SCENE IX.
_A Village Sabbath._
"NOW THE END OF THE COMMANDMENT IS CHARITY, OUT OF A PURE HEART."
It was Sunday morning, and the very peace of God was brooding overPleasant River. Timothy, Rags, and Gay were playing decorously in theorchard. Maria was hitched to an apple-tree in the side yard, and stoodthere serenely with her eyes half closed, dreaming of oats past and oatsto come. Miss Vilda and Samantha issued from the mosquito-netting door,clad in Sunday best; and the children approached nearer, that they mightshare in the excitement of the departure for "meeting." Gay clamored togo, but was pacified by the gift of a rag-doll that Samantha had madefor her the evening before. It was a monstrosity, but Gay dipped itinstantly in the alembic of her imagination, and it became a beautiful,responsive little daughter, which she clasped close in her arms, and onwhich she showered the tenderest tokens of maternal affection.
Miss Vilda handed Timothy a little green-paper-covered book, before sheclimbed into the buggy. "That's a catechism," she said; "and if you'llbe a good boy and learn the first six pages, and say 'em to me thisafternoon, Samantha 'll give you a top that you can spin on week days."
"What is a catechism?" asked Timothy, as he took the book.
"It's a Sunday-school lesson."
"Oh, then I can learn it," said Timothy, brightening; "I learned threefor Miss Dora, in the city."
"Well, I'm thankful to hear that you've had some spiritual advantages;now, stay right here in the orchard till Jabe comes; and don't set thehouse afire," she added, as Samantha took the reins and raised them forthe mighty slap on Maria's back which was necessary to wake her from herSunday slumber.
"Why would I want to set the house afire?" Timothy asked wonderingly.
"Well, I don't know 's you would want to, but I thought you might getto playin' with matches, though I've hid 'em all."
"Play with matches!" exclaimed Timothy, in wide-eyed astonishment that amatch could appeal to anybody as a desirable plaything. "Oh, no, thankyou; I shouldn't have thought of it."
"I don't know as we ought to have left 'em alone," said Vilda, lookingback, as Samantha urged the moderate Maria over the road; "though Idon't know exactly what they could do."
"Except run away," said Samantha reflectively.
"I wish to the land they would! It would be the easiest way out of atroublesome matter. Every day that goes by will make it harder for us todecide what to do with 'em; for you can't do by those you know the sameas if they were strangers."
There was a long main street running through the village north andsouth. Toward the north it led through a sweet-scented wood, where thegrass tufts grew in verdant strips along the little-traveled road. Ithad been a damp morning, and, though now the sun was shiningbrilliantly, the spiders' webs still covered the fields; gossamer lacesof moist, spun silver, through which shone the pink and lilac of themeadow grasses. The wood was a quiet place, and more than once MissVilda and Samantha had discussed matters there which they would neverhave mentioned at the White Farm.
Maria went ambling along serenely through the arcade of trees, where thesun went wandering softly, "as with his hands before his eyes;"overhead, the vast blue canopy of heaven, and under the trees the softbrown leaf carpet, "woven by a thousand autumns."
"I don't know but I could grow to like the baby in time," said Vilda,"though it's my opinion she's goin' to be dreadful troublesome; but I'mmore 'n half afraid of the boy. Every time he looks at me with thosesearchin' eyes of his, I mistrust he's goin' to say something aboutMarthy,--all on account of his giving me such a turn when he came to thedoor."
"He'd be awful handy round the house, though, Vildy; that is, if he _is_handy,--pickin' up chips, 'n' layin' fires, 'n' what not; but, 's yousay, he ain't so takin' as the baby at first sight. She's got the samewinnin' way with her that Marthy hed!"
"Yes," said Miss Vilda grimly; "and I guess it's the devil's own way."
