Part 3

But all of these matches, save the last, would have been made in the ordinary course of things. The predestination of propinquity would have settled that. And even if Ellen Humphreys had married John Lang instead of George Lister, and George Lister had wedded Mary Waite—why, there would have been no great difference to admire or to deplore. The only union of the nine which came as a surprise to the community was the engagement of Rhodora to Charley Boyd. The beauty of the season had picked up the one crooked stick in the town—a dissolute, ne’er–do–well hanger–on of Trega’s best society, who would never have seen a dinner–card if he had not been a genius at amateur theatricals, an artist on the banjo, and a half–bred Adonis.

There the agony ended for the other girls, and there it began for Rhodora Boyd. In less than a year, Boyd had deserted her. The Commandant was transferred to the Pacific Coast. Rhodora moved, with her mother, bed–ridden now, into a little house in the unfashionable outskirts of Trega. There she nursed the mother until the poor bed–ridden old lady died. Rhodora supported them both by teaching music and French at the Trega Seminary, down by the Falls. Morning and evening she went out and back on that weary, jingling horse–car line. She received the annual visits that her friends paid her, inspired by something between courtesy and charity, with her old stately simplicity and imperturbable calm; and no one of them could feel sure that she was conscious of their triumph or of her degradation. And she kept the best part of her stately beauty to the very last. In any other town she would have been taught what divorce–courts were made for; but Trega society was Episcopalian, and that communion is healthily and conservatively monogamous.

And so Rhodora Boyd, that once was Rhodora Pennington, died in her little house, and her pet old maid closed her eyes. And there was an end of Rhodora. Not quite an end, though.

* * * * *

II.

SCENE.—_The Public Library of Trega._ MRS. GEORGE LISTER _and_ MRS. JOHN LANG _are seated in the Rotunda_. MR. LIBRIVER, _the Librarian, advances to them with books in his hands_.

MRS. LISTER.—Ah, here comes Mr. Libriver, with my “Intellectual Life.” Thank you, Mr. Libriver—you are always so kind!

MRS. LANG.—And Mr. Libriver has brought me my “Status of Woman.” Oh, thank you, Mr. Libriver.

MR. LIBRIVER, _a thin young man in a linen duster, retires, blushing_.

MRS. LISTER.—Mr. Libriver does _so_ appreciate women who are free from the bondage of the novel. Did you hear about poor Rhodora’s funeral?

MRS. LANG (_with a sweeping grasp at the intellectual side of the conversation_).—Oh, I _despise_ love–stories. In the church? Oh, yes, I heard. (_Sweetly_). Dr. Homly told me. Doesn’t it seem just a little—ostentatious?

MRS. LISTER.—Ostentatious—but, do you know, my dear, there are to be eight pall–bearers!

MRS. LANG (_turning defeat into victory_).—No, I did _not_ know. I don’t suppose that ridiculous old maid, that Miss Wimple, who seems to be conducting the affair, _dared_ to tell _that_ to Dr. Homly. And who are they?

MRS. LISTER (_with exceeding sweetness_).—Oh, I don’t know, dear. Only I met Mr. Townsend, and he told me that Dr. Homly had just told _him_ that he was one of the eight.

MRS. LISTER.—Dexter Townsend! Why, it’s scandalous. Everybody knows that he proposed to her three times and that she threw him over. It’s an insult to—to—

MRS. LANG.—To poor dear Alma Townsend. I quite agree with you. I should like to know how she feels—if she understands what it means.

MRS. LISTER.—Well, if I were in her place—

_Enter_ MRS. DEXTER TOWNSEND.

MRS. LANG. } MRS. LISTER.} Why, Alma!

