University of Virginia Library

Chapter 6

"Please, Miss Frost, the sewing society is going to meet at our house this afternoon, and mother wants you to come round after school, and stay to supper."

The speaker was Annie Peabody, daughter of Deacon Uriah Peabody, a man who lived in a groove, and judged all men according to his own experience of life, which was very limited. He was an austere, old fashioned Calvinist, who believed that at least nineteen twentieths of his fellow men were elected to perdition. Mr. Wilson's theology was not stern enough to suit him. He characterized the minister's sermons as milk and water.

"What we want, parson, is strong meat," he more than once remarked to the minister. "You're always exhortin' men to do right. I don't take much stock in that kind of talk."

"What shall I preach then, Deacon Peabody?" asked the minister mildly.

"If I were a minister I'd stir up the sinners," said the deacon emphatically.

"How would you do it?"

"I'd describe the lake of fire, and the torments of the damned, an' let 'em understand what is prepared for 'em if they don't fear God and do his commandments."

The minister shuddered a little. He was a man of sensitive organization, upon whom these gloomy suggestions jarred unpleasantly. "I can't paint such lurid pictures, deacon," he answered; "nor do I feel that they would do any good. I don't want to paint our Maker as a cruel tyrant, but as a merciful and considerate Father."

"I'm afeared, parson, that you ain't sound in the doctrines. or know what the Scriptures say, `Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.'"

"We also read, `Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.'"

"But suppose they don't fear him," said the deacon triumphantly.

"I believe in the punishment of sin," returned Mr. Wilson. "We cannot err without incurring the penalty, but I believe God, in punishing the sinner, does not cease to love him. `Whom he loveth he chasteneth:' or, as we have a right to say, he loves those that he chastens."

"I don't know about that," said the deacon. "I think that's twistin' Scripture to our own ends. How many do you think are goin' to be saved, Parson Wilson?"

"I cannot hazard a conjecture, deacon. Heaven forbid that I should seek to limit the goodness and mercy of God."

"Do you think a quarter will be saved?" persisted the deacon. "Of course I don't mean the heathen. There ain't no hope for any of them, unless they've been converted by the missionaries. I mean of them that's brought up under Christian institutions."

"A quarter? Most certainly. If I felt that three quarters of the race were destined to be lost, my soul would be weighed down with grief."

"Well, for my part," said the deacon, "I've no idea that as many as a quarter will be saved. About one in twenty is full as high as I calc'late on."

"Good Heavens! Deacon Peabody, you can't be in earnest."

"Yes, I be. Why, Parson Wilson, look at the people as they are," (the deacon pronounced it air) — "ain't they steeped in folly and vice? Ain't they carnally minded? Ain't they livin' for this world without no thought of the other? Air they fit for the mansions of the blest? Tell me that."

The deacon's voice rose in a sort of crescendo, and he put the last question triumphantly.

"We are none of us fit for Heaven," replied the minister, "but we can rely on God's mercy. Your doctrine is simply horrible. If but one in twenty is to be, saved, don't you feel anxious about your own soul?"

"Of course I'm a poor, miserable sinner," said the deacon complacently; "but I'm a professin' Christian, and I have faith in Christ. I think I come within the promises."

"Suppose you were sure of your own salvation, doesn't the thought of the millions who are to perish ever give you anguish?"

"Of course I'm sorry for the poor, deluded sinners," said the deacon, who managed nevertheless to maintain a cheerful exterior; "but the peace of God remains in my soul, and I don't allow the folly of others to disturb me."

The minister shook his head.

"If I believed as you do, deacon," he said, "I could not close my eyes at night. I could not rejoice in the bright sunshine and glorious beauty of outward nature. I should put on sackcloth and ashes, and pour out my soul to God in earnest prayer that he would turn his soul from wrath."

"I don't feel like interferin' with God's arrangements. I've no doubt they're for the best."

"You think it best that all heathen and nineteen twentieths of those that live in Christian countries should be damned?" asked the minister with some vehemence.

"If it's the Lord's will," said Deacon Peabody, in a sanctified tone, "I'm resigned to it."

Deacon Peabody should have lived at least fifty years earlier. He found few of his contemporaries to agree with him in his rigid notions. Most of the parish sympathized rather with the milder theology of Mr. Wilson. Had it been otherwise, had the deacon thought it possible to obtain a preacher in harmony with his own stern views, he would have headed a movement to get rid of the minister. As it was, he contented himself with protesting, in public and private, against what he regarded as pernicious and blinding error.

