A STEP IN ADVANCE.
A week or two went by, and all who came within the circle of Mrs.
Prymmer's influence noticed a change in her, although not one of her
friends or relatives ascribed the change to its real cause.
She was softened, humbled, and quiet, and Justin, in the midst of his
perusal of the evening paper, would often hold it aside and look at her
with a puzzled face.
One day the enlightenment came, precipitated by an attack of nightmare
on the part of Captain White.
One hour after midnight the family was alarmed by a frantic screaming
and a sound of running feet. Justin and his wife, Mary, and nervous
and shrieking Mrs. Prymmer rushed to the doors of their respective
bedrooms, and found the curious spectacle presented to them of a figure
clad in white running, darting, leaping, kicking up its heels, and
apparently trying to scale the wall of the lower hall.
"Micah," called Justin, "what is the matter with you? Come back to bed."
"He's in his bare feet," cried Mrs. Prymmer, tearfully, leaning over
the banisters. "Go down to him, Justin. He'll catch his death of cold."
As his relative showed no signs of abating his extraordinary gymnastic
performances, Justin was obliged to go down, and the feminine portion
of the family hurriedly retreated behind doors as the distracted man
was led up-stairs.
Justin found him trembling violently and dripping with perspiration.
"What has got into you, Micah?" he said.
"Nightmare, boy, nightmare," replied Captain White, sinking in a heap
on his bed. "Haven't had such a thing since I was a boy, and used to
dream every night that the devil had got me."
"Was he after you to-night?"
"No, boy, no," and Captain White laid his exhausted head on the pillow.
"It was a nameless horror. I don't know what it was. Don't leave me for
awhile."
Justin had never before seen his composed relative in so disordered a
state, and in quiet sympathy he sat down beside him.
Captain White was silent for a long time, then he started up in bed and
shook his fist at some invisible enemy. "I'm blest if I let this happen
again."
"What did you say, Micah?" inquired Justin.
"Nothing, nothing," replied the elder man, evasively. "You can go now,
I'll not fall asleep again. I've got some plans to lay for to-morrow."
Justin thought no more of these plans until he was leaving the
breakfast-table, when Captain White coolly observed that at eleven
o'clock he was going to take the train for Bangor and he would like his
cousin Hippolyta to go with him.
Justin turned around in surprise. Mrs. Prymmer blushed and hung her
head, and Derrice, with a woman's wit, at once guessed the situation of
affairs and had much ado to keep from laughing.
"Yes, I'd like her to go along with me," said Captain White, "there is
a little business transaction I want her to figure in."
Still Justin did not understand, and Derrice had to come to his relief.
"Don't you see, you stupid boy," she whispered, "they're going to be
married."
Justin was thunderstruck. If Captain White had proposed to marry Miss
Gastonguay, or one of the rich and haughty Misses Potts, he could not
so thoroughly have lost his composure.
"Say something, dear," prompted Derrice. For a minute he could not
speak; then, with a ludicrous resemblance to his mother in her moments
of embarrassment, he stammered that he hoped they had considered well
the step they were about to take.
"I've considered it for nearly forty years," said Captain White,
shortly, "but never got further than consideration, the party not being
open to proposals."
Derrice turned to her mother-in-law and impulsively threw her arms
around her neck. "He is a dear good man, and will make you as happy as
the day is long." Then, to Captain White's secret delight, she shook
hands with him, and shyly offered her cheek for him to kiss. "I had
rather have you than any one for a father-in-law."
"Come, Hippolyta, we must start," said her fiancé. "Justin will find
his tongue by the time we get back."
"He has found it now," said Justin, firmly, "and he bids you Godspeed."
"I guess we can go on with that clerical blessing," observed Captain
White. "Now, Hippolyta, run up-stairs and get into that black silk of
yours."
"You don't care to be married here?" said Derrice.
"Not by that clip next door," replied Captain White, "and then the boys
would roast me to death. Hippolyta and I will keep out of the place for
a week or two, and don't let 'em know when we're coming back. Good-bye."
Derrice and her husband stood in the doorway and watched them depart.
With ready adaptability, she declared they would find the new state
of affairs a vast improvement on the old. With more worldly wisdom,
and with a strange sense of having lost some valued possession, Justin
shook his head and foresaw that the change meant a new master for the
house, and the consequent removal of himself and his wife. And yet he
was deeply attached to his cousin Micah, who certainly had a wonderful
and beneficial influence over his mother. It was all for the best. He
was glad and thankful, and yet he went to the bank with a drooping head.
