"Now we've got red o' the men-folks," said Mrs. Robbins, "le's se' down
an' talk it over." The last man of all the crowd accustomed to seek the
country store at noontime was closing the church door behind him as she
spoke. "Here, Ezry," she called after him, "you hurry up, or you won't
git there afore cockcrow to-morrer, an' I wouldn't have that letter
miss for a good deal."
Mrs. Robbins was slight, and hung on wires,--so said her neighbors.
They also remarked that her nose was as pickèd as a pin, and that
anybody with them freckles and that red hair was sure to be smart. You
could always tell. Mrs. Robbins knew her reputation for extreme
acuteness, and tried to live up to it.
"Law! don't you go to stirrin' on him up," said Mrs. Solomon Page
comfortably, putting on the cover of her butter-box, which had
contained the family lunch. "If the store's closed, he can slip the
letter into the box, an' three cents with it, an' they'll put a stamp
on in the mornin'."
By this time, there was a general dusting of crumbs from Sunday gowns,
a settling of boxes and baskets, and the feminine portion of the East
Tiverton congregation, according to ancient custom, passed into the
pews nearest the stove, and arranged itself more compactly for the
midday gossip. This was a pleasant interlude in the religious decorum
of the day; no Sunday came when the men did not trail off to the store
for their special council, and the women, with a restful sense of
sympathy alloyed by no disturbing element, settled down for an
exclusively feminine view of the universe. Mrs. Page took the head of
the pew, and disposed her portly frame so as to survey the scene with
ease. She was a large woman, with red cheeks and black, shining hair.
One powerful arm lay along the back of the pew, and, as she talked, she
meditatively beat the rail in time. Her sister, Mrs. Ellison, according
to an intermittent custom, had come over from Saltash to attend church,
and incidentally to indulge in a family chat. It was said that Tilly
rode over about jes' so often to get the Tiverton news for her son
Leonard, who furnished local items to the Sudleigh "Star;" and, indeed,
she made no secret of sitting down in social conclave with a bit of
paper and a worn pencil in hand, to jog her memory. She, too, had
smooth black hair, but her dark eyes were illumined by no steadfast
glow; they snapped and shone with alert intelligence, and her great
forehead dominated the rest of her face, scarred with a thousand
wrinkles by intensity of nature rather than by time. A pleasant warmth
had diffused itself over the room, so cold during the morning service
that foot-stoves had been in requisition. Bonnet strings were thrown
back and shawls unpinned. The little world relaxed and lay at ease.
"What's the news over your way, sister?" asked Mrs. Ellison, as an
informal preliminary.
"Tilly don't want to give; she'd ruther take," said Mrs. Baxter, before
the other could answer. "She's like old Mis' Pepper. Seliny Hazlitt
went over there, when she was fust married an' come to the neighborhood
an' asked her if she'd got a sieve to put squash through. Poor Seliny!
she didn't know a sieve from a colander, in them days."
"I guess she found out soon enough," volunteered Mrs. Page. "_He_ was
one o' them kind o' men that can keep house as well as a woman. I'd
ruther live with a born fool."
"Well, old Mis' Pepper she ris up an' smoothed down her apron
(recollect them little dots she used to wear?--made her look as broad
as a barn door!), an' she says, 'Yes, we've got a sieve for flour, an'
a sieve for meal, an' a sieve for rye, an' a sieve for blue-monge, an'
we could have a sieve for squash if we was a mind to, _but I don't wish
to lend_.' That's the way with Tilly. She's terrible cropein' about
news, but she won't lend."
"How's your cistern?" asked Mrs. John Cole, who, with an exclusively
practical turn of mind, saw no reason why talk should be consecutive.
"Got all the water you want?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Page; "that last rain filled it up higher'n it's been
sence November."
But Mrs. Ellison was not to be thrown off the track.
"Ain't there been consid'able talk over here about Parson Bond?" she
asked.
Miss Sally Ware, a plump and pleasing maiden lady, whose gold beads lay
in a crease especially designed for them, stirred uneasily in her seat
and gave her sisters an appealing glance. But she did not speak, beyond
uttering a little dissentient noise in her throat. She was loyal to her
minister. An embarrassed silence fell like a vapor over the assemblage.
Everybody longed to talk; nobody wanted the responsibility of
beginning. Mrs. Page was the first to gather her forces.
"Now, Tilly," said she, with decision, "you ain't comin' over here to
tole us into haulin' our own pastor over the coals, unless you'll say
right out you won't pass it on to Saltash folks. As for puttin' it in
the paper, it ain't the kind you can."
Tilly's eyes burned.
"I guess I know when to speak an' when not to," she remarked. "Now
don't beat about the bush; the men-folks'll be back to rights. I never
in my life give Len a mite o' news he couldn't ha' picked up for
himself."
"Well, some master silly pieces have got into the paper, fust an'
last," said Mrs. Robbins. "Recollect how your Len come 'way over here
to git his shoes cobbled, the week arter Tom Brewer moved int' the
Holler, an' folks hadn't got over swappin' the queer things he said?
an' when Tom got the shoes done afore he promised, Len says to him,
'You're better'n your word.' 'Well,' says Tom, 'I flew at 'em with all
the venom o' my specie.' An' it wa'n't a fortnight afore that speech
come out in a New York paper, an' then the Sudleigh 'Star' got hold on
't, an' so 't went. If folks want that kind o' thing, they can git a
plenty, _I_ say." She set her lips defiantly, and looked round on the
assembled group. This was something she had meant to mention; now she
had done it.
The informal meeting was aghast. A flavor of robust humor was
accustomed to enliven it, but not of a sort to induce dissension.
"There! there!" murmured Sally Ware. "It's the Sabbath day!"
"Well, nobody's breakin' of it, as I know of," said Mrs. Ellison. Her
eyes were brighter than usual, but she composed herself into a careful
disregard of annoyance. When desire of news assailed her, she could
easily conceal her personal resentments, cannily sacrificing small
issues to great. "I guess there's no danger o' Parson Bond's gittin'
into the paper, so long 's he behaves himself; but if anybody's got
eyes, they can't help seein'. I hadn't been in the Bible class five
minutes afore I guessed how he was carryin' on. Has he begun to go with
Isabel North, an' his wife not cold in her grave?"
"Well, I think, for my part, he does want Isabel," said Mrs. Robbins
sharply, "an' I say it's a sin an' a shame. Why, she ain't twenty, an'
he's sixty if he's a day. My soul! Sally Ware, you better be settin'
your cap for my William Henry. He's 'most nineteen."
Miss Ware flushed, and her plump hands tightened upon each other under
her shawl. She was never entirely at ease in the atmosphere of these
assured married women; it was always a little bracing.