This has been a long digression, but the deacon was a prominent man in Granville, and interesting as the representative of a class numerous in Puritan days.

When Mabel entered the deacon's parlor, after school was over, she found some dozen ladies congregated, including the most prominent matrons of Granville. There were but two other young ladies besides Miss Frost. One of them was Miss Clarissa Bassett, the other a grown up daughter of the deacon — Miss Charity Peabody, who was noted for a lack of that virtue which had been given her as a designation. Mrs. Peabody, in strange contrast to her husband, had a heart overflowing with kindness. and was disposed to look on the best side of everybody.

"I am very glad to see you, Miss Frost," said Mrs. Peabody cordially, advancing to meet the school teacher. "I've meant to call, but I couldn't seem to get time. I suppose you know some of these ladies. I'll introduce you to such as you don't know."

So Mabel made the rounds and was generally introduced. Though the society was so unlike that in which she had been accustomed to

mingle, she had a natural grace and tact which carried her through the ordeal easily and naturally. She finally found a seat next to Mrs. Priscilla Pulsifer, an old lady of an inquiring turn of mind, who was a new acquaintance, and promptly seized the opportunity to cross-examine Mabel, as she had long desired to do.

"You're the new school teacher, ain't you?"

"Yes, I am."

"How old be you?" asked the old lady, glaring at her through her glasses.

"Twenty two," answered Mabel, resenting what she considered an impertinent question by a counter inquiry. How old are you, Mrs. Pulsifer?"

"Seventy one; and I ain't ashamed on't, either," answered the old lady, bridling.

Mabel was already sorry for her question. "Age is not a thing to be ashamed of," she said. "You don't look so old as that."

"So folks say," said Mrs. Pulsifer, quite appeased, and resuming her inquiries: "You're from the city, ain't you?"

"Yes."

"Ever taught afore?"

"This is my first school."

"How do you like teachin'?"

"Better than I expected. I feel repaid for my labor by watching the progress of the scholars."

"How much wages do you get?" asked the old lady practically.

"Seven dollars a week."

"That's pooty good pay for a single gal," remarked Mrs. Pulsifer. "You don't have anybody dependent on you?"

"Do you mean a husband, Mrs. Pulsifer?" asked Mabel, her eyes sparkling with fun.

"I didn't know but you might have a mother, or brother an' sister, to support."

"No," said Mabel sadly, "I am alone in the world."

"Sho! I s'pose you calc'late on bein' married some time," said the old lady, with directness.

"Perhaps I may be," said Mabel, amused, "but I can't say I calculate on it."

"I guess you can get somebody to marry you," said the practical old lady. "You're good lookin', and are likely to please the men. Clarissa Bassett's tried hard, but somehow she don't make out."

Miss Bassett was sitting at the other end of the room, and, fortunately, was engaged in conversation with Mrs. Hayden, so that she did not hear this last remark.

"Thank you," said Mabel demurely. "You quite encourage me."

"I was twenty five myself before I was married," continued Mrs. Pulsifer. "Not but what I had offers before. Maybe you've had a chance?" and the old lady scrutinized Mabel's countenance.

"Maybe I have," she answered, wanting to laugh.

"That's a pooty gown you have on," said Mrs. Pulsifer, her attention diverted by Mabel's dress. "Was it made in the city?"

"Yes."

"Looks like nice cloth," continued Mrs. Pulsifer, taking a fold between her thumb and finger.

"I think it is," answered Mabel. "How much was it a yard?"

"I'm afraid I don't remember," Mabel replied.

The fact is, she had intrusted the purchase of her summer dresses to her dressmaker, who rendered her the bill in a lump. If there were any details she did not remember them.

"That's strange," said the old lady, staring. "I know the price of all the clothes I ever bought."

"You probably have a better memory than I," said Mabel, hoping by this compliment to turn the attack, but in vain.

"Haven't you any idee of the price?" asked the old lady.

"It may have been a dollar a yard."

"How many yards did you get?"

"I — am not sure."

"How much did you pay for that collar?"

"I am really sorry I can't tell you,"

said Mabel, who felt somewhat embarrassed.

"Perhaps you don't like to tell."

"I would tell you with pleasure, if I knew."

"'Pears to me you must be a poor manager not to keep more account of your expenses," said Mrs. Pulsifer.

"I am afraid I am," said Mabel.

"How many dresses did you bring with you, Miss Frost?"

The old lady's catechizing was getting annoying, but Mabel understood that she meant no offense and answered patiently, "Six."

"Did they all cost as much as this?"

"I should think so."

