An Angel of Mercy
Earlythe next morning Will started for the parsonage. On the way he wondered if misunderstanding and contention would stand between him and his father now, as it had in the past, even though a woman's name was in the balance.
On arriving at the house and attempting to open the door, Will discovered that he did not have his keys with him. He rang the bell, but no one answered. A second and a third ring in rapid succession proved equally unsuccessful. Then he went to the back door and knocked heavily—still no response. On the way back to the front door he looked in at a window, but could see no one. Will was surprised and disappointed. He knew of his mother's absence, but could not understand why his father was not there at that time in the morning. He gave the front door-bell a final ring, waited several minutes, and then started off toward the home of school committeeman George.
As he was passing Stout's Grocery, Sam Billings, who was standing in the doorway, waved his hand and called:
"Hello, Billy."
"Hello, Sam," Will replied without stopping.
"I thought you'd be 'round here 'fore long. Lively times," Sam shouted, but Will made no reply. He met many friends and acquaintances that day who looked curiously at him as he greeted them and hastened by. He had no inclination for idle talk, nor time; there being so much serious work to be done, and only a day for its accomplishment, as it was necessary for him to return to the city that night.
When Will walked into Mr. George's office that morning, that gentleman had not fully recovered from the effects of Mrs. Stout's visit of the night before. And when Will had concluded his remarks he felt about as mean and frightened as a narrow-minded man can feel.
Will called next on the other members of the school committee, the editor of the local paper, in which much had been insinuated concerning Barbara, and the deacons of his father's church. At noon he returned to Mrs. Stout's, and when Barbara asked him where he had been, smilingly replied, "Calling on our friends."
In the afternoon Will gave his time and attention to the prominent ladies of the town,—Mrs. Tweedie,Mrs. Blake, Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Darling, and several others. He was extremely courteous to the ladies, but when he had finished, many of them knew what he would have said, and how he would have said it, if they had happened to be men.
Toward night, when on his way back to Mrs. Stout's, Will stopped again at the parsonage, and found it, as in the morning, apparently deserted, and concluded that his father had gone away for the day, perhaps to join his mother.
"Well," said Mrs. Stout as she opened the door for him, "feel any better?"
"Yes; but I doubt if I've done Barbara any good," he replied.
"It's satisfyin', though, to tell folks what you think of 'em," chuckled Mrs. Stout.
Will laughed, and went to meet Barbara.
"Been scolding all the afternoon?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Whom?"
Will named the ladies on whom he had called. Mrs. Stout was greatly pleased, especially when he spoke of Mrs. Tweedie, but Barbara looked grave.
"What did you say to them, Will?" she asked when he had finished.
"Something that they will never forget," he replied.
"And what did they say to you?" asked Mrs. Stout, curiously.
"Everything except the right thing."
"Made all kinds of excuses, I s'pose, but just wait till the next meetin' of the club; if I don't make a speech that'll make 'em feel like a piece of worn-out carpet, it'll be because I'm struck dumb before I get a chance," said Mrs. Stout, vigorously, and then started for the kitchen to get supper.
"Have you seen your father, Will?" Barbara asked a moment later.
"No; but I have been to the house twice. Perhaps it is best. I hope to be in a better mood when I come down next week."
"When you do see him, please try to forget me, just think of him, and speak to him as your father."
"If you wish—"
"No, Will, because it is right—for your own sake," she pleaded, and he promised.
Between supper and train-time there was an opportunity for Barbara and Will to make again the vows of lovers. They forgot the time, the train—everything except each other; but, fortunately,Mrs. Stout did not, and when the time came, warned them that further delay was out of the question by coughing just outside the door, with an effort that was ridiculous, and asking them if they knew what time it was. Barbara, who was to accompany Will to the railroad station, ran to put on her things, and Will called to Mrs. Stout to come in, which she did.
"I can't thank you enough for your kindness," said Will, grasping her hand. "If it hadn't been for you, I don't know what Barbara would have done."
"Oh, nonsense, I guess somebody'd come along if I hadn't," replied Mrs. Stout.
"But she had been to several somebodies."
"Well, I don't see how I could have done any different," said Mrs. Stout, modestly.
"Bless you for it, Mrs. Stout, I can never forget."
"Bless you again, and again," added Barbara, who came into the room at that moment, and emphasized her blessing with a kiss on Mrs. Stout's red, fat cheek. As they were going down the steps, Will turned and called, "Good-bye."
"Good-bye," came a yell from three lusty young throats.
"Good-bye, boys," laughed Will, with a wave of his hand to the three youngsters, who had stolen unawares into the hall behind their mother.
"You scamps!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, as she shut the door, and "shooed" them back up-stairs.
For a moment Barbara and Will were silent.
