what I want to know."

"I will briefly give you my reasons," she said, still fanning herself
with my hat, while I stood before her, earnestly listening, "and you
will find them very good and conclusive reasons. When I spoke to you
before, the case was this: Sylvia Raynor had had a trouble, which made
her think she was the most miserable girl in the whole world, and she
threw herself into our sisterhood. Her mother did not object to this,
because of course Sylvia entered as a probationer, and she thought a few
months of the House of Martha life would do her good. That her daughter
would permanently join the sisterhood never occurred to her. As I was a
relative, it was a natural thing that the girl should enter a house of
which I was the head. I did not approve of the step, but at first I had
no fears about it. After a while, however, I began to have fears. She
never liked our life and never sympathized with it, and her heart was
never enlisted in the cause of the sisterhood; but after a time I found
she was endeavoring to conquer herself, and when a woman with a
will--and Sylvia is one of these--undertakes in earnest to conquer
herself, she generally succeeds. Then it was I began to have my fears,
and then it was I wished to divert her mind from the life of the
sisterhood, and send her back to the world to which she belongs."

"Then it was you gave me your promise?" I added.

"Yes," she answered; "and I gave it honestly. I would have helped you
all I could. I truly believed that in so doing I was acting for Sylvia's
good."

"I thank you from the bottom of my heart," I said; "and tell me, did
Mrs. Raynor know, when I was on the island, of my affection for Sylvia?"

"She knew as much as I knew," was the answer, "for I went to the island
on purpose to consult with her on the subject; and when you confided in
me, and I gave you my promise to help you, I also told her about that."

"And did she approve?" I asked anxiously.

"She did not disapprove. She knew all about you and your family,
although she had never seen you until you were at her island."

"It is strange," said I, "that I should have happened to go to that
place at that time."

"Yes," she continued, "it does seem rather odd. But, as I was going to
say, a letter came not more than an hour after we had had our
conversation, which totally altered the face of affairs. Sylvia wrote
that she had resolved to devote her life to the sisterhood. This was a
great blow to her mother and to me, but Mrs. Raynor had firmly resolved
not to interfere with her daughter's resolutions in regard to her future
life. She had done so once, and the results had been very unfortunate. I
was of an entirely different mind, and I resolved, if the thing could be
done, to change Sylvia's purpose; but I failed, and that is the end of
it. She is not to be moved. I know her well, and her conviction and
determination are not to be changed. She is now on a visit to her
mother, and when she returns she will enter the House of Martha as an
inmate for life."

"Yes," said I, after a little pause, "I know that. I saw her a few days
ago, and she told me of her purpose."

"What!" cried Mother Anastasia, "you have seen her! A few days ago! She
told you all this! Why did you not say so? Why did you come to me?"

"Do not be displeased," I said, and as I spoke I seated myself beside
her on the stone. She made no objections. I think she was too much
agitated even to notice it. "I had no intention of keeping anything from
you, but I first wanted to hear what you had to tell me. Sylvia did not
tell me everything, nor have you."

"Met her, and talked with her!" ejaculated Mother Anastasia. "Will you
tell me how this happened?"

She listened with the greatest attention to my story.

"It is wonderful," she said, when I had finished. "It seems like a
tantalizing fate. But it is well you did not overtake Mrs. Raynor. It
would have been of no good to you, and the interview would have greatly
troubled her."

"Now tell me," I asked, "what I most want to know: what was the reason
of Sylvia's sudden determination?"

Mother Anastasia fixed her dark eyes on mine; they were full of a tender
sadness. "I thought of you nearly all last night," she said, "and I
determined that if you should ask me that question to-day I would answer
it. It is a hard thing to do, but it is the best thing. Sylvia's resolve
was caused by her conviction that she loved you. Feeling assured of
that, she unhesitatingly took the path which her conscience pointed out
to her."

"Conscience!" I exclaimed.

"Yes," said Mother Anastasia, "it was her conscience. She was far more
in earnest than we had thought her. It was conviction, not desire or
sympathy, which had prompted her to enter the sisterhood. Now her
convictions, her conscience, prompt her to crush everything which would
interfere with the life she has chosen. All this she has told me. Her
conscience stands between you and her, and you must understand that what
you wish is absolutely impossible. You must be strong, and give up all
thought of her. Will you promise me to do this?" and as she spoke she
laid her hand upon my arm. "Promise it, and I shall feel that I have
devoted myself this morning to as true a mission of charity as anything
to which our sisters vow themselves."

I did not respond, but sat silent, with bowed head.

"I must go now," said Mother Anastasia. "Reflect on what I have said,
and your heart and your practical sense will tell you that what I ask
you to do is what you ought to do and must do. Good-by," and she held
out her hand to me.

