The White Lady

by Grace Livingston Hill

  “Say, what did Jimmy Watts come here for this afternoon when you was out?” she began.

  “Was Jimmy Watts here? Nobody told me,” said Mrs. Bartlett, sitting down with the butter plate in her hand.

  “Yes, I was lookin’ out the kitchen winder, an’ I see Jimmy scootin’ in the side way, an’ knockin’, and presently the minister come down to the door, an’ he never went back in, only just reached up to the hall rack an’ took down his hat, an’ he went off with Jimmy. They must’uv been in a nawful hurry, fer they jumped the fence, both of ’em, and went ’crost lots, down by the old pond. I couldn’t make out where they was goin’ till George cum home fer his supper. Then I put two an’ two together. He said Mr. Endycut came over there to the garage, an’ hired a car an’ was gone two hours; an’ when he cum back, he seen Miss Stokes settin’ beside him, an’ they druv into the hanted house; an’ then Jimmy Watts brought the car back an’ the money fer it. I told George he didn’t know much that he didn’t ast Jimmy what was the matter, but he said he never thought till after he was gone, an’ then he happened to remember he’d seen Dr. Randall’s car standin’ in front of the station; so es soon’s I got George’s supper on I hurried an’ run over to Mis’ Randall’s to borrow her sleeve-pattern, an’ ast her ef anybody was sick to the hanted house, and she said the old lady hed hed a stroke.”

  Mrs. Bartlett set her lips firmly. Undoubtedly the minister had known all about it and had told her nothing. This was treason. When he first came to board with her, she had told him she would be a mother to him, and she had made a great deal of studying his tastes, but he had not rewarded her properly. People came to her expecting to find out all about every marriage and death and birth and church quarrel, and she never knew as much as they, headquarters of the minister though this was. It was mortifying in the extreme to be considered the source of all church information, and yet have none to give. She decided not to have custard pie the next day as she had planned. She would give the minister what was left of today’s bread pudding.

  Constance was glad to have Mr. Endicott return that evening, for the doctor was there, and his grave face troubled her. She dared not ask him again what he thought, for he had told her that it was impossible to say positively what would be the outcome. It might be that her grandmother would recover and be herself again to a certain extent, and it might be that she would slip away without ever coming back to the use of her faculties.

  When Constance heard this, she was in despair. If her grandmother should die now, she would feel that she had killed her by bringing her away from home and allowing her to be so excited. She wanted to ask someone about this doctor. Was he skillful? And ought she not to send for a physician from home? Or perhaps some noted man in Chicago, if she only knew for whom to send. Then she remembered that she no longer had an unlimited bank account, and she must go cautiously in the matter of expensive doctors’ fees and traveling expenses, unless it was a matter of life and death, though she resolved that every cent she had should be spent to save her grandmother’s life, even though it was but a possibility.

  When Mr. Endicott came, she put her trouble before him.

  “I do not believe,” said he, “that you need send for any other physician. It is not as if it were an obscure case requiring great skill or surgery. Dr. Randall is an old man and has had a good many years’ experience. He may not be up in the latest methods, but I sometimes think that experience counts for more than new theories in any line. For years he has devoted his life to saving life, and he has succeeded, too. He does not spare himself. I have seen him sit up all night holding a dying baby for a mother who was near to death’s door herself and had no way of ever hoping to pay him for his services; and in the end he brought them both through, and they are living yet. I have seen him do the work of a physician and nurse for hours under the most trying circumstances, and I have seen him happy as a child when the crisis was past in some trying case, or broken utterly in spirit when someone died. He does not often lose a case. He is as much like the old doctor of ‘Bonnie-Brier-Bush’ renown as any you will find today. He tells me there is great hope, and he would not say so if he did not feel sure. I will speak to him about a consultation, and if it is necessary in the least, he will be the first to suggest it, I am sure.”

