I
Miss Ellen Baily kept school in the brick basement of her old frame
house on Main Street.
The children used to come up a flagstone path to the side door, and
then step down two steps into an entry. Two rooms opened on this
entry; in one the children sat at small, battered desks and studied; in
the other Miss Baily heard their lessons, sitting at a table covered
with a red cloth, which had a white Grecian fret for a border and
smelled of crumbs. On the wall behind her was a faded print of
"Belshazzar's Feast"; in those days this was probably the only feasting
the room ever saw--although on a thin-legged sideboard there were two
decanters (empty) and a silver-wire cake-basket which held always three
apples. Both rooms looked out on the garden--the garden and, in fine
weather, _Mr. David Baily!_ ... Ah, me--what it was, in the dreary
stretches of mental arithmetic, to look across the flower-beds and see
Mr. David--tall and dark and melancholy--pacing up and down, sometimes
with a rake, oftener with empty hands; always with vague, beautiful
eyes fixed on some inner vision of heart-broken memory. Miss Ellen's
pupils were confident of this vision because of a tombstone in the
burial-ground which recorded the death of Maria Hastings, at the
romantic age of seventeen; and, as everybody in Old Chester knew, Mr.
Baily had been in love with this same seventeen-year-old Maria. To be
sure, it was thirty years ago; but that does not make any difference,
"_in real love_," as any school-girl can tell you. So, when David
Baily paced up and down the garden paths or sat in the sunshine under
the big larch we all knew that he was thinking of his bereavement.
In the opinion of the older girls, grief had wrecked Mr. David's life;
he had intended to be a clergyman, but had left the theological school
because his eyes gave out. "He cried himself nearly blind," the girls
told each other with great satisfaction. After that he tried one
occupation after another, but somehow failed in each; which was proof
of a delicacy of constitution induced by sorrow. Furthermore, he
seemed pursued by a cruel fortune--"Fate," the girls called it.
Elderly, unromantic Old Chester did not use this fine word, but it
admitted pursuing disaster.
For instance: there was the time that David undertook the charge of a
private library in Upper Chester, and three months afterwards the owner
sold it! Then Mr. Hays found a job for him, and just as he was going
to work he was laid up with rheumatism. And again Tom Dilworth got him
a place as assistant book-keeper; and David, after innumerable tangles
on his balance-sheet, was obliged to say, frankly, that he had no head
for figures. But he was willing to do anything else--"_any_ honest
work that is not menial," he said, earnestly. And Tom said, why, yes,
of course, only he'd be darned if he knew what to suggest. But he
added, in conjugal privacy, that David ought to be hided for not
turning his hand to something. "Why doesn't he try boot-blacking?
Only, I suppose, he'd say he couldn't make the change correctly. He
doesn't know whether two and two make five or three--like our Ned."
"Why, they make four, Tom," said Mrs. Dilworth. And Thomas stared at
her, and said, "You don't say so!"
There had been no end of such happenings; "and none of them my
brother's fault," Miss Ellen told the sympathetic older girls, who
glanced sideways at Mr. David and wished that they might die and be
mourned as Mr. David mourned Maria.
The fact was, the habit of failure had fastened upon poor David; and in
the days when Miss Ellen's school was in its prime (before the new
people told our parents that her teaching was absurdly inadequate), he
was depending on his sister for his bread-and-butter. That Miss Ellen
supported him never troubled the romantic souls of Miss Ellen's pupils
any more than it troubled Miss Ellen--or Mr. David. "Why shouldn't
she?" the girls would have demanded if any such rudely practical
question had been asked; "he is so delicate, _and he has a broken
heart!_" So that was how it happened that the pupils were able to have
palpitating glimpses of him, walking listlessly about the garden, or
dozing in a sunny window over an old magazine, or doing some pottering
bit of carpentering for Miss Ellen, but never losing his good looks or
the grieved melancholy of his expression.
Miss Ellen had been teaching for twenty years.
