Other days had passed drearily since that time;but the one day that had brought with it Cecilia's letter set past happiness and present sorrow together so vividly and so cruelly that Emily's courage sank.She had forced back the tears,in her lonely home;she had gone out to seek consolation and encouragement under the sunny sky--to find comfort for her sore heart in the radiant summer beauty of flowers and grass,in the sweet breathing of the air,in the happy heavenward soaring of the birds.No!Mother Nature is stepmother to the sick at heart.Soon,too soon,she could hardly see where she went.Again and again she resolutely cleared her eyes,under the shelter of her veil,when passing strangers noticed her;and again and again the tears found their way back.Oh,if the girls at the school were to see her now--the girls who used to say in their moments of sadness,"Let us go to Emily and be cheered"--would they know her again?She sat down to rest and recover herself on the nearest bench.It was unoccupied.
No passing footsteps were audible on the remote path to which she had strayed.Solitude at home!Solitude in the Park!Where was Cecilia at that moment?In Italy,among the lake s and mountains,happy in the company of her light-hearted friend.
The lonely interval passed,and persons came near.Two sisters,girls like herself,stopped to rest on the bench.
They were full of their own interests;they hardly looked at the stranger in mourning garments.The younger sister was to be married,and the elder was to be bridesmaid.They talked of their dresses and their presents;they compared the dashing bridegroom of one with the timid lover of the other;they laughed over their own small sallies of wit,over their joyous dreams of the future,over their opinions of the guests invited to the wedding.Too joyfully restless to remain inactive any longer,they jumped up again from the seat.One of them said,"Polly,I'm too happy!"and danced as she walked away.The other cried,"Sally,for shame!"and laughed,as if she had hit on the most irresistible joke that ever was made.
Emily rose and went home.
By some mysterious influence which she was unable to trace,the boisterous merriment of the two girls had roused in her a sense of revolt against the life that she was leading.Change,speedy change,to some occupation that would force her to exert herself,presented the one promise of brighter days that she could see.To feel this was to be inevitably reminded of Sir Jervis Redwood.
Here was a man,who had never seen her,transformed by the incomprehensible operation of Chance into the friend of whom she stood in need--the friend who pointed the way to a new world of action,the busy world of readers in the library of the Museum.
Early in the new week,Emily had accepted Sir Jervis's proposal,and had so interested the bookseller to whom she had been directed to apply,that he took it on himself to modify the arbitrary instructions of his employer.
"The old gentleman has no mercy on himself,and no mercy on others,"he explained,"where his literary labors are concerned.
You must spare yourself,Miss Emily.It is not only absurd,it's cruel,to expect you to ransack old newspapers for discoveries in Yucatan,from the time when Stephens published his 'Travels in Central America'--nearly forty years since!Begin with back numbers published within a few years--say five years from the present date--and let us see what your search over that interval will bring forth."Accepting this friendly advice,Emily began with the newspaper-volume dating from New Year's Day,1876.
The first hour of her search strengthened the sincere sense of gratitude with which she remembered the bookseller's kindness.To keep her attention steadily fixed on the one subject that interested her employer,and to resist the temptation to read those miscellaneous items of news which especially interest women,put her patience and resolution to a merciless test.
Happily for herself,her neighbors on either side were no idlers.
To see them so absorbed over their work that they never once looked at her,after the first moment when she took her place between them,was to find exactly the example of which she stood most in need.As the hours wore on,she pursued her weary way,down one column and up another,resigned at least (if not quite reconciled yet)to her task.Her labors ended,for the day,with such encouragement as she might derive from the conviction of having,thus far,honestly pursued a useless search.
News was waiting for her when she reached home,which raised her sinking spirits.
On leaving the cottage that morning she had given certain instructions,relating to the modest stranger who had taken charge of her correspondence--in case of his paying a second visit,during her absence at the Museum.The first words spoken by the servant,on opening the door,informed her that the unknown gentleman had called again.This time he had boldly left his card.There was the welcome name that she had expected to see--Alban Morris.