A STEP IN ADVANCE.
A week or two went by, and all who came within the circle of Mrs. Prymmer's influence noticed a change in her, although not one of her friends or relatives ascribed the change to its real cause.
She was softened, humbled, and quiet, and Justin, in the midst of his perusal of the evening paper, would often hold it aside and look at her with a puzzled face.
One day the enlightenment came, precipitated by an attack of nightmare on the part of Captain White.
One hour after midnight the family was alarmed by a frantic screaming and a sound of running feet. Justin and his wife, Mary, and nervous and shrieking Mrs. Prymmer rushed to the doors of their respective bedrooms, and found the curious spectacle presented to them of a figure clad in white running, darting, leaping, kicking up its heels, and apparently trying to scale the wall of the lower hall.
"Micah," called Justin, "what is the matter with you? Come back to bed."
"He's in his bare feet," cried Mrs. Prymmer, tearfully, leaning over the banisters. "Go down to him, Justin. He'll catch his death of cold."
As his relative showed no signs of abating his extraordinary gymnastic performances, Justin was obliged to go down, and the feminine portion of the family hurriedly retreated behind doors as the distracted man was led up-stairs.
Justin found him trembling violently and dripping with perspiration. "What has got into you, Micah?" he said.
"Nightmare, boy, nightmare," replied Captain White, sinking in a heap on his bed. "Haven't had such a thing since I was a boy, and used to dream every night that the devil had got me."
"Was he after you to-night?"
"No, boy, no," and Captain White laid his exhausted head on the pillow. "It was a nameless horror. I don't know what it was. Don't leave me for awhile."
Justin had never before seen his composed relative in so disordered a state, and in quiet sympathy he sat down beside him.
Captain White was silent for a long time, then he started up in bed and shook his fist at some invisible enemy. "I'm blest if I let this happen again."
"What did you say, Micah?" inquired Justin.
"Nothing, nothing," replied the elder man, evasively. "You can go now, I'll not fall asleep again. I've got some plans to lay for to-morrow."
Justin thought no more of these plans until he was leaving the breakfast-table, when Captain White coolly observed that at eleven o'clock he was going to take the train for Bangor and he would like his cousin Hippolyta to go with him.
Justin turned around in surprise. Mrs. Prymmer blushed and hung her head, and Derrice, with a woman's wit, at once guessed the situation of affairs and had much ado to keep from laughing.
"Yes, I'd like her to go along with me," said Captain White, "there is a little business transaction I want her to figure in."
Still Justin did not understand, and Derrice had to come to his relief. "Don't you see, you stupid boy," she whispered, "they're going to be married."
Justin was thunderstruck. If Captain White had proposed to marry Miss Gastonguay, or one of the rich and haughty Misses Potts, he could not so thoroughly have lost his composure.
"Say something, dear," prompted Derrice. For a minute he could not speak; then, with a ludicrous resemblance to his mother in her moments of embarrassment, he stammered that he hoped they had considered well the step they were about to take.
"I've considered it for nearly forty years," said Captain White, shortly, "but never got further than consideration, the party not being open to proposals."
Derrice turned to her mother-in-law and impulsively threw her arms around her neck. "He is a dear good man, and will make you as happy as the day is long." Then, to Captain White's secret delight, she shook hands with him, and shyly offered her cheek for him to kiss. "I had rather have you than any one for a father-in-law."
"Come, Hippolyta, we must start," said her fiancé. "Justin will find his tongue by the time we get back."
"He has found it now," said Justin, firmly, "and he bids you Godspeed."
"I guess we can go on with that clerical blessing," observed Captain White. "Now, Hippolyta, run up-stairs and get into that black silk of yours."
"You don't care to be married here?" said Derrice.
"Not by that clip next door," replied Captain White, "and then the boys would roast me to death. Hippolyta and I will keep out of the place for a week or two, and don't let 'em know when we're coming back. Good-bye."
Derrice and her husband stood in the doorway and watched them depart. With ready adaptability, she declared they would find the new state of affairs a vast improvement on the old. With more worldlywisdom, and with a strange sense of having lost some valued possession, Justin shook his head and foresaw that the change meant a new master for the house, and the consequent removal of himself and his wife. And yet he was deeply attached to his cousin Micah, who certainly had a wonderful and beneficial influence over his mother. It was all for the best. He was glad and thankful, and yet he went to the bank with a drooping head.
