Elliot slept later than usual the morning after the fair. Generally he
slept the beautiful, undisturbed sleep of the young and healthy; that
night, for some reason, he did not. Possibly the strange break which
the buying of the fair had made in the course of his everyday life
caused one also between his conscious and unconscious state, which his
brain refused to bridge readily. Wesley had not been brought face to
face, many times in his life, with the unprecedented. He had been
brought before it, although in a limited fashion, at the church fair.
The unprecedented is more or less shattering, partaking of the nature
of a spiritual bomb. Lydia Orr’s mad purchase of that collection of
things called a fair disturbed his sense of values. He asked himself
over and over who was this girl? More earnestly he asked himself what
her motives could be.
But the question which most agitated him was his relations with the
girl, Fanny Dodge. He realized that recently he had approached the
verge of an emotional crisis. If Mrs. Black whom he had at the time
fairly cursed in his heart, in spite of his profession, had not
appeared with her notice of dinner, he would be in a most unpleasant
predicament. Only the girl’s innate good sense could have served as a
refuge, and he reflected with the utmost tenderness that he might
confidently rely upon that. He was almost sure that the poor girl loved
him. He was quite sure that he loved her. But he was also sure, with a
strong sense of pride in her, that she would have refused him, not on
mercenary grounds, for Fanny he knew would have shared a crust and
hovel with the man she loved; but Fanny would love the man too well to
consent to the crust and the hovel, on his own account. She would not
have said in so many words, “What! marry you, a minister so poor that a
begging fair has to be held to pay his salary?” She would have not
refused him her love and sympathy, but she would have let him down so
gently from the high prospect of matrimony that he would have suffered
no jolt.
Elliot was a good fellow. It was on the girl’s account that he
suffered. He suffered, as a matter of course. He wanted Fanny badly,
but he realized himself something of a cad. He discounted his own
suffering; perhaps, as he told himself with sudden suspicion of
self-conceit, he overestimated hers. Still, he was sure that the girl
would suffer more than he wished. He blamed himself immeasurably. He
tried to construct air castles which would not fall, even before the
impact of his own thoughts, in which he could marry this girl and live
with her happily ever after, but the man had too much common sense. He
did not for a moment now consider the possibility of stepping, without
influence, into a fat pastorate. He was sure that he could count
confidently upon nothing better than this.
The next morning he looked about his room wearily, and a plan which he
had often considered grew upon him. He got the keys of the unoccupied
parsonage next door, from Mrs. Black, and went over the house after
breakfast. It was rather a spacious house, old, but in tolerable
preservation. There was a southeast room of one story in height,
obviously an architectural afterthought, which immediately appealed to
him. It was practically empty except for charming possibilities, but it
contained a few essentials, and probably the former incumbent had used
it as a study. There was a wood stove, a standing desk fixed to the
wall, some shelves, an old table, and a couple of armchairs. Wesley at
once resolved to carry out his plan. He would move his small store of
books from his bedroom at Mrs. Black’s, arrange them on the shelves,
and set up his study there. He was reasonably sure of obtaining wood
enough for a fire to heat the room when the weather was cold.
He returned and told Mrs. Black, who agreed with him that the plan was
a good one. “A minister ought to have his study,” said she, “and of
course the parsonage is at your disposal. The parish can’t rent it.
That room used to be the study, and you will have offers of all the
wood you want to heat it. There’s plenty of cut wood that folks are
glad to donate. They’ve always sent loads of wood to heat the
minister’s study. Maybe they thought they’d stand less chance of hell
fire if they heated up the gospel in this life.”
“Then I’ll move my books and writing materials right over there,” said
Elliot with a most boyish glee.
Mrs. Black nodded approvingly. “So I would.” She hesitated a moment,
then she spoke again. “I was just a little bit doubtful about taking
that young woman in yesterday,” said she.
Elliot regarded her curiously. “Then you never had met her before?”
“No, she just landed here with her trunk. The garage man brought her,
and she said he told her I took boarders, and she asked me to take her.
I don’t know but I was kind of weak to give in, but the poor little
thing looked sort of nice, and her manners were pretty, so I took her.
