It was one of those deliciously cold evenings in early autumn. All day
long the sparkling sunshine-scented air had held an exhilaration like
wine, but now night had folded a thin mist across the hills, though the
clear darkness of the upper sky was filled with the keen white light of
innumerable stars.
A fire in the open grate in John Ward's study was pure luxury, for the
room did not really need the warmth. It was of that soft coal which
people in the Middle States burn in happy indifference to its dust-making
qualities, because of its charm of sudden-puffing flames, which burst
from the bubbling blackness with a singing noise, like the explosion of
an oak-gall stepped on unawares in the woods.
It had been a busy day for John, ending with the weekly prayer-meeting;
and to sit now in front of the glowing fire, with Helen beside him, was a
well-earned rest.
In the afternoon he had taken a dozen of the village children to find a
swamp whose borders were fringed with gentians, which seemed to have
caught the color of the wind-swept October skies. He would not let Helen
go. "The walk would tire you," he said; but he himself seemed to know no
weariness, though most of the time he carried one of the children, and
was continually lifting them over rough places, and picking their flowers
and ferns for them.
Helen had seen them start, and watched them as they tramped over the
short, crisp grass of an upland pasture, and she could just distinguish
the words of a hymn they sung, John's deep, sweet tenor leading their
quavering treble:--
"His loving kindness, loving kindness,
His loving kindness, oh, how free!"
After they had gathered gentians to their hearts' content, they crowded
about John and begged for a story, for that was always the crowning bliss
of an afternoon with the preacher. But, though prefaced with the remark
that they must remember it was only a story and not at all true, their
enjoyment of gnomes and fairies, of wondrous palaces built of shining
white clouds, with stars for lamps, was never lessened. True, there was
generally a moral, but in his great desire to make it attractive John
often concealed it, and was never quite sure that his stories did the
good he intended. But they did good in another way; the children loved
him, as most of them loved nothing else in their meagre, hungry little
lives. And he loved them; they stirred the depths of tenderness in him.
What did the future hold for them? Misery, perhaps, and surely sin, for
what hope was there of purity and holiness in such homes as theirs? And
the horror of that further future, the sure eternity which follows sin,
cast a dreary shadow over them, and lent a suppressed passion to the
fervor with which he tried to win their love, that he might lead them to
righteousness.
But it was his gentleness, and a childlike simplicity which they
themselves must early lose, which attracted and charmed the children, and
made them happy and contented if they could but be with the preacher.
They had left him reluctantly at the parsonage gate, clamoring for
another afternoon, which was gladly promised. Then John had had a quiet
half hour for further thought upon his evening talk to his people, which
had been prepared the day before. Helen had laughed at the amount of
study given to every address. "I wish you could see how uncle Archie
manages his sermons."
"He has not the sort of people I have," John said, with kindly excuse.
"Yet think of the importance of speaking to any one in Christ's name! We
preach for eternity, Helen,--for eternity."
She looked at him gravely. "John," she answered, "you take these things
too much to heart. It is not wise, dear."
He hesitated, and then said gently, "These are the only things to take to
heart. We only live to prepare for that other life. Can we be too earnest
dear, when eternity hangs upon the use we make of time? That thought is a
continual spur to make me eager for my duty to my people."
"Oh, I know it," Helen responded, laying her head upon his shoulder; "but
don't work too hard."
He put his arms about her, and the impulse which had been strong a moment
before to speak to her of her own soul was forgotten.
These prayer-meetings were trials to Helen Ward. She missed the stately
Liturgy of her own church. "I don't like to hear Elder Dean give the
Almighty so much miscellaneous information," she said, half laughing, yet
quite in earnest. But she always went, for at least there was the
pleasure of walking home with John. Beside, practice had made it possible
for her to hear without heeding, and in that way she escaped a great deal
of annoyance.
This especial Wednesday evening, however, she had not been able to close
her ears to all that was said. She had grown restless, and looked about
the narrow whitewashed room where the lecture was given, and longed for
the reverence of the starlit silence outside.
