An
Alabaster Box
By
Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
and
Florence Morse Kingsley
Illustrated by
Stockton Mulford
D. Appleton and Company
New York London
1917
......There came a woman, having an alabaster box of ointment, very
precious; and she broke the box.....
Contents
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
Chapter I.
“We,” said Mrs. Solomon Black with weighty emphasis, “are going to get
up a church fair and raise that money, and we are going to pay your
salary. We can’t stand it another minute. We had better run in debt to
the butcher and baker than to the Lord.”
Wesley Elliot regarded her gloomily. “I never liked the idea of church
fairs very well,” he returned hesitatingly. “It has always seemed to me
like sheer beggary.”
“Then,” said Mrs. Solomon Black, “we will beg.”
Mrs. Solomon Black was a woman who had always had her way. There was
not one line which denoted yielding in her large, still handsome face,
set about with very elaborate water-waves which she had arranged so
many years that her black hair needed scarcely any attention. It would
almost seem as if Mrs. Solomon Black had been born with water waves.
She spoke firmly but she smiled, as his mother might have done, at the
young man, who had preached his innocent best in Brookville for months
without any emolument.
“Now don’t you worry one mite about it,” said she. “Church fairs may be
begging, but they belong to the history of the United States of
America, and I miss my guess if there would have been much preaching of
the gospel in a good many places without them. I guess it ain’t any
worse to hold church fairs in this country than it is to have the
outrageous goings on in the old country. I guess we can cheat a little
with mats and cakes and things and not stand any more danger of
hell-fire than all those men putting each other’s eyes out and killing
everybody they can hit, and spending the money for guns and awful
exploding stuff that ought to go for the good of the world. I ain’t
worried one mite about church fairs when the world is where it is now.
You just run right into your study, Mr. Elliot, and finish your sermon;
and there’s a pan of hot doughnuts on the kitchen table. You go through
the kitchen and get some doughnuts. We had breakfast early and you
hadn’t ought to work too hard on an empty stomach. You run along. Don’t
you worry. All this is up to me and Maria Dodge and Abby Daggett and a
few others. You haven’t got one blessed thing to do with it. All you’ve
got to do is to preach as well as you can, and keep us from a free
fight. Almost always there is a fuss when women get up a fair. If you
can preach the gospel so we are all on speaking terms when it is
finished, you will earn your money twice over. Run along.”
Wesley Elliot obeyed. He always obeyed, at least in the literal sense,
when Mrs. Solomon Black ordered him. There was about her a fairly
masterly maternity. She loved the young minister as firmly for his own
good as if he had been her son. She chuckled happily when she heard him
open the kitchen door. “He’ll light into those hot doughnuts,” she
thought. She loved to pet the boy in the man.
Wesley Elliot in his study upstairs—a makeshift of a study—sat munching
hot doughnuts and reflecting. He had only about one-third of his sermon
written and it was Saturday, but that did not disturb him. He had a
quick-moving mind. He sometimes wondered whether it did not move too
quickly. Wesley was not a conceited man in one sense. He never had
doubt of his power, but he had grave doubts of the merits of his
productions. However, today he was glad of the high rate of speed of
which he was capable, and did not worry as much as he sometimes did
about his landing at the exact goal. He knew very well that he could
finish his sermon, easily, eat his doughnuts, and sit reflecting as
long as he chose. He chose to do so for a long time, although his
reflections were not particularly happy ones. When he had left the
theological seminary a year ago, he had had his life planned out so
exactly that it did not seem possible to him that the plans could fail.
He had graduated at the head of his class. He had had no doubt of a
city church. One of the professors, a rich man with much influence, had
practically promised him one. Wesley went home to his doting mother,
and told her the news. Wesley’s mother believed in much more than the
city church. She believed her son to be capable of anything. “I shall
have a large salary, mother,” boasted Wesley, “and you shall have the
best clothes money can buy, and the parsonage is sure to be beautiful.”
“How will your old mother look in fine feathers, in such a beautiful
home?” asked Wesley’s mother, but she asked as a lovely, much-petted
woman asks such a question. She had her little conscious smile all
ready for the rejoinder which she knew her son would not fail to give.
He was very proud of his mother.
“Why, mother,” he said, “as far as that goes, I wouldn’t balk at a
throne for you as queen dowager.”
