They had supper at six o'clock in the big dining-room. The sun was not
yet down, and through the open windows and door John looked out on a
small but orderly arranged flower-garden upon which the slanting rays of
the sun rested. Whaley sat at the head of the table, his wife at the
foot. Tilly was not in sight. She was in the adjoining kitchen, and as
he sat with his wrinkled hands crossed over his down-turned plate, her
father suddenly called out to her.
"Tilly," he cried, "come set down till the blessing is asked, and then
you can bring the things in."
Her face flushed as from the heat of the stove, the girl came in and
slipped demurely into a chair opposite John and next to Cavanaugh. John
had never gone through such an ordeal before, and he felt awkward. He
noticed that all the others had lowered their heads, and he did
likewise, though he had a certain rebellious feeling against it.
"I don't know what you have been accustomed to," Whaley suddenly said,
looking at Cavanaugh, "but I have always held, as a principle, that the
head of a house ought to ask the blessing on it; so you will understand,
sir, that in failing to call on you I mean no disrespect."
"Oh, not at all," the contractor mumbled. "I think you are right about
that. I always do it at home. Of course, if there is an ordained
minister on hand, I ask him, but otherwise I don't."
"Well, I don't even in that case," Whaley answered, crustily. "I've
always made it a rule, and I stick to it." Then he cleared his throat,
lowered his head again, and prayed aloud at some length. John could not
have recalled afterward what it was that he had said, for the most of
the words used were unusual and high-sounding.
The prayer was no sooner ended than Tilly rose and hastened from the
room. She came back almost instantly with a great platter of fried ham
and eggs and a plate of steaming biscuits, and began to pass them
around.
"What is the matter with your hand, Tilly?" her mother asked, and John,
who was helping himself from the dish the girl was offering him, noted
that a red welt lay across the back of one of her small hands.
"I burnt it getting the biscuits out," Tilly answered, almost beneath
her breath.
"How foolish!" her mother retorted. "You are getting more and more
careless. Bring in the coffee next. I want to be pouring it out. Most
folks like to start a meal that way."
Tilly disappeared and returned with the coffee-pot. Somehow John, as he
ate his supper, found himself thinking of the painful burn on Tilly's
hand, and was oblivious of the conversation regarding religious matters
between Cavanaugh and Whaley and his wife.
"Now, come set down and eat your supper," Mrs. Whaley said to her
daughter, and Tilly took the chair she had occupied while grace was
being said. She kept her eyes downcast, and John noticed her long,
slightly curled lashes as they rested on her flushed cheeks and her
pretty, tapering hands. She said nothing during the entire meal.
When supper was over, Whaley led the two men into the parlor and lighted
an oil-lamp which stood on the mantel-piece, for it was growing dark.
They had seated themselves when Whaley rose and took a song-book from
the cottage organ and extended it to Cavanaugh.
"Have you got this new book of revival hymns down your way?" he
inquired.
"I don't think so," the contractor answered, inspecting it.
"Well, it is by all odds the best all-round collection I've ever run
across," Whaley said. "Tilly plays all of 'em pretty well, and we have a
regular song-service here whenever we feel like it. Do you sing,
Mr.--Mr. Trott?"
"No, sir," John replied. "I have no turn that way."
"Well, maybe you'll get the hang of it while you are here," Whaley
smiled coldly. "I don't believe there is any way in the world that a man
can get to God quicker, straighter, or closer than in sacred song. I've
seen a congregation stand out against the finest appeal ever made from
the stand, and the minute some good singer started a rousing hymn they
were all ablaze, like soldiers following fife and drum." Herewith Whaley
went to the door and called out:
"Amelia, let the dishes rest and you and Tilly come in. We want some
music."
"Good! Good!" Cavanaugh chimed in, rubbing his hands. "We are in luck,
John. If there is anything on earth I like after a hearty meal it is
hymn-singing. It takes me back to the good old camp-meeting days when
everybody, young and old, sang, and even shouted when the spirit was on
them."
Tilly and her mother came in. The girl went to the organ on which her
father was placing the lamp, and sat on the stool. The light fell on her
face and John, sitting against the wall on her right, had a full view of
it and her graceful figure. Her father had opened the song-book and
placed it on the music-rack. Her slender fingers rested on the yellow
keys; the red welt on her hand showed plainly, and John wondered if it
pained her much. There was no way of deciding, for she showed no sign of
suffering. She began to pump the organ with her little feet. She drew
out the stops and began to play. She did it badly, but there were no
expert musical critics in the room. Whaley and his wife stood behind her
and both of them sang loudly. Cavanaugh had never heard the song, and so
he did not take active part, though John saw him beating time with his
finger and now and then contributing a suitable bass note. Cavanaugh was
delighted with the hymn.
