Denham lingered an instant, bending down over the bed.
"I thought we had lost you to-night, Phebe," he said, so low the words were but just audible. "God be thanked if only that you are still here!" And stooping nearer yet he added: "We could not let you go, dear child."
Gerald came anxiously back to the bedside as he left the room. "Are you in much pain now?" she asked, lifting off the heavy braid that lay across Phebe's bosom like a great rope of loosely twisted silk. "You do not think you are badly hurt, do you, dear?"
Phebe looked up at her, smiling strangely.
"Oh, Gerald," she whispered, while two big tears rolled slowly down on to the pillow, "I wish I might die to-night! I don't think I can ever be so happy again!"
"Nonsense!" said Gerald, with utmost sternness. "Don't talk about dying.I won't allow it." And then she suddenly put down her head besidePhebe's, and burst into tears.
In an incredibly short time Denham brought back not only Dr. Dennis, whom he had caught just setting out for a stolen game of whist with Mr. Upjohn, during the absence of that gentleman's wife at prayer-meeting, but also Soeur Angélique, whose mere presence in a sick-room was more than half the cure. And then he sat in the dark, disordered room below, impatiently enough, anxiously waiting for news from Phebe. The time seemed to him interminable before at last the door opened, and Gerald entered, bearing a lamp. The vivid light, flung so full upon her, showed traces of passionate weeping; and her white dress all scorched and burned and hopelessly ruined, with the rich lace hanging in shreds from the sleeves, made her a startling contrast indeed to the usually calm, self-possessed, perfectly-dressed Gerald Vernor.
Denham sprang forward to take the heavy lamp from her. "How is she, please?"
Gerald started. "What, you here?"
"Did you think I could leave till I knew?"
"Oh, of course not, I had forgotten you. I was only thinking of Phebe."
"But how is she?"
"Better. She is burned about the shoulders and a little on the arms, but not seriously, and nothing that will disfigure. It is so fortunate. The doctor is still with her, but she is much easier now, and there is nothing to fear."
"Ah, what a relief! It seemed as if I should never hear. She is really in no danger then?"
"None."
"Thank God! As you came in you looked so distressed I feared—"
"When it was all over and there was nothing to cry about, I cried," interrupted Gerald. "Women are always fools. I'll except Mrs. Whittridge, however. She has been the greatest comfort to Phebe."
"It is Soeur Angélique's characteristic privilege always to be a comfort,I believe," answered Denham, recovering his light-heartedness in aflash. "Might I inquire if you have any especial object with this lamp?Shall I do any thing particularly with it?"
"Let it down, please—anywhere. I remembered the room was dark, and ran down to put it to rights before Mrs. Lane should comeback. Her orderly soul would have a spasm if she came upon it suddenly like this."
"It was well I had no light," said Denham, looking around him. "It would have frightened even me. Shan't I call some one?"
"It's the ridiculous fashion of the house to suppose it never needs servants at this hour. There's not one within reach."
"You must let me help you then. Is this the table-cover?"
"Thanks. I am afraid the fire has done for it, but we can't help that. Pull it a little farther to your side, please. Farther still. That's too far. So. That's right. Now the lamp here. Now the books. Cover up the holes with them."
"Ah, Miss Lydia's pet cup! and her little favorite statuette!"
"Hideous things! I'm glad they're smashed."
"Will you equally enjoy imparting to her the fact of their loss?"
"Somebody else may do that. I had my share telling her about Phebe."
"I suppose she was terribly shocked, poor old soul. I don't wonder."
"She had an instant attack of hysterics, and Ididwonder," rejoined Gerald, tartly. "But as I told you, women are always fools, and nervous women the worst ones, I haven't any patience with them. I was vexed enough with her for keeping me from Phebe. I don't believe she was ever hurried so out of an attack before."
"I'm afraid there's need of a broom or something here, Miss Vernor. This vase is in a thousand pieces."
Gerald seized the hearth-brush and was on her knees by him in a moment."The lamp, please, Mr. Halloway. Set it on the floor an instant."
Denham moved it as desired, and stood looking down at her as she began deftly brushing up the scattered bits.
"Miss Vernor!" he suddenly exclaimed in a shocked voice. The bright light, falling broadly across her hands, showed two great angry-red blotches just above one of the delicate wrists. He stooped and laid masterful hold of the long handle of the brush.
"Well?" she said, stopping perforce and looking up in surprise."What is it?"
"Your arm—you are burned, badly burned."
Gerald made a little sound of contempt for all reply.
"It should be dressed at once. How it must pain you!"
Gerald looked at her arm reflectively. "I haven't had time to feel," she said, vainly trying to pull her sleeve over it. "It will make an ugly scar, won't it? I shall have to abandon elbow sleeves. Now please let go the brush."
"Miss Vernor, why should you be so cruel to yourself? Do go up to the doctor at once!"
"And take him away from Phebe? I will not. It won't hurt any more now than it has done already. I must ask you to let me have the brush, Mr. Halloway. I am losing time."
Halloway relinquished it without speaking, and went quietly out of the room, and Gerald unconcernedly resumed her work, scarcely pausing to wonder where he had gone or what he intended. He returned just as she had finished, and lifting the lamp back to the table, called to her: "Will you come here, please?"
"What in the world have you there?" she inquired, coming up to him in sheer curiosity.
"Soap. I found the way to the kitchen, you see. I had to bring the water in this tin thing. I didn't know where to look for a cup."
"Pray what is it for?"
"For you. Soap is good for burns. Will you let me take your hand, please?"
Gerald put the wounded member behind her. "Thank you. I neither require nor desire assistance."
"Pardon me, you do require it, and if you refuse to see the doctor—"
"Is that any reason why I should resort to you—and kitchen soap?"
"I grant it is a very homely remedy, Miss Vernor, but it is an excellent one and the only one I know."
"I daresay. It is one more than I know of."
"You will not try it?"
"No."
"Perhaps you are afraid of the pain attending the dressing?"
It was a masterly stroke. Gerald gave him one look of intense scorn, almost of anger, and immediately reached out her hand. "I am afraid of nothing—not even of your lack of skill."
Denham took her hand without further ceremony, and holding it firmly, pushed back the hanging lace from her arm and began rubbing the soap over the burns, without so much as a word of pity for the pain he knew he was giving her. She winced involuntarily at the first touch, but set her teeth tightly lest she should cry out. It hurt her cruelly. "I was not aware before that the custody of souls extended to that of the temples they inhabit," she said, when she could command herself sufficiently to assume a supreme indifference of tone. "You believe in purely household remedies, I see."
"I believe always in doing what I can with what means I have. One moment more, please. I am not quite through."
Gerald held out her hand again. "Perhaps you had better try sandstone on it this time, or a little burning oil."
