* * * * *
Elizabeth had rallied; she might weather it out, said the five wives
of Whisper Cove, who had gathered to observe her departure.
"If," Aunt Esther qualified, "she's let _be_."
"Like she done las' time," William Buttle's wife whispered. "I 'low
our watchin's wasted. Ah, this heart trouble! You never knows."
"_If_," Aunt Esther repeated, "she's let be."
We waited for the parson.
"Have Skipper Nicholas come?" Elizabeth asked.
"No, maid; 'tis not he, maid." They would still taunt her! They would
still taunt her, in the way of virtuous women; 'twas "Maid! Maid!"
until the heart of a man of honor--of a man of any sort--was fair
sickened of virtue and women. "'Tis the parson," said they.
Elizabeth sighed. "I wants a word along o' Skipper Nicholas," said
she, faintly, "when he've come."
Parson Lute softly entered from the kitchen, wiping the rain from his
face and hands, stepping on tiptoe over the bare floor. He was worn
and downcast. No inspiration, it seemed, had been granted in answer to
his praying. I loved him, of old, as did all the children of Twist
Tickle, to whom he was known because of gentlest sympathy, shown on
the roads in fair weather and foul at district-meeting time; and I was
glad that he had come to ease the passage to heaven of the mother of
Judith. The five women of Whisper Cove, taken unaware by this
stranger, stood in a flutter of embarrassment. They were not
unkind--they were curious concerning death and the power of parsons.
He laid a kind hand on Judith's head, shook hands with the women, and
upon each bestowed a whispered blessing, being absently said; and the
wives of Whisper Cove sat down and smoothed their skirts and folded
their hands, all flushed and shaking with expectation. They wondered,
no doubt, what he would accomplish--salvation or not: Parson Stump had
failed. Parson Lute seemed for a moment to be unnerved by the critical
attitude of his audience--made anxious for his reputation: a purely
professional concern, inevitably habitual. He was not conscious of
this, I am sure; he was too kind, too earnest in service, to consider
his reputation. But yet he must _do_--when another had failed. The
Lord had set him a hard task; but being earnest and kind, he had no
contempt, no lack of love, I am sure, for the soul the Lord had given
him to lose or to save--neither gross wish to excel, nor gross wish to
excuse.
"Daughter," he whispered, tenderly, to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth threw the coverlet over her head, so that only the tangled
fringe of her hair was left to see; and she began to laugh--a
coquettish trifling. Parson Lute gently uncovered the head.
"You isn't Parson Stump," Elizabeth tittered.
"Turn your face this way," said Parson Lute.
She laughed.
"This way," said Parson Lute.
"Go 'way!" Elizabeth laughed. "Go on with you!" She hid her flaming
face. "You didn't ought t' see me in bed!" she gasped. "Go 'way!"
"My child," said Parson Lute, patiently, "turn your face this way."
She would not. "Go 'way!" said she.
"This way!" Parson Lute repeated.
It had been a quiet, slow command, not to go unheeded. The five women
of Whisper Cove stiffened with amazement. Here, indeed, was a
masterful parson! Parson Stump had failed; but not this parson--not
this parson, who could command in the name of the Lord! They exchanged
glances--exchanged nudges. Elizabeth's laughter ceased. All the women
of Whisper Cove waited breathless. There was silence; the commotion
was all outside--wind and rain and breakers, a far-off passion, apart
from the poor comedy within. The only sound in the room was the
wheezing of the girl on the bed. Elizabeth turned; her brows were
drawn, her eyes angry. Aunt Esther All, from her place at the foot of
the bed, heard the ominous wheeze of her breath and observed the labor
of her heart; and she was concerned, and nudged William Buttle's wife,
who would not heed her.
"'Tis not good for her," Aunt Esther whispered.
"You leave me be!" Elizabeth complained.
Parson Lute took her hand.
"You quit that!" said Elizabeth.
"Hush, daughter," the parson pleaded.
Into the interval of silence a gust of rain intruded.
