IN WHICH THE PARSON CRUISES IN STRANGE WATERS
The Come-Outer chapel was as bare inside, almost, as it was without.
Bare wooden walls, a beamed ceiling, a raised platform at one end with
a table and chairs and the melodeon upon it, rows of wooden settees for
the congregation--that was all. As the minister entered, the worshipers
were standing up to sing. Three or four sputtering oil lamps but dimly
illumined the place and made recognition uncertain.
The second verse of the hymn was just beginning as Ellery came in. Most
of the forty or more grown people in the chapel were too busy wrestling
with the tune to turn and look at him. A child here and there in the
back row twisted a curious neck but twisted back again as parental
fingers tugged at its ear. The minister tiptoed to a dark corner and
took his stand in front of a vacant settee.
The man whom Ellery had decided must be Captain Eben Hammond was
standing on the low platform beside the table. A quaint figure,
patriarchal with its flowing white hair and beard, puritanical with its
set, smooth-shaven lips and tufted brows. Captain Eben held an open hymn
book back in one hand and beat time with the other. He wore brass-bowed
spectacles well down toward the tip of his nose. Swinging a heavy,
stubby finger and singing in a high, quavering voice of no particular
register, he led off the third verse:
“Oh, who shall weep when the roll is called
And who shall shout for joy?”
The melodeon and the hymn book were in accord as to the tune, but
Captain Eben and the various members of the congregation seemed to have
a desire to improvise. They sang with spirit, however, and the rhythmic
pat of feet grew louder and louder. Here and there men and women were
swaying and rocking their bodies in time to the music. The chorus for
each verse was louder than the one preceding it.
Another hymn was given out and sung. And another and still another. The
windows rattled. The patting grew to a steady “thump! thump!” Momentary
pauses between lines were punctuated by hallelujahs and amens. Standing
directly in front of the minister was a six-foot, raw-boned individual
whose clothes smelled strongly of fish, and whose hands, each swung
at the end of an exposed five inches of hairy red wrist, looked like
flippers. At the end of the third hymn this personage sprang straight up
into the air, cracked the heels of a pair of red cowhide boots together,
and whooped: “Glory be! Send the PAOWER!” in a voice like the screech
of a northeast gale. Mr. Ellery, whom this gymnastic feat had taken by
surprise, jumped in sympathy, although not as high.
The singing over, the worshipers sat down. Captain Eben took a
figured handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. The thin,
nearsighted young woman who had been humped over the keyboard of the
melodeon, straightened up. The worshipers relaxed a little and began to
look about.
Then the captain adjusted his spectacles and opened a Bible, which he
took from the table beside him. Clearing his throat, he announced that
he would read from the Word, tenth chapter of Jeremiah:
“'Thus saith the Lord. Learn not the way of the heathen, and be not
dismayed at the signs of heaven; for the heathen are dismayed at them.
“'For the customs of the people are vain: for one cutteth a tree out of
the forest, the work of the hands of the workmen, with the ax.'”
He read in a measured singsong, stopping occasionally to hold the book
in a better light and peering at the fine print through his spectacles.
And as he read, there was a sudden rustle on one of the back benches. A
child had turned, stared, and pulled at its mother's sleeve. The rustle
grew and spread.
Captain Eben drawled on to the twentieth verse:
“'My tabernacle is spoiled and all my cords are broken: my children are
gone forth from me, and they are not: there is none to stretch forth my
tent any more, and to set up my curtains!
“'For the pastors are become brutish and have not sought the Lord:
therefore they shall not prosper, and--'”
“A-MEN!”
The shout came from the second bench from the front, where Ezekiel
Bassett, clam digger and fervent religionist, was always to be found on
meeting nights. Ezekiel was the father of Susannah B. Bassett, “Sukey
B.” for short, who played the melodeon. He had been, by successive
seizures, a Seventh Day Baptist, a Second Adventist, a Millerite, a
Regular, and was now the most energetic of Come-Outers. Later he was to
become a Spiritualist and preside at table-tipping seances.
