There was nothing inspiring about this badinage, but I braced myself to
the work, and told her what had happened in Washington.

"This is truly dreadful," she declared. "Of course I had no idea that
Mother Anastasia would consider your plan as anything more than the wild
outreachings of a baffled lover, but I did not imagine that she would
take it in this way. This is very bad."

"It is," I answered. "Everything is knocked from under me."

"Oh, bless you," said the lady, "I wasn't thinking of you, but of Mother
Anastasia. It was the happiest news I can remember when I heard that she
was soon to drop that name and all that belonged to it, and to begin a
life in which she would be a woman among her peers, no matter with what
sex they happen to be classed. But if she stops short and remains in
that miserable House of Martha, the result is bound to be disastrous. If
she believes it is necessary to spend her life in protecting Sylvia from
your assaults, she is the woman to spend her life in that way."

"What her friends should do," said I, "is to convince her that it is not
necessary."

Miss Laniston gazed upon me fixedly. "You think it would be a great pity
for a beautiful woman--a remarkably fine woman like Mother Anastasia--to
hide herself away in that make-believe convent?"

"Indeed I do," I answered, with animation.

"And since one fine woman is shut up for life in that prison, you think
it a shame that another one should remain within its walls?"

I assented warmly.

"Now, then," remarked Miss Laniston, rising, "it is absolutely necessary
for me to go to the Frenchwoman, who, I know, is fuming for me, and
whose time is very precious. I shall be with you again in about twenty
minutes, and during that time I wish you would make up your mind with
whom you are in love,--Mother Anastasia or Sylvia Raynor. When that
point is settled, we will see what can be done."

It was a man of a bewildered mind who was left alone in that
drawing-room. I did not understand what had been said to me, but now
that ideas of this kind had been put into words, there seemed to be a
certain familiarity about them. How dared she speak to me in that way?
What ground had she for such words?

And yet--Sylvia was shut up for life in the House of Martha. I could not
gainsay that.

I could not put my thoughts into form, and with my mind in chaos I
strode up and down the room until Miss Laniston returned.

"What an uneasy person you are!" she said. "Have you settled that little
point?"

"Settled it! There is nothing to settle."

She laughed. "I am not so sure about that. I thought I saw a change in
the wind when you were here last, and it is natural enough that it
should change. What is the good of its blowing steadfastly from the
north, when the north is nothing but ice?"

"You have no right to talk in that way!" I exclaimed angrily. "I utterly
repudiate your supposition."

"Come, come," she said, "let us be practical. I really take an interest
in you, you know, and besides that, I take an interest in my friends;
and it is quite plain to me that you must not be allowed to wander about
in a detached way, making all sorts of trouble. You have made a good
deal already. So if we must consider Sylvia Raynor as really out of the
race, on account of being tied up by her sisterhood obligations, we must
turn our attention to Mother Anastasia, who probably has not yet done
anything definite in regard to retaining her position in the House of
Martha. If anything can be done in this direction, it will be entirely
satisfactory, because, if you get the ex-Mother Superior, of course you
will be content to leave the young sister alone."

"Madam, you insult me!" I cried, springing to my feet.

"By which, I suppose," she answered, "you wish me to understand that
your heart is true to Poll,--by Poll meaning Sylvia Raynor."

"You know that as well as I do," I replied. "I have taken you into my
confidence; I have told you that I loved her, that I should always love
her; and it is unwomanly in you"--

"That will do," she interrupted,--"that will do; don't say hard words to
one of your best friends. If you will continue to be true to Poll, not
as the sailor was in the song, but constant and steadfast in all sorts
of weather, and without any regard to that mere material point of
eventually getting her for your own, why then I am your fast friend to
the end, and will do everything that I can to soften your woes and
lighten your pathway; and all the reward I desire for my labors is the
pleasure of knowing that there is at least one man in the world who can
love truly and unchangeably without seeing any chance ahead of him of
winning the woman he loves. Do you think you can fill that position?"

I looked at her sternly, and answered: "I have said all upon that point
that is necessary to say. When I love a woman, I love her forever."

"Very good," said Miss Laniston,--"very good; and I dare say your little
side flights didn't mean anything at all. And now I shall talk with
Mother Anastasia as soon as possible, and make her understand that she
has no right to sacrifice herself to Sylvia or any one else. If I can
get her started off on the right road, I will see what I can do with the
new Mother Superior, whoever she may be. Perhaps you may yet be able to
establish that delightful brotherhood of the House of Martha. Any way, I
promise you you shall have something. It may not be much and it may not
be often, but it shall be enough to keep your love alive, and that, you
see, is my great object. I want to make of you a monument of masculine
constancy."

As I took leave of her, Miss Laniston gave my hand a vigorous pressure,
which seemed to me to indicate that her intentions were better than her
words. As I went away my mind was quieter, though not cheered. There was
in it a certain void and emptiness, but this was compensated for by a
sense of self-approbation which was strengthening and comforting. I was
even able to smile at the notion of the interview between Miss Laniston
and Sister Sarah, when the former should propose my plan of the
brotherhood.




XLIV.

PRELIMINARY BROTHERHOOD.


When I returned to Arden, I gave Walkirk an outline of what had
occurred, but I did not go into details, having no desire that the
preposterous idea which had gotten into the head of Miss Laniston should
enter that of my under-study. Walkirk was not in good spirits.