"Well, yes, mebbe; 'n' then again mebbe 't ain't. There ain't no reasonwhy the devil should own all the han'some faces 'n' tunesome laughs, 'tI know of. It doos seem 's if beauty was turrible misleading', 'n' I'veben glad sometimes the Lord didn't resk none of it on me; for I wasbehind the door when good looks was give out, 'n' I'm willin' t' own upto it; but, all the same, I like to see putty faces roun' me, 'n' Iguess when the Lord sets his mind on it He can make goodness 'n' beautygit along comf'tably in the same body. When yer come to that, homblyfolks ain't allers as good 's they might be, 'n' no comfort to anybody'seyes, nuther."
"You think the boy's all right in the upper story, do you? He's astrange kind of a child, to my thinkin'."
"I ain't so sure but he's smarter 'n we be, but he talks queer, 'n' nomistake. This mornin' he was pullin' the husks off a baby ear o' cornthat Jabe brought in, 'n' s' 'e, 'S'manthy, I think the corn must be thehappiest of all the veg'tables.' 'How you talk!' s' I; 'what makes youthink that way?'"
"Why, because,' s' 'e, 'God has hidden it away so safe, with all thatshinin' silk round it first, 'n' then the soft leaves wrapped outside o'the silk. I guess it's God's fav'rite veg'table; don't you, S'manthy?'s' 'e. And when I was showin' him pictures last night, 'n' he see thecrosses on top some o' the city meetin'-houses, s' 'e, 'They have twosticks on 'most all the churches, don't they, S'manthy? I s'pose that'sone stick for God, and the other for the peoples.' Well, now, don't youremember Seth Pennell, o' Buttertown, how queer he was when he was aboy? We thought he'd never be wuth his salt. He used to stan' in thefront winder 'n' twirl the curtin tossel for hours to a time. And don'tyou know it come out last year that he'd wrote a reg'lar book, withcovers on it 'n' all, 'n' that he got five dollars a colume for writin'poetry verses for the papers?"
"Oh, well, if you mean that," said Vilda argumentatively, "I don't callwritin' poetry any great test of smartness. There ain't been a big foolin this village for years but could do somethin' in the writin' line. Iguess it ain't any great trick, if you have a mind to put yourself downto it. For my part, I've always despised to see a great, hulkin' man,that could handle a hoe or a pitchfork, sit down and twirl a pen-stalk."
"Well, I ain't so sure. I guess the Lord hes his own way o' managin'things. We ain't all cal'lated to hoe pertaters nor yet to write poetryverses. There's as much dif'rence in folks 's there is in anybody. Now,I can take care of a dairy as well as the next one, 'n' nobody was everhearn to complain o' my butter; but there was that lady in New YorkState that used to make flowers 'n' fruit 'n' graven images out o' herchurnin's. You've hearn tell o' that piece she carried to theCentennial? Now, no sech doin's 's that ever come into my head. I'vewent on makin' round balls for twenty years: 'n', massy on us, don't Iremember when my old butter stamp cracked, 'n' I couldn't get anotherwith an ear o' corn on it, 'n' hed to take one with a beehive, why, Iwas that homesick I couldn't bear to look my butter 'n the eye! But thatwoman would have had a new picter on her balls every day, I shouldn'twonder! (For massy's sake, Maria, don't stan' stock still 'n' let theflies eat yer right up!) No, I tell yer, it takes all kinds o' folks tomake a world. Now, I couldn't never read poetry. It's so dull, it makesme feel 's if I'd been trottin' all day in the sun! But there's folksthat can stan' it, or they wouldn't keep on turnin' of it out. Thechildren are nice children enough, but have they got any folks anywhere,'n' what kind of folks, 'n' where'd they come from, anyhow: that's whatwe've got to find out, 'n' I guess it'll be consid'able of a chore!"
"I don't know but you're right. I thought some of sendin' Jabe to thecity to-morrow."