"Well, how's she take it?" asked Tilly, turning from one to the other.
"Tickled to death, I s'pose?"
"Well, I guess she ain't!" broke in a younger woman, whose wedding
finery was not yet outworn. "She's most sick over it, and so she has
been ever since her sister married and went away. I believe she'd hate
the sight of him, if 't wasn't the minister; but _'tis_ the minister,
and when she's put face to face with him, she can't help saying yes and
no."
"I dunno'," said Mrs. Page, with her unctuous laugh. "Remember the
party over to Tiverton t'other night, an' them tarts? You see, Rosanna
Maria Pike asked us all over; an' you know how flaky her pie-crust is.
Well, the minister was stan'in' side of Isabel when the tarts was
passed. He was sort o' shinin' up to her that night, an' I guess he
felt a mite twittery; so when the tarts come to him, he reached out
kind o' delicate, with his little finger straight out, an' tried to
take one. An' a ring o' crust come off on his finger. Then he tried it
ag'in, an' got another ring. Everybody'd ha' laughed, if it hadn't been
the minister; but Isabel she tickled right out, an' says, 'You don't
take jelly, do you, Mr. Bond?' An' he turned as red as fire, an' says,
'No, I thank you.'"
"She wouldn't ha' said it, if she hadn't ha' been so nervous," remarked
Miss Sally, taking a little parcel of peppermints from her pocket, and
proceeding to divide them.
"No, I don't s'pose she would," owned Mrs. Page reflectively. "But if
what they say is true, she's been pretty sassy to him, fust an' last.
Why, you know, no matter how the parson begins his prayer, he's sure to
end up on one line: 'Lord, we thank Thee we have not been left to live
by the dim light of natur'.' 'Lisha Cole, when he come home from
Illinois, walked over here to meetin', to surprise some o' the folks.
He waited in the entry to ketch 'em comin' out, an' the fust word he
heard was, 'Lord, we thank Thee we have not been left to live by the
dim light of natur'.' 'Lisha said he'd had time to be shipwrecked (you
know he went to California fust an' made the v'yage), an' be married
twice, an' lay by enough to keep him, and come home poor; but when he
heard that, he felt as if the world hadn't moved sence he started."
Sally Ware dropped her mitten, to avoid listening and the necessity of
reply; it was too evident that the conversational tone was becoming
profane. But Mrs. Page's eyes were gleaming with pure dramatic joy, and
she continued:--
"Well, a fortnight or so ago he went over to see Isabel, an' Sadie an'
her husband happened to be there. They were all settin' purrin' in the
dark, because they'd forgot to send for any kerosene. 'No light?' says
he, hittin' his head ag'inst the chimbly-piece goin' in,--'no light?'
'No,' says Isabel, 'none but the dim light of natur'.'"
There was a chime of delighted laughter in many keys. The company felt
the ease of unrestricted speech. They wished the nooning might be
indefinitely prolonged.
"Sometimes I think she sets out to make him believe she's wuss 'n she
is," remarked Mrs. Cole. "Remember how she carried on, last Sabbath?"
"I guess so!" returned Mrs. Page. "You see, Tilly, he's kind o' pushin'
her for'ard to make her seem more suitable,--he'd like to have her as
old as the hills!--an' nothin' would do but she must go into the Bible
class. Ain't a member that's under fifty, but there that little young
thing sets, cheeks red as a beet, an' the elder asks her questions,
when he gits to her, as if he was coverin' on her over with cotton
wool. Well, last Sabbath old Deacon Pitts--le's see, there ain't any o'
his folks present, be they?--well, he was late, an' he hadn't looked at
his lesson besides. 'T was the fust chapter in Ruth, where it begins,
'In the days when the judges ruled.' You recollect Naomi told the two
darters they'd got to set sail, an' then the Bible says, 'they lifted
up their voice an' wept.' 'Who wept?' says the parson to Deacon Pitts,
afore he'd got fairly se'down. The deacon he opened his Bible, an'
whirled over the leaves. 'Who wept, Brother Pitts?' says the parson
over ag'in. Somebody found the deacon the place, an' p'inted. He was
growin' redder an' redder, an' his spe'tacles kep' slippin' down, but
he did manage to see; the chapter begun suthin' about the judges. Well,
by that time parson spoke out sort o' sharp. 'Brother Pitts,' says he,
'who wept?' The deacon see't he'd got to put some kind of a face on't,
an' he looked up an' spoke out, as bold as brass. 'I conclude,' says
he,--'I conclude 't was the judges!'"
Even Miss Ware smiled a little, and adjusted her gold beads. The others
laughed out rich and free.
"Well, what'd that have to do with Isabel?" asked Mrs. Ellison, who
never forgot the main issue.
"Why, everybody else drawed down their faces, an' tried to keep 'em
straight, but Isabel, she begun to laugh, an' she laughed till the
tears streamed down her cheeks. Deacon Pitts was real put out, for him,
an' the parson tried not to take no notice. But it went so fur he
couldn't help it, an' so he says, 'Miss Isabel, I'm real pained,' says
he. But 'twas jest as you'd cuff the kitten for snarlin' up your yarn."
"Well, what's Isabel goin' to do?" asked Mrs. Ellison. "S'pose she'll
marry him?"
"Why, she won't unless he tells her to. If he does, I dunno but she'll
think she's got to."
"I say it's a shame," put in Mrs. Robbins incisively; "an' Isabel with
everything all fixed complete so 't she could have a good time. Her
sister's well married, an' Isabel stays every night with her. Them two
girls have been together ever sence their father died. An' here she's
got the school, an' she's goin' to Sudleigh every Saturday to take
lessons in readin', an' she'd be as happy as a cricket, if on'y he'd
let her alone."
"She reads real well," said Mrs. Ellison. "She come over to our
sociable an' read for us. She could turn herself into anybody she'd a
mind to. Len wrote a notice of it for the 'Star.' That's the only time
we've had oysters over our way."
"I'd let it be the last," piped up a thin old lady, with a long figured
veil over her face. "It's my opinion oysters lead to dancin'."
"Well, let 'em lead," said optimistic Mrs. Page. "I guess we needn't
foller."
"Them that have got rheumatism in their knees can stay behind," said
the young married woman, drawn by the heat of the moment into a daring
at once to be repented. "Mrs. Ellison, you're getting ahead of us over
in your parish. They say you sing out of sheet music."
"Yes, they do say so," interrupted the old lady under the figured veil.
"If there's any worship in sheet music, I'd like to know it!"
"Come, come!" said peace-loving Mrs. Page; "there's the men filin' in.