It was a beautifully still night, the air was clear and cold—just such a night as the one on which the sleigh-ride accident had occurred, but so much had happened since then that neither thought of it.
"When are you going home, Barbara?" Will asked, suddenly.
"Very soon, in a day or two, probably."
"And when—when shall we be—" Will hesitated. "Married" is a difficult word to speak sometimes, but it came after a moment, and manfully.
"I am ready, Will, when you are," Barbara replied. At that moment they heard the pounding of a horse's hoofs, and the sound of sleigh-bells, coming furiously toward them. They stopped to listen, and as the sound came nearer, Will, thinking that it was a runaway, started into the road, but Barbara clung to his arm and held him back.Love is selfish sometimes, and has a right to be. As the team rushed by, they saw that it was Doctor Jones.
"A race—perhaps with death," said Will, as they walked on. Barbara shuddered.
The train was late, and while waiting, Barbara and Will slowly paced the dimly lighted platform. When at last the warning shriek of the engine on the approaching train came through the still night air, they stopped in their walk, and with clasped hands watched the glaring headlight as it rapidly neared them. The station-master, lantern in hand, emerged from his warm office and shivered when he felt the cold air, but he did not see the man and woman who stood near.
"Have courage," said Will, as the train stopped.
"And faith," Barbara whispered, as he turned to leave her. A moment more and he was gone. She watched until the red lights on the rear of the train had disappeared, then slowly walked toward Mrs. Stout's. In returning she went by a different road, one that would take her by the parsonage. The way was lonely, but she did not notice, and deserted until she approached the home of Mr. Flint, with the black church looming across theway. A horse and sleigh were standing by the side of the road, and near the gate two men, one with a red lantern, were talking earnestly. As Barbara drew nearer she saw that the red light had been improvised by tying a red handkerchief around an ordinary lantern, and recognized the men by their voices as Doctor Jones and Sam Billings.
"I can't find a man or a woman who will come," she heard the doctor say.
"He's a mighty sick man, and—" said Sam, but Barbara interrupted him.
"Who?" she asked. The two men had not heard her approach, and when she spoke they were startled and instinctively stepped back. Barbara misunderstood their action, and a feeling of bitter resentment arose within her, as she started to hasten by.
"Oh, is it Miss Wallace?" asked the doctor.
"Yes," Barbara replied.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Wallace," said the doctor, quickly, "it is not you of whom we are afraid, but Mr. Flint is dangerously ill, and has been lying in his study unattended since yesterday; Sam, here, made the discovery to-night. Mrs. Flint is away. I sent for her, but received wordthat she is sick too, and I can't find any one to take care of him. Has Will gone?"
"Yes; but what is the—what is Mr. Flint's trouble?" Barbara asked, and looked wonderingly at the red lantern.
The doctor knew that Barbara's courage was good, he remembered how fearlessly she had worked during the epidemic of diphtheria, early in the winter, yet he hesitated now before answering her question.
"Why don't you tell me?" said Barbara, impatiently. "What is it?"
"Smallpox," replied the doctor.
It was Barbara's turn to shrink from them.
"And no one to nurse him?" she asked.
"No; and that is what he needs more than anything else," said the doctor.
"There must be some one—are they afraid?"
"Naturally."
"But if you cannot get some one—"
"His chance for life is nothing."
"He must not lie there alone and suffer!" Barbara cried, as the horror of the situation became more deeply impressed on her mind. The three were silent for a moment. Each was tryingto think of some one who was competent, and willing to do the work.
"I know who will do it," said Barbara, suddenly.
"Who?" the doctor asked, eagerly.
"I will," Barbara calmly replied.
"No!" exclaimed the doctor and Sam together.
"I must," she replied, firmly.
"But you have been worried, you are in no condition to undertake such work," the doctor pleaded. "Think of the risk, and the work, day and night for days, perhaps weeks."
"Will it be any harder to bear than what I have already borne?" she asked. The men were silent. "Please send word to Mrs. Stout, and—I will go in now." She turned to go, but stopped when the doctor spoke.
"You may save him, but you will sacrifice yourself. Why should you do that for the man who—"
"Please, doctor, do not remind me of what he has done—I have tried to forget."
"Pardon me," said the doctor, who saw that she was determined. "Sam will be here outside to get anything that you may need. I shall call in the morning."
Barbara walked up the path to the door of the parsonage. The two men watched, and, accustomed as the doctor was to scenes of suffering, sacrifice and death, there were tears in his eyes.
"She's an angel," muttered Sam.
"Courage, faith," was Barbara's whispered prayer as she opened the door of the pest-stricken house and went in.
