Divers Women — 08 - Vida, part 2
In the course of the forenoon he went to fulfil an engagement a few miles in the country, where he was detained till late in the day.
He sat in his study in the gathering twilight longing for, but not expecting, a word from his wife of contrition and conciliation.
He was summoned to tea, but no wife appeared.
After a little he went in search of her.
She was not in the house.
It was growing dark.
He was perplexed and anxious.
Again he went to their room, hoping to find some explanation of the strange absence.
On the mantel lay a note addressed to him.
As he read he gazed about to assure himself that it was not a horrible dream, half expecting his wife to gleefully spring into his arms from some hiding-place; but all was silent save his own moans of pain.
Vida had gone!
Had "fled to her mother for protection from a tyrant."
So the letter ran; it was in her own graceful hand; her name was affixed.
It was no cruel joke.
She said, moreover, that it was evident that their tastes were not congenial; it was out of the question for her to be tied down to the sort of life he expected of her; that she had borne reflections on her conduct that she had not tolerated from any other being!
Tyranny was of all things most hateful to her; the climax was now reached when he ventured "_to command_."
"She recognised no such right.
She never would; she would not be called to account every time she stepped over a forbidden imaginary line; it was plain they had been mistaken in each other, and disappointed; they did not add to each other's happiness, as appeared from the gloom enveloping him day and night; the last months were months of discord; she felt neglected; he was poring over books or seeking other society in an interminable round of calls; plainly what he needed in a wife was a sort of co-pastor; it was not too late to secure such a person, since the law granted divorce for wilful desertion."
With this last sentence the letter closed.
Not a word betrayed the faintest regret at severing so solemn a bond.
He searched it over and over to see if in some corner he could not find one tender word for him, a word that would reveal down deep in her heart the light of her great love for him, even such love as he had for her--a faint glimmer through the clouds of anger and recrimination.
It was not there, not one syllable to show that the heart of the writer had not turned to ice.
Yes, there was another sentence, more cruel and hopeless still: "Do not try to change my resolution, as though it were made in a pet;
it is final--_unalterable_."
It could not be true.
He looked wildly about as if to have the terrible truth dispelled.
He opened her closet door and her bureau drawers, but the pretty, festive robes were all gone; the dainty garments were not in their places.
A little pair of half-worn slippers, and the blue ribbon that had tied her hair were all he found.
He seized them convulsively, as a part of Vida when she was sweet and simple--as she could be.
He sat for long hours with the letter in his hand, as one who holds his death-warrant.
Then falling upon his face, he cried to his Helper.
And He who is of great pity and tender mercies heard, and drew nigh in the darkness and comforted him, even "as one whom his mother comforteth," and when the morning dawned he arose and took up the burden of life again, where he was, ere Vida Irving stole into his heart.
No, not that, it could never be the same again.
When the lightning sends his lurid bolt down a noble tree, it may not wave green and fair as once; there will be dead branches and the gnarled seam to tell the story that "Fire hath scathed the forest oak."
The grave man who went out into life again carried the marks of the conflict in sad eyes and pale cheeks.
Not the least of this great trial was to meet and answer the looks and questions of the curious.
For the present he could truthfully say: "Mrs. Eldred has unexpectedly gone to her mother."
Meanwhile he resigned his charge, much to the sorrow and dismay of all.
He disposed of all the elegant furnishings of the parsonage, and with haste left the spot that had been the scene of an exquisite torture.
No defined plans were before him, save to get far away from any who could have had the least knowledge of him previously.
No fugitive from justice ever felt more nervous haste.
He pushed on, never pausing till he reached the very verge of civilisation in the far south-west.
Not that he would be a hermit or misanthrope, but perchance find a people destitute of the gospel.
He would bring it to them.
He must preach Christ till death.
This should be his joy and comfort; henceforth no other love should come between his soul and his dear Master.
And he found his work, as if an unerring path had been marked out straight to the little log church in the woods.