"I had hoped something," he said, "from your interview with Mother
Anastasia, though perhaps not exactly in the line of a brotherhood. I
thought if she came to thoroughly understand your earnestness in the
matter, she might use her influence with Miss Raynor, which at some time
or other, or in some way or other, might result to your advantage, and
that of the young lady. I had and still have great belief in the
capabilities of Mother Anastasia, but now I am forced to believe, very
much against my will, that there is no hope ahead. With Mother Anastasia
decidedly against us, the fight is lost."

"Us," I repeated.

"My dear sir," said he, "I am with you, soul and body."

Without a word I took him by the hand, and pressed it warmly.

"What do you think of continuing your recitals of travel?" Walkirk said
to me later in the day. "I should think they would interest you, and I
know they were vastly interesting to me. You must have a great deal more
to tell."

"I have," I answered, "but I shall not tell it now. Instead of talking
about travels, I have determined to travel. At present it is awkward for
me to remain here. It is impossible for me to feel independent, and able
to do what I please, and know that there are persons in the village who
do not wish to meet me, and with whom it would be embarrassing and
perhaps unpleasant to meet. I know I must meet them some time or other,
unless they shut themselves up, or I shut myself up. That sort of thing
I cannot endure, and I shall go to Turkey and Egypt. Those countries I
have not visited. If it suits you, I shall take you with me, and I shall
also take a stenographer, to whom I shall dictate, on the spot, the
materials for my book."

"Do you mean," asked Walkirk, "that you will dispense altogether with
that preparatory narration to me of what you intend afterwards to put
into your book? I consider that a capital plan, and I think you found it
of advantage."

"That is true," I answered; "the plan worked admirably. I did not
propose to work in that way again, but I will do it. Every night I will
tell you what I have done, and what I think about things, and the next
morning I'll dictate that material, revised and shapen, to the
stenographer, who can then have the rest of the day to write it out
properly."

"A capital plan," said Walkirk, "and I shall be charmed to go with you."

I was indeed very anxious to leave Arden. I could not believe that
Mother Anastasia had ever imagined any of the stuff that Miss Laniston
had talked about, but she certainly had shown me that she was greatly
offended with me, and nothing offends me so much as to have people
offended with me. Such persons I do not wish to meet.

I did not immediately fix a date for my departure, for it was necessary
for me to consider my grandmother's feelings and welfare, and arrange to
make her as happy as possible while I should be gone. In the mean time,
it was of course necessary that I should take air and exercise; and
while doing this one morning in a pretty lane, just out of the village,
a figure in the House of Martha gray came into sight a little distance
ahead of me. Her back was toward me, and she was walking slower than I
was. "Now, then," thought I, "here is a proof of the awkwardness of my
position here. Even in a little walk like this, I must run up against
one of those sisters. I must pass her, or turn around and go back, for I
shall not slow up, and appear to be dogging her footsteps. But I shall
not turn back,--that does not suit me." Consequently I walked on, and
soon overtook the woman in gray. She did not turn her head as I
approached, for the sisters are taught not to turn their heads to look
at people. After all, it would be easy enough for me to adopt the same
rule, and to pass her without turning my head, or paying the slightest
attention to her. This was the manner indeed in which the general public
was expected to act toward the inmates of the House of Martha when met
outside their institution.

When I came up with her, I turned and looked into the bonnet. It was
Sylvia. As my eyes fell upon the face of that startled angel, my impulse
was to throw my arms around her, and rush away with her, gray bonnet,
shawl and all, to some distant clime where there were no Houses of
Martha, Mother Anastasias, or anything which could separate my dear love
and me; but I crushed down this mad fancy, smothered, as well as I
could, my wild emotions, and said, as calmly as possible,--

"Good morning, sister."

Over the quick flushes of her face there spread a smile of pleasure.

"I like that," she said; "I am glad to have you call me sister. I
thought you would be prejudiced against it, and would not do it."

"Prejudiced!" I said; "not a bit of it. I am delighted to do so."

"That is really good of you," she said; "and how have you been? You look
a little wan and tired. Have you been doing your own writing?"

"Oh, no," I said; "I have given up writing, at least for the present. I
wish I could make you understand how glad I am to call you sister, and
how it would joy my heart if you would call me brother."

"Oh, that would not do at all," she said, in a tone which indicated
surprise at my ignorance; "that would be quite a different thing. I am a
sister to everybody, but you are not a brother to anybody."

"When you hear what I have to say about this," I answered, "you will
understand what I mean by wishing to be called brother. May I ask where
you are going?"

"I am going to visit a sick person in that little house at the bottom of
the hill. Sister Agatha came with me, but she had the toothache, and had
to go back. I expect Sister Sarah will send some one of the others to
join me, for she always wants us to go about in couples."

"She is entirely right," said I; "I did not know she had so much sense,
and I shall make one of the couple this time. You ought not to be
walking about here by yourself."

"I suppose I ought to have gone back with Sister Agatha," said she, "but
I didn't want to. I'm dreadfully tired of staying in the House of
Martha, trying to learn typewriting. I can do it pretty well now, but
nothing has come of it. Sister Sarah got me one piece of work, which was
to copy a lot of bad manuscript about local option. I am sure, if I am
to do that sort of thing I shall not like typewriting."