Halloway did not answer, but hastily tearing his handkerchief into strips, bound the arm as closely as he could. "There," he said, surveying the bandages critically, and inwardly well pleased with his success; "at least that will do till you can see the doctor."
"Are you sure you are quite through now?" asked Gerald, in mock submission. "You don't think it necessary to put the arm in a splint, or to fasten weights to it, or to amputate the first joint of the thumb?"
"I am sorry to say that is all I know how to do for you, Miss Vernor."
"Then I will go back to Miss Lydia. By the way, would you recommend soap also for hysterics?"
"Applied with a close bandage over the mouth? Certainly, it will be both effectual and immediate."
"Thank you. Good-night."
"Will you not shake hands with me?"
Gerald turned as she was moving off and held out her hand, more as a queen might have extended it in motion of dismissal than as friend to friend. Denham took it between both his. "Before you go, I want to thank you in the name of all Miss Phebe's friends," he said, earnestly. "You have saved her life to-night, and at the risk of your own."
"The table-cloth was her savior, not I," returned Gerald, lightly, but with a softened voice. "And anyway, is it not quite thanks enough only to know that Phebe is safe? Now good-night in earnest."
All news, good, bad, and indifferent, flies equally fast in Joppa; and had there been a town-crier deputed for the purpose, Phebe's accident could not have sooner become a household tale in even the most distant districts of the place. After a contradiction of the first rumor, reporting her burned to a crisp and only recognizable by a ring of her mother's on her left hand,—which ring by-the-way she never wore,—and after a contradiction in due course of the second rumor, reporting Gerald to be lying in the agonies of death and Phebe to have escaped without a hair singed, followed a period of dire uncertainty, when nobody knew what to believe, and felt only an obstinate conviction that everybody else had got it entirely wrong. But at last the story straightened itself out into something bearing a family resemblance to actual facts, and then Joppa settled itself resolutely down to doing its duty. My duty toward my sick neighbor in Joppa consists in calling twice a day, if not oftener, at his house; in inquiring after his condition down to minutest and most sacred details; in knowing accurately how many hours he slept last night, and what he ate for breakfast, and what is paid the sick-nurse, and if it includes her washing. My second duty toward my sick neighbor is to bring him something to eat, on the supposition that "outside things taste differently;" or something to look at; or, if nothing better, at least something to refuse. My third and last duty toward my neighbor,—the well neighbor who possesses the sick one,—is to narrate every somewhat similar case on record, with all its circumstances and the ultimate career of the sufferer; to prescribe remedies as infallible as the Pope; to disapprove wholly, and on the best grounds, of those in actual use; to offer every assistance in and out of my power; and to say at leaving that Ihopeit may all turn out well, but thatIshould have called in the other doctor. Joppa had learned by heart its duty toward its neighbor from its earliest, stammering infancy, and it adhered strictly to the path therein marked out. It inquired after Phebe diligently; it thoroughly mastered all possible intricacies of her case; it made her gifts digestible and indigestible; and it said that, by all odds, it was Dr. Harrison who should have attended her from the first. Dr. Dennis took very good care of her, nevertheless, and it was not long before he pronounced that all she needed was quiet and rest to complete the cure.
"We shall have her out of bed in a few days now, Mrs. Lane; in a week or so perhaps," he said, as he passed out at the front door where Mrs. Lane was standing talking with Mrs. Hardcastle. "She is doing very well, as well as I could wish. All she needs is rest. Keep her perfectly quiet." And the doctor bowed himself off, first politely inquiring of Mrs. Hardcastle after her husband's gout and her own dyspepsia.
"He is a fair-spoken man, certainly, very," said Mrs. Hardcastle, "though I won't say that I shouldn't prefer Dr. Harrison in the long run as surest to bring his patient through. I think I'll just go up with this myself to Phebe, Mrs. Lane. I suppose she's longing for visitors by now, poor soul!"
"Well, I dare say. You know her room,—just at the head of the stairs. Go right up, and I'll step out to market."
"Now, my dear," said Mrs. Hardcastle, rustling into Phebe's room, "I thought I would come up and have a look at you myself to make sure how you were. No, don't move. You do look pale, but that's all. Glad to see your pretty face isn't harmed. Why, I heard one whole side of it was about burned off. I've brought you some wine-jelly, my dear."
"She had a lot yesterday, Pheeb did," said Olly, who was curled up with a geography in a corner of the room and furtively cutting Europe out of the maps. "She doesn't need any more."
"Oh, but this is some of my own make. This is quite different from anybody else's," declared Mrs. Hardcastle. "Phebe remembersmyjelly of old, don't you, dear?"
Phebe smiled faintly. All she remembered at the moment was being invariably requested by the good lady to come and make it for her whenever she gave a party.
"I thought I heard talking and so I ventured to come up too," said a timid voice, and Miss Delano tiptoed softly in. "Phebe, my dear child, my dear child!" and the soft-hearted little old maid stooped to kiss Phebe's pale cheek, and straightway began to whimper.
"Come, none of that," said Mrs. Upjohn's peremptory tones, as that lady swept into the little room, seeming to fill it all to overflowing. "I met the doctor just now and he said Phebe was to be kept perfectly quiet. Don't let's have any weeping over her. She wants cheering up, and she isn't quite dead yet, you know, though really the evening before last, Phebe, I heard that you weren't expected to live the night through."
"How ridiculous!" said Gerald, impatiently. "Miss Delano, will you have a chair?"
"Thank you, no, dear. I'll just sit here on the bed," said the little old dame, humbly, anxious not to make any one any trouble. "O Phebe, my dear!"
Phebe smiled at her affectionately, and Mrs. Hardcastle, who was on the point of leaving when Mrs. Upjohn came in, sat down again to ask that lady about the character of a servant whom she had just engaged.
"I thought I should have died when I heard it," said Miss Delano, patting Phebe's cheek. "Poor dear, poor dear! And they say you won't ever be able to walk again!"
"Who says that?" asked Phebe, laughing. "I shall be a terrible disappointment to them."
"'Tain't her legs at all; it's her shoulders," said Olly, as he emerged from his corner, chewing Europe into a pasteboard bull. "What have you got in that paper?"
"Oh, the blessed child, and I was forgetting it. My dear, it's just a little sponge-cake I made free to bring you, it turned out so light. Don't you think you could eat a bit perhaps?"
"My, but it looks good!" said Olly, approaching a hungry finger and poking at it softly. "I'll get a knife."
"I hope you don't allow any such trash as that about, Miss Vernor," said Mrs. Upjohn, sharply, in the middle of her discussion of Jane's demerits. "Phebe ought to be exceedingly careful what she eats for a great while to come. It's doubtful, indeed, whether her stomach ever recovers its tone after such a shock. I knew one woman who died just of the shock alone some two months after precisely such an accident as this, when everybody thought she had got well, and Phebe must beverycareful. Her appetite is not to be tempted, but guided."