I took her hand and held it. The thought flashed into my mind that when
I released that hand the last tie between Sylvia and myself would be
broken.

Presently the hand was adroitly withdrawn, Mother Anastasia rose, and I
was left alone, sitting in the shadow of the tree.




XXXVII.

THE PERFORMANCE OF MY UNDER-STUDY.


On the next day, when Walkirk came back, I received him coolly. To be
sure, the time of his return was now of slight importance, but my manner
showed him that on general principles I blamed his delay.

I did not care to hear his explanations, but proceeded at once to state
the misfortunes which had befallen me. I told him in detail all that had
happened since I left the floating grocery. I did not feel that it was
at all necessary to do this, but there was a certain pleasure in talking
of my mishaps and sorrows; I was so dreadfully tired of thinking of
them.

As I told Walkirk of my interview with Mother Anastasia on the Maple
Ridge road, he laughed aloud. He instantly checked himself and begged my
pardon, but assured me that never had he heard of a man doing anything
so entirely out of the common as to make an appointment with a Mother
Superior to meet him under a tree. At first I resented his laugh, but I
could not help seeing for myself that the situation, as he presented it,
was certainly an odd one, and that a man with his mind free to ordinary
emotions might be excused for being amused at it.

When I had finished, and had related how Mother Anastasia had proved to
me that all possible connection between myself and Sylvia Raynor was now
at an end, Walkirk was not nearly so much depressed as I thought he
ought to be. In fact, he endeavored to cheer me, and did not agree with
Mother Anastasia that there was no hope. At this I lost patience.

"Confound it!" I cried, "what you say is not only preposterous, but
unfeeling. I hate this eternal making the best of things, when there is
no best. With me everything is at its worst, and it is cruel to try to
make it appear otherwise."

"I am sorry to annoy you," he said, "but I must insist that to me the
situation does not appear to be without some encouraging features. Let
me tell you what has happened to me since we parted."

I resumed the seat from which I had risen to stride up and down the
room, and Walkirk began his narrative.

"I do not know, sir," he said, "that I ever have been so surprised as
when I went on deck of the grocery boat, a short time before breakfast,
and found that you were not on board. Captain Jabe and his man were
equally astonished, and I should have feared that you had fallen
overboard, if a man, who had come on the boat at a little pier where we
had stopped very early in the morning, had not assured us that he had
seen you go ashore at that place, but had not thought it worth while to
mention so commonplace an occurrence. I wished to put back to the pier,
but it was then far behind us, and Captain Jabe positively refused to do
so. Both wind and tide would be against us, he said; and if you chose to
go ashore without saying anything to anybody, that was your affair, and
not his. I thought it possible you might have become tired with the slow
progress of his vessel, and had left it, to hire a horse, to get to
Sanpritchit before we did.

"When we reached Sanpritchit and you were not there, I was utterly
unable to understand the situation; but Mrs. Raynor's yacht was there,
just on the point of sailing, and I considered it my duty, as your
representative, to hasten on board, and to apprise the lady that you
were on your way to see her. Of course she wanted to know why you were
coming, and all that; and as you were not there to do it yourself, I
told her the nature of your errand, and impressed upon her the
importance of delaying her departure until she had seen you and had
heard what you had to say. She did not agree with me that the interview
would be of importance to any one concerned, but she consented to wait
for a time and see you. If you arrived, she agreed to meet you on shore;
for she would not consent to your coming on board the yacht, where her
daughter was. I went ashore, and waited there with great impatience
until early in the afternoon, when a boy arrived, who said he had
started to bring you to Sanpritchit, but that you had changed your mind,
and he had conveyed you to a railroad station, where you had taken a
western-bound train.

"I went to the yacht to report. I think Mrs. Raynor was relieved at your
non-arrival; and as she knew I wished to join you as soon as possible,
she invited me to sail with them to a little town on the coast,--I
forget its name,--from which I could reach the railroad much quicker
than from Sanpritchit."

"She did not object, then," said I, "to your being on the yacht with her
daughter?"

"Oh, no," he answered, "for she found that Miss Raynor did not know me,
or at least recognize me, and had no idea that I was in any way
connected with you. Of course I accepted Mrs. Raynor's offer; but I did
not save any time by it, for the wind fell off toward evening, and for
hours there was no wind at all, and it was late the next afternoon when
we reached the point where I went ashore."

"Did you see anything of Miss Raynor in all that time?" I inquired.

"Yes," he replied; "she was on deck a great deal, and I had several
conversations with her."

"With her alone?" I asked.

