Chapter IV: Some People Who Were False Friends (2)

There was a shorter way--this was no time for ceremony or trifling. He came back to Edna's side saying, "It will be almost impossible to do it. We must hasten on or perish in this storm. Trust me, this is best"--and the tall form stooped and lifted Edna from her feet as if she had been a feather, before she had time to realise his purpose, then with long strides he waded into the sea of snow. Neither spoke, but the girl that was borne along in the strong arms did a large amount of thinking. Despite the danger and the gallantry of her protector, she could not but feel a little provoked at being snatched up in that style without her leave, as if she were a bale of cotton; provoked, too, at herself for getting into such a predicament. If she only had stayed at home as mother advised. Mother had always told her she had feared something would happen to her going through those woods by herself, and here it had come. Then the funny side presented itself. She wanted to laugh but was afraid to. She stole a glance at the face below her--a finely-cut face it was, but there was no smile in the grave eyes; instead, an intense, earnest purpose. When they came again to the ground where the snow lay on a level, Edna was put again upon her feet, her hand drawn through Mr. Monteith's arm, and the two plodded on. It was almost a silent journey; the snow coming directly in their faces, and the wind fairly taking their breaths, made it no time for formal talk. Wherever the drifts had thrown up a barrier she was again lifted and borne through them, but not set down again, for Edna's protector had discovered that she was almost overcome by fatigue, try as she might to hide it; and when she said, "Let me walk now if you please," he answered: "Miss Winters, you are my prisoner until I place you at your father's, door."

She submitted with good grace, and began to feel some dawnings of gratitude towards her deliverer.

Old Mr. Winters had walked back and forth from the fire to the window for the last half-hour. "Why don't the child come," he said. "I'm sure something has happened to her. If I could only go out and see, but I should make poor headway, hobbling about in the drifts." He could do nothing himself, so he fled to his unfailing refuge, asking the God who rules the storms to protect his darling.

Mrs. Winters had said for the tenth time, "Why, father, I think she wouldn't start back in this storm." Nevertheless she placed her rocking-chair close by the window and looked down the road far more than she sewed. Their anxiety reached its height when they saw a stranger toiling up the hill bearing their daughter in his arms. The door was opened long before they reached it, and Edna called out, "I'm all right, mother."

"Why, it's Mr. Monteith, as sure as I live," said Edna's father.

"Yes, Mr. Winters," said Mr. Monteith, "I found a stray lamb of yours on the highway, and brought it home."

"May God reward you," and Mr. Winters clasped his hand warmly. "I have been very anxious. I did not see what was to become of her if she was on her way in this terrible storm. How providential that you happened to be going her way."

Mr. Monteith winced a little at this.

"You will stay with us to-night, of course," Mr. Winters said.

"Oh, no, indeed! Thank you! I must get back before dark. Will rest a few minutes, though."

The Storm King was out in full force that day, for during those few minutes huge banks piled themselves against windows and doors, and the wind shrieked and moaned like a demon, shaking the house to its foundations.

"Now," said Mr. Winters as his guest rose to go, "it is madness for you to think of going home tonight, and I must insist that you stay. I am disabled just now, or I would harness old Prince and get you through."

Here Edna came in with her pleading eyes and, "Do stay; I know it is not safe for you to go."

Motherly Mrs. Winters entreated also. How could he resist such urgency, especially when it exactly fitted in with what he desired above all things to do. He yielded, and was soon comfortably established in the large old rocker by the fire. And now he enjoyed the pleasure of a new experience. The stereotyped fashionable house he knew all about, but this old house that looked small, and yet stretched itself out into many cosy rooms; it was quaint, it was unique, and so was the little household. It was like stepping into a book, and that a book of poems. What was the charm of that low-browed room he sat in? Could it be the broad fireplace, wherein blazed and snapped a veritable back-log? Mr. Winters had stoves to warm the house, but he insisted on keeping this fire to look at.

When they all gathered about the tea-table, his critical eye noted many little points that a less refined man would not have thought of. The fine white table-linen, delicate old-fashioned china, a piece or two of highly polished silver, and the table not vulgarly loaded with too great variety, yet everything delicious and abundant. Mr. and Mrs. Winters, too, though unpretending, were persons of refinement and intelligence. He was puzzled to understand how a young girl, reared in so much seclusion, should possess such grace and culture as did Edna. After tea, when she played and sang, his mystification increased, for the bird-like voice and delicate touch were superior to much that he heard among his city friends. It came out in the course of conversation, however, that Edna had spent the last six years in one of the finest schools in Boston--an inmate of her aunt's family; and now she had come back to them to gladden the eyes of those two, who almost set her up as an idol; come back, not spoiled, taking up her daily little homely duties again with real zest.

Mr. Monteith found Mr. Winters most congenial company. He had read extensively, and was keen in argument, throwing in a bit of poetry or a witty story, as the case required. Edna brought her crotcheting and made herself into a picture in one corner of the fireplace, her changing, speaking face and piquant remarks lending interest to the dullest subject.

