"What?"
He spoke with troubled petulance: "My denomination!"
When Miss Whitcom learned, as she did directly, that Mr. O'Donnell was at the Elmbrook Inn, down at Crystalia, she emphatically changed colour. However much she might like to deny it, a fact was a fact. And in addition to that, her talk, for at least ten seconds, was utterly incoherent. She simply mixed the words all up, and nothing she said made any sense at all. Of course she quickly regained her equilibrium and made a playful remark about "having had all that letterwriting trouble for nothing." But it must very plainly and unequivocally be set down that throughout those first ten seconds her colour was high, her coherence at zero.
The ensuing hour at Beachcrest passed quietly, despite the fact that every one seemed moving at a high rate of tension.
Mrs. Needham spent a considerable portion of the time in conference with Eliza. The advent of the grocer's boy occasioned the usual excitement. It must be understood that these arrivals mean ever so much more in the wilderness than they do in town. In town, supposing there is a certain item missing, you merely step to the phone and give your tradesman polite hell. But on Point Betsey there were no such resources possible. They did not even have electric lights, and it was merely possible, when things went wrong, to explode to the boy (which never did any good), or to explode in a grander yet still quite as futile way to the world at large. Fortunately, this morning (the morning of this most momentous day!) the supplies arrived in relatively excellent condition.
The Rev. Needham, pacing up and down alone in the living room, paused nervously now and then to heed the muffled sounds issuing from sundry quarters of the cottage: the squeaky opening or closing of doors, which might somehow have a meaning in his life; the shuffle of steps (maybe portentous) across the sanded boards.... And most especially he pricked his ears—those small, alert ears of his, that were perpetually prepared for the worst—when the things came from the store. It would be horrible, with guests in the house, to have a short supply; although of course here again, as in the case of the pancakes, he was concerning himself outside his own department. But even if these responsibilities of the kitchen didn't really rest on his shoulders, nevertheless the Rev. Needham listened as each item was pronounced, upon its emergence from the huge market basket.
Coffee, cheese, eggs—eggs, ah! we must look at them. One broken? Well, we should be thankful for eleven sound ones. Housekeeping, especially housekeeping in a cottage, develops a wonderful and luminous patience. This patience—like mercy, an attribute of God Himself—may even sometimes lead one to the tracing of quite Biblical applications. There were twelve disciples in the beginning, yet one of them, in the stress of events....
Bread, celery, carrots, frosted cookies. Where was the roast? The Rev. Needham's heart stood still. He halted, petrified with horrid fear. The roast, the roast! Thank God they found it, down at the bottom of the basket. Oh, thank God! The pacing was resumed.
Up and down, up and down. One would have perceived here, so far as externals went, merely a quiet, middle-aged clergyman strolling in his home. Yet in the cottage living room this clergyman and this angry Dutch clock together synthesized contemporary events. "Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble!" ticked the clock sharply. And each step in the Rev. Needham's pacing seemed a question. As the years crept by, broadening vision seemed not very materially to be quieting the good man's fidgets and perturbations. It seemed merely to give them longer tether; for his unsettled state was organic. It would never be really otherwise. Religion, science, feeling, thought, reason—all alike, in their several directions, seemed impotent to anchor him. The sea was too deep. He might, of course, call himself anchored; but alas, the cruel little demons of doubt and quandary were bound, sooner or later, to insinuate themselves back into his heart. His walk was groping, indecisive. Each step was a question: "Whither? Why? How long? What is best? What is best? What is best?"
Miss Whitcom stood meditatively before the somewhat wavy mirror in her little room. She was pondering past, present, future. Also, she was acknowledging that grey hairs had perceptibly multiplied since O'Donnell last saw her. Would he notice them? And if he did? Well? She contemplated herself and her life in the wavy mirror.