AMICE ASCENDE SUPERIUS.

So it was that his aunt fretted and scolded about him to his mother, and made her life a burden to her, but in his presence was quite silent about the matter of his vocation, and much more agreeable and well behaved than in anybody else's presence. And Mrs. Hazard Smatter was quite unable to ask him questions or to gain information from him. Very soon after his arrival, oppressed no doubt by the mediÆval murkiness of the atmosphere, and the unfamiliarity of the situation, she quietly gathered up her notes and queries and prepared to wing her way to more speculative regions and a freer air. Even Goneril's tongue was tame when he was by, though she beat and brushed and shook his black habit as if it were the Pope, and harangued about the Inquisition to her fellow-servants by the hour together.

This same black habit was a great snare to Missy. She always spoke of it to her mother as "his costume," as if it had come from Worth's; and it was a good many days before she could be resigned to his walking through the village. She even importuned her mother to beg him to give it up during his visit home.

"In the name of common sense, mamma," she exclaimed, "why need he disedify these country people, over whom he has some influence, by this puerile affectation? What virtue is there in that extra yard or two of cloth? He could save souls in a pea-jacket, I should think, if he were in earnest in the matter."

It was rather hard on Mrs. Varian to have to bear all these criticisms. That she had to bear them came of her natural sweetness and softness, which led every one, beginning with Missy, to dictate to her. But there was something even harder than this, that fell to her share of the oblation. She had to tell Missy of something very bitter, and to endeavor to reconcile her to it. She had prepared herself for it, in many silent hours, but it is hard, always, to give pain, harder, to some natures, than to bear it.

It was one evening, when Missy came to her room for her good-night kiss, that she chose. St. John had gone away to be gone two or three days, and it is probable that the hour had been settled upon for a long while. But prepared as she was, there was a tremble in her voice when she said:

"Come and sit down by me for a little while. I have something to say to you," that made Missy feel, with a sharp tightening across her heart, that there was something painful coming.

She sat down where the light of the lamp did not fall upon her and said, with a forced calmness, as she bent forward to do something to the fire,

"Well, mamma, what is it? If you have anything to say to me, of course it must be nice."

"You don't always think so, I'm afraid, my child," said her mother, with a sigh. "I wish that I might never have anything to tell you that did not give you pleasure."

"Which is equivalent to telling me you have something to tell me that will give me pain. Pray don't mind it. I ought to be used to hearing things I don't like by this time, don't you think I ought?"

"Most of us have to hear things that are painful, more or less often in our lives—and change is almost always painful to natures like yours, Missy."

"Oh, as to that, sometimes I have felt, lately, that change would be more acceptable than anything. So don't be afraid. Perhaps you will find it will be good news, after all."

"I earnestly wish so. Of this I am confident, one day you will feel it was what was best, whether it gave you pain or not at first."

"Proceed, mamma, proceed! If there is anything that rasps my nerves it is to see the knife gleaming about in the folds of your dress, while I see you are trying to hide it, and I am doubtful which part of me is doomed to the stroke. Anything but suspense. What is it, who is it this time? We don't slay the slain, so it can't be St. John. You are not going to ask me to mourn him again?"

"No, Missy, and I am not going to ask you to mourn at all."

"Oh, excuse me. But you know I will mourn, being so blinded and carnal. Mamma, let me have it in plain English. What sacrifice am I to be called upon to make now? Is it you, or my home, or what?"

"Both, my child, if you will put it so—I cannot make it easy."

Missy started to her feet, and stood very pale beside her mother's sofa.

"You have shown so little sympathy with St. John's plans, that I have been unable to ask you to share in their discussion, as day after day they have matured. You know the house belongs to him, he has given up all—you can see what it involves."

"I see, and his mother is to be turned out of house and home, to satisfy his ultra piety."

"Missy, let me speak quickly, and have done. I cannot bear this any better than you. It is impossible for me to give myself up as St. John has given himself. I have no longer youth and health to offer. But there is one thing I can do, and that is not to stand in his way—and another. Hear me patiently, Missy; I know it will be pain to you; I am going to identify myself with his work in a certain way."

"You! What am I hearing? Are you going to India, to Africa?—I am prepared for anything."

"No, Missy. Your brother's India is very near at hand. His order are establishing a house in one of the worst parts of the city. Next to the church which they have bought—"

"With his money," interpolated Missy.

"With his money, if you choose; next to the church which they have bought—there is a house which I am going to buy. It may be the starting point for the work of a sisterhood, it may be a refuge, a shelter for whoever needs refuge or shelter. It is given—its uses will be shown if God accepts it."

"And you?" said Missy, in a smothered voice, standing still and white-faced before her.

