THE LOVE CHARM
Phoebe, too, lowered her voice, but the full sweetness of its quality
thrilled out.
"Mary Frances Giles is going to be married next week. I've been down to
see her things. She's real pleased."
"You don't suppose they'll ask father to
marry 'em?" Miss Dorcas spoke
quite eagerly.
"Oh, no, they can't! It's a real wedding, you know. It's got to be at the
house."
"Yes, of course it's got to! I knew that myself, but I couldn't help hoping.
Well, goodnight. You come Sunday."
Phoebe lifted her pink skirts about her, and stepped, rustling and stately,
down the garden walk. Miss Dorcas drew one deep breath of the outer
fragrance, and turned back into the house. A thin voice, enfeebled and
husky from old age, rose in the front roo
m, as she entered:
"Dorcas! Dorcas! you had a caller?"
Her father, old Parson True, lay in the great bed opposite the window. A
thin little twig of a man, he was still animated, at times, by the power of a
strenuous and dauntless spirit. His hair, brus
hed straight back from the
overtopping forehead, had grown snowy white, and the eager, delicate
face beneath wore a strange pathos from the very fineness of its
nervously netted lines. Not many years after his wife's death, the parson
had shown some wander
ing of the wits; yet his disability, like his loss,
had been mercifully veiled from him. He took calmly to his bed, perhaps
through sheer lack of interest in life, and it became his happy invention
that he was "not feeling well," from one day to another, b
ut that, on the
next Sunday, he should rise and preach. He seemed like an unfortunate
and uncomplaining child, and the village folk took pride in him as
something all their own; a pride enhanced by his habit, in this weak
estate, of falling back into the h
omely ways of speech he had used long
ago when he was a boy "on the farm." In his wife's day, he had stood in
the pulpit above them, and expounded scriptural lore in academic English;
now he lapsed into their own rude phrasing, and seemed to rest content
i
n a tranquil certainty that nothing could be better than Tiverton ways and
Tiverton's homely speech.
"Dorcas," he repeated, with all a child's delight in his own cleverness,
"you've had somebody here. I heard ye!"
Dorcas folded the sheet back over the
quilt, and laid her hand on his hair,
with all the tenderness of the strong when they let themselves brood over
the weak.
"Only Phoebe, on her way home," she answered, gently. "The doctor
visited her school to
-
day. She thinks he may drop in to see you to
-
night. I
guess he give her to understand so."
The minister chuckled.
"Ain't he a smart one?" he rejoined. "Smart as a trap! Dorcas, I 'ain't
finished my sermon. I guess I shall have to preach an old one. You lay me
out the one on the salt losin' its s
avor, an' I'll look it over."
"Yes, father."
The same demand and the same answer, varied but slightly, had been
exchanged between them every Saturday night for years. Dorcas replied
now without thinking. Her mind had spread its wings and flown out into
the sweet stillness of the garden and the world beyond; it even hastened
on into the unknown ways of guesswork, seeking for one who should be
coming. She strained her ears to hear the beating of hoofs and the rattle
of wheels across the little, bridge. Th
e dusk sifted in about the house,
faster and faster; a whippoorwill cried from the woods. So she sat until
the twilight had vanished, and another of the invisible genii was at hand,
saying, "I am Night."
"Dorcas!" called the parson again. He had been asl
eep, and seemed now
to be holding himself back from a broken dream. "Dorcas, has your
mother come in yet?"
"No, father."
"Well, you wake me up when you see her down the road; and then you go
an' carry her a shawl. I dunno what to make o' that cough!" His voice
trailed sleepily off, and Dorcas rose and tiptoed out of the room. She felt
the blood in her face; her ears thrilled
noisily. The doctor's, wagon, had
crossed the bridge; now it was whirling swiftly up the road. She stationed
herself in the entry, to lose no step in his familiar progress. The horse
came lightly along, beating out a pleasant tune of easy haste. He was
dr
awn up at the gate, and the doctor threw out his weight, and jumped
buoyantly to the ground. There was the brief pause of reaching for his
medicine
-
case, and then, with that firm step whose rhythm she knew so
well, he was walking up the path. Involuntarily
, as Dorcas awaited him,
she put her hand to her heart with one of those gestures that seem so
melodramatic and are so real; she owned to herself, with a throb of
appreciative delight, how the sick must warm at his coming. This new
doctor of Tiverton was n
o younger than Dorcas herself, yet with his erect
carriage and merry blue eye she seemed to be not only of another
temperament, but another time. It had never struck him that they were
contemporaries. Once he had told Phoebe, in a burst of affection and
pi
tying praise, that he should have liked Miss Dorcas for a maiden aunt.