"You shall not do that sort of thing," said I; "and now let us walk on
slowly, while I tell you what I meant by the term brother." I was in a
whirl of delight. Now I would talk to one who I believed would
sympathize with my every thought, who would be in harmony with my
outreachings, if she could do no more, and from whom I need expect
neither ridicule nor revilings. We walked on slowly, and I laid before
her my scheme for the brotherhood of the House of Martha.

I was not mistaken in my anticipation of Sylvia's sympathy. She listened
with sparkling eyes, and when I finished, clapped her hands with
delight.

"That is one of the best plans that was ever heard of in this world,"
she said. "How different it would make our life at the institution! Of
course the brothers wouldn't live there, but we should see each other,
like ordinary people in society, and everything would not be so
dreadfully blank, and there is no end to the things which you could do,
which we cannot do, unless with a great deal of trouble. The usefulness
of your plan seems to have no limits at all. How many brothers do you
think we ought to have?"

"I have not considered that point," I said; "at present I know of but
one person, besides myself, who would have the necessary qualifications
for the position."

"I expect," she said, looking at me with a twinkle of fun in her eye,
"that if you had the selection of the other brothers they would be a
tame lot."

"Perhaps you are right," I said, and we both broke into a laugh.

"I wish I could tell you," said Sylvia, "how much I am charmed with your
idea of the brotherhood. I haven't enjoyed myself so much for ever so
long."

We were now nearing the little house at the bottom of the hill. An idea
struck me.

"Who is it that you are going to visit?" I asked.

"It is an old man," she said, "who has the rheumatism so badly that he
cannot move. He has to take his medicine every hour, and his wife is
worn out sitting up and giving it to him, and Sister Agatha and I were
sent to take care of him during the morning, and let the poor old woman
get some sleep."

"Very good," said I, "here is a chance for me to make a beginning in my
scheme of brotherhood, and that without asking leave or license of
anybody. I will go in with you, and help you nurse the old man."

"I expect you can do it splendidly," said Sylvia, "and now we can see
how a brotherhood would work."

We entered a little house, which apparently had once been a good enough
home for humble dwellers, but which now showed signs of extreme poverty.
A man with gray hair, and placid, pale face, was lying on a bed in one
corner of the room into which the door opened, and in a chair near by
sat an old woman, her head bobbing in an uneasy nap. She roused when we
entered, and seemed glad to see us.

"He's about the same as he was," she said, "an' as he's loike to be
width thim little draps of midicine; but if you're a docther, sir, it
ain't for me to be meddlin', an' sayin' that one of thim Pepper Pod
Plasters width howles in it would do more good to his poor back than
thim draps inside of him."

"Rheumatism is not treated externally so much as it used to be," I said.
"You will find that internal medication will be of much more service in
the long run."

"That may be, sir," said she; "but it won't do to make the run too long,
considtherin' he hasn't been able to do a sthroke of work for four
weeks, an' if ye'd ever tried one of thim plasters, sir, ye'd know
they's as warmin' as sandpaper an' salt; but if I kin git a little
slape, it will be better for me than any midicine, inside or out."

"That's what we came to give you," said Sylvia; "go into the other room,
and lie down, and you shall not be called until it is time for your
dinner."

The woman gave a little shrug, which I imagine was intended to indicate
that dinner and dinner-time had not much relation to each other in this
house, and going into an adjoining room, was probably soon fast asleep.

"It would be better to begin by giving him his medicine. I know all
about it, for I was here yesterday. I forgot to ask his wife when she
gave it to him last," said Sylvia, "but we might as well begin fresh at
the half-pasts."

She poured out a teaspoonful of the stuff, and administered it to the
old man, who opened his mouth, and took it placidly.

"He is very quiet and very patient," said Sylvia to me in an
undertone,--and it is impossible for me to describe how delightful it
was to have her speak to me in such a confidential undertone,--"he
doesn't talk any," she continued, "and doesn't seem to care to have
anybody read to him, for when Sister Agatha tried that yesterday, he
went to sleep; but he likes his brow bathed, and I can sit on this side
of his bed and do that, and you can find a chair and sit on the other
side, and tell me more about your plan of brotherhood."

There was no other chair, but I found a box, on which I seated myself on
the other side of the old man's cot, while Sylvia, taking a bottle from
her pocket, proceeded to dampen the forehead of the patient with its
pleasantly scented contents.

I did not much like to see her doing this, nor did I care to discuss our
projects over the body of this rheumatic laborer.

"It strikes me," I said, "that it would be a good idea to put on that
bay rum, or cologne, or whatever it is, with a clean paint-brush, or
something of the kind. Don't you dislike using your fingers?"

Sylvia laughed. "You have lots to learn yet," she said, "before you can
be a brother; and now tell me what particular kind of work you think the
brothers would do. I hardly think nursing would suit them very well."

I did not immediately answer, and Sylvia's quick mind divined the reason
of my reluctance.

"Let us talk _en français_," she said; "that will not disturb this good
man, and he can go to sleep if he likes."

"_Très bien_," I said, "_parlons nous en français_."

"_Il serait charmant_," said she; "_j'aime la belle langue_."

