THE MINISTER’S WIFE
Rumley had not stood still during the decade. It was the proud boast of
its most enterprising citizen, Silas Link, that it had done a great deal
better than Chicago: it had tripled its population. And, he proclaimed,
all “she” had to do was to keep on tripling her population every ten
years and “she” would be a city of nearly half a million souls in 1950.
It was all very simple, he explained. All you had to do was to multiply
fifteen hundred (the approximate population in 1900), by three and you
would have forty-five hundred in 1910.
“Work it out yourself,” he was wont to say, “if you don’t believe me. If
we keep on multiplying we’ll have 364,500 population fifty years from
now.”
The prize pupil in the South Rumley school, Freddy Chuck, aged thirteen,
went even further than Mr. Link in his calculations. He carried the
matter up to the year 2000 and proved conclusively that if the ratio
could be maintained for a hundred years, Rumley would have something
like 88,303,500 inhabitants at the beginning of the twenty-first
century. Freddy was looked upon as a mathematical “shark.” The North
Rumley school, presided over by Mr. Elwell, contained no such prodigy,
but it did have an exceedingly promising half-back in the person of
Oliver October Baxter.
But this is beside the point. Rumley’s phenomenal growth over a period
of ten years was due to several causes. In the first place, it had
become a divisional railroad point, with shops, a roundhouse and
superintendent’s headquarters. It was now a “junction” as well, a new
branch line connecting there with the main line for points east and
south. This had brought nearly three hundred new citizens to the town.
Then had come the “strawboard works,” employing about thirty men, and
after that the “cellulose factory,” with some fifteen or eighteen people
on the pay-roll. Later on, in 1896, a “cannery” was added to the list of
industries. These extraordinary symptoms of prosperity drew capital of
another character to the town. Two saloons, with pool and billiard rooms
attached, were opened on Clay Street and did a thriving business from
the start, notwithstanding the opposition of the Presbyterian and
Methodist churches. New grocery stores, butcher shops, drygoods stores
and so forth were established by outside interests, each of them
bringing fresh enterprise and competition to the once drowsy hamlet. The
older stores were forced to expand in order to keep up with the times
and conditions. House building in all parts of town had boomed. Three
substantial new brick business “blocks” were erected—all three-story
affairs—and an addition of twelve rooms and a bath had been tacked onto
the old Bon Ton Restaurant, transforming it, quite properly, into the
Hubbard House, the leading hostelry of the town.
Oliver Baxter owned one of the new business “blocks” on Clay Street. It
was known as the Baxter Block, erected in 1896. His own enlarged place
of business occupied one half of the ground floor, the other half being
leased to Silas Link, who conducted a furniture, cabinetmaking and
undertaking establishment there, with palms in the front windows.
Link’s Livery Stable and the feed yard of Joseph Sikes had been
consolidated, the sign over the sidewalk on Webster Street reading “Link
& Sikes, Livery & Feed.” The second floor of the Baxter Block was
occupied by Dr. Slade, the dentist, and Simons & Sons, Tailors. The
third floor was known as Knights of Pythias Hall, and it was here that
all the “swellest” dances and receptions were held. Collapsible chairs
from Link’s Undertaking Parlors were rentable for all such festive
occasions, a very satisfactory arrangement in that cartage was never an
item of expense. Link’s three or four piece orchestra could also be
engaged by calling at or telephoning to the aforesaid parlors, where
Charlie Link, the embalmer, would be pleased to guarantee satisfaction.
Charlie was Silas’s nephew, and a trap-drummer of great dexterity.
Catering by Mrs. Hubbard, of the Hubbard House, terms on application.
Flowers for all occasions supplied from Link’s new greenhouse and
garden, Cemetery Lane.
It is worthy of mention that there was no Main Street in Rumley. In
rechristening the principal thoroughfare, the board of trustees
deliberately violated all traditions by giving it the name of Clay
Street, not in honor of the celebrated Henry Clay but because for at
least two generations it had been known as the clay road on account of
the natural color and character of its soil. This reduced confusion
among the older and more settled inhabitants to a minimum; they very
cheerfully consented to spell clay with a capital C and declared it
wasn’t half as much trouble as they thought it would be to remember to
say Street instead of Road. But even so, it was still a clay road—and
in rainy weather a very _bad_ clay road.
