The Elect Lady

When he had done speaking Andrew stood and looked up. A few stars were looking down through the limpid air. Alexa rode on. Andrew let her go, and walked after her alone, sure that her mind must one day open to the eternal fact that God is all in all, the perfect friend of His children; yea, that He would cease to be God sooner than fail His child in his battle with death.

CHAPTER XXIV. THE WOOER

Alexa kept hoping that George would be satisfied she was not inclined toward him as she had been; and that, instead of bringing the matter to open issue, he would continue to come and go as the friend of her father. But George came to the conclusion that he ought to remain in doubt no longer, and one afternoon followed her into the garden. She had gone there with a certain half-scientific, half-religious book in her hand, from which she was storing her mind with arguments against what she supposed the opinions of Andrew. She had, however, little hope of his condescending to front them with counter-argument. His voice returned ever to the ear of her mind in words like these: “If you are content to think so, you are in no condition to receive what I have to communicate. Why should I press water on a soul that is not thirsty? Let us wait for the drought of the desert, when life is a low fever, and the heart is dry; when the earth is like iron, and the heavens above it are as brass.”

She started at the sound of George’s voice.

“What lovely weather!” he said.

Even lovers betake themselves to the weather as a medium—the side of nature which all understand. It was a good, old-fashioned, hot, heavy summer afternoon, one ill-chosen for love-making.

“Yes?” answered Alexa, with a point of interrogation subaudible, and held her book so that he might feel it on the point of being lifted again to eager eyes. But he was not more sensitive than sentimental.

“Please put your book down for a moment. I have not of late asked too much of your attention, Alexa!”

“You have been very kind, George!” she answered.

“Kind is not asking much of your attention?”

“Yea—that, and giving my father so much of yours.”

“I certainly have seen more of him than of you!” returned George, hoping her words meant reproach. “But he has always been kind to me, and pleased to see me! You have not given me much encouragement!”

To begin love-making with complaint is not wise, and George felt that he had got into the wrong track; but Alexa took care that he should not get out of it easily. Not being simple, he always settled the best course to pursue, and often went wrong. The man who cares only for what is true and right is saved much thinking and planning. He generally sees but one way of doing a thing!

“I am glad to hear you say so, George! You have not mistaken me!”

“You were not so sharp with me when I went away, Alexa!”

“No; then you were going away!”

“Should you not show a fellow some kindness when he is come back?”

“Not when he does not seem content with having come back!”

“I do not understand!”

But Alexa gave no explanation.

“You would be kind to me again if I were going away again?”

“Perhaps.”

“That is, if you were sure I was not coming back.”

“I did not say so.”

“I can’t make it out, Alexa! I used to think there could never be any misunderstanding between you and me! But something has crept in between us, and for the life of me I do not know what it is!”

“There is one thing for which I am more obliged to you than I can tell, George—that you did not say anything before you went.”

“I am awfully sorry for it now; but I thought you understood!”

“I did; and I am very glad, for I should have repented it long ago!”

This was hardly logical, but George seemed to understand.

“You are cruel!” he said. “I should have made it the business of my life that you never did!”

Yet George knew of things he dared not tell that had taken place almost as soon as he was relieved from the sustaining and restraining human pressure in which he had grown up!

“I am certain I should,” persisted Alexa.

“Why are you so certain?”

“Because I am so glad now to think I am free.”

“Some one has been maligning me, Alexa! It is very hard not to know where the stab comes from!”

“The testimony against you is from your own lips, George. I heard you talking to my father, and was aware of a tone I did not like. I listened more attentively, and became convinced that your ways of thinking had deteriorated. There seemed not a remnant left of the honor I then thought characterized you!”

“Why, certainly, as an honest man, I can not talk religion like your friend the farmer!”

“Do you mean that Andrew Ingram is not an honest man?” rejoined Alexa, with some heat.

“I mean that I am an honest man.”

“I am doubtful of you.”

“I can tell the quarter whence that doubt was blown!”

“It would be of greater consequence to blow it away! George Crawford, do you believe yourself an honest man?”