The old man turned his head from one to the other of us; all his
placidity vanished, and he exclaimed,--

"_Ciel! VoilГ  les anges l'un et l'autre qui vient parler ma chГЁre
langue._"

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Sylvia, "I thought he was Irish."

The patient now took the talking business into his own hands, and in his
dear language told us his tale of woe. It was a very ordinary tale, and
its dolefulness was relieved by the old man's delight at finding people
who could talk to him like Christians. One of his woes was that he had
not been long enough married to his wife to teach her much French.

"I wish," interpolated Sylvia to me, "that we had kept on in English. It
would have been much more satisfactory. I expect one of the other
sisters will be here before very long, and before she comes I wish you
would tell me how you are getting on with your book. I have been
thinking about it, ever and ever so much."

"I am not getting on at all," said I; "without you there will be no
book."

At this Sylvia knit her brows a little, and looked disturbed.

"That is not a good way to talk about it," she said, "unless, indeed,
the book could be made a part of the brotherhood work, in some way. The
publisher might want a typewritten copy, and if I should make it, I
should know the end of the story of Tomaso and Lucilla. You know I had
almost given up ever knowing what finally happened to those two."

"You shall know it," said I; "we shall work together yet. I can think of
a dozen ways in which we can do it, and I intend to prove that my
brotherhood idea is thoroughly practicable."

"Of course it is," said Sylvia; "isn't this practical?" and she bedewed
the patient's brow so liberally, that some of the perfume ran into his
eyes, and made him wink vigorously.

"_Merci, mademoiselle_," said he, "_mais pas beaucoup, mais pas
beaucoup_!"

"A capital practical idea has just occurred to me," I said; "do you
think you shall be here to-morrow?"

"I expect to come here," she answered, "for I take a great deal of
interest in this old man. Mother Anastasia is still away, and I expect
that Sister Sarah will send me again, for this is the kind of work she
believes in. She has a very poor opinion of typewriting; but, of course,
a sister will come with me."

"There is one coming to join you now," I said; "I see her gray figure on
the top of the hill. As she will not understand matters, and as I do not
wish to talk any more about my plans, until I am better able to show how
they will work, I think it will be well for me to retire; but I shall be
here to-morrow morning, and it would suit my plans very well if another
sister comes with you."

Sylvia looked around at the approaching gray figure.

"I think that is Sister Lydia," she said, "at least, I think I recognize
her walk, and so it might be well for you to go. If it were Sister
Agatha it wouldn't matter so much. Of course, when your plan is all
explained and agreed to, it will not make any difference who comes or
goes."

"Very true," said I, "and now I think I will bid you good-morning. Be
sure and be here to-morrow."

She shook hands with me, across the prostrate form of the rheumatic
Frenchman, who smiled, and murmured, "_Bien, bien, mes anges_," and she
assured me that I might expect her on the morrow.




XLV.

I MAKE COFFEE AND GET INTO HOT WATER.


I do not like to do anything which looks in the least underhanded, but I
must admit that I left that wretched cottage by the back door, and
taking a path through some woods, made a wide circuit before returning
to the village.

As soon as I reached my house, I called Walkirk from his writing, and
rapidly gave him instructions in regard to the execution of an idea
which had come into my mind during my brotherhood labors of the morning.

I told him to hasten to the scene of my building operations, and to take
away all the carpenters, painters, and plasterers he could crowd into a
two-horse wagon, and to go with them to the house of the rheumatic
Frenchman, from which I knew the sisters would have departed before he
reached it. I promised to join him there, and at the same time that he
set out on his errand, I hurried to a shop in the village, the owner of
which combined the occupations of cabinet maker and undertaker, and who
generally kept on hand a small stock of cheap furniture. From this I
selected such articles as I thought would be suitable or useful in a
small house, which at present contained nothing too good for a bonfire,
and ordered them sent immediately to the Frenchman's cottage.

I reached this wretched little house a few minutes before the arrival of
Walkirk and the wagon-load of mechanics. My under-study had entered
heartily into my scheme, and by his directions the men had brought with
them everything needed to carry out my plans, and in a very short time
he and I had set every man to work.

There were carpenters, plasterers, painters, paper-hangers, and a tinner
and glazier, and when they learned that I wanted that little house
completely renovated in the course of the afternoon, they looked upon
the business as a lark, and entered into it with great spirit. The
astonished woman of the house did not understand what was about to
happen, and even when I had explained it to her, her mind seemed to take
in nothing except the fact that the house ought to be cleaned before the
painting and paper-hanging began, but there was no time for delays of
this sort, and the work went on merrily.

When the furniture arrived, the woman gave a gasp, for the last time the
vehicle which brought them to her house had been there, it had taken
away her previous husband. But a bureau and table and a roll of carpet
assured her of its different purpose, and she turned in with a will to
assist in arranging these articles.

Before dark the work was all done. The rheumatic Frenchman was lying on
a shining new bedstead, a box of Pepper Pod Plasters had been placed in
the hands of his delighted wife, a grocery wagon had deposited a load of
goods in the kitchen, the mechanics in gay spirits had driven away, and
Walkirk and I, tired, but triumphant, walked home, leaving behind us a
magical transformation, a pervading smell of paint and damp wall-paper,
and an aged couple as much dazed as delighted with what had happened.

