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"His selfishness," said Augustus Spangler, between his teeth, his voice suddenly trembling with anger, "is perfectly incomprehensible to me – perfectly incomprehensible! I endeavor always to exercise charity in judging any human creature; but – really, really!"
"It isn't selfishness as much as silliness. David hasn't mind enough to be deliberately selfish. The poor fellow never thought. He never has thought. Ellen has always done the thinking for the family. Well, the harm's done. But, Spangler – " the old man stopped and glanced sharply at the forlorn and angry man opposite him. Yes, he certainly seemed very unhappy; – and as for Ellen! Dr. Lavendar could not bear that thought. "Spangler, I'll stand by you. I won't let her offer you up as well as herself. There must be some way out."
Mr. Spangler shook his head hopelessly. "The support of four persons on my small stipend is impossible."
"Spangler, my boy!" said Dr. Lavendar, suddenly, "there is a way out. What an old fool I am not to have thought of it! My dear fellow" – Dr. Lavendar leaned over and tapped Mr. Spangler's knee, chuckling aloud – "that secretaryship!"
"Secretaryship?" Mr. Spangler repeated, vaguely.
"You declined it? I know. But I don't believe Brown's got a man yet. I heard from him on another matter, yesterday, and he didn't say he had. Anyway, it's worth trying for. We can telegraph him to-morrow," said Dr. Lavendar, excitedly.
Mr. Spangler stared at him in bewilderment. "But," he said, breathlessly, "I – I don't think – I fear I am not fit." He felt as if caught in a sudden wind; his face grew red with agitation. "I declined it!" he ended, gasping.
"Fit?" said Dr. Lavendar. "My dear man, what fitness is needed? There's nothing to it, Spangler, I assure you." Dr. Lavendar was very much in earnest; he sat forward on the edge of his chair and gesticulated with his pipe. "Don't be too modest, my boy."
"Business entails such responsibilities," Mr. Spangler began, in a frightened voice.
"Oh, but this is mere routine," Dr. Lavendar interrupted; "they want a clergyman – somebody with tact. There's a good deal of church politics in it, I suppose, and they've got to have somebody who would never step on anybody's toes."
"I would never do that," said Mr. Spangler, earnestly, "but – "
"No," said Dr. Lavendar, abruptly, his voice changing – "no, Spangler, you never would." Then he was silent for a moment, pulling on his pipe, wondering perhaps, in spite of himself, at Ellen. "No, you never would. You see, you are just the man for the place. Brown said they wanted somebody who was presentable; he said they didn't need any particular abil – I mean any particular business ability."
"But," said Mr. Spangler, "to give up my sacred calling – "
"Spangler, come now! you don't 'call' very loudly, do you? There, my dear boy, let an old fellow have his joke. I merely mean you don't preach as often as if you had a regular parish. And you can supply, you know, there just as well as here."
"The Master's service is my first consideration," said Augustus Spangler.
Dr. Lavendar looked at him over his spectacles. "Mr. Spangler, the Christian business-man serves the Master just as well as we do."
"I should wish to reflect," said Mr. Spangler.
"Of course."
"Miss Baily would, I fear, object to going so far away."
"If the place is still open, I'll manage Ellen," said Dr. Lavendar; but he looked at Mr. Spangler narrowly. "And your own entreaties will, of course, weigh with her if you show determination. I think you told me you were pretty determined?"
"I have," said Mr. Spangler, "an iron will; but that would not justify me in insisting if Miss Baily – " His voice trailed off; it rose before him – the far-off, bustling city, the office, the regular hours, the people whose toes must not be stepped upon, the letters to write and read, the papers to file, all the exact minutiae the position involved. And his comfortable old house? his leisure? his ease? And Mary Ann? Mary Ann would never consent to go so far! "I – I really – " he began.
Dr. Lavendar frowned. "Mr. Spangler, I would not seem to urge you. Ellen is too dear to us for that. But if you appreciate her as I suppose you do – "
"I do indeed!" broke in poor Augustus Spangler, fervently.
"The way is probably open to you."
"But – " said Mr. Spangler, and then broke out, with marked agitation; "I – I really don't see how I could possibly – " Yet even as he spoke he thought of Ellen's sweet eyes. "Good Heavens!" said Mr. Spangler, passionately; "what shall I do?"
But Dr. Lavendar was silent. Mr. Spangler got up and began to walk about.
"My affection and esteem," he said, almost weeping, "are unquestioned. But there are other considerations."
Dr. Lavendar said nothing.
