Gifford Woodhouse was not quite honest with himself when he said that he
felt it was time to go back to Ashurst to make his aunts a visit. He had
been restless and absent-minded very often since that flying trip in the
early spring. In spite of his sternest reasoning, hope was beginning to
grow up in his heart again. Dick Forsythe had not come to Ashurst, and
Helen said plainly that she knew Lois was not engaged to him. So why
should not Gifford himself be on the spot?
"Not that I would bother Lois," he argued in his own mind, "but just to
know if"--And besides, he really ought to see the two little ladies.
He left Lockhaven a few days after John Ward had preached his sermon on
foreign missions at Chester. It was reported to have been "powerful,"
and Elder Dean said he wished "our own people could have been benefited
by it."
"I thought the heathen were expected to be benefited by such sermons,"
Gifford said, twisting a cigarette between his fingers, as he leaned over
the half-door of the elder's shop, lazily watching a long white shaving
curl up under his plane. "I thought the object was a large contribution."
The elder looked up solemnly, and opened his lips with vast deliberation.
"Lawyer Woodhouse," he said, "that's your mistake. They're fer the
purpose of instructing us that the heathen is damned, so that we will
rejoice in our own salvation, and make haste to accept it if we are
unconverted."
He looked hard at the young man as he spoke, for every one knew Lawyer
Woodhouse did not go regularly to church, and so, presumably, was not a
Christian.
Then Mr. Dean, while he pulled the shavings out of his plane, and threw
them on the fragrant heap at his feet, said one or two things which made
Gifford stop lounging and forget his cigarette while he listened with a
grave face. "Unbelief in the church," "the example for our youth," "the
heresy of the preacher's wife."
This was not the first time Gifford had heard such comments, but there
was a threat in Mr. Dean's voice, though he did not put it into words,
which made the young man carry a growing anxiety about Helen away with
him. He could not forget it, even in the rejoicings of his home-coming,
and he gave guarded answers about her which were unlike his usual
frankness.
Lois noticed it, and wondered a little, but was perhaps more annoyed than
troubled by it.
The shyness of her welcome Gifford quite misunderstood.
"After all," he thought, "what was the use of coming? Whatever Forsythe's
chances are, there is one thing sure,--she does not care for me. She used
to have that old friendly way, at least; but even that is gone, now. I
might have known it. I was a fool to run into the fire again. Thank
Heaven, that cad isn't here. When he comes, I'll go!"
And so he wandered forlornly about, his hands in his pockets, and a
disconsolate look on his face which greatly distressed his aunts.
Somehow, too, the big fellow's presence for any length of time
embarrassed them. They had been so long without a man in the house, they
realized suddenly that he took up a great deal of room, and that their
small subjects of conversation could not interest him.
"Perhaps," said Miss Ruth shrewdly, "he has found some nice girl in
Lockhaven, and misses her. What do you think, sister?"
"It is not impossible," answered Miss Deborah; "but, dear me, sister,
if only Helen Jeffrey had not married so young! I always felt that
Providence pointed to her for dear Giff."
"Well," said Miss Ruth, a little color creeping into her cheek, "I think
Providence does arrange such things, and as Helen seems much attached to
Mr. Ward, no doubt that was meant. It is gratifying to think such things
always are meant. I have even thought that when a person no longer very
young, even quite advanced in life, remains unmarried, it was because the
other, appointed by Heaven, died, no doubt in infancy."
Miss Deborah sniffed. "I should be sorry to think all marriages were
planned by Providence," she said, "for it would seem that Providence
showed very poor judgment sometimes. Look at Henry Dale. I'm sure there
were--_others_, who would have made him happier, and been quite as good
housekeepers, too."
Miss Ruth mentioned her suspicion of the "nice girl in Lockhaven" to
Lois, while Miss Deborah added that it was really no pleasure to cook for
dear Giff; he was so out of spirits he didn't seem to care for anything;
he did not even eat the whigs, and Lois knew how fond he was of whigs.
Very likely dear Ruth was right.
This made Lois's interest in Gifford still deeper, though she said,
tossing her head with airy impatience, that she did not believe there
were any nice girls in Lockhaven; there were only working people there.
Then she thought of that talk with Gifford at the stone bench, and
recalled the promise she had made, and how she had sealed it. Her cheeks
burned till they hurt her.
"He has forgotten it all, long ago," she said to herself; "men never
remember such things. Well, he sha'n't think I remember!"
But how often Gifford remembered!