"Well, ladies, I must be going," announced Mrs. Hardcastle, rising. "You really think I am safe, then, in engaging her, Mrs. Upjohn?" But just then Mrs. Dexter came in with two of her daughters, and Mrs. Hardcastle sat down again.
"There was no one downstairs, and as the doctor says Phebe is so much better, we thought we might just come up," said the new comer. "Why, Phebe, you are as blooming as a rose, and I understood you had lost all your pretty hair. I've brought you some grapes, my dear, and a jar of extra fine brandy peaches, and little Maggie insisted on sending some molasses candy she had just made."
"Well, well, I did look for more sense fromyou," said Mrs. Upjohn, tapping Mrs. Dexter rather smartly on the shoulder. "Where'll you sit? Oh, on the bed. Yes, Phebe's had a narrow escape, and one she'll likely bear the marks of to her dying day. Let it be a warning to you, young ladies, to be prepared. There's no knowing how soon some one of you may not be carried off in the same way,—just as you are dressed for a dance, maybe." Her tone implied that death could not overtake them at a more sinful moment.
"Hullo, up there! I say!" shouted a voice in the hall below, "how's Phebe?"
"Oh, it's Dick!" cried the Dexter girls in a breath. "You can't come up, Dick."
"Ain't a-going to. But a fellow can speak, can't he, without his body a-following his voice? How's Phebe?"
"She's splendid."
"What's the doctor say?"
"He says she only needs to be kept perfectly quiet."
"Hooray!" said Dick, and apparently executed a war-dance on the oil-cloth, while Olly profited by the general hubbub created by the entrance of two more ladies, to satisfactorily investigate the sponge-cake.
"Why, quite a levee, isn't it, Phebe?" said one of the last arrivals, looking in vain for a chair, and forced to seat herself on a low table, accidentally upsetting Phebe's medicines as she did so.
"Yes, altogether too much of one," said Gerald, knitting her brows as she rescued a bottle just in time, and darted an angry glance around the crowded room. "Phebe isn't at all equal to it yet."
"You are right, Miss Vernor," agreed Mrs. Upjohn, drawing out her tatting from her pocket, and settling herself at it with an answering frown. "There are quite too many here. Some people never know when to stay away."
"Oh, there's Bell. I hear her voice," called Mattie, running to look over the banisters. "She's got both Mr. De Forest and Mr. Moulton with her."
There was a sound of many voices below, a giggling, a rush for the stairs, and a playful scuffle.
"It's me" (Bell's voice); "Dick won't let me pass."
"Me is Bell" (Dick's voice); "she wouldn't pass if she could. Too many fellows down here for her to want to leave 'em. Send us down a girl or two from up there, can't you?"
A girl or two, however, apparently appeared from outside, greetings were called up to Phebe, offerings of flowers and delicacies transmittedviaDick on the stairs to Olly at the top (who took toll by the way), and the liveliest kind of a time went on. It was quite like a party, Dick shouted up, only that there was no ice-cream and a singular scarcity of girls.
"It's a shame," said Mrs. Upjohn, severely, in her chair, while Gerald held her peace, too wrathful to speak, and conscious of her inability to mend matters. "I should think people might have sense enough not to crowd all the air out of a sick-room in this fashion."
"It's exceedingly inconsiderate of them, I am sure," answered Mrs. Hardcastle, drawing a sofa cushion behind her back. "She ought to be so quiet."
"Phebe!" shouted Dick. "Here's the parson. He wants to know if you're dead yet. Shan't I send him up? It will be all right, you know, quite the thing. He's a parson, and wears a gown on Sundays."
"Dick, Dick!" screamed his mother. "Was there ever such a lad!"
"He's coming. Get ready for him. Have out your Prayer-books," called Dick.
Phebe flushed crimson, and looked imploringly at Gerald. An indignant murmur ran through the room. Mrs. Upjohn drew herself up to her severest height. "What shameless impertinence! How dare he intrude!" A shout of unholy laughter downstairs followed Dick's sally.
"Mr. Halloway isn't there at all," cried Olly, his fine, clear-voice pitched high above the rest, "He only asked about Pheeb at the door, and went right off."
"Well, he left this for her with his compliments, and this, and this," called Dick, rummaging in his pockets, and tossing up an apple, and then a hickory nut, and last a good-sized and dangerously ripe tomato. Olly caught them dexterously with a yell of delight, and was immediately rushed at by three of the nearest ladies and ordered not to make a noise, for Phebe was to be kept perfectly quiet.
"Such doings would never be permitted a moment if she had only been in Dr. Harrison's hands," said Mrs. Upjohn, in denunciatory tones. "He would have forbidden her to see any one. It is scandalous."
"It is outrageous," added Mrs. Hardcastle. "Most inconsiderate."
"Ah, I can't get over it that it isn't your legs, poor dear!" murmuredMiss Delano, still plaintively overcome. "And you will walk, after all?"
"Dr. Dennis is an excellent physician," said Mrs. Dexter, somewhat defiantly. It was impossible not to enter the lists against Mrs. Upjohn. This last lady was immediately up in arms, and a heated discussion as to the respective skill of the two practitioners took place, everybody gradually taking sides with one or the other of the leaders, and forgetting both poor exhausted Phebe and the noise downstairs, which finally culminated in a rousing lullaby led by Bell, and lustily seconded by half a dozen others:
"Slumber on, Phebe dear;Do not hear us fellows sigh!"
The song, however, suddenly stopped in the midst. Some one seemed speaking very low and softly, and neither the chorus nor the laughter nor the tumult was resumed. Phebe drew a deep breath. Was relief really coming at last? Yes. Soeur Angélique stood in the door-way.
"Will you excuse me, ladies," she said, in that soft, irresistible voice of hers, as she laid aside bonnet and shawl in a quiet, business-like way. "I came to relieve Miss Vernor and play nurse for a while, and I think Phebe looks as if she needed a little sleep. If you will kindly take leave of her, I will darken the room at once."
She stood so evidently waiting for them to go, that in a few moments they all found themselves somehow or other outside the door, with Gerald politely escorting them down-stairs, and Olly dancing joyously ahead, crying that Mr. Halloway had sent for him to the rectory. Left mistress of the situation, Mrs. Whittridge proceeded to draw down the shades, straighten the chairs, smooth the bedclothes and rearrange the pillows, all with the noiseless, graceful movements peculiar to her. Then she drew a low chair up to the bedside, and laid her cool hand soothingly on Phebe's forehead. A great peace seemed suddenly to fill the room.
"Now, my darling, you must sleep. Between them they have quite worn you out."
"Who told you I needed you?" asked Phebe, drawing the gentle hand down to her lips. "How did you happen to come just when I wanted you so?"
"Denham sent me over," answered Soeur Angélique. "He thought perhaps I could make it a little quieter for you."
