The Wetherel affair :: :: University of Virginia Library

She was a lady of fifty, above the middle height, and of considerable volume,
but giving one an idea of solid brawn rather than of fat, and with a vigorous
style of action and elocution which betokened strength and robust
health. Her features were irregular and boldly marked, but they beamed unmistakably
with cheerfulness, good nature, and cordiality, and they disclosed
lurking symptoms of what seemed unconscious humor.

Her dress was flying; her handkerchief was fluttering to the ground behind
her; her spectacles were holding on to the bridge of her nose with an air of
desperation; one hand dragged along the “Puritan Recorder,” which she had
been reading to Mr. Wetherel; and altogether she had a flurried, windy air, as
of a person descending in a parachute. She was the image of headlong hospitality
rushing forth to greet a desired guest. The hilarity of welcome in her
wide mouth was not so much a smile as a broad laugh, the preliminary of a
somewhat clamorous explosion of kindliness.

“So glad to see you!” she almost shouted, as she caught Nestoria on the
intricate steps of the old-fashioned vehicle and kissed her to the ground.
“You come to us like a dove out of the ark. One may almost say that you
arrive from Mount Ararat. I feel like asking you after the prosperity of Father
Noah and his children. What is your last news from your dear good father?
We have taken his hand so often through the `Missionary Hearld' that we

all feel as if we had shared his labors and seen his face. Come straight in.
James will attend to your baggage. Alice, run, tell Cousin Wetherel that it is
Miss Bernard. No, never mind; he must know it. How pleased the old gentleman
will be to see you under his roof-tree. He has looked forward to your
coming as if you were the Queen of Sheba. James, unstrap that trunk and be
careful not to drop it, and carry it up stairs immediately, will you? How tired
you must be! And how we do come together from the ends of the earth and
the islands of the sea! The devious ways of the great deep are lighted up by
Providence in a way that is wonderful to our eyes. I was just reading a piece
in the `Puritan Recorder' which put me so in mind of you! Bless me, where
is that paper? Cousin Wetherel would have a fit if I lost it. Oh, here it is in
my hand; I thought it was my handkerchief. Alice, do look for my handkerchief.
It is somewhere or other, flying all abroad like—how does the hymn
go? And so here you are at last, arrived upon us out of mysteries, safe
through a thousand perils. Walk in and see Cousin Wetherel. Dear me, there
the old gentleman is, coming out to meet you. I don't know whether he looks
most like one of the ancient kings of the order of Melchisedek, or like one
risen from the dead.”

Mrs. Dinneford talked, like her daughter, with the utmost volubility. In
her haste and glee she asked question after question without waiting for an answer,
and poured out her feelings, her thoughts, and her news in a commingled
and ceaseless torrent. Her conversation was the oddest miscellany of commonplace
observations, of Biblical allusions, of whimsical comparisons, and occasionally
of striking if not absolute poetic fancies. There is no possibility of
adequately describing or reporting it.

On the front portico of the house, his hair shining like silver under the light
of the hall lamp, stood old Mr. Wetherel. He was a man of medium height,
but he seemed tall because of his exceeding leanness, and perhaps he would
have been tall but for the stoop in his narrow shoulders. His alpaca clothing
blew about him in the light evening breeze as if it draped a mere skeleton. His
face was a singularly narrow one; the high, hard, shining forehead was narrow;
the sunken, dusky temples approached each other; the cheek bones were close
together; the jaws had no breadth. Viewed in profile, this face reminded one
of those caricatures which artists sometimes figure in the convex of a crescent
moon. A strangely projecting brow looked down over a thin, straight nose at
a strangely projecting chin. The expression of the countenance was grave
even to austerity, but sweetened by a benevolence of that enduring sort which
springs from sense of duty, and lighted now and then (if one studied it long
enough) by faint glimmers from a humor which an anxious conscience vainly
strove to hide under its bushel.

Mr. Wetherel did not advance to meet Nestoria. It would undoubtedly
have been a task of some little difficulty for him to descend the steps. But as
his guest reached his post of audience he put forth a thin, wrinkled hand,
grasped her plump and soft one with a hospitable firmness, and, looking
searchingly, steadfastly into her face, said in a tremulous, yet clear voice, and
with impressive deliberation, “I am glad—and honored—to receive under my
roof the daughter of the great—and GOOD—Doctor Bernard—whom Heaven
bless! If that light among the dark places of the earth had himself come hither,
I would have gone forth to meet him, as the brethren of Rome went to
meet Paul. Is he well?”

This singular speech, so unwordly in diction and feeling, was uttered with

a patriarchal simplicity and sincerity of manner. There was no affectation
about it, and not the slightest consciousness of cant. The man had so constantly
read the Bible, he had so closely identified his sentiments with the faith
of the Bible, that whenever he felt strongly his language was naturally Biblical.
There were times, indeed, when he talked in Scriptural style with an evident
sense of humor. But that was only in his gayer moments; in such moments
of hilarity as would have led other men to joke outright; and even during
these ebullitions he never smiled.

“My father was well when I last heard,” replied Nestoria.

“His work is not yet finished,” said Judge Wetherel. “We are stayed—
those of us who are worth staying—until we have wrought our task. Come
in.”