"It is my opinion, Mr. Monteith," said Mr. Winters, as a fierce blast dashed sheets of snow against the windows, "that, in all probability, you will be obliged to spend your Christmas with us. If this storm continues at this rate you will be a prisoner."

"For which I shall be most devoutly thankful," he answered.

"Well, our turkey is all ready, and we shall thank kind Providence for sending you to us, snow-bound as we are."

Mr. Winters took down the old Bible and read "a portion with judicious care," then a hymn and prayer, and the good-nights, and Mr. Monteith was in the guest-chamber--a little white room under the eaves, cold-looking in its purity but for the firelight glow. "The name of that chamber was Peace," thought Mr. Monteith, as his delighted eyes surveyed, it and with Bunyan's Pilgrim he felt that he had reached "already the next door to heaven." It surely must be the "chamber of peace," because "the window opened towards the sunrising," and in the morning a glorious panorama spread itself before him. Fences and all unsightly objects had disappeared. Just one broad expanse of whiteness as far as the eye could reach. The rough old hills, from foot to summit, wore a robe of unsullied whiteness--the soft white garment rested lightly on roof and tree, over all the rising sun shed rays of rosy light. It accorded well with Mr. Monteith's spirit when he heard Mr. Winters singing--

"The New Jerusalem comes down.
Adorned With shining grace."

The host and his visitor launched into a tide of talk immediately after breakfast. They had so many things in common to talk over that there seemed to be no end. So occupied was Mr. Monteith with the father that he seemed to bestow very little attention on the daughter; on the contrary, no word or look of hers escaped him.

At one time the perilous walk of yesterday was the subject of conversation, and Mr. Winters was again expressing his gratitude. "So strange," he remarked, "that you should have been coming this way. How did you happen to start out in such a storm?"

Mr. Monteith did not like to talk upon that subject; he murmured something about "business," while a slight flush tinged his cheeks, and at once asked Mr. Winters "what effect he supposed the resumption of specie payment would have upon the state of the country," and the unsuspecting old gentleman was ready to enter with avidity upon the discussion of that subject.

The Christmas dinner duly disposed of, Edna opened the piano, and Mr. Monteith delighted the old people by joining his exquisite tenor to Edna's voice in some old hymns. Mr. Winters called for his favourites, "St. Martins," "Golden Hill," "Exhortation," and listened with tears in his eyes at their faithful rendering, even essaying to put in a few notes of bass himself among the quavers of old St. Martins.

Not until the shadows began to steal into the room did Mr. Monteith take his departure, much to his own regret as well as that of his entertainers, with many promises of future visits.

A few days after Christmas the stage-driver left at the door a small box marked "Samuel Winters." The old gentleman put on his glasses and opened it with much curiosity. Behold, there lay a lovely bouquet of roses, carnations, and violets. He lifted it with care, and a card marked "Hugh Monteith" fell from it. "That is odd," he said, with a roguish look at Edna, "to send these things to me; they are pretty, though, I declare," and he buried his face in a fragrant rose, then involuntarily hummed--

"How sweet the breath beneath the hill.
Of Sharon's dewy rose."

Another prolonged inhalation and he called, "Mother, come here and smell this pink; it's the very one that my mother used to border her flowerbeds with when I was a boy." Then he gave the bouquet into Edna's care while he went off, in imagination, into his mother's garden, tied up the sweet peas and trained the morning-glories once again. How each flower, like a dear human face, stood before him looking into his eyes. The damask roses, the Johnny-jump-ups, larkspur, bachelor-buttons, ragged ladies, marigolds, hollyhocks, and a host of others that are out of fashion now. That bouquet furnished him a pleasant reverie for an hour. It brought no less pleasure to Edna. Their new friend had not forgotten them, and her intuitions told her for whom the lovely blossoms were intended.

After that it grew to be quite a thing of course for Mr. Samuel Winters to receive a box of flowers. He always pretended to appropriate them to himself, much to Edna's glee, as he did the not infrequent visits of Mr. Monteith to "The Pines," often remarking, after a pleasant evening's discussion--

"That is an uncommon young man, coming so far to chat with me. He's one among a thousand; the most of them haven't time nowadays to give a civil word to an old man."

He had a deeper purpose in this than might have been supposed. There were few things he did not think over as he sat looking into the fire. What if this young man should unwittingly steal away his darling's heart and then flit away to some other flower, and leave this, his own treasure, with all the soul gone out of her life. He believed Mr. Monteith to be an honourable man, but then he would hedge this blossom of his about and guard it carefully. There should be no opportunity for tender speech that meant nothing.

One day Edna was in town, passing through one of the busy streets. Among the gay turnouts came one that caught her attention instantly: a prancing span of grays before a light sleigh. Among the furs and gay robes sat Mr. Monteith and a young lady, beautiful to Edna as a dream. Even in the hurried glance she noted the pink and white complexion, the blue eyes peeping through golden frizzes, set off by a dark-blue velvet hat with a long white plume. Mr. Monteith raised his hat and bowed low to Edna in pleased surprise. Edna went on with a little pang at her heart; it might have been less had she known that Miss Paulina Percival's invitation to ride came in this fashion: Making it convenient to emerge from a store just as Mr. Monteith came from the bank and was about to step into his sleigh, she engaged him in conversation, then exclaimed:

"Oh, Mr. Monteith! What a lovely span of greys, they match perfectly." Then with a pretty pout: "Naughty man, you never asked me to try them."