We mustn't let 'em see us squabblin'. They think we're a lot o'
cacklin' hens anyway, tickled to death over a piece o' chalk. There's
Isabel, now. She's goin' to look like her aunt Mary Ellen, over to
Saltash."
Isabel preceded the men, who were pausing for a word at the door, and
went down the aisle to her pew. She bowed to one and another, in
passing, and her color rose. They could not altogether restrain their
guiltily curious gaze, and Isabel knew she had been talked over. She
was a healthy-looking girl, with clear blue eyes and a quantity of soft
brown hair. Her face was rather large-featured, and one could see that,
if the world went well with her, she would be among those who develop
beauty in middle life.
The group of dames dispensed to their several pews, and settled their
faces into expressions more becoming a Sunday mood. The village folk,
who had time for a hot dinner, dropped in, one by one, and by and by
the parson came,--a gaunt man, with thick red-brown hair streaked with
dull gray, and red-brown, sanguine eyes. He was much beloved; but
something impulsive and unevenly balanced in his nature led even his
people to regard him with more or less patronage. He kept his eyes
rigorously averted from Isabel's pew, in passing; but when he reached
the pulpit, and began unpinning his heavy gray shawl, he did glance at
her, and his face grew warm. But Isabel did not look at him, and all
through the service she sat with a haughty pose of the head, gazing
down into her lap. When it was over, she waited for no one, since her
sister was not at church, but sped away down the snowy road.
The next day, Isabel stayed after school, and so it was in the wintry
twilight that she walked home, guarded by the few among her flock who
had been kept to learn the inner significance of common fractions.
Approaching her own house, she quickened her steps, for there before
the gate (taken from its hinges and resting for the winter) stood a
blue pung. The horse was dozing, his Roman nose sunken almost to the
snow at his feet. He looked as if he had come to stay. Isabel withdrew
her hand from the persistent little fingers clinging to it.
"Good-night, children," said she. "I guess I've got company. I must
hurry in. Come bright and early to-morrow."
The little group marched away, swathed in comforters, each child
carrying the dinner-pail with an easy swing. Their reddened faces
lighted over the chorusing good-nights, and they kept looking back,
while Isabel ran up the icy path to her own door. It was opened from
within, before she reached it, and a tall, florid woman, with smoothly
banded hair, stood there to receive her. Though she had a powerful
frame, she gave one at the outset an impression of weak gentleness, and
the hands she extended, albeit cordial, were somewhat limp. She wore
her bonnet still, though she had untied the strings and thrown them
back; and her ample figure was tightly laced under a sontag.
"Why, aunt Luceba!" cried Isabel, radiant. "I'm as glad as I can be.
When did you rain down?"
"Be you glad?" returned aunt Luceba, her somewhat anxious look relaxing
into a smile. "Well, I'm pleased if you be. Fact is, I run away, an'
I'm jest comin' to myself, an' wonderin' what under the sun set me out
to do it."
"Run away!" repeated Isabel, drawing her in, and at once peeping into
the stove. "Oh, you fixed the fire, didn't you? It keeps real well. I
put on coal in the morning, and then again at night."
"Isabel," began her aunt, standing by the stove, and drumming on it
with agitated fingers, "I hate to have you live as you do. Why under
the sun can't you come over to Saltash, an' stay with us?"
Isabel had thrown off her shawl and hat, and was standing on the other
side of the stove; she was tingling with cold and youthful spirits.
"I'm keeping school," said she. "School can't keep without me. And I'm
going over to Sudleigh, every Saturday, to take elocution lessons. I'm
having my own way, and I'm happy as a clam. Now, why can't you come and
live with me? You said you would, the very day aunt Eliza died."
"I know I did," owned the visitor, lowering her voice, and casting a
glance over her shoulder. "But I never had an idea then how Mary Ellen
'd feel about it. She said she wouldn't live in this town, not if she
was switched. I dunno why she's so ag'in' it, but she seems to be, an'
there 't is!"
"Why, aunt Luceba!" Isabel had left her position to draw forward a
chair. "What's that?" She pointed to the foot of the lounge, where,
half hidden in shadow, stood a large, old-fashioned blue chest.
"'Sh! that's it! that's what I come for. It's her chist."
"Whose?"
"Your aunt 'Liza's." She looked Isabel in the face with an absurd
triumph and awe. She had done a brave deed, the nature of which was not
at once apparent.
"What's in it?" asked Isabel, walking over to it.
"Don't you touch it!" cried her aunt, in agitation. "I wouldn't have
you meddle with it--But there! it's locked. I al'ays forgit that. I
feel as if the things could git out an' walk. Here! you let it alone,
an' byme-by we'll open it. Se' down here on the lounge. There, now! I
guess I can tell ye. It was sister 'Liza's chist, an' she kep' it up
attic. She begun it when we wa'n't more 'n girls goin' to Number Six,
an' she's been fillin' on't ever sence."
"Begun it! You talk as if 't was a quilt!" Isabel began to laugh.
"Now don't!" said her aunt, in great distress. "Don't ye! I s'pose 't
was because we was such little girls an' all when 'Liza started it, but
it makes me as nervous as a witch, an' al'ays did. You see, 'Liza was a
great hand for deaths an' buryin's; an' 'as for funerals, she'd ruther
go to 'em than eat. I'd say that if she was here this minute, for more
'n once I said it to her face. Well, everybody 't died, she saved
suthin' they wore or handled the last thing, an' laid it away in this
chist; an' last time I see it opened, 'twas full, an' she kind o'
smacked her lips, an' said she should have to begin another. But the
very next week she was took away."
"Aunt Luceba," said Isabel suddenly, "was aunt Eliza hard to live with?
Did you and aunt Mary Ellen have to toe the mark?"
"Don't you say one word," answered her aunt hastily. "That's all past
an' gone. There ain't no way of settlin' old scores but buryin' of 'em.
She was older 'n we were, an' on'y a step-sister, arter all. We must
think o' that. Well, I must come to the end o' my story, an' then we'll
open the chist. Next day arter we laid her away, it come into my head,
'Now we can burn up them things.' It may ha' been wicked, but there 't
was, an' the thought kep' arter me, till all I could think of was the
chist; an' byme-by I says to Mary Ellen, one mornin', 'Le's open it
to-day an' make a burnfire!' An' Mary Ellen she turned as white as a
sheet, an' dropped her spoon into her sasser, an' she says: 'Not yet!
