Paul Ralston

It was quite a gala day in Samona. The church was to be consecrated, and the place was full of people, many of them miners, who had come from Deep Gulch, to see the Bishop and to witness the ceremony. It was partly their church, they thought, as their money had helped to build it, and the window in the chancel was entirely their contribution. They would like to have had it dedicated “To the memory of the Rev. Roger Hansford by his friends, the Deep Gulch miners,” but as he was alive, this was hardly practicable, so they asked that the design be Christ blessing little children,—five of them,—the rector’s number. Besides the consecration and the Bishop and the window there was another attraction. Bill Stokes and Lizy Ann were to be confirmed, and rumor said New York, too. In the sincerity of Mr. and Mrs. Stokes the miners believed, but shook their heads over New York. He was a first-rate feller, but his conversion had been too sudden. They didn’t believe in the still, small voice,—they wanted a regular, old-fashioned knockdown, such as St. Paul had had, and such as Stokes declared he, too, had experienced. Still, if the parson and the Bishop were satisfied they were, and they’d like to see the man who not long ago was fighting the devil with shrieks and curses renounce him with solemn vows, and it was some disappointment to hear that he was not to be confirmed. He was, however, very busy everywhere. He had helped to decorate the chancel and the windows, showing remarkable deftness and taste. He was to dine with the Bishop at the Rectory. This had been Elithe’s proposition.

“I think we owe it to him; he has done so much to help,” she said to her father, who consented readily.

If Mr. Pennington was busy, Elithe was busier. First in the church to see that everything was in order; then at home seeing to the dinner; then in the small room her father called his study, brushing his coat and hat and feeling sorry they were so shabby. After service there were all the strangers and miners to speak to, and the dinner to be gotten through. This was a great success, made so partly by Elithe’s good cooking, and partly by the genial manners of Mr. Pennington, who, without seeming at all forward, drew out the best there was in every one. When all was over and the Bishop gone Elithe was very tired, and her face showed it, as she sat on the porch, with her head leaning against the back of her chair.

“You look pale and fagged out. Wouldn’t a walk do you good? I am going to the Post Office. Suppose you go with me?” some one said close to her.

It was Mr. Pennington, who had just returned with Mr. Hansford from seeing the Bishop off. She had not often walked alone with him, but she knew no reason why she should not go with him now. The fresh air would do her good, and it was the day for the Boston Herald, which her father took as the one connecting link between him and his old Eastern life. To Elithe Boston, with its surroundings, was the centre of the world, and she read religiously every word of the paper, which was doubly interesting if it had anything in it concerning Oak City, where her father’s Aunt Phebe lived. Of this aunt, Elithe knew nothing, except that she was very peculiar. Her father seldom spoke of her, and her mother never. She could not forget the bitter things which had been said of her and to her at the time of her marriage. But she would not prejudice her children against her, and, with her husband, she hoped that through this aunt they might some time see a different phase of the world from that in Samona. She had not told Elithe that her father had written to her aunt and sent her photograph, and the latter was greatly surprised when, with the Boston Herald, the postmaster handed her a letter postmarked Oak City, Mass.

“Why, this must be from Aunt Phebe. She has not written us in ages,” she said, studying the angular handwriting, which she remembered to have seen once or twice before.

Mr. Pennington was standing where he, too, could read the address and postmark on the letter, and there was a queer expression on his face as he asked, “Have you an aunt in the East?”

“Why, yes; father’s aunt in Oak City. Didn’t you know it?” Elithe replied.

In their intercourse with each other neither Mr. Hansford nor Mr. Pennington had spoken directly of their former place of residence. That Mr. Pennington was from New York Roger assumed, and that Mr. Hansford was from the vicinity of Boston Mr. Pennington knew, for the miners had told him as much. Of Aunt Phebe the miners knew nothing, and she might or might not have been a revelation to Mr. Pennington, for any surprise he expressed when told of her existence. He only said, “Were you ever in Oak City?”

“Never,” Elithe replied, “but I wish I could go there. I’d like sometime to see the great world which lies east of here and is so different from this.”

“Elithe,” Mr. Pennington said, with suppressed emotion. Then he remembered himself in time to keep back the words he had come so near speaking. “Give yourself to me and you shall see the world,” had trembled on his lips, but he did not say them.

He had no home to take her to, or friends who would receive her if she would go with him, and if he had, her innocence and purity must not mate with him till he had purged himself from more than one evil spirit still lurking in his heart.

“Did you speak to me?” Elithe asked, and he replied, “No, did I? If so, I’ve forgotten what I wished to say.”

He was unfolding his own paper, the New York Times, and glancing up and down its columns. Seeing this, Elithe said no more to him until the Rectory was reached. Then she asked him to go in and offered him the Herald to look at, while she carried her aunt’s letter to her father and heard what was in it. He took the paper and, sitting down upon the porch steps, turned at once to the column headed “Affairs in Oak City.” The place was filling rapidly and the season bade fair to be gayer and more prosperous than it had been in years. The Ralstons had returned from Europe and would soon occupy their handsome house, which had been undergoing some repairs. Mrs. Percy and daughter had also returned from Europe, but were not yet in their cottage. There were rumors in the air of a wedding in high life, to come off during the summer. The names of the parties were for a time withheld. Miss Phebe Hansford had been giving her cottage a coat of fresh paint, which had greatly improved it, and the band had arrived and played every afternoon in the park in front of the Casino.