One afternoon he walked over to the stone bench, and sat down on the very
same sunken step from which he had looked up into Lois's face that June
evening. He saw a bunch of violets growing just where her foot must have
rested, and what was more natural--for Gifford was still young--than that
pencil and note-book should appear, and, with a long-drawn sigh, he
should write hastily,--
O Violet,
Dost thou forget?
and then stop, perhaps to sharpen his pencil, and, if the truth be told,
to cast about for a rhyme.
Alas, that love and poetry should be checked by anything so commonplace
as syllables! Let--wet--yet,--one can fit in the sense easily when the
proper rhyme has been decided upon; and who knows but that Gifford, lying
there in the grass, with the old lichen-covered step for a desk, might
have written a sonnet or a madrigal which would have given him his
heart's desire before the moon rose! But an interruption came.
The rector and Mr. Denner were coming back from fishing, along the road
on the other side of the hedge, and Dr. Howe turned in here to follow the
garden path home, instead of taking the longer way. Both pushed through a
gap in the hedge, and discovered Gifford lying in the grass by the stone
bench.
"Hello!" said the rector. "Working up a case, young man?"
Perhaps Gifford was not altogether displeased to be interrupted; the
song we might have sung is always sweetest. At all events, he very
good-naturedly put his note-book back in his pocket, and rolling over on
his stomach, his elbows crushing down the soft grass and his fists under
his chin, began to talk to the two elder men.
"Had good luck?"
The rector shook his head ruefully. "Denner has two trout. Fate was
against me. Any fishing about Lockhaven, Gifford? Ward do any?"
Gifford laughed. "He only fishes for men," he said. "He devotes himself
to it day and night. Especially of late; his fear of hell-fire for other
people's souls has seemed to take great hold on him."
"Gad!" said Dr. Howe. "He's a queer fellow."
"He's a good fellow," Gifford answered warmly. "And as to his belief,
why, you believe in hell, don't you, doctor?"
"Oh, bless my soul, yes," said Dr. Howe, with a laugh, and with a twinkle
in his eyes. "I must, you know, and it's well to be on the safe side,
Giff; if you believe it here, theoretically, it is to be supposed you
won't believe it there, experimentally!" He laughed again, his big, jolly
laugh. "Good-by, Denner. You took all the luck."
Then he trudged whistling up the path, striking at the hollyhocks with
his rod, and wondering how long it would take Sally to brush the mud off
his corduroys.
But Mr. Denner delayed. He laid his rod tenderly down on the grass, and
his fishing-basket on the stone bench beside him. Gifford's sense of
humor padded a good many of the sharp points of life; he had to look less
doleful when he saw that the lawyer had chosen Lois's seat, and even her
attitude; his little shriveled hands were clasped upon his knees, and he
was bending forward, looking at the young man as he talked. Gifford
thought of a sonnet in his left breast-pocket, beginning, "To one who sat
'neath rustling poplar-tree," and smiled.
"Well, now," said Mr. Denner, "it is pleasant to see you at home again,
Gifford. It must be a pleasure to your aunts."
"It is a great pleasure to me," the young man replied. "I only wish that
I could carry them back to Lockhaven with me."
"What, both of them?" Mr. Denner asked, in an alarmed way.
"Oh, of course," answered the other; "they couldn't be separated. Why,
you cannot think of one of them without thinking of the other!"
Mr. Denner sighed. "Just so, just so. I have observed that."
"But I'm afraid," Gifford went on, "they wouldn't be quite happy there.
There's no church, you know,--I mean no Episcopal Church,--and then it
isn't like Ashurst. Except Helen and Mr. Ward, there are only working
people, though, for that matter, Ward works harder than anybody else.
Yes, they would miss Ashurst too much."
"You really think they would miss--us?" said Mr. Denner eagerly.
"Yes," responded Gifford slowly. He was beginning to look at the bunch of
violets again, and his aunts did not seem so interesting.
"Well, now," Mr. Denner said, "I am sure I am glad to hear you say that,
very glad. We--ah--should miss them, I assure you."
Gifford reached out and plucked up the violets by the roots, to save them
from Mr. Denner's drab gaiter, and planted them deep in a crevice of the
steps.
"Ah--Gifford," said the lawyer, after he had waited a reasonable time for
an answer, "a--a friend of mine is in some perplexity concerning an
attachment; he wished my advice."
Gifford began to look interested.
"Foreclosure?"
"You--ah, you do not exactly catch my meaning," answered the little
gentleman nervously. "I refer--he referred to an affair of--of the
affections. Of course you are too young to really understand these
things from a--a romantic point of view, as it were, but being a lawyer,
your--a--legal training--would make you consider such a matter
intelligently, and I might like your advice."