"Ah," murmured Phebe. A faint tinge crept up into her white cheeks. She turned her head away and closed her eyes. "I knew it was he who sent you."
It was some days after Phebe's accident before Halloway saw Gerald again. She was generally upstairs when he called, or driving or sailing with De Forest, who was in daily attendance upon her, paying her persistent, blasé devotion. She was in the parlor one evening, however, sitting with De Forest near the door, when Denham came in, but he merely bowed to her and passed on to the other end of the room, where Mrs. Lane was seated with Mr. and Mrs. Hardcastle. Mr. Hardcastle rose at once to receive him. "Ah, good-evening, good-evening. Pray take a seat. I am delighted to see you. I suppose you came to ask after our little invalid. Sad accident, sir; sad accident, very. It has kept us most anxious and busy seeing after her. But she is doing nicely now. We shall have her about again before we know it." He spoke as if her recovery were altogether due to himself, for the regularity with which he had fulfilled his neighborly duties toward her, and he paused and looked at Halloway for a recognition of the same.
"It will be a bright day for us all when we have her among us once more," Halloway said in answer to the look. "You must tell her how much we miss her, Mrs. Lane."
"Ah, that we do," murmured Mrs. Hardcastle. "My knitting has been at a standstill ever since the poor dear child's misfortune. I have been so thankful her hands were spared. There's always some cause for gratitude in every evil, after all."
"That's one way of looking at it," said Mrs. Lane, turning up the lamp and drawing her work-basket nearer. "The Lord make us thankful for all our mercies, but a misfortune's a misfortune, and I don't know as we're called upon to look at it as any thing else. Won't you sit down, Mr. Halloway?"
"Thank you, not this evening. It is nearly time for service. I only wanted to know that Miss Phebe was doing well."
Mr. Hardcastle rose again to bow off the guest. "Sorry you can't stay, sir. In spite of our difference of faith,—and how great it is I am in hopes you will appreciate some day when you have come to see the errors of the way you are walking in,—in spite of our material differences, I say, you are always very welcome at any time. But pray don't let us detain you from what you deem your duty."
"Mr. Halloway, a moment, please," said Gerald, rising as he was going by. He stopped, and she came toward him holding out her hand. "I want to thank you for your kindness of the other night. I believe I was ungrateful and perhaps rude at the time, and I have not seen you since to apologize."
"Pray do not speak of it!" said Denham, flushing a little as he took her hand. "There was no occasion whatever for gratitude, and therefore no possible lack of it. I trust you are quite well now."
"Therewasoccasion for gratitude," persisted Gerald, "or at least for an acknowledgment of your kindness, and it is because I am ashamed of my remissness that I take this first opportunity to thank you."
"You embarrass me," said Denham, laughingly. "I am not at all accustomed to having public restitution made me in this manner, and especially for purely imaginary slights. But may I not be permitted now—as a sort of reward if you will—to inquire if you have quite recovered?"
"At least I have sufficiently recovered to retract my disbelief in kitchen soap, and—and in your skill," she added, with a little visible effort.
"You honor us above our deserts,—the soap and me," answered Denham, playfully. "I don't know how deleteriously it may affect the soap, but as for me I feel myself growing alarmingly conceited. So good-night."
"What a very elaborate apology," said De Forest, as Denham went out. "If the offence were at all proportionate, I tremble to think of the enormity of your crime; or is it because he is a Reverend, that you demean yourself so humbly before him?"
Halloway was still hunting for his hat in the hall, and could scarcely help overhearing De Forest's remark and Gerald's answer.
"I demean myself before nobody in seeking to make amends for a previous neglect. The humiliation is in the misconduct, not in the confession of it; and whether I owed the apology to Mr. Halloway or to a beggar in the street, I should have made it quite the same, not at all for sake of his pardon, but simply for sake of clearing my own conscience."
"Not at all for sake of my pardon," said Denham, as he strode on toward the church, with the uncomfortable sensation of having been an involuntary eavesdropper. "It is fortunate that my conceit was only veneered on."
The following Sunday Gerald was in church both morning and evening, sitting in Phebe's accustomed place. She was one of those noticeable presences impossible to overlook, and as Denham mounted into the pulpit he felt as if he were preaching solely to her, or rather as if hers were the only criticism he feared in all the friendly congregation. He was annoyed that he should feel so, and quite conscious at the same time that he was far from doing his best, and once or twice he caught a flash in the serious eyes fastened on his face, that seemed to say she knew this last fact too, and was impatient with him for it. What excuse had any one, in Gerald's eyes, for not doing his best always? De Forest was with her in the evening, and as Halloway came out of the vestry after service, he found himself directly behind them.
"He's not a mighty orator," De Forest was saying with his cynical drawl. "I doubt if he is destined to be one of the pillars or even one of the cushions of the church."
"He was not doing his best to-night," answered Gerald.
"Thank you," said Halloway, coming quickly to her side, anxious to avoid further eavesdropping. "Thank you—I mean for thinking I might do better."
"That is not much to be grateful for, I am afraid," replied Gerald, "since it implies, you know, that you have not done well."
"I hope you like uncompromising truth, Mr. Halloway," said De Forest, leaning forward to look at him across Gerald. "It's the only kind Miss Vernor deals in."
"I prefer it infinitely to the most flattering falsehood imaginable," answered Denham.
"I believe clergymen are usually the last people to hear the truth about themselves," continued Gerald. "Their position at the head of a community, pre-supposes their capability for the office, and naturally places them outside of the criticism of those under their immediate charge, who are nevertheless just the ones best qualified to judge them. But of course scholars may not teach the teacher."
"What an invaluable opening for you who arenotone of Mr. Halloway's flock," said De Forest, "to undertake to remedy the deficiency, and to be in yourself a whole critical public to him, a licensedFree Pressas it were, pointing out all his errors with the most unhesitating frankness and unsparing perspicuity!"
"Do you think your love of truth would hold out long under such a crucial test?" asked Gerald, turning quite seriously to Denham. The moonlight shone full on her clear-cut, cameo-like face. Her eyes, with their shadowy fringe, looked deeper and blacker than midnight. It did not seem possible that truth spoken by her could be any thing but beautiful too. Denham smiled down at her seriousness.
"Try me."
"Well, then, it seems to me you do not often enough try to do your best. You are contented to do well, and not ambitious to do better. You are quite satisfied, so I think, if your sermons are good enough to please generally, instead of seeking to raise your standard all the time by hard effort toward improvement, and I doubt, therefore, if at the end of a year your sermons will show any marked change from what they are to-day. Am I too hard?"
"You are very just," answered Denham, pleasantly, though the blood mounted to his face. "You have found out my weak spot. I confess I am not ambitious. I aspire to no greatness of any kind."
"You have discovered the secret of contentment," said De Forest, with effusive approbation. "I am glad to have met you, Mr. Halloway. You are the one happy man I know."