"Good evening," he said, heartily, one foot on the sill. "How's the
patient?"
At actual sight of him, her tremor vanished, and she answered very
quietly,
--
"Father's asleep. I tho
ught you wouldn't want he should be disturbed; so I
came out."
The doctor took off his hat, and pushed back his thick, unruly hair.
"Yes, that was right," he said absently, and pinched a spray of
southernwood that grew beside the door. "How has he seem
ed?"
"About as usual."
"You've kept on with the tonic?"
"Yes."
"That's good! Miss Dorcas, look up there. See that moon! See that wisp of
an old blanket dragging over her face! Do you mind coming out and
walking up and down the road while we talk? I
may think of one or two
directions to give about your father."
Dorcas stepped forward with the light obedience given to happy tasking.
She paused as! quickly.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I can't. Father might wake up. I never leave him
alone."
"Never mind
, then! let's sit right down here on the steps. After all,
perhaps it's pleasanter. What a garden! It's like my mother's. I could pick
out every leaf in the dark, by the smell. But you're alone, aren't you? I'm
not keeping you from any one?"
"Oh, no! I'm
all alone, except father."
"Yes. The fact is, I went into your school to
-
day, and the teacher said she
was coming here to
-
night. She offered to bring you a message, but I said
I should come myself. I'm abominably late. I couldn't get here any
earlier."
"Oh, yes! Phoebe! She was here over an hour ago. Phoebe's a real
comfort to me." She was seated on the step above him, and it seemed
very pleasant to her to hear his voice, without encountering also the
challenge of his eyes.
"No, is she though?" The doctor suddenly faced round upon her. "Tell me
about it!"
Then, quite to her surprise, Dorcas found herself talking under the spell of
an interest so eager that it bore her on, entirely without her own
guidance.
"Well, you see
there's a good many things I keep from father. He never's
been himself since mother died. She was the mainstay here. But he thinks
the church prospers just the same, and I never've told him the
attendance dropped off when they put up that 'Piscopal buildin
g over to
Sudleigh. You 'ain't lived here long enough to hear much about that, but
it's been a real trial to him. The summer boarders built it, and some rich
body keeps it up; and our folks think it's complete to go over there and
worship, and get up and d
own, and say their prayers out loud."
The doctor laughed out.
"I've heard about it," said he. "You know what Brad Freeman told Uncle
Eli Pike, when they went in to see how the service was managed?
Somebody found the places in the prayer
-
book for them,
and Brad was
quick
-
witted, and got on very well; but Eli kept dropping behind. Brad
nudged him. 'Read!' he said out loud. 'Read like the devil!' I've heard that
story on an average of twice a day since I came to Tiverton. I'm not tired
of it yet!"
Miss D
orcas, too, had heard it, and shrunk from its undisguised profanity.
Now she laughed responsively.
"I guess they do have queer ways," she owned. "Well, I never let father
know any of our folks go over there. He'd be terrible tried. And I've made
it my pa
rt in our meeting to keep up the young folks' interest as much as
I can. I've been careful never to miss my Sunday
-
school class. They're all
girls, nice as new pins, every one of 'em! Phoebe was in it till a little while
ago, but now she comes here and sit
s in the kitchen while I'm gone. I
don't want father to know that, for I hope it never'll come into his head
he's so helpless; but I should be worried to death to have him left alone.
So Phoebe sits there with her book, ready to spring if she should hear
a
nything out o' the way."
