The little stir which the arrival of the Forsythes made in Ashurst was
delightful.
"Of course," as Mrs. Dale said, "Arabella Forsythe had not been born
there, and could not be expected to be just like Ashurst people; but it
was something to have a new person to talk to, even if you had to talk
about medicines most of the time."
Lois Howe enjoyed it, for there were very few young people in Ashurst
that summer; the two Drayton girls had gone away to visit a married
brother, and there were no young men now Gifford had gone. So it was
pleasant to have a person of her own age to talk to, and sometimes to
walk with, though the rector never felt quite sure what his sister would
say to that. However, Mrs. Dale had nothing to say; she shut her eyes to
any impropriety, and even remarked severely to Miss Deborah Woodhouse
that those old-fashioned ideas of a girl's being always under her
mother's eye, were prim and old maidish; "and beside, Lois's mother is
dead," she added, with a sort of triumph in her voice.
As for Lois, she almost forgot that she had thought Ashurst lonely when
Helen had gone, and Gifford; for of course, in so small a place, every
one counted. She had wondered, sometimes, before the Forsythes came, with
a self-consciousness which was a new experience, if any one thought she
missed Gifford. But her anxiety was groundless,--Ashurst imagination
never rose to any such height; and certainly, if the letters the young
man wrote to her could have been seen, such a thought would not have been
suggested. They were pleasant and friendly; very short, and not very
frequent; mostly of Helen and what she did; there was almost nothing of
himself, and the past, at least as far as a certain night in June was
concerned, was never mentioned. At first this was a relief to Lois, but
by and by came a feeling too negative to be called pique, or even
mortification at having been forgotten; it was rather an intangible
soreness in her memory of him.
"It is just as Miss Deborah says," she said to herself: "young men always
forget those things. And it is better that they do. Gifford never thinks
of what he said to me, and I'm sure I'm glad he doesn't--but still!" And
then that absurd suggestion of Miss Deborah's about Helen would creep
into her mind; she might banish it, because it was silly and impossible,
yet she did not utterly forget it. However, she really thought very
little about it; the presence of Mrs. Forsythe and her son gave her
plenty of occupation. There was the round of teas and dinners which
Ashurst felt it incumbent to give to a new arrival, and Lois was to have
two new gowns in consequence of so much gayety.
She spent a good deal of time with Mrs. Forsythe, for the elder lady
needed her, she said. It was not altogether the companionship which
fascinated Lois: the sunny drawing-room of the house the Forsythes had
hired was filled with dainty things, and light, graceful furniture, and
many harmlessly silly novels; there was a general air about it of
belonging to a life she had never seen which made it a pleasure to come
into it. The parlors in Ashurst had such heavy, serious chairs and
tables, she said to herself, and the pictures were all so dark and ugly,
and she was so tired of the carpets.
So she was very glad when Mrs. Forsythe begged her to come and read
aloud, or fix her flowers, or even stroke her soft white hair when she
had a headache. "Dick may be at home, my dear," Mrs. Forsythe would say
in her deprecating voice, "but you won't mind him?" And soon Lois did not
mind him at all.
At first she was very shy in the presence of this light-hearted young
fellow, whose indifference to Ashurst opinion was very impressive; but by
and by that wore off, and Mrs. Forsythe's drawing-room echoed with their
young laughter. Lois began to feel with Dick the freedom and friendliness
which had once been only for Gifford. "Why couldn't Giff have been like
this?" she thought; yet she did not say that she and Mr. Forsythe were
like "brother and sister," for she was always conscious of a possibility
in their friendship; but it was enough that Mr. Forsythe was very
interesting, and that that summer, life was very delightful.
After all, love is frequently a matter of propinquity.
Dick found himself going often to the rectory, and Lois fell into the
habit of making her plans with the reservation, "In case Mr. Forsythe
calls;" and it generally happened that he did call. "Mother sends her
love, and will Miss Lois come and read to her a little while this
afternoon, if she is not too busy?" or, "Mother returns this dish, and
begs me to thank you for the jelly, and to tell Jean how good it was."
It was easy for Dick to manufacture errands like these. Dr. Howe began to
think young Forsythe spent the greater part of his time at the rectory.
But this did not trouble him at all; in fact it was a satisfaction that
this lively young man liked the rectory so much. Dr. Howe did not go very
far into the future in his thoughts; he was distinctly flattered in the
present. Of course, if anything came of it (for the rector was not
entirely unworldly), why, it would be all for the best. So he was quite
patient if Lois was not on hand to hunt up a book for him or to fetch
his slippers, and he fell into the habit of spending much time in Mr.