"I don't see how you can afford to spend so much on dress," said Mrs. Pulsifer, "considering you have only seven dollars a week salary."

"I shall try to be more prudent hereafter, Mrs. Pulsifer."

"You'd better. The men will be afraid to marry you if they think you're extravagant. I told my son Jotham, `Jotham,' says I, `don't you marry a woman that wants to put all her money on her back.' Says I, `An extravagant wife is a curse to a man that wants to be forehanded.'"

"Did your son follow your advice?"

"Yes; he married a likely girl that makes all her own dresses. Jotham told me only last week that he didn't buy her but one dress all last year."

"You must be pleased with your daughter-in-law, Mrs. Pulsifer."

"Yes; she's pretty good as wives go nowadays, but I don't think she's a good cook."

"That is a pity."

"Can you cook, Miss Frost?

"I don't know much about cooking."

Sho! You'll want to know how when you're married."

"When I see any chance of marrying I mean to take lessons," said Mabel.

Just then, to Mabel's relief, supper was reported to be ready, and the members of the sewing society filed out with alacrity to the sitting room, where a long table was bountifully spread with hot biscuit, preserves, and several kinds of cake and pies. The mistress of the household, rather flushed by the heat of the kitchen, welcomed her guests, and requested them to take seats. Mabel took care not to sit in the neighborhood of Mrs. Pulsifer. The old lady's curiosity had come to be annoying, yet could not well be resented.

She congratulated herself on finding her next neighbor to be Mrs. Wilson, the minister's wife, a small woman, in a well worn silk, ten years old, which had been her only "company dress" during that entire period. There was a look of patient anxiety on the good woman's face which had become habitual. She was sorely perplexed at all times to make both ends meet. Even now she was uncomfortable in mind from this very cause. During the morning Mr. Bennett, the butcher, had called at the parsonage, and urgently requested payment for his "little bill." It amounted to only twenty five dollars, but the minister's stock of ready money was reduced to five dollars, and to pay this on account would have left him penniless. His candid statement of his pecuniary condition was not well received.

"I don't think people ought to buy meat if they can't pay for it," said the butcher bluntly.

"The parish is owing me more than the amount of your bill, Mr. Bennett," said the perplexed minister. "Just as soon as I can collect the money — — "

"I need it now," said the butcher coarsely. "I have bills to pay, and I can't pay them unless my customers pay me."

"I wish I could pay you at once." said Mr. Wilson wistfully. "Would you take an order on the parish treasurer?"

"No; he's so slack it wouldn't do, me any good. Can't you pay half today, Mr. Wilson?"

"I have but five dollars on hand, Mr. Bennett; I can't pay you the whole of that. I will divide it with you." "Two dollars and a half! It would be only ten per cent of my bill."

He closed, however, by agreeing to take it; but grumbled as he did so.

"These things try me a good deal," said the minister, with a sigh, after the departure of his creditor. "I sometimes think I will leave the profession, and try to find some business that will pay me better."

"It would be hazardous to change now, Theophilus," said his wife. "You have no business training, and would be as likely to do worse as better."

"Perhaps you are right, my dear. I suppose we must worry along. Do you think we could economize any more than we do?

"I don't see how we can. I've lain awake many a night thinking whether it would be possible, but I don't see how. We couldn't pinch our table any more without risking health."

"I am afraid you are right."

"Why not call on Mr. Ferry, the treasurer, and see if he cannot collect some more money for you?"

"I will do so; but I fear it will be of no use."

The minister was right. Mr. Ferry handed him two dollars.

"It is all I have been able to collect," he said. "Money is tight, Mr. Wilson, and everybody puts off paying."

This was what made Mrs. Wilson's face a shade more careworn than usual on this particular day. To add to her trouble, Mrs. Bennett, the wife of her husband's creditor, who was also a member of the sewing circle, had treated her with great coolness, and almost turned her back upon her. The minister's wife was sensitive, and she felt the slight. When, however, she found Mabel at her side, she smiled pleasantly.

"I am glad to have a chance to thank you, Miss Frost, for the pains you have taken with my little Henry. He has never learned so fast with any teacher before. You must have special talent for teaching."

"I am glad if you think so, Mrs. Wilson. I am a novice, you know. I have succeeded better than I anticipated."

"You have succeeded in winning the children's love. Henry is enthusiastic about you."

"I don't think I should be willing to teach unless I could win the good will of my scholars," said Mabel, earnestly. "With that, it is very pleasant to teach."