"It is a cruel situation," said Mr. Spangler.
Dr. Lavendar looked down at his pipe.
There was a long silence. Augustus Spangler walked back and forth. Dr. Lavendar said never a word.
"A man must consider his own fitness for such a position," Mr. Spangler said, pleadingly.
"Perhaps," Dr. Lavendar observed, mildly, "Ellen's affections are not very deeply engaged? It will be better so."
"But they are!" cried Mr. Spangler. "I assure you that they are! And I – I was so happy," said the poor man; and sniffed suddenly, and tried to find the pocket in his coat-tails.
Dr. Lavendar looked at him out of the corner of his eye.
Mr. Spangler stood stock-still; he opened and shut his hands, his lips were pressed hard together. He seemed almost in bodily pain, for a slight moisture stood out on his forehead. He was certainly in spiritual pain. The Ideal of Sacrifice was being born in Mr. Spangler's soul. His mild, kind, empty face grew almost noble; certainly it grew very solemn.
"Dr. Lavendar," he said, in a low voice, "I will do it."
Dr. Lavendar was instantly on his feet; there was a grip of the hand, and, for a moment, no words.
"I'll telegraph Mr. Brown," said Mr. Spangler, breathlessly.
"So will I!" said Dr. Lavendar.
Mr. Spangler was scarlet with heroism. "It means giving up my house and my very congenial surroundings, and I fear Mary Ann will feel too old to accompany me; but with – with Ellen!"
"She's worth six Mary Anns, whoever Mary Ann may be," said Dr. Lavendar.
"You may have thought me hesitant," said Mr. Spangler, "but I felt that I must weigh the matter thoroughly."
"Why, certainly, man. It was your duty to think what was best for Ellen."
"Exactly," Mr. Spangler said, getting his breath again, and beginning to feel very happy. "And duty is, I hope, my watchword; but I had to reflect," he ended, a little uncomfortably.
But Dr. Lavendar would not let him be uncomfortable. They sat down again, and Dr. Lavendar filled another pipe, and until long after midnight they talked things over – the allowance to be made to David and his bride, the leasing of the house in Mercer, the possible obduracy of Mary Ann, and, most of all, the fine conduct of the Reverend Mr. Spangler.
But when they had said good-night, Dr. Lavendar sat awhile longer by his fireside, his pipe out, his old white head on his breast.
"The minute I get back," he said to himself after a while, sheepishly – "the minute I get back I poke my finger into somebody else's pie. But I think 'twas right: Ellen loves him; and he's not a bad man. – And Brown don't want brains."
Then he chuckled and got up, and blew out the lamp.
THE NOTE
I
Of course everybody in Old Chester knew that there was something queer about Mary Gordon's marriage – not the mere fact of the man, queer as he was; for, to Old Chester's ideas, he was very queer… A "travelling-man," to begin with – and the Gordons had a line of scholars and professional men behind them – a drummer, if you please. In theory, Old Chester was religiously democratic; it plumed itself upon its Christian humility, and every Sunday it publicly acknowledged that Old Chesterians were like the rest of humanity to the extent of being miserable sinners. But, all the same, that Mary Gordon should marry a "person" of that sort —
"Dear me!" said Old Chester.
However, travelling-men may be worthy; they need not necessarily use perfumery or put pomade upon their shiny, curly, black hair. But Mr. Algernon Keen was obviously not worthy, and he was saturated with perfumery, and his black, curly hair was sleek with oil. Furthermore, he was very handsome: his lips were weak and pouting and red; his eyes liquid and beautiful; his plump cheeks slightly pink. One may believe that such physical characteristics do not imply moral qualities; but only youth has such a belief. When one has lived a little while in the world, one comes to know that a human soul prisoned in such pretty flesh is piteously hampered. Yet Mary Gordon, meeting this poor creature by chance, fell deeply in love with him. Of course such falling in love was queer – it was inexplainable; for Mary was a nice girl – not, of course, of the caliber of some Old Chester girls; she had not the mind of Alice Gray nor the conscience of Sally Smith; but she was a quiet, biddable, good child – at least so far as anybody knew. But nobody knew much about her. In the first place, the Gordons lived just far enough out of Old Chester to miss its neighborliness. Mary was not often seen in town, and in her own home her brother Alex's loud personality crushed her into a colorless silence. Her father did not crush her – he merely did not notice her; but he was fond of her – at least he had the habit of indifferent affection. She always came into the library to say good-night to him; and he, sitting by the fire in a big, winged chair, a purple silk handkerchief spread over his white locks, to keep off possible draughts, would turn his cheek up to her mechanically; but the soft touch of her lips never made him lift his eyes from his book. She never kissed Alex good-night; she was openly afraid of him. Alex was rude to her and made her wait on him, throwing her a curt "thank you" once in a while, generally coupled with some sarcastic reference to her slowness or stupidity – for, indeed, the child was both slow and stupid. Perhaps, had she been loved – But no one can tell now how that would have been. At any rate, there was a pathetic explanation of loneliness to account for the fact that she was drawn to this Algernon Keen, who had nothing to recommend him except a cheap and easy kindliness that cost him no effort and was bestowed on everybody.