MRS. TOWNSEND.—Why, Ellen! Why, Mary! Oh, I’m so glad to meet you both. I want you to lunch with me to–morrow at one o’clock. I do so _hate_ to be left alone. And poor Rhodora Pennington—Mrs. Boyd, I mean—her funeral is at noon, and our three male protectors will have to go to the cemetery, and Mr. Townsend is just going to take a cold bite before he goes, and so I’m left to lunch—

MRS. LANG (_coldly_).—I don’t think Mr. Lang will go to the cemetery—

MRS. LISTER.—There is no reason why Mr. Lister—

MRS. TOWNSEND.—But, don’t you know?—They’re all to be pall–bearers! They can’t refuse, of course.

MRS. LANG (_icily_).—Oh, no, certainly not.

MRS. LISTER (_below zero_).—I suppose it is an unavoidable duty.

MRS. LANG.—Alma, is that your _old_ Surah? What _did_ you do to it?

MRS. LISTER.—They _do_ dye things so wonderfully nowadays!

* * * * *

SCENE.—_A Verandah in front of_ MR. MCCULLOM MCINTOSH’S _house_. MRS. MCCULLOM MCINTOSH _seated, with fancy work. To her, enter_ MR. WILLIAM JANS _and_ MR. MILO SMITH.

MRS. MCINTOSH (_with effusion_).—Oh, Mr. Jans, I’m so delighted to see you! And Mr. Smith, too! I never expect to see you busy men at this time in the afternoon. And how is Laura?—and Millicent? Now _don’t_ tell me that you’ve come to say that you can’t go fishing with Mr. McIntosh to–morrow! He’ll be _so_ disappointed!

MR. JANS.—Well, the fact is—

MRS. MCINTOSH.—You haven’t been invited to be one of poor Rhodora Boyd’s pall–bearers, have you? That would be _too_ absurd. They say she’s asked a regular party of her old conquests. Mr. Libriver just passed here and told me—Mr. Lister and John Lang and Dexter Townsend—

MR. JANS.—Yes, and me.

MRS. MCINTOSH.—Oh, _Mr._ Jans! And they do say—at least Mr. Libriver says—that she hasn’t asked a man who hadn’t proposed to her.

MR. JANS (_Dutchily_).—I d’no. But I’m asked, and—

MRS. MCINTOSH.—You don’t mean to tell me that Mr. Smith is asked, too? Oh, that would be _too_ impossible. You don’t mean to tell me, Mr. Smith, that you furnished one of Rhodora’s scalps ten years ago?

MR. SMITH.—You ought to know, Mrs. McIntosh. Or—no—perhaps not. You and Mac were to windward of the centre–board on Townsend’s boat when _I_ got the mitten. I suppose you couldn’t hear us. But we were to leeward, and Miss Pennington said she hoped _all_ proposals didn’t echo.

MRS. MCINTOSH.—The wretched c—— but she’s dead. Well, I’m thankful Mac—Mr. McIntosh never _could_ abide that girl. He always said she was horribly bad form—poor thing, I oughtn’t to speak so, I suppose. She’s been punished enough.

MR. SMITH.—I’m glad you think so, Mrs. McIntosh. I hope you won’t feel it necessary to advise Mac to refuse her last dying request.

MRS. MCINTOSH.—What—

MR. SMITH.—Oh, well, the fact is, Mrs. McIntosh, we only stopped in to say that as McIntosh and all the rest of us are asked to be pall–bearers at Mrs. Boyd’s funeral, you might ask Mac if it wouldn’t be just as well to postpone the fishing party for a week or so. If you remember—will you be so kind? Thank you, good afternoon.

MR. JANS.—Good afternoon, Mrs. McIntosh.

* * * * *

SCENE.—_The Linen Closet, at the end of a sunny corridor in_ MR. ALEXANDER SLOAN’S _house._ MRS. SLOAN _inspecting her sheets and pillow–cases. To her, enter_ BRIDGET, _her housemaid, with a basket full of linen, the Trega Evening Eagle on the top, folded._

MRS. SLOAN.—Why, that surely isn’t one of the new napkins!—oh, it’s the evening paper. Dear me! how near–sighted I am getting! (_Takes it and opens it._) You may put those linen sheets on the top shelf, Bridget. We’ll hardly need them again this Fall. Oh, Bridget—here’s poor Mrs. Boyd’s obituary. You used to live at Colonel Pennington’s before she was married, didn’t you?