  They went together into the sickroom, and the minister talked with the physician in low tones. Constance stood at the foot of the bed. The drawn, agonized expression of her grandmother’s face was heartbreaking. Instinctively she stooped over and spoke in gentle tones.

  “Dear Grandmother,” she said, as if talking to a little child, “don’t be troubled. You will be better soon.”

  Did she fancy it, or was it true that one side of the face seemed to soften and relax at her words? She felt she could not bear it. It seemed as if her grandmother were standing on the dark brink of the river of death and reaching to her to take her hand, to help her in some way. What could they do for her? Suppose she were dying? Suppose it were her own case? What would she want done? Someone to speak to her, someone to pray for her? Ah! That was it. But could she hear? Well, at least God would hear; and a sudden conviction came to the girl that God would take hold of the hand of this, His aged servant, and lead her gently.

  She turned to the minister.

  “I think I would like you to pray, if you will,” she said in a low tone. “That is, if the doctor thinks it wise.”

  “There is no objection,” the doctor said.

  “Can she hear me, Doctor?” inquired Mr. Endicott.

  “It is quite possible, though not probable,” responded the man of few words. He was working with an electric battery as he spoke, and Constance watched his hands as they moved skillfully and surely through their work, and felt a confidence in him that made her thankful.

  And so, going near the bed where his words could reach the ears that might be deaf but yet might hear, John Endicott prayed. The doctor went steadily forward with his work, and in her slow way Miss Stokes helped him, but they both held their heads reverently lowered, as if their hearts joined in with the prayer.

  Constance, her face hidden in her handkerchief, stood a little to one side and listened, but as the words went on, like a great wave of comfort that bore them all into the presence of the Almighty and surrounded them with His mercy and loving-kindness, she leaned forward where she could look into her grandmother’s face. The troubled look had gone, and there was dawning a look of peace there. Words of Jesus the minister was repeating, words from the Psalms, and yet petitions that seemed to reach the very throne of God with their earnestness, for they were strong with the promises that belong to God’s children. Was it possible that the dim ears could hear the prayer and feel the comfort?

  The doctor presently tiptoed over softly and looked at his patient and then stepped deferentially back and waited. He, too, had seen the change in the face, and hoped.

  They went out presently at the doctor’s word, and Constance promised to lie down if they would call her at the slightest sign of change in her grandmother. When the minister bade her good night, she thanked him for the prayer and told him it had helped her, too.

  John Endicott reached out his hand and took hers in an earnest, quick grasp as he said, “Oh, I wish you knew how to go to my Lord for comfort!”

  It was only an instant that her hand lay in his strong grasp, but Constance felt that she had received help from that quick friendly touch. He had come to her in her trouble; he was strong, he had not turned away. Where was Morris Thayer now, who ought to have been by her side in this distress? To be sure, it was her own act that had put herself out of his reach, but womanlike, she blamed him that he had not found her in spite of it.

  Her courage almost failed her that night. She dozed and then awoke to a realization of the suspense in the house. After a silent visit to the chamber of illness, she stole back to her couch. The memory of the minister’s prayer comforted her, but she felt that he was far away from her on a different plane, a man
who had been brought up to godly things and who could not possibly know the common feelings of a soul like hers. Yet ever her spirit turned back to the words he had spoken, and once, as morning almost dawned, she slipped from her couch to her knees and prayed, “Our Father in heaven, help me find Thee.”

  Then she lay down and slept.

  Chapter 18

  Slowly but surely Mrs. Wetherill rallied. Little by little the stricken limbs responded to commands from the feeble brain, and it became apparent that she would get about again.

  Constance daily rejoiced. She had not known how much her grandmother was to her until it seemed as if she were about to lose her. It seemed as if no discouragement were too great to be borne now, if this dear one could get well. She came and went with sunny face and cheery manner, and her grandmother was able at last to smile when she entered the room.

