Hubert's Wife / A Story for You

by Minnie Mary Lee

The wife looked up at the husband in blank surprise at so unusual an epithet as "charming" coming from his lips, and applied to her. But the truth is, Thornton had done an unusual thing—taken one glass too much, and he spoke unguardedly. He even drew Althea's little hand within his own and through his left arm on the way to St. Mary's, instead of striding on a few paces in advance, as was usual. Just before arriving, he addressed Althea:

"Now that you have come so far, do the thing up brown. Make your prettiest courtesy to all the graven images, and particularly to that idol toward the left corner. It will be no trouble for you to kneel; that is always in place for a woman. Keep your eyes open and bow low to every old lady who has a husband, or a son old enough to vote. Don't hold your kerchief to your nose, even should you be knocked over with the incense, and when the bell rings bow down double to the floor; ha! it is a wife can make or break her husband's fortune for time; do you hear, wife?"

"Yes, I hear," softly replied Althea, more than slightly disgusted.

They entered the church which was already crowded. But Thornton Rush elbowed his way up the aisle till he stood not far from the altar. A gentleman politely gave his seat to Althea, but Thornton continued to stand, a perfect spectacle unto all beholders. He folded his arms and glanced out savagely. The first eye he met was Sharp's. Yes, there sat his enemy, snugly ensconced in Mr. McHugh's pew—that same Mr. McHugh who had told him three days before, that he did not consider Sharp the honestest man in the world! He had counted on McHugh—and now where was he?

Protestants who were present were quite as much surprised at seeing Mr. Rush as were the Catholics. He had never been seen even in a meeting-house, unless at a lecture, political caucus, or some kindred rather than religious entertainment. Sharp was a rigid Presbyterian; but his rival had never thought it worth his while to pretend to imitate him in that particular. On the contrary, by keeping aloof, he found favor with the more numerous Methodists, the few Universalists, Baptists, Spiritualists, etc., which more or less abounded in the rapidly growing little town. To all these he could be all things. But as to the Catholic fold, ah, if that sharp wolf, or wolf Sharp, got in there would be mischief astir. He must leap after, for, to a Catholic, his religion was more than meat or drink, and he would become naturally a friend to him who was friendly to his religion.

Althea had but rarely been inside a Catholic church. When a child she had been more than once to St. Patrick's, with her uncle and cousins, during a temporary absence of her aunt. She had been partial to the Episcopal service; but as there was no society of this sect at Windsor, she had very often followed her husband's example of remaining at home on Sundays; though sometimes she attended at the different denominational houses, as inclination urged, or some stranger, man or woman, preached.

Upon this occasion Althea was peculiarly impressed; not so much by the blaze of light, the brightness and perfume of flowers, nor by the commanding attitude of the aged missioner, who stood grasping the mission cross and about to speak. It was the sudden memory of her uncle, John Temple, who so loved and practiced this same religion that touched her soul. He came before her, in all his simple, unpretending honesty and truth. Never so much, as at this moment, had she appreciated his worth. She did, indeed, bow her head with reverence before the altar, not in obedience to her husband's commands, but in tribute to her uncle's memory. She had named her only child his unforgotten name, and now the child had joined him in the spirit-world. The two came before her like phantoms evoked. Were they, indeed, hovering around her in this sacred place? Such was Althea's impression, and how guilty felt she before them! Still more lowly bowed her unworthy head, and pressing her clasped hands to her heart, she cried, "O God, be merciful to me a sinner!"

There was a hush in the swaying crowd, for the priest was about to speak. He had stood during several minutes, until even the latest seemed to have arrived; then, in the general silence of expectation, his voice sounded clear and full and his words were: "O God, be merciful to me a sinner!"

Such an unexpected echo of her own unbreathed words startled Althea like an electric shock. For a moment she raised her head, and her drooping eyes fell upon the utterer of that broken-hearted prayer. Then upon the clasped hands fell again the white forehead, nor was it lifted more until after an hour or two of stirring eloquence the missioner closed with a repetition of his opening words, "O God, be merciful to me a sinner!"

It had been to Althea the day, the hour of her visitation from on High.