GRANDMA KEELER GETS GRANDPA READY FOR SUNDAY SCHOOL.
Sunday morning nothing arose in Wallencamp save the sun.
At least, that celestial orb had long forgotten all the roseate flaming
of his youth, in an honest, straightforward march through the heavens,
ere the first signs of smoke came curling lazily up from the Wallencamp
chimneys.
I had retired at night, very weary, with the delicious consciousness that
it wouldn't make any difference when I woke up the next morning, or
whether, indeed. I woke at all. So I opened my eyes leisurely and lay
half-dreaming, half-meditating on a variety of things.
I deciphered a few of the texts on the scriptural patch-work quilt which
covered my couch. There were--"Let not your heart be troubled," "Remember
Lot's wife," and "Philander Keeler," traced in inky hieroglyphics, all in
close conjunction.
Finally, I reached out for my watch, and, having ascertained the time of
day, I got up and proceeded to dress hastily enough, wondering to hear no
signs of life in the house.
I went noiselessly down the stairs. All was silent below, except for the
peaceful snoring of Mrs. Philander and the little Keelers, which was
responded to from some remote western corner of the Ark by the triumphant
snores of Grandma and Grandpa Keeler.
I attempted to kindle a fire in the stove, but it sizzled a little while,
spitefully, as much as to say, "What, Sunday morning? Not I!" and went
out. So I concluded to put on some wraps and go out and warm myself in
the sun.
I climbed the long hill back of the Ark, descended, and walked along the
bank of the river. It was a beautiful morning. The air was--everything
that could be desired in the way of air, but I felt a desperate need of
something more substantial.
Standing alone with nature, on the bank of the lovely liver, I thought,
with tears in my eyes, of the delicious breakfast already recuperating
the exhausted energies of my far-away home friends.
When I got back to the house, Mrs. Philander, in simple and unaffected
attire, was bustling busily about the stove.
The snores from Grandma and Grandpa's quarter had ceased, signifying that
they, also, had advanced a stage in the grand processes of Sunday
morning.
The children came teasing me to dress them, so I fastened for them a
variety of small articles which I flattered myself on having combined in
a very ingenious and artistic manner, though I believe those infant
Keelers went weeping to Grandma afterwards, and were remodeled by her
all-comforting hand with much skill and patience.
In the midst of her preparations for breakfast, Madeline abruptly assumed
her hat and shawl, and was seen from the window, walking leisurely across
the fields in the direction of the woods. She returned in due time,
bearing an armful of fresh evergreens, which she twisted around the
family register.
When the ancient couple made their appearance, I remarked silently, in
regard to Grandma Keeler's hair, what proved afterward to be its usual
holiday morning arrangement. It was confined in six infinitesimal braids
which appeared to be sprouting out, perpendicularly, in all directions
from her head. The effect of redundancy and expansiveness thus heightened
and increased on Grandma's features was striking in the extreme.
While we were eating breakfast, that good soul observed to Grandpa
Keeler: "Wall, pa, I suppose you'll be all ready when the time comes to
take teacher and me over to West Wallen to Sunday school, won't ye?"
Grandpa coughed, and coughed again, and raised his eyes helplessly to the
window.
"Looks some like showers," said he. "A-hem! ahem! Looks mightily to me
like showers, over yonder."
"Thar', r'aly, husband! I must say I feel mortified for ye," said
Grandma. "Seein' as you're a professor, too, and thar' ain't been a
single Sunday mornin' since I've lived with ye, pa, summer or winter, but
what you've seen showers, and it r'aly seems to me it's dreadful
inconsistent when thar' ain't no cloud in the sky, and don't look no more
like rain than I do." And Grandma's face, in spite of her reproachful
tones, was, above all, blandly sunlike and expressive of anything rather
than deluge and watery disaster.
Grandpa was silent a little while, then coughed again I had never seen
Grandpa in worse straits.