Many Minds Change
Thenext morning the people of Manville had something really new and startling to talk about. When it first became known that Mr. Flint had been stricken with that most dreaded and loathsome disease, smallpox, everybody tried to remember the most recent time that they had been near him. Many who had attended his church on the previous Sunday felt that they were doomed. Others equally superstitious thought that they and Mr. Flint were to be punished in this way by a wrathful God for the persecution of an innocent woman. All sorts of crazy, silly talk was indulged in, but through it all Barbara's praises were sung, though few seemed to understand fully why she had sacrificed herself. Their minds were too narrow, their world too small, to appreciate such service.
The red flag by day, the lantern by night, and Sam Billings all the time on the steps of the parsonage, were objects of curious interest. Many went far out of their way in order to pass by—on the opposite side—and Sam was kept busy all day yelling answers to volleys of questions. Buthe was equal to the task and enjoyed it. For the time being he was the only person in town of any consequence, the centre of all interest, the only one to answer questions, and he was being paid for it.
At Stout's Grocery, the proprietor, Alick Purbeck, and undertaker Blake were loud and sincere in their praise of Barbara.
"She's the right kind," said Alick, enthusiastically.
"There's not a woman in town her equal," added Mr. Blake.
"Right," said Peter, "exceptin'—"
"Of course, exceptin'—" Alick smiled.
"Excepting our own beloved," Mr. Blake finished for them.
"What are the chances of the smallpox spreadin', Mr. Blake?" asked Alick.
At the suggestion of an epidemic, the undertaker unconsciously rubbed his hands together in a businesslike manner.
"Can't tell yet," he replied. "I have no idea where Mr. Flint got it. This part of the country has been remarkably free from it this winter. Perhaps there won't be another case."
"I hope not," said Alick. "If Mr. Flint getswell, he'll have to take back some things that he's said, won't he?"
"And some other folks, too," added Peter.
"They're beginning to change their minds, already," Alick continued. "Half a dozen women told me this mornin' that all this fuss has been about somethin' that wa'n't half as bad as 'twas made out to be; and I told 'em that some folks did change their minds about as often as they opened their mouths."
"Did you say that to customers?" asked Peter, who always had an eye and ear to business; but at that moment, Mr. George, the school committeeman, came in, and temporarily saved the talkative clerk from the censure that he justly deserved.
"Mornin', Mr. George," said Alick, who was grateful for his timely appearance. Peter grunted some unintelligible greeting, while Mr. Blake bowed stiffly and turned away. Alick wanted to make Mr. George uncomfortable as soon as possible, and came to the point at once, by asking, "Hear the news?"
"News, what news?" queried Mr. George.
Alick was something of an actor, and to further perplex the school committeeman, dropped themeasure of potatoes that he was holding, and stared at him in astonishment.
"You ain't heard!" he gasped, after a pause of appropriate length.
"If you've got anything to say—say it," snapped Mr. George, impatiently.
"Mr. Flint—" Alick began, but Mr. George interrupted him.
"Not dead!" he exclaimed, as he turned toward the undertaker, and a look of dread spread over his face.
"No," replied Alick, slowly, "at least he wa'n't the last I heard, but—"
"Out with it, tell me!" demanded Mr. George.
"He's got the smallpox," said Alick, quietly.
Mr. George was wholly unprepared for the shock. His nerves had been so seriously irritated of late, that the distressing news concerning his beloved pastor almost unmanned him. Without giving his victim time to recover, Alick continued: "But that ain't the best part of it."
"The best part of it!" repeated Mr. George, in amazement. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean," said Alick, gleefully, "that they couldn't get anybody to take care of him until Miss Barbara Wallace came along, and, withoutbeing asked, took her life in her hands and stepped in where nobody elsedaredto go."
If Alick had struck him in the face, Mr. George could not have been more surprised. "You see," Alick went on, "there'ssomethin' goodabout her, after all."
"No doubt—no doubt," coughed Mr. George, in a dazed sort of way. "I must look into the matter. Very commendable, certainly." With that he backed out of the store.
"The old hard-shelled stiff-back," muttered Alick, as he shook his fist in the direction of the door.
"You've given him something to think about," said Mr. Blake.
As Mr. George walked toward the home of Mr. Flint, he summed up his chances for reëlection, and found them very slim. When he arrived at the parsonage, or, rather, the farthest point from it to which he thought Sam Billings's voice would carry, he stopped and gazed upon the modest dwelling and its gaudy decoration. Sam spied him, and hailed him gleefully. Mr. George asked for details, and got them wonderfully elaborated by Sam's imaginative mind.
When Sam had finished his story he beganasking impertinent questions—questions that made the school committee-man's conscience turn somersaults as he walked quickly away. Later in the day he drove about town, and notified the members of the school committee that there would be a special meeting that evening.