"Jabe? Well, I s'pose he'd be back by 'nother spring; but who'd we getter shovel us out this winter, seein' as there ain't more 'n three menin the whole village? Aunt Hitty says twenty-year engagements 's goin'out o' fashion in the big cities, 'n' I'm glad if they be. They'd 'a'never come _in_, I told her, if there'd ever been an extry man in theseparts, but there never was. If you got holt o' one by good luck, you hadter _keep_ holt, if 't was two years or twenty-two, or go without. Iused ter be too proud ter go without; now I've got more sen
se, thanksbe! Why don't you go to the city yourself, Vildy? Jabe Slocum ain't gotsprawl enough to find out anythin' wuth knowin'."
"I suppose I could go, though I don't like the prospect of it verymuch. I haven't been there for years, but I'd ought to look after myproperty there once in a while. Deary me! it seems as if we weren't evergoing to have any more peace."
"Mebbe we ain't," said Samantha, as they wound up the meeting-househill; "but ain't we hed 'bout enough peace for one spell? If peace wasthe best thing we could get in this world, we might as well be them oldcows by the side o' the road there. There ain't nothin' so peaceful as acow, when you come to that!"
The two women went into the church more perplexed in mind than theywould have cared to confess. During the long prayer (the minister couldtalk to God at much greater length than he could talk about Him), MissVilda prayed that the Lord would provide the two little wanderers withsome more suitable abiding-place than the White Farm; and that, failingthis, He would inform his servant whether there was anything unchristianin sending them to a comfortable public asylum. She then reminded Heaventhat she had made the Foreign Missionary Society her residuary legatee(a deed that established her claim to being a zealous member of thefold), so that she could scarcely be blamed for not wishing to take twoorphan children into her peaceful home.
Well, it is no great wonder that so faulty a prayer did not bring thewished-for light at once; but the ministering angels, who had thefatherless little ones in their care, did not allow Miss Vilda's mind torest quietly. Just as the congregation settled itself after the hymn,and the palm-leaf fans began to sway in the air, a swallow flew inthrough the open window; and, after fluttering to and fro over thepulpit, hid itself in a dark corner, unnoticed by all save the smallboys of the congregation, to whom it was, of course, a priceless boon.But Miss Vilda could not keep her wandering thoughts on the sermon anymore than if she had been a small boy. She was anything butsuperstitious; but she had seen that swallow, or some of its ancestors,before.... It had flown into the church on the very Sunday of hermother's death.... They had left her sitting in the high-backed rockerby the window, the great family Bible and her spectacles on the littlelight-stand beside her.... When they returned from church, they hadfound their mother sitting as they left her, with a smile on her face,but silent and lifeless.... And through the glass of the spectacles, asthey lay on the printed page, Vilda had read the words, "For a bird ofthe air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall tell thematter;" had read them wonderingly, and marked the place with reverentfingers.... The swallow flew in again, years afterward.... She could notremember the day or the month, but she could never forget the summer,for it was the last bright one of her life, the last that pretty Marthaever spent at the White Farm.... And now here was the swallow again...."For a bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wingsshall tell the matter." Miss Vilda looked on the book and tried tofollow the hymn; but passages of Scripture flocked into her head inplace of good Dr. Watts's verses, and when the little melodeon playedthe interludes she could only hear:--
"Yea, the sparrow hath found her an house and the swallow a nest whereshe may lay her young, even Thy altars, O Lord of hosts, my King and myGod."
"As a bird that wandereth from her nest, so is a man that wandereth fromhis place."
"The foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nests, but the Sonof man hath not where to lay his head."
And then the text fell on her bewildered ears, and roused her from onereverie to plunge her in another. It was chosen, as it chanced, from theFirst Epistle of Timothy, chapter first, verse fifth: "Now the end ofthe commandment is charity, out of a pure heart."
"That means the Missionary Society," said Miss Vilda to her conscience,doggedly; but she knew better. The parson, the text,--or was it thebird?--had brought the message; but for the moment she did not lend thehearing ear or the understanding heart.