THE PREACHER'S WOOING
THERE belonged to the Metz farm an old stone quarry which Phoebe learned
to love in early childhood and which, as she grew older, she adopted as
her refuge and dreaming-place.
Almost directly opposite the green gate at the country road was a narrow
lane which led to the quarry. It was bordered on the right by a thickly
interlaced hedge of blackberry bushes and wild honeysuckle, beyond which
stood the orchard of the Metz farm. On the left of the lane a wide field
sloped up along the road leading to the summit of the hill where the
schoolhouse and the meeting-house stood. The lane was always inviting.
It was the fair road to a fairer spot, the old stone quarry.
The old stone quarry banked its rugged height against the side of a
great wooded hill. Some twenty feet below the level of the lane was a
huge semicircular base, and from this the jagged sides reared
perpendicularly to the summit of the hill. The top and slopes of this
hill were covered with a dense growth of underbrush and trees. Tall
sycamores bordered the road opposite the quarry, making the spot
sheltered and secluded.
To this place Phoebe hurried the morning after she had gained her
father's consent to go to Philadelphia.
"I just had to come here," she breathed rapturously; "the house is too
narrow, the garden too small, this June morning. They won't hold my
dreams."
She stood under the giant sycamore opposite the quarry and looked
appreciatively about her. Earth's warm, throbbing bosom thrilled with
the universal joy of parentage and fruition. Shafts of sunlight shot
through the green of the trees, odors of wild flowers mingled with the
fresh, woodsy fragrance of the fields and woods, song sparrows flitted
busily among the hedges and sang their delicious, "Maids, maids, maids,
hang on your tea kettle-ettle-ettle!" From the densest portions of the
woods above the quarry a thrush sang--all nature seemed atune with
Phoebe's mood, blithe, happy, joyous!
Phares Eby, going to town that morning, walked slowly as he neared the
Metz farm and looked for a glimpse of Phoebe. He saw, instead, the
portly figure of Aunt Maria as she walked about her garden to see the
progress of her early June peas.
"Why, Phares," she called, "you goin' to Greenwald?"
"Yes. Anything I can do for you?"
"Ach no. Phoebe was in the other day. But come in once, Phares, I'll
tell you something about her."
"Where is Phoebe?" he asked as he joined Aunt Maria in the garden.
"Over at the quarry again. But I must tell you, she's goin' to
Phildelphy to study singin'. She asked her pop and he said she dare."
"Philadelphia--singing!"
"Yes. I don't like it at all, but she's goin' just the same."
"It is a mistake to let her go," said the preacher. "It's a big mistake,
Aunt Maria. She should stay at home or go to some school and learn
something of value to her. In this quiet place she has never heard of
many temptations which, in the city, she must meet face to face. It is
the voice of the Tempter urging her to do this thing and we who are her
friends should persuade her to remain in her good home and near the
friends who care for her. Have you thought, Aunt Maria, that the people
to whom she will go may dance and play cards and do many worldly things?
Philadelphia is very different from Greenwald. Why, she may learn to
indulge in worldly amusements and to love the vanities of the world
which we have tried to teach her to avoid! She will be like a bird in a
strange nest."
"I know, Phares, but I can't make it different. When Jacob says a thing
once it's hard to change him, and she is like that too. They fixed it up
last night and I had no say at all. All I said against her going did as
much good as if I said it to the chairs in the kitchen. Phoebe is going
to get Miss Lee, the one that was teacher on the hill once, to help her.
And Miss Lee has a cousin that lives with her and he plays the fiddle
and he is goin' to get a teacher for her."
Phares Eby groaned and gritted his teeth.
"I guess I'll go talk with her a while," he decided.
"Mebbe she'll come in soon, if you want to wait. I told her to bring me
some pennyroyal along from the field next the quarry. You know that's so
good for them little red ants, and they got into my jelly cupboard. She
went a while ago and I guess she'll soon be back now."
"I think I'll walk over."
"All right, Phares. Tell her not to forget the pennyroyal."
With long strides the preacher crossed the road and started up the lane
to the quarry. There he slackened his pace--he thought of the previous
day when he had asked Phoebe about entering the Church. She had
disappointed him, it was true, but she had seemed so eager to do right,
so innocent and childlike, that the interview had not left him wholly
unhappy or greatly discouraged. He had hoped last night that she would
give the matter of her soul's salvation serious thought, that she would
soon stand in the stream and be baptized by him. Over sanguine he had
been--so soon she had forgotten serious things and planned a winter in
Philadelphia studying music.
"I must act," he thought. "I must tell her of my love. All these years I
have loved her and kept silent about it because I thought she was just a
child. But I must tell her now. If she loves me she shall marry me soon
and this great temptation will leave her; she will hearken to the voice
of her conscience, and we will begin our life of happiness together."
With this resolution strong within him he went up the lane to the quarry
and Phoebe.
