Puslapio vaizdai
PDF
„ePub“
[graphic][ocr errors]

"DOROTHY

Drawn by F. C. Yohn. Half-tone plate engraved by H. C. Merrill GAZED IN TURN FROM ONE TO ANOTHER OF THE SOCIETY OF FRIENDS"

unpretentious, seemly, silent, the men and women of two centuries.

Line, color, the pomp of fretted stone, the voice of music, the sounds of ceremony and of form, may call others to the gatherings of this or that religion in different corners of the world; but these worshipers, silent and gray, came now to a silent, gray, unornamented household of spiritual appeal alone. Almost it seemed as if the old meeting-house must have grown quietly and gently, without sound of discordant hammer or scrape of trowel, certainly without accompaniment of song, later to be tenanted by those who worship in silence in a faith austerely shorn of all formality.

As they entered, they found places upon that side of the meeting-house always accorded to their sex, which might not mingle with the men of the congregation, although no man had been seen here for many years. Empty as the little church was, it did not sound empty, as do certain other tenantless rooms.

Here, now, before the congregation of three, was no priest or minister, nor had there ever been. There was no lip service here. This spot demanded only the devotion of the heart. These three, following the custom of their creed, now sat with heads bowed slightly, each with her hands folded in her lap. There were no books of song or of prayer. Music had never been known to them. Worship was unsoftened in any

way.

Unsoftened, did we say? Could that be, when there were present these dove-colored figures, gentle, faithful, reverent? These being here, how softly radiant seemed all this calm interior!

At last, after an hour unbroken by any cough, shuffling, or movement due to unregulated nerves, Aunt Mary Alice arose, turned to Miss Lucy Maxwell, and shook her by the hand. They both shook Cousin Mary Ellen by the hand. Then without word, the services being thus concluded, they turned toward the door. Without much deviation, this had been their custom on Fourth-Day noon every week of the year for many years. They were old ladies now, only one of them less than fifty.

As they now turned their steps down the little stoop, they glanced across, as they often did, to catch the peaceful picture of the sun and the grass and the trees

LXXXII-16

of the burying-ground of the Friends. They hesitated for a time, then drew nearer to the old, gray wall of stone. They looked over into the plot where so long the Friends had buried their dead, an ancient greensward, scarce upheaved even by the more recent mounds. The letters of the small, gray sandstone slabs, unchanging monuments of the Society of Friends, were in some cases almost obliterated by the years. Close observation might have informed the curious that here lay dead, at this or that day, of this or that numbered month of the two centuries ago, Isaac or William or Joseph or Mary or Elizabeth or Rachel, born at such a numbered, not named, time of the calendar, long, long ago. Once in a while some one had cut the grass here. Against the trunks of one or two trees leaned certain gray headstones done in ancient, scrawling script, by accident detached from their proper places, and now never properly to be replaced.

In the soft harmony of this scene was one discordant note. Leaning against the angle at the corner of the wall, so highly polished that the rays of the sun were reflected from its spotless sides, there reclined a shaft of white marble, evidently the work of modern hands. In the inscriptions on the gravestones of the Friends the record of birth and death was held sufficient; and all folk were held even and alike in the eyes of the Lord. All these lay in a democracy of death. gravestone taller than two feet above the grass had ever been erected here. But here was a pretentious monument four or five feet high at least. It was slender, and well executed in its way, done in the shape of a broken lily. At the base of the stone, well carved, was an inscription:

Sacred to the Memory of Henrietta, Beloved Wife of Hiram Farwell, who Departed this Life June 21, 19-. A Loving Wife, a Gentle Soul. This Shaft, Typical of Her Purity and Innocence, is Erected by Her Sorrowing Husband. Pity His Grief, and Model your Life upon Hers, thus Untimely

Ended.

There were two dates, following the fashion of our calendar, not that of the Friends. The wife had been very young at the time of her death; but there had

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

"Thee knows," said Aunt Mary Alice, turning to her companions at length, "that I loved Henrietta as my own sister. But now look at this. Tch! tch! To think of such vanity and worldliness as this, here in the Friends' burying-ground!"

The others at first made no comment. It seemed understood that the subject was not altogether new. It was Miss Lucy Maxwell who at last ventured a word.

"But there was-thee very well knows, Aunt Mar' Alice-there was the baby." Her eyes, brown and gentle, sought the kindly face of Cousin Mary Ellen. The latter nodded slowly.

"Pride of the flesh," rejoined the elder woman, promptly, with a sniff, almost a snort. "Vanity. Yes, indeed; thee needs only go to Balt'mer or to Washington to see in the burying-grounds gravestones very much larger than any of these. But what of the reckoning before the Lord when the dead shall rise? I ask thee that, now, Lucy Maxwell; and I ask thee, Cousin Mar' Ellen."

