Читать книгу Val Sinestra - Martha Morton - Страница 16

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Near Floyd’s house, there was a small stone chapel ornamented with dark wooden beams; it had been built by Mr. Garrison and Mr. Steele. They brought over their pastor from Scotland, a rugged, sincere man.

Floyd still grew chilly, when he thought of the bare whitewashed walls, the stone floor, the hard wooden benches. No choir, no organ, no stained glass windows. The pastor generally took his text from one of those Hebrew “calamity howlers,” and hurled curses at the heads of his unfortunate parishioners. He was a man of mild disposition, but he thought it was his duty to snatch them from the worship of Mammon. The “Idolaters” would listen meekly, rise, sing a hymn, and file out penitently, to pursue on week days, their ungodly practices.

In course of time the pastor went to heaven, his congregation the other way; Martin said it might be the reverse. Other pastors modified their curses or ceased to hurl them; the times demanded blessings, and paid for them. The congregation grew rich and moved uptown. Floyd kept his pew out of respect for his parents.

He told the pastor, a sensible man from the West with a large growing family, of his coming marriage.

“We are not losing you; we lost you when your father died. Of course, you must consider the bride’s family; the women generally arrange those matters, but I would like to come and see you sometimes. Your children may in course of time think differently.”

He, also, had hopes of the next generation.

Now Floyd pushed away all unpleasant thoughts; his youth demanded happiness. He went up the steps of the Gonzola mansion with a light heart, humming to himself. The butler ushered him into the dimly lighted parlor. He waited, but Julie did not come. He heard voices above. He was one of the family now by right of knowing all its secrets. He found Julie crouched at the bottom of the upper stairs; at the door of the old man’s room was Mrs. Gonzola on her knees. Floyd tried to question Julie, but she silenced him with an imperative gesture.

The voices of Father Cabello and Joseph Abravanel, penetrating the closed door, rang throughout the house. Floyd heard his name; it was a question of his marriage with Julie, of the ceremony, and again, those future generations. He heard the deep tones of the priest—threatening, persuasive; the other voice trembling, feeble, rising in a despairing shriek, dying away in sobs. It was terrible; every word seemed to strike that prostrate figure at the door like a whip. Floyd thought of the rack. The priest came out wiping his forehead, he lifted the stricken woman; the Church had won again.

They were married quietly at home, the bride in old lace and priceless family jewels, a vision of Oriental beauty. Martin’s words came back to Floyd. “To me she is not a modern girl, she is the Shulamite maiden who rises from her couch at night and goes out to seek her lover.”

Floyd wanted to bring his wife to the house where he was born; Julie gladly consented. He had been so dear, giving in to everybody, for the sake of peace. At the door of his home, Floyd took Julie up in his arms and carried her over the threshold as his fathers had done before him.