While Vida sat in a lofty temple of arches and massive pillars, the sunlight toned to the appropriate dimness, as it stole through the stained windows, the same hour her husband stood in the log church of the wilderness, its arches and pillars outside--the tall old trees locking arms overhead.
Nature softened the fierce rays in this temple as well, for they filtered through thick green boughs, and flecks of light fell here and there, a stray one resting halo-like upon the minister's head, transfiguring him in the eyes of the hungry souls whose upturned faces drank in the words of life.
This unlearned, simple people with whom he had cast his lot, had their faults, but to the refreshment of his soul, they had no card or dancing parties, theatre or opera to steal the soul from Christ after the manner of more cultured Christians.
The church was the apple of their eye.
They made sacrifices for it, and travelled weary miles in the worst of weather, rather than lose a "meeting."
The young gifted pastor of St. Paul's Church was never more appreciated than now by these hardworking, warm-hearted pioneers.
It was their daily wonder and thanksgiving that such a man should ever have been sent to them.
Nothing that they could do for him was too much, and their loving devotion was like balm to his weary soul.
His people were scattered for miles away, but the pastoral calls were as faithfully made as when they were comprehended within the limits of a few squares.
The mild winter climate of that region was like one long autumn of the Eastern States.
Mounted on his faithful pony, he spent a large part of every day riding over the prairies.
The blue skies and the bright sunshine were tonics to the heart as well as to the body.
Sometimes his route lay for miles through the woods, where perfect solitude reigned but for the chatter of birds that circled about him.
In these long rides his heart went back over the past, reviving the memory of those first precious days with Vida.
They seemed far away, and their recollection, like the perfume of wilted flowers plucked from the grave of a dear one.
If he could not have prayed for her then, hourly, his heart would have broken.
Mrs. Irving changed her residence, putting many hundred miles between her new and the old home, so that Vida might begin life anew, as she phrased it, without embarrassment.
In a large hotel in the great city, with seaside and mountain trips, parties and operas was much more to Vida's taste than dull life in a quiet parsonage, and she expected to play the role of a pastor's wife.
With her mother as chaperon she led a gay life, going, coming, revelling at will in her freedom.
As before her marriage, she attracted much attention.
Admired and courted, suitors innumerable paid her homage.
But a positive nature and strong will asserted themselves here.
Only such attentions as befitted a wife to receive were tolerated.
She knew the law did not count her free; and if she had analyzed her secret heart, there was no true reason why she cared to be free.
No face she met had power to quicken her pulses or extract from her a second thought.
The inner heart had long ago been pre-empted, but the blind wilful creature knew it not.
The face most often seen in her dreams; the voice that whispered in her ear; the sad dark eyes that seemed to follow her reproachfully, belonged to none of the gay gallants about her.
Her previous history being unknown she was a problem in that circle.
There came a change.
Mrs. Irving's health began to fail.
The eminent physicians far and near were consulted in vain; and as the symptoms became more denned and alarming, Vida could not shut her eyes to the fact that her mother was in a most critical state.
She was a devoted daughter, though the weeds of selfishness, fostered by the mother's hand, at times almost overtopped filial affection.
Now she shut herself in from society and devoted herself to her mother with unremitting care.
Every whim of the invalid was gratified.
One day, after weary months of suffering, she said: "O Vida dear, I would pray to die, if I were not afraid."
"Why afraid, mother?
I'm sure you've been a member of a church these many years, and a faithful attendant on its services, and you have been kind to the poor and such a dear mother," said Vida, caressing her.
"I don't think you need be afraid."
"O child, that will not stand in the great day.
Don't mention anything I've done or been, I beg you," moaned the poor mother.
"I've been nothing but a miserable worldling.
Now I'm almost through with it all, and I've no peace or comfort.
It's all dark, dark.
O what shall I do?"
"Let me send for Dr. Hines," said Vida.
"O I cannot talk to him.
