CHAPTER EIGHT
THE news of the reconciliation between Evans and his wife was quickly spread through the village, and after a due discussion of all data bearing on the case, Zenith felt itself at liberty to devote its entire attention to the two recent arrivals, the Reverend Hugh Carrothers, habitually referred to as "the lunger preacher," and Mrs. Jacques O'Brien, commonly known to fame as "The Black Pearl."
The consensus of feminine opinion as expressed at a meeting of the Ladies' Aid Society, was that Mrs. O'Brien was in reality not half so beautiful as glowing and overdrawn masculine accounts had portrayed her; was, in fact, not beautiful at all, and that her manifold and much-heralded charms were merely a figment of man's erratic and incomprehensible imagination.
And to the surprise of a community to which nothing that was covered was not ultimately revealed, and which entered freely and familiarly at back doors, she failed to comport herself in the spectacular manner which might be hoped from a lady who bore so paradoxical a nom de guerre, and so vivid a past. In fact, to Zenith's intense disappointment, a mild and flavourless domesticity seemed her prevailing trait. She proved herself a skilled cook and housekeeper, excelling even Mrs. Evans in certain household art; she even devoted herself to so tepid an amusement as gardening, and, as the summer advanced, her main interest seemed to be in the little patch of ground before her doors. There she hoed, and weeded, and pruned, and planted all summer long among the strangely scentless and brilliant flowers she loved, preferring this occupation to any others offered, and others more alluring to the feminine imagination were offered, for contrary to some opinions, she had achieved a social position at once, accepting all overtures as her due, but never seeking them; in fact so impressive was her indifference and the general dignity of her demeanour, that she was unanimously elected to membership in the Aid Society without one dissenting vote.
Frances never forgot the first time she saw "The Pearl." She was standing with her elbows on the post of a white paling gate, gazing out at the mountains darkly defined against the gold of the sunset sky. Behind her was a garden flaring with the scarlet and yellow flowers which had just been set out, and a cottage brave in fresh paint. In the Zenith of straggling, unpainted cabins, yards adorned with tin cans, broken crockery, and stray bits of wire, the neat vividness of house and garden presented a pictorial and artificial effect, toy-like in its setting of austere and gloomy mountains; but if the little dwelling seemed the expression of a primitive and childlike imagination, the woman who leaned upon the gate was real.
She had been standing quite still for a long time, her gaze fixed on the mountains, her face held in the cup of her hands, a long, narrow, white face, with dark eyes and arched brows, which gave her a wistful and rather startled expression; but her hair added a touch of incongruity to her whole appearance, an exotic hint of some marked dissonance and inharmony of character. Densely black at the roots and about the nape of the neck, the mass twisted about her head was a strange, burnt-umber, with broad strands, as yellow as corn, running through it, evidently coloured by a natural process, bleached by burning suns.
Her husband was spading a bit of the garden behind, and Frances looked at him with a deepening of the curiosity she found it impossible not to feel in this much-discussed pair. She thought him far handsomer than the wife; the lithe elegance of the Latin races was in his carriage, his features suggested a French vivacity and insouciance; but the grey eyes of his Irish father shone in his weak, emotional, beautiful face.
So much for a first impression of the O'Briens on the Missionary's mind. Now for the Rev. Hugh Carrothers. On the whole, he tallied admirably with Mrs. Evans's description of him. He was a tall, thin fellow of about thirty years of age, with a gentle, rather timid face, and mild wondering eyes. In coming to Zenith, he had had no intention of trying to wrest from the Missionary her charge; but had merely followed the advice of his physician and sought the higher altitudes and the occupation of manual labour, in an endeavour to recuperate from a severe illness.
He had eagerly accepted Frances's invitation to preach on the first Sunday after his arrival in Zenith, and on that occasion every bench in the weather-beaten, unpainted little frame church was occupied, not so much for the sake of profiting by his discourse as from a desire to size up, as it were, the man; to photograph through the mental lenses the least variation of facial expression, the slightest peculiarity of speech or manner, that one might be able creditably to hold one's own in the inevitable and exhaustive discussion of personal traits and mental equipment.
