Was It Right to Forgive? by Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr (free novel 24 .txt) 📖

prominent part; and then the young couple went off to sea together; and the company sighed and departed; and when the sun set, the bridal day was quite over. Mr. and Mrs. Filmer sat talking, a little sad, and yet gratefully satisfied. Harry was with Miss Alida and Adriana, and disposed to talk of his own marriage. Nobody wanted dinner; they had a cup of tea by the parlor fire, and as they were drinking it and talking over the events of the day, Professor Snowdon came in.

"Well, well!" he cried, rubbing his hands gleefully, "the great performance is over; and it is evident the modern bride and bridegroom profit by the old stage direction: 'Flourish of trumpets! Alarum! Exeunt!'" Then he looked at Peter, who was Miss Alida's guest for the night, and Adriana said: "This is my father, Professor."

"I am glad to see you, sir. What were you talking of? Do not let me interrupt the conversation."

"I was talking, as old men will talk, of their youth, and of my own marriage in the old Dutch kirk at Woodsome."

"I thought so. I meet many old men, and all of them, no matter how successful their later years have been, like best of all to talk of their life in childhood and early youth upon some farm; to recall the


'--whistling boys and lowing cows,
And earthy sounds of cleaving ploughs;'


or the


'Youthful love and maidens gay,
And bliss that found its wedding day,'


and when they do so, a different look comes into their faces, and their laugh grows young again--that is the strange thing. And I myself, I too, remember love in my sweet youth."

"If any one has ever loved," said Peter, "he cannot forget. Nothing goes to heaven but love."

"Is it not heaven? We have a way of inferring that heaven is far off and walled in, but really all eternal things are so very near to us that a single step, a sudden 'accident' brings the disembodied spirit into an immediate recognition of them."

"Then," said Harry, clasping Adriana's hand, "let us live now, for time is short."

"No, sir," answered the Professor, promptly, "man has forever."

"If in spiritual things, we could only see with our eyes and hear with our ears!" said Miss Alida.

"And if so, madame, what grace would there be in believing?"

"Who does believe?" asked Harry. "The great German philosopher, Frederick Gotfield, says, all religions are alike dead, and there is no faith left in the heart of man; no, nor yet capacity for faith."

"Well, Mr. Filmer, the disciple is not above his master. If you sit at the feet of Mr. Frederick Gotfield, you cannot rise above his doubts and scoffing."

"Harry does not sit at the feet of any such master, sir," explained Adriana.

"I am glad of it; for Mr. Gotfield is not in search of salvation; his way leads--but we will not talk of him. Oh, for a generation perplexed with no vague fears, worn with no infinite yearnings, perfectly happy and healthy, and aiming at the noblest ends! How good it would be!"

"However," said Harry, "whether we believe or not, we can love."

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

Suddenly every one was weary. Harry went away with the Professor, promising to come early the following evening, which was to be the last of Adriana's visit. The next day she would return to Woodsome with her father, and her trunks were already packed for the flitting. However, a week or two later Miss Alida was to follow her, and in the interval Adriana looked forward with some pleasure to a life of reflection and rest. She meant to cast up accounts with herself, and see whether she had been a loser, or a gainer, by the winter's experience.

The next morning both the ladies were silent and weary, and not inclined to movement. They preferred to dawdle over their coffee, to wonder whether Rose was seasick, and to discuss the smaller details of the ceremony, that had been too insignificant for the first prime criticism. Then the newspaper accounts were to praise and to blame, and the morning passed in a languid after-taste of the previous day. In the afternoon the sun was bright and warm and New York in one of her most charming moods. "Let us have a last drive in the Park," said Miss Alida, "for we shall have to content ourselves with woodland ways and dusty roads for the next few months. Put on your hat and your new suit. We may meet Harry, and if so, we can bring him back with us."

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

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

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

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

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

"How can I tell him?"

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

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

"I would humble him to my very feet."

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

"Poor girl! I have always told you not to put your trust in a broken reed--alias man. You did so, and you have got a wound for your pains. But, Yanna, my dear, what is now the good of crying for the moon; that is, for a man who is not a broken reed? I advise you to see Harry."

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

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

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

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

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

So Miss Alida left the sorrowful girl; but as she disrobed herself, she muttered: "What a miracle of ill-luck! I thought something unpleasant would come of Yanna's high spirits--the girl was what the Scotch call fey. Harry Filmer is a born fool, and a cultivated fool, and a reckless fool, and every other kind of a fool! Indeed, he is not a fool, he is the fool of the universe. Everything in his hand, and he could not hold it! I will give him a lecture