"Never mind, George," I went on, laughing and putting out my hand to
him. "I didn't mean to read your thoughts, and I didn't realize that I
was doing it."
"But what made you"--
"I'm sure I don't know," I broke in; and I managed to laugh again. "Only
I see now that you know something pleasant about Miss West, and you may
as well tell it."
He looked doubtful a minute, studying my face. The hesitation he had in
speaking hurt me.
"It's only that she's coming to visit the Watsons," he said, rather
unwillingly. "Olivia Watson told me just now."
"Why, that will be pleasant," I answered, as brightly as if I were
really delighted. "Now I shall see if she is really as pretty as you
say."
I felt so humiliated to be playing a part,--so insincere. Somebody has
said the real test of love is to be unwilling to deceive the loved one,
even in the smallest thing. That may be the test of a man's love, but a
woman will bear the pain of that very deception to save the man she
cares for from disquiet. I am sure it has hurt me as much not to be
entirely frank with George as it could have hurt a man; but I could not
make him uncomfortable by letting him see that I was disturbed. Yet that
he should have been afraid or unwilling to tell me did trouble me. He
knows that I am not jealous or apt to take offense. He is always saying
that I am too cold to be really in love. It made me feel that the coming
of this girl must mean much to him when he feared to speak of it. If he
had not thought it a matter of consequence, he would have realized that
I should take it lightly.
I am not taking it lightly; but what troubles me is not that she is
coming, but that he hesitated to tell me. Something is wrong when George
fears to trust me.
January 17. I have seen her. I went to church this morning for that
especial reason. Mother was a little astonished at me when I said that I
was going.
"Well, Ruth," she said, "you don't have much dissipation, but I didn't
suppose that you were so dull you would take to church-going."
"You can never tell," I answered, making a jest of a thing which to me
was far from funny. "Mr. Saychase will be sure to conclude I'm under
conviction of sin, and come in to finish the conversion."
She looked at me keenly.
"What is the matter, Ruth?" she asked in that soft voice of hers which
goes straight to my heart.
"It isn't anything very serious, Mother," I said. "Since you will have
the truth, I am going to church to see that Miss West who's visiting the
Watsons. George thinks her so pretty that my curiosity is roused to a
perfect bonfire."
She did not say more, but I saw the sudden light in her eye. Mother has
never felt about George as I have wished. She has never done him
justice, and she thinks I idealize him. That is her favorite way of
putting it; but this is because she is my mother, and doesn't see how
much idealizing there must have been on his side before he could fall in
love with me.
Miss West is very pretty. All the time I watched in church I tried to
persuade myself that she was not. I meanly and contemptibly sat there
finding fault with her face, saying to myself that her nose was too
long, her eyes too small, her mouth too big; inventing flaws as if my
invention would change the fact. It was humiliating business; and
utterly and odiously idiotic. Miss West is pretty; she is more than
this, she is wonderfully pretty. There is an appealing, baby look about
her big blue eyes which goes straight to one's heart. She looks like a
darling child one would want to kiss and shelter from all the hard
things of life. I own it all; I realize all that it means; and if in my
inmost soul I am afraid, I will not deny what is a fact or try to shut
my eyes to the littleness of my feeling about her. Of course George
found her adorable. She is. The young men in the congregation all
watched her, and even grim Deacon Richards could not keep his eyes off
of her.
She does not have the look of a girl of any especial mind. Her
prettiness is after all that of a doll. Her large eyes are of the sort
to please a man because of their appealing helplessness; not because
they inspire him with new meanings. Her little rosebud lips will never
speak wisdom, I am afraid; but in my jealousy I wonder whether most men
do not care more for lips which invite kisses than for lips which speak
wisdom. I am frankly and weakly miserable. George walked home with me,
but he had not two words to say.
I must try to meet this. If George should come to care for her more than
for me! If he should,--if by a pretty face he forgets all the years that
we have belonged to each other, what is there to do? I cannot yet
believe that it is best for him; but if it will make him happy, even if
he thinks that it will, what is there for me but to make it as easy for
him as I may? He certainly would not be happy to marry me and love
somebody else. He cannot leave me without pain; that I am sure. I shall
show my love for him more truly if I spare him the knowledge of what it
must cost me.