"A-hem! a-hem! 'Fanny' seems to be a little lame, this mornin'," said he.
"I shouldn't wonder. She's been goin' pretty stiddy this week."
"It does beat all, pa," continued Grandma Keeler, "how't all the horses
you've ever had since I've known ye have always been took lame Sunday
mornin'. Thar' was 'Happy Jack,' he could go anywhers through the week,
and never limp a step, as nobody could see, and Sunday mornin' he was
always took lame! And thar' was 'Tantrum'----"
"Tantrum" was the horse that had run away with Grandma when she was
thrown from the wagon, and generally smashed to pieces. And now, Grandma
branched off into the thrilling reminiscences connected with this
incident of her life, which was the third time during the week that the
horrible tale had been repeated for my delectation.
When she had finished, Grandpa shook his head with painful earnestness,
reverting to the former subject of discussion.
"It's a long jaunt!" said he; "a long jaunt!"
"Thar's a long hill to climb before we reach Zion's mount," said Grandma
Keeler, impressively.
"Wall, there's a darned sight harder one on the road to West Wallen!"
burst out the old sea-captain desperately; "say nothin' about the
devilish stones!"
"Thar' now," said Grandma, with calm though awful reproof; "I think we've
gone fur enough for one day; we've broke the Sabbath, and took the name
of the Lord in vain, and that ought to be enough for perfessors."
Grandpa replied at length in a greatly subdued tone: "Wall, if you and
the teacher want to go over to Sunday school to-day, I suppose we can go
if we get ready," a long submissive sigh--"I suppose we can."
"They have preachin' service in the mornin', I suppose," said Grandma.
"But we don't generally git along to that. It makes such an early start.
We generally try to get around, when we go, in time for Sunday school.
They have singin' and all. It's just about as interestin', I think, as
preachin'. The old man ra'ly likes it," she observed aside to me; "when
he once gets started, but he kind o' dreads the gittin' started."
When I beheld the ordeal through which Grandpa Keeler was called to pass,
at the hands of his faithful consort, before he was considered in a fit
condition of mind and body to embark for the sanctuary, I marvelled not
at the old man's reluctance, nor that he had indeed seen clouds and
tempest fringing the horizon.
Immediately after breakfast, he set out for the barn, ostensibly to "see
to the chores;" really, I believe, to obtain a few moments' respite,
before worse evil should come upon him.
Pretty soon Grandma was at the back door calling in firm though
persuasive tones:--
"Husband! husband! come in, now, and get ready."
No answer. Then it was in another key, weighty, yet expressive of no weak
irritation, that Grandma called "Come, pa! pa-a! pa-a-a!" Still no
answer.
Then that voice of Grandma's sung out like a trumpet, terrible with
meaning--"Bijonah Keeler!"
But Grandpa appeared not. Next, I saw Grandma slowly but surely
gravitating in the direction of the barn, and soon she returned, bringing
with her that ancient delinquent, who looked like a lost sheep indeed and
a truly unreconciled one.
"Now the first thing," said Grandma, looking her forlorn captive over;
"is boots. Go and get on yer meetin' gaiters, pa."
The old gentleman, having invested himself with those sacred relics, came
pathetically limping into the room.
"I declare, ma," said he; "somehow these things--phew! Somehow they pinch
my feet dreadfully. I don't know what it is,--phew! They're dreadful
oncomf'table things somehow."
"Since I've known ye, pa," solemnly ejaculated Grandma Keeler, "you've
never had a pair o' meetin' boots that set easy on yer feet. You'd ought
to get boots big enough for ye, pa," she continued looking down
disapprovingly on the old gentleman's pedal extremities, which resembled
two small scows at anchor in black cloth encasements: "and not be so
proud as to go to pinchin' yer feet into gaiters a number o' sizes too
small for ye."
"They're number tens, I tell ye!" roared Grandpa nettled outrageously by
this cutting taunt.
