The Sunday following the Curate's visit to Lowrie's cottage, just before
the opening of the morning service at St, Michael's, Joan Lowrie
entered, and walking up the side aisle, took her place among the free
seats. The church members turned to look at her as she passed their
pews. On her part, she seemed to see nobody and to hear nothing of the
rustlings of the genteel garments stirred by the momentary excitement
caused by her appearance.
The Curate, taking his stand in the pulpit that morning, saw after the
first moment only two faces among his congregation. One, from among the
old men and women in the free seats, looked up at him with questioning
in its deep eyes, as if its owner had brought to him a solemn problem
to be solved this very hour, or forever left at rest; the other, turned
toward him from the Barholm pew, alight with appeal and trust. He stood
in sore need of the aid for which he asked in his silent opening prayer.
Some of his flock who were somewhat prone to underrate the young
Parson's talents, were moved to a novel comprehension of them this
morning. The more appreciative went home saying among themselves that
the young man had power after all, and for once at least he had preached
with uncommon fire and pathos. His text was a brief one,--but three
words,--the three words Joan had read beneath the picture of the dead
Christ: “It is finished!”
If it was chance that led him to them to-day, it was a strange and
fortunate chance, and surely he had never preached as he preached then.
After the service, Anice looked for Joan in vain; she had gone before
the rest of the congregation.
But in the evening, being out in the garden near the holly hedge, she
heard her name spoken, and glancing over the leafy barrier, saw Joan
standing on the side path, just as she had seen her the first time they
had spoken to each other.
“I ha' na a minnit to stay,” she said without any prelude, “but I ha'
summat to say to yo'.”
Her manner was quiet, and her face wore a softened pallor. Even her
physical power for a time appeared subdued. And yet she looked steady
and resolved.
“I wur at church this mornin'.” she began again almost immediately.
“I saw you,” Anice answered.
“I wur nivver theer before. I went to see fur mysen. I ha' read the book
yo' g' me, an' theer's things in it as I nivver heerd on. Mester Grace
too,--he coom to see me an' I axt him questions. Theer wur things as I
wanted to know, an' now it seems loike it looks clearer. What wi' th'
pickur',--it begun wi' th' pictur',--an' th' book, an' what _he_ said
to-day i' church, I've made up my moind.”
She paused an instant, her lips trembled.
“I dunnot want to say much about it now,” she said, “I ha' not getten
th' words. But I thowt as yo'd loike to know. I believe i' th' Book; I
believe i' th' Cross; I believe i' Him as deed on it! That's what I coom
to say.”
The woman turned without another word and went away.
Anice did not remain in the garden. The spirit of Joan Lowrie's intense
mood communicated itself to her. She, too, trembled and her pulse beat
rapidly. She thought of Paul Grace and wished for his presence. She felt
herself drawn near to him again. She wanted to tell him that his harvest
had come, that his faithfulness had not been without its reward. Her own
labor she only counted as chance-work.
She found Fergus Derrick in the parlor, talking to her mother.
He was sitting in his favorite position, leaning back in a chair before
a window, his hands clasped behind his head. His friendly intercourse
with the family had extended beyond the ceremonious epoch, when a man's
attitudes are studied and unnatural. In these days Derrick was as much
at ease at the Rectory as an only son might have been.
“I thought some one spoke to you across the hedge, Anice?” her mother
said.
“Yes,” Anice answered. “It was Joan Lowrie.”
She sat down opposite Fergus, and told him what had occurred. Her voice
was not quite steady, and she made the relation as brief as possible.
Derrick sat looking out of the window without moving.
“Mr. Derrick,” said Anice at last, after a few minutes had elapsed,
“What _now_ is to be done with Joan Lowrie?”
Derrick roused himself with a start to meet her eyes and find them
almost sad.
“What now?” he said. “God knows! For one, I cannot see the end.”