"The secret of contentment?" repeated Gerald. "Say rather the principle of all stagnation, mental and spiritual. Not to aspire to become greater than onecanbe is to fall short of becoming all that onemaybe; to be satisfied with one's powers is to dwarf them hopelessly."
"A powerful argument against conceit," reflected De Forest. "Still, upon my word, I think I would as lief be conceited in every pore as eternally in a state of dissatisfaction with myself about every thing."
"It is well, above all, I think, to have a just appreciation of one's own powers or lack of powers," said Denham, slowly. "Ambition, without the corresponding strength to gratify it, is a cruel taskmaster."
"How can you tell, till you have tried, that there is no corresponding strength?" asked Gerald, turning full upon him again. How marvellously expressive her face was, with its earnest eyes and mobile mouth! "If I were a man,—and great heavens! how I wish I were one!—I would create the strength if it were not there of itself. I would force myself upward. I would never rest till I had become something more than nature originally made me."
"Then Heaven be thanked, who has spared us the monstrosity you would have developed into under the harrowing circumstances of a reversal of your sex," said De Forest, devoutly.
"I was always glad you were a woman. Now I am positively aglow with gratitude for it."
Denham was silent. They had reached Mrs. Lane's now, and Gerald and her cavalier paused.
"I have not hurt you, Mr. Halloway, have I?" said Gerald, more gently. "I know I sometimes speak strongly where I am least qualified to do so."
"A very womanly trait," put in De Forest. "Don't apologize for your one redeeming weakness."
"No, you have not hurt me," said Denham, in a low voice. "I hope you have done me good." And without adding even a good-night or a message for Phebe, he lifted his hat and crossed over to the rectory. His sister was not there as he entered her sitting-room, and throwing himself down on the sofa, clasped his hands over his forehead and stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling. She had been sitting with Phebe while the Lane household went to its various churches, Phebe was tired, in consequence of the entire population of Joppa having run in to ask after her between services "on their way home," and she was not talking much. But only to look up and smile into Soeur Angélique's sweet face was pleasure enough for the girl, and she lay very quietly, holding a rose that Denham had sent her over by his sister, and feeling supremely contented.
"How would you like me to read to you?" asked Mrs. Whittridge at last, taking up a book. "Shall I try it?"
"No, thank you. I am afraid my thoughts would be louder than your words, and I should be listening to them and losing what you are saying."
"And, pray, what are these remarkably noisy thoughts?" asked the lady."Let me listen and hear them too."
"I don't think I could say just what they are," replied Phebe, dreamily. "They are running through my head more like indistinct music than like real thoughts. And I never was clever at saying things, you know. But, oh! I do feel very happy."
"You look so," said Soeur Angélique, tenderly. "You poor little one, is it just the getting well again that makes you so?"
Phebe flushed ever so slightly. "I don't know just what it is," she answered, lifting the rose to her face. "Perhaps it is only the listening to that indistinct music. It seems to have put all my soul in tune. Oh, dear Mrs. Whittridge, what a beautiful world this is, when only there are no discords in one's own heart!"
A day or two went by, and Phebe, though rapidly convalescing, was still a prisoner to her room.
"You're missing a lot of fun," said Bell Masters, sympathetically, as she bustled in to see her one morning, and sat down by the window, pushing back the curtain so that she could look out into the street and nod to passers as she talked. "There's no end going on. Dear me, it's a shame to come to you empty-handed, Phebe. I had two or three rosebuds for you,—beauties they were too,—but the fact is I gave them away piecemeal as I came along, and I haven't one left. It seemed as if I met every man there was this morning. How soon do you think you'll be out again?"
"I don't know," answered Phebe, pushing a box of bonbons within reach ofBell's easy-going fingers. "I think I might go down-stairs now, but Dr.Dennis won't let me."
"Too bad. You'll miss Dick's coming of age, won't you? There are to be high doings. Mr. Hardcastle is too mysterious and pompous to live. One can't get any thing out of him but just 'My son Dick doesn't come of age but once' (as if we thought it was a yearly occurrence), 'and we don't celebrate it but once.' But I got hold of Dick privately and wheedled it out of him in less than no time with a piece of soft gingerbread. It's to be somethingstunning. His father wanted to do it up in English style, dinner to the tenantry, and all that sort of thing, only unluckily there wasn't any tenantry, and he had to abandon the benevolent role and take to a jollier one. He won't show off as well, but we'll have a deal more fun. It's to be a sort of royal picnic, but in the evening, mind,—wasn't that a brilliant idea for the old gentleman? We are all to go up in boats, and there are to be great rafts with blazing torches, and a supper in the woods grander than any of Mrs. Upjohn's, and bonfires, and the band from Galilee, and bouquets for the ladies, and I don't know what not, and best of all, unlimited opportunities for flirting. It's to betheaffair of this and every other season past or future. It's a crying shame you can't go."
"Oh! how I wish I could!" sighed poor Phebe.
"I made pa give me a new dress for it," continued Bell, leaning forward to pick off the biggest grapes from a bunch on the table. "I mean to look just too-too. Mr. De Forest is going to row me up. I don't know exactly how I made him ask me, but I did. It's such a triumph to get him away from Miss Vernor for once, though I suspect I'll have to pay for it by doing more than half the rowing myself. I don't suppose he would exert his precious self to pull an oar more than five minutes at a time. Amy tried her best to get Mr. Halloway, and so did the Dexters. The way those girls run after him is a caution even to me; but they didn't get him. He's monstrously clever in keeping out of people's clutches. I gave him up long ago as a bad job. Well, good-by, Phebe. Awfully sorry you can't go. Everybody'll be there, and it's to be the biggest lark out."
During the few days that intervened before Dick's birthday, little else was talked of anywhere than Mr. Hardcastle's party, which was never spoken of, by the way, as Mrs. Hardcastle's party, though upon that good lady devolved the onus of the weighty preparations. It seemed purely Mr. Hardcastle's affair, just as every thing did in which he was in any way concerned. Impromptu meetings were held at every house in turn to discuss the coming event, and the latest bits of information regarding it were retailed with embellishments proportionate to the imagination of the accidental narrator. Not a soul in Joppa but knew every proposed feature of the entertainment better than the hosts themselves. The old people said it would be damp and rheumatic and would certainly be the death of them. The young people said it would be divine, and quite worth dying for. The people who were neither old nor young said nobody could tell how it would be till after it was over, and they felt it their duty to go to look after the others. The day came, brilliantly clear and soft and warm: such a day, in short, as Mr. Hardcastle had felt to be his due, and had expected of the elements all along as the one token of regard in their power to accord him, and he accepted his friends' congratulations upon it with a grave bow which seemed to say: "I ordered it so. Pray, did you suppose I had forgotten to attend to the weather?" The sun set in a cloudless heaven; the evening star hung quivering over the green-topped hills; the twilight dropped noiseless and fragrant over earth and water, and the long-dreamed-of moment had arrived at last.