"Wall, thar', now, pa," said Grandma, soothingly; "if I had sech feet as
that, I wouldn't go to spreadin' it all over town, if I was you--but it's
time we stopped bickerin' now, husband, and got ready for meetin'; so set
down and let me wash yer head."
"I've washed once this mornin'. It's clean enough," Grandpa protested,
but in vain. He was planted in a chair, and Grandma Keeler, with rag and
soap and a basin of water, attacked the old gentleman vigorously, much as
I have seen cruel mothers wash the faces of their earth-begrimed infants.
He only gave expression to such groans as:--
"Thar', ma! don't tear my ears to pieces! Come, ma! you've got my eyes so
full o' soap now, ma, that I can't see nothin'. Phew! Lordy! ain't ye
most through with this, ma?"
Then came the dyeing process, which Grandma Keeler assured me, aside,
made Grandpa "look like a man o' thirty;" but to me, after it he looked
neither old nor young, human nor inhuman, nor like anything that I had
ever seen before under the sun.
"There's the lotion, the potion, the dye-er, and the setter," said
Grandma, pointing to four bottles on the table. "Now whar's the
directions, Madeline?"
These having been produced from between the leaves of the family Bible,
Madeline read, while Grandma made a vigorous practical application of the
various mixtures.
"This admirable lotion"--in soft ecstatic tones Madeline rehearsed the
flowery language of the recipe--"though not so instantaneously startling
in its effect as our inestimable dyer and setter, yet forms a most
essential part of the whole process, opening, as it does, the dry and
lifeless pores of the scalp, imparting to them new life and beauty, and
rendering them more easily susceptible to the applications which follow.
But we must go deeper than this; a tone must be given to the whole system
by means of the cleansing and rejuvenating of the very centre of our
beings, and, for this purpose, we have prepared our wonderful potion."
Here Grandpa, with a wry face, was made to swallow a spoonful of the
mixture. "Our unparalleled dyer," Madeline continued, "restores black
hair to a more than original gloss and brilliancy, and gives to the faded
golden tress the sunny flashes of youth." Grandpa was dyed. "Our
world-renowned setter completes and perfects the whole process by adding
tone and permanency to the efficacious qualities of the lotion, potion,
and dyer, etc.;" while on Grandpa's head the unutterable dye was set.
"Now, read teacher some of the testimonials, daughter," said Grandma
Keeler, whose face was one broad, generous illustration of that rare and
peculiar virtue called faith.
So Madeline continued: "Mrs. Hiram Briggs, or North Dedham, writes: 'I
was terribly afflicted with baldness, so that, for months, I was little
more than an outcast from society, and an object of pity to my most
familiar friends. I tried every remedy in vain. At length I heard of your
wonderful restorative. After a week's application, my hair had already
begun to grow in what seemed the most miraculous manner. At the end of
ten months, it had assumed such length and proportions as to be a most
luxurious burden, and where I had before been regarded with pity and
aversion, I became the envied and admired of all beholders."
"Just think!" said Grandma Keeler, with rapturous sympathy and gratitude,
"how that poor creetur must a' felt!"
"'Orion Spaulding of Weedsville, Vermont,'" Madeline went on--but, here,
I had to beg to be excused, and went to my room to get ready for the
Sunday school.
When I came down again, Grandpa Keeler was seated, completely arrayed in
his best clothes, opposite Grandma, who held the big family Bible in her
lap, and a Sunday-school question book in one hand.
"Now, pa," said she; "what tribe was it in sacred writ that wore
bunnits?"
I was compelled to infer from the tone of Grandpa Keeler's answer that
his temper had not undergone a mollifying process during my absence.
"Come, ma," said he; "how much longer ye goin' to pester me in this way?"
"Why, pa," Grandma rejoined calmly; "until you git a proper understandin'
of it. What tribe was it in sacred writ that wore bunnits?"
"Lordy!" exclaimed the old man. "How d'ye suppose I know! They must'a'
been a tarnal old womanish lookin' set any way."
