Owen's own eyes were wet. "Even before that," he said, "and I do not deny how important it is to me – more important than anything else in the world – even before that, Madam Carroll, I beg you to say that you forgive me, that you forgive what I did and said. I did not know – how could I? – and I was greatly troubled."
"I think I can say that I have forgiven you," answered Madam Carroll. "I did not at first; I did not for a long time. It is all over now; and of course you did not know. But you never understood my son – you could not; and therefore – if you will be so good – I should prefer that you should not speak to me of him again; it is much the easiest way for us both." She turned her eyes back to the wall. "About Sara," she continued, without pause, "it was a pity. It has been a long time for you to wait – with that – that mistaken belief on your mind. But, while the Major was still with us in his consciousness and his memory, I could not tell to you, a stranger, what I was not able to tell him."
"You were afraid to trust me!" said Owen, a pained expression coming into his face.
"Yes," answered Madam Carroll, simply.
"You did not know then that I felt as far as possible from being a stranger? That I wished – that I have tried – "
"That is later; I was coming to that. Yes – since I have known that you cared so much for her (though I knew it long ago!) – since you have spoken, rather, I have felt that I wished to tell you, that I would gladly tell you, as soon as I could. The time has come, and it came earlier than I expected, though I knew it could not be long delayed. I have taken the earliest hour."
"Then she – then Miss Carroll told you that I – that I had spoken?" said Owen.
"She told me because I asked her, pressed her. I knew that you had been here – a week ago, wasn't it? – I had caught a glimpse of your face as you left the house. And so I asked her. She is very reticent, very proud; she would never have told me, in spite of my asking, if her wish to show me that I had been mistaken in something I had said to her long before had not been stronger even than her reserve."
"What was it that you were mistaken in?" said Owen, quickly.
"I was not mistaken. But she wished to prove to me that I was. I had told her in October that she cared for you, and that she had made the greatest sacrifice a woman could make in voluntarily lowering herself in your eyes by allowing you to suppose – to suppose what you did."
"You were mistaken, after all, Madam Carroll," said Owen, sadly. "She cares nothing for me."
"Men are dull," answered the mistress of the Farms, wearily. "They have to have everything explained to them. Don't you see that it was inevitable that she should refuse you? As things stood – as you let them stand – she could not stoop to any other course. She knew that you believed that she had cared for – for Louis Dupont" (Madam Carroll's face had here a strange, set sternness, but her soft voice went on unchanged), "and she knew your opinion of him. She knew, moreover, that you believed it clandestine, that she had not dared to tell her father. For you to come, then, at this late day, believing all this, and tell her that you loved her – that seemed to her an insult. Your tone was, I presume (if not your words), that you loved her in spite of all."
"Yes," Owen answered. "For that was my feeling. I did love her in spite of all. I had fought against it. I had thought – I don't know what. But it was over; whatever it had been it was ended forever, and my love had conquered. I knew that very well!"
"And you told her so, I suppose – 'I love you in spite of all' – when you should have said 'I love you; and it never existed.'"
"But had she not told me with her own lips that it did exist, that she was engaged to him?"
"You should not have believed her own lips; you should have risen above that. You should have told her to her face that you did not believe, and never would believe, anything that was, or even seemed to be, against her. I see you know very little about women. You will have to learn. I am taking all this pains for you because I want her to be happy. Her nature is a very noble one, in spite of an overweight of pride. She could not explain to you, even at that time, without betraying me, and that she would never do. But I doubt whether she would have explained in any case; it would have been doing too much for you."
"All she did was done for her father," said Owen; "and it was the same with you, Madam Carroll. Seldom has man been so loved. My place with her will be but a second one."
"That should content you."
"Ah, you do not like me, though you try to help me," cried the young man. "But give me time, Madam Carroll; give me time."
"To make me like you? Take as much as you please. But do not take it with Sara."
"I shall take five minutes," Owen answered. Then he lifted her hand to his lips. "Forgive me for thinking of my own happiness," he said, with the gentlest respect.
"I like you to think of it; it gives me pleasure. And now I must come to my second reason for telling you. You remember I said that there were two. This is something which even Sara does not know – I would not give her any of that burden; she could not help me, and she had enough to bear. She could not help me; but now you can. It is something I want you to do for me. It could not be done before, it could not be done until the Major became as he is at present. No one now living knows; still, as you are to be one of us, I should like to have you do it for me."
