ONE SUNDAY MORNING
"I'M going to cut church this morning, Ted," said Janet one day toward
the middle of May. "I simply cannot stay indoors with a proper spirit
of devotion. If I were at home, it would be another thing, for I could
ride to our dear little church over the smooth shell road, with the bay
sparkling bluely—"
"Bluely?"
"Why not bluely as well as blackly or redly? There, you have snipped
the thread of my rhapsody. I have been saving my extra cuts for just
such a time as this, and I am going to use them clean up. I shall take
a book, Emerson will be in order, and go up the road to that tree where
we sat the day we went sketching with Miss Thurston."
"We went sketching?"
"How critical you are this morning. I didn't say we sketched, I said we
went. What's the matter, Ted? I believe you are envious of my reserved
cuts, and would fain be with me instead of sitting in church waving a
fan and feeling limp as to collar and stiff as to clothes. It is warm
for the season, and one hates to be cooped up. Come, go along anyhow.
What will it matter a hundred years hence if you do happen to over-cut
once?"
"Charity Shepherd would say it might matter a great deal; she believes
so implicitly in fire and brimstone."
"Poor dear Charity, she suffers long and is kind, though she certainly
does seek her own. She runs with the most obviously pious crowd on
Sundays, I don't mean religious, I mean the kind that were not only
born pious, but achieved it and had it thrust upon them, so they exhale
an atmosphere which suggests the Shorter Catechism, Fox's Book of
Martyrs, and Old Hundred. Now, I consider myself religious—"
"You do?" Teddy smiled incredulously.
"You needn't smile that way," said Janet, "I really am. I am not pious;
I don't enjoy prayer-meetings, and fast-days. I don't like to mortify
the flesh as Charity does, and as it is evident that her colleagues do.
The unspeakable dreadfulness of their clothes declares that. Why must
women almost invariably look like guys when they have a hobby?"
"They don't always," said Teddy.
"No, not all, but the majority do, those I sometimes see in a fine
frenzy of zeal rushing along with Charity. There she goes now across
the street. She has all sorts of things in her hands, and she is
late so she is struggling with her gloves and trying not to drop her
belongings. You won't go with me this morning, Ted?"
"If you will wait till this afternoon, I will go."
"Sorry I can't. The mood is upon me now. I feel in an out-of-door
worshipful humor and I might slump before noon if I stayed here,
especially if I were to wait till after a hearty dinner. No, I'll go
now and come back so spiritualized you will envy me." She picked up her
book and an umbrella and started forth.
A quarter of an hour later she was passing a little mission church from
which came trooping a number of children, the little girls pleasantly
conscious of Sunday attire and little boys unpleasantly so. As Janet
reached a point just opposite the door, she came face to face with
Charity Shepherd.
"Oh, it's you, isn't it?" exclaimed Janet taken by surprise.
Charity looked at her disapprovingly. "Yes," she said, "it is I." Then
severely, "You are surely not going to cut church, Janet?"
"Why, yes," replied Janet, balancing her Emerson on her hand. "I
thought of doing it. The groves were God's first temples, you know, and
so I thought of doing my devotions by myself."
"But the example."
"To whom? To you?"
Charity frowned. "I hope I have decision of character enough not to be
influenced, and in the performance of duty I could not be turned aside
by—"
"A poor worm of the dust like me."
"We are all poor worms of the dust," said Charity solemnly. "I should
think you would realize that, Janet, and that you would remember how
transitory this life is. Sunday is given us as a privilege, and should
not be spent in idle trifling any more than in work. We should use it
for our own good."
"That's just what I thought," returned Janet with satisfaction. "We
find our good in different ways, Charity. It would be very, very wrong
for you to spend the morning as I shall do, because your conscience
would smite you all the time, while I haven't a smite. What are you
doing up here, by the way? I thought your place of worship was further
down."
"So it is. I have a class in this mission school and go to church
after."
