Keren and Mark were to have a year of betrothal before their marriage, and the opening of the next school term found the family happily settled for their work.
"Happy dreams do sometimes come true," exclaimed Doris one evening, as she watched the installing of a fine piano in their sitting-room. "This is the one final, perfecting touch to our home. Mother and I can sing soprano, Keren has a beautiful second and Mark's tenor is superb. If we had a bass, there would be nothing wanting to a quartet. But we have enough to be gloriously thankful for. Where is that book of duets, Keren? I feel like a little girl again, almost too happy to live."
She seized Keren by the waist and whirled her around the room, bringing her breathless to the piano-stool.
"There, Miss Teacher, you shall have the first play."
"If you can be quiet a moment, I have something to tell you, Doris Banner," remarked her brother, with mock gravity. "I am shocked at such undignified levity in the head of the Academy for training female minds. What would your pupils say if they could see you?"
"But they don't. Now what have you to say, sir?" She laid a hand on each of his arms: "I will not let you go until you tell me."
"Well, then, being under compulsion, I will say that my old room-mate at A----, Robert Courtney, is coming here to fill the vacant pulpit of the Congregational Church. He is one of the finest men I have ever known, and an excellent preacher. Why he refused a call to a Boston church and came to this poor parish, I do not know, but he is coming soon."
"That is interesting, and I am glad for your sake, and for our own, for that matter, if he is a good speaker; but I can't see that your news fits this particular occasion of rejoicing," remarked Doris.
"This is how it fits in. He has an excellent bass voice, and understands music well. Now, how about our quartet?"
"That is fine. Of course he will come to you?"
"You may be sure of that, for he has never had a real home in his life. He used to look with longing eyes at me when my letters came from home."
"Why doesn't he get married, then, and make a home of his own? That is the way for lonely men to do," said Doris demurely, with an arch look at her brother.
"I suppose because he has not yet found the one incomparable woman, as I have," answered Mark, drawing Keren's hand within his arm. "They are not plenty, and Courtney is very particular."
"Well, I hope he will get suited in course of time. Mother," called Doris, "come and have a sing before we go to bed."
The routine of life went steadily on, as with increasing earnestness these teachers went daily to their inspiring tasks. The weariness of the day was often forgotten as they gathered in the evening around the piano and four voices blended in rich harmony. Often Doris or Keren played with skilful touch, or performed a duet, as Mark and his mother, with Robert Courtney, listened in silence.
The new minister was a frequent visitor, and fitted into the family life without a jar. He did not find an easy task as pastor of the weakened church, and to no one could he confide his perplexities as to Mrs. Banner. Her great mother heart went out to the lonely young man, and a warm and beautiful friendship speedily ripened between them. Her keen insight into human nature, and clear mental attitude toward life in all its phases, made her an invaluable counsellor. The lovely maturity of her rich womanly nature, her restfulness, gave him a sense of security and peace in her presence, such as he had never known.
"I don't wonder you are the man you are, Banner," he exclaimed one day as they were walking together, "with such a mother and sisters. And now the Fates have added another gift - a woman's heart all your own. If you were any one else, chum, I should say you didn't deserve it. Do you remember your father at all?"
"I have only a dim memory of his laying his hand on my head and saying, 'Be a man and take care of your mother.' I was too young to know then what he meant, but it has infiuenced me all my life, and I have felt a peculiar care over Doris. Amelia is several years older than I, and the best of sisters, a comfort to us all. Our family relations have been singularly pleasant. Courtney, I do not deserve it," said Mark simply; "life is better to me than my fairest dreams. Then I have you, old fellow, as a brother, a part of my daily life. That means, as you know, very much to me. No, I do mot deserve it all."
They walked on in silence until they came to the Banner home, and, with a warm handclasp, parted without a word.
One bright winter day, the school week ended, the village of Barnwell lay under a canopy of snow. The morning sun had risen on untracked roads and pathways. The sheltering hills held their sleeping life close-folded under a coverlet. In the silent woods hemlock and spruce bore, in perfect white above their shining green, an unmarred beauteous burden in the windless air.
The merriest of winter sounds floated out in the afternoon sunshine:
"The tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells, -
From the jingling and tinkling of the bells."
A sleigh-load of laughing girls from the Female Academy had claimed Doris and Keren after school hours, and as Mark walked homeward Robert Courtney joined him.
"Hold on there, chum; I am going your way. I saw your sister and Miss Winthrop with a sleigh full of girls, and as I want to see you and your mother alone I thought I would take this time."
"What is up, Courtney, anything special?"
"Yes; wait and I will tell you."
"Well, here we are; there is mother; come in." He waved his hand to the watcher in the window and opened the gate.
"Queen mother," said Mark, "here is Mr. Robert Courtney, who says that he has some special business with us. Can you give him audience?"
"Yes, indeed; he is always welcome. What is it, Robert?"
"It is serious business for me, but it will not take long to tell it. I love Doris. Are you both willing that I should try to win her for my wife?"
