PAGE 7
Bankrupt
by
“Did he look at ’em?” she cried. “Did he? Tell me what he said!”
“Why, of course I don’t hear no better yit!” answered old Simeon, testily, turning to stump away, “but that ain’t no sign I sha’n’t! He’s a beauty! I set up now, when he goes by, so’s I can hear him when he rides back. I put a quilt down in the fore-yard, an’ when the ground trimbles a mite, I git up to see if it’s his hoss. Once I laid there till ‘leven. He’s a beauty, he is!”
He went quavering down the road, and Dorcas ran back to the house, elated afresh. An unregarded old man could give him the poor treasure of his affection, quite unasked. Why should not she?
Nance was just taking her unceremonious leave. Her pockets bulged with doughnuts, and she had wrapped half a pie in the Sudleigh “Star,” surreptitiously filched from the woodbox.
“Well, I guess I’ll be gittin’ along towards meetin’,” she said, in a tone of unconcern, calculated to allay suspicion. “I’m in hopes to git a mite o’ terbacker out o’ Hiram Cole, if he’s settin’ lookin’ at his pigs, where he is ‘most every Sunday. I’ll have a smoke afore I go in.”
“Don’t you be late!”
“I’m a-goin’ in late, or not at all!” answered Nance, contradictorily. “My bunnit ain’t trimmed on the congregation side, an’ I want to give ’em a chance to see it all round. I’m a-goin’ up the aisle complete!”
Dorcas finished her work, and, having tidied her father’s room, sat down by his bedside for the simple rites that made their Sabbath holy. With the first clanging stroke of the old bell, not half a mile away, they fell into silence, waiting reverently through the necessary pause for allowing the congregation to become seated. Then they went through the service together, from hymn and prayer to the sermon. The parson had his manuscript ready, and he began reading it, in the pulpit-voice of his prime. At that moment, some of his old vigor came back to him, and he uttered the conventional phrases of his church with conscious power; though so little a man, he had always a sonorous delivery. After a page or two, his hands began to tremble, and his voice sank.
“You read a spell, Dorcas,” he whispered, in pathetic apology. “I’ll rest me a minute.” So Dorcas read, and he listened. Presently he fell asleep, and she still went on, speaking the words mechanically, and busy with her own tumultuous thoughts. Amazement possessed her that the world could be so full of joy to which she had long been deaf. She could hear the oriole singing in the elm; his song was almost articulate. The trees waved a little, in a friendly fashion, through the open windows; friendly in the unspoken kinship of green things to our thought, yet remote in their own seclusion. One tall, delicate locust, gowned in summer’s finest gear, stirred idly at the top, as if through an inward motion, untroubled by the wind. Dorcas’s mind sought out the doctor, listening to the sermon in her bare little church, and she felt quite content. She had entered the first court of love, where a spiritual possession is enough, and asks no alms of bodily nearness. When she came to the end of the sermon, her hands fell in her lap, and she gave herself up without reserve to the idle delight of satisfied dreaming. The silence pressed upon her father, and he opened his eyes wide with the startled look of one who comprehends at once the requirements of time and place. Then, in all solemnity, he put forth his hands; and Dorcas, bending her head, received the benediction for the congregation he would never meet again. She roused herself to bring in his beef-tea, and at the moment of carrying away the tray, a step sounded on the walk. She knew who it was, and smiled happily. The lighter foot keeping pace beside it, she did not hear.