Derrice darted into the parsonage and imparted her news with a most
gratifying and electrical effect to Mrs. Negus, who sat alone in the
parlour over a basket of torn stockings.
After a time, and when they had fully discussed all phases of this
surprising occurrence, Derrice seized a darning-needle and a ball of
wool, and made haste to assist her busy neighbour. Then her thoughts
reverted to the condition in which she had found her. "Dear Mrs.
Negus," she said, softly, "you were crying when I came in. I have never
seen tears in your eyes before."
"They are not often there," said the little lady, taking off her
glasses and wiping them, "but I am sick at heart, dear."
"About Mr. Huntington," said Derrice, in a low voice.
"Yes, dear."
For some time they kept to their work in silence, then Derrice spoke
again. "Is there anything we can do?"
"I have thought of talking to your husband, but perhaps I had better
leave it to you. I'll tell you how things stand. I have made such a
mistake,--such a mistake," and her lips quivered so convulsively that
she could hardly articulate.
"We all make mistakes."
"Yes, dear, but this was such a stupid one. I have made mistakes all my
life, and I have said, 'Help me, Lord, not to make this one again,' and
he does help me, but I tumble into a new one. I will never be fit to
live, till I am ready to die."
"You dear little woman, you sha'n't talk that way about yourself.
Why, the whole town considers you a saint. Didn't you leave your rich
family and marry a poor clergyman, and, not content with bringing up
your children well, you just set to work to bring up another family of
orphans, and have been so sweet and good that everybody helps you, and
your relatives give you money--"
Derrice stopped, choked by her volubility, and Mrs. Negus ejaculated,
"It is nothing, nothing, if I could only help this one soul."
"Don't cry, please tell me about it. Perhaps Justin can assist, he is
so clever."
The little lady dried her tears, and, speaking rapidly, for she was
at all times subject to an irruption of children, began: "He is so
handsome, and such an attraction for the girls, that I thought it would
be well to have him married. Chelda Gastonguay fancied him,--I knew it
from the way in which she began to pay me attention, and I encouraged
her, for I thought, Here is a girl who will have plenty of money. She
will be able to give him comforts he has always been used to, and that
he will never get on his small salary. True, she was not converted,
but she began coming to church, and I thought she soon would be, for
she would not be able to withstand his burning, loving words. My dear,
I must not be uncharitable, but I fear hers is a deadly love. I have
studied her, and I see that from the first she deliberately chose that
man for herself. She set herself to weaken his religious life, to turn
him against his people, and to lead him back to the life he once led.
He could not be unkind to a woman,--that is, what he calls unkind,--and
he has let her go on instead of sending her to the right-about. She is
very clever. I am so frightened of her that I tremble when she comes
slipping into the house. I overheard her the other day,--she wants him
to give up his church and marry her and go away."
"How dreadful!"
"And worse than that, the love is mostly on her side. She was petting
and coaxing him. I was going through the hall and the study door was
open. She thought I was out, but I wasn't, and I stopped as if I had
been paralysed. He would fling himself away and she would come back
with her wheedling ways."
"Would she do that?" said Derrice, angrily. "Oh, how could she? Has she
no pride?"
"She is mad about him, and when a woman loses her head about a man she
will do anything."
"I would not have her come here. I would forbid her the house."
"The next time she comes I must talk to her. I dread it, but it is
my duty. If she would only let him alone for a time he might recover
himself."
"He is a coward,--I have no respect for him."
"Ah, my dear, we all have our temptations. We must not be hard on each
other. My poor boy is broken-hearted. I knew weeks ago that he was
discouraged about himself, but I did not know what it was. I thought
he was too sensitive, and I would not let him talk to me. Yesterday
afternoon I went to him,--poor boy, poor boy! He has tried to save
others, and he is not saved himself. He says his heart has never been
touched. After the shock of his friend's death he made up his mind to
lead a better life. With grim determination he entered the ministry,
but he had not the power to endure. He has not been born again,--until
his whole soul is stirred by divine grace he will not be happy."
"She is a wicked woman to tempt him."
"Pity her, too, dear. She has lived only for her own gratification, and
though she has had many admirers she has been cold-hearted."
"He ought to go away."