Denner's office, looking over the "Field" and talking of their next
hunting trip. He was not even irritated when, one morning, wishing to
read a letter to his daughter, he had gone all over the house looking
for her, and then had caught a glimpse of her through the trees, down in
the sunny garden, with Dick Forsythe. "I'll just let that letter wait,"
he said, and went and stretched himself comfortably on the slippery,
leather-covered sofa in the shaded library, with a paper in his hand and
a satisfied smile on his lips.
The garden was ablaze with color, and full of all sorts of delicious
scents and sounds. The gay old-fashioned flowers poured a flood of
blossoms through all the borders: hollyhocks stood like rockets against
the sky; sweet-peas and scarlet runners scrambled over the box hedges and
about the rose-bushes; mallows and sweet-williams, asters and zinias and
phlox, crowded close together with a riotous richness of tint; scarlet
and yellow nasturtiums streamed over the ground like molten sunshine;
and, sparkling and glinting through the air, butterflies chased up and
down like blossoms that had escaped from their stems.
Lois had come out to pick some flowers for the numerous vases and bowls
which it was her delight to keep filled all summer long. She was
bareheaded, and the wind had rumpled the curls around her forehead; the
front of her light blue dress--she wore light blue in a manner which
might have been called daring had it implied the slightest thought--was
caught up to hold her lapful of flowers; a sheaf of roses rested on her
shoulder, and some feathery vines trailed almost to the ground, while in
her left hand, their stems taller than her own head, were two stately
sunflowers, which were to brighten the hall.
Mr. Forsythe caught sight of her as he closed the gate, and hurried
down the path to help her carry her fragrant load. He had, as usual, a
message to deliver. "Mother sends her love, Miss Lois, and says she isn't
well enough to go and drive this afternoon; but she'll be glad to go
to-morrow, if you'll take her?"
"Oh, yes, indeed!" Lois cried, in her impetuous voice. "But I'm sorry
she's ill to-day."
Dick gave the slightest possible shrug of his square shoulders. "Oh, I
guess she's all right," he said. "It amuses her. But won't you give me
some flowers to take home to her?"
Of course Lois was delighted to do it, but Dick insisted that she should
first put those she had already gathered in water, and then get some
fresh ones for his mother. "You see I'm very particular that she should
have the best;" then they both laughed. Now mutual laughter at small
jokes brings about a very friendly feeling.
They went up to the side porch, where it was shady, and Lois and Sally
brought out all the vases and dishes which could be made to hold flowers,
and put them in a row on the top step. Then Dick brought a big pitcher of
fresh, cold water from the spring, and Lois went for the garden scissors
to clip off the long stems; and at last they were ready to go to work,
the sweet confusion of flowers on the steps between them, and Max sitting
gravely at Lois's elbow as chaperon.
The rector heard their voices and the frequent shouts of laughter, and
began to think he must bestir himself; Mr. Forsythe should see that
Ashurst young women were under the constant over-sight of their parents;
but he yawned once or twice, and thought how comfortable the cool leather
of the lounge was, and had another little doze before he went out to the
porch with the open letter in his hand.
Dick had his hat full of white, and pink, and wine-colored hollyhocks,
which he had stripped from their stems, and was about to put in a shallow
dish, so he did not rise, but said "Hello!" in answer to the rector's
"Good-morning," and smiled brightly up at him. It was the charm of this
smile which made the older people in Ashurst forget that he treated
them with very little reverence.
"Lois," her father said, "I have a letter from Helen; do you want to send
any message when I answer it? Mr. Forsythe will excuse you if you read
it."
"Why, of course," Dick replied. "I feel almost as though I knew Mrs.
Ward, Miss Lois has talked so much about her."
"How funny to hear her called 'Mrs. Ward!'" Lois said, taking the letter
from her father's hand.
"I should think she'd hate Lockhaven," Dick went on. "I was there once
for a day or two. It is a poor little place; lots of poverty among the
hands. And it is awfully unpleasant to see that sort of thing. I've heard
fellows say they enjoyed a good dinner more if they saw some poor beggar
going without. Now, I don't feel that way. I don't like to see such
things; they distress me, and I don't forget them."
Lois, reading Helen's letter, which was full of grief for the helpless
trouble she saw in Lockhaven, thought that Mr. Forsythe had a very tender
heart. Helen was questioning the meaning of the suffering about her;
already the problem as old as life itself confronted her, and she asked,
Why?
