A FAVOUR SOLICITED.
Mrs. Prymmer's next-door neighbour was her clergyman,—the Rev. Bernal Huntington, pastor of the church of the United Brethren. It was an immense satisfaction to her to have so near the one who ministered to her in spiritual things, but whether it was an equal satisfaction to the Rev. Mr. Huntington that young man had never been heard to assert.
The third day after Justin's arrival home was Sunday, and a solemn quiet brooded over the little parsonage standing half hidden in the shadow of the stone mansion.
The services of the day were over, and the minister had shut himself up in his study. He had preached two moving sermons, conducted a Bible class and attended a funeral out in the country. Probably he was tired. Even his magnificent physique was capable of fatigue, and to the minds of several of his fair parishioners, whose thoughts had a trick of running toward and after him, he was at the present momentpictured in a recumbent attitude on his haircloth sofa, musing in orthodox fashion on the stirring evangelical eloquence with which he had that day delighted the hearts of his hearers.
But the minister was not resting. The sly, sleepy fire spying at him from the small stove could have revealed another state of affairs. Stealthily it watched him as he inwardly raged to and fro in the tiny room, threading his way among tables and chairs, footstools, and heaped-up books and piles of manuscript. "Peace, peace to the weary," he had been preaching, but there was no peace for his soul. He was in the throes of some mental conflict that furrowed his handsome face with emotion.
Not only mentally but physically was he out of touch with his environment. The badly made clerical coat hung scantily over his athletic figure. His well-shaped auburn head almost touched the low ceiling. He seemed like a triumphant wrestler thrust from the prize-ring into the deserted haunt of a dead clergyman.
He had taken the place of a man much older than himself, a consistent saint, a model of all the virtues. He had just been thinking about this man, and an unutterable disgust of self oppressed him. "Unworthy—unworthy," he muttered," I must give it up. I shall leave here. This is unendurable."
He was stretching out his arms as if to fly awayto a more congenial atmosphere when his attention was distracted by a clattering outside his door and a subsequent exclamation.
"Look out, my dear boy! I'm coming; what—no light!" and a little woman bearing a huge bowl in her hands rushed in, and, stumbling over papers and books, managed to deposit her burden on the stove.
She was a very commonplace little woman. Her age hovered about the middle time of life, though she had a quick, alert, almost girlish manner. Her prevailing colour was drab,—hair, dress, and complexion. She wore a black lace cap on her head. Each side of it were pendent curls embracing her cheeks of dubious complexion. Her eyes were bright and sharp, and she had a way of holding her head well up and looking shrewdly through her spectacles at persons to whom she was talking, as if to delude them into the belief that she was a very fierce and quarrelsome little woman, a regular Tartar, a woman who could neither be deceived nor beguiled into anything approaching to softness or amiability of behaviour.
The young man sulking in a corner of the room came forward, and, running his eyes over the various articles of furniture, all veterans in the service of the ministry, chose for her a green-covered chair of an eccentric shape, known to the initiated as being fashioned from two barrels and stuffed with rags.
She shook her curls, and, waving him toward it, perched herself on a stool at a little distance. "Make haste, and take your gruel. It's nice and hot now, though I had a great time to get the fire to burn up. Rebecca is so forgetful,—she always neglects to put fresh coal on before she goes to bed."
"I don't want it," he muttered. "I'm not an invalid, and I hate sloppy things."
"No, you're not an invalid, thank God, such as my dear husband became, but still you must keep your strength up. I don't know that gruel is the best thing," and she doubtfully scanned his herculean proportions. "You look as if a joint of meat would suit you better. There's some cold hash in the pantry; would you like it?"
"No, no," he said, hurriedly seating himself, and dipping a large silver spoon into the gruel. "Don't trouble yourself. I'll eat this."
"It doesn't worry me when you quarrel with your food," she said, in her sprightly way. "You just do it if you want to; I know you've been used to better things."
"This is good enough for me," he said, taking the gruel with the utmost rapidity in order to get quickly through with it.
"I often think how good you are," she went on, in a sweet, motherly tone, "you are the best of my children."
"No, no," he ejaculated, suddenly putting the bowl from him and flinging himself out of his chair, "not the best."
The little woman gazed mildly into the corner where he had again taken refuge. She could not see him plainly. The lazy fire, that she had stirred, had again fallen into sluggishness and slyness. She seized a match from the mantel and lighted the gas in order that she might the better survey the cultured yet almost brutal beauty of visage that had so strange an influence over all her sex.
"My dear boy," she pursued, "you're excited. You have worked too hard to-day. You had better go to bed."
"I am not tired, I am not excited, but I hate this hypocritical life—"
She would not allow him to proceed. "I am not listening," and she put both hands over her ears. "Come, now, and sit down again and take your gruel. I've got something interesting to tell you."
Like a sullen child he allowed himself to be once more persuaded into a seat. She put the bowl in his hand, and with tears of pleasure glistening in her sharp little eyes sat down and poured forth a volume of talk.
It was not, as usual, news of the church and congregation, for her mind was running on the Prymmer-Mercer household. Years ago Sylvester Mercer had built this house for his beloved pastor, her husband. It was the smallest house on the street, but it was comfortable; and ever since she had come to it as a bride there had been a constant and friendly communication between the two houses. The clergyman knew all about Justin's journey to California, his return, and the dismay of Mrs. Prymmer at the arrival of the young wife, but he was at all times an absentminded listener, and the little woman, fearing that he had forgotten the story, was telling it to him again.
