The White Lady (26 page)

It was impossible for him to understand the situation thoroughly. He had been informed that he was to occupy the minister’s room for the night, as the minister was occupying the only available room in the house. Morris Thayer was helpless in the hands of his friends, and helpless he went out into the night, preceded by the would-be-affable Hiram and his wouldn’t-be-affable wife. If Constance had not been so weary, she would have laughed as she watched them leave, but instead she only turned with a relieved sigh and sped upstairs.

A few minutes later Morris Thayer, much broken in spirit and perspiring freely in spite of the zero temperature of the room, sat down upon the minister’s bed and by the light of the glass kerosene lamp with the red flannel wick, took a survey of the situation. He adjusted his eyeglass and took it all in: the matting, the rag rug, the hard bed, the cheap bureau, the faded photograph, and the sorry look of everything.

“Impossible!” he exclaimed. “Can any man of education and breeding occupy a hole like this?” He was silent once more while his eyes traveled around the room to make sure he had seen it aright, and then back to the dismal, humpy bed with its patchwork quilt of flowered calico.

“I will never travel without my man again!” he concluded.

Like a prisoner in a cell he prepared himself for rest, but though he lay down in a gingerly way upon the humps, he slept but little, and the morning found him almost haggard as he came down, declining breakfast and asking Mrs. Bartlett how much he owed her. She set her lips grimly and answered in low tones, that Hiram might not hear—he was washing his face and combing his hair at the kitchen sink—that it was
a dollar
! When he carelessly threw down the silver disk, she looked at it regretfully and said to herself that she wished she had made it a dollar and a quarter; she believed he wouldn’t have thought it too much. But she hid the dollar quickly, for Hiram was hospitable and benevolent and would think she should not have asked for a cent. She grumbled all the while they were at breakfast because she had cooked two extra eggs with the best ham for their guest, and now it was wasted.

During his night’s vigil the young man had done some serious thinking. He had gone over the whole story that Constance had told him, and little by little the fine courage of this girl had dimly dawned on him. Not that he was able to appreciate it to the full, but he saw that she had an element of greatness in her that he could feel was worthy of praise. He was horrified that her money was gone, for he was a luxurious creature himself and spent a great deal, and the thought of her wealth had been a comfortable one. Indeed, he had pitied many other men who married girls without fortunes, and congratulated himself that he was feathering his nest well; but now that the question was put to him whether or not he would give up Constance, he found that he could not let her go. He was surprised at himself that this was so. He was pleased at it as an indication of nobility in himself, not recognizing the truth that it was rather merely the desire of a spoiled child to have always what it craved, in spite of everything. He told himself that he was benevolent and would prove it. He would take her in spite of her poverty, and help her hide it from the world.

There was an undercurrent, too, of satisfaction in the thought that this would give him a certain power over her. If he married her, poverty and all, she would never dare to lift her handsome, haughty head again to him in defiance. She would not hold him at arm’s length anymore. She would be his to do with as he pleased, to go where he willed, and to be what he suggested.

With these worthy sentiments in his mind he took his way to the Cedars in the early morning, and after having breakfast in what Jimmy considered a heartless hearty way, he sent for Constance. Jimmy thought no one ought to eat or sleep until the minister got well.

Constance came down pale and tired-looking, with dark rings under her eyes, and Morris Thayer thought her more interesting than ever. He came to the point at once and graciously told her that he had decided not to let her change of fortune make any difference in his intentions. He would marry her, anyway, and he would like to have the marriage almost immediately. He wanted to get her out of this terrible hole and back to her proper sphere.

There was a slight condescension in his voice, and Constance would have been angered by it had not her thoughts been so wholly on another subject. But her cheeks burned when she heard his cool disposal of herself, as if the matter were settled. When he paused to look her over critically with his practiced eye, as he would have looked at a fine car or a yacht he had just purchased at a great price, with which he was thoroughly satisfied, she spoke quickly.

“I am afraid, Morris, that you did not understand me last night. The money has nothing to do with my marrying anybody. I could never marry
you
, Morris, for I do not love you. I appreciate, of course, the honor you have done me, but please put that out of your mind forever, and let us just be friends.”

