A PASTORAL VISIT.
Justin Mercer's former monotonous life was at an end. With a faint red spot on either cheek, and with much internal diversion, he sat at the breakfast-table the next morning watching his wife.
At first she would eat nothing. Her disdainful glance played over the porridge dish, the slices of cold meat, and the cold bread and cheese that were all the table contained, and she successively refused every one of them. Then, just as he was deliberating what to do, Captain White came to the rescue.
"I'll toast you a slice of bread, miss," and, suiting the action to the word, he sprang at the loaf like a benevolent tiger, and hastily cutting a slice rushed to the fire with it, suspended on one of Mrs. Prymmer's best silver forks.
That lady surveyed him in speechless indignation while he nicely browned the bread, buttered it, and handed it to the girl who, thanking him by a smile, sat eating it with her gaze riveted on him. He, with eyes twinkling phosphorescently, demurely finishedhis porridge, and held out his saucer for more, that was reprovingly bestowed on him by Mrs. Prymmer.
Justin saw that Derrice was completely fascinated by his cousin, on account of his resemblance to her father, and also because of his kindness of heart that with feminine insight she readily divined under his odd manners.
His mother repelled her, though at the same time the exaggeration of the mother-in-law attitude seemed to afford secret and irrepressible amusement to the young girl. Mrs. Prymmer's repugnance was too overwrought to be genuine, too ridiculous to be taken seriously. There were stormy times ahead for him with these two women. The daughter-in-law would ridicule the mother-in-law; the mother-in-law would, probably, fall into a rage with the daughter-in-law, and, perhaps, drive her from the house. He would have to take sides; but there was no use in anticipating the storms, and with calm but surreptitious interest he watched Derrice as she scrutinised the room.
The family had once been rich, or at least well-to-do, the girl decided. The house was large and imposing, the rooms had been well furnished, but room furniture and table furniture had sadly deteriorated. The silk coverings of the chairs were worn, the expensive china was chipped and in odd pieces. Either shortness of means or a slight parsimony had attackedthe household presided over by the stony dame at the head of the table.
Presently Justin saw his wife's gaze settle on the doorway, and, just as he turned to find out what new object had engaged her attention, a meek voice murmured, "The minister is in the parlour."
The rigid outline of Mrs. Prymmer's figure immediately softened into a gracious one. "Bring him in," she said, hospitably.
Mr. Huntington's stalwart form soon took the place vacated by Mary, and Mrs. Prymmer, bustling forward, with her plump palm outstretched, exclaimed in deep gratification, "This is a great honour, brother pastor. Sit down and have some breakfast."
"I have had my breakfast, thank you," and he glanced expectantly but without the slightest recognition at Derrice, who stared at him first in blank amazement, and then, springing to her feet with head thrown back, speechlessly extended both hands to him.
Mrs. Prymmer did not see the girl's pretty attitude. She had opened her mouth to make the necessary introduction, and was trying to disengage from the roof of it the tongue that so much hated the task set before it. However, there was no need for an introduction. Mr. Huntington, with more warmth than she had ever seen him bestow on any member of his flock, was shaking hands with herdaughter-in-law, who plaintively murmured, "How delightful to see you! Why did not some one tell me you were here?"
Mrs. Prymmer was exceedingly disturbed. The young wife was an acquaintance of the minister's former worldly days,—days that it was not wise to remember. Or was he more than an acquaintance, a dear friend perhaps, for he certainly, with great kindness and almost with authority, was begging her to continue her breakfast,—which she did, only occasionally glancing at him over her shoulder, with faintly pink cheeks.
Mrs. Prymmer, emerging from her temporary eclipse, began a conversation with him, largely of an interrogatory character.
"You don't look well," she said, at last. "I guess you tired yourself out yesterday."
"H'm, yes, a clerical blue Monday," he said, giving her his words but fixing his attention on Derrice.
At his remark, she turned and flashed him an amused, puzzled glance that took in his tall figure, his handsome head, his rather shabby black coat, and his man-of-the-world ease of position and manner, so much at variance with the awkward angularity of Captain White's attitude, and the composed rigidity of her husband's.
By and by Captain White jerked himself from the room, and soon after, Justin, with a reserved nod tothe clergyman, followed him. Mrs. Prymmer assisted the maid in clearing the dishes from the table, while Derrice sat down by the fire opposite the caller, and carried on with him a conversation so full of references to former days that it was quite unintelligible to Mrs. Prymmer.
However, she had not the slightest intention of leaving her daughter-in-law alone with the clergyman, and, seating herself between them after the servant had disappeared, she broke in upon a remark of Derrice's, with a suave inquiry as to how many people had stood up for prayer at the close of the service the evening before.