Mary Baxter died of typhoid fever when young Oliver was nearing seven.
Her untimely demise revived the half-forgotten prophecy of the gypsy
fortune-teller. People looked severely at each other and, in hushed
tones, discussed the inexorable ways of fate. Those acquainted with the
story of that October night told it to newcomers in Rumley; even the
doubters and scoffers were impressed. It was the first “sign” that young
Oliver’s fortune was coming true. Somehow people were kinder and gentler
to him after his mother died.
As for Oliver the elder, there was a strange—one might almost believe,
triumphant—expression in his stricken, anxious eyes, as if back of them
in his mind he was crying: “Now will you laugh at me for believing what
that woman said?”
Of an entirely different nature was the agitation created by the
unrighteous behavior of the preacher’s wife. It all came like a bolt out
of the blue. No one ever suspected that she had gone away to stay. Why,
half the women in town, on learning that she was going to Chicago for a
brief visit with her folks, went around to the parsonage to kiss her
good-by and to wish her a very pleasant time. Some of them accompanied
her to the railway depot and kissed her again, while two or three young
men almost came to blows over who should carry her suitcase into the day
coach and see that she was comfortably seated. They were all members of
Mr. Sage’s church.
Josephine had a remarkable faculty for drawing young men into the fold.
Several who had been more or less criticized for their loose ways
suddenly got religion and went to church twice every Sabbath and to
prayer meeting on Wednesday nights with unbelievable perseverance until
they found out that it wasn’t doing them the least bit of good.
Excoriation and a stream of “I told you so’s” were bestowed upon the
pretty young wife and mother when it became known that she was not
coming back.
The Presbyterians made a great show of pitying their pastor, and the
Methodists made an even greater show of pitying the
Presbyterians—which, when all is said and done, was the thing that made
Josephine’s act an absolutely unpardonable one.
She did not belong in Rumley. That was the long and the short of it. The
greatest compliment ever paid to the holy state of matrimony was her
ability to stick it out for six long years. In her own peculiar way she
loved and respected her husband. But the bonds of love were not strong
enough to hold her. She was gay and blithe and impious; she loved life
even more than she loved love. The shackles hurt. So she slipped out of
them one day and left their symbols lying by the wayside in the shape of
a broken, bewildered man and a child of her own flesh, while she went
back to the world that was calling her to its arms.
Herbert Sage was stunned, bewildered.... She wrote him from Chicago at
the end of the first week of what was to have been a fortnight’s visit
to her mother. It was a long, fond letter in which she said she was not
coming back—at least, not for the present. She was leaving at once for
New York, where she had been promised a trial by one of the greatest of
American producers. A month later came a telegram from her saying she
was rehearsing a part in a new piece that was sure to be the “hit of the
season”—everybody said so, even the stage director who had the name of
being the biggest “gloom” in New York. It was a musical comedy, with a
popular comedian as the star, and she had a small part that was going to
be a big one before she got through with it—or so she said in her
joyous conceit.
“With my good looks, my voice, my figure and my ambition, Herby, I
cannot fail to get over. Everybody says I’ve got talent, and that dance
I used to do for you on week days when it wasn’t necessary to be
sanctimonious—well, they are all crazy about it. Before you know it, my
dear, you’ll be the husband of one of the most celebrated young women in
the United States and I’ll be cashing checks every week that will make
your whole year’s salary in that burg look like the change out of a
silver half dollar after you’ve bought two ten cent sodas at Fry’s drug
store. You will be proud of me, Herby, because I will take mighty good
care that you never have any reason to be ashamed of me or for me to be
ashamed of myself. You know what I mean. I don’t suppose I will say my
prayers as often as I did when you were around to remind me of them but
I will be a good girl just the same. Also a wise one.”
That was four years ago. Her confidence in herself had been justified,
and, for all we know, the same may be said of Herbert Sage’s confidence
in her. She had the talent, the voice, the beauty, and above all, the
magnetism, and so there was no holding her back. She was being
“featured” now, and there was talk of making a star of her. Her letters
to Herbert were not very frequent but they invariably were tender. Every
once in a while the press agent sent him a large batch of “notices,”
chiefly eulogistic; and regularly on little Jane’s birthday a good sized
check arrived for the youngster’s “nest egg.”
