Bankrupt ( part 1)

Miss Dorcas True stood in her square front entry, saying good-by to

Phoebe Marsh. The entry would have been quite dark from its time-

stained woodwork and green paper, except for the twilight glimmer

swaying and creeping through the door leading into the garden. Out there

were the yellow of coreopsis, and the blue of larkspur, melted into a dim

magnificence of color, suffusing all the air; to one who knew what

common glory was a-blowing and a-growing there without, the bare

seclusion of the house might well seem invaded by it, like a heavenly

flood. Phoebe, too, in her pink calico, appeared to spread abroad the

richness of her youth and bloom, and radiate a certain light about her

where she stood. She was tall, her proportions were ample, and her waist

very trim. She had the shoulders and arms of the women of an elder

time, whom we classify vaguely now as goddesses. The Tiverton voices

argued that she would have been "real handsome if she'd had any sense

about doin' her hair;" which was brought down loosely over her ears, in

the fashion of her Aunt Phoebe's miniature. Miss Dorcas beside her looked

like one of autumn's brown, quiescent stems left standing by the way.

She was firmly built, yet all her lines subdued themselves to that

meagreness which ever dwells afar from beauty. The deep marks of hard

experience had been graven on her forehead, and her dark eyes burned

inwardly; the tense, concentrated spark of pain and the glowing of happy

fervor seemed as foreign to them as she herself to all the lighter joys and

hopes. Her only possibility of beauty lay in an abundance of soft dark

hair; but even that had been restricted and coiled into a compact,

utilitarian compass. She had laid one nervous hand on Phoebe's arm, and

she grasped the arm absently, from time to time, in talking, with

unconscious joy in its rounded warmth. She spoke cautiously, so that her

voice might not be heard within.

"Then you come over to-morrow, after the close of service, if it's

convenient. You can slip right into the kitchen, just as usual. Any news?" Phoebe, too, lowered her voice, but the full sweetness of its quality

thrilled out.

"Mary Frances Giles is going to be married next week. I've been down to

see her things. She's real pleased."

"You don't suppose they'll ask father to marry 'em?" Miss Dorcas spoke

quite eagerly.

"Oh, no, they can't! It's a real wedding, you know. It's got to be at the

house."

"Yes, of course it's got to! I knew that myself, but I couldn't help hoping.

Well, goodnight. You come Sunday."

Phoebe lifted her pink skirts about her, and stepped, rustling and stately,

down the garden walk. Miss Dorcas drew one deep breath of the outer

fragrance, and turned back into the house. A thin voice, enfeebled and

husky from old age, rose in the front room, as she entered:

"Dorcas! Dorcas! you had a caller?"

Her father, old Parson True, lay in the great bed opposite the window. A

thin little twig of a man, he was still animated, at times, by the power of a

strenuous and dauntless spirit. His hair, brushed straight back from the

overtopping forehead, had grown snowy white, and the eager, delicate

face beneath wore a strange pathos from the very fineness of its

nervously netted lines. Not many years after his wife's death, the parson

had shown some wandering of the wits; yet his disability, like his loss,

had been mercifully veiled from him. He took calmly to his bed, perhaps

through sheer lack of interest in life, and it became his happy invention

that he was "not feeling well," from one day to another, but that, on the

next Sunday, he should rise and preach. He seemed like an unfortunate

and uncomplaining child, and the village folk took pride in him as

something all their own; a pride enhanced by his habit, in this weak

estate, of falling back into the homely ways of speech he had used long

ago when he was a boy "on the farm." In his wife's day, he had stood in

the pulpit above them, and expounded scriptural lore in academic English;

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