"Oh!" said Gifford, seeming to grasp the situation. "Yes; I had one case
of that kind in Lockhaven. Jury gave damages to my client; seems they
had been engaged twelve years when she jilted him. I detest those
breach-of-promise suits; they"--
Mr. Denner bounded from his seat. "My dear boy, my dear sir," he gasped,
"not at all, not at all! You do not apprehend me, Gifford. My friend is
in love, sir; he wished my advice, not legally, you understand, but in
regard to his choice!"
"Your advice!" Gifford burst out, but instantly apologized by saying he
believed it was not usual to ask advice in such matters,--a man usually
knew. But perhaps he was mistaken.
"Yes--I am inclined to think you are," responded Mr. Denner, with a
jauntiness which sat strangely upon his wrinkled face,--"I think you are.
Being still a very young person, Gifford, you scarcely understand the
importance of such matters, and the--ah--wisdom of seeking advice. I
believe it is always said that youth does not realize the importance of
advice. But the fact is, my friend has placed his affections upon two
ladies. They are connections, and both he represents to be estimable
persons; both, as I understand it, equally admirable. Equally, you
observe, Gifford. And he is unable to make up his mind which is the
most--I should say the more--desirable. I, unfortunately, was unable
to throw any light upon the subject."
"Do you know the young ladies?" asked Gifford.
"I--I may say I have met them," admitted Mr. Denner.
"And how did you advise him?" Gifford asked, his face preternaturally
grave.
Mr. Denner looked anxious. "That is just it. I have been unable to come
to any conclusion. I wondered if--if I spoke of their characteristics in
a general way (they are both so truly estimable) you might have an
opinion. He did think he could reach a decision, he tells me, for a
friend of his thought he knew a proverb which would throw a light upon
it."
"Settle it by a proverb!" cried Gifford.
"Yes," answered Mr. Denner firmly, "yes; and an excellent way it would
be, if one could find the proverb."
The air of offended dignity in Mr. Denner's face sobered Gifford at once.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said; "the method was new to me, though it
is, no doubt, excellent. May I ask the proverb?"
But the lawyer was hurt. "It is not worth while to mention it. It was
not--not suitable. It did not enable my friend to reach a decision, after
all; it was merely something in regard to whist."
Gifford hid his face in the grass for a moment, and then he said again,
"I--I beg your pardon, Mr. Denner; it struck me as an unusual way of
settling a love affair. Your friend must have been much disappointed?"
"He was, he was, sir," answered Mr. Denner, not knowing whether to be
angry or injured, and picking up his reel and rod with trembling hands.
"Well, now," Gifford said, sitting up and leaning his arms upon his
knees, the laughter still glimmering in his gray eyes, "I could give you
a proverb,--unless they are twins?"
Mr. Denner sat down again on the stone bench, and looked at him eagerly.
"No, Gifford, they are not twins,--no. There is a good ten years between
them."
"Then," said the young man, "what does your friend want better than 'Age
before beauty'? Let him propose to the elder."
Mr. Denner laid his rod down upon the grass, and, rising, extended his
hand to his companion.
"Gifford," he said, "you are an intelligent young man,--a remarkable
young man, sir. I knew it when I determined to ask your advice--for my
friend. I thank you. My--my friend thanks you, Gifford. He will act upon
this at once; he is forever indebted to you, sir."
It was all so solemn that Gifford's gravity lasted until the little
gentleman had disappeared through the hedge, and was far down the road;
then he hid his face in the grass, and laughed aloud.
But Mr. Denner was happy. He fairly beamed as he walked along,
repeating the proverb to himself. "Yes," he said, "nothing could be
better--nothing. How strange that it has not occurred to me before, or
that Henry should not have thought of it! 'Age before beauty!' Yes, just
so,--just so!"
While he was meditating thus happily, he heard behind him that curious,
irregular beat which only the hoofs of a runaway horse can make, and the
whirl of flying wheels swinging from side to side. He sprang to one side
of the road, his little heart pounding with sudden fright, and looked
back to see the rectory phaeton, reeling and almost overturning, dragged
madly at the heels of the shaggy little pony. They came flying toward
him. Mr. Denner caught a glimpse, through the cloud of dust, of Lois
Howe's white face, and a shrinking figure clinging to her. A gray veil
fluttered across the face, so that Mr. Denner could not tell who it was,
but instantly it flashed through his mind, "It is one of them!" He threw
down his basket and rod, and braced himself for the shock of the
encounter with the plunging horse; his little nerves, never very firm,
were strung like steel. Somehow, in that instant of waiting, the proverb
was forgotten; he felt that fate would decide for him. "It shall be this
one!" he said aloud,--"this one!" Then the horse seemed upon him; he did
not know when he made that jump at the bridle, or felt the iron hoof
strike his breast; he had only a confused sense of seeing the gray figure
thrown out upon the ground just as he found himself falling backwards.
