Harry and I lost no time in going to the stage-house, and found ourselves by noon at Miss Mehitable's door.
When we went in, we found Miss Mehitable seated in close counsel with Mr. Jonathan Rossiter. His face looked sharp, and grave, and hard; his large gray eyes had in them a fiery, excited gleam. Spread out on the table before them were files of letters, in the handwriting of which I had before had a glimpse. The brother and sister had evidently been engaged in reading them, as some of them lay open under their hands.
When we came into the room, both looked up. Miss Mehitable rose, and offered her hands to us in an eager, excited way, as if she were asking something of us. The color flashed into Mr. Rossiter's cheeks, and he suddenly leaned forward over the papers and covered his face with his hands. It was a gesture of shame and humiliation infinitely touching to me.
"Horace," said Miss Mehitable, "the thing we feared has come upon us. O Horace, Horace! why could we not have known it in time?"
I divined at once. My memory, like an electric chain, flashed back over sayings and incidents of years.
"The villain!" I said.
Mr. Rossiter ground his foot on the floor with a hard, impatient movement, as if he were crushing some poisonous reptile.
"It 's well for him that I 'm not God," he said through his closed teeth.
Harry looked from one to the other of us in dazed and inquiring surprise. He had known in a vague way of Emily's disappearance, and of Miss Mehitable's anxieties, but it never had occurred to his mind to connect the two. In fact, our whole education had been in such a wholesome and innocent state of society, that neither of us had the foundation, in our experience or habits of thought, for the conception of anything like villany. We were far enough from any comprehension of the melodramatic possibilities suggested in our days by that heaving and tumbling modern literature, whose waters cast up mire and dirt.
Never shall I forget the shocked, incredulous expression on Harry's face as he listened to my explanations, nor the indignation to which it gave place.
"I would sooner have seen Tina in her grave than married to such a man," he said huskily.
"O Harry!" said Miss Mehitable.
"I would!" he said, rising excitedly. "There are things that men can do that still leave hope of them; but a thing like this is final, - it is decisive."
"That is my opinion, Harry," said Mr. Rossiter. "It is a sin that leaves no place for repentance."
"We have been reading these letters," said Miss Mehitable; "they were sent to us by Tina, and they do but confirm what I always said, - that Emily fell by her higher nature. She learned, under Dr. Stern, to think and to reason boldly, even when differing from received opinion; and this hardihood of mind and opinion she soon turned upon the doctrines he taught. Then she abandoned the Bible, and felt herself free to construct her own system of morals. Then came an intimate friendship with a fascinating married man, whose domestic misfortunes made a constant demand on her sympathy; and these charming French friends of hers - who were, as far as I see, disciples of the new style of philosophy, and had come to America to live in a union with each other which was not recognized by the laws of France - all united to make her feel that she was acting heroically and virtuously in sacrificing her whole life to her lover, and disregarding what they called the tyranny of human law. In Emily's eyes, her connection had all the sacredness of marriage."
"Yes," said Mr. Rossiter, "but see now how all these infernal, fine-spun, and high-flown notions, always turn out to the disadvantage of the weaker party! It is man who always takes advantage of woman in relations like these: it is she that gives all, and he that takes all; it is she risks everything, and he risks nothing. Hard as marriage bonds bear in individual cases, it is for woman's interest that they should be as stringently maintained as the Lord himself has left them. When once they begin to be lessened, it is always the weaker party that goes to the wall!"
"But," said I, "suppose a case of confirmed and hopeless insanity on either side."
He made an impatient gesture. "Did you ever think," he said, "if men had the laws of nature in their hands, what a mess they would make of them? What treatises we should have against the cruelty of fire in always burning, and of water in always drowning! What saints and innocents has the fire tortured, and what just men made perfect has water drowned, making no exceptions! But who doubts that this inflexibility in natural law is, after all, the best thing? The laws of morals are in our hands, and so reversible, and, therefore, we are always clamoring for exceptions. I think they should cut their way like those of nature, inflexibly and eternally! "
Here the sound of wheels startled us. I went to the window, and, looking through the purple spikes of the tall old lilacs, which came up in a bower around the open window, I saw Tina alighting from a carriage.
"O Aunty," I said involuntarily, "it is she. She is coming, poor child."
We heard a light fluttering motion and a footfall on the stairs, and the door opened, and in a moment Tina stood among us.
She was very pale, and there was an expression such as I never saw in her face before. There had been a shock which had driven her soul inward, from the earthly upon the spiritual and the immortal. Something deep and pathetic spoke in her eyes, as she looked around on each of us for a moment without speaking. As she met Miss Mehitable's haggard, careworn face, her lip quivered. She ran to her, threw her arms round her, and hid her face on her shoulder, and sobbed out, "O Aunty, Aunty! I did n't think I should live to make you this trouble."
"You, darling!" said Miss Mehitable "It is not you who have made it."
"I am the cause," she said. "I know that he has done dreadfully wrong. I cannot defend him, but oh! I love him still. I cannot help loving him; it is my duty to," she added. "I promised, you know, before God, 'for better, for worse'; and what I promised I must keep. I am his wife; there is no going back from that."