"Oh, that's it, is it? I thought you were unusually teachery this
morning. I won't detain you if you are going to church. I hope you will
enjoy your morning as much as I expect to enjoy mine."
"I am not going for enjoyment but for profit," said Charity as a
parting shot.
Janet pursued her way and presently turned aside and took a winding
path that led to a large tree in an open field. At a little distance
was a small stream bordered by pollard willows and beyond was a little
truck-farm which still withstood the inroads of the town streets. Janet
sat down under the tree with a sigh of relief, and gazed dreamily off
across the open country. Presently a smile played around her lips, and
diving down into the little chatelaine bag which hung by her side, she
drew forth a pencil and began to scribble on the fly-leaf of her book.
As a moving shadow fell across her page, she looked up and saw Mark
Evans.
"Why, what in the world are you doing here?" she asked. "Don't you know
that you are a worm of the dust, and that a profitless trifling away of
the Sabbath hours is very wicked?"
He smiled and threw himself down on the grass near her.
"Then why are you doing anything so wicked?" he asked.
"I am not. I am spending my time profitably. I am reading Emerson's
'Spiritual Laws,' to keep me in countenance."
"You were not reading when I came up. You were writing, a theme, was
it?"
"Oh, never on Sunday. I draw the line at doing any of my week-day tasks
then. I may not be as upright a person as Charity Shepherd, but I am a
Sabbath keeper in my own way."
"What is the way?"
"I make it a day of rest, and I don't do themes and college work. I
try to get hold of something uplifting to read. Church doesn't always
appear to elevate my thoughts, so I didn't go this morning."
"Then you follow the Orientals in their rules of negative goodness. 'Do
not unto others as you would not have them do unto you,' I believe, is
the way the followers of Confucius put it. We Christians have a more
active idea of carrying out the Golden Rule. We do unto others."
"I hadn't thought of that. Do you mean that in order to fulfil the real
meaning of Sunday one should try to elevate others as well as himself?"
"I meant something like that. It seems as if that might be a step
higher, doesn't it?"
"Yes." Janet nodded thoughtfully. Then with a smile, "Why aren't you
doing it? There is no excuse for you because you have thought out the
question, whereas it has been presented to me for the first time in
this light."
"I didn't feel that I would specially do good to my neighbor by going
to church this morning. I was tired and there was something I wanted to
do this afternoon which would require my best energies. I am saving my
good works till then."
"And what will you do?"
"Go to a little reading room at the other end of town where a lot of
us are trying to make Sunday afternoon pleasant for the youngsters of
the neighborhood. We don't teach them much, but we try to entertain
them and keep them out of the streets. Don't fancy that I am a saint,"
seeing Janet's look. "I happened to go in there with a friend one
Sunday and became interested, that is all."
He picked up Janet's book which she had laid on the grass. "What a dear
old optimist Emerson was," he said. Then, as he opened the book, his
eyes fell on the leaf upon which Janet had scribbled:
"It is the holy Sabbath day;
I must not work, I must not play;
I'm but a little wriggling worm,
Whose only duty 'tis to squirm."
Janet flushed up. "That wasn't meant for the public to see," she said.
"I beg your pardon," said the young man between confusion and
amusement. "I should have asked your consent. What inspired the
effusion?" He laughed and Janet saw that he appreciated her mood.
[Illustration: "THAT WASN'T MEANT FOR THE PUBLIC TO SEE," SHE SAID.]
"It wasn't a what; it was a who," she answered. "Do you happen to know
Charity Shepherd? She is the most painfully conscientious person I
ever saw. I believe she will die of doing her 'dooty.' I met her on
my way here, and she gave me a lecture upon the woefulness of wasting
one's Sabbath privileges, and upon the uncertainty of human existence,
so I wrote that charming bit of verse you have just read. I think of
dedicating it to Charity."
"I cannot say that I remember Miss Charity, but I know her type."
"Do you find it interesting?" Janet smiled mischievously.
"I cannot say that I do."