Ezekiel's amen was so sudden and emphatic that it startled the reader
into looking up. Instead of the faces of his congregation, he found
himself treated to a view of their back hair. Nearly every head
was turned toward the rear corner of the room, there was a buzz of
whispering and, in front, many men and women were standing up to look.
Captain Eben was scandalized.
“Well!” he exclaimed. “Is this a prayer meetin' or--or--what? Brethren
and sisters, I must say--”
Ezekiel Bassett stepped forward and whispered in his ear. The
captain's expression of righteous indignation changed to one of blank
astonishment. He, too, gazed at the dark corner. Then his lips tightened
and he rapped smartly on the table.
“Brethren and sisters,” he thundered, in the voice which, of old, had
enforced obedience aboard his coasting schooner, “remember this is the
house of the Lord. Be reverent!”
He waited until every eye had swung about to meet his. Then he regarded
his abashed but excited hearers with a steady and prolonged stare.
“My friends,” he said, “let us bow in prayer.”
John Ellery could have repeated that prayer, almost word for word, years
after that night. The captain prayed for the few here gathered together:
Let them be steadfast. Let them be constant in the way. The path they
were treading might be narrow and beset with thorns, but it was the path
leading to glory.
“Scoffers may sneer,” he declared, his voice rising; “they may make a
mock of us, they may even come into Thy presence to laugh at us, but
theirs is the laugh that turns to groanin'. O Lord, strengthen us
to-night to speak what's in our hearts, without fear.” (“A-men!”) “To
prophesy in Thy name! To bid the mockers and them that dare--dare to
profane this sanctuary be careful. Hired singers and trumpets and vain
shows we have not” (“Thank the Lord! Amen!”), “but the true faith and
the joy of it we do have.” (“Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Glory!”)
And so on, his remarks becoming more personal and ever pointing like
a compass needle to the occupant of that seat in the corner. The
minister's determination to attend a Come-Outer meeting, though it had
reached the sticking point only a half hour before, was the result of
considerable deliberation. He had argued with himself and had made up
his mind to find out for himself just what these people did. He was
finding out, certainly. His motives were good and he had come with no
desire to scoff, but, for the life of him, he could not help feeling
like a criminal. Incidentally, it provoked him to feel that way.
“O Lord,” prayed Captain Hammond, the perspiration in beads on his
forehead, “Thou hast said that the pastors become brutish and have not
sought Thee and that they shan't prosper. Help us tonight to labor with
this one that he may see his error and repent in sackcloth and ashes.”
They sang once more, a hymn that prophesied woe to the unbeliever.
Then Ezekiel Bassett rose to “testify.” The testimony was mainly to the
effect that he was happy because he had fled to the ark of safety while
there was yet time.
“I found out,” he shouted, “that fancy music and--ah--and--ah--sot
sermons and fine duds and suchlike wa'n't goin' to do ME no good.
I needed somethin' else. I needed good times in my religion”
(“Hallelujah!”) “and I've found 'em right here. Yes, sir! right here.
And I say this out loud,” turning to glare at the intruder, “and I don't
care who comes to poke fun at me for sayin' it.” (“Amen!”)
A sharp-nosed female followed Mr. Bassett. She spoke with evident
feeling and in a voice that trembled and shook when her emotion carried
it aloft. SHE'D had enough of high-toned religion. Yes, and of them that
upheld it. When her brother Simeon was took bad with phthisic, “wheezin'
like a busted bellerses” and 'twas “up and down, trot, trot, trot,” to
fetch and carry for him day in and night out, did the folks from the
Reg'lar church help her? She guessed NOT. The only one that came nigh
her was Laviny Pepper, and she came only to gas and gabble and find out
things that wa'n't none of her business. What help she got was from
a Come-Outer, from Eben Hammond, bless his good soul! (“Amen!”) That
phthisic settled her for Reg'larism. Yes, and for them that preached it,
too. So there!