I thought I would ask you how you felt about it this morning, but there
ain’t any reason to, perhaps, for she ain’t going to stay here very
long, anyway. She says she’s going to buy the old Bolton place and have
it fixed up and settle down there as soon as she can. She told me after
you had gone out. She’s gone now to look at it. Mr. Whittle was going
to meet her there. Queer, ain’t it?”
“It does look extraordinary, rather,” agreed Elliot, “but Miss Orr may
be older than she looks.”
“Oh, she ain’t old, but she’s of age. She told me that, and I guess
she’s got plenty of money.”
“Well,” said Elliot, “that is rather a fine old place. She may be
connected with the Bolton family.”
“That’s exactly what I think, and if she was she wouldn’t mention it,
of course. I think she’s getting the house in some sort of a business
way. Andrew Bolton may have died in prison by this time, and she may be
an heir. I think she is going to be married and have the house fixed up
to live in.”
“That sounds very probable.”
“Yes, it does; but what gets me is her buying that fair. I own I felt a
little scared, and wondered if she had all her buttons, but when she
told me about the house I knew of course she could use the things for
furnishing, all except the cake and candy, and I suppose if she’s got a
lot of money she thought she’d like to buy to help. I feel glad she’s
coming. She may be a real help in the church. Now don’t color up.
Ministers have to take help. It’s part of their discipline.”
Sometimes Mrs. Solomon Black said a wise and consoling thing. Elliot,
moving his effects to the old parsonage, considered that she had done
so then. “She is right. I have no business to be proud in the
profession calling for the lowly-hearted of the whole world,” he told
himself.
After he had his books arranged he sat down in an armchair beside a
front window, and felt rather happy and at home. He reproached himself
for his content when he read the morning paper, and considered the
horrors going on in Europe. Why should he, an able-bodied man, sit
securely in a room and gaze out at a peaceful village street? he asked
himself as he had scores of times before. Then the imperial individual,
which obtrudes even when conscience cries out against it, occupied his
mind. Pretty Fanny Dodge in her blue linen was passing. She never once
glanced at the parsonage. Forgetting his own scruples and resolves, he
thought unreasonably that she might at least glance up, if she had the
day before at all in her mind. Suddenly the unwelcome reflection that
he might not be as desirable as he had thought himself came over him.
He got up, put on his hat, and walked rapidly in the direction of the
old Bolton house. Satisfying his curiosity might serve as a palliative
to his sudden depression with regard to his love affair. It is very
much more comfortable to consider oneself a cad, and acknowledge to
oneself love for a girl, and be sure of her unfortunate love for you,
than to consider oneself the dupe of the girl. Fanny had a keen sense
of humor. Suppose she had been making fun of him. Suppose she had her
own aspirations in other quarters. He walked on until he reached the
old Bolton house. The door stood open, askew upon rusty hinges. Wesley
Elliot entered and glanced about him with growing curiosity. The room
was obviously a kitchen, one side being occupied by a huge brick
chimney inclosing a built-in range half devoured with rust; wall
cupboards, a sink and a decrepit table showed gray and ugly in the
greenish light of two tall windows, completely blocked on the outside
with over-grown shrubs. An indescribable odor of decaying plaster,
chimney-soot and mildew hung in the heavy air.
A door to the right, also half open, led the investigator further. Here
the floor shook ominously under foot, suggesting rotten beams and
unsteady sills. The minister walked cautiously, noting in passing a
portrait defaced with cobwebs over the marble mantelpiece and the great
circular window opening upon an expanse of tangled grass and weeds,
through which the sun streamed hot and yellow. Voices came from an
adjoining room; he could hear Deacon Whittle’s nasal tones upraised in
fervid assertion.
“Yes, ma’am!” he was saying, “this house is a little out of repair, you
can see that fer yourself; but it’s well built; couldn’t be better. A
few hundred dollars expended here an’ there’ll make it as good as new;
in fact, I’ll say better’n new! They don’t put no such material in
houses nowadays. Why, this woodwork—doors, windows, floors and all—is
clear, white pine. You can’t buy it today for no price. Costs as much
as m’hogany, come to figure it out. Yes, _ma’am!_ the woodwork alone in
this house is worth the price of one of them little new shacks a
builder’ll run up in a couple of months. And look at them mantelpieces,
pure tombstone marble; and all carved like you see. Yes, ma’am! there’s
as many as seven of ’em in the house. Where’ll you find anything like
that, I’d like to know!”
