CHAPTER XI.
The fragrant pink arbutus had replaced the snow-wreaths upon the hillsides, the downy whorls of the first fern fronds were pushing through the dark-brown leaves, the fragile hepaticas had opened their sweet eyes wide, when one morning Sidney took the sloping path which led up the hill overlooking Dole.
His face was pale and drawn, his grey eyes half distraught, his slender, nervous hands clinched as if to hold fast to some strand of hope, some last remnant of courage, some crumb of consolation for that moment when his soul, utterly bereft, should cry aloud in desolation.
Sidney Martin preached to his people sweet and wholesome sermons, instinct with the hopefulness and charity of one who believes that, “all things work together for good,” and that “the mute beyond is just,” but in his own soul was chaos.
Always sensible of his personal responsibility towards his fellows, he had now become almost morbid upon the subject.
The old workman had known Sidney better than Sidney had known himself, and his prophecies were being fulfilled.
Happy as Sidney was in his husbandhood, yet the possession of Vashti was not a narcotic strong enough to stupefy his keen spiritual nature.
Every Sunday before he entered the pulpit he endured a Gethsemane; every time he quitted it he sought the faces of his people yearningly, pitiably, eager to be assured that his words had comforted them.
He spent all his time thinking of and for them, and he had won closer to their hearts than he guessed. They gave him confidences which had been withheld from their fellows for years, and thus let in to the closed chambers in their humble lives, he was able to justify himself to Vashti for the very lenient way in which he looked upon their lapses. He sometimes wondered that their common experiences of poverty and effort did not make them more considerate in their judgments upon each other. But they found in him always a merciful judge. He visited their homes, he knew their hopes and fears, he appreciated the pathos of their narrow ambitions, at which a less great-hearted man might have laughed.
He went into the little school-house frequently, and strove in simple words to awaken the children to the beauty about them, to the possibilities of life.He had great hopes of the children. Already he had singled out several whom he thought might make scholars. He promised himself that they should be given the opportunity.
He had been going to the school that morning when a little incident occurred which awakened all his most poignant doubts of himself, and the righteousness of his ministry.
Passing by the school-playground, he had seen some evil words chalked up in a school-boy hand upon the board fence. It was like a blow in the face to Sidney—so eager to instil the doctrines of sweetness and light into these children. Why, O why had that boyish hand traced the symbols to form that evil idea? It was as if a clear spring should suddenly cast up mud instead of water.
Sidney effaced the words, but turned away from the school. The whole morning was poisoned for him. Poor Sidney! Doubtless he was supra-sensitive, and yet—why had not the boy chosen some sweet and beautiful words to write upon that sunny spring morning? Surely they would have been more in keeping with the whole world as the boy’s eyes saw it?
We may smile at Sidney as he agonizes alone upon the hill, but it was by such vigils as these that he won so close to the heart of the God in whom he had no belief.
Sidney wandered about in the woods upon thehillside till gradually some little of the peace of the day entered into his spirit. He gathered a bunch of arbutus to take home to Vashti. He encountered no one upon the return journey but Mr. Simpson, who “passed the time of day” with the minister, as he said afterwards, and then proceeded to try to draw him out regarding Lanty. It was very easy for Sidney to parry old Mr. Simpson’s queries, but they made him very uneasy nevertheless.
Vashti whitened as Sidney related the circumstances to her.
Could there be anything new? she wondered. Sidney had one of his intense headaches, and, after the mid-day meal, Vashti proposed to give him ease from it by putting him into a sleep.
“You are my good angel, Vashti,” he said, catching her fingers as she made the first pass across his forehead, and kissing them one by one. She looked down at him, for he lay upon the green leather couch in the study, and smiled almost tenderly. His continual sweetness of temper, his unselfishness, his thoughtfulness, and, above all, his great adoration for her had touched her greatly since their marriage. She was too keen an observer, too clever a woman, not to recognize that this man was head and shoulders above the men she had known. She had moments when she was enraged against herself for loving Lanty instead of her husband, but yet herheart never wavered in its allegiance to her yellow-haired cousin. There was something in his magnificent physique, his superabundant energy, his almost arrogant virility, which appealed to her. Beneath that calm, pale face of hers were strong passions, sleeping, but stirring in their sleep at the voice which did not call them.