Captain Eben called for more testimony. But the testifiers were, to use
the old minstrel joke, backward in coming forward that evening. At an
ordinary meeting, by this time, the shouts and enthusiasm would have
been at their height and half a dozen Come-Outers on their feet at once,
relating their experiences and proclaiming their happiness. But tonight
there was a damper; the presence of the leader of the opposition cast a
shadow over the gathering. Only the bravest attempted speech. The others
sat silent, showing their resentment and contempt by frowning glances
over their shoulders and portentous nods one to the other.
“Come, brethren,” commanded the captain sharply; “we are waitin' to hear
you. Are you afraid? If your faith is real, nothin' nor nobody should
keep you from cryin' it out loud. Now, if ever, is the accepted time.
Speak up for the spirit that's in you.”
An elderly man, grave and quiet, arose and said a few words, dignified
and solemn words of prayer and thankfulness for the comfort this little
society of true believers had been to him. Ellery realized that here
was another sort of Come-Outer, one of the Hammond type. Evidently, they
were not all like Ezekiel and the shrill-voiced woman.
Then, from the settee in front of him, rose the lengthy and fishy person
with the cowhide boots and enormous hands. His name was Josiah Badger
and he was, according to Trumet's estimate, “a little mite lackin' in
his top riggin'.” He stuttered, and this infirmity became more and more
apparent as he grew eloquent.
“I--I ain't afraid,” he proclaimed. “They can call me a C-C-Come-Outer
all they want to. I--I don't care if they do. Let 'em, I say; l-let 'em!
They can p-p-poke their fun and p-p-p-pup-pup-poke it, but I tell 'em
to h-heave ahead and p-pup-pup-POKE. When I used to g-go to their old
Reg'lar meetin' house, all I done was to go to sleep. But I don't go
to sleep here, glory hallelujah! No, sir! There's too much b-b-blessed
noise and we have too g-good times to g-go to sleep here. That old
K-Kyan Pepper called me t-town f-fool t'other day. T-tut-town fool's
what he called me. Says I to him, says I: 'You-you-y-you ain't got spunk
enough to be a fool,' I says, 'unless Laviny says you c-can be. You old
Reg'lar p-p-pepper shaker, you!”
By this time tee-hees from the children and chuckles from some of the
older members interfered with Mr. Badger's fervent but jerky discourse.
Captain Eben struck the table smartly.
“Silence!” he thundered. “Silence! Brother Badger, I beg your pardon for
'em. Go on!”
But Josiah's train of thought had evidently been derailed by the
interruption.
“I--I--I cal'late that's about all,” he stammered and sat down.
The captain looked over the meeting.
“I'm ashamed,” he said, “ashamed of the behavior of some of us in the
Lord's house. This has been a failure, this service of ours. We have
kept still when we should have justified our faith, and allowed the
presence of a stranger to interfere with our duty to the Almighty. And
I will say,” he added, his voice rising and trembling with indignation,
“to him who came here uninvited and broke up this meetin', that it would
be well for him to remember the words of Scriptur', 'Woe unto ye, false
prophets and workers of iniquity.' Let him remember what the Divine
wisdom put into my head to read to-night: 'The pastors have become
brutish and have not sought the Lord; therefore they shall not
prosper.'”
“Amen!” “Amen!” “Amen!” “So be it!” The cries came from all parts of the
little room. They ceased abruptly, for John Ellery was on his feet.
“Captain Hammond,” he said, “I realize that I have no right to speak in
this building, but I must say one word. My coming here to-night may have
been a mistake; I'm inclined to think it was. But I came not, as you
seem to infer, to sneer or to scoff; certainly I had no wish to disturb
your service. I came because I had heard repeatedly, since my arrival
in this town, of this society and its meetings. I had heard, too, that
there seemed to be a feeling of antagonism, almost hatred, against me
among you here. I couldn't see why. Most of you have, I believe, been at
one time members of the church where I preach. I wished to find out for
myself how much of truth there was in the stories I had heard and to
see if a better feeling between the two societies might not be brought
about. Those were my reasons for coming here to-night. As for my being
a false prophet and a worker of iniquity”--he smiled--“well, there is
another verse of Scripture I would call to your attention: 'Judge not,
that ye be not judged.'”