"The tribe o' Judah, pa," said Grandma, gravely. "Now, how good it is,
husband, to have your understandin' all freshened up on the scripters!"
"Come, come, ma!" said Grandpa, rising nervously, "It's time we was
startin'. When I make up my mind to go anywhere I always want to git
there in time. If I was goin' to the Old Harry, I should want to git
there in time."
"It's my consarn that we shall git thar' before time, some on us," said
Grandma, with sad meaning, "unless we larn to use more respec'ful
language."
I shall never forget how we set off for church that Sabbath morning, way
out at one of the sunny back doors of the Ark: for there was Madeline's
little cottage that fronted the highway, or lane, and then there was a
long backward extension of the Ark, only one story in height. This
belonged peculiarly to Grandma and Grandpa Keeler. It contained the
"parlor" and three "keepin'" rooms opening one into the other, all of the
same size and general bare and gloomy appearance, all possessing the same
sacredly preserved atmosphere, through which we passed with becoming
silence and solemnity into the "end" room, the sunny kitchen where
Grandma and Grandpa kept house by themselves in the summer time, and
there at the door, her very yellow coat reflecting the rays of the sun,
stood Fanny, presenting about as much appearance of life and animation as
a pensive summer squash.
The carriage, I thought, was a fac-simile of the one in which I had been
brought from West Wallen on the night of my arrival. One of the most
striking peculiarities of this sort of vehicle was the width at which the
wheels were set apart. The body seemed comparatively narrow. It was very
long, and covered with white canvas. It had neither windows nor doors,
but just the one guarded opening in front. There were no steps leading to
this, and, indeed, a variety of obstacles before it. And the way Grandma
effected an entrance was to put a chair on a mound of earth, and a
cricket on top of the chair, and thus, having climbed up to Fanny's
reposeful back, she slipped passively down, feet foremost, to the
whiffle-tree; from thence she easily gained the plane of the carriage
floor.
Grandpa and I took a less circuitous, though, perhaps, not less difficult
route.
I sat with Grandpa on the "front" seat--it may be remarked that the
"front" seat was very much front, and the "back" seat very much
back--there was a kind of wooden shelf built outside as a resting-place
for the feet, so that while our heads were under cover, our feet were
out, utterly exposed to the weather, and we must either lay them on the
shelf or let them hang off into space.
Madeline and the children stood at the door to see us off.
"All aboard! ship ballasted! wind fa'r! go ahead, thar', Fanny!" shouted
Grandpa, who seemed quite restored in spirits, and held the reins and
wielded the whip with a masterful air.
He spun sea-yarns, too, all the way--marvellous ones, and Grandma's
reproving voice was mellowed by the distance, and so confusedly mingled
with the rumbling of the wheels, that it seemed hardly to reach him at
all. Not that Grandma looked discomfited on this account, or in bad
humor. On the contrary, as she sat back there in the ghostly shadows,
with her hands folded, and her hair combed out in resplendent waves on
either side of her head, she appeared conscious that every word she
uttered was taking root in some obdurate heart. She was, in every
respect, the picture of good-will and contentment.
But the face under Grandpa's antiquated beaver began to give me a fresh
shock every time I looked up at him, for the light and air were rapidly
turning his rejuvenated locks and his poor, thin fringe of whiskers to an
unnatural greenish tint, while his bushy eyebrows, untouched by the hand
of art, shone as white as ever.
In spite of the old sea-captain's entertaining stories, it seemed,
indeed, "a long jaunt" to West Wallen.
To say that Fanny was a slow horse would be but a feeble expression of
the truth.
A persevering "click! click! click!" began to arise from Grandma's
quarter. This annoyed Grandpa exceedingly.
"Shet up, ma!" he was moved to exclaim at last. "I'm steerin' this
craft."
"Click! click! click!" came perseveringly from behind.
