SOME PEOPLE WHO FORGOT THE EVER-LISTENING EAR.
There were two other members of the Brower family who had attended
church that Sabbath morning. One was Mr. Brower, sen. And at the
season of dinner-getting he lay on the couch in the dining-room, with
the weekly paper in his hand, himself engaged in running down the
column of stock prices. He glanced up once, when the words in the
kitchen jarred roughly on his æsthetic ear, and said:
"Seems to me, if I were you, I would remember that to-day is Sunday,
and not be quite so sharp with my tongue."
Then his solemn duty done, he returned to his mental comparison of
prices. Also, there was Dwight Brower, a young fellow of nineteen or
so, who acted unaccountably. Instead of lounging around, according
to his usual custom, hovering between piazza and dining-room,
whistling softly, now and then turning over the pile of old magazines
between whiles, in search of something with which to pass away the
time, he passed through the hall on his return from church, and
without exchanging a word with anyone went directly to his room. Once
there, he turned the key in the lock, and then, as though that did
not make him feel quite enough alone, he slipped the little brass
bolt under it, and then began pacing the somewhat long and somewhat
narrow floor. Up and down, up and down, with measured step and
perplexed, anxious face, hands in his pockets, and his whole air one
of abandonment to more serious thought than boys of nineteen usually
indulge.
What has happened to Dwight? Something that is not easily settled;
for as the chickens sputter in the oven below, and the water boils
off the potatoes, and the pudding is manufactured, and the cloud
deepens and glooms, he does not recover his free-and-easy air and
manner. He ceases his walk after a little, from sheer weariness, but
he thrusts out his arm and seizes a chair with the air of one who has
not time to be leisurely, and flings himself into it, and clasps his
arms on the table, and bends his head on his hands and thinks on.
The holy hours of the Sabbath afternoon waned. Mr. Brower exhausted
the stock column, read the record of deaths by way of doing a little
religious reading, tried a line or two of a religious poem and found
it too much for him, then rolled up a shawl for a sofa-pillow, put
the paper over his head to shield him from the October flies, and
went to sleep. Jennie went in and out setting the table, went to the
cellar for bread and cake and cream, went to the closet up-stairs for
a glass of jelly, went the entire round of weary steps necessary to
the getting ready the Sunday feast, all the time with the flush on
her cheek and the fire in her eye that told of a turbulent, eager,
disappointed heart, and not once during the time did she think of the
solemn words of prayer or hymn or sermon, or even _benediction_, of
the morning. She had gotten her text in the church aisle. It was,
"Wherewithal shall I be clothed, in order to sit down at the
marriage-supper of Mrs. Jamison's son and daughter?" And vigorously
was it tormenting her. What an infinitely compassionate God is ours
who made it impossible for Dr. Selmser, as he sat alone in his study
that afternoon, to know what was transpiring in the hearts and homes
of some of his people!
Those chickens sputtered themselves done at last, and the hot and
tired mother, with still the anxious look on her face, stooped and
took them from their fiery bed, and the father awoke with a yawn to
hear himself summoned to the feast. It was later than usual; many
things had detained them; four o'clock _quite_, and before the army
of dishes could be marshaled back into shape, the bell would
certainly toll for evening service. "Let the fear of the Lord be upon
you." And _He_ said, "Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy."
Dwight Brower was summoned, too, from his room; and his mother, who
had just realized the strangeness of his absence, looked up as he
came in, and said:
"Are you sick to-day, Dwight?"
"No, ma'am," he answered.
And something in his voice made her look again; and something in his
face made her keep looking, with a perplexed, half-awed air. What had
happened to Dwight? What change had come to him amid the afternoon
hours of that Sabbath day? Very different experiences can be passing
in the same house at the same time.
It was only across the street from the Browers' that little Mrs.
Matthews poured coffee for herself and husband, while Mollie, the
cook, stood on the side-piazza and sang in a loud, shrill, and yet
appreciative tone, "There is rest for the weary." Little Mrs.
Matthews had glowing cheeks, though she had done nothing more serious
than exchange her silken dress for a wrapper, and lie on the sofa and
finish the closing chapters of George Eliot's last new novel, since
her return from church. Aye, it is true. She had been a listener in
the same sanctuary where the earnest charge had rung, "Take heed what
ye do; let the fear of the Lord be upon you." At least Mrs. Matthews
had taken her handsomely clothed little body to church; I will not
say that her mind was there, or that she had heard much of the
sermon. Some of it, however, she undoubtedly _had_ heard, and she
proved it at this point, breaking in upon Dr. Matthews' musings as he
stirred his second cup of coffee:
"Dr. Matthews, how do you like being preached at?"
"Preached at?" the doctor echoed, with a sleepy air.