He sat down. There was silence for a moment and then a buzz of
whispering. Captain Eben, who had heard him with a face of iron
hardness, rapped the table.
“We will sing in closin',” he said, “the forty-second hymn. After which
the benediction will be pronounced.”
The Regular minister left the Come-Outers' meeting with the unpleasant
conviction that he had blundered badly. His visit, instead of tending
toward better understanding and more cordial relationship, had
been regarded as an intrusion. He had been provoked into a public
justification, and now he was quite sure that he would have been more
politic to remain silent. He realized that the evening's performance
would cause a sensation and be talked about all over town. The
Come-Outers would glory in their leader's denunciation of him, and his
own people would perhaps feel that it served him right. If he had only
told Mrs. Coffin of what he intended to do. Yet he had not told her
because he meant to do it anyhow. Altogether it was a rather humiliating
business.
So that old bigot was the Van Horne girl's “uncle.” It hardly seemed
possible that she, who appeared so refined and ladylike when he met her
at the parsonage, should be a member of that curious company. When
he rose to speak he had seen her in the front row, beside the thin,
middle-aged female who had entered the chapel with Captain Hammond and
with her. She was looking at him intently. The lamp over the speaker's
table had shone full on her face and the picture remained in his memory.
He saw her eyes and the wavy shadows of her hair on her forehead.
He stepped off the platform, across the road, out of the way of
homeward-bound Come-Outers, and stood there, thinking. The fog was
as heavy and wet as ever; in fact, it was almost a rain. The wind
was blowing hard from the northwest. The congregation dispersed in
chattering groups, their lanterns dipping and swinging like fireflies.
The chatter dealt entirely with one subject--himself. He heard his name
mentioned at least twenty times. Out of the gusty, dripping blackness
came Mr. Badger's voice.
“By time!” crowed Josiah, “he was took down a few p-p-pup-pegs, wa'n't
he! My! how Eben did g-gi-gi-give it to him. He looked toler'ble white
under the gills when he riz up to heave out his s-s-sus-sassy talk. And
foolish, too. I cal'late I won't be the only town fuf-fuf-fool from now
on. He! he!”
The noises died away in the distance. Within the chapel the tramp
of heavy boots sounded as the lights were blown out, one by one. The
minister frowned, sighed, and turned homeward. It is not pleasant to be
called a fool, even by a recognized member of the fraternity.
He had taken but a few steps when there was a rustle in the wet grass
behind him.
“Mr. Ellery,” whispered a voice, “Mr. Ellery, may I speak to you just a
moment?”
He wheeled in surprise.
“Why! why, Miss Van Horne!” he exclaimed. “Is it you?”
“Mr. Ellery,” she began, speaking hurriedly and in a low voice, “I--I
felt that I must say a word to you before--”
She paused and glanced back at the chapel. Ezekiel Bassett, the janitor,
having extinguished the last lamp, had emerged from the door and was
locking up. In another moment he clumped past them in the middle of the
road, the circle of light from his lantern just missing them as they
stood in the grass at the side under the hornbeam and blackberry bushes.
He was alone; Sukey B. had gone on before, other and younger masculine
escort having been providentially provided.
Mr. Bassett was out of hearing before Grace finished her sentence. The
minister was silent, waiting and wondering.
“I felt,” she said, “that I must see you and--explain. I am SO sorry you
came here to-night. Oh, I wish you hadn't. What made you do it?”
“I came,” began Ellery, somewhat stiffly, “because I--well, because I
thought it might be a good thing to do. As I said--”
“Yes, I know. But it wasn't. It was so--so--”
“So foolish. Thank you, I'm aware of it. I've heard myself called a
fool already since I left your church. Not that I needed to hear it. I
realize the fact.”
