PARSON TOM INTERFERES
It was nearly five o'clock and the table was set for tea. Betty was
standing at the window staring thoughtfully out upon the valley.
Ordinarily her contemplation would have been one of delighted interest,
for the scene was her favorite view of the valley, where every feature
of it, the village, the mill, the river, assumed its most picturesque
aspect.
She loved the valley with a deep affection. Unlike most people, who
tire of their childhood's surroundings and pant for fresh sights, fresh
fields in which to expand their thoughts and feelings, she clung to the
valley with all an artist's love for the beautiful, and a strength
inspired by the loyal affection of a simple woman. Her delight in her
surroundings amounted almost to a passion. To her this valley was a
treasured possession. The river was a friend, a fiery, turbulent
friend, and often she had declared, when in a whimsical mood, one to
whom she could tell her innermost secrets without fear of their being
passed on, in confidence, to another, or of having them flung back in
her face when spite stirred its tempestuous soul.
She knew her river's shortcomings, she knew its every mood. It was
merely a torrent, a strenuous mountain torrent, but to her it possessed
a real personality. In the spring flood it was like some small
individual bursting with its own importance, with its vanity, with
resentment at the restraint of the iron hand of winter, from which it
had only just torn itself loose, and stirred to the depths of its
frothy soul with an overwhelming desire for self-assertion. Often she
had watched the splendid destruction of which it was capable at such a
time. She had seen the forest giants go down at the roar of its
battle-cry. She had often joined the villagers, standing fearful and
dismayed, watching its mounting waters lest their homes should be
devoured by the insatiable little monster, and filled with awe at its
magnificent bluster.
Then, in the extreme heat of the late summer, when autumn had tinged
the valley to a glorious gold and russet, she had just as often seen
the reverse side of the picture. No longer could the river draw on the
vast supplies of the melting mountain snows, and so it was doomed to
fall a prey to the mighty grip of winter, and, as if in anticipation of
its end, it would sing its song of sadness as it sobbed quietly over
its fallen greatness, sighing dismally amongst the debris which in the
days of its power it had so wantonly torn from its banks.
There was a great deal of the girl's character in her love for the
river. She possessed an enthusiastic admiration for that strength which
fights, fights until the last drop of blood, the last atom of power is
expended. Fallen greatness evoked her enthusiasm as keenly as success,
only that the enthusiasm was of a different nature. With her it was
better to have striven with all one's might and encountered disaster
than to have lived fallow, a life of the most perfect rectitude. Her
twenty-seven years of life had set her thrilling with a mental and
physical virility which was forever urging her, and steadily moulding
her whole outlook upon life, even though that outlook carried her no
farther than the confines of her beautiful sunlit valley.
Something of this was stirring within her now. She was not thinking of
that which her eyes looked upon. She was thinking of the man to whom
she had given her promise, her woman's promise, which carries with it
all the best a woman has to give. She was no weakling, dreaming
regretfully of all that might have been; she had no thought of
retracting because in her heart she knew she had made a mistake. She
was reviewing the man as she had seen him that noon, and considering
the story of his doings as she had been told them, quietly making up
her mind to her own line of action.
He was presently to come up to her home to have tea with them, and she
would be given the opportunity of seeing the man that five years'
absence in the wilds had made of him. Once or twice she almost
shuddered as the details of their meeting on the bridge obtruded
themselves. She tried to shut them out. She understood the rough side
of men, for she lived amongst a people in whom it was difficult enough
to trace even a semblance of gentleness. She allowed for the moment of
provocation when the man's horse had shied and unseated him. She
realized the natural inclination it would inspire to forcibly, even if
irresponsibly, protest. Even the manner of his protest she condoned.
But his subsequent attitude, his appearance, and his manner toward
herself, these were things which had an ugly tone, and for which she
could find no extenuation.
However, it should all be settled that afternoon. She unfolded and
straightened out a piece of paper she had been abstractedly crumpling
in her hand. She glanced at the unsteady writing on it, a writing she
hardly recognized as Jim's.
"Will come up to tea this afternoon. Sorry for this morning.--JIM."
That was the note he had sent her soon after she had reached home.
There was no word of affection in it. Nothing but a bare statement and
an apology which scarcely warranted the name. To her it seemed to have
been prompted by the man's realization of an unpleasant and undesired
duty to be performed. The few letters she had received from him
immediately before his return had borne a similar tone of indifference,
and once or twice she had felt that she ought to write and offer him
his freedom. This, however, she had never done, feeling that by doing
so she might be laying herself open to misinterpretation. No, if their
engagement were distasteful to him, it must be Jim who broke it. Unlike
most women, she would rather he threw her over than bear the stigma of
having jilted him. She had thought this all out very carefully. She had
an almost mannish sense of honor, just as she possessed something of a
man's courage to carry out her obligations.
