He Fell In Love With His Wife - Edward Payson Roe (the speed reading book .txt) 📗

our minds

may be prepared for worship. I feel that it would be unseemly for us to enter

a house of worship with thoughts of strife in our souls. At precisely what

moment do you wish me to be ready for church?”

 

“I am not going to church, Mrs. Mumpson.”

 

“Not going to church! I—I—scarcely understand. Worship is such a sacred

duty—”

 

“You and Jane certainly have a right to go to church, and since it is your

wish, I’ll take you down to Lemuel Weeks’ and you can go with them.”

 

“I don’t want to go to Cousin Lemuel’s, nor to church, nuther,” Jane

protested.

 

“Why, Mr. Holcroft,” began the widow sweetly, “after you’ve once harnessed up

it will take but a little longer to keep on to the meeting house. It would

appear so seemly for us to drive thither, as a matter of course. It would be

what the communerty expects of us. This is not our day, that we should spend

it carnally. We should be spiritually-minded. We should put away things of

earth. Thoughts of business and any unnecessary toil should be abhorrent. I

have often thought that there was too much milking done on Sunday among

farmers. I know they say it is essential, but they all seem so prone to

forget that but one thing is needful. I feel it borne in upon my mind, Mr.

Holcroft, that I should plead with you to attend divine worship and seek an

uplifting of your thoughts. You have no idea how differently the day may end,

or what emotions may be aroused if you place yourself under the droppings of

the sanctuary.”

 

“I’m like Jane, I don’t wish to go,” said Mr. Holcroft nervously.

 

“But my dear Mr. Holcroft,”—the farmer fidgeted under this address,—“the

very essence of true religion is to do what we don’t wish to do. We are to

mortify the flesh and thwart the carnal mind. The more thorny the path of

self-denial is, the more certain it’s the right path. “I’ve already entered

upon it,” she continued, turning a momentary glare upon Mrs. Wiggins. “Never

before was a respecterble woman so harrowed and outraged; but I am calm; I am

endeavoring to maintain a frame of mind suiterble to worship, and I feel it my

bounden duty to impress upon you that worship is a necessity to every human

being. My conscience would not acquit me if I did not use all my influence—”

 

“Very well, Mrs. Mumpson, you and your conscience are quits. You have used

all your influence. I will do as I said—take you to Lemuel Weeks’—and you

can go to church with his family,” and he rose from the table.

 

“But Cousin Lemuel is also painfully blind to his spiritual interests—”

 

Holcroft did not stay to listen and was soon engaged in the morning milking.

Jane flatly declared that she would not go to Cousin Lemuel’s or to church.

“It don’t do me no good, nor you, nuther,” she sullenly declared to her

mother.

 

Mrs. Mumpson now resolved upon a different line of tactics. Assuming a lofty,

spiritual air, she commanded Jane to light a fire in the parlor, and retired

thither with the rocking chair. The elder widow looked after her and

ejaculated, “Vell, hif she haint the craziest loon hi hever ‘eard talk. Hif

she vas blind she might ‘a’ seen that the master didn’t vant hany sich

lecturin’ clack.”

 

Having kindled the fire, the child was about to leave the room when her mother

interposed and said solemnly, “Jane, sit down and keep Sunday.”

 

“I’m going to help Mrs. Wiggins if she’ll let me.”

 

“You will not so demean yourself. I wish you to have no relations whatever

with that female in the kitchen. If you had proper self-respect, you would

never speak to her again.”

 

“We aint visitin’ here. If I can’t work indoors, I’ll tell him I’ll work

outdoors.”

 

“It’s not proper for you to work today. I want you to sit there in the corner

and learn the Fifth Commandment.”

 

“Aint you goin’ to Cousin Lemuel’s?”

 

“On mature reflection, I have decided to remain at home.”

 

“I thought you would if you had any sense left. You know well enough we aint

wanted down there. I’ll go tell him not to hitch up.”

 

“Well, I will permit you to do so. Then return to your Sunday task.”

 

“I’m goin’ to mind him,” responded the child. She passed rapidly and

apprehensively through the kitchen, but paused on the doorstep to make some

overtures to Mrs. Wiggins. If that austere dame was not to be propitiated, a

line of retreat was open to the barn. “Say,” she began, to attract attention.

 

“Vell, young-un,” replied Mrs. Wiggins, rendered more pacific by her

breakfast.

 

“Don’t you want me to wash up the dishes and put ‘em away? I know how.”

 

“Hi’ll try ye. Hif ye breaks hanythink—” and the old woman nodded volumes at

the child.

 

“I’ll be back in a minute,” said Jane. A moment later she met Holcroft

carrying two pails of milk from the barnyard. He was about to pass without

noticing her, but she again secured attention by her usual preface, “Say,”

when she had a somewhat extended communication to make.

 

“Come to the dairy room, Jane, and say your say there,” said Holcroft not

unkindly.

 

“She aint goin’ to Cousin Lemuel’s,” said the girl, from the door.

 

“What is she going to do.”

 

“Rock in the parlor. Say, can’t I help Mrs. Wiggins wash up the dishes and do

the work?”

 

“Certainly, why not?”

 

“Mother says I must sit in the parlor ‘n’ learn Commandments ‘n’ keep Sunday.”

 

“Well, Jane, which do you think you ought to do?”