It is useless to deny that, unless one has a genius for imparting
knowledge, teaching is a drudgery. It was drudgery to Ellen Baily, but
she never slighted it on that account. She was conscientious about the
number of feet in the highest mountain in the world; she saw to it that
her pupils could repeat the sovereigns of England backward. Besides
these fundamentals, the older girls had Natural Philosophy every
Friday; it was not, perhaps, necessary that young ladies should know
that the air was composed of two gases (the girls who had travelled and
seen the lighted streets of towns knew what gas was), nor that rubbing
a cat's fur the wrong way in the dark would produce electric
sparks--such things were not necessary. But they were interesting,
and, as Mrs. Barkley said, if they did not go too far and lead to
scepticism, they would do no harm. However, Miss Ellen counteracted
any sceptical tendencies by reading aloud, every Saturday morning,
Bishop Cummings on the Revelation, so that even Dr. Lavendar was not
wiser than Miss Ellen's girls as to what St. John meant by "a time, and
a time, and a half of a time," or who the four beasts full of eyes
before and behind stood for. For accomplishments, there was fine
sewing every Wednesday afternoon; and on Mondays, with sharply pointed
pencils, we copied trees and houses from neat little prints; also, we
had lessons upon the piano-forte, so there was not one of us who, when
she left Miss Ellen's, could not play at least three pieces, viz., "The
Starlight Valse," "The Maiden's Prayer," and "The Last Rose of Summer."
Ah, well, one may smile. Compared to what girls know nowadays, it is,
of course, very absurd. But, all the same, Miss Ellen's girls knew
some things of which our girls are ignorant: reverence was one;
humility was another; obedience was a third. And poor, uneducated folk
(compared with our daughters) that we of Old Chester may be, we are, if
I mistake not, glad that we were taught a certain respect for our own
language, which, though it makes the tongue of youth to-day almost
unintelligible, does give us a joy in the wells of English undefiled
which our children do not seem to know; and for this, in our dull Old
Chester way, we are not ungrateful. However, this may all be sour
grapes....
At any rate, for twenty painstaking years Miss Ellen's methods fed and
clothed Mr. David. Then came the winter of Dr. Lavendar's illness, and
the temporary instalment of the Reverend Mr. Spangler, and Ellen Baily
realized that there were other things in the world than David's food
and clothes.
Dr. Lavendar, cross, unbelieving, protesting, was to be hustled down
South by Sam Wright; and the day before he started Mr. Spangler
appeared. That was early in February, and Dr. Lavendar was to come
back the first of May.
"Not a day sooner," said Sam Wright.
"I'll come when I see fit," said Dr. Lavendar. He didn't believe in
this going away, he said. "Home is the best place to be sick in. The
truth is, Willy King doesn't want me to die on his hands--it would hurt
his business," said Dr. Lavendar, wickedly; "I know him!"
But to Mr. Spangler Dr. Lavendar said other things about Willy, and Sam
Wright, too; in fact, about all of them. And he pulled out his big,
red silk pocket-handkerchief with a trembling flourish and wiped his
eyes. "I don't deserve it," he said. "I'm a dogmatic old fogy, and I
won't let the new people have their jimcrackery; and I preach old
sermons, and I've had a cold in my head for three months. And yet,
look at 'em: A purse, if you please! And Sam Wright is going down with
me. Sam ought to be ashamed of himself to waste his time; he's a busy
man. No, sir; I don't deserve it. And, if you take my advice, you'll
pray the Lord that your people will treat you as you don't deserve."
Mr. Spangler, a tall, lean man, very correctly dressed, who was
depended upon in the diocese as a supply, made notes solemnly while Dr.
Lavendar talked; but he sighed once or twice, patiently, for the old
man was not very helpful. Mr. Spangler wanted to know what
Sunday-school teachers could be relied upon, and whether the choir was
very thin-skinned, and which of the vestry had chips on their shoulders.
"None of 'em. I knocked 'em all off, long ago," said Dr. Lavendar.
"Don't you worry about that. Speak your mind."
"I have," said Mr. Spangler, coughing delicately, "an iron hand when I
once make up my mind in regard to methods; firmness is, I think, a
clergyman's duty, and duty, I hope, is my watchword; but I think it
best to canvass a matter thoroughly before making up my mind."
"It is generally wise to do so," said Dr. Lavendar, very meekly.
"Of course," Mr. Spangler said, kindly, "you belong to a somewhat older
period, and do not, perhaps, realize the value of our modern ways of
dealing with a parish--I mean in regard to firmly carrying out one's
own ideas. I suppose these good people do pretty much as they please,
so far as you are concerned?"
"Perhaps they do," said Dr. Lavendar, very, very meekly.
"So, not wishing to offend, I will ask a few questions: I have heard
that the parish is perhaps a little old-fashioned in regard to matters
of ritual? I have wondered whether my cassock would be misunderstood?"
"Cassock?" said Dr. Lavendar. "Bless your heart, wear a pea-jacket if
it helps you to preach the Word. It will only be for ten Sundays," he
added, hopefully.
The Reverend Mr. Spangler smiled at that; and when he smiled one saw
that his face, though timid, was kind.