BRIDGET.—I did that, Mum.

MRS. SLOAN (_reading_).—“Mrs. Boyd’s pall–bearers are fitly chosen from the most distinguished and prominent citizens of Trega.” I’m sure I don’t see why they should be. (_Reads._) “Those invited to render the last honors to the deceased are Mr. George Lister—“

BRIDGET.—’Tis he was foriver at the house.

MRS. SLOAN (_reads_).—“Mr. John Lang—“

BRIDGET.—And him.

MRS. SLOAN (_reads_).—“Mr Dexter Townsend—“

BRIDGET.—And him, too.

MRS. SLOAN (_reads_).—“Mr. McIntosh, Mr. William Jans, Mr. Milo Smith—“

BRIDGET.—And _thim_. Mr. Smith was her siventh.

MRS. SLOAN.—Her _what_?

BRIDGET.—Her sivinth. There was eight of thim proposed to her in the wan week.

MRS SLOAN.—Why, Bridget! How can you possibly know _that_?

BRIDGET.—Sure, what does it mean whin a gintleman calls twice in th’ wake an’ thin stops like he was shot. An’ who is the eight’ gintleman to walk wid the corpse, Mum?

MRS. SLOAN.—That is all, Bridget. And those pillow–cases look shockingly! I never _saw_ such ironing! (_Exit, hastily and sternly._)

BRIDGET (_sola_).—Only siven of thim. Saints bless us! The pore lady’ll go wan–sided to her grave!

SCENE.—_The Private Office of_ MR. PARKER HALL. MR. HALL _writing. To him, enter_ MR. ALECK SLOAN.

MR. SLOAN.—Ah, there, Parker!

MR. HALL.—Ah, there, Aleck! What brings _you_ around so late in the day?

MR. SLOAN.—I just thought you might like to hear the names of the fellows Rhodora Pennington chose for her pall–bearers. (_Produces list._)

MR. HALL (_sighs_).—Poor Rhodora! Too bad! Fire ahead.

MR. SLOAN (_reads list_).—“George Lister.”

MR. HALL.—_Ah!_

MR. SLOAN (_reads_).—“John Lang.”

MR. HALL.—Oh!

MR. SLOAN (_reads_).—“Dexter Townsend.”

MR. HALL.—Well!

MR. SLOAN (_reads_).—“McCullom McIntosh.”

MR. HALL.—Say!—

MR. SLOAN (_reads_).—“William Jans.”

MR. HALL.—The Deuce!

MR. SLOAN (_reads_).—“Milo Smith.”

MR. HALL.—Great Cæsar’s ghost! This is getting very personal!

MR. SLOAN—Yes. (_Reads, nervously._) “Alexander Sloan.”

MR. HALL.—Whoo–o–o–o–up! You too?

MR. SLOAN (_reads_).—“_Parker Hall._”

(_A long silence._)

MR. HALL (_faintly_).—Oh, lord, she rounded us up, didn’t she? Say, Parker, can’t this thing be suppressed, somehow?

MR. SLOAN.—It’s in the evening paper.

(_Another long silence._)

MR. HALL (_desperately_).—Come out and have a bottle with me?

MR. SLOAN.—I can’t. I’m going down to Bitts’s stable to buy that pony that Mrs. Sloan took such a shine to a month or so ago.

MR. HALL.—If _I_ could get out of this for a pony—Oh, lord!

THE TWO CHURCHES OF ’QUAWKET.

THE TWO CHURCHES OF ’QUAWKET.

