"Behold, we know not anything!
I can but trust that good shall fall
At last--far off--at last, to all;
And every winter change to spring."
"O Wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?"
Mr. Fletcher arrived in Jamestown in due time and was met at the
station by Mrs. Deans. Hardly had they started upon their drive to
Mrs. Deans' before Mr. Fletcher inquired about Myron Holder. Mrs.
Deans launched forth eloquently, and Mr. Fletcher was soon in
possession of the same facts and fancies concerning Myron Holder as
Philip Hardman had been deluged with; but the Reverend Fletcher viewed
the recital differently. He regarded Mrs. Deans' indignation as being
the natural feeling of a good woman toward a bad one, and saw in this
drawing away of the skirts nothing derogatory to Mrs. Deans' womanhood.
The church was filled that evening, and many eyes watched the door
eagerly, for the probable appearance of Myron Holder had been a much
discussed theme that day. Many of them had missed seeing her the night
before, but there certainly was no danger that the like would occur
again.
The Reverend Mr. Fletcher entered with his hostess, and, like the
clever church diplomat that he was, spoke to the class-leaders and the
elect, and smiled benignly but condescendingly upon the lesser lights,
and then proceeded, without further parley, to the platform. He was a
hard-faced man, with hawk-like features, coarsened by wind and weather;
keen, hard eyes, wherein passion had left its light but not its warmth;
strong, square jaws, that indicated at once the tenacity and
stubbornness of the man. The Reverend Fletcher was indeed a good
specimen of the evangelist who goes forth with the Sword of the Smiter
rather than the Balm of the Healer. There was no fear of his beguiling
any one by false promises of perilous peace.
When he had taken his position behind the reading-desk, he too began to
watch the door. From Mrs. Deans' description of Myron Holder he had
formed an idea of her appearance. He looked to see some flaunting,
rustic beauty, bold of eye, brazen of deportment, gayly dressed
perhaps, and defiant of bearing.
It lacked but a moment or two of the time for service when Myron Holder
entered the church. She paused a moment in the doorway, looking about
her for an inconspicuous seat. There was one but a step from the
doorway; she sank into it.
The Reverend Fletcher observed her pale face shine, star-like, for a
moment against the darkness of the unlighted porch ere she stepped
within the church. He decided instantly that this was indeed one of
the elect, and gave no further thought to her. His whole attention was
absorbed in looking for the sinner for whose soul he was to do battle.
He thirsted for the fray, but the minutes passed and no one else
entered, so he took up his discourse, and soon had his congregation in
a spiritual tumult. Ejaculations came thick and fast from his hearers,
and there were as many weeping women as any preacher could desire; but
the heart of the Reverend Fletcher was hot within him against She, the
godless one, who sat at home whilst the warnings and threatenings
prepared for her were poured into the ears of every one else in the
village.
Meantime Myron sat half-dazed. Truly this was another doctrine than
the one she had listened to the night before. Where, amid all these
words, was the promise of the pitying Christ? She was out and away the
moment Mr. Fletcher uttered his last Amen. As he stood mopping the
perspiration from his brow she was speeding through the silent street,
and by the time the church was empty she had flung herself, sobbing, on
her bed.
When the Reverend Mr. Fletcher discovered that, after all, Myron Holder
had been in the church, he was decidedly disgusted. He always liked
aiming his remarks at some particular person, and always felt as though
he were firing blank cartridges when he could not see the target.
Therefore he was more than annoyed to find that he had so scattered his
fire when he might have taken accurate aim at Myron. He remarked to
Mrs. Deans, with some irascibility, that her description of Myron
Holder had been somewhat misleading.
"Oh, she's deep," said Mrs. Deans; "and that sly there's no being up to
her. Always goin' about as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth; but
as for wickedness and genuine, inborn badness! Why, Brother Fletcher,
it's my belief and solemn opinion that she was jest makin' a set at
Brother Hardman with them eyes of her'n. I'm glad, Brother Fletcher,
that Brother Hardman was called away. He was very young, Brother
Hardman was--very."
The Reverend Mr. Fletcher, recalling Hardman's words at the depot,
decided that Myron was a dangerous creature--a sly serpent, evidently,
in a dove's disguise. The Reverend Fletcher girded his loins to the
fray, and was fain to look well to his breastplate of righteousness and
to give thanks that it had fallen to his fate to emulate Saint Anthony.
