 CHAPTER VII WASTING SYMPATHY Rebecca Meredith, sitting in her easy chair in Mrs. Mackenzie's luxurious room, apparently listening to that lady's voice and really going over her past, remembered just how she sat and stared at that sheet of paper, and just how strange those four lines looked. At the marriage of their daughter, Caroline, to Mr. Frederick J. Pearson. Remembered that she thought how strange a coincidence it was that Carrie, her friend Carrie Stewart, was to marry a man with exactly the same name as Fred. A grave smile was on her face this night as she saw how vivid every minute detail connected with that evening still was. She knew that the clock had just struck seven, and her father had remarked that Jim was very slow about getting up the horses, and that her mother had said here was a letter from their old acquaintance, Mrs. Barnes, and that she was going to Florida for the remainder of the winter, and that she had reminded the doctor that the coal was nearly out, and perhaps he ought to write a card ordering some more before he went out for the evening. America had never been able to think of that evening since, through all these years, without remembering about Jim being late with the horses and Mrs. Barnes going to Florida, and they're being nearly out of coal. Yet it seemed to her that it must have been hours before she took in the astounding fact that she held Fred's, her Fred's, wedding cards in her hand. She had occasionally imagined, as girls will, how they would read. Here and Mrs. John Ellis Meredith request the pleasure of your presence at the marriage of their daughter Rebecca to Mr. Frederick J. Pearson. That was the way the card should read, of course. Everybody who knew those two expected it, except perhaps her friend Carrie Stewart. The woman of twenty-seven could smile over the vagaries of the girl of twenty, but the memory of them was very distinct. Since that evening so long ago, she had heard absolutely nothing from Frederick Pearson. She had heard of him, that the marriage took place in due season, and that the young couple went abroad, the son-in-law on business for the great firm of Stewart, Stewart and Pearson. That in due time they returned, and were set up at housekeeping in a grand establishment, as became the house of Stewart. But so far as her former acquaintance was concerned, it was as though Fred Pearson had died and been buried. His last letter to her, written in December, had begun, my dear Rebecca, and had closed with a reminder that the holidays were close at hand, and had been signed, as ever, Fred. Her next communication from him, in December of that same year, had been those wedding cards, whether he had, all through the months, been living a double life, writing his weekly letters to her and paying his hourly court to the daughter of the senior member of the firm, or whether it had been a sudden, reckless decision, carried out with headlong speed, for some object which she did not understand, Rebecca had never known. Of course there was much talk and questions to answer, which were more or less trying, but Rebecca, as a girl, had few intimates. It was hard for self-respecting people to question her. Even to her father she said, Why, father, Fred and I were never engaged, you know, we were schoolmates and friends of long standing. But she had winced under the sentence, and thought of the reply she made when Carrie Stewart asked, Are you and Mr. Pearson engaged? Which time had she spoken the absolute truth? It was only her mother who knew all that there was to tell. Following heart upon this experience had come another, calculated, if anything could, to sink it into the background. Her little sister, I. Lee, had been given to them, and she wound the sweetest of clinging tendrils about the bruised heart. Then the mother had gone away to that solemn journey which is taken but once, and Rebecca had been left to be mother to the child, and companion and comforter to the father. Then Mrs. Meredith had come into their home, then I. Lee followed her mother. In these strange ways the years had come and gone, until now Rebecca, sitting by Mrs. Mackenzie's fireside, reviewing her past, found that while there were many hard lines in her life, and while there might still be bitterness in her thought of Fred Pearson, his name had lost the power to make her heart beat one throb the faster. She could even almost smile over it all, and wonder why she had ever cared so much. Still, I did not really care for him, but for the person I thought he was, she told herself, and when one ceases to respect a man, why then, of course— Then Mrs. Mackenzie's soft voice, which had been moving on steadily, broke in upon her musings. And so, my dear, I am very glad that you are not of that stamp, because it would really be a trial to lose you, though you have been with us so short a time. Rebecca heard, with a start of dismay, what had the lady been talking about? Of what stamp, madame? She asked, her face flushing as she realized what the question revealed. Mrs. Mackenzie regarded her with an interested smile. My dear, she said, I believe you have not heard a word of what I have been saying, and here I have been telling you about the perfections of one of your predecessors, an interesting story I assure you. Where have you been? I was looking backward. Rebecca answered, smiling, I beg your pardon, something you said a moment ago sent me into the past. Would you mind repeating your last sentence or two? Oh, perhaps they are hardly worth it. Something in your manner, or perhaps it was your dress, reminded me of Helen Harvey. She was Lillian's nurse for four months. Lillian and I were fond of her, but she grew too sympathetic and Mr. Mackenzie had to dismiss her. I was rejoicing over the fact that you did not seem to be like her in that respect. Isn't that a rather doubtful compliment? Rebecca asked, in a somewhat constrained tone, surely people ought to try to be sympathetic. So I think, I told Mr. Mackenzie he was unnecessarily sensitive. She lavished it all upon him, you understand. It is hard for him always to have an invalid wife and to be obliged to go out to social gatherings alone, as well as to entertain his friends as best he can, often without help. I do not wonder that she was sorry for him, and told him so, and tried to make up to him for his affliction in every way that she could. I think Mr. Mackenzie would have been sensible if people had let him alone, but servants will talk, you know, and poor Helen, with the best intentions, made it unpleasant after a while both for herself and him, so she had to go. Rebecca's cheeks were ablaze. I do not think I shall err in that direction, she said coldly. May I read now? But the lady was not in the mood for reading. She waved the book from her gracefully. Not yet, please, I feel like talking. It is not often that I am in the mood. Or if I am, there is no one to talk to. Poor Mrs. Payne is too stupid to tempt me. I will tell you about my Carol. Others have to talk about their sons once in a while, you know, or their hearts would get too full. She talked so well, with such a sweet undertone of yearning in it all, that Rebecca, who had been jarred, she could not have told why, by those words about Helen Harvey, forgot them and felt all her heart throb with earnest sympathy for this poor, lonely, ill-treated mother. She is ill-treated, she told herself boldly. The idea of supposing that her starved heart will be fed if she is surrounded by luxuries and provided with a nurse, while her boy, for whom she pines, is kept away from her, and her husband seeks his society elsewhere. Talk about wasting sympathy on him, the idea! And her lip curled ominously. I am sure I shall be very unlike Helen Harvey, if she was tempted in that direction. But there is certainly sore need for sympathy. Well, Rebecca Meredith, you have found your mission at last, a place where you are wanted and needed, which are not always the same things, I suppose. But if ever a poor woman needed a judicious friend, it is this frail wife and mother kept in a gilded cage, so surrounded by luxury and selfishness that she is dying by inches. She looks weaker and frailer than she did when I came. If I knew the boy, Carol, I would write to him to assert his manhood and insist upon coming home to his mother. What a dreadful thing it would be if she should slip away from life and not see him again. Wonder if I cannot, in a perfectly decorous and business-like way, out with that man, incarnation of self that he is. This was Rebecca's soliloquy after the invalid, having talked herself tired and gotten into a passion of weeping for her absent son, all but fainted away in her weakness. Rebecca summoned the nurse, and, after waiting until she was assured there was nothing for her to do, went to her own room to be indignant. At last I can surely feel that I am wanted, she repeated. The poor, hungry heart turns toward me. I can see it in every word she says, and in the tenderness with which she looks at me. I mean to love her and to do for her in every way that I can. But I must be careful not to arouse the suspicions of his majesty, or he will imagine that I must in some way be neglecting Lillian, because I occasionally think of somebody else. I wonder if people, men and women whom he meets in his world, have the least idea what sort of a man he is. By degrees, the feeling that she had been called to do a special work in this strangely organized home, even to become the special champion of its mistress, colored all this young woman's life. She grew so darkly suspicious of Mr. McKenzie that there were days when she would hardly have been surprised to have detected him in the act of poisoning his wife. She was even suspicious of Mrs. Payne, who the housekeeper declared was a model of patience and excellence. Occasionally there were circumstances which seemed to justify her in this suspicion. For instance, she was one evening left for a few minutes alone with Mrs. McKenzie just after dinner. Mrs. Payne went downstairs, begging her to remain until she returned. Is she really gone? Mrs. McKenzie asked, with a laugh of mingled amusement and annoyance. Then close the door, do my dear, and push up a window, and let us breathe fresh air. I do get so tired of the poor, stupid soul. It is really very tiresome always to have her about me watching every movement. Sometimes when my nerves are especially unstrung, I can almost fancy her a great green-eyed cat, and myself a poor little mouse on whom she is ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. Rebecca listened, distressed at this revelation of overstrained nerves, and asked, my dear madame, why do you not discharge her and secure somebody who is more congenial to you? Discharge Mrs. Payne, repeated Mrs. McKenzie, with a pretty little affectation of dismay. Don't I beg of you ever let Mr. McKenzie know you were guilty of such a dangerous idea? Why he would almost rather discharge me and keep Mrs. Payne if it came to a question of which. Payne, arrested apparently by the look on Rebecca's face, she laughed lightly and added, I am talking nonsense, of course, but I assure you you do not know what you are saying. Why poor Mrs. Payne has been in the house for seventeen years. She came here when my Carol was a wee baby. Think how stupid it must be for her to live on and on in the old way year after year. I assure you I am often sorry for her, and oftener sorry for myself. We are both so dull and stupid. Oh, she is good, but