The Reverend Colton M. Pursly, of Aquawket, (commonly pronounced ’Quawket,) looked out of his study window over a remarkably pretty New England prospect, stroked his thin, grayish side–whiskers, and sighed deeply. He was a pale, sober, ill–dressed Congregationalist minister of forty–two or three. He had eyes of willow–pattern blue, a large nose, and a large mouth, with a smile of forced amiability in the corners. He _was_ amiable, perfectly amiable and innocuous—but that smile sometimes made people with a strong sense of humor want to kill him. The smile lingered even while he sighed.

Mr. Pursly’s house was set upon a hill, although it was a modest abode. From his window he looked down one of those splendid streets that are the pride and glory of old towns in New England—a street fifty yards wide, arched with grand Gothic elms, bordered with houses of pale yellow and white, some in the homelike, simple yet dignified colonial style, some with great Doric porticos at the street end. And above the billowy green of the tree–tops rose two shapely spires, one to the right, of granite, one to the left, of sand–stone. It was the sight of these two spires that made the Reverend Mr. Pursly sigh.

With a population of four thousand five hundred, ’Quawket had an Episcopal Church, a Roman Catholic Church, a Presbyterian Church, a Methodist Church, a Universalist Church, (very small,) a Baptist Church, a Hall for the “Seventh–Day Baptists,” (used for secular purposes every day but Saturday,) a Bethel, and—“The Two Churches”—as every one called the First and Second Congregational Churches. Fifteen years before, there had been but one Congregational Church, where a prosperous and contented congregation worshiped in a plain little old–fashioned red brick church on a side–street. Then, out of this very prosperity, came the idea of building a fine new free–stone church on Main Street. And, when the new church was half–built, the congregation split on the question of putting a “rain–box” in the new organ. It is quite unnecessary to detail how this quarrel over a handful of peas grew into a church war, with ramifications and interlacements and entanglements and side–issues and under–currents and embroilments of all sorts and conditions. In three years there was a First Congregational Church, in free–stone, solid, substantial, plain, and a Second Congregational Church in granite, something gingerbready, but showy and modish—for there are fashions in architecture as there are in millinery, and we cut our houses this way this year and that way the next. And these two churches had half a congregation apiece, and a full–sized debt, and they lived together in a spirit of Christian unity, on Capulet and Montague terms. The people of the First Church called the people of the Second Church the “Sadduceeceders,” because there was no future for them, and the people of the Second Church called the people of the First Church the “Pharisee–mes”. And this went on year after year, through the Winters when the foxes hugged their holes in the ground within the woods about ’Quawket, through the Summers when the birds of the air twittered in their nests in the great elms of Main Street.

If the First Church had a revival, the Second Church had a fair. If the pastor of the First Church exchanged with a distinguished preacher from Philadelphia, the organist of the Second Church got a celebrated tenor from Boston and had a service of song. This system after a time created a class in both churches known as “the floats,” in contradistinction to the “pillars.” The floats went from one church to the other according to the attractions offered. There were, in the end, more floats than pillars.

The Reverend Mr. Pursly inherited this contest from his predecessor. He had carried it on for three years. Finally, being a man of logical and precise mental processes, he called the head men of his congregation together, and told them what in worldly language might be set down thus:

There was room for one Congregational Church in ’Quawket, and for one only. The flock must be reunited in the parent fold. To do this a master stroke was necessary. They must build a Parish House. All of which was true beyond question—and yet—the church had a debt of $20,000 and a Parish House would cost $15,000.

And now the Reverend Mr. Pursly was sitting at his study window, wondering why all the rich men _would_ join the Episcopal Church. He cast down his eyes, and saw a rich man coming up his path who could readily have given $15,000 for a Parish House, and who might safely be expected to give $1.50, if he were rightly approached. A shade of bitterness crept over Mr. Pursly’s professional smile. Then a look of puzzled wonder took possession of his face. Brother Joash Hitt was regular in his attendance at church and at prayer–meeting; but he kept office–hours in his religion, as in everything else, and never before had he called upon his pastor.

Two minutes later, the minister was nervously shaking hands with Brother Joash Hitt.