That afternoon there was an especially-special meeting of the Morning Glory Club, at the home of Mrs. Blake. The club-women knew that the meeting had been called for the purpose of expelling Barbara Wallace from the club, and to take some action in regard to making public the fact that the club was not in any way responsible for the costume that she had worn in the theatricals, and many other harsh and terrible, though very indefinite things, but Barbara had unknowingly frustrated their plans.
A moment after the members had been called to order, a motion to adjourn was made and carried, and then they settled themselves for a delightful afternoon talking it over. Mrs. Tweedie appeared to be deeply affected by Barbara's brave act. "We may have misjudged Miss Wallace," she admitted, and then she talked about "atonement" and many other things about whichnone of us know but little. She tried to explain why she had turned Barbara out by admitting that she was vexed at the time, and only had meant that she expected her to find another boarding-place as soon as possible. "Indeed, how could I do otherwise in view of the unpleasant circumstances? And when she did not return that night at the usual time, no one could imagine my surprise."
"And I have no doubt," said Mrs. Jones, when Mrs. Tweedie had said all that she could to put herself on the right side, "not the slightest, but that Miss Wallace misunderstood me. Of course, I was not wholly in sympathy with her, but I really would not have refused, had I a room to spare." Mrs. Jones wiped away two tears which opportunely came to her eyes, caused, however, not by an excess of emotion, but by a cold in her head.
"True," replied Mrs. Tweedie, "we all have been cruelly misquoted, misunderstood, and misjudged."
Poor Mrs. Tweedie; poor, unfortunate Morning Glories. Now that Barbara must be vindicated, they wanted to pose as martyrs themselves.
"Did Mr. Flint—Will Flint I mean—callon any of you ladies yesterday?" asked Mrs. Thornton, after all had explained, to their own satisfaction, why they had treated Barbara as they had.
An impressive silence followed. Mrs. Stout snickered, despite her determination to hold her peace until the others were talked out.
"Really," began Miss Sawyer, "I must confess that he called on me." Upon that others admitted that they, too, had been honoured.
"What did he say to you, Miss Sawyer?" asked Mrs. Darling, eagerly.
"He said a great deal, and was very much in earnest. He has changed greatly since I last—"
"Yes, indeed he has," interrupted Mrs. Thornton. "He's quite good-looking now."
"And," continued Miss Sawyer, "he spoke of the honour of a woman as being the most sacred thing, and—oh, he said so much in such a short time, and was so gentlemanly, that one could forgive him for saying anything." Miss Sawyer spoke rapidly, and when she had finished was blushing crimson.
"Oh!" exclaimed the ladies in chorus, and then they laughed at Miss Sawyer's discomfiture.
"Hedidmake an impression on you, Miss Sawyer,"simpered Mrs. Darling. "And was he as agreeable to you, Mrs. Tweedie?" the shallow young matron asked, meaningly, as she smiled on "the powerful." Mrs. Tweedie looked uncomfortable.
"The young man called," she replied, solemnly, "but our conversation was of a confidential nature."
No one ever knew just what Will did say to Mrs. Tweedie, but some guessed that his remarks to her were made more after the manner of the "other sex" than they were to the other women.
"I have heard," said Mrs. Blake, after a lull in the conversation, "that he was very violent with Mr. George."
"Oh, yes," piped Mrs. Browning, "he struck him, and threatened to shoot him if he didn't have Miss Wallace reinstated."
"And I haven't a doubt but what he'd do it," said Mrs. Thornton.
"I wonder if they're really engaged. Has anybody heard?" asked Mrs. Darling, who loved the affairs of lovers almost as much as she loved herself.
"Why don't you ask one of 'em?" said Mrs.Stout, abruptly. "That's about the only thing that any of you don't seem to be sure about."
Mrs. Darling's cheeks flushed slightly, but she wisely refrained from replying. "Perhaps some of you have noticed that I ain't said much to-day," continued Mrs. Stout, "and I want to tell you that one reason is because I've learned a lesson about talkin' too much from the woman that you've been talkin' about. But there's one or two things that I've just got to say. There's been a lot said about bein' misunderstood, and such. What was said about Miss Wallace was plain enough when it was said. What was done—was done; but there ain't one woman, not a livin' one, that's said, or done, one thing to make good the harm they've done her—except to stop sayin' bad things. That's somethin', but it ain't enough; now she's tryin' to save the life of the man that did more than anybody else to take away her good name, and riskin' her own life doin' it. You all know better than you did before what kind of a woman she is. Now, I ain't goin' to say all of the hard things that I was goin' to say, and wanted to say, but what I want to know is, what are we, this club, goin' to do to show her that we made a mistake and are sorry,and by doin' it show everybody that we ain't a set of mean, narrow-minded women?"