Soon after breakfast the next day, I repaired to the bright and tidy
little cottage, and there I had my reward. Standing near the house a
little in the shadow of a good sized evergreen-tree, which I had ordered
transplanted bodily from the woods into the little yard, I beheld Sylvia
approaching, and with her a sister with a bandaged face whom I rightly
supposed to be the amiable Sister Agatha.

When the two came within a moderate distance of the cottage they
stopped, they looked about them from side to side, and it was plain to
see that they imagined they were on the wrong road. Then they walked
forward a bit, stopped again, and finally came towards the house on a
run.

I advanced to meet them.

"Good morning, sisters," said I. The two were so much astonished that
they did not return my greeting, and for a few moments scarcely noticed
me. Then Sylvia turned.

"How in the world," she exclaimed, "did all this happen? It must be the
same house."

I smiled. "It is very simple," said I; "this"--and as I spoke I waved my
hand towards the cottage--"is an instance of the way in which the
brothers of the House of Martha intend to work."

"And you did this?" exclaimed Sylvia, with radiant eyes.

I explained to the eagerly listening sisters how the transformation had
been accomplished, and with a sort of reverent curiosity they approached
the house. Sister Agatha's astonishment was even greater than that of
Sylvia, for she had long known the wretched place.

"It is a veritable miracle," she said, "see this beautiful white fence,
and the gate; it opens on hinges!"

"Be careful," said I, as they entered the little yard, "some of the
paint may yet be wet, although I told them to put as much drying stuff
in as was possible."

"Actually," cried Sylvia, "a gravel walk up to the house!"

"And the outside a daffodil yellow, with fern green blinds!" said Sister
Agatha.

"And the eaves tipped with geranium red!" cried Sylvia.

"And a real tree on each side of the front door, and new steps!"
exclaimed Sister Agatha.

When they entered the house the amazement and delight of the two sisters
was a joy to my soul. They cried out at the carpet on the floor, the
paper on the walls, the tables, the chairs, the bureau, the
looking-glass, the three framed lithographs on the wall, the clock, and
the shining new bedstead on which their patient lay.

"If Mother Anastasia could but see this," cried Sylvia, "she would
believe in the brotherhood."

"He sez yer angels," said the woman of the house, coming forward,
"that's what he sez; an' he's roight too, for with thim Pepper Pod
Plasters, an' the smell of paint in the house which he hates, he'll be
out o' doors in two days, or I'm much mishtaken."

Sylvia and I now approached the old man to see what he thought about it.
He was very grateful, and said nothing about the smell of paint, but we
found him with a burning desire in his heart which had been fanned into
flames by the arrival of the groceries on the day before. He eagerly
asked us if we could make coffee; when he was well he could make it
himself, but since he had been lying on that bed, he had not tasted a
drop of the beloved liquid. His wife did not drink it, and could not
make it, but as we could speak French, and had sent coffee, he felt sure
that we could compound the beverage, so dear to the French heart.

"The angels make coffee," he said, in his best patois, "otherwise what
would Heaven be?"

Both of the angels declared that the good man should have some coffee
without delay, but Sylvia said to me, that although she had not the
least idea how to make it, she was quite sure Sister Agatha could do it.
But that sister, when asked, declared that she knew nothing about
coffee, and did not approve of it for sick people, but if the man did
not like the tea his wife made, she would try what she could do.

But this offer was declined. The old man must have his coffee, and as
there was no one else to make it, I undertook to do it myself. I thought
I remembered how coffee had been made, when I had been camping out, and
I went promptly to work. Everybody helped. The old woman ground the
berries, Sister Agatha stirred up the fire, and Sylvia broke two eggs,
in order to get shells enough to clear the liquid.

It was a good while before the coffee was ready, but at last it was
made, and Sylvia carried it to our patient in a great bowl. She sat down
on one side of the bed to administer the smoking beverage with a spoon,
while I sat on the other side and raised the old man's head that he
might drink the better. After swallowing the first tablespoonful, the
patient winked.

"I hope it did not scald his throat," said Sylvia, "Do you know what
'scald' is in French?"

"I cannot remember," said I, "you had better let the next spoonful cool
a little,"--but the patient opened his mouth for more.

"_C'est potage_," he said, "_mais il est bon_."

"I am sorry I made soup of it," I said to Sylvia, "but I am sure it
tastes like coffee."

We continued to feed the old man, who absorbed the new-fangled broth as
fast as it was given to him, until a voice behind me made us both jump.

"Sister Hagar," said the voice, "what does this mean?"

"Goodness, Mother Anastasia," cried Sylvia, "you made me scald the
outside of his throat."

At the foot of the bed stood Mother Anastasia clad in her severest gray,
her brows knit and her lips close pressed.

"Sister Hagar," she repeated, "what is all this?"

I let down the old man's head, and Sylvia, placing the almost empty bowl
upon the table, replied serenely:--

"Mr. Vanderley is making a beginning in brotherhood work--the
brotherhood of the House of Martha, you know. I think it would work
splendidly. Just look around and see what he has done. He has made this
charming cottage out of an old rattle-trap house. Everything you see in
one afternoon, and lots of provisions in the kitchen besides. Sisters
alone could never have done this."

Mother Anastasia turned to me.