"Yes," said he. "Mrs. Raynor is a great reader and fond of naps, and I
think that the young lady was rather tired of the companionship of her
uncle and the other gentleman, who were very much given to smoking, and
was glad of the novelty of a new acquaintance. On my part, I felt it my
duty to talk to her as much as possible, that I might faithfully report
to you all that she said, and thus give you an idea of the state of her
mind."

"Humph!" I exclaimed; "but what did she say?"

"Of course," continued Walkirk, "a great deal of our conversation was
desultory and of no importance, but I endeavored, as circumspectly as I
could, so to turn the conversation that she might say something which it
would be worth while to report to you."

"Now, Walkirk," said I, "if I had known you were doing a thing of that
sort, I should not have approved of it. But did she say anything that in
any way referred to me?"

"Yes, she did," he answered, "and this is the way it came about.
Something--I think it was the heat of the windless day--caused her to
refer to the oppressive costume of the sisters of the House of Martha,
and she then remarked that she supposed I knew she was one of that
sisterhood. I replied that I had been so informed, and then betrayed as
much natural interest in regard to the vocations and purposes of the
organization as I thought would be prudent. I should have liked to bring
up every possible argument against the folly of a young lady of her
position and prospects extinguishing the very light of her existence in
that hard, cold, soul-chilling house which I knew so well, but the
circumstances did not warrant that. I was obliged to content myself with
very simple questions.

"'How do the sisters employ themselves?' I inquired.

"'In all sorts of ways,' she said. 'Some nurse or teach, and others work
for wages, like ordinary people, except that they do not have anything
to do with the money they earn, which is paid directly to the house.'

"'I think,' I then remarked, 'that there are a good many employments
which would give the sisters very pleasant occupation, such as
decorative art or clerical work.'

"At this her face brightened. 'Clerical work is very nice. I tried that
once, myself.'

"'Was it book-keeping?' I asked.

"'Oh, no,' she answered; 'I shouldn't have liked that. It was writing
from dictation. I worked regularly so many hours every morning. It was a
book which was dictated to me,--sketches of travel; that is, it was
partly travel and partly fiction. It was very interesting.'

"'I should think it would be so,' I answered. 'To ladies of education
and literary taste, I should say such employment would be highly
congenial. Do you intend to devote yourself principally to that sort of
thing?'

"'Oh, no,' said she, 'not at all. I like the work very much, but, for
various reasons, I shall not do any more of it.'

"I endeavored mildly to remonstrate against such a decision, but she
shook her head. 'I was not a full sister at the time,' she said, 'and
this was an experiment. I shall do no more of it.'

"Her manner was very decided, but I did not drop the subject. 'If you do
not fancy writing from dictation,' I said, 'why don't you try
typewriting? I should think that would be very interesting, and it could
be done in your own room. The work would not require you to go out at
all, if you object to that.' Now this was a slip, because she had not
told me that she had gone out, but she did not notice it.

"'A sister does not have a room of her own,' she answered, 'and I do not
understand typewriting;' and with that she left me, and went below,
looking very meditative.

"But my remark had had an effect. I think it was not half an hour
afterward when she came to me.

"'I have been thinking about your suggestion of typewriting,' she said.
'Is it difficult to learn? Do you understand it? What use could I make
of a machine in the House of Martha?'

"I told her that I understood the art, and gave her all the information
I could in regard to it, taking care to make the vocation as attractive
as my conscience would allow. As to the use she could make of it, I said
that at present there was a constant demand for typewritten copies of
all sorts of writings,--legal, literary, scientific, everything.

"'And people would send me things,' she asked, 'and I would copy them on
the typewriter, and send them back, and that would be all?'

"'You have put it exactly,' I said. 'If you do not choose, you need have
no communication whatever with persons ordering the work.'

"'And do you know of any one who would want such work done?'

"'Yes,' I said; 'I know people who would be very glad to send papers to
be copied. I could procure you some work which would be in no hurry, and
that would be an advantage to you in the beginning.'

"'Indeed it would,' she said; and then her mother joined us, and the
subject of typewriting was dropped. The only time that it was referred
to again was at the very end of my trip, when Miss Raynor came to me,
just as I was preparing to leave the yacht, and told me that she had
made up her mind to get a typewriter and to learn to use it; and she
asked me, if I were still willing to assist her in securing work, to
send my address to the Mother Superior of the House of Martha, which of
course I assured her I would do."

"Why in the name of common sense," I cried, turning suddenly around in
my chair and facing Walkirk, "did you put into Miss Raynor's head all
that stuff about typewriting? Did you do it simply because you liked to
talk to her?"

