It was a curious luncheon party. The host was abstracted, nervous, far
from being his usual bland self. The guest was subdued, silent, uneasy
for no reason at all. The hostess, usually an ever-springing well of
comment and question, had decided upon quiet dignity as the most fitting
expression of sensibilities ignored by the banging of doors.
"I think, Angus," she ventured once, "that you ought to remonstrate with
Mr. McCandless in regard to 'If a man die.' An Easter Anthem is an
Easter Anthem, but after five renderings it is hardly fair to expect the
congregation to behave as if they had never heard it before."
"Quite so," said the minister absently.
"Then may I tell him myself that it is your special request--"
"Certainly not. I wish you would not interfere, Annabel. The choir does
very well. I think I have told you before that your continual desire for
something novel in music has not my sympathy. I am not sure that I
approve of this growing craze for anthems. They seem to me, sometimes,
wholly unconnected with worship. We do not ask for new hymns every
Sunday, nor do we ever become weary of the psalms. Indeed, familiarity
seems often the measure of our affection."
"Net with anthems," firmly. "Anthems are different. Aren't anthems
different, Esther?"
"I have known familiarity to breed something besides affection in the
case of anthems," agreed Esther.
In the ordinary course of things this remark would have aroused her host
into delivering a neat and timely discourse upon the proper relation of
music to the service of the Protestant Church and the tendency of the
present age to unduly exalt the former at the expense of the latter. But
to-day he merely upset the salt and looked things at the innocent
salt-cellar which his conscience, or his cloth, did not allow him
to utter.
Miss Annabel raised her eyebrows at Esther in a significant way,
telegraphing, "What did I tell you?" And Esther signaled back, "You were
right. He is certainly not himself."
Several other topics were introduced with no better result and every one
felt relieved when lunch was over.
"I think," said the Reverend Angus, as they arose, "that it is probably
pleasanter in the garden."
Esther glanced at Miss Annabel. She wanted very much to go home. Yet in
Coombe it was distinctly bad mannered to leave hurriedly, after a meal.
She thought of pleading a headache, but the excuse seemed too
transparent and she could think of nothing better. Miss Annabel was
unresponsive. Her host was already moving toward the door. Now he held
it open for her. There was nothing to do but go. If she were clever she
could keep the conversation in Miss Annabel's hands.
But Miss Annabel's brother had other ideas. "I think," he suggested with
the soft authority which in that house was law, "that as you are taking
Mrs. Miller's class, Annabel, it might be well for you to look over the
Sabbath School lesson. Our guest will excuse you, I know."
"Why, I've hardly seen her at all, Angus."
"There will be time later. I am sure Miss Esther understands."
Esther understood very well and her heart sank. She was probably in for
another scolding. However, as politeness required, she murmured that on
no account would she wish to interfere with the proper religious
instruction of Mrs. Miller's class. Miss Annabel looked rebellious, but
as usual found discretion the better part and contented herself with
another facial telegram to Esther: "Find out what is the matter with
him." And Esther smiled and nodded: "I'll try."
"Perhaps you would like to see the rose bush to which my sister
referred," began the minister nervously as they stepped out upon the
lawn. "It is a very fine rose, but pink, I regret to say, pink. It is
unfortunate that Annabel should dislike pink so much. I think myself
that a pink rose is very pretty. Something a little different from the
red and white varieties."
Esther murmured, "Naturally," and opened her strange eyes widely so
that he could see the mischief which was like a blue flash in the depths
of them. He coloured faintly.
"I fear I am talking nonsense! The fact is that I am thinking of
something else. Something so important that it occupies my mind
completely. That is why, Esther, I wished to speak with you alone."
The girl was thoroughly interested now. She was flattered also. Miss
Annabel had been right. Something was troubling the minister. And she,
Esther, was to be his confidant. To her untroubled, girlish conceit
(girls are very wise!) it seemed natural enough. She had no doubt of
her ability to help him. Therefore her face and her answering "Yes?"
were warmly encouraging.
It is a general belief that a woman always knows, instinctively, when a
man is going to propose to her. She cannot be taken unawares; her
flutter, her surprise, her hesitancy are assumed as being artistically
suitable, but her unpreparedness is never bona fide. If this be the true
psychology of the matter then Esther's case was the exception which
proves the rule. No warning came to her, no intuition. She was still
looking at the minister with that warm expression of impersonal
interest, when, without further preliminaries, he began his halting
avowal of love.
Had the poor pink rose-bush suddenly flamed into crimson she could
scarcely have been more surprised. She caught her breath with the shock
of it! But shocks are quickly over. One adjusts one's self with
incredible swiftness. A moment--and it seemed to Esther that she ought
to have been expecting this. That she ought to have known it all along.
Thousands of trifles mocked at her for her blindness, thousands of
unheeded voices shrieked the truth into her opened ears. She felt
miserably guilty. Not yet had she arrived at the stage when she could
justify her blindness and deafness to herself. Later, she would
understand how custom, the life-long habit of regarding the minister as
a man apart, had helped to dull her perception. Later, common sense
would prove her innocent of any wilful blunder. But just now, in her
first bewilderment, it seemed that nothing could ever excuse that lack
of understanding which had made this declaration possible!