Dr. Howe had noticed this tendency in some of her later letters, and
scarcely knew whether to be annoyed or amused by it. "Now what in the
world," he said, as Lois handed back the letter,--"what in the world does
the child mean by asking me if I don't think--stay, where is that
sentence?" The rector fumbled for his glasses, and, with his lower lip
thrust out, and his gray eyebrows gathered into a frown, glanced up and
down the pages. "Ah, yes, here: 'Do you not think,' she says, 'that the
presence in the world of suffering which cannot produce character,
irresponsible suffering, so to speak, makes it hard to believe in the
personal care of God?' It's perfect nonsense for Helen to talk in that
way! What does she know about 'character' and 'irresponsible suffering'?
I shall tell her to mend her husband's stockings, and not bother her
little head with theological questions that are too big for her."
"Yes, sir," Lois answered, carefully snipping off the thorns on the
stem of a rose before she plunged it down into the water in the big
punch-bowl; "but people cannot help just wondering sometimes."
"Now, Lois, don't you begin to talk that way," the rector cried
impatiently; "one in a family is enough!"
"Well," said Dick Forsythe gayly, "what's the good of bothering about
things you can't understand?"
"Exactly," the rector answered. "Be good! if we occupy our minds with
conduct, we won't have room for speculation, which never made a soul
better or happier, anyhow. Yes, it's all nonsense, and I shall tell Helen
so; there is too much tendency among young people to talk about things
they don't understand, and it results in a superficial, skin-deep sort of
skepticism that I despise! Besides," he added, laughing and knocking his
glasses off, "what is the good of having a minister for a husband? She
ought to ask him her theological questions."
"Well, now, you know, father," Lois said, "Helen isn't the sort of woman
to be content just to step into the print her husband's foot has made.
She'll choose what she thinks is solid ground for herself. And she isn't
superficial."
"Oh, no, of course not," the rector began, relenting. "I didn't mean to
be hard on the child. But she mustn't be foolish. I don't want her to
make herself unhappy by getting unsettled in her belief, and that is what
this sort of questioning results in. But I didn't come out to scold
Helen; it just occurred to me that it might be a good thing to send her
that twenty-five dollars I meant to give to domestic missions, and let
her use it for some of her poor people. What?"
"Oh, yes, do!" Lois replied.
"Let me send twenty-five dollars, too!" Dick cried, whipping out a
check-book.
Dr. Howe protested, but Mr. Forsythe insisted that it was a great
pleasure. "Don't you see," he explained, smiling, "if Mrs. Ward will
spend some money for me, it will make my conscience easy for a month;
for, to tell you the truth, doctor, I don't think about poor people any
more than I can help; it's too unpleasant. I'm afraid I'm very selfish."
This was said with such a good-natured look, Dr. Howe could only smile
indulgently. "Ah, well, you're young, and I'm sure your twenty-five
dollars for Helen's poor people will cover a multitude of sins. I fancy
you are not quite so bad as you would have us believe."
Lois watched him draw his check, and was divided between admiration and
an undefined dissatisfaction with herself for feeling admiration for
what really meant so little.
"Thank you very much," the rector said heartily.
"Oh, you're welcome, I'm sure," answered the other.
Dr. Howe folded the check away in a battered leather pocket-book, shiny
on the sides and ragged about the corners, and overflowing with odds and
ends of memoranda and newspaper clippings; a row of fish-hooks was
fastened into the flap, and he stopped to adjust these before he went
into the house to answer Helen's letter.
He snubbed her good-naturedly, telling her not to worry about things
too great for her, but beneath his consciousness there lurked a little
discomfort, or even irritation. Duties which seem dead and buried, and
forgotten, are avenged by the sting of memory. In the rector's days at
the theological school, he had himself known those doubts which may lead
to despair, or to a wider and unflinching gaze into the mysteries of
light. But Archibald Howe reached neither one condition nor the other.
He questioned many things; he even knew the heartache which the very fear
of losing faith gives. But the way was too hard, and the toil and anguish
of the soul too great; he turned back into the familiar paths of the
religion he knew and loved; and doubt grew vague, not in assured belief,
but in the plain duties of life. After a little while, he almost forgot
that he ever had doubted. Only now and then, when some questioning soul
came to him, would he realize that he could not help it by his own
experience, only by a formula,--a text-book spirituality; then he would
remember, and promise himself that the day should come when he would face
uncertainty and know what he believed. But it was continually eluding
him, and being put off; he could not bear to run the risk of disturbing
the faith of others; life was too full; he had not the time for study and
research,--and perhaps it would all end in deeper darkness. Better be
content with what light he had. So duty was neglected, and his easy,
tranquil life flowed on.