Luceba, don't you ask me to touch it yet.' An' I found out, though she
never'd say another word, that it unset her more'n it did me. One day,
I come on her up attic stan'in' over it with the key in her hand, an'
she turned round as if I'd ketched her stealin', an' slipped off
downstairs. An' this arternoon, she went into Tilly Ellison's with her
work, an' it come to me all of a sudden how I'd git Tim Yatter to
harness an' load the chist onto the pung, an' I'd bring it over here,
an' we'd look it over together; an' then, if there's nothin' in it but
what I think, I'd leave it behind, an' maybe you or Sadie'd burn it.
John Cole happened to ride by, and he helped me in with it. I ain't
a-goin' to have Mary Ellen worried. She's different from me. She went
to school, same's you have, an' she's different somehow. She's been
meddled with all her life, an' I'll be whipped if she sha'n't make a
new start. Should you jest as lieves ask Sadie or John?"
"Why, yes," said Isabel wonderingly; "or do it myself. I don't see why
you care."
Aunt Luceba wiped her beaded face with a large handkerchief.
"I dunno either," she owned, in an exhausted voice. "I guess it's
al'ays little things you can't stand. Big ones you can butt ag'inst.
There! I feel better, now I've told ye. Here's the key. Should you jest
as soon open it?"
Isabel drew the chest forward with a vigorous pull of her sturdy arm.
She knelt before it and inserted the key. Aunt Luceba rose and leaned
over her shoulder, gazing with the fascination of horror. At the moment
the lid was lifted, a curious odor filled the room.
"My soul!" exclaimed Aunt Luceba. "O my soul!" She seemed incapable of
saying more; and Isabel, awed in spite of herself, asked, in a
whisper:--
"What's that smell? I know, but I can't think."
"You take out that parcel," said aunt Luceba, beginning to fan herself
with her handkerchief. "That little one down there't the end. It's
that. My soul! how things come back! Talk about spirits! There's no
need of 'em! _Things_ are full bad enough!"
Isabel lifted out a small brown paper package, labeled in a cramped
handwriting. She held it to the fading light. "'Slippery elm left by my
dear father from his last illness,'" she read, with difficulty. "'The
broken piece used by him on the day of his death.'"
"My land!" exclaimed aunt Luceba weakly. "Now what'd she want to keep
that for? He had it round all that winter, an' he used to give us a
little mite, to please us. Oh, dear! it smells like death. Well, le's
lay it aside an' git on. The light's goin', an' I must jog along. Take
out that dress. I guess I know what 't is, though I can't hardly
believe it."
Isabel took out a black dress, made with a full, gathered skirt and an
old-fashioned waist. "'Dress made ready for aunt Mercy,'" she read,
"'before my dear uncle bought her a robe.' But, auntie," she added,
"there's no back breadth!"
"I know it! I know it! She was so large they had to cut it out, for
fear 't wouldn't go into the coffin; an' Monroe Giles said she was a
real particular woman, an' he wondered how she'd feel to have the back
breadth of her quilted petticoat showin' in heaven. I declare I'm 'most
sick! What's in that pasteboard box?"
It was a shriveled object, black with long-dried mould.
"'Lemon held by Timothy Marden in his hand just before he died.' Aunt
Luceba," said Isabel, turning with a swift impulse, "I think aunt Eliza
was a horror!"
"Don't you say it, if you do think it," said her aunt, sinking into a
chair and rocking vigorously. "Le's git through with it as quick 's we
can. Ain't that a bandbox? Yes, that's great-aunt Isabel's leghorn
bunnit. You was named for her, you know. An' there's cousin Hattie's
cashmere shawl, an' Obed's spe'tacles. An' if there ain't old Mis'
Eaton's false front! Don't you read no more. I don't care what they're
marked. Move that box a mite. My soul! There's ma'am's checked apron I
bought her to the fair! Them are all her things down below." She got up
and walked to the window, looking into the chestnut branches, with
unseeing eyes. She turned about presently, and her cheeks were wet.
"There!" she said; "I guess we needn't look no more. Should you jest as
soon burn 'em?"
"Yes," answered Isabel. She was crying a little, too. "Of course I
will, auntie. I'll put 'em back now. But when you're gone, I'll do it;
perhaps not till Saturday, but I will then."
She folded the articles, and softly laid them away. They were no longer
gruesome, since even a few of them could recall the beloved and still
remembered dead. As she was gently closing the lid, she felt a hand on
her shoulder. Aunt Luceba was standing there, trembling a little,
though the tears had gone from her face.
"Isabel," said she, in a whisper, "you needn't burn the apron, when you
do the rest. Save it careful. I should like to put it away among my
things."
Isabel nodded. She remembered her grandmother, a placid, hopeful woman,
whose every deed breathed the fragrance of godly living.
"There!" said her aunt, turning away with the air of one who thrusts
back the too insistent past, lest it dominate her quite. "It's gittin'
along towards dark, an I must put for home. I guess that hoss thinks
he's goin' to be froze to the ground. You wrop up my soap-stone while I
git on my shawl. Land! don't it smell hot? I wisht I hadn't been so
spry about puttin' on't into the oven." She hurried on her things; and
Isabel, her hair blowing about her face, went out to uncover the horse
and speed the departure. The reins in her hands, aunt Luceba bent
forward once more to add, "Isabel, if there's one thing left for me to
say, to tole you over to live with us, I want to say it."
Isabel laughed. "I know it," she answered brightly. "And if there's
anything I can say to make you and aunt Mary Ellen come over here"--
Aunt Luceba shook her head ponderously, and clucked at the horse.
"Fur's I'm concerned, it's settled now. I'd come, an' be glad. But
there's Mary Ellen! Go 'long!" She went jangling away along the country
road to the music of old-fashioned bells.
Isabel ran into the house, and, with one look at the chest, set about
preparing her supper. She was enjoying her life of perfect freedom with
a kind of bravado, inasmuch as it seemed an innocent delight of which
nobody approved. If the two aunts would come to live with her, so much,
the better; but since they refused, she scorned the descent to any
domestic expedient. Indeed, she would have been glad to sleep, as well
as to eat, in the lonely house; but to that her sister would never
consent, and though she had compromised by going to Sadie's for the
night, she always returned before breakfast. She put up a leaf of the
table standing by the wall, and arranged her simple supper there,
uttering aloud as she did so fragments of her lesson, or dramatic
sentences which had caught her fancy in reading or in speech. Finally,
as she was dipping her cream toast, she caught herself saying, over and
over, "My soul!" in the tremulous tone her aunt had used at that moment
of warm emotion. She could not make it quite her own, and she tried
again and again, like a faithful parrot. Then of a sudden the human
power and pity of it flashed upon her, and she reddened,
conscience-smitten, though no one was by to hear. She set her dish upon
the table with indignant emphasis.