"I know it, darling," said Miss Mehitable, stroking her head. "You are right, and my love for you will never change."
"I am come," she said, "to see what can be done."
"NOTHING can be done!" spoke out the deep voice of Jonathan Rossiter. "She is lost and we disgraced beyond remedy!"
"You must not say that," Tina said, raising her head, her eyes sparkling through her tears with some of her old vivacity. "Your sister is a noble, injured woman. We must shield her and save her; there is every excuse for her."
"There is NEVER any excuse for such conduct," said Mr. Rossiter harshly.
Tina started up in her headlong, energetic fashion. "What right have you to talk so, if you call yourself a Christian?" she said. "Think a minute. WHO was it said, 'Neither do I condemn thee'? and whom did he say it to? Christ was not afraid or ashamed to say that to a poor friendless woman, though he knew his words would never pass away."
"God bless you, darling, - God bless you!" said Miss Mehitable, clasping her in her arms.
"I have read those letters," continued Tina, impetuously. "He did not like me to do it, but I claimed it as my right, and I would do it, and I can see in all a noble woman, gone astray from noble motives. I can see that she was grand and unselfish in her love, that she was perfectly self-sacrificing, and I believe it was because Jesus understood these things in the hearts of women that he uttered those blessed words. The law was against that poor woman, the doctors, the Scribes and Pharisees, all respectable people, were against her, and Christ stepped between all and her; he sent them away abashed and humbled, and spoke those lovely words to her. O, I shall forever adore him for it! He is my Lord and my God!"
There was a pause for a few moments, and then Tina spoke again
"Now, Aunty, hear my plan. You, perhaps, do not believe any good of him, and so I will not try to make you; only I will say that he is anxious to do all he can. He has left everything in my hands. This must go no farther than us few who now know it. Your sister refused the property he tried to settle on her. It was noble to do it. I should have felt jus
t as she did. But, dear Aunty, my fortune I always meant to settle on you, and it will be enough for you both. It will make you easy as to money, and you can live together."
"Yes, my dear," said Miss Mehitable; "but how can this be kept secret when there is the child?"
"I have thought of that, Aunty. I will take the poor little one abroad with me, - children always love me. I can make her so happy; and O, it will be such a motive to make amends to her for all this wrong. Let me see your sister, aunty, and tell her about it."
"Dear child," said Miss Mehitable, "you can do nothing with her. All last night I thought she was dying. Since then she seems to have recovered her strength; but she neither speaks nor moves. She lies with her eyes open, but notices nothing you say to her."
"Poor darling!" said Tina. "But, Aunty, let me go to her. I am so sure that God will help me, - that God sends me to her. I must see her!"
Tina's strong impulses seemed to carry us all with her. Miss Mehitable arose, and, taking her by the hand, opened the door of a chamber on the opposite side of the hall. I looked in, and saw that it was darkened. Tina went boldly in, and closed the door. We all sat silent together. We heard her voice, at times soft and pleading; then it seemed to grow more urgent and impetuous as she spoke continuously and in tones of piercing earnestness.
After a while, there were pauses of silence, and then a voice in reply.
"There," said Miss Mehitable, "Emily has begun to answer her, thank God! Anything is better than this oppressive silence. It 's frightful!"
And now the sound of an earnest conversation was heard, waxing on both sides more and more ardent and passionate. Tina's voice sometimes could be distinguished in tones of the most pleading entreaty; sometimes it seemed almost like sobbing. After a while, there came a great silence, broken by now and then an indistinct word; and then Tina came out, softly closing the door. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair partially dishevelled, but she smiled brightly, - one of her old triumphant smiles when she had carried a point.
"I 've conquered at last! I 've won!" she said, almost breathless. "O, I prayed so that I might, and I did. She gives all up to me; she loves me. We love each other dearly. And now I 'm going to take the little one with me, and by and by I will bring her back to her, and I will make her so happy. You must give me the darling at once, and I will take her away with us; for we are going to sail next week. We sail sooner than I thought," she said; "but this makes it best to go at once."
Miss Mehitable rose and went out, but soon reappeared, leading in a lovely little girl with great round, violet blue eyes, and curls of golden hair. The likeness of Ellery Davenport was plainly impressed on her infant features.
Tina ran towards her, and stretched out her arms. "Darling," she said, "come to me."
The little one, after a moment's survey, followed that law of attraction which always drew children to Tina. She came up confidingly, and nestled her head on her shoulder.
Tina gave her her watch to play with, and the child shook it about, well pleased.
"Emily want to go ride?" said Tina, carrying her to the window and showing her the horses.
The child laughed, and stretched out her hand.
"Bring me her things, Aunty," she said. "Let there not be a moment for change of mind. I take her with me this moment."
A few moments after, Tina went lightly tripping down the stairs, and Harry and I with her, carrying the child and its little basket of clothing.
"There, put them in," she said. "And now, boys," she said, turning and offering both her hands, "good by. I love you both dearly, and always shall."
She kissed us both, and was gone from our eyes before I awoke from the dream into which she had thrown me.
* * * * *
"Well," said Miss Mehitable, when the sound of wheels died away, "could I have believed that anything could have made my heart so much lighter as this visit?"