"And I—am going to live there, Missy, and do the work that God appoints me, or bear the inaction that He deems to be my part. It is a poor offering and no sacrifice, for it is the life I crave. Only as to the suffering I lay on you, I shrink from. God knows, if you could only sympathise with me and go too—what a weight would be lifted off my heart;—but I feel I cannot hope for that. It is always open to you, and I shall always pray that it may come to pass, and we shall not really be separated so very much. I shall not, perhaps, be bound by any rule, and if my health suffers or if you need me ever, I shall always be free to come to you—"

"Let me understand," said Missy, in an unnatural voice, sitting down upon the nearest chair. "You go too fast for me. Where am I to be, when you are to feel free to come to me? This house is no longer to be our home, you say. What is to be my home? What plans, if any, have you made for me? Don't go any further, please, till I comprehend the situation of things a little better. This staggers me, and I—don't know exactly what it all means."

She put her hands before her face for a moment, but then quickly withdrew them and folding them in her lap, sat silent till her mother spoke.

"The house was inevitable, of course I always knew that—and St. John is now of age. I do not know whether you had thought of it, I supposed you had."

"It never had occurred to me. I had forgotten that the house was left to him."

"And our united income, Missy, yours and mine, would have been seriously crippled if we had attempted to buy it from him, and to keep it up. This is an expensive place, and it would make you unhappy to see it less well kept than formerly. Even if—if I had not resolved upon this step for myself, it would scarcely have been possible to have remained here, at least, as we have been. This has been a great care and anxiety to me for many months. It would have been a great relief to me to have spoken to you, but your want of sympathy in St. John's work, made it impossible for me to talk to you about it. It has seemed so to St. John and me—we have given it much anxious thought—that the income from your father's property which I have settled all on you, is ample for your maintenance any where you choose to live. But—to me it has seemed a good plan, that you should take the old Roncevalle house across the way, with Aunt Harriet, and live there. It is vacant now you know, it is comfortable, the rent is low—"

Missy's eyes gave forth a sudden glow of light; she started to her feet, but then sank back upon her chair again.

"Mamma, that is too much—that is more than I can stand. The home is to be broken up—my whole life is to be laid waste. I am no longer set in a family—I am adrift—I am motherless and homeless—but that is not what I complain of. I only ask, why am I to take up the unpleasantest duty of your life? Why am I to be burdened with a blind, infirm and hateful woman who is in no way related to me by ties of blood or of affection? A beautiful home you have mapped out for me! An enchanting future! It seems to me you must think better of me than I have ever been led to believe you did, if you think me capable of such self-sacrifice."

"It is for you to take it up or lay it down as suits you, Missy. If Harriet will come with me, you know she will have a home and all the care that I can give her. But you can see that it is of no use to make such a proposition now. When she is older and more broken, she may be glad of the refuge we can give her, but now it would be in vain to think of it. And you, oh my child, do not be unkind when you think of what I have done. Reflect that I have given you my life, for all these many years. All that I have had has been yours, all that I have would still be yours, if you would share it in the consecrated retirement to which I now feel called. It would be the dearest wish of my heart fulfilled, if I could have you with me there. There would be scope for your energy, for all your talents, in the work that lies before us. But, I know I must not dream of this till you see things differently."

"No," said Missy, in a cold, hard tone. "You have one child, with whom your sympathy is perfect. He must suffice. Live for him now; I have had my share, no doubt."

"Missy! do not break my heart; I am not going to live for St. John. I am not going away from you for any human companionship. How can I talk to you? How explain what I feel, when you will not, cannot understand?"

"No, I cannot understand," cried Missy, with a sudden burst of tears. "Oh mother, mother, how can you go away from me? How can you leave me in this frightful loneliness? I am not to you what you are to me or you would never do it."

"Missy, you could have done it. I have not read your face in vain for these last few weeks. You could have done it, and you would. I cannot make a comparison between the affection that would have satisfied you to leave me—and the—the feeling of my heart that draws me out of the world into stillness, retreat, consecration. I cannot explain, cannot talk of it. If you do not understand, you cannot. It is no sacrifice, except the being separated from you—that will be the pain hidden in my joy, as it would have been the pain hidden in your joy if you had married. The pain would not have killed the joy, nor made you give it up. This is not the enthusiasm of a moment, Missy. It is what has come of long, long years of silence and of thought. A way has opened, beyond my hopes—possibilities of acceptance—of advance. There is a great work to be done: I must not hold it back from humility, from timidity. It seems so unspeakable a bliss that I—stranded—useless—wrecked—should be made a part of anything given to the glory of God. I daily fear it may be presumption to dream of such a thing, and that I shall be rebuked and checked. But even if I am, my offering is made—all—for Him to take or leave. All! ah, poor and miserable all, 'the dregs of a polluted life!' Would that from the first moment that I drew my breath my soul had reached up to Him with its every affection—with its every aspiration! Oh 'that I might love Him as well as ever any creature loved Him!' That patience and penitence might win Him to forget the wasted past, and restore the blighted years that are gone from me!"

She hid her face in her hands, and Missy, sinking down on the floor beside her, cried out, with tears:

"Why cannot you serve Him and love Him here as you have always done, all your good and holy life! Why can't you worship Him in the old way, and be satisfied with doing your duty in your own home, and staying with those who need you, and whom He has given you to love and care for! Oh, mamma, this is some great and terrible mistake. Think before it is too late!"