"I'm ashamed of myself!" said Isabel, and she sat down to her delicate
repast, and forced herself, while she ate with a cordial relish, to fix
her mind on what seemed to her things common as compared with her
beloved ambition. Isabel often felt that she was too much absorbed in
reading, and that, somehow or other, God would come to that conclusion
also, and take away her wicked facility.
The dark seemed to drift quickly down, that night, because her supper
had been delayed, and she washed her dishes by lamplight. When she had
quite finished, and taken off her apron, she stood a moment over the
chest, before sitting down to her task of memorizing verse. She was
wondering whether she might not burn a few of the smaller things
to-night; yet somehow, although she was quite free from aunt Luceba's
awe of them, she did feel that the act must be undertaken with a
certain degree of solemnity. It ought not to be accomplished over the
remnants of a fire built for cooking; it should, moreover, be to the
accompaniment of a serious mood in herself. She turned away, but at
that instant there came a jingle of bells. It stopped at the gate.
Isabel went into the dark entry, and pressed her face against the
side-light. It was the parson. She knew him at once; no one in Tiverton
could ever mistake that stooping figure, draped in a shawl. Isabel
always hated him the more when she thought of his shawl. It flashed
upon her then, as it often did when revulsion came over her, how much
she had loved him until he had conceived this altogether horrible
attachment for her. It was like a cherished friend who had begun to cut
undignified capers. More than that, there lurked a certain cruelty in
it, because he seemed to be trading on her inherited reverence for his
office. If he should ask her to marry him, he was the minister, and how
could she refuse? Unless, indeed, there were somebody else in the room,
to give her courage, and that was hardly to be expected. Isabel began
casting wildly about her for help. Her thoughts ran in a rushing
current, and even in the midst of her tragic despair some sense of the
foolishness of it smote her like a comic note, and she could have
laughed hysterically.
"But I can't help it," she said aloud, "I am afraid. I can't put out
the light. He's seen it. I can't slip out the back door. He'd hear me
on the crust. He'll--ask me--to-night! Oh, he will! he will! and I
said to myself I'd be cunning and never give him a chance. Oh, why
couldn't aunt Luceba have stayed? My soul! my soul!" And then the
dramatic fibre, always awake in her, told her that she had found the
tone she sought.
He was blanketing his horse, and Isabel had flown into the
sitting-room. Her face was alive with resolution and a kind of joy. She
had thought. She threw open the chest, with a trembling hand, and
pulled out the black dress.
"I'm sorry," she said, as she slipped it on over her head, and speaking
as if she addressed some unseen guardian, "but I can't help it. If you
don't want your things used, you keep him from coming in!"
The parson knocked at the door. Isabel took no notice. She was putting
on the false front, the horn spectacles, the cashmere shawl, and the
leghorn bonnet, with its long veil. She threw back the veil, and closed
the chest. The parson knocked again. She heard him kicking the snow
from his feet against the scraper. It might have betokened a decent
care for her floors. It sounded to Isabel like a lover's haste, and
smote her anew with that fear which is the forerunner of action. She
blew out the lamp, and lighted a candle. Then she went to the door,
schooling herself in desperation to remember this, to remember that, to
remember, above all things, that her under dress was red and that her
upper one had no back breadth. She threw open the door.
"Good-evening"--said the parson. He was, about to add "Miss Isabel,"
but the words stuck in his throat.
"She ain't to home," answered Isabel. "My niece ain't to home."
The parson had bent forward, and was eyeing her curiously, yet with
benevolence. He knew all the residents within a large radius, and he
expected, at another word from the shadowy masker, to recognize her
also. "Will she be away long?" he hesitated.
"I guess she will," answered Isabel promptly. "She ain't to be relied
on. I never found her so." Her spirits had risen. She knew how exactly
she was imitating aunt Luceba's mode of speech. The tones were
dramatically exact, albeit of a more resonant quality. "Auntie's voice
is like suet," she thought. "Mine is vinegar. _But I've got it!_" A
merry devil assailed her, the child of dramatic triumph. She spoke with
decision: "Won't you come in?"
The parson crossed the sill, and waited courteously for her to precede
him; but Isabel thought, in time, of her back breadth, and stood aside.
"You go fust," said she, "an' I'll shet the door."
He made his way into the ill-lighted sitting-room, and began to unpin
his shawl.
"I ain't had my bunnit off sence I come," announced Isabel, entering
with some bustle, and taking her stand, until he should be seated,
within the darkest corner of the hearth. "I've had to turn to an' clear
up, or I shouldn't ha' found a spot as big as a hin's egg to sleep in
to-night. Maybe you don't know it, but my niece Isabel's got no more
faculty about a house'n I have for preachin'--not a mite."
The parson had seated himself by the stove, and was laboriously
removing his arctics. Isabel's eyes danced behind her spectacles as she
thought how large and ministerial they were. She could not see them,
for the spectacles dazzled her, but she remembered exactly how they
looked. Everything about him filled her with glee, now that she was
safe, though within his reach. "'Now, infidel,'" she said noiselessly,
"'I have thee on the hip!'"
The parson had settled himself in his accustomed attitude when making
parochial calls. He put the tips of his fingers together, and opened
conversation in his tone of mild goodwill:--
"I don't seem to be able to place you. A relative of Miss Isabel's, did
you say?"
She laughed huskily. She was absorbed in putting more suet into her
voice.
"You make me think of uncle Peter Nudd," she replied, "when he was took
up into Bunker Hill Monument. Albert took him, one o' the boys that
lived in Boston. Comin' down, they met a woman Albert knew, an' he
bowed. Uncle Peter looked round arter her, an' then he says to Albert,
'I dunno's I rightly remember who that is!'"
The parson uncrossed his legs and crossed them the other way. The old
lady began to seem to him a thought too discursive, if not hilarious.
"I know so many of the people in the various parishes"--he began, but
he was interrupted without compunction.
"You never'd know me. I'm from out West. Isabel's father's brother
married my uncle--no, I would say my step-niece. An' so I'm her aunt.
By adoption, 't ennyrate. We al'ays call it so, leastways when we're
writin' back an' forth. An' I've heard how Isabel was goin' on, an' so
I ketched up my bunnit, an' put for Tiverton. 'If she ever needed her
own aunt,' says I--'her aunt by adoption--she needs her now.'"
Once or twice, during the progress of this speech, the visitor had
shifted his position, as if ill at ease. Now he bent forward, and
peered at his hostess.
"Isabel is well?" he began tentatively.
"Well enough! But, my sakes! I'd ruther she'd be sick abed or paraletic
than carry on as she does. Slack? My soul! I wisht you could see her
sink closet! I wisht you could take one look over the dirty dishes she
leaves round, not washed from one week's end to another!"
