CHAPTER VI.
A COURSE NEVER SMOOTH.
On a pleasant August evening, at that particular portion of the day in which twilight shades into night, Fred Macdonald left his father’s house and walked toward the opposite portion of the village. From his leisurely, elastic gait, the artistic effect of his necktie, the pose of his hat, the rose-bud in his button-hole, and the graceful carriage of his cane, it was very evident that Frederick’s steps did not tend toward the fulfillment of any prosaic business engagement. It was not so dark that he could not recognize, in occasional unlighted windows, certain faces well known, some of them handsome, all of them pleasing; nor was it too dark, just after Fred had bestowed a bow and a smile upon the occupant of each of these windows, and passed on, for one to discern, by the expressions upon most of the faces that slowly turned and looked after the young man, that Fred need not have gone farther in search of a cordial welcome. But he walked on until he reached the residence of the Rev. Jonas Wedgewell. To any one not a resident of Barton the house might have seemed a strange one to be visited by a young man fond of liquor and the company frequently found on Western steamboats; and the stranger’s surprise might have increased, at finding that Fred had been so frequent a visitor that even the house itself seemed glad to see him, and that the heavy old door seemingly opened of its own accord, before Fred’s fingers had time to touch its antique knocker. But had the supposititious observer possessed good eyes, whose actual powers were temporarily increased by the stimulus of curiosity, his bewilderment would have ended a second later; for, as Fred stepped inside the hall, there came from behind the door a small hand, and then a dainty ruffle, and then a muslin sleeve, and these all took their direction toward the shoulder of Fred’s coat; while there followed a profile which the beholder would have willingly gazed upon longer, had it not almost instantaneously disappeared behind that side of Fred’s face which was farthest from the door.
Could the observer’s gaze have penetrated the window shades of Parson Wedgewell’s little parlor, he would have seen a face, not girlish or of regular features, and yet so full of happiness that its effect was that of absolute beauty and the innocence of youth. There were estimable maidens in Barton who, scorning the thought that they could be either jealous or envious, had frequently remarked to their intimates that they could not see what men found in Esther Wedgewell to rave about, and it was well known that the mystery had never been satisfactorily explained to such young ladies as had become the wives of men who had been among Miss Esther’s admirers. It is even to be doubted whether Fred Macdonald himself could have verbally elucidated the matter; there have been such cases where long and joyous lifetimes have not sufficed in which to frame such an explanation, and when the person most blessed has had to journey into another world in search of adequate power of expression. Ordinarily Esther Wedgewell was a young lady the pleasantness of whose face did not hide the fact that its owner’s forehead was too high, the nose too short, the mouth too large, and the complexion too pale for perfect beauty. But somehow young men noticed first of all Miss Esther’s eyes, and these, though neither of heavenly blue, nor violet, nor the brownness of nuts, nor large, nor melting, but only plain gray, were so honest in themselves, and so sympathetic for others, that no one of any character cared to gaze from them to any other of the young woman’s features.
What Fred and Esther said to each other during the first few minutes after their meeting, was of a nature which never shows to full advantage in print; besides, it was in the nature of things that they should say very little. In spite of the experience accumulated during a hundred or more of just such meetings, it seemed necessary that a few minutes should be consumed by Fred in assuring himself that it was really Esther who sat in the rocking-chair in front of him; and the same time was used by the lady in determining that the handsome, intelligent face in front of her was that of the only lover she had ever accepted. Gradually, however, the sentences spoken by the couple became longer and more frequent; their subjects were ordinary enough; being the mutual acquaintances they had met during the day; the additions which had been made to the embroidery on the pair of slippers which Esther, after the manner of most other betrothed maidens in America, had begun to make for her lover; the quality of the singing in church on the preceding Sunday; the latest news from Captain Hall’s expedition to the North Pole; the character of Shakespeare’s Portia; and yet one would have supposed, from the countenances of both of these young people, that in each of these topics there was some underlying motive of the most delightful import; while their remarks seemed to indicate that there was but one side to either of the subjects discussed, and that both Fred and Esther saw it with the extreme clearness of earthly comprehension.
Then, in a lull in the conversation, Fred asked, with a courtesy and minuteness inherited from aristocratic parents, about Mr. and Mrs. Wedgewell, and elicited the information that Esther’s father was composing a second sermon on intemperance.
“Your father undoubtedly is himself the best judge of the needs of his congregation,” said Fred, dropping his eyes a little and playing with a bit of paper; “but I can’t help feeling that he is wasting his fine talents in preaching on intemperance. If his sermons could be heard and applied by the proper persons, they might do a great deal of good; but what drunkard goes to church? Only moderate drinkers and people who don’t drink at all ever hear your father’s sermons, and none of them have any need for such instructions.”
Esther brushed an imaginary thread or mote from her dress, and said, with some embarrassment,
“Father believes that the moderate drinkers are those who most need to be warned.”
“Why, Ettie!” exclaimed Fred, “how can he believe that? He must know that I occasionally—that is, he knows that I am not one of the Sons of Temperance; yet he gave me you”—here conversation ceased a moment as Fred stepped toward Esther, conveying unto that lady an affectionate testimonial whose exact nature will be understood—“and he certainly would not have done so had he supposed I was in any danger of being injured by liquor.”
Esther did not wait even until she had finished rearranging a disordered tress or two to reply.