The winter was passing very quietly in Ashurst; the only really great
excitement was Helen's letter about the fire and Colonel Drayton's attack
of gout.
Life went on as it had as far back as any one cared to remember, with the
small round of church festivals and little teas, and the Saturday evening
whist parties at the rectory. But under monotonous calm may lurk very
wearing anxiety, and this was the case in Ashurst.
Mr. Denner endeavored, with but indifferent success, to conceal the
indecision which was still preying upon his mind. For the suggestion
gained from Jephtha had proved useless. He had, indeed, tried to act upon
it. A day or two after the thought had come to him which so interrupted
family prayers, Mr. Denner sallied forth to learn his fate. It was
surprising how particular he was about his linen that morning,--for he
went in the morning,--and he arrayed himself in his best clothes; he saw
no impropriety, considering the importance of the occasion, in putting on
his evening coat. He even wore his new hat, a thing he had not done more
than half a dozen times--at a funeral perhaps, or a fair--since he bought
it, three years before.
It was a bright, frosty day, and the little gentleman stepped briskly
along the road towards the house of the two sisters. He felt as
light-hearted as any youth who goes a-wooing with a reasonable certainty
of a favorable answer from his beloved. He even sang a little to himself,
in a thin, sweet voice, keeping time with his stick, like a drum-major,
and dwelling faithfully on all the prolonged notes.
"Believe me," sang Mr. Denner,--
"'Believe me, if all those endearing young charms
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day'"--
Mr. Denner's rendering of charms was very elaborate. But while he was
still lingering on the last word, disappointment overtook him.
Coming arm in arm down the road were two small figures. Mr. Denner's
sight was not what it once was; he fumbled in the breast of his
bottle-green overcoat for his glasses, as a suspicion of the truth
dawned upon him.
His song died upon his lips, and he turned irresolutely, as though to
fly, but it was too late; he had recognized at the same moment Miss
Deborah and Miss Ruth Woodhouse. By no possibility could he say which he
had seen first.
He advanced to meet them, but the spring had gone from his tread and
the light from his eye; he was thrown back upon his perplexities. The
sisters, still arm in arm, made a demure little bow, and stopped to say
"Good-morning," but Mr. Denner was evidently depressed and absent-minded.
"I wonder what's the matter with William Denner, sister?" Miss Ruth said,
when they were out of hearing.
"Perhaps he's troubled about his housekeeping," answered Miss Deborah.
"I should think he might be, I must say. That Mary of his does keep him
looking so! And I have no doubt she is wasteful; a woman who is
economical with her needle and thread is pretty apt not to be saving in
other things."
"What a pity he hasn't a wife!" commented Miss Ruth. "Adele Dale says
he's never been in love. She says that that affair with Gertrude Drayton
was a sort of inoculation, and he's been perfectly healthy ever since."
"Very coarse in dear Adele to speak in that way," said Miss Deborah
sharply. "I suppose he never has gotten over Gertrude's loss. Yet, if his
sister-in-law had to die, it is a pity it wasn't a little sooner. He was
too old when she died to think of marriage."
"But, dear Deborah, he is not quite too old even yet, if he found a
person of proper age. Not too young, and, of course, not too old."
Miss Deborah did not reply immediately. "Well, I don't know; perhaps
not," she conceded. "I do like a man to be of an age to know his own
mind. That is why I am so surprised at Adele Dale's anxiety to bring
about a match between young Forsythe and Lois, they are neither of them
old enough to know their own minds. And it is scarcely delicate in Adele,
I must say."
"He's a very superior young man," objected Miss Ruth.
"Yes," Miss Deborah acknowledged; "and yet"--she hesitated a little--"I
think he has not quite the--the modesty one expects in a young person."
"Yes, but think how he has seen the world, sister!" cried Miss Ruth. "You
cannot expect him to be just like other young people."
"True," said Miss Deborah, nodding her head; "and yet"--it was evident
from her persistence that Miss Deborah had a grievance of some kind--"yet
he seems to have more than a proper conceit. I heard him talk about
whist, one evening at the rectory; he said something about a person,--a
Pole, I believe,--and his rules in regard to 'signaling.' I asked him if
he played," Miss Deborah continued, her hands showing a little angry
nervousness; "and he said, 'Oh, yes, I learned to play one winter in
Florida!' Learned to play in a winter, indeed! To achieve whist"--Miss
Deborah held her head very straight--"to achieve whist is the work
of a lifetime! I've no patience with a young person who says a thing like
that."