“I’m very glad to see you, Mr. Hitt,” he stammered, “very glad—I’m—I’m—“

“S’prised?” suggested Mr. Hitt, grimly.

“Won’t you sit down?” asked Mr. Pursly.

Mr. Hitt sat down in the darkest corner of the room, and glared at his embarrassed host. He was a huge old man, bent, heavily–built, with grizzled dark hair, black eyes, skin tanned to a mahogany brown, a heavy square under–jaw, and big leathery dew–laps on each side of it that looked as hard as the jaw itself. Brother Joash had been all things in his long life—sea–captain, commission merchant, speculator, slave–dealer even, people said—and all things to his profit. Of late years he had turned over his capital in money–lending, and people said that his great claw–like fingers had grown crooked with holding the tails of his mortgages.

A silence ensued. The pastor looked up and saw that Brother Joash had no intention of breaking it.

“Can I do any thing for you, Mr. Hitt?” inquired Mr. Pursly.

“Ya–as,” said the old man. “Ye kin. I b’leeve you gin’lly git sump’n’ over ’n’ above your sellery when you preach a fun’l sermon?”

“Well, Mr. Hitt, it—yes—it is customary.”

“How much?”

“The usual honorarium is—h’m—ten dollars.”

“The—_whut_?”

“The—the fee.”

“Will you write me one for ten dollars?”

“Why—why—” said the minister, nervously; “I didn’t know that any one had—had died—“

“There hain’t no one died, ez I know. It’s _my_ fun’l sermon I want.”

“But, my dear Mr. Hitt, I trust you are not—that you won’t—that—“

“Life’s a rope of sand, parson—you’d ought to know that—nor we don’t none of us know when it’s goin’ to fetch loost. I’m most ninety now, ’n’ I don’t cal’late to git no younger.”

“Well,” said Mr. Pursly, faintly smiling; “when the time _does_ come—“

“No, _sir_!” interrupted Mr. Hitt, with emphasis; “when the time _doos_ come, I won’t have no use for it. Th’ ain’t no sense in the way most folks is berrid. Whut’s th’ use of puttin’ a man into a mahog’ny coffin, with a silver plate big’s a dishpan, an’ preachin’ a fun’l sermon over him, an’ costin’ his estate good money, when he’s only a poor deef, dumb, blind fool corpse, an’ don’t get no good of it? _Naow_, I’ve be’n to the undertaker’s, an’ hed my coffin made under my own sooperveesion—good wood, straight grain, no knots—nuthin’ fancy, but doorable. I’ve hed my tombstun cut, an’ chose my text to put onto it—’we brung nuthin’ into the world, an’ it is certain we can take nuthin’ out’—an’ now I want my fun’l sermon, jes’ as the other folks is goin’ to hear it who don’t pay nuthin’ for it. Kin you hev it ready for me this day week?”

“I suppose so,” said Mr. Pursly, weakly.

“I’ll call fer it,” said the old man. “Heern some talk about a Perrish House, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” began Mr. Pursly, his face lighting up.

“‘Tain’t no sech a bad _i_dee,” remarked Brother Joash. “Wal, good day.” And he walked off before the minister could say any thing more.

* * * * *

One week later, Mr. Pursly again sat in his study, looking at Brother Joash, who had a second time settled himself in the dark corner.

It had been a terrible week for Mr. Pursly. He and his conscience, and his dream of the Parish House, had been shut up together working over that sermon, and waging a war of compromises. The casualties in this war were all on the side of the conscience.

“Read it!” commanded Brother Joash. The minister grew pale. This was more than he had expected. He grew pale and then red and then pale again.

“Go ahead!” said Brother Joash.

“Brethren,” began Mr. Pursly, and then he stopped short. His pulpit voice sounded strange in his little study.

“Go ahead!” said Brother Joash.

“We are gathered together here to–day to pay a last tribute of respect and affection—“

“Clk!” There was a sound like the report of a small pistol. Mr. Pursly looked up. Brother Joash regarded him with stern intentness.

