The gentle warmth of that welcome lingered persistently in Mr.
Spangler's mind.
"I suspect that she _kissed_ him," he said to himself; and a little
dull red crept into his cheeks.
Miss Ellen, dark-eyed, gentle, with soft lips, made Mr. Spangler
suddenly think of a spray of heliotrope warm in the sunshine. "That is
a very poetical thought," he said, with a sense of regret that it
probably could not be utilized in a sermon. But when he entered the
study he banished poetry, because he had a letter to write. It was in
answer to an offer of the secretaryship of a church publishing-house in
a Western city.
Dr. Lavendar, it appeared, had mentioned Mr. Spangler's name to one Mr.
Horatius Brown, stating that in his opinion Mr. Spangler was just the
man for the place--"exact, painstaking, conscientious," Mr. Brown
quoted in his letter; but forbore to add Dr. Lavendar's further remark
that Mr. Spangler would never embarrass the management by an original
idea. "He'll pick up pins as faithfully as any man I know," said Dr.
Lavendar, "and that's what you religious newspapers want, I believe?"
Mr. Spangler was not without a solemn pride in being thus sought out by
the ecclesiastical business world, especially when he reflected upon
the salary which Mr. Brown was prepared to offer; but acceptance was
another matter. To leave his high calling for mere business! A
business, too, which would involve exact hours and steady
application;--Compared with that, and with the crude, smart bustle of
the Western city, the frugal leisure of his placid days in Mercer
assumed in his mind the sanctity of withdrawal from the world, and his
occasional preaching took on the glow of missionary zeal. "No," said
Mr. Spangler, "mercenary considerations do not move me a
hair's-breadth." Mr. Spangler did not call his tranquil life in
Mercer, his comfortable old house, his good cook, his old friends, his
freedom from sermon-writing, mercenary considerations. On the
contrary, he assured himself that his "circumstances were far from
affluent; but I must endure hardness!" he used to add cheerfully. And
very honestly his declination seemed to him something that Heaven would
place to his credit. So he wrote to the publishing-house that he had
given the proposition his most prayerful consideration, but that he
believed that it was his duty to still labor at the sacred desk--and
duty was, he hoped, the watchword of his life. And he was Mr. Brown's
"obedient servant and brother in Christ--Augustus Spangler."
Then he settled down in Dr. Lavendar's armchair by the fire in the
study; but he did not read the ecclesiastical paper which every week
fed his narrow and sincere mind. Instead he wondered how often Dr.
Lavendar called upon his female parishioners. Would twice in a
fortnight be liable to be misunderstood? Mr. Spangler was terribly
afraid of being misunderstood. Then he had a flash of inspiration: he
ought, as rector, to visit the schools. That was only proper and could
not possibly be misunderstood. "For an interest in educational affairs
is part of a priest's duty," Mr. Spangler reflected.
If he was right, it must be admitted that Dr. Lavendar was very remiss.
So far as we children could remember, he had never visited Miss Ellen's
school and listened to recitations and heard us speak our pieces.
Whether that was because he did not care enough about us to come, or
because he saw us at Collect class and Sunday-school and church, and in
the street and at the post-office and at home, until he knew us all by
heart, so to speak, may be decided one way or the other; but certainly
when Mr. Spangler came, and sat through one morning, and told us
stories, and said we made him think of a garden of rosebuds, and took
up so much of Miss Ellen's time that she could not hear the mental
arithmetic, it was impossible not to institute comparisons. Indeed,
some hearts were (for the moment) untrue to Mr. David. When Miss Ellen
called on us to speak our pieces, we were so excited and breathless
that, for my part, I could not remember the first line of "Bingen on
the Rhine," and had to look quickly into the Fourth Reader; but before
I could begin, Lydia Wright started in with "Excelsior," and she got
all the praise; though I'm sure I--well, never mind! But Dr. Lavendar
wouldn't have praised one girl so that all the others wanted to scratch
her! All that first half, the pupils, bending over their copy-books,
writing, "_Courtesy to inferiors is true gentility_," glanced at the
visitor sideways, and if they caught his eye, looked down, blushing to
the roots of their hair--which was not frizzled, if you please, or
hanging over their eyes like the locks of Skye-terriers, but parted and
tied with a neat ribbon bow on the tops of all the small heads. But
Mr. Spangler did not look often at the pupils; instead he conversed in
a low voice with Miss Ellen. Nobody could hear what he said, but it
must have been very interesting, for when Miss Ellen suddenly looked at
the clock she blushed, and brought her hand hurriedly down on the bell
on her desk. It was ten minutes after the hour for recess!
For the rest of that day Miss Ellen Baily moved and looked as one in a
dream. Her brother, however, did not seem to notice her
absent-mindedness. Indeed, he was as talkative as she was silent.
"Sister," he said, as they sat at tea, "I need a new hat. One with a
blue band about it might be--ah--becoming."
"Blue is a sweet color," said Miss Ellen, vaguely.
"Mrs. Smily remarked to me that before her affliction made it improper,
she was addicted to the color of blue."
"Was she?" Ellen said, absently.
"Don't you think," David said, after a pause, "that my coat is somewhat
shabby? You bought it, you may remember, the winter of the long frost."
"Is it?" Miss Ellen said.
"Yes; and the style is obsolete, I think. Not that I am a creature of
fashion, but I do not like to be conspicuous in dress."
"You are not that, dear David," Miss Ellen protested. "On Sunday I
often think nobody looks as handsome as you."