"I will speak with you, outside," she said, and I followed her into the
little yard. As soon as we were far enough from the house to speak
without being overheard, she stopped, and turning to me, said:--

"You are not content with driving me from the life on which I had set my
heart, back into this mistaken vocation, but you are determined to make
my lot miserable and unhappy. And not mine only, but that of that
simple-hearted and unsuspecting girl. I do not see how you can be so
selfishly cruel. You are resolved to break her heart, and to do it in
the most torturing way. But you shall work her no more harm. I do not
now appeal to your honor, to your sense of justice; I simply say that I
shall henceforth stand between you and her. What misery may come to her
and to me from what you have already done I do not know, but you do no
more."

I stood and listened with the blood boiling within me.

"Marcia Raynor," I said--"for I shall not call you by that title which
you put on and take off as you please--I here declare to you that I
shall never give up Sylvia. If I never speak to her again or see her I
shall not give her up. I make no answer to what you have charged me
with, but I say to you that as Sylvia's life and my life cannot be one
as I would have it, I shall live the life that she lives, even though
our lives be ever apart. For the love I bear her, I shall always do the
work that she does. But I believe that the time will come when people,
wiser than you are, will see that what I proposed to do is a good thing
to do, and the time will come when a man and a woman can labor side by
side in good works, and both do better work because they work together.
And to Sylvia and to my plan of brotherhood, I shall ever be constant.
Remember that."

Without a word or change in her expression she left me, went into the
house, and closed the door behind her. I did not wish to make a scene,
which would give rise to injurious gossip, and therefore walked away,
though as I did so I turned to look in at the open window, but I did not
see Sylvia; I only saw the bandaged face of Sister Agatha looking out at
me, more mournful than before.

As I rapidly walked homeward, I said to myself, "Now I declare myself a
full brother of the House of Martha. I shall take up their cause, and
steadfastly work for it whether they like it or not."




XLVI.

GOING BACK FOR A FRIEND.


When I reached home, I looked up my grandmother and told her everything
that had happened. My excitement was so great that it was necessary I
should talk to some one, and I felt a pang of regret when I remembered
that latterly I had given no confidences to her.

My grandmother listened eagerly and without interrupting me, but as I
spoke she shook her head again and again, and when I had finished, she
said:--

"My dear boy, if you understood the world and the people in it as well
as I do, you would know that that sort of thing could never, never work.
Before long you and Sylvia would be madly in love with each other, and
then what would happen nobody knows. It may be that Mother Anastasia has
not fully done her duty in this case, or it may be that she has done too
much, and other people may have acted improperly and without due thought
and caution; but be this as it may, it is plain enough to see that your
poor heart has been dreadfully wrung. I wish I had known before of this
brotherhood notion, and of what you intended to do, and I would have
told you, as I tell you now, that in this world we must accept
situations. That is the only way in which we can get along at all.
Sylvia Raynor has gone, soul and body, into this Martha House, which is
the same as a convent, and to all intents and purposes she is the same
as a nun. Now there is no use fighting against that sort of thing. Even
if she should consent to climb over the wall, and run away with you, I
do not believe you would like a wife who would do that, after all she
had vowed and given her solemn word to."

"My dear grandmother," I said, "all that you say may be true, but it
makes no difference to me; I shall always be faithful to Sylvia."

"Perhaps so, perhaps so," said my grandmother, "but you must remember
this: it may be all very well to be faithful, but you should be careful
how you do it. In some respects Mother Anastasia is entirely right, and
your faithfulness, if injudiciously shown, may make miserable the life
of this young woman." I sighed but said nothing. My grandmother looked
pityingly upon me.

"I think you can do nothing better than to go and travel as you have
proposed. Stay away for a year. Dear knows, I do not want to keep you
from me for all that time, but the absence will be for your good. It
will influence your life. When you come back, then you will know
yourself better than you can possibly know yourself now. Then you will
be able to see what you truly ought to do, and I promise you that if I
am alive I will help you do it."

I took the dear old lady in my arms, and her advice to my heart. I
acknowledged to myself that at this conjuncture the wisest thing, the
kindest thing was to go away. I might not stay away for a year, but I
would go.

"Grandmother," I said, "I will do what you advise. But I have something
to ask of you: I have vowed that I will be a brother of the House of
Martha, and that I will do its work, with or without the consent of the
sisters, and with or without their companionship. Now if I go, will you
be my substitute? Will you, as far as you can, assist the sisters in
their undertakings, and do what you think I would have done, had I been
here?"

"I cannot change a dilapidated hut into a charming cottage in one
afternoon," she said, placing both hands on my shoulders as she spoke,
"but I will do all that I can, and all that you ought to do, if you were
here. That much I promise."

"Then I will go," I said, "with a heavy heart, but with an easier
conscience."

Walkirk entirely approved of an immediate start upon the journey which I
had before proposed. I think he feared that if it was postponed any
longer, I might get some other idea into my head which would work better
than the brotherhood scheme, and that our travels might be postponed
indefinitely.

But there was a great deal to be done before I could leave home for a
lengthy absence, and a week was occupied in arranging my business
affairs, and planning for the comfort and pleasure of my grandmother
while I should be away. Walkirk engaged the stenographer, and was the
greatest possible help to me in every way, but notwithstanding his
efforts to relieve me of work that was a busier week for me than any
week in my whole life. This was an advantage to me, for it kept me from
thinking too much of the reason for my hurried journey.