"What would you suggest?" Mrs. Tweedie calmly asked.
"Well," replied Mrs. Stout, "we can never pay her in any way for the wrong that's been done her, but we can show her that we'd like to. I move that we send a letter to the school committee, and every mother's son of us sign it, askin' them to give Miss Wallace back her school, and say that we know her to be a woman with a character as good as anybody's, and better than most folks, and that we believe she's been in the right in everything that she's said or done since we've known her. If the motion don't go, it's more'n likely that I shall forget my good resolution about not sayin' things." Mrs. Stout sat down, utterly out of breath, and mopped her face while a slight murmur of surprise ran about the room. The motion was seconded, and the question put without debate.
"It is a unanimous vote," Mrs. Tweedie announced. Mrs. Stout smiled. She well knew that some of them hated to do it, but they wanted to be on the popular side, and this time it happened to be right.
"Well," she said, quizzically, as she looked about at the comically sad-faced women, "I must say that you're the glumist lookin' lot of mornin' glories I ever see."
Coals of Fire
Barbara'snew task as nurse and housekeeper at the parsonage was not an easy one, but after the second day she had everything in good order—everything except her patient. For him there was little hope—Barbara knew, and Mr. Flint himself knew.
When the minister first saw her after he had been lying alone for hours his only thought was that she had come to demand something. He had publicly denounced her; she had been turned away from his door; what could she have come for except revenge?
"I have come to take care of you, Mr. Flint," was all that she had said, but it was enough to reassure him.
Barbara's work had taken her into all of the rooms in the house in search of one thing or another. The first day she had opened the door ofhisroom—Will's. She had only taken a step when she discovered whose room it was, and knew that what she was looking for would not be found there. She could not resist the temptation, however, to glance about the room. There were hisbooks, and his fishing-rods and tackle; his shotgun stood in a corner, and near a window was an old-fashioned writing-table. It was a boy's room—hisroom. Barbara feasted her eyes for a moment, and then, remembering her patient, stepped back into the hall, and softly closed the door.
Hanging on the wall, opposite the foot of Mr. Flint's bed, in an oval frame of black walnut, was a photograph of Will. The picture was a likeness of a sturdy little chap of three, with large, staring eyes, fat cheeks, and long curls. Barbara looked at it often; Mr. Flint, too, often looked at the picture, but only when Barbara was not in the room,—while she was there his eyes followed her constantly. There was something about her, and what she was doing for him, that he, in his condition, could not understand. They talked but little. Once Mr. Flint began to speak of his notorious sermon, but Barbara quickly stopped him.
Sam Billings had been hired by the board of health to maintain quarantine on the parsonage, though the fear of the people of Manville made it almost unnecessary except for the sake of appearances. The weather was mild, and when not engaged in a noisy conversation with some oneacross the road, Sam sat on the steps, or paced the path to the gate. Through Sam and Doctor Jones was the only means Barbara had of communicating with the world, but just then she had little use for the world or many in it. Sam afforded her some amusement, however, when she went to the door for a breath of fresh air.
"I tell you, Miss Wallace," he said, one morning, "folks have changed their minds about you."
"That is a right we all have," Barbara smilingly replied.
"They all think that you're a heroine now."
"I am sure of one good friend in you, Mr. Billings." The "Mr." pleased Sam greatly—it was seldom used as a prefix to his name.
"You're jest right about that," Sam grinned. He liked Barbara and her smile immensely. When she had gone in and closed the door he reflected that, if he were younger, and knew more, and had a steady job, and Billy Flint was not in love with her and she with him, why, he would puthisbest foot forward.
"Has any word come from Will?" Mr. Flint asked, on the afternoon of the second day.
"No," Barbara replied; "but I know that we shall hear to-day."
The sick man turned restlessly.
"I must see him," he moaned; "there is something that I must say to him, and to you—Barbara." He hesitated before speaking her name—it was the first time he had called her that.
"But, Mr. Flint," remonstrated Barbara, in alarm, "he cannot come here, he must not put himself in danger; besides, there will be plenty of time when you are well again."
"That time may not come. I must tell him before it is too late."
"But not at the risk of his life. Is not his life more to you—and to me—than our own?"
"Yes," was the feeble reply, and then he muttered: "My miserable life."
"There," said Barbara, soothingly, "we have talked more than is for your good." She started to leave the room, but he held out his hand appealingly.
"Wait," he said. "If I cannot tell him I must say it to you. I have guessed the secret, yours and Will's. It was that more than anything else that made me preach as I did. From childhood to manhood I fear I have wronged him. I was narrow—blind. I have wronged you, too, and yet you came to save me. For Will's sake forgiveme, Barbara, and if I never see him again tell him that I lived to realize my sin, tell him that I have suffered—" The minister stopped abruptly and listened. There was a quick step in the hall below. Barbara turned quickly toward the door, and Mr. Flint dropped his outstretched hand. Some one was running up the stairs. Barbara half-guessed the truth and was transfixed with horror.