Mrs. White and Mrs. Wilson were invited to take tea "along with the
minister" next day, and Mrs. Wilson played her role of sorrowing mother
to perfection. The two other ladies paid her the delicate compliment
of looking fixedly at her for a moment, then shaking their heads
lugubriously and exchanging a meaning glance with each other. When the
cockles of their hearts were warmed by the Japan tea, they began making
allusions to "dispensations," and "afflictions," and "merciful
Providences" (terms which in the vocabulary of the sanctified seem to
mean the same thing); and Mrs. Wilson began making remarks about
"troubles" which were not very intelligible, owing to her beginning
them with a sniff and ending in a snivel.
All this fired the zeal of the preacher to no small degree. He
resolved they should see the strength of the spiritual sword when
wielded by his hands. He assured them that the stubborn neck of the
offender should be bowed beneath the Scriptural yoke; that the flinty
heart of the sinner should be broken, and that the cause of all this
trouble and scandal should be made to do penance.
These cheerful predictions filled the hearts of his hearers with much
joy, and they parted in a little flutter of excitement to meet again at
the church, where they anticipated, as Mrs. White expressed it, that
"Brother Fletcher would show that Myron Holder up in her true colors."
That night Myron sat again in that far-back seat, and again the
spiritual thunders of the Reverend Fletcher spent themselves over her
head. In all his harangue there was no word to touch her soul.
Death--death--death--was the burden of it all. Now death is a bogy to
fright happy children with, not weary women. Life had been so bitter
to this woman that its antithesis could not be aught but alluring.
* * * * * *
It was the last night of the Reverend Fletcher's ministration in
Jamestown. For three nights he had fired volleys of fire and brimstone
at Myron Holder; for three nights she had sat patient, pale,
unmoved--her eyes growing wearier and wearier, her face sadder and
sadder, as her hope of finding peace grew less and less. It was such a
vague hope, not concerned with repentance of sin at all, but wholly
comprehended in an ineffable longing for the fabled rest of Philip
Hardman's preaching. She had heard no further word of it, and she was
beginning to doubt if she had heard aright that night when the
sweetness of the words had left a tiny germ of hope behind.
The Reverend Mr. Fletcher was also sorely troubled. His reputation as
a revivalist was at stake. The eyes of the village were upon him. It
is true that he had had a great measure of success. Every night the
anxious-seat had been filled with weeping women. Ossie Annie Abbie
Maria White had waxed fairly hysterical as she avowed her sins; Ann
Lemon had howled forth a lengthy lamentation of her wickedness; Sol
Disney had professed conversion, after "resisting the workings of the
spirit within him for twenty-seven years," as he testified. But all
this garnered grain was but as tares in the sight of the Reverend
Fletcher because of that one stubborn thistle that refused to bow its
head to the Scriptural sickle.
But the Reverend Fletcher was a strategist as well as a fighter. He
recalled what Mrs. Deans had said regarding Myron's inordinate love for
her child, and, remembering, resolved to win Myron Holder's soul
despite herself.
With this resolution strong within him, he took his place for the last
time before a Jamestown audience. It ought to have been very
gratifying to the ministerial eye--that audience--for all the village
was there. All--save with one notable exception. Clem Humphries'
place before Mrs. Deans' was vacant, and never again would he vex that
worthy woman's soul by his presence in the Jamestown Tabernacle. Clem
had left Jamestown. The night before this last meeting Clem, willing
to sustain his role of a religious individual, rose in his place and in
sepulchral tones asked for the prayers of the congregation. It is
probable that such a request was never so promptly granted before, for
hardly had he resumed his seat before Ann Lemon was upon her feet.
Always voluble, Ann had no difficulty in finding words wherewith to
address the Lord, which she proceeded to do upon Clem's behalf, as
follows: "O Lord," she commenced. "save this sinful man who seeks Thy
aid! You know what he is, O Lord! You know his pretences, his
hypocrisy, his sinfulness; but save him, for You can! You know what a
sinful man he is, far beyond any hope of good in this world; but, oh,
save him! You know he drinks, putting an enemy into his mouth to steal
away his soul! You know he lies, and is lazy, and is a
Sabbath-breaker, spending in sinful sport the hours when he should
worship Thee! You know he makes his religion just a cloak for his
deceit! You know all this, for nothing is hid from Thee! You know he
oppressed the widow all last winter; but save him, Lord, for You can!
Save him now, whilst he seeks Thy aid! You know he did it for his own
ends, to make people believe in his goodness; but save him now--now, O
Lord, when he can't get out! Save him in spite of himself--make him
indeed one of Your sheep!"