But what mawkish nonsense all this is! A man may admire a pretty face,
and yet not be ready for it to leave behind all that has been dear to
him. Oh, if he had not asked me that question when he came back from
Franklin! I cannot get it out of my mind that even if he was not
conscious of it, it meant he still was secretly tired of his long
engagement; that he was at least dreaming of what he would do if he were
free. He shall not be bound by any will of mine; and if his heart has
gone out to this beautiful creature, I must bear it as nobly as I can.
Father used to say,--and every day I go back more and more to what he
said to me,--"What you cannot at need sacrifice nobly you are not worthy
to possess."
January 18. I have had a note which puzzles me completely. Tom Webbe
writes to say that he is going away; that I am to forgive him for the
shame of having known him, and that his address is inclosed in a sealed
envelope. I am not to open it unless there is real need. Why should he
give his address to me?
January 19. The disconcerting way Aunt Naomi has of coming in without
knocking, stealing in on feet made noiseless by rubbers, brought her
into the sitting-room last night while I was mooning in the twilight,
and meditating on nothing in particular. I knew her slow fashion of
opening the door, "like a burglar at a cupboard," as Hannah says,--so
that I was able to compose my face into an appropriate smile of welcome
before she was fairly in.
"Sitting here alone?" was her greeting.
"Mother is asleep," I answered, "and I was waiting for her to wake."
Aunt Naomi seated herself in the stiffest chair in the room, and began
to swing her foot as usual.
"Deacon Daniel's at it again," she observed dispassionately.
I smiled a little. It always amuses me that the troubles of the church
should be so often brought to me who am an outsider. Aunt Naomi arrives
about once a month on the average, with complaints about something. They
are seldom of any especial weight, but it seems to relieve her to tell
her grievances.
"Which Deacon Daniel?" I asked, to tease her a little.
"Deacon Richards, of course. You know that well enough."
"What is it now?"
"He won't have any fire in the vestry," she answered.
"Why not let somebody else take care of the vestry then, if you want a
fire?"
"You don't suppose," was her response, with a chuckle, "that he'd give
up the key to anybody else, do you?"
"I should think he'd be glad to."
"He'll hold on to that key till he dies," retorted Aunt Naomi with a
sniff; "and I shouldn't be surprised if he had it buried with him. He
wouldn't lose the chance of making folks uncomfortable."
"Oh, come, Aunt Naomi, you are always so hard on Deacon Richards," I
protested. "He is always good-natured with me."
"I wish you'd join the church, then, and see if you can't keep him in
order. Last night it was so cold at prayer-meeting that we were all half
frozen, and Mr. Saychase had to dismiss the meeting. Old lady Andrews
spoke up in the coldest part of it, when we were all so chilled that we
couldn't speak, and she said in that little, high voice of hers: 'The
vestry is very cold to-night, but I trust that our hearts are warm with
the love of Christ.'"
I laughed at the picture of the half-frozen prayer-meeting, and dear old
lady Andrews coming to the rescue with a pious jest; it was so
characteristic.
"But has anybody spoken to Deacon Richards?" I asked.
"You can't speak to him," she responded, wagging her foot with a
violence that seemed to speak celestial anger within. "I try to after
every prayer-meeting; but he has the lights out before I can say two
words. I can't stay there in the dark with him; and the minute he gets
me outside he locks the door, and posts off like a streak."
"Why not go down to his mill in broad daylight?" I suggested.
"Oh, he'd stick close to the grinding-thing just so he couldn't hear,
and I'm afraid of being pitched into the hopper," she said, laughing.
"You must speak to him. He pays some attention to what you say."
"But it's none of my business. I don't go to prayer-meeting."
"But it's your duty to go," she answered, with a shrewd smile that
showed that she appreciated her response; "and if you neglect one duty
it's no excuse for neglecting another. Besides, you can't be willing to
have the whole congregation die of cold."
So in the end it was somehow fixed that I am to remonstrate with Deacon
Daniel because the faithful are cold at their devotions. It would seem
much simpler for them to stay at home and be warm. They do not, as far
as I can see, enjoy going; but they are miserable if they do not go.
