SUSAN STODDARD'S PRAYER
There was a wide porch, spotlessly scrubbed, along the front of the
house, and two hydrangeas blooming gorgeously in tubs, one on either
side of the walk. The house looked new and modern, shiny with paint
and furnished with all the conveniences offered by the relentless
progress of our day.
Little Simon had informed Agatha, during their short drive, that Deacon
Stoddard had achieved this "residence" shortly before his death; and
his tone implied that it was the pride of the town, its real treasure.
Even to Agatha's absorbed and preoccupied mind it presented a striking
contrast to the old red house, which had received her so graciously
into its spacious comfort. She marveled that anything so fresh and
modish as the house before her could have come into being in the old
town. It was next to a certainty that there was a model laundry with
set tubs beyond the kitchen, and equally sure that no old horsehair
lounge subtly invited the wearied traveler to rest.
A cool draft came through the screen door. Within, it was cleaner than
anything Agatha had ever seen. The stair-rail glistened, the polished
floors shone. A neat bouquet of sweet peas stood exactly in the center
of a snow-white doily, which was exactly in the middle of a shiny,
round table. The very door-mat was brand new; Agatha would never have
thought of wiping her shoes on it.
Agatha's ring was answered by a half-grown girl, who looked scared when
she saw a stranger at the door. Agatha walked into the parlor, in
spite of the girl's hesitation In inviting her, and directed her to say
to Mrs. Stoddard that Miss Redmond, from the old red house, wished
particularly to see her. The girl's face assumed an expression of
intelligent and ecstatic curiosity.
"Oh!" she breathed. Then, "She's putting up plums, but she can come
out in a few minutes." She could not go without lingering to look at
Agatha, her wide-eyed gaze taking note of her hair, her dress, her
hands, her face. As Agatha became conscious of the ingenuous
inspection to which she was subjected, she smiled at the girl--one of
her old, radiant, friendly smiles.
"Run now, and tell Mrs. Stoddard, there's a good child! And sometime
you must come to see me at the red house; will you?"
The girl's face lighted up as if the sun had come through a cloud. She
smiled at Agatha in return, with a "Yes" under her breath. Thus are
slaves made.
Left alone in the cool, dim parlor, so orderly and spotless, Agatha had
a presentiment of the prejudice of class and of religion against which
she was about to throw herself. Susan Stoddard's fanaticism was not
merely that of an individual; it represented the stored-up strength of
hardy, conscience-driven generations. The Stoddards might build
themselves houses with model laundries, but they did not thereby
transfer their real treasure from the incorruptible kingdom. If they
were not ruled by aesthetic ideals, neither were they governed by
thoughts of worldly display. This fragrant, clean room bespoke
character and family history. Agatha found herself absently looking
down at a white wax cross, entwined with wax flowers, standing under a
glass on the center-table. It was a strange piece of handicraft. Its
whiteness was suggestive of death, not life, and the curving leaves and
petals, through which the vital sap once flowed, were beautiful no
longer, now that their day of tender freshness was so inappropriately
prolonged. As Agatha, with mind aloof, wondered vaguely at the
laborious patience exhibited in the work, her eye caught sight of an
inscription molded in the wax pedestal: "Brother." Her mind was
sharply brought back from the impersonal region of speculation. What
she saw was not merely a sentimental, misguided attempt at art; it was
Susan Stoddard's memorial of her brother, Hercules Thayer--the man who
had so unexpectedly influenced Agatha's own life. To Susan Stoddard
this wax cross was the symbol of the companionship of childhood, and of
all the sweet and bitter involved in the inexplicable bond of blood
relationship. Agatha felt more kindly toward her because of this mute,
fantastic memorial. She looked up almost with her characteristic
friendly smile as she heard slow, steady steps coming down the hall.
The eyes that returned Agatha's look were not smiling, though they did
not look unkind. They gazed, without embarrassment, as without pride,
into Agatha's face, as if they would probe at once to the covered
springs of action. Mrs. Stoddard was a thick-set woman, rather short,
looking toward sixty, with iron-gray hair parted in the middle and
drawn back in an old-fashioned, pretty way.
It was to the credit of Mrs. Stoddard's breeding that she took no
notice of Agatha's peculiar dress, unsuited as it was to any place but
the bedroom, even in the morning. Mrs. Stoddard herself was neat as a
pin in a cotton gown made for utility, not beauty. She stood for an
instant with her clear, untroubled gaze full upon Agatha, then drew
forward a chair from its mathematical position against the wall. When
she spoke, her voice was a surprise, it was so low and deep, with a
resonance like that of the 'cello. It was not the voice of a young
woman; it was, rather, a rare gift of age, telling how beautiful an old
woman's speech could be. Moreover, it carried refinement of birth and
culture, a beauty of phrase and enunciation, which would have marked
her with distinction anywhere.
"How do you do, Miss Redmond?"