John had begun the meeting by a short prayer, simple and direct as a
child's request to his father, and after a hymn he said a few words on
the text he had chosen. Then the meeting was open, and to some of the
things said, Helen listened with indignant disapproval. As they walked
home, rejoicing in the fresh cold air and the sound of their quick
footsteps on the frosty ground, she made up her mind what she meant to
do, but she did not speak of it until they were by their own fireside.
The room was full of soft half-darkness; shadows leaped out of the
corners, and chased the gleams of firelight; the tall clock ticked slowly
in the corner, and on the hearts of these two fell that content with life
and each other which is best expressed by silence.
John sat at his wife's feet; his tired head was upon her knee, and he
could look up into her restful face, while he held one of her hands
across his lips. It was a good face to see: her clear brown eyes were
large and full, with heavy lids which drooped a little at the outer
corners, giving a look of questioning sincerity, which does not often
outlast childhood. Her bronze-brown hair was knotted low on her neck, and
rippled a little over a smooth white forehead.
John had begun to stroke her hand softly, holding it up to shield his
eyes from the firelight, and twisting the plain band of her wedding ring
about.
"What a dear hand," he said; "how strong and firm it is!"
"It is large, at least," she answered, smiling. He measured it against
his own gaunt thin hand, which always had a nervous thrill in the pale
fingers. "You see, they are about the same size, but mine is certainly
much whiter. Just look at that ink-stain; that means you write too much.
I don't like you to be so tired in the evenings, John."
"You rest me," he said, looking up into her face. "It is a rest even to
sit here beside you. Do you know, Helen," he went on, after a moment's
pause, "if I were in any pain, I mean any physical extremity, I would
have strength to bear it if I could hold your hand; it is so strong and
steady."
She lifted her hand, and looked at it with amused curiosity, turning it
about, "to get the best light upon it."
"I am in earnest," John said, smiling. "It is the visible expression of
the strength you are to me. With your help I could endure any pain. I
wonder," he went on, in a lower voice, as though thinking aloud, "if this
strength of yours could inspire me to bear the worst pain there could be
for me,--I mean if I had to make you suffer in any way?"
Helen looked down at him, surprised, not quite understanding.
"Suppose," he said,--"of course one can suppose anything,--that for your
best good I had to make you suffer: could I, do you think?"
"I hope so," she answered gravely; "I hope I should give you strength to
do it."
They fell again into their contented silence, watching the firelight, and
thinking tenderly each of the other. But at last Helen roused herself
from her reverie with a long, pleasant sigh of entire peace and comfort.
"John, do you know, I have reached a conclusion? I'm not going to
prayer-meeting any more."
John started. "Why, Helen!" he said, a thrill of pain in his voice.
But Helen was not at all troubled. "No, dear. Feeling deeply as I do
about certain things, it is worse than useless for me to go and hear
Elder Dean or old Mr. Smith; they either annoy me or amuse me, and I
don't know which is worse. I have heard Mr. Smith thank the Lord that we
are not among the pale and sheeted nations of the dead, ever since I came
to Lockhaven. And Elder Dean's pictures of the eternal torments of the
damned, 'souls wreathing in sulphurous flames' (those were his words
to-night, John!), and then praising God for his justice (his justice!)
right afterwards,--I cannot stand it, dear. I do not believe in hell,
such a hell, and so it is absurd to go and listen to such things. But I
won't miss my walk with you," she added, "for I will come and meet you
every Wednesday evening, and we'll come home together."
John had risen as she talked, and stood leaning against the mantel, his
face hidden by his hand. Her lightly spoken words had come with such a
shock, the blood leaped back to his heart, and for a moment he could not
speak. He had never allowed himself to realize that her indifference to
doctrine was positive unbelief; had his neglect encouraged her ignorance
to grow into this?
At last he said very gently, "But, dearest, I believe in hell."
"I know it," she answered, no longer carelessly, but still smiling,
"but never mind. I mean, it does not make any difference to me what you
believe. I wouldn't care if you were a Mohammedan, John, if it helped you
to be good and happy. I think that different people have different
religious necessities. One man is born a Roman Catholic, for instance,
though his father and mother may be the sternest Protestants. He cannot
help it; it is his nature! And you"--she looked up at him with infinite
tenderness in her brown eyes,--"you were born a Presbyterian, dear; you
can't help it. Perhaps you need the sternness and the horror of some of
the doctrines as a balance for your gentleness. I never knew any one as
gentle as you, John."