He's a stranger; and I'm so weak.
What must I do, O what?"
Vida had been a member of the same church.
But now she sat wrapped in gloom, feeling powerless to help, yet longing to comfort her dying mother.
In the midst of her sad thoughts as she sat watching, while gentle slumber had stolen for a moment over the mother, she remembered the words of a text she had heard her husband preach from, "What must I do to be saved?"
The sermon was all gone.
"If it asks that question in the Bible, it must answer it," she thought.
So finding a Bible, she sat down to search for the old answer to the old question.
"Reading the Bible, dear?"
said her mother, opening her eyes.
"Oh, mother, mother, I've found the answer."
The plain short direction was read; the mother repeated it over feebly.
"Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved."
"Read about Him, O do," and she seemed to summon soul and body to listen, as Vida, led doubtless by the Spirit, read here and there of Him who died for us.
Day after day the reading went on; and while the mother slept, the daughter pondered the wonderful words she had read;
preached to her for years, apprehended by her only just now.
Her heart was filled with horror and fear at her treatment of such a Saviour; at her daring to number herself among his people; then that heart melted as she read of his love and pity, and casting away her robe of self-righteousness for the first time in her life, she knelt before Him a heart-broken, contrite sinner.
He took the burden from her heart and gave her "peace."
While she still bowed at the bedside, praying her whispered prayer that her dear mother might "see Jesus," that mother put out her thin hand and laid it on the golden head, murmuring: "Dear daughter, I believe in the Lord Jesus Christ; He has forgiven me.
It is all peace, peace.
Thank Him."
And Vida's clear, low tones of thanksgiving came to her dying mother sweet as the voice of angels, whose song soon burst upon her ear.
How clear an "evidence of Christianity" is this.
A soul exchanging pride, haughtiness, and rebellion for humility and submission.
Vida, meekly bowing to the storm that burst over her head, and filled with joy and peace that had not been hers in the brightest hour of worldly pleasure.
It was not so hard, with this new-born love and trust, to see the grave close over that dear mother.
It was gilded with the light of that day when "we shall rise again."
In these hours of bereavement Vida's heart went out with a longing cry for her husband.
The love that she had stifled and called dead was there, deeper and purer.
Now that she had been brought by this divine mystery unto full sympathy with him, he was the one soul on earth whose love she craved.
Perverse human heart!
Here she was, no one to control her actions, possessed of wealth, youth, beauty, freedom to journey to other lands, and revel in the grand and beautiful of nature and art, yet the one only thing she desired, or that would satisfy, was to creep back into the niche she had filled in that other heart, that large, pure soul that she had thrust from her in her wicked folly and blindness.
Now she would devote her life to searching for him, if indeed he were still living, and the doubt brought a keen pang; or had he, too, thrust her out and barred the door, so that she might never more enter?
Or--worse than death--had he given the place to another, as she bade him do?
It was a weary search, with this terrible uncertainty shrouding it.
She advertised in mystical language, so none but he could comprehend it.
She examined the church records of the denomination with which he was connected, but found no clue there.
She attended conventions where large companies of ministers were in session, and eagerly looked them over, hoping and praying that her eyes might fall on that one that her heart asked for.
It was growing exciting and absorbing, this strange search.
She frequently visited towns where a popular preacher or lecturer was announced, and made one of the vast throng that passed about him; then, taking a favourable position, rapidly scanned the upturned faces, wondering, meanwhile, what that strange, subtle something is, by which we recognise each other; that unerring consciousness, so that among ten thousand faces, could we view them one by one, we know at a glance that the one we seek is not there; we do not stop, and doubt, and compare--we know.
She humbled herself to the very dust, and wrote letters far and near to his ministerial friends, that brought only sorrowful replies.
And now there came a remembrance that he had often spoken of the far west as a wide and promising field for labour; that some time he should like to go there and build up a church.
He might have gone there now.
