The fragrant pink arbutus had replaced the snow-wreaths upon the
hillsides, the downy whorls of the first fern fronds were pushing through
the dark-brown leaves, the fragile hepaticas had opened their sweet eyes
wide, when one morning Sidney took the sloping path which led up the hill
overlooking Dole.
His face was pale and drawn, his grey eyes half distraught, his slender,
nervous hands clinched as if to hold fast to some strand of hope, some
last remnant of courage, some crumb of consolation for that moment when
his soul, utterly bereft, should cry aloud in desolation.
Sidney Martin preached to his people sweet and wholesome sermons,
instinct with the hopefulness and charity of one who believes that, “all
things work together for good,” and that “the mute beyond is just,” but
in his own soul was chaos.
Always sensible of his personal responsibility towards his fellows, he
had now become almost morbid upon the subject.
The old workman had known Sidney better than Sidney had known himself,
and his prophecies were being fulfilled.
Happy as Sidney was in his husbandhood, yet the possession of Vashti was
not a narcotic strong enough to stupefy his keen spiritual nature.
Every Sunday before he entered the pulpit he endured a Gethsemane;
every time he quitted it he sought the faces of his people yearningly,
pitiably, eager to be assured that his words had comforted them.
He spent all his time thinking of and for them, and he had won closer
to their hearts than he guessed. They gave him confidences which had
been withheld from their fellows for years, and thus let in to the
closed chambers in their humble lives, he was able to justify himself to
Vashti for the very lenient way in which he looked upon their lapses. He
sometimes wondered that their common experiences of poverty and effort
did not make them more considerate in their judgments upon each other.
But they found in him always a merciful judge. He visited their homes,
he knew their hopes and fears, he appreciated the pathos of their narrow
ambitions, at which a less great-hearted man might have laughed.
He went into the little school-house frequently, and strove in
simple words to awaken the children to the beauty about them, to the
possibilities of life. He had great hopes of the children. Already he
had singled out several whom he thought might make scholars. He promised
himself that they should be given the opportunity.
He had been going to the school that morning when a little incident
occurred which awakened all his most poignant doubts of himself, and the
righteousness of his ministry.
Passing by the school-playground, he had seen some evil words chalked up
in a school-boy hand upon the board fence. It was like a blow in the face
to Sidney—so eager to instil the doctrines of sweetness and light into
these children. Why, O why had that boyish hand traced the symbols to
form that evil idea? It was as if a clear spring should suddenly cast up
mud instead of water.
Sidney effaced the words, but turned away from the school. The
whole morning was poisoned for him. Poor Sidney! Doubtless he was
supra-sensitive, and yet—why had not the boy chosen some sweet and
beautiful words to write upon that sunny spring morning? Surely they
would have been more in keeping with the whole world as the boy’s eyes
saw it?
We may smile at Sidney as he agonizes alone upon the hill, but it was by
such vigils as these that he won so close to the heart of the God in whom
he had no belief.
Sidney wandered about in the woods upon the hillside till gradually
some little of the peace of the day entered into his spirit. He gathered
a bunch of arbutus to take home to Vashti. He encountered no one upon
the return journey but Mr. Simpson, who “passed the time of day” with
the minister, as he said afterwards, and then proceeded to try to draw
him out regarding Lanty. It was very easy for Sidney to parry old Mr.
Simpson’s queries, but they made him very uneasy nevertheless.
Vashti whitened as Sidney related the circumstances to her.
Could there be anything new? she wondered. Sidney had one of his intense
headaches, and, after the mid-day meal, Vashti proposed to give him ease
from it by putting him into a sleep.
“You are my good angel, Vashti,” he said, catching her fingers as she
made the first pass across his forehead, and kissing them one by one.
She looked down at him, for he lay upon the green leather couch in the
study, and smiled almost tenderly. His continual sweetness of temper, his
unselfishness, his thoughtfulness, and, above all, his great adoration
for her had touched her greatly since their marriage. She was too keen
an observer, too clever a woman, not to recognize that this man was head
and shoulders above the men she had known. She had moments when she was
enraged against herself for loving Lanty instead of her husband, but yet
her heart never wavered in its allegiance to her yellow-haired cousin.