And then she told him.
CHAPTER IX
ON Easter Sunday morning Far Edgerley people woke to find their village robed in blossoms; in one night the fruit trees had burst into bloom, so that all the knolls and Edgerley Street itself stood in bridal array, and walking to church was like taking part in a beautiful procession.
Nearly a month had passed since the Major's attack; but all his old friends in the congregation of St. John's missed him more than ever on this Easter morning. Sara and Scar were in the Carroll pew at the head of the aisle; but it looked very empty, nevertheless. During this month there had not been much change in the Major, save that for two weeks after the doctor's decision he had not been so well; restlessness had troubled him. But for the preceding few days he had been much better, and every one was cheered by this; every one was interested in hearing that he had talked quite at length with his wife on simple local subjects, that he enjoyed little things, and thought about them. He lived entirely in the present, the present of the passing moment; everything in the past he had forgotten, and he speedily forgot the moment itself as soon as it was gone. What his wife said to him he understood, and he always knew when she was near, though his blind eyes could not see her; he felt for a fold of her dress or the ruffle of her sleeve, and held it; the sense of touch had taken the place of the vanished sight. He listened for Scar's voice too, and seemed to like to have him in the room, to hold the child's hand in his. In the same way he always smiled and was pleased when Sara spoke to him.
When the morning service was over, every one waited to ask how the Major was on this lovely Easter Sunday. Lately they had come to like his daughter far better than they had liked her at first; they said she talked more, that she was not so cold. Certainly there was nothing cold in her face, but a beautiful sweetness, as she rose from her knees and, taking Scar's hand, turned to go down the aisle. She answered their questions on the steps and in the church-yard. For on Easter morning Far Edgerley people always brought many flowers to church; then, after service, they took them out and laid them upon all the graves, so that, as Scar once said, "they could have their Easter Sunday too." Every mound had its blossoms to-day, and there were many upon the grave of the young stranger, Louis Dupont; this was because there was no one, they said, to remember him. So they all remembered him.
A little before sunset Frederick Owen, having officiated at the Easter service of the Sunday-school and at one of his mission stations, was on his way to Carroll Farms. As he came up Carroll Lane and crossed the little bridge over the brook, he saw that there was more bloom here than anywhere else in all the blooming town. For the whole orchard was out behind the house, and all the flowering almonds in front of it; the old stone walls rose close pressed in blossoms. Sara opened the door before he had time to knock. "I was watching for you," she said. "Judith Inches and Caleb have gone up the mountain to see their mother, as they always do on Easter afternoon, and they have taken Scar."
Owen paused in the hall to greet her; he was very proud of this proud, reserved girl whose love he had won.
"Do not wait, Frederick. Mamma has such a pleadingly sorrowful look to-day that I want to have it over."
"Only a moment," said Owen. He was standing with his arm round her, holding her close. "Do you remember that afternoon when I spoke to you of your mother, of the sisterly kindness she had shown to that poor woman who had lost her crippled boy? And do you remember that you said that no one save those who were in the house with her all the time could comprehend the one hundredth part of her tenderness, her constant thought for others? Your answer put me in a glow of pleasure, I did not then comprehend why. I asked myself as I walked home if I cared so much to hear Madam Carroll praised. I know now what I cared for – it was because you had said it. For I had been afraid, unconsciously to myself, perhaps, that you did not fully appreciate her, appreciate her as she seemed to me."
"And I had not until then. I shall always reproach myself – "
"You need not; you have made up for it a hundredfold," answered Owen. Then, coming back to himself, with love's unfailing egotism – "I wonder if you realize all the suffering I went through?" he continued. "You made me wait in my pain so long, so long!"
"We suffer more than you do, always," answered, after a moment, the woman he held in his arms. And then into her beautiful eyes, raised to meet his, there came such a world of feeling, some of it beyond his ken, that touched, stirred, feeling himself unworthy, yet exultant in his happiness, the man who loved her rested his lips on hers without attempting further reply.