"Does the Lord on high judge between the colors on gravestones, Aunt Mar' Alice?" demanded Miss Lucy Maxwell with rising courage. "This is so white and plain, it seems to have no pomp about it. 'Beloved!'

[ocr errors]

"The Lord's face is set against vanity, that thee well knows, Lucy Maxwell," answered Aunt Mary Alice. "Henrietta Doane, either before or after her marriage, did not vaunt herself above her neighbors. Why should the husband vaunt for her? See now, if this marble were set up there in our burying-ground, it would show distinct from all the others. Such pridefulness has never been known in this valley. And that thee both knows very well."

Miss Lucy Maxwell spoke almost as though she had not heard when presently she resumed:

"That little babe-that little, little. child! Thee sees, Aunt Mar' Alice, it never knew its mother. It could not vaunt itself overmuch."

"But the child's mother-look at that inscription!"

"She died not having knowledge of her child. Neither lived. They should not be separated now. And, besides, I knew Henrietta Doane as well as any of thee. She was white as the lily itself, as good and sinless. What worldliness is there in calling her 'Beloved' before God? Besides, the Society of Friends is not what once it was."

Aunt Mary Alice's ire arose. "Let Hiram Farwell raise this monument in his own yard, if he likes, but not here, where for two hundred years the brothers and sisters have lain down in peace. As they lived plain, so they lie plain there; so they will arise plain before the Lord."

But the soft voice of the other rejoined: "If Hiram Farwell forgot all the ways of the Friends, at least he has not forgotten the wife that he found here among us Friends; and neither has he forgotten her little child. He could have had a much more worldly gravestone than this. says, 'Beloved.''

It

Her gentle protest did not convince the other sister in the church. "Lucy Maxwell, I say thee grieves me, that thee does. Such words of stubbornness-it is not seemly in thee. Thee raises thy will against the ways of the Lord and against the custom of the Society of Friends. Thee must have more care, Lucy Maxwell."

The slender figure opposite her stiffened into lines as rigid as her own. The pink in the face of the younger saint deepened yet more, schooled though she was to meekness and consent.

"What does thee mean, then, Lucy Maxwell?" cried Aunt Mary Alice, horrified.

"Only this, Aunt Mar' Alice: if we do not agree, then how can we sit together in the meeting-house? There are Hicksite Friends, as thee knows, and others, the Orthodox Friends, as thee knows; yet both societies are sincere, and that is the test. If I am sincere, how can I sit in thy company in the meeting-house, saying all the time in my heart: 'Aunt Mar' Alice, thee is wrong. Thee is wrong'?"

"But it is thee that is wrong, Lucy Maxwell," broke out the other. "Thee would end the society here in Warrenford, that is what thee would do. But

thee would come, Cousin Mar' Ellen; that I know, at least."

She was not prepared for the reply which met her. Cousin Mary Ellen, habitually silent even beyond the habit of the Friends, now surprised even herself.

"I feel to speak to thee, Aunt Mar' Alice," she began. "We should sit there only in harmony, as Friends."

"But thee knows I am right," interrupted the older woman.

"It may be, Aunt Mar' Alice. We have sat with thee many years. But I am thinking of that little child."

It was schism. After these many years, elements other than those of time were coming into these gray and quiet lives. The older woman drew herself up, tall and stern, somber in her frowning rebuke. The others faced her as stoutly as did ever Hicksite face Orthodox or Orthodox face Church of England. All were silent for a time, and silence lay all about them. The bees droned on upon their errands, a robin chirped in the oak beyond; but that was all. The sun shone warm and kind, flecking the dark green of the grass in golden bars beneath the boughs of the oaks.

Slow, gray, sad, their heads bowed, the three passed, but spoke no more. Side by side they turned and walked slowly down. the hill. Aunt Mary Alice did not extend her hand and say, in the fashion of the Friends, "Farewell," at Miss Lucy Maxwell's gate, but stalked on down the street, her face turned squarely away from the other two, who tarried. Cousin Mary Ellen, however, turned back even as she left the little gate.

"Thee sees Lucy Maxwell," she began. "It is a question of tongue. In many tongues, and in dialects of those tongues, as thee well knows, Lucy Maxwell, and as Aunt Mar' Alice should know also, I may say, 'Beloved.' If only Hiram Farwell had had it made in gray, I would agree with thee entirely, yes, Lucy Maxwell. But if we may not sit in harmony, I also agree with thee; then let us part and go our ways."

And so indeed it came to pass. On next Fourth-Day noon, the three doors failed to frame their plain-garbed figures. For the first time in nearly two hundred years, as best tradition has it, the weathered door of the Little Stone Church of Warrenford

knew no Fourth-Day opening. The robins and the bees were there, the sun lay as yellow on the purple mantle of the blue grass. The church itself, gray, silent, self-effacing, stood as of old, and in the corner of the old, gray wall there reclined the slender headstone with its white, broken lily. Warrenford was stunned, and for weeks remained so.