it is a real relief to get rid of her occasionally. Where has she gone? For her cup of tea? I hope she will have to wait for it. Do my dear, wait on me a little just for the pleasure of seeing somebody else about me. Give me that glass of water, please, and let me prepare my own drops. It is time for them. This is one of the luxuries which Mrs. Payne will never allow me. She thinks my hand is not steady enough, I suppose, but it is. See how nicely I can drop this. Mr. McKenzie used to do it for me when I was first taken ill, but that was before he grew so busy and so used to my invalidism. My dear, whatever you do, don't marry a man of affairs who will be courted and fond upon by the public. Be sought to meet this committee, and speak before that one, and let the other one give him a dinner or a reception or something of the sort. If you do, mark my words, he will have no time for you." And the nurse had come in at that very moment while Rebecca held the dainty cut glass, and the drops were being carefully measured into it, and had swooped down upon them with a look at Rebecca which astonished and offended her, and had said with nervous haste, Oh, Mrs. McKenzie, you must not, I will attend to that, it is not time for any medicine. This last with another look at Rebecca, and reproach in her voice. Then she had unceremoniously snatched the glass from the girl's fingers, and emptied its contents into the glowing grate. Rebecca immediately left the room, and sought her own in a burning rage. What right had that insufferable nurse to snatch that glass from her hands? What was she doing but just as she had been directed? They cannot be very dangerous drops, she continued. If they were, an invalid would not be carrying them around in her pocket. It is just an attack of jealousy on the part of that nurse. She cannot endure the idea of there being any other person capable of waiting on Mrs. McKenzie. It detracts somewhat from her self-importance. Or else, I wonder if it can be possible that she has allowed the poor lady to have some medicine of which the doctor does not approve, and is afraid she will be discovered, something to make her drowsy perhaps when she is tired of her and wants to take a nap. Really it looks as though something of the kind might be the case. She certainly seemed alarmed when she saw her taking it. If that self-absorbed man should discover some day that his wife had been poisoned by mistake, I wonder if he would care. Oh, dear, I am growing wicked too. This is a dangerous house. But I will not desert her. No, not even though they gossip about me and couple my name with my masters as they did that poor Helen Harvey's. Her lip curled in derisive scorn over this thought. But in a moment she was grave again and anxious. The suspicion once aroused that the poor neglected wife might be unkindly dealt with by the nurse on whom the husband placed such perfect trust, gained strength as she thought about it. She resolved to be as alert and watchful as possible, and to give Mrs. McKenzie as much of her time as she could. End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 of Wanted by Pansy The Slipper Box Recording is in the public domain. Chapter 8 Poor Rebecca Rebecca, said Mr. McKenzie, stopping that young woman on the stairs one Sunday morning, it has not occurred to me here too far that you might wish to attend church. I suppose I have been remiss. Everything very like a sigh escaped him, but Rebecca made no response to it or to him. She thought he had been very remiss, and she had no sympathy with his sighs. Such being the case, there was nothing for her but silence. I own a pew in Dr. Carter's church on the next square, continued the gentleman in his most business-like tone. I suppose you could frequently go in the evening if you chose, and you are welcome to a seat in my pew. I am rarely there in the evening. I should have mentioned it before. But the thing which suggests it to me now is the fact that I have a fancy for testing my Lillian's powers of self-control by taking her to church with me this morning. My good mother used to think, I remember, that a child's education in this direction should commence very early, and I certainly want my child to fail of no help in life which I can plan for her. But I should wish to have you in attendance, for it may be that the little one will be timid in a strange place surrounded by so many people. Can you arrange to get her ready for morning service and accompany her? Of course, if you so direct! Rebecca answered, with such utter coldness, that if he had meant to be kind to her he might have been discouraged. But Mr. Mackenzie, Miss Lillian is very happy with her mother on Sabbath mornings, and I think she will miss the little one. Did she fancy it, or did his face grow colder and his tone hotier? Lillian can spend a portion of the afternoon with her mother, which will be enough for both of them. I desire to have her with me in church this morning. And moreover, Rebecca, I think I have arranged matters so that hereafter I can lunch at home on Tuesdays, in which case I wish the child at table with me, and yourself, of course, to attend her. I have been for some time sorry that my hour for dining on Sundays made it inconvenient for the child to be with me. I want her to learn early to conduct herself properly at table. You may plan, if you please, to serve her lunch with mine on Tuesdays hereafter. If I am detained later than one o'clock, you and she may lunch without waiting for me, but I shall try to be present. That is all. He stepped aside courteously enough to let her pass, but Rebecca went upstairs, disliking him more than ever, and with a feeling of utter rebellion at her lot. To be dismissed like a common irreservant, she exclaimed in a fume, and then laughed at her own folly. She was not Irish, it is true, but had she not deliberately chosen the place of a servant, why should she complain at being treated like one? I don't, she said indignantly, answering her own thought. I do not want him to treat me in any other way, but, well, I detest him, and that is all there is about it. So I must needs attend the great man even to the church, and once a week at table. Here if I am to stand behind Lillian's chair while she plays with her luncheon. He did not condescend to say whether I might eat a bite at the same time or not. A portion of the afternoon will be enough for the mother to have her child. Will it indeed? I wonder who is the better judge of that, you or the mother? Oh, that man! All things considered, Rebecca Meredith certainly needed the help of the church service or of something else. Perhaps it is time for a little explanation as to what the church was to her. When she was a schoolgirl of fifteen, there was a time of special interest in the church to which her parents belonged, and Rebecca, in common with nearly a score of others of about her own age, was received into it as a member. Looking back upon the experience, Rebecca remembered that she had considered it the right and proper thing to do. Of course I am a Christian, she had assured herself. Father and mother are, and they brought me up to be. I read in the Bible every day, and I say my prayers nearly always. As for trying to please Jesus, every decent person does that. I am sure I did write an answering yes to that question. Father is an officer in the church. It would seem strange not to have his daughter join when so many others are doing so. Besides, why should I not? There is nothing to be done because of it that I am afraid of, and I certainly would not like to have Fred Pearson, a member of the church, and me outside. So she had joined. Up to the time of her leaving home she had lived what is fair to call an exemplary Christian life. Christian was lived in her father's house, but not much spoken about. Her father, you will remember, was a very busy man. His life was, so far as he knew how to order it, Christ-like. He certainly went about doing all the good he could. No sick person, however poor, sent for him in vain. Indeed, he went to many who were afraid to send for him, and cared for them as skillfully as though he had believed they could ever pay him in money. No family in need of food or clothing was ever brought to his notice that he did not freely and cheerfully do his share to relieve. All these things were a matter of course. He rarely had time at home, even for family worship. This service had been frequently attempted, but so constantly was father called for in the midst of it that at last the attempt was abandoned, and the blessing asked at table when the busy physician could spend time to eat his meals regularly was the only way in which religion showed itself in words. Oh, sentences like these were always on his lips. We will do thus and so because it is right, or that would be wrong, my boy, so we will not even think of it. But these things were, Rebecca believed, a matter of course, to any upright man. As for her mother, she was a sweet, timid woman, strong to do for others and steadily doing, strong to suffer for others if there had been need, but brought up to hide her tender thoughts of Jesus Christ and her loyal love for him deep in her heart as a thing too sacred to be spoken of. When Rebecca united with the church she had kissed her with very peculiar tenderness and said, No act of yours could have given me greater joy, I knew you would come. But after that, intimate as they were, associated as they were in many kindly offices for the sick and the poor, one as they were in thought on all important subjects, they had not been in the habit of speaking plainly to each other of their love for Christ and their joy in his service. The boys had been different, more outspoken. Rebbe, her brother in India had said to her once, Does your religion make you happy all the time? Make you want to do and be and go for Christ's sake? She had looked at him wonderingly and queried within herself whether all boys were so impulsive and outspoken. No, they were not, for Fred Pearson never said anything of that kind to her. Afterwards she decided, or rather without thinking about it carefully enough to dignify the process with the use of the word decision, she had glided into the belief that it was because Hervey was going to be a missionary that he was different from others, from her for instance. Then when the younger brother developed, less of the impulsive perhaps but even more of the strong outspoken power of Christianity, it was also fully explained by the fact that he went to heaven so soon. Of course, those who were being gotten ready for that country were well different. After Eileen came and the mother went away, Rebbe naturally dropped out of church work of every sort. Up to that time she had been a teacher in the Sabbath School, but never a very happy one. Her scholars were of the class who would not study their lessons, would not be regular in attendance, and one by one were always dropping out, too large to come any more. She was glad to have an excuse for giving up the effort. I was not intended for a teacher, she wrote to Hervey in India, but he had clothed his faraway sister in the garb of all that was sweet and lovely, and believed that she had given up her work in the church only because she was called to service in the home. After Eileen graduated into that higher department, and Rebbe's heart and hands were idle, she might have gone back into Sabbath School, but she shrank from that and from every form of Christian work. Since her