Ann sat down, amid a chorus of Amens, and Clem was eagerly besought to
testify; but Clem was literally dumb with rage, and sat mute whilst the
Reverend Fletcher prayed that the "new-found brother might be given the
gift of holy speech" that he might "show forth the mercy he had found,"
concluding by giving thanks for the conversion of this great sinner.
And this to a man who had been so long a favored one with the godly in
the land! It was too much. Clem trembled with rage. Ann's life would
hardly have been safe at that moment could Clem have laid hands on her.
As it was, she did not fall in his way, and old Clem took French leave
of Jamestown that night, shaking the dust from off his feet as a
testimony against it. He resolved as he left the village never again
to try to keep up with the religious folk. Clem decided they made the
place too hot for him.
The Reverend Fletcher rose and began his address. Robbed of its
exuberance of expression it was an effective one. He concluded with an
impassioned appeal to his hearers to accept the truth.
"Is there," he said, "none among you to whom there appears a little,
lonely grave, whose whispering grasses plead to you to think of the
little one buried there? Wandering alone in Heaven, seeking there the
love it had on earth, already wearied by its long waiting, already
faltering as it searches for the loved face, already heart-sick as it
listens to the angels singing the names of the saved on earth--but
never, never hears that loved name in the heavenly roll-call? Is there
none among you who has an empty heart? Is there none among you who
feels, in memory only, the loving touch of baby fingers? Is there none
among you who, in dreams only, hears a baby voice cry 'Mother--Mother'?
If there is such a mother, will she sit stubbornly silent here whilst
her lonely child--orphaned even in Heaven because of her
hard-heartedness--searches ever on and on for the mother that will not
come to him?"
Mr. Fletcher paused. There was breathless silence for a moment, then
there was a stir far back near the door. The congregation moved,
looked round, and murmured. A woman's figure came swiftly down the
aisle, reached the clear space before the platform--stood--wavered.
The next moment Myron Holder had fallen to the floor, prostrate as a
novice beneath the pall.
Myron Holder and the Reverend Fletcher stood alone in the empty church.
Mrs. Deans waited impatiently outside. She had never dreamed Mr.
Fletcher would treat her thus! The noise of the departing congregation
was dying away, and Mr. Fletcher was carrying out a stern resolution he
had made. He was talking to Myron Holder of her sin and its enormity;
upbraiding her for the past, and cautioning her against the future.
She listened meekly, admitting her sin and saying no single word in
palliation of it. He was giving her stern advice regarding her
attitude towards the rest of the village, when she interrupted him for
the first time.
"I am leaving Jamestown to-morrow," she said.
"What?" said Mr. Fletcher.
"I am leaving Jamestown to-morrow,"
The Reverend Fletcher's brow grew stern.
"Is that how you are going to evidence the new mercy you have found--by
going out into the world to deceive people?"
"I will deceive no one," she said. "I can do nothing here. In winter
I shall have to go on the township again. I must go to earn my living."
"Evil will come of it. Your influence will not be for good. You will
spread a moral pestilence. Once I took a long journey in the cars; the
car was very dirty, and there was much soot and smoke, and the black
coat I wore absorbed the dust and grime. Well, it lost nothing of its
good appearance; it was a black coat, like other black coats--to look
at. But listen! One day soon after, in a crowded train, I sat next a
woman with a white dress on. What was the result? Her dress was
smirched and darkened where her sleeve touched mine. So it was always.
That coat defiled everything it touched, until I put it from me. It
was a good coat, and I could ill afford to do it, but still less could
I afford to pollute whatever I touched. It is thus with you. Out of
evil, evil will come. We do not gather figs of thistles. Your life
has been evil; your heart is bad. Can good emanate from this? You
will go forth to the world in fair seeming, no trace of your sin
visible to the eye, and you will spread the contagion of your sin.
Listen to me, Myron Holder. Do not dare go forth in silence! Do not
dare conceal your real nature! Do not dare! Say to each man and woman
with whom you have more than the most brief association, 'Lo, I am one
who has sinned; I have been a mother but not a wife!'"
Myron gazed at him with horror-wide eyes. His were implacable.
"Am I so dreadful?" she said. "Oh, must I proclaim my shame aloud?"
"You must," he said. "What! Would you deny your child on earth and
hope to meet him in Heaven?"
She let fall her face in her hands. There was silence for a space,
then she raised her head.
