“There won’t be no backslidin’ in Deacon Hailey’s household, you may depend,” he said. “When a woman hes a godly stay-to-home husband, Satan takes to his heels. It’s widders and grass-widders es he flirts with, hey?”
Mrs. Strang colored up again, and prayed silently for help from the harpsichord.
“I kin’t give you an answer yet,” she said, feebly.
Old Hey slowly squirted a stream of tobacco-juice into the air as imperturbably as a stone fountain figure.
“I don’t want your answer yet. Didn’t I tell you I couldn’t dream of marryin’ agen for ages? It don’t matter your bein’ in a hurry ’cause your pardner left you three years back, but I hev the morals o’ the township to consider; it’s our dooty in life to set a good example to the weaker brethren, I allus thinks. Eight months at least must elapse! I on’y spoke out now ’cause o’ your onfortunate mistake ’bout Harriet, and all I want is to be sure thet when I do come to ask you in proper form and in doo course, you won’t say ‘no.’ ”
Mrs. Strang remained silent. And the harpsichord was silent too. Even that had deserted her; its sound might have been tortured into some applicability, but its silence could be construed into nothing, unless it was taken to give consent. And then all at once Ruth struck a new chord. Mrs. Strang strained her ears to catch the first bar. The deacon could not understand the sudden gleam that lit up her face when the instrument broke into the favorite Nova Scotian song, “The Vacant Chair!” At last Heaven had sent her a sign; there was a vacant chair, and it was her mission to fill it.
“Well, is thet a bargen?” asked the deacon, losing patience.
“If you’re sure you want me,” breathed Mrs. Strang.
In a flash the deacon’s arms were round her and his lips on hers. She extricated herself almost as quickly by main force.
“ ‘Twarn’t to be yet,” she cried, indignantly.