I. The Light Fantastic
II. Just Eighteen
III. The Bridge That Lay Between
IV. The Danger Zone
V. An Alternative
VI. The Glint of the Heather
VII. "The Glory of Their Strength"
VIII. Dealings with the Samaritans
IX. Love's Tutorship
X. The River Leading to the Sea
XI. A Mother Confessor
XII. The Wail of the Lowly
XIII. The Lynching
XIV. Girding on the Armour
XV. "Our Lady of the Snows"
XVI. A Knightly Guest
XVII. My Ordination
XVIII. The Dayspring from on High
XIX. The Taint of Heresy
XX. Harold's Sister--and Another
XXI. "Love's Old Sweet Song"
XXII. When Joy and Sorrow Meet
XXIII. "The Voice of Rachel"
XXIV. "Come, Ettrick; Yarrow, Come"
XXV. A Select Congregation
XXVI. The News a Broker Brought
XXVII. Where Gus Cast Anchor
XXVIII. "To Old Point Comfort, Dear"
XXIX. The Hour of Healing
XXX. Eden in the Attic
_THE ATTIC GUEST_
I
_THE LIGHT FANTASTIC_
"That room in the third story is good enough for any elder," my mother
was saying as I came into the library; "more than likely they'll send
us a country elder anyhow, and he'll never know the difference--he'll
think it's the spare room, I reckon."
I was only eighteen then, and I didn't care much where elders slept, or
whether they slept at all or not. Besides, it was already nine
o'clock, and I was going to a little party where "Tripping the light
fantastic" was to be the order of the evening. By the way, I only
found out the other day that Milton was the author of that fantastic
toe phrase--and the news startled me about as much as if some one had
told me Cromwell invented "Blind Man's Buff."
"Has Dinah got me buttoned right?" I asked, backing up to my Aunt
Agnes. Aunt Agnes was my mother's sister. I can see her yet, her
hands going up in an abstracted kind of way to correct one of Dinah's
oversights; for she was still revolving the great question of the elder
and the attic, the attic and the elder.
"You're all right now, honey," she said in a moment, giving me a gentle
push away, her whole mind reverting to the subject of family concern.
"I'm sure," she went on in the same breath, "it's going to be an elder
from the country. Mr. Furvell told me to wait after prayer-meeting
last night; and he said the billeting committee sat till two in the
morning trying to divide the ministers and elders as fairly as they
could--and he thought we were going to get an elder from Pollocksville."
"Let us hear what Henry thinks about it," my mother suddenly
interrupted, her face turned towards the door as she spoke. "Sit here,
Henry," as she made room on the sofa for my uncle; "sister Agnes thinks
it will be dreadful to send our delegate to the attic if he's to be a
minister--but she doesn't mind a bit if he's an elder."
My uncle smiled as he took his place beside my mother. And the face
that was turned in fondness upon his wife at the other side of the room
had a look of kindly drollery. For uncle was the tenderest of men, and
his countenance reflected the purity and gentleness of his heart. He
was a gentleman of the old school, was uncle. His great-grandfather
before him had been born in our quaint little Virginian town, and the
gracious culture of a century and a half had not been for nothing. The
mist of years lies between me and that April evening when we discussed
the approaching Presbytery that was to honour our little town by
convening in our midst, pondering our approaching guests as solemnly as
though they had been envoys from a royal court; but I can still see the
tall athletic form, not yet bowed with age--he was less than fifty--and
the careless-fitting, becoming clothes that wrapped it in sober black,
and the easy dignity of his poise as he held out his hands to the
fire--above all, there rises clear before me the grave and noble face,
strength and gentleness blending in the mobile mouth and aquiline nose,
while the large gray eyes looked out with the loving simplicity of
childhood upon the little circle that was so dear to him and to which
he was so dear. Yet there was latent fire in those gentle eyes; when
in complete repose, they looked out like two slumbering furnaces that
needed only to be blown--and any one familiar with the best type of
Southern gentlemen would have descried the old Virginian looking
through them, the native courage, the inborn anger against meanness,
the swift resentment of a wrong, the reverence of womanhood, the pride
of family, that were such salient features of the old-time patrician of
the South.
"What's your say on the subject, Uncle Henry?" my mother asked again,
breaking the silence. For my uncle's gaze had wandered from his wife's
face and was now fixed upon the fire. It was April, as I have said,
but a generous flame was leaping on the hearth. So generous, indeed,
that the back window whose tiny panes looked towards the west was open;
this is a form of conflicting luxuries which only Southern folks
indulge in.
"I just think the other way round," Uncle Henry finally responded;
"different from Agnes, I mean," his eyes smiling as they met his
wife's. "I'd send him to the attic if he's a preacher; a minister
wouldn't be so apt to misunderstand, because they're trained to sleep
anywhere at a moment's notice--and they know what it is to have to stow
their own company away in every nook and corner. Besides, it's those
same preachers that make heaps o' folk sleep sitting right bolt up in
church. But an elder," Uncle Henry went on reflectively, "an elder
kind o' wants to make the most of it when he's visitin'--it's more of
an event to him, you see; they look on going to Presbytery as a kind of
rehearsal for going to heaven."
"Then they ought to be glad to get the highest place," broke in my Aunt
Agnes triumphantly, for she had a ready wit.
"Depends on how you get there," retorted Uncle Henry after a very brief
but very busy pause; he had no mind to be worsted in an argument if he
could help it. "Everything depends on how it's given to you. There's
all the difference in the world between being lifted and being
hoisted--I saw a fellow tossed by a bull one day out at Cap'n Lyon's
farm; he got the highest place, all right, but he didn't seem to relish
the promotion."