"Dum it, ma! thar', ma!" cried Grandpa, exasperated beyond measure. "How
is this hoss goin' to hear anything that I say ef you keep up such a
tarnal cacklin'?"
Just as we were coming out of the thickest part of the woods, about a
mile beyond Wallencamp, we discovered a man walking in the distance. It
was the only human being we had seen since we started.
"Hullo, there's Lovell!" exclaimed Grandpa. "I was wonderin' why we
hadn't overtook him before. We gin'ally take him in on the road. Yis,
yis; that's Lovell, ain't it, teacher?"
I put up my glasses, helplessly.
"I'm sure," I said, "I can't tell, positively. I have seen Mr. Barlow but
once, and at that distance I shouldn't know my own father."
"Must be Lovell," said Grandpa. "Yis, I know him! Hullo, thar'! Ship
ahoy! ship ahoy!"
Grandpa's voice suggested something of the fire and vigor it must have
had when it rang out across the foam of waves and pierced the tempest's
roar.
The man turned and looked at us, and then went on again.
"He don't seem to re_cog_nize us," said Grandma.
"Ship a-hoy! Ship a-hoy!" shouted Grandpa.
The man turned and looked at us again, and this time he stopped and kept
on looking.
When we got up to him we saw that it wasn't Lovell Barlow at all, but a
stranger of trampish appearance, drunk and fiery, and fixed in an
aggressive attitude.
I was naturally terrified. What if he should attack us in that lonely
spot! Grandpa was so old! And moreover, Grandpa was so taken aback to
find that it wasn't Lovell that he began some blunt and stammering
expression of surprise, which only served to increase the stranger's ire.
Grandma, imperturbable soul! Who never failed to come to the rescue even
in the most desperate emergencies--Grandma climbed over to the front,
thrust out her benign head, and said in that deep, calm voice of hers:--
"We're a goin' to the house of God, brother; won't you git in and go
too?"
"No!" our brother replied, doubling up his fists and shaking them
menacingly in our faces: "I won't go to no house o' God. What d'ye mean
by overhauling me on the road, and askin' me to git into yer d----d
old travelling lunatic asylum?"
"Drive on, pa," said Grandma, coldly: "He ain't in no condition to be
labored with now. Drive on kind o' quick!"
'Kind o' quick' we could not go, but Fanny was made to do her best, and
we did not pause to look behind.
When we got to the church, Sunday-school had already begun. There was
Lovell Barlow looking preternaturally stiff in his best clothes, sitting
with a class of young men. He saw us when we came in, and gave me a look
of deep meaning. It was the same expression--as though there was some
solemn, mutual understanding between us--which he had worn on that night
when he gave me his picture.
"There's plenty of young folks' classes," said Grandma; "but seein' as
we're late maybe you'd jest as soon go right along in with us."
I said that I should like that best, so I went into the "old folks'"
class with Grandma and Grandpa Keeler.
There were three pews of old people in front of us, and the teacher, who
certainly seemed to me the oldest person I had ever seen, sat in an
otherwise vacant pew in front of all, so that, his voice being very thin
and querulous, we could hear very little that he said, although we were
edified in some faint sense by his pious manner of shaking his head and
rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.
The church was a square wooden edifice, of medium size, and contained
three stoves all burning brightly. Against this, and the drowsy effect of
their long drive in the sun and wind, my two companions proved powerless
to struggle.
Grandpa looked furtively up at Grandma, then endeavored to put on as a
sort of apology for what he felt was inevitably coming, a sanctimonious
expression which was most unnatural to him, and which soon faded away as
the sweet unconsciousness of slumber overspread his features. His head
fell back helplessly, his mouth opened wide. He snored, but not very
loudly. I looked at Grandma, wondering why her vigilance had failed on
this occasion, and lo! her head was falling peacefully from side to side.