Sidney, or Sidney’s welfare, would never weigh with her a featherweight if balanced against a chance of winning Lanty from her cousin, or of revenging herself upon them both, yet there were times when she wished that it had been any other man than Sidney who was bound to her.
“It is you who are good,” she said. “The village people think you are a saint.”
“Vashti,” said Sidney, wistfully. “Do you think I do them good?”
“Indeed, yes,” said Vashti, “just think how they turn out to church. It’s something wonderful.”
Sidney’s eyes lighted up with delight of her praise.
“Oh, Vashti!” he said, “I am so glad. I often wonder if you are satisfied with my work. You know it was you who ordained me to the priesthood.”
A slow colour stole into her cheeks. She waved her hands soothingly above his brow, then posing two fingers upon his temples where the pain was, said gently but imperatively, “Sleep, sleep,” and almost immediately, with her name upon his lips, he closed his eyes and fell into a deep slumber.
She leaned back in her chair and looked about the room, so manifestly the sanctum of a man of taste. The bookshelves which extended round and round the room to the height of a man’s shoulder, were filled with books uniformly bound in dark green leather.
This was a miracle in Dole, and Sally was wont to dilate upon the astonishing circumstance, and marvel that Mr. Martin could find the one he wanted among so many all alike. The mere fact of the titles being different did not appeal to Sally.
Above the bookshelves, against a soft harmonious background, were beautiful etchings from the paintings Sidney loved. Millet’s peasants, Burne-Jones’ beautiful women, Meissonier’s cavaliers, Rossetti’s “Beata Beatrix.” Upon the top of the bookshelves were two exquisite marbles, the winged Victory of Samothrace, and the Venus de Milo, and one bronze—the famous wing-footed Mercury, slender, lithe, and seeming ever to sweep on with the messages of the gods.
Vashti sat long there, then she remembered that it was the day of the sewing circle. The meeting was at the house of Mrs. Winder that day.
Vashti rose and left the room; she put on her hat, paused to look at herself in her glass, and smiled to think of how the women would whisper, when her back was turned, about her Boston gown and her modish hat.
Vashti rather liked to amaze her fellow-women. With all her strength of mind there was much femininity about her, and when it came to prodding up other women she was an adept.
As she passed the open study door she paused and looked in where her husband lay, sunk in the unconsciousness of a hypnotic sleep. For a moment she had a great desire to awaken him, but still softened by unwonted tenderness, she refrained from doing so. Vashti liked not only to parade her Boston finery before the sewing circle, but also her husband.
After all, being the minister’s wife in Dole had charms.
“If I had only told him to come for me,” she said regretfully. “I wish he would, at five o’clock. I’ve a mind to wake him up and ask him.” She hesitated. The light slanted in across Sidney’s face, its pallor shone out startlingly.
She turned away and ere long was nearing Mrs. Winder’s. She walked slowly up the path to the front door. Sidney often forgot that it was one of the preacher’s privileges to do this, but Vashti always remembered what was fitting; besides, she knew the window of the sitting-room commanded the little path, and she thought the sewing circle might just as well be edified by her progress from the gate as not.
“My! Vashti is most terrible cherked up in her dress,” said Mrs. Ranger to Mrs. Winder.
“Yes, that gownd must have cost a lot, but they say ’tis by the preacher’s wish.”
“Who said that?” asked Mrs. Simpson.
“Well,” said Mrs. Ranger volubly, “I heard that too; it was Sally, up at the preacher’s, that told young Mary Shinar, and Mary Shinar told Tom, and Tom had it over to our Ab at Brixton a week come Saturday, that the preacher draws the patternings for Vashti’s gownds, and colours them himself, and measures Vashti with a tape line, and sends the hull thing off to somewheres in Bosting, and Sally up at the preacher’s says that when they come from Bosting the sleeves and the waist is all filled full of silk paper to hold ’em in shape, and that it’s like a body in a coffing when the lid is taken off, and—yes, my turkeys has been laying for a week now,” concluded Mrs. Ranger with an abrupt change of subject and tone, for Vashti at that moment entered the room. Now Vashti herself had ere now switched off her conversation to a side track, and when she heard Mrs. Ranger answering a question which had not been asked, she smiled in a manner to make even Mrs. Ranger uncomfortable.