"But she's always neat. She looks like an--an angel!"
Isabel could not at once suppress the gratified note which crept of
itself into her voice.
"That's the outside o' the cup an' platter," she said knowingly. "I
thank my stars she ain't likely to marry. She'd turn any man's house
upside down inside of a week."
The parson made a deprecating noise in his throat. He seemed about to
say something, and thought better of it.
"It may be," he hesitated, after a moment,--"it may be her studies
take up too much of her time. I have always thought these elocution
lessons"--
"Oh, my land!" cried Isabel, in passionate haste. She leaned forward as
if she would implore him. "That's her only salvation. That's the makin'
of her. If you stop her off there, I dunno but she'd jine a circus or
take to drink! Don't you dast to do it! I'm in the family, an' I know."
The parson tried vainly to struggle out of his bewilderment.
"But," said he, "may I ask how you heard these reports? Living in
Illinois, as you do--did you say Illinois or Iowa?"
"Neither," answered Isabel desperately. "'Way out on the plains. It's
the last house afore you come to the Rockies. 'Law! you can't tell how
a story gits started, nor how fast it will travel. 'Tain't like a gale
o' wind; the weather bureau ain't been invented that can cal'late it. I
heard of a man once that told a lie in California, an' 'fore the week
was out it broke up his engagement in New Hampshire. There's the
'tater-bug--think how that travels! So with this. The news broke out in
Missouri, an' here I be."
"I hope you will be able to remain."
"Only to-night," she said in haste. More and more nervous, she was
losing hold on the sequence of her facts. "I'm like mortal life, here
to-day an' there to-morrer. In the mornin' I sha'n't be found." ("But
Isabel will," she thought, from a remorse which had come too late, "and
she'll have to lie, or run away. Or cut a hole in the ice and drown
herself!")
"I'm sorry to have her lose so much of your visit," began the parson
courteously, but still perplexing himself over the whimsies of an old
lady who flew on from the West, and made nothing of flying back. "If I
could do anything towards finding her"--
"I know where she is," said Isabel unhappily. "She's as well on't as
she can be, under the circumstances. There's on'y one thing you could
do. If you should be willin' to keep it dark t you've seen me, I should
be real beholden to ye. You know there ain't no time to call in the
neighborhood, an' such things make talk, an' all. An' if you don't
speak out to Isabel, so much the better. Poor creatur', she's got
enough to bear without that!" Her voice dropped meltingly in the
keenness of her sympathy for the unfortunate girl who, embarrassed
enough before, had deliberately set for herself another snare. "I feel
for Isabel," she continued, in the hope of impressing him with the
necessity for silence and inaction. "I do feel for her! Oh, gracious
me! What's that?"
A decided rap had sounded at the front door. The parson rose also,
amazed at her agitation.
"Somebody knocked," he said. "Shall I go to the door?"
"Oh, not yet, not yet!" cried Isabel, clasping her hands under her
cashmere shawl. "Oh, what shall I do?"
Her natural voice had asserted itself, but, strangely enough, the
parson did not comprehend. The entire scene was too bewildering. There
came a second knock. He stepped toward the door, but Isabel darted in
front of him. She forgot her back breadth, and even through that dim
twilight the scarlet of her gown shone ruddily out. She placed herself
before the door.
"Don't you go!" she entreated hoarsely. "Let me think what I can say."
Then the parson had his first inkling that the strange visitor must be
mad. He wondered at himself for not thinking of it before, and the idea
speedily coupled itself with Isabel's strange disappearance. He stepped
forward and grasped her arm, trembling under the cashmere shawl.
"Woman," he demanded sternly, "what have you done with Isabel North?"
Isabel was thinking; but the question, twice repeated, brought her to
herself. She began to laugh, peal on peal of hysterical mirth; and the
parson, still holding her arm, grew compassionate.
"Poor soul!" said he soothingly. "Poor soul! sit down here by the stove
and be calm--be calm!"
Isabel was overcome anew.
"Oh, it isn't so!" she gasped, finding breath. "I'm not crazy. Just let
me be!"
She started under his detaining hand, for the knock had come again.
Wrenching herself free, she stepped into the entry. "Who's there?" she
called.
"It's your aunt Mary Ellen," came a voice from the darkness. "Open the
door."
"O my soul!" whispered Isabel to herself. "Wait a minute!" she
continued. "Only a minute!"
She thrust the parson back into the sitting-room, and shut the door.
The act relieved her. If she could push a minister, and he could obey
in such awkward fashion, he was no longer to be feared. He was even to
be refused. Isabel felt equal to doing it.
"Now, look here," said she rapidly; "you stand right there while I take
off these things. Don't you say a word. No, Mr. Bond, don't you speak!"
Bonnet, false front, and spectacles were tossed in a tumultuous pile.
"Isabel!" gasped the parson.
"Keep still!" she commanded. "Here! fold this shawl!"
The parson folded it neatly, and meanwhile Isabel stepped out of the
mutilated dress, and added that also to the heap. She opened the blue
chest, and packed the articles hastily within. "Here!" said she; "toss
me the shawl. Now if you say one word--Oh, parson, if you only will
keep still, I'll tell you all about it! That is, I guess I can!" And
leaving him standing in hopeless coma, she opened the door.
"Well," said aunt Mary Ellen, stepping in, "I'm afraid your hinges want
greasing. How do you do, Isabel? How do you do?" She put up her face
and kissed her niece. Aunt Mary Ellen was so pretty, so round, so
small, that she always seemed timid, and did the commonest acts of life
with a gentle grace. "I heard voices," she said, walking into the
sitting-room. "Sadie here?"
The parson had stepped forward, more bent than usual, for he was
peering down into her face.
"Mary Ellen!" he exclaimed.
The little woman looked up at him--very sadly, Isabel thought.
"Yes, William," she answered. But she was untying her bonnet, and she
did not offer to shake hands.
Isabel stood by with downcast eyes, waiting to take her things, and
aunt Mary Ellen looked searchingly up at her as she laid her mittens on
the pile. The girl, without a word, went into the bedroom, and her aunt
followed her.
"Isabel," said she rapidly, "I saw the chest. Have you burnt the
things?"
"No," answered Isabel in wonder. "No."
"Then don't you! don't you touch 'em for the world." She went back into
the sitting-room, and Isabel followed. The candle was guttering, and
aunt Mary Ellen pushed it toward her. "I don't know where the snuffers
are," she said. "Lamp smoke?"
Isabel did not answer, but she lighted the lamp. She had never seen her
aunt so full of decision, so charged with an unfamiliar power. She felt
as if strange things were about to happen. The parson was standing
awkwardly. He wondered whether he ought to go; Aunt Mary Ellen smoothed
her brown hair with both hands, sat down, and pointed to his chair.