There was something in his magnificent physique, his superabundant
energy, his almost arrogant virility, which appealed to her. Beneath that
calm, pale face of hers were strong passions, sleeping, but stirring in
their sleep at the voice which did not call them.
Sidney, or Sidney’s welfare, would never weigh with her a featherweight
if balanced against a chance of winning Lanty from her cousin, or of
revenging herself upon them both, yet there were times when she wished
that it had been any other man than Sidney who was bound to her.
“It is you who are good,” she said. “The village people think you are a
saint.”
“Vashti,” said Sidney, wistfully. “Do you think I do them good?”
“Indeed, yes,” said Vashti, “just think how they turn out to church. It’s
something wonderful.”
Sidney’s eyes lighted up with delight of her praise.
“Oh, Vashti!” he said, “I am so glad. I often wonder if you are satisfied
with my work. You know it was you who ordained me to the priesthood.”
A slow colour stole into her cheeks. She waved her hands soothingly above
his brow, then posing two fingers upon his temples where the pain was,
said gently but imperatively, “_Sleep, sleep_,” and almost immediately,
with her name upon his lips, he closed his eyes and fell into a deep
slumber.
She leaned back in her chair and looked about the room, so manifestly
the sanctum of a man of taste. The bookshelves which extended round and
round the room to the height of a man’s shoulder, were filled with books
uniformly bound in dark green leather.
This was a miracle in Dole, and Sally was wont to dilate upon the
astonishing circumstance, and marvel that Mr. Martin could find the one
he wanted among so many all alike. The mere fact of the titles being
different did not appeal to Sally.
Above the bookshelves, against a soft harmonious background, were
beautiful etchings from the paintings Sidney loved. Millet’s peasants,
Burne-Jones’ beautiful women, Meissonier’s cavaliers, Rossetti’s “Beata
Beatrix.” Upon the top of the bookshelves were two exquisite marbles, the
winged Victory of Samothrace, and the Venus de Milo, and one bronze—the
famous wing-footed Mercury, slender, lithe, and seeming ever to sweep on
with the messages of the gods.
Vashti sat long there, then she remembered that it was the day of the
sewing circle. The meeting was at the house of Mrs. Winder that day.
Vashti rose and left the room; she put on her hat, paused to look at
herself in her glass, and smiled to think of how the women would whisper,
when her back was turned, about her Boston gown and her modish hat.
Vashti rather liked to amaze her fellow-women. With all her strength of
mind there was much femininity about her, and when it came to prodding up
other women she was an adept.
As she passed the open study door she paused and looked in where her
husband lay, sunk in the unconsciousness of a hypnotic sleep. For a
moment she had a great desire to awaken him, but still softened by
unwonted tenderness, she refrained from doing so. Vashti liked not only
to parade her Boston finery before the sewing circle, but also her
husband.
After all, being the minister’s wife in Dole had charms.
“If I had only told him to come for me,” she said regretfully. “I wish
he would, at five o’clock. I’ve a mind to wake him up and ask him.” She
hesitated. The light slanted in across Sidney’s face, its pallor shone
out startlingly.
She turned away and ere long was nearing Mrs. Winder’s. She walked slowly
up the path to the front door. Sidney often forgot that it was one of
the preacher’s privileges to do this, but Vashti always remembered what
was fitting; besides, she knew the window of the sitting-room commanded
the little path, and she thought the sewing circle might just as well be
edified by her progress from the gate as not.
“My! Vashti is most terrible cherked up in her dress,” said Mrs. Ranger
to Mrs. Winder.
“Yes, that gownd must have cost a lot, but they say ’tis by the
preacher’s wish.”
“Who said that?” asked Mrs. Simpson.
“Well,” said Mrs. Ranger volubly, “I heard that too; it was Sally, up at
the preacher’s, that told young Mary Shinar, and Mary Shinar told Tom,
and Tom had it over to our Ab at Brixton a week come Saturday, that the
preacher draws the patternings for Vashti’s gownds, and colours them
himself, and measures Vashti with a tape line, and sends the hull thing
off to somewheres in Bosting, and Sally up at the preacher’s says that
when they come from Bosting the sleeves and the waist is all filled
full of silk paper to hold ’em in shape, and that it’s like a body in a
coffing when the lid is taken off, and—yes, my turkeys has been laying
for a week now,” concluded Mrs. Ranger with an abrupt change of subject
and tone, for Vashti at that moment entered the room. Now Vashti herself
had ere now switched off her conversation to a side track, and when she
heard Mrs. Ranger answering a question which had not been asked, she
smiled in a manner to make even Mrs. Ranger uncomfortable.
