RAMOTH GILEAD PREDICTED.
The next Sunday was cloudy and cold. The raw west wind swept along
stray flakes of snow in almost horizontal lines. Saturday Wingscheut
had hailed the sight of a chipmunk as a certain omen of immediate
spring; and this bleak Sabbath had followed, as if the very elements
delighted to disprove the predictions of the false prophet.
For six successive days Mrs. Grippin had been indulging in regret and
blame for their absence from church the previous Sunday: regret for
the rain which had furnished an excuse for non-attendance, blame for
the inconsistency of the boastful soldier and philosopher, who
bragged of indifference to red-hot cannon balls, and yet was afraid
of a few little drops of cold water.
For these trials the major had his consolation. It was the common lot
of philosophers to be censured and abused. Did not Guericke suffer
from popular ignorance and prejudice? Was not Galileo assailed and
even obliged to retract his theories? And had not Socrates his
Xantippe, the prototype of Mrs. Grippin?
The church, which was of good size, considering its country location,
stood on a slight elevation, about three-fourths of a mile west of
the Ratke dwelling. Between the edifices the ground curved and merged
in a miniature valley which occupied most of the distance. Southwest
of the house of worship were the farm buildings and cider mill of
Josiah Green, who held the mortgage on the major's estate.
The pastor, a man quick to discover motes and beams in the eyes of
his congregation, and ready to grab at the offending particle or bulk
the instant of its discovery, had prepared a philippic for the
special benefit of Green.
His text was Romans fourteenth chapter and twenty-first verse: "It is
good neither to eat flesh, nor to drink wine, nor anything whereby
thy brother stumbleth, or is offended, or is made weak."
Starting from the premise that each one, in a measure, molds the
character of his neighbor, he launched boldly into the theme of man's
responsibility for the conduct of his fellows.
"What is it that we are to refrain from doing? Anything, remember,
anything, by which our brother stumbleth, or is offended, or is made
weak.
"That which injures our brother maybe quite harmless to ourselves.
Nevertheless, if it diminishes his virtue or his faith, we should
avoid it, even though the degree of decline be so slight that it is
visible only by Him on whom that faith is fixed.
"One of God's people, if he were not in the trammels of Church
discipline, might be placed in such circumstances that he could dance
without moral degeneration. But if, thereby, his brother is led into
bad company, if possible converts avoid a faith whose votaries seem
insincere, it is his duty to lop off the pleasure, even though it be
dear as his right hand.
"Card-playing could be indulged in without sin, provided we were sure
that no sinful consequences would follow the game. There is no
contamination in the pictures or the card-board. The queen of clubs
does not look wholly depraved. The king of hearts, though his
appearance is not prepossessing, is too lazy and inefficient to be a
power for evil. Bibles which carry a knowledge of the Saviour to the
center of barbarism, are made from the same material as spades and
aces. But for all that, card-playing entices to evil. Card-playing
should be tolerated in no Christian or moral home.
"Who will say that there is evil in a glass of cider which is
guaranteed never to touch the lips of man? Yet, cider is the greatest
curse which this community has ever seen. More, than beer, more than
whisky, more than the horse-thieves, against whom so many anathemas
have been breathed, cider is bringing its awful harvest of pain and
crime. But in this congregation,--for I see them now,--are men in
whose cellars are cider barrels, whose sons, following their father's
lead, descend the stairs, turn the faucet and change themselves into
receptacles of the potion which would make fiends of angels. Ay,
brethren, I see those who manufacture the damning beverage poured
into the throats of topers and of boys now unpolluted, to lure them
on to places of infamy, to leave them helplessly wallowing in the
mire of debauchery and whiskey, for whisky is the natural successor
of cider. And these men, together with their victims, are descending
to the lake of fire and brimstone, not on a stream of pure water
reflecting the sunlight from its sandy bed, but along a river of
yellow cider reeking with the smell of rotten pomace and of dead
men's bones."