Agatha, standing by the table with the cross, made no movement toward
the chair. She was not come face to face with Mrs. Stoddard for the
purpose of social visitation, but because, in the warfare of life, she
had been sent to the enemy with a message. That, at least, was
Agatha's point of view. Officially, she was come to plead with Mrs.
Stoddard; personally, she was hot and resentful at her unjust words.
Her reply to her hostess' greeting was brief and her attitude unbending.
"I have come to ask you, Mrs. Stoddard," Agatha began, though to her
chagrin, she found her voice was unsteady--"I have come personally to
ask you, Mrs. Stoddard, if you will help us in caring for our friend,
who is very ill. Your brother, Doctor Thayer, wishes it. It is a case
of life and death, maybe; and skilful nursing is difficult to find."
Agatha's hand, that rested on the table, was trembling by the time she
finished her speech; she was vividly conscious of the panic that had
come upon her nerves at a fresh realization of the wall of defense and
resistance which she was attempting to assail. It spoke to her from
Mrs. Stoddard's calm, other-worldly eyes, from her serene, deep voice.
"No, Miss Redmond, that work is not for me."
"But please, Mrs. Stoddard, will you not reconsider your decision? It
is not for myself I ask, but for another--one who is suffering."
Mrs. Stoddard's gaze went past Agatha and rested on the white cross
with the inscription, "Brother." She slowly shook her head, saying
again, "No, that work is not for me. The Lord does not call me there."
As the two women stood there, with the funeral cross between them, each
with her heart's burden of griefs, convictions and resentments, each
recoiled, sensitively, from the other's touch. But life and the burden
life imposes were too strong.
"How can yon say, Mrs. Stoddard, 'that work is not for me,' when there
is suffering you can relieve, sickness that you can cure? I am asking
a hard thing, I know; but we will help to make it as easy as possible
for you, and we are in great need."
"Should the servants of the Lord falter in doing His work?" Mrs.
Stoddard's voice intoned reverently, while she looked at Agatha with
her sincere eyes. "No. He gives strength to perform His commands.
But sickness and sorrow and death are on every hand; to some it is
appointed for a moment's trial, to others it is the wages of sin. We
can not alter the Lord's decrees."
Agatha stared at the rapt speaker with amazed eyes, and presently the
anger she had felt at Doctor Thayer's words rose again within her
breast, doubly strong. The doctor had given but a feeble version of
the judgment; here was the real voice hurling anathema, as did the
prophets of old. But even as she listened, she gathered all her force
to combat this sword of the spirit which had so suddenly risen against
her.
"You are a hard and unjust woman, to talk of the 'wages of sin.' What
do you know of my life, or of him who is sick over at the red house?
Who are you, to sit in judgment upon us?"
"I am the humblest of His servants," replied Susan Stoddard, and there
was no shadow of hypocrisy in her tones. She went on, almost
sorrowfully: "But we are sent to serve and obey. 'Keep ye separate and
apart from the children of this world,' is His commandment, and I have
no choice but to obey. Besides," and she looked up fearlessly into
Agatha's face, "we _do_ know about you. It is spoken of by all how you
follow a wicked and worldly profession. You can't touch pitch and not
be defiled. The temple must be purged and emptied of worldliness
before Christ can come in."
Agatha was baffled by the very simplicity and directness of Mrs.
Stoddard's words, even though she felt that her own texts might easily
be turned against her. But she had no heart for argument, even if it
would lead her to verbal triumph over her companion. Instinctively she
felt that not thus was Mrs. Stoddard to be won.
"Whatever you may think about me or about my profession, Mrs.
Stoddard," she said, "you must believe me when I say that Mr. Hambleton
is free from your censure, and worthy of your sincerest praise. He is
not an opera singer--of that I am convinced--"
Susan Stoddard here interpolated a stern "Don't you know?"
"Listen, Mrs. Stoddard!" cried Agatha in desperation. "When the yacht,
the _Jeanne D'Arc_, began to sink, there was panic and fear everywhere.
While I was climbing down into one of the smaller boats, the rope
broke, and I fell into the water. I should have drowned, then and
there, if it had not been for this man; for all the rest of the ship's
load jumped into the boats and rowed away to save themselves. He
helped me to come ashore, after I had become exhausted by swimming. He
is ill and near to death, because he risked his life to save mine. Is
not that a heaven-inspired act?"
Mrs. Stoddard's eyes glistened at Agatha's tale, which had at last got
behind the older woman's armor. But her next attack took a form that
Agatha had not foreseen. In her reverent voice, so suited to
exhortation, she demanded:
"And what will you do with your life, now that you have been saved by
the hand of God? Will you dedicate it to Him, whose child you are?"
Agatha, chafing in her heart, paused a moment before she answered:
"My life has not been without its tests of faith and of conscience,
Mrs. Stoddard; and who of us does not wish, with the deepest yearning,
to know the right and to do it?"
"Knowledge comes from the Lord," came Mrs. Stoddard's words, like an
antiphonal response in the litany.
