A Daily Rate (25 page)

They had grown to be a very pleasant family, in spite of the various elements of character and up-bringing which they represented. They talked about their abiding-place as HOME, and each one felt it to be that in the true sense of the word. Miss Grant had taken care to observe each birthday with some little unusual festivity in the way of eatables, and at Christmas and other holidays they made merry enough to forget, most of them, that they were away from their own kindred.

Mr. Stafford had grown to be a part of the household so fully that it would have brought dismay to each one if there had been a thought of his leaving. Even Celia had unbent, and he and she had become good comrades in a way, though there was always a dignified barrier which Celia kept up, which prevented his showing her any of the ordinary attentions which young men like to show to the young women whom they admire. Having quieted her conscience by keeping up this wall of conventionality and excusing herself from anything of a social nature which he offered her, she shut her eyes to consequences and enjoyed his presence in the house. How could she do otherwise? She read the books he loaned her, and conversed about them with him afterward, and she visited the poor and sick for him sometimes and took them little delicacies. There had been times, it is true, when it troubled her that she let herself enjoy his society as much as she did, but she had been learning during the winter months to put this aside and think no more about it. Occasionally she prayed to be delivered from a trouble which she sometimes saw hovering like a shadowy cloud over her own life, and looking at aunt Hannah resolved to trust the Lord to make her what he would have her to be, even if it must be in spite of sorrow, as he had done with her aunt. But now a time had come when Celia must face her heart and understand herself. If it was to be that she must come out of the ordeal bowed in spirit, then she must face it and accept it, but she must understand herself now.

It had come to a sudden crisis in this way.

Mr. Stafford had been away for nearly two weeks. A telegram had come to him, when Miss Grant was out. Molly had taken it up to him and a little while afterward had been surprised to see him standing in the kitchen door, his grip and umbrella in hand, and a drawn, anxious look upon his, face. He told Molly to tell Miss Grant he had been called away by tidings of sudden illness and did not know how long he would be gone. They had heard nothing from him until Saturday evening of that week, when his friend Roger Houston had called to get some church notices from Mr. Stafford’s room to hand to the minister who was to supply the pulpit the next day.

It was Celia who opened the door for him and showed him to the second story front room. With a possible view to prosecuting his petition that she would give him a sitting some time, he lingered a moment.

“It is very sad indeed,” he remarked to Celia, as though she knew all about the matter. “You knew there was no hope of her life? Oh, haven’t you heard? Well, I suppose Stafford has had his hands too full of other things to think of writing. He gave me no particulars, only said all hope was gone and she could linger but a few days longer at most. He asked me to get this man to preach, and arrange everything for him. It will be very hard for him, he depended upon her so much. There was a peculiarly close relationship between them. He never missed writing to her regularly and some of her letters were wonderful. He reads bits of them to me once or twice. She was a wonderful character. He will miss her immeasurably.”

Then Mr. Houston looked up from the papers he had selected from the minister’s table, to the face of the girl who stood silent in the doorway. He was wondering whether he dared venture to ask her to let him sketch her face some time, but when he looked at her he remembered his friend’s words, “She is not that kind of a girl,” and concluded that his friend had been right, and it would be better not to ask her this time. He wondered what it was about her that made it seem impossible for him to speak to her about it, as he would to many another pretty girl just as nice and refined as she was. He fancied as he looked again that she was white about the mouth, but, of course, that must have been all his fancy.

It was not until late the next Saturday night, after all the house had retired, that Horace Stafford returned to Philadelphia, and letting himself quietly in with his latch-key, went to his room. They did not know he had returned the next morning at breakfast time, for one and another were wondering who would preach, and saying they wished their own minister was back, that they did not know whether they cared to go to church or not, and all those other things people will say when they love a minister, just as if he was their God, that they went to church to worship him, and when he was absent they had no object for worship. He had called to Molly, as she passed through the hall early in the morning, and asked her for a cup of coffee, and told her not to mind if he did not come to breakfast, as he needed all his time for preparation, having been away so long. He had gone to church early, while those who were going out were dressing, so that it was not until she was seated in church and saw the little study door open, and the minister walk out and into the pulpit, that Celia knew that Horace Stafford was back with them again.