Writing his careless rebuke to Helen brought this past unpleasantly
before his mind; he was glad when he had sanded his paper and thrust the
folded letter into its envelope, and could forget once more.
Dick Forsythe had prolonged his call by being very careful what flowers
were picked for his mother, and he and Lois wandered over the whole
garden, searching for the most perfect roses, before he acknowledged that
he was content. When they parted at the iron gate, he was more in love
than ever, and Lois walked back to the rectory, thinking with a vague
dissatisfaction how much she would miss the Forsythes when they left
Ashurst.
But Mr. Forsythe's was not the sort of love which demanded solitude or
silence, so that when he saw Mr. Dale coming from Mr. Denner's little law
office, he made haste to join him. Conversation of any sort, and with any
person, was a necessity to this young man, and Mr. Dale was better than
no one.
"I've just been to the rectory," he said, as he reached the older man's
side.
"I suppose so," Mr. Dale answered shortly. Perhaps he was the only person
in Ashurst who was not blinded by the glamour of that World which Mr.
Forsythe represented, and who realized the nature of the young man
himself. Dick's superficiality was a constant irritation to Mr. Dale, who
missed in him that deference for the opinions of older people which has
its roots in the past, in the training of fathers and mothers in courtesy
and gentleness, and which blossoms in perfection in the third or fourth
generation.
There was nothing in his voice to encourage Dick to talk about Lois Howe,
so he wisely turned the conversation, but wished he had a more congenial
companion. Mr. Dale walked with hands behind him and shoulders bent
forward; his wide-brimmed felt hat was pulled down over his long soft
locks of white hair, and hid the expression of his face.
So Dick rattled on in his light, happy voice, talking of everything or
nothing, as his hearer might happen to consider it, until suddenly Mr.
Dale's attention was caught: Dick began to speak of John Ward. "I thought
I'd seen him," he was saying. "The name was familiar, and then when Miss
Lois described his looks, and told me where he studied for the ministry,
I felt sure of it. If it is the same man, he must be a queer fellow."
"Why?" asked Mr. Dale. He did not know John Ward very well, and had no
particular feeling about him one way or the other; but people interested
Mr. Dale, and he had meant some time to study this man with the same
impersonal and kindly curiosity with which he would have examined a new
bug in his collection.
"Because, if he's the man I think he is,--and I guess there is no doubt
about it--thin, dark, and abstracted-looking, named Ward, and studying at
the Western Theological Seminary that year,--I saw him do a thing--well,
I never knew any other man who would have done it!"
"What was it, sir?" said Mr. Dale, turning his mild blue eyes upon the
young man, and regarding him with an unusual amount of interest.
Dick laughed. "Why," he answered, "I saw that man,--there were a lot of
us fellows standing on the steps of one of the hotels; it was the busiest
street and the busiest time of the day, and there was a woman coming
along, drunk as a lord. Jove! you ought to have seen her walk! She
couldn't walk,--that was about the truth of it; and she had a miserable
yelling brat in her arms. It seemed as though she'd fall half a dozen
times. Well, while we were standing there, I saw that man coming down the
street. I didn't know him then,--somebody told me his name, afterwards. I
give you my word, sir, when he saw that woman, he stood still one minute,
as though he was thunderstruck by the sight of her,--not hesitating, you
know, but just amazed to see a woman looking like that,--and then he went
right up to her, and took that dirty, screeching child out of her arms;
and then, I'm damned if he didn't give her his arm and walk down the
street with her!"
Mr. Dale felt the shock of it. "Ah!" he said, with a quick indrawn
breath.
"Yes," continued Dick, who enjoyed telling a good story, "he walked down
that crowded street with that drunken, painted creature on his arm. I
suppose he thought she'd fall, and hurt herself and the child. Naturally
everybody looked at him, but I don't believe he even saw them. We stood
there and watched them out of sight--and--but of course you know how
fellows talk! Though so long as he was a _minister_"--Dick grinned
significantly, and looked at Mr. Dale for an answer; but there was none.
Suddenly the old man stood still and gravely lifted his hat: "He's a good
man," he said, and then trudged on again, with his head bent and his
hands clasped behind him.
Mr. Forsythe looked at him, and whistled. "Jove!" he exclaimed, "it
doesn't strike you as it did Dr. Howe. I told him, and he said, 'Bless my
soul, hadn't the man sense enough to call a policeman?'"
But Mr. Dale had nothing more to say. The picture of John Ward, walking
through the crowded street with the woman who was a sinner upheld by his
strong and tender arm, was not forgotten; and when Dick had left him, and
he had lighted his slender silver pipe in the quiet of his basement
study, he said again, "He's a good man."