She was fast asleep, too. She woke up first, however, and then Grandpa
was speedily and adroitly aroused by some means, I think it was a pin;
and Grandma fed him with bits of unsweetened flag-root which he munched
penitently, though evidently without relish, until he dropped off to
sleep again, and she dropped off to sleep again, and so they continued.
But it always happened that Grandma woke up first. And whereas Grandpa,
when the avenging pin pierced his shins, recovered himself with a start
and an air of guilty confusion, Grandma opened her eyes at regular
intervals, with the utmost calm and placidity, as though she had merely
been closing them to engage in a few moments of silent prayer.
Our class occupied an humble place in the sanctuary, near the door.
Behind the pew in which Grandma, Grandpa, and I were sitting there was
one more vacant. Presently the door opened, admitting a delightful waft
of fresh air, and some one entered that pew, and bowed his head forward
on the desk in a devotional attitude.
After the brief excitement caused by the advent of this new and very late
comer had subsided, the Sunday-school resumed its former lethargic
condition, and then I heard my own name whispered very softly in my ear.
I had to turn my head but a little to meet the deprecating, though
evidently irreverent eyes of Emily's fisherman.
"How do you do, Miss Hungerford?" he murmured brightly. "Please don't
consider me in the light of an intruder. I know I'm rather young for the
class, to which you are admitted by reason of some extraordinary
acquaintance with biblical lore."
"But it's an excellent opportunity for you to address the little boys and
girls," I said.
"Nonsense!" said Mr. Rollin, reddening. "I only meant that for a joke,
you know."
Without pausing to reflect at all on the moral consequences of the act, I
welcomed the appearance of this voluble, fashionably-dressed young man
among the "ancient and fish-like" odors of the West Wallen meeting-house
with a positive sense of relief.
"If I might venture to suppose," Mr. Rollin continued, whispering, "that
I came here to-day clothed, in any sense, as an angel of light--and,
indeed, I feel a good deal like that sort of thing to-day--so sweet are
the solaces of an approving conscience, and the consciousness of having
resisted temptation. You see I was--yes, I was going fishing this
morning, but I saw Captain Keeler go by to church--observe, too, the
beauty of setting a good example--and I persuaded myself that it was
wrong to go fishing on Sunday, and so I concluded to come to church,
too."
At the light mockery of the fisherman's tone, the bolder flattery of his
eyes, I felt the same quick flash of resentment that his words had
occasioned when he walked with me up the lane. I turned my head away
with the noble resolve to keep it there persistently.
Then I heard the whisper, "Miss Hungerford, you are driving me to the
last extreme of idol worship. I shall, keep on addressing my petitions to
that ostrich tip in your hat until you give me, at least, the benefit of
your profile."
"I don't see why you should say such irreverent things to me, Mr.
Rollin," I said, quite seriously, turning, and looking him full in the
face, for an instant.
"Heaven forbid!" he replied, in an almost inaudible tone. "And if I could
have conceived of such a thing, I would beg your pardon. You have
brothers, Miss Hungerford?"
"Yes," I answered, nodding my head slightly, with my eyes fixed
steadfastly on the ancient instructor of our class.
"How would you feel if your brother was off, alone, in some wild country,
in need of good and gentle influences, and some young lady should treat
him as you are treating me? Please turn your head a little this way.
But, on the whole, I'm very glad I'm not your brother. Shall I tell you
Why? Miss Hungerford," the fisherman continued, after a pause, "do you
know I've always heard that auburn-haired people come, by right, into
possession of the worst tempers. Your hair is brown--dark brown, and mine
is red, almost--don't you think so?--and yet my mind is all peace within,
and hope, and joy, and
'What is the blooming tincture of the skin,
To peace of mind and purity, within?'