"Suppose I ask you now," he said, and even while he spoke he said to himself, "Edna Winters would never have done that."

Miss Percival needed no urging; she was soon seated in triumph by Mr. Monteith's side, the envy of many another city belle.

That night Edna stood at the window of her little chamber, looking out on the fair earth glittering like diamonds in the moonlight. She was not often in the mood she found herself in tonight: restless, gloomy, with no heart for anything. She began to take herself to task for it. Why had the light suddenly gone out of everything and life to seem flat and dull? She knew why. It was simply because she had seen that bewitching-looking girl riding with Mr. Monteith. And what of that? Was she foolish enough to believe that he cared for her, a simple country girl, just because he had given her a few flowers and called there. He probably considered these common attentions that he offered to many others. Her cheeks burned at the remembrance of the delight she had felt in his society. The last few weeks had been the happiest she had ever known. No words of his would justify her, either. She was vexed at herself. Here it had turned out that she was just like any other silly girl, holding her heart in her hand, ready to bestow it unasked. In her self-accusing spirit, she forgot that looks and tones may speak volumes in the absence of words.

"Now, Edna Winters," she told herself, as she stared out on the white hills, "you might as well look things in the face to-night and have it done with. I shall probably spend a great part of my life on this very hill, living on in just the way I did before I knew him. Why not? That is the way Samantha Moore and Jane Williams have been doing these ever so many years. They keep right on, and on, and on. Nothing happens to them. There is no change in their lives. Why should there be in mine? They clean house spring and fall, can fruit, go to town, have the sewing society, and so on"--and Edna shuddered a little at the picture she had sketched of her own future. These two were neighbours, whose peaceful dwellings nestled among the hills before her. Then she felt condemned as she heard floating up from the sitting-room, the "wild, warbling strains" of Dundee, her dear old father's voice, with just a little tremble in the tones. "How thankful she ought to be for this blessed home of hers." The stove-pipe came up from below and warmed her room. She came over to it, and inclined her head to hear the words:

"Oh, God, our help in ages past
Our strength in years to come,
Our refuge from the stormy blast,
And our eternal borne."

Sure enough! God our "strength in years to come," even though they be wearisome years. A little "stormy blast" had swept over her. She would fly to her Refuge, and then the "eternal home." What if this life was not just as we would have it, the next one will be; and Edna "laid her down in peace and slept."

"Heigh ho!" said Mr. Winters one bright day, "whom have we here?" A merry jingle of bells suddenly stopped and two gray horses and a handsome sleigh stood in front of the gate. "Mr. Monteith, eh? He has most likely come to take me out riding," he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

"Miss Edna, will you ride?" Mr. Monteith asked when the greetings were over. Edna's eyes sought her mother's for reply. It was not every gentleman, be he ever so great and rich, that this primitive, independent father and mother would entrust with their treasure, their one ewe lamb.

"Yes. Edna might go, but he would be sure to bring her home before dark?"

"Trust me; did I not bring her home before dark once?" he laughingly asked. The two were soon tucked among the robes, skimming briskly over the smooth, hard surface, which is just the next thing to flying. They flew about the streets of the town a little while; met Miss Paulina, who stared at Edna and said to a young lady by her side: "Whoever can that be with Mr. Monteith?" Then their route stretched many miles out into the quiet country. The journey was long, but not tedious. It was beguiled by low-spoken words that kept time to the slow, silvery chime of the bells--the old musical, mysterious words that established a covenant between those two, needing only the word from father and mother and minister to make binding and never-ending.

Mr. Monteith was said, by belles of the town, to be destitute of a heart--at least all their arts had not succeeded in finding it; even Miss Percival, skilful as she was, had also failed, much to her sorrow. To be sure, the heart was of small account to her, only so that she might be mistress of the stately Monteith mansion, might possess those gray ponies for her very own, and glitter in the silks and jewels and laces that his money would buy. She had no heart herself, because in her very shallow nature there was not room for one. Paulina had failed thus far, but she was not discouraged. Mr. Monteith's mother was old and feeble; she would die some day, then "we shall see what we shall see"--then, of course, he would need someone to preside over his home; and who so well fitted to adorn it as she, the acknowledged beauty of the town?

When the time of birds and blossoms had come again, and picnics and excursions were revived, Paulina said to her dearest friend:

"What do you think that delightful man has gotten up now? Mr. Monteith, I mean. He is to have a little breakfast party in the country--just a few of us, you know. We are to go in carriages. I dare say you'll be invited, too. Isn't it a charming novelty? I presume it is to an old uncle and aunt of his, you know," and the butterfly girl tripped on without waiting for replies. Accordingly, one balmy June morning, a merry company alighted at "The Pines," and were ushered into a fairy-like room.