At first she had undertaken to share her salary with Sage. He kindly but
firmly refused to accept the money. After three checks had been returned
to her she accepted the situation, although she wrote to him that he was
a “silly old thing” and “hoped to goodness he would see the error of his
ways before long.”
For two successive seasons she appeared in a Chicago theater, following
long New York runs of the pieces in which she was playing, but not once
did Herbert Sage go up to see her. Some of the best people in Rumley saw
her, however—one of them, in fact, went three nights in succession to
the theater in which she was playing and tried to catch her eye from the
balcony—so it was pretty generally known throughout the town that she
really had the making of a pretty fair actress in her!
Finally, in one of her letters announcing a prospective engagement in
London, she put the question to him: “Do you want to get a divorce from
me, Herby?” His reply was terse and brought from her the following
undignified but manifestly sincere telegram: “Neither do I, so we’ll
stick till the cows come home. I feel like a girl who has just been
kissed. Sailing Friday. Will cable. Much love.”
She made a “hit” in London in the big musical success of that season.
They liked her so well over there that they wouldn’t let her go back to
the States.
At the time of which I write she was playing her first engagement in
London, and half the town was in love with her. She wrote to Herbert:
“My dear, you wouldn’t believe the number of matrimonial offers I’ve
had, and your hair would turn white in a single night if I was to tell
you how many homes I could wreck if I hadn’t brought my conscience along
with me. I am the toast of the town, as they say over here. Better than
a roast, isn’t it?”
While Herbert Sage forbore speaking of the vagrant Josephine to his
friends in Rumley, nevertheless he preserved and re-read from time to
time the mass of press cuttings that he kept safely locked away in a
drawer of the bureau that once had held her cheap and meager belongings.
He looked long and hungrily at the countless photographs with which she
never failed to beleaguer him in his loneliness; and then there were the
magazines, the pictorial sections of the newspapers and the
reproductions of as many as a score of original drawings done by
celebrated artists and illustrators on both sides of the Atlantic. Some
of these caused him to frown and bite his lip—one in particular: the
rather startling picture of a very shapely young gentleman in a mild but
attractive state of inebriation caroling (by mistake, no doubt), to an
irate old man in a casement window above.
Morning and night she was in his prayers; and little Jane, as soon as
she was able to prattle, was taught to say “and God bless and keep my
mamma forever and ever, Amen!”
She was greatly missed by little Oliver October. For some
reason—perhaps she did not explain it herself—at any rate, she did not
go to the trouble of speculating—she had taken a tremendous fancy to
the child. He was a lively, amusing little chap who laughed gleefully at
her antics and was ever ready for more—a complimentary spirit that
constantly supplied kindling for her own unquenchable fires. She romped
with him, told marvelous stories to him, sang for him and danced for
him—and just about the time she was making ready to leave Rumley
guiltily showed him how to turn a “cartwheel”! He was very much
impressed by this astonishing bit of acrobatics, and as she faced him,
her face crimson and her eyes sparkling, he paid her a doubtful but
fulsome compliment by saying he’d bet his mother couldn’t do it, nor any
other lady in town, either. She made him promise not to tell
anybody—and he was never, _never_ to ask her to do it again, because
she was getting very old and the next time she might fall and break her
neck, and he wouldn’t like that, would he?
This small boy of five or six was the only being in town with whom she
could play to her heart’s content, and she made the most of him. Her own
tiny baby interested but did not amuse her. In the first place, she had
not wanted a baby at all, and in the second place since she _had_ to
have one she could not understand why she had not had a boy. It wasn’t
quite fair. She liked boy babies. It was something to be the mother of a
man-child—something to be proud of. She even went so far as to say to
herself that she never could have run way and left her baby if it had
been a boy. She would have been ashamed to have a son of hers know that
his mother had not quite played the game. She was fond of Jane but it
was not as hard to leave her as it would have been had she been a boy.
Of that she was absolutely certain.