Then he lost consciousness.
When he came to himself, and saw the trees and bushes dance strangely
about him for a moment, he found that he had been lifted over to the
grass at the roadside, and that Gifford Woodhouse's arm was under his
head. As his eyes grew steady, he saw that two men were holding the
trembling, steaming horse, and that a little group of people were
standing about the phaeton; but the gray figure had disappeared.
Gifford was fanning him, and pressing something to his lips with a
gentle, anxious hand.
"Gifford," he said faintly--"ah--which?"
"They are neither of them hurt, thank God," answered the young man
reverently, "but they owe their lives to you, Mr. Denner."
"Yes--but"--he struggled to say--"which--which was it?"
"He means who was it," said the rector, who had taken his place on
the other side of the injured man. "It was my daughter--God bless you,
Denner!--and Mrs. Forsythe."
Mr. Denner groaned, and shut his eyes. "Oh, it wasn't either," he
murmured; "that's always the way!"
"His mind is wandering," Gifford said, in a low voice. "I'm afraid this
is very serious, doctor. Do you think he can be moved now?"
The lawyer did not try to prove his sanity; he only groaned again, but
this time it was partly from pain. They lifted him gently, and carried
him into his own house, which he had nearly reached when the runaway
overtook him.
Both the women in the carriage had been thrown out, but Lois was able to
walk, and so far as could be ascertained Mrs. Forsythe was unhurt, save
for the shock, which sent her from one fainting fit into another until
late that night. They had carried her back to the rectory, Lois clinging
to one limp hand, and crying hysterically.
"Oh, she will die," she sobbed, "I know she will die; and it is my fault,
it is my carelessness! You needn't say it isn't, father. I know it is!
Oh, what shall I do!"
But there was nothing to do; and Mrs. Dale, who had been hastily
summoned,--for her reputation for nursing was even wider than Miss
Deborah's for housekeeping,--only put her to bed, "to get her out of the
way," she said, but really because she was filled with sympathy for her
niece's remorse, and felt that the forgetfulness of sleep was the only
comfort for her.
"I'll tell you what it is, brother," she said,--she had quietly settled
herself in authority at the rectory, despite Jean's air of contemptuous
dignity--"I believe Arabella Forsythe will have a chance to die, at last.
She's been looking for it these ten years, and as soon as she stops
fainting it will be a positive satisfaction to her. I'm afraid she is
really a very sick woman."
But no such thought did she impart to Lois, when she tucked her up in
bed, giving her a hearty kiss with her soothing draught, and bidding her
have some sense and stop crying, for Mrs. Forsythe would be all right in
the morning. But the morning brought no comfort; the doctor, who had come
from Mercer as quickly as Mrs. Dale's horses could bring him, was very
grave.
"The shock to the nervous system," he said,--"we cannot tell what it will
do."
Lois was so prostrated by grief at Mrs. Forsythe's condition, no one
dared tell her that Mr. Denner was the immediate anxiety. There was an
injury to the spine, and the plunging hoofs had done more harm than was
at first supposed; things looked very serious for the little gentleman.
The lawyer had fainted when he was lifted over his gloomy threshold,
where Mary stood waiting and wringing her hands, and had struggled back
to consciousness to find himself on the big, slippery horse-hair sofa, in
his dusky library. Dr. Howe was standing at his side, looking anxiously
down at him, and a neighbor was trying to slip a pillow under his head.
Gifford had gone to help Mary bring a bed down-stairs, for the slightest
movement caused Mr. Denner pain, and they dared not lift him, even to
take him up to his bedroom.
"What is the matter?" Mr. Denner tried to say. "I seem to be giving
trouble. Ah--pray do not mind me, doctor."
"You were hurt, you know, Denner," said the rector, whose feet were
planted wide apart, and his hands thrust down in his pockets, and who
felt oppressed by the consciousness of his own superabundant vitality,
for the lawyer looked so small and thin, and his voice was hardly more
than a whisper. "You've been a little faint. You'll be all right soon.
But Giff's going to put a bed up in here for you, because you might find
it uncomfortable to try to get up-stairs, you know."