“As men go, yes.”

“But not as men go, George? As you would like to appear to the world when hearts are as open as faces?”

He was silent.

“Would the way you have made your money stand the scrutiny of—”

She had Andrew in her mind, and was on the point of saying “Jesus Christ,” but felt she had no right, and hesitated.

“—Of our friend Andrew?” supplemented George, with a spiteful laugh. “The only honest mode of making money he knows is the strain of his muscles—the farmer-way! He wouldn’t keep up his corn for a better market—not he!”

“It so happens that I know he would not; for he and my father had a dispute on that very point, and I heard them. He said poor people were not to go hungry that he might get rich. He was not sent into the world to make money, he said, but to grow corn. The corn was grown, and he could get enough for it now to live by, and had no right, and no desire to get more—and would not keep it up! The land was God’s, not his, and the poor were God’s children, and had their rights from him! He was sent to grow corn for them!”

“And what did your father say to that wisdom?”

“That is no matter. Nor do I profess to understand Mr. Ingram. I only know,” added Alexa, with a little laugh, “that he is consistent, for he has puzzled me all my life. I can, however, see a certain nobility in him that sets him apart from other men!”

“And I can see that when I left I was needlessly modest! I thought my position too humble!”

“What am I to understand by that?”

“What you think I mean.”

“I wish you a good-afternoon, Mr. Crawford!”

Alexa rose and left him.

George had indeed grown coarser! He turned where he stood with his hands in his pockets, and looked after her; then smiled to himself a nasty smile, and said: “At least I have made her angry, and that’s something! What has a fellow like that to give her? Poet, indeed! What’s that! He’s not even the rustic gentleman! He’s downright vulgar!—a clod-hopper born and bred! But the lease, I understand, will soon be out, and Potlurg will never let him have it! I will see to that! The laird hates the canting scoundrel! I would rather pay him double the rent myself!”

His behavior now did not put Andrew’s manners in the shade! Though he never said a word to flatter Alexa, spoke often in a way she did not at all like, persistently refused to enter into argument with her when most she desired it, yet his every tone, every movement toward her was full of respect And however she strove against the idea, she felt him her superior, and had indeed begun to wish that she had never shown herself at a disadvantage by the assumption of superiority. It would be pleasant to know that it pained him to disapprove of her! For she began to feel that, as she disapproved of George, and could not like him, so the young farmer disapproved of her, and could not like her. It was a new and by no means agreeable thought. Andrew delighted in beautiful things: he did not see anything beautiful in her! Alexa was not conceited, but she knew she was handsome, and knew also that Andrew would never feel one heart-throb more because of any such beauty as hers. Had he not as good as told her she was one of the dead who would not come alive! It would be something to be loved by a man like that! But Alexa was too maidenly to think of making any man love her—and even if he loved her she could not marry a man in Andrew’s position! She might stretch a point or two were the lack but a point or two, but there was no stretching points to the marrying of a peasant, without education, who worked on his father’s farm! The thing was ridiculous!—of course she knew that!—the very idea too absurd to pass through her idlest thoughts! But she was not going to marry George! That was well settled! In a year or two he would be quite fat! And he always had his hands in his pockets! There was something about him not like a gentleman! He suggested an auctioneer or a cheap-jack!

She took her pony and went for a ride. When she came back, the pony looked elf-ridden.

But George had no intention of forsaking the house—yet, at least. He was bent on humbling his cousin, therefore continued his relations with her father, while he hurried on, as fast as consisted with good masonry, the building of a house on a small estate he had bought in the neighborhood, intending it to be such as must be an enticement to any lady. So long had he regarded everything through the veil of money, that he could not think of Alexa even without thinking of Mammon as well. By this time also he was so much infected with the old man’s passion for things curious and valuable, that the idea of one day calling the laird’s wonderful collection his own, had a real part in his desire to become his daughter’s husband. He would not accept her dismissal as final!