Vashti had hardly taken her place before Temperance entered, and presently the twenty or thirty women were busy with their needles upon the somewhat formless garments which are supposed to conduce to the salvation of the heathen, and whilst their needles were busy their tongues kept pace.
There were many things of importance to be discussed, the health of Vashti’s father (who had had another stroke), the setting of hens, the finding of turkeys’ nests, house cleaning and garden making—the springtime in the country is always a busy time—and above and beyond all these things there was a most exciting subject, the downfall of a certain Ann Serrup; of this the matrons whispered together.
“Has Mr. Martin been over yet?” asked Mrs. Winder of Vashti, after trying in several indirect ways to find out.
“No,” said Vashti, “I don’t think he has heard of it. I didn’t tell him and I don’t think anyone has.”
“If you take my advice,” said Temperance, making her needle whistle through the cotton. “If you take my advice you’ll keep the preacher away from that mess. He’s that soft-hearted that he’s liable to be taken in—besides, it’s more likely a woman’s help she needs. Laws, I ofting think of Ann, all alone. Why don’t you go yourself, Vashti?”
“I have thought of it for a couple of months,” said Vashti. “It’s nearly a year old now, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Winder, proceeding to give data. “But sakes! Why couldn’t she stay over Brixton way without coming into our parish with her brat?”
“They have souls,” said Vashti, suddenly drawing the mantle of the preacher’s wife about her.
“Well, one of ’em shouldn’t have,” said Mrs. Ranger irately. “Sakes, I don’t know what girls is coming to!”
“I expect she didn’t have much chance,” said Temperance deprecatingly.
“That’s no excuse for sin,” said Vashti austerely.
Temperance sniffed audibly. The clock struck five, and a footstep sounded upon the porch of the backdoor.
“Run see who that is,” said Mrs. Winder to Jimmy.
The women held their needles suspended midway in the stitch, and Sidney’s voice came cheerily from the kitchen.
“Why, lands sake! It’s Mr. Martin and by the kitching too!” said Mrs. Winder bustling forward to welcome him.
He entered gracefully, greeting them all in his gentle genial way which seemed to bring him so close to their hearts; but his eyes sought out Vashti where she sat half anticipative—half dreaming of the words he would say. Somehow it seemed to her that she was taking part in a scene which had been rehearsed long since and which grew slowly into her recollection. Sidney would say—she thought the words and Sidney’s voice seemed the audible echo of the phrase, “You wanted me to come at five,” he said; “I just woke up in time; it was fortunate I did not forget. Are you going over to see your father?”
“Yes,” said Vashti, rising mechanically, a strange mingling of awe and exultation, not unmixed with fear, at her heart.
“You will excuse my wife if she is lazy to-day, Mrs. Winder,” said Sidney laughing, “but I hope you won’t follow her bad example and leave off before the six o’clock bell; we must have full time in the sewing-class!”
There was a general smile at this mild wit. Ministers’ jokes are always highly appreciated.
“What a beautiful view you get from this window,” said Sidney, looking out across to the hill. Mrs. Winder saw her opportunity and took it.
“Yes,” she said, “but you get a terrible fine view from the window in the front room—just step in, if you’ll take the trouble.” So saying Mrs. Winder threw open the door of the sacred front room, revealing all its glories to Sidney’s gaze, and preceding him with a great assumption of unconsciousness, she rolled up the paper blind and pointed out of the window.
Sidney looked, and saw almost opposite him a new frame barn whose pine walls showed glaringly and somewhat oppressively in the sun.
“The new barn ’ill be done in two weeks,” said Mrs Winder as Sidney turned away; “you see it lengthways from here.”
“It looks very well,” said Sidney kindly. Then he bade them all good-bye and departed withVashti, who was silently marvelling. This was the first inkling Vashti had of the force of “suggestion.”