Derrice darted into the parsonage and imparted her news with a most gratifying and electrical effect to Mrs. Negus, who sat alone in the parlour over a basket of torn stockings.
After a time, and when they had fully discussed all phases of this surprising occurrence, Derrice seized a darning-needle and a ball of wool, and made haste to assist her busy neighbour. Then her thoughts reverted to the condition in which she had found her. "Dear Mrs. Negus," she said, softly, "you were crying when I came in. I have never seen tears in your eyes before."
"They are not often there," said the little lady, taking off her glasses and wiping them, "but I am sick at heart, dear."
"About Mr. Huntington," said Derrice, in a low voice.
"Yes, dear."
For some time they kept to their work in silence,then Derrice spoke again. "Is there anything we can do?"
"I have thought of talking to your husband, but perhaps I had better leave it to you. I'll tell you how things stand. I have made such a mistake,—such a mistake," and her lips quivered so convulsively that she could hardly articulate.
"We all make mistakes."
"Yes, dear, but this was such a stupid one. I have made mistakes all my life, and I have said, 'Help me, Lord, not to make this one again,' and he does help me, but I tumble into a new one. I will never be fit to live, till I am ready to die."
"You dear little woman, you sha'n't talk that way about yourself. Why, the whole town considers you a saint. Didn't you leave your rich family and marry a poor clergyman, and, not content with bringing up your children well, you just set to work to bring up another family of orphans, and have been so sweet and good that everybody helps you, and your relatives give you money—"
Derrice stopped, choked by her volubility, and Mrs. Negus ejaculated, "It is nothing, nothing, if I could only help this one soul."
"Don't cry, please tell me about it. Perhaps Justin can assist, he is so clever."
The little lady dried her tears, and, speaking rapidly, for she was at all times subject to an irruption of children, began: "He is so handsome, and such an attraction for the girls, that I thought it would be well to have him married. Chelda Gastonguay fancied him,—I knew it from the way in which she began to pay me attention, and I encouraged her, for I thought, Here is a girl who will have plenty of money. She will be able to give him comforts he has always been used to, and that he will never get on his small salary. True, she was not converted, but she began coming to church, and I thought she soon would be, for she would not be able to withstand his burning, loving words. My dear, I must not be uncharitable, but I fear hers is a deadly love. I have studied her, and I see that from the first she deliberately chose that man for herself. She set herself to weaken his religious life, to turn him against his people, and to lead him back to the life he once led. He could not be unkind to a woman,—that is, what he calls unkind,—and he has let her go on instead of sending her to the right-about. She is very clever. I am so frightened of her that I tremble when she comes slipping into the house. I overheard her the other day,—she wants him to give up his church and marry her and go away."
"How dreadful!"
"And worse than that, the love is mostly on her side. She was petting and coaxing him. I was going through the hall and the study door was open.She thought I was out, but I wasn't, and I stopped as if I had been paralysed. He would fling himself away and she would come back with her wheedling ways."
"Would she do that?" said Derrice, angrily. "Oh, how could she? Has she no pride?"
"She is mad about him, and when a woman loses her head about a man she will do anything."
"I would not have her come here. I would forbid her the house."
"The next time she comes I must talk to her. I dread it, but it is my duty. If she would only let him alone for a time he might recover himself."
"He is a coward,—I have no respect for him."
"Ah, my dear, we all have our temptations. We must not be hard on each other. My poor boy is broken-hearted. I knew weeks ago that he was discouraged about himself, but I did not know what it was. I thought he was too sensitive, and I would not let him talk to me. Yesterday afternoon I went to him,—poor boy, poor boy! He has tried to save others, and he is not saved himself. He says his heart has never been touched. After the shock of his friend's death he made up his mind to lead a better life. With grim determination he entered the ministry, but he had not the power to endure. He has not been born again,—until his whole soul is stirred by divine grace he will not be happy."
"She is a wicked woman to tempt him."
"Pity her, too, dear. She has lived only for her own gratification, and though she has had many admirers she has been cold-hearted."
"He ought to go away."