"I love you, Esther! I have loved you for two years." (It was like the
Reverend Angus to refer to the exact period.) "You must have seen it.
This can be no surprise to you. You may blame me in your heart for not
speaking sooner. But you were young. There seemed time enough. Then,
lately, when I saw that you were no longer a child, I decided to speak
as soon as your mother should have returned. But to-day I felt that I
could not wait longer. I must know at once--now! I must hear you say
that you love me. That you will be my wife. You will--Esther?"
His impassioned tones lingered on the name with ecstasy.
The startled girl forced herself to look at him, a look swift as a
swallow's dart, but in it she saw everything--the light on his face--the
love in his eyes! And something else she saw, something of which she did
not know the name but from which, not loving him, she shrank with an
instinctive shiver of revolt. He seemed a different man. The minister,
the teacher, was gone, and in his place stood the lover, the claimer.
Yes--that was it. He claimed her, his glance, his voice--somewhere in
the girl's heart a red spark of anger began to glow.
She tried to speak, but he silenced her by a gesture. "No, do not answer
yet. Although you must have known what I have felt for you, you are
startled by my suddenness, I can see that. I have told you that it was
not my intention to speak so soon. Circumstances have hurried me. I felt
that I must have this settled. That--that episode of last week alone
would have determined me. Things like that must not recur. I must have
the right to advise, to--to protect you. You are so young. You do not
know the world, its wickedness, its incredible vileness." His face was
white with intense inward passion. "With me you will be safe. My God!
to think of you at the mercy of that man--of any man! It stirs a madness
of hate in me. Hate is a sin, I know, but God will understand--it is
born of love, of my love for you."
Again the girl tried to force some words from her trembling lips. And
again he stopped her.
"Do not speak yet. I apologise for my violence. Forgive it. We need not
refer to this aspect of the matter again. Let us dwell only upon the
sweeter idea of our love--for you do love me? You will love me--Esther?"
But the time for speech had gone. To her own intense surprise and to the
minister's consternation, Esther burst into tears.
She was frightened, angry, stung with pity and a kind of horror. She
felt herself honoured and insulted at the same time; and with this
strange medley of emotions was a consciousness of youth and inexperience
very different from the calm, untried confidence of a few
minutes before.
"Forgive me, forgive me!" pleaded the conscience stricken suitor. "I
have been too sudden! I should have prepared you. I should have allowed
you to see more plainly." With a lover's first, fond air of possession
he attempted to take her hand.
"Don't!" The word was sharp as a pistol shot. Esther's tears were
suddenly stayed. Furtively she slipped the hand he had touched behind
her. With the other she felt for her handkerchief and frankly wiped
her eyes.
"You startled me," she explained presently. "And I am so sorry, so very
sorry! I never dreamed that you thought of me at all--in that way, any
more than I have thought of you. You honour me very much. But it is
impossible. Quite, quite impossible."
"You mean my position here, as minister? Believe me, I have thought of
all that. There may be difficulties but we will conquer them together.
Nothing is impossible if you love me, dear."
"Oh!" She turned wide blue eyes upon him. "That is just it. I do not
love you."
The blow fell swift, unerring, dealt by the mercilessly honest hand of
youth. Esther's eyes were quite dry now. Her nervousness was passing.
Regret and pity were merged in one overpowering, instinctive desire: the
desire to show him beyond all manner of doubt that she repudiated that
possessive touch upon her hand. "I could not ever possibly marry you,"
she said, as calmly as if she had been accustomed to dismissing suitors
all her life.
They were still standing by the rose-bush whose desperate fate it was to
produce pink roses. With incredulous dismay, the minister saw her turn
from him and take a step toward the house.
She had refused him! She was leaving him! At any moment Annabel might
finish her Sunday School lesson and come out upon the lawn--all his
self-possession vanished like a puff of smoke.
"Esther!" he cried, "Esther! wait. Give me a moment."
She paused, but did not turn.
"I think there is nothing more to say--I am very sorry."
Sorry! She was sorry. This young girl upon whom he had set his desire,
of whom he had felt so sure, to whom his love should have come as a
crown, was sorry. King Cophetua, flouted by the beggar maid, could not
have been more astonished, more deeply humiliated!
But the greater wound was not to his pride. At any cost to his dignity
and self-respect he could not let her go like this. His ministerial
manner fell away, his readiness deserted him. In a moment he became all
lover, pleading, entreating, with the one great abandon of his life,
with the stammering eloquence of unspeakable desire!
Slowly the girl turned to him. He saw her pure profile, then the full
charm of her changing face. The blue eyes, widely open, were darker,
lovelier than ever--Surely there was softening in their depths....
"Es--ther, Es--ther!" Miss Annabel's voice broke upon the tense moment
with cheerful insistence, and Miss Annabel herself appeared at the turn
of the walk, waving a slip of paper. She saw them at once.
"You're wanted at home, Esther. Your mother's come back. To-day! Think
of that! On the noon train. In face of the whole town. And all she said
when Elder MacTavish met her coming up from the station was that she had
forgotten it was Sunday. Fancy!"