There was a bitterness in his tone, unmistakable. And a little laugh
from his companion did not tend to soothe his feelings.
“Thank you,” he said. “Perhaps it is funny. I did not find it so. Good
evening.”
This was priggish, but it must be borne in mind that John Ellery was
very, very fresh from the theological school, where young divines are
taught to take themselves seriously. He was ashamed of himself as soon
as he said it, which proved that his case was not beyond hope.
The girl detained him as he was turning away.
“I wasn't laughing at that,” she said. “I know who called you that--that
name. It was Josiah Badger, and he really is one, you know. I was
thinking of his testimony in meeting and how he called Ky--Abishai--a
pepper shaker. That was ridiculous enough, but it reminded me of
something else about Mr. Pepper, and I HAD to laugh. It wasn't at you,
truly.”
So the minister begged her pardon; also he remained where he was, and
heard the drops from the tree patter hollow on his hat.
“I came after you,” went on Grace rapidly and with nervous haste,
“because I felt that you ought not to misjudge my uncle for what he said
to-night. He wouldn't have hurt your feelings for the world. He is a
good man and does good to everybody. If you only knew the good he does
do, you wouldn't--you wouldn't DARE think hardly of him.”
She stamped her foot in the wet grass as she said it. She was evidently
in earnest. But Ellery was not in the mood to be greatly impressed
by Eben Hammond's charity or innate goodness. The old tavern keeper's
references to himself were too fresh in his mind. “False prophet” and
“worker of iniquity!”
“I'm not judging your uncle,” he declared. “It seemed to me that the
boot was on the other leg.”
“I know, but you do judge him, and you mustn't. You see, he thought
you had come to make fun of him--and us. Some of the Regular people do,
people who aren't fit to tie his shoes. And so he spoke against you.
He'll be sorry when he thinks it over. That's what I came to tell you. I
ask your pardon for--for him.”
“Why--why, that's all right. I think I understood--”
“I'm not asking it because he's a Come-Outer and you're a Regular
minister. He isn't ashamed of his religion. Neither am I. I'm a
Come-Outer, too.”
“Yes. I--I supposed you were.”
“Yes, I am. There, good night, Mr. Ellery. All I ask is that you don't
think too hardly of uncle. He didn't mean it.”
She turned away now, and it was the minister who detained her.
“I've been thinking,” he said slowly, for in his present state of mind
it was a hard thing to say, “that perhaps I ought to apologize, too.
I'm afraid I did disturb your service and I'm sorry. I meant well,
but--What's that? Rain?”
There was no doubt about it; it was rain and plenty of it. It came in
a swooping downpour that beat upon the trees and bushes and roared upon
the roof of the chapel. The minister hurriedly raised his umbrella.
“Here!” he cried, “let me--Miss Van Horne! Where are you?”
The answer came from a short distance down the “Turn-off.”
“Good night,” called the girl. “I must run.”
Evidently, she WAS running. Therefore the young man ran after her. He
caught up with her in a moment, in spite of some stumbles over the rough
road.
“Here!” he commanded, “you must take the umbrella. Really, you must. You
haven't one and you'll be wet through.”
She pushed the umbrella aside.
“No, no,” she answered. “I don't need it; I'm used to wet weather; truly
I am. And I don't care for this hat; it's an old one. You have a long
way to go and I haven't. Please, Mr. Ellery, I can't take it.”
“Very well,” was the sternly self-sacrificing reply, “then I shall
certainly go with you.”
“But I don't wish you to.”
“I can't help that. I'm not going to let you go unprotected through
this flood. Especially as you might have been at home before this if you
hadn't stopped to speak with me.”
“But you mustn't.”
“I shall.”
Here was the irresistible force and the immovable object. They stood
stock still in the middle of the road, while the rain drops jumped as
they struck the umbrella top. The immovable object, being feminine,
voiced the unexpected.