coming to the city she had wandered about from church to church, known of nobody spoken to by none, never appearing for two successive Sabbaths in one place so that by chance somebody could get interested in her, and at last, since her coming to Mr. McKenzie's, she had even given up so much Christian habit as that way of living indicates. She had scarcely been to church at all. She attributed this to Mr. McKenzie's remissness, but she knew very well that she had had abundant opportunity to ask him if there was any objection to her going to evening service, and that the housekeeper had said repeatedly, Why, in the name of sense, don't you go to church of an evening? The other nurses always did. There is nothing in life to hinder after Miss Lillian is asleep. Rebbe had made various answers, but she knew deep in her heart that she had lost all desire to go to church. Not that she did not still call herself a Christian, she would have been shocked to have believed otherwise. She still quite often read verses in her Bible, and, when not too much hurried or too weary, dropped on her knees for a moment before lying down for the night. But as for having the sort of religion which makes people happy all the time, as Herve had expressed it, she knew nothing about it, and believed that only missionaries, and those who went early to heaven, and a few, a very few ministers, had any such sort. All things considered it was with very mixed feelings that she made ready on the Sunday morning in question to obey Mr. Mackenzie's orders. Perhaps indignation at the idea of being obliged to submit to orders was predominant. She jerked her gloves on angrily as she thought of it, and even spoke sharply to Lillian, who, in a charming costume of white wool and fur, was fluttering about, happy in the thought of going anywhere. Rebbe's dress was entirely appropriate and becoming. She had gone out from her father's house very well supplied with clothes, and her ability to remake them herself had stood her in good so that now her dress of fine black cloth, made severely plain but with a minute attention to details, became her well. So did the black felt bonnet, with its three stylish plumes which she had herself dressed over. She was all in black as was her custom, not that she had worn mourning for her mother or for I. Lee, her father had not approved of that fashion, but she had chosen, ever since, to have her dresses always black. The color suited her was the only explanation she gave, and so indeed it did. There were embarrassments connected with this church going. Well, of all things! The housekeeper said, when she heard the news, this is a new departure. Lillian going to church? My! I pity you! Why the little mouse won't sit still two minutes at home! But then, to be sure, she minds her father. Most people do. Well, I'm glad you are going to church. It's decent anyhow, and it won't hurt Lillian to begin. But it is kind of uncomfortable to go and sit all alone in the pew with him, isn't it? I might have left my church for one Sunday and gone along if he had asked me. It was evident that the housekeeper felt slightly injured. So did Rebecca. She had answered coldly that she presumed the pew was large enough to hold both Mr. Mackenzie and herself. Then she had been vexed to think that she had allowed herself to say even so much, and had gone out into the hall with heightened color, only to meet the chambermaid who swept her from head to foot with a stare and said, Oh, my, ain't we scrumptious! We'll hold our heads six inches higher to pay for this, and it ain't necessary at all. It is always too high for comfort. Good luck to you! I wouldn't be in your shoes for a ten-dollar gold piece. I am not so fond of his lordship that I'd be willing to go to church with him. It is bad enough to meet him in the hall and be frowned at for something or other that you never did. But the most trying experience had been in Mrs. Mackenzie's room. And you are really going to church with Mr. Mackenzie? My dear, you are a favorite, depend upon it. He never did so much as that even for poor Helen. I do hope it will last, but our mournful experience has been that people who get into his favor in this way suddenly get out after a very little time and leave us, don't they, Lillian? Her answer, the child who did not understand the question, laid her lovely golden-crowned head against Rebekah's hand, and said sweetly, My Reppy, Lillian loves her! Of her own sweet will the child had adopted the pet name which her brother Hervey had on rare occasions called her. It touched Rebekah. She was not used to pet names. Yes, said Mrs. Mackenzie, your Reppy, love her hard Lillian while you can. I hope you may be able to keep hold of her. And Rebekah had gone away with her cheeks burning, and a feeling that this was a hateful world, and the most disagreeable person in it was Mr. Dean Mackenzie. Whether Lillian was odd and to quiet by the unwanted sights and sounds, or whether she was always quiet when with her father, Rebekah did not know. Certain it was that the child sat quite still, with her father's arm around her, and her head resting against him, until, when the service was half over, the eyelids drooped over her sweet blue eyes, and she dropped her head still lower, and was tenderly gathered into his arms, where she slept quietly until the role of the organ awakened her. She is a capital little churchgoer, said Dr. Carter, coming down from the pulpit to greet the leading man in his church. I am afraid my nanny would have climbed over the back of the pew several times before this. Nanny is a sad little tomboy. How do you manage Mr. Mackenzie to have such a bit of ladyhood at this age? Then without waiting for reply, I hope Mrs. Mackenzie is as well as usual today. And this is... He was holding out his hand to Rebekah and looking inquiringly at Mr. Mackenzie. The child's nurse, said that gentleman, and before he could add anything further, if he had so designed, Rebekah spared him the trouble. I am Rebekah Meredith, she said gravely. Ah, thank you! I am glad to see you in church. We hope you and the little lady will become good church people. There is nothing like beginning early, Mr. Mackenzie. I wish your good example might be followed by others of my flock. Then Rebekah got out of the seat and hurried down the aisle and felt that she hated it all and would never come to church again. She would leave Mr. Mackenzie's service at once if this were made a part of her regular duties. He had no right to force her to go to his hateful church and be stared at and patronized by the minister and ignored by the people, for nobody else spoke to Rebekah. As for the sermon, she had not heard it. The text had been enough for her, redeeming the time because the days are evil. Had she then gotten her message straight from the word of God? Nay! She had let it float her on the current of memory back into her past. She was a girl again and Fred Pearson and she were in church together. He had been gone for weeks and was only home on a short vacation. The minister had announced his text, redeeming the time, and Fred had presently secured her hymn-book and written on the fly-leaf, Will you go with me this afternoon for a long tramp? We must redeem the time, you know, I have but a day or two. Then in memory she had taken that tramp over again, the last one as it proved with Fred Pearson. The day had been lovely and Fred had been. But what was the use in going over it? Was it possible that she still mourned for him? She scorned the thought. What she mourned was her lost girlhood and her lost faith in human nature and her mother and her home. Poor Rebecca! CHAPTER IX. VITAL QUESTIONS The weeks which followed were filled with embarrassments and annoyances for Rebecca. To begin with, she hated those Tuesday lunches. It might have been difficult to have explained why, only she felt out of place and uncomfortable. Mr. McKenzie always acknowledged her presence by the gravest of bows, but he addressed no word to her other than was necessary. Be seated, he had said on that first Tuesday. Rebecca, after considering the matter, had resolved to stand behind Lillian's chair and give her exclusive attention. I thought I made it plain that you and Lillian were to lunch together. That is your habit, is it not? Very well, do not alter it. So Rebecca, with burning cheeks, had seated herself beside Lillian, and John had waited on her with a supercilious air and a hateful smile lurking on his face whenever he was out of the range of Mr. McKenzie's eyes. But Lillian and her father had a thoroughly good time. She was bubbling over with delight, and her little tongue prattled continually. She gave fully as much attention to Rebecca as she did to her father. Whether he liked it or not, he gave no outward sign. He indulged her continually, yet deferred to Rebecca as to how she should be served. And when the child begged, despite Rebecca's protest for a certain dainty, he said firmly, Lillian is to obey exactly what her nurse says, which ended the matter. Lillian always obeys her father, the housekeeper had said, and by inference she had implied that she obeyed no one else very well, which was true enough until Rebecca's coming. She, from the very first, had exacted implicit obedience. So when the father uttered his admonition, the child replied gravely, Lillian always does, Rebbe makes her. Of course, said the father, it was his nearest approach to conversation with Rebecca. That young woman chafed much over the prospective Sundays. It still did not seem possible to her to sit in one end of that pew with Lillian and her father at the other and be commented on and pointed out as the child's nurse. I wouldn't do it, said the housekeeper sympathetically. He doesn't own you, body and soul, because you are his little idol's nurse, and it must be awful disagreeable to sit perked up there. You don't look as though you had been used to it. How come you to go out to service anyway? Seeing that she was not answered, she continued, Folks will talk about the silliest things. They talked just awful about Helen Harvey, and she never went to church with him in the world. Young women has got to take care of their character. I'd be willing to go to his church, I suppose, if there was any need. He ought to think how things look. What utter nonsense! exclaimed Rebecca impatiently, goaded to speak, though she had resolved against it. What in the world could people find to talk about in the fact that a man takes his own child to church with him and directs her nurse to be at hand in case the child wearies him? If your friends can make capital out of such a common place as that, they are welcome to do so. Oh, well now! said Mrs. Barnett, drying herself up in all the dignity of her eleven years of housekeeping for the Mackenzie's. There is no need to go off like a Lucifer match. You don't look like no child's nurse, now that's a fact, and I suppose you know it. Whether you believe it or not, folks will talk. They can make stories out of smaller things than this, and they ain't no friends of mine, neither that do it. My friends are as respectable as any of yours, and I don't see any call on your part to fling out at a respectable woman in this way, just because she thought it best to give you a friendly warning. If you like the talk, why go ahead? There'll be nobody harmed but yourself. Then Rebecca went away humiliated. Why could she not have received the honest woman's well-intentioned word, and had her for a friend