Their consciences trouble them worse than the cold, poor things. I
suppose that I can never be half thankful enough to Father for bringing
me up without a theological conscience. Prayer-meetings seem to be a
good deal like salt in the boy's definition of something that makes food
taste bad if you don't put it on; prayer-meetings make church-goers
uneasy if they do not go. If they will go, however, and if they are
better for going, or believe they are better, or if they are only worse
for staying away, or suppose they are worse, they should not be expected
to sit in a cold vestry in January. Why Deacon Daniel will not have a
fire is not at all clear. It may be economy, or it may be a lack of
sensitiveness; it may be for some recondite reason too deep to be
discovered. I refuse to accept Aunt Naomi's theory that it is sheer
obstinacy; and I will beard the deacon in his mill, regardless of the
danger of the hopper. At least he generally listens to me.
January 20. Hannah came up for me this evening while I was reading to
Mother.
"Deacon Webbe's down in the parlor," she announced. "Says he wants to
see you if you're not busy. 'Ll come again if you ain't able to see
him."
"Go down, Ruth dear," Mother said at once. "It may be another church
quarrel, and I wouldn't hinder you from settling it for worlds."
"But don't you want me to finish the chapter?" I asked. "Church quarrels
will generally keep."
"No, dear. I'm tired, and we'll stop where we are. I'll try to go to
sleep, if you'll turn the light down."
As I bent over to kiss her, she put up her feeble thin fingers, and
touched my cheek lovingly.
"You're a dear girl," she said. "Be gentle with the deacon."
There was a twinkle in her eye, for the idea of anybody's being anything
but gentle with Deacon Daniel Webbe is certainly droll enough. Miss
Charlotte said the other night that a baby could twist him round its
finger and never even know there was anything there; and certainly he
must call out the gentle feelings of anybody. Only Tom seemed always
somehow to get exasperated with his father's meekness. Poor Tom, I do
wonder why he went away!
The deacon dries up by way of growing old. I have not seen him this
winter except the other day at church, and then I did not look at him.
To-night he seemed worn and sad, and somehow his face was like ashes, it
was so lifeless. The flesh has dried to the bones of his face till he
looks like a pathetic skull. His voice is not changed, though. It has
the same strange note in it that used to affect me as a child; a weird,
reedy quality which suggests some vague melancholy flavor not in the
least fretful or whining,--a quality that I have never been able to
define. I never hear him speak without a sense of mysterious
suggestiveness; and I remember confiding to Father once, when I was
about a dozen years old, that Deacon Webbe had the right voice to read
fairy stories with. Father, I remember, laughed, and said he doubted
much if Deacon Daniel knew what a fairy story was, unless he thought it
was something wickedly false. Tom's voice has something of the same
quality, but only enough to give a little thrill to his tone when he is
really in earnest. There is an amusing incongruity between that odd
wind-harp strain in Deacon Webbe's voice and his gaunt New England
figure.
"Ruth," the deacon asked, almost before we had shaken hands, "did you
know Tom had gone away?"
I was impressed and rather startled by the intensity of his manner, and
surprised by the question.
"Yes," I said. "He sent me word he was going."
"Do you know where he has gone?"
"No."
I wondered whether I ought to tell him about the sealed address, but it
seemed like a breach of confidence to say anything yet.
"Did he say why he was going?" the deacon asked.
"No," I said again.
The deacon turned his hat over and over helplessly in his knotted hands
in silence for a moment. He was so pathetic that I wanted to cry.
"Then you don't know," he said after a moment.
"I only know he has gone."
There was another silence, as if the deacon were pondering on what he
could possibly do or say next. Peter, who was pleased for the moment to
be condescendingly kind to the visitor, came and rubbed persuasively
against his legs, waving a great white plume of tail. Deacon Daniel bent
down absently and stroked the cat, but the troubled look in his face
showed how completely his mind was occupied.
"I'm afraid there's something wrong," he broke out at length, with an
energy unusual with him; an energy which was suffering rather than
power. "I don't know what it is, but I'm afraid it's worse than ever.
Oh, Miss Ruth, if you could only have cared for Tom, you'd have kept him
straight."
I could only murmur that I had always liked Tom, and that we had been
friends all our lives; but the deacon was too much moved to pay
attention.
"Of course," he went on, "I hadn't any right to suppose Judge Privet's
daughter would marry into our family; but if you had cared for him, Miss
Ruth"--
"Deacon Webbe," I broke in, for I could not hear any more, "please don't
say such things! You know you mustn't say such things!"
