The Female Academy at Barnwell opened in November with a fuller enrollment than usual. The years of mental discipline stood the principal and her assistant in good stead in this their time of need. As, with mind and purpose concentrated on their task, they came before their pupils in quiet composure, nothing seemed changed, except that each bore herself with added dignity and sweetness. As one of the girls expressed it:
"Miss Banner is more beautiful and kinder than ever; and Mrs. Banner, in her widow's gown, is as lovely as she can be. If any one dares to break rules and be mean to them, let us make that girl wish she never had been born in Barnwell."
The daily routine of duty brought, as always, its blessing to the Banner home. Faltering hands grew firm, faltering hearts strong, as the burden of pain and bereavement was accepted and bravely borne. Life could never be the same, but it must be lived day by day.
Robert Courtney came to them frequently, and with infinite consideration comforted and helped them all. Mrs. Banner leaned on him more and more as the months went on, until their relationship became almost that of mother and son. He treated Keren with a deference that was beautiful to see and that assured her of his constant sympathy. Doris he understood better than she knew, and her hours of conflict as she asked again and again the world-old questions: "Is it right? Does God care?"
Robert was strong enough to hold himself in brotherly reserve, and wait - for what?
Johnny, who was filling his place as general utility man most satisfactorily, brought his Aunt Doris a letter one day, with the remark:
"I don't know who that is from, but that writing has always such a cock-sure look I'd like to kick whoever wrote it."
"You naughty boy, that is very impertinent. Give me the letter and go and fill the kitchen wood-box for penance," exclaimed Doris with mock severity.
She knew the writing well enough and, going to Mark's room (which she had taken for her own), she sat at the table and broke the seal:
"My promised wife," she read, "I was, of course, glad to get your ]etter, but I must say that I do not understand your continued grief, which you say still darkens your sky. I protest against such indulgence in mourning, and repeat what I have said before, that you ought to shake yourself free from it, at least in great measure, and find your sufficient joy in me. No one but a husband should dictate to a wife. I stand in such a relation to you except for the ceremony that shall make us one. I insist that you shall not brood over the past; give it up and look to our glorious future. I cannot brook any divided affection, even for the dead. I must require -"
The scales fell from Doris's blinded eyes as with a flash of lightning. She sprang up.
"And this is the man to whom I vowed I must be true."
She paced the floor with vehement energy.
"Oh, Mark," she wailed, "you were right; how could I have been so blind! How I have hurt you, how I have grieved mother, by my obstinacy, and yet I was trying to do right. Love him, love that supremely selfish egoist, as I see him now? Never, never. What have I loved, whom have I loved? A dream, an ideal, which never bore the slightest resemblance to the actual man. Mark told me, but I did not believe. I thought he was prejudiced. Now I see, I see - instead of the knight of my imagination, great and good - a shrivelled weakling, a puny dwarf. I will ask him to release me at once. If he will not, what shall I do, what shall I do?"
As was her wont, Doris came to her journal, with the opening of the new year, and we read there a record of the intense life that filled these days of her rapidly maturing womanhood.
Barnwell, January 1, 1853. Again on my birthday, Juna, I come to talk with you as with a friend. I am not the child I was when you first knew me. What a comfort you have been in joy and sorrow! Life has not been always easy to bear, even in prosperous days. There are so many questionings that come to a woman's soul; such an unconquerable hunger; such aspirations that strain her heart heavenward; such tumult; such glimpses of frightening depths, that she must needs be led by love to the firm and upward path. Thank God! such divine and earthly love have guided my feet. I look back with profound gratitude on this first day of another year.
God is good. Not only do I believe it intellectually, as a fact, but I feel it in my heart. I accept sorrow and loss as my portion, without protest. God knows best. I will try to be braver and better; a more devoted daughter; a more unselfish sister; a more inspiring teacher. Mother bears up nobly. Though the iron has entered her soul, she does not forget that she still has children who need her. Keren's sweet fortitude is beautiful, her sense of possession wonderful. She says she wears a crown, the crown of wifehood; her husband is waiting for her, and she must live worthily until she may go to him. Sometimes her grief is pathetic to see, and then only mother can comfort her.
I look back with deep gratitude to an event in the last year, Juna. I am free, free. In answer to my earnest request, John Allen has released me from my engagement. I wrote as kindly as I knew how, and told him that I could not give him the kind of love he asked for, and that I felt it would be better for us to part. He answered immediately, saying:
"I have just received your letter, and answer at once. I should have been the first to make this proposition, since I have seen for some time that you were entertaining unwomanly ideas of independent thought. I judge that you have been somewhat influenced by the writings of certain masculine women who advocate civic rights for men and women. This would necessarily destroy the sanctity of the home, where the husband should have full control of his family. There are other young women in the world wbo hold saner ideas. It is from such as these that I would choose a life-long companion. Such women are better adapted to my refined and sensitive nature. We will consider that all relations between us, from this time forth, are severed.
John Allen."
I feel that I have been freed from intolerable shackles, and I wonder, oh, I wonder if my brother knows!
I showed the letter to mother and her face lighted with joy, such as we have not seen since Mark went away. She kissed me and said:
"My dear child, I am deeply thankful, and congratulate you that at last you see the truth and are free."
What amazes me, Juna, is this: How could I have ever been so blind!
"Children," said Mrs. Banner at the beginning of the new year, "open the piano and let us have some music once more."
"Oh, mother," protested Doris, "how can we?"
"Yes, dear, we must. I think Mark will miss something out of the heavenly harmonies if we have no music here. For his sake, Doris."
So gradually they resumed the habit of gathering about the piano and singing, without the soaring sweetness of a voice for which they listened in vain. Little by little Doris and Keren took up their systematic practice and played as before to an appreciative group around the fire.
As the winter months wore away there was a springtime stirring in Robert Courtney's soul. Mrs. Banner had told him of Doris's freedom. It made a perceptible difference in her bearing. She walked as if she had dropped a heavy burden, and something of the old elasticity came to her step.
A chastened Doris wandered alone by an unfrequented path, toward upland trees, one fragrant June afternoon. She was leaving the care of the schoolroom behind its closed doors, and sought the harmonious stillness of the summer woods for rest. They had always quieted her tumultuous moods in childhood, and now she felt a welcome greeting as she entered into their sanctuary of peace. She found her favorite nook between the gnarled roots of an old oak tree, and leaning against its rugged bark, sat long, looking out over valley and hillside. She watched white clouds floating softly in the summer air, followed the flight of skimming swallows, "that dip their wings in tears," with dreamy interest; but only the birds saw the look of pain gathering in her eyes, the little hand pressed tightly on her heart, or heard the long and quivering breath, the half-whispered words: "Oh, Robert, if you only knew" - and after a moment the yearning sobs from a longing heart - "Oh, Robert, Robert, my love, if you only knew!"
Only the birds saw her struggle for mastery and knew when, weary with the conflict, she fell asleep.