"Have Nicholas come?" Elizabeth asked. "Haven't he come yet?"
Aunt Esther shook her head.
"I wants un," said Elizabeth, "when he've come."
The parson began now soothingly to stroke the great, rough hand he
held; but at once Elizabeth broke into bashful laughter, and he
dropped it--and frowned.
"Woman," he cried, in distress, "don't you know that you are dying?"
Elizabeth's glance ran to Judith, who rose, but sat again, wringing
her hands. The mother turned once more to the parson; 'twas an
apathetic gaze, fixed upon his restless nostrils.
"How is it with your soul?" he asked.
'Twas a word spoken most graciously, in the perfection of pious
desire, of reverence, of passionate concern for the future of souls;
but yet Elizabeth's glance moved swiftly to the parson's eyes, in a
rage, and instantly shifted to his red hair, where it remained,
fascinated.
"Are you trusting in your Saviour's love?"
I accuse myself for speaking, in this bold way, of the unhappy
question; but yet, why not? for 'twas asked in purest anxiety, in the
way of Parson Lute, whom all children loved.
"Are you clinging," says he, "to the Cross?"
Elizabeth listlessly stared at the rafters.
"Have you laid hold on the only Hope of escape?"
The child Judith--whose grief was my same agony--sobbed heart-brokenly.
"Judith!" Elizabeth called, her apathy vanished. "Poor little
Judith!"
"No, my daughter," the parson gently protested. "This is not the
time," said he. "Turn your heart away from these earthly affections,"
he pleaded, his voice fallen to an earnest whisper. "Oh, daughter,
fix your eyes upon the Cross!"
Elizabeth was sullen. "I wants Judith," she complained.
"You have no time, now, my daughter, to think of these perishing human
ties."
"I _wants_ Judith!"
"Mere earthly affection, daughter! 'And if a man'--"
"An' Judith," the woman persisted, "wants _me_!"
"Nay," the parson softly chided. He was kind--patient with her
infirmity. 'Twas the way of Parson Lute. With gentleness, with a
tactful humoring, he would yet win her attention. But, "Oh," he
implored, as though overcome by a flooding realization of the nature
and awful responsibility of his mission, "can you not think of your
soul?"
"Judith, dear!"
The child arose.
"No!" said the parson, quietly. "No, child!"
The wind shook the house to its crazy foundations and drove the crest
of a breaker against the panes.
"I wants t' _tell_ she, parson!" Elizabeth wailed. "An I wants
she--jus' _wants_ she--anyhow--jus' for love!"
"Presently, daughter; not now."
"She--she's my _child_!"
"Presently, daughter."
Judith wept again.
"Sir!" Elizabeth gasped--bewildered, terrified.
"Not now, daughter."
All the anger and complaint had gone out of Elizabeth's eyes; they
were now filled with wonder and apprehension. Flashes of intelligence
appeared and failed and came again. It seemed to me, who watched, that
in some desperate way, with her broken mind, she tried to solve the
mystery of this refusal. Then 'twas as though some delusion--some
terror of her benighted state--seized upon her: alarm changed to
despair; she rose in bed, but put her hand to her heart and fell
back.
"He better stop it!" Aunt Esther All muttered.
The four wives of Whisper Cove bitterly murmured against her.
"He's savin' her soul," said William Buttle's wife.
They were interested, these wives, in the operation; they resented
disturbance.
"Well," Aunt Esther retorted, "I 'low, anyhow, he don't know much
about heart-trouble."
Parson Lute, unconscious of this watchful observation, frankly sighed.
The hearts of men, I know, contain no love more sweet and valuable
than that which animated his desire. He mused for an interval. "Do you
know the portion of the wicked?" he asked, in loving-kindness, without
harshness whatsoever.
"Yes, sir."
"What is it?"
It seemed she would appease him. She was ingratiating, now, with smile
and answer. "Hell, sir," she answered.
"Are you prepared for the change?"