Meanwhile the tongues buzzed in the company they had left. The women were conversationally inclined; excitement is a great stimulant to the flow of ideas, and certainly this meeting of the sewing-circle had had its sensation. Mrs. Winder’s boldness in inveigling the preacher in to see the glories of the front room had been appreciated at its full worth. Not one of these dames but had cherished a secret longing to show off her front room to Sidney—but so far he knew only the mundane comfortableness of the “setting-rooms.”
Mrs. Winder had scored largely that day.
And the meeting was not over.
Mrs. Ranger had been irritated that afternoon in various ways. Vashti’s smile when she entered had made Mrs. Ranger uncomfortable.
“Although,” as she said to Mrs. Winder, “what could she expect? My sakes! I don’t care if she did hear me! It’s all gospel truth and what can she expect, being the preacher’s wife, but to be talked about?”
What indeed?
Then, too, Mrs. Ranger felt Mrs. Winder had indulged in reprehensibly sharp practice in regard to the front room—and—but it is needless to enumerate the different irritations which, combined, made Mrs. Ranger venomous. She felt she mustease the pressure upon her patience by giving someone’s character a thorough overhauling; so with a side look at Temperance, and a tightening of her meagre mouth, she began to speak of Lanty.
Now in Dole, if any subject was brought up which hurt or pained you, you were expected to look indifferent, make no reply, and strive by keeping a calm front to deny the honour of putting on the shoe when it fitted.
The Spartan boy’s heroism has often been outdone by women who smiled and smiled whilst venomous tongues seared their hearts. So Mrs. Ranger began boldly, as one does who fires from under cover at an unarmed foe.
But Temperance had been so long one of the Lansing family that she had assimilated a little of their “unexpectedness,” and as Mrs. Ranger continued her remarks, egged on by acquiescing nods from the older women, there began to gather upon the brow of Temperance a deep black cloud.
Mrs. Ranger paused in her harangue to gather breath for her peroration, when suddenly the thread of talk was plucked from her ready lips by the strident voice of Temperance, who, rising to her feet, and gathering her sewing together as she spoke, proceeded to deliver herself of an opinion upon the charity of the women about her. In whatever particular that opinion erred, it certainly merited praise for its frankness. After Temperance hadindulged in a few pungent generalizations she narrowed her remarks to Mrs. Ranger’s case. Never in all the annals of Dole had any woman received such a “setting out” from the tongue of another as Mrs. Ranger received that day from Temperance. Temperance spoke with a knowledge of her subject which gave play to all the eloquence she was capable of; she discussed and disposed of Mrs. Ranger’s forbears even to the third generation, and when she allowed herself finally to speak of Mrs. Ranger in person, she expressed herself with a freedom and decision which could only have been the result of settled opinion.
“As for your tongue, Mrs. Ranger, to my mind, it’s a deal like a snake’s tail—it will keep on moving after the rest of you is dead.”
With which remark Temperance departed from the sewing circle which had metaphorically squared itself to resist the swift onslaught of her invectives; she gathered her skirts about her as she passed through the room, with the air of one fain to avoid contamination, and stepping forth as one who shakes the dust from off her prunella shoes as a testimony against those she is leaving, she took the road home. Temperance’s mouth was very grim, and a hectic spot burned the sallowness of her cheeks, but she said to herself as she strode off briskly:
“Well—I ’spose it’s onchristian, but it’s a mighty relief t’ have told that Mrs. Ranger just once whatI think of her—but oh! pore Lanty and pore, pore M’bella! To think it should come about like this!”
And the red spots upon her cheeks were extinguished by bitter tears.
The sewing circle broke up in confusion; one could only hear a chorus of “Well—I declare!” “It beats all!” “Did you ever!” as the ladies bundled their work together—each eager to get home to spread the news and to discuss the matter with her husband.
And that night in the starlight Mabella waited at the little gate listening for the hoof beats of Lanty’s horse from one side, and the cry of little Dorothy from the house behind her.
And when Lanty came—alas! What “God’s glowworms” in the sky revealed, we shall not say.
But we will echo the words of Temperance—“Pore Lanty—pore, pore M’bella!”