Mrs. Banner's face grew white under her snowy hair, and Mark groaned aloud.
"What is the matter?" cried Robert Courtney in alarm. "Do you feel that I am not worthy? I will withdraw at once, if you say so; but I can never love another woman."
"I know of no one to whom I could so gladly give her, but I fear you are too late," said her mother sorrowfully.
"I did not know that she was promised to any one."
"Courtney," exclaimed Mark, with a white, set face, "this is enough to make a man his teeth in rage."
"For heaven's sake, Banner, explain yourself."
"Sit down and I will tell you. Doris is most sweet and reasonable about everything in this world but one. She imagines that she is in love with an old schoolmate, who has been writing to her for years. He has never definitely asked her to marry him, but he probably will before long. She feels that she belongs to John Allen - a puppy, a donkey, a half-educated fool. He is not a bad man, nor is there character enough in him to make a good man, as I have told her many times. No one can convince her, however, and we have to let her go her way."
"That is one of the crucifixions of motherhood," said Mrs. Banner sadly, "to see a beloved child make a grievous mistake, go blindly on to certain misery, and be powerless to prevent the tragedy. That is just what our little girl seems bound to do. She is held by some mistaken sense of loyalty, and believes him to be everything that he is not. I fear we cannot save her."
"Courtney," said Mark, breaging the long silence that had settled upon them, "I will talk with Doris to-night. She is not yet definitely promised, I know, though she feels herself morally bound - mistakenly so. Perhaps when she knows that a man like you, whom any woman can be proud to revere, loves her with a great and honorable love, the scales will fall from her eyes. John Allen has touched only the surface of her heart, and she does not realize that he has no power to stir the depths of her noble womanhood. I sometimes think that only a great sorrow could bring her to her senses. God knows I would spare her that, for my little sister is very dear to me."
Robert Courtney turned from the gate of his friend in heaviness of soul. He had seen, through a door ajar, the light of Heaven. He was standing now in outer darkness. The door to love and home and happiness seemed forever closed to him. He had no hope that Mark's pleading would avail to give him an opportunity to win the love of the only woman in the world for him. There are many men of many minds and diverse kinds; for this man, having loved once, however fruitlessly, he could never love again.
"Doris," said Mark, after the evening meal, "I want to talk with you. Will you come up to my room for a while?"
"Yes, indeed; I will be there in ten minutes. I have something to tell you, too."
Mark had lighted the lamp on his study-table and drawn the shades when she entered.
"What a disorderly fellow you are!" she exclaimed. "I wish you would let me clear up that table; you strew your papers around disgracefully. Just wait until your wife begins to manage you. Now what is it? I'll save mine until the last."
"Sit down here, sis." He drew an easy chair to the table.
"What is the matter, Mark? Tell me quickly; you look as grave as a judge."
"Doris, little sister, Robert Courtney was here to-day."
"That is surely nothing unusual; he is here many days."
"He came to ask mother and me if we were willing to have him try to win your love, and to ask your hand in marriage. He loves you deeply, as not every man can love. He is noble and true, a man whose name any woman might be proud to bear. Will you consider the matter carefully?"
"But, Mark, you know I cannot; there is John Allen," cried Doris, with flushing cheeks.
"Have you ever promised to marry John Allen? Have you ever told him that you loved him?"
"No; but I have written to him all these years, and I do love him. He has a fine and sensitive nature. It is a grief to me that you and mother do not like him. I feel always that you will when you know him better. This is what I want to tell you. He has asked me to ask you and mother if you are willing to have me marry him, as soon as he gets a charge, for he is going to enter the ministry."
"Why doesn't he ask himself, like a man, the --"
"Mark, please - here is his letter; that is the best way to make you understand. Read it and you will know how honorable he is." Her brother took the letter with ill-concealed annoyance, and read:
My dear Doris:-
The time has come to which I have long looked forward, when I feel that I can ask you to be my wife. I have at last decided to enter the ministry. I might as well do that as anything, and I must do something to earn a livelihood. I have been at home, as you know, ever since I left college, trying to decide on my future course. In the meantime I have read some theology with my father, to occupy my time. He insists now on an immediate decision. I decided to-day, and write you at once. Of course we cannot marry until I get a church, but I have no fear that I cannot get a good one as soon as I have an opportunity to preach before a few congregations. I shall also have my father's influence to help me.
You alone know how refined and sensitive my nature is. I have always felt that your mother and brother were not cordial in their feelings toward me, and I shrink from writing to them about this matter. Will you spare me this trial, and ask them yourself? But you are of age and your own mistress. You do not need their consent, though I know you would not like to marry even me without it.
I quote, with a little change, from a poem which I wrote for you long ago. I have not said as much as this since then, but I feel that you will appreciate it now:
"Te semper amavi. Te semper amabo."
Let me know your decision soon.
Semper fides,
John.
Mark flung the letter to the floor with a gesture of unutterable scorn, and getting up with an energy that sent his chair reeling behind him, began to pace the floor with long and hasty strides.