"I can quite understand your feelings. Before I married Mr. Wilson, I served an apprenticeship as a teacher. I believe I failed as a disciplinarian," she added, smiling faintly. "The committee thought I wasn't strict enough."

I am not surprised," said Mabel. "You look too kind to be strict."

"I believe I was too indulgent; but I think I would rather err in that than in the opposite direction."

"I fancy," said Mabel, "that you must find your position as a minister's wife almost as difficult as keeping school."

"It certainly has its hard side," said Mrs. Wilson cautiously; for she did not venture to speak freely before so many of her husband's parishioners.

Just then Mrs. Bennett, the butcher's wife, who sat on the opposite side of the table, interrupted their conversation. She was a large, coarse looking woman, with a red face and a loud voice.

"Miss Frost," she said, in a tone of voice audible to all the guests, "I have a bone to pick with you."

Mabel arched her brows, and met the glance of Mrs. Bennett with quiet haughtiness.

"Indeed!" said she, coldly.

"Yes, indeed!" replied Mrs. Bennett, provoked by the cool indifference of the school teacher.

"Please explain," said Mabel quietly.

"You promoted two girls in my Flora's class, and let her stay where, she was."

"I would have promoted her if she had been competent."

"Why ain't she competent?" Mrs. Bennett went on.

"Of course there can be only one answer to that question, Mrs. Bennett. She is not sufficiently advanced in her studies."

She knows as much as Julia Fletcher or Mary Ferris, any day," retorted Mrs. Bennett.

Suppose we defer our discussion till we leave the table," said Mabel," finding it difficult to conceal her disdain for her assailant's unmannerly exhibition.

Mrs. Bennett did not reply, but she remarked audibly to the woman who sat next to her; "The school teacher's rather uppish. 'Pears to me she's carryin' things with a high hand."

"You see a school teacher has her trials, Mrs. Wilson," said Mabel, turning to her neighbor with a rather faint smile.

"I feel for you," said the minister's wife sympathetically.

"Thank you, but don't suppose I mind it at all. I shall exercise my own discretion, subject only to the committee. I am wholly independent."

"I wish I could be," sighed Mrs. Wilson; "but no one can be less so than a minister's wife."

"Is your husband to be here this evening?" asked Mabel.

"He has a bad headache and was unable to come. I shall go home early, as I may be needed."

In fact, about half an hour later, Mrs. Wilson made an apology and took her leave.

"Mrs. Wilson is looking pale and careworn," said Mrs. Kent. "Don't you think so, Mrs. Hadley?"

"She hasn't much energy about her," replied the Squire's wife. "If she had, the minister would get along better."

"I think she's no sort of manager," said Mrs. Bennett. "She runs her husband into debt by her shiftless ways."

"I think you're mistaken," said Mrs. Pratt quietly. "I know her well, and I consider her an admirable manager. She makes a little go as far as she can, and as far as any one else could."

"I only know my husband can't get his bill paid," Mrs. Bennett went on. "He presented it this morning — twenty five dollars — and only got two dollars and a half. Seems to me there must be poor management somewhere."

It would be unfair to the femininity of Granville to say that Mrs. Bennett was a fair specimen of it. Except Mrs. Hadley, there was not one who did not look disgusted at her coarseness and bad breeding.

"You must excuse me, Mrs. Bennett," said Mrs. Kent, "but I don't think that follows, by any means, from what you say."

"Then how do you explain it?" asked the butcher's wife.

"The trouble is that Mr. Wilson's salary is too small."

"He ought to live on five hundred dollars a year, I think," said Mrs. Hadley; "especially when he gets his rent so cheap."

"Is five hundred dollars actually the amount of his salary?" asked Mabel, amazed.

"Yes."

"How do you expect him to support his family on such an amount as that?" she exclaimed almost indignantly.

"It is very small, Miss Frost," said Mrs. Pratt, "but I am afraid we couldn't pay much more. None of us are rich. Still I think something ought to be done to help Mr. Wilson. What do you say, ladies, to a donation visit?"

"It's just the thing," said Clarissa Bassett enthusiastically.

It may be better than nothing," said Mrs. Kent; "but I am afraid donation visits don't amount to as much as we think they do."

The proposal, however, was generally approved, and before the meeting closed it was decided to give the minister a donation visit a fortnight later.

"Shall you be present, Miss Frost?" asked Mrs. Pratt.

"Oh, yes, I won't fail to attend."

"Your colleague, Miss Bassett, always carries a large pincushion on such occasions. The minister must

have at least five of her manufacture."

"In that case," said Mabel, smiling, "I think I will choose a different gift."