A Fancy of Hers

by Horatio Alger, Jr.

  "The house does look rather bad," said the Squire. "Mrs. Wilson says the roof leaks, too."

  "A few drops won't hurt all the furniture she's got," said Mrs. Hadley contemptuously.

  Mrs. Hadley was rather inconsistent. She regarded the minister's poor furniture and his wife's worn dresses with scornful superiority; yet, had either complained, she would have charged them with worldliness.

  "One coat of paint won't cost much," said the Squire, watching his wife's countenance for signs of approval or the opposite.

  "It will do no good," said she positively. "It won't make the house any warmer, and will only conduce to the vanity of the minister and his wife."

  "I never thought either of them vain," expostulated her husband.

  "You only look to the surface," said his wife, in a tone of calm superiority. "I go deeper. You think, because Mrs. Wilson can't afford to dress well, that she has no vanity. I can read her better. If she had the means she'd cut a dash, you may depend upon it."

  "There's one thing I can't understand, Lucretia," said her husband. "Why are things worldly in them that are not in us?"

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "You like to dress well, and I like my house to look neat. Why doesn't that show a worldly spirit in us?"

  "Because you are not a minister nor I a minister's wife."

  "What difference does that make?"

  "You are very dull this morning, Mr. Hadley," said his wife scornfully.

  "Perhaps I may be, but still I should like an explanation."

  "Ministers should set their hearts on things above."

  "Shouldn't we?"

  "Not in the same way. They should be humble and not self seeking. They should set a good example to the parish. Does Mr. Wilson pay his rent regular?" she asked, suddenly changing the subject.

  "Tolerable."

  "Isn't he in arrears?

  "I can't tell exactly without looking at the books," said the Squire evasively.

  "I understand; you don't want to tell me. I dare say he is owing you half a year's rent."

  This was quite true, but Squire Hadley neither confirmed nor denied it. He could quite understand that Mr. Wilson, with a wife and three children, found it hard to keep even with the world on his scanty stipend, and he did not feel like pressing him.

  "I think it shameful for a minister not to pay his debts," said Mrs. Hadley, in an acid tone.

  "Suppose he can't, my dear."

  "Don't dear me. I am out of patience with you," said the lady sharply.

  "Why?"

  "You needn't ask. You encourage the minister in his shiftless course."

  "Suppose I had three children, and all our clothing and household expenses had to be paid out of five hundred a year."

  "If you was a minister you ought to do it."

  "A minister can't make a dollar go any farther than other people."

  "He can give up luxuries and vanities."

  "Our minister indulges in very few of those," said the Squire, shrugging his shoulders.

  "I don't know about that. I saw Sarah Wilson in the store the other day buying some granulated sugar, when brown is cheaper and would do equally as well."

  "I believe we use granulated sugar, Lucretia," said Squire Hadley, his eyes twinkling.

  "You're not a minister."

  "And I shouldn't want to be if the sinners are to get all the good things of this life, and the saints have to take up with the poorest."

  "Call yourself a sinner if you like, but don't call me one, Mr. Hadley," said his wife with some asperity.

  "Ain't you a sinner?"

  "We are all sinners, if it comes to that, but I consider myself as good as most people. How much rent did you say the minister was owing you?"

  "I didn't say," said the Squire shrewdly.

  "Keep it a secret if you please. All I say is that it's a duty you owe your family to collect what is honestly due you. I would do it if I were a man."

  "I think you would, Lucretia. However, to please you, I'll attend to it within a week."

  "I am glad you're getting sensible. You allow your good nature to run away with you."

  "I am glad you allow me one good quality, Lucretia," said her husband with an attempt at humor.

  Mrs. Hadley did not fail to inquire of her husband, a few days afterward, if the rent had been collected, and heard with satisfaction that it had been paid up to the current month.

  "I told you he would pay it if you pressed him," she said triumphantly.

