The White Lady (21 page)

Then she lay down and slept.

S
lowly but surely Mrs. Wetherill rallied. Little by little the stricken limbs responded to commands from the feeble brain, and it became apparent that she would get about again.

Constance daily rejoiced. She had not known how much her grandmother was to her until it seemed as if she were about to lose her. It seemed as if no discouragement were too great to be borne now, if this dear one could get well. She came and went with sunny face and cheery manner, and her grandmother was able at last to smile when she entered the room.

Miss Stokes had become a fixture and a comfort. Her wages were not so exorbitant as those of a city-trained maid or a trained nurse, and Constance felt that the arrangement was quite possible, for now the railroad junction was operating and the number of patrons increased daily. The tearoom took quite a start and promised to do well. Perhaps the old lady’s illness and the settled presence of Miss Stokes, a well-known and dependable person, gave prestige to the enterprise. There was promise of one or two settled table boarders.

Moreover, within a week after Mrs. Wetherill was taken ill, a rumor spread abroad that a fine boarding school for boys was to be built a mile from the edge of town. It caused quite a stir among the businessmen of Rushville. Silas Barton set about an enlargement of his quarters. Some said he was going to add a restaurant, with all the latest improvements, but that had not reached Constance’s ears as yet and so did not trouble her.

She was much needed downstairs in these days, for although she did not go into the dining room unless it became actually a necessity, it was necessary for someone to be in the kitchen to keep things from burning, and often to cook something ordered while Norah was waiting upon the table. It became apparent that more help would soon be needed. Constance pondered for a time, and the result was that Jimmy was put into a white duck coat and properly clothed as to his reluctant feet, which did not enjoy shoes and stockings in summertime, and was pressed into service. And a fine little waiter he made, businesslike and energetic, though he would have made the hair of old Thomas, the Wetherill butler, rise on end with horror.

Traveling salesmen and railroad men stopped every day at Rushville now, for there were changes to be made in the freight house and station, and there was talk of a branch road to connect with another through road to the great Southwest. These men naturally drifted to the drugstore first, but afterward most of them found the Cedars, possibly through some word of Holly’s or Jimmy’s, and after one trial came back every time, for solid silver, cut glass, comfort, and good cooking were not to be found at the soda counter of the drugstore.

The walls of the old house were thick, and the floors sent up no echo to disturb the old lady who lay there carefully tended and guarded from everything that could trouble her. She knew not that the family plate of the Wetherill’s was being desecrated in the hands of taxi drivers and drummers and railroad laborers, nor knew that her daily bread came from a business carried on by a descendant of two fine old families.

As she grew better and could say a few words, she came to ask for the minister and to look for his daily visit. Always before he went she asked him in her stately, gentle way to pray, and a peace settled down upon her at his first words.

There were long talks between the minister and the proprietress of the Cedars on religion, poetry, art, music, and back, always back to religion again. He brought her some of his theological books to read. Constance was gradually growing to feel that the question of personal salvation was the most vital one in the world. Her companionship with John Endicott was not like that she had ever had with any other young man. He came and went informally, because her grandmother enjoyed his coming, and it was natural to drop into the back parlor for a few minutes after he came downstairs and leave a new book or a paper that contained an article he thought she would enjoy. Often she would play for him scraps of a beautiful melody or some stately masterpiece of an old composer, and he would close his eyes, lay his head back in the soft chair, and rest.

Once when she had finished a prelude of Chopin, which he had come to call “The Prelude” because he liked it so much, he suddenly said, “Oh, if we could have your playing in our church!”

Constance turned gravely toward him and considered it. Here, perhaps, was work she might do to get virtue to her soul. She remembered how she had been sorry that Lent was over, because she thought it might ease her troubled soul to deny herself something. She tried to tell Mr. Endicott now how she had felt, and he quoted these words:

He quoted it gently. And then he said, “My friend, don’t make that mistake. You cannot work yourself to righteousness. This gift of life is to be had for the asking, not by doing anything to earn it. But, sincerely, you do not know how much help you might give us by coming over there and playing for us. The good lady who has been playing is going away to keep house for her brother; else I do not know how we could get rid of her, and as yet there has been no talk of anyone else. If you will agree to do it, I will forestall any such unpleasant occurrence by announcing your willingness. There are a number of atrocious players in this town, and I shiver to think of one of those at that poor old organ. You might
get
some help, too, for I do not believe we can come into contact with any body of real Christians, no matter how plain or illiterate, who will not help us in some sense to come nearer to the Lord and Master of us all. I have learned a great many lessons from dear old Mr. Mather and his sweet little wrinkled wife. They are almost on the town, they are so poor; they have none of the beautiful things of life, and their past is full of losses, but they are so happy and peaceful, and speak with such triumph of their heavenly home and their expectation of soon going there, that I love to sit and talk with them.”

Constance watched his face as he talked, noticed the lights that played over it and the kindling of his eyes, and, as she had often done before, she compared him with Morris Thayer. At last she spoke.

“I will do it if you think it will help. I should like to help in any way I can. I could not take that class of girls that Jennie spoke about, because I should not know how to teach them, not yet, at least, but I will help in any way I can. And if you would like me to do anything else, or if you can use our big dining room for a social gathering sometime, if Grandmother is well enough to bear the noise by and by, I should be glad to help that way.”

His face lighted with pleasure. What a wealth of help she could be! How he had sighed for just such help as this!