So, with this forlorn hope, she started westward; spending the summer journeying, stopping over the Sabbath at straggling villages, and visiting different churches.
Wearied out at length, she recalled the fact that an uncle had removed, with his family, to the south-west, several years before.
She searched out their whereabouts and hastened thither, intending to spend but a brief season.
But yielding to their entreaties she remained through the autumn.
It was now drawing near to Christmas, and still she lingered.
She was growing hopeless, and that pleasant home filled with boys and girls was a diversion from her grief.
"Do, cousin Vida, go with me to-day, won't you?"
asked Harry, a bright boy of fourteen.
"I know a splendid place about ten miles from here, where we can get some evergreens; I want to trim up the house for Christmas just as we used to in New York State.
I'll take the spring waggon and the ponies, and we'll go--you and I--all alone, and bring home lots of greens, all cut off in short branches."
"You forget," his mother said, "that your cousin is not used to riding in spring waggons over rough roads, and ten miles will be a long drive for her."
"There are some red berries there, too," went on Harry, as if he had not heard the objections, "and moss, and long vines that the frost hasn't found yet; besides it's a grand day to ride."
"You dear boy," said Vida, "I'll go for half of the inducements you offer."
She was only too glad to fall in with any plan that diverted her sad thoughts.
The drive lay for a long distance through the lovely open country, the grass in many parts still green as in midsummer, and over all the perpetual sunshine of that region.
A soft golden light that even in mid-winter glorifies the commonest object; bright skies, balmy air, and her lively companion, cheered even Vida's drooping spirits.
Arrived in the woods, Harry ran here and there with joyful enthusiasm, now climbing a tree like a squirrel, then darting into a thicket for mosses.
They loaded the waggon with green boughs and filled their basket with treasures of moss and lichens, and the gay-plumed birds flitted about with hospitable little chirps, welcoming their visitors to their bowers of green.
As each became more intent in adding to their store they became separated.
Vida was a little distance behind a low, thick growth of trees, disentangling a long vine of bitter-sweet, when she heard a voice that thrilled her very soul.
There was just one voice like that in all the world.
Trembling, she bent her head and peeped through the branches.
One swift glance and she knew him--her husband.
A strong self-control prevented her from swooning or crying out in her great joy.
Shaking like a leaf, yet holding firmly to a tree-trunk, she gazed into the dear face.
It was paler and thinner, there were dark rings under the eyes, but the finely-curved mouth had the same calm, sweet expression that told of peace within.
How like a king among men he looked, as he stood there, his hands filled too with mosses and lichens, looking kindly on the boy and talking interestedly.
She never realised her utter folly so keenly as at this moment.
How she longed to fly to him and fall at his feet in sorrowful confession.
Two things kept her back: no eyes must witness their first meeting, and another dreadful thought--what if it were too late.
What if he had taken her at her word and loved another.
She had not been a woman of the world so long for naught.
She was an adept in hiding her heart far out of sight.
When Harry returned she could calmly ask him, "Whom he had found in that out-of-the-way place?"
"Why, don't you think!"
said Harry, "among all the other precious things in these woods I've found a minister.
Wish we could put him right on top of our boughs and things, and carry him home too, for Christmas.
Wouldn't mother be glad to see him, though!
He preaches every Sunday in a log church right down hereaways, and the people come from all round the country to hear him.
He looks as if he could preach, too.
Such eyes as he has, that look you through and through.
Say, let's you and me go to hear him next Sunday, will you?"
"Yes, I will!"
Vida said, with such fervour and emphasis that Harry gave her a keen look and wondered why she had a bright red spot in each cheek.
He wondered more before they reached home, for his cousin laughed and sung in childlike glee, and was sad and silent by turns.
Her restlessness could not wait until the Sabbath.
The excitement and suspense were unendurable.
Confiding in her aunt, it was arranged between them that Moses, the old coloured man of all work, should accompany her to Cedar Vale the next afternoon.