Green vines crept and twined along the white walls, drooping over doors and windows, and trailing down the muslin curtains as if they grew there. The flowers were not made into stiff bouquets, but here and there was a handful of roses or sweet-scented violets. The old fireplace lost itself in callas, ferns, and ivies, while the mantel blossomed out into tube-roses and mosses. One of the recesses formed by the large chimney was turned into a leafy bower, the bells of white lilies fringing the green archway.

"Beautiful!" "Exquisite!" murmured the guests. "I verily believe we have come to a wedding," said one.

In another moment Mr. Monteith and his bride stood in the niche under the lilies, and the minister spoke the mystic words that declared them "no more twain, but one."

Edna was not glittering in satin and jewels. Her dress was apparently a soft white cloud floating about her, looped here and there with a cluster of lilies of the valley. A wreath of the same flowers fastened her veil; and the sweet face and luminous eyes that gleamed through its folds seemed just another rare flower.

The formalities and congratulations all over, Mr. and Mrs. Monteith passed down the walk under the spreading branches to their carriage.

The apple-blossoms showered fragrant blessings on them as they went their way, and the bridegroom whispered: "Do you remember the first time you and I came up this hill together?"

VIDA.

There was an audible rustle in the large congregation of St. Paul's Church, well-bred people though they were, as their young minister came up the aisle with his bride and seated her in the minister's pew. They not only turned their heads, giving one slight glance, seeing all without seeming to, as cultured people know how to do, but they broke all rules in their code of good manners by a succession of twistings of the neck. It was not easy to settle down content after one short look at the beautiful being who glided by the minister's side. Had he seated a veritable fairy in that pew the sensation could scarcely have been greater. Her beauty was of that rare blonde type--hair of spun gold, eyes of sapphire, and complexion fine and delicate as a rose-leaf. She was youthful and richly dressed, the dark-green velvet suit, white plumes and fine laces, well setting off her marvellous beauty. Her eyes fairly drooped before the undisguised admiration expressed in many faces.

The minister himself saw nothing of it at all. He was annoyed at finding himself actually late, and his thoughts were intent on getting to his place in the pulpit with all possible speed. It was not one of his ambitions to be conspicuous; he was accustomed to slip quietly into his place from the chapel door, and his apparently triumphal march into his church on the first Sabbath of his return, after all the people had assembled, as if to say, "Behold us now!" was not to his taste nor of his planning; all this threw his thoughts into a tumult unfitting him in part for his sacred duties.

At the close of service that day, the congregation did not discuss the minister's sermon, they were absorbed in another subject: the minister's wife. The opinions were various. Grave old deacons looked askance at her in her regal beauty as they passed out, shook their heads, and repeated to each other the familiar saying, that wise men often make fools of themselves when they come to the business of selecting a wife. One lady said she was "perfectly lovely;" another, that she had "a great deal of style;" another, that "her dress must have cost a penny, and she did not see for her part how a Christian could find it in her conscience to dress like that."

"One would have thought," Mrs. Graves said, "that a man like Mr. Eldred would have chosen a modest, sensible person for his wife, who would be useful in the church, but then, that was the way, a minister was just like any other man, money and a pretty face would cover up a good many failings." Mrs. Graves was the mother of three sensible, modest girls, who would have made capital ministers' wives. Why will ministers be so shortsighted?

"But, mother," Tom Graves asked, "aren't you pretty fast? How do you know but she is sensible and modest; you never heard her speak a word?"

"Anybody with half an eye don't need to hear her speak to know all about her."

"The idea of a minister's wife," said Mrs. Meggs, "with her hair frizzed, and such a long trail for church!"

"She paints, I know she does!" said sallow Miss Pry. "There never was such a complexion as that born on to a human being."

Those who did not say anything, who made it a rule never to speak uncharitably of anyone, seemed well satisfied to have others to do it for them, and looked and sighed their holy horror that their minister should have shown so little discretion in choosing a wife. Just to think of her leading the female prayer-meeting and being president of the Missionary society, humph!

Ah! if there had been one dear "mother in Israel," with love enough to bear this young thing in the arms of her faith to the mercy seat and plead a blessing for her--with courage enough to try to win her to see the blessedness of living a consecrated life, it might all have been different.

When Thane Eldred first met Vida Irving he was immediately taken captive. So fair a vision never crossed his path before; whatever of enchantment might have been wanting in golden curls and blue eyes was completed by a voice such as few possess, rich, sweet, and fine compass; had she been poor it might have brought her a fortune. When he heard her sing in such angelic strains the sweet hymns he loved, he took it for granted that the words of fervent devotion but gave voice to the feelings of her own heart. So fair a bit of clay, he reasoned, must contain a soul of corresponding beauty, and he forthwith invested her with all the charms of an angel. A slight misgiving, it is true, sometimes crossed his mind as to whether she could adapt herself easily to the difficult position of a pastor's wife. She had the air of an empress, and the hauteur of her manner was often so great as to gain her positive enemies, and yet the deluded man, with blind eyes, reasoned, "I can mould her to what I will when she is mine; it is the fault of a false education, I am quite sure her heart is all right."