As I think of it, I am afraid I was a little more hysterical than would
have been allowed by Cousin Mehitable, but I could not help it. At least
I stopped him from going on. He apologized so much that I set to work to
convince him I was not offended, which I found was not very easy. Poor
Deacon Daniel, he is really heart-broken about Tom, but he has never
known how to manage him, or even to make the boy understand how much he
loves him. Meekness may be a Christian virtue; but over-meekness is a
poor quality for one who has the bringing up of a real, wide-awake,
head-strong boy. A little less virtue and a little more common sense
would have made Deacon Webbe a good deal more useful in this world if it
did lessen his value to heaven. He is the very salt of the earth, yet he
has so let himself be trampled upon that to Tom his humility has seemed
weakness. I know, too, Tom has never appreciated his father, and has
failed to understand that goodness need not always be in arms to be
manly. And so here in a couple of sentences I have come round to the
side of the deacon after all. Perhaps in the long run the effect of his
goodness, with all its seeming lack of strength, may effect more than
sterner qualities.
January 21. I was interrupted last night in my writing to go to Mother;
but I have had Deacon Webbe and Tom in my mind ever since. I could not
help remembering the gossip about Tom, and the fact that I saw him
coming from the red house. I wonder if he has not gone to break away
from temptation. In new surroundings he may turn over a new leaf. Oh, I
would so like to write to him, and to tell him how much I hope for this
fresh start, but I hardly like to open the envelope.
I have been this afternoon to call on Miss West. The Watsons are not
exactly of my world, but it seemed kind to go. If you were really
honest, Ruth Privet, you would add that you wanted to see what Miss West
is like. It is all very well to put on airs of disinterested virtue; but
if George had not spoken of this girl it is rather doubtful whether you
would have taken the trouble to go to her in your very best bib and
tucker,--and you did put on your very best, and wondered while you were
doing it whether she would appreciate the lace scarf you bought at
Malta. I understand you wanted to impress her a little, though you did
try to make yourself believe that you were only wearing your finest
clothes to do honor to her. What a humbug you are!
Olivia Watson came to the door, and asked me into the parlor, where I
was left to wait some time before Miss West appeared. I confessed then
to myself how I had really half hoped that she would not be in; but now
the call is over I am glad to have seen her. I am a little confused, but
I know what she is.
She is the most beautiful creature I ever saw. She has a clear color,
when she flushes, like a red clover in September, the last and the
richest of all the clovers of the year. Then her hair curls about her
forehead in such dear little ringlets that it is enough to make one want
to kiss her. She speaks with a funny little Western burr to her r's
which might not please me in another, but is charming from her lips, the
mouth that speaks is so pretty. Yes, George was right.
Of her mind one cannot say quite as much. She is not entirely well bred,
it seemed to me; but then we are a little old-fashioned in Tuskamuck.
She did notice the scarf, and asked me where I got it.
"Oh," she said, when I had told her, "then you have been abroad."
"Yes," I said, "I went with my father."
"Judge Privet took you abroad several times, didn't he?" Olivia put in.
"Yes; I went with him three times."
"Oh, my!" commented Miss West. "How set up you must feel!"
"I don't think I do," I answered, laughing. "Do you feel set up because
you have seen the West that so few of us have visited?"
"Why, I never thought of that," she responded. "You haven't any of you
traveled in the West, have you?"
"I haven't, at least."
"But that ain't anything to compare with going abroad," she continued,
her face falling; "and going abroad three times, too. I should put on
airs all the rest of my life if I'd done that."
It is not fair to go on putting down in black and white things that she
said without thinking. I am ashamed of the satisfaction I found myself
taking in her commonness. I was even so unfair to her that I could not
help thinking that she somehow did not ring true. I wonder if a woman
can ever be entirely just to another woman who has been praised by the
man she cares for? If not I will be an exception to my sex! I will not
be small and mean, just because Miss West is so lovely that no man could
see her without--well, without admiring her greatly.
January 22. I went down to the grist-mill this afternoon to see Deacon
Daniel, and to represent to him the sufferings of the faithful at frozen
prayer-meetings. He was standing in the door of the mill, which was open
to the brisk air, and his mealy frock gave a picturesque air to his
great figure. He greeted me pleasantly, as he always does.
"I've come on business," I said.
"Your own or somebody's else?" he asked, with a grin.
"Not exactly mine," I admitted.
"What has Aunt Naomi sent you for now?" he demanded.