At last the day arrived on which the steamer was to sail, and the
generally cool Walkirk actually grew nervous in his efforts to get me
ready to start by the early morning train for the city. In these efforts
I did not assist him in the least. In fact had he not been with me I
think that I should not have tried to leave home in time to catch the
steamer. The more I thought of catching the steamer, the less I cared to
do so; the more I thought of leaving home, the less I cared to do so. It
was not that I was going away from Sylvia that made me thus reluctant to
start. It was because I was going away without taking leave of
her,--without a word or even a sign from her. I ground my teeth as I
thought of how I had lost the only chance I had had of bidding her
farewell, and of assuring her that, no matter what happened, I would be
constant to her and to the principles in which we had both come to
believe. I had been too much excited on the morning I had left her in
the Frenchman's cottage to think that that would be my last chance of
seeing her; that thereafter Mother Anastasia would never cease to guard
her from my speech or sight. I should have rushed in, caring for
nothing. People might have talked, but Sylvia would have known that
prohibitions and separations would make no difference in my feeling for
her.

And now I was going away without a word or a sign, or even the slightest
trifle which I could cherish as a memento of her. There was a blankness
about it all which deadened my soul.

But Walkirk was inexorable. He made every arrangement, and even
superintended my farewell to my grandmother, and gently but firmly
interrupted me, as I repeated my entreaties that she would speedily find
out something about Sylvia, and write to me. At last we were in the
carriage, with time enough to reach the station, and Walkirk wiped his
brow, as would a man who had had a heavy load lifted from his mind.

We had not gone a quarter of the distance when the thought suddenly
struck me, Why should I go away without a memento of Sylvia? Why had I
not remembered my friend Vespa, the wasp, whose flight around my
secretary's room had made the first break in the restrictions which
surrounded her; had first shown me a Sylvia in place of a gray-bonneted
nun? That dead wasp, pinned to a card on the wall of my study, was the
only thing I possessed in which Sylvia had a share. I must go back and
get it; I must take it with me.

When I shouted to the coachman to turn, that I must go back to get
something I had forgotten, Walkirk was thrown into a fever of anxiety.
If we did not catch this train we would lose the steamer; the next train
would be three hours later. But his protestations had no effect upon me.
I must have Sylvia's wasp, no matter what happened.

Back to the house we dashed, and up-stairs I ran. I took down the card
to which the wasp was affixed, I found a little box in which to put it,
and while I was looking for a rubber band by which to secure the lid, a
servant came hurriedly into the room with a telegram for me. I tore it
open. It was from Miss Laniston and read thus:--

     "Come to me as soon as you can. Important business."

"Important business!" I ejaculated. "She can have no business with me
that does not concern Sylvia. I will go to her instantly." In a few
seconds I was in the carriage, shouting to the man to drive as fast as
he could.

"Yes, indeed," said Walkirk, "you cannot go too fast."

I handed my companion the telegram. He read it blankly.

"It is a pity," he said, "if the business is important. All that can be
done now is to telegraph to her that she must write to you in London by
the next steamer."

"I shall do nothing of the kind," said I, "I am going to her the instant
we reach New York."

Walkirk clenched his hands together, and looked away. He had no words
for this situation.

My temper was very different.

"What a wonderful piece of luck!" I exclaimed. "If we had kept on to the
station, by this short cut, the telegraph boy, who of course came by the
main road, would have missed me, and there would not have been time for
him to get back to the station before the train started. How fortunate
it was that I went back for that wasp."

"Wasp!" almost screamed Walkirk, and by the way he looked at me, I know
he imagined that I was temporarily insane.

We caught the train, and on the way I explained my allusion to the wasp
so far as to assure Walkirk that I was no more crazy than men badly
crossed in love are apt to be.

"But are you really going to Miss Laniston?" he said.

"I shall be able to drive up there, give her fifteen minutes with five
as a margin, and reach the steamer in time. You can go directly to the
dock, and attend to the baggage and everything."

My under-study sighed, but he knew it was of no use to make any
objections. He did not fail, however, to endeavor to impress upon me the
importance of consulting my watch while listening to Miss Laniston's
communication.

My plan was carried out; we separated as soon as we reached the city,
and in a cab I rattled to Miss Laniston's house.




XLVII.

I INTEREST MISS LANISTON.


When I reached Miss Laniston's house that lady was at breakfast, but she
did not keep me waiting long.

"Truly," she said, as she entered the drawing-room, "you are the most
expeditious person I ever knew. I knew that you would come to me, but I
did not suppose you would even start as soon as this."

"I had already started when I received your telegram," I said.

"To come here?"

"No, to sail for Europe."

"Well, well!" she exclaimed, "from this moment I shall respect my
instincts, a thing I never did before. When I woke this morning my first
thought was of the message I intended to send to you, and I intended to
attend to it immediately after breakfast; but my hitherto unappreciated
instincts hinted to me that no time should be lost, and I called my
maid, and dispatched the telegram immediately. Moral: Do all the good
you can before you get up in the morning. Why are you starting for
Europe?"

"I haven't time to tell you," I said, "in fact, I can only remain a few
minutes longer, or I shall lose the steamer. Please tell me your
business."

