John Ward, Preacher Part 21

"'Believe me, if all those endearing young charms Which I gaze on so fondly to-day'"--

Mr. Denner's rendering of charms was very elaborate. But while he was still lingering on the last word, disappointment overtook him.

Coming arm in arm down the road were two small figures. Mr. Denner's sight was not what it once was; he fumbled in the breast of his bottle-green overcoat for his gla.s.ses, as a suspicion of the truth dawned upon him.

His song died upon his lips, and he turned irresolutely, as though to fly, but it was too late; he had recognized at the same moment Miss Deborah and Miss Ruth Woodhouse. By no possibility could he say which he had seen first.

He advanced to meet them, but the spring had gone from his tread and the light from his eye; he was thrown back upon his perplexities. The sisters, still arm in arm, made a demure little bow, and stopped to say "Good-morning," but Mr. Denner was evidently depressed and absent-minded.

"I wonder what's the matter with William Denner, sister?" Miss Ruth said, when they were out of hearing.

"Perhaps he's troubled about his housekeeping," answered Miss Deborah.

"I should think he might be, I must say. That Mary of his does keep him looking so! And I have no doubt she is wasteful; a woman who is economical with her needle and thread is pretty apt not to be saving in other things."

"What a pity he hasn't a wife!" commented Miss Ruth. "Adele Dale says he's never been in love. She says that that affair with Gertrude Drayton was a sort of inoculation, and he's been perfectly healthy ever since."

"Very coa.r.s.e in dear Adele to speak in that way," said Miss Deborah sharply. "I suppose he never has gotten over Gertrude's loss. Yet, if his sister-in-law had to die, it is a pity it wasn't a little sooner. He was too old when she died to think of marriage."

"But, dear Deborah, he is not quite too old even yet, if he found a person of proper age. Not too young, and, of course, not too old."

Miss Deborah did not reply immediately. "Well, I don't know; perhaps not," she conceded. "I do like a man to be of an age to know his own mind. That is why I am so surprised at Adele Dale's anxiety to bring about a match between young Forsythe and Lois, they are neither of them old enough to know their own minds. And it is scarcely delicate in Adele, I must say."

"He's a very superior young man," objected Miss Ruth.

"Yes," Miss Deborah acknowledged; "and yet"--she hesitated a little--"I think he has not quite the--the modesty one expects in a young person."

"Yes, but think how he has seen the world, sister!" cried Miss Ruth. "You cannot expect him to be just like other young people."

"True," said Miss Deborah, nodding her head; "and yet"--it was evident from her persistence that Miss Deborah had a grievance of some kind--"yet he seems to have more than a proper conceit. I heard him talk about whist, one evening at the rectory; he said something about a person,--a Pole, I believe,--and his rules in regard to 'signaling.' I asked him if he played," Miss Deborah continued, her hands showing a little angry nervousness; "and he said, 'Oh, yes, I learned to play one winter in Florida!' Learned to play in a winter, indeed! To achieve whist"--Miss Deborah held her head very straight--"to achieve whist is the work of a lifetime! I've no patience with a young person who says a thing like that."

Miss Ruth was silenced for a moment; she had no excuse to offer.

"Adele Dale says the Forsythes are coming back in April," she said, at last.

"Yes, I know it," answered Miss Deborah. "I suppose it will all be arranged then. I asked Adele if Lois was engaged to him;--she said, 'Not formally.' But I've no doubt there's an understanding."

Miss Deborah was so sure of this that she had even mentioned it casually to Gifford, of course under the same seal of confidence with which it had been told her.

It was quite true that d.i.c.k and his mother were to return to Ashurst.

After storming out of the rectory library the night of the Misses Woodhouse's dinner party, d.i.c.k had had a period of hatred of everything connected with Ashurst; but that did not last more than a month, and was followed by an imploring letter to Lois. Her answer brought the anger back again, and then its reaction of love; this see-saw was kept up, until his last letter had announced that he and his mother were coming to take the house they had had before, and spend the summer.

"We will come early," he wrote. "I cannot stay away. I have made mother promise to open the house in April, so in a month more I shall see you.

I had an awful time to get her to come; she hates the country except in summer, but at last she said she would. She knows why I want to come, and she would be so happy if"--and then the letter trailed off into a wail of disappointment and love.

Impatient and worried, Lois threw the pages into the fire, and had a malicious satisfaction in watching the elaborate crest curl and blacken on the red coals. "I wish he'd stay away," she said; "he bothers me to death. I hate him! What a silly letter!"

It was so silly, she found herself smiling, in spite of her annoyance.

Now, to feel amus.e.m.e.nt at one's lover is almost as fatal as to be bored by him. But poor d.i.c.k had no one to tell him this, and had poured out his heart on paper, in spite of some difficulty in spelling, and could not guess that he was laughed at for his pains.

Miss Deborah and Miss Ruth were rewarded for their walk into Ashurst by a letter from Gifford, which made them quite forget Mr. Denner's looks, and Mrs. Dale's bad taste in being a matchmaker.