That was the beginning of new things in the way of music for the little church. The woman who was going away was glad to resign her position at once, and Constance took charge the following Sunday. The organ had been tuned by a man sent for from a neighboring town, and though it was by no means in perfect working order, yet it was wonderfully better. With confidence and skill, Constance touched the keys and brought forth a different sound from any they had made in years. The people stirred, sat up, and stared, and the choir opened its mouth and sang as it had never sung before. The loungers from across the street loafed over to look in and see what was going on, and thereafter the beautiful organist became an added attraction to the church.

It was discovered presently that the choir had abilities and Miss Wetherill had a voice. Little by little she took control of the singing in the church, until there was a revolution. Constance found that Jennie’s voice, while somewhat strained from having sung too high as a child, had a pretty quality for an alto, and she set to work to give her some hints and practice with her.

Her own voice had received rare cultivation, simply because she had loved music and had delighted to sing, and even in her music-saturated circle at home she had always been listened to with pleasure. Therefore it was no wonder that the first time she sang a solo in church the congregation was spellbound. It was only a gospel song she sang, but the minister had chosen it to follow his sermon, and it made a wonderful impression. They sat hushed and tearful. Even Mrs. Bartlett, with hymnbook ready for a closing hymn to be sung by the congregation, glanced up over her spectacles and watched the sweet-faced singer to the end. Her comment after church in a condescending tone was, “Yes, she has a right pretty little voice.”

Jimmy sat in the back seat, entranced. He fairly burst with pride, and he watched his goddess from the moment she opened her mouth until the service was over.

And so the summer passed, and the autumn; and the winter came upon them. The town had accepted the fact that Mrs. Wetherill was a helpless invalid and required the frequent attendance of the minister upon her, although the gossips’ tongues still wagged.

The choir had developed into a well-trained band, who met once a week with their leader and were getting lessons in all sorts of things besides music, from manners to the arrangements of their respective hair and apparel; or even now and then a lesson in art or literature, as it happened that their attention would be directed to a picture or a book in the pretty room where they met. It is safe to say that few of them had ever before been in a room so beautifully furnished. Constance was using her belongings for the Master’s work, though some might have thought she was doing it for the minister’s sake instead.

More and more had these two grown to enjoy each other’s society, though neither confessed it.

The minister, fully knowing what he was about, fully realizing the danger to himself in this sweet companionship with a girl born and bred so differently from himself, held himself in check and enjoyed every moment spent with her to the full. It was to him as if God had let an angel from heaven come down to help him in this, his first poor charge, in a little country village. She even put her influence upon the village gossip and the petty church quarrels, like a calm, cool hand upon a fevered brow, and with her superior way of looking at things made some of the foolish tongues ashamed, and turned them to ask forgiveness.

Sometimes in his lonely moments the minister would sit in his dark, musty study, with his face buried in his hands, and imagine for just a little while what it would be to have such a helper with him all the time; his, to call his own, the gift of God. But this he felt could never be. She was of another world than his. She had always lived there; she would eventually go back to it. She had told him her story, and he would not question further, but he felt certain that someday there would come someone from out of that other bright, easy world, who would claim her as his own, and she would smile brightly, bid them all good-bye, and leave them. It could not but be so. They would find her out somehow, and that time could not be far away. Rushville would not have her always.

Then he would shake himself free from such thoughts and plunge into his work with his whole soul again, Constance helping him.

Early in the winter there were special meetings held in the old church every night. People came in from all the country round about, and the Spirit of the Lord seemed to be upon the community. Every night the minister preached his simple Gospel sermon, and every night Constance sang. It was as she sang these songs to others, of the precious Jesus and all He could be to them if they would only come to Him, that she came to know that she was Christ’s herself, body and soul, for time and for eternity.

It was then that Jimmy came to the minister one day, choking and embarrassed, and said, “I’ve made up my mind. You kin put me down. I’m a-goin’ to b’long. Mebbe you couldn’ta fetched me in alone, but you ’n’ her together kin do anythin’ yer a min’ to.”

And the next communion Jimmy, and Jimmy’s brother, and Jennie, and a number of others stood up in the church to acknowledge before the world their allegiance to the Lord Jesus Christ.

But there was one person in the town who did not love Constance, and who would not be won over to her charms, and that was Silas Barton. In the first place, she had come into town and calmly set up rivalry of his business; and next, she had dared to ignore him utterly when he had made some advances toward her.

But the last and greatest offense was that she had been the cause of his own public ridicule, and that he could never bear. There were those who had stood in the crowd the day that Jimmy whipped Lanky, and cast it up to the bootlegger that the minister had openly rebuked him and walked away unharmed. So now Silas Barton hated the minister and hated Constance Wetherill; and he stood back in his rage and vowed to have vengeance upon them. The poison in his brain worked slowly, but it was of a deadly kind, and when the venom did appear, it would take a startling form. So he turned over and over various schemes and plots, until one took form so vile and so altogether demonic that it seemed it must have emanated from the pit.

And thus matters stood when Morris Thayer came seeking the woman whom he would make his wife.

M
orris Thayer stood upon the forlorn little platform and looked about him dubiously. He was fresh from an elaborate grooming and immaculate from the hands of the two porters. There was not a hair awry, nor a stain of travel upon his sleek person. He looked well groomed and well fed, and altogether well pleased with himself. And indeed he was, for he considered himself to have been very bright to have discovered Constance’s retreat, though the truth of the matter was he had not been the discoverer at all. He had told his man of the state of the case and put the matter into his hands. That knowing and wily servant straightway set himself to find the old butler who had lived with the Wetherills, and through him had ferreted out the abiding-places of all the servants who had left there.