The doctor had lapsed into his absent mood, but now he roused himself,
with sudden interest.
"That's very good of her, isn't it?" he said "You trust her, don't you?"
"Trust Phoebe! Well, I guess I do! I've known her ever sinc
e she went to
Number Five, and now she's keeping the school herself. She's a real noble
girl!"
"Tell me more!" said the doctor, warmly. "I want to hear it all. You're so
new to me here in Tiverton! I want to get acquainted."
Miss Dorcas suddenly felt a
s if she had been talking a great deal, and an
overwhelming shyness fell upon her.
"There isn't much to tell," she hesitated. "I don't know's anything'd
happened to me for years, till father had his ill
-
turn in the spring, and we
called you in. He don't
seem to realize his sickness was anything much.
I've told the neighbors not to dwell on it when they're with him. Phoebe
won't; she's got some sense."
"Has she?" said the doctor, still eagerly. "I'm glad of that, for your sake!"
He rose to go, but stood a moment near the steps, dallying with a
reaching branch of jessamine; it seemed persuading him to stay. He had
always a cheery manner, but to
-
night it w
as brightened by a dash of
something warm and reckless. He had the air of one awaiting good news,
in confidence of its coming. Dorcas was alive to the rapt contagion, and
her own blood thrilled. She felt young.
"Well!" said he, "well, Miss Dorcas!" He to
ok a step, and then turned
back. "Well, Miss Dorcas," he said again, with an embarrassed laugh,
"perhaps you'd like to gather in one more church
-
goer. If I have time
tomorrow, I'll drop in to your service, and then I'll come round here, and
tell your fathe
r I went."
Dorcas rose impulsively. She could have stretched out her hands to him,
in the warmth of her gratitude.
"Oh, if you would! Oh, how pleased he'd be!"
"All right!" Now he turned away with decision. "Thank you, Miss Dorcas,
for staying out. I
t's a beautiful evening. I never knew such a June. Good
-
night!" He strode down the walk, and gave a quick word to his horse, who
responded in whinnying welcome. An instant's delay, another word, and
they were gone.
Dorcas stood listening to the scatter o
f hoofs down the dusty road and
over the hollow ledge. She sank back on the sill, and, step by step, tried
to retrace the lovely arabesque the hour had made. At last, she had some
groping sense of the full beauty of living, when friendship says to its
mate
, "Tell me about yourself!" and the frozen fountain wells out, every
drop cheered and warmed, as it falls, in the sunshine of sympathy. She
saw in him that perfection of life lying in strength, which he undoubtedly
had, and beauty, of which he had little o
r much according as one chose to
think well of him. To her aching sense, he was a very perfect creature,
gifted with, infinite capacities for help and comfort.
But the footfalls ceased, and the garden darkened by delicate yet swift
degrees; a cloud had g
one over the moon, fleecy, silver
-
edged, but still a
cloud. The waning of the light seemed to her significant; she feared lest
some bitter change might befall the moment; and went in, bolting the
door behind her. Once within her own little bedroom, she loo
sened her
hair, and moved about aimlessly, for a time, careless of sleep, because it
seemed so far. Then a sudden resolve nerved her, and she stole back
again to the front door, and opened it. The night was blossoming there,
glowing now, abundant. It was s
o rich, so full! The moonlight here, and
star upon star above, hidden not by clouds but by the light! Need she
waste this one night out of all her unregarded life? She stepped forth
among the flower
-
beds, stooping, in a passionate fervor, to the blossoms
s
he could reach; but, coming back to the southernwood, she took it in her
arms. She laid her face upon it, and crushed the soft leaves against her
cheeks. It made all the world smell of its own balm and dew. The
fragrance and beauty of the time passed into
her soul, and awakened
corners there all unused to such sweet incense. She was drunken with the
wine that is not of grapes. She could not have found words for the
passion that possessed her, though she hugged it to her heart like
another self; but it was e
lemental, springing from founts deeper than
those of life and death. God made it, and, like all His making, it was
divine. She sat there, the southernwood still gathered into her arms, and
at last emotion stilled itself, and passed into thought; a wild tem