The rural preacher supported the above denunciation by awkward
gestures and a high degree of earnestness. Green's manner, while he
was receiving in addition to this chastisement the glances of most of
the congregation, was less perturbed than usual. He was a spare,
nervous man of medium height. It was his custom in church often to
look out of the window, to cross and recross his legs and to show
other signs of restlessness.
On this occasion, leaning his elbows on the back of the pew in front
of him, he looked steadily at the preacher He appeared heartily to
indorse the sermon and to have no suspicion that it was intended for
him; and, when he received a bolt more crushing than its predecessor,
he smiled, as if approving the condemnation which was to be meted out
to some other man.
In class meeting he rose as he had done nearly Sunday for a dozen
years, said a few words hastily, and sat down with the air of one who
rejoices that he has finished an unpleasant duty.
Montcalm was invited to a position in the choir as he and Manie sang
from the same book, many a rustic swain shared the jealousy of
Wrengell.
After class meeting Lyman Sparks arose to make "a sejestion."
"There's one thing we forgot about, brothers and sisters the donation
to Brother Osborne's. We ain't made any pervision for the
needcessties o'the 'casion. Of course, there'll be some needcessties,
an' we ought to make some pervision for 'em. I motion that we have a
committee o'three to pervide for the 'casion."
When the motion had been passed, Mr. Sparks again arose.
"I sejest the names o' Brother Osborne, Brother Green an', well,
mebbe I've said enough. I don't want to have too much to say about
this thing. Somebody else sejest another name."
Sparks was chosen as the last committee man, the benediction was
pronounced and the people dispersed.
"I'd like to see Lime Sparks tell me what to cook," said Mrs.
Grippin, as she was on her way home, "or Si Green. If they come
poking their noses around where I'm cooking, they'll get out, that's
all."
In the afternoon, while the rest of the family were out at church,
Nora entertained Fred Loomis, the clerk in Dr. Rorus' drug-store at
Break o'Day. Loomis was stylishly attired. He had town manners, a
slight frame, and an equally slight mustache. On matters of dress and
general deportment, he trusted his judgment implicitly, but, in
conversation which required the higher attributes of mind, he felt
his weakness. Often, when he thought a remark or circumstance
amusing, he suppressed a laugh until one of his associates
demonstrated by example the propriety of its indulgence.
When evening came, this village dandy, Nora, Manie and Montcalm were
in the parlor.
The clerk and Nora on a couch whispered and giggled, while Manie and
Montcalm, in a further corner of the room, maintained less secrecy
and more dignity.
"That is a fine likeness," observed Montcalm, pointing to a portrait
of a man who had a broad, high brow, large, expressive eyes and a
stern, intellectual face. "Every boy knows Senator Mallard's picture.
One can almost think that he sees the words of his last great speech
issuing from those firm-set lips. He is a recognized champion in
debate."
"Yes," said Manie. "He and Uncle James were classmates at college. He
has visited us several times since I can remember. Uncle James is a
Democrat, you know, Every time Senator Mallard comes they engage in a
hot political discussion, which Uncle James begins, unmindful of his
previous defeats. Uncle James says he is the only man who ever
conquered him fairly in argument."
"Conquest by him is no disgrace," returned Montcalm. "It is the
common fate of those who oppose him. Will you please favor us with a
song or some instrumental music? A love of the beautiful is the very
origin of music, and it is what you have shown in the decoration of
this room. The cheap and the gorgeous you have eschewed, while you
have drawn liberally from unpretentious and intrinsic beauty. The
picture at the right of the mirror is an illustration of my
statement. Here we have, well portrayed, a pleasing scene in rural
life, a fine house and barn, with mountains looming up in the
background. See how neat everything is about the place."
"Everything is unnaturally neat and proper," replied Manie. "The
horses' heads are too high. The sheep are too large, and that cow
looks as if she were posing for a picture. Nobody ever saw so square
and high a load of hay as that one going into the barn. The man on it
is standing so straight that he will bump his head unless he stoops.
