hunting, swearing parsons of three generations ago were of more real value in the world than the harmless creatures that we have now!”
He had a certain stern way of thrusting out his lower lip when he was very much in earnest, and drawing his strong brows together; an impatient fire sprang into his beautiful dark eyes. He turned and looked at her, claiming her understanding.
“Yes,” she said; “yes, it is so. The belittling of the profession of the ministry is a dreadful thing—a shameful thing. I once heard a man say that ‘Elderly unmarried women always had to have something to fuss over and coddle, something to lead around by a blue ribbon. Sometimes it was a poodle; sometimes it was a clergyman.’ And there’s truth in it, Billy.”
“There is,” he said grimly.
“Well, dear,” she reassured him, smiling, “your distinguished rudeness to the ladies of your congregation has at least protected you from the blue ribbon.”
He began to protest, but the talk slipped back into their own affairs, and somehow he succeeded in getting her hand, and by and by they were silent, just for happiness, and because it was sunset, and the river was flickering with light, and there was a faint stir of leaves overhead. They were to be married in a fortnight, and they were going to have all their lives together to say how good life was, so there was no need to talk now.
As the girl had said, it really was a very satisfactory match. William West was a man whom every one honored, and many loved. For fifteen years he had been settled in Mercer; first as an assistant to old Mr. Brown, and then as rector of the church. But he had taken his place in the community as a man of strong judgment and high character; perhaps as a citizen, rather than as a minister. Men felt that he was a man before he was a clergyman; not knowing that his calling had given him his highest manhood. He was singularly devoid of clerical affectation; consequently the influence of his own reverence was not vitiated by a suspicion of his common sense. In fact, his sanity in matters religious, joined to his knowledge of human nature, made him a man of importance in affairs municipal and social. That he had lived to be forty-two, and had not married, was from no asceticism; he was a very human person, and fully intended to have a wife; only, she must be just what he wanted. And so far, that “not impossible She” who was to possess his heart had never appeared. When she did, he recognized her immediately, and would have proposed to her the next day, had not a feeling of diffidence as to her sentiments deterred him for nearly two weeks. At the end of that time, he told her—ah, well, never mind what he told her! She, at least, will never forget the passion of that claiming.
Amy Townsend had come to spend the winter in Mercer, with a cousin. Of course, the first Sunday she went to St. James’s, as everybody who was anybody did. When she came home, her eyes were keen with interest.
“Do tell me about him, Cousin Kate,” she said. “I never heard that sort of preaching; what does it mean? Is he a real person, or is he just clever?” Mrs. Paul laughed.
“Wait till you meet him! you’ll see.”
But she also added to herself, “Wait till he meets you!” For Mrs. Paul was one of those courageous women who rush in where angels fear to tread; she was a match-maker.
“Is he married?” the girl asked, naturally enough; but blushed furiously the next instant, which made her angry.
“No; but it is not for lack of opportunity,” said Mrs. Paul dryly. “I declare, Amy, women are dreadful fools, sometimes! I should think a clergyman wouldn’t marry, out of sheer disgust for their silliness.”
“Oh, he’s run after, is he?” Miss Townsend said coldly.
“Well, I must admit he’s very attractive,” Mrs. Paul began, remembering her scheme, and retreating a little—for nothing will put a girl against a man sooner than to know he is “run after.”
Then she told his story: the boy had been a waif. (“His mother was respectable, I think,” said Mrs. Paul, “but nobody knows anything about the father.”) He had had that dreariest sort of childhood which knows no other home than an institution. Then, somehow, “quite like a story-book,” Mrs. Paul said, a gentleman took an interest in him, and began to help him in one way or another.
“It was that zoölogical man, Professor Wilson; you know who I mean?” Mrs. Paul explained. “He looked after him. At first he put him in a tinshop, if you please, as errand-boy—fancy! this man with the ‘grand manner.’ ”
“Oh, I supposed he was a gentleman,” Amy Townsend said.
“Amy, you are a snob,” her cousin answered hotly. “He is.”
Mrs. Paul was so annoyed that she ended the story of Mr. West’s career very briefly. “Professor Wilson offered either to start him in business or put him through college; he chose to go to college.”
“That was rather fine,” Miss Townsend agreed.
“Fine? It just showed what sort of a man he was!” cried Mrs. Paul. “He worked his way to some extent; that is, he was Professor Wilson’s secretary, and he did a lot of tutoring. Professor Wilson left him a good deal of money, but he gave away nearly half of it at once, John says. Quite remarkable for a young man. Well, that’s all; you see what he is to-day—a gentleman and a scholar: John says there is no man in Mercer who has the influence that he has.”
Miss Townsend, in spite of her careful indifference, was interested. And later, when Rev. William West met her, he, too, was “interested;” and all fell out as the most experienced romancer could desire.
Amy had a little money, much charm, a certain distinction that answered for beauty, and a very true nature; there was, perhaps, a certain hard integrity about her, but her impulses were gracious. Also, as the old ladies said, she was a “worker.” She found life too interesting not to meddle with it.
So it had come to pass that these two, who, as Mrs. Paul said, “were made for each other,” were going to be married.
“Just think, in two weeks!” he said, as they sat there under the oak, the blossoming grass knee-deep about them, and the air sweet with clover. “Amy, it does not seem as if I had been alive until now.”
“I wonder, does it go on getting—nicer?” she asked him, a little shyly; “everything seems to be better, and more worth while.”
“I understand,” he said.
And they were silent for awhile, because understanding is enough, when people are in love. Then the girl’s gayety began to sparkle out.
“Billy, Cousin Kate says if I’m not careful I’ll get to be a managing Parsoness; she says I must devote myself to you, not to your poor people.”
“Mrs. Paul has given a great deal of good advice in her day,” the Rev. Billy remarked meditatively, “and I really think very little harm has come from it.”
“She advised your being called to Mercer,” Amy retorted. “Did you know that?”
“Know it? My dear child! how often have I dined at the Pauls’? Just so often have I heard it.”
“Now, Billy, that’s not very nice in you.”
“I but stated a fact; and I have a high regard for Mrs. Paul. Only, when I think how many girls she has tried to make marry me!—but they would none of them look at me.”
“And in two weeks the opportunity will be gone,” she jeered.
“Poor girls!” the minister commiserated; and was reproved for vanity. Indeed, just because happiness is so serious a thing, they became very frivolous, these two, sitting watching the sunset, and the river. Amy told him a funny story about the parish; he responded by another concerning Tom Reilly, a policeman; which reminded Amy to tell him that poor Tom had had an accident, and hurt his hand.
“But it was very stupid in him,” she added, with a little of that resentful goodness that one sees sometimes