Bankrupt (part 8)

"I'm Phoebe," he said, laughing, when Dorcas met him at the door. "She

can't come; so I told her I'd take her place."

These were the little familiar deeds which gilded his name among the

people. Dorcas had been growing used to them. But on the' next Sunday

morning, when she was hurrying about her kitchen, making early

preparations for the cold mid-day meal, a daring thought assailed her.

Phoebe might come to-day, and if the doctor also dropped in, she would

ask them both to dinner. There was no reason for inviting him alone;

besides, it was happier to sit by, leaving him to some one else. Then the

two would talk, and she, with no responsibility, could listen and look, and

hug her secret joy.

"I ain't a-goin' to meetin' to-day!" came Nance Pete's voice from the door.

She stood there, smoking prosperously, and took out her pipe, with a

jaunty motion, at the words. "I stopped at Kelup Rivers', on the way over,

an' they gi'n me a good breakfast, an' last week, that young doctor gi'n

me a whole paper o' fine-cut. I ain't a-goin' to meetin'! I'm goin' to se'

down under the old elm, an' have a real good smoke."

"O Nancy!" Dorcas had no dreams so happy that such an avalanche could

not sweep them aside. "Now, do! Why, you don't want me to think you go

to church just because I save you some breakfast!"

Nance turned away, and put up her chin to watch a wreath of smoke.

"I dunno why I don't," said she. "The world's nothin' but buy an' sell. You

know it, an' I know it!' 'Tain't no use coverin' on't up. You heerd the

news? That old fool of a Sim Barker's dead. The doctor, sut up all night

with him, an' I guess now he's layin' on him out. I wouldn't ha' done it!

I'd ha' wropped him up in his old coat, an' glad to git rid on him! Well, he

won't cheat ye out o' no more five-cent pieces, to squander in terbacker.

You might save 'em up for me, now he's done for!" Nance went stalking

away to the gate, flaunting a visible air of fine, free enjoyment, the

product of tobacco and a bright morning. Dorcas watched her, annoyed,

and yet quite helpless; she was outwitted, and she knew it. Perhaps she

sorrowed less deeply over the loss to her pensioner's immortal soul, thus

taking holiday from spiritual discipline, than the serious problem involvedin subtracting one from the congregation. Would a Sunday-school picnic

constitute a bribe worth mentioning? Perhaps not, so far as Nance was

concerned; but her own class might like it, and on that young blood she

depended, to vivify the church.

A bit of pink came flashing along the country road. It was Phoebe, walking

very fast.

"Dear heart!" said Dorcas, aloud to herself, as the girl came hurriedly up

the path. She was no longer a pretty girl, a nice girl, as the

commendation went. Her face had gained an exalted lift; she was

beautiful. She took Miss Dorcas by the arms, and laughed the laugh that

knows itself in the right, and so will not be shy.

"Miss Dorcas," she said, "I've got to tell you right out, or I can't do it at

all. What should you say if I told you I was married?--to the doctor?"

Dorcas looked at her as if she did not hear.

"It's begun to get round," went on Phoebe, "and I wanted to give you the

word myself. You see, auntie was sick, and when he was there so much,

she grew to depend on him, and one day, when we'd been engaged a

week, she said, why shouldn't we be married, and he come right to the

house to live? He's only boarding, you know. And nothing to do but it

must be done right off, and so I--I said 'yes! And we were married,

Thursday. Auntie's better, and O Miss Dorcas! I think we're going to have

a real good time together." She threw her arms about Dorcas, and put

down her shining brown head upon them.

Dorcas tried to answer. When she did speak, her voice sounded thin and

faint, and she wondered confusedly if Phoebe could hear.

"I didn't know--" she said. "I didn't know--"

"Why, no, of course not!" returned Phoebe, brightly. "Nobody did. You'd

have been the first, but I didn't want the engagement talked about till

auntie was better. Oh, I believe that's his horse's step! I'll run out, and

ride home with him. You come, too, Miss Dorcas, and just say a word!"Dorcas loosened the girl's arms about her, and, bending to the bright

head, kissed it twice. Phoebe, grown careless in her joy, ran down the

walk to stop the approaching wagon; and when she looked round, Dorcas

had shut the door and gone in. She waited a moment for her to reappear,

and then, remembering the doctor had had no breakfast, she stepped into

the wagon, and they drove happily away.

Dorcas went to her bedroom, touching the walls, on the way, with her

groping hands. She sat down on the floor there, and rested her head

against a chair. Once only did she rouse herself, and that was to go into

the kitchen and set away the great bowl of _blanc-mange_ she had been

making for dinner. She had not strained it all, and the sea-weed was

drying on the sieve. Then she went back into the bedroom, and pulled

down the green slat curtains with a shaking hand. Twice her father called

her to bring his sermons, but she only answered, "Yes, father!" in dull

acquiescence, and did not move. She was benumbed, sunken in a gulf of

shame, too faint and cold to save herself by struggling. Her poor innocent

little fictions made themselves into lurid writings on her brain. She had

called him hers while another woman held his vows, and she was

degraded. Her soul was wrecked as truly as if the whole world knew it,

and could cry to her "Shame!" and "Shame!" The church-bells clanged out

their judgment of her. A new thought awakened her to a new despair.

She was not fit to teach in Sunday-school any more. Her girls, her

innocent, sweet girls! There was contagion in her very breath. They must

be saved from it; else when they were old women like her, some sudden

vice of tainted blood might rise up in them, no one would know why, and

breed disease and shame. She started to her feet. Her knees trembling

under her, she ran out of the house, and hid herself behind the great

lilac-bush by the gate.

Deacon Caleb Rivers came jogging past, late for church, but driving none

the less moderately. His placid-faced wife sat beside him; and Dorcas,

stepping out to stop them, wondered, with a wild pang of perplexity over

the things of this world, if 'Mandy Rivers had ever known the feeling of

death in the soul. Caleb pulled up.

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