CHAPTER XXV. THE HEART OF THE HEART

The laird had been poorly for some weeks, and Alexa began to fear that he was failing. Nothing more had passed between him and Dawtie, but he knew that anxious eyes were often watching him, and the thought worried him not a little. If he would but take a start, thought Dawtie, and not lose all the good of this life! It was too late for him to rise very high; he could not now be a saint, but he might at least set a foot on the eternal stair that leads to the fullness of bliss! He would have a sore fight with all those imps of things, before he ceased to love that which was not lovely, and to covet that which was not good! But the man gained a precious benefit from this world, who but began to repent before he left it! If only the laird would start up the hill before his body got quite to the bottom! Was there any way to approach him again with her petition that he would be good to himself, good to God, good to the universe, that he would love what was worth loving, and cast away what was not? She had no light, and could do nothing!

Suddenly the old man failed quite—apparently from no cause but weakness. The unease of his mind, the haunting of the dread thought of having to part with the chalice, had induced it. He was in his closet one night late into the morning, and the next day did not get up to breakfast He wanted a little rest, he said. In a day he would be well! But the hour to rise again, much anticipated, never came. He seemed very troubled at times, and very desirous of getting up, but never was able. It became necessary to sit with him at night. In fits of delirium he would make fierce endeavor to rise, insisting that he must go to his study. His closet he never mentioned: even in dreams was his secrecy dominant. Dawtie, who had her share in nursing him, kept hoping her opportunity would come. He did not seem to cherish any resentment against her. His illness would protect him, he thought, from further intrusion of her conscience upon his! She must know better than irritate a sick man with overofficiousness! Everybody could not be a saint! It was enough to be a Christian like other good and salvable Christians! It was enough for him if through the merits of his Saviour he gained admission to the heavenly kingdom at last! He never thought now, once in, he could bear to stay in; never thought how heaven could be to him other than the dullest place in the universe of God, more wearisome than the kingdom of darkness itself! And all the time the young woman with the savior-heart was watching by his bedside, ready to speak; but the Spirit gave her no utterance, and her silence soothed his fear of her.

One night he was more restless than usual. Waking from his troubled slumber, he called her—in the tone of one who had something important to communicate.

“Dawtie,” he said, with feeble voice but glittering eye, “there is no one I can trust like you. I have been thinking of what you said that night ever since. Go to my closet and bring me the cup.”

Dawtie held a moment’s debate whether it would be right; but she reflected that it made little difference whether the object of his passion was in his hand or in his chest, while it was all the same deep in his heart. Then his words seemed to imply that he wanted to take his farewell of it; and to refuse his request might only fan the evil love, and turn him from the good motion in his mind. She said: “Yes, sir,” and stood waiting. He did not speak.

“I do not know where to find it,” she said.

“I am going to tell you,” he replied, but seemed to hesitate.

“I will not touch a single thing beside,” said Dawtie.

He believed her, and at once proceeded:

“Take my bunch of keys from the hook behind me. There is the key of the closet door!—and there, the key of all the bunch that looks the commonest, but is in reality the most cunningly devised, is the key of the cabinet in which I keep it!”

Then he told her where, behind a little book-case, which moved from the wall on hinges, she would find the cabinet, and in what part of it the cup, wrapped in a piece of silk that had once been a sleeve, worn by Mme. de Genlis—which did not make Dawtie much wiser.

She went, found the chalice, and brought it where the laird lay straining his ears, and waiting for it as a man at the point of death might await the sacramental cup from absolving priest.

His hands trembled as he took it; for they were the hands of a lover—strange as that love was, which not merely looked for no return, but desired to give neither pleasure nor good to the thing loved! It was no love of the merely dead, but a love of the unliving! He pressed the thing to his bosom; then, as if rebuked by the presence of Dawtie, put it a little from him, and began to pore over every stone, every repoussé figure between, and every engraved ornament around the gems, each of which he knew, by shape, order, quality of color, better than ever face of wife or child. But soon his hands sunk on the counterpane of silk patchwork, and he lay still, grasping tight the precious thing.

He woke with a start and a cry, to find it safe in both his hands.

“Ugh!” he said; “I thought some one had me by the throat! You didn’t try to take the cup from me—did you, Dawtie?”