'Twas a familiar question, no doubt. Elizabeth's conversion had been
diligently sought. But the lean face of Parson Lute, and the fear of
what he might do, and the solemn quality of his voice, and his sincere
and simple desire seemed so to impress Elizabeth that she was startled
into new attention.
"Yes, sir," she said.
It appeared to puzzle Parson Lute. He had been otherwise informed by
Parson Stump. The woman was _not_ in a state of grace.
"You have cast yourself upon the mercy of God?" he asked.
"No, sir."
"Then how, my daughter, can you say that you are prepared?"
There was no answer.
"You have made your peace with an offended God?"
"No, sir."
"But you say that you are prepared?"
"Yes, sir."
"You have repented of your sin?"
"No, sir."
Parson Lute turned impatient. "And yet," he demanded, "you expect to
go to heaven?"
"No, sir."
"_What_!" cried Parson Lute.
"No, sir," she said.
Parson Lute was incredulous. "To hell?" he asked.
"Eh?"
"To _hell_?"
Elizabeth hesitated. By some direct and primitively human way her
benighted mind had reached its determination. But still she
hesitated--frightened somewhat, it may be, by the conventionality of
Whisper Cove and Twist Tickle.
"Yes, sir," said she. "Most men goes there."
"But you," said he, in amaze, "are not a man!"
"Judith's father were," she answered; "an' I'm wantin'--oh, I'm
wantin'--t' see un once again!"
The five wives of Whisper Cove gasped....
* * * * *
The outer door was flung open. Came a rush of wind--the noise and wet
and lusty stirring of the night. It broke harshly in upon us; 'twas a
crashing discord of might and wrath and cruel indifference--a mocking
of this small tragedy. The door was sharply closed against the gale. I
heard the wheeze and tread of my uncle in the kitchen. He entered--his
broad face grave and anxious and grieved--but instantly fled, though I
beckoned; for Parson Lute, overcome, it may be, by the impiety of
Elizabeth, was upon his knees, fervently praying that the misguided
soul might yet by some miraculous manifestation of grace be restored
to propriety of view and of feeling. 'Twas a heartfelt prayer offered
in faith, according to the enlightenment of the man--a confession of
ignorance, a plea of human weakness, a humble, anxious cry for divine
guidance that the woman might be plucked as a brand from the burning,
to the glory of the Lord God Most Tender and Most High. Came, in the
midst of it, a furious outburst; the wind rose--achieved its utmost
pitch of power. I looked out: Whisper Cove, low between the black
barriers, was churned white; and beyond--concealed by the night--the
sea ran tumultuously. 'Twas a big, screaming wind, blowing in from the
sea, unopposed by tree or hill. The cottage trembled to the gusts; the
timbers complained; the lamp fluttered in the draught. Great waves,
rolling in from the open, were broken on the rocks of Whisper Cove.
Rain and spray, driven by the gale, drummed on the roof and rattled
like hail on the window. And above this angry clamor of wind and sea
rose the wailing, importunate prayer for the leading of the God of us
all....
* * * * *
When the parson had got to his feet again, Aunt Esther All diffidently
touched his elbow. "Nicholas have come, sir," said she.
"Nicholas?"
"Ay; the man she've sent for."
Elizabeth caught the news. "I wants un," she wheezed. "Go 'way,
parson! I wants a word along o' Nicholas all alone."
"She've a secret, sir," Aunt Esther whispered.
Judith moved towards the door; but the parson beckoned her back, and
she stood doubtfully.
"Mister Top! Mister Top!" Elizabeth called, desperate to help herself,
to whom no heed was given.
In the fury of the gale--the rush past of wind and rain--the failing
voice was lost.
"I 'low," Aunt Esther warned, "'twould be wise, sir--"
"Have the man wait in the kitchen."
Elizabeth lay helplessly whimpering.
"But, sir," Aunt Esther protested, "she've--"
"Have the man wait in the kitchen," the parson impatiently repeated.