"Just let me have one more look at you, Gerald, before you start," said Phebe, wistfully. "Oh, how beautiful you look! Nobody's dresses ever fit like yours, and that great dark-red hat and feather,—I thought I should not like it,—but it makes a perfect picture of you."
"For pity's sake do stop!" begged Gerald. "You know of all things I hate compliments. Where's that boy Olly?"
"He's coming to me later. I promised to make up to him for his not going to the party, poor little fellow."
"Phebe, dear," said Gerald, suddenly stooping to give her one of her rare kisses, "I cannot bear to leave you all alone so. That miserable Miss Lydia and Olly aren't any sort of company. Let me stay with you. I had a great deal rather."
"Oh, no, no, no!" cried Phebe, almost pushing her toward the door. "I don't mind a bit being left, and I wouldn't have you stay for anything. How lovely of you to propose it! You are an angel, Gerald, even though you don't like being told so, Good-by. And—Gerald,"—she had followed her friend out into the hall, and stood leaning against the banisters,—"Gerald, dear, will you tell Mr. Halloway I am going down-stairs to-morrow?"
Halloway was to be Gerald's escort that evening, and stood waiting for her now in the hall below, and looking up at sound of Phebe's voice, he gave an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, and immediately sprang up the stairs.
"Miss Phebe!" he said, taking both her hands in his. "How glad I am to see you once more!"
Phebe shrank back from him with a little cry of dismay. Ah! when does ever any thing happen exactly as we plan it shall? She had pictured this meeting to herself over and over again during the long days of her seclusion,—just what he would say and what she would say, and just how she would dress on that first day when she went down-stairs. She meant to look so particularly nice on that first day! And now to be caught in her plain little gray flannel wrapper with its simple red trimmings, her hair all loose and mussy, and even her very oldest slippers on,—and with Gerald standing beside her in her rich, dainty, becoming attire as if to make the contrast all the more painfully striking! Poor little Cinderella Phebe! She looked up at Denham almost ready to cry, and said never a word.
"It has been such a long, long time!" he said, still holding her hands."I do not know how we have made out to spare you."
"We shall not have to spare her much longer," said Gerald. "She is coming down-stairs to-morrow."
And then Halloway dropped Phebe's hands, and turning to Gerald, held out a hand to her.
"Forgive me for not even noticing you, Miss Vernor. At first I could only see Miss Phebe."
"Doesn't Gerald look nice?" asked Phebe, trying to choke back the uncomfortable lump rising so unreasonably in her throat. Halloway moved back a little and looked at Gerald, who stood fastening her long glove, utterly unconscious or unheedful of his scrutiny. The light in the niche at the head of the stairs threw its full glow over both her and Phebe.
"Yes," he answered, quietly, after an imperceptible pause, and, as he turned back to Phebe, it seemed to her that his eyes glanced over her with a suddenly awakened consciousness of the wrapper and the tumbled hair and even of the little worn-out slippers. "You look pale," he said, kindly. "I know I am wrong to keep you standing here just because it is so pleasant to see you again. And it is easier to say good-by, knowing I have only till to-morrow to wait now.A demain."
"Good-night," murmured Phebe, without looking up; "good-night, Gerald." And then she turned quickly into her room, and closed the door, and stood stock-still behind it, holding her breath and listening intently till she heard the front door close upon them and the last echo of their footsteps die away in the street outside. Then she flung herself face downward upon the bed and cried miserably to herself out of sheer disappointment. Why did it have to be all so very, very different from her dream?
Never had there been a more perfect night than that whereon Dick Hardcastle's coming of age was celebrated. Only enough wind stirred to toy softly with the gay little pennons streaming from the many boats winding their way to the rendezvous, and to throw dancing shadows of light upon the water from the torches at their prow. All along the banks of the lake, where high hills shut out the moonlight and bound the shore in an almost Egyptian darkness, rafts were stationed at intervals, blazing with colored lights. The sound of distant music floated far down upon the air, mingled with the swish of steady oars and laughter and happy voices as the occupants of the various boats called out merrily to each other across the water, or here and there broke into light-hearted song. Denham's boat glided stilly along through all this carnival-like revelry. Gerald was not in a mood for talking, and he felt little inclined to disturb her. It was companionship enough merely to glance at her ever and anon as she sat silently in the stern, the red ropes of the tiller drawn loosely around her slender waist like a silken girdle. He wondered idly what she was thinking of. Her broad hat threw too deep a shadow for him to see her face save when they neared one of the beacon rafts; then it was suddenly in brilliant illumination, and it was impossible not to watch for these moments of revelation, which lit her up to such rare beauty. He fancied he could almost see her thoughts as there flashed across her face some new, swift expression more speaking than words,—now a noble thought, he was sure; now an odd fancy, now a serious meditative mood, that held her every sense and faculty in thrall at once. Through all her revery she never forgot her duty with the rudder, though she quite forgot her oarsman. She made no effort whatever toward his entertainment, and he felt sure that he could do no more toward hers than simply not to obtrude himself upon her. Were there many, he wondered, even among her chosen friends (in whose ranks he could not count himself), who would have enjoyed this silent sail with her so much as he? They neared the destined spot all too soon for him, and Gerald at last roused herself.
"Are we there now? I had no idea it was so far."
"It is not far enough," answered Denham, resting a moment on his oars as he looked around. "Nothing surely can be devised, even in this pleasure-ingenious society, so enjoyable as I have found our evening sail."
"Why do you go to the party at all then?" asked Gerald, abruptly. "It isn't compulsory, is it? After you land me, are you not at liberty to row off if you prefer?"
"Ah, but I don't prefer," Halloway said gayly, resuming his oars. "I expect to be very greatly entertained there too. There is almost always something to be got out of every thing, and anyway I particularly like parties."
"I hate them."
"Yes, because you do not care for people. I like them just because I do care for people, and parties are but people collectively instead of individually, you know."
By this time Denham had shot the boat up to the landing, where the hosts of the evening stood ready to receive them. Dick was in a wild state of boyish hilarity, profiting by the novelty of his exalted position as hero of the evening, boldly to take a kiss from every pretty girl in succession as he swung her to the shore. "It's my right, to-night, you know, or if it isn't, I'm major now and can make laws for myself," he explained complacently to any expostulatory subject; and Mr. Hardcastle rubbed his soft, plump hands, and added: "Never you mind, never you mind, my dear; every dog must have his day, and this is Dick's day. And after all it's my son Dick, you know, and that makes it all right. He doesn't need any other guaranty than that he's my son, I'm sure, and seeing I'm Dick's papa, my dear, why I'll just make bold to follow suit."