“All right,” she said; “then I suppose I shall have to take it.”
“What?”
“The umbrella. I'm sorry, and you'll get dreadfully wet, but it's your
own fault.”
He could feel her hand near his own on the handle. He did not relinquish
his grasp.
“No,” he said. “I think, on the whole, that that is unreasonable. I
SHOULD get wet and, though I don't mind it when it is necessary, I--”
“Well?” rather sharply, “what are you going to do?”
“Go with you as far as your gate. I'm sorry, if my company is
distasteful, but--”
He did not finish the sentence, thinking, it may be, that she might
finish it for him. But she was silent, merely removing her hand from the
handle. She took a step forward; he followed, holding the umbrella above
her head. They plashed on, without speaking, through the rapidly forming
puddles.
Presently she stumbled and he caught her arm to prevent her falling. To
his surprise he felt that arm shake in his grasp.
“Why, Miss Van Horne!” he exclaimed in great concern, “are you crying?
I beg your pardon. Of course I wouldn't think of going another step with
you. I didn't mean to trouble you. I only--If you will please take this
umbrella--”
Again he tried to transfer the umbrella and again she pushed it away.
“I--I'm not crying,” she gasped; “but--oh, dear! this is SO funny!”
Mr. Ellery gazed blankly at her through the rain-streaked dark. This was
the most astonishing young person he had met in his twenty-three years
of worldly experience.
“Funny!” he repeated. “Well, perhaps it is. Our ideas of fun seem to
differ. I--”
“Oh, but it IS so funny. You don't understand. What do you think your
congregation would say if they knew you had been to a Come-Outers'
meeting and then insisted on seeing a Come-Outer girl home?”
John Ellery swallowed hard. A vision of Captain Elkanah Daniels and the
stately Miss Annabel rose before his mind's eye. He hadn't thought of
his congregation in connection with this impromptu rescue of a damsel in
distress.
“Ha, ha!” he laughed mournfully. “I guess it is rather funny, after
all.”
“It certainly is. Now will you leave me and go back to your parsonage?”
“Not unless you take the umbrella.”
“Very well. It is a beautiful evening for a walk, don't you think so?
Mr. Ellery, I'm afraid we shan't have you with us in Trumet very long.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, because you're so very, very original. Are your sermons that way,
too? Captain Elkanah doesn't like his ministers to be too original.”
The minister set his teeth. At that moment he felt an intense desire
to bid the Daniels family mind their own business. Then another thought
struck him.
“Possibly your Uncle Eben might be somewhat--er--surprised if he
knew you were with me. Perhaps he might have something to say on the
subject.”
“I guess he would. We shall know very soon. I ran away and left him with
Mrs. Poundberry, our housekeeper. He doesn't know where I am. I wonder
he hasn't turned back to look for me before this. We shall probably meet
him at any moment.”
She seemed to enjoy the prospect of the meeting. Ellery wondered what on
earth he should say to Captain Hammond--that is, provided he was allowed
to say anything.
Suddenly a heavier gust of rain and wind beat upon them. The minister
struggled with the umbrella. The gust passed and with it the fog. An
instant before it had been all about them, shutting them within inky
walls. Now it was not. Through the rain he could see the shadowy
silhouettes of bushes at the road side. Fifty yards away the lighted
windows of the Hammond tavern gleamed yellow. Farther on, over a ragged,
moving fringe of grass and weeds, was a black flat expanse--the bay. And
a little way out upon that expanse twinkled the lights of a vessel. A
chain rattled. Voices shouting exultingly came to their ears.
“Why!” exclaimed Grace in excited wonder, “it's the packet! She was due
this morning, but we didn't expect her in till to-morrow. How did she
find her way in the fog? I must tell uncle.”
She started to run toward the house. The minister would have followed
with the umbrella, but she stopped him.
“No, Mr. Ellery,” she urged earnestly. “No, please don't. I'm all right
now. Thank you. Good night.”
A few steps farther on she turned.
