Part 28 (1/2)
”I _am_ distrustful--too much so,” answered, in writing, the deaf man.
”A little suspicion soon overspreads the whole nature, and yet, I think, one can be generous even with suspicion. Among the disciples were a traitor, a liar, a coward, and a doubter; but none upbraid the last, poor Thomas, and he is sainted in our faith. Do you know that suspicion made me deaf? Yes; if we mock Nature with distrust, she stops our ears.
Do you not remember what happened to Zacharias, the priest? He would not believe the angel who announced that his wife would soon become a mother, and for his unbelief was stricken dumb!”
The deaf guest had either stumbled into this ill.u.s.tration, or written it with full design. He looked at Agnes, and the pale and purple colors came and went upon her face as she bent her body forward over the table.
Duff Salter arose and spoke with that lost voice, like one in a vacuum, while he folded his tablet.
”Agnes,” he said, ”it has been cruel to a man of such a sceptical soul as mine to educate him back from the faith he had acquired to the unfaith he had tried to put behind him. Why did you do it? The suppression of the truth is never excusable. The secret you might have scattered with a word, when suspicion started against you, is now diffused through every family and rendezvous in Kensington.”
She looked miserable enough, and still received the stab of her guest's magisterial tongue like an affliction from heaven.
”I had also become infected with this imputation,” continued Duff Salter. ”All things around you looked sinister for a season. A kind Providence has dispelled these black shadows, and I see you now the victim of an immeasurable mistake. Your weakness and another's obstinacy have almost ruined you. I shall save you with a cruel hand; let the remorse be his who hoped to outlive society and its natural suspicions by a mere absence.”
”I will not let you upbraid him,” spoke Agnes Wilt. ”My weakness was the whole mistake.”
”Agnes,” said the grave, bearded man, ”you must walk through Kensington to-morrow with me in the sight of the whole world.”
She looked up and around a moment, and staggered toward a sofa, but would have fallen had not Duff Salter caught her in his arms and placed her there with tender strength. He whispered in her ear:
”Courage, little _mother_!”
CHAPTER VIII.
A REAL ROOF-TREE.
Ringing the bell at the low front step of a two-story brick dwelling, Duff Salter was admitted by Mr. Knox Van de Lear, the proprietor, a tall, plain, commonplace man, who scarcely bore one feature of his venerable father. ”Come in, Mr. Salter,” bellowed Knox, ”tea's just a-waitin' for you. Pap's here. You know Cal, certain! This is my good lady, Mrs. Van de Lear. Lottie, put on the oysters and waffles! Don't forgit the catfish. There's nothing like catfish out of the Delaware, Mr. Salter.”
”Particularly if they have a corpse or two to flavor them,” said Calvin Van de Lear in a low tone.
Mrs. Knox Van de Lear, a fine, large, blonde lady, took the head of the table. She had a sweet, timid voice, quite out of quant.i.ty with her bone and flesh, and her eyelashes seemed to be weak, for they closed together often and in almost regular time, and the delicate lids were quite as noticeable as her bashful blue eyes.
”Lottie,” said Rev. Silas Van de Lear, ”I came in to-night with a little chill upon me. At my age chills are the tremors from other wings hovering near. Please let me have the first cup of coffee hot.”
”Certainly, papa,” said the hostess, making haste to fill his cup. ”You don't at all feel apprehensive, do you?”
”No,” said the old man, with his teeth chattering. ”I haven't had apprehensions for long back. Nothing but confidence.”
”Oh, pap!” put in Knox Van de Lear, ”you'll be a preachin' when I'm a granddaddy. You never mean to die. Eat a waffle!”
”My children,” said the old man, ”death is over-due with me. It gives me no more concern than the last hour shall give all of us. I had hoped to live for three things: to see my new church raised; to see my son Calvin ready to take my place; to see my neighbor, Miss Wilt, whom I have seen grow up under my eye from childhood, and fair as a lily, brush the dew of scandal from her skirts and resume her place in our church, the handmaid of G.o.d again.”
”Amen, old man!” spoke Calvin irreverently, holding up his plate for oysters.
”Why, Cal,” exclaimed the hostess, closing her delicately-tinted eyelids till the long lashes rested on the cheek, ”why don't you call papa more softly?”
”My son,” spoke the little old gentleman between his chatterings, ”in the priestly office you must avoid abruptness. Be direct at all important times, but neither familiar nor abrupt. I cannot name for you a model of address like Agnes Wilt.”
”Isn't she beautiful!” said Mrs. Knox. ”Do you think she can be deceitful, papa?”