And why did the spoiled beauty condescend to smile upon one, who by his very profession, if closely following in the footsteps of the lowly Master, must needs abjure the vanities and enticements of this world, and live a life of self-denying toil. Not a thought of that kind had ever entered her pretty head. A minister in her estimation was an orator, the idol of a wealthy people, and a gentleman of elegant ease. There was a fascination about this dark-eyed young minister; his graceful dignity and impassioned eloquence pleased her fancy, so the sudden attachment was mutual.

Early left a widow, with a large fortune, Mrs. Irving devoted herself to her idol, her only child, with unremitting devotion; nothing that would add to her happiness or her attractions was neglected, and now with her education completed, the fond mother looked about her, seeking a brilliant alliance for this rare daughter, when lo! she found the matter settled. Vida's own sweet will had been the ruling power ever since she came into the world, and the mother was obliged to submit to the inevitable with as good grace as she could command under the circumstances.

A poor minister! who could have dreamed that the daughter would have made such a choice. With this mother's views of life, and life eternal, it is not to be wondered at that she felt bitter disappointment. The prospect, though, was not wholly dark, he was "handsome and talented," and that went far toward consolation; then, too, he would probably be called in time to a large, important church, and have D.D. at the end of his name, and it would sound well to say "My son-in-law, Rev. Dr. Eldred, of Boston, or New York City," and to discourse of his brilliant preaching, his wealthy parishioners, the calls he had declined, etc.

St. Paul's Church was situated in a small city of large manufacturing interests, and while there were many families of wealth and position in the church, there were also many who were obliged to toil hard and practice the utmost economy in order to have any left to pay their subscription with. Some of these looked with no kindly eyes on the magnificent changes of toilet that Mrs. Eldred brought out Sabbath after Sabbath; now a sealskin sacque, then an Indian shawl, and suits innumerable of rich silks in all possible tints, suited to all possible occasions.

"It makes a body feel as if they hadn't a thing fit to wear, the way Mrs. Eldred comes out in her silks and velvets," Mrs. Jenks, a mechanic's wife, remarked to her neighbour. I wonder what she'd say to wearing a black alpaca dress seven years running, for her best dress! I declared, it made me feel as if there wa'n't any sort of use scrimping and saving as we do, to pay fifteen dollars a year to support the minister; I told John we better not pay but five next year, and I'd put the other ten on my back. He's got a rich wife, he don't need much salary now. Just to think of her fur sacque, and great handsome shawl, and here I havn't had a new cloak this ten years--have to wear my blanket shawl to church.

"Yes, I think's much!" answered Mrs. Myers, emphatically. "She's as proud as Lucifer, too. Mr. Eldred shook hands with me real friendly like last Sunday, and asked 'How is the little one?'--as he always calls my Tommy--then he introduced me to her, and she turned her head toward me, and looked at me from head to foot, exactly as if she was saying to herself 'Dress, twenty-five cents a yard; shawl five dollars, hat, two dollars;' then she gave me what she'd call a bow may be, she swept her eyelashes down, and tilted her head back, instead of forward, and I thought I saw the least mite of a curl on her lip, (she's got a dreadful proud mouth, anyway;) she didn't offer to put out her hand, not she! she was afraid I'd soil her white kids, with something less than a dozen buttons on them."

"Well, it's too bad," Mrs. Jenks said, "and he such a good Christian man as he is--wonder what he wanted to go and marry such a wife for, anyhow; I don't believe he more than half approves of her himself, now he sees how she goes on, but, poor man, he's got to make the best of it now; I shall always think everything of him though, he was so kind to us when Peter was sick."

Mrs. Eldred was not entirely ignorant of the duties expected from a minister's wife, but she had resolved, as far as she was concerned, to ignore them. Because she had married a minister was no sign that she was to be subject to the whims of a whole parish; she could consider herself bound by no rules that did not apply equally as well to every other member of the church. Her mother had forewarned her, and advised her to this course:

"A minister's wife, my dear," said the worldly-wise mother, "is usually a slave. So just put your foot down in the beginning, and don't wear yourself out. Enjoy yourself all you can. Poor child! it is a dismal life at best that you have chosen for yourself, I fear."

Mrs. Eldred did not state her peculiar views to her husband, by any means; she should just quietly carry out her plans, and he would learn to submit in time. Mother said that was the way to manage a husband.

It was Thursday night. The first bell for prayer-meeting was ringing when Mr. Eldred came down from his study. His young wife sat under the drop-light cosily established in a large easy-chair, absorbed in the last number of Scribner. She was robed in a white flannel wrapper, and her long, fair hair was unbound, lying in bright waves about her shoulders. Mr. Eldred contemplated the pretty picture a moment, then he said:

"You look comfortable, my dear: but do you know that is the first bell for prayer meeting?"