My mother, who was accustomed to act as umpire in these little
contests, turned a humorous eye towards Aunt Agnes. The latter, we all
knew, was fumbling frantically for some response which seemed to elude
her; my mother's pose reminded me a little of the man who had held the
watch the week before, down at Jacksonville, when two gentlemen of the
ring had paid their respects to each other. I knew all about how
they're counted out if they don't show up within a certain time; yet it
isn't likely I'd have known anything about it if Mr. Furvell hadn't
warned us from the pulpit that we mustn't read the account of the
affair--he said the details were shocking. So I had to wait till Aunt
Agnes was finished with the paper.
I really do not know how the argument concluded, for at this juncture a
very sable face appeared suddenly at the door and a liquid voice
announced: "Please, Miss Helen, Misteh Slocum's waitin' fo' yeh in de
parluh."
I was ready for the intimation, for I had heard the old brass knocker
muttering a minute or two before--and I was just at the age when I knew
the different knocks of different gallants. And not a few of these
latter were wont to lift that frowning brass face on our front door and
let it fall again--the wonderful thing about it was, that the oftener
they came the more gentle grew the knock--but this is the way with all
knockers at all Southern homes that shelter comely maidens. And I am
neither modest enough nor untruthful enough to deny that I deserved the
adjective aforesaid--especially as this story may never see the light
till my eyes give it back no more.
"I'm hoping he'll be a minister," I volunteered, as I turned a moment
at the door.
"Why?" cried my mother.
"What for?" chimed my Aunt Agnes.
"Well," I answered, "elders pray too long--I went to sleep one night at
worship when that elder from Hickory was here at the Synod. And he
said I was a devout worshipper, don't you mind, when I kept kneeling
after you all got up. I don't think that was very nice for a religious
man to say," I averred, tugging at a reluctant glove.
"He wouldn't think so if he saw you now--starting for a dance,"
suggested my Aunt Agnes. "But you look mighty sweet, honey--though I
don't believe you've got enough on for a chilly night like this. Be
sure you have something round you when you're coming home."
"Mr. Slocum will see to that," assured Uncle Henry, his expression
interpreting his words.
"Hush," said my mother chidingly; "the child doesn't know what you
mean." Every word of that evening's conversation is vivid to me yet,
as it well might be; and I have often wondered why my mother held such
a sanguine view of my simplicity.
I don't remember much about the succeeding frivolities of that April
evening. Sometimes I catch again a few fugitive snatches of the melody
that inspired the mazy throng; I remember what I wore--it served long
years of umbrageous usefulness as a lamp shade after I was through with
it; and I think I danced nearly every dance, no foreboding of soberer
days chastening the gladness. And I forgot all about the elder
question, wondering no more where he might lay his devoted head. But
before Mr. Frank Slocum bade me good-night as I disappeared within the
heavy oaken door of my uncle's house, he unwittingly recalled the
subject.
"You're expecting a visitor to-morrow, aren't you?" he said.
"Oh, yes," I answered, suddenly remembering. "Yes, we're going to have
one of the men attending the Presbytery; I think it's to be an
elder--and I'm afraid it's him for the attic," I concluded. It was
half-past two and I was too tired to bother about grammar.
"I wasn't thinking about the Presbytery," returned Mr. Slocum, and he
smiled in the moonlight. "Somebody else is coming, isn't he?"
Whereat I hope I blushed; it was the time for that mystic operation.
For I knew he referred to Charlie, dear old Charlie, who made his pious
pilgrimage once a month--and I was the shrine.
"Yes, he's coming," I said, toying with the knocker as I spoke.
"You don't seem as jubilant about it as you ought to be," ventured Mr.
Frank.
"You don't know how I feel," said I; "maybe I'm jubilant inside."
"Then you shouldn't sigh," pursued my escort.
"I didn't know I sighed--but, even if I did, perhaps sighs are like
dreams, and go by contraries," I returned, making the best stand I
could. "A maiden's heart is an unknown sea," I affirmed, quoting from
some distant poem.
"Besides," Frank went on, disdainful of all poetry, "if you really
cared like you ought to, you wouldn't be out so late the night before;
you'd be having your beauty sleep right now, just to be lovely when he
came--or, at least, to be even lovelier," he amended; for Frank was a
Southern gentleman.
"I never had it bad enough to go to bed over it," I admitted; "but
he'll be here to-morrow--he'll be here to-morrow," I chanted, as
ecstatically as I could. Yet I felt at the time that the words didn't
ring much; it was a little like trying to peal a chime on a row of
pillows. Then, before I knew it, I yawned, yawned brazenly into the
face of the brass knocker on the door.
"Exactly!" said Frank, his hand moving to his hat, "that's just about
the size of it--Miss Helen, you're a little idiot," and his honest eyes
shone bright with their candour of affection.
"Sir!" said I, employing a splendid intonation. And I gave a little
stamp on the stone step beneath me--all true Southern girls love to
stamp. "Sir!" I repeated, "you forget yourself."
"But I don't forget _you_," Frank retorted swiftly, his face quivering
a little; "though I wish I could, a little more. And I know you don't
care anything about him, the way he thinks you do--or the way he wants
you to. And God help him--and you too--if something doesn't happen;
you have either gone too far, or not far enough, Miss Helen," he
declared boldly, looking straight into my eyes in the moonlight. And I
couldn't help gazing back, for his look and his words both had a kind
of fascination for me; I reckon I knew they both were true. So I
didn't get angry--only a lot of things, all connected with the past,
rushed like a flood before me. But I will tell them all in another
chapter. I had no mind to discuss them with Frank just then.
So I simply said "Good-night, I'm going in." And Frank said good-night
with great respect and turned to go away. I peeped through the crack
just before I closed the door, and I could see that his eyes were on
the pavement and his step was slow. Yet I cared nothing for that,
except as it boded what might be of interest to myself.