He came and knelt down beside her, holding her face between his hands,
and looking into her clear eyes. "Helen," he said, "I have wanted to
speak to you of this; I have wanted to show you the truth. You will not
say you cannot believe in hell (in justice, Helen) when I prove"--
"Don't prove," she interrupted him, putting her hand softly across his
lips, "don't let us argue. Oh, a theological argument seems to me
sacrilege, and dogma can never be an antidote for doubt, John. I must
believe what my own soul asserts, or I am untrue to myself. I must begin
with that truth, even if it keeps me on the outskirts of the great Truth.
Don't you think so, dear? And I do not believe in hell. Now that is
final, John."
She smiled brightly into his troubled face, and, seeing his anxiety,
hastened to save him further pain in the future. "Do not let us ever
discuss these things. After all, doctrine is of so little importance, and
argument never can result in conviction to either of us, for belief is a
matter of temperament, and I do so dislike it. It really distresses me,
John."
"But, dearest," he said, "to deliberately turn away from the search for
truth is spiritual suicide."
"Oh, you misunderstand me," she replied quickly. "Of course one's soul
always seeks for truth, but to argue, to discuss details, which after all
are of no possible importance, no more part of the eternal verities than
a man's--buttons are of his character! Now, remember," with smiling
severity, "never again!" She laid her head down on his shoulder. "We are
so happy, John, so happy; why should we disturb the peace of life? Never
mind what we think on such matters; we have each other, dear!"
He was silenced; with her clinging arm about him, and her tender eyes
looking into his, he could not argue; he was the lover, not the preacher.
He kissed her between her level brows; it was easy to forget his duty!
Yet his conscience protested faintly. "If you would only let me tell
you"--
"Not just now," she said, and Helen's voice was a caress. "Do you
remember how, that first time we saw each other, you talked of belief?"
It was so natural to drift into reminiscence, kneeling there in the
firelight by her side, John almost forgot how the talk had begun, and
neither of them gave a thought to the lateness of the hour, until they
were roused by a quick step on the path, and heard the little gate pushed
hurriedly open, shutting again with a bang.
"Why, that's Gifford Woodhouse," John said, leaning forward to give the
fire that inevitable poke with which the coming guest is welcomed.
"No, it can't be Giff," Helen answered, listening; "he always whistles."
But it was Gifford. The quick-leaping flame lighted his face as he
entered, and Helen saw that, instead of its usual tranquil good-nature,
there was a worried look.
"I'm afraid I'm disturbing you," he said, as they both rose to welcome
him, and there was the little confusion of lighting the lamp and drawing
up a chair. "Haven't I interrupted you?"
"Yes," John replied simply, "but it is well you did. I have some writing
I must do to-night, and I had forgotten it. You and Helen will excuse me
if I leave you a little while?"
Both the others protested: Gifford that he was driving Mr. Ward from his
own fireside, and Helen that it was too late for work.
"No, you are not driving me away. My papers are up-stairs. I will see you
again," he added, turning to Gifford; and then he closed the door, and
they heard his step in the room above.
The interruption had brought him back to real life. He left the joy which
befogged his conscience, and felt again that chill and shock which
Helen's words had given him, and that sudden pang of remorse for a
neglected duty; he wanted to be alone, and to face his own thoughts. His
writing did not detain him long, and afterwards he paced the chilly room,
struggling to see his duty through his love. But in that half hour
up-stairs he reached no new conclusion. Helen's antipathy to doctrine was
so marked, it was, as she said, useless to begin discussion; and it would
be worse than useless to urge her to come to prayer-meeting, if she did
not want to; it would only make her antagonistic to the truth. She was
not ready for the strong meat of the Word, which was certainly what his
elders fed to hungry souls at prayer-meetings. John did not know that
there was any reluctance in his own mind to disturb their harmony and
peace by argument; he simply failed to recognize his own motives; the
reasons he gave himself were all secondary.
