The first event to break the monotony came in September, when Dora was baptized. All the family attended the ceremony, for the time putting aside whatever prejudices they might feel. Then they began to look eagerly for Mr. Southard's return.
He might be expected on the first Sunday of October, he wrote most positively, but, for the rest, was very indefinite. He wrote so vaguely, indeed, that his congregation were rather displeased. His leave of absence had expired, yet he seemed to consider his coming home a furlough. Rather extraordinary, they thought it.
Mr. Southard was not one of those pastors who live in a chronic deluge of worsted-work from their lady friends. On his first coming to the pulpit, there had been symptoms of such an inundation; but he had checked them with characteristic promptness, representing to the fair devotees the small need he had of four-score pairs of pantoufles, even should his life be prolonged as many years, and suggesting that those who had so much leisure might profitably employ it in visiting and sewing for the poor. But the repulse was given with such simplicity and candor, and so utterly unconscious did he appear that any motive could have prompted their labors save a profound conviction that their pastor was shoeless, that even the most inveterate needle-woman forgave him. He was not in the least sentimental, he was indeed strict, and often cold, though never harsh.
Still, though he lacked many of the qualities of a modern popular minister, his people were much attached to him. They trusted him thoroughly, and they were proud of him. He had talent, culture, and a high character and reputation. He was not a sensational preacher; but his directness and earnestness were unique, and occasionally his hearers were electrified by some eloquent outburst, full of antique fire kindled at the shrines of the prophets. It also did not go against him that he was the handsomest man in the city, a bachelor, and rich enough in his own right to dispense with a salary.
Great, therefore, was their delight when his return was positively announced, and they set about preparing for it with a good will.
The church was renovated, a new Bible and a sofa were purchased, and a beautiful Catharine-wheel window, full of colored glass, was put in over the choir. Receptions were arranged, flowers bespoken, committees appointed, the barouche which was to take him home from the depot was chosen, and the two dignitaries who were to occupy it with him were, after due deliberation, selected. All this was done decently and in order. Mr. Southard's people were far from being of the vulgar, showy sort, and prided themselves on being able to accomplish a good deal without any fuss whatever. Even the newspaper chorus which proclaimed each progressive step of the minister's homeward journey, as Clytemnestra the coming of the sacred fire, sang in subdued language and unobtrusive type. At last, all that was wanting was the final announcement, in the Saturday evening papers, that the reverend gentleman had arrived. Indeed, the notice had been written, with all particulars, the evening before, and had almost got into print, when it was discovered that Mr. Southard had not arrived. The barouche had returned from the depot without him, the two dignified personages who went as escort suffering a temporary diminution of dignity and an access of ill-temper. It is rather mortifying to see people look disappointed that it is only you who have come, and to know that not only have you lost the glory which was to have been reflected on you from the principal actor in the scene, but that your own proper lustre is for the time obscured. +
It was found, however, that a letter had been written by Mr. Southard, not a pleasing one, by any means, to his disappointed masters of ceremonies. He would be in his pulpit on Sunday morning, he informed them; and after Sunday would be happy and grateful to see any of his dear and long-tried friends who would be so kind as to call on him. But till that time he did not feel equal to the excitement of any formal reception. He had scarcely recovered his strength after a long illness, he was fatigued with travel, and also, he was returning to a house made desolate by the death of one of his oldest and dearest friends.
"They are terribly wilted," Mr. Lewis said, as the family sat around the centre-table that evening. "You never saw anybody so grumpy as the deacons are. They are scandalized, moreover, in view of the only way in which he can come now. Of course, he will have to travel all night, and come into town Sunday morning. There's Sabbath-breaking for you."
"One good thing," Mrs. Lewis said; "they have stopped ringing the door-bell. I do believe there have been a hundred people here to-day to ask if Mr. Southard had come."
"Auntie," said Aurelia, with a look of mild horror, "you don't know what uncle said to the last gentleman who came. He told him that when the minister made his appearance, he would hang out a flag over the portico, and fire rockets from the front windows."