instead of making her into an enemy? What was the matter with her in these days? She had not been wont to be so sensitive and disagreeable, but she went to church no more. Whether the housekeeper went to headquarters with her friendly hint, and was better received, or whatever was the reason, Mr. McKenzie said to her the next Sabbath morning, when he waited in the hall for that purpose. By the way, Rebecca, you need not accompany Lillian to church unless you choose. I shall want her ready to go with me at the proper time, but I find that she is entirely satisfied with my company and makes no trouble. So if you prefer some other church, or prefer not to go out, you are at liberty to make your choice. To this Rebecca had bowed and passed on. She was relieved, and angry. What right had he to dismiss her in this way from the church service? That at least is not his property, she said to herself in bitter indignation, but perhaps it is. He has money enough, I suppose, to control the church and the pastor and everything. He need not think I choose to sit even in the same church with him to say nothing of the same pew. I hope I shall never darken its doors again. I think I will go nowhere. Perhaps I do not half believe in church any more. Mrs. McKenzie will be thankful for my company if only to relieve her from the surveillance of Mrs. Paine for a while. I am wanted there at least. So she stayed at home and nursed her wounded pride, and Lillian went gleefully away with her father, albeit she looked back regretfully to say, Lillian wants her Rebbe too. She was very sweet. Rebecca could not persuade herself to seek work elsewhere and leave the loving little creature. Moreover, Mrs. McKenzie wanted her, in proportion as her dislike for the husband increased, she gave loving ministry to the one whom she now unhesitatingly, in her thoughts, called the neglected wife. Meantime, Dr. Carter did not entirely forget his new acquaintance. Rebecca waited one afternoon in the library for the coming of its owner, her instructions being to bring Lillian every day at this hour for a visit with her father, but on no account to leave her until he arrived. These were Rebecca's pleasantest moments in the day, for her employer was often late, and while Lillian frisked about the room she could get snatches at rare and beautiful books. She was not therefore prepared to be pleased with any sort of interruption, and looked her annoyance more than she was aware when Dr. Carter was admitted. I was to wait here for Mr. McKenzie, he explained, then recognizing her, ah, this is—and he hesitated. Rebecca Meredith, she explained once more, yes, I remember, I am glad to see you again, I have missed you from the church. Rebecca only half believed this and did not consider a reply necessary, but he continued, I do not think you have been there since that first Sabbath I saw you, perhaps you were only a visitor and worship regularly elsewhere? Most earnestly did Rebecca wish she could say that such was the case, but he waited for an answer, and the disagreeable truth must be spoken. I have not been to church since that morning. Indeed, do your duties here hold you on the Sabbath day? What was it to him whether they did or not? Her reply was a brief, dignified, no. Then my friend, may we not hope to see you at our church? We shall be very glad to welcome you and make you feel at home. Rebecca doubted it, but had the grace to say, thank you, albeit she did not accept the invitation. Dr. Carter apparently noticed this, evidently he was not through with her. She glanced nervously toward the door, and for the first time in her life wished for the coming of Mr. McKenzie. She did not understand why she should shrink from being catacysed by this man. He was certainly kind, but either she imagined it or there was in his manner an air of patronage such as he would not have used to a woman whom he considered as on the same social level with himself. He was regarding her earnestly, and presently said, I hope you are a Christian? She felt her face grow red under his gaze. The question was very disagreeable to her. She felt the most unaccountable aversion to answering it. He waited, and there was an embarrassing silence. At last she said, with increasing coldness if that were possible, I am a member of the church. Then may I ask you, is religion a vital thing with you? Does it make your life happy? Now indeed she knew that her cheeks fairly blazed, the very question which her brother Hervey had once asked, and its memory had been so vivid that she had often in the intervening years found herself repeating the words, sometimes wistfully. But what right had this stranger to ask her such a thing? As if he saw her thought, he added after a moment, I beg your pardon for the question, if it seems abrupt to you, but I had a reason for asking it. A religion which fills the soul and radiates in the life is sadly needed in this home, and I wondered if you were not wanted of God to do a work here which no one else seems able to do. The head of this house needs to be helped to understand what a source of strength there is in Jesus Christ. The head of the house. If he had not added those words, Rebecca might have been touched. She had thought instantly of the poor wife upstairs, and had felt her heart warm with the thought that possibly God wanted her here to comfort her. But Mr. McKenzie was another matter. She decided not to understand the remark. I should be certainly glad to be a help and comfort to poor Mrs. McKenzie. She said, letting a little touch of feeling into her voice. Ah, that indeed! She needs help, but I confess I was thinking of the husband. Now, despite her having been brought up a lady, Rebecca's lip unmistakably curled. I can almost imagine his fine scorn at the idea of needing anything which poor human nature could give. She said, it is even difficult to conceive of him as willing to receive from the Lord himself. Directly the words were out of her mouth. She realized they're exceeding impropriety, especially when one remembered the relation she sustained toward the man of whom she was speaking. What had happened to her that she seemed to be losing her power of self-control? What would this minister think of her? If he would only take up a book and let her alone. But he was regarding her steadily, somewhat sorrowfully, perhaps as one disappointed. And yet, he said, with exceeding gravity, there is no one in all the list of my acquaintances who I think needs the divine upholding arm more than Mr. McKenzie. He has heavy burdens to bear, if he could come into daily contact with one whose life would help him simply by its daily exhibition of the power of the indwelling spirit, I should be glad beyond measure. He is a good man, said Rebecca to herself, and thinking of Dr. Carter. A good, weak man. He realizes how far from Christian living this rich sheep of his flock is, and he would like to have somebody drive him inside the fold. He would not like to do it, lest the sheep should take offense, and his own pasture would suffer thereby. But a little shepherd-cur like myself might be made useful, perhaps, if he only knew how to set me at work. I don't believe it. I should have to respect a man more than I do his honor before I could be helpful to him if I were ever so good myself. Allowed, she said, with sudden resolution to speak plainly, in the hope that this good, dull man's eyes might be opened in another direction. It is impossible to avoid thinking that Mrs. Mackenzie's influence might be very helpful to her husband, if he would give her opportunity to exercise it. Is she not a member of your church, Dr. Carter? He shook his head. No, she never brought a letter to my church. I do not know her very well. I called upon her once, but she has not cared to see me again, and as I am not her pastor I cannot intrude. He sighed as he spoke, and walked toward a window, looking sad and disappointed. And Rebecca went to rescue a book from Lillian's hand, feeling vexed at both Dr. Carter and herself. What had she accomplished? And what had he? We are both bunglers. She told herself impatiently. He wants me to influence Mr. Mackenzie by my angelic life to become a different man, and I want him to influence Mr. Mackenzie to treat his wife decently, and we can neither of us do the work we are called upon to do. I wish I had held my tongue. He does not understand what I meant. I am not surprised that Mrs. Mackenzie does not care to receive his calls. He is good and stupid. Then Mr. Mackenzie came, and she was free to leave her charge, for he took the child in his arms and went forward with her to meet his pastor. His greeting was very cordial. They were evidently on most friendly terms. But though Rebecca was released from his presence, she could not so easily dismiss Dr. Carter's questions from her thoughts. It was vain for her to say that it was no concern of his whether or not her religion made her happy. There was no getting away from the thought that it ought to concern herself. The minister had asked the question, not because of any interest he had in her, but because he wanted to set her at work for others. Well, ought she not to be at work? She had always despised drones in any line. What was her religion worth to her or anybody else? She had assured herself that she was needed in this house for Mrs. Mackenzie's sake. Could she help her in this higher department of her being? Was the pale, frail lady ready to take the awful journey which she should surely have to air long? She has failed since I have been here, thought the suddenly conscious stricken girl. I do not think it possible that she can be here very long, and I have never said a word to her about the other world nor her plans in view of it. Yet she likes to have me with her, and talks to me more freely apparently than to anybody else. If I only knew how, I might help her in this direction. That is, if she needs help, perhaps she is quite at rest. But some way I do not think so. I wonder if anybody is. Why, yes, I know they are. I can never forget my own dear mother, nor my beautiful young brother. How happy they were to go! It does not seem to me as though Mrs. Mackenzie could die as either of them did. Oh, me! I wish I were out of this house. I cannot help her if she needs help in this. And there is no one to do it. I wonder why she never took her letter to Dr. Carter's church, and her husband, it seems, does not even pretend to be a Christian. At least I am glad of that. At this point I pause over my work, and wonder what you by this time think of Rebecca. In order to be strictly truthful concerning her, I am aware that I have placed her before you in anything but a flattering light. She is evidently proud-spirited, sensorious, suspicious, and unhappy. The victim of an accusing conscience, yet one who is blindly shutting her eyes to the steps which she might take to set herself at peace with her conscience. But despite it all, I admire and love Rebecca Meredith. I insist that there are admirable and lovable qualities in her make-up, and that also she is a typical young woman, representing the unrest which gnaws at many hearts, and yet with more independence of character than many young women possess. What she shall become under the molding process of life remains to be seen. CHAPTER X The holiday season passed, and the wild March days were upon them, without any material changes having come to the house at twelve hundred carol place. Mrs. McKenzie still continued to live her life of