"I ought not to have come so late," Gifford said, "and it is a shame to
disturb Mr. Ward, but I did want to see you so much, Helen!"
Helen's thoughts were following her husband, and it was an effort to
bring them back to Gifford and his interests, but she turned her tranquil
face to him with a gracious gentleness which never left her. "He will
come back again," she said, "and he will be glad to have this writing off
his mind to-night. I was only afraid he might take cold; you know he has
a stubborn little cough. Why did you want to see me, Giff?"
She took some knitting from her work-table, and, shaking out its fleecy
softness, began to work, the big wooden needles making a velvety sound as
they rubbed together. Gifford was opposite her, his hands thrust moodily
into his pockets, his feet stretched straight out, and his head sunk on
his breast. But he did not look as though he were resting; an intent
anxiety seemed to pervade his big frame, and Helen could not fail to
observe it. She glanced at him, as he sat frowning into the fire, but he
did not notice her.
"Something troubles you, Gifford."
He started. "Yes," he said. He changed his position, leaning his elbows
on his knees, and propping his chin on his fists, and still scowling at
the fire. "Yes, I came to speak to you about it."
"I wish you would," Helen answered. But Gifford found it difficult to
begin.
"I've had a letter from aunt Ruth to-day," he said at last, "and it has
bothered me. I don't know how to tell you, exactly; you will think it's
none of my business."
"Is there anything wrong at the rectory?" Helen asked, putting down her
work, and drawing a quick breath.
"Oh, no, no, of course not," answered Gifford, "nothing like that. The
fact is, Helen--the fact is--well, plainly, aunt Ruth thinks that that
young Forsythe is in love with Lois."
Gifford's manner, as he spoke, told Helen what she had only surmised
before, and she was betrayed into an involuntary expression of sympathy.
"Oh," cried the young man, with an impatient gesture and a sudden flush
tingling across his face, "you misunderstand me. I haven't come to whine
about myself, or anything like that. I'm not jealous; for Heaven's sake,
don't think I am such a cur as to be jealous! If that man was worthy of
Lois, I--why, I'd be the first one to rejoice that she was happy. I want
Lois to be happy, from my soul! I hope you believe me, Helen?"
"I believe anything you tell me," she answered gently, "but I don't quite
understand how you feel about Mr. Forsythe; every one speaks so highly of
him. Even aunt Deely has only pleasant things to say of 'young Forsythe,'
as she calls him."
Gifford left his chair, and began to walk about the room, his hands
grasping the lapels of his coat, and his head thrown back in a troubled
sort of impatience. "That's just it," he said; "in this very letter aunt
Ruth is enthusiastic, and I can't tell you anything tangible against him,
only I don't like him, Helen. He's a puppy,--that's the amount of it. And
I thought--I just thought--I'd come and ask you if you supposed--if
you--of course I've no business to ask any question--but if you
thought"--
But Helen had understood his vague inquiry, "I should think," she said
"you would know that if he is what you call a _puppy_ Lois couldn't care
for him."
Gifford sat down, and took her ball of wool, beginning nervously to
unwind it, and then wind it up again.
"Perhaps she wouldn't see it," he said tentatively.
"Ah, you don't trust her!" Helen cried brightly, "or you would not say
that. (Don't tie my worsted into knots!) When you write to Lois, why
don't you frankly say what you think of him?"
"Oh, I could not," he responded quickly. "Don't you see, Helen, I'm a
young fellow myself, and--and you know Lois did not care for me when
I--told her. And if I said anything now, it would only mean that I was
jealous, that I wanted her myself. Whereas, I give you my word," striking
his fist sharply on his knee, "if he was fit for her, I'd rejoice; yes,
I--I love her so much that if I saw her happy with any other man (who was
worthy of her!) I'd be glad!"
Helen looked doubtful, but did not discuss that; she ran her hand along
her needle, and gave her elastic work a pull. "Tell me more about him,"
she said.