"Listen, Missy," she said, after a few moments; her brief emotion passed. "Listen, and these are words of truth and soberness. I am useless here. There is a possibility there I might be of some humble service. You are more capable of managing and directing in every day matters than I ever was. You are no longer a young girl. I leave you with conventional propriety, for your Aunt Harriet is all that is requisite before the world. If you make it a question of family duty, St. John is many years younger than you, and may need me more. The home here is expensive, luxurious. The money is wanted for the saving of the souls and bodies of Christ's poor. To me there seems no question. I wish there might not be to you. If it were a matter of the cloister, I might waver, it is possible. I am not permitted to go that length in my oblation. I am now only separating myself from you by the length of time that you choose to stay away from me. In a house such as this is designed to be, you could always have your place, your share of work and interest. We shall win you to it, dear child; when you see what it is, your prejudice will wear away."

"Prejudice!" cried Missy, passionately. "What is not prejudice? Yours and St. John's have cost me dear. Oh, mamma, how could you have had such an alien child? Why must we see everything in such a different light? You and St. John are always of one mind. I am shut out from you by such a wall. I am so lonely, so wretched, and perhaps you can't understand enough to pity me. Oh, mamma, you are all I have in the world! Don't go away and leave me! Don't break up this home, which must be dear to you; don't turn away from what your heart says always. It can't be wrong to love your home, it can't be wrong to be sorry for your child. Oh, what misery is come upon me! Mamma, mamma, you will kill me if you go away! You must not, cannot, shall not go!"

From such scenes as this, it is better, perhaps, to turn away. When men are not of one mind in a house, how sore the strife it brings—how long and bitter the struggle when love is wrestling with love, but when self is mixed up in the war. It was a longer and crueller struggle than she had foreseen. Missy could see no light in the future, and grew no nearer being reconciled. Day after day passed, scene after scene of wretchedness, alternate pleading and reproaching, reasoning and rebellion. From St. John, Missy could not bear a word. She refused to treat with him, but threw herself upon her mother. Those were dark and troubled days. St. John looked a little paler than usual; the mother was worn and tortured, but gave no sign of relenting. A gentle, pliant nature seems sometimes more firm for such an assault as this. At last, all discussion of it was given up; Missy, hardening herself, went about the house cold-eyed, imperious, impatient. St. John was absent much of the time—Miss Varian had not yet been informed what was in store for her; all tacitly put off that very evil day.

Meanwhile the preparations for the change went quietly on. The old Roncevalle house was one that belonged to the Varians; having been bought by Mr. Varian in those lordly days, when laying field to field, and house to house, seems the natural outlet of egotism and youth. Felix Varian, young and used to success, had the aspirations of most young and wealthy men. He proposed in the first flush of satisfaction in his home, to make it a fine estate, worthy of his name and of the yellow-haired baby, who had now grown up to wear a black habit and a girdle round his waist. He bought right and left, and made some rather unprofitable purchases. His early death left matters somewhat involved, but yet, when all was settled up, the Varians were still a wealthy family, and the young heir had a good deal to take with him to his work in that dirty down-town street, of which Missy thought with such loathing and contempt, and he with such fervor of hope. Missy's father had had a comfortable little property, which had been thriftily managed, and this was now to be hers exclusively. It was by no means a princely settlement, but it was quite as much as an unmarried woman needed to live comfortably upon, and she felt that her mother had done quite right in not offering her a cent of the Varian money, which she never would have touched. She had hated her stepfather fervently as a child; now she felt strangely drawn to him, and as if they had a common injury. How he would have scorned this infatuation, and resented this appropriation of his gorgeous and luxurious gold.

The Roncevalle house had always been kept in order, and rented furnished. It was a comfortable looking house, standing close to the street, with a broad piazza, and having a pretty view of the bay. It was very well—but oh! as a home, coming after the one she had grown up in! Poor Missy loathed it. She had made it part of her capable management of things to keep this house furnished from the overflow of their own. It was a family joke that this was the hospital for disabled and repaired furniture, the retreat to which things out of style and undesirable were committed. If a new carpet were coveted at home, it was so good an excuse to say the Roncevalle carpets needed renovating, and it was best to put the new ones on the floors at home. When Missy's dainty taste tired of a lamp or a piece of china, it was ordered over to the Roncevalle. It may be imagined with what feelings she contemplated living over those discarded carpets, eating her dinner off that condemned china, being mistress of that third-rate house.

But to do her justice, this formed a very small part of her trial. She was of a nature averse to change, firm in its attachments. To give up her home would have been heart-breaking, even though she should still have had the companionship of her mother. But when that was broken, and the whole face of her life changed, it seemed to her, indeed, a bitter fate. She could see no righteousness in it, no excuse, no palliation. She felt sure that it was but the beginning of the end, and that her mother could but a short time survive the fanatical sacrifice she had made. She imagined her in the reeking, filthy streets of midsummer, surrounded by detestable noises and sights, without the comforts to which she was accustomed.

"Nothing prevents my coming to you, if I am ill," said her mother. "And, Missy, if I can live through this, I can endure anything, I think."