"Sit a spell," she said. "I guess I shall have something to talk over
with you."
The parson sat down. He tried to put his fingers together, but they
trembled, and he clasped his hands instead.
"It's a long time since we've seen you in Tiverton," he began.
"It would have been longer," she answered, "but I felt as if my niece
needed me."
Here Isabel, to her own surprise, gave a little sob, and then another.
She began crying angrily into her handkerchief.
"Isabel," said her aunt, "is there a fire in the kitchen?"
"Yes," sobbed the girl.
"Well, you go out there and lie down on the lounge till you feel
better. Cover you over and don't be cold. I'll call you when there's
anything for you to do."
Tall Isabel rose and walked out, wiping her eyes. Her little aunt sat
mistress of the field. For many minutes there was silence, and the
clock ticked. The parson felt something rising in his throat. He blew
his nose vigorously.
"Mary Ellen"--he began. "But I don't know as you want me to call you
so!"
"You can call me anything you're a mind to," she answered calmly. She
was nearsighted, and had always worn spectacles. She took them off and
laid them on her knee. The parson moved involuntarily in his chair. He
remembered how she had used to do that when they were talking
intimately, so that his eager look might not embarrass her. "Nothing
makes much difference when folks get to be as old as you and I are."
"I don't feel old," said the parson resentfully. "I do _not_! And you
don't look so."
"Well, I am. We're past our youth. We've got to the point where the
only way to renew it is to look out for the young ones."
The parson had always had with her a way of reading her thought and
bursting out boyishly into betrayal of his own.
"Mary Ellen," he cried, "I never should have explained it so, but
Isabel looks like you!"
She smiled sadly. "I guess men make themselves think 'most anything
they want to," she answered. "There may be a family look, but I can't
see it. She's tall, too, and I was always a pint o' cider--so father
said."
"She's got the same look in her eyes," pursued the parson hotly. "I've
always thought so, ever since she was a little girl."
"If you begun to notice it then," she responded, with the same gentle
calm, "you'd better by half ha' been thinking of your own wife and her
eyes. I believe they were black."
"Mary Ellen, how hard you are on me! You didn't use to be. You never
were hard on anybody. You wouldn't have hurt a fly."
Her face contracted slightly. "Perhaps I wouldn't! perhaps I wouldn't!
But I've had a good deal to bear this afternoon, and maybe I do feel a
little different towards you from what I ever have felt. I've been
hearing a loose-tongued woman tell how my own niece has been made
town-talk because a man old enough to know better was running after
her. I said, years ago, I never would come into this place while you
was in it; but when I heard that, I felt as if Providence had marked
out the way. I knew I was the one to step into the breach. So I had Tim
harness up and bring me over, and here I am. William, I don't want you
should make a mistake at your time of life!"
The minister seemed already a younger man. A strong color had risen in
his face. He felt in her presence a fine exhilaration denied him
through all the years without her. Who could say whether it was the
woman herself or the resurrected spirit of their youth? He did not feel
like answering her. It was enough to hear her voice. He leaned forward,
looking at her with something piteous in his air.
"Mary Ellen," he ventured, "you might as well say 'another mistake.' I
did make one. You know it, and I know it."
She looked at him with a frank affection, entirely maternal. "Yes,
William," she said, with the same gentle firmness in her voice, "we've
passed so far beyond those things that we can speak out and feel no
shame. You did make a mistake. I don't know as 'twould be called so to
break with me, but it was to marry where you did. You never cared about
her. You were good to her. You always would be, William; but 'twas a
shame to put her there."
The parson had locked his hands upon his knees. He looked at them, and
sad lines of recollection deepened in his face.
"I was desperate," he said at length, in a low tone. "I had lost you.
Some men take to drink, but that never tempted me. Besides, I was a
minister. I was just ordained. Mary Ellen, do you remember that day?"
"Yes," she answered softly, "I remember." She had leaned back in her
chair, and her eyes were fixed upon vacancy with the suffused look of
tears forbidden to fall.
"You wore a white dress," went on the parson, "and a bunch of Provence
roses. It was June. Your sister always thought you dressed too gay, but
you said to her, 'I guess I can wear what I want, to, to-day of all
times."
"We won't talk about her. Yes, I remember."
"And, as God is my witness, I couldn't feel solemn, I was so glad! I
was a minister, and my girl--the girl that was going to marry me--sat
down there where I could see her, dressed in white. I always thought of
you afterwards with that white dress on. You've stayed with me all my
life, just that way."
Mary Ellen put up her hand with a quick gesture to hide her middle-aged
face. With a thought as quick, she folded it resolutely upon the other
in her lap. "Yes, William," she said. "I was a girl then. I wore white
a good deal."
But the parson hardly heeded her. He was far away. "Mary Ellen," he
broke out suddenly, a smile running warmly over his face, and creasing
his dry, hollow cheeks, "do you remember that other sermon, my trial
one? I read it to you, and then I read it to Parson Sibley. And do you
remember what he said?"
"Yes, I remember. I didn't suppose you did." Her cheeks were pink. The
corners of her mouth grew exquisitely tender.
"You knew I did! 'Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art
fair; thou hast doves' eyes.' I took that text because I couldn't think
of anything else all summer. I remember now it seemed to me as if I was
in a garden--always in a garden. The moon was pretty bright, that
summer. There were more flowers blooming than common. It must have been
a good year. And I wrote my sermon lying out in the pine woods, down
where you used to sit hemming on your things. And I thought it was the
Church, but do all I could, it was a girl--or an angel!"
"No, no!" cried Mary Ellen, in bitterness of entreaty.
"And then I read the sermon to you under the pines, and you stopped
sewing, and looked off into the trees; and you said 'twas beautiful.
But I carried it to old Parson Sibley that night, and I can see just
how he looked sitting there in his study, with his great spectacles
pushed up on his forehead, and his hand drumming on a book. He had the
dictionary put in a certain place on his table because he found he'd
got used to drumming on the Bible, and he was a very particular man.
And when I got through reading the sermon, his face wrinkled all up,
though he didn't laugh out loud, and he came over to me and put his
hand on my shoulder. 'William,' says he, 'you go home and write a
doctrinal sermon, the stiffest you can. _This one's about a girl_. You
might give it to Mary Ellen North for a wedding-present.'"
The parson had grown almost gay under the vivifying influence of
memory. But Mary Ellen did not smile.
"Yes," she repeated softly, "I remember."