The artist could have improved the picture by tipping over one of the
lightning-rods and tearing down a gate."
"It need not show slovenliness to be accurate," Montcalm answered; "I
acknowledge your superiority in logic, but I still contend that I am
right."
"Allow me to give you a compliment in return," said Manie. "You would
make an excellent lightning-rod agent. Every man you met would have
fat hogs, blooded cattle or smart children. Get your note-book and I
will give you a list of flattering remarks which would insure a sale.
"Compliment one, Intelligent farmer. Compliment two, Large chickens.
Compliment three, Smart children. But, if your pleasing speeches are
addressed to a lady, do not have them.
"Compliment one, Robust and healthful. Compliment two, Fragile and
delicate."
"I am wounded by the lash of sarcasm," said Montcalm. "Each
neighborhood has its local satirist, pouring out MacFlecknoes and
Dunciads on hapless Shadwells and Gibbers. This character, varying in
sagacity and bitterness, according to training and original talent,
native cheerfulness and the world's usage, is a necessity to
progress. No great reform is accomplished without his help. Whenever
society moves slowly in its duty, he strikes the hindmost; and though
the laggard may not afterward be found in the front of the
procession, he is apt to abandon the position of rear-guard to
another, who in turn finds it an inconvenient and dangerous post. But
I will not class you with the common satirist, for you have shown
more refined talent than he. You have been taking lessons of Pope,
Juvenal and Swift."
"Now, you are losing your art, Mr. Montcalm," said Manie. "First, you
ascribe to me the most delicate sensibility, and now you class me
with as vulgar a satirist as Swift. Do you think I would write the,
'Tale of a Tub'? I am glad that, if I have not the genius to compose
the Dunciad, neither have I the vindictive spirit which prompted it.
You should memorize your flattering statements, and then they would
not conflict."
"Now, I am hit sorely and wantonly," said Montcalm. "How often have I
been proceeding carelessly, if not unwittingly, in error when I felt
a smarting, agonizing blow; and I knew that I had been struck by that
scourge of scourges, that whip of scorpions, the lash of the local
satirist. Then, I sometimes encased myself in the armor of reasoning
and excuse, and, confident in my protecting mail, took up my old line
of march. But a certain man (or woman) drew a bow at a venture, and
behold, Ahab was smitten between the joints of the harness."
"If Ahab would avoid the fatal arrow," returned Manie, "he should
shun the field of Ramoth Gilead, or, better still, he should not make
covenants with Ben-hadad."
"Make covenants with Ben-hadad?", said Montcalm, nervously turning
his head. "What does that mean?"
"Ahab did not enter into an offensive and defensive alliance with
Ben-hadad," Manie replied. "He merely spared the life of the wicked
Syrian when he had him in his power. He who compromises with, or
refuses to attack error, commits the sin of Ahab; and he will meet
his punishment as surely as did the son of Omri."
"Then every man who temporizes with evil will meet a bloody death?"
queried Montcalm with a smile.
"You must not infer that," answered Manie. "As the sin differs in
some respects from that of Ahab, so in all probability will the
punishment. But he who permits the perpetration of an evil which he
can prevent will not be held guiltless. To that man, in some way, in
time or eternity, Ramoth Gilead must come."
Montcalm saw that, whatever his ability in compliment, Manie was more
than his equal in argument, He determined now to abandon the contest,
which he would not so long have continued had he not wished to give
her the flattering opinion of her own skill as a controversialist.
"Give Ahab a truce," he said. "The donation at Mr. Osborne's is next
Friday night. Mr. Sparks advised us to make 'pervision for the
needcessties o' the 'casion.' My chief 'needcessty' is a companion
for the evening. May wicked Ahab presume to ask you to ride in his
chariot?"