But Dick would as soon have thought of offering to kiss the polar star as Gerald, and she was suffered to pass on unmolested to Mrs. Hardcastle, who stood just beyond, looking fagged and jaded, and as if she were heartily thankful that in all his life Dick could never come of age again. One of the next arrivals was Bell Masters, very fine in her new dress, but flushed and overheated to an unbecoming degree. She rowed up smartly, shipped her oars in true nautical fashion, sprang from the boat, and held out her hand to her companion with a hardly repressed sneer: "Pray allow me to assist you, Mr. De Forest."
That gentleman got up leisurely from his cushioned seat in the stern, and came forward cool and comfortable to an enviable degree. "Thanks," he said, with even a little more drawl than usual as he took her proffered hand. "This boatisa little teetery. You are uncommonly kind, and quite a champion oarswoman."
"You ought to be a judge of my powers by this time certainly," said Bell, snappishly. She had rowed the entire distance from Joppa unaided.
"Yes, I flatter myself that I am. People can always judge best of what they don't do themselves. And I will say that you do row well—uncommonly well—for a woman. I don't know a girl, except Miss Vernor, fit to pull stroke oar to you. Ah, Mr. Hardcastle, what an adorable evening you have provided for us! Mr. Dick Hardcastle, permit me to congratulate you upon attaining your majority, than which, believe me, there is but one greater blessing in the world—that of minority. I see you have not yet abandoned all the privileges of the latter, however," he added, as Dick caught Bell round the waist and gave her a sounding salute on the cheek. "That is an alleviation it seems unfair to monopolize."
Bell laughed and boxed Dick's ears, whereupon he speedily kissed her again, and Mr. Hardcastle chuckled and pulled one of the long, light braids hanging over her back. Bell's blonde hair, with her black eyes, was her strong point, and she invariably dressed it à la Kenwigs when she wore a hat. None of Miss Bell's lights ran any danger of ever being hidden under a bushel.
"Ha, ha!" laughed Mr. Hardcastle. "It's all right. It's only Dick, you know, my son Dick; and bless my heart, the boy's good taste too. He inherited it."
"Take my arm or let me take yours," muttered De Forest to Bell as Mr. Hardcastle turned away, "and do let's get through it with his good lady. Do you suppose she'll kiss me? Get her to make it easy for me, won't you?"
"Where now?" asked Bell, undecidedly, after the due politenesses with the hostess had been exchanged. The woods were fairly ablaze with bonfires and hanging lanterns, making a strangely brilliant and fantastic scene. Here and there rugs were spread out on the grass for the older people to congregate upon in gossiping groups, while the young ones had speedily converted a large, smooth spot of lawn into an impromptu dancing-ground, and were whirling merrily away to the music of the band, in the very face of the scandalized Mrs. Upjohn. This last field of action was the first to attract Bell's quick eye. "Oh, come," she said. "Of course you dance?"
De Forest gave a shudder. "My dear young lady! no sane man ever dances. But pray do not let me detain you. Where your heart is, there would your feet be also." He dropped her arm as he spoke. Bell shrugged her shoulders and put her arm back in his.
"'Tisn't fair to abandon you so soon after bringing you here. There's Janet Mudge" (hastily selected as the plainest girl present and the farthest from Gerald, toward whom De Forest's steps were manifestly directing themselves); "let's go and speak to her."
"On the contrary, let us avoid her by every means in our power," said De Forest, imperturbably, walking Bell off in the opposite direction. "I never choose pearls when I may have diamonds. There's Miss Vernor. We'll go and speak with her."
"But I don't want to," objected Bell, crossly. "I am not at all as fond of Miss Vernor as you are."
"Naturally not," answered De Forest, pursuing his way undisturbed. "Men always like girls better than girls do. I appreciate your feelings. But she's got that good-looking young minister with her. You like him. All feminine souls incline to clergymen next to officers. Buttons first; then surplices."
"Thirdly, For(r)esters, I suppose," suggested Bell, saucily.
"Undoubtedly," assented her companion. "Miss Vernor, your humble servant." His glance, as it invaribly did when they met, seemed to make swift, approbative note of every smallest particular of her appearance. "Mr. Halloway, here is a young lady who has just openly informed me that she prefers you to me, so I suppose I must resign her to you with what grace I can. Don't you think, Miss Vernor, you might try to divert my mind from dwelling too cruelly on Miss Masters' defalcation by showing me what Mr. Hardcastle's grand intellect has devised for my entertainment? That bonfire yonder has a sort of cannibalistic look about it suggestive of dancing negroes and unmentionable feasts behind the flames. Shall we inspect it nearer?" And he marched Gerald deliberately away, scarcely remembering to bow to Bell. Still, to be left with Mr. Halloway was by no means an unenviable fate, and Bell, like the wise girl she was, proceeded to make the most of it without delay, and paraded her prey wherever she chose, finding him much more tractable than her last companion, and not in the least dictatorial as to the direction he went in.
That out-door evening party was long remembered as one of the most novel and successful entertainments ever given in Joppa. Even Mrs. Upjohn admitted it to be very well, very well indeed, all but the dancing, for which, however, Mr. Hardcastle apologized to her handsomely as a quite unexpected ebullition of youthful spirits which in his soul he was far from countenancing, and upon which she resolutely turned her back all the evening, so at least not to be an eye-witness of the indecorum. Of course, therefore, she knew nothing whatever about it when Mr. Upjohn toward the end of the evening, actually allowed himself to be decoyed into the gay whirl by one of the youngest and most daring of the girls, and galloped clumsily around like a sportive and giddy elephant set free for the first time in its native jungle, and finding it very much to its liking. His daughter Maria, faithfully at her mother's side, sat with one ear grudgingly lent to the prosy heaviness of Mr. Webb's light talk, and her whole face turned longingly toward the spot where the happy sinners were gyrating, and, seeing her father there, her round eyes grew rounder than ever, as she watched in breathless alarm lest the earth should open under his feet in instant retribution. Gracious, if ma should turn her head! But there are some wrongs it is best to ignore altogether, where prevention is hopeless, and Mrs. Upjohn, like many another good woman, always knew when not to see. So she persistently did not see now, and Mr. Upjohn spun away to his heart's content (prudently keeping in the remotest corner of the sward, to be sure), winking at Maria every now and then in the highest glee, and once absolutely signing to her to sneak over to him and try a turn too.