Mr. Denner looked anxious at this; he wondered if Mary would not be
offended; but he was too strangely weary to talk, and his little
twinkling eyes were dim and blurred.
Gifford and Mary had carried down the four big posts of Mr. Denner's bed,
which looked like mahogany obelisks, and began to put it together, with
many interruptions for Mary to wipe her eyes on the corner of her gingham
apron, and remark it would soon be over, and she did not know where she
would ever get such another place. Once the rector turned and sharply
bade her hold her tongue. Mr. Denner opened his eyes at that, though he
had scarcely seemed to hear her. Nor did he know why Gifford and the
rector talked so long with the doctor on the broad flat stone at the
front door, in the fragrant spring twilight. Afterwards he beckoned
Gifford to him.
He did not quite like, he said, to leave his rod out over night; he could
go and get it in the morning, he knew, but if it wouldn't be too much
trouble, he would be obliged if Gifford would bring it in. And there were
two trout in the basket: perhaps he would be good enough to present them,
with his compliments, to the Misses Woodhouse. Gifford went for the rod,
but could not go back without an inquiry at the rectory.
"Arabella Forsythe," said Mrs. Dale,--"well, as I told brother, I think
this is her opportunity. She really is in a bad way, Giff. Lois wasn't
hurt at all, wonderful to say; but, naturally, she's in great distress,
because she blames herself for the whole thing."
"How so?" asked Gifford.
"Well, of course," Mrs. Dale answered, rubbing her little red nose with
her handkerchief, and with a suspicious mist in her eyes,--"of course it
really was her fault, only we mustn't let her know we think so. You see,
she was driving. (I've always said women don't know how to drive; they're
too inconsequent.) She wasn't paying attention to her horse, and let a
rein slip. Before she could pick it up, the horse shied at a newspaper
blowing along the road. Well, you know the rest. But Lois does not know
that we think it was her carelessness."
Gifford hesitated a moment, and then said slowly, "But wouldn't it be
better to help her face the truth of it now? There is no use to try to
escape self-reproaches that have their root in facts."
"Nonsense!" responded Mrs. Dale sharply. "I thought you had more
sympathy!"
Gifford had told his aunts of the accident, when he brought them the
offering of the two small fishes, and the ladies were full of distress
and anxiety, and the flutter of excited interest which would be sure to
be felt in a place like Ashurst. They had gone at once to the rectory, to
see if they could be of use, though, as Miss Deborah said to her sister,
"with Adele Dale there, of course there is nothing more to be desired."
Nevertheless, the next morning, Miss Ruth ran over with a bowl of wine
jelly from Miss Deborah, and brought back word that Mrs. Forsythe was
"still breathing;" and that the gravest apprehensions were felt for Mr.
Denner.
Miss Deborah was waiting in the parlor to hear the news; so important an
occasion seemed to demand the dignity of the parlor, and in a high-backed
armchair, with her feet on a cricket and a fresh handkerchief in her
hand, she listened to Miss Ruth's agitated and tearful story.
"I will make some whips for William Denner," she said promptly, as Miss
Ruth finished, "and we will take them to him this afternoon."
"Well, but, sister," said Miss Ruth, hesitating, "do you think--we'd
better? Ought not we to let Giff take them?"
"Why?" asked Miss Deborah. "He is able to see us, isn't he?"
"It is not quite that," answered the younger sister nervously, taking
off her bonnet, and beginning to roll the strings tight and smooth
between her fingers, "but--he is in--his chamber, sister. Would it be
quite--proper?"
"I think," said Miss Deborah, holding her head very straight, "we are old
enough to"--
"You may be," returned Miss Ruth firmly, "but I am not."
Miss Deborah was silent for a moment; then she said, "Well, perhaps you
are right, dear Ruth; though he is certainly very ill, and didn't you say
he was in the library?"
"Yes," said Miss Ruth, "he is very ill, but the fact of his couch being
in the library does not alter it. If anything sad should be going to
happen,--it would be different, then."
"Of course," assented Miss Deborah.
"You see," Miss Ruth explained, "if we saw him, and then he got well, it
would be very awkward."
"True," said Miss Deborah. "And certainly single women cannot be too
delicate in such matters. We will send the whips by Giff. Poor, poor
William Denner! Let me see,--were you to be his partner on Saturday? Oh,
no, I recollect: it was I,--it was my turn."
"I think not," Miss Ruth replied gently; "you played last week. I should
have played with him this time."
"Not at all," said Miss Deborah firmly, "he was mine."