"There is no time now for these worldly arrangements. No, no!" said
he. "There is no time. The woman _must_ be convicted!" He was changed:
despondency had vanished--humility gone with it. In the eye of the
man--the gesture--the risen voice--appeared some high authority to
overawe us. He had the habit of authority, as have all parsons; but
there was now some compelling, supernatural addition to weaken us. We
did not dare oppose him, not one of us--not my uncle, whose head had
been intruded, but was now at once withdrawn. The parson had come out
of his prayer, it seemed, refreshed and inspired; he had remembered,
it may be, that the child was the obstacle--the child whom Elizabeth
would not slight to save her soul. "The woman must be saved," said he.
"She must be saved!" he cried, striking his fist into his palm, his
body all tense, his teeth snapped shut, his voice strident. "The Lord
is mighty and merciful--a forgiving God." 'Twas an appeal (he looked
far past the whitewashed rafters and the moving darkness of the
night); 'twas a returning appeal--a little failure of faith, I think.
"The Lord has heard me," he declared, doggedly. "He has not turned
away. The woman must--she _shall_--be saved!"
"Ay, but," Aunt Esther expostulated; "she've been sort o' wantin' t'
tell--"
The parson's green eyes were all at once bent in a penetrating way
upon Aunt Esther; and she backed away, biting at her nails--daring no
further protest.
"Judith, my child," said the parson, "do you go to the kitchen."
"No, no!" Judith wailed. "I'm wantin' t' stay."
Elizabeth stretched out her arms.
"It distracts your mother's attention, you see," said the parson,
kindly. "Do you go, my dear."
"I _will_ not go!"
"Judith!" Elizabeth called.
The parson caught the child's arm.
"You leave me be!" Judith flashed, her white little teeth all bare.
"Do you go," said the parson, coldly, "to the kitchen."
"He'd better mind what he's about!" Aunt Esther complained.
Elizabeth was now on her elbow, staring in alarm. Her breast was
significantly heaving, and the great vein of her throat had begun to
beat. "Don't send she away, parson!" she pleaded. "She's wantin' her
mother. Leave she be!"
The parson led Judith away.
"For God's sake, parson," Elizabeth gasped, "leave she come! What you
goin' t' do with she?" She made as though to throw off the coverlet
and follow; but she was unable, and fell back in exhaustion. "Judith!"
she called. "Judith!"
The kitchen door was closed upon Judith; the obstacle had been
removed.
"Don't hurt she, parson," Elizabeth entreated, seeming, now, to be
possessed of a delusion concerning the parson's purpose. "She've done
no harm, sir. She've been a good child all her life."
"Elizabeth," said the parson, firmly, "repent!"
"What you done with my Judith?"
"Repent!"
Elizabeth's heart began to work beyond its strength. "For God's sake,
parson!" she gasped; "you'll not hurt she, will you?"
"Repent, I say!"
"I'll repent, parson. What you goin' t' do with Judy? Don't hurt she,
parson. I'll repent. Oh, bring she back, parson! I'll repent. For
God's sake, parson!" It may be that despair gave her cunning--I do not
know. The deception was not beyond her: she had been converted
twice--she was used to the forms as practised in those days at Twist
Tickle. She wanted her child, poor woman! and her mind was clouded
with fear: she is not to be called evil for the trick. Nor is Parson
Lute to be blamed for following earnestly all that she said--praying,
all the while, that the issue might be her salvation. She had a
calculating eye on the face of Parson Lute. "I believe!" she cried,
watching him closely for some sign of relenting. "Help thou my
unbelief." The parson's face softened. "Save me!" she whispered,
exhausted. "Save my soul! I repent. Save my soul!" She seemed now to
summon all her strength, for the parson had not yet called back the
child. "Praise God!" she screamed, seeking now beyond doubt to
persuade him of her salvation. "I repent! I'm saved! I'm saved!"
"Praise God!" Parson Lute shouted.
Elizabeth swayed--threw up her hands--fell back dead.
"I tol' you so," said Aunt Esther, grimly.