“No, sir,” answered Dawtie; “I would not care to take it out of your hand, but I should be glad to take it out of your heart!”

“If they would only bury it with me!” he murmured, heedless of her words.

“Oh, sir! Would you have it burning your heart to all eternity? Give it up, sir, and take the treasure thief never stole.”

“Yes, Dawtie, yes! That is the true treasure!”

“And to get it we must sell all that we have!”

“He gives and withholds as He sees fit.”

“Then, when you go down into the blackness, longing for the cup you will never see more, you will complain of God that he would not give you strength to fling it from you?”

He hugged the chalice.

“Fling it from me!” he cried, fiercely. “Girl, who are you to torment me before my time!”

“Tell me, sir,” persisted Dawtie, “why does the apostle cry, ‘Awake thou that sleepest!’ if they couldn’t move?”

“No one can move without God.”

“Therefore, seeing every one can move, it must be God giving him the power to do what he requires of him; and we are fearfully to blame not using the strength God gives us!”

“I can not bear the strain of thinking!” gasped the laird.

“Then give up thinking, and do the thing! Shall I take it for you?”

She put out her hand as she spoke.

“No! no!” he cried, grasping the cup tighter. “You shall not touch it! You would give it to the earl! I know you! Saints hate what is beautiful!”

“I like better to look at things in my Father’s hand than in my own!”

“You want to see my cup—it is my cup!—in the hands of that spendthrift fool, Lord Borland!”

“It is in the Father’s hand, whoever has it!”

“Hold your tongue, Dawtie, or I will cry out and wake the house!”

“They will think you out of your mind, and come and take the cup from you! Do let me put it away; then you will go to sleep.”

“I will not; I can not trust you with it! You have destroyed my confidence in you! I may fall asleep, but if your hand come within a foot of the cup, it will wake me! I know it will! I shall sleep with my heart in the cup, and the least touch will wake me!”

“I wish you would let Andrew Ingram come and see you, sir!”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“Nothing’s the matter with him, sir; but he helps everybody to do what is right.”

“Conceited rascal! Do you take me for a maniac that you talk such foolery?”

His look was so wild, his old blue faded eyes gleamed with such a light of mingled fear and determination, that Dawtie was almost sorry she had spoken. With trembling hands he drew the cup within the bed-clothes, and lay still. If the morning would but come, and bring George Crawford! He would restore the cup to its place, or hide it where he should know it safe and not far from him!

Dawtie sat motionless, and the old man fell into another feverish doze. She dared not stir lest he should start away to defend his idol. She sat like an image, moving only her eyes.

“What are you about, Dawtie?” he said at length. “You are after some mischief, you are so quiet!”

“I was telling God how good you would be if he could get you to give up your odds and ends, and take Him instead.”

“How dared you say such a thing, sitting there by my side! Are you to say to Him that any sinner would be good, if He would only do so and so with him! Tremble, girl, at the vengeance of the Almighty!”

“We are told to make prayers and intercessions for all men, and I was saying what I could for you.” The laird was silent, and the rest of the night passed quietly.

His first words in the morning were:

“Go and tell your mistress I want her.”

When his daughter came, he told her to send for George Crawford. He was worse, he said, and wanted to see him.

Alexa thought it best to send Dawtie with the message by the next train. Dawtie did not relish the mission, for she had no faith in Crawford, and did not like his influence on her master. Not the less when she reached his hotel, she insisted on seeing him and giving her message in person; which done, she made haste for the first train back: they could not do well without her! When she arrived, there was Mr. Crawford already on the platform! She set out as fast as she could, but she had not got further than half-way when he overtook her in a fly, and insisted she should get in.

CHAPTER XXVI. GEORGE CRAWFORD AND DAWTIE

“What is the matter with your master?” he asked

“God knows, sir.”

“What is the use of telling me that? I want you to tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything, sir.”

“What do you think then?”

“I should think old age had something to do with it, sir.”

“Likely enough, but you know more than that!”

“I shouldn’t wonder, sir, if he were troubled in his mind.”