Miss Ruth was silenced for a moment; she had no excuse to offer.
"Adele Dale says the Forsythes are coming back in April," she said, at
last.
"Yes, I know it," answered Miss Deborah. "I suppose it will all be
arranged then. I asked Adele if Lois was engaged to him;--she said, 'Not
formally.' But I've no doubt there's an understanding."
Miss Deborah was so sure of this that she had even mentioned it casually
to Gifford, of course under the same seal of confidence with which it had
been told her.
It was quite true that Dick and his mother were to return to Ashurst.
After storming out of the rectory library the night of the Misses
Woodhouse's dinner party, Dick had had a period of hatred of everything
connected with Ashurst; but that did not last more than a month, and was
followed by an imploring letter to Lois. Her answer brought the anger
back again, and then its reaction of love; this see-saw was kept up,
until his last letter had announced that he and his mother were coming
to take the house they had had before, and spend the summer.
"We will come early," he wrote. "I cannot stay away. I have made mother
promise to open the house in April, so in a month more I shall see you.
I had an awful time to get her to come; she hates the country except in
summer, but at last she said she would. She knows why I want to come, and
she would be so happy if"--and then the letter trailed off into a wail of
disappointment and love.
Impatient and worried, Lois threw the pages into the fire, and had a
malicious satisfaction in watching the elaborate crest curl and blacken
on the red coals. "I wish he'd stay away," she said; "he bothers me to
death. I hate him! What a silly letter!"
It was so silly, she found herself smiling, in spite of her annoyance.
Now, to feel amusement at one's lover is almost as fatal as to be bored
by him. But poor Dick had no one to tell him this, and had poured out his
heart on paper, in spite of some difficulty in spelling, and could not
guess that he was laughed at for his pains.
Miss Deborah and Miss Ruth were rewarded for their walk into Ashurst by a
letter from Gifford, which made them quite forget Mr. Denner's looks, and
Mrs. Dale's bad taste in being a matchmaker.
He would be at home for one day the next week; business had called him
from Lockhaven, and on his way back he would stay a night in Ashurst.
The little ladies were flurried with happiness. Miss Deborah prepared
more dainties than even Gifford's healthy appetite could possibly
consume, and Miss Ruth hung her last painting of apple-blossoms in his
bedroom, and let her rose jar stand uncovered on his dressing-table for
two days before his arrival. When he came, they hovered about him with
small caresses and little chirps of affection, as though they would
express all the love of the months in which they had not seen him.
Gifford had thought he would go to the rectory in the evening, and
somehow the companionship of his aunts while there had not occupied his
imagination; but it would have been cruel to leave them at home, so after
tea, having tasted every one of Miss Deborah's dishes, he begged them to
come with him to see Dr. Howe. They were glad to go anywhere if only with
him, and each took an arm, and bore him triumphantly to the rectory.
"Bless my soul," said Dr. Howe, looking at them over his glasses, as they
came into the library, "it is good to see you again, young man! How did
you leave Helen?" He pushed his chair back from the fire, and let his
newspapers rustle to the floor, as he rose. Max came and sniffed about
Gifford's knees, and wagged his tail, hoping to be petted. Lois was the
only one whose greeting was constrained, and Gifford's gladness withered
under the indifference in her eyes.
"She doesn't care," he thought while he was answering Dr. Howe, and
rubbing Max's ears with his left hand. "Helen may be right about
Forsythe, but she doesn't care for me, either."
"Sit here, dear Giff," said Miss Ruth, motioning him to a chair at her
side.
"There's a draught there, dear Ruth," cried Miss Deborah anxiously. "Come
nearer the fire, Gifford." But Gifford only smiled good-naturedly, and
leaned his elbow on the mantel, grasping his coat collar with one hand,
and listening to Dr. Howe's questions about his niece.
"She's very well," he answered, "and the happiest woman I ever saw. Those
two people were made for each other, doctor."