"Oh! I'm a-going to have some fun!" exclaimed Nora, jumping up and
rushing to the sitting-room.
"What is she going to do?" asked Montcalm.
"Nobody knows what she is going to do," Manie answered.
In a few minutes Nora returned, bringing with her Archer. The hired
man, whose body was encased in a blue coat with large brass buttons,
strode into the room, carrying his head and shoulders very erect.
"Good-evening, Mrs. Ratke," he said with a profound bow.
Archer in his youth had been taught that a married lady's proper
title is Mrs.; and he had broadened this definition until he made it
embrace every member of the sex, whether married or unmarried.
"Oh, Mr. Archer," said Nora, "we're so glad you've come. We want you
to sing for us."
"Well," responded Archer, tipping back his chair and spreading the
sides of his coat wide apart with his hands, at the same time taking
care that the brass buttons should be conspicuous, "I don't pretend
to be much of a singician, but folks used to say I could sing."
"Of course you can sing," persisted Nora. "Good singers do have to be
urged so. Fred can't sing bass, and Mr. Montcalm can't sing it, and
so we want you to. Now, Mr. Archer, don't make any more excuses, but
go right up and help them sing."
Manie much against her will went to the organ and assisted Montcalm
and Archer to sing "The Sweet By-and-By."
Archer, maintaining the same pitch throughout the hymn, tapped the
floor with his foot, bobbed his head from side to side, and without
any approach to a tune rumbled away with all his might.
Nora's enjoyment of the scene was well-nigh perfect. She clapped her
hands, rolled over on the sofa and, but for Archer's monotonous
"By-and-By, By-and-By," would certainly have been heard by him.
"Oh, that was splendid, Mr. Archer," she cried, when the hymn was
concluded. "I wish I could sing like that. Now give us a song,
please."
"What kind of a song, Mrs. Warfle?" Archer inquired.
"Something sentimental," answered Nora. "That's what we would all
like to hear."
Thus encouraged, Archer began to sing a narrative, most of which on
account of its tedious length must be briefly told in prose.
"Come listen to the awful tale,
That in song I shall bewail,
About a preacher's only son,
And all for love he was undone.
He was but eighteen years of age
When in love he did engage."
When he was twenty years old, after receiving a call to preach, he
repeated his proposals of marriage to the young lady.
"But her people, they did object
To him, because he had no prospect."
Her affections blighted, the maiden pined steadily away, and an
anxious friend made the following inquiry:
"Madam, what makes you look so pale?
Madam, what makes your colors fail?
Your cheeks was once like roses red,
And now they look as though you was dead.
Your eyes was once as black as sloes.
Now to the grave methinks they goes."
On this solicitation the maiden, telling the story of her love,
imparted a warning to those who interfere with affairs of the heart,
and at the close of the injunction gave a wail of agony and expired.
The parents, stricken with grief at their loss, sent for the
minister's son.
"Then to the funeral he did go,
Was dressed in black from top to toe.
This noble young man took his bed,
And in a week more he was dead."
With a voice alternating between a roar and a yell, the singer told
the moral to the tragedy in forty lines, four of which are subjoined.
"Now, all you people, far and near,
To stop true love you should ever fear;
For young folks parted sighs do heave.
Sometimes they die and oft do grieve."
"Oh, dear! Oh, my! Oh, my! Oh, dear!" ejaculated Nora, making no
attempt to conceal her mirth while the clerk, as he thought, very
properly seconded, with less effusiveness, her demonstrations of
glee. "Oh! that's awful good, Mr. Archer. That's splendid. Oh! my!
Oh, dear! 'Sometimes they die and oft do grieve.' What! You're not
going now, are you?"
"Yes, it's getting along towards bedtime," returned Archer, whose
perception, though dull, was still acute enough to show him that he
was being made the butt of ridicule.
"It is too bad," said Manie, when Archer had gone. "I am ashamed of
you, Nora. You have no right to hurt people's feelings in that way."