“I hope Cap'n Elkanah won't know,” she whispered, the laugh returning to
her voice. “Good night.”
Ellery stood still in the rain and watched her. He saw her pass the
lighted windows and open a door. Into the yellow radiance she flashed
and disappeared. A minute more and the bulky form of Eben Hammond,
lantern in hand, a sou'wester on his head and his shoulders working
themselves into an oilskin coat, burst out of the door and hurriedly
limped down toward the shore. On the threshold, framed in light, stood
his ward, gazing after him. And the minister gazed at her.
From the bay came the sound of oars in row-locks. A boat was approaching
the wharf. And suddenly from the boat came a hail.
“Halloo! Ahoy, dad! Is that you?”
There was an answering shout from the wharf; a shout of joy. Then
a rattle of oars and a clamor of talk. And Grace still stood in the
doorway, waiting.
The lantern bobbed up the slope. As it reached the tavern gateway, the
minister saw that it was now carried by a tall, active man, who walked
with a seaman's stride and roll. Captain Eben was close beside him,
talking excitedly.
They entered the yard.
“Grace! Grace!” screamed Captain Eben. “Gracie, girl, look who's come!
Look!”
The tall man ran forward.
“Hi, Grace!” he cried in a deep, hearty voice. “Is that you? Ain't you
got a word for your old messmate?”
The girl stepped out into the rain.
“Why! why, NAT!” she cried.
The big man picked her up bodily in his arms and carried her into the
house. Captain Eben followed and the door closed.
John Ellery picked his way homeward through the puddles and the pouring
rain.
He found Keziah in the sitting room, seated by the table, evidently
writing a letter. She looked tired and grave--for her.
“Well!” she exclaimed as he entered. “I guess you're soppin' now, sartin
sure. There's a light in your room. Take off your wet things and throw
'em down to me, and I'll dry 'em in the kitchen. Better leave your boots
here now and stand that umbrella in the sink. The kettle's on the stove;
you'd better have somethin' hot--ginger tea or somethin'. I told you not
to go out such a night as this. Where in the world have you been?”
The minister said he would tell her all about it in the morning. Just
now he thought he had better go up and take off his wet clothes. He
declined the ginger tea, and, after removing his boots, went upstairs to
his room.
Keziah dipped her pen in the ink and went on with her letter.
“I inclose ten dollars,” she wrote. “It is all I can send you now. More
than I ought to afford. Goodness knows why I send anything. You don't
deserve it. But while I live and you do I can't--”
The minister called from the landing.
“Here is my coat,” he said. “The cuffs and lower part of the sleeves are
pretty wet. By the way, the packet came in to-night. They didn't expect
her so soon on account of the fog. There was a passenger aboard whom I
think must be that Nathaniel Hammond you told me of.”
Keziah's pen stopped. The wet coat struck the hall floor with a soft
thump. The tick of the clock sounded loud in the room. A sheet of
wind-driven rain lashed the windows.
“Did you hear?” called the minister. “I said that Nathaniel Hammond,
Captain Eben's son, came on the packet. I didn't meet him, but I'm sure
it was he. Er--Mrs. Coffin, are you there? Do you hear me?”
The housekeeper laid the pen down beside the unfinished letter.
“Yes,” she said, “I hear you. Good night.”
For minutes she sat there, leaning back in her chair and staring at the
wall. Then she rose, went into the hall, picked up the coat, and took it
out into the kitchen, where she hung it on the clotheshorse by the cook
stove. After a while she returned to the table and took up the pen. Her
face in the lamplight looked more tired and grave than ever.
It was a long time before John Ellery fell asleep. He had much to think
of--of the morrow, of the talk his rash visit to the chapel would cause,
of the explanation he must make to Captain Elkanah and the rest. But the
picture that was before his closed eyes as he lay there was neither of
Captain Elkanah nor the parish committee; it was that of a girl, with
dark hair and a slim, graceful figure, standing in a lighted doorway and
peering out into the rain.