“What makes you think so?”

“It is reasonable to think so, sir. He knows he must die before long, and it is dreadful to leave everything you care for, and go where there is nothing you care for!”

“How do you know there is nothing he would care for?”

“What is there, sir, he would be likely to care for?”

“There is his wife. He was fond of her, I suppose, and you pious people fancy you will see each other again.”

“The thought of seeing her would give him little comfort, I am afraid, in parting with the things he has here. He believes a little somehow—I can’t understand how.”

“What does he believe?”

“He believes a little—he is not sure—that what a man soweth he shall also reap.”

“How do you know what he is or is not sure off? It can’t be a matter of interest to you?”

“Those that come of one Father must have interest in one another.”

“How am I to tell we come of one Father—as you call Him? I like to have a thing proved before I believe it. I know neither where I came from, nor where I am going; how then can I know that we come from the same father?”

“I don’t know how you’re to know it, sir. I take it for granted, and find it good. But there is one thing I am sure of.”

“What is that?”

“That if you were my master’s friend you would not rest till you got him to do what was right before he died.”

“I will not be father-confessor to any man. I have enough to do with myself. A good worthy old man like the laird must know better than any other what he ought to do.”

“There is no doubt of that, sir.”

“What do you want then?”

“To get him to do it. That he knows, is what makes it so miserable. If he did not know he would not be to blame. He knows what it is and won’t do it, and that makes him wretched—as it ought, thank God!”

“You’re a nice Christian. Thanking God for making a man miserable. Well.”

“Yes,” answered Dawtie.

George thought a little.

“What would you have me persuade him to?” he asked, for he might hear something it would be useful to know. But Dawtie had no right and no inclination to tell him what she knew.

“I only wish you would persuade him to do what he knows he ought to do,” she replied.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE WATCH

George stayed with the laird a good while, and held a long, broken talk with him. When he went Alexa came. She thought her father seemed happier. George had put the cup away for him. Alexa sat with him that night. She knew nothing of such a precious thing being in the house—in the room with them.

In the middle of the night, as she was arranging his pillows, the laird drew from under the bed-clothes, and held up to her, flashing in the light of the one candle, the jeweled watch. She stared. The old man was pleased at her surprise and evident admiration. She held out her hand for it. He gave it her.

“That watch,” he said, “is believed to have belonged to Ninon de l’Enclos. It may, but I doubt it myself. It is well known she never took presents from her admirers, and she was too poor to have bought such a thing. Mme. de Maintenon, however, or some one of her lady-friends, might have given it her. It will be yours one day—that is, if you marry the man I should like you to marry.”

“Dear father, do not talk of marrying. I have enough with you,” cried Alexa, and felt as if she hated George.

“Unfortunately, you can not have me always,” returned her father. “I will say nothing more now, but I desire you to consider what I have said.”

Alexa put the watch in his hand.

“I trust you do not suppose,” she said, “that a house full of things like that would make any difference.”

He looked up at her sharply. A house full—what did she know? It silenced him, and he lay thinking. Surely the delight of lovely things must be in every woman’s heart. Was not the passion, developed or undeveloped, universal? Could a child of his not care for such things?

“Ah,” he said to himself, “she takes after her mother.”

A wall seemed to rise between him and his daughter. Alas! alas! the things he loved and must one day yield would not be cherished by her. No tender regard would hover around them when he was gone. She would be no protecting divinity to them. God in heaven! she might—she would—he was sure she would sell them.

It seems the sole possible comfort of avarice, as it passes empty and hungry into the empty regions—that the things it can no more see with eyes or handle with hands will yet be together somewhere. Hence the rich leave to the rich, avoiding the man who most needs, or would best use their money. Is there a lurking notion in the man of much goods, I wonder, that, in the still watches of the night, when men sleep, he will return to look on what he leaves behind him? Does he forget the torture of seeing it at the command, in the enjoyment of another—his will concerning this thing or that but a mockery? Does he know that he who then holds them will not be able to conceive of their having been or ever being another’s as now they are his?