"Yes, preached at. I'm sure, if you were not asleep this morning, you
must have heard yourself all but called by name. Who else could Dr.
Selmser have been hinting at when he burst forth with such a tirade
on whist parties? It isn't a week since we had ours, and he almost
described what we had for supper."
"Fudge!" said Dr. Matthews. He was occasionally more apt to be
expressive than elegant in his expressions. "What do you suppose he
knows about our party? There were a dozen, I dare say, that very
evening, and as many more the next evening. They are common enough, I
am sure. And he didn't say anything personal, nor anything very bad,
anyhow. They all take that position--have to, I suppose; it's a part
of their business. _I_ don't like them any the less for it. I
wouldn't listen to a preacher who played whist."
Mrs. Matthews set her pretty lips in a most determined way, and
answered, in an injured tone:
"Oh, well, if you like to be singled out in that manner, and held up
as an example before the whole congregation, I'm sure you're welcome
to the enjoyment; but as for me, I think it is just an insult."
"Stuff and nonsense!" echoed the doctor. "How you women can work
yourselves into a riot over nothing. Now you know he didn't say any
more than he has a dozen times before. In fact, he was rather mild on
that point, I thought; and I concluded he considered he had said
about all there was to be said in that line, and might as well slip
it over. There wasn't a personal sentence in it, anyhow. The doctor
is a gentleman. More than that, I don't believe he knows we had a
whist party. If he set out to keep track of all the _parties_ there
are in his congregation it would make a busy life for him. Your
conscience must have reproached you, Maria."
"Well, some people are less sensitive than others, I suppose. I
_know_ men who wouldn't like to have their wives talked about as
freely as yours was from the pulpit this morning. I tell you, Dr.
Matthews, that he meant _me_, and I know it, and I don't mean to
stand it, if you do."
"How will you help it?" the doctor asked, and he laughed outright.
It did seem ridiculously funny to him. "A tempest in a thimble," he
called it. His wife was given to having them.
"What will you do about it? Fight him, or what? It's a free country,
and the man has a right to his opinions, even if _you_ don't agree
with him. Better hush up, Maria. I don't believe in duels, and they
are against the law in this country besides; you are powerless, you
see."
It is a pity he said that. Mrs. Dr. Matthews being a woman, and being
a member of that church, knew she was _not_ powerless. And women of
her stamp are sure to be _dared_ by random, half-earnest sentences,
to show the very utmost that their weak selves can do. As truly as I
tell you the story here to-day, that is the way the ferment began. "A
little leaven leaveneth the whole lump." Aye, and a little acid
_sours_ the whole lump. Do you think Mrs. Dr. Matthews sallied out
directly her meal was concluded, and openly and bitterly denounced
Dr. Selmser as a pulpit slanderer? She did nothing of the sort. She
chose her time and place and persons with skill and tact, and said,
"Didn't they think, just among themselves, not intending to breathe
it outside for the world, that Dr. Selmser was getting a _little_
unpopular among the young people? He was so _grave_--almost stern.
She felt distressed sometimes lest they should cultivate a feeling of
fear toward him. She _did_ think it was so important that the young
people should be attracted."
Watching her opportunity--and it is wonderful how many opportunities
there are in the world, if one only watches for them--she remarked at
Mrs. Brower's that Dr. Selmser was just a little inclined, she
thought, to pay rather too much attention to families like the
Harrisons. It was natural, she supposed. Ministers were but human,
and of course with their wealth and influence they could make their
home very attractive to him; but she always felt sorry when she saw a
clergyman neglecting the poor. Dr. Selmser certainly had called at
Mr. Harrison's twice during this very week. Of course he might have
had business--she did not pretend to say. But there were _some_ who
were feeling as though their pastor didn't get time to see them very
often. He ought to be willing to divide his attentions.
Now Mrs. Brower belonged by nature to that type of woman who is
disposed to keep an almanac account with her pastor. She knew just
how many calls Dr. Selmser made on her in a year, and just how far
apart they were. It really needed but a suggestion to make her feel
doubly alert--on the _qui vive_, indeed--to have her feelings hurt.
So of course they were _hurt_.
In point of fact, there is nothing easier to accomplish in this
jarring world than to get your feelings injured. If you are bent on
being slighted there is no manner of difficulty in finding people who
apparently "live and move and breathe" for no other purpose than to
slight you. And as often as you think about them, and dwell on their
doings, they increase in number. A new name is added to the list
every time you think it over; and the fair probability is that every
single person you meet on that day when you have just gone over your
troubles will say or do, or leave unsaid or undone, that which will
cruelly hurt you. I tell you, dear friend, it becomes you to keep
those feelings of yours hidden under lock and key, out of sight and
memory of anyone but your loving Lord, if you don't want them _hurt_
every hour in the day.