Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 46, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 November 1894 — Silence [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Silence

By Miss Mulock

CHAPTER Vl—Continued. Another two days, and he would pet an answer. Be st so, perhaps. In the few words that he was determined at all hazards to say to his darling before he left—to herself only, regardless of ceremony or custom—the sanction of his mother’s approbation would te a help and a consolation. He should be able to tell the orphan that it was not his arms alone that were open to receive her, but those of a new mother, ready to replace, if any could replace, in some small degree, her who was gone. Very unlike they were, and he had a secret fear that it was a different sort of a daughter-in-law that Mrs. Jardine would have preferred—one much grander, richer, handsomer. Silence had the loveliness of lovableness; but even in his wildest passion, her lover knew she was not handsome. Still, in spite of all, there were two things he never doubted to find in his mother-her strong sense and her warm heart. To these he trusted, and felt that he might safely tru t the girl he loved—the girl who would make him all he lacked, all that his mother wished him to be. He pleaded this in a letter, touchingly earnest and tender, which, on second thoughts, he dete mined on writing home. His heart was full — full to overflowing: and, almost for the first time in his life, he poured it out, where, under such circumstances, every good son is right to pour his heart out —into his mother’s bosom. Going to the post, letter in hand—for he had learned Silence’s habit of doing things at once, and doing them herself, if possible—he met Sophie Reynier, in mourning dress, hastening to com.ortand sustain her friend during the funeral day. "Do you think you qould take me into the house with you?” he pleaded. “Nobody would know or bo harmed thereby. In my own country we even think it a tribute of respect to the dead to be allowed to look at them once more. And Mademoiselle Jardine ” Sophie Reynier suddenly turned to him with a flash of womanly emotion in her kind blue eyes—penetrating as kind. “Monsieur, ycu are an honest man—what in England you call a ‘gentleman. ’ You could never act otherwise than kindlv to such a defenseless creature as Mademoiselle Jardine?” “God for. id, no!” “Then I will take you.” But she d.d not admit him at once, and finding that Mme. Reynier had gone out she told him to come back in an hour, at eleven o'clock. “By then I shall have persuaded Silence to repose herself for a little. She has not slept all night, and is very restless. She may hear you. Go away now. ’’ He obeyed at once, and went to search through the little town for a few more winter flowers, to “shut them inside the sweet, cold hand,” like Erowning’s “Evelyn Hope, ” saying to himself the lines— So that 13 our secret Go to sleep: You will wake and remember and understand.

As he stood in the salon of his hotel arranging the little bon iuet and tying it up with a bit of white ribbon which he had gone into a shop and b ught his look was tender, rather than sad, and with a 1 his reverence for the dead, he could not forbear thinking whether she—his living love—would notice the flowers or ask who put them there. “Monsieur, atelegramfor monsieur!” It startled him for a moment. Not being a man of business, Roderick was unaccustomed to telegrams; besides, his mother had a strong old-fashioned aversion to them. Yet this one came from her. At least, the address and name were her* though the wording was in the third person. “Your mother is not well. Come home immediately." This was all; but it came with such a blow to Roderick, who inherited his father’s nervous tern erament, that he felt himse f turning dizzy and obeyed the frien ly garcon’s suggestion that monsieur had better sit down. His mother ill? She, the healthiest person imaginable and she had written to him only a few days before, saying nothing of herse f except of her endless duties and engagements. It must be s methlng sudden, something serious. He was wanted “immediately.” She could not have got his letter, there was barely time, or surely she would have answered it. Perhaps she was too ill even to read it? His poor mother—his dear, good mother! All the son in him woke up: perhaps all the more tor thinking of that other mother, wh se dead face he was just going to see. He might go there—there was time; no Paris train started till afternoon, and rereading the telegram it seemed a little ’ess serious. Though “not well” might be only a tender way of breaking to him a far sadder truth. ‘Oh, mother, mother!” he almost sob ed out, as he walked hastily along the lake-side, “if anything should happen to you If I should lose you, too, before I have learned to love you half enough. ” And all the y assionate remorse of a sensitive nature, a do ibly sensitive conscience, rose up in the poor fellow’s heart. He accused himself of a hundred imaginary short-comings, and suffered as those are prone to suffer who judge others by the standard of themselves. It was only by a great effort that he controlled himself so as to present the quiet outside necessary on reaching Mme. Jardine’s door, from which she would soon go forever; nay, from which she had already gone. He knew n t whom to ask for. He stood silent and bewildered: but the little bonne seemed to understand, and admitted him without a word. Beyond the salon was a small bed chamber which mother and daughter used to share. In the center of it stood, raised a little, and covered with something white, that last sleepingplace where we m ist all one day rest. How lotfg he stood there, gazing on the still face so exceedingly beautiful —he had never thought belore what a beautiful woman she must have been— Roderick could not tell. At last the door, which had been left ajar behind him slightly stirred. He thought it was the Donne, and would not turn: he did not wish her to see his dimmed eyes. It was more than a minute before he looked up and saw, standing quietly on the other side of the coffin, •he orphaned girl, the girl whom he