Miss Hungerford, it has been full two minutes, by my watch, since I
caught the last beam from your eye. Let us forget the idle wranglings of
the hour, and compose our minds to the great subjects which agitate
eternity. One of those insects which infest ancient church edifices has
been hovering about Captain Keeler's mouth. It has been drawn in. It has
disappeared. Such are we, hovering on the vortex of eternity. How calm
and undisturbed the old captain's face! how utterly unconscious of the
tragedy just enacted! So eternity swallows us and leaves no trace behind,
and no ripple marks its surface. How infer--how more than odd the old
captain looks, anyway! I say, she ought to have touched up his eyebrows a
little, you know, while she was at the nefarious business, Miss
Hungerford."
"Yes," I answered, listening deliberately.
"Do you suppose that the time will ever come when she to whom I once gave
the love of my young heart, and all that sort of thing, you know, will
take me in hand, and dye my hair, and rig me up, and make such an
infernal-looking old guy of me?"
"I don't see how you can escape," I said. "But you won't care so much,
then."
"No, that's true." Mr. Rollin sighed deeply "I shall be old, then;--
'When I am old, I shall not care
To deck with flowers my faded hair.'"
The idea of Mr. Rollin decking his hair with flowers was a specially
entertaining one to me.
Presently, he continued:--
"To descend for a moment to secular subjects--I've got my own horses here
now, Miss Hungerford. I had my man Bob bring them down from Providence.
They got here last night, and they're a pair of spankers, too, if I do
say it that shouldn't, as the phrase is. That was one of the inducements
which led me to follow your--to follow Captain Keeler's example in coming
to church this morning. And now I have a calm, serious, and reasonable
proposal to make. No doubt we are both familiar with the small
conventionalities of life, but on such a day as this, and with such a
glorious air outside, and such a unique framework of society--everything
delightfully pagan--scruples worthy only of small consideration at any
time should be thrown aside. I don't know what perils you encountered
on your way to church this morning, in the canvas-covered vehicle. But,
if you will drive back to Wallencamp with me, I promise to take you there
fleetly and safely, and you may have the consciousness, besides, if you
care for it, that you have made the day one of spiritual reclamation to
an erring fellow-creature."
[Illustration: VISITORS' DAY AT THE WALLENCAMP SCHOOL-HOUSE.
Scene from the Play.]
The Sunday-school had risen to its feet and was slowly droning "Yield not
to temptation," etc. The situation was odd enough. Mr. Rollin's repressed
laughing voice was in my ear: "Will you yield?" and I yielded.
At the close of the Sunday-school, as we were going out of the church, I
told Grandma that I should drive home with Emily's fisherman.
She drew me gravely to one side. "We shall be very sorry to lose your
company, teacher," she said; "only we hadn't ought to lose no precious
opportunity, and I do hope as you'll labor for that young man's soul." I
felt hopelessly conscience-stricken.
We drove home through "Lost Cedars"--a good many miles out of the
ordinary course--and I was cheerfully consenting to the divergence.
Wild and tenantless, in the midst of a wild and tenantless landscape,
Lost Cedars wore that air of lovely, though utter, desolation which might
easily have suggested its name.
There was a still unfrozen lake, which the setting sun, more like the sun
of an Italian winter than of rugged New England, was painting in gorgeous
colors, when we reached the place.
"We come fishing here, sometimes," said Mr. Rollin; "I keep a little boat
down there under the bush, and I happen to have the key of the boat here
in my pocket. It looks awfully tempting, doesn't it?"
I had always been passionately fond of out-door life, and prided myself
in having acquired no little skill at the oar. We were out on the painted
lake, and I was rowing the light boat, and taking much selfish enjoyment
out of the scene around me, when I became conscious that the fisherman
was leaning far forward from his seat in the boat, addressing me in a low
tone.
"To discuss a topic appropriate to the day, Miss Hungerford: I suppose
you've read about that fellow who was looking for the pearl of great
price, haven't you?--that is, as I take it, you know, it was something
that was going to be of more value to him than anything else in the
world,--well, now, I believe that every man thinks he's going to be lucky
enough to fall in with something of that sort some day, don't you?"
