Читать книгу The Stumbling Shepherd - H. A. Cody - Страница 11

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The morning sun gleamed down pleasantly upon the garden at the back of the rectory. It was a garden good to look upon, for Parson Dan attended to it himself. He was proud of the straight rows of vegetables which he had planted with his own hands. Potatoes, beets, carrots, onions, radishes, peas, beans, corn, cucumbers, were all there in their proper places. Nothing was out of line, and order was as much the rule here as in the study. It was a sheltered spot, surrounded by a growth of young birch trees, interspersed with pines and firs, which formed a striking contrast to the silver color of their more numerous companions. Where these trees stood the ground had once been tilled. But steadily they had encroached upon the clearing as the clergyman's strength decreased through advancing years. For a time he had fought bravely against this crowding growth, but he was at last forced to yield to the inevitable and content himself with a smaller space for his garden. He might have hired help, but he did not want careless and indifferent workers among his beloved vegetables. Here he liked to be alone to think out his sermons, free from all interruption. He was happier in this place than anywhere else, except in church.

And so on the morning after the funeral it was but natural that he should seek the quiet solace of his garden. He had not slept well, and had been restless through the night. Recent events had greatly disturbed the hitherto even tenor of his ways. The discovery of Martha at the hotel, her death and burial, together with his sin against the Church, bore heavily upon his soul. And in addition, there was his responsibility as guardian to Martha's grand-daughter. Over and over again during the night he had chided himself for his weakness, and the betrayal of his sacred trust. And what fitness had he to be the guardian of a girl not yet out of her teens? But he could not retrace the false step he had made in giving Martha the Communion, neither could he go back on his word of honor. He gave a deep sigh as he cut the weeds in the row and hilled up the potatoes. His one desire was to be left in peace with his parochial work and his garden. He was too old, so he believed, to be worried about matters which were foreign to his nature. But these troubles had been forced upon him, and he wondered if they were intended for his good.

He paused and leaned upon his hoe as this thought came into his mind. He looked toward the rectory in an absent-minded manner for a few seconds. Then he became conscious of two persons standing near the building. Immediately he recognized them as Rachel and Doris Randall. They were talking and apparently waiting for him to finish the row. This was an awkward predicament, as he did not wish the visitor to see him in his rough working clothes. He longed to hurry into the house that he might make himself more presentable. There was no opportunity for this, however, so continuing his hoeing, he at length came to the end of the row.

"Do you need any help?"

The question caused him to look quickly up, and his eyes met the smiling face of the girl. A great change had come over her since he had last seen her. For a few seconds he made no reply, but stood very still looking at her in undisguised admiration. She was so fresh and neat, akin to the flowers blooming around the building. He was visibly embarrassed, and this the girl noted. Again she smiled, and stepping forward, held out her hand.

"I hope you do not mind my coming to see you this morning. I want you to give me something to do."

The clergyman looked at her clean hands, and then at his own soiled ones.

"I cannot very well shake hands with you. Mine are too dirty. I must wash them first."

"I like them that way, Mr. Landrose. They are much nicer than so many soft white ones; mine, for instance."

Mr. Landrose was surprised at these words. He was pleased, as well, and looked keenly into the girl's bright face. He lifted his hat and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

"Suppose we sit down, Miss Randall. Rachel, please bring out a couple of chairs. Ah, I see she has gone back to her work."

"You sit on that nice rustic chair," Doris suggested. "The grass at your feet is just the place for me. There, that is nice," she continued when the parson had complied with her request. "Everything is lovely around here. I did not know you had such a wonderful garden. Do you do all the work yourself?"

"Why, yes. This is where I am so happy. I like my vegetables and flowers. I suppose you have seen my garden in front of the house."

"Indeed I have. Your housekeeper told me how beautiful it will be in a few weeks. I hope I shall be here to see it then."

"And so do I, Miss Randall, for I want you to see my roses when they are in bloom. I am very proud of them."

There was such a youthful eagerness in the old man's voice and such a glow in his eyes that the girl was agreeably surprised, for she had expected to find him little more than a dry ecclesiastical fossil. It had meant a great struggle to overcome her dislike of him, and to visit him this morning with the outward appearance of cheerfulness.

"Why do you not speak of flowers sometimes in your sermons, Mr. Landrose?"

"Flowers in my sermons, Miss Randall! Why, how could I do that? What have flowers to do with Church doctrine?"

"A great deal, I should say. They are beautiful, and didn't Christ tell the people to 'consider the lilies'?"

"Yes, yes, I know He did. But what would my people think if I talked to them about flowers?"

"Perhaps they would like it for a change. I know I should, anyway. And I believe you could do it so well, for you love flowers so much."

"But I must give my people solid food, Miss Randall. There is too much sentiment preached to-day, and it is a very poor substitute for real substantial truth."

"Perhaps you know better than I do," and the girl gave a slight sigh as she gazed thoughtfully out over the garden. "But I have often wished that clergymen would speak more about the bright beautiful things of life, and less about the sad, and the dry bones of doctrine."

"But we must have doctrine, remember," Mr. Landrose defended. "Didn't the Apostle Paul say 'Take heed to the doctrine'?"