Of course the two men, her father and brother, refused to consider Keen as Mary's suitor at all. Alex nearly had a fit over it; in his rage and mortification he took all Old Chester into his confidence. He went to the Tavern – this was the day after Mary had, trembling and crying, told her little love affair to her father and begged his consent – Alex went to the Tavern and ordered the snickering, perfumed youth out of town.
"Well, I guess not," said Algy. "This town doesn't belong to you, does it?"
Alex stammered with passion: "If – if you dare to address Miss Gordon again, I'll – I'll – I'll horsewhip you," he said, his pale eyes bulging from his crimsoning face.
"I guess Mary has a right to let me talk to her if she wants to; this is a free country," the other blustered. And Alex, loudly, on the Tavern steps, cursed him for a skunk, a – Well, Old Chester was never able to quote Alex. He came to his senses after this dreadful exhibition of himself, and was horribly mortified. But post-mortification cannot undo the deed, and before night everybody in Old Chester knew that Mary Gordon had fallen in love with – "the person who brings samples to Tommy Dove's apothecary shop."
Old Chester was truly sorry for Mary; "for," as Mrs. Barkley said, "love's love, whether it's suitable or not; and Mary has such a lonely life, poor child! Well, it will take time for her to get over it."
It seemed to take a good deal of time. That winter she grew pale and was often ill. The poor little thing seemed to creep into her shell to brood over her blighted hopes. Once she was downright sick for a week, and Mr. Gordon sent for William King. Willy said at first that Mary had something on her mind (which certainly Mary's family did not need to be told).
"I believe she's thinking about that scoundrel yet," said Alex. "But she has just got to understand that we'll never allow it, Willy. You may as well make that clear to her, and let her get over her moping."
William King looked thoughtful and said he would call again.
However, any of us Old Chester girls could have enlightened the doctor. "Mary was pining away for her lover;" that was all there was to it. But the lover never appeared, being engaged in offering samples of pomade and perfumery to apothecary stores in other regions. And then, suddenly, the queer thing happened…
The Globe announced: "Married – by Dr. Lavendar, Mary Gordon to Algernon Keen" – and the date, which was the night before.
"What!" said Old Chester at the breakfast-table, and gaped out of its windows to see Mary, crying very much, get into the stage, not at her father's house, but at the Tavern door, if you please, and drive away with the Person. What did it mean? "Was Alex at home? Did he consent?" demanded Old Chester; for Alex had been away from home for a week. By noon it was decided that Alex had consented; for it came out that he had returned to Old Chester the previous afternoon, and with him, shrinking into the corner of the stage, was Mr. Algy Keen.
"Get out," Alex said to him when the stage drew up at the Gordon house. The man got out, shambling and stumbling, with a furtive look over his shoulder, for Alex Gordon walked behind him to the front door, his right hand gripped upon his walking-stick, his left clinched at his side.
"He kep' just behind the feller," the stage-driver told Van Horn at the Tavern afterwards – "just behind him, like as if he was afraid the feller'd run away from him. But the feller, he stopped right at the steps, and he turned around, and he says, 'Mind you,' he says (mad as a hatter) – 'mind you,' he says, 'I'm not brought, I've come'; – whatever that means," the stage-driver ruminated.
So much Old Chester knew the day after Mary Gordon's wedding. And it naturally sought to know a little more.
"I suppose her father feels it very much?" ventured Mrs. Barkley to Dr. Lavendar.
"Any man feels the marriage of his only girl," said Dr. Lavendar, briefly. And Mrs. Barkley held her tongue. But Mrs. Drayton, who was just then anxious about her soul and found it necessary to consult Dr. Lavendar as to the unpardonable sin – Mrs. Drayton was not so easily squelched. "My Jean says that the Gordon's Rachel told her that Alex brought the man into the house by the ear, and then sent her for you, running, and – "
"She didn't bring me into the house by the ear," said Dr. Lavendar.
