"I have something to say to the family this evening," said Mark as they sat at dinner in apple-blossom time.
"Why not say it now and have done with it? What have we done individually and collectively that we have to be brought before a Star Chamber?" questioned Doris, with something of her old-time spirit.
"Nothing serious; in fact, nothing at all. I want Robert to be here, too. I'll ask him to drop in."
"You tantalizing boy. Well, we have no time to waste on you; Keren and I must get back to our female minds."
The months following Doris's decision had perceptibly thinned the sweet oval of her cheek and stolen much of its delicate bloom. On the other hand, Keren's betrothal had heightened her charm and brought new beauty to her face. Doris carried a burden whose weight she tried in vain to conceal. Keren rested on the strong heart that loved her, and all care fell from her shoulders. True to Mark's promise, no word of reproach was ever uttered to Doris, no sign of disapproval given, but they all felt the change in their light-hearted darling, and longed for the merry laughter and irrepressible spirits of other days. She was very sweet and thoughtful for them all, but she was often preoccupied and sad.
"If I were a savage," Marb had said one day to Robert Courtney, "I would make John Allen's life so wretched he would flee to the ends of the earth, and never come back. Doris is so changed that one would hardly know her, and we can do nothing to help her."
The man who loved her with a deathless love was silent.
They were all gathered in the "keeping room" on the evening of the day on which our chapter opens, around an open fire, for the air was cool. The light flames leaped and glowed as they waited in silence for Mark, each in a separate world of thought, at star distances from each other perhaps, though they might have clasped hands without a stir.
"Don't light the lamp, Mark," said his mother as he came in; "the firelight is so pleasant. We can hear what you have to say without it. Now what have you to tell us?"
"Simply this: I have been requested to go back to A---- as an assistant teacher in Greek and Latin, and have decided to accept the offer. That means, of course, that I must resign my work here at once, so that they may fill my place for next year. I received the letter only this morning, and must confess that I am surprised, but nothing could be more to my liking."
"This is a pleasure, indeed, my son," said Mrs. Banner. "I am deeply gratified that they want you to come back. Aren't you?"
"Yes, mother."
A flash of fire lighted his face, and she saw his grave, sweet smile and his gray eyes looking into hers.
"Well, Buddy," said Doris, "I have always believed you would amount to something, and you see I was right. I am as proud and glad as I can be."
"Chum, that is just the thing," said Robert Courtney; "I am not at all surprised. Your work as an educator has not gone for nothing. I am selfish enough to say for myself that I don't like it at all, but there is nothing for me to do but to stay here and peg away without you."
"You would not run away from duty, in any event, would you, Robert?"
"No, I would not, Mrs. Banner. I believe you realize that, and I could not, with you for my monitor and inspiration."
Keren laid her hand for an instant in Mark's outstretched palm, and said nothing.
We find a record of this happy event in Doris's journal:
Barnwell, June 2, 1852. We are all so proud of Mark. The Academy authorities are very reluctant to give him up, but he received an urgent invitation and has decided to go back to his Alma Mater to assist in teaching Greek and Latin. I know what an influence for good he will have among the students. I realise, as I grow older, through what struggles he must have reached his victory, and how he has battled with the powers of darkness before coming off the conqueror that he is. He has stood between me and the world in father's place, as well as his own. What do I not owe to him!
Our second year in the Female Academy is drawing to a close. The work has not come up to our ideals, but I feel that it has been good work. We carry out Miss Lyon's plans as far as we can, and in many of the difficult places that every teacher meets we try to decide what her method would be, how she would control this rebellious pupil, or inspire that indifferent one. I often refer to my Mt. Holyoke notebooks in the Friday afternoon talks, and am able to give Miss Lyon's own words for inspiration and help.
Keren and I work in beautiful harmony. What shall I do without her? She has developed a remarkable gift for interpreting the Bible lessons, and she often takes Miss Lyon's outlines, preserved in her note-book, and explains them in her own happy way. The pupils know this, and even here our beloved teacher, "being dead, yet speaketh."
Bellfield, August 10, 1852. Dear Juna, once more I write in my own little room at the farm. It seems a long, long time since I stood at the window, looking toward the east, and named it Peace. I remember mother said: "Peace comes from within, child; don't forget that."
We cannot really know peace, I suppose, until we have known deep unrest; and yet, as I look over the years since then, those days seem to me to have been the very heart of peace. Deep unrest I surely have as my daily (and nightly) experience, but peace I do not know. Doesn't it seem strange, when you have decided a great question as you felt you must, or be dishonorable; when you have followed the best prompting of your heart and your real affection, as you thought to be right, that there should be given to you, as your daily portion, a pain, an apprehension, an undefined terror, which is beyond your power to control and which you cannot reason away? Do I doubt, Juna, that I love John Allen? No, I will not doubt it. I will be true.