"She was inspired," said Mr. Rossiter.
"Tina's great characteristic," said I. "What makes her differ from others is this capacity of inspiration. She seems sometimes to rise, in a moment, to a level above her ordinary self, and to carry all up with her!"
"And to think that such a woman has thrown herself away on such a man!" said Harry.
"I foresee a dangerous future for her," said Mr. Rossiter "With her brilliancy, her power of attraction, with the temptations of a new and fascinating social life before her; and with only that worthless fellow for a guide, I am afraid she will not continue our Tina."
"Suppose we trust in Him who has guided her hitherto," said Harry.
"People usually consider that sort of trust a desperate resort," said Mr. Rossiter. "'May the Lord help her,' means, 'It 's all up with her.'"
"We see," said I, "that the greatest possible mortification and sorrow that could meet a young wife has only raised her into a higher plane. So let us hope for her future."
CHAPTER XLIX.
WHAT CAME OF IT.
THE next week Mr. and Mrs. Ellery Davenport sailed for England.
I am warned by the increased quantity of manuscript which lies before me that, if I go on recounting scenes and incidents with equal minuteness, my story will transcend the limits of modern patience. Richardson might be allowed to trail off into seven volumes, and to trace all the histories of all his characters, even unto the third and fourth generations; but Richardson did not live in the days of railroad and steam, and mankind then had more leisure than now.
I am warned, too, that the departure of the principal character from the scene is a signal for general weariness through the audience, - for looking up of gloves, and putting on of shawls, and getting ready to call one's carriage.
In fact, when Harry and I had been down to see Tina off, and had stood on the shore, watching and waving our handkerchiefs, until the ship became a speck in the blue airy distance, I turned back to the world with very much the feeling that there was nothing left in it. What I had always dreamed of, hoped for, planned for, and made the object of all my endeavors, so far as this world was concerned, was gone, - gone, so far as I could see, hopelessly and irredeemably; and there came over me that utter languor and want of interest in every mortal thing, which is one of the worst diseases of the mind.
But I knew that it would never do to give way to this lethargy. I needed an alterative; and so I set myself, with all my might and soul, to learning a new language. There was an old German emigrant in Cambridge, with whom I became a pupil, and I plunged into German as into a new existence. I recommend everybody who wishes to try the waters of Lethe to study a new language, and learn to think in new forms; it is like going out of one sphere of existence into another.
Some may wonder that I do not recommend devotion for this grand alterative; but it is a fact, that, when one has to combat with the terrible lassitude produced by the sudden withdrawal of an absorbing object of affection, devotional exercises sometimes hinder more than they help. There is much in devotional religion of the same strain of softness and fervor which is akin to earthly attachments, and the one is almost sure to recall the other. What the soul wants is to be distracted for a while, - to be taken out of its old grooves of thought, and run upon entirely new ones. Religion must be sought in these moods, in its active and preceptive form, - what we may call its business character, - rather than in its sentimental and devotional one.
It had been concluded among us all that it would be expedient for Miss Mehitable to remove from Oldtown and take a residence in Boston.
It was desirable, for restoring the health of Emily, that she should have more change and variety, and less minute personal attention fixed upon her, than could be the case in the little village of Oldtown. Harry and I did a great deal of house-hunting for them, and at last succeeded in securing a neat little cottage on an eminence overlooking the harbor in the outskirts of Boston.
Preparing this house for them, and helping to establish them in it, furnished employment
for a good many of our leisure hours. In fact, we found that this home so near would be quite an accession to our pleasures. Miss Mehitable had always been one of that most pleasant and desirable kind of acquaintances that a young man can have; to wit, a cultivated, intelligent, literary female friend, competent to advise and guide one in one's scholarly career. We became greatly interested in the society of her sister. The strength and dignity of character shown by this unfortunate lady in recovering her position commanded our respect. She was never aware, and was never made aware by anything in our manner, that we were acquainted with her past history.
The advice of Tina on this subject had been faithfully followed. No one in our circle, or in Boston, except my grandmother, had any knowledge of how the case really stood. In fact, Miss Mehitable had always said that her sister had gone abroad to study in France, and her reappearance again was only noticed among the few that inquired into it at all, as her return. Harry and I used to study French with her, both on our own account and as a means of giving her some kind of employment. On the whole, the fireside circle at the little cottage became a cheerful and pleasant retreat. Miss Mehitable had gained what she had for years been sighing for, - the opportunity to devote herself wholly to this sister. She was a person with an enthusiastic power of affection, and the friendship that arose between the two was very beautiful.
The experiences of the French Revolution, many of whose terrors she had witnessed, had had a powerful influence on the mind of Emily, in making her feel how mistaken had been those views of human progress which come from the mere unassisted reason, when it rejects the guidance of revealed religion. She was in a mood to return to the faith of her fathers, receiving it again under milder and more liberal forms. I think the friendship of Harry was of great use to her in enabling her to attain to a settled religious faith. They were peculiarly congenial to each other, and his simplicity of religious trust was a constant corrective to the habits of thought formed by the sharp and pitiless logic of her early training.