A happy man was the Reverend James Moore the next morning. The lottery
had been a complete success, and he would henceforth have a comfortable
church, in which the better to save the souls of his fellow-creatures.
The leading vestry-man had drawn the capital prize, and while the other
members who had drawn blanks were not exactly satisfied, on the whole
the result seemed as good as providential. As he walked down town at
an early hour, he was conscious of suffering from a dangerous elation
of spirit; and more than once his silent prayer had been: "Lord, let
me not be puffed up this day! Let me not be blinded with happiness!
Keep the eyes of my soul clear, that I overlook no duty! What have I,
unworthy servant, done that I should be so fortunate?"
Now and then, as he passed along, a church member would wring his hand
and offer congratulations. After about fifteen years of a more or less
stranded condition a magnificent incoming tide of prosperity now seemed
to lift him off his very feet.
From wandering rather blindly about the streets for a while, he started
for the new church, remembering that he had an engagement with a
committee of ladies, who had taken in charge the furnishing of it. But
when he reached there, no one had arrived but the widow Babcock. She
was very beautiful; and looking at womankind from behind his veil of
unfamiliarity, the parson, despite his logic, had always felt a desire
to lift that veil when standing in her presence. The intoxication of
his mood was not now lessened by coming upon her so unexpectedly alone.
"My dear Mrs. Babcock," he said, offering her his hand in his beautiful
manner, "it seems peculiarly fitting that you should be the first of
the ladies to reach the spot; for it would have pained me to think you
less zealous than the others. The vestry needs not only your taste in
furniture, but the influence of your presence."
The widow dropped her eyes, the gallantry of the speech being so
unusual. "I came early on purpose," she replied, in a voice singularly
low and tremulous. "I wanted to see you alone. Oh, Mr. Moore, the
ladies of this town owe you such a debt of gratitude! You have been
such a comfort to those who are sad, such a support to those who needed
strengthening! And who has needed these things as much as I?"
As she spoke, the parson, with a slight look of apprehension, had put
his back against the wall, as was apt to be his way when talking with
ladies.
[Illustration: "THE WIDOW DROPPED HER EYES."]
"Who has needed these things as I have?" continued the widow, taking a
step forward, and with increasing agitation. "Oh, Mr. Moore, I should
be an ungrateful woman if I did not mingle my congratulations with the
others. And I want to do this now with my whole soul. May God bless
you, and crown the labors of your life with every desire of your
heart!" And saying this, the widow laid the soft tips of one hand on
one of the parson's shoulders, and raising herself slightly on tiptoe,
kissed him.
"Oh, Mrs. Babcock!" cried the dismayed logician, "what have you done?"
But the next moment, the logician giving place to the man, he grasped
one of her hands, and murmuring, "May God bless _you_ for _that_!"
seized his hat, and hurried out into the street.
The most careless observer might have been interested in watching his
movements as he walked away.
He carried his hat in his hand, forgetting to put it on. Several
persons spoke to him on the street, but he did not hear them. He strode
a block or two in one direction, and then a block or two in another.
"If she does it again," he muttered to himself--"if she does it again,
I'll marry her!... Old?... I could run a mile in a minute!"
As he was passing the music-store, the dealer called out to him:
"Come in, parson. I've got a present for you."
"A--present--for--_me_?" repeated the parson, blank with amazement. In
his life the little music-dealer had never made him a present.
"Yes, a present," repeated the fortunate vestry-man, whose dry heart,
like a small seed-pod, the wind of good-fortune had opened, so that a
few rattling germs of generosity dropped out. Opening a drawer behind
his counter, he now took out a roll of music. "Here's some new music
for your flute," he said. "Accept it with my compliments."
New music for his flute! The parson turned it over dreamily, and
it seemed that the last element of disorder had come to derange his
faculties.
"And Mrs. Leuba sends her compliments, and would like to have you to
dinner," added the shopkeeper, looking across the counter with some
amusement at the expression of the parson, who now appeared as much
shocked as though his whole nervous system had been suddenly put in
connection with a galvanic battery of politeness.
It was a very gay dinner, having been gotten up to celebrate the
drawing of the prize. The entire company were to go in the afternoon to
see the waxworks, and some of the ladies wore especial toilets, with a
view to having their profiles taken.
"Have you been to see the waxworks, Mr. Moore?" inquired a spinster
roguishly, wiping a drop of soup from her underlip.
The unusual dinner, the merriment, the sense of many ladies present,
mellowed the parson like old wine.
"No, madam," he replied, giddily; "but I shall go this very afternoon.
I find it impossible any longer to deny myself the pleasure of
beholding the great American Coquette and the Sleeping Beauty. I must
take my black sheep," he continued, with expanding warmth. "I must
drive my entire flock of soiled lambs into the favored and refining
presence of Miss Julia Granby."
Keeping to this resolution, as soon as dinner was over he made his
excuses to the company, and set off to collect a certain class of boys
which he had scraped together by hook and crook from the by-ways of
the town, and about an hour later he might have been seen driving them
before him towards the entrance of the museum. There he shouldered
his way cheerfully up to the door, and shoved each of the lads
good-naturedly in, finally passing in himself, with a general glance at
the by-standers, as if to say, "Was there ever another man as happy in
this world?"
But he soon came out, leaving his wild lambs to browse at will in those
fresh pastures, and took his way up street homeward. He seemed to be
under some necessity of shaking them off in order to enjoy the solitude
of his thoughts.
"If she does it again!... If she does it again!... _Whee! whee!
whee!--whee! whee! whee!_" and he began to whistle for his flute with a
nameless longing.
It was soon after this that the two women heard him playing the reel,
and watched him perform certain later incredible evolutions. For
whether one event, or all events combined, had betrayed him into this
outbreak, henceforth he was quite beside himself.
Is it possible that on this day the Reverend James Moore had driven the
ancient, rusty, creaky chariot of his faculties too near the sun of
love?