"Will!" she screamed, as he appeared in the doorway. "Don't come in—go quick—think of the danger!"
Mr. Flint had half-raised himself, and was staring at his son with a look of agony on his face.
"In God's name, Will, go! Your life—"
Will calmly raised his hand as though to command silence.
"Danger, my life?" he said, and then smiled as he took Barbara's hands in his own. "Your life is my life, Barbara."
"And mine," groaned the sick man.
"Yes, and yours, father," replied Will, as he went to the bed and looked into his father's eyes. "I'm sorry to find you this way, but I have good news of mother. She is better, except for worrying about you and wanting to come." A sob fromBarbara caused Will to turn quickly and clasp her in his arms, and as he wiped away the tears and kissed her, he saw the worry and work written on her face.
"I have come to help, Barbara," he said. She understood and blessed him for it, but until all danger was passed she prayed unceasingly for his safety.
That evening Sam Billings was dozing on the front steps when Will opened the door without thinking that Sam was not aware of his presence in the parsonage.
"Hello, Sam," he said.
Sam was so startled that he almost fell down the steps. When he had recovered his balance he stood up, rubbed his eyes, and stared.
"Well, I'm blamed if it ain't Billy Flint!" he exclaimed. "How'd you get in?"
"By the back door; I knew that you would make a fuss if I tried to get in this way."
"Ain't you takin' big chances?"
"I'd be taking bigger ones if I stayed away."
Sam mentally concluded that Will knew what he was talking about, though he could not understand it himself.
"What'll folks say?" he blurted.
Will's face grew dark with anger.
"What will they say?" he asked, quickly. "What do I care what they say? What can they say that will be worse than what has been said?"
Sam backed down the steps. He had blundered, and feared Will's wrath.
"Of course, I didn't mean—" he stammered.
"Never mind," interrupted Will, "I have an errand for you to do. Go to the town clerk, and get a blank application for a marriage license."
"A—a what?" gasped Sam.
"I'm not crazy, Sam," said Will, who was much amused by Sam's astonishment. "Do as I've asked, and when there is any news worth telling you shall hear it first."
Sam started off without another word, and Will returned to his father and Barbara.
When Sam made his errand known to Mr. Wiggins, the town clerk, he was laughed at.
"No foolin' now," said Sam, impatiently. "I want one of them applications, and I want it quick."
"There you are," replied Mr. Wiggin, as he handed Sam the desired blank. "Better fill it out right here, Sam, and then I can give you the license without any delay."
"No; I guess I won't fill it out jest now," drawled Sam, with a grin.
"Perhaps you ain't quite sure of the lady's age."
"That's it, I ain't."
"I always thought that you'd get married sometime, Sam."
Sam had been joked so often about matrimony that it seldom annoyed him, and now that his inquisitor was wholly on the wrong scent he was greatly amused.
"Well," he replied, "most men do marry sooner or later."
"And in your case it's a good deal later," chuckled Mr. Wiggins.
"Yes; but you see I've seen so many blamed fools get married 'fore they'd cut all their second teeth I've kinder hung off," Sam retorted.
"Miss Sawyer's a nice kind of woman," ventured Mr. Wiggins, as he coughed, and looked at a picture on the wall. The grin on Sam's face disappeared.
"Who said anything about her?" he demanded, indignantly.
"I said that she was a nice kind of a woman. No harm in that, is there?" Mr. Wiggins mildlyasked, as he turned his weak little eyes on Sam, who did not dare to meet them with his own.
"No," grunted Sam, as he turned to go; "but I must be goin'."
"Good luck to you," called Mr. Wiggins, as Sam ran down the steps.
The town clerk and his wife had callers that evening, and Mr. Wiggins, thinking that the joke was too good to keep, told them of Sam's errand, not forgetting to say that during their conversation Miss Sawyer's name had been mentioned.
News germs spread faster and farther than any other kind of bugs. The next afternoon Miss Sawyer heard from reliable sources that she was to be married to Mr. Samuel Billings a week from Thursday at seven o'clock in the evening by the Rev. Thomas Morton, of Uphill Centre, who had married her father and mother forty years before. She also heard that her wedding-gown was to be of gray and white foulard silk, with lace trimmings, and that her other things were justlovely. There was more, but she fainted and missed it. Poor Lizzie, it was cruel, terribly cruel.
When Sam returned to the parsonage Will was at the door waiting for him.
"The old fool thought it was for me," said Sam.
"Your turn may come next," Will replied. "Got a pencil?"