And then came supper-time, and such a supper, setting all confectioners and doctors at defiance at once! Mr. Upjohn, red and perspiring, and remarking how curiously hot the bonfires made the woods at night, waited on his wife with gallant solicitude, lest she should leave a single dish untasted. Mrs. Bruce had left town the day before, and in the absence of any new admiration he always fell back with perfect content upon his old allegiance. Mrs. Upjohn received his devotion as calmly as his intermittent neglects, and only raised her eyebrows when he stooped to whisper, "My love, you're the most handsomely dressed woman here!" which was strictly true as regarded the materials of her attire, and unblushingly false as regarded the blending of them. Dick had been in his element all the evening. He had had a serio-comic flirtation with every girl in turn. He had cut out Jake Dexter with Nellie Atterbury, and made it up to his friend by offering him a lock of Bell's hair, which he had surreptitiously cut from her hanging braids, and which Jake wore pinned in his button hole as a trophy for the rest of the evening, to the immense scandal of everybody. But with the supper-hour Dick's spirits ebbed. He knew, poor fellow, what Fate held in store. His father intended making a few remarks over him, as a sort of substitute for his defrauded speech to the non-existing tenantry.
"Stand by me, Jake, there's a man!" whispered Dick, forlornly, to his crony.
"I will, Dick, like a woman!" Jake responded, tenderly, and the two stood together just at Mr. Hardcastle's elbow, as that worthy advanced to a central spot between the bonfires, cleared his throat ominously, and pirouetted solemnly around, holding up his hand to attract general attention.
"My friends," began Mr. Hardcastle, swelling with the importance of the moment to even more than his usual rotundity, "this has been a day of days to me. All of you who are parents will appreciate my feelings of mingled pride and humility,—of pride and humility," repeated Mr. Hardcastle, pleased with the antithesis, and swaying gently back and forth, "as I stand here before you with my son, the boy whom I have watched over from his cradle up with an unsleeping eye, and whose tender feet"—Dick here stooped over to inspect those honest, able members. Jake did the same with evident disapproval of them. Mr. Hardcastle raised his voice—"whose tender feet I have endeavored from his youth up, so far as lay in my limited power, to guide in the way that I hope he may never depart from. This boy I now present to you, friends, a man,—this boy who has grown up among you, whom you all know, and whom I hope you all harbor some kindly feeling for,—this boy,"—he put out his hand to draw him forward, Dick gave Jake a gentle push toward the hand and vanished, and Mr. Hardcastle, quite unconscious of the manoeuvre, drew the grinning Jake solemnly up to him, and casting around a look of triumph which seemed to say: Do better than this, friends, if you can, placed his hand on Jake's shoulder with his grandest air, and continued, sonorously,—"my son, ladies and gentlemen,—my son Dick."
There was a moment's pause of consternation among the guests and a suppressed scream from the defrauded Mother Dexter. Mr. Hardcastle slowly turned his radiant face toward his supposed son, and immediately dropped his hand and exclaimed, in entirely altered and most natural tones of amazement: "Well, I never! How in the world didyouget here, Jake Dexter?"
A shout instantly went up all round; even Mr. Hardcastle himself was overcome with the ludicrousness of the mistake, and further solemnity being impossible, a signal was given, and from a barge far out on the water a score of rockets shot hissing into the air, announcing the beginning of fireworks. A brilliant display of these followed, closing the evening's entertainment, and immediately afterward a large raft was towed up to the landing, and the whole merry party embarked and returned to Joppa together, the band following on another boat and treating them to music all the way. Halloway stood near Gerald in the crowd, but he did not attempt to join her until the raft reached the pier and was made fast. Then he quietly went to her and offered his arm. De Forest stepped up at the same moment. "Miss Vernor, will you condescend to accept of my valuable escort home?"
"I beg your pardon," interrupted Denham, "I am Miss Vernor's escort to-night."
De Forest stood still. "I did not know it was a return-ticket arrangement."
"It was," answered Denham, decidedly. "You can hardly expect me to relinquish my rights."
"I should say your rights depended wholly on Miss Vernor's choice. Fair lady, two hearts and four arms are at your immediate disposal. If you could make up your volatile mind to determine between them—"
"There can be no question of choice," said Gerald, quietly. "I acceptedMr. Halloway's escort yesterday; so good-night."
"You leave me a blighted being," said De Forest. "For the peace of my soul, let me ascribe your decision to a love of justice rather than of individual.Au revoir."
Halloway drew Gerald's hand through his arm with a very comfortable feeling of possession, and they walked on some time in silence. "Are you tired?" he asked at last.
"No—yes. Parties always tire me, and life in Joppa consists of parties.Do you always go?"
"Oh, always!"
"Your mental constitution must be robust to stand such a steady strain upon it."
"The shepherd must keep by his sheep, you know," laughed Denham.
"I thought the shepherd was to lead the sheep, not to be led by them. Don't you hope to inspire them with a love for better things? I fancied the province of a clergyman was to improve people—not just to preach to them."
A shadow crossed Denham's face. "There are many of them more fitted to improve me than I them," he said, humbly. "How would you have me begin?"
"With making Mr. Hardcastle less offensively pompous, and Mrs. Hardcastle less tedious, and Mrs. Upjohn less dogmatic, and Mrs. Anthony more sincere, and Miss Delano less namby-pamby,—in short, by taking a little of the superficiality and narrow-mindedness and provinciality out of the place if possible."
Denham tossed back his head with a light laugh. "Ah, how you relieve my mind! Most of those whom you have so scathingly described belong to other congregations, and are therefore beyond my jurisdiction."
"Do you really feel so? Are you so like a physician?" asked Gerald, quickly. "Do you seek to do good only to those who pay for the care you give them? Is not your mission with all with whom you are thrown?"
"The days of single-handed combat against the world are over," answeredDenham. "You cripple a man by giving him too wide a field of action."
"I would not take less than the widest were I a man!" exclaimedGerald, proudly.
"Would you be a clergyman?"
"No. I have no talent for writing. I could not preach."
"Nay, I think you an admirable preacher," said Denham, gently, without the faintest tinge of sarcasm in either tone or look. Gerald glanced at him quickly and flushed slightly.
"I am too dogmatic myself," she said, biting her lip and turning away her head. "I should not be so hard on Mrs. Upjohn."
"You do not intend to be hard on any one."
"But to be just is to seem hard," said Gerald.
"It is a divine prerogative to know just how far to temper justice with mercy," Denham answered. "I suppose none of us can hope to attain to perfect knowledge; but if there must be error, I would for myself rather err in excess of mercy than of justice."
"In other words, between two evils you would choose the least," Gerald replied. "That is the common way of getting out of the difficulty. But it seems to me like compromising with evil. There ought to be always some third, wholly right, way out of every dilemma, if only one sought earnestly enough." She spoke more as if to herself than to him.
"Then perhaps," said Denham, pleasantly, "we may hope that you will in time light upon the very kindliest and rightest way combined of judging not only abstract subjects, but also the not altogether unworthy inhabitants of even this little place of Joppa."
"Oh, Joppa!" cried Gerald, all the impatience instantly coming back to her face and voice. As instantly too she frowned in self-conviction, and turned almost contritely to Denham. "You see, Mr. Halloway, I shall have to bring my own character first to that future Day of Judgment, and to be very careful that I donoterr on your side,—in being too merciful."