The Way to Peace [5]
visit the community, and had been answered "Yee."
Lewis was silent with consternation; he went out to the sawmill and climbed up into the loft to think it all out alone. Should he forbid it? He knew that was nonsense; in the first place, his conception of the relation of husband and wife did not include that kind of thing; but more than that, opposition would, he said to himself, "push her in." Not into Shakerism; "'Thalia couldn't be a Shaker to save her life," he thought, with an involuntary smile; but into an excited discontent with her comfortable, prosaic life. No; definite opposition to the visit must not be thought of--but he must try and persuade her not to go. How? What plea could he offer? His own loneliness without her he could not bring himself to speak of; he shrank from taking what seemed to him an advantage. He might urge that she would find it cold and uncomfortable in those old frame houses high up on the hills; or that it would be bad for her health to take the rather wearing journey at this time of year. But he knew too well how little effect any such prudent counsels would have. The very fact that her interest had lasted for more than three months showed that it had really struck roots into her mind, and mere prudence would not avail much. Still, he would urge prudence; then, if she was determined, she must go. "She'll get sick of it in a fortnight," he said; but for the present he must let her have her head, even if she was making a mistake. She had a right to have her head, he reminded himself--"but I must tell those people to keep her warm, she takes cold so easily."
He got up and looked out of the window; below, in the race, there was a jam of logs, and the air was keen with the pungent smell of sawdust and new boards. The whir and thud of the machinery down-stairs sent a faint quiver through the planks under his feet. "The mill will net a good profit this year," he said to himself, absently. "'Thalia can have pretty nearly anything she wants." And even as he said it he had a sudden, vague misgiving: if she didn't have everything she wanted, perhaps she would be happier? But the idea was too new and too subtle to follow up, so the result of that troubled hour in the mill-chamber was only that he made no very resolute objection to Athalia's acceptance of Eldress Hannah's permission to come. It had been given grudgingly enough.
The family were gathered in the sitting-room; they had had their supper-- the eight elderly women and the three elderly men, all that were left of the community. The room had the austere and shining cleanness which Athalia had called a perfume, but it was full of homely comfort. A blue-and-white rag carpet in the centre left a border of bare floor, painted pumpkin-yellow; there was a glittering airtight stove with isinglass windows that shone like square, red eyes; a gay patchwork cushion in the seat of a rocking-chair was given up to the black cat, whose sleek fur glistened in the lamplight. Three of the sisters knitted silently; two others rocked back and forth, their tired, idle hands in their laps, their eyes closed; the other three yawned, and spoke occasionally between themselves of their various tasks. Brother Nathan read his weekly FARMER; Brother William turned over the leaves of a hymn-book and appeared to count them with noiseless, moving lips; Brother George cut pictures out of the back of a magazine, yawning sometimes, and looking often at his watch. Into this quietness Eldress Hannah's still voice came:
"I have heard from Lydia again." There was a faint stir, but no one spoke. "The Lord is dealing with her," Eldress Hannah said; "she is in great misery."
Brother George nodded. "That is good; He works in a mysterious way-- she's real miserable, is she? Well, well; that's good. The mercies of the Lord are everlasting," he ended, in a satisfied voice, and began to read again.
"Amen!--amen!" said Brother William, vaguely.
"Poor Lydy!" Brother Nathan murmured.
"And I had another letter," the Eldress proceeded, "from that young
Lewis was silent with consternation; he went out to the sawmill and climbed up into the loft to think it all out alone. Should he forbid it? He knew that was nonsense; in the first place, his conception of the relation of husband and wife did not include that kind of thing; but more than that, opposition would, he said to himself, "push her in." Not into Shakerism; "'Thalia couldn't be a Shaker to save her life," he thought, with an involuntary smile; but into an excited discontent with her comfortable, prosaic life. No; definite opposition to the visit must not be thought of--but he must try and persuade her not to go. How? What plea could he offer? His own loneliness without her he could not bring himself to speak of; he shrank from taking what seemed to him an advantage. He might urge that she would find it cold and uncomfortable in those old frame houses high up on the hills; or that it would be bad for her health to take the rather wearing journey at this time of year. But he knew too well how little effect any such prudent counsels would have. The very fact that her interest had lasted for more than three months showed that it had really struck roots into her mind, and mere prudence would not avail much. Still, he would urge prudence; then, if she was determined, she must go. "She'll get sick of it in a fortnight," he said; but for the present he must let her have her head, even if she was making a mistake. She had a right to have her head, he reminded himself--"but I must tell those people to keep her warm, she takes cold so easily."
He got up and looked out of the window; below, in the race, there was a jam of logs, and the air was keen with the pungent smell of sawdust and new boards. The whir and thud of the machinery down-stairs sent a faint quiver through the planks under his feet. "The mill will net a good profit this year," he said to himself, absently. "'Thalia can have pretty nearly anything she wants." And even as he said it he had a sudden, vague misgiving: if she didn't have everything she wanted, perhaps she would be happier? But the idea was too new and too subtle to follow up, so the result of that troubled hour in the mill-chamber was only that he made no very resolute objection to Athalia's acceptance of Eldress Hannah's permission to come. It had been given grudgingly enough.
The family were gathered in the sitting-room; they had had their supper-- the eight elderly women and the three elderly men, all that were left of the community. The room had the austere and shining cleanness which Athalia had called a perfume, but it was full of homely comfort. A blue-and-white rag carpet in the centre left a border of bare floor, painted pumpkin-yellow; there was a glittering airtight stove with isinglass windows that shone like square, red eyes; a gay patchwork cushion in the seat of a rocking-chair was given up to the black cat, whose sleek fur glistened in the lamplight. Three of the sisters knitted silently; two others rocked back and forth, their tired, idle hands in their laps, their eyes closed; the other three yawned, and spoke occasionally between themselves of their various tasks. Brother Nathan read his weekly FARMER; Brother William turned over the leaves of a hymn-book and appeared to count them with noiseless, moving lips; Brother George cut pictures out of the back of a magazine, yawning sometimes, and looking often at his watch. Into this quietness Eldress Hannah's still voice came:
"I have heard from Lydia again." There was a faint stir, but no one spoke. "The Lord is dealing with her," Eldress Hannah said; "she is in great misery."
Brother George nodded. "That is good; He works in a mysterious way-- she's real miserable, is she? Well, well; that's good. The mercies of the Lord are everlasting," he ended, in a satisfied voice, and began to read again.
"Amen!--amen!" said Brother William, vaguely.
"Poor Lydy!" Brother Nathan murmured.
"And I had another letter," the Eldress proceeded, "from that young