steadily increasing invalidism, albeit she had days when she neither looked nor acted like an invalid. On these occasions she presided at the head of her table, received guests, and paid visits. Then suddenly would come upon her one of her poor turns, and for days together she would see no one save the ever-present Mrs. Payne. A circumstance which steadily deepened Rebecca Meredith's indignation was the fact that at these times Mr. McKenzie saw extremely little of his wife. Rebecca had been accustomed to seeing her father, overburdened physician though he was, forget his own comfort entirely in cases of illness, and devote every leisure moment to his suffering wife or children. But Mr. McKenzie apparently ate and slept, and went and came, quite as usual, sometimes contenting himself with an inquiry as to his wife's state without seeing her at all. Rebecca would note that after each of these attacks the poor lady was paler, weaker, and less interested in life than before, but she doubted if the husband saw anything of the kind. The Tuesday lunches continued to be eaten in Mr. McKenzie's presence, with more or less regularity. He was frequently obliged to be absent. He was often late, but he evidently made an earnest effort to be home at the appointed time, made more effort to accomplish this, which to Rebecca was a most trivial thing, than he did to spend an hour with his wife. Neither did the girl's respect for Mrs. Payne increase as the days passed. That good woman did not hesitate to issue her orders with a peremptoriness which amounted at times to sharpness. Don't go in there, she said, with decided emphasis to Rebecca, who stood one evening knocking at her mistress's door. She was coming upstairs with a cup in her hand, and she quickened her steps as if afraid that her order would not be heeded. Rebecca turned toward her with indignant astonishment. Of course not, she said haughtily, unless I am invited to do so, I knocked, Mrs. Payne, and have no intention of forcing an entrance. Nancy told me this morning that Mrs. Mackenzie would like to see me when I could make it convenient. Nancy doesn't know anything about it. She cannot attend to her own business much less to other peoples. Mrs. Mackenzie is much too badly off tonight to see you or anybody else. Whereupon she gently but firmly pushed past Rebecca and let herself in, closing the door after her as quickly as possible. Of course the one thus unceremoniously shut out was angry. If she had respected the husband she would have gone to him with the suspicion that he was deceived in his wife's nurse, and the belief that the wife was suffering at her hands. As it was she felt impotent, and chafed under it, and nursed her indignation from hour to hour. Into the comparative monotony of her life came one day a startling break. It was Tuesday and lunchtime. Mr. Mackenzie had not yet arrived, and as his orders were peremptory that Lillian should not be kept waiting for him, John was in the act of serving her and her nurse when his voice was heard in the hall. Suddenly he entered the dining-room, accompanied by a gentleman. Rebecca, as she raised her eyes for a moment, and dropped them as suddenly, felt every nerve in her body quiver. For although she had not seen him in years, she recognized on the instant her old acquaintance, Fred Pearson. And the last time she saw him she had supposed herself to be his intended wife. In that moment there had been an exchange of glances, and by the curious intuition which belongs to times of great excitement, Rebecca knew that the man recognized her. "'Be seated, Mr. Pearson,' said his host. John, another cover here. I try to lunch with my little daughter on this day of the week, Mr. Pearson. It is the only day in which I can reach home for luncheon. Truth to tell, I am often enough deprived of the privilege of even that, but I make it when I can. This is my only little girl. How is my darling today? Speak to the gentleman, dear.' For the darling, regardless of the stranger or of her waiting lunch, had sprung for her father's arms, and was being folded in them while he talked. "'You have children of your own, have you not, Pearson?' his host continued. "'No,' the gentleman explained. He had had but one, and she died within a few weeks of her mother. Yes, they had both died abroad, and he had not been home since until a few weeks ago. After he was left alone, he had traveled, partly on business, and partly for rest and recreation, and felt almost like a stranger in his native land. So her friend, Carrie Stewart, was dead, and she had had a little girl who had followed her soon. Her old friend, Carrie. Rebecca listened like one in a dream, and in truth her sensibilities seemed to be dreaming. How strange it must be to be dead! And being dead, did she know that her husband sat at this table opposite to Rebecca Meredith, and looked at her with keen questioning eyes, as Rebecca, without again raising her own, felt that he did. Carrie Stewart, who had asked her that question, are you and Mr. Pearson engaged, and received the answer, I suppose we are? Then she had gone away and been married to him within the year, and the two had never exchanged word or note since that day. What did she think about it now? All this time Rebecca was outwardly interested, only in Lillian, giving her as patient care as usual, and Lillian's many whims required much care. Why a perverse spirit should have gotten hold of the child on this particular day will not be known, whether she unconsciously resented the presence of her father's guest, and was jealous of the attention bestowed upon him, or whatever was the cause, the usually well-behaved little girl interrupted conversation, and not only asked, but clamored, for the very things which she was not to have. In vain her father, to whom she addressed all her petitions, gently refused, and directed quiet. She became more emphatic in her demands, tossed her little hands, and even kicked her feet in a way which was anything but angelic. It was not until Rebecca interposed with a low-toned but very distinct Lillian, that the child paused as though astonished at herself, and returned for a few minutes to ordinary behavior. She fancied that the father's face flushed, but whether with annoyance at the child or at her, for daring to show her superior authority, Rebecca could not be sure. Indeed, she was surprised that her appeal to Lillian had had any weight, for never before had the little girl presumed to act contrary to her father's slightest hint, so that Rebellion was all that could have been expected of her. But the habit of obeying Rebecca had become so strong that it asserted itself and order was restored, not, however, till last. Just as they were toying over their fruits, and Rebecca was meditating whether she should ask if she might retire with her charge, it suited Lillian to reach forward a naughty hand and demand another orange. No, said Mr. McKenzie gently. Lillian must not have another orange today. She has eaten fruit enough. Yes, said Lillian perversely. Lillian must, Lillian will. My child, said Mr. McKenzie in genuine astonishment, take your hand away from the fruit dish at once, and tell Papa you are sorry for speaking such a naughty word. But the child, instead, burst into a loud, angry scream, and kicked her feet against the table with such force as to endanger her own chair. Rebecca, said Mr. McKenzie, his face growing pale, but losing not one would of his perfect self-control, be so good as to take Lillian to her room. I will see her before I go out again. So Rebecca bore the disgraced baby away, she resisting with all her might and letting her piercing shrieks resound through the hall to such purpose that the door of Mrs. McKenzie's room opened, and Mrs. Payne's distressed face appeared. What on earth is the matter? She asked. Her mother thinks the child is being killed. She had just dropped asleep after an awful hour. I am sorry, said Rebecca, nearly breathless. I cannot think what is the matter with Lillian. Her father had to send her from the table. Her father! screamed Mrs. McKenzie. Did she disobey him? Oh, my poor, poor baby! He will kill her! Bring her to me! Bring her this instant, I say. I will have her! Mrs. Payne, with a look of alarm, suddenly retreated, closing the door after her, leaving Rebecca so much startled over this new development as to forget for the moment her own embarrassment. Had Mr. McKenzie then, despite his apparent self-control, an ungovernable temper, which he wreaked on any person who dared to disobey him, what else could such an outburst from the sick mother mean? No other explanation could be given to a cry so bitter evidently wrung from her heart. Oh, he will kill her! Perhaps she knew too well, through her boy Carol's experience, how hard he could be where his imperious will was thwarted. As she struggled up to the next landing with her rebellious charge, Rebecca resolved to protect Lillian even at the risk of offending her employer. If she could but get the child out of the house for her afternoon walk before he came upstairs. Acting upon this thought, she moved about the rooms in breathless haste, while Lillian, her momentary passion having spent itself, looked uninterestedly. The little one was evidently so completely a baby still that she did not apprehend dire consequences to follow her naughtiness. Lillian going to WIDE? She asked in her usual animated voice. No, Lillian is going to walk with Rebbe. Come here and let me put on a fresh dress, then we will go right away for a long walk. PAPA TOO? Asked Lillian serenely, as she came at once and submitted with lamb-like meekness to the process of robing, which she hated. Oh, indeed! Rebecca answered with energy. PAPA is not going. We are going to run away alone, you and I. Lillian wants PAPA, too, said the child, with grieved lip. She was accustomed to a half-hour with him immediately after those lunches which she enjoyed and her nurse despised. Poor baby! said Rebecca, her heart swelling. You wouldn't want him if— She left her sentence unfinished, even in her unreasoning fear remembering that she was speaking of the child's father, and must guard her words with care. There was no time for more words. Mr. Mackenzie's voice was heard in the hall giving a direction to Nancy. Then he knocked at the nursery door. A wild impulse to seize Lillian and escape came to Rebecca, but her judgment assured her of the folly of this, so she contented herself with seating the little girl in the great easy-chair and bidding her somewhat sharply to sit quite still until she told her to come. Then she went forward and opened the door. Give me Lillian, if you please. Mr. Mackenzie said in his usual tone, I will take her with me to the library for a few moments, and ring when I am through with her. Come, Lillian. The child sat perfectly still, and Rebecca spoke with nervous eagerness. I have her nearly ready to walk. She is too warmly dressed for the house, and I promised I would take her out at once. She can go in a very few moments. I will not detain you long. Did you not understand me to say that I would see her before I went out? Come, Lillian. Rebbe said not stir, explained the child, who evidently meant to be very good, perhaps to atone for her recent unusual exhibition, but she added, with marked emphasis, Lillian wants to. Mr. Mackenzie went forward with a quick step, and lifted the little one in his arms. Then turning to Rebecca, he said, with all his ordinary courtesy, but with great firmness, I