"Well, now, see here, young man," said the rector, who could not help
patronizing Gifford, "you'll disturb that happiness if you get into
religious discussions with Helen. Women don't understand that sort of
thing; young women, I mean," he added, turning to Miss Deborah, and then
suddenly looking confused.
Gifford raised his eyebrows. "Oh, well, Helen will reason, you know; she
is not the woman to take a creed for granted."
"She must," the rector said, with a chuckle, "if she's a Presbyterian.
She'll get into deep water if she goes to discussing predestination and
original sin, and all that sort of thing."
"Oh," said Gifford lightly, "of course she does not discuss those things.
I don't think that sort of theological rubbish had to be swept out of her
mind before the really earnest questions of life presented themselves.
Helen is singularly free from the trammels of tradition--for a woman."
Lois looked up, with a little toss of her head, but Gifford did not even
notice her, nor realize how closely she was following his words.
"John Ward, though," Gifford went on, "is the most perfect Presbyterian
I can imagine. He is logical to the bitter end, which is unusual, I
fancy. I asked him his opinion concerning a certain man, a fellow named
Davis,--perhaps Helen wrote of his death--I asked Ward what he thought of
his chances for salvation; he acknowledged, sadly enough, that he thought
he was damned. He didn't use that word, I believe," the young man added,
smiling, "but it amounted to the same thing."
There was an outcry from his auditors. "Abominable!" said Dr. Howe,
bringing his fist heavily down on the table. "I shouldn't have thought
that of Ward,--outrageous!"
Gifford looked surprised. "What a cruel man!" Lois cried; while Miss
Deborah said suddenly,--
"Giff, dear, have those flannels of yours worn well?" But Gifford
apparently did not hear her.
"Why, doctor," he remonstrated, "you misunderstand Ward. And he is not
cruel, Lois; he is the gentlest soul I ever knew. But he is logical, he
is consistent; he simply expresses Presbyterianism with utter truth,
without shrinking from its conclusions."
"Oh, he may be consistent," the rector acknowledged, with easy transition
to good-nature, "but that doesn't alter the fact that he's a fool to
say such things. Let him believe them, if he wants to, but for Heaven's
sake let him keep silent! He can hold his tongue and yet not be a
Universalist. _Medio tutissimus ibis_, you know. It will be sure to
offend the parish, if he consigns people to the lower regions in such
a free way."
"There is no danger of that," Gifford said; "I doubt if he could say
anything on the subject of hell too tough for the spiritual digestion of
his flock. They are as sincere in their belief as he is, though they
haven't his gentleness; in fact, they have his logic without his light;
there is very little of the refinement of religion in Lockhaven."
"What a place to live!" Lois cried. "Doesn't Helen hate it? Of course she
would never say so to us, but she _must_! Everybody seems so dreadfully
disagreeable; and there is really no one Helen could know."
"Why, Helen knows them all," answered Gifford in his slow way, looking
down at the girl's impulsive face.
"Lois," said her father, "you are too emphatic in your way of speaking;
be more mild. I don't like gush."
"Lois punctuates with exclamation points," Gifford explained
good-naturedly, meaning to take the sting out of Dr. Howe's reproof,
but hurting her instead.
"But, bless my soul," said the rector, "what does Helen say to this sort
of talk?"
"I don't think she says anything, at least to him;" Gifford answered. "It
is so unimportant to Helen, she is so perfectly satisfied with Ward, his
opinions are of no consequence. She did fire up, though, about Davis,"
and then he told the story of Elder Dean and Helen's angry protest.
Dr. Howe listened, first with grave disapproval, and then with positive
irritation.
"Dean," Gifford concluded, "has taken it very much to heart; he told
me--he's a client of mine, a stupid idiot, who never reasoned a thing out
in his life--he told me that 'not to believe in eternal damnation was to
take a short cut to atheism.' He also confided to me that 'a church which
could permit such a falling from the faith was in a diseased condition.'
I don't believe that opinion has reached Ward, however. It would take
more grit than Dean possesses to dare to find fault with John Ward's wife
to her husband."
"What folly!" cried the rector, his face flushed with annoyance. "What
possessed Helen to say such a thing! She ought to have had more sense.
