"How is it, Miss Tessa, do you admire Dr. Towne as much as you do St.
Philip?" inquired the old lady with good-humored sarcasm.
"He is not a saint," said Tessa, "he needs looking after in several matters besides stockings and shirt b.u.t.tons."
"Philip talks about him! What is it that he says he is, Sarepta?"
"In his profession just what he expected that he would be,-quick, quiet, gentle, sympathetic, patient, persevering; he has thrown himself into it heart and soul. Philip used to wonder if he would ever find his vocation; his life always had a promise of good things-"
"But he was slow about it; not quick like Philip; he should have begun practice ten years ago. What has he been doing all this time?"
"We can see the fruit of his doing, mother; it does not much matter as to the doing itself. Don"t you know that six years are given to the perfecting even of a beetle?"
"I don"t know about beetles and things; I know that I used to think that my boy would outstrip Lydia"s boy."
"Mother! mother!" laughed Sarepta, "you mind earthly things. I shall never run a race with anybody. Can"t you be a little proud of me?"
Sarepta Towne had her brother"s eyes, but her hair was brighter, with not one silver thread among its short curls; her fair, fresh face was certainly ten years younger than his. In summer her wrappers were of white; in winter she kept herself a bird in gay plumage; always the singing-bird, in white or crimson. When Philip Towne said "My sister,"
his voice and eyes said "My saint."
Once, after a silence, Tessa asked about her "Shut-ins." "How did it come into your heart at first?"
"It is a long story; first tell me what your heart has been about. It has been painting your eyes darker and darker."
"It is a very foolish heart then; it was only repeating something that I learned once and did not then understand. I do not know that I can say it correctly, but it is like this:
""G.o.d"s generous in giving, say I, And the thing which he gives, I deny That He ever can take back again.
He gives what He gives: be content.
He resumes nothing given; be sure.
G.o.d lend? where the usurers lent In His temple, indignant He went And scourged away all those impure.
He lends not, but gives to the end, As He loves to the end. If it seem That He draws back a gift, comprehend "Tis to add to it rather, amend And finish it up to your dream.""
"Well?" said Miss Sarepta.
"Once,-a long time ago, it seems now,-He gave me something; it was love for somebody; and then He took it-or I let it go, because it was too much trouble to keep it; I did not like His gift, it hurt too much; I was glad to let it go, and yet I missed it so; I was not worthy such a perfect gift as a love that could be hurt in loving; I could love as I loved all beauty and goodness and truth, but when I found that love must hold on and endure, must hope and believe, must suffer shame and loss, I gave it up. G.o.d was generous in giving; He gave me all I could receive, and when He would have given me more, I shrank away from His giving and said, "It hurts too much. I am too proud to take love or give love if I must be made humble first. I wanted to give like a queen, not stooping from my full height, and I wanted to give to a king: instead, I was asked to give-just like any common mortal to another common mortal, and that after we had misinterpreted and misunderstood each other, and I had written hard things of him all over my heart, and what he had thought me, n.o.body knows but himself! And now I think, if I will, that I may have the love again finished up to my dream; finished above any thing that I knew how to ask or think, and it is altogether too good and perfect a gift for me; so good that I can not keep it, I must needs give it away."
Tessa had told her story with quickened breath, not once lifting the eyes that were growing darker and darker.
Miss Sarepta"s "thank you" held all the appreciation that Tessa wished.
"And now," after another silence, for these two loved silences together, "you want to know about my dear Shut-ins. Philip named them from the words, "And the Lord shut him in." It began one day when I was sitting alone thinking! I am often sitting alone thinking; but this day I was thinking sad thoughts about my useless, idle life, and I had planned my life to be such a busy life. There was nothing that I could do to help along; I had to sit still and be helped; and I shouldn"t wonder if I cried a little. That was five years ago, we were living in the city then; in the middle of my bemoanings and my tears, I spied the postman crossing the street. How Philip laughed when I told him that I loved that postman better than any man in all the world! That day he brought me several lovely things: one of them a book from Cousin Ralph, and a letter from Aunt Lydia; that letter is the beginning of my story. She told me about a little invalid that she had found and suggested that I should write one of my charming letters to her. Of course you know that I write charming letters! So I wiped away my naughty tears and wrote the charming letter! In a few days, my hero, the postman, brought the reply.
That was my first Shut-in letter. Bring me the alb.u.m, I will show you Susie."
Tessa brought it and Miss Sarepta opened it on her lap to an intelligent, serious, sweet face.
"She has not taken a step for many years; she is among the youngest of many children; her great love is love for children, she teaches daily thirteen little ones. The one thing in her life that strikes me is her _faithfulness_. There is nothing too little for her to be faithful in.