"It is a pity that the very good should sometimes be so very
uninteresting, isn't it? Charity is so painfully correct. We all
respect and admire her, but every one of us loves Lee better, and Lee
is such a sinner, bless her heart. Are you sorry the year is almost
over, Mr. Evans? Shall you come back in the fall?"
"I hope to. I rather like the work, and find it a good developer. Yes,
I think you will see me here next year."
"I think you have altered since I first met you," said Janet
reflectively. "I wonder if I ought to have said that," she added. "Am I
presumptuous for a student?"
"No, indeed. Please consider this neutral ground. Not once since that
memorable ride have we met outside college influences. We have always
been obliged to consider our relations as teacher and student, and it
is refreshing to feel that we are upon a more familiar basis. I had
hoped that we might become friends."
"Haven't we?"
"In the real sense of the word, no; we are merely acquaintances."
"I am flattered that you want to be my friend, Mr. Evans," said Janet.
"I am a very trifling creature, as you may not need to be told. I am
afraid any one as erudite as you are would be disappointed in me if you
knew me better."
"Why? There it is again. Because I happen to be your instructor, you
believe that I live upon an entirely different plain from other young
men. Can't you separate the man from his office?"
"I don't believe I ever tried to very much, in this case," said Janet
frankly. "We don't have such a deal of time and opportunity for making
acquaintances, you know. We are pretty busy, and are rather thoroughly
hedged in by rules and regulations at Hopper Hall. Next year, I shall
board outside, I think. When I am here at college, I don't dissipate
my interests by analyzing character, though during the summer, I
must confess that I give a great many moments to the proper study of
mankind; with some good result. It will soon be time to begin again,
and then I promise to consider your case. Where do you go for the
summer, Mr. Evans?"
"Generally to my own North Carolina mountains, but I am beginning to
believe that it will be better for me to broaden my outlook, so I shall
go to New England this year."
"Where you can study Charity's type? It is well worth studying I assure
you. Frankly, I think it really is. I have been brought up short in
my triflings more than once by Charity's uncompromising rectitude. In
spite of my worm's eye view of things, I really want to imitate some of
her qualities. I should like to be as direct and as truthful to myself.
It is hard to be perfectly honest to one's self, don't you think? Isn't
one always inclined to be self-flattering? To martyrize one's self
in matters which are strictly one's own fault, and all that? Hence I
have been dragging forth Charity's motes and displaying them to you,
and haven't hinted that I have a beam. Let us return to that question
of active duty. I suppose if I did what was right, I'd hunt up some
forlornities to give my time to this very day."
"You wouldn't have to hunt for them. They are ready and waiting. I'd be
delighted to have you go with me to the reading room. We want all the
workers we can get," he said eagerly. Then more quietly, "But perhaps
you were only joking."
"I don't know whether I was or not," returned Janet. "I don't believe
I could teach, for I shouldn't know how to answer the questions
they would be sure to put to me, but maybe I could amuse the little
children. I don't know whether or not I could do even that."
"Won't you try for once? If you fail, you need not repeat the
experiment."
"But fancy the humiliation of failing."
"I'll promise you that you will not fail. Think about it, won't you?"
"Oh, I'll think, if that will do any good."
"Decide then and I will call for you this afternoon."
"I am going to Becky Burdett's for dinner. I almost always dine there
on Sundays."
"I will call for you there, if you will allow me. We don't have to go
till three."
"Well," said Janet doubtfully, "I will try this once."
"Thank you. It is a bargain." Mr. Evans held out his hand.
"There are lots of violets over there, I see them," said Janet
irrelevantly as she drew her hand from the young man's firm clasp. "Let
us go get some."
"Such a starved bank of moss
Till, that May morn,
Blue ran the flash across;
Violets were born!"
Quoted Mr. Evans.
Janet looked at him with a little surprise. "Isn't a man who gets
enthusiastic over chemistry and who likes poetry something of an
anomaly?" she said. "How came you to like Browning?"
"How came you?"
"Naturally, I think."