"By no means," he replied. "I did it solely on your account and for your
benefit. If she learns to copy manuscripts on the typewriter, why should
she not copy your manuscripts? Not immediately, perhaps, but in the
natural course of business. If she should make me her agent, which I
have no doubt she would be willing to do, I could easily manage all
that. In this way you could establish regular communications with her.
There would be no end to your opportunities, and I am sure you would
know how to use them with such discretion and tact that they would be
very effective."

I folded my arms, and looked at him. "Walkirk," said I, "you are
positively, completely, and hopelessly off the track. Mother Anastasia
has shown me exactly how I stand with Sylvia Raynor. She has vowed
herself to that sisterhood because she thinks it is wrong to love me.
She has made her decision, and has taken all the wretched steps which
have rendered that decision final, and now I do not intend to try to
make her do what she religiously believes is wrong."

"That is not my idea," answered Walkirk. "What I wish is that she shall
get herself into such a state of mind that she shall think the
sisterhood is wrong, and therefore leave it."

I gave a snort of despair and disgust, and began to stride up and down
the room. Presently, however, I recovered my temper. "Walkirk," said I,
"I am quite sure that you mean well, and I don't intend to find fault
with you; but this sort of thing does not suit me; let us have no more
of it."




XXXVIII.

A BROKEN TRACE.


As soon as my grandmother heard that I was at Arden, she terminated her
visit abruptly, and returned home. When she saw me, she expressed the
opinion that my holiday had not been of any service to me. She did not
remember ever seeing me so greatly out of condition, and was of the
opinion that I ought to see the doctor.

"These watering places and islands," she said, "are just as likely to be
loaded down with malaria as any other place. In fact, I don't know but
it is just as well for our health for us to stay at home. That is, if we
live in a place like Arden."

I had no desire to conceal from this nearest and dearest friend and
relative the real cause of my appearance, and I laid before her all the
facts concerning Sylvia and myself.

She was not affected as I supposed she would be. In fact, my narrative
appeared to relieve her mind of some of her anxieties.

"Any way," she remarked, after a moment or two of consideration, "this
is better than malaria. If you get anything of that kind into your
system, it is probable that you will never get it out, and it is at any
time likely to affect your health, one way or another; but love affairs
are different. They have a powerful influence upon a person, as I well
know, but there is not about them that insidious poison, which, although
you may think you have entirely expelled it from your system, is so
likely to crop out again, especially in the spring and fall."

To this I made no answer but a sigh. What was the good of saying that,
in my present state of mind, health was a matter of indifference to me?

"I am not altogether surprised," continued my grandmother, "that that
secretary business turned out in this way. If it had been any other
young woman, I should have advised against it, but Sylvia Raynor is a
good match,--good in every way; and I thought that if her working with
you had made you like her, and had made her like you, it might be very
well; but I am sure it never entered my mind that if you did come to
like each other she would choose the sisterhood instead of you. I knew
that she was not then a full sister, and I hadn't the slightest doubt
that if you two really did fall in love with each other she would leave
the House of Martha as soon as her time was up. You must not think, my
dear boy," she continued, "that I am anxious to get rid of you, but you
know you must marry some day."

I solemnly shook my head. "All that," I said, "is at an end. We need
speak no more of it."

My grandmother arose, and gently placed her hand upon my shoulder.
"Come! come! Do not be so dreadfully cast down. You have yet one strong
ground of hope."

"What is that?" I inquired.

My grandmother looked into my face and smiled. "The girl isn't dead
yet," she answered.

I now found myself in a very unsettled and unpleasant state of mind. My
business affairs, which had been a good deal neglected of late, I put
into the charge of Walkirk, who attended to them with much interest and
ability. My individual concerns--that is to say, the guidance and
direction of myself--I took into my own hands, and a sorry business I
made of it.

I spent a great deal of my time wondering whether or not Sylvia had
returned to the House of Martha. I longed for her coming. The very
thought of her living within a mile of me was a wild and uneasy
pleasure. Then I would ask myself why I wished her to come. Her presence
in the neighborhood would be of no good to me unless I saw her, and of
course I could not see her. And if this could be so, what would be worse
for me, or for her, than our seeing each other? From these abstract
questions I came to a more practical one: What should I do? To go away
seemed to be a sensible thing, but I was tired of going away. I liked my
home, and, besides, Sylvia would be in the neighborhood. It also seemed
wise to stay, and endeavor to forget her. But how could I forget her, if
she were in the neighborhood? If she were to go away, I might be willing
to go away also; but the chances were that I should not know where she
had gone, and how could I endure to go to any place where I was certain
she was not?