desire my daughter to obey you in all things, and have so counseled her, but I shall have to ask you to keep steadily before her the fact that her father's will is always first. Then apparently for the first time, noticing the peculiar mingling of indignation and alarm on the nurse's face, he added, in a tone of surprise, what is the matter? She is only a baby, said Rebecca, in intense excitement, which she tried in vain not to show. So entirely a baby that she has already forgotten that she was naughty. I will see that such an annoyance does not occur again if you will leave her to me. His only reply was the grave question. Is it possible, Rebecca, that you are afraid to trust the baby with her father? Then he went away with the child in his arms. Left to herself, Rebecca tramped up and down the room, like a caged lioness robbed of her young. The girl's favorite imagination had by this time planned a series of horrible experiences for her darling. It was not that she actually feared what could be called cruelty at the father's hand, but what did a strong, cold man know about correcting a little child? Had not the mother's outcry shown but too plainly what she thought of his wisdom in this direction? Why did he not attend to his business and leave Lily into her, who knew how to deal with her and who never had any trouble? If he had let her alone at table, the angry nurse told herself, I could have controlled her in a moment, but his important self must be considered before all other interests. He is so afraid that somebody or something will come before his great awful will that I am even ordered to keep it always first. I shall do as I please. Having reached this point, it occurred to her that it would be well for her to go within hearing of the library bell. The back parlor was the place where she often waited for her charge, and thither she betook herself, the immediate excitement of the hour having made her forget for the time being that there was probably a guest in the house. The instant she set foot in the parlor she regretted her heedlessness, for there, standing near the piano, in the precise attitude in which he had waited for her a hundred times in her father's house, was Fred Pearson. He was looking toward the door in a listening attitude, quite as though he had heard and recognized her footsteps, and this too was natural. She stepped toward the hall the moment she saw him, but it was too late. He advanced swiftly, and, if she did not wish to let the chamber maid, who seemed always within hearing, be a witness to what he had to say, she must step back again. Not in time, however, for the chamber maid heard his first word. Rebecca, for heaven's sake, what does this mean? CHAPTER XI. What right had Fred Pearson to address her in that manner? Had he not forfeited the right to address her at all? She chose to misunderstand him. She would answer him in the capacity of nurse for Mr. MacKenzie's child. It was a mere freak of babyhood, sir, she said. Nothing which need cause you or her father a moment's anxiety. All children have their perverse moments. She has fewer of them than most. I am waiting for her now, but I will not interrupt you." And she turned to leave the room. He made a gesture of impatience, one which had always belonged to him, and came nearer. Rebecca, what on earth do I care for the crying of a child? You know I do not mean that. You must know that I have entirely different subjects to talk with you about. I came here in search of you for the sole purpose of talking to you about matters vital to us both. I came directly from your father's house, and was directed here. I found that MacKenzie was an old business acquaintance, and when he invited me to lunch I thought to take you unawares and judge for myself what changes the years had brought. But I did not, and do not understand. Your father said you were boarding here, I thought they were friends, and you were studying music or art or something. I asked no questions, preferring to hear of the past from you, but even in her anxiety and annoyance Rebecca could not help smiling. You had not expected the past to bring such changes, I understand, but you see it has. I am here in the capacity of child's nurse, doing honest work and getting honest wages. I believed it to be far better than to burden my father with the care of me. That is all of my story which could interest you, Mr. Pearson, and as you are Mr. MacKenzie's guest and I his hired servant, unless there is something I can do for your comfort you will, of course, excuse me. But he held out a detaining hand. Rebecca, you will drive me wild! Am I to blame for not understanding what necessities may have been upon you? I found your father's home just as usual, and I confess to being astonished and bewildered. But you do not believe me when I say that I came in search of you? I have been away from the country for years. I have known nothing about my friends, but I have not forgotten. Is it possible that you can have forgotten the past? We were friends once. Yes, she said almost mechanically. His voice sounded so natural, his very impetuosity was as it used to be. She seemed carried back years and years. Yes, we were friends once, that is true, but the years have brought changes. Some friendships never change. Mine do not. Oh, Rebecca, what do you think it is to me to be met in this way? I have missed you so sorely. I have longed for you so. I have looked forward hungrily to this hour. There was actual reproach in his voice. She roused herself to cold dignity. Mr. Pearson, you quite forget. The changes which years have brought cannot be bridged over by a single sentence. I am Rebecca Meredith, nurse-girl, not in any society and not meaning to be, and nothing whatever to you. I shall have to ask you to let me go to my work." He sprang forward. I will not, he said angrily. You shall listen to me. Have I waited all these terrible months for this? Rebecca, I tell you I must see you. You are angry with me because of what has passed. I expected that. But there are things you do not know. I can explain. She interrupted his eager words speaking with cold dignity. You are mistaken. There is nothing for you to explain, and I do not care to go over any past. There is no need. Mr. Pearson, I have duties to attend to. You must allow me to pass. Rebecca, this is too absurd. You are Pearson to me. Were we not promised to each other for years? What do you mean by allowing me no chance to explain? Are you so cold and cruel as that? I tell you, you know nothing about it. I became involved in money difficulties. I was not to blame, but I was terribly unfortunate, and there was—well, I suppose it was carelessness upon my part, which would have made it hard for me to have succeeded in a business way had it become known. Mr. Stewart found out all about it. And he was a hard man and would have been hard with me but for one thing. His daughter interceded, smoothed everything over, and got me offered a partnership in the business. But it was offered on the mistaken supposition that I was interested in her. Do you not understand, and do you not see how shut up I was to one line of action? What it was to me to act it out I will not try to tell you. I would not, said Rebecca, in dignation getting the better of her dignity. So you married your wife to save yourself from a business embarrassment or from being blamed, and you consider this an explanation to offer me? Verily the years have changed you or else I was always deceived. He was regarding her earnestly, and now he spoke with a sudden change of tone, the old tender tone which she remembered. Rebecca, I am a wealthy man and a lonely one. The years have left me desolate indeed. For the past few months I have lived for the thought of seeing you again. I have everything to offer you now, with no fear of business complications coming in between us. I will never ask any questions about your peculiar position here, but I will take you from it the moment you give me leave and place you where you belong, at the head of society. I had not meant to tell you this under such circumstances, but I cannot seem to make you understand. You may call it weakness, or what you will, but my heart has always been true to you, and— She interrupted him again. I call it insult. She said, her eyes blazing. It is you who do not understand. My position here is one which you may report to all the world if it pleases you to do so. I am the hired servant of Mr. McKenzie, and my business here is to care for his child. You seem to desire me to understand that you bought one wife for business reasons. You may be able to buy another I do not know, but certainly I can assure you that I am not for sale, not even for the sake of being placed at the head of society. Could I for a moment think of professing to respect you even? And now, Mr. Pearson, I shall insist upon going to my work. There was no time to reply. The library bell had not rung, but at that moment Mr. McKenzie appeared at the door, leading his little daughter by the hand. He looked from his child's nurse to his guest with the slightest possible uplift of eyebrows, but he spoke in his usual tone. Lillian is ready for her walk now, Rebecca. You will not take her far as the air is too cold. Perhaps a drive afterward will atone for the shortness of the walk. I did not ring because I recognized your voice and decided to bring Lillian to you. As she escaped upstairs with her charge, Mr. Pearson, having not yet recovered his ordinary manner, said eagerly, Miss Meredith is an old friend of mine. It was an utter astonishment to me to meet her here in this way. Indeed, said Mr. McKenzie, I did not observe that you recognized her in the dining-room. I did not. I was utterly dumbfounded, and I knew not how to act. Do you know who she is? Only that she is my daughter's nurse and a very faithful and reliable one. Nurse, why man alive! I tell you she is in a false position. She is a lady, educated, refined, everything that— Excuse me, said his host in the coldest tone. Let me explain to you that I did not seek the young woman. She sought the position and fills it well. She is not required in my house to do anything disreputable in any way. Now shall we look over those papers before we go out? As for Rebecca, she felt as though the blood was almost forcing itself through her cheeks. She felt insulted, humiliated, disgraced. How did that man dare to stand before her and try to buy her back to society, and offered to say nothing about the position in which he had found her? As though the position were in itself degrading. How did he dare talk about having been true to her all these years when he had been the husband of another woman? For the first time in her life a feeling of pity for Carrie Stewart, the dead wife to whom he had been always, it seems, untrue, stole into her heart. And he insults me by thinking that what he has to say is an excuse for the way in which he treated me. What an unutterable fool he must think me! It is the first time in my life that I have been insulted. There was another thing which caused the angry girl to bite her lips in pain and shame. What must Mr. McKenzie have thought to have recognized the voice of his nurse in conversation with his guest and to have found them standing as they were in evident excitement? It was of no use for her to tell herself that she did not care what he thought. She knew it was not true. Her good name had always been dear to her and had been shielded as a matter of course