"Why don't you join in, little girl?" he asked, gently, as he beamed on
Tilly.
"I can't sing and play at the same time," she explained, modestly,
catching John's attentive stare and avoiding it, her brown lashes
flickering.
They sang some old familiar hymns now, and all three of the singers
joined in together.
"I tell you we make a good trio," Whaley exulted. "You've got a roaring
bass, Brother Cavanaugh. We'll surprise the natives some night at
prayer-meeting. We'll set to one side like and spring it on 'em all at
once."
John felt like an alien in the religious and musical atmosphere and was
somewhat irritated by the announcement later from Whaley that he always
had a chapter read from the Bible and a prayer before going to bed, and,
as he believed in retiring early, he suggested that they have the
service over with. Accordingly, he removed the lamp from the organ to
the table, and from the sitting-room brought a big family Bible. A
further surprise was in store for John, for Whaley placed a chair under
the lamplight and called on his daughter to sit in it. He smiled coldly
as she obeyed and opened the Bible. "You may think it odd,
Brother--er--Cavanaugh--you've got a hard name to remember, sir. I say,
you may think it odd for me to call on my daughter to read out loud this
way. I admit it isn't the general custom, but, the truth is, I
discovered that she'd got the habit of not listening to me while I was
reading, or commenting, either. So I made up my mind that I'd have her
do the reading herself. It has worked pretty well. She is in my
Bible-class, and now answers as many questions right as any of the rest,
no matter the age or the education."
Tilly was blushing as she lowered her head over the big tome with its
brass corners and clasps, and John was sorry for her. A storm of rage
against her father ran through him. This was dispelled quickly, however,
for when the girl began to read in her clear and sweetly modulated voice
he sat transfixed by the sheer charm and music of the delivery. Her neck
was bare, and he saw her white throat throbbing like that of a warbling
bird. He did not grasp the full sense of what she read, for some of the
words were unusual to him. Had she been reading in a foreign tongue, it
would have been no more marvelous to him. Her flush had died down; her
eyes rested unperturbed on the page; one little hand curved around a
corner of the big book; the fingers of its mate held a leaf ready to be
turned. The lamplight fell into the brown mass of hair that crowned her
well-poised head like a halo. Her long lashes seemed mystic films
through which he glimpsed her eyes. Looking across the room, he saw
Cavanaugh, his rough fingers interlocked over his knee, staring steadily
at the reader. Was it imagination or were the old man's eyes actually
moist? They seemed to glitter in the light.
Tilly finished the chapter and slowly closed the book, fastening the
clasps carefully. She raised her eyes to John's face and quickly, almost
guiltily, looked away. Her father had risen and stood holding the back
part of his chair with his two hands.
"Now we'll kneel down and pray," he said. "Brother--er--er--Cavanaugh, I
don't know what your habit or turn is, but I'm going to ask you to lead
if you feel so inclined."
Cavanaugh was rising. "I make a poor out," he said, "but I'll do my
best. I--I don't often refuse when called on." He was looking at John
almost appealingly. "I--I regard it as a duty to--to my religion and
membership."
The strange, alien feeling swept over John again. He had never heard his
jovial associate pray, though he had been told that Cavanaugh did so now
and then; besides, John felt as if he were being personally imposed
upon. He was not religious; he had never even been to church, and here
he was expected to kneel down with the others. Whaley and his wife knelt
side by side, the worn bottoms of their coarse shoes standing steadily,
their heels upward. As John knelt he felt the uneven planks of the floor
press into his knees unpleasantly, and he moved them for a more
comfortable spot. He had an impulse to laugh over his own predicament,
but checked it, for, glancing to his right, he saw Tilly bent over her
crude split-bottom chair like a wilted human flower. She looked so weary
and so utterly helpless, and yet so brave and patient. As he feasted on
her sweet profile he wondered if she, like himself, were thinking of
other things than the ceremony at hand. He could not decide. Surely, he
thought, she could not be so silly, with that broad brow and those
discerning eyes, as to believe that there was an invisible being away
off somewhere who was now listening to what Cavanaugh was saying in his
faltering, singsong tone. Somehow he expected absolute truthfulness to
be found in the girl. As for the others, they knew what they claimed was
untrue. They--even Cavanaugh--were hypocrites, and in their secret souls
they knew it.
Cavanaugh's prayer was labored--it did not flow as from the tongue of a
man who loves the sound of his own mouthing--and it was soon ended.
Whaley's smug omission of any comment on it showed the farmer's estimate
of its value or lack of value in any religious campaign.