To the casual observer, the congregation might have appeared but a meagre gathering; but to the practised village eye, capable of comparing it to the ordinary Sunday assemblage, it was of astonishing proportions, for the inhabitants of Zenith were not wont to take the keen edge off the pleasure of church attendance by a too frequent indulgence in its privileges.
"My!" lisped Mrs. Thomas, hastening to join her friends as the congregation slowly filed out of the church, and throwing back from her face, her most cherished possession—her new crepe veil—"Wasn't he great? I do like it when they begin to talk about the serene Emberson and the weighty Carlyle. Now, Missioner, she's always handin' out our plain duty to us, an' I mus' say I get tired of it. As I says to a gentleman from over to Mount Tabor that was callin' on me the other night, I says, 'There's other things in life besides plain duty.'"
"I ain't so crazy about him as some," announced Mrs. Evans, speaking as one from whom a somewhat critical opinion would be expected, and with due importance, for she had invited Carrothers to take dinner in her now united home, and stood by the side of the dusty, mountain road awaiting his arrival. "When he kep' shoutin', 'Boys, stay on the farm!' I couldn't hardly sit still in my seat. Lord knows we can't even raise potatoes on these rocks! But Dan Mayhew tells me that he's deposited at the Mount Tabor bank, had money left him by his folks. He's a widower, girls. His wife's only been dead a year an' that's the best time to ketch 'em. Now, I was thinkin' all through the sermon: there's my niece, Susie Hazen, over to Red Fox. She's a good, steady girl, has kep' house for her Paw ever since her Maw died. She's plain an' dresses sober, an' wouldn't stir up no envy in any congregation he might get after his lungs are cured up. Anyway, I don't want that Tom Eagen hangin' around her."
Mrs. Nitschkan, her Sunday attire unchanged from its week-day masculine simplicity, snapped her fingers in sturdy contempt: "My patience! You won't find one of them serious moon-gazers of men that ever run after the plain, steady kind. They're took in every time by some flighty, sassy bit of uselessness."
"Yes, Mis' Evans," corroborated Mrs. Thomas with a serpent-like wisdom born of an extensive knowledge of the masculine heart: "You just watch. You can dangle Susie before his eyes all you're a mind to; but all that he'll see'll be Myrtie Swanstrom. Times when he was prayin' most fervent this mornin', I noticed that he kep' peekin' through his eyelashes at Myrtie. Maybe, you saw her sittin' there in her new white dress that she's been breakin' her fingers to get done. There she sat, her that hadn't darkened the church door for months, lookin' like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth."
"Myrtle's entirely too enterprisin'," commented Mrs. Evans shortly. "She's got a plenty beaux now. Susie's goin' to have this chance."
Meanwhile, the unconscious object of this discussion, the Rev. Hugh Carrothers, had lingered to assist Miss Benson in gathering up the hymn books and closing and locking the windows and door of the church. These tasks accomplished, he hastened to join the little group by the roadside, and turn with them into the trail through the pines, which, Mrs. Evans explained, was a short cut to her door.
As he walked, he looked about him with eyes which had not lost their first delight in the majestic panorama of the mountains. Almost in a night, a delicate veil of blossoms had covered the bare, rocky hillsides, and at every step one trod on flowers. With a new and ever increasing enjoyment, the preacher gazed about him, and inhaled the pure, balsamic air, with its rich fragrance of the earth and the pines. Naturally, his enjoyment found expression, and he voiced his admiration of the village site. "Ah, ladies, your lines have indeed fallen in pleasant places. Strength must surely come from these hills."
"Well," said Mrs. Thomas, not vaingloriously, but as if stating a fact, "we certin'y done our best by this place. Nobody can say we ain't tried to give it a air of refinement. We four, Mis' Evans, Mis' Nitschkan, Mis' Landvetter and myself has always hung together since we come here, an' if folks ain't done what was right, we've usually had the strength to make 'em, one way or another, an' took no back talk, either."
Carrothers looked slightly puzzled. "There are some rare spiritual natures here," he continued. "Now, that little Miss Swanstrom shows a touching desire to help in the Sunday school work."