So Dr. Lavendar, growling and scolding, fussing about Danny and his
little blind horse Goliath, and Mr. Spangler's comfort, was bundled
off; and Mr. Spangler settled down in the shabby rectory. His iron
will led him to preach in his surplice, and it was observed that a
silver cross dangled from his black silk fob. "But it's only for ten
weeks," said Old Chester, and asked him to tea, and bore with him, and
did nothing more severe than smile when he bowed in the creed--smile,
and perhaps stand up a little straighter itself.
This, of the real Old Chester. Of course the new people were pleased;
and one or two of the younger folk liked it. Miss Ellen Baily was not
young, but she liked the surplice better than Dr. Lavendar's black gown
and bands, and the sudden sparkle of the cross when Mr. Spangler knelt
gave her a pang of pleasure. David, too, was not displeased. To be
sure, David was rarely stirred to anything so positive as pleasure.
But at least he made no objections to the cross; and he certainly
brightened up when, on Saturday afternoon, Mr. Spangler called. He
even talked of Gambier, to which he had gone for a year, and of which,
it appeared, the clergyman was an alumnus. Miss Ellen had a pile of
compositions on the table beside her, and she glanced at one
occasionally so that she might not seem to expect any share in the
conversation. But, all the same, Mr. Spangler noticed her. He was not
drawn to the brother; still, he talked to him about their college, for
Mr. Spangler believed that being agreeable was just as much a
clergyman's duty as was changing the bookmarks for Advent or Lent; and
duty, as Mr. Spangler often said, was his watchword. Furthermore, he
was aware that his kindness pleased the silent, smiling woman seated
behind the pile of compositions.
It pleased her so much that that night, after David had gone to bed,
she went over to Mrs. Barkley's to talk about her caller.
"Well, Ellen Baily," Mrs. Barkley said, briskly, as Miss Baily came
into the circle of lamplight by the parlor-table, "so you had a visitor
to-day? I saw him, cross and all."
"It was a very small one," Miss Baily protested, "and only silver."
"Would you have had it diamonds?" demanded Mrs. Barkley, in a deep
bass. "Oh, well; it doesn't really matter; there are only nine more
Sundays. But Sam Wright says he shall mention it when he writes to Dr.
Lavendar."
"I suppose Dr. Lavendar saw it before he went away," Ellen said, with
some spirit.
"Well, if he doesn't take his religion out in crosses, I suppose it's
all right. But he's not a very active laborer in the vineyard. I
suppose you know about him?"
"Why, no," Ellen said; "nothing except that he supplies a good deal."
"Supplies? Yes, because his mother left him a house in Mercer, and
enough to live on in a small way; so he likes supplying better than
taking a charge where he'd have to work hard and couldn't have his
comforts."
"Why doesn't he take a charge where he could have his comforts?"
"Can't get the chance," Mrs. Barkley explained, briefly. "Not enough
of a preacher. And, besides, he likes his ease in Zion. Rachel
Spangler's old house, and her Mary Ann, and his father's library,
and--well, the flesh-pots of Mercer!--and supplying, just enough to buy
him his ridiculous buttoned-up coats. That's what he likes. I suppose
he uses the same old sermons over and over. Doesn't ever have to write
a new one. However, he's here, and maybe Old Chester will do him good.
Ellen Baily, did you know that we have a new-comer in Old Chester? A
widow. I don't like widows. Her name's Smily. Foolish name! She's
staying at the Stuffed Animal House. She's Harriet Hutchinson's
cousin, and she's come down on her for a visit."
"Maybe she'll make her a present when she goes away," said Ellen,
hopefully.
"Present! She needs to have presents made to her. She hasn't a cent
but what her husband's brother gives her. He's a school-teacher, I
understand; and you know yourself, Ellen Baily, how much a
school-teacher can do in that way?"
Miss Ellen sighed.
"Well," proceeded Mrs. Barkley, "I just thought I'd tell you about her,
because if we all invite her to tea, turn about, it will be a relief to
Harriet--(she isn't well, that girl; I'm really uneasy about her). And
I guess the Smily woman won't object to Old Chester food, either," said
Mrs. Barkley, complacently. "I've asked her for Tuesday evening, and I
thought I'd throw in Mr. Spangler and get him off my mind."
"David likes him so much," Miss Ellen began.
"Does he?" said Mrs. Barkley. "Well, tell him to come; he can talk to
Mr. Spangler. I'm afraid I might hurt the man's feelings if I had to
do all the talking. I seem to do that sometimes. Did you ever notice,
Ellen, that the truth always hurts people's feelings? But I knew his
mother, so I don't want to do anything to wound him. I won't ask you,
Ellen; I don't like five at table. But just tell David to come, will
you?"
And Miss Baily promised, gratefully. David was not often asked out in
Old Chester.