  Her husband smiled. He thought it best not to relate the circumstances under which it had been paid. He had called at the minister's study the day after the conversation above detailed, and after a few remarks on indifferent topics said:

  "By the way, Mr. Wilson, in regard to the rent -- -- "

  "I regret being so much in arrears, Squire Hadley," said the minister uncomfortably; "but really it is a very perplexing problem to make my salary cover the necessary expenses of my family. I hope in a few weeks to be able to pay something."

  Don't trouble yourself, my dear sir," said the Squire genially. "You must find it difficult, I am sure. I find, by my books, that you are owing me six months' rent."

  "I am afraid it is as much as that," said Mr. Wilson, sighing.

  "And I am going to help you to pay it."

  The minister looked at his guest in surprise. Squire Hadley took out his pocket book, and drew there-from four ten dollar bills.

  "Mr. Wilson," said he, "I make you a present of this, and now, perhaps, you will be able to pay me the rent due -- thirty seven dollars and a, half, I think the exact amount is."

  "My good friend," said the minister, almost overcome, "how can I thank you for this generosity?"

  "By paying me my rent," said the Squire smiling. "I am very particular to have that paid promptly. If you will furnish me with writing materials I will write you a receipt. Now, Mr. Wilson," he added, as he rose to go, "I am going to ask you a favor."

  "Only mention it, my friend."

  "Let this little transaction be a secret between us."

  It is hard to promise that; I should like to speak to others of your goodness. If I say nothing about it, it will seem ungrateful."

  "If you do mention it, you will get me into hot water."

  "How is that?" inquired the minister, in some perplexity.

  "The fact is my wife is very frugal, and just a leetle stingy. She can't help it, you understand. Her father was pretty close fisted. She wouldn't approve of my giving away so much money, and might remonstrate."

  "Yes, I understand," said the minister, who knew, as all the village did, that Mrs. Hadley was quite as close fisted as her lamented father.

  "So we had better say nothing about it."

  "I can tell my wife?"

  "Yes, you may tell her, for it may relieve her from anxiety. Of course she won't mention it."

  "You are a firm friend, Squire Hadley," said Mr. Wilson, grasping the hand of his parishioner cordially. "You are one of those who do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame."

  "No, I ain't," said Squire Hadley bluntly; "I should be perfectly willing to have all my good deeds known if it was not for Mrs. Hadley. And that reminds me, I would willingly paint the house for you if she did not object."

  "That is not of so much consequence; but the roof does leak badly, and troubles my wife a good deal."

  That ought to be fixed," said the Squire. "How shall I manage it?"

  He reflected a moment, and his face brightened with a new idea.

  "I'll tell you what, Mr. Wilson, we must use a little strategy. You shall see a carpenter, and have the roof repaired at your own expense."

  "Mr. Wilson's countenance fell. "I fear -- -- " he commenced.

  "But I will repay you whatever it costs. How will that do?"

  "How kind you are, Squire Hadley!"

  "It is only what I ought to do, and would have done before if I had thought how to manage it. As Mrs. Hadley wil
l wonder how you raised the money, I will say you had a gift from a friend, and that I told you to repair the house at your own expense."

  A few days later Mrs. Hadley came home in some excitement.

  "Mr. Hadley," said she, severely, "I find that the minister's house is being new shingled."

  "Is it?" asked her husband indifferently.

  "This is the way you waste your money, is it?"

  "What have I to do with it? If Mr. Wilson chooses to shingle the house at his own expense, I am perfectly willing."

  "Didn't you order it done?" inquired his wife, in amazement.

  "Certainly not. The minister spoke of it when he paid the rent, and I told him he could do it at his own expense if he chose to."

  "That's just what you ought to have said. But I don't understand where the minister finds the money, if he is so poor as you say he is."

  "I understand that he has received a gift of money from a friend," said the diplomatic Squire.

  "I didn't know he had any friend likely to give him money. Do you know who it is?"

  "He didn't tell me, and I didn't inquire," answered the Squire, pluming himself on his strategy.

  "Was it a large sum?"

  "I don't think it was."