  Miss Stokes had become a fixture and a comfort. Her wages were not so exorbitant as those of a city-trained maid or a trained nurse, and Constance felt that the arrangement was quite possible, for now the railroad junction was operating and the number of patrons increased daily. The tearoom took quite a start and promised to do well. Perhaps the old lady’s illness and the settled presence of Miss Stokes, a well-known and dependable person, gave prestige to the enterprise. There was promise of one or two settled table boarders.

  Moreover, within a week after Mrs. Wetherill was taken ill, a rumor spread abroad that a fine boarding school for boys was to be built a mile from the edge of town. It caused quite a stir among the businessmen of Rushville. Silas Barton set about an enlargement of his quarters. Some said he was going to add a restaurant, with all the latest improvements, but that had not reached Constance’s ears as yet and so did not trouble her.

  She was much needed downstairs in these days, for although she did not go into the dining room unless it became actually a necessity, it was necessary for someone to be in the kitchen to keep things from burning, and often to cook something ordered while Norah was waiting upon the table. It became apparent that more help would soon be needed. Constance pondered for a time, and the result was that Jimmy was put into a white duck coat and properly clothed as to his reluctant feet, which did not enjoy shoes and stockings in summertime, and was pressed into service. And a fine little waiter he made, businesslike and energetic, though he would have made the hair of old Thomas, the Wetherill butler, rise on end with horror.

  Traveling salesmen and railroad men stopped every day at Rushville now, for there were changes to be made in the freight house and station, and there was talk of a branch road to connect with another through road to the great Southwest. These men naturally drifted to the drugstore first, but afterward most of them found the Cedars, possibly through some word of Holly’s or Jimmy’s, and after one trial came back every time, for solid silver, cut glass, comfort, and good cooking were not to be found at the soda counter of the drugstore.

  The walls of the old house were thick, and the floors sent up no echo to disturb the old lady who lay there carefully tended and guarded from everything that could trouble her. She knew not that the family plate of the Wetherill’s was being desecrated in the hands of taxi drivers and drummers and railroad laborers, nor knew that her daily bread came from a business carried on by a descendant of two fine old families.

  As she grew better and could say a few words, she came to ask for the minister and to look for his daily visit. Always before he went she asked him in her stately, gentle way to pray, and a peace settled down upon her at his first words.

  There were long talks between the minister and the proprietress of the Cedars on religion, poetry, art, music, and back, always back to religion again. He brought her some of his theological books to read. Constance was gradually growing to feel that the question of personal salvation was the most vital one in the world. Her companionship with John Endicott was not like that she had ever had with any other young man. He came and went informally, because her grandmother enjoyed his coming, and it was natural to drop into the back parlor for a few minutes after he came downstairs and leave a new book or a paper that contained an article he thought she would enjoy. Often she would play for him scraps of a beautiful melody or some stately masterpiece of an old composer, and he would close his eyes, lay his head back in the soft chair, and rest.

  Once when she had finished a prelude of Chopin, which he had come to call “The Prelude” because he liked it so much, he suddenly said, “Oh, if we could have your playing in our church!”

  Constance turned gravely toward him and considered it. Here, perhaps, was work she might do to get virtue to her soul. She remembered how she had been sorry that Lent was over, because she thought it might ease her troubled soul to deny herself something. She tried to tell Mr. Endicott now how she had felt, and he quoted these words:

  “I dare not work, my soul to save;

  That work my Lord has done;

  But I will work like any slave

  For love of God’s dear Son.”