"Yes."
"Then read the questions, and write the answers as I give them." Sam obeyed, though with difficulty, because his lantern flickered, and he was not "much at writin' anyhow."
"Goin' to be married to-night, Billy?" asked Sam, when the application had been filled out.
"Never mind; go and get the license," replied Will.
When Mr. Wiggins read the names on the blank which Sam brought on his second visit, he dropped the paper and jumped back with horror. Sam laughed outright as he picked it up and held it out to the fear-stricken man.
"Don't be scared," he said; "nobody in the parsonage touched it. I wrote it myself just as Billy Flint told me to."
Mr. Wiggins felt relieved and angry.
"Why didn't you tell me who it was for?" he demanded.
"'Cause you jumped at the answer without givin' me a chance," retorted Sam.
Without another word the town clerk madeout the license, and when it was finished gave it to Sam, who started quickly for the door.
"Next time," said Mr. Wiggins, stiffly, "you'll save yourself trouble by not being so close-mouthed."
"And next time," replied Sam, "you'd better not jump the creek till you get to it."
When Sam returned Will picked up the paper that was placed on the top step, thanked him, and turned to reënter the house.
"Say, Billy," said Sam, "what am I goin' to say to folks when they ask me?"
"Tell them all that you know."
"And s'posin' they asked me if you was married?"
"Tell them that if they live long enough they'll know sometime," replied Will, as he shut the door, and ran lightly up the stairs to the sickroom. Barbara met him at the door with her finger on her lips cautioning silence.
"He's asleep," she said.
A Wedding and a Sermon
Thewarm, bright sun of early April made the Sabbath morning beautiful. Here and there patches of dainty green could be seen, and in some sheltered, sunny spots the daring bloom of the crocus had thrust itself into view—purple, yellow, and white.
On that day there was no happier home in the world than the parsonage. Mr. Flint had fully recovered; his wife had returned and was bustling nervously about trying to make up for lost time. Barbara and Will were there, and, in their undemonstrative way, very happy.
"What a beautiful morning for all of us," said Mr. Flint, as he got up from the breakfast-table and went to the window. "Spring has come without—and within. Ah! if I had known, if I had been awakened earlier in life—"
Barbara left her place at the table, ran quickly to him, and gently placed her fingers on his lips.
"Remember, you promised," she said, smilingly.
"Yes, Barbara, but I expect to break my promise many—many times. When a manhas been born again how can you expect him to be silent? The world is all new to me, Barbara. Try to imagine what I have lost in my narrow, high-walled life. I must see everything; I must babble like a child if I will. Yet you, Barbara, modest girl that you are,—the one who saved my body, and put peace into my soul,—demand that I keep silence." Mr. Flint spoke in a half-serious, half-humourous way, but they understood, and rejoiced at the change in his manner—and the man.
Barbara and Mrs. Flint began clearing the table, the minister retired to his study, while Will paced the sitting-room, deep in thought. When the door-bell rang a moment later Will answered its summons. It was Mrs. Stout, out of breath and flushed by her walk, but smiling.
"Mornin', Willie," she puffed.
"Good morning, Mrs. Stout; come in."
"Ain't late, am I?" she asked, anxiously, as she stepped into the hall and sat down in the nearest chair.
"Oh, no."
"What a lovely mornin' to get married. Now if 'twas me I'd—"
"Come right in to the sitting-room," called Mrs. Flint, from the kitchen.
"All right," said Mrs. Stout, as she got up to welcome Barbara, who came out to meet her. "I just set down for a minute to ketch my breath. Well, Barbara Wallace, if you ain't lookin' fine for a woman that's been shut up in the house for weeks." Then Mrs. Stout shook her finger at Will and added: "Willie Flint, you're a lucky man."
"I know it, Mrs. Stout," laughed Will, as they went into the sitting-room. Just then Mrs. Flint appeared and shook hands cordially with Mrs. Stout.
"You will excuse me for coming this way, apron and all," she said, "but I was washing dishes, and—"
"Good land! yes, Mis' Flint. My, but you're lookin' better'n you have in years. And if here ain't Mr. Flint himself!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, as the parson appeared in the doorway, and then hastened toward her with outstretched hand. "Mr. Flint," continued Mrs. Stout, as she shook his hand vigorously, "I was never so glad to see you before in all my life."
"And I can truly say the same of you, Mrs. Stout," laughed the parson.
"Well, forgive and forget, says I," said Mrs. Stout, quickly.
"Amen," replied Mr. Flint.
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Flint, "I just can't finish those dishes. I—"
"Let 'em go," said Mrs. Stout; "nobody's s'posed to wash dishes when there's a weddin' comin' off in a few minutes, your own son's, too, and the best, sweetest woman in the whole wide world." And to prove that she meant every word she put her arms around Barbara and kissed the cheeks that grew pink with pleasure and modesty.