"Preach all you want to," retorted Nora.
"Won't you do an errand for me?" she asked, accosting Archer, who had
not yet taken his departure from the house, and whose countenance
suggested that he was in ill humor from the treatment which he had
received.
"Well?" answered the hired man gruffly.
"I wish you would tell Mr. Wrengell to come up here," said Nora.
"I'll see," returned Archer in a tone which showed that he had no
intention to oblige her.
"Oh, please, Mr. Archer," pleaded Nora. "I do so want to see him.
Tell him, and I'll remember it a long while, and I'll think how good
you was. Won't you, Mr. Archer?"
"Well, yes," said Archer hesitatingly, "I'll tell him."
Wrengell was surprised at the summons which he received. Without
waiting to make some needed changes in his apparel he started, and
soon stood in the dining-room, embarrassed and expectant.
"There are some young folks in the parlor," explained Nora. "We want
you to join us."
"Oh, I can't possibly."
"Yes, you can," said Nora, taking his sleeve and pulling him gently
along. "There is nobody in the house that will hurt you. Come on,
now, without any more excuses."
"Don't you go into any of your nonsense, Nora," said Mrs. Grippin, as
they passed through the sitting-room.
The major without the knowledge of Mrs. Grippin had placed in one of
the parlor bedrooms a chair, the rounds of which had been broken.
Nora, quickly slipping into the bedroom, brought out the
superannuated piece of furniture for Wrengell, who was too
embarrassed to notice the maneuver. At the instant he sat down,
however, the spreading chair legs and descending cane bottom warned
him of the insecurity of his position and compelled him to bear most
of the weight of his body on his legs.
"Won't you sing us a song, Mr. Wrengell?" said Nora with a giggle,
which was echoed by the clerk.
"I do not care to sing," answered Wrengell, now comprehending her
motive in enticing him to the parlor.
"Oh, please, do sing us something sentimental," said Nora,
interspersing now and then a smothered laugh between the words,
"something about somebody that--that died for--for love, you know."
"Sing something of your own selection," suggested Manie, endeavoring
by kindly encouragement to atone for Nora's misdemeanor.
On hearing this invitation Wrengell came to the conclusion that the
company had entered into a conspiracy to make him appear ridiculous;
and his embarrassment was quickly supplanted by anger.
"Thank you, I do not care to sing," he responded.
"Perhaps you will play for us," said Manie.
Springing to his feet, with such violence that the rickety chair
spread out its loose-jointed legs and squatted nearly to the floor,
Wrengell went quickly to the organ.
The instrument broke forth into a roar of wrath. It seemed to bid
defiance to the company, to tell them that the man whom they had
insulted was above and indifferent to their sneers. Gradually the
notes decreased in volume and increased in rapidity, until the sounds
appeared almost to coalesce; yet not once did the fingers of the
player err in the selection of a key or appear to move more swiftly
than their normal gait.
Such a manifestation of proficiency where none was expected filled
the four auditors with astonishment.
Manie and Montcalm listened in admiration, Nora opened her mouth in
surprise, while the shallow clerk glanced at her to ascertain if he
were to grin again at Wrengell's expense.
With exquisite modulation Wrengell changed the music from anger to
solemnity and from solemnity to pathos; and he brought out with
unusual distinctness that one superiority of instrumental over vocal
music, its application to individual thought without the
circumscription of language.
A song beautiful in conception and glowing with power often fails to
produce an impression, because he for whom it is rendered finds in it
nothing which coincides with his sympathies or experience. But he who
hears a well-played instrumental has no assurance that it was not
composed for the benefit of his special class. To the resigned
sufferer the solemn largissimo may be a strain of patient
resignation, while to the misanthrope it is the wail of hopeless
despair. The sparkling brillante, which animates one to heroic deeds
and lofty aims, fills another with dreams of the revel and the
debauch.