He could not believe her at first and attempted to argue the matter, but Constance was unmoved. He was dumfounded. He could not believe that any girl in her senses would refuse him, especially a girl in her present circumstances.

It was in a driving sleet that he walked away from the Cedars, crestfallen, reluctantly followed by Jimmy, borne down by the weight of a heavy suitcase and bag, who took out his displeasure in making wry faces at the young man behind his back. Jimmy set down his burdens hard on the platform and fled the spot without taking the money that the astonished Morris Thayer offered him.

“Well, that chump’s out ther way, enneyhow,” Jimmy remarked to Norah with satisfaction when he arrived in the kitchen. “Wanted to give me a quarter. H’m! I wouldn’t soil my hands with one o’ his’n. He needn’t think he’s got a show beside Mr. Endycut.”

And Norah responded fervently as she peppered a kettle of soup, “Right you are thar, Jimmy, me bye. The saints be praised ef he’s really gawn! Now, ef the blessed man’ll awnly git well!”

Such love, such prayers, such care could scarcely help bringing a man back from death’s door, and John Endicott began to rally at last. Constance, with her gentle ways, was in and out of his room, bringing cheer with her whenever she came. Sometimes she read to him, and he would lie and watch her changing face, and hungrily learn by heart the love of her look; but always when she glanced up and met his smile, it was a sad one, and she thought he was mourning for his mother.

One day, when she had been reading and he watching her thus, he suddenly put out his bandaged hand and said, “Ought you not to be downstairs, or away somewhere? Is not your friend waiting for you?”

Then Constance looked at him with amazement and asked for an explanation.

“Why, your friend. Your grandmother told me all about it the night of the fire. She said you were soon to be married, and you would all go back to New York. She wanted me to promise to go, too, and take a church there.”

He smiled sadly as if to turn her thoughts away from himself. But she laughed a clear, happy, merry laugh.

“Did Grandmother tell you that? The blessed old dear! Oh, what a lot of trouble she has tried to make for me! Now I shall have to tell you all about it.”

How it happened they never either of them knew, but as she talked, John Endicott’s eyes drew Constance’s nearer and nearer to his own, until their faces were close together.

Miss Stokes came softly to the door to tell Constance her grandmother would like to see her, but stepped aside and wiped away a glad tear in the darkness of the hall and then went back and told Mrs. Wetherill that Constance was very much engaged at the present. She stood by the window for a full half hour gazing into the snowcapped cedar, reflecting what true love could mean, love such as those two in there could feel for each other.

The doctor came, walked boldly in, and caught them so, her face against his, his bandaged arm about her as she knelt beside the bed. He laid his rough hands on each head with a gruff blessing and then stood back and said, “Now he will get well. I’ve known he needed something all along, but didn’t have it among my medicines.”

Constance, with rosy face and joyous eyes, laughed out her own sweet silvery laugh, just for very joy. It echoed down to the kitchen and made Jimmy and Norah smile understandingly to each other, and it sent a tiny echo to the room below.

Down in that lower front room the poor burnt, scarred fragment of a wretch was lying, slowly crawling back to a life of pain and remorse. Over his head lay the man whom he had called a coward; and giving him her bounty was the lovely woman whose fair name he had meant to smirch with the pitch of the lower regions. There he lay helpless, his lower limbs hopelessly paralyzed, his right arm amputated—the hand that had written those vile letters had been burned off—his whole visage disfigured; the mystery of life in an almost dead body. There he was laid, to learn the old, old story of salvation by the Redeemer, through his own story and that of one who had risked his life to save a man who hated him. By and by, when he was able and the minister was better, there would be sweet music in the next room to his, and the old, old story would be sung to him. The hard heart that could not be reached by preaching and praying and warning would gradually be melted by suffering and love. But now he lay there, miserable, with his pretty young sister to wait upon him and all his brazen courage vanquished.