Mr. Rollin's tone was unusually serious and even slightly embarrassed. I
looked up with curious surprise from my dreamy observation of the water.
Then I thought of what Grandma Keeler had said to me about laboring for
this young man's spiritual good.
"I think we all ought to seek it," I observed tritely, giving a long,
studied artistic stroke to the oars. "I don't see why you shouldn't find
it, I'm sure--if you ask. I wish that I were good enough to talk to you
real helpfully on this subject."
I was startled at the inspiriting effect my brief exhortation seemed
already to have produced on the soul of Emily's fisherman.
"To ask! Is that all!" he exclaimed in the same low breath. And looking
at the glowing, though rather unsanctified light on his features, my
interest suddenly expanded to take in the possible drift of his words. I
concluded that it was time for me to show myself eminently discreet;
having departed so far from the immediate object of my mission as to
spend a considerable part of the Sabbath driving and rowing with a
strange young man, miles from every place of refuge.
"I'm tired," I said. "Please row back now, I should like to go home."
I rose to give Mr. Rollin my place at the oar. He held out his hand to
assist me, and, whether by any malicious design of his or not, at that
moment the boat gave a sudden lurch, and I was precipitated helplessly
forward into his arms. I felt his kiss burning on my lips.
With anger at the fisherman's unfairness, and bitterness at what I felt
to be the mortifying result of my own folly and indiscretion--"Oh," I
exclaimed; "I hate you! I wish you would never speak to me again! I wish
I had fallen into the water."
The fisherman sent the boat leaping on with long strokes. "D----n it!"
he muttered softly: "I wish you had, and I after you!"
We drove for several miles on the way homeward in silence. Then Mr.
Rollin spoke. I had been meditating upon Rebecca, upon my determination
to make my life in Wallencamp one of supreme self-sacrifice and devotion
to duty, and had concluded, in a deeply repentant mind, that this
unpleasant incident at the close of the day was only the natural
consequence of my error in departing from the prescribed limits of my
self-appointed task.
I felt that after this experience it would be unwise for me further to
extend my mission work in Mr. Rollin's behalf. So I answered him but
briefly, and in a tone of martyr-like composure, which I could not help
observing perplexed and irritated him more than anger or the most frigid
silence would have done.
I was strengthened in this frame of mind when we parted at the little
gate in front of the Ark, and Mr. Rollin proposed another drive for the
ensuing week.
Then I revealed to the fisherman the grave burden of my soul.
"Mr. Rollin," I said; "if I had come to Wallencamp merely in search of my
own pleasure and diversion, I should doubtless find it very easy to do
some things which I do not consider harmful in themselves, but which it
is wrong for me to do under the circumstances. I may tell you that I have
been very reckless, very thoughtless in my life, but I came here
resolving to devote myself to an earnest, serious work. I hoped to do
these people good. They do seem to believe in me. They trust me. I cannot
bear that they should think me in any way unworthy of their trust. When
you asked me to drive this evening,--it was just as it used to be--I did
not think. You were very kind. It was pleasant, and I thank you,--but I
ought not to have gone--don't you see? I believe, now, that it would have
been so much better if I had not."
"I don't see," said Mr. Rollin; "why should you leave _me_ out
altogether? Don't I believe in you? Don't I need to be done some good
to?"
At this last childishly whimsical appeal I was in sore danger of being
diverted from the serious channel of my thoughts. Then the door of the
Ark softly opened a little way, and there, nightcapped in white, like a
full, benignant moon, appeared the head of Grandma Keeler, as she peered
blindly out into the night.
"Poor old soul!" I said. "She has probably been 'waiting and watching.'
Don't you see already one of the results of my sinning? Good night," I
said, extending my hand to the fisherman, who had fixed on that innocent
and unconscious nightcap a darkly withering gaze.
"Oh, never mind me," he muttered, turning abruptly. "Only take care of
this infernal old nest of Hoosiers, and respectable people may go to the
devil!"