The Inner Flame. Burnham Clara Louise

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      "Religion?"

      "Yes, religion. Not the sort of ideas we were brought up in, Isabel. Something quite different."

      "What is it, then? Where did you find it?"

      "It found me."

      "How mysterious! Is that wind coming up again, Mary?"

      "How it blew that night!" said Mary Sidney thoughtfully, still looking into the fire. "It was just before Thanksgiving, I remember, five years ago. Allan and I had come up to the mine, Phil had gone back to college, and one night a belated traveller, overtaken by the storm which came up as suddenly as this, stopped at the door and asked if he could stay all night with us. He was one of these vital men, full of energy, who seem to exhale good cheer. Allan thoroughly enjoyed a talk with him that evening, and when we went to bed I remember his sighing and remarking that a man must be either a fool or a philosopher who could keep such an optimistic outlook on life as this Mr. Tremaine. I returned that perhaps our guest had struck a gold-mine here in the mountains, and I remember how Allan grumbled – 'Either that, or the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.'

      "Allan came in here once, where we had left the guest to sleep on the couch, to see if he wanted anything; and he found him reading in front of the embers. When he came back he remarked: 'That fellow has a smile that doesn't usually last beyond the tenth year.' The next morning dawned bright and our guest was in haste to depart. He tried in the nicest way to pay us for taking in a stranger, and we quite honestly told him that if any money were to pass it should go from us to him for cheering our exile. He took from his pocket a small black book and held it out to me. 'Then,' he said, 'may I leave with you a little book which has broken up the clouds of life for me, and let the light stream through? You have time up here to read, – and to think?' He made the addition with that smile which had roused Allan's curiosity, shook hands with us both, thanked us again, mounted his horse and rode away. We never saw him afterward. I often wish I knew where he was, that I might thank him."

      "What was the book?" asked Mrs. Fabian, impressed by the fervor of the other's tone.

      "A – a commentary on the Bible. A new light on the meaning of the Bible."

      "How queer! I'm sure I thought our family knew as much about the Bible as the average of decent people."

      Mrs. Fabian's tone was slightly resentful.

      "We did," returned Mary Sidney.

      "So that's what you meant a few minutes ago by the calm of faith."

      Mrs. Sidney nodded. "I know now what that sentence means: 'Cast your burden on the Lord.' Phil is the most precious thing on earth to me. The years seem to be slipping by without showing us a possible path to what we wish. 'Wait patiently on the Lord' doesn't mean inaction either. I've learned that. I know that at the right time – the right moment – circumstances will arise to show us if Phil is to – "

      A sudden blast of wind brought a start and a muffled exclamation from the guest, and at the same instant a stamping sounded outside. The lamp-flames rose wildly, and smoked in the instant of opening the door wide enough to admit the lithe form of a man whose shoulders and soft felt hat glistened with snow. He quickly closed the door and stamped again, taking off the hat from his short damp locks and shaking it vigorously.

      "Phil, this is my cousin, Mrs. Fabian," said Mrs. Sidney. "You used to call her Aunt Isabel when you were a little chap and we went to visit her once. Do you remember?"

      "When a cousin is once removed she becomes an aunt," declared Mrs. Fabian, looking the young man over with approval.

      "My hand is too wet to shake," he said, meeting her interested gaze, his own luminous in the firelight.

      "Lucky boy! You have your mother's eyes!" she exclaimed.

      "Oh, no," said Mary Sidney; "Phil's are blue."

      "Dark with terror, then!" exclaimed Mrs. Fabian, again anxious. "Isn't the storm frightful?"

      Phil's amused glance sought his mother's.

      "It's sort of spitting outside," he returned, unbuttoning his corduroy coat.

      "You're making fun of a tenderfoot," said Mrs. Fabian, watching his keen face admiringly. "Don't pretend. What have you done with my poor innocent husband?"

      "He'll be up here in a few minutes with my poor innocent father who has been showing him why he'll never be a millionaire out of that mine."

      "What do I care if he isn't, so long as he isn't lost in this storm!"

      "I came on ahead because the mail had just been brought in." As he spoke, the young man brought a small bunch of letters and papers from an inner pocket.

      "A great excitement, Isabel," said the hostess. "Only twice a week, you know."

      "There's another letter from the Denver paper," went on Phil, looking at his mother steadily.

      "You'll forgive us if we open everything, won't you, Isabel?" asked Mrs. Sidney.

      "Indeed, yes. Don't mind me." Mrs. Fabian returned to her chair by the fire and regarded the pair who seated themselves by the table.

      Phil had slipped off the damp coat, and his arm in its striped linen sleeve was thrown around his mother's shoulders.

      The visitor's eyes filled with something like envy. Kathleen and Edgar were her step-children, the boy had been five years of age when she began to be, to use her own declaration, the best stepmother in the world. Edgar would never think of reading his letters with her in this frankly affectionate attitude. Must one live on a mountain-top, she wondered, to win the sort of look she had seen in this son's eyes?

      "I've been showing your Aunt Isabel your sketches, Phil," said Mrs. Sidney, holding open a letter they had just read. "I told her about the Denver paper. This is another offer from them, Isabel, an increased offer."

      "I'm sure that's very flattering," returned Mrs. Fabian.

      Phil did not speak. His straight brows were knit in perplexity, and his lips were set in the look of longing that his mother knew.

      "I don't know this writing from New York," said Mrs. Sidney, opening the next letter.

      Glancing over it she gave a startled exclamation.

      "Whew!" breathed the boy, reading over her shoulder. "Poor Aunt Mary!"

      "Isabel, Aunt Mary has gone!" exclaimed Mrs. Sidney.

      "What! I didn't know she was ill. She wasn't ill. Who is there to attend to things? Who wrote you?"

      "Eliza Brewster. This is from her. It was very sudden. She had been at work at her easel an hour before. How sad it seems! How lonely! I wish we had both been there, Isabel. There is the letter." Phil took it across to Mrs. Fabian. "You see. She was buried day before yesterday. Oh, I'm glad we had that little interchange in the summer. Eliza loves her, but, after all, she is not her own."

      Phil mechanically opened another letter. His thoughts were with that unknown relative with cravings like to his, working through the gathering years toward a goal which had ever retreated before her. He unfolded a business letter. It enclosed a small sealed envelope addressed to himself in another handwriting.

      "Aunt Mary's!" said his mother. The son's arm was again around her as with heads close together СКАЧАТЬ