"Oh, I am not going to meeting. I am perfectly delighted to have an evening to myself once more, when that indefatigable people of yours are engaged. I am actually worn out receiving calls," she said, languidly.

Mr. Eldred was disappointed. He had thought more than once that day how he should enjoy it; to have his dream realized, Vida walking with him, to his own meeting, and sitting near, singing as none but she could sing. A spice of vanity mingled with it too. How the people would listen and admire! He felt annoyed and was about to protest, but she looked so like an angel in her soft white dress that he had not the heart to find fault. So he kissed her good-bye, and went his way alone.

She accompanied him the next week; to be a disappointment, however. Her voice joined not in the hymns of praise, she remarking at the close of the meeting:--

"Do you think I could sing in all that discord? It is horrible; it sets every nerve in my body on edge. People always sing that way in prayer-meeting, every one trying to sing, though not knowing one note from another. One old man by me sang five notes below the key; a woman on the other side screamed out as many above; a girl before me had a strong nasal twang. I should think you'd go distracted; and, by the way, what a quantity of common people attend your church!"

Mr. Eldred looked into the fire and repeated half aloud, "The common people heard Him gladly."

As the weeks went on, it became evident to him that he must abandon the pleasant plans he had formed of companionship in his work. He attended meetings alone, made calls alone, and grew weary of apologizing for Vida.

She was willing to attire herself royally and make a round of fashionable calls with him on the first families, but concerning calls on the humbler of the flock she gaily remarked, that she did not purpose turning city missionary. "When ladies called upon her, she would return their calls, that is, if she wished to continue the acquaintance; but as for running all about town hunting out obscure people, that was out of the question."

There was a gay clique in the church who eagerly welcomed the pastor's wife to their circle. They organised a literary society and gave Shakespearian entertainments.

Mrs. Eldred's fine literary taste and musical abilities made her a valuable acquisition. She soon became the centre about which it revolved. Was there a difficult part to be rendered, or a queen of beauty to be represented, Mrs. Eldred was sure to be chosen, and she gave herself with enthusiasm to the absorbing fascination.

Mr. Eldred had united with them in the beginning, but when he discovered that the members of the society were much more interested in getting up costumes than they were in their own mental improvement, and that the whole thing was degenerating into private theatricals, he withdrew, and urged his wife to do the same, but no amount of persuasion could move her in the least; her own will had been her law too long. And this was the being he had thought to mould! It was all so different from the picture he had sketched of these first months of their married life, the picture of sunny, happy days, flowing on with scarce a ripple. Instead, they held long heated discussions that only served to widen the distance between them.

"I beg your pardon," Vida said, in sarcastic tones, during one of these skirmishes, "but I think it would be much more to your profit to attend the meetings of our society than to find fault with me. If you would study Shakespeare more, it might freshen up your sermons somewhat, and lift them from the commonplace. I cannot but think you are degenerating. The first discourse I heard you preach was filled with poetical fancies and literary allusions, and the language was flowery and beautiful. Your preaching seems to have changed of late; last Sabbath, for example, it was mere 'talk' without rhetoric or eloquence; the most ignorant in the church could have understood them. I thought you would receive a call soon to a wealthy church in a large city, but you never will make a reputation if you preach in this style."

Mrs. Eldred's angry passions were raised to a high pitch, or she would not have spoken thus plainly.

The sorely tried spirit of the man who listened could not repress a groan at the conclusion of this long tirade. He did not trust himself to say one word, but went with a slow, heavy step, like one who had received a mortal hurt, to his study. The irritation he might otherwise have felt at such words, was lost in sorrow at the utter lack of sympathy, and apparent ignorance of the spirit and aims of the gospel.

He had been coming nearer to Christ the last few months, had received a new baptism, and with it a new view of preaching the gospel. He had, doubtless, spoken in an unknown tongue to scores of his hearers. Now he turned the key on his elegant essays, and, asking the Lord for a message, he was trying to tell it with no "great swelling words," but in humility and plainness of speech, holding up Christ, hiding himself, intent only on saving souls.

Satan had told him before that the world and some Christians would count his preaching "not deep;" now his own wife had repeated the thought. He had been so happy in his work, and he longed to throw himself into it with nothing to come between him and "This one thing I do." But daily trials on account of one who should have been his greatest helper, saddened him, so that much of his labour was mechanical, and he carried a heavy burden. The anxiety was continuous, for he was well aware that many busy tongues were censuring her, while kindlier critics were grieved at her course.

At rare intervals she attended the ladies' meetings, but no persuasions could induce her to take any part in them. She visited those whom she fancied, and persistently refused to visit others; thus he laboured under constant embarrassment, and was in a chronic state of apology for her. And yet Mrs. Eldred could make herself the most fascinating of beings. There were evenings when she chose to shine at home. Then she would with artistic skill brighten the room, and beguile her husband from his books, and the time would go on wings, as they read and discussed a new book, and sung together their old and new songs. At such times the careworn minister forgot that any clouds obscured his sky.