Vashti had hardly taken her place before Temperance entered, and
presently the twenty or thirty women were busy with their needles upon
the somewhat formless garments which are supposed to conduce to the
salvation of the heathen, and whilst their needles were busy their
tongues kept pace.
There were many things of importance to be discussed, the health of
Vashti’s father (who had had another stroke), the setting of hens,
the finding of turkeys’ nests, house cleaning and garden making—the
springtime in the country is always a busy time—and above and beyond all
these things there was a most exciting subject, the downfall of a certain
Ann Serrup; of this the matrons whispered together.
“Has Mr. Martin been over yet?” asked Mrs. Winder of Vashti, after trying
in several indirect ways to find out.
“No,” said Vashti, “I don’t think he has heard of it. I didn’t tell him
and I don’t think anyone has.”
“If you take my advice,” said Temperance, making her needle whistle
through the cotton. “If you take my advice you’ll keep the preacher away
from that mess. He’s that soft-hearted that he’s liable to be taken
in—besides, it’s more likely a woman’s help she needs. Laws, I ofting
think of Ann, all alone. Why don’t you go yourself, Vashti?”
“I have thought of it for a couple of months,” said Vashti. “It’s nearly
a year old now, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Winder, proceeding to give data. “But sakes! Why
couldn’t she stay over Brixton way without coming into our parish with
her brat?”
“They have souls,” said Vashti, suddenly drawing the mantle of the
preacher’s wife about her.
“Well, one of ’em shouldn’t have,” said Mrs. Ranger irately. “Sakes, I
don’t know what girls is coming to!”
“I expect she didn’t have much chance,” said Temperance deprecatingly.
“That’s no excuse for sin,” said Vashti austerely.
Temperance sniffed audibly. The clock struck five, and a footstep sounded
upon the porch of the backdoor.
“Run see who that is,” said Mrs. Winder to Jimmy.
The women held their needles suspended midway in the stitch, and Sidney’s
voice came cheerily from the kitchen.
“Why, lands sake! It’s Mr. Martin and by the kitching too!” said Mrs.
Winder bustling forward to welcome him.
He entered gracefully, greeting them all in his gentle genial way which
seemed to bring him so close to their hearts; but his eyes sought out
Vashti where she sat half anticipative—half dreaming of the words he
would say. Somehow it seemed to her that she was taking part in a scene
which had been rehearsed long since and which grew slowly into her
recollection. Sidney would say—she thought the words and Sidney’s voice
seemed the audible echo of the phrase, “You wanted me to come at five,”
he said; “I just woke up in time; it was fortunate I did not forget. Are
you going over to see your father?”
“Yes,” said Vashti, rising mechanically, a strange mingling of awe and
exultation, not unmixed with fear, at her heart.
“You will excuse my wife if she is lazy to-day, Mrs. Winder,” said Sidney
laughing, “but I hope you won’t follow her bad example and leave off
before the six o’clock bell; we must have full time in the sewing-class!”
There was a general smile at this mild wit. Ministers’ jokes are always
highly appreciated.
“What a beautiful view you get from this window,” said Sidney, looking
out across to the hill. Mrs. Winder saw her opportunity and took it.
“Yes,” she said, “but you get a terrible fine view from the window in
the front room—just step in, if you’ll take the trouble.” So saying Mrs.
Winder threw open the door of the sacred front room, revealing all its
glories to Sidney’s gaze, and preceding him with a great assumption of
unconsciousness, she rolled up the paper blind and pointed out of the
window.
Sidney looked, and saw almost opposite him a new frame barn whose pine
walls showed glaringly and somewhat oppressively in the sun.
“The new barn ’ill be done in two weeks,” said Mrs Winder as Sidney
turned away; “you see it lengthways from here.”
“It looks very well,” said Sidney kindly. Then he bade them all good-bye
and departed with Vashti, who was silently marvelling. This was the
first inkling Vashti had of the force of “suggestion.”