"Yes; I said that to him yesterday, but he is torn by misgivings. This church is his last hold on spiritual life. The instant he gives it up that girl will marry him. I dread to see him rise in the pulpit now. I fear he will cry out that he is a hypocrite."
"That would be honest."
"Yes, yes, but he thinks of the young trembling souls and hesitates. Many have entered the church truly saved by his faithful ministrations; should he proclaim himself unsaved, they will say, 'Then where are we?'"
"What do you advise, then?"
"He is going away, he says that himself, but if we could only get him off quietly. If some one could go with him. He is not fit to be alone. He walks his floor at night and groans—"
"I will tell Justin at once. This must be attended to," said Derrice. "I know he will find a way out. Now what can I do to help you? I have finished these stockings. Ah, there is the baby crying. I will go take him up," and she ran up-stairs.
Derrice was alone with her husband at dinnertime. In rather deeper gravity than usual he watched her presiding in his mother's place. How dear that mother was to him in spite of her failings, and he hurriedly began a conversation in order to forget the tug at his heart-strings.
Derrice over dessert told him what Mrs. Negus had said.
"I am not surprised," he remarked. "I would have helped him before, if I had had any assurance that I would have been of assistance. Now the time has come," and instead of going to the bank he went to the house next door.
Mr. Huntington was just going out, but on seeing Justin he turned back and preceded him to his study. Then he closed the door and confronted him. His face was worn and there were dark circles under his eyes. He had the appearance of a man on the verge of a serious illness, and yet Justin had never before been so struck by his remarkable physical beauty. Possibly this effect was aided by his involuntary pathos of expression. He had no idea that he was appealing to his junior deacon, that the look in his fine brown eyes was like that of an intelligent and beautiful dumb creature about to receive a blow.
Justin saw it and was profoundly touched. This was no time for exhortation nor for reproof, but it certainly was a time for consolation from man toman. Bernal Huntington had had feminine sympathy. He now craved recognition from a member of his own sex.
"I suppose you have come from the church," he said.
Justin shook his head.
"I have expected you for some time," said Mr. Huntington, wearily, "you who ought to be pastor, and I your henchman. It is to you the people now go for spiritual help. I am not jealous, I assure you. Come,—you have some message from your brother deacons. They wish me to resign."
"I am no formally appointed messenger, yet, now that you mention the brethren with whom I am associated, I may say that, although we have had no consultation, I know every one of them recognises the fact that you are troubled and out of health. Every one of them would be pleased to see you take a brief holiday. You have served us faithfully so far,—no formal complaint is made as yet. On the contrary, you have our deepest sympathy, and I can assure you in all sincerity that, in times when you may feel yourself alone, there are interested hearts watching your struggles and praying for your happy issue out of them."
The young man put out his hand and gripped Justin's. "You understand?"
"I understand," said Justin. "May God helpyou, my dear brother. I am going to Boston to-night. Will you go with me?"
Mr. Huntington suddenly turned from him and hid his face against the rows of musty books on the wall.
"It was such a good man that used to tenant this room," said Justin, softly. "I can imagine him grieving with you in your perplexities. You will give me the pleasure of your company to-night?"
"I will," said his companion, in a choked voice. "You are going purposely to take me— How can I thank you?" and he groped blindly for the friendly palm that he knew was once more outstretched toward him.
Justin went quietly down-stairs and told the agitated Mrs. Negus that the clergyman was going on a short trip to Boston with him, then, returning to his own home, he broke the news to Derrice.
"What—really going?" she said, growing quite pale and cold.
"Yes, darling; why are you so disturbed? It is what you wished. I am sorry that it is not expedient to take you."
"Going away," she reiterated; "that means not coming back."
"My dear girl, what are you thinking about?"
"Oh, not you, not you,—but that poor girl, what will she do? If he has reached the point of goingaway, she will see that it means a parting for ever. Suppose I were in her place, Justin, and you in Mr. Huntington's."
"So this suffering is vicarious; well, you must try to comfort her, and let me suggest that it be not done openly, but in some of the subtle, sweet ways known to your sex. And Mrs. Negus invites you to stay with her while I am gone."
Derrice still remained pale and cold in spite of all her husband could say to comfort her. With a passionate introspection, she comprehended the depths of suffering awaiting the unhappy Chelda.