ptation
rose, and with its first whisper drove a hot flush into her cheeks, and
branded it there. Love! she had never named the name in its first natal
significance. She had scarcely read it; for romance, even in books, had
passed her by. But love! she kne
w it as the insect knows how to spread
his new sun
-
dried wings in the air for which he was create. Sitting there,
in a happy drowse, she thought it all out. She was old, plain, unsought;
the man she exalted was the flower of his kind. He would never look o
n
her as if she might touch the hem of wifehood's mantle; so there would
be no shame in choosing him. Just to herself, she might name the Great
Name. He would not know. Only her own soul would know, and God who
gave it, and sent it forth fitted with delica
te, reaching tentacles to touch
the rock set there to wound them. She began to feel blindly that God was
not alone the keeper of eternal Sabbaths, but the germinant heat at the
heart of the world. If she were a young girl, like Phoebe, there would be
shame
. Even a thought of him would be a stretching forth her hand to
touch him, saying, "Look at me! I am here!" but for her it was quite
different. It would be like a dream, some grandmother dreamed in the
sun, of rosy youth and the things that never came to p
ass. No one would
be harmed, and the sleeper would have garnered one hour's joy before
she took up her march again on the lonesomest road of all,
--
so lonesome,
although it leads us, home! Thus she thought, half sleeping, until the
night
-
dews clung in drops
upon her hair; then she went in to bed, still
wrapped about with the drapery of her dreams.
Next morning, when Dorcas carried in her father's breakfast, she walked
with a springing step, and spoke in a voice so full and fresh it made her
newly glad.
"
It's a nice day, father! There'll be lots of folks out to meeting."
"That's a good girl!" This was his commendation, from hour to hour; it
made up the litany of his gratitude for what she had been to him. "But I
dunno's I feel quite up to preachin' to
-
da
y, Dorcas!"
"That'll be all right, father. We'll get somebody."
"You bring me out my sermon
-
box after breakfast, an' I'll pick out one,"
said he, happily. "Deacon Tolman can read it."
Phoebe, too, lowered her voice, but the full sweetness of its quality
thrilled out.
"Mary Frances Giles is going to be married next week. I've been down to
see her things. She's real pleased."
"You don't suppose they'll ask father to
marry 'em?" Miss Dorcas spoke
quite eagerly.
"Oh, no, they can't! It's a real wedding, you know. It's got to be at the
house."
"Yes, of course it's got to! I knew that myself, but I couldn't help hoping.
Well, goodnight. You come Sunday."
Phoebe lifted her pink skirts about her, and stepped, rustling and stately,
down the garden walk. Miss Dorcas drew one deep breath of the outer
fragrance, and turned back into the house. A thin voice, enfeebled and
husky from old age, rose in the front roo
m, as she entered:
"Dorcas! Dorcas! you had a caller?"
Her father, old Parson True, lay in the great bed opposite the window. A
thin little twig of a man, he was still animated, at times, by the power of a
strenuous and dauntless spirit. His hair, brus
hed straight back from the
overtopping forehead, had grown snowy white, and the eager, delicate
face beneath wore a strange pathos from the very fineness of its
nervously netted lines. Not many years after his wife's death, the parson
had shown some wander
ing of the wits; yet his disability, like his loss,
had been mercifully veiled from him. He took calmly to his bed, perhaps
through sheer lack of interest in life, and it became his happy invention
that he was "not feeling well," from one day to another, b
ut that, on the
next Sunday, he should rise and preach. He seemed like an unfortunate
and uncomplaining child, and the village folk took pride in him as
something all their own; a pride enhanced by his habit, in this weak
estate, of falling back into the h
omely ways of speech he had used long
ago when he was a boy "on the farm." In his wife's day, he had stood in
the pulpit above them, and expounded scriptural lore in academic English;
now he lapsed into their own rude phrasing, and seemed to rest content
i
n a tranquil certainty that nothing could be better than Tiverton ways and
Tiverton's homely speech.
"Dorcas," he repeated, with all a child's delight in his own cleverness,
"you've had somebody here. I heard ye!"