Meanwhile the tongues buzzed in the company they had left. The women were
conversationally inclined; excitement is a great stimulant to the flow
of ideas, and certainly this meeting of the sewing-circle had had its
sensation. Mrs. Winder’s boldness in inveigling the preacher in to see
the glories of the front room had been appreciated at its full worth. Not
one of these dames but had cherished a secret longing to show off her
front room to Sidney—but so far he knew only the mundane comfortableness
of the “setting-rooms.”
Mrs. Winder had scored largely that day.
And the meeting was not over.
Mrs. Ranger had been irritated that afternoon in various ways. Vashti’s
smile when she entered had made Mrs. Ranger uncomfortable.
“Although,” as she said to Mrs. Winder, “what could she expect? My sakes!
I don’t care if she did hear me! It’s all gospel truth and what can she
expect, being the preacher’s wife, but to be talked about?”
What indeed?
Then, too, Mrs. Ranger felt Mrs. Winder had indulged in reprehensibly
sharp practice in regard to the front room—and—but it is needless to
enumerate the different irritations which, combined, made Mrs. Ranger
venomous. She felt she must ease the pressure upon her patience by
giving someone’s character a thorough overhauling; so with a side look at
Temperance, and a tightening of her meagre mouth, she began to speak of
Lanty.
Now in Dole, if any subject was brought up which hurt or pained you, you
were expected to look indifferent, make no reply, and strive by keeping a
calm front to deny the honour of putting on the shoe when it fitted.
The Spartan boy’s heroism has often been outdone by women who smiled and
smiled whilst venomous tongues seared their hearts. So Mrs. Ranger began
boldly, as one does who fires from under cover at an unarmed foe.
But Temperance had been so long one of the Lansing family that she had
assimilated a little of their “unexpectedness,” and as Mrs. Ranger
continued her remarks, egged on by acquiescing nods from the older women,
there began to gather upon the brow of Temperance a deep black cloud.
Mrs. Ranger paused in her harangue to gather breath for her peroration,
when suddenly the thread of talk was plucked from her ready lips by the
strident voice of Temperance, who, rising to her feet, and gathering
her sewing together as she spoke, proceeded to deliver herself of an
opinion upon the charity of the women about her. In whatever particular
that opinion erred, it certainly merited praise for its frankness. After
Temperance had indulged in a few pungent generalizations she narrowed
her remarks to Mrs. Ranger’s case. Never in all the annals of Dole had
any woman received such a “setting out” from the tongue of another as
Mrs. Ranger received that day from Temperance. Temperance spoke with a
knowledge of her subject which gave play to all the eloquence she was
capable of; she discussed and disposed of Mrs. Ranger’s forbears even to
the third generation, and when she allowed herself finally to speak of
Mrs. Ranger in person, she expressed herself with a freedom and decision
which could only have been the result of settled opinion.
“As for your tongue, Mrs. Ranger, to my mind, it’s a deal like a snake’s
tail—it will keep on moving after the rest of you is dead.”
With which remark Temperance departed from the sewing circle which had
metaphorically squared itself to resist the swift onslaught of her
invectives; she gathered her skirts about her as she passed through the
room, with the air of one fain to avoid contamination, and stepping forth
as one who shakes the dust from off her prunella shoes as a testimony
against those she is leaving, she took the road home. Temperance’s mouth
was very grim, and a hectic spot burned the sallowness of her cheeks, but
she said to herself as she strode off briskly:
“Well—I ’spose it’s onchristian, but it’s a mighty relief t’ have told
that Mrs. Ranger just once what I think of her—but oh! pore Lanty and
pore, pore M’bella! To think it should come about like this!”
And the red spots upon her cheeks were extinguished by bitter tears.
The sewing circle broke up in confusion; one could only hear a chorus of
“Well—I declare!” “It beats all!” “Did you ever!” as the ladies bundled
their work together—each eager to get home to spread the news and to
discuss the matter with her husband.
And that night in the starlight Mabella waited at the little gate
listening for the hoof beats of Lanty’s horse from one side, and the cry
of little Dorothy from the house behind her.
And when Lanty came—alas! What “God’s glowworms” in the sky revealed, we
shall not say.
But we will echo the words of Temperance—“Pore Lanty—pore, pore M’bella!”