One evening Mrs. Eldred entered her husband's study, resplendent in white satin and diamonds, saying:--

"Thane, it is quite time you too were dressed."

"Dressed for what?" he said with an astonished air.

"Why, is it possible that you have forgotten that we have an invitation to Mrs. Grantley's tonight?"

"I recall the invitation now, but I never gave it a second thought, nor did I suppose that you had. Did you not notice from the wording that it was to be a dancing party. I think there must be some mistake about it, as I never was invited before our marriage to these parties, nor have we been since; I cannot understand why they should ask us now."

"Why, pray, should we not be invited? It is not necessary for you to dance, of course. We shall be obliged to go, for I have accepted the invitation," Mrs. Eldred replied, with a nothing-further-to-be-said air.

"I am sorry you accepted an invitation for me, without consulting me, but I cannot go," her husband answered gravely.

"Oh fie! How old and strait-laced you are for a young man; why Dr. Henry often went and looked on, and his daughter danced, and people liked him all the better for it. You will be immensely unpopular if you pursue that course. Don't you think," she continued, encouraged by his silence, "that it savours a little of bigotry and egotism to set one's self up to condemn an amusement that many other Christians approve? What is your ground of objection? One would suppose that you had received a direct revelation on the subject."

"I have," he said, and his clear eyes looked full into hers, "directly from the Master himself. Don't you know that a person who is absorbed in Christian work, a consecrated Christian, is not absorbed in all these amusements, and one who is, has no room in his heart for Christ. There is a law of Natural Philosophy, you know, which says that 'Two bodies cannot occupy the same place at the same time', and there is a somewhat similar law in regard to a soul, stated by the Lord himself. 'Ye cannot serve two masters.' It is the world or Christ with every soul, and I have chosen Christ."

"I know this much," she said, coldly, "that fanatics are the most intolerable of all people. I have danced all my life, and since I became a church-member, and never had it hinted to me before that I was not a Christian because I loved it. You need not go; John can take me and call for me, and I will make excuses for you."

"My dear wife! would you do that? Surely you did not yourself intend to dance; the most liberal would be shocked, I fancy, were a minister's wife to dance."

"And why? I am not the minister. I recognise no restraints that do not apply as well to every Christian woman. You told me yourself that Mrs. Graham is an excellent lady; she is a member of your church, and dances, I am told. Why should not one professor of religion have the same privileges as another?"

"Vida," he said, in a tone of mingled pain and tenderness, "it is only a short time since we were pronounced 'no more twain hut one;' you said then the thought made you glad. How can you separate your interests from mine now? Will you do what would dishonour my calling were I to do it? The world counts us one, your action is mine, and just or unjust, they do not accord to you the right to wade quite so far into the sea of worldly pleasures as they themselves feel privileged to do. They would point the finger of ridicule at both of us, and charge us with inconsistency. We will not stop to argue the right and wrong of the subject now, supposing your conscience does not shut you out from the dance, let worldly prudence and a desire to keep our names from common gossip, influence you, I pray you, if indeed my wishes and opinion are of no value."

But the young wife was in no frame for recollecting tender vows, nor listening to reason. She threw off his arm with an impatient gesture, and glancing at her watch, said:--

"I have not only accepted an invitation to this party, but promised to dance. It is getting late and I must go."

Mr. Eldred controlled his agitation by a mighty effort, and in a low, calm tone said:--

"Then I must save you from disgracing us both. I insist, I _command_ you not to go."

Had he struck her, she would not have been more astonished. She stood as if stunned for a moment; then with a stately air, she swept by him and ascended the stairs to her room. What was his consternation, as he stood gazing out into the moonlight, presently to see her pass down the walk, step into the carriage and drive away!

Turning from the window, he paced the floor with anguish keen as though she had gone from him for ever. What obstinacy, what unreasoning wilfulness--and what would come of it? He spent the long night brooding over his great sorrow, the root of which was the fear that his dear wife did not belong to Christ, for beloved her through all her unloveliness. "Husbands, love your wives even as Christ loved the church." His love had something in it of the divine pity and patience that our blessed Lord feels for his sinning, stumbling, and exasperating children.

Mrs. Eldred was not that type of womankind who spent their wrath in tears and reproaches. When she was angry, she was unapproachably so, as frigid as an iceberg. The crisis had come. Her husband had dared to command.

The next morning there was not the turn of an eyelid that could be construed into penitence. A brawling woman is but little less endurable than a perfectly silent one. You may almost as well "flee to the house-top" from one as the other. What few words were spoken by Mr. Eldred at the breakfast table received no replies.

In the course of the forenoon he went to fulfil an engagement a few miles in the country, where he was detained till late in the day. He sat in his study in the gathering twilight longing for, but not expecting, a word from his wife of contrition and conciliation. He was summoned to tea, but no wife appeared. After a little he went in search of her. She was not in the house. It was growing dark. He was perplexed and anxious. Again he went to their room, hoping to find some explanation of the strange absence. On the mantel lay a note addressed to him. As he read he gazed about to assure himself that it was not a horrible dream, half expecting his wife to gleefully spring into his arms from some hiding-place; but all was silent save his own moans of pain.