from any suspicion of gossip. Now how would it be? Leaving the master of the house out of the question, how much had that ever-present chamber made her? And what could she make of the words? Altogether Rebecca Meredith felt as though the cruelties of life had shut down hard about her. "'Lillian is good!' said that little maiden very gravely. There was not a trace of tears upon her baby face. There had certainly been no outcry from the library. Preoccupied as she was, Rebecca felt sure that she would have heard the baby voice. There had been nothing which had ruffled her childlike calm, but there was a curious little accession of dignity about the baby which enveloped her sweetly and made her face look almost angelic as she repeated, apparently in an effort to soothe her nurse, "'Lillian is good!' "'Are you indeed?' said Rebecca, nearly smothering her with kisses. "'I am glad. I am glad that there's a single good person in this great, hateful world.' "'Papa is good too!' said Lilian. "'Oh, is he?' There was a touch of vindictiveness in this answer. "'Yes,' said the child, with that quiet air of assurance which some children have, that effectually cuts off all debate and marks a foregone conclusion. "'And Lilian is never going to squeal any more at luncheon because it hurts Papa.' In addition to all these outward irritations, Rebecca was, during these days, having an inward experience which she neither understood nor relished. Certain words which Dr. Carter had spoken to her during that conversation in the library, together with certain sentences in her brother Hervey's letters, had stirred within her a sense of unrest and dissatisfaction. She had always prided herself upon her sincerity. Yet, as she thought of herself as a church member, she confessed to her heart that her lip would curl in scorn over any other church member who lived the inconsistent life which she did. She knew she did nothing in the world to prove her avowed belief that Christ and his cause were of first importance. She did not even attend church. "'You do not even read the Bible nor pray,' said her awakened conscience to her distinctly one evening when she was revolving these thoughts. And when she indignantly denied the charge, the fairly well-educated conscience pressed it. "'No, you don't. It is folly for you to call that dash through a chapter which you occasionally give, reading the Bible. And that form of words which you hurry over when you are half asleep, or thinking of something else, it is a disgrace to call prayer. Honestly now, when did you look into the Bible with a view of finding even so much as a verse there for you to order your life by? Or when did you rise from your knees with a feeling that you had been communing with the Lord Jesus Christ, and were thereby stronger for the service which you meant to render him? You call Fred Pearson a hypocrite and a deceiver, and scorn him in your heart. Do you treat the Lord himself any better on the whole than Fred Pearson has treated you?' Plain words these to the honest woman who had, without distinctly realizing it, gloried in her thorough honesty of purpose and action. She winced before their truth and was miserable. Gradually there grew up within her heart a half-defined purpose to have a new order of things. Religion was certainly a great deal more to some people than it was to her, and certainly she needed its help if help could be given. She was isolated enough from society, or for that matter from the world in any shape, to claim all that religion could do for her. Not Herve in India had given up more than she had. You will note that she entirely ignored the tremendous fact that Herve had given up home and all its privileges for Christ's sake, and she had done so in order to get away from that which was disagreeable to her. True, she told herself that she was helping her father by earning her own living, but every one of his few letters emphasized the fact that he missed her and would like to have her at home. Still she quieted her questionings in this direction by dwelling on the thought that Mrs. Meredith was all the home he needed, else why had he sought her and brought her there? But for herself she had nothing, and every day she felt the need for something more than her life held. So she sought for it diligently. She read many chapters of the Bible each day, she spent a much longer time on her knees than she had done in years. She went occasionally to church, not to Dr. Carter's, even the hope of finding rest for her tired soul would not have taken her there again. She chose one equally grand, not on account of its grandeur, but because it was on the same well-lighted square, and she was not afraid to go to it alone. But the service was as cold as the marble of which the church was built, so Rebecca's cold heart found no fire there. Neither did she discover that the Bible reading helped her in the least. Three chapters, five chapters, even one day ten chapters, some of them long, produced no result. As for the praying, she found it simply impossible to keep her thoughts for ten consecutive seconds on the words she was saying, when she awakened to the fact that all her efforts were doing her no good, but that she rather grew worse, something very like indignation took possession of her mind. What did people mean by saying that the consolations of religion were sufficient to all human needs? She had heard the phrase hundreds of times. What consolation had she ever found in religion? When one came squarely down to the question, what had she found in it which she could honestly say to poor Mrs. McKenzie was sufficient to fill her starved heart and make up for the absent son and indifferent husband, and give her hope and rest in view of the coffin and the grave which were coming nearer to her with every passing day? Rebecca was honest with herself. She knew that while a vague desire to be helpful to Mrs. McKenzie had been the chief motive power which had led her in quest of a different religious experience, she shrank more than ever from trying to turn that lady's thoughts in any such direction because she had nothing to offer. More than one letter she commenced to Hervey, in the hope of winning from him some explanation that she could understand. But she tore them all up before they reached completion. When she laid bare her in most thought concerning this matter, it sounded so utterly unlike the language which people were wont to use in such connection that she felt it would simply shock her brother. Occasionally she had moods in which she would resolve to give up every semblance of a religious life, to cut herself loose from church and Bible and all pertaining to it, and center her heart on Lillian who grew hourly dearer to her. But there were obstacles in the way in this decision. In the first place it was not an easy thing for a girl religiously educated as she had been, with a brother in India and a mother and brother in Heaven, to say nothing of the little Ily who had gone there to wait for her, to cut loose from all her moorings and drift. She shivered when she quietly thought of such a thing, and discovered that she wanted to hold on to even the painted badge labeled religion which was all she had. Moreover her face darkened when she looked at Lillian and thought of the fading mother, and thought of the second mother who would without doubt be set up in the home, and then Lillian would be rested from her. Turn which way she would, life was a dreariness. All this you are to understand was kept to her most secret self. Outwardly, Rebecca Meredith was a quiet, self-sustained woman who would not impress anybody as having a hungry heart. I wonder how many of the women and men we meet in society, wearing a composed, even a satisfied surface, are really slowly starving. March had spent itself, and it was on one of those balmy April days which are the forerunners of Real Spring that the next experience of a startling character came to Rebecca. During the weeks which had intervened since her encounter with Mr. Pearson, she had held herself carefully from any place where she would be likely to meet him. Twice she had sent downward by Rogers, who had brought her a special message that she was not to be seen. She had returned a long, closely written letter in which Mr. Pearson had repeated in detail the story which he had told her in those few excited sentences in the parlor, with these words written on the margin. I have read this, if it hurts you to have me say what is simple truth I am sorry, but it must be said. Your statement only intensifies the fact that I have lost a friend and can never find him. Of course I am sorry, for I had not many friends, but when one loses respect for a person all is lost. Rebecca Meredith As for Mr. McKenzie, he neither by word nor sign indicated that he remembered to have surprised his guest and servant talking together in the parlor. There had been a little episode about which she knew nothing. Mrs. Barnett, the housekeeper, had come to him with an important and distressed face and these words on her lips. I don't know whether it's my business, sir, but I think maybe you ought to know that there have been some queer goings on with Rebecca. Mr. McKenzie had wheeled abruptly from the pile of papers he was overturning and addressed her anxiously. What is it, Mrs. Barnett? Has anything happened to Lillian? Oh, no! said the housekeeper, a trifle flurried. Miss Lillian is all right, sir, but Rebecca, Nancy saw her in the parlor talking with that strange gentleman you brought to lunch and being excited like and some queer words passed between them when one considers who she is. Oh, is that all? Mr. McKenzie had said and turned back to his papers. Then, seeing that she waited, expectant, he had added, it is of no consequence, Mrs. Barnett, if my guest was a gentleman it is to be hoped that he knew how to treat a woman no matter where he found her, and if Rebecca had anything to say to him she would naturally go to the parlor to say it. You and I have nothing whatever to do with the matter. As for Nancy, advise her not to stand about the halls listening to conversations not intended for her ears. Then he had absorbed himself entirely with those papers, and Mrs. Barnett had understood that she was dismissed, and had trotted away muttering that Rebecca might meet the President of the United States in the parlor and run away with him after this for all she would interfere. Perhaps the day had something to do with the unusually nervous and perverse spirit which had Rebecca in possession. Those first spring days were full of vague memories connected with girlhood and free-heartedness and mother and hervy. She and hervy used to be fond of taking long walks in search of the very first spring flowers or of any green and pretty thing which would hint of the coming summer. She could seem to smell the very breath of the woods as they were in those young days, and feel the breath of the soft spring wind. She was very happy in those days, never lonely at all. The thought of them made her restless, helped her to feel that she was at odds with life. In short, she was all ready to be rasped, and she found something early in the morning to rasp her. She, too, overheard a conversation, not that she was, like Nancy, standing about in the halls waiting for it. She had gone to Mrs. McKenzie's room in response to a summons from that lady, and a moment afterwards Mr. McKenzie had knocked. There is Dean, said his wife hastily, and I am not ready for