"But why, do you suppose, was it all so sudden?" said Mrs. Drayton; "it almost looks – "
"How do you know it was sudden?" said Dr. Lavendar.
"Well, my Jean said – "
"It may have been sudden to Jean," said the old man; "possibly Mary had not taken Jean into her confidence. Some folks don't confide in servants, you know."
But Mrs. Drayton was proof against so delicate a thrust. "Well, I only hope she won't repent at her leisure; – if there's nothing but haste to repent of. If there's anything else – "
"I'll say good-day, Mrs. Drayton," interrupted Dr. Lavendar; "and as for your question about the unpardonable sin, ma'am, why, just be ready to forgive other folks and you needn't be afraid of the unpardonable sin for yourself."
He took his hat and stick and went thumping down-stairs. In the hall he met William King going up to see the invalid, and said, with a gasp: "Willy, my boy, a good, honest murderer is easier to deal with than some milder kinds of wrong-doing."
"Dr. Lavendar," said William, "I'd rather have a patient with small-pox than treat some lighter ills that I could name."
As for Mrs. Drayton, she told her daughter that Dr. Lavendar was very unspiritual, and did not understand the distress of a sensitive temperament. "Even the slightest error fills me with remorse," said Mrs. Drayton. "Dear me! I should think Mary Gordon would know what remorse is – for, of course, there is only one thing to think."
II
Old Chester thought the one thing. No evasions of Dr. Lavendar's, no miserable silence on the part of the disgraced father and the infuriated brother, could banish that one thought. But nothing definite was known. "Although," as everybody said to everybody else, "of course, Dr. Lavendar knows the whole thing, and probably Willy King does, too." If they did, they kept their knowledge to themselves. But Dr. Lavendar went often to the Gordon house that winter. "They're pretty lonely, those two men," he told Willy once – perhaps six months afterwards.
"Would either of them have softened if the baby had lived, do you think, sir?" William said. And Dr. Lavendar shook his head.
"Perhaps her father might. But Alex will never forgive her, I'm afraid."
And Alex never did forgive her – not even when she died, as, happily, she did six or seven years later. She died; and life closed over the miserable little tragedy as water closes, rippling, over some poor, broken thing flung into its depths.
"Thank God!" Alex said, when he heard she was gone.
"You may thank God for her," Dr. Lavendar said, turning upon him sternly, "but ask mercy for yourself, because this door of opportunity is shut upon you forever."
Dr. Lavendar had brought them the news. They did not ask how it had come to him; it was enough to hear it. The two men, Mary's father and brother, listened while he told them, briefly: "She died yesterday. The funeral will be to-morrow, at twelve."
"Thank God!" Alex said, hoarsely, and lifted his hand and cursed the man who had dishonored them.
And Dr. Lavendar turned upon him in solemn anger. "Your opportunity is gone – so far as she is concerned. There yet remains, however, the poor, foolish sinner whom she loved – "
"Damn him!" said Alex.
"– and who loved her."
Old Mr. Gordon dropped his face in his hands and groaned.
"Who loved her," Dr. Lavendar repeated.
"For that, at least, he cannot be indifferent to us, whatever he has made us suffer."
Neither of his listeners spoke. It was growing dark in the long room, walled to the ceiling with books and lighted only by a fire sputtering in the grate. Mr. Gordon, sitting in his big, winged chair close to the hearth, said, after a long pause: "You said – to-morrow, Edward? Where?"
"In Mercer. I shall go up on the morning stage."
Again the silence fell. Alex got up and walked to the window and looked out. "Why didn't you bring Danny in, Dr. Lavendar?" he said, carelessly; "the little brute will freeze out there in your buggy. I'll call him in." He turned to leave the room, and then stopped.
"Alexander, sit down," said Dr. Lavendar.
Alex sat down with involuntary quickness; then he threw his legs out in front of him and thrust his hands down into his pockets. "Dr. Lavendar, this is our affair. I'm obliged to you for your kind intentions; but this is our affair. You've told your news, and we have listened respectfully – if I should say gladly you might be shocked. So I only say respectfully. But you have spoken; we have listened. That is all there is to it. The thing is finished. The book is closed. I say thank God! I don't know what my father says. If he takes my advice, for I've been a good son to him; I never gave him any cause to be ashamed; – if he takes my advice, he'll forget the whole affair. That's what I mean to do. The book is closed. I shall never think of it again." He got up and walked about with affectation of vast indifference.