 

“I think I oughter work, and if you and Mrs. Wiggins will let me, I will work

in spite of mother.”

 

“I think that you and your mother both should help do the necessary work

today. There won’t be much.”

 

“If I try and help Mrs. Wiggins, mother’ll bounce out at me. She shook me

last night after I went upstairs, and she boxed my ears ‘cause I wanted to

keep the kitchen fire up last night.”

 

“I’ll go with you to the kitchen and tell Mrs. Wiggins to let you help, and I

won’t let your mother punish you again unless you do wrong.”

 

Mrs. Wiggins, relying on Jane’s promise of help, had sat down to the solace of

her pipe for a few minutes, but was about to thrust it hastily away on seeing

Holcroft. He reassured her by saying good-naturedly, “No need of that, my

good woman. Sit still and enjoy your pipe. I like to smoke myself. Jane

will help clear away things and I wish her to. You’ll find she’s quite handy.

By the way, have you all the tobacco you want?”

 

“Vell, now, master, p’raps ye know the ‘lowance down hat the poor-us vasn’t

sich as ud keep a body in vat ye’d call satisfyin’ smokin’. Hi never ‘ad

henough ter keep down the ‘ankerin’.”

 

“I suppose that’s so. You shall have half of my stock, and when I go to town

again, I’ll get you a good supply. I guess I’ll light my pipe, too, before

starting for a walk.”

 

“Bless yer ‘art, master, ye makes a body comf’terble. Ven hi smokes, hi feels

more hat ‘ome and kind o’contented like. An hold ‘ooman like me haint got

much left to comfort ‘er but ‘er pipe.”

 

“Jane!” called Mrs. Mumpson sharply from the parlor. As there was no answer,

the widow soon appeared in the kitchen door. Smoking was one of the

unpardonable sins in Mrs. Mumpson’s eyes; and when she saw Mrs. Wiggins

puffing comfortably away and Holcroft lighting his pipe, while Jane cleared

the table, language almost failed her. She managed to articulate, “Jane, this

atmosphere is not fit for you to breathe on this sacred day. I wish you to

share my seclusion.”

 

“Mrs. Mumpson, I have told her to help Mrs. Wiggins in the necessary work,”

Holcroft interposed.

 

“Mr. Holcroft, you don’t realize—men never do—Jane is my offspring, and—”

 

“Oh, if you put it that way, I shan’t interfere between mother and child. But

I suppose you and Jane came here to work.”

 

“If you will enter the parlor, I will explain to you fully my views, and—”

 

“Oh, please excuse me!” said Holcroft, hastily passing out. “I was just

starting for a walk—I’m bound to have one more day to myself on the old

place,” he muttered as he bent his steps toward an upland pasture.

 

Jane, seeing that her mother was about to pounce upon her, ran behind Mrs.

Wiggins, who slowly rose and began a progress toward the irate widow,

remarking as she did so, “Hi’ll just shut the door ‘twixt ye and yer

hoffspring, and then ye kin say yer prayers hon the t’other side.”

 

Mrs. Mumpson was so overcome at the turn affairs had taken on this day, which

was to witness such progress in her plans and hopes, as to feel the absolute

necessity of a prolonged season of thought and soliloquy, and she relapsed,

without further protest, into the rocking chair.

 

Chapter XII. Jane

 

Holcroft was not long in climbing to a sunny nook whence he could see not only

his farm and dwelling, but also the Oakville valley, and the little white

spire of the distant meeting house. He looked at this last-named object

wistfully and very sadly. Mrs. Mumpson’s tirade about worship had been

without effect, but the memories suggested by the church were bitter-sweet

indeed. It belonged to the Methodist denomination, and Holcroft had been

taken, or had gone thither, from the time of his earliest recollection. He

saw himself sitting between his father and mother, a round-faced urchin to

whom the sermon was unintelligible, but to whom little Bessie Jones in the

next pew was a fact, not only intelligible, but very interesting. She would

turn around and stare at him until he smiled, then she would giggle until her

mother brought her right-about-face with considerable emphasis. After this,

he saw the little boy—could it have been himself?—nodding, swaying, and

finally slumbering peacefully, with his head on his mother’s lap, until shaken

into sufficient consciousness to be half dragged, half led, to the door. Once

in the big, springless farm wagon he was himself again, looking eagerly around

to catch another glimpse of Bessie Jones. Then he was a big, irreverent boy,

shyly and awkwardly bent on mischief in the same old meeting house. Bessie

Jones no longer turned and stared at him, but he exultingly discovered that he

could still make her giggle on the sly. Years passed, and Bessie was his

occasional choice for a sleigh-ride when the long body of some farm wagon was

placed on runners, and boys and girls—young men and women, they almost

thought themselves—were packed in like sardines. Something like

self-reproach smote Holcroft even now, remembering how he had allowed his

fancy much latitude at this period, paying attention to more than one girl

besides Bessie, and painfully undecided which he liked best.

 

Then had come the memorable year which had opened with a protracted meeting.

He and Bessie Jones had passed under conviction at the same time, and on the

same evening had gone forward to the anxious seat. From the way in which she

sobbed, one might have supposed that the good, simple-hearted girl had

terrible burdens on her conscience; but she soon found hope, and her tears

gave place to smiles. Holcroft, on the contrary, was terribly cast down and

unable to find relief. He felt that he had