“The time? What is thy meaning? The time was the usual hour of all entertainments. Even two hours after the midnight is quite respectable if all else is correct.”
“Art thou so forgetful of the God-Man, who at this time carried the burden of all our sins?”
“Oh! You mean it is Lent, Adam?”
“Yes! It is Lent!”
“I was never taught to regard it.”
“Yet none keep Lent more strictly than Conall Ragnor.”
“A wife does not always adopt her husband’s ideas. I had a father, Adam, uncles and cousins and friends. None of them kept Lent. Dost thou expect me to be wiser than all my kindred?”
“I do.”
“Let us cease this talk. It will come to nothing.”
“Then good-bye.”
“Be not hard on Sunna. One side only, has been heard.”
“As kindly as may be, I will do right.”
Then Adam went away, but he left Rahal very unhappy. She had disobeyed her husband’s advice and she could not help asking herself if she would have been as easily persuaded to tell a similar story about her own child. “Thora is a school girl yet,” she thought, “but she is just entering the zone of temptation.”
In the midst of this reflection Thora came into the room. Her mother looked into her lovely face with a swift pang of fear. It was radiant with a joy not of this world. A light from an interior source illumined it; a light that wreathed with smiles the pure, childlike lips. “Oh, if she could always remain so young, and so innocent! Oh, if she never had to learn the sorrowful lessons that love always teaches!”
Thus Rahal thought and wished. She forgot, as she did so, that women come into this world to learn the very lessons love teaches, and that unless these lessons are learned, the soul can make no progress, but must remain undeveloped and uninstructed, even until the very end of this session of its existence.
CHAPTER III
ARIES THE RAM
O Christ whose Cross began to bloom
With peaceful lilies long ago;
Each year above Thy empty tomb
More thick the Easter garlands grow.
O’er all the wounds of this sad strife
Bright wreathes the new immortal life.
Thus came the word: Proclaim the year of the Lord!
And so he sang in peace;
Under the yoke he sang, in the shadow of the sword,
Sang of glory and release.
The heart may sigh with pain for the people pressed and slain,
The soul may faint and fall:
The flesh may melt and die–but the Voice saith, Cry!
And the Voice is more than all.–Carl Spencer.
It was Saturday morning and the next day was Easter Sunday. The little town of Kirkwall was in a state of happy, busy excitement, for though the particular house cleaning of the great occasion was finished, every housewife was full laden with the heavy responsibility of feeding the guests sure to arrive for the Easter service. Even Rahal Ragnor had both hands full. She was expecting her sister-in-law, Madame Barbara Brodie by that day’s boat, and nobody ever knew how many guests Aunt Barbara would bring with her. Then if her own home was not fully prepared to afford them every comfort, she would be sure to leave them at the Ragnor house until all was in order. Certainly she had said in her last letter that she was not “going to be imposed upon, by anyone this spring”–and Thora reminded her mother of this fact.
“Dost thou indeed believe thy aunt’s assurances?” asked Rahal. “Hast thou not seen her break them year after year? She will either ask some Edinburgh friend to come back to Kirkwall with her, or she will pick up someone on the way home. Is it not so?”
“Aunt generally leaves Edinburgh alone. It is the people she picks up on her way home that are so uncertain. Dear Mother, can I go now to the cathedral? The flowers are calling me.”
“Are there many flowers this year?”
“More than we expected. The Balfour greenhouse has been stripped and they have such a lovely company of violets and primroses and white hyacinths with plenty of green moss and ivy. The Baikies have a hothouse and have such roses and plumes of curled parsley to put behind them, and lilies-of-the-valley; and I have robbed thy greenhouse, Mother, and taken all thy fairest auriculas and cyclamens.”
“They are for God’s altar. All I have is His. Take what vases thou wants, but Helga must carry them for thee.”
“And, Mother, can I have the beautiful white Wedgewood basket for the altar? It looked so exquisite last Easter.”
“It now belongs to the altar. I gave it freely last Easter. I promised then that it should never hold flowers again for any meaner festival. Take whatever thou wants for thy purpose, and delay me no longer. I have this day to put two days’ work into one day.” Then she lifted her eyes from the pastry she was making and looking at Thora, asked: “Art thou not too lightly clothed?”
“I have warm underclothing on. Thou would not like me to dress God’s altar in anything but pure white linen? All that I wear has been made spotless for this day’s work.”
“That is right, but now thou must make some haste. There is no certainty about Aunt Barbie. She may be at her home this very minute.”
“The boat is not due until ten o’clock.”
“Not unless Barbara Brodie wanted to land at seven. Then, if she wished, winds and waves would have her here at seven. Her wishes follow her like a shadow. Go thy way now. Thou art troubling me. I believe I have put too much sugar in the custard.”
“But that would be a thing incredible.” Then Thora took a hasty kiss, and went her way. A large scarlet cloak covered her white linen dress, and its hood was drawn partially over her head. In her hands she carried the precious Wedgewood basket, and Helga and her daughter had charge of the flowers and of several glass vases for their reception. In an hour all Thora required had been brought safely to the vestry of Saint Magnus, and then she found herself quite alone in this grand, dim, silent House of God.
In the meantime Aunt Barbara Brodie had done exactly as Rahal Ragnor anticipated. The boat had made the journey in an abnormally short time. A full sea, and strong, favourable winds, had carried her through the stormiest Firth in Scotland, at a racer’s speed; and she was at her dock, and had delivered all her passengers when Conall Ragnor arrived at his warehouse. Then he had sent word to Rahal, and consequently she ventured on the prediction that “Aunt Barbara might already be at her home.”
However, it had not been told the Mistress of Ragnor, that her sister-in-law had actually “picked up someone on the way”; and that for this reason she had gone directly to her own residence. For on this occasion, her hospitality had been stimulated by a remarkably handsome young man, who had proved to be the son of Dr. John Macrae, a somewhat celebrated preacher of the most extreme Calvinist type. She heartily disapproved of the minister, but she instantly acknowledged the charm of his son; but without her brother’s permission she thought it best not to hazard his influence over the inexperienced Thora.
“I am fifty-two years old,” she thought, “and I know the measure of a man’s deceitfulness, so I can take care of myself, but Thora is a childlike lassie. It would not be fair to put her in danger without word or warning. The lad has a wonderful winning way with women.”
So she took her fascinating guest to her own residence, and when he had been refreshed by a good breakfast, he frankly said to her:
“I came here on special business. I have a large sum of money to deliver, and I think I will attend to that matter at once.”
“I will not hinder