Part 4 (2/2)
Deacon Daniel likes to play at badinage, and if he had ever had a chance, might have some skill at it. As it is, I like to see how he enjoys it, if I am not always impressed by the wit of what he says.
”Deacon Richards,” I said, ”why do you freeze the people so in the vestry?”
”I haven't known of anybody's being frozen.”
”But why don't you have a fire?” I persisted. ”If you don't want to build it, there are boys enough that can be hired.”
”How is your mother to-day?” was the only answer the deacon vouchsafed.
”She's very comfortable, thank you. Why don't you have a fire?”
”Makes folks sleepy,” he declared; and once more switched off abruptly to another subject. ”Did you know Tom Webbe's gone off?”
”Yes.”
”Where's he gone?”
”I don't know. Why should I?”
”If you don't know,” Deacon Daniel commented, ”I suppose n.o.body does.”
”Why don't you have a fire in the vestry?” I demanded, determined to tire him out.
”You asked me that before,” he responded, with a grin of delight.
I gave it up then, for I saw that there was nothing to be got out of him in that mood. I looked up at the sky, and saw how the afternoon was waning.
”I must go home,” I said. ”Mother may want me; but I do wish you would be reasonable about the vestry. I'll give you a load of wood if you'll use it.”
”Send the wood, and we'll see,” was all the promise I could extract from the dear old tease.
Deacon Daniel was evidently not to be cornered, and I came away without any a.s.surance of amendment on his part. The faithful will have still to endure the cold, I suppose; but I have made an effort.
What I said to Deacon Richards and what Deacon Richards said to me is not what I sat down to write. I have been lingering over it because I hated to put down what happened to me after I left the mill. Why should I write it? This diary is not a confessional, and nothing forces me to set these things down. I really write it as a penance for the uncharitable mood I have been in ever since. I may as well have my thoughts on paper as to keep turning them over and over in my mind.
I crossed the foot-bridge and turned up Water Street. I went on, pleased by the brown water showing through the broken ice in the mill-flume, and the fantastic bunches of snow in the willows beyond, like queer, white birds. I smiled to myself at the remembrance of Deacon Daniel, and somehow felt warmed toward him, as I always do, despite all his crotchety ways. He radiates kindness of heart through all his gruffness.
Suddenly I saw George coming toward me with Miss West. They did not notice me at first, they were so engaged in talking and laughing together. My mood sobered instantly, but I said to myself that I certainly ought to be glad to see George enjoying himself; and, in any case, a lady does not show her foolish feelings. So I went toward them, trying to look as I had before I caught sight of them. They saw me in a moment, and instantly their laughter stopped. If they had come forward simply and at ease, I should have thought no more about it, I think; but no one could see their confusion without feeling that they expected me to disapprove. And if they expected me to disapprove, it seems to me they must have been saying things--But probably this is all my imagination and mean jealousy.
”You see I've captured him,” Miss West called out in rather a high voice, as we came near each other.
”I have no doubt he was a very willing captive,” I answered, smiling, and holding out my hand.
I realize now how I hated to give her my hand, and most certainly her manner was not entirely that of a lady.
”We've been for a long walk,” she went on, ”and now I suppose I ought to let you have him.”
”I couldn't think of taking him. I am only going home.”
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