Mark my words, that speech of hers will make trouble for Ward. I don't
understand how Helen could be so foolish; she was brought up just as Lois
was, yet, thank Heaven, her head isn't full of whims about reforming a
community. What in the world made her express such an opinion if she had
it, and what made her have it?"
Dr. Howe had risen, and walked impatiently up and down the room, and now
stood in front of Gifford, with a forefinger raised to emphasize his
words. "There is something so absurd, so unpleasant, in a young woman's
meddling with things which don't belong to her, in seeing a little mind
struggle with ideas. Better a thousand times settle down to look after
her household, and cook her husband's dinner, and be a good child."
Lois laughed nervously. "She has a cook," she said.
"Don't be pert, Lois, for Heaven's sake," answered her father, though
Miss Deborah had added,--
"Gifford says dear Helen is a very good housekeeper."
"Pray," continued the rector, "what business is it of hers what people
believe, or what she believes herself, for that matter, provided she's a
good girl, and does her duty in that station of life where it has pleased
God to put her,--as the wife of a Presbyterian minister? 'Stead of that
she tries to grapple with theological questions, and gets into hot water
with the parish. 'Pon my word, I thought better of the child! I'll write
and tell her what I think of it." (And so he did, the very next day. But
his wrath had expended itself in words, and his letter showed no more of
his indignation than the powdery ashes which fell out of it showed the
flame of the cigar he was smoking when he wrote it.) "And as for Ward
himself," the rector went on, "I don't know what to think of him. Did you
know he had given up his salary? Said 'Helen had enough for them to live
on,' and added that they had no right to any more money than was
necessary for their comfort; anything more than that belonged to the
Lord's poor. Bless my soul, the clergyman comes under that head, to my
mind. Yes, sir, he's willing to live on his wife! I declare, the fellow's
a--a--well, I don't know any word for him!"
There was a chorus of astonishment from the ladies.
"'Christian' would be a pretty good word," said Gifford slowly. "Isn't he
following Christ's example rather more literally than most of us?"
"But to live on his wife!" cried Dr. Howe.
"I don't believe," Gifford responded, smiling, "that that would distress
John Ward at all."
"Apparently not," said the rector significantly.
"He loves her too much," Gifford went on, "to think of himself apart from
her; don't you see? They are one; what difference does it make about the
money?"
"Could you do it?" asked Dr. Howe.
"Well, no," Gifford said, shrugging his shoulders; "but then, I'm not
John Ward."
"Thank Heaven!" said the rector devoutly.
"But it is a mistake, all the same," Gifford went on; "it is
unbusiness-like, to say nothing of being bad for his people to have the
burden of support lifted from them; it pauperizes them spiritually."
After the relief of this outburst against John Ward, Dr. Howe felt the
inevitable irritation at his hearers. "Well, I only mention this," he
said, "because, since he is so strange, it won't do, Gifford, for you to
abet Helen in this ridiculous skepticism of hers. If Ward agreed with
her, it would be all right, but so long as he does not, it will make
trouble between them, and a woman cannot quarrel with an obstinate and
bigoted man with impunity. And you have no business to have doubts
yourself, sir."
The two sisters were much impressed with what the rector said. "I must
really caution Giff," said Miss Deborah to Lois, "not to encourage dear
Helen in thinking about things; it's very unfeminine to think, and
Gifford is so clever, he doesn't stop to remember she's but a woman. And
he is greatly attached to her; dear me, he has never forgotten what might
have been,"--this in almost a whisper.
Both the sisters talked of Dr. Howe's anger as they went home.
"He's right," said Miss Deborah, who had dropped her nephew's arm, so
that she might be more cautious about the mud, and who lifted her skirt
on each side, as though she was about to make a curtsy,--"he's right: a
woman ought to think just as her husband does; it is quite wrong in dear
Helen not to, and it will bring unhappiness. Indeed, it is a lesson to
all of us," she added.
Respect was an instinct with Gifford, and he did not stop to think that
it was a lesson by which Miss Deborah would have no opportunity to
profit.
But he was not listening closely to the chatter of the little ladies; he
was thinking of Lois's indifference. "She even looked bored, once," he
thought; "but that does not necessarily mean that she cares for Forsythe.
I will trust her. She may never love me, but she will never care for
him."