"Yes; I said that to him yesterday, but he is torn by misgivings. This
church is his last hold on spiritual life. The instant he gives it up
that girl will marry him. I dread to see him rise in the pulpit now. I
fear he will cry out that he is a hypocrite."
"That would be honest."
"Yes, yes, but he thinks of the young trembling souls and hesitates.
Many have entered the church truly saved by his faithful ministrations;
should he proclaim himself unsaved, they will say, 'Then where are we?'"
"What do you advise, then?"
"He is going away, he says that himself, but if we could only get him
off quietly. If some one could go with him. He is not fit to be alone.
He walks his floor at night and groans--"
"I will tell Justin at once. This must be attended to," said Derrice.
"I know he will find a way out. Now what can I do to help you? I have
finished these stockings. Ah, there is the baby crying. I will go take
him up," and she ran up-stairs.
Derrice was alone with her husband at dinnertime. In rather deeper
gravity than usual he watched her presiding in his mother's place. How
dear that mother was to him in spite of her failings, and he hurriedly
began a conversation in order to forget the tug at his heart-strings.
Derrice over dessert told him what Mrs. Negus had said.
"I am not surprised," he remarked. "I would have helped him before, if
I had had any assurance that I would have been of assistance. Now the
time has come," and instead of going to the bank he went to the house
next door.
Mr. Huntington was just going out, but on seeing Justin he turned back
and preceded him to his study. Then he closed the door and confronted
him. His face was worn and there were dark circles under his eyes. He
had the appearance of a man on the verge of a serious illness, and
yet Justin had never before been so struck by his remarkable physical
beauty. Possibly this effect was aided by his involuntary pathos of
expression. He had no idea that he was appealing to his junior deacon,
that the look in his fine brown eyes was like that of an intelligent
and beautiful dumb creature about to receive a blow.
Justin saw it and was profoundly touched. This was no time for
exhortation nor for reproof, but it certainly was a time for
consolation from man to man. Bernal Huntington had had feminine
sympathy. He now craved recognition from a member of his own sex.
"I suppose you have come from the church," he said.
Justin shook his head.
"I have expected you for some time," said Mr. Huntington, wearily, "you
who ought to be pastor, and I your henchman. It is to you the people
now go for spiritual help. I am not jealous, I assure you. Come,--you
have some message from your brother deacons. They wish me to resign."
"I am no formally appointed messenger, yet, now that you mention the
brethren with whom I am associated, I may say that, although we have
had no consultation, I know every one of them recognises the fact that
you are troubled and out of health. Every one of them would be pleased
to see you take a brief holiday. You have served us faithfully so
far,--no formal complaint is made as yet. On the contrary, you have our
deepest sympathy, and I can assure you in all sincerity that, in times
when you may feel yourself alone, there are interested hearts watching
your struggles and praying for your happy issue out of them."
The young man put out his hand and gripped Justin's. "You understand?"
"I understand," said Justin. "May God help you, my dear brother. I am
going to Boston to-night. Will you go with me?"
Mr. Huntington suddenly turned from him and hid his face against the
rows of musty books on the wall.
"It was such a good man that used to tenant this room," said Justin,
softly. "I can imagine him grieving with you in your perplexities. You
will give me the pleasure of your company to-night?"
"I will," said his companion, in a choked voice. "You are going
purposely to take me-- How can I thank you?" and he groped blindly for
the friendly palm that he knew was once more outstretched toward him.
Justin went quietly down-stairs and told the agitated Mrs. Negus that
the clergyman was going on a short trip to Boston with him, then,
returning to his own home, he broke the news to Derrice.
"What--really going?" she said, growing quite pale and cold.
"Yes, darling; why are you so disturbed? It is what you wished. I am
sorry that it is not expedient to take you."
"Going away," she reiterated; "that means not coming back."
"My dear girl, what are you thinking about?"
"Oh, not you, not you,--but that poor girl, what will she do? If he
has reached the point of going away, she will see that it means a
parting for ever. Suppose I were in her place, Justin, and you in Mr.
Huntington's."
"So this suffering is vicarious; well, you must try to comfort her, and
let me suggest that it be not done openly, but in some of the subtle,
sweet ways known to your sex. And Mrs. Negus invites you to stay with
her while I am gone."
Derrice still remained pale and cold in spite of all her husband could
say to comfort her. With a passionate introspection, she comprehended
the depths of suffering awaiting the unhappy Chelda.