Just what she would do when she reached there was not clear to her, but stay away she could not.
When the children were well off to school again after the nooning, Vida, mounted on a fleet little pony, attended by her trusty guide, rode quietly away.
Her heart beat wildly when they drew near the settlement.
They came at last upon the church, standing in a lovely grove of maples.
The door stood slightly ajar.
At a little distance from it Vida dismounted, and directed Moses to wait there for her.
She had a consuming desire to look into the church where her husband preached, to stand a moment in the very spot where he stood Sabbath after Sabbath.
She stepped softly in, and there, kneeling by the little pulpit, his head bowed upon the desk, was--her husband!
Timidly and slowly, as one who has no right, she noiselessly drew near and knelt beside him.
Stranger eyes may not look upon a scene so sacred; but the two souls bowed together before that altar came nearer to heaven than mortals often get.
Had not the waning light warned them that they were still upon the earth, they might never have tired of looking into one another's eyes, and telling each to each the experiences of that lifetime they had lived since their separation, and striving to put into words the depths of joy that crowned this blessed hour.
Before they left the church they knelt again in that sacred spot, and each in low fervent words poured out thanksgivings, craving a blessing on their reunited lives, and, by a mutual and irresistible impulse, both spoke again their marriage vows before the Lord, in his temple.
When they rode away that Christmas Eve on their second bridal tour, the setting sun, smiling through the trees and slanting across their pathway, fell on them like a benediction.
Slowly and dreamily they went on their way, willing that this ride over crackling twigs and rustling leaves, with the soft, light of the dying day closing about them, should go on for ever.
The earnest admiring gaze of the husband brought girlish blushes to the face of the bride.
He was drawing contrasts; the sweet humble face and the simple adornings of her who rode by his side, made a fairer picture than the queenly lady of haughty airs and magnificent attire, who seemed to have passed out of existence.
Never was fairer Christmas tide than this, in that merry household;
those memorable evergreens festooning it as a bower--and a romance--a poem--lived out--not written.
There were no costly gifts, and yet, gifts the most precious--two souls given back to each other.
If the joy bells in their hearts but had voice, their silvery ringing would have filled all the land.
"Vida, can you be happy here until spring?"
Mr. Eldred asked, a few days after Christmas.
"My work would suffer, I fear, were I to leave it now."
"Why leave it in the spring, dear Thane?
Let us stay here always, in this beautiful, quiet place, where the people love you so, and--I did not tell you yet," Vida said, half shyly, "but my money is not mine any more.
I gave it all to the dear Lord, I would like to build a pretty church with some of it, and here we will stay and work, you and I together.
I can help you now, Thane--a little.
Don't you like my plan?"
she said, anxiously, when he did not speak.
"My darling, you have made me so happy that I could not speak," he said, after a little.
"I wish it above all things--to go on with my work here, and a new church is so much needed.
How strange that you should be willing to stay, and that we can work together!
Oh, Vida!
I
prayed--with faith, I thought--but I never dreamed of an hour like this; surely 'It has not entered into our hearts to conceive the things which God has prepared for them that love Him--in this life.'
" There was another sensation in an audience when the pastor of the log church brought in his wife, for naught so fair and sweet had ever gladdened their rustic eyes before.
The singing that day was mostly solo, or at least, duets.
Her pure, birdlike voice filled the church, and what could they do but listen, wondering meanwhile whether it might not be a lark, or an angel come down for a season.
When a teeming, busy town covered the prairie, and the heel of agriculture and commerce crushed out the wild flowers, the log church was preserved as a memorial, while the spire of the handsome new one was eagerly pointed out, its story treasured and handed down to children's children.
These two spent their happy lives ministering to this simple people, their hearts and hands so filled with work that they had no time to sigh for the privileges of more cultivated surroundings.
The pastor's wife was the warm friend and sympathizer of the common people, and her name was singularly appropriate--Vida--well-beloved.