“I—think the house might be made to look very pleasant, Mr. Whittle,”
Lydia replied, in a hesitating voice.
Wesley Elliot fancied he could detect a slight tremor in its even flow.
He pushed open the door and walked boldly in.
“Good-morning, Miss Orr,” he exclaimed, advancing with outstretched
hand. “Good-morning, Deacon! ...Well, well! what a melancholy old ruin
this is, to be sure. I never chanced to see the interior before.”
Deacon Whittle regarded his pastor sourly from under puckered brows.
“Some s’prised to see _you_, dominie,” said he. “Thought you was
generally occupied at your desk of a Friday morning.”
The minister included Lydia Orr in the genial warmth of his smile as he
replied:
“I had a special call into the country this morning, and seeing your
conveyance hitched to the trees outside, Deacon, I thought I’d step in.
I’m not sure it’s altogether safe for all of us to be standing in the
middle of this big room, though. Sills pretty well rotted out—eh,
Deacon?”
“Sound as an oak,” snarled the Deacon. “As I was telling th’ young
lady, there ain’t no better built house anywheres ’round than this one.
Andrew Bolton didn’t spare other folks’ money when he built it—no,
_sir!_ It’s good for a hundred years yet, with trifling repairs.”
“Who owns the house now?” asked Lydia unexpectedly. She had walked over
to one of the long windows opening on a rickety balcony and stood
looking out.
“Who owns it?” echoed Deacon Whittle. “Well, now, we can give you a
clear title, ma’am, when it comes to that; sound an’ clear. You don’t
have to worry none about that. You see it was this way; dunno as
anybody’s mentioned it in your hearing since you come to Brookville;
but we use to have a bank here in Brookville, about eighteen years ago,
and—”
“Yes, Ellen Dix told me,” interrupted Lydia Orr, without turning her
head. “Has nobody lived here since?”
Deacon Whittle cast an impatient glance at Wesley Elliot, who stood
with his eyes fixed broodingly on the dusty floor.
“Wal,” said he. “There’d have been plenty of folks glad enough to live
here; but the house wa’n’t really suited to our kind o’ folks. It
wa’n’t a farm—there being only twenty acres going with it. And you see
the house is different to what folks in moderate circumstances could
handle. Nobody had the cash to buy it, an’ ain’t had, all these years.
It’s a pity to see a fine old property like this a-going down, all for
the lack of a few hundreds. But if you was to buy it, ma’am, I could
put it in shape fer you, equal to the best, and at a figure— Wall; I
tell ye, it won’t cost ye what some folks’d think.”
“Didn’t that man—the banker who stole—everybody’s money, I mean—didn’t
he have any family?” asked Lydia, still without turning her head. “I
suppose he—he died a long time ago?”
“I see the matter of th’ title’s worrying you, ma’am,” said Deacon
Whittle briskly. “I like to see a female cautious in a business way: I
do, indeed. And ’tain’t often you see it, neither. Now, I’ll tell
_you_—”
“Wouldn’t it be well to show Miss Orr some more desirable property,
Deacon?” interposed Wesley Elliot. “It seems to me—”
“Oh, I shall buy the house,” said the girl at the window, quickly.
She turned and faced the two men, her delicate head thrown back, a
clear color staining her pale cheeks.
“I shall buy it,” she repeated. “I—I like it very much. It is just what
I wanted—in—in every way.”
Deacon Whittle gave vent to a snort of astonishment.
“There was another party looking at the place a spell back,” he said,
rubbing his dry old hands. “I dunno’s I exac’ly give him an option on
it; but I was sort of looking for him to turn up ’most any day. Course
I’d have to give him the first chance, if it comes to a—”
“What is an option?” asked Lydia.
“An option is a—now, let me see if I can make a legal term plain to the
female mind: An option, my dear young lady, is—”
The minister crossed the floor to where the girl was standing, a
slight, delicate figure in her black dress, her small face under the
shadowy brim of her wide hat looking unnaturally pale in the greenish
light from without.
“An option,” he interposed hurriedly, “must be bought with money;
should you change your mind later you lose whatever you have paid. Let
me advise you—”
Deacon Whittle cleared his throat with an angry, rasping sound.