Vida had gone! Had "fled to her mother for protection from a tyrant." So the letter ran; it was in her own graceful hand; her name was affixed. It was no cruel joke. She said, moreover, that it was evident that their tastes were not congenial; it was out of the question for her to be tied down to the sort of life he expected of her; that she had borne reflections on her conduct that she had not tolerated from any other being! Tyranny was of all things most hateful to her; the climax was now reached when he ventured "_to command_."

"She recognised no such right. She never would; she would not be called to account every time she stepped over a forbidden imaginary line; it was plain they had been mistaken in each other, and disappointed; they did not add to each other's happiness, as appeared from the gloom enveloping him day and night; the last months were months of discord; she felt neglected; he was poring over books or seeking other society in an interminable round of calls; plainly what he needed in a wife was a sort of co-pastor; it was not too late to secure such a person, since the law granted divorce for wilful desertion."

With this last sentence the letter closed. Not a word betrayed the faintest regret at severing so solemn a bond. He searched it over and over to see if in some corner he could not find one tender word for him, a word that would reveal down deep in her heart the light of her great love for him, even such love as he had for her--a faint glimmer through the clouds of anger and recrimination. It was not there, not one syllable to show that the heart of the writer had not turned to ice. Yes, there was another sentence, more cruel and hopeless still: "Do not try to change my resolution, as though it were made in a pet; it is final--_unalterable_."

It could not be true. He looked wildly about as if to have the terrible truth dispelled. He opened her closet door and her bureau drawers, but the pretty, festive robes were all gone; the dainty garments were not in their places. A little pair of half-worn slippers, and the blue ribbon that had tied her hair were all he found. He seized them convulsively, as a part of Vida when she was sweet and simple--as she could be.

He sat for long hours with the letter in his hand, as one who holds his death-warrant. Then falling upon his face, he cried to his Helper. And He who is of great pity and tender mercies heard, and drew nigh in the darkness and comforted him, even "as one whom his mother comforteth," and when the morning dawned he arose and took up the burden of life again, where he was, ere Vida Irving stole into his heart. No, not that, it could never be the same again. When the lightning sends his lurid bolt down a noble tree, it may not wave green and fair as once; there will be dead branches and the gnarled seam to tell the story that

"Fire hath scathed the forest oak."

The grave man who went out into life again carried the marks of the conflict in sad eyes and pale cheeks. Not the least of this great trial was to meet and answer the looks and questions of the curious. For the present he could truthfully say:

"Mrs. Eldred has unexpectedly gone to her mother."

Meanwhile he resigned his charge, much to the sorrow and dismay of all. He disposed of all the elegant furnishings of the parsonage, and with haste left the spot that had been the scene of an exquisite torture. No defined plans were before him, save to get far away from any who could have had the least knowledge of him previously. No fugitive from justice ever felt more nervous haste. He pushed on, never pausing till he reached the very verge of civilisation in the far south-west. Not that he would be a hermit or misanthrope, but perchance find a people destitute of the gospel. He would bring it to them. He must preach Christ till death. This should be his joy and comfort; henceforth no other love should come between his soul and his dear Master.

And he found his work, as if an unerring path had been marked out straight to the little log church in the woods.

While Vida sat in a lofty temple of arches and massive pillars, the sunlight toned to the appropriate dimness, as it stole through the stained windows, the same hour her husband stood in the log church of the wilderness, its arches and pillars outside--the tall old trees locking arms overhead. Nature softened the fierce rays in this temple as well, for they filtered through thick green boughs, and flecks of light fell here and there, a stray one resting halo-like upon the minister's head, transfiguring him in the eyes of the hungry souls whose upturned faces drank in the words of life.

This unlearned, simple people with whom he had cast his lot, had their faults, but to the refreshment of his soul, they had no card or dancing parties, theatre or opera to steal the soul from Christ after the manner of more cultured Christians. The church was the apple of their eye. They made sacrifices for it, and travelled weary miles in the worst of weather, rather than lose a "meeting."

The young gifted pastor of St. Paul's Church was never more appreciated than now by these hardworking, warm-hearted pioneers. It was their daily wonder and thanksgiving that such a man should ever have been sent to them. Nothing that they could do for him was too much, and their loving devotion was like balm to his weary soul. His people were scattered for miles away, but the pastoral calls were as faithfully made as when they were comprehended within the limits of a few squares. The mild winter climate of that region was like one long autumn of the Eastern States. Mounted on his faithful pony, he spent a large part of every day riding over the prairies. The blue skies and the bright sunshine were tonics to the heart as well as to the body. Sometimes his route lay for miles through the woods, where perfect solitude reigned but for the chatter of birds that circled about him. In these long rides his heart went back over the past, reviving the memory of those first precious days with Vida. They seemed far away, and their recollection, like the perfume of wilted flowers plucked from the grave of a dear one. If he could not have prayed for her then, hourly, his heart would have broken.