A FAVOUR SOLICITED.
Mrs. Prymmer's next-door neighbour was her clergyman,--the Rev. Bernal
Huntington, pastor of the church of the United Brethren. It was an
immense satisfaction to her to have so near the one who ministered to
her in spiritual things, but whether it was an equal satisfaction to
the Rev. Mr. Huntington that young man had never been heard to assert.
The third day after Justin's arrival home was Sunday, and a solemn
quiet brooded over the little parsonage standing half hidden in the
shadow of the stone mansion.
The services of the day were over, and the minister had shut himself
up in his study. He had preached two moving sermons, conducted a Bible
class and attended a funeral out in the country. Probably he was tired.
Even his magnificent physique was capable of fatigue, and to the minds
of several of his fair parishioners, whose thoughts had a trick of
running toward and after him, he was at the present moment pictured in
a recumbent attitude on his haircloth sofa, musing in orthodox fashion
on the stirring evangelical eloquence with which he had that day
delighted the hearts of his hearers.
But the minister was not resting. The sly, sleepy fire spying at him
from the small stove could have revealed another state of affairs.
Stealthily it watched him as he inwardly raged to and fro in the tiny
room, threading his way among tables and chairs, footstools, and
heaped-up books and piles of manuscript. "Peace, peace to the weary,"
he had been preaching, but there was no peace for his soul. He was in
the throes of some mental conflict that furrowed his handsome face with
emotion.
Not only mentally but physically was he out of touch with his
environment. The badly made clerical coat hung scantily over his
athletic figure. His well-shaped auburn head almost touched the
low ceiling. He seemed like a triumphant wrestler thrust from the
prize-ring into the deserted haunt of a dead clergyman.
He had taken the place of a man much older than himself, a consistent
saint, a model of all the virtues. He had just been thinking
about this man, and an unutterable disgust of self oppressed him.
"Unworthy--unworthy," he muttered, "I must give it up. I shall leave
here. This is unendurable."
He was stretching out his arms as if to fly away to a more congenial
atmosphere when his attention was distracted by a clattering outside
his door and a subsequent exclamation.
"Look out, my dear boy! I'm coming; what--no light!" and a little woman
bearing a huge bowl in her hands rushed in, and, stumbling over papers
and books, managed to deposit her burden on the stove.
She was a very commonplace little woman. Her age hovered about the
middle time of life, though she had a quick, alert, almost girlish
manner. Her prevailing colour was drab,--hair, dress, and complexion.
She wore a black lace cap on her head. Each side of it were pendent
curls embracing her cheeks of dubious complexion. Her eyes were bright
and sharp, and she had a way of holding her head well up and looking
shrewdly through her spectacles at persons to whom she was talking,
as if to delude them into the belief that she was a very fierce and
quarrelsome little woman, a regular Tartar, a woman who could neither
be deceived nor beguiled into anything approaching to softness or
amiability of behaviour.
The young man sulking in a corner of the room came forward, and,
running his eyes over the various articles of furniture, all veterans
in the service of the ministry, chose for her a green-covered chair of
an eccentric shape, known to the initiated as being fashioned from two
barrels and stuffed with rags.
She shook her curls, and, waving him toward it, perched herself on a
stool at a little distance. "Make haste, and take your gruel. It's
nice and hot now, though I had a great time to get the fire to burn
up. Rebecca is so forgetful,--she always neglects to put fresh coal on
before she goes to bed."
"I don't want it," he muttered. "I'm not an invalid, and I hate sloppy
things."
"No, you're not an invalid, thank God, such as my dear husband became,
but still you must keep your strength up. I don't know that gruel is
the best thing," and she doubtfully scanned his herculean proportions.
"You look as if a joint of meat would suit you better. There's some
cold hash in the pantry; would you like it?"
"No, no," he said, hurriedly seating himself, and dipping a large
silver spoon into the gruel. "Don't trouble yourself. I'll eat this."
"It doesn't worry me when you quarrel with your food," she said, in her
sprightly way. "You just do it if you want to; I know you've been used
to better things."
"This is good enough for me," he said, taking the gruel with the utmost
rapidity in order to get quickly through with it.
"I often think how good you are," she went on, in a sweet, motherly
tone, "you are the best of my children."
"No, no," he ejaculated, suddenly putting the bowl from him and
flinging himself out of his chair, "not the best."
The little woman gazed mildly into the corner where he had again taken
refuge. She could not see him plainly. The lazy fire, that she had
stirred, had again fallen into sluggishness and slyness. She seized a
match from the mantel and lighted the gas in order that she might the
better survey the cultured yet almost brutal beauty of visage that had
so strange an influence over all her sex.
"My dear boy," she pursued, "you're excited. You have worked too hard
to-day. You had better go to bed."
"I am not tired, I am not excited, but I hate this hypocritical life--"
She would not allow him to proceed. "I am not listening," and she put
both hands over her ears. "Come, now, and sit down again and take your
gruel. I've got something interesting to tell you."
Like a sullen child he allowed himself to be once more persuaded into
a seat. She put the bowl in his hand, and with tears of pleasure
glistening in her sharp little eyes sat down and poured forth a volume
of talk.
It was not, as usual, news of the church and congregation, for her
mind was running on the Prymmer-Mercer household. Years ago Sylvester
Mercer had built this house for his beloved pastor, her husband. It
was the smallest house on the street, but it was comfortable; and ever
since she had come to it as a bride there had been a constant and
friendly communication between the two houses. The clergyman knew all
about Justin's journey to California, his return, and the dismay of
Mrs. Prymmer at the arrival of the young wife, but he was at all times
an absentminded listener, and the little woman, fearing that he had
forgotten the story, was telling it to him again.