"Doris Banner, have you lost your senses? Can't you see his utter selfishness, his lack of character? He might as well preach as do anything else forsooth! Has he no sense of the holiness of the calling, no conviction of duty? Will he spare his precious feelings by asking you to do what he has not the manliness to do I for himself? I beg of you, by the love of our childhood, by our long years of close fellowship, to write him an emphatic refusal. I beg of you, as your brother and as your natural guardian, to have nothing to do with him, except in the way of friendship, if you care to have a friendship with such a --"
"Mark, Mark," pleaded Doris, dismayed by his vehemence, "you do not understand him, neither does mother. I showed the letter to her this afternoon, and begged her not to tell you. I wanted to do that myself."
"No wonder she was white as a sheet and ate almost no supper."
"Don't you see that I am bound to him, even though no promise has passed between us, though he has never given me the caress of a lover, in the few times we have seen each other since we were schoolmates?"
"No, I do not see; neither would you if you were not absolutely blinded by a false sense of honor. You have a clear enough mind about most things, but you seem to see this - this all-important question - through a fog that completely distorts your vision. Of course he never offered you a caress. He knew well enough that you would not allow it until he had the right. Any man knows that, even if he is a fool. You think you love him. You love an ideal you have formed of him, that is as unlike him as light is unlike darkness. Believe me, Doris, you do not love him at all."
"Mark, Mark, don't you see how you are hurting me?" cried Doris. She had risen to her feet and was standing before him. "Won't you love me any Ionger if I do not say no?"
He threw his arms wide, and Doris rushed to their refuge. She laid her head on his broad shoulder and sobbed as he had never seen her sob before. He held her close and whispered:
"Little sister, little sister, I shall love you always. Never, never forget that, whatever happens. I only want to save you from making a terrible mistake, to save you from needless suffering, certain and life-long. Our mother is breaking her heart over it for the same reason."
"But don't you both want me to do what I think is right?" sobbed Doris.
"Yes, but we want to help you to see the right, to clear away the mist that blinds you."
She threw her arms around his neck and laid her wet face to his. "It kills me to hurt you all, but I must be true."
She fled to her room and, hastily preparing for bed, laid her tired head on her pillow. All night she lay staring into darkness with wide, sleepless eyes. Over and over she whispered, until her brain reeled, "I love him, I love him. I must be true, I must be true."
"Poor Courtney, poor little Doris,'' sighed Mark, and went to find his mother.
"It is of no use, dear mother," he said tenderly; "she cannot see; she thinks there is no other way, though she is breaking her heart over grieving us. She has gone to her room for the night and we must not disturb her."
"We will leave our darling in God's hands, my son. Surely He is not unmindful of her. We will hope that something may yet occur to show her the mistake. What should I do without you, Mark?"
"You do not have to do without me, mother."
"No, thank God, thank God. I believe He will never ask me to live in this world without you, my precious boy."
Doris, as she tossed on her sleepless pillow, had no foreshadowing of the price she would pay for cleared vision, and the faint gray dawn found her still whispering, "I love him, I love him; I must be true."
When nine o'clock came on the following morning, and Doris had not yet appeared, her mother went to her room, tapped gently and listened. Hearing no sound, she opened the door softly, to find her daughter sleeping heavily from exhaustion, with traces of tears on her cheeks. With noiseless step Mrs. Banner crossed room and darkened the windows, murmuring to herself, "How I would spare you even to the laying down of my life, but I cannot. Oh, the agonizing helplessness of a mother's love, my baby, my baby!"
Mark stood at the door, as that eventful day was drawing to a close, about to leave the house. He had not seen Doris since she left his room the night before. Now she came swiftly down the stairs.
"Mark, will you mail this for me, and also give this to Mr. Courtney? I want you to read it before he sees it."
There was a pathetic appeal in her beautiful eyes that smote her brother to the heart.
"Your answer is?" he asked gently.
"My answer is yes. I love him. I must be true." She clung to his arm, her pale lips quivering.
"You need not fear, Doris; we will never refer to the subject again in any way that will give you pain."
He bent his head to her rippling hair for a moment, and was gone. His eyes were dim as he opened the unsealed letter and read:
Dear Mr. Courtney:-
Mother and Mark have told me of your request, and I want to tell you that I feel greatly honored. I have the highest respect for you, and shall always cherish the thought that you believed me worthy of loving. But I feel that my affection and devotion are for another, whom I have long loved. I know there must be a woman, whom God will some day send you, who will give you her whole heart, and whom you will love and cherish as your wife.
May I hope that you will grant me this request? Please come to our house as freely and as frequently as you have done. Any restraint that you and I may feel will soon wear away. Do not, I beg, for mother's sake and Mark's, and for the sake of us all as a family, let this make any difference in our pleasant friendship. Think of me as a sister and as a friend. As such I am,
Most cordially yours,
Doris Banner.
And thus Doris Banner placed her rich, cultured young womanhood on the altar of an intense, ignoble egotism - a futile sacrifice.