A moment later he went up the stairs, and Sara turned the key of the front door. The Major, his wife and daughter, and the clergyman were now alone in the flower-encircled house. All its windows were open, and the flowers fairly seemed to be coming in, so near were they to the casements; outside the Major's windows two great apple-trees, a mass of bloom, stretched out their long, flowering arms until they touched the sills.
The sun, now low down, was sinking towards Lonely mountain; he sent horizontal rays full into the mass of apple-blossoms, but could not penetrate them save as a faintly pink radiance, which fell upon the figure of Madam Carroll as she stood beside the bed. She wore one of her white dresses, but her face looked worn and old as the radiance brought out all its lines, and showed the many silver threads in her faded hair. The Major was sitting up in bed; he had on a new dressing-gown, and was propped with cushions.
"Has the clergyman come?" he said. He spoke indistinctly, but his wife could always understand him.
"Yes, he is here, Scarborough," she answered, bending over him.
"He is welcome. Let him be seated," said the Major, in his old ceremonial manner. Then he felt for his wife's arm, and pulled her sleeve. "Am I dressed?" he asked, anxiously. "Did you see to it? Is my hair smooth?" He supposed himself to be speaking in a whisper.
"Yes, Major, you have on your new dressing-gown, and it is of a beautiful color, and your hair is quite smooth."
"I don't feel sure about the hair," said the Major, still, as he supposed, confidentially. "I don't remember that I brushed it."
Madam Carroll took a brush from the table and gently smoothed the thin white locks.
"That is better," he murmured. "And my clean white silk handkerchief?"
"It is by your side, close to your hand."
He thought for a moment. "I ought to have a flower for my button-hole, oughtn't I?" he added, looking about the room with his darkened eyes as if to find one.
Sara went to the window and broke off a spray of apple-blossoms from the tree outside. His wife gave it to him, and he tried to put it into the button-hole of his dressing-gown; she did it for him, and then he was content. "I am ready now," he said, folding his hands.
Frederick Owen came forward; he wore his white robes of office. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony," he read, standing close to the Major, so that he could hear.
The Major listened with serenity; and of his own accord, when the time came, he answered, "I will."
When the longer answer was reached, Owen repeated it first, then Madam Carroll repeated it to the Major, as he could hear her voice more easily. "I, Scarborough, take thee, Marion, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth," said the Major, in his indistinct tones, following her word by word, and holding the hand she had placed in his.
Then the wife drew off her own wedding-ring, and guided his feeble fingers to put it back in its place again. "With this ring I thee wed," said the Major, repeating after her in a voice that was growing tired.
"Let us pray," said Owen. They knelt, and the Major bowed his head, and put his hand over his eyes. "Our Father, who art in heaven," prayed Owen, "hallowed be thy name."
As he came to the benediction, the sun's last rays, sent from the golden line of Lonely Mountain, shot triumphantly under the apple-blossoms and entered the room; they shone on Madam Carroll's kneeling figure, and lighted up the old Major's silver hair – "that in the world to come, ye may have life everlasting. Amen."
There was a silence. Then the Major took down his hand and tried to look from one to the other as they stood round his bed. His wife kissed him. And then Sara, her eyes full of tears, came and kissed him also.
"Where is the clergyman?" said the Major to his wife, again supposing himself to be speaking apart. "I ought to shake hands with him, you know."
Owen came forward, and the Major bowed and put out his hand. Then he seemed to be forgetting all that had occurred. "I am very tired, Marion," he said, not complainingly, but as if surprised. "I don't know what is the reason, but I am very tired." They took out the cushions, and he put his head down upon the pillow. In a few minutes he was asleep.
At late twilight Scar came back in the wagon with Judith Inches and Caleb. His mother was waiting for him on the piazza; she took him in her arms and kissed him several times. "Why, mamma, you are crying!" said the boy, surprised. "Are you sorry about anything, mamma?"
"Yes, Scar. But it is over now. Come up-stairs."
The Major was awake; he looked very tranquil. Sara was sitting beside him. Scar went up to the bedside. "It is Scar," said Madam Carroll. "Don't you remember him, Major? Little Scar?"
"Certainly," said the Major. "Of course I remember him; a little child."
She took his hand and put it on the boy's head. The Major stroked the fair hair gently. "Little Scar," he murmured softly to himself. "Yes, certainly I remember; little Scar."