Dorcas folded the sheet back over the
quilt, and laid her hand on his hair,
with all the tenderness of the strong when they let themselves brood over
the weak.
"Only Phoebe, on her way home," she answered, gently. "The doctor
visited her school to
-
day. She thinks he may drop in to see you to
-
night. I
guess he give her to understand so."
The minister chuckled.
"Ain't he a smart one?" he rejoined. "Smart as a trap! Dorcas, I 'ain't
finished my sermon. I guess I shall have to preach an old one. You lay me
out the one on the salt losin' its s
avor, an' I'll look it over."
"Yes, father."
The same demand and the same answer, varied but slightly, had been
exchanged between them every Saturday night for years. Dorcas replied
now without thinking. Her mind had spread its wings and flown out into
the sweet stillness of the garden and the world beyond; it even hastened
on into the unknown ways of guesswork, seeking for one who should be
coming. She strained her ears to hear the beating of hoofs and the rattle
of wheels across the little, bridge. Th
e dusk sifted in about the house,
faster and faster; a whippoorwill cried from the woods. So she sat until
the twilight had vanished, and another of the invisible genii was at hand,
saying, "I am Night."
"Dorcas!" called the parson again. He had been asl
eep, and seemed now
to be holding himself back from a broken dream. "Dorcas, has your
mother come in yet?"
"No, father."
"Well, you wake me up when you see her down the road; and then you go
an' carry her a shawl. I dunno what to make o' that cough!" His voice
trailed sleepily off, and Dorcas rose and tiptoed out of the room. She felt
the blood in her face; her ears thrilled
noisily. The doctor's, wagon, had
crossed the bridge; now it was whirling swiftly up the road. She stationed
herself in the entry, to lose no step in his familiar progress. The horse
came lightly along, beating out a pleasant tune of easy haste. He was
dr
awn up at the gate, and the doctor threw out his weight, and jumped
buoyantly to the ground. There was the brief pause of reaching for his
medicine
-
case, and then, with that firm step whose rhythm she knew so
well, he was walking up the path. Involuntarily
, as Dorcas awaited him,
she put her hand to her heart with one of those gestures that seem so
melodramatic and are so real; she owned to herself, with a throb of
appreciative delight, how the sick must warm at his coming. This new
doctor of Tiverton was n
o younger than Dorcas herself, yet with his erect
carriage and merry blue eye she seemed to be not only of another
temperament, but another time. It had never struck him that they were
contemporaries. Once he had told Phoebe, in a burst of affection and
pi
tying praise, that he should have liked Miss Dorcas for a maiden aunt.
"Good evening," he said, heartily, one foot on the sill. "How's the
patient?"
At actual sight of him, her tremor vanished, and she answered very
quietly,
--
"Father's asleep. I tho
ught you wouldn't want he should be disturbed; so I
came out."
The doctor took off his hat, and pushed back his thick, unruly hair.
"Yes, that was right," he said absently, and pinched a spray of
southernwood that grew beside the door. "How has he seem
ed?"
"About as usual."
"You've kept on with the tonic?"
"Yes."
"That's good! Miss Dorcas, look up there. See that moon! See that wisp of
an old blanket dragging over her face! Do you mind coming out and
walking up and down the road while we talk? I
may think of one or two
directions to give about your father."
Dorcas stepped forward with the light obedience given to happy tasking.
She paused as! quickly.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I can't. Father might wake up. I never leave him
alone."
"Never mind
, then! let's sit right down here on the steps. After all,
perhaps it's pleasanter. What a garden! It's like my mother's. I could pick
out every leaf in the dark, by the smell. But you're alone, aren't you? I'm
not keeping you from any one?"
"Oh, no! I'm
all alone, except father."
"Yes. The fact is, I went into your school to
-
day, and the teacher said she
was coming here to
-
night. She offered to bring you a message, but I said
I should come myself. I'm abominably late. I couldn't get here any
earlier."
