He turned to his wife, whom invalidism had not made altogether selfish. There was a feeling like death in her heart as she thought of living without Elithe, but she tried to smile, and said she thought it might be managed, as she was stronger than she had been for some time.
During this discussion Mr. Pennington finished the Boston Herald, and leaving it on the steps, went to Samona, but returned to the Rectory in the evening, to see, he said, if the family was not greatly fatigued after the excitement of the day. Elithe was not fatigued at all. The dream of her life was coming to pass. She was going to Oak City and to Boston, and to see the ocean and everything, and her eyes were like stars as she welcomed him. He had become so much a part of the family at the Rectory and had identified himself so largely with their interests that it was natural for the boys to go to him with everything which interested them, and the four pounced upon him at once, all talking together and telling him the news. Their aunt, or rather their father’s aunt Phebe, had sent for Elithe to come to Oak City, and, better yet, had given each of them a dollar for their very own. This was a fortune to the boys, who had never before had more than five or ten cents at a time, and the woman who sent it to them was exalted into the position of a fairy godmother. Mr. Pennington listened to them, but did not seem greatly elated. On the contrary, the boys had never found him so uninteresting.
“Is it true that you are to leave us?” he asked Elithe during a lull in the boys’ clamor.
“Nothing is settled as yet,” she replied, and he continued, “Do you think you will like Oak City?”
Something in his voice made Elithe ask quickly, “Were you ever there?”
His face was partly turned from her as he replied, “I have heard of it as a very pretty place. My sister has been there.”
Elithe thought of Mignon, and would like to ask him if she were the sister, but did not wish to remind him of that Sunday in camp when he had been so debased before her. He had never referred to it but once since he came to Samona, and then he had said, “It shall never happen again, so help me Heaven.” He was not very enthusiastic on the subject of Elithe’s visit to Oak City, and at an earlier hour than usual said good-night and went slowly back to the hotel. In the barroom he heard the click of glasses. A few of the miners were there slaking their thirst, after a day’s abstinence. They had kept sober during the consecration of the church and the Bishop’s visit. It was night now and they were making amends with a good deal of hilarity. Pausing, with his foot on the stairs, Mr. Pennington felt for a moment tempted to join them and break his pledge. It was in his pocket where he always carried it, and he mechanically took it out and looked at it. While it was whole it was a safeguard, and he held it to the light, thinking how easily he could tear it into shreds and be rid of the restraint. And why not? Why try to be anybody? Elithe was going away, and if she were not it could do him no good, so why continue the struggle? A thousand demons were urging him to take the vile stuff the miners were drinking with so much zest. He knew just how vile it was, for he had tasted it at the mines, but he had been so long without it, and he was so thirsty.
“I’ll do it,” he thought, just as one of the revellers in the barroom called out, “Here’s health and happiness to the parson and Miss Elithe. May God bless her and keep New York straight on her account.”
“Amen!” came heartily from half a dozen throats, and the pledge slipped back into Mr. Pennington’s pocket.
“I’ll try it a while longer,” he said, going cautiously up the stairs to his room and shutting the door so that the sounds of dissipation could not reach him.