  "I wish his friend had given him enough to pay for painting the house, too."

  "Why? The house wouldn't be any warmer for painting," said the Squire slyly.

  "It would look better."

  "And so minister to his vanity."

  "You seem to be very stupid this morning," said Mrs. Hadley, provoked.

  "I am only repeating your own observations, my dear."

  "If Mr. Wilson can afford to paint the house, I am in favor of his doing it; but I don't think you have any call to pay for it. The house will be better property if it is newly painted."

  "Then don't you think I ought to do it, Lucretia?"

  "No, I don't," said Mrs. Hadley sharply.

  "I think myself," said the wily Squire, "considering the low rate at which the minister gets the house, he could afford to put on one coat of paint at his own expense. I have a great mind to hint it to him."

  "You'd better do it, Mr. Hadley," said his wife approvingly.

  "I will; but perhaps he won't look at it in the same light."

  Within a week the painters were at work on the parsonage. The coat of paint improved its appearance very much. I suspect the bill was paid in the same way as the shingling; but this is a secret between the minister and Squire Hadley, whose strategy quite baffled his wife's penetration.

  Chapter 6

  "Please, Miss Frost, the sewing society is going to meet at our house this afternoon, and mother wants you to come round after school, and stay to supper."

  The speaker was Annie Peabody, daughter of Deacon Uriah Peabody, a man who lived in a groove, and judged all men according to his own experience of life, which was very limited. He was an austere, old fashioned Calvinist, who believed that at least nineteen twentieths of his fellow men were elected to perdition. Mr. Wilson's theology was not stern enough to suit him. He characterized the minister's sermons as milk and water.

  "What we want, parson, is strong meat," he more than once remarked to the minister. "You're always exhortin' men to do right. I don't take much stock in that kind of talk."

  "What shall I preach then, Deacon Peabody?" asked the minister mildly.

  "If I were a minister I'd stir up the sinners," said the deacon emphatically.

  "How would you do it?"

  "I'd describe the lake of fire, and the torments of the damned, an' let 'em understand what is prepared for 'em if they don't fear God and do his commandments."

  The minister shuddered a little. He was a man of sensitive organization, upon whom these gloomy suggestions jarred unpleasantly. "I can't paint such lurid pictures, deacon," he answered; "nor do I feel that they would do any good. I don't want to paint our Maker as a cruel tyrant, but as a merciful and considerate Father."

  "I'm afeared, parson, that you ain't sound in the doctrines. or know what the Scriptures say, `Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.'"

  "We also read, `Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.'"

  "But suppose they don't fear him," said the deacon triumphantly.

  "I believe in the punishment of sin," returned Mr. Wilson. "We cannot err without incurring the penalty, but I believe God, in punishing the sinner, does not cease to love him. `Whom he loveth he chasteneth:' or, as we have a right to say, he loves those that he chastens."

  "I don't know about that," said the deacon. "I think that's twistin' Scripture to our own ends. How many do you think are goin' to be saved, Parson Wilson?"

  "I cannot hazard a conjecture, deacon. Heaven forbid that I should seek to limit the goodness and mercy of God."

  "Do you think a quarter will be saved?" persisted the deacon. "Of course I don't mean the heathen. There ain't no hope for any of them, unless they've been converted by the missionaries. I mean of them that's brought up under Christian institutions."

  "A quarter? Most certainly. If I felt that three quarters of the race were destined to be lost, my soul would be weighed down with grief."

  "Well, for my part," said the deacon, "I've no idea that as many as a quarter will be saved. About one in twenty is full as high as I calc'late on."

  "Good Heavens! Deacon Peabody, you can't be in earnest."

  "Yes, I be. Why, Parson Wilson, look at the people as they are," (the deacon pronounced it air) -- "ain't they steeped in folly and vice? Ain't they carnally minded? Ain't they livin' for this world without no thought of the other? Air they fit for the mansions of the blest? Tell me that."

  The deacon's voice rose in a sort of crescendo, and he put the last question triumphantly.