She glanced over the tea-table. There were four places set. The table
was daintily arranged, and though the china was cheap, and there was no
display of silver, or any elaborate furnishings, it looked attractive.
The bread and butter was delicate, the assortment of home-made cakes
luscious, the preserves the choicest from her aunt's store-cupboard.
Betty had been careful, too, that the little sitting-room, with its
simple furniture and unpretentious decorations, should be in the nicest
order. She had looked to everything so that Jim's welcome should be as
cordial as kindly hearts could make it. And now she was awaiting his
coming.
The clock on the sideboard chimed five, and a few moments later her
uncle came in.
"What about tea, Betty?" he inquired, glancing with approval at the
careful preparations for the meal.
"I think we ought to wait," she replied, with a wistful smile into his
keen blue eyes. "I sent word to Jim for five o'clock--but--well,
perhaps something has detained him."
"No doubt," observed the parson dryly. "I dare say five minutes added
on to five years means nothing to Jim."
He didn't approve the man's attitude at all. All his ideas on the
subject of courtship had been outraged at his delay in calling. He had
been in the village nearly five hours.
The girl rearranged the teacups.
"You mustn't be hard on him," she said quietly. "He had to get cleaned
up and settled at the hotel. I don't suppose he'd care to come here
like--like----"
"It doesn't take a man five hours to do all that," broke in her uncle,
with some warmth. Then, as he faced the steady gaze of the girl's brown
eyes, he abruptly changed his tone and smiled at her. "Yes, of course
we'll wait. We'll give him half an hour's grace, and then--I'll fetch
him."
Betty smiled. There was a characteristic snap in the parson's final
declaration. The militant character of the man was always very near the
surface. He was the kindest and best of men, but anything suggesting
lack of straightforwardness in those from whom he had a right to expect
the reverse never failed to rouse his ire.
For want of something better to do Betty was carrying out a further
rearrangement of the tea-table, and presently her uncle questioned her
shrewdly.
"You don't seem very elated at Jim's return?" he said.
"I am more than pleased," she replied gravely.
Parson Tom took up his stand at the window with his back turned.
"When I was engaged to your aunt," he said, smiling out at the valley,
"if I had been away for five years and suddenly returned, she would
probably have had about three fits, a scene of shrieking hysteria, and
gone to bed for a week. By all of which I mean she would have been
simply crazy with delight. It must be the difference of temperament,
eh?" He turned round and stood smiling keenly across at the girl's
serious face.
"Yes, uncle, I don't think I am demonstrative."
"Do you want to marry him?"
The man's eyes were perfectly serious now.
"I am going to marry him--unless----"
"Unless?"
"Unless he refuses to marry me."
"Do you want to marry him, my dear? That was my question."
Her uncle had crossed over to her and stood looking down at her with
infinite tenderness in his eyes. She returned his gaze, and slowly a
smile replaced her gravity.
"You are very literal, uncle," she said gently. "If you want an
absolutely direct reply it is 'Yes.'"
But her uncle was not quite satisfied.
"You--love him?" he persisted.
But this catechism was too much for Betty. She was devoted to her
uncle, and she knew that his questions were prompted by the kindliest
motives. But in this matter she felt that she was entirely justified in
thinking and acting for herself.
"You don't quite understand," she said, with just a shade of
impatience. "Jim and I are engaged, and you must leave us to settle
matters ourselves. If you press me I shall speak the plain truth, and
then you will have a wrong impression of the position. I perfectly
understand my own feelings. I am not blinded by them. I shall act as I
think best, and you must rely on my own judgment. I quite realize that
you want to help me. But neither you nor any one else can do that,
uncle. Ah, here is auntie," she exclaimed, with evident relief.
Mrs. Chepstow came in. She was hot from her work in the kitchen, where
she was operating, with the aid of her "hired" girl, a large bake of
cakes for the poorer villagers. She looked at the clock sharply.
"Why, it's half-past five and no tea," she exclaimed, her round face
shining, and her gentle eyes wide open. "Where's Jim? Not here? Why, I
am astonished. Betty, what are you thinking of?--and after five years,
too."
"Betty hasn't got him in proper harness yet," laughed the parson, but
there was a look in his eyes which was not in harmony with his laugh.
"Harness? Don't be absurd, Tom." Then she turned to Betty. "Did you
tell him five?"