"Poor Mrs. Prymmer, I'm sorry for her. She tries not to show it too
much, but just fancy her state of mind,--a daughter-in-law to walk in
on her so suddenly. I wish, I wish, my dear boy, that you would call on
her."
She checked her busy tongue for a minute to scrutinise nervously her
companion. It was no ordinary favour of an ordinary clergyman that she
was asking. This haughty apostle of peace was first of all a preacher
of the Word. It was tacitly understood between pastor and people, that
there should be as little communication as possible in the way of
visiting. Confidential communications were not to his liking, and this
idiosyncrasy was pardoned in him only in view of his being the most
remarkable brand snatched from the burning that had ever been held
aloft in the town of Rossignol.
He knew that only stress of circumstances would induce his housekeeper
to ask such a favour of him as a call at a house where there was to be
neither a funeral nor a wedding, and, holding this same housekeeper
in an affection that was almost filial, he threw her a glance that
emboldened her to proceed.
"You see, my dear boy, young men will marry. There's no use in mothers
holding out; but if they are smoothed down at first it makes things a
lot easier, especially if the daughter-in-law has to live in the same
house with them."
"My sympathy is with the daughter-in-law in this case," said the young
man, brusquely.
"Mine, too," said the little woman, then she made haste to qualify her
remark, "but Mrs. Prymmer is a very thoughtful woman; only yesterday
she brought over two jars of strawberry preserves."
Mr. Huntington suppressed a slight sneer as he thought of the absent
Mrs. Prymmer, and, wearily trying to exhibit a little interest in
the subject in order to gratify his housekeeper, asked, "What is the
daughter-in-law like?"
"She is like a wax doll," said Mrs. Negus, promptly, "those big ones
you see in shop windows, with yellow hair and pink cheeks. I have only
seen her for a minute, though. I ran in before church this evening,
and Mrs. Prymmer let me take a peep at her as she sat in the parlour
playing on the organ to her husband. I couldn't see her eyes. I guess
they are blue-- Dear me, this is very frivolous conversation for an old
lady on Sabbath Day. Did you have a good service out at Indian Gardens
this evening?"
"Yes, very good."
"We had a very poor preacher in your place. I heard some of the people
grumbling because you were away."
The cloud came back to his brow. "If they knew," he said, passionately,
"if they knew--"
She jumped to her small feet. "I think I'll run away. You ought to go
to bed. I'll have breakfast a little later in the morning. You'll think
about calling on Mrs. Prymmer?"
"No, not think about it, I'll do it. It is only those social, prattling
visits I object to. I am glad to please you,--you, who have been more
like a true mother than my--than many mothers are."
"Ah, you have a kind heart," she said, slowly shaking her head, "a
good, kind heart. You are a comfort to me, a great comfort, and I know
it will also please you to do good to Mrs. Prymmer. She has always been
so sore about that Mr. Lancaster,--and to think that her son should go
and marry his daughter."
At the mention of Mr. Lancaster's name a curious gleam shot across Mr.
Huntington's brown eyes. "What Mr. Lancaster do you mean?"
"Dear me, you're the least inclined to gossip of any man I ever saw.
Why, I heard Mrs. Prymmer myself telling you all about that rich man
who is so odd, and who often sends for Justin to go away and see him.
Don't you know she asked you not to tell?"
"I don't remember hearing of him."
"Gossip just goes in one ear and out the other with you," she said,
admiringly. "Well, he's a man that--"
"What is the Christian name of this young lady?" asked the clergyman,
as she paused to take breath for what promised to be a lengthy recital.
"Derrice; I don't know whether she has any middle name or not, but I
can easily find out. I wish you would take an interest in her, for if
you do, and just speak to Mrs. Prymmer a few words about submission to
the will of Providence, it will comb things out beautifully. You have a
kind of way with women that makes them mind what you say."
The young clergyman's face grew a yet deeper colour. "What way do you
mean?"
"A kind of settling way. Just look at the quarrels you've made up in
this church. You see you have had experience in life. You have been
rich and influential, and you have travelled more than the most of
us. That gives you weight," and in sturdy, honest admiration, her
dun-coloured eyes shone briskly at him through her glasses.
"I have not had as much experience as you think," he said, with only
a remnant of his irritation. She had exorcised the demon,--she could
now leave him, and a sudden cry hastened her tarrying feet. "Goodness,
there is that baby again. If he has croup I'll have to send out and
borrow alum. I haven't a bit in the house."
Her thoughts, however, were not altogether on the baby, as her little
feet pattered over the painted wooden floor of the hall. "Thank
God, that fit came on him when he was alone. It is strange that he
gets so dissatisfied. I wish I could always be with him, but that's
impossible-- Now, baby, what's the matter with you?" and she bent over
a red-faced child sitting up and coughing in a crib.
Mr. Huntington closed and locked the door after she left the room. His
next proceeding was to dig a hole in a flower-pot on the window and
empty the rest of the gruel in it. Then he took from a shelf a small
box and, drawing a key from his pocket, threw back the lid. Inside were
several photographs, all of women. He turned them out to find a pencil
sketch at the bottom. A young girl sat in the centre of a clearing
among prairie grass, her hands crossed, her face turned up to the
sky. At a little distance stood a man watching her. The girl was the
young wife next door, the man was himself,--Bernal Huntington, former
worldling, now a humble minister of the gospel.
"Little Derrice," he murmured, and he put the sketch back in the box
and replaced it on the shelf. As he did so, his eyes fell on a framed
crucifixion on the wall. His expression altered again, and ejaculating,
"God be merciful to me, a sinner!" he fell on his knees and sank into a
paroxysm of prayer.