It was impossible to tell in what channel moved the reflections of
Manie and Montcalm, who, alone of those present, were capable of
appreciating the skill of the musician. But whether they were
impelled to noble or to base purposes, they were moved, in no common
degree, by those finer variations, those nicer shades of expression
which distinguish the touch of the master from mere agility and
correctness of movement.
Wrengell rose from the organ with as much suddenness as he had
approached it, and, determined to show his indifference to their
opinions, he left the parlor, casting back a look of contempt, which
he meant to include every person in the room. Passing through the
sitting-room, where the major and Mrs. Grippin were engaged in a
controversy, deliberate on the one side and furious on the other, he
went through the dining-room, the kitchen and into the open air.
It was with dejection that Wrengell entered the chamber of the
club-house and seated himself on the only unoccupied bed. The affront
which had been given him in the major's parlor was by no means the
first which he had been compelled to bear. From his infancy disgrace
had been his lot. He had been told the story of his drunken parents,
of his mother who was sent to the penitentiary, of his father who
wandered to a distant state, there to be imprisoned for some offense
the details of which were forgotten but the commission of which was
being frequently recalled. Taken from a poorhouse at an early age by
a farmer, who was ever reminding him of the charity, he strove
manfully to repay the debt which, he fancied, he owed. He was given
severe tasks to perform; and the story of his degradation was spread
broadcast by the man with whom he lived, to such an extent that he
was publicly shunned.
When he was unable to bear the exactions of his foster-father,
Wrengell left the shelter of his roof and turned his attention to his
neglected education. Working between terms and studying nights, he
made excellent progress; and, at the time he commenced work for
Ratke, he had gone half through college and had taken the greater
part of a thorough musical course.
And this boy, without wealth, with a lineage so mean that its very
mention gave him shame, was proud, proud as they who openly ignored
him, proud as that greater number who recognized his title to
acquaintanceship, but drew between him and them a barrier which, more
felt than seen, prevented the relations of intimate friendship.
Slowly he drew off one shoe and bared his left foot. It was not a
perfect member. The main part of the foot was symmetrical, but from
the outer edge branched a sixth toe, which increased in size the
extremity of the limb and made a small protuberance appear on the
surface of the shoe.
Wrengell looked down at the malformation with a feeling almost of
hatred. How often in his childhood, when, before he was large enough
to work, he went barefooted to school, had his companions pointed
sneeringly at his deformity. The drunken father, the depraved mother,
the sixth toe he had considered component parts of his disgrace.
He had thought that, far from the associations of his youth, he might
escape the obloquy which had weighed him down. He believed that the
mark of shame was upon him, that it was visible to whomsoever he met,
that it had been seen by the Ratkes, and that by them he was
despised.
Archer had been by common consent relegated to the farther corner of
the room, and was there snoring comfortably, and noisily. Wrengell,
knowing that no common circumstance would awaken the slumberer, went
to his bedside, and, taking down his violin, which hung over his
head, commenced to play a lively air. The music had been in progress
not a minute, when the loud talking on the ground floor ceased, and
Brown called "Helloa! what's the racket up there, Will? Less go up,
boys," he added as the playing continued.
Wrengell had barely time to throw down the violin and get into bed
before the men were in the chamber.
"He's learned a new piece," said Daggett, "and he's improved
mightily."
"'Stonishin'," remarked the Canadian, Thompson.
"Why, boys," exclaimed Daggett, as the sleeper exhaled a deeply
rumbling current of air, "he's asleep."
"Did he play that in his sleep?"
"He must of," replied Brown.
"Less wake him up," said Daggett.
"I tell you vat," observed Wingscheut, "you can push unt you can
pull, put tey can't no man vake up Vill Archer."
Straws, snuff and pepper were applied to his nose, but their sole
effect was to make him give uneasy sniffs and change his position.
"Say," exclaimed Brown, dragging him half out of bed and at last
getting the sleepy eyelids to unclose, "why don't you play like that
when you're awake?"