"Is Sylvia the cause of your going away?" she asked.

"Yes," I said; "is she the reason of your wishing to see me?"

"Most certainly," she answered; "when does your steamer start?"

"By ten o'clock," I said.

"Oh, bless me," she remarked, glancing at the clock, "you have quite
time enough to hear all I have to say, and then if you do not catch the
steamer it is your own fault. Sit down, I pray you."

Very reluctantly I took a seat, for at last the spirit of Walkirk had
infected me.

"Now," said she, "I will cut my story as short as possible, but you
really ought to hear it before you start. I made a visit to Arden, on
the day after you performed the grand transformation scene in your
brotherhood extravaganza. I should have been greatly amused by what was
told me of this prank, if I had not seen that it had caused so much
trouble. Sylvia was in a wretched way, and in an extremely bad temper.
Marcia was almost as miserable, for she was acting the part of an
extinguisher not only to Sylvia's hopes and aspirations, but to her own.
So far as I could see there was no way out of the doleful dumps in which
you seemed to have plunged yourself and all parties concerned, but I set
to work to try what I could do to straighten out matters; my principal
object being, I candidly admit, to enable Marcia Raynor to feel free to
give up her position of watch-dog, and go to her National College, on
which her soul is set. But to accomplish this, I must first do something
with Sylvia; but that girl has a conscience like a fence post, and a
disposition like a squirrel that skips along the rails. I could do
nothing with her. She had sworn to be a Sister of Martha for life, and
yet she would not consent to act like an out and out sister, and give up
all that stuff about typewriting for you, and the other nonsensical
notions of co-Marthaism, with which you infected her. She stoutly stuck
to it, in spite of all the arguments I could use, that there was no good
reason why you and she, as well as the other sisters and some other
gentlemen, could not work together in the noble cause of I don't
remember what fol-de-rol. Pretty co-Marthas you and she would make!

"Then I tried to induce Marcia to give up her fancies of
responsibilities and all that, and to leave the girl in the charge of
the present Mother Inferior, an elderly woman called Sister Sarah, who
in my opinion could be quite as much of a griffin as the case demanded.
But she would not listen to me. She had been the cause of her cousin's
joining the sisterhood, and now she would not desert her, and she said a
lot about the case requiring not only vigilance, but kindness and
counsel, and that sort of thing. Then I went back to the city, and tried
my hand on Sylvia's mother, but with no success at all. She is like a
stone gate-post, and always was, and declared that as Sylvia had entered
the institution because Marcia was there, it was the latter's duty to
give up everything else, and to throw herself between Sylvia and your
mischievous machinations and to stay there until you were married to
somebody, and the danger was past."

"Machinations!" I ejaculated,--"a most unreasonable person."

"Perhaps so," said Miss Laniston, "but not a bit more than the rest of
you. You are the most unreasonable lot I ever met with. Having failed
utterly with the three women, I had some idea of sending for you, and of
trying to persuade you to marry some one who is not under the
sisterhood's restrictions, and so smooth out this wretched tangle, but I
knew that you were more obstinate and stiff-necked than any of them, and
so concluded to save myself the trouble of reasoning with you."

"A wise decision," I remarked.

"But I could not give up," she continued; "I could not bear the thought
that my friend Marcia Raynor should sacrifice herself in this way. I
went back to Arden in the hope that something might suggest itself; that
a gleam of sense might be shown by the one or the other of the lunatics
in gray for whose good I was racking my brains. But I found things worse
than I had left them. Sylvia had stirred herself into a spirit of
combativeness of which no one would have supposed her capable, and had
actually endeavored to brow-beat her Mother Superior into the belief
that a Brotherhood Annex was not only necessary to the prosperity and
success of the House of Martha, but that it was absolutely wicked not to
have it. She had gone on in this strain until Marcia had become angry,
and then there had been a scene and tears, and much subsequent misery.

"I talked first with one doleful sister, and then with the other, with
the only result that I became nearly as doleful as they. In my despair I
went to Marcia, and urged her to acknowledge herself vanquished, to give
up this contest, which would be her ruin, to show herself a true woman,
and to take up the true work of her life. 'Oh, I couldn't do it,' she
said, and she looked as if she were going to cry, a most unusual thing
with her; 'if I went away, to-morrow they would be together, making
mud-pies for the children of the poor.' I sprang to my feet. 'Marcia
Raynor,' I cried, 'you made this House of Martha. You are the head and
the front, the top and the bottom of it. You are its founder and its
autocrat, it lives on your money,--for everybody knows that what these
sisters make wouldn't buy their pillboxes,--and now, having run it all
these years, and having brought yourself and Sylvia to the greatest
grief by it, it is your duty to put an end to it, to abolish it.'

"'Abolish the House of Martha?' she cried, with her great eyes blazing
at me.

"'Yes,' I said, 'abolish it, destroy it, annihilate it, declare it null,
void, dead and gone, utterly extinguished, and out of existence. You can
do this, and you ought to do this. It is your only way out of the
dreadful situation in which you have got yourself and Sylvia. Let the
other sisters go to some other institutions, or wherever they like. You
and Sylvia will be free, that is the great point. Now do not hesitate.
Stop supplies, dissolve the organization, break up the House of Martha,
and do it instantly.'