“You are a silly boy,” said Mrs. Elliot, but she stole a glance at
herself in an opposite mirror, and smiled complacently. She did not
look old enough to be the mother of her son. She was tall and slender,
and fair-haired, and she knew how to dress well on her very small
income. She was rosy, and carried herself with a sweet serenity. People
said Wesley would not need a wife as long as he had such a mother. But
he did not have her long. Only a month later she died, and while the
boy was still striving to play the rôle of hero in that calamity, there
came news of another. His professor friend had a son in the trenches.
The son had been wounded, and the father had obeyed a hurried call,
found his son dead, and himself died of the shock on the return voyage.
Wesley, mourning the man who had been his stanch friend, was guiltily
conscious of his thwarted ambition. “There goes my city church,” he
thought, and flung the thought back at himself in anger at his own
self-seeking. He was forced into accepting the first opportunity which
offered. His mother had an annuity, which he himself had insisted upon
for her greater comfort. When she died, the son was nearly penniless,
except for the house, which was old and in need of repair.
He rented that as soon as he received his call to Brookville, after
preaching a humiliating number of trial sermons in other places. Wesley
was of the lowly in mind, with no expectation of inheriting the earth,
when he came to rest in the little village and began boarding at Mrs.
Solomon Black’s. But even then he did not know how bad the situation
really was. He had rented his house, and the rent kept him in decent
clothes, but not enough books. He had only a little shelf filled with
the absolutely necessary volumes, most of them relics of his college
course. He did not know that there was small chance of even his meager
salary being paid until June, and he had been ordained in February. He
had wondered why nobody said anything about his reimbursement. He had
refrained from mentioning it, to even his deacons.
Mrs. Solomon Black had revealed the state of affairs, that morning.
“You may as well know,” said she. “There ain’t a cent to pay you, and I
said when you came that if we couldn’t pay for gospel privileges we
should all take to our closets and pray like Sam Hill, and no charge;
but they wouldn’t listen to me, though I spoke right out in conference
meeting and it’s seldom a woman does that, you know. Folks in this
place have been hanging onto the ragged edge of nothing so long they
don’t seem to sense it. They thought the money for your salary was
going to be brought down from heaven by a dove or something, when all
the time, those wicked flying things are going round on the other side
of the earth, and there don’t seem as if there could be a dove left.
Well, now that the time’s come when you ought to be paid, if there’s
any decency left in the place, they comes to me and says, ‘Oh, Mrs.
Black, what shall we do?’ I said, ‘Why didn’t you listen when I spoke
out in meeting about our not being able to afford luxuries like gospel
preaching?’ and they said they thought matters would have improved by
this time. Improved! How, I’d like to know? The whole world is sliding
down hill faster and faster every minute, and folks in Brookville think
matters are going to improve, when they are sliding right along with
the Emperor of Germany and the King of England, and all the rest of the
big bugs. I can’t figure it out, but in some queer, outlandish way that
war over there has made it so folks in Brookville can’t pay their
minister’s salary. They didn’t have much before, but such a one got a
little for selling eggs and chickens that has had to eat them, and the
street railway failed, and the chair factory, that was the only
industry left here, failed, and folks that had a little to pay had to
eat their payings. And here you are, and it’s got to be the fair. Seems
queer the war in Europe should be the means of getting up a fair in
Brookville, but I guess it’ll get up more’n that before they’re through
fighting.”
All this had been the preliminary to the speech which sent Wesley forth
for doughnuts, then to his study, ostensibly to finish his lovely
sermon, but in reality to think thoughts which made his young forehead,
of almost boyhood, frown, and his pleasant mouth droop, then
inexplicably smooth and smile. It was a day which no man in the flush
of youth could resist. That June day fairly rioted in through the open
windows. Mrs. Black’s muslin curtains danced in the June breeze like
filmy-skirted nymphs. Wesley, whose imagination was active, seemed to
see forced upon his eager, yet reluctant, eyes, radiant maidens,
flinging their white draperies about, dancing a dance of the innocence
which preludes the knowledge of love. Sweet scents came in through the
windows, almond scents, honey scents, rose scents, all mingled into an
ineffable bouquet of youth and the quest of youth.
Wesley rose stealthily; he got his hat; he tiptoed across the room.