Now, as this pathetic confusion of faith had arisen by reason of argument over a little child, what more fitting than that a little child should in turn lead all these perturbed ones out of their confusion? Somewhere it was written thus, and by Some One that mission was given to Dorothy, child and grandchild of Quaker parents, almost the only child or grandchild in all Warrenford.

Dorothy made not wholly a Quaker portrait that evening in late summer when she escaped from her guardians and ran off up the curving road toward the top of the hill. Her frock was short, but sophisticated, her hat a bright red, her little coat also red. Dorothy was eight, and acted it. It would be well-nigh impossible for so bright a figure to pass on the deserted street unobserved, even were not Dorothy known to all Warrenford, observed by most who dwelt there, and loved as well. It was quite natural that Aunt Mary Alice, passing at the foot of the street, should catch sight of Dorothy as she ran off up the hill. Now, since there was once one automobile on that hill, Warrenford dwelt in fear that there might some day be another. If this should be while Dorothy was there alone! Aunt Mary Alice hurried her elderly steps.

But when she made the upper turn of the road and came in view of the open space about the meeting-house, Dorothy was not to be seen. From the interior of the meeting-house there came the sound of happy, childish song, the first, perhaps, ever heard within those gray walls. Dorothy, finding the door unlocked, had gone upon a journey of exploration. Aunt Mary Alice also passed within the door.

Now it chanced that Cousin Mary Ellen was headed for the grocery store to buy some allspice for the making of her watermelon-rind preserves, when all at once she saw Aunt Mary Alice passing along the curved road well toward the top of the hill where lay the meeting

house. Not having seen Dorothy, Cousin Mary Ellen could assign only one reason for this act of Aunt Mary Alice: the latter was going alone to the meetinghouse! Now, that must not be. Were they not sisters, after all?

It chanced also that Miss Lucy Maxwell, who was attending her flower-beds near the gate at the end of the little brick walk, looked down the street just as Cousin Mary Ellen turned out of sight at the entrance of the curving road. A sudden flush of hesitation, of resolution, came upon Miss Lucy Maxwell's face. Cousin Mary Ellen must be going alone to the meeting-house. Ah, were they not sisters, after all? Miss Lucy Maxwell turned into the house and emerged an instant later, tying the strings of her dove-colored bonnet. Her feet flew up the hill faster than ever they had before.

So this is how Cousin Mary Ellen found Aunt Mary Alice when she timidly

pushed open the door, and how Miss Lucy Maxwell found them both when she also timidly pushed open the door. The three looked at one another; and as they looked, Dorothy ceased her prattle, and gazed in turn from one to another of the Society of Friends. Quietly, as of yore, the three sank into seats. Silence remained upon them all for some time. At length one of them rose, moved by the Spirit to say some word.

But which one of the three it was who rose, or what was said, I do not know. All I know is that when they came out of the door somewhat later their arms were about one another and their eyes were wet. The red hat and coat of Dorothy showed very plainly against their quiet, dove-colored garb as they passed down the old steps. When they turned into the curving road, each of them had a hand for Dorothy, Defender of the Faith. The Society of Friends was quite at peace.

THE RED SENTRY

BY HERMAN SCHEFFAUER

THE CHALLENGE:

RESleep! for I have need of rest.

ED sentry in my breast,

The morns and noons are fugitive;
I seek more peace than night can give.
Though like a lark thou singest,

The bird knows nesting-time;
Though like a bell thou ringest,

Bells, too, must halt their chime. Why dost thou urge thy clamor

Within these walls of flesh? It seems thy pauseless hammer

Destroys, then builds afresh. Though thou throbbest like a drum, Peace strikes e'en the tambour dumb. Though sullen, hungry, wild Be thy crying, like a child; Yet when its mouth is filled, It sleeps. Then be thou stilled. Go rest thee, crimson sentinel; The hour is come, and all is well.

THE REPLY:

The vigil that I keep
Knows no release in sleep.

And the crypt that I must shield
To one voice alone shall yield.
Birds drowse, yet they awaken

To quire through the land;
The bells in steeples shaken

Toll to the ringer's hand.
Faithful, unpausing, peaceless,
My fountain in the dark
Leaps high while I guard ceaseless
Life's throned and templed spark.
Let my stout drum, unafraid,
Beat until my hand be stayed;
If my cry be rash and wild,

Learn its meaning from the child-
Learn, though fierce the battle swell,
I must guard this citadel.

Patience! I have a trust to keep;

Then I shall rest-and thou shalt sleep.

« AnkstesnisTęsti »