Far away in New York, Morris Thayer was trying to get used to not having his own way and was becoming a sadder, if not wiser man. He could not understand why Constance had refused him.

T
he spring had come, and all the cedars were tipped with brighter green in tender, spicy outputs. The willows down by the pond were draped in their lace, and there were violets everywhere over the lawn, under the trees, and down on the path to the old summerhouse.

By some mysterious metamorphosis a change, too, had come upon the “haunted house.” In fact, it was no longer known among the villagers as “hanted.” It was spoken of quite respectfully as “The Cedars.” Whether that was the work of Dr. Randall or Jimmy or the minister—whose voice still spoke with command from his sickbed—or the combined work of the three, is uncertain. Through the long weeks of anxiety when the minister lay at death’s door, and later when he was slowly and painfully creeping back to life, the people, even Mrs. Bartlett, had learned to respect the sweet-faced girl who always came down when they called to inquire after their pastor. She told the pleasant little messages he sent them in such a way that they fairly seemed to have heard the minister himself speaking them, and knew how his smile had looked as he gave the message. It was the next best to talking with himself.

No more slurs and slights were given her, and the visitors always walked with solemn faces and awed tread as they passed the door of the front parlor, where lay for many weeks the broken form of the poor wretch who was doomed to live out the remainder of his days in helpless pain and regret.

“She needn’t to a’ done it,” said Holly, shaking his head wonderingly, “and ef she’d a’ knowed what he said about her jest ’fore the fire, she wouldn’t. She’d a’ sent him away ef it
did
kill him to be moved.”

“No, she wouldn’ta,” responded Jimmy stoutly. “She’d a’ did it—done it, I mean—all the more.”

Jimmy was getting some perception of his need of an education.

So little by little the villagers had taken in Constance, and she was growing in their regard, until there was danger that she might eclipse even the minister, who was now a hero in their eyes.

As John Endicott grew better and was at last able to come downstairs, he spent hours in Constance’s own little sanctum, the old back parlor. Constance often played softly to him, and sometimes sang. Occasionally he would join in a rich baritone with her sweet soprano, and they would sing together magnificent strains from the old masters, or sweet old hymns that both loved. The doors would be left open so that Grandmother Wetherill might hear, and Jennie, as head nurse in the front parlor, fell into the habit of opening the door into the hall to catch more sound than could come through the double doors, heavily hung with curtains. She had discovered that her brother lay with his closed eyes and some semblance of peace upon his brow while the music went on and that he seemed disappointed when it ceased. Once, one Sunday evening, the last Sunday before the minister was allowed by the doctor to go back to his church services, the two sang hymns for a long time. The last one they sang was:

They sang several verses, and after the first Si asked to have the door opened wider. When the singing was finally over and the minister had gone upstairs for the night, Jennie closed the door again softly, and as she came back, she thought she saw a tear on her brother’s cheek. It startled her so that she went and sat down for a full minute to think before she went gently about getting him ready for the night.

After that there were long talks with the minister on days when Barton was not suffering unusually. There were confession and forgiveness, and Si told the minister the story of his hard young life until John Endicott wondered no longer at the hold the devil had upon him, but marveled over the love of God in sparing him and giving him another chance.

It was a poor, wrecked life, only a piece of life, that Si had to give to the Lord, but the minister made the way so plain that the poor broken creature could but thankfully accept the wonderful forgiveness and salvation.

There came a day in the early springtime, the first communion Sabbath when the minister was able to be with his people again, when all the town was assembled in and about the pretty stone church with its scarred and mended roof. The members of the church were there, for their hearts were very tender with thanksgiving over the spared life of their beloved pastor. The people of the village were there out of sympathy with the church members and general good will toward the minister, and perhaps, too, out of curiosity, for a strange rumor had been going around town. The drugstore loungers and station devotees were there because they had been especially invited by the man who had done his best for five years to ruin them. Lying upon his bed of pain, his right hand gone forever, Si had laboriously tried to write with his left hand. He had written in ragged, irregular, almost unintelligible lines—lines that were pitiful when one remembered the bold, dashing hand in which he had formerly signed his receipts.