"And in you they have one of the best, truest friends possible," Barbara replied.
"Nonsense," said Mrs. Stout, who was modest herself.
"No nonsense about it," Mr. Flint interposed, earnestly. "If it had not been for you and your kindness, where would we all be now?"
"Oh, well," replied Mrs. Stout, "you'd prob'ly been alive just the same."
"Ah, Mrs. Stout, but what is life without sunshine in our hearts? Barbara not only nursed me back to life—she showed me how to live. And you were her friend when all others failed, you saved her for the task."
"Well," sighed Mrs. Stout, resignedly, "I done what I thought was best."
"And God bless you for it," replied the minister, fervently. As he spoke the church-bell rang out on the warm spring air. He turned to Barbara and took her hand. "Barbara, dear, we have but a few moments—where shall it be?"
"Here," she said, "where the sun is brightest."
Barbara and Will, with clasped hands, stood near a window where the morning light lit up their bright young faces—faces filled with love and hope. The simple service—a promise and a prayer—was soon over. The tears were streaming down Mrs. Flint's cheeks as she greeted her son and his bride. Mrs. Stout's eyes, too, were moist, though she would have denied it. The church-bell was tolling. Mr. Flint had another duty to perform, and was impatiently eager to be about it.
"Come," he said, "we must be going."
"Do give us time to get straightened out," replied Mrs. Stout. "Us women folks can't go to a weddin' and then rush off to church in a minute, can we, Mis' Flint?"
Poor Mrs. Flint, she was so excited that, without Mrs. Stout's assistance, she could not get her bonnet on straight. In a few minutes they wereready, however, and left the house together on their way across the road to the church.
As Barbara and Will, followed by Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Stout, walked up the aisle, every eye in the crowded church was fixed upon them. Were they married? No one knew. Sam Billings had told all that he knew, according to Will's instructions, but none were the wiser for all that.
That part of the service preceding the sermon was rushed, and the minister as well as the congregation assisted in the process. When the last note of the hymn had died away, and the rustling of the people sitting and making themselves comfortable had ceased, Mr. Flint left his seat, advanced quickly to the desk, and opened the large Bible. He turned the pages for a moment, and then looked up and repeated rather than read from the Book of Proverbs: "Be not a witness against thy neighbour without cause; and deceive not with thy lips." Then he closed the book and walked slowly to the front of the platform.
"Friends," he began, in a quiet tone, so unlike his former manner that all wondered at it, "for a time God saw fit to take me from you. It is appropriate that at this season of the year, whenour part of the world is bursting forth into joyous, beautiful life, that He should send back, not the man you once knew, but another, one whose life is beginning anew like nature." He continued at length on the "new life" that had come to him. Suddenly he paused, and when he spoke again quoted these words: "A good name is to be chosen rather than great riches." He moved about nervously for a moment before continuing. "A few weeks ago the innocent act of a good woman caused her to be reviled, shunned, and turned away from our doors. Of those who so harmed her I was the chief offender. Every word, every act, was a cruel thrust, the torture of which none of us can wholly appreciate. And then she came when disease—the most loathsome—had stricken me, when all others shunned even the house in which I lay, she came and brought me back to life. And then—then she saved my soul!" The minister's face was pale; he made no gestures; he did not raise his voice; but his earnestness and remorse were unmistakable. "And my son," he continued, "he whom I should have guided, I have wronged by living a narrow, loveless life." Thus, for an hour he talked about the "new life," love, and remorse. But his closing words interestedmany of his congregation more than those that had preceded them.
"The son whom I have wronged, and the woman sent by God, have I this day made one," he said, and there was triumphant joy in his voice.
Barbara's friends—everybody was her friend now—kept their places with difficulty during the closing hymn and the benediction. As it was, they failed to give Mr. Flint time for an appropriate "Amen," before they rushed upon Barbara and Will, and almost suffocated them with sweet words.
When the last one had gone, Barbara, with the good wishes of everybody ringing in her ears, turned to Mr. Flint, and her eyes filled with tears.
"I—I don't deserve it, I—" she began, but he gently interrupted her.
"Yes, Barbara, every word is true." And then turning to Will asked, "Do you understand now, Will?"
"Yes, father," was the reply, and the two men clasped hands.
"Barbara," said Mr. Flint, as they were walking toward the door, "there is one word that I long to hear you say, I must hear it, you must not deny me any longer." Barbara stopped, she did notunderstand. "It is the one word from your lips that will fill my cup of happiness to the brim," added the minister, feelingly. "Can't you guess?"
A light came into Barbara's eyes, and smiling through her tears she said:
"Father."