FOR midsummer, the next morning was clear and cool. Nathan Porter
rolled the family spring-wagon down to the creek and washed off the
wheels and greased the axles.
“Your pa's getting ready to drive us to church, Cynthia,” Mrs. Porter
adroitly said to the girl as she was removing the dishes from the table
in the diningroom. “I wish you'd go with me. I hate to sit there with
just your pa.”
There was an instant's hesitation visible in Cynthia's sudden pause in
her work and the startled lift of her eyebrows. Then she said:
“All right, mother, if you want me to, I'll go.”
“Well, then, go get out your white muslin and flowered hat. They become
you more than anything you wear.”
Without further words Cynthia left the room, and Mrs. Porter walked out
into the hall and stood in the front door-way.
“Somehow, I imagine,” she mused, “that she was thinking it would be her
last time at our church. I don't know what makes me think so, but she
had exactly that look in her face. I do wish I could go in and tell
mother all about it, but she's too old and childish to act with caution.
I can't go to Nathan, either, for he'd laugh at me; he'd not only do
that, but he'd tell it all over the country and drive Cynthia to
meet Floyd ahead of time. No, no; I must do the best I can with Mr.
Hillhouse's help. He loves her; he'd make her a good, safe husband, too,
while that dare-devil would most likely tire of her in a short time, and
take to drinking and leave her high and dry in some far-off place. No,
Floyd won't do to risk.”
The service was not well attended that morning, owing to a revival
in progress at Darley. Reports of the good music and high religious
excitement had drawn away a goodly number of Hillhouse's parishioners.
But, considering the odd nature of the discourse he had planned, this
was perhaps in the young preacher's favor. Indeed, as he sat in his
high-backed chair behind the little wooden stand, which held a ponderous
open Bible, a glass pitcher of water, and a tumbler, Mrs. Porter, as she
and Cynthia entered and took their usual places, thought he looked as
if he had not slept the preceding night. His skin was yellow, his hair
stood awry, and his eyes had a queer, shifting expression. Had his wily
old ally doubted that he intended to fulfil his promise to publicly
touch on the matter so near to them both, she could do so no longer
after he had risen and stood unconsciously swaying from side to side, as
he made some formal announcements in harsh, rigid tones. Indeed, he had
the appearance of a man who could have talked of only one thing, thought
of only one thing, that to which his whole being was nailed. His subject
was that of the sins of the fathers being visited upon their children,
even to the third and fourth generations. And Mrs. Porter shrank
guiltily as his almost desperate voice rang out in the still room How
was it possible for those around not to suspect--to know--that she had
instigated the sermon and brought her unsuspecting child there to be
swerved by it from the dangerous course she was pursuing? In former
sermons Hillhouse had unfailingly allowed his glance to rest on
Cynthia's face, but on this occasion he looked everywhere but at her.
As he proceeded, he seemed to take on confidence in his theme; his tone
rose high, clear, and firm, and quivered in the sheer audacity of his
aim. He showed, from that lesson, the serious responsibility resting on
each individual--each prospective mother and father. Then, all at once,
it dawned on the congregation that Floyd's misfortune had inspired the
discourse, and each man and woman bent breathlessly forward that
they might not lose a word. The picture was now most clear to their
intelligences. And seeing that they understood, and were sympathetically
following him, Hillhouse swept on, the bit of restraint between his
clinched teeth, to direct, personal reference.
“We can take it home to ourselves, brothers and sisters,” he went on,
passionately. “Even in our own humble, uneventful lives here in the
mountains, out of the great current of worldliness that flows through
the densely populated portions of our land, we have seen a terrible
result of this failure of man to do his duty to his posterity. Right
here in our midst the hand of God has fallen so heavily that the bright
hopes of sterling youth are crushed out completely. There was here among
us a fine specimen of mental and physical manhood, a young soul full of
hope and ambition. There was not a ripple on the calm surface of that
life, not a cloud in the clear sky of its future, when, without
warning, the shadow of God's hand spread over it. The awful past was
unrolled--one man and woman, for selfish, personal desires, were at
the root of it all. Some shallow thinkers claim that there is no hell,
neither spiritual nor material. To convince such individuals I would
point the scornful finger of proof to the agony of that young man. Are
they--that selfish couple--enjoying the bliss of the redeemed and he,
the helpless product of their sin, suffering as you know he must be
suffering? In this case the tangible and visible must establish the
verity of the vague and invisible. They are paying the debt--somewhere,
somehow--you may count on that.” Mrs. Porter, with bated breath, eyed
Cynthia askance. To her astonishment a flush had risen into the girl's
cheeks, and there was in her steady eye something like the thin-spread
tear of deep and glorified emotion, as she sat with tightly clasped
hands, her breast tumultuously heaving. The house was very still, so
still that the rustling of the leaves in the trees near the open windows
now and then swept like the soft sighing of grief-stricken nature
through the room. Hillhouse, a baffled, almost hunted look on his gaunt
face, paused to take a sup of water, and for one instant his eyes met
Cynthia's as he wiped his mouth on his handkerchief and with trembling
hands returned it to his pocket. Mrs. Porter was conscious of the
impression that he had not quite carried the subject to its logical
climax, and was wondering how it had happened, when Hillhouse almost
abruptly closed his discourse. He sat down, as if crushed by the weight
of defeat, and looked steadily and despondently at the floor, while the
congregation stood and sang the doxology. Then he rose and, with hands
out-stretched as stiffly as those of a wired skeleton, he pronounced the
benediction.