He was interrupted by a loud burst of coughing from Mrs. Nitschkan, and an audible, if rather smothered remonstrance from Mrs. Thomas: "For goodness' sake, Mis' Landvetter, will you stop nudgin' me in the ribs, you most knocked me off the cliff."
"Have you broke ground for your cabin yet, Mr. Carrothers?" asked Mrs. Evans hastily, mindful of the social amenities.
"I began last week," he answered with pleased interest. "I wish you ladies would help me some with the plans."
"Almighty glad to," responded Mrs. Evans, in her most gracious society tones. "Now, preacher," solicitously, "this is something of a climb for a tenderfoot and we'd best rest a bit."
As they paused for a moment in the blue shadow of the pines, idly scanning the mountain road beneath the ledge of rock on which they stood, each gaze was caught and held by two figures strolling up the sunny expanse of the highway—a straight, sturdy young miner, with a dark, handsome face, and a girl whose white dress was carefully lifted from the dust, and whose rose-wreathed hat was hanging half-way down her back from the pink ribbons knotted under her chin. Her attitude expressed unmistakably a coquettish and petulant aloofness and an exaggerated indifference to the evidently impassioned and expostulatory nature of the man's remarks.
"Ah, that is Miss Swanstrom now!" exclaimed Carrothers, in tones of interest, "and who is the young man with her?"
"Frank McGuire," said Mrs. Evans briefly. "It's Jack to-day, Don to-morrow, and Tom the day after."
Even as she spoke, Myrtle glanced upward and smiled and nodded. The smile deepened as she saw Carrothers's bodyguard, and acting on a sudden mischievous impulse, she snatched a flower from her belt, and hurled it toward them. It fell a few feet short of them, half-way up the cliff, and Carrothers, his face alight, scrambled down over the rocks, rescued the blossom and fastened it in his coat, waving his hat, as Myrtle stood flushed and laughing beneath. Perhaps for both, an added spice to the situation was the unconcealed and angry remonstrance of McGuire.
"Gosh A'mighty," murmured Mrs. Nitschkan at this unseemly and audacious sight. "Ain't she a bold one!"
"You bet if she vas mine, she'd get a touch of de stick," chuckled Mrs. Landvetter. But Mrs. Evans maintained a silence more ominous than speech.
And if the preacher was noticeably absent-minded during the rest of the stroll, it were not improbable to conjecture that his thoughts were more fully occupied with the evanescent bloom on Myrtle's cheek, and the fleeting radiance of her youthful eyes, than by the conversation of the ladies in whose company he walked.
But Myrtle had, so to speak, fired the first gun with such heedless daring, such flaunting and reckless disregard of consequences, that Mrs. Evans's companions felt themselves justified in expecting an immediate return fire and were rather aggrieved when none was forthcoming.
Mrs. Thomas, in dilating upon the matter afterwards said: "I 'most expected to see a bolt fall from the blue and hit that girl dead, tryin' to carry on with preacher when Mis' Evans was takin' him home to dinner, and on Sunday, too! You bet Mis' Evans 'll pay her back."
But if Mrs. Evans had any such intentions, she kept them, for the moment, to herself. And the Zenith mind continued to focus itself on Carrothers, and to dwell with keen and undiminished interest upon the romantic possibilities which might eventuate from the presence of a preacher and a widower in the camp.
Naturally, Mr. Herries did not fail to comment upon the fact when he dropped in for an evening call upon the Missioner. "I feel sorry for Carrothers," he grumbled. "He's a weak sister; but every time he climbs out of that cellar he's blasting for his health, there's five or six women setting around on the ground, ready to feed him pie and cake and tell him about their souls. If he expects to find any peace in these hills he'd better move up above timber line.
"Mrs. Evans has wasted no time in getting Susie Hazen over here from Red Fox," with one of his sardonic grins. "Well, of course, it narrows down to a race between Susie and Myrtle, or to put things as they really are, it's a race between Myrtle and Mrs. Evans.
"Now, far back as I can recollect," he scratched his chin and looked meditatively at the ceiling, "Mrs. Evans has never lost out more than two or three times; but there's plenty of fighting blood in the Swanstroms, and in my opinion, the odds are even."