"And then I laughed a little, and got out of the study the best way I
could, and ran over to you to tell you what he said. And I left the
sermon in your work-basket. I've often wished, in the light of what
came afterwards--I've often wished I'd kept it. Somehow 'twould have
brought me nearer to you."
It seemed as if she were about to rise from her chair, but she quieted
herself and dulled the responsive look upon her face.
"Mary Ellen," the parson burst forth, "I know how I took what came on
us the very next week, but I never knew how you took it. Should you
just as lieves tell me?"
She lifted her head until it held a noble pose. Her eyes shone
brilliantly, though indeed they were doves' eyes.
"I'll tell you," said she "I couldn't have told you ten years ago,--no,
nor five! but now it's an old woman talking to an old man. I was given
to understand you were tired of me, and too honorable to say so. I
don't know what tale was carried to you"--
"She said you'd say 'yes' to that rich fellow in Sudleigh, if I'd give
you a chance!"
"I knew 'twas something as shallow as that. Well, I'll tell you how I
took it. I put up my head and laughed. I said, 'When William Bond wants
to break with me, he'll say so.' And the next day you did say so."
The parson wrung his hands in an involuntary gesture of appeal.
"Minnie! Minnie!" he cried, "why didn't you save me? What made you let
me _be_ a fool?"
She met his gaze with a tenderness so great that the words lost all
their sting.
"You always were, William," she said quietly. "Always rushing at things
like Job's charger, and having to rush back again. Never once have I
read that without thinking of you. That's why you fixed up an angel out
of poor little Isabel."
The parson made a fine gesture of dissent. He had forgotten Isabel.
"Do you want to know what else I did?" Her voice grew hard and
unfamiliar. "I'll tell you. I went to my sister Eliza, and I said:
'Some way or another, you've spoilt my life. I'll forgive you just as
soon as I can--maybe before you die, maybe not. You come with me!' and
I went up garret, where she kept the chest with things in it that
belonged to them that had died. There it sets now. I stood over it with
her. 'I'm going to put my dead things in here,' I said. If you touch a
finger to 'em, I'll get up in meeting and tell what you've done. I'm
going to put in everything left from what you've murdered; and every
time you come here, you'll remember you were a murderer.' I frightened
her. I'm glad I did. She's dead and gone, and I've forgiven her; but
I'm glad now!"
The parson looked at her with amazement. She seemed on fire. All the
smouldering embers of a life denied had blazed at last. She put on her
glasses and walked over to the chest.
"Here!" she continued; "let's uncover the dead. I've tried to do it
ever since she died, so the other things could be burned; but my
courage failed me. Could you turn these screws, if I should get you a
knife? They're in tight. I put 'em in myself, and she stood by."
The little lid of the till had been screwed fast. The two middle-aged
people bent over it together, trying first the scissors and then the
broken blade of the parson's old knife. The screws came slowly. When
they were all out, he stood back a pace and gazed at her. Mary Ellen
looked no longer alert and vivified. Her face was haggard.
"I shut it," she said, in a whisper. "You lift it up."
The parson lifted the lid. There they lay, her poor little relics,--a
folded manuscript, an old-fashioned daguerreotype, and a tiny locket.
The parson could not see. His hand shook as he took them solemnly out
and gave them to her. She bent over the picture, and looked at it, as
we search the faces of the dead. He followed her to the light, and,
wiping his glasses, looked also.
"That was my picture," he said musingly. "I never've had one since. And
that was mother's locket. It had"--He paused and looked at her.
"Yes," said Mary Ellen softly; "it's got it now." She opened the little
trinket; a warm, thick lock of hair lay within, and she touched it
gently with her finger. "Should you like the locket, because 'twas your
mother's?"
She hesitated; and though the parson's tone halted also, he answered at
once:--
"No, Mary Ellen, not if you'll keep it. I should rather think 'twas
with you."
She put her two treasures in her pocket, and gave him the other.
"I guess that's your share," she said, smiling faintly. "Don't read it
here. Just take it away with you."
The manuscript had been written in the cramped and awkward hand of his
youth, and the ink upon the paper was faded after many years. He turned
the pages, a smile coming now and then.
"'Thou hast doves' eyes,'" he read,--"'thou hast doves' eyes!'" He
murmured a sentence here and there. "Mary Ellen," he said at last,
shaking his head over the manuscript in a droll despair, "it isn't a
sermon. Parson Sibley had the rights of it. It's a love-letter!" And
the two old people looked in each other's wet eyes and smiled.
The woman was the first to turn away.
"There!" said she, closing the lid of the chest; "we've said enough.
We've wiped out old scores. We've talked more about ourselves than we
ever shall again; for if old age brings anything, it's thinking of
other people--them that have got life before 'em. These your rubbers?"
The parson put them on, with a dazed obedience. His hand shook in
buckling them. Mary Ellen passed him his coat, but he noticed that she
did not offer to hold it for him. There was suddenly a fine remoteness
in her presence, as if a frosty air had come between them. The parson
put the sermon in his inner pocket, and buttoned his coat tightly over
it. Then he pinned on his shawl. At the door he turned.
"Mary Ellen," said he pleadingly, "don't you ever want to see the
sermon again? Shouldn't you like to read it over?"
She hesitated. It seemed for a moment as if she might not answer at
all. Then she remembered that they were old folks, and need not veil
the truth.
"I guess I know it 'most all by heart," she said quietly. "Besides, I
took a copy before I put it in there. Good-night!"
"Good-night!" answered the parson joyously. He closed the door behind
him and went crunching down the icy path. When he had unfastened the
horse and sat tucking the buffalo-robe around him, the front door was
opened in haste, and a dark figure came flying, down the walk.
"Mr. Bond!" thrilled a voice.
"Whoa!" called the parson excitedly. He was throwing back the robe to
leap from the sleigh when the figure reached him. "Oh!" said he;
"Isabel!"
She was breathing hard with excitement and the determination grown up
in her mind during that last half hour of her exile in the kitchen.
"Parson,"--forgetting a more formal address, and laying her hand on his
knee,--"I've got to say it! Won't you please forgive me? Won't you,
please? I can't explain it"--
"Bless your heart, child!" answered the parson cordially; "you needn't
try to. I guess I made you nervous."
"Yes," agreed Isabel, with a sigh of relief, "I guess you did." And the
parson drove away.
Isabel ran, light of heart and foot, back into the warm sitting-room,
where aunt Mary Ellen was standing just where he had left her. She had
her glasses off, and she looked at Isabel with a smile so vivid that
the girl caught her breath, and wondered within herself how aunt Mary
Ellen had looked when she was young.
"Isabel," said she, "you come here and give me a corner of your apron
to wipe my glasses. I guess it's drier'n my handkerchief."