at the village hack that was turning away with his wife and five
children! He looked instead at the beautiful vision that stood in the
parsonage doorway, glimpses of home behind it, welcome and comfort in
it. The minister was in need of welcome and comfort. His loneliness had
been accentuated cruelly by the bit of happiness he had caught a brief
glimpse of and left behind him. Perhaps the loneliness was in his face.
“Welcome home,” Cornelia said, in the doorway. She put aside her
astonishment at his coming alone, and answered the need in his face. Her
hands were out in a gracious greeting. To the minister how good it was!
“They told me to come right here,” he said, “or I should have gone to
Mrs. Bloodgood's as usual. I don't quite understand--”
“Never mind understanding,” Cornelia smiled, leading the way into the
pretty parlor, “anyway, till you get into a comfortable rocker. It's so
much easier to understand in a rocking-chair! I--well, I think I need
one, too! You see, we expected--we _didn't_ expect you alone.”
“No?” his puzzled gaze taking in all the kind little appointments of the
room, and coming to a stop at the smiling doll. The two of them sat and
stared at each other.
“We thought you would bring--we got all ready for your wife and the
children,” Cornelia was saying. The doll stared on, but the minister
looked up.
“My wife and the children?” he repeated after her. “I don't think I know
what you mean, Miss Cornelia. I must be dreaming--No, wait; please don't
tell me what it all means just yet! Give me a little time to enjoy the
dream.” But Cornelia went on.
“You wrote Mrs. Bloodgood about your marriage,” she said. Sweet voices
can be severe. “It hurried us a little, but we have tried to get
everything in readiness. If there is another bed needed for the chil--”
“I wrote Mrs. Bloodgood about my marriage?” he said, slowly; then as
understanding dawned upon him the puzzled lines in his face loosened
into laughter that would out. He leaned back in his rocker and gave
himself up to it helplessly. As helplessly Cornelia joined in. The doll
on the sofa smiled on--no more, no less.
“Will you ex--excuse me?” he laughed.
“No,” laughed she.
“But I can't help it, and you're l-laughing yourself.”
“No!”
He got to his feet and caught her hands.
“Let's keep on,” he pleaded, unministerially. “I'm having a beautiful
time. Aren't you? I wish you'd say yes, Miss Cornelia!”
“Yes,” she smiled, “but we can't sit here laughing all the rest of the
afternoon. Marilla Merritt will be here--”
“Oh, Marilla Merritt--” He sighed. The minister was young, too.
“And she will want to know--things,” hinted Cornelia, mildly. She drew
the smiling doll into her lap and smoothed its dress absently. The
minister retreated to his rocker again.
“I think I would rather tell you,” he said, quietly. “I did marry my old
friend this morning, but I married her to another man. It was a
mistake--all a mistake.”
“Then you ought not to have married her, ought you?” commented Cornelia,
demurely. Over the doll's little foolish head her eyes were dancing.
Marilla Merritt might not see that it was funny, Mrs. Bloodgood
mightn't, but it was. Unless--unless it was pathetic. Suddenly Cornelia
felt that it was.
The minister was no longer laughing. He sat in the rocker strangely
quiet. Perhaps he did not realize that his eyes were on Cornelia's
beautiful face; perhaps he thought he was looking at the doll. He knew
what he was thinking of. The utter loneliness behind him and ahead of
him appalled him in its contrast to this. This woman sitting opposite
him with the face of the woman that a man would like always near him,
this little home with the two of them in it alone--the minister knew
what it was he wanted. He wanted it to go right on--never to end. He
knew that he had always wanted it. All the soul of the man rose up to
claim it. And because there was need of hurry, because Marilla Merritt
was coming, he held out his hands to Cornelia and the foolish,
unastonished doll.
“Come,” he said, pleadingly, and of course the doll could not have gone
alone. He dropped it gently back into its place on the sofa.
Marilla Merritt had been unwarrantably delayed. She came in flushed and
panting, but indomitably smiling. Her sharp glance sought for a wife and
five children.
“Such a delightful surprise!” she panted, holding out her hand to the
minister. “We are so glad to welcome--Why!--have you shown them to their
rooms, Cornelia?”
“They--they didn't come,” murmured Cornelia, retreating to her unfailing
ally on the sofa. In the stress of the moment--for Cornelia was not
ready for Marilla Merritt--it had seemed to her that the time for “lies”
had come. She had even beckoned to the nearest one. But the ghosts of
ministers' wives that had been and that were to be had risen in a
warning cloud about her and saved her.
“Didn't come!” shrilled Marilla Merritt in her astonishment. “His wife
and children didn't come! Do you know what you are saying, Cornelia? You
don't mean--Then I don't wonder you look flustered--” She caught herself
up hurriedly, but her thoughts ran on unchecked. Of all things that
ever! Could absent-mindedness go further than this--to marry a wife and
forget to bring her home with him?--and _five children!_
Marilla Merritt turned sharply upon the minister.
“Where is your wife?” she demanded, the frayed ends of her patience
trailing from her tone. The minister crossed the room to Cornelia and
the doll. He laid his big white hand gently on Cornelia's small white
one. There was protective tenderness in the gesture and the touch.
“I found her here waiting for me,” the minister said.
THE END