He wheeled slowly, not pivoting on his heel, but taking little steps in turning,
with an obvious care as to keeping his balance, and marched by her side
into the house. His gait was much like his utterance; it was deliberate, monotonous,
and solemn. Even among the calm people of the East Nestoria had
never seen any human being of such gravity and staidness. A less reverential
imagination than hers might have amused itself with the idea that the old gentleman
went by clockwork, and was wound up to walk, speak, and think just
so fast and no faster. A circumstance, by the way, which added much to his
air of stiffness, was a high, old-fashioned black stock, which completely hid his
emaciated neck, and seemed to be the only support of his head. This head he
turned rarely to right or left, frequently addressing people without looking at
them, or bringing himself to face them by slowly wheeling his whole body, as
if he were a battalion changing front to open fire. It was with his eyes set
straight before him that he carried on a conversation with Nestoria as he escorted
her into his parlor.

“Miss Bernard,” he continued, in his deliberate monotone, advancing slowly
and with frequent halts, like an army under a cautious general, “if I were an
Oriental, I suppose I should say to you that this house and all that is in it are
yours. As I am an Occidental and a descendant of the exact-speaking Puritans,
and therefore have learned to utter strictly what I mean, I will simply
say that you are welcome to stay in this house as long as I live.”

“I trust that that would mean for a long time,” replied Nestoria with honest
warmth.

“That is speaking like an Oriental,” gravely remarked Judge Wetherel.
“What kindness the easterns feel they also feel at liberty to utter.”

“I am so really and deeply obliged to you for your invitation!” added the
girl. “I shall want to stay with you a long while.”

“With the permission of Divine Providence you shall,” declared the old
man. “The child of God's apostle to his ancient church in the Kurdish mountains
shall be a member of my family as long as she chooses to be.”

“But I must not stay here a very great while,” said Nestoria. “My father
told me that I must not live an idle life in America. I have studies to complete.”

“Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might,” repeated the
Judge. “But until the hour of labor comes, repose here.”

They had now reached a small and plainly furnished but profusely lighted
parlor. The old gentleman slightly moved a large chair, signed to the girl to
occupy it, seated himself with careful deliberation in another, leaned forward,
and gazed at her intently.

“Do you look like your father?” he asked, after a pause.

“I do not,” said Nestoria. “My father says that I look as my mother did
at my age.”

“I wish that you resembled your father,” was the response of the Judge,
who seemed a little disappointed.

“Why, Cousin Wetherel, what do you mean?” burst in Mrs. Dinneford,
who had just bustled into the room, having been engaged in worrying James
about the trunk. “Don't you think she looks well enough? How could anybody
want her to be different?”

Cousin Wetherel saw, as clearly as Mrs. Dinneford did, that the damsel, as
he would have phrased it, was comely. But he would sooner have been smitten
on the mouth than have permitted himself to tell her of the fact. In his
belief beauty was a snare, and the consciousness of the possession it ruin.
Without moving his head he turned his eyes upon his relative with an air of
reproof and quietly answered, “She is as God made her, and it is enough. I
was merely anxious to know somewhat concerning the physical appearance of
her father.”

“Well, so am I,” cheerfully declared Mrs. Dinneford, not in the least
abashed or hurt by her reprimand, and in fact too busy with her own thinkings
to notice it. “It is a great satisfaction certainly to become acquainted with
the outward man and similitude of good people who have been blessed to do a
great work in the world. I should like to know the appearance of Moses and
Samuel and Isaiah, and the rest of the old worthies. They must have been
delightful to look upon, each after his fashion. You know what Tupper says,
`There is a beauty of the spirit—mind in its perfect flowering.' I quote Tupper
just as much as ever, Miss Bernard. Cousin Wetherel sometimes reproves
me for it; he says I seem to put Tupper above the Bible; and indeed, I don't
put him far behind. Tupper is so elevated and philosophical, and such a
painter of character! Just hear this now: `There is a beauty of the reason,
grandly independent of externals; it looketh from the windows of the house,
shining in the man triumphant.' Don't you seem to see St. Paul in that? He
was little of stature and of mean countenance, but his great mind must have
made him impressive and a feast to the eye. Oh, yes, there is a prodigious
satisfaction to be got out of a portrait of somebody whom you reverence.
Why, I have studied with a great deal of pleasure the picture of old Peter in
the `Lives of the Popes'; I don't suppose it resembles him any more than
it resembles Methusaleh or the Patriarch of Constantinople or the Wandering
Jew. But I could imagine it was Peter saying, `Lord, thou knowest that I
love thee,' though he had more of an air as if he had just been denying his Master.
And so, as to your good father, I feel exactly as the Judge does; I should
like to see his photograph. Haven't you got one with you?”

“No,” said Nestoria. “I wish I had. But they don't take photographs
yet in our mountains. However, he is a little like—only he is much older—a
little like—” and here Nestoria came to a pause.

“Like whom?” queried Judge Wetherel with interest.

The girl thought that she had gone too far to stop, and she was too conscientious
to conceive of an evasion.

“Like a gentleman who came up with me in the boat,” she added, coloring
deeply. “He said he was your nephew. Mr. Edward Wetherel.”

The old man's countenance darkened a little, and it seemed as if his sunken
eyes sparkled. Any one who knew him well might have divined that he was
not pleased with the fact of this acquaintance, and that he was likely to question
the girl further about it.