"By the same token I came by my liking for his writings."
"I have just become the proud possessor of an entire set," Janet told
him. "I bought it from a friend, the most interesting girl in college,
I think, and the most beautiful. You must have seen Mary Perkins, Polly
Perkins, as we call her."
"I have seen her. She is very lovely, but from what I hear, she will
not finish her college course."
"Why? Don't you believe she is strong enough?" asked Janet in alarm.
"She is really much stronger than she looks, though she works very
hard, the dear thing has to, for she is dependent entirely upon her own
efforts."
"Yes, I heard that, too, and I have a fellow feeling for her. I did not
mean that she would have to leave on account of ill health but because
she would enter a different sphere; that she would marry."
"Oh." Janet was provoked that her cheeks should grow hot. "Yes," she
said after a pause, "I hope she will marry. I know Mr. Austin quite
well, but not well enough to be sure that he is worthy of her."
"He is said to be a good fellow, but I am told his family do not share
your enthusiasm for Miss Perkins."
Janet's eyes flashed. "I'd like to know why. They may be thankful if he
wins so dear and noble a girl as Polly. Imagine their objecting."
Mr. Evans looked at her with some amusement not unmixed with
admiration. "You are a loyal friend, Miss Ferguson."
"Of course. I wouldn't profess to be a friend if I could not be a loyal
one. Who told you all this, Mr. Evans?"
"I have heard it from several sources, but I think Miss Drake was my
last informant; I see her once in a while, you remember."
"Then she should know, for she visits the Austins. I must go now,
Mr. Evans, for I am in no trim for a Sunday dinner in a conventional
household. What a nice lot of violets. Thank you. I will wear them.
No, I won't; I'll put them in water so that I can keep them awhile to
remind me of—"
"Of what?" Mr. Evans spoke eagerly.
"Of several things. Of ethics, and Browning and Sabbath duties," said
Janet demurely.
"You will be ready when I call for you at—what is the number?"
"No. 216 Highland Avenue. Yes, I will be ready. Auf wiedersehen. I am
going to turn off here."
She did not wait for a reply, but leaving the young man at the end of
the path, she turned down the street toward Hopper Hall.
She entered the room as Teddy was putting away her hat.
"Well," said this young person, "I hope you had a profitable morning."
"I did," returned Janet, "one of the most profitable I ever remember to
have spent. I heard two sermons; one upon my duty to my neighbor and
the other upon the keeping of the holy Sabbath day."
Teddy laughed. "Who delivered the sermons?"
"Charity Shepherd, one; Mark, the perfect man, the other. The latter
was so effective a speaker, that I have promised to visit a mission
school or something of that kind, with him this afternoon."
"Janet Ferguson, I don't believe it."
"Fact. It is way at the other end of town, and I am going to try the
experiment of reading things or telling them to dirty little hoodlums.
What shall I wear, Ted? They must be impressed, you know, by my
appearance. Looks count for a good deal in matters of this kind."
"You are the biggest fraud, Janet. What is the use of pretending?
You know your wanting to look your best is not upon the ragamuffins'
account."
"On what then?"
"Mr. Evans's."
"Teddy Waite, it isn't so. Now you'll make me put on that horrid lilac
hat that I bought from Louise Baker and that always makes me look as
black as an Indian. I was going to wear the blue one."
"I wasn't aware that my opinion had such weight," said Teddy. "By all
means wear the blue if you want to impress—the children."
And Janet meekly remarked that she believed she would.
Teddy looked at her quizzically when she came back. "Well," she said,
"was the blue hat sufficiently effective?"
Janet flushed ever so slightly. "Oh yes," she returned lightly, "I
think the hoodlums were quite overpowered by my magnificence."
"And are you going to keep up the visitation for the rest of time?"
"There will be only two or three Sundays more before I go home," said
Janet apologetically. "I might as well go till then. After that, I
shall be beyond your jibes, Miss Waite. Home will seem like heaven for
there the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest."