“Always—always, dear one! In Dole or anywhere else you like.”
“Ah!” she said in a tone of dreamy happiness—“you will take old Mr. Didymus’s place; we will live in the parsonage; what a happy life we will have!”
“Vashti!” said Sidney, almost reeling before the shock of her words. As a beautiful white mist rolls back to show some scene of sordid misery, so the glamour of the last few weeks lifted, and displayed vividly to Sidney all the awkwardness of the position which he had created for himself. Ever since that day, when stung by Sally’s impertinent words he had agonized alone upon the hillside, nothing whatever had transpired to awaken its memory. A deference rather more pronounced than necessary upon the part of the village-folk, a certain constraint upon the part of the young men, had been the only visible signs that Dole remembered. But upon the other hand nothing had occurred which gave him the opportunity of explaining to Vashti, nor, indeed, had he ever been able to decide how he could explain to her, even if given the opening. He had gone to church with the Lansings Sunday after Sunday. Under the circumstances any other course would have been an insult to the régime of the house in which he was staying. He had found nothing in the little church which jarred upon his tastes or revolted his principles. The simple, pious sermons of grey-haired Mr. Didymus were entirely inoffensive to anyone not of malice prepense irritable. The sad experiences of his long life had mitigated his judgments. The man who in his fiery youth scoffed at death-bed repentances now spoke feelingly of the thief on the cross; the elect murmured among themselves that Mr. Didymus was “growing old and slack.” Certainly his sermons were not learned, but neither were they devoid of a certain eloquence, for the old man knew his Bible by heart, and above all, they were free from the anecdotal inanity; it would never have occurred to the old, plain-spoken man to stand in his pulpit telling his people tales suitable for the comprehension of three-year-old children. There was, perhaps, the merest trace of asceticism in Sidney Martin’s nature, and the simple doctrine of these people, their fatalistic creed, their bare little church, appealed to him as no gorgeous ritual or ornate sanctuary could have done. The hoarse, untuneful singing of these country folk, taking no shame of their poor performance, so that it was in praise of God, stirred his spiritual sympathies more profoundly than any cathedral organ—yet—he was a creature of reason, and he had always considered the Catholic Church more logical than any other, and above all, he had no belief whatever in the Christian doctrine. Ruled by a pure and lofty ideal of Truth, his life had been ideally good. His lofty aspirations did not lift him beyond sympathy with his fellows, only above their vileness. He adored nature with an almost heathenish idolatry, and had such reverence for her slightest manifestation, that he never willingly broke a leaf or crushed an insect. Literally, he worshipped the works, but not the Creator. And lo!—here was the woman round whom his very soul twined, taking it for granted that he believed all she did, and that his life could compass no higher happiness than to preach this belief to others; and what excellent grounds he had given her for thinking thus! All these things mirrored themselves in his mind in an instant, then he said:
“But, Vashti, I have no need to do anything. There are many worthier men than I to fill Mr. Didymus’s place. I am not a preacher, you know.”
“Oh, but you will be for my sake,” she said, and laid her head down again upon his shoulder like a child who has found rest.
Truly there are more tempting devils than the urbane gentleman of the cloven hoofs.
“What had you meant to do?” she asked.
“Indeed, I had mapped out no definite course,” he answered. “My mother’s money makes life easy for me, you know, but I had meant to do something, certainly. Only I was taking my time looking about. I didn’t want to do anything which would cut some fellow who needed it out of a living.”
“Let me decide for you,” she murmured; the breath of the words was warm on his ear. “Think how happy you could make us all. They all think so much of you in Dole on account of your prayer. Mary Shinar says you are a saint.” Then, her arms stealing about his neck, she added, “Sidney, for my sake you said you would sacrifice anything. I didn’t think this would be a sacrifice. I thought it would be a delight; but if it is a sacrifice make it for my sake.”
Alas, he had fallen among the toils! He took swift illogical thought with himself. He would preach to them a pure and exalted morality. He would be the apostle of nature’s pure creed. He would make Dole a proverb in all New England. He would teach, he would have a library, he would marry Vashti.