A CHAPTER OF BETWEENS.
Did you ever move? And, in moving, did you ever happen to notice how
many little things there are to be picked up? Now that I am about to
shift the scene of my story from Clark township, the narrow stage upon
which it has progressed through two dozen chapters, I find a great
number of little things to be picked up.
One of the little things to be picked up is Norman Anderson. Very
little, if measured soul-wise. When his father had read the proclamation
of Andrew and divined that Norman was interested in the riot, he became
thoroughly indignant; the more so, that he felt his own lack of power to
do anything in the premises against his wife. But when Mrs. Abigail
heard of the case she was in genuine distress. It showed Andrew's
vindictiveness. He would follow her forever with his resentments, just
because she could not love him. It was not her fault that she did not
love him. Poor Norman had to suffer all the persecutions that usually
fall to such innocent creatures. She must send him away from home,
though it broke her mother's heart to do it; for if Andrew didn't have
him took up, the old Dutchman would, just because his son had turned out
a burglar. She said burglar rather emphatically, with a look at Julia.
And so Samuel Anderson took his son to Louisville, and got him a place
in a commission and produce house on the levee, with which Mr. Anderson
had business influence. And Samuel warned him that he must do his best,
for he could not come back home now without danger of arrest, and Norman
made many promises of amendment; so many, that his future seemed to him
barren of all delight. And, by way of encouraging himself in the austere
life upon which he had resolved to enter, he attended the least
reputable place of amusement in the city, the first night after his
father's departure.
In Clark township the Millerite excitement was at white heat. Some of
the preachers in other parts of the country had set one day, some
another. I believe that Mr. Miller, the founder, never had the temerity
to set a day. But his followers figured the thing more closely, and
Elder Hankins had put a fine point on the matter. He was certain, for
his part, that the time was at midnight on the eleventh of August. His
followers became very zealous, and such is the nature of an infection
that scarcely anybody was able to resist it. Mrs. Anderson, true to her
excitable temper, became fanatic--dreaming dreams, seeing visions,
hearing voices, praying twenty times a day[2], wearing a sourly pious
face, and making all around her more unhappy than ever. Jonas declared
that ef the noo airth and the noo heaven was to be chockful of sech as
she, 'most any other place in the univarse would be better, akordin' to
his way of thinkin'. He said she repented more of other folkses' sins
than anybody he ever seed.
[Footnote 2: Mrs. Anderson was less devout than some of her
co-religionists; the wife of a well-known steamboat-clerk was accustomed
to pray in private fifty times a day, hoping by means of this praying
without ceasing to be found ready when the trumpet should sound.]
As summer came on, Samuel Anderson, borne away on the tide of his own
and his wife's fanatical fever of sublimated devotion, discharged Jonas
and all his other _employés_, threw up business, and gave his whole
attention to the straightening of his accounts for the coming day of
judgment. Before Jonas left to seek a new place he told Cynthy Ann as
how as ef he'd met her alrlier 'twould a-settled his coffee fer life. He
was gittin' along into the middle of the week now, but he'd come to feel
like a boy since he'd been a livin' where he could have a few sweet and
pleasant words--ahem!--he thought December'd be as pleasant as May all
the year round ef he could live in the aurora borealis of her
countenance. And Cynthy Ann enjoyed his words so much that she prayed
for forgiveness for the next week and confessed in class-meeting that
she had yielded to temptation and sot her heart on the things of this
perishin' world. She was afeared she hadn't always remembered as how as
she was a poor unworthy dyin' worm of the dust, and that all the
beautiful things in this world perished with the usin'.
And Brother Goshorn, the class-leader at Harden's Cross-Roads, exhorted
her to tear every idol from her heart. And still the sweet woman's
nature, God's divine law revealed in her heart, did assert itself a
little. She planted some pretty-by-nights in an old cracked
blue-and-white tea-pot and set it on her window-sill. Somehow the
pretty-by-nights would remind her of Jonas, and while she tried to
forget him with one half of her nature, the other and better part (the
depraved part, she would have told you) cherished the memory of his
smallest act and word. In fact, the flowers had no association with
Jonas except that along with the awakening of her love came this little
sentiment for flowers into the dry desert of her life. But one day Mrs.
Anderson discovered the old blue broken tea-pot with its young plants.
"Why, Cynthy Ann!" she cried, "a body'd think you'd have more sense than
to do such a soft thing as to be raisin' posies at _your_ time of life!
And that when the world is drawing to a close, too! You'll be one of the
foolish virgins with no oil to your lamp, as sure as you see that day."
As for Julia's flowers, Mrs. Anderson had rudely thrown them into the
road by way of removing temptation from her and turning her thoughts
toward the awful realities of the close of time.
But Cynthy Ann blushed and repented, and kept her broken tea-pot, with a
fearful sense of sin in doing so. She never watered the pretty-by-nights
without the feeling that she was offering sacrifice to an idol.