  "We are none of us fit for Heaven," replied the minister, "but we can rely on God's mercy. Your doctrine is simply horrible. If but one in twenty is to be, saved, don't you feel anxious about your own soul?"

  "Of course I'm a poor, miserable sinner," said the deacon complacently; "but I'm a professin' Christian, and I have faith in Christ. I think I come within the promises."

  "Suppose you were sure of your own salvation, doesn't the thought of the millions who are to perish ever give you anguish?"

  "Of course I'm sorry for the poor, deluded sinners," said the deacon, who managed nevertheless to maintain a cheerful exterior; "but the peace of God remains in my soul, and I don't allow the folly of others to disturb me."

  The minister shook his head.

  "If I believed as you do, deacon," he said, "I could not close my eyes at night. I could not rejoice in the bright sunshine and glorious beauty of outward nature. I should put on sackcloth and ashes, and pour out my soul to God in earnest prayer that he would turn his soul from wrath."

  "I don't feel like interferin' with God's arrangements. I've no doubt they're for the best."

  "You think it best that all heathen and nineteen twentieths of those that live in Christian countries should be damned?" asked the minister with some vehemence.

  "If it's the Lord's will," said Deacon Peabody, in a sanctified tone, "I'm resigned to it."

  Deacon Peabody should have lived at least fifty years earlier. He found few of his contemporaries to agree with him in his rigid notions. Most of the parish sympathized rather with the milder theology of Mr. Wilson. Had it been otherwise, had the deacon thought it possible to obtain a preacher in harmony with his own stern views, he would have headed a movement to get rid of the minister. As it was, he contented himself with protesting, in public and private, against what he regarded as pernicious and blinding error.

  This has been a long digression, but the deacon was a prominent man in Granville, and interesting as the representative of a class numerous in Puritan days.

  When Mabel entered the deacon's parlor, after school was over, she found some dozen ladies congregated, including the most prominent matrons of Granville. There were but two other
young ladies besides Miss Frost. One of them was Miss Clarissa Bassett, the other a grown up daughter of the deacon -- Miss Charity Peabody, who was noted for a lack of that virtue which had been given her as a designation. Mrs. Peabody, in strange contrast to her husband, had a heart overflowing with kindness. and was disposed to look on the best side of everybody.

  "I am very glad to see you, Miss Frost," said Mrs. Peabody cordially, advancing to meet the school teacher. "I've meant to call, but I couldn't seem to get time. I suppose you know some of these ladies. I'll introduce you to such as you don't know."

  So Mabel made the rounds and was generally introduced. Though the society was so unlike that in which she had been accustomed to mingle, she had a natural grace and tact which carried her through the ordeal easily and naturally. She finally found a seat next to Mrs. Priscilla Pulsifer, an old lady of an inquiring turn of mind, who was a new acquaintance, and promptly seized the opportunity to cross-examine Mabel, as she had long desired to do.

  "You're the new school teacher, ain't you?"

  "Yes, I am."

  "How old be you?" asked the old lady, glaring at her through her glasses.

  "Twenty two," answered Mabel, resenting what she considered an impertinent question by a counter inquiry. How old are you, Mrs. Pulsifer?"

  "Seventy one; and I ain't ashamed on't, either," answered the old lady, bridling.

  Mabel was already sorry for her question. "Age is not a thing to be ashamed of," she said. "You don't look so old as that."

  "So folks say," said Mrs. Pulsifer, quite appeased, and resuming her inquiries: "You're from the city, ain't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Ever taught afore?"

  "This is my first school."

  "How do you like teachin'?"

  "Better than I expected. I feel repaid for my labor by watching the progress of the scholars."

  "How much wages do you get?" asked the old lady practically.

  "Seven dollars a week."

  "That's pooty good pay for a single gal," remarked Mrs. Pulsifer. "You don't have anybody dependent on you?"

  "Do you mean a husband, Mrs. Pulsifer?" asked Mabel, her eyes sparkling with fun.