He would be at home for one day the next week; business had called him from Lockhaven, and on his way back he would stay a night in Ashurst.

The little ladies were flurried with happiness. Miss Deborah prepared more dainties than even Gifford's healthy appet.i.te could possibly consume, and Miss Ruth hung her last painting of apple-blossoms in his bedroom, and let her rose jar stand uncovered on his dressing-table for two days before his arrival. When he came, they hovered about him with small caresses and little chirps of affection, as though they would express all the love of the months in which they had not seen him.

Gifford had thought he would go to the rectory in the evening, and somehow the companions.h.i.+p of his aunts while there had not occupied his imagination; but it would have been cruel to leave them at home, so after tea, having tasted every one of Miss Deborah's dishes, he begged them to come with him to see Dr. Howe. They were glad to go anywhere if only with him, and each took an arm, and bore him triumphantly to the rectory.

"Bless my soul," said Dr. Howe, looking at them over his gla.s.ses, as they came into the library, "it is good to see you again, young man! How did you leave Helen?" He pushed his chair back from the fire, and let his newspapers rustle to the floor, as he rose. Max came and sniffed about Gifford's knees, and wagged his tail, hoping to be petted. Lois was the only one whose greeting was constrained, and Gifford's gladness withered under the indifference in her eyes.

"She doesn't care," he thought while he was answering Dr. Howe, and rubbing Max's ears with his left hand. "Helen may be right about Forsythe, but she doesn't care for me, either."

"Sit here, dear Giff," said Miss Ruth, motioning him to a chair at her side.

"There's a draught there, dear Ruth," cried Miss Deborah anxiously. "Come nearer the fire, Gifford." But Gifford only smiled good-naturedly, and leaned his elbow on the mantel, grasping his coat collar with one hand, and listening to Dr. Howe's questions about his niece.

"She's very well," he answered, "and the happiest woman I ever saw. Those two people were made for each other, doctor."

"Well, now, see here, young man," said the rector, who could not help patronizing Gifford, "you'll disturb that happiness if you get into religious discussions with Helen. Women don't understand that sort of thing; young women, I mean," he added, turning to Miss Deborah, and then suddenly looking confused.

Gifford raised his eyebrows. "Oh, well, Helen will reason, you know; she is not the woman to take a creed for granted."

"She must," the rector said, with a chuckle, "if she's a Presbyterian.

She'll get into deep water if she goes to discussing predestination and original sin, and all that sort of thing."

"Oh," said Gifford lightly, "of course she does not discuss those things.

I don't think that sort of theological rubbish had to be swept out of her mind before the really earnest questions of life presented themselves.

Helen is singularly free from the trammels of tradition--for a woman."

Lois looked up, with a little toss of her head, but Gifford did not even notice her, nor realize how closely she was following his words.

"John Ward, though," Gifford went on, "is the most perfect Presbyterian I can imagine. He is logical to the bitter end, which is unusual, I fancy. I asked him his opinion concerning a certain man, a fellow named Davis,--perhaps Helen wrote of his death--I asked Ward what he thought of his chances for salvation; he acknowledged, sadly enough, that he thought he was d.a.m.ned. He didn't use that word, I believe," the young man added, smiling, "but it amounted to the same thing."

There was an outcry from his auditors. "Abominable!" said Dr. Howe, bringing his fist heavily down on the table. "I shouldn't have thought that of Ward,--outrageous!"

Gifford looked surprised. "What a cruel man!" Lois cried; while Miss Deborah said suddenly,--

"Giff, dear, have those flannels of yours worn well?" But Gifford apparently did not hear her.

"Why, doctor," he remonstrated, "you misunderstand Ward. And he is not cruel, Lois; he is the gentlest soul I ever knew. But he is logical, he is consistent; he simply expresses Presbyterianism with utter truth, without shrinking from its conclusions."

"Oh, he may be consistent," the rector acknowledged, with easy transition to good-nature, "but that doesn't alter the fact that he's a fool to say such things. Let him believe them, if he wants to, but for Heaven's sake let him keep silent! He can hold his tongue and yet not be a Universalist. _Medio tutissimus ibis_, you know. It will be sure to offend the parish, if he consigns people to the lower regions in such a free way."

"There is no danger of that," Gifford said; "I doubt if he could say anything on the subject of h.e.l.l too tough for the spiritual digestion of his flock. They are as sincere in their belief as he is, though they haven't his gentleness; in fact, they have his logic without his light; there is very little of the refinement of religion in Lockhaven."

"What a place to live!" Lois cried. "Doesn't Helen hate it? Of course she would never say so to us, but she _must_! Everybody seems so dreadfully disagreeable; and there is really no one Helen could know."

"Why, Helen knows them all," answered Gifford in his slow way, looking down at the girl's impulsive face.

"Lois," said her father, "you are too emphatic in your way of speaking; be more mild. I don't like gush."