During this mental tangle I confided in no one. There was no one who
could sympathize with my varying view of the subject, and I knew there
was no one with whose view of the subject I could agree. Sometimes it
was almost impossible for me to sympathize with myself.

It suited my mood to take long walks in the surrounding country. One
morning, returning from one of these, when about half a mile out of the
village, I saw in the road, not very far from me, a carriage, which
seemed to be in distress. It was a four-wheeled, curtained vehicle, of
the kind to be had for hire at the railroad stations; and beside the
raw-boned horse which drew it stood a man and a woman, the latter in the
gray garb of a sister of the House of Martha.

When I recognized this costume, my heart gave a jump, and I hastened
toward the group; but the woman had perceived my approach, and to my
surprise came toward me. I quickly saw that it was Mother Anastasia. My
heart sank; without any good reason, it must be admitted, but still it
sank.

The face of the Mother Superior was slightly flushed, as she walked
rapidly in my direction. Saluting her, I inquired what had happened.

"Nothing of importance," she answered; "a trace has broken."

"I will go and look at it," I said. "Sometimes that sort of mishap can
be easily remedied."

"Oh, no," said she, "don't trouble yourself. It's broken in the middle,
and so you cannot cut a fresh hole in it, or do any of those things
which men do to broken traces. I have told the boy that he must take out
the horse, and ride it back to the stable and get another set of
harness. That is the only thing to be done. I shall wait here for his
return, and I am very glad to have met you."

Naturally I was pleased at this. "Then you have something to say to me?"
I remarked.

"Yes," she answered, "I have a good deal to say. Let us walk on to a
more shaded place."

"Now it strikes me," said I, "that the most pleasant place to wait will
be in the carriage; there we can sit and talk quite comfortably."

"Oh, no," she said, with a sort of half laugh, "it is stuffy and horrid.
I greatly prefer the fresh air. I have reason to suppose you do not
object to conversing under a tree. I see a promising bit of shade a
little farther on."

"Would it be wise to go so far from the carriage?" I asked. "Have you
left in it anything of value?"

Mother Anastasia was more animated than I had ever seen her before when
in the uniform of the house.

"Oh, pshaw!" she answered. "You know the people around here do not steal
things out of carriages. Let us step on."

"But first," I said, "I will run down and pull the carriage out of the
way of passing vehicles. It now stands almost across the road."

With a movement of impatience, she put her hand upon my arm. "Don't
trouble yourself about that hack; let it stand where it is. I wish to
speak with you, and do not let us waste our time."

I had no objection to speaking with Mother Anastasia, and, giving no
further thought to the abandoned vehicle, I walked with her to a spot
where a clump of straggling locust-trees threw a scanty shade upon the
sidewalk. I could not but feel that my companion had something important
to say to me, for she was evidently a good deal agitated. She stepped a
little in front of me, and then turned and faced me.

"There is no place to sit down here," she said, "but I'm not tired, are
you?"

I assured her that I was not, and would as soon talk standing as
sitting.

"Now, then," she began, "tell me about yourself. What have you been
doing? What are your plans?"

"My plans!" I cried. "Of what importance are my plans and actions? I
thought you wished to speak to me of Sylvia."

She smiled. "There is really nothing to say about that young person, of
whom, by the way, you should not speak as 'Sylvia.' She is now a full
member of the sisterhood, and has accepted the name of 'Sister Hagar.'
We found that the other sisters would not like it if an exception were
made in her favor, in regard to her name."

"'Hagar!'" I groaned. "Horrible!"

"Oh, no," replied Mother Anastasia, "there is nothing horrible about it.
'Hagar' is a little harsh, perhaps, but one soon gets used to that sort
of thing."

"I can never get used to it," I said.

"My dear Mr. Vanderley," said the Mother Superior, speaking very
earnestly, but with a gentleness that was almost affectionate, "I wish I
could impress upon your mind that there is no need of your getting used
to the name of our young sister, or of your liking it or disliking it.
You ought thoroughly to understand, from what she has told you, and from
what I have told you, that she never can be anything to you, and that,
out of regard to yourself, if to no one else, you should cease to think
of her as I see you do think."

"As long as I live in this world," I replied, "I shall continue to think
of her as I do think."

Mother Anastasia gave a sigh. "The unreasonableness of men is something
inexplicable. Perhaps you think I am not old enough to give you advice,
but I will say that, for your own sake, you ought to crush and
obliterate the feelings you have toward our sister; and if you do not
choose to do it for your own sake, you ought to do it for her sake and
that of our sisterhood. It makes it extremely awkward for us, to say the
least of it, to know that there is a gentleman in the village who is in
love with one of the sisters of the House of Martha."