As they were turning to leave, Cynthia and her mother faced old Nathan,
who stood waiting for them.
“Hillhouse don't look one bit well to-day,” he observed, as they were
going out. “I'll bet he's been eatin' some o' the fool stuff women an'
gals has been concoctin' to bewitch 'im with. They say the shortest road
to a man's heart is through his stomach--it's the quickest route to a
man's grave, too, I'm here to state to you.”
“Oh, do hush!” Mrs. Porter exclaimed, her mind on something foreign
to Nathan's comment. “You two walk on; I'm going to shake hands with
Brother Hillhouse and ask about his mother.”
She fell back behind the crowd surging through the door, and waited for
the preacher to come down the aisle to her.
“I couldn't see exactly what you were driving at,” she said, extending
her hand. “I never heard finer argument or argument put in better
language than what you said, but it seemed to me you left off
something.”
“I _did_,” he said, desperately. “I was going to end up with the evil
tendencies he had inherited from his parents, and the pitfalls such a
man would lead others into, but I couldn't drive my tongue to it. I had
gone too far in dilating on his wrongs for that, and then I caught sight
of Cynthia's face. I read it. I read through it down into the depths of
her soul. What I was saying was only making her glory in the prospect of
self-sacrifice in his behalf. When I saw that--when I realized that it
will take a miracle of God to snatch her from him, I felt everything
swimming about me. Her flushed face, her sparkling, piercing eyes, drove
me wild. I started in to attack him behind his back and was foiled in
the effort. But I won't give up. I can't lose her--I _can't_, I tell
you! She was made for me. I was made for her, and she would realize it
if this devil's dream would pass.”
Mrs. Porter sighed. “I don't know what to do,” she declared. “If I could
trust him, I'd give in, but I can't. I can't let my only child go off
with any man of his stamp, on those conditions. But I must run on--they
are waiting for me. She must never suspect that this was done for her
benefit.”
It was the afternoon of the day set for the meeting between Cynthia and
Floyd. Mrs. Porter, still carrying her weighty secret, went into town
actuated by nothing but the hope that she might accidentally meet
Hillhouse. He seemed to be on the lookout for her, for he came down the
street from the village square and waited for her to join him near the
hitching-rack and public trough for the watering of horses.
“I was on the way to see you,” she said, looking about her cautiously,
as if averse to being seen in his company.
“In answer to my prayer,” he replied. “I'm suffering great agony, Sister
Porter.”
“Well, you are not any worse off than I am,” she made answer. “She's my
only child.”
He leaned towards her till his face was close to her own. “Something
must be done,” he said. “I'm ready for anything. I can't bear it any
longer. Last night the devil rose in me and conquered me. I was ready to
kill him.”
“And after all those beautiful things”--Mrs. Porter smiled calmly--“that
you said about him in your sermon.”
“The feeling didn't last long,” Hillhouse said, gloomily. “It swept
through me like a storm and left me on my knees praying God to spare
her. Did she make any comment on my sermon?”
“No, but I saw it failed to affect her as we wanted it to. I have kept a
close watch on her. At times she's had the appearance of a woman giving
up all hope, and then again a rebellious look would come in her face,
and she'd move about with a quick step, her head up and a defiant
expression, as if she was telling herself that she had a right to her
happiness, and would have it at any cost.”
“Ah, I guess she loves him,” Hillhouse sighed; “and she is fascinated by
his hellish proposal and the thought that she is sacrificing something
for his sake. I wish I could abuse him, but I can't. I can't blame him
for trying to get her; it is no more than any man would do, any man who
knows what she is.”
“I want to ask you one thing, Brother Hillhouse”--Mrs. Porter was
looking at a row of cottages across the square--“and I ask it as a
member of your church and a woman that don't want to commit unpardonable
sin. So far, I've tried to obey the commandments to the letter. I
want to know if I'd ever be forgiven if I was to descend to downright
deception--lying with my tongue and lying in my actions--that is, I
mean, if, by so doing, I could save my child from this thing?”
Hillhouse avoided her piercing eyes; his own shifted under lowering
brows.
“If you could actually save her?” he said.
“Yes, if I could make her give him up--send him off?”
“I'll answer you this way,” Hillhouse replied.
“If she were in a room and a madman came searching for her with a pistol
and a long knife bent upon killing her, and if he were to ask you, as
you stood at the door, if she were inside, would you say yes?”
“Of course I wouldn't.”
“Well, there's your answer,” said the preacher. “He's a madman--mad
in soul, brain, and body. He is seeking her eternal damnation, and
the damnation of unborn souls. Lie?” He laughed sardonically. “Sister
Porter, I could stand before God and lie that way, and wink at the
angels hovering over the throne.”
“I reckon you are right,” said the woman; “but I wanted to make sure.
And let me tell you something. If I _do_ resort to lying I'll put up a
good one, and I'll back it up by acting that she nor no one else could
see through. Let me alone. Leave it to me. It's my last card, but I feel
like it's going to win. I'm going home now. I can hardly walk, I feel so
weak at the knees. I haven't slept regular since this thing came up. I'm
going crazy--I know I am.”
“Would you mind telling me what you intend to do?” Hillhouse asked,
almost hopefully.
“No, I'm not ready to do that yet, but it will have a powerful effect
on her. The only thing that bothered me was the sin of it, but since
you think I'd have the right I'll throw my whole soul into it. She's so
pure-minded that she won't suspect me.”
“God grant that you succeed,” Hillhouse said, fervently, and he stood as
if rooted to the spot, and watched her till she had disappeared down the
road leading to her home.