"Poor Mrs. Prymmer, I'm sorry for her. She tries not to show it too much, but just fancy her state of mind,—a daughter-in-law to walk in on her so suddenly. I wish, I wish, my dear boy, that you would call on her."
She checked her busy tongue for a minute to scrutinise nervously her companion. It was no ordinary favour of an ordinary clergyman that she was asking. This haughty apostle of peace was first of all a preacher of the Word. It was tacitly understood between pastor and people, that there should be as little communication as possible in the way of visiting. Confidential communications were not to his liking, and this idiosyncrasy was pardoned in him only in view of his being the most remarkable brandsnatched from the burning that had ever been held aloft in the town of Rossignol.
He knew that only stress of circumstances would induce his housekeeper to ask such a favour of him as a call at a house where there was to be neither a funeral nor a wedding, and, holding this same housekeeper in an affection that was almost filial, he threw her a glance that emboldened her to proceed.
"You see, my dear boy, young men will marry. There's no use in mothers holding out; but if they are smoothed down at first it makes things a lot easier, especially if the daughter-in-law has to live in the same house with them."
"My sympathy is with the daughter-in-law in this case," said the young man, brusquely.
"Mine, too," said the little woman, then she made haste to qualify her remark, "but Mrs. Prymmer is a very thoughtful woman; only yesterday she brought over two jars of strawberry preserves."
Mr. Huntington suppressed a slight sneer as he thought of the absent Mrs. Prymmer, and, wearily trying to exhibit a little interest in the subject in order to gratify his housekeeper, asked," What is the daughter-in-law like?"
"She is like a wax doll," said Mrs. Negus, promptly, "those big ones you see in shop windows, with yellow hair and pink cheeks. I have only seen her for a minute, though. I ran in before church this evening,and Mrs. Prymmer let me take a peep at her as she sat in the parlour playing on the organ to her husband. I couldn't see her eyes. I guess they are blue— Dear me, this is very frivolous conversation for an old lady on Sabbath Day. Did you have a good service out at Indian Gardens this evening?"
"Yes, very good."
"We had a very poor preacher in your place. I heard some of the people grumbling because you were away."
The cloud came back to his brow. "If they knew," he said, passionately, "if they knew—"
She jumped to her small feet. "I think I'll run away. You ought to go to bed. I'll have breakfast a little later in the morning. You'll think about calling on Mrs. Prymmer?"
"No, not think about it, I'll do it. It is only those social, prattling visits I object to. I am glad to please you,—you, who have been more like a true mother than my—than many mothers are."
"Ah, you have a kind heart," she said, slowly shaking her head, "a good, kind heart. You are a comfort to me, a great comfort, and I know it will also please you to do good to Mrs. Prymmer. She has always been so sore about that Mr. Lancaster,—and to think that her son should go and marry his daughter."
At the mention of Mr. Lancaster's name a curious gleam shot across Mr. Huntington's brown eyes. "What Mr. Lancaster do you mean?"
"Dear me, you're the least inclined to gossip of any man I ever saw. Why, I heard Mrs. Prymmer myself telling you all about that rich man who is so odd, and who often sends for Justin to go away and see him. Don't you know she asked you not to tell?"
"I don't remember hearing of him."
"Gossip just goes in one ear and out the other with you," she said, admiringly. "Well, he's a man that—"
"What is the Christian name of this young lady?" asked the clergyman, as she paused to take breath for what promised to be a lengthy recital.
"Derrice; I don't know whether she has any middle name or not, but I can easily find out. I wish you would take an interest in her, for if you do, and just speak to Mrs. Prymmer a few words about submission to the will of Providence, it will comb things out beautifully. You have a kind of way with women that makes them mind what you say."
The young clergyman's face grew a yet deeper colour. "What way do you mean?"
"A kind of settling way. Just look at the quarrels you've made up in this church. You see you have had experience in life. You have been rich and influential, and you have travelled more thanthe most of us. That gives you weight," and in sturdy, honest admiration, her dun-coloured eyes shone briskly at him through her glasses.
"I have not had as much experience as you think," he said, with only a remnant of his irritation. She had exorcised the demon,—she could now leave him, and a sudden cry hastened her tarrying feet. "Goodness, there is that baby again. If he has croup I'll have to send out and borrow alum. I haven't a bit in the house."
Her thoughts, however, were not altogether on the baby, as her little feet pattered over the painted wooden floor of the hall. "Thank God, that fit came on him when he was alone. It is strange that he gets so dissatisfied. I wish I could always be with him, but that's impossible— Now, baby, what's the matter with you?" and she bent over a red-faced child sitting up and coughing in a crib.
Mr. Huntington closed and locked the door after she left the room. His next proceeding was to dig a hole in a flower-pot on the window and empty the rest of the gruel in it. Then he took from a shelf a small box and, drawing a key from his pocket, threw back the lid. Inside were several photographs, all of women. He turned them out to find a pencil sketch at the bottom. A young girl sat in the centre of a clearing among prairie grass, her hands crossed, her face turned up to the sky. At a littledistance stood a man watching her. The girl was the young wife next door, the man was himself,—Bernal Huntington, former worldling, now a humble minister of the gospel.
"Little Derrice," he murmured, and he put the sketch back in the box and replaced it on the shelf. As he did so, his eyes fell on a framed crucifixion on the wall. His expression altered again, and ejaculating, "God be merciful to me, a sinner!" he fell on his knees and sank into a paroxysm of prayer.