Now that they were all standing, John found himself near Tilly. He felt
that he was expected to say something, for she had raised a dubious
glance to his face, but his tongue was tied. How could he speak there
under such circumstances when he had never met a girl of her sort on any
terms of social equality? He grew hot from head to foot. In kneeling his
trousers had caught a white thread from the floor. He saw it and bent to
remove it. It was too delicate for his thick, brick-worn fingers to
grasp, and he stood awkwardly trying, now to lift it, again to brush it
off. He failed, and then he forgot and swore softly. Tilly may not have
heard the oath, but something excited her mirth and she smiled--smiled
straight into his eyes. He smiled in return, for he had never seen such
a smile as hers before. In rippling streams of delight it seemed to go
through his whole being. He saw her pretty hand start down toward the
thread and then check itself as she noticed her mother looking at her.
It was as if she had started to remove the thread herself and decided
that the act would invoke criticism from her elders as a thing too
forward for a girl to do.
With a laugh that was bold now in its sheer merriment John took out his
pocket-knife, opened the blade, and managed to pick up the thread.
"Well, I reckon you are both tired and we are early to bed and early to
rise here," Whaley was saying. "You both know the way up-stairs."
There were no formal good-nights exchanged. The Whaleys withdrew to
their rooms on the ground floor and John and Cavanaugh went up the
stairs. John thought Cavanaugh would go straight into his room, but he
followed him into his and helped him find and light his lamp.
"I want to tell you something, my boy," he began, his eyes shifting back
and forth from John's face to the jagged flame of the small lamp. "I
want to get something out of me and be done with it. I made a regular
fool of myself there to-night."
"I don't understand," John said, in surprise.
"Well, I did," Cavanaugh went on, flushed, and in a voice that shook a
little. "That prayer of mine was the worst mixed-up mess I ever got off.
You see, I never have talked much religion to you boys down home, and as
far as I know none of you ever heard me pray out loud in public. Well,
I--somehow when I got down to-night I just got to thinking about what
_you_ thought--you see, I've heard you sneer at the belief I hold in
common with many others, and somehow to-night--well, I found that I was
thinking more about what you thought of me than what I was prepared to
say, and so I balled it all up. I can do first-rate in meeting at home,
but I slid from it to-night. Why, I almost heard Brother Whaley grunt
when I suddenly forgot what I started to say and switched off to
something else. Oh, I made a fool of myself! Now, really didn't you
think so?"
"I didn't hear what you were saying," John answered. "I wouldn't care if
I was you."
"Well, I _do_ care," Cavanaugh muttered. "If ever a man insulted his
God, I did mine to-night. I was reeling off a lot o' stuff, but not one
word of it was from the heart, and a prayer that don't come from the
heart ain't worth shucks. Mine wasn't much more than a song and dance
before the Throne, and I'm ashamed of it."
"I wouldn't care," John repeated, still absently.
"Well, I don't know as I do care much about what that old hard-shell
codger, or his wife that is just like him, thinks, but I do for that
little girl. My Lord! ain't she sweet?"
John stared straight and warmly, but said nothing. He was conscious of
the intensest interest and that he was trying not to show it.
Cavanaugh stood slowly shaking his head in the negative way that implies
affirmation. "Yes, yes, she is a wonderful, wonderful little trick.
While she was reading there to-night I seemed to be listening to the
voice of an angel that had just come from behind the clouds. I was
shedding tears of joy from every pore of my old body. I could have taken
her in my arms and cried my heart out. That is why I wish I could have
done better in my prayer. What she read was from her soul. '_The Lord is
my shepherd; I shall not want!_' I'll never to my dying day forget them
words, and the sweet twist she gave to them. I never had a child, John,
and if I could have had one like her, I--I-- And just think of it! They
make her work like a slave, even with her little hand blistered like it
was to-night! Old Whaley thinks he walks side by side with God in all
his rules and regulations, but his child is one of God's own glories,
and don't you forget it."
Turning suddenly, as if overcome with emotion, Cavanaugh stalked out
through the door and crossed the passage into his own room. As John
undressed he heard the old man's heavy tread on the floor. A window was
raised. There was sudden silence. Cavanaugh was looking out into the
starlight.
John was tired, but he remained awake till near midnight. Fancies filled
his mind which he had never had before. Why did he think so often of the
bride and bridegroom he had seen on the train that morning?
"It is ahead of you, too, my boy," Cavanaugh's words rang in his ears.
Could such a thing be for him, really for him? How could it be? He had
given no thought to women. He had never dreamed of marriage, but
to-night the sheer idea of it was fairly tearing his being to shreds,
and the flame of the impulse had risen in the face of a girl--a poor,
abused, misunderstood girl. The world lay before him. He would rise in
his trade, and earn money which he would lavish on the little filial
slave he already adored.
He slept and dreamed that he heard Cavanaugh saying: "It is the cottage
of delight, my boy, and it is for you and her--for you and her. Don't
forget, for you and her!"