"Oh, yes! Phoebe! She was here over an hour ago. Phoebe's a real
comfort to me." She was seated on the step above him, and it seemed
very pleasant to her to hear his voice, without encountering also the
challenge of his eyes.
"No, is she though?" The doctor suddenly faced round upon her. "Tell me
about it!"
Then, quite to her surprise, Dorcas found herself talking under the spell of
an interest so eager that it bore her on, entirely without her own
guidance.
"Well, you see
there's a good many things I keep from father. He never's
been himself since mother died. She was the mainstay here. But he thinks
the church prospers just the same, and I never've told him the
attendance dropped off when they put up that 'Piscopal buildin
g over to
Sudleigh. You 'ain't lived here long enough to hear much about that, but
it's been a real trial to him. The summer boarders built it, and some rich
body keeps it up; and our folks think it's complete to go over there and
worship, and get up and d
own, and say their prayers out loud."
The doctor laughed out.
"I've heard about it," said he. "You know what Brad Freeman told Uncle
Eli Pike, when they went in to see how the service was managed?
Somebody found the places in the prayer
-
book for them,
and Brad was
quick
-
witted, and got on very well; but Eli kept dropping behind. Brad
nudged him. 'Read!' he said out loud. 'Read like the devil!' I've heard that
story on an average of twice a day since I came to Tiverton. I'm not tired
of it yet!"
Miss D
orcas, too, had heard it, and shrunk from its undisguised profanity.
Now she laughed responsively.
"I guess they do have queer ways," she owned. "Well, I never let father
know any of our folks go over there. He'd be terrible tried. And I've made
it my pa
rt in our meeting to keep up the young folks' interest as much as
I can. I've been careful never to miss my Sunday
-
school class. They're all
girls, nice as new pins, every one of 'em! Phoebe was in it till a little while
ago, but now she comes here and sit
s in the kitchen while I'm gone. I
don't want father to know that, for I hope it never'll come into his head
he's so helpless; but I should be worried to death to have him left alone.
So Phoebe sits there with her book, ready to spring if she should hear
a
nything out o' the way."
The doctor had lapsed into his absent mood, but now he roused himself,
with sudden interest.
"That's very good of her, isn't it?" he said "You trust her, don't you?"
"Trust Phoebe! Well, I guess I do! I've known her ever sinc
e she went to
Number Five, and now she's keeping the school herself. She's a real noble
girl!"
"Tell me more!" said the doctor, warmly. "I want to hear it all. You're so
new to me here in Tiverton! I want to get acquainted."
Miss Dorcas suddenly felt a
s if she had been talking a great deal, and an
overwhelming shyness fell upon her.
"There isn't much to tell," she hesitated. "I don't know's anything'd
happened to me for years, till father had his ill
-
turn in the spring, and we
called you in. He don't
seem to realize his sickness was anything much.
I've told the neighbors not to dwell on it when they're with him. Phoebe
won't; she's got some sense."
"Has she?" said the doctor, still eagerly. "I'm glad of that, for your sake!"
He rose to go, but stood a moment near the steps, dallying with a
reaching branch of jessamine; it seemed persuading him to stay. He had
always a cheery manner, but to
-
night it w
as brightened by a dash of
something warm and reckless. He had the air of one awaiting good news,
in confidence of its coming. Dorcas was alive to the rapt contagion, and
her own blood thrilled. She felt young.
"Well!" said he, "well, Miss Dorcas!" He to
ok a step, and then turned
back. "Well, Miss Dorcas," he said again, with an embarrassed laugh,
"perhaps you'd like to gather in one more church
-
goer. If I have time
tomorrow, I'll drop in to your service, and then I'll come round here, and
tell your fathe
r I went."
Dorcas rose impulsively. She could have stretched out her hands to him,
in the warmth of her gratitude.
"Oh, if you would! Oh, how pleased he'd be!"
"All right!" Now he turned away with decision. "Thank you, Miss Dorcas,
for staying out. I
t's a beautiful evening. I never knew such a June. Good
-
night!" He strode down the walk, and gave a quick word to his horse, who
responded in whinnying welcome. An instant's delay, another word, and
they were gone.