"My way has been different from yours; and It is a way that would be
difficult for you to understand, possibly. But you shall not condemn
me without reason."
"Are you going to marry that man you have been living with these many
days?" was the next stern inquiry.
A stinging blush--a blush of anger and outraged pride as much as of
modesty--surged up over Agatha's face. She was silent a moment, and in
that moment learned what it was to control anger.
"I have not been 'living with' this man, in any sense of the term, Mrs.
Stoddard. I will say this once for all to you, though I never would,
in any other conceivable situation, reply to such a question and such
an implication. You have no right to say or think such things."
"Wickedness must be rebuked of the Lord," intoned Mrs. Stoddard.
"Are you His mouthpiece?" said Agatha scornfully. But she was rebuked
for her scorn by Mrs. Stoddard's look. Her eyes rested on Agatha's
face with pleading and patience, as if she were a world-mother,
agonizing for the salvation of her children.
"It is His command to pluck the brand from the burning," said Susan
Stoddard. "Ungodly example is a sin, and earthly love often a snare
for youthful feet."
As Agatha listened to Mrs. Stoddard's strange plea, the instinct within
her which, from the first moment of the interview, had recoiled from
this fanatical but intensely spiritual woman, found its way, as it
were, into the light. Such was the power of her sincerity, that, in
spite of the extraordinary character of the interview, Agatha's heart
throbbed with a new comprehension which was almost love. She stepped
closer to Susan Stoddard, her tall figure overtopping the other's
sturdy one, and took one of her strong, work-hardened hands.
"Mrs. Stoddard, this man has never spoken a word of love to me. But if
I ever marry, it will be a man like him--a plain, high-hearted
gentleman. There! You have a woman's secret. And now come with me,
and help us to save a life. You can not, you must not, refuse me now."
The subtle changes of the mind are hard to trace and are often obscure
even to the eye of science; but every day those changes make or mar our
joy. Susan Stoddard looked for a long minute up into the vivid face
bending over hers, while her spirit, even as Agatha's had done, pierced
the hedge which separated them, and comprehended something of the
goodness in the other's soul. Finally she laid her other hand over
Agatha's, enclosing it in a strong clasp. Then, with a certain
pathetic pride in her submission, she said:
"I have been wrong, Agatha; I will come." Agatha's grateful eyes dwelt
on hers, but the strain of the interview was beginning to count. She
sank down in the chair that Mrs. Stoddard had offered at the beginning
of their meeting, and covered her eyes with one hand. The elder woman
kept the other.
"We will not go to our task alone," she said, "we will ask God's help.
The prayer of faith shall heal the sick." Then falling to her knees by
Agatha's side, with rapt, lifted face and closed eyes, she made her
confession and her petition to the Lord. Her ringing voice intoned the
phrases of the Bible as if they had been music and bore the burden of
her deepest soul. She said she had been sinful in imputing
unrighteousness to others, and that she had been blinded by her own
wilfulness. She prayed for the stranger within her gates, for the sick
man over yonder, and implored God's blessing on the work of her hands;
and praise should be to the Lord. Amen.
"And now, Angie," she said practically, as she rose to her feet,
addressing the girl who instantly appeared from around the doorway, "go
and tell Little Simon to drive up to the horse-block. Agatha, you go
home and rest, and I'll get hitched up and be over there almost as soon
as you are. Angie will help me get the ice-bag and all the other
things, in case you might not have them handy. Come, Agatha!"
But they paused yet a moment, stopping as if by a common instinct to
look at the white cross. Susan Stoddard gazed down on it with a grief
in her eyes that was the more heartbreaking because it was
inarticulate. Agatha remembered the doctor's words, and understood
something of the friction that could exist between this evangelistic
sister and the finer, more intellectual brother.
"I've never been inside the old red house since he died," said Mrs.
Stoddard.
"I'm sorry!" cried Agatha. "It is hard for you to come there, I know."
"He maketh the rough places plain," chanted Susan Stoddard. "Hercules
was a good brother and a good man!"
Agatha laid her arm about the older woman's shoulder, and thus was led
out to Little Simon's buggy. Susan helped her in, and Agatha leaned
back, with closed eyes, indifferent to the beauty of early afternoon on
a cool summer's day. Little Simon let her ride in quiet, but landed
her in the dust on the opposite side of the road from the lilac bushes.
"Those trees!" said Doctor Thayer's voice, as he came out to meet her.
"How did you make out with Susan?"
"She's coming," said Agatha. "Is your patient any better?"
"I don't think he's any worse," answered the doctor dubiously, "but I'm
glad Susan's coming. I'd be glad to know how you got round her."
Agatha paused a moment before replying, "I wrestled with her."
The doctor smiled grimly, "I've known the wrestling to come out the
other way."
"I can believe that!" said Agatha.
"Well, it's fairly to your credit!" And perhaps this was as near
praise as his New England speech ever came.