She had gone through many changes of feeling since the night when Roger Houston had spoken those few commonplace words to her. She had not asked him then what he meant, nor who it was who was lying so low, who was so dear to Mr. Stafford. Instinctively she knew. It was the young woman of the pictured face, so sweet and lovely, within that velvet frame. Something had arisen in her throat while she listened, that froze the words she would have spoken, an expression of sympathy for him, and her heart was filled with conflicting emotions. She had dreaded Mr. Stafford’s return. It was as if she had had her convictions verified now, and knowing his heart was engaged she wished to put him entirely from her thoughts. It seemed impossible though, for constantly the surmises would come up among the boarders, why Mr. Stafford was away, when he would return, etc. She obliged herself to repeat a few of Mr. Houston’s sentences, a very few it is true, so few that the boarders were left in doubt as to whether the one who was lying so low and keeping the minister away was man, woman or child, and when Miss Burns asked if she knew whether it was one of the family, his mother, perhaps, Celia answered briefly, “He did not say,” and then wondered if she had done wrong in not telling what she was so certain of, though she silenced her conscience by saying that Mr. Stafford might not care to have them know he was engaged at all. Then Celia had tried to fill the week with earnest hard work. She had succeeded in persuading Dobson & Co. to let her induct Mamie Williams into the ribbon business, with a view to possibly succeeding her sometime in the future, and she found that she was able to keep busy. Mamie was a tractable enough pupil, and growing quick to appreciate the fine distinctions in manner and actions which Celia strove to inculcate. But there was still room for improvement, and Celia worked early and late at her chosen task, moulding the young woman’s character as carefully and eagerly as though she had been an artist making a model for some marvelous statue.

“When you get her done, Celia dear, I’m afraid she will be too good for the engineer, and I can see he wants her,” said Miss Hannah, with a quiet smile.

“Well, that’s all right, auntie dear,” said Celia, with a thoughtful sigh. “He’ll make her a good husband, and! don’t believe she’ll be too good for him. It seems to me her influence on him has been wonderful. He seems to change as fast as she does. I never would have dreamed it last fall.”

“I thought so, dear. Do you remember the talk we had about him some time ago? There is more good in most people than we suspect. You have to live with them awhile to find it out,” said Miss Grant.

“You mean you have to live with them, auntie, and I have to live with you to find out about them. I never would have found all these boarders out in the world, if you hadn’t been here with your `saint’s eyes’ to read them.”

Miss Hannah smiled, but she watched Celia furtively and wished that she could read her, and understand what made the little cloud which seemed to settle down upon her usually bright girl and make her heavy hearted these days.

But to go back to church. Celia’s heart throbbed painfully when she saw the minister walk into the pulpit. She knew by his face that his dear one was dead. It was not that his face wore a look of bitter grief, it was rather one of chastened exaltation. He preached a sermon about heaven that morning that seemed as though it had been written by one who had recently been very near to the portals, seen them open and caught glimpses of friends, and of Jesus within. Celia forgot her heart throbs and listened, forgetting, too, for the time who was preaching, in the absorption of the words he spoke. She had had a struggle to keep back the tears during the closing hymn, when they sang;

“And with the morn those angels’ faces smile, 

Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.”

She knew why Mr. Stafford had selected it. He sat during the singing with shaded brow and bowed head. Celia could not sing. She felt as if she were choking. She turned as soon as the benediction was pronounced and the solemn hush following it broken, to hide her tears by searching for her umbrella which had rolled beneath the seat. When she rose again and turned around, the minister was standing in the aisle beside her. He put out his hand and clasped hers, and a light of joy lit up his face which looked pale and worn, as he said, “I am so glad to see you again.”