"Did he? I never heard that before. But I want to know more about the love of God. That touches my heart. But, there, I must not argue with you who know so much while I am very ignorant."

"But I like to talk with you, Miss Randall. Your words are refreshing. I have never known any of my people to talk to me so candidly. I wish they would."

"Perhaps you would resent it if they did. I am not of your flock, so can say what I think."

She paused abruptly, and a peculiar expression came into her eyes.

"Oh, I forgot for the moment that you are my guardian, and have full control over me." There was a tinge of bitterness in her voice, which the clergyman noticed.

"That should make no difference."

"But it does make a difference. I want to be free and happy, to think my own thoughts, and to follow the dictates of my heart. But all my life I have been bound down to hard rigid rules."

"Why, wasn't your grandmother good to you, Miss Randall?"

"Yes, good in a way, in supplying me with food, clothes and shelter. But, oh, how she kept me under her thumb. Why, I was allowed hardly any freedom at all, and scarcely knew that my soul was my own."

Her flushed face and flashing eyes told something of her emotion. Mr. Landrose was much embarrassed. What should he say to this girl so anxious to be free from all restraint? How could he ever control her?

"No doubt your grandmother did it all for the best."

"Perhaps so. Most likely she did not want me to follow her example."

"You know about her life, then?"

"Something, but not all. There was a mystery in her life at which she used to hint, but would never explain. Something must have happened years ago, I am sure, which affected her whole life. I have often wondered what it was. It caused her to do queer things at times such as—"

She paused abruptly, slightly confused.

"Appointing me as your guardian? Is that what you mean?"

"Yes, you have guessed correctly."

"And it made you rebellious?"

"It certainly did. I hated you, although I had never seen you until I met you at the hotel. It was hard for me to be civil to you."

"You feel differently now, I hope, Miss Randall."

"Somewhat. But, please, call me 'Doris'. I am not used to 'Miss Randall'. It makes me feel too old."

"Very well, I shall comply with your request. But as I am your guardian I must have your help, for I am very ignorant about my duties."

An expression of triumph appeared in the girl's eyes which the clergyman did not notice. Her task was going to be easier than she had imagined. This old man would be as clay in her hands. This was at once succeeded by a feeling of sympathy for the man she disliked but a short time before. Why should she worry and trouble his heart? But she was not sure how far she could go with him. Susie Wickham had told her of his strong will in the discharge of his duties, and she partly surmised that his quiet manner might cover a surprising firmness.

"I am afraid that I can do very little, sir. Granny always did everything for me, and I feel perfectly helpless now. As you are my guardian you will have to take her place."

"And what is the first step?"

"To do some shopping for me. There are several things I need right away. Here is the list," and she handed forth a piece of paper she had been holding in her left hand.

The clergyman slowly unfolded the paper and looked intently at the writing. Then his face became very serious.

"And you want me to buy these things!"

"Certainly. Granny always did, and who else but you should do it now?"

"But, Miss Rand—Doris, I should say, I never did such a thing in my life. Buy a girl's clothes! Why, it's ridiculous."

"No, it is not, Mr. Landrose. It is a very simple matter. You have only to go to Reed & Langton's and purchase the things. You will have no trouble, I am sure. Granny never did. She always liked shopping."

"But this is a woman's work, and not a man's. Why can't you do this yourself?"

"Because I have never done it, and as my guardian I expect you to do it for me. You promised Granny that you would take her place, didn't you?"

"I did, I know I did. But never for an instant did I imagine that I should be called upon to buy your clothes."

Again the parson brought forth his handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Once more he stared at the paper he was holding in his hand. The expression upon his face almost caused the girl to relent. She did not explain that she had always gone with her grandmother when shopping, and had really chosen the things she needed. She was strongly tempted to offer to go with her guardian or to release him altogether of the responsibility. She dismissed this, however, as it might spoil the plan which had been so carefully thought out the evening before. No, he must go through with it alone, and find out by bitter experience into what a net he had allowed himself to become enmeshed.

She rose to her feet and brushed several blades of grass from her dress.

"I must go now. It is too bad I have disturbed you in your work."

"I don't mind that at all. But this," and the parson tapped the paper with his finger, "is what troubles me. I am sorely puzzled. However, I shall see what can be done."

"Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Landrose. I am sure you will do all you can."

The clergyman rose from his chair and looked earnestly into the girl's brown eyes.

"Listen, you are the only woman, except one, who made me do something against my will and judgment. But as you have so strangely influenced me, you will have to abide by the results. I bid you good-morning."

There was something about these words which deeply impressed Doris Randall. Her former feeling of triumph vanished, and a sense of humiliation and defeat pervaded her soul. As she made her way slowly from the rectory she felt ashamed of the mean trick she was playing upon an innocent old man, and a clergyman, at that. What would he think of her should he ever know the truth? The scheme had really seemed amusing at first, for by means of it she would attain her purpose and get rid of the fossil of a guardian. Now, however, she viewed it differently. She had been mistaken in him, and so had John. The thought of the young man brought the glow back to her cheeks. He would laugh her out of the notion, she felt sure. Yet deep in her heart she knew that no words could change the favorable impression she had that morning received of Parson Dan.