“Me an’ this young lady came here this morning for the purpose of
transacting a little business, mutually advantageous,” he snarled. “If
it was anybody but the dominie, I should say he was butting in without
cause.”
“Oh, don’t, please!” begged the girl. “Mr. Elliot meant it kindly, I’m
sure. I—I want an option, if you please. You’ll let me have it, won’t
you? I want it—now.”
Deacon Whittle blinked and drew back a pace or two, as if her eagerness
actually frightened him.
“I—I guess I can accommodate ye,” he stuttered; “but—there’ll be some
preliminaries—I wa’n’t exactly prepared— There’s the price of the
property and the terms— S’pose likely you’ll want a mortgage—eh?”
He rubbed his bristly chin dubiously.
“I want to buy the house,” Lydia said. “I want to be sure—”
“Have you seen the rooms upstairs?” asked the minister, turning his
back upon his senior deacon.
She shook her head.
“Well, then, why not—”
Wesley Elliot took a step or two toward the winding stair, dimly seen
through the gloom of the hall.
“Hold on, dominie, them stairs ain’t safe!” warned the Deacon. “They’ll
mebbe want a little shoring up, before— Say, I wish—”
“I don’t care to go up now, really,” protested the girl. “It—it’s the
location I like and—”
She glanced about the desolate place with a shiver. The air of the
long-closed rooms was chilly, despite the warmth of the June day
outside.
“I’ll tell you what,” said the deacon briskly. “You come right along
down to the village with me, Miss Orr. It’s kind of close in here; the
house is built so tight, there can’t no air git in. I tell you, them
walls—”
He smote the one nearest him with a jocular palm. There followed the
hollow sound of dropping plaster from behind the lath.
“Guess we’d better fix things up between us, so you won’t be noways
disappointed in case that other party—” he added, with a crafty glance
at the minister. “You see, he might turn up ’most any day.”
“Oh, yes!” exclaimed the girl, walking hurriedly to the door. “I—I
should like to go at once.”
She turned and held out her hand to the minister with a smile.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I wanted you to see the house as it
is now.”
He looked down into her upturned face with its almost childish appeal
of utter candor, frowning slightly.
“Have you no one—that is, no near relative to advise you in the
matter?” he asked. “The purchase of a large property, such as this,
ought to be carefully considered, I should say.”
Deacon Whittle coughed in an exasperated manner.
“I guess we’d better be gitting along,” said he, “if we want to catch
Jedge Fulsom in his office before he goes to dinner.”
Lydia turned obediently.
“I’m coming,” she said.
Then to Elliot: “No; there is no one to—to advise me. I am obliged to
decide for myself.”
Wesley Elliot returned to Brookville and his unfinished sermon by a
long detour which led him over the shoulder of a hill overlooking the
valley. He did not choose to examine his motive for avoiding the road
along which Fanny Dodge would presently return. But as the path,
increasingly rough and stony as it climbed the steep ascent, led him at
length to a point from whence he could look down upon a toy village,
arranged in stiff rows about a toy church, with its tiny pointing
steeple piercing the vivid green of many trees, he sat down with a sigh
of relief and something very like gratitude.
As far back as he could remember Wesley Elliot had cherished a firm,
though somewhat undefined, belief in a quasi-omnipotent power to be
reckoned as either hostile or friendly to the purposes of man, showing
now a smiling, now a frowning face. In short, that unquestioned, wholly
uncontrollable influence outside of a man’s life, which appears to rule
his destiny. In this rôle “Providence,” as he had been taught to call
it, had heretofore smiled rather evasively upon Wesley Elliot. He had
been permitted to make sure his sacred calling; but he had not secured
the earnestly coveted city pulpit. On the other hand, he had just been
saved—or so he told himself, as the fragrant June breeze fanned his
heated forehead—by a distinct intervention of “Providence” from making
a fool of himself. His subsequent musings, interrupted at length by the
shrieking whistle of the noon train as it came to a standstill at the
toy railway station, might be termed important, since they were to
influence the immediate future of a number of persons, thus affording a
fresh illustration of the mysterious workings of “Providence,”
sometimes called “Divine.”