Dorcas stood listening to the scatter o
f hoofs down the dusty road and
over the hollow ledge. She sank back on the sill, and, step by step, tried
to retrace the lovely arabesque the hour had made. At last, she had some
groping sense of the full beauty of living, when friendship says to its
mate
, "Tell me about yourself!" and the frozen fountain wells out, every
drop cheered and warmed, as it falls, in the sunshine of sympathy. She
saw in him that perfection of life lying in strength, which he undoubtedly
had, and beauty, of which he had little o
r much according as one chose to
think well of him. To her aching sense, he was a very perfect creature,
gifted with, infinite capacities for help and comfort.
But the footfalls ceased, and the garden darkened by delicate yet swift
degrees; a cloud had g
one over the moon, fleecy, silver
-
edged, but still a
cloud. The waning of the light seemed to her significant; she feared lest
some bitter change might befall the moment; and went in, bolting the
door behind her. Once within her own little bedroom, she loo
sened her
hair, and moved about aimlessly, for a time, careless of sleep, because it
seemed so far. Then a sudden resolve nerved her, and she stole back
again to the front door, and opened it. The night was blossoming there,
glowing now, abundant. It was s
o rich, so full! The moonlight here, and
star upon star above, hidden not by clouds but by the light! Need she
waste this one night out of all her unregarded life? She stepped forth
among the flower
-
beds, stooping, in a passionate fervor, to the blossoms
s
he could reach; but, coming back to the southernwood, she took it in her
arms. She laid her face upon it, and crushed the soft leaves against her
cheeks. It made all the world smell of its own balm and dew. The
fragrance and beauty of the time passed into
her soul, and awakened
corners there all unused to such sweet incense. She was drunken with the
wine that is not of grapes. She could not have found words for the
passion that possessed her, though she hugged it to her heart like
another self; but it was e
lemental, springing from founts deeper than
those of life and death. God made it, and, like all His making, it was
divine. She sat there, the southernwood still gathered into her arms, and
at last emotion stilled itself, and passed into thought; a wild tem
ptation
rose, and with its first whisper drove a hot flush into her cheeks, and
branded it there. Love! she had never named the name in its first natal
significance. She had scarcely read it; for romance, even in books, had
passed her by. But love! she kne
w it as the insect knows how to spread
his new sun
-
dried wings in the air for which he was create. Sitting there,
in a happy drowse, she thought it all out. She was old, plain, unsought;
the man she exalted was the flower of his kind. He would never look o
n
her as if she might touch the hem of wifehood's mantle; so there would
be no shame in choosing him. Just to herself, she might name the Great
Name. He would not know. Only her own soul would know, and God who
gave it, and sent it forth fitted with delica
te, reaching tentacles to touch
the rock set there to wound them. She began to feel blindly that God was
not alone the keeper of eternal Sabbaths, but the germinant heat at the
heart of the world. If she were a young girl, like Phoebe, there would be
shame
. Even a thought of him would be a stretching forth her hand to
touch him, saying, "Look at me! I am here!" but for her it was quite
different. It would be like a dream, some grandmother dreamed in the
sun, of rosy youth and the things that never came to p
ass. No one would
be harmed, and the sleeper would have garnered one hour's joy before
she took up her march again on the lonesomest road of all,
--
so lonesome,
although it leads us, home! Thus she thought, half sleeping, until the
night
-
dews clung in drops
upon her hair; then she went in to bed, still
wrapped about with the drapery of her dreams.
Next morning, when Dorcas carried in her father's breakfast, she walked
with a springing step, and spoke in a voice so full and fresh it made her
newly glad.
"
It's a nice day, father! There'll be lots of folks out to meeting."
"That's a good girl!" This was his commendation, from hour to hour; it
made up the litany of his gratitude for what she had been to him. "But I
dunno's I feel quite up to preachin' to
-
da
y, Dorcas!"
"That'll be all right, father. We'll get somebody."
"You bring me out my sermon
-
box after breakfast, an' I'll pick out one,"
said he, happily. "Deacon Tolman can read it."