"You are too sharp to be deceived," I said. "Aunt Naomi did send me.
They tell me you are trying to destroy the church by freezing them all
to death at the prayer-meetings."
"Aunt Naomi can't be frozen. She's too dry."
"That isn't at all a nice thing to say, Deacon Richards," I said,
smiling. "You can't cover your iniquities by abusing her."
He showed his teeth, and settled himself against the door-post more
comfortably.
"Why didn't she come herself?" he inquired.
"She said that she was afraid you'd pop her into the hopper. You see
what a monster you are considered."
"I wouldn't be willing to spoil my meal."
Deacon Daniel likes to play at badinage, and if he had ever had a
chance, might have some skill at it. As it is, I like to see how he
enjoys it, if I am not always impressed by the wit of what he says.
"Deacon Richards," I said, "why do you freeze the people so in the
vestry?"
"I haven't known of anybody's being frozen."
"But why don't you have a fire?" I persisted. "If you don't want to
build it, there are boys enough that can be hired."
"How is your mother to-day?" was the only answer the deacon vouchsafed.
"She's very comfortable, thank you. Why don't you have a fire?"
"Makes folks sleepy," he declared; and once more switched off abruptly
to another subject. "Did you know Tom Webbe's gone off?"
"Yes."
"Where's he gone?"
"I don't know. Why should I?"
"If you don't know," Deacon Daniel commented, "I suppose nobody does."
"Why don't you have a fire in the vestry?" I demanded, determined to
tire him out.
"You asked me that before," he responded, with a grin of delight.
I gave it up then, for I saw that there was nothing to be got out of him
in that mood. I looked up at the sky, and saw how the afternoon was
waning.
"I must go home," I said. "Mother may want me; but I do wish you would
be reasonable about the vestry. I'll give you a load of wood if you'll
use it."
"Send the wood, and we'll see," was all the promise I could extract from
the dear old tease.
Deacon Daniel was evidently not to be cornered, and I came away without
any assurance of amendment on his part. The faithful will have still to
endure the cold, I suppose; but I have made an effort.
What I said to Deacon Richards and what Deacon Richards said to me is
not what I sat down to write. I have been lingering over it because I
hated to put down what happened to me after I left the mill. Why should
I write it? This diary is not a confessional, and nothing forces me to
set these things down. I really write it as a penance for the
uncharitable mood I have been in ever since. I may as well have my
thoughts on paper as to keep turning them over and over in my mind.
I crossed the foot-bridge and turned up Water Street. I went on, pleased
by the brown water showing through the broken ice in the mill-flume, and
the fantastic bunches of snow in the willows beyond, like queer, white
birds. I smiled to myself at the remembrance of Deacon Daniel, and
somehow felt warmed toward him, as I always do, despite all his
crotchety ways. He radiates kindness of heart through all his
gruffness.
Suddenly I saw George coming toward me with Miss West. They did not
notice me at first, they were so engaged in talking and laughing
together. My mood sobered instantly, but I said to myself that I
certainly ought to be glad to see George enjoying himself; and, in any
case, a lady does not show her foolish feelings. So I went toward them,
trying to look as I had before I caught sight of them. They saw me in a
moment, and instantly their laughter stopped. If they had come forward
simply and at ease, I should have thought no more about it, I think; but
no one could see their confusion without feeling that they expected me
to disapprove. And if they expected me to disapprove, it seems to me
they must have been saying things--But probably this is all my
imagination and mean jealousy.
"You see I've captured him," Miss West called out in rather a high
voice, as we came near each other.
"I have no doubt he was a very willing captive," I answered, smiling,
and holding out my hand.
I realize now how I hated to give her my hand, and most certainly her
manner was not entirely that of a lady.
"We've been for a long walk," she went on, "and now I suppose I ought to
let you have him."
"I couldn't think of taking him. I am only going home."
"But it seems real mean to keep him, after I've had him all the
afternoon. I must give him to you."
"I hope he wouldn't be so ungallant as to be given, and leave you to go
home alone," I said. "That is not the way we treat strangers in
Tuskamuck."
"Oh, you mustn't call me a stranger," Miss West responded, twisting her
head to look up into George's face. "I'm really in love with the place,
and I should admire to live here all the rest of my life."
To this I had nothing to say. George had not spoken a word. I could not
look at him, but I moved on now. I felt that I must get away from this
girl, with her strange Western speech, and her familiar manner.
"Good-by," I said. "Mother will want me, and I mustn't linger any
longer."
I managed to smile until I had left them, but the tears would come as I
hurried up the hill toward home. Oh, how can I bear it!
January 23. The happiness of George is the thing which should be
considered. In any case I am helpless. I can only wait, in woman's
fashion. Even if I were convinced he would be happier and better with
me,--and how can I tell that?--what is there I could do? My duty is by
mother's sick-bed, and even if my pride would let me struggle for the
possession of any man, I am not free to try even that degrading
conflict. I should know, moreover, that any man saved in spite of
himself would be apt to look back with regret to the woman he was saved
from. Jean Ingelow's "Letter L" is not often repeated in life, I am
afraid. Still, if one could be sure that it is a danger and he were
saved, this might be borne. If it were surely for his good to think less
of me, I might bear it somehow, hard as it would be. But my hands are
tied. There is nothing for me but waiting.
January 24. George met Kathie last night as she was coming here, and
sent word that he had to drive over to Canton. I thought it odd for him
to send me such a message instead of coming himself, for he had not seen
me since I met him in the street with Miss West. To-day Aunt Naomi came
in, and the moment I saw her I knew that she had something to say that
it would not be pleasant to hear.
"What's George Weston taking that West girl over to Canton for?" she
asked.
It was like a stab in the back, but I tried not to flinch.
"Why shouldn't he take her?" I responded.
Aunt Naomi gave a characteristic sniff, and wagged her foot violently.
"If he wants to, perhaps he should," she answered enigmatically.
The subject dropped there, but I wonder a little why she put it that
way.
January 26. Our engagement is broken. George is gone, and the memory of
six years, he says, had better be wiped out.
January 27. I could not tell Mother to-day. By the time I got my courage
up it was afternoon, and I feared lest she should be too excited to
sleep to-night. To-morrow morning she must know.