She was seated on a rock under the giant sycamore and leaned confidingly
against the shaggy trunk. The glaring sunshine that fell upon the fields
and hills could not wholly penetrate the protecting canopy of
well-proportioned sycamore leaves; only a few quivering rays fell upon
the girl's upturned face.
As the preacher approached she looked around quickly but did not move
from her caressing attitude by the tree.
"Good-morning, Phares. I'm glad you came. I was wishing for some one to
share the old quarry with me this morning."
"Aunt Maria told me you were here--she is impatient for her pennyroyal."
Now, that the supreme moment had arrived, he hesitated and grasped at
the first straw for conversation.
"Oh, dear," she said childishly, "Aunt Maria expects me to remember ants
and pennyroyal when I come here. Phares, I can't explain it, but this
old quarry has a strange fascination for me. The beauty in its
variegated stone with the sunlight upon it attracts me. Sometimes I am
tempted to climb up the hill and hang over the quarry and look down into
the heart of it."
"Don't ever do that!" cried the preacher.
"I won't," laughed Phoebe. "I don't want to die just yet. But isn't it
the loveliest place! I come here often when the men are not blasting. It
seems almost a desecration to blast these rocks when we think how long
nature took in their making."
She paused . . . only the sounds of nature invaded the quiet of the
place: the drowsy hum of diligent bees, the cattle browsing in a field
near by, the ecstatic trill of a bird. The world of bustle and flurry
with its seething vats of evil and corruption, its sordid discontent and
petulance, its ways of pain and darkness, seemed far removed from that
place of peace and calm solitude. Phoebe could not bear to think that
across the seas men were lying in the filth of water-soaked trenches,
agonizing and bleeding on the battlefields and suffering nameless
tortures in hospitals that a peace like unto the peace of her quiet
haven might brood undisturbed over the world in future generations. She
dismissed the harrowing thought of war--she would enjoy the calm of her
quarry.
The preacher had listened silently to the girl's rhapsodies--she
suddenly awakened to the realization that he was paying scant attention
to her enthusiastic words. She looked at him, her heart-beats quickened,
some intuition warned her of the imminent declaration.
She rose quickly from the embrace of the sycamore tree, but the
compelling eyes of the preacher restrained her from flight. She stood
before him, within reach of his hands.
His first words reassured her somewhat: "Phoebe, your aunt has told me
that you are going to Philadelphia to study music."
"Yes. Isn't it fine! I'm so happy----" she stopped. Displeasure was
written plainly upon his countenance. "Don't you think it's all right,
Phares?"
"I think it is a great mistake," he said gravely. "Why not spend your
time on something of value to yourself and your friends and the world in
general?"
"But music is of great value. Why, the world needs it as it needs
sunshine!"
"But, Phoebe, you must remember you do not come of a people who stand
before the worldly and lift their voices for the joy of the multitude of
curious people. Your voice is right as it is and needs no training. It
is as God gave it to you and is made to be used in His service, in His
Church and your home."
"But I have always wanted to learn to sing well, really well. So I am
going to Philadelphia this winter and take lessons from a competent
teacher."
"Phoebe," exhorted the preacher, "put away the temptation before it
grips you so strongly that you cannot shake it off. You must not go!"
He spoke the last words in a tone of authority which the girl answered,
"Phares, let us speak of something else. You know I have some of the
Metz determination in my make-up and I can't be easily forced to give up
a cherished plan. At any rate, we must not quarrel about it."
The preacher forbore to try further argument or persuasion. He became
grave. His habitual serenity of mind was disturbed by shadowy
forebodings--when the pebbles of doubt drop into the placid pool of
content it invariably follows that the waters become agitated for a
time. Hitherto he had been hopeful of winning Phoebe. Had he not known
her and loved her all her life! What was more natural than that their
friendship should culminate in a deeper feeling!
He stretched out his hand in a sudden rush of feeling--"Phoebe, I love
you."
She stepped back a pace and his hand fell to his side.
"Don't, Phares," she began, but the next moment she realized that she
could not turn aside his love without listening to him.
"Phoebe, you must listen--I love you, I have loved you all my life.
Can't you say that you care for me?"
"Don't ask me that!" she pleaded. "I don't want to marry anybody now.
All my life I have dreamed of going to a city and studying music and I
can't let the opportunity slip away from me now when it is so near. To
work under the direction of a master teacher has long been one of my
dearest dreams."
"You mean that you do not love me, then. Or if you do, that you would
rather gratify your desire to study music than marry me--which is it?"
"Ach, Phares, don't make it hard for me! I said I don't want to get
married now. All my life I have lived on a farm and have thought that I
should be wonderfully happy if I could get away from it for a while and
know what it is to live in a big city. There I shall have a chance to
see life in its broader aspects. I shall not be harmed by gathering new
ideas and ideals, gaining new friends, and, above all, learning to sing
well."
The man groaned in spirit. It was evident that she was thoroughly
determined to go away from the farm.