Heavens! how thankful he was for access to the back stairs. Mrs. Black
was sweeping the parlor, and the rear of the house was deserted. Down
the precipitous back stairs crept the young minister, listening to the
sound of the broom on Mrs. Black’s parlor carpet. As long as that
regular swish continued he was safe. Through the kitchen he passed,
feeling guilty as he smelled new peas cooking for his delectation on
Mrs. Black’s stove. Out of the kitchen door, under the green hood of
the back porch, and he was afield, and the day had him fast. He did not
belong any more to his aspirations, to his high and noble ambitions, to
his steadfast purpose in life. He belonged to the spring of the planet
from which his animal life had sprung. Young Wesley Elliot became one
with June, with eternal youth, with joy which escapes care, with the
present which has nothing to do with the past or the future, with that
day sufficient unto itself, that day dangerous for those whose feet are
held fast by the toils of the years.
Wesley sped across a field which was like a field of green glory. He
saw a hollow like a nest, blue with violets, and all his thoughts
leaped with irresponsive joy. He crossed a brook on rocky stones, as if
he were crossing a song. A bird sang in perfect tune with his mood. He
was bound for a place which had a romantic interest for him: the
unoccupied parsonage, which he could occupy were he supplied with a
salary and had a wife. He loved to sit on the back veranda and dream.
Sometimes he had company. Brookville was a hot little village, with a
long line of hills cutting off the south wind, but on that back veranda
of the old parsonage there was always a breeze. Sometimes it seemed
mysterious to Wesley, that breeze. It never failed in the hottest days.
Now that the parsonage was vacant, women often came there with their
needlework of an afternoon, and sat and sewed and chatted. Wesley knew
of the custom, and had made them welcome. But sometimes of a morning a
girl came. Wesley wondered if she would be there that morning. After he
had left the field, he plunged knee-deep through the weedage of his
predecessor’s garden, and heart-deep into luxuriant ranks of dewy
vegetables which he, in the intervals of his mental labors, should
raise for his own table. Wesley had an inherent love of gardening which
he had never been in a position to gratify. Wesley was, in fancy,
eating his own green peas and squashes and things when he came in sight
of the back veranda. It was vacant, and his fancy sank in his mind like
a plummet of lead. However, he approached, and the breeze of blessing
greeted him like a presence.
The parsonage was a gray old shadow of a building. Its walls were
stained with past rains, the roof showed depressions, the veranda steps
were unsteady, in fact one was gone. Wesley mounted and seated himself
in one of the gnarled old rustic chairs which defied weather. From
where he sat he could see a pink and white plumage of blossoms over an
orchard; even the weedy garden showed lovely lights under the
triumphant June sun. Butterflies skimmed over it, always in pairs, now
and then a dew-light like a jewel gleamed out, and gave a delectable
thrill of mystery. Wesley wished the girl were there. Then she came. He
saw a flutter of blue in the garden, then a face like a rose overtopped
the weeds. The sunlight glanced from a dark head, giving it high-lights
of gold.
The girl approached. When she saw the minister, she started, but not as
if with surprise; rather as if she had made ready to start. She stood
at the foot of the steps, glowing with blushes, but still not confused.
She smiled with friendly confidence. She was very pretty and she wore a
delicious gown, if one were not a woman, to observe the lack of fashion
and the faded streaks, and she carried a little silk work-bag.
Wesley rose. He also blushed, and looked more confused than the girl.
“Good morning, Miss Dodge,” he said. His hands twitched a little.
Fanny Dodge noted his confusion quite calmly. “Are you busy?” said she.
“You are laughing at me, Miss Dodge. What on earth am I busy about?”
“Oh,” said the girl. “Of course I have eyes, and I can see that you are
not writing; but I can’t see your mind, or your thoughts. For all I
know, they may be simply grinding out a sermon, and today is Saturday.
I don’t want to break up the meeting.” She laughed.
“Come on up here,” said Wesley with camaraderie. “You know I am not
doing a blessed thing. I can finish my sermon in an hour after dinner.
Come on up. The breeze is heavenly. What have you got in that bag?”
“I,” stated Fanny Dodge, mounting the steps, “have my work in my bag. I
am embroidering a center-piece which is to be sold for at least twice
its value—for I can’t embroider worth a cent—at the fair.” She sat down
beside him, and fished out of the bag a square of white linen and some
colored silks.
“Mrs. Black has just told me about that fair,” said Wesley. “Say, do
you know, I loathe the idea of it?”
“Why? A fair is no end of fun. We always have them.”
“Beggary.”