"Two," he replied, with a stare which caused Mrs. Prymmer to unfold her fat hands from over the long white apron she always wore, and to rise in some confusion to her feet. She was not wanted, she had better leave the room. She would not, however, be cheated out of all her rights, and in a choking voice she said, "I have some things to see to in the kitchen; can't we have a word of prayer before I go?"
"Did you have prayers this morning?" inquired her spiritual adviser, coldly.
"Yes," she faltered.
He said nothing more, and with lingering steps and a furious glance at Derrice she went reluctantly from the room.
Derrice was convulsed with laughter, some of which escaped into outward expression.
"You think I am acting a part," said Mr. Huntington, dryly.
"Not acting—you are the part—it is superb. But then, you were always good at amateur theatricals. What have you turned clergyman for?"
"I had to do so."
"The coat is delicious," she said, peeping around to get a glimpse of the long black tails. "Thank Heaven for this bit of comedy in the heavy tragedy of my life during the last few weeks."
"This also is tragedy," he said, seriously.
"But why have I not known you were here?"
"No one knew that I had ever met you, and how was I to know that Mrs. Justin Mercer was Miss Derrice Lancaster?"
"And you live here?"
"Yes, next door. These people here are some of my parishioners."
"And do you—what is it you call it—preach in that coat?"
"No, I preach in my shirt-sleeves," he said, irritably.
Derrice wrinkled her forehead. Now that the first blush of greeting was over she had leisure to scrutinise him. Where was the gay carelessness, almostrecklessness, of demeanour that had characterise her friend in former days? Gone like a dream of youth,—this moody, reserved man with the flushed face had slipped in among the ranks of the middle-aged.
"What has brought on this metamorphosis?" she asked, dubiously.
"Don't talk about me," he said, wearily, "you will hear gossipad nauseam. Tell me what you have been doing since I had the pleasure of meeting you?"
"Ah," she said, mournfully," how far off it seems. I was revelling in my release from a brief term of school life, and the freedom of renewed travel with my father. We went to Europe, then we came to New York, and after that went to South America and California. Then my father wanted me to marry—"
Mr. Huntington surveyed her keenly. Her face was distressed, her lips trembling, and she looked as if she were about to cry, yet she controlled herself, and went on in a light tone, "Isn't his mother queer,—she simply detests me. I never had any one do that before."
Mr. Huntington strode to the door, and, finding it ajar, shrugged his shoulders, fastened it, and returned to his seat. "She is a trying woman. If you are as mischievous as in former days, Derrice, I wouldgive a year's salary to have you stay here and help me discipline her."
"But I don't want to stay here," she said, pitifully. "I want my husband to go away and travel with me and my father."
"Can he do that?"
"He does not say. Just now he cannot leave the bank. Perhaps later on I can get him to do it."
"And you would not go without him?"
"Well, you see," she replied, "he is rather fond of me, and if I leave him he says— Well, I fancy he would be lonely."
"I suppose he says his heart would break."
Derrice laughed nervously, and he went on. "Let it break. Other hearts have broken. It is a shame to keep you here. You were not born for the arid atmosphere of a New England town."
Derrice stopped laughing, and surveyed the friendly, handsome face beyond her. "Have you married?"
"No."
"Why did you not ask me?" she said, mischievously.
"I knew better, and you were too young. I think your father took you to Europe to get rid of me, though he probably did not tell you so."
Her face clouded. "My dear father—I think of him all the time. I wish to please him. I know—oh, I know, Mr. Huntington, that he would like me to stay here, but I do not wish to do so. It is such a conflict. If he only knew how I miss him,—how I hate to be away from him. He never used to have me do anything I disliked," and she tried to cover with her hands the sudden tears.
"Poor child!" said the clergyman; then he rose and stood over her. "Can you not think of some worse trouble that might have befallen you?"
"No, no, no,—I worship my father,—he was so strange,—I am afraid that I shall never live with him again. I think he wanted to get rid of me. Perhaps he is going to mar—marry himself."
"You are about eighteen now, Derrice, are you not?" asked Mr. Huntington, gently.
"Yes, on my last birthday."
"Little Derrice, you are too young yet to know the priceless blessing of an unselfish love. You have married an honest man, and one devoted to you. Do not despise his affection. I have lived longer than you, and let me tell you that love is seldom found in its purity,—is seldom bestowed on a worthy object. You do well to stay here, to wait and be patient."
Derrice, in suppressed surprise, wiped away her tears. The clergyman had suddenly lost his irritable and disturbed manner. He was earnest, impressive, even ardent.
"Thank you," she said, gravely. "I will think ofwhat you say. It is a consolation to find you here, for you recall happier days,—days spent with my dear father."
She was going to cry again,—what a child she was!—and warmly clasping her hand, the young clergyman hurried from the room.