"Phoebe," he pleaded again, not entirely for his own selfish desire, but
worried about her love of worldliness, "do you know that the things for
which you are going to the city are really not important, that all
outward acquisitions for which you long now are transient? The things
that count are goodness and purity and to be without them is to be
pauperized; the things that bring happiness are love and home ties and
to be without them is to be desolate. You want a larger, broader vision,
but the city cannot always give you that."
There was no bitterness in his voice, only an undertone of sadness as he
spoke. "Phoebe, tell me plainly, do you care for me?"
Her face was lamentably pathetic as she looked into his and read there
the desire for what she could not give. "Not as you wish," she said
softly. "But I don't really know what love is yet, I haven't thought
about it except as something that will come to me some day, a long time
from now. There are too many other things I must think about now. When I
am through studying music I'll think about being married."
The preacher shook his head; his heart was too heavy for more words,
more futile words.
"Let us go, Phares," she said, the silence becoming intolerable.
"Yes," he agreed. "And Phoebe," he added as they turned away from the
quarry, "I hope you'll learn your lesson quickly and come back to us."
They stepped from the sheltered path into the sunshine of the lane. Long
trails of green lay in their path as they went, but the eyes of both
were temporarily blinded to the loveliness of the June. When they
reached the dusty road the preacher said good-bye and went on his way to
the town.
She stood where he left her; the suppressed feelings of the past half
hour soon struggled to avenge themselves and she sped down the lane
again, back to the refuge of the kindly tree, and there, under her
sycamore, burst into passionate weeping.
Some time after Phares left the girl at the end of the lane David Eby
came swinging down the hill and entered the Metz kitchen.
"Hello, Aunt Maria. Where's Phoebe?"
"Why, I guess over at the quarry. She went for pennyroyal long ago and
then Phares came and he went over after her, but I saw him go on the way
to town a bit ago, so I guess she's still over there. Guess she's
stumbling around after a bird's nest or picking some weeds that ain't no
good. I don't see why she stays so long."
"I'll go see," volunteered David.
"Yes well. And tell her to hurry with that pennyroyal. I want it for red
ants, but they can carry away the whole jelly cupboard till she gets
here."
"I'll tell her," said David, and went off, whistling.
Phoebe's paroxysm of grief was short-lived. The soothing quiet of the
quarry calmed her, but her eyes showed telltale marks of tears as
David's steps sounded down the lane.
She rose hastily, then sank back to her seat under the tree as she saw
the identity of the intruder.
"Whew, Phoebe Metz," he said and whistled in his old, boyish way as he
sat beside her, "you're crying!"
"I am not," she declared.
"Then you just have been! I haven't seen you in tears for many years.
Phoebe"--he changed his tone--"what's gone wrong? Anything the matter?"
"Don't," she sniffed, "don't ask me or you'll have me at it again." She
steadied her voice and went on, "I came over here so gloriously happy I
could have shouted, because daddy said last night that I may go to
Philadelphia this fall----"
"Gee whiz!" David grabbed her hand. "Why, I'm tickled to death. But
what--why are you crying? Isn't that what you want?"
"Yes." She smiled, pleased by his interest and eagerness. "But just as I
was happiest along came Phares and told me it was wicked to go. It's all
a mistake to go, he said."
"Ach, the dickens with the old fossil!" David cried. "And I'm not going
to take that back or be sorry for saying it. Hadn't he better sense than
to throw a wet blanket on all your happiness!"
"Perhaps I needed it. I was just about burning up with gladness."
"Well, don't you care what he's thinking about it. You go learn music if
you want to and your father lets you go. Did he see you cry?"
"Certainly not! I wouldn't cry before him. He would say that was
foolish or wicked or something it shouldn't be. But you--you are so
sensible I don't mind if you do see me with my eyes red."
"Ha, ha, that's a compliment. I have been told that I am happy-go-lucky
and sort of a cheerful idiot, but no person ever told me that I'm
sensible. Well, don't you forget me when you get to be that prima
donna."
"I won't. You and Mother Bab rub me the right way."
"But won't she be glad when I tell her," said David. "I came down to see
if you had decided about it, and I find it all arranged."
"And me in tears," added Phoebe, her natural poise and good humor again
restored. "Tell Mother Bab I am coming up soon to tell her about it."
So, in happier mood, she walked beside David, down the green lane to the
road, across the road to her own gate.
"So you come once!" Aunt Maria greeted her.
"Oh, I forgot your pennyroyal! I'll go get it."
"Never mind. You stayed so long I went over to the field near the barn
and got some. But you look like you've been cryin', Phoebe. Did you and
Phares have a fall-out?"
"No."
"You and David, then?"
"No--please don't ask me--it's nothing."
"Well, there ain't no man in shoe leather worth cryin' about, I can tell
you that. They just laugh at your cryin'."
Phoebe smiled at her aunt's philosophy and resolved to forget the
discouraging words of the preacher. She would be happy in spite of
him--the future held bright hours for her!