One of her great longings used to be for letters; oh, if the postman would only bring her a letter! For a year or two I wrote every week, the longest, brightest, most every-day letters I could think of. And one day it came to me that if _we_ had such a good time together, why should we not find some other to whom a letter or a book would be as a breath of fresh air. I pondered the matter for a month or two, but I couldn"t advertise for an invalid, and none of my friends knew of any. One morning I glanced through a religious paper, and tossed it aside, then something moved me to pick it up again, and there she was! The one I sought! That was Elsie. Look at her pale, patient face. For fourteen years she has lived in one room. And hasn"t she the brightest, most grateful, happiest heart that ever beat in a frail body or a strong one?
Her poems are graceful little things; I will show you some of them. She had been praying six months for a helpful friend, when she received my first letter. Her letters are gems. You shall read a pile of them. And she had a Shut-in friend, to whom I must write, of course. She is Mabel.
I have no picture of her. When she was well, they called her the laughing girl; she has lain eleven years in bed!"
"Oh, dear me!" sighed Tessa.
"Don"t sigh, child. She writes in pencil as she can not lift her head. I call her my sunbeam. She often dates her letters "In my Corner." So another year went on with my three Shut-ins. I forgot to cry about my folded hands and useless life. One day it came into my mind to write a sketch and call it, "Our Shut-in Society"; to write all about Mabel and Elsie and Sue, and send it to the paper in which I had found Elsie"s first article.
"And that sketch! How it was read! I received letters from north, south, east, and west concerning it. Was there really such a society, and were there such happy people as Mabel, Elsie, and Susie? One who had not spoken aloud for fourteen years would love to write to them; another who had locked her school-room door one summer day, and come home to rest, had been forced to rest through eight long years, and was so lonely, with her sisters married and away; another, quite an old man, who had lain for six years in the loft of an old log-cabin, was eager for a word or a paper. How his letter touched us all! "The others have letters, but when the mail comes naught comes to me," he wrote. But you will be tired of hearing my long story; you shall see their letters; you must see Delle"s letters; she sits all day in a wheelchair, and has no hope of ever taking a step; she has a mother and a little boy; the brightest little boy! Her poems have appeared in some of our best periodicals; we are something beside a band of sufferers, Miss Tessa; some of us are literary! My most precious letters are from Elizabeth; her fiftieth birthday came not long since; for ten years her home has been in one room; she has written a book that the Shut-ins cry over.
"And oh, we have a prisoner! A Shut-in shut up in state"s prison. A young man with an innocent, boyish face; he ran away from home when he was a child and ran into state"s prison because no one cared what became of him. His letters are unaffected and grateful; he does want to be a good boy! Thirty-six are on my list now; I would find more if I had strength to write more; some of them have more and some less than I; many of them have Shut-ins that I know nothing about. We remember each other on holidays and birthdays! The things that postmen and country mail-carriers have in their mail-bags are funny to see: flower seeds, bits of fancy work, photographs, pictures, any thing and every thing!
"They all look forward to mail-time through the night and through the day.
"And, speaking humanly, my share in it, all I receive and the little I give, came out of my self-bemoanings and tears; my longing to be a helper in some small way!
"Now if you want to help me, you may cut some blocks of patch-work for me. One of the Shut-ins is making a quilt to leave as a memorial to her daughter, and I want to send my contribution to the mail to-night; and you may direct several papers for me, and cover that book, "Thoughts for Weary Hours." I press you into my service, you see."
"Miss Sarepta, I am ashamed."
"Shame is an evidence of something; go on."
"I am ashamed that I am such a dreamer."
"Philip says that you are a dreamer."
"I care for my writing."
"Mowers work while they whet their scythes," quoted Miss Sarepta.
XXV.-BLUE MYRTLE.
In March, Tessa found myrtle in bloom, and took a handful of the blue blossoms mingled with sprays of the green leaves to Miss Sarepta.
"Spring has come," she said dropping them on the open book in Miss Sarepta"s lap.
"If spring has come, then I must lose you."
"Every hand that I know in Dunellen is beckoning me homewards; my winter"s work is done."
That evening-it was the sixth of March, that date ever afterward was a.s.sociated with blue myrtle and Nan Gerard-she was sitting at the table writing letters; in the same chair and at the same place at the table where Dinah had written her letter about Gus and her wonderful John; Aunt Theresa was knitting this evening also, and Uncle Knox was asleep in a chintz-covered wooden rocker with the big cat asleep on his knees.
She had written a letter to Mabel and one to Elsie, lively descriptive letters, making a picture of Miss Sarepta"s book-lined, picture-decorated, flower-scented room and a picture of Miss Sarepta, also touching lightly upon her own breezy out-of-door life with its hard work and its beautiful hopes. The third letter was a sheet to Mrs.
Towne; the sentence in ending was one that Mrs. Towne had been eagerly and anxiously expecting all through the winter: "My ring reminds me of my promise; a promise that I shall keep some day, perhaps."
"Tessa, are you unhappy, child?" asked Aunt Theresa with a knitting needle between her lips.
"Unhappy! Why, auntie, what am I doing?"