But Gifford had not much to tell; it was only his vague distrust of the
man, which it was difficult to put into words. "A good out-and-out sinner
one can stand," he ended; "but all I saw of this Forsythe at the club and
about town only made me set him down as a small man, a--a puppy, as I
said. And I thought I'd talk to you about it, because, when you write to
Lois, you might just hint, you know."
But Helen shook her head. "No, Gifford, that never does any good at all.
And I do not believe it is needed. The only thing to do now is to trust
Lois. I have no anxiety about her; if he is what you say, her own ideal
will protect her. Ah, Giff, I'm disappointed in you. I shouldn't have
thought you could doubt Lois."
"I don't!" he cried, "only I am so afraid!"
"But you shouldn't be afraid," Helen said, smiling; "a girl like Lois
couldn't love a man who was not good and noble. Perhaps, Gifford," she
ventured, after a moment's pause,--"perhaps it will be all right for you,
some time."
"No, no," he answered, "I don't dare to think of it."
Helen might have given him more courage, but John came in, and Gifford
realized that it was very late. "Helen has scolded me, Mr. Ward," he
said, "and it has done me good."
John turned and looked at her. "Can she scold?" he said. And when Gifford
glanced back, as he went down the street, he saw them still standing in
the doorway in the starlight; Helen leaning back a little against John's
arm, so that she might see his face. The clear warm pallor of her cheek
glowed faintly in the frosty air.
Gifford sighed as he walked on. "They are very happy," he thought. "Well,
that sort of happiness may never be for me, but it is something to love a
good woman. I have got that in my life, anyhow."
Helen's confidence in her cousin's instinct might perhaps have been
shaken had she known what pleasure Lois found in the companionship of Mr.
Forsythe, and how that pleasure was encouraged by all her friends. That
very evening, while Gifford was pouring his anxieties into her ear, Lois
was listening to Dick's pictures of the gayeties of social life; the
"jolly times," as he expressed it, which she had never known.
Dr. Howe was reading, with an indignant exclamation occasionally, a
scathing review of an action of his political candidate, and his big
newspaper hid the two young people by the fire, so that he quite forgot
them. Max seemed to feel that the responsibility of propriety rested upon
him, and he sat with his head on Lois's knee, and his drowsy eyes
blinking at Mr. Forsythe. His mistress pulled his silky ears gently,
or knotted them behind his head, giving him a curiously astonished and
grieved look, as though he felt she trifled with his dignity; yet he did
not move his head, but watched, with no affection in his soft brown eyes,
the young man who talked so eagerly to Lois.
"That brute hates me," said Mr. Forsythe, "and yet I took the trouble to
bring him a biscuit to-day. Talk of gratitude and affection in animals.
They don't know what it means!"
"Max loves me," Lois answered, taking the setter's head between her
hands.
"Ah, well, that's different," cried Forsythe; "of course he does. I'd
like to know how he could help it. He wouldn't be fit to live, if he
didn't."
Lois raised the hand-screen she held, so that Dick could only see the
curls about her forehead and one small curve of her ear. "How hot the
fire is!" she said.
Dr. Howe folded his newspaper with much crackling and widely opened arms.
"Don't sit so near it. In my young days, the children were never allowed
to come any nearer the fireplace than the outside of the hearth-rug."
Then he began to read again, muttering, "Confound that reporter!"
Dick glanced at him, and then he said, in a low voice, "Max loves you
because you are so kind to him, Miss Lois; it is worth while to be a dog
to have you"--
"Give him bones?" Lois cried hurriedly. "Yes, it is too hot in here,
father; don't you think so; don't you want me to open the window?"
Dr. Howe looked up, surprised. "If you want to, child," he said. "Dear
me, I'm afraid I have not been very entertaining, Mr. Forsythe. What do
you think of this attack on our candidate? Contemptible, isn't it? What?
I have no respect for any one who can think it anything but abominable
and outrageous."
"It's scandalous!" Dick answered,--and then in a smiling whisper to Lois,
he added, "I'm afraid to tell the doctor I'm a Democrat."
But when Lois was quite alone that night, she found herself smiling in
the darkness, and a thrill of pride made her cheeks hotter than the fire
had done.