Such items and more he read with a blur before his eyes and a humming sound in his ears like the echo of years past and gone, leaving memories he would like to blot out. While he was reading the Herald, Mr. Hansford in his study was reading his aunt’s letter aloud to his wife and Elithe. As she heard the invitation, Elithe exclaimed, “Oh, I am so glad; if I can only go.” Then followed the conditions. She must not gad to concerts and rides on the water and clambakes and the Casino. She must always be in by nine or half-past, at the latest, as her aunt kept early hours. She must not slat her things around:—her aunt liked order. She must not whistle in the house, as some rude girls did; her aunt liked to be still and meditate.

At this point Roger laughed merrily. “Aunt Phebe to a dot. I don’t believe she has changed an iota in twenty years,” he said.

Elithe was very grave, and a summer at the seashore did not look so desirable as at first. The last of the letter, however, promising a good many privileges, was more re-assuring, and she began again to wish she might go.

“But how can I? What would you do without me?” she said, looking first at her mother, who was very pale, and then at her father, who tried to seem cheerful and natural.

Here was an answer to his letter and his prayer. Providence had opened a way for Elithe to see something of the world, and to escape from an influence which might eventually prove hurtful. An acquaintance of Mr. Pennington had once said of him that with his smooth tongue he could deceive the very elect. Mr. Hansford had never put his opinion of the man into these words, but he felt the truth of them in his own experience. Mr. Pennington was magnetic and fascinating, and he wondered much that Elithe had remained so long indifferent to him. Of his many good qualities he was fully aware, but he believed there was a questionable side to his character from which he would shield his daughter. He did not trust to his bones for intuition, as his aunt did to hers, but he had a childlike faith in the signs of Providence and watched them closely. He had prayed that his aunt might answer his letter favorably. She had done so, and sent money for needed expenses. It was right that Elithe should go, and when she asked how they could do without her, he said, “It seems too good a chance to be lost, and it is only for the summer. If we have some one to help us we may be able to get along; eh, Lucy?”

He turned to his wife, whom invalidism had not made altogether selfish. There was a feeling like death in her heart as she thought of living without Elithe, but she tried to smile, and said she thought it might be managed, as she was stronger than she had been for some time.

During this discussion Mr. Pennington finished the Boston Herald, and leaving it on the steps, went to Samona, but returned to the Rectory in the evening, to see, he said, if the family was not greatly fatigued after the excitement of the day. Elithe was not fatigued at all. The dream of her life was coming to pass. She was going to Oak City and to Boston, and to see the ocean and everything, and her eyes were like stars as she welcomed him. He had become so much a part of the family at the Rectory and had identified himself so largely with their interests that it was natural for the boys to go to him with everything which interested them, and the four pounced upon him at once, all talking together and telling him the news. Their aunt, or rather their father’s aunt Phebe, had sent for Elithe to come to Oak City, and, better yet, had given each of them a dollar for their very own. This was a fortune to the boys, who had never before had more than five or ten cents at a time, and the woman who sent it to them was exalted into the position of a fairy godmother. Mr. Pennington listened to them, but did not seem greatly elated. On the contrary, the boys had never found him so uninteresting.

“Is it true that you are to leave us?” he asked Elithe during a lull in the boys’ clamor.

“Nothing is settled as yet,” she replied, and he continued, “Do you think you will like Oak City?”

Something in his voice made Elithe ask quickly, “Were you ever there?”

His face was partly turned from her as he replied, “I have heard of it as a very pretty place. My sister has been there.”

Elithe thought of Mignon, and would like to ask him if she were the sister, but did not wish to remind him of that Sunday in camp when he had been so debased before her. He had never referred to it but once since he came to Samona, and then he had said, “It shall never happen again, so help me Heaven.” He was not very enthusiastic on the subject of Elithe’s visit to Oak City, and at an earlier hour than usual said good-night and went slowly back to the hotel. In the barroom he heard the click of glasses. A few of the miners were there slaking their thirst, after a day’s abstinence. They had kept sober during the consecration of the church and the Bishop’s visit. It was night now and they were making amends with a good deal of hilarity. Pausing, with his foot on the stairs, Mr. Pennington felt for a moment tempted to join them and break his pledge. It was in his pocket where he always carried it, and he mechanically took it out and looked at it. While it was whole it was a safeguard, and he held it to the light, thinking how easily he could tear it into shreds and be rid of the restraint. And why not? Why try to be anybody? Elithe was going away, and if she were not it could do him no good, so why continue the struggle? A thousand demons were urging him to take the vile stuff the miners were drinking with so much zest. He knew just how vile it was, for he had tasted it at the mines, but he had been so long without it, and he was so thirsty.

“I’ll do it,” he thought, just as one of the revellers in the barroom called out, “Here’s health and happiness to the parson and Miss Elithe. May God bless her and keep New York straight on her account.”

“Amen!” came heartily from half a dozen throats, and the pledge slipped back into Mr. Pennington’s pocket.

“I’ll try it a while longer,” he said, going cautiously up the stairs to his room and shutting the door so that the sounds of dissipation could not reach him.