company. Never mind, Rebecca, step into my dressing room. Mr. McKenzie will not be here but a moment. He never is. Rebecca had obeyed orders, and was out of sight before the lady invited her husband to enter. Then, apparently, the girl in the dressing room had been forgotten. At first their conversation was carried on in low tones, and Rebecca, absorbed in her own thoughts, gave no heed. But suddenly Mrs. McKenzie's voice rose in earnest pleading. Oh, Dean, I beg of you, let me do it. I have not asked you in a long time. Now I entreat you. If I were able, I would go on my knees to you and implore it." Then her husband's voice cold and stern. Cornelia, this is nonsense. I shall have to avoid coming in here at all, if I am to be besieged in this way. You know only too well that I cannot do anything of the kind. You must not ask me again. Then came a low wail, almost like that of a wounded animal. Oh, Dean, Dean, to think that you, who are so kind to others, can be so cruel to me. And I am your wife, the mother of your children. And I have tried so hard to please you. Dean, you used to love me once. Let me beg you by the love you once bore me. He interrupted her. Cornelia, this is unbearable. I will not stay to listen to you. When you are in a more rational mood I will speak to you about what I came in to attend to. A moment afterwards the door was closed with decision, and by the low sobbing which she heard Rebecca knew that the lady was alone. She felt almost distracted by conflicting emotions. How could a man so insult his wife? What was it the poor lady wanted, which his insufferable pride or indomitable will could not grant? On the other hand, why had Mrs. McKenzie humiliated herself and him by allowing a third person to be a listener to such words? She must have known that every word could be distinctly heard. The door was ajar, and Rebecca had not felt at liberty to close it. Perhaps Mrs. McKenzie, in the intensity of her desire, had forgotten her presence. Such must be the case. Now what could she do? There was no means of escape from the dressing room, saved by passing through the large room, and, judging Mrs. McKenzie by herself, the girl thought that to appear at that moment would be but an added humiliation. She stood still, her whole being a throbbed with indignant pity. But she had not long to wait. A few moments, and Mrs. McKenzie called to her in a natural tone of voice. Come out, my dear! Mr. McKenzie's calls are always brief. Rebecca came in haste, admiring the lady's remarkable self-control, and relieved to find that she looked much as usual, though perhaps there was a little more color in her face. But so far was she from tears that her eyes looked almost unnaturally bright. Drop the window a little more, she said. The room seems unreasonably warm. These four runners of summer always oppress me. Isn't it wonderful to think that it is April again? I did not think I should be here for another April. Her eyes remained bright, but those of her listeners suddenly dimmed with tears. Nothing any sadder than this poor lady's decline, which was apparently unobserved by any but herself and her child's nurse, had ever touched Rebecca's life. The sympathy in her eyes seemed to unseal still further the invalid's lips. Did you know, Rebecca, that I am dying, and nobody knows it? Dear Madame, why do you not speak plainly to somebody, to your husband? Is he not deceived? Oh, deceived! Of course he is. I think he has decided not to let himself know that I am failing, and he has such a resolute will that what he decides to do he does. There is no use in my trying to explain anything to him. Did you not hear some of the things he said this morning? He has made himself believe that I am too thoroughly an invalid to know my own mind, or to be trusted as to what would help me, and therefore it is his duty to thwart me, as he would a rebellious child who did not know what was for her best good. I will tell you what would help me more than anything, if I could have you with me sometimes instead of that wearying Mrs. Payne. Perhaps you could compass it yourself. Lillian is fond of her, and it would be such a rest to me to have your care. What if you should yourself speak to Mr. Mackenzie about it? Rebecca winced visibly. Dear Madame, she said earnestly, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to serve you in this or any other way in my power. But aside from the fact that it would seem to Mr. Mackenzie a very improper thing for me to dictate what my work should be, I think—I beg your pardon for saying so—but it seems to me it would be almost an insult to you for me to do so. I cannot understand why, if you wish my services, you do not so direct without reference to anybody. Mrs. Mackenzie laughed slightly. You are not a married woman, she said significantly. If you were, you would understand that a woman's directions are those which her husband chooses to have her give. Never mind, we will compass it somehow. Over which reply Rebecca only grew more exasperated, not with the fair invalid, but with the man who had led her to suppose that all husbands were tyrants. Did not she know how courteously her father had deferred to his wife's opinions, so that her very wishes were a recognized law in the household? All this prepared the girl for the afternoon's experience. Lillian had gone with her father for a drive, and Rebecca was at leisure. It was Mrs. Payne who came to her with a troubled face. Could you sit with Mrs. Mackenzie and let me lie down a bit? I was up the most of the night, she had a horrid night, and I feel one of my worst sick headaches coming on. I don't have them often, I am thankful to say, but I am afraid this will use me up unless I get some rest. Rebecca was entirely willing, and felt that the woman's evident reluctance to leave her charge was almost an insult, so were the numerous directions which she received. Remember now that it won't be time for her drops for hours yet. I shall be up long before that. Sometimes she gets a notion that she doesn't feel so well and not to have them oftener or something. If she does, and fusses about it, you just call me. You will remember not to give her the medicine, won't you? Of course, said Rebecca, in very short tones. If she desires a drink of water, I suppose I may get it for her? The question was intended to be sarcastic in the extreme, but the sarcasm was lost on the good woman. Why, I suppose so? She said slowly, her forehead wrinkled with apparently anxious thought. She doesn't often ask for water, but that couldn't do any harm. Goodness knows I wish I didn't have to leave her, but I am afraid I can't take care of her tonight unless I do. I do not see any reason for your not leaving her as long as you please, said Rebecca, who thought the whole scene was intended to impress her with the excellent care which was taken of the invalid, and the immense importance of Mrs. Payne's services. I have cared for invalids before. I have no fears, but that I shall be able to make her comfortable. Mrs. Mackenzie was almost gleeful. Isn't it delightful that she is threatened with sick headache? Poor old thing! That sounds wicked, doesn't it? But I do get so tired of her. I knew this morning that she was dreading an attack, but I was careful not to hint anything of it to Mr. Mackenzie. He would be worried so. He thinks my life depends on having her hover over me. It is unreasonable, isn't it, to get up such an aversion toward a good, faithful woman? It isn't very deep, you know. I simply want a change. Your young, pleasant face rests me. She was very talkative, and her eyes were bright. Unnaturally so, Rebecca could not help feeling. There is a real hectic flush on her cheeks, she told herself anxiously. I am sure she has fever. If father were her physician, he would think he must see her every day at least, and the doctor has not been here for three days. Her husband will injure himself with anxiety for her, I am afraid. The sarcasm and ill humor were all hidden, and Rebecca exerted herself to the utmost to give her charge a pleasant hour. At first she succeeded, but presently it was evident that the lady was growing uncontrollably nervous. She resisted all urgings to lie down and rest. No, no! she said almost irritably. I am tired of the sight of that couch. Don't coax me to it. No indeed I don't want you to call Mrs. Payne. I hope she will sleep until midnight at least. I'll tell you what I want, dear, my headaches. I do not often have headaches, but this spring air has been too much for me. In the secret compartment of my writing desk is a file of soothing drops which I take sometimes when these spring headaches begin. I lost the key to my desk and only found it this morning. Give it to me, please, and let me have a glass of water, and I will take a little. They have a very prompt effect, and I shall escape severe headache thereby. Rebecca arose irresolutely. This was not her regular medicine. It was some soothing drops which she took only occasionally for headache. There certainly could be no harm in aiding her to it, despite what the nurse had said. The nurse was treating her like a baby, which was the worst possible thing for an invalid. She had heard her father say so. You are sure you ought to take it? She said doubtfully, as she came with the glass of water, having pushed the writing desk within reach before she rang for it. Mrs. Mackenzie laughed reassuringly. Of course, my dear, don't you begin to fidget. I am nearly worn out now with people who fidget. Mrs. Payne thinks I am seven years old, and Mr. Mackenzie is almost as bad. I have taken these drops for as many years as you are old, and know all about them. It is a prescription made for me by a dear old physician who knew what he was doing. Nevertheless, Rebecca was far from pleased with its effect. Very soon after it, Mrs. Mackenzie signified her willingness to lie down, and was presently in so deep a sleep that it might have been called a stupor. Her attendant hovered over her, growing more and more disturbed at her appearance, and more anxious as to the service which she had performed. What if the poor lady had chosen the wrong bottle or forgotten the amount? Or what if, after long lying unused, some chemical change had taken place in the mixture which made it dangerous? She knew there were such possibilities. At last, finding her nervous fears deepening, instead of being reasoned away, she could endure it no longer, but when in search of Mrs. Payne. That poor woman, although her head was bound about with a napkin, and she looked ill enough to have a nurse for herself, was on the alert in a moment. What is it? she asked anxiously. Is anything wrong? I had a feeling that there would be. Somehow I never leave her that something doesn't happen. But I don't see what could. What is the matter? I do not know that anything is, said Rebecca, who, now that she had gotten away from her charge, felt sorry that she had yielded to what was probably nervousness. But she is sleeping, and the sleep is so heavy that it worries me. There is something unnatural about her, but I do not know how to describe it. Whereupon Mrs. Payne uttered an exclamation which was unintelligible, and hastened away, followed by Rebecca. For a single instant she bent over the sleeping woman, the next she turned almost fiercely upon Rebecca. You have disobeyed your directions, she said, and given her something. Mr. McKenzie is mistaken in you. You are no more to be trusted than the rest of them. End of Chapter 12