  He quoted it gently. And then he said, “My friend, don’t make that mistake. You cannot work yourself to righteousness. This gift of life is to be had for the asking, not by doing anything to earn it. But, sincerely, you do not know how much help you might give us by coming over there and playing for us. The good lady who has been playing is going away to keep house for her brother; else I do not know how we could get rid of her, and as yet there has been no talk of anyone else. If you will agree to do it, I will forestall any such unpleasant occurrence by announcing your willingness. There are a number of atrocious players in this town, and I shiver to think of one of those at that poor old organ. You might get some help, too, for I do not believe we can come into contact with any body of real Christians, no matter how plain or illiterate, who will not help us in some sense to come nearer to the Lord and Master of us all. I have learned a great many lessons from dear old Mr. Mather and his sweet little wrinkled wife. They are almost on the town, they are so poor; they have none of the beautiful things of life, and their past is full of losses, but they are so happy and peaceful, and speak with such triumph of their heavenly home and their expectation of soon going there, that I love to sit and talk with them.”

  Constance watched his face as he talked, noticed the lights that played over it and the kindling of his eyes, and, as she had often done before, she compared him with Morris Thayer. At last she spoke.

  “I will do it if you think it will help. I should like to help in any way I can. I could not take that class of girls that Jennie spoke about, because I should not know how to teach them, not yet, at least, but I will help in any way I can. And if you would like me to do anything else, or if you can use our big dining room for a social gathering sometime, if Grandmother is well enough to bear the noise by and by, I should be glad to help that way.”

  His face lighted with pleasure. What a wealth of help she could be! How he had sighed for just such help as this!

  That was the beginning of new things in the way of music for the little church. The woman who was going away was glad to resign her position at once, and Constance took charge the following Sunday. The organ had been tuned by a man sent for from a neighboring town, and though it was by no means in perfect working order, yet it was wonderfully better. With confidence and skill, Constance touched the keys and brought forth a different sound from any they had made in years. The people stirred, sat up, and stared, and the choir opened its mouth and sang as it had never sung before. The loungers from across the street loafed over to look in and see what was going on, and thereafter the beautiful organist became an added attraction to the church.

  It was discovered presently that the choir had abilities and Miss Wetherill had a voice. Little by little she took control of the singing in the church, until there was a revolution. Constance found that Jennie’s voice, while somewhat strained from having sung too high as a child, had a pretty quality for an alto, and she set to work to give her some hints and practice with her.

  H
er own voice had received rare cultivation, simply because she had loved music and had delighted to sing, and even in her music-saturated circle at home she had always been listened to with pleasure. Therefore it was no wonder that the first time she sang a solo in church the congregation was spellbound. It was only a gospel song she sang, but the minister had chosen it to follow his sermon, and it made a wonderful impression. They sat hushed and tearful. Even Mrs. Bartlett, with hymnbook ready for a closing hymn to be sung by the congregation, glanced up over her spectacles and watched the sweet-faced singer to the end. Her comment after church in a condescending tone was, “Yes, she has a right pretty little voice.”

  Jimmy sat in the back seat, entranced. He fairly burst with pride, and he watched his goddess from the moment she opened her mouth until the service was over.

  And so the summer passed, and the autumn; and the winter came upon them. The town had accepted the fact that Mrs. Wetherill was a helpless invalid and required the frequent attendance of the minister upon her, although the gossips’ tongues still wagged.

  The choir had developed into a well-trained band, who met once a week with their leader and were getting lessons in all sorts of things besides music, from manners to the arrangements of their respective hair and apparel; or even now and then a lesson in art or literature, as it happened that their attention would be directed to a picture or a book in the pretty room where they met. It is safe to say that few of them had ever before been in a room so beautifully furnished. Constance was using her belongings for the Master’s work, though some might have thought she was doing it for the minister’s sake instead.

  More and more had these two grown to enjoy each other’s society, though neither confessed it.

  The minister, fully knowing what he was about, fully realizing the danger to himself in this sweet companionship with a girl born and bred so differently from himself, held himself in check and enjoyed every moment spent with her to the full. It was to him as if God had let an angel from heaven come down to help him in this, his first poor charge, in a little country village. She even put her influence upon the village gossip and the petty church quarrels, like a calm, cool hand upon a fevered brow, and with her superior way of looking at things made some of the foolish tongues ashamed, and turned them to ask forgiveness.