"Mr. Herries, you're gossipping," Frances reproached him. "How can a man like you take an interest in such small affairs?"
"Why not?" he asked hardily. "If I sat here and read you a book, you'd say nothing; and why should you complain when I read you pages from the greatest book that ever was written—the book of human life—'tis comedy and tragedy, and," shaking his head, "God knows it's a sorry tale, a black, sorry tale. But," with a return of interest, "have you been keeping your eye on the Widow Thomas? Well, you'd better. There's some mischief brewing there, and"
He was interrupted by a knock on the door, and almost before Frances could rise from her chair, Ethel entered, followed by Carrothers.
Ethel's face was paler even than usual, her eyes had a strained, excited expression, one long strand of her fair hair had escaped from the prim, confining security of her bonnet and waved across her cheek.
"Oh, Miss Benson," she cried, scarcely waiting for Frances to greet them, "you won't never believe it! but me an' preacher has just been fired from the Garvins'. Ain't it so, Preacher?"
Carrothers bowed with injured dignity, his rather weak mouth trembling.
"Yes, sir," went on Ethel volubly in response to Frances's look of startled inquiry and Herries's rapid questions. "Walt just turned us out. Oh, he tried to do it polite, an' with a lot of 'pologies; but he said Lutie was too weak to stand any of our racket; racket! That's just the word he said. Wasn't it, Preacher?"
"Ethel, sit down here," said Frances, almost forcing her into a chair. "Now, tell me what this is all about. What were you doing?"
"Doing!" cried the girl passionately, "I was about my Master's business; that's what. Singin' hymns, prayin' an' exhortin', that's what he called a 'racket.' Tryin' to save Lutie's soul from hell. It's what I'm thinkin' of day and night. It's got to be done. Oh, Missioner," wildly, "she can't be let die in her sins, you know she can't. I don't mind bein' persecuted for righteousness' sake. They can beat me with all the stripes they're a mind to, I'm only a broken an' empty vessel; but I do think Walt might have respected Preacher's cloth."
"It's overalls now, since he took to digging that cabin," Herries put in slyly.
"Oh, I think of her night an' day, dyin' in her sins, an' with her affections set on vanities," wailed Ethel. "An' the Devil's gettin' in awful good work now. I took Mr. Campbell to see her the other day, and there was an awful scene; an' to-night when me an' Preacher might have made some headway, we were turned out; but we can't give up, we can't give up! You're the one to fight the Devil now, Missioner, for she's got to be saved."
"Ethel, be quiet." Frances spoke almost sternly. "I am sure Mr. Garvin did not mean to be rude to you. He just feels that Lutie is so weak that she cannot bear this excitement; and that all her interest in clothes and jewels is just part of her disease."
"That's what Satan and the doctors say," cried Ethel.
"We are told," said Carrothers hesitatingly, "that there are some vessels born to dishonour, perhaps" He paused under the steady regard of Frances's eye and did not finish the sentence.
Frances glanced quickly at Herries and experienced the same swift mental recoil she had felt once or twice before. He was leaning slightly forward in his chair, gazing eagerly from Ethel to Carrothers. His expression was almost wolfishly eager, and there was a keen, malicious sparkle in his eyes. It was as if he sought habitually in human nature for the weak, foolish, evil traits and was overjoyed when his search was rewarded. With a surging, protective sense, Frances threw one arm about Ethel's bowed shoulders. The pale glance she threw at Herries was militant.
"The battle isn't ours, Ethel," she said gently. "That belongs to a greater power."
"But we're the instruments," wept Ethel.
"Perhaps not," murmured Frances, as much to herself as to the girl who sobbed on her shoulder.
"But you're the only one that can do anything now." Ethel clutched her with tense fingers. "It's up to you, Missioner, it's up to you."
"I have thought of it all," said Frances, her pale face grown paler, "but I haven't seen the way."
Herries picked up his hat and stamped across the room to the door. "Ethel's turned a page for you to read," he said in the Missionary's ear. "I've given you good advice before, haven't I? Well, take it now. Don't read that page."