Keren is so lovely in her loving. Every one can see her added charm. Though a tall and stately woman, with wonderful eyes and hair, I never heard her called a beautiful woman until this last year, but she surely is. She is bending over her wedding clothes at this very moment, in the Barnwell home, stitching dreams into every seam. Auntie Ray is staying with her, helping to get ready for the wedding. It will be held here at the farm, just before the school year opens. I have written to Mt. Holyoke for an assistant in Keren's place, but cannot hope to find one like her. Three names have been sent me, but I do not have to decide just yet, and I am glad, for I don't feel equal to it.
Have I changed so much, Juna? Jimmy shook my hand like a pump-handle the night we came home, and shouted: "Halloa, Aunt Doris; glad to see you; but you don't look as if you had had enough to eat. You just wait, I'll 'tend to you." Then, when no one was looking, he gave me a bear's hug and a kiss.
Dear Johnny was swinging ahead with our carpet-bag and bandbox, and mother was absorbed in Amelia.
Amelia persists in treating me as if I were sick - she is the dearest sister in the world - but I am not sick, Juna; I am not sick, but tired, tired in my very soul. "I love him; I must be true," is my watchword. It should have a joyful sound. Oh, why can't I make it sound joyful?
Mark is at A----, making everything ready for his new work. He and Keren will board for a while, perhaps for the first year, but they are looking forward to having a home of their own as soon as possible. Mother and I will feel lost without them, but we do not want to stand in the way of their happiness. They are not, like most betrothed couples, oblivious of every one else, but are thoughtful for us all, and make us really feel that their marriage will make no difference in the close friendship we have known as a family. We have an added joy, for Keren is a rich gift to us as well as to him.
Aug. 15. John has been to see me. I was glad Mark was not at home, because there is such an antagonism between them. Must I always dread to have them meet? Mother, Amelia and brother Charles were very kind to us both. John has not yet succeeded in get- ting a suitable charge, so that our marriage cannot take place for some time. His father has three preaching places, and John preaches at the small, outside churches on alternate Sundays. He is having the trial of many refined, sensitive souls, and feels that he is not under- stood and appreciated. Even his father does not approve of his efforts, and hints, John says, that his small salary is not enough for two. John says that I am his only comfort, and that the thought of me helps him to be patient in his trial. How glad I am that I have not failed him, and that I could say to him, as I have often said to myself: "I Iove you; I will be true."
I was very tired when he went away; because he would not let me be out of his sight for a moment, except when I was in my own room. I was glad to observe mother's strict command of my girlhood, that no daughter of hers could entertain a gentleman caller after ten o'clock. He thought it was foolish for a young woman of my age to feel bound to obey it, but I told him that while mother would not think of enforcing it, I preferred to do what I knew would please her. (Wasn't I glad of the excuse, Juna?)
"That is because you love her better than you do me," John said. I told him that a mother and a lover inspired very different kinds of loving, and he had to be content with that, or at least to be quiet about it. Of course when we are married he will not be so exacting. When he went away he insisted that I should write to him every day. He said that he should not be able to write me so often, but that he felt he needed my letters for his comfort. I would not promise, for it did not seem a reasonable arrangement. He is going to make more effort to get a church of his own, but says that he will not take a parish where his talents and education are not appreciated. So, Juna, I shall not make my wedding finery for some time to come.
Aug. 16. Mark came last night, sooner than we expected him. Mother and I were sitting at the front door when we saw him coming 'round the bend of the road. He waved his hand, and I ran to meet him, as I have done many times before. Mother hurried to the gate, and the twins came rushing after me. They are not quite so savage as they used to be, and Jimmy seized his carpet-bag, Johnny his bundle, and we went on to find mother and Amelia at the gate waiting.
"Are you tired, Mark?" I asked, as he walked more slowly than usual.
"Yes," he answered; "but a few days at the old farm will set me all right. There is no place quite so good as this, is there?" he said as he greeted mother and Amelia. Mother looked at him anxiously.
"Come right in, my son; you look spent. Will you have a cup of tea and something to eat before supper?"
"Perhaps I will. The heat has been great to-day, and rather interfered with my appetite at noon."
But he ate very little, Juna; and mother came to Amelia and me with an anxious note in her voice and a worried look in her eyes.
"Girls," she said, "do you think Mark looks well? I am afraid he is more than tired; I do not like his complexion."
"Don't be anxious, mother," said Amelia. "We will make him rest, and soon nurse him back to his usual strength. If he is really ill, there is an excellent physician in the village now, and he can have the best of care."
We persuaded him to go to bed early, and insisted on his lying in the morning until quite rested. He did not get up until noon to-day, and tried to laugh us out of our worry, but he seems strangely unlike himself and looks gray and thin.
"See here, folks, I shall be all right in a day or two. I am going to be as lazy as - as - what, Jimmy?"
"As lazy as a woodchuck in winter, Uncle Mark."
"Exactly so."
I found mother at the window of her room this afternoon with her hand pressed to her heart.
"Daughter," she said, with quickened breath, "I feel such a strange foreboding."
I put my arms around her, and she dropped her head on my shoulder. Neither of us spoke for a long time, and then I whispered: "He will be better to-morrow."
It is so unlike mother to be despondent that Amelia and I are very anxious. If anything should happen to Mark - Mark - oh, Juna!