“—to one of the oldest and most prominent citizens of our town, a pillar of our church, and a monument of the civic virtues of probity, industry and wisdom, a man in whom we all took pride, and—“

“Clk!” Mr. Pursly looked up more quickly this time, and a faint suggestion of an expression just vanishing from Mr. Hitt’s lips awakened in his unsuspicious breast a horrible suspicion that Brother Joash had chuckled.

“—whose like we shall not soon again see in our midst. The children on the streets will miss his familiar face—“

“Say!” broke in Brother Joash, “how’d it be for a delegation of child’n to foller the remains, with flowers or sump’n’? They’d volunteer if you give ’em the hint, wouldn’t they?”

“It would be—unusual,” said the minister.

“All right,” assented Mr. Hitt, “only an _i_dee of mine. Thought they might like it. Go ahead!”

Mr. Pursly went ahead, haunted by an agonizing fear of that awful chuckle, if chuckle it was. But he got along without interruption until he reached a casual and guarded allusion to the widows and orphans without whom no funeral oration is complete. Here the metallic voice of Brother Joash rang out again.

“Say! Ef the widders and orphans send a wreath—or a Gates–Ajar—_ef_ they do, mind ye!—you’ll hev it put a–top of the coffin, where folks’ll see it, wun’t ye?”

“Certainly,” said the Reverend Mr. Pursly, hastily; “his charities were unostentatious, as was the whole tenor of his life. In these days of spendthrift extravagance, our young men may well—“

“Say!” Brother Joash broke in once more. “Ef any one wuz to git up right there, an’ say that I wuz the derndest meanest, miserly, penurious, parsimonious old hunks in ’Quawket, you wouldn’t let him talk like that, would ye?”

“Unquestionably not, Mr. Hitt!” said the minister, in horror.

“Thought not. On’y thet’s whut I heern one o’ your deacons say about me the other day. Didn’t know I heern him, but I did. I thought you wouldn’t allow no such talk as that. Go ahead!”

“I must ask you, Mr. Hitt,” Mr. Pursly said, perspiring at every pore, “to refrain from interruptions—or I—I really—can not continue.”

“All right,” returned Mr. Hitt, with perfect calmness. “Continner.”

Mr. Pursly continued to the bitter end, with no further interruption that called for remonstrance. There were soft inarticulate sounds that seemed to him to come from Brother Joash’s dark corner. But it might have been the birds in the _Ampelopsis Veitchii_ that covered the house.

Brother Joash expressed no opinion, good or ill, of the address. He paid his ten dollars, in one–dollar bills, and took his receipt. But as the anxious minister followed him to the door, he turned suddenly and said:

“You was talkin’ ’bout a Perrish House?”

“Yes—“

“Kin ye keep a secret?”

“I hope so—yes, certainly, Mr. Hitt.”

“The’ ’ll be one.”

* * * * *

“I feel,” said the Reverend Mr. Pursly to his wife, “as if I had carried every stone of that Parish House on my shoulders and put it in its place. Can you make me a cup of tea, my dear?”

* * * * *

The Summer days had begun to grow chill, and the great elms of ’Quawket were flecked with patches and spots of yellow, when, early one morning, the meagre little charity–boy whose duty it was to black Mr. Hitt’s boots every day—it was a luxury he allowed himself in his old age—rushed, pale and frightened, into a neighboring grocery, and cried:

“Mist’ Hitt’s dead!”

“Guess not,” said the grocer, doubtfully. “Brother Hitt’s gut th’ Old Nick’s agency for ’Quawket, ’n’ I ain’t heerd th’t he’s been discharged for inattention to dooty.”

“He’s layin’ there smilin’,” said the boy.

“Smilin’?” repeated the grocer. “Guess I’d better go ’n’ see.”

In very truth, Brother Joash lay there in his bed, dead and cold, with a smile on his hard old lips, the first he had ever worn. And a most sardonic and discomforting smile it was.

* * * * *