Oliver October could not understand why he was not allowed to mention
“Aunt” Josephine’s name in the presence of “Uncle” Herbert. His mother
and Mrs. Serepta Grimes—who, by the way, was still an ever-present help
in time of trouble—gave him very strict orders and repeated them so
often that he never had a chance to forget them. But when he found out
in a roundabout way that Mrs. Sage had gone off to join a show, he at
once assumed—and quite naturally, too—that she was with Barnum’s
Biggest Show on Earth, and lived in joyous anticipation of seeing her
when the great three-ring circus came to the nearby county seat for its
biennial visit. Moreover, he was very firm in his determination to run
away from home and join the show, a secret decision that called for
unusual industry on his part in the matter of mastering the “cartwheel”
and other startling feats of skill, such as standing on his head,
walking on his hands, turning somersaults off of a sill in the haymow,
and standing upright on the capacious hindquarters of patient old Rosy
down at Uncle Silas Link’s livery stable.
He also undertook to increase his suppleness by anointing himself with
fish worm oil, an absolutely infallible lubricant recommended by Bud
Lane, who solemnly averred that he had worked one whole season with the
Forepaugh circus as fish worm catcher for the Human Eel, the limberest
man alive. Oliver October’s mother gave him a sound spanking within
fifteen minutes after the initial application of this diligently
acquired lubricant, while Mrs. Grimes made a point of hurrying down to
the livery stable to tell the sheepish Bud Lane what she thought of him.
Youth is ever fickle. Oliver October’s heart was soon mended. He was
always to have a warm corner in it for the gay Aunt Josephine but such
diverting games as “one old cat,” “blackman,” “I spy,” and “duck on the
rock” rather too promptly reduced his passionate longing for her to a
mild but pleasant memory. They also interfered with his acrobatic
aspirations, and it was not until little Jane Sage arrived at an age
when she was intelligent enough to be impressed and thrilled by manly
achievements that he again took up the “cartwheel,” the “hand spring,”
and other sensational feats of endurance—endurance being a better word
than agility in view of the fact that he practised them by the hour for
her especial benefit.
For, be it here recorded, Janie Sage, at the age of six, was by far the
prettiest and the most sought after young lady in Rumley, and only the
most surpassing skill with the hands and feet was supposed to have any
effect upon her susceptibilities.
What with having had past instructions in the art of cartwheel flipping
from a minister’s wife and the present promise of lessons in boxing from
the minister himself, Oliver October was indeed a favored lad! He was
very glad that he had gone to Sunday-school regularly, for therein lay
the secret of his good fortune. If he had not been a very good little
boy, Mr. and Mrs. Sage would not have been so kind to him. There wasn’t
the slightest doubt in his mind about that. And more than all this, Mr.
Sage acted like he was awfully pleased every time he walked home from
school with Jane, carrying her books and everything. He showed this by
invariably giving him a piece of bread and butter and sugar. No wonder,
then, that Oliver fought like a tiger for his lady love. Many a bigger
and stronger man than he has fought the whole wide world for his bread
and butter alone.
Three or four days after the warning administered to Oliver by his
self-appointed guardians, one of the latter, Mr. Sikes, found himself in
an extremely awkward position. He was a man of dark and lasting hatreds.
His particular aversion was brothers-in-law. He had two of his own and
he hated both of them as men are seldom hated by their fellow man. His
opinion of them somewhat unjustly extended itself to the brothers-in-law
of practically every friend he possessed. It had got to be an obsession
with him. The husbands of his two sisters, it appears, had instituted
some sort of proceedings against him in court back in the dark and
stormy age that he called his youth, and while history does not reveal
the nature of the suit, it goes without saying that they won their case,
thereby providing him with an everlasting grudge against all
brothers-in-law.
Horace Gooch had come over from Hopkinsville to see his wife’s brother
on a matter of business. Ten years had not improved Mr. Gooch. If you
had asked Mr. Sikes, however, whether they had improved him he would
have blasphemously answered in the affirmative. He would have stated—if
he had thought of it—that anything that shortened the life of Mr. Gooch
could not be otherwise than a most gratifying improvement.
Now this is what happened—and any fair-minded person will sympathize
with Mr. Sikes in his dilemma. As Gooch was leaving the Baxter Hardware
Store, after a furious wrangle with his brother-in-law—Mr. Sikes had
heard most of it through an open window—he had the option of either
stepping over or around a half-grown puppy lying immediately in front of
the door. He did neither. Notwithstanding the friendly thumping of the
puppy’s tail on the board sidewalk and the hospitable smile in his big
brown eyes, Mr. Gooch proceeded to remove the obstruction with the toe
of his boot. He did not do it gently. A sharp yelp of pain was succeeded
by a series of ear-splitting howls as the gangling pup went tearing down
the street on three legs.