Tom Chepstow picked up his hat, and before the girl could answer he was
at the door.
"I'm going to fetch him," he said, and was gone before Betty's protest
reached him.
"I do wish uncle wouldn't interfere," the girl said, as her aunt
laughed at her husband's precipitate exit.
"Interfere, my dear!" she exclaimed. "You can't stop him. He's got a
perverted notion that we women are incapable of taking care of
ourselves. He goes through life determined to fight our battles.
Determined to help us out when we don't need it. He's helped me 'out'
all our married life. He spends his life doing it, and I often wish
he'd--he'd leave me 'in' sometimes. I've never seen a man who could
upset a woman's plans more completely than your uncle, and all with the
best intention. One of these days I'll start to help him out, and then
we'll see how he likes it," she laughed good-humoredly. "You know, if
he finds Jim he's sure to upset the boy, and he'll come back thinking
he's done his duty by you. Poor Tom, and he does mean so well."
"I know he does, auntie, and that's why we all love him so. Everybody
loves him for it, He never thinks of himself. It's always others,
and----"
"Yes, my dear, you're right. But all the same I think he's right just
now. Why isn't Jim here? Why didn't he come straight away? Why has he
been in Malkern five hours before he comes to see you? Betty, my child,
I've not said a word all these years. I've left you to your own affairs
because I know your good sense; but, in view of the stories that have
reached us about Jim, I feel that the time has come for me to speak.
Are you going to verify those stories?"
Mrs. Chepstow established her comfortable form in a basket chair, which
audibly protested at the weight it was called upon to bear. She folded
her hands in her lap, and, assuming her most judicial air, waited for
the girl's answer. Betty was thinking of her meeting with Jim on the
bridge.
"I shall hear what he has to say," she said decidedly, after a long
pause.
Her aunt stared.
"You're going to let him tell you what he likes?" she cried in
astonishment.
"He can tell me what he chooses, or--he need tell me nothing."
Her aunt flushed indignantly.
"You will never be so foolish," she said, exasperated.
"Auntie, if Uncle Tom had been away five years, would you ask him for
proof of his life all that time?" Betty demanded with some warmth.
The other stirred uneasily.
"That depends," she said evasively.
"No, no, auntie, it doesn't. You would never question uncle. You are a
woman, and just as foolish and stupid about that sort of thing as the
rest of us. We must take our men on trust. They are men, and their
lives are different from ours. We cannot judge them, or, at any rate,
we would rather not. Why does a woman cling to a scoundrelly husband
who ill-treats her and makes her life one long round of worry, and even
misery? Is it because she simply has to? No. It is because he is her
man. He is hers, and she would rather have his unkindness than another
man's caresses. Foolish we may be, and I am not sure but that we would
rather be foolish--where our men are concerned. Jim has come back. His
past five years are his. I am going to take up my little story where it
was broken five years ago. The stories I have heard are nothing to me.
So, if you don't mind, dear, we will close the subject."
"And--and you love him?" questioned the elder woman.
But the girl had turned to the window. She pointed out down the road in
the direction of the village.
"Here is uncle returning," she said, ignoring the question. "He's
hurrying. Why--he's actually running!"
"Running?"
Mrs. Chepstow bustled to the girl's side, and both stood watching the
vigorous form of the parson racing up the trail. Just as he came to the
veranda they turned from the window and their eyes met. Betty's were
full of pained apprehension, while her aunt's were alight with
perplexed curiosity. Betty felt that she knew something of the meaning
of her uncle's undignified haste. She did not actually interpret it,
she knew it meant disaster, but the nature of that disaster never
entered into her thought. Something was wrong, she knew instinctively;
and, with the patience of strength, she made no attempt to even guess
at it, but simply waited. Her aunt rushed at the parson as he entered
the room and flung aside his soft felt hat. Betty gazed mutely at the
flaming anger she saw in his blue eyes, as his wife questioned him.
"What is it?" she demanded. "What has happened?"
Parson Tom drew a chair up to the table and flung himself into it.
"We'll have tea," he said curtly.
His wife obediently took her seat.
"And Jim?" she questioned.
The angry blue eyes still flashed.
"We won't wait for him."
Then Betty came to the man's side and laid one small brown hand firmly
on his shoulder.
"You--you saw him?" she demanded.
Her uncle shook her hand off almost roughly.
"Yes--I saw him," he said.
"And why isn't he here?" the girl persisted without a tremor, without
even noticing his rebuff.
"Because he's lying on his bed at the hotel--drunk. Blind
drunk,--confound him."