“Nonsense!”
“Yes, it is. I might just as well put on some black glasses, get a
little dog with a string, and a basket, and done with it.”
The girl giggled. “I know what you mean,” said she, “but your salary
has to be paid, and folks have to be cajoled into handing out the
money.” Suddenly she looked troubled. “If there is any to hand,” she
added.
“I want you to tell me something and be quite frank about it.”
Fanny shot a glance at him. Her lashes were long, and she could look
through them with liquid fire of dark eyes.
“Well?” said she. She threaded a needle with pink silk.
“Is Brookville a very poor village?”
Fanny inserted her pink-threaded needle into the square of linen.
“What,” she inquired with gravity, “is the past tense of bust?”
“I am in earnest.”
“So am I. But I know a minister is never supposed to know about such a
word as bust, even if he is bust two-thirds of his life. I’ll tell you.
First Brookville was bust, now it’s busted.”
Wesley stared at her.
“Fact,” said Fanny, calmly, starting a rose on the linen in a career of
bloom. “First, years ago, when I was nothing but a kid, Andrew
Bolton—you have heard of Andrew Bolton?”
“I have heard him mentioned. I have never understood why everybody was
so down on him, though he is serving a term in prison, I believe.
Nobody seems to like to explain.”
“The reason for that is plain enough,” stated Fanny. “Nobody likes to
admit he’s been made a fool of. The man who takes the gold brick always
tries to hide it if he can’t blame it off on his wife or sister or
aunt. Andrew Bolton must have made perfectly awful fools of everybody
in Brookville. They must have thought of him as a little tin god on
wheels till he wrecked the bank and the silk factory, and ran off with
a lot of money belonging to his disciples, and got caught by the hand
of the law, and landed in State’s Prison. That’s why they don’t tell.
Reckon my poor father, if he were alive, wouldn’t tell. I didn’t have
anything to do with it, so I am telling. When Andrew Bolton embezzled
the town went bust. Now the war in Europe, through the grinding of
wheels which I can’t comprehend, has bankrupted the street railway and
the chair factory, and the town is busted.”
“But, as you say, if there is no money, why a fair?” Wesley had paled a
little.
“Oh,” replied the girl, “there is always the hoarding instinct to be
taken into account. There are still a lot of stockings and feather beds
and teapots in Brookville. We still have faith that a fair can mine a
little gold out of them for you. Of course we don’t know, but this is a
Yankee village, and Yankees never do spend the last cent. I admit you
may get somebody’s funeral expenses out of the teapot.”
“Good Lord!” groaned Wesley.
“That,” remarked the girl, “is almost swearing. I am surprised, and you
a minister.”
“But it is an awful state of things.”
“Well,” said Fanny, “Mrs. B. H. Slocum may come over from Grenoble. She
used to live here, and has never lost her interest in Brookville. She
is rich. She can buy a lot, and she is very good-natured about being
cheated for the gospel’s sake. Then, too, Brookville has never lost its
guardian angels.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“What I say. The faith of the people here in guardian angels is a
wonderful thing. Sometimes it seems to me as if all Brookville
considered itself under special guardianship, sort of a hen-and-chicken
arrangement, you know. Anyhow, they do go ahead and undertake the
craziest things, and come out somehow.”
“I think,” said Wesley Elliot soberly, “that I ought to resign.”
Then the girl paled, and bent closer over her work. “Resign!” she
gasped.
“Yes, resign. I admit I haven’t enough money to live without a salary,
though I would like to stay here forever.” Wesley spoke with fervor,
his eyes on the girl.
“Oh, no, you wouldn’t.”
“I most certainly would, but I can’t run in debt, and—I want to marry
some day—like other young men—and I must earn.”
The girl bent her head lower. “Why don’t you resign and go away, and
get—married, if you want to?”
“Fanny!”
He bent over her. His lips touched her hair. “You know,” he began—then
came a voice like the legendary sword which divides lovers for their
best temporal and spiritual good.
“Dinner is ready and the peas are getting cold,” said Mrs. Solomon
Black.
Then it happened that Wesley Elliot, although a man and a clergyman,
followed like a little boy the large woman with the water-waves through
the weedage of the pastoral garden, and the girl sat weeping awhile
from mixed emotions of anger and grief. Then she took a little puff
from her bag, powdered her nose, straightened her hair and, also, went
home, bag in hand, to her own noon dinner.