Mr. Sikes turned the corner of the building just in time to witness this
incident. He was also a witness to what followed almost immediately.
Oliver October and Sammy Parr were playing “keeps” against the brick
wall a dozen paces or so away. Now, it so happened that the former, and
not Mr. Baxter, senior, was the sole owner of that sacred pup. Before
you could say Jack Robinson, Oliver October was blazing away at the
retreating figure of his uncle with marbles he had just won from Sammy.
He did not take the time to look for stones in the gutter. His face was
white with fury. Mr. Gooch uttered a sharp ejaculation and suddenly
clutched his left elbow with his right hand. An instant later the most
universally coveted “agate” in Rumley grazed his ear and went hurtling
down Clay Street. Mr. Sikes, forgetting himself for the moment, cried
out:
“Good shot! Give it to him!”
Another hastily fired “plaster” got Mr. Gooch on the leg, and then young
Oliver took to his heels—not because he was afraid of his uncle but
because he had caught sight of the far more terrifying figure of Mr.
Sikes.
“Whose boy is that?” demanded the outraged Mr. Gooch, addressing Mr.
Sikes.
“None of your damned business,” snarled Mr. Sikes, lowering his chin in
a menacing way.
“I will make it my business,” roared the other. “I’ll have the little
scoundrel locked up for—”
“You just go ahead and try it,” broke in Mr. Sikes, advancing slowly.
“Just you go ahead and try it. That’s all I got to say. Go ahead and try
it.”
By this time Mr. Gooch had recognized the angry citizen.
“Oho! Mr. Sikes, eh? Well, what cause have you got for losing your
temper like this, Mr. Sikes? What right have you to get mad because I
ask you the name of a dodgasted little—”
“Mad? I’m not mad,” interrupted Mr. Sikes violently. “And I’ll tell you
who that boy is if you really want to know.”
“I do,” said Mr. Gooch, feeling of his elbow.
“Well, he is the owner of that pup you just kicked in the ribs. Good
day!”
With that, Mr. Sikes stalked around the corner, a prey to conflicting
emotions. He stole down the alley, with many a furtive glance over his
shoulder. He felt very guilty. He had openly, vociferously encouraged
Oliver October in the commission of a deed of violence. Suppose, for
instance, one of those rocks—(he did not know they were marbles)—had
struck Horace Gooch at the base of the brain! He wiped his moist
forehead. Just suppose! And how was he to take Oliver to task for flying
into a rage and throwing stones, with murderous intent, when he himself
had been so overjoyed that he yelled to him to keep it up? Yes, he was
in a very awkward position. So he decided that unless somebody took him
to task for _not_ taking Oliver October to task, he would consider the
incident closed. But every time he thought of the way Horace Gooch
grabbed his elbow and subsequently clapped his hand to his “off” leg, he
gave way to inordinate mirth.
At supper that evening Mr. Baxter asked his son if he knew who it was
that hit his Uncle Horace with a rock. Oliver had spent most of the
afternoon in hiding. Hunger and the approach of night were responsible
for his decision to give himself up, so to speak. Just before the supper
hour he ventured out of his place of hiding—a cornfield down the
road—prepared to face the town marshal and arrest. His dog had basely
deserted him an hour or so earlier. His spirits rose a little as he took
his seat at the table, for old Oliver appeared to be in an unusually
cheerful frame of mind. Just as he began to feel that, after all, there
was nothing to face, his father frowned severely and asked:
“Oliver, do you know who hit your Uncle Horace with a stone this
afternoon?”
There was a loophole. “I didn’t know anybody hit him with a stone, Pa.”
Mr. Baxter reflected. “Well, what _was_ he hit with if it wasn’t a
stone?”
“A marble.”
“Do you know who threw it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who?”
“Me,” replied Oliver October, and was suddenly thrilled by the thought
of George Washington and the cherry tree.
“Well, you must never do it again,” said his father mildly. Then, in his
most jovial manner: “Pass up your plate, sonny, and let me give you some
more of this steak. It will make you strong.”