They were commonplace words. He might have used them to any member of his congregation; yes, and with the same tone and look too, perhaps, she told herself as she hurried excitedly homeward, but they sent a thrill of mingled joy and sorrow through the young girl which she did not understand and could not control. One minute she was fiercely glad, and the next minute she was plunged in a whirl of shame and despair that it had affected her so. And now she was locked into her room. She took off her hat and coat and sat down, but she could not think. She could only feel the joy, and the certainty that it was not hers. She tried to face herself and shame herself with saying plainly to her heart, “Celia Murray, you have fallen in love with Mr. Stafford. Yes, and you did it when you knew he belonged to another woman. Yes, you knew it well enough, though you wanted to pretend that maybe it was not so, because no one had told you so. But now you love him and he does not love you! He has just buried his heart, and you know you would not consider him the noble gentleman you think he is, if he should forget that love was ‘so peculiarly close in its relationship.’ And you love him in the face of that! Aren’t you ashamed! He does not love you, and he never will, and you must not let him, and oh—what shall I do?” ——

The poor girl threw herself upon her knees and begged for forgiveness and help. She felt she had done wrong to let her heart grow interested so easily. She tried to remember some of God’s gracious promises for help, and to remember that he would bear her trouble for her, but her head seemed in a whirl of excitement and she could not think connectedly. She heard the dinner bell ring, and she rose and bathed her face, but decided she would not go down. She wanted to be by herself. Molly came up pretty soon and asked what was the matter. She told Molly to tell aunt Hannah she had a headache, and would not come down now, and then she bathed her throbbing temples and lay down to try and grow calm before aunt Hannah should come as she felt sure she would.

Wise aunt Hannah! She knew something was amiss! She had not watched her girl in vain. She had seen the start and the change of color when the minister came into the pulpit and again when he took her hand; she had seen other things during the months which had passed. Just what the trouble was she did not understand, and she would not ask Celia yet. If Celia needed counsel, she felt certain she would confide in her sooner or later. In the meantime she could pray.

Miss Hannah did not go up to her room for some time, Instead, she arranged a dainty tray with a tempting little lunch and a fragrant cup of tea. Under the corner of the napkin she had slipped a little note which was merely a scrap of poetry with the penciled words above it, “Dear child”; written hastily. It read:

Dear child:

”God’s plans for thee are graciously unfolding,

And leaf by leaf they blossom perfectly,

As yon fair rose from its soft enfolding,

In marvelous beauty opens fragrantly.

Oh, wait in patience for thy dear Lord’s coming,

For sure deliverance he’ll bring to thee;

Then, how thou shalt rejoice at the fair dawning

Of that sweet morn which ends thy long captivity.”

Then she laid beside it a lovely rosebud which Harry Knowles had brought her the night before, and sent the tray up by Molly. She herself went to the third story, and read to Mrs. Belden nearly all the afternoon.

CELIA aroused herself from her unhappiness in time to hurry to her Sunday-school class. She purposely went late that she might not be obliged to walk with any one, and she intended to hurry home before any of the others from their house had left the chapel, but it so happened that one of her scholars had a sad tale to tell her of trouble and need, and she was obliged to linger and get the particulars. There was an address to be taken down and several items of information she would need in helping him to find work. When this was done and she glanced hurriedly round to see if the others were gone, she saw that one of her boys was lingering with an embarrassed expression, half smiling, half doubtful, as though he might wish to speak a word with her. Something told her that this heart was ready for a quiet personal word and here was the time. The other boarders were gone, the minister with hat in hand was standing by the front door talking with a man. He was evidently about to go also. There were one or two groups in earnest conversation, a teacher with two of her class, three women in a corner, and a young man and a young girl talking. “Ben,” she said, “can you sit down and talk with me a few minutes?”