adored like a lover, and yet seemed to cherish already with the piotecting tenderness of a husband who has been married many years. Perfectly pallid, dead-white almost, from the contrast between her black dress and fair hair, Silence stood and looked at him; merely looking, not holding out her hand—both her hands were resting on the coffin. She spoke in a wnisper. “You are come to see her once again? That is kind. She always liked you. Is she not beautiful? But she is gone, you see! She has gone away and left me all alone. ” One sob. just one, no more. Nothing in his life had ever touched Roderick like the strong self-command by which this frail girl in her utmost agony controlled its expression, and, recollecting herself, summoned all her courage, dignity—the sacred dignity of sorrow, which asks no help, no consolation. “You must forgive me; my grief is new. Are these your flowers? Thank you; they are very sweet ” And taking them from him. she began arranging them in the folds of the shroud, gently and carefully, as if she were dressing a baby, then drew the kerchief once more over the dead face. “Mow you must go away.” “I will,” he answered—the first words he had uttered. “Only, just once " Tenderly removing the face-cloth Roderick stooped and pressed his lips upon the marble brow of this dead mother, only making a solemn vow —would that all men made the same, and kept it, to other dead and living mothers! Something of its purport must have been betrayed in his look, for when his eyes met those of the girl opposite she slightly started, and a faint smi’e suffuse! her cheek, lading, it left her deadly pa’e; she staggered rather than walked, though alone, refusing all help, into the next room.

There she sat down, Roderick standing beside her. The door was open between, he could see the foot of thecoffin and its white draq ery. Though now, for the first time, he was alone with his chosen love, knowing well, and having an instinct that she must know, too, that she’ was his love, and ever would be, there was so great an awe upon him that he could not speak one word, not even of the commonest consolation or sympathy. And, though he could have fallen on his knees before her and kissed her very feet, he dared not touch even the tips of her poor little pallid fingers, so strangely idle, their occupation gone. “What am I to do without my mother?” Silence said at last, with a piteous appeal not to him or to anybody, except perhaps that One to whom alone the orphan can always ago. Roderick could bear it no longer his manhood wholly deserted him. He turned away his head and wept. The two sat there, ever so long, sobbing like children; and like children—hr,w it came about he hardly Knew —holding one another s hands. That was all! No mo.-e, indeed, was possible, but it seemed, to comfort her. Very soon she rose from her chair, quite herself—her quiet, giave self, robed in all the dignity of sorrow.” “Thank you; you have been very kind incoming to-day and in wishing to come this afternoon, as I hope you will. ” Roderick had forgotten all about the telegram and his mother-every-thing in the world except Silence Jardine, He drew the paper out of his pocket and laid it before her. “Read this! 1 got it half an hour ago. Say, what must I do?” Silence read, slowly, and putting her hand once or twice over her forehead, as if trying hard to understand things, then looked up at him with compassionate eyes. “Your mother ill? lam so sorry for you.” Then, after a minute’s pause: “ You will go—and at once?” “Yes, at once.” Both spoke in whispers still, as if conscious of some sacred presence close be-ide them. He was, at least, feeling this; as if a soft dead hand were laid on his wildly beating heart, and sealing his pa sionate lips, else he could not possibly have controlled himself as he “I feel I ought to go. But my mother may be better soon. She is very seldom ailing. As son as eve ■ I can, I shall come back again to Neuchatel—to you. You believe that ” “Yes.” One little word, uttered softly, with bent head, and, after an instant. repeated, “Yes.” Roderick felt his brain almost whirling with the strong constraint he put upon himself. “One thing more you shall decide,” he said. “The train starts this afternoon at the very hour I ought to be — you know where. Shall 1 delay my jou ney—just for one day?” “Not for an hour.” Silence answered, almost passionately. '“Remember, you never can have but one mother. Go to her at once!” And so he went, without another word, scarcely another look, he dared not trust himself to either. The two or three minutes he stayed were occupi d in explaining to Sop’aie Reynier about the telegram, his mother’s illness, his compelled journey, and his certain return as ; oon as possible. “You, will say all this to Monsieur Reynier? And I shall find her with you when I come back.-” “Certainly. Yes.” “You will take care of her?” “I wilt ”

He looked at kind Sophie. There was the tender light of ber love for her own good young pasteur shining in her eyes. “Thank you ” _ Roderick took her hand and kissed it, and was gone. He got to Richerden about 4 in the morning—a thorough Richerden morning, or rather night—of sleet and snow and blinding rain. Entirely worn out with fatigue, he came at last to his mother’s door. For the moment he hardly believed it was his mother’s, but that he must have made some egregious mistake. For the house was all lighted up, carriages were going and coming, daintily muffed figures filled the en-trance-hall—it was evidently the breaking-up of some festive entertainment. He had pictured to himseif the silent house —the night of anxious vigil over sickness —death; for even that last terror had. as he neared home, forced itself upon his'weakened nerves. Instead, he came in at the end of a ball! “My mother —how is my mother?” were the first words that passed his lips—they had been knelling themselves into his tired brain for the last hundred miles. There she was, standing half way up the staircase, in her ruby velvet, point lace, and al ablaze with dia-monds-a little tired and old-looking, as was natural at! 4 in the morning, but beaming with health, good-nature, and the exuberant en oyment of life. What a contrast to the cead mother whom he had left in her coffin so many hundred miles away! • Waiting for a pause in the stream of

guests, Roderick hid htmseif In the shadow of the door till Mrs. .Jardine’s voice, leud and hearty, had repeated a series of hospitable adieus. Tnence he emerged, a somewhat forlorn figure, into the brilliant glare of light. “Goodness me Body, is that you, my dearest boy? Girls, your brother is here.” S ie wrapped him in a voluminous embrace, and kissed him many times with true maternal warmth. “Mother, you have not heen ill? There is nothing wrong with you?” “No, my darling, what should there be? Oh. I remember—the tslegram." A sudden cloud came over her face, which was repeated with added shadow on her son’s. . “Yes, the telegram. I thought you were ill, and I came home as you bade me, immediately. Never mind. Goodnight.” “Stop, my dear. Just stop.” But he would not; and went straight up stairs to his own room. |TO BS COSTIFtIBD. :