"Very well," she said, "I will do as you say."
She turned from his side, and made her way down the church. A strange
and new distinction of manner seemed to have enveloped her--a dignity
of absolute isolation. She passed through the door, and for the last
time Mrs. Deans' eyes looked into hers. That steady gaze lasted some
seconds, and then Myron Holder went out into the night.
But in that last meeting of eyes Myron Holder's were not the ones that
faltered. As Cain went forth with his curse, did his eyes fall before
any living face? He was subject only to fear of his fate. Myron
Holder feared only the years she had to live.
That night, in her cottage, Myron Holder sat sewing, fashioning a tiny
bag out of one of My's misshapen aprons. When completed, she put
something carefully in it and hung it round her neck, concealing it
beneath her gown. She folded up her few articles of clean clothing and
tied them up, with My's little tin mug, into a neat parcel. She took a
last look around the silent rooms, and then went out, closing the door
gently behind her, as if heedful not to awaken one who slept.
All along the little path voices seemed to bear her company: the voices
of her father, her grandmother, Homer's strong, tender tones, and My's
uncertain voice, and each awoke a loving echo in her heart--yes, even
the strident voice of her grandmother. They each and all whispered
"Good-bye--Good-bye," save the little child's: that was inarticulate,
and babbled but of childish love and confidence.
She made her way along the road she had trodden so many times in
anguish. She reached the graveyard, and there held her last vigil by
the side of My's grave.
The stars were yet in the sky--the mysterious stars of morning
skies--when she rose to her feet. She went to each of the other graves
that her heart held, and then came back to this one, the newest and
smallest of the four. She looked down upon it with the pain of
childbirth in her eyes, then up to the "mindful stars." She turned
away with a prayer upon her lips--the same in which was uttered her
agony in the cottage; the same prayer that had faltered from her lips
in the church--not "Lord--Lord," but "My--My!"
So Myron Holder left Jamestown, and with her we leave it also. There
is much yet that might be told of the place--of the strange death that
befell Bing White; of the marriage of Gamaliel Deans to Liz, the bound
girl; of the penance of pain that was meted out to Mrs. Deans for the
evil she had wrought; of how Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were turned out of
their farm by those of their children who had so pitied them whilst
Homer lived; of how, after all, the old ragman found a fortune in rags,
though not in the way he had dreamed of; of how the new church was
built, and of how the old Holder cottage still stands, a ruin amid its
garden, peopled only by sparrows; of how a new railway runs through the
school playground, and banishes the buttercups by its cinders to the
other side of the broken-down fence. There they run riot, having
spread even up to the doorstep of the old cottage, where they cluster
about the roots of the hopvines.
There have been many changes in Jamestown--great factories disfigure
the margin of the lake, defile the streams with their refuse, and
befoul the atmosphere with their smoke. A long row of workmen's
cottages, depressingly alike in gable and window, has crowded the Black
Horse Inn out of existence. Its old bricks pave the paths over which
the mill-hands go to work; the last vestige of its violets has vanished.
The hearts of the Jamestown women, however, have not changed. The same
merciless virtue that hounded Myron Holder pursues the poor factory
girl who falters on her way. The same pointing fingers sting her soul.
The same condemnation, the same cruelty, the same scorn, greet her as
were meted out to Myron Holder.
In the olden days it was the vestal virgins, charged with keeping
alight the fires that burned upon the altars sacred to home, that
doomed the fallen gladiator to death; their inflexible gesture
negatived the pleading of the upraised hand. There is no single
instance given where they exercised the power of pardon vested in them.
And to-day the verdict upon the fallen comes from women also; and is
there any record of pardons?
But, O women, think well before you utter a harsh judgment! Your
verdict is the more sacred by virtue of being pronounced upon your own
sex, for woman is more nearly allied to woman than man to man. Each
woman is linked to her sister women by the indissoluble bond of common
pain. "For men must work and women must weep" may have its exceptions
as to men who, by favoring fortune or a kindly fate, may escape their
heritage of labor; but did a woman ever elude her birthright of tears?
It rests with women whether the bitter cup these unhappy ones drink be
brimmed to the lip or not.
Ah, well! there are many Jamestowns, and many women therein. "By their
works ye shall know them."
To the Jamestown women we have known through their treatment of Myron
Holder we say farewell gladly, only asking them--
"HAVE YE DONE WELL? They moulder flesh and bone,
Who might have made this life's envenomed dream
A sweeter draught than ye shall ever taste, I deem."