The Morning Glory Club Part 33

"And I haven't a doubt but what he'd do it," said Mrs. Thornton.

"I wonder if they're really engaged. Has anybody heard?" asked Mrs.

Darling, who loved the affairs of lovers almost as much as she loved herself.

"Why don't you ask one of 'em?" said Mrs. Stout, abruptly. "That's about the only thing that any of you don't seem to be sure about."

Mrs. Darling's cheeks flushed slightly, but she wisely refrained from replying. "Perhaps some of you have noticed that I ain't said much to-day," continued Mrs. Stout, "and I want to tell you that one reason is because I've learned a lesson about talkin' too much from the woman that you've been talkin' about. But there's one or two things that I've just got to say. There's been a lot said about bein' misunderstood, and such. What was said about Miss Wallace was plain enough when it was said. What was done--was done; but there ain't one woman, not a livin'

one, that's said, or done, one thing to make good the harm they've done her--except to stop sayin' bad things. That's somethin', but it ain't enough; now she's tryin' to save the life of the man that did more than anybody else to take away her good name, and riskin' her own life doin'

it. You all know better than you did before what kind of a woman she is.

Now, I ain't goin' to say all of the hard things that I was goin' to say, and wanted to say, but what I want to know is, what are we, this club, goin' to do to show her that we made a mistake and are sorry, and by doin' it show everybody that we ain't a set of mean, narrow-minded women?"

"What would you suggest?" Mrs. Tweedie calmly asked.

"Well," replied Mrs. Stout, "we can never pay her in any way for the wrong that's been done her, but we can show her that we'd like to. I move that we send a letter to the school committee, and every mother's son of us sign it, askin' them to give Miss Wallace back her school, and say that we know her to be a woman with a character as good as anybody's, and better than most folks, and that we believe she's been in the right in everything that she's said or done since we've known her.

If the motion don't go, it's more'n likely that I shall forget my good resolution about not sayin' things." Mrs. Stout sat down, utterly out of breath, and mopped her face while a slight murmur of surprise ran about the room. The motion was seconded, and the question put without debate.

"It is a unanimous vote," Mrs. Tweedie announced. Mrs. Stout smiled. She well knew that some of them hated to do it, but they wanted to be on the popular side, and this time it happened to be right.

"Well," she said, quizzically, as she looked about at the comically sad-faced women, "I must say that you're the glumist lookin' lot of mornin' glories I ever see."

Chapter XXIII

Coals of Fire

BARBARA'S new task as nurse and housekeeper at the parsonage was not an easy one, but after the second day she had everything in good order--everything except her patient. For him there was little hope--Barbara knew, and Mr. Flint himself knew.

When the minister first saw her after he had been lying alone for hours his only thought was that she had come to demand something. He had publicly denounced her; she had been turned away from his door; what could she have come for except revenge?

"I have come to take care of you, Mr. Flint," was all that she had said, but it was enough to rea.s.sure him.

Barbara's work had taken her into all of the rooms in the house in search of one thing or another. The first day she had opened the door of _his_ room--Will's. She had only taken a step when she discovered whose room it was, and knew that what she was looking for would not be found there. She could not resist the temptation, however, to glance about the room. There were his books, and his fishing-rods and tackle; his shotgun stood in a corner, and near a window was an old-fashioned writing-table. It was a boy's room--_his_ room. Barbara feasted her eyes for a moment, and then, remembering her patient, stepped back into the hall, and softly closed the door.

Hanging on the wall, opposite the foot of Mr. Flint's bed, in an oval frame of black walnut, was a photograph of Will. The picture was a likeness of a st.u.r.dy little chap of three, with large, staring eyes, fat cheeks, and long curls. Barbara looked at it often; Mr. Flint, too, often looked at the picture, but only when Barbara was not in the room,--while she was there his eyes followed her constantly. There was something about her, and what she was doing for him, that he, in his condition, could not understand. They talked but little. Once Mr. Flint began to speak of his notorious sermon, but Barbara quickly stopped him.

Sam Billings had been hired by the board of health to maintain quarantine on the parsonage, though the fear of the people of Manville made it almost unnecessary except for the sake of appearances. The weather was mild, and when not engaged in a noisy conversation with some one across the road, Sam sat on the steps, or paced the path to the gate. Through Sam and Doctor Jones was the only means Barbara had of communicating with the world, but just then she had little use for the world or many in it. Sam afforded her some amus.e.m.e.nt, however, when she went to the door for a breath of fresh air.

"I tell you, Miss Wallace," he said, one morning, "folks have changed their minds about you."

"That is a right we all have," Barbara smilingly replied.

"They all think that you're a heroine now."

"I am sure of one good friend in you, Mr. Billings." The "Mr." pleased Sam greatly--it was seldom used as a prefix to his name.

"You're jest right about that," Sam grinned. He liked Barbara and her smile immensely. When she had gone in and closed the door he reflected that, if he were younger, and knew more, and had a steady job, and Billy Flint was not in love with her and she with him, why, he would put _his_ best foot forward.

"Has any word come from Will?" Mr. Flint asked, on the afternoon of the second day.

"No," Barbara replied; "but I know that we shall hear to-day."

The sick man turned restlessly.

"I must see him," he moaned; "there is something that I must say to him, and to you--Barbara." He hesitated before speaking her name--it was the first time he had called her that.

"But, Mr. Flint," remonstrated Barbara, in alarm, "he cannot come here, he must not put himself in danger; besides, there will be plenty of time when you are well again."

"That time may not come. I must tell him before it is too late."

"But not at the risk of his life. Is not his life more to you--and to me--than our own?"

"Yes," was the feeble reply, and then he muttered: "My miserable life."

"There," said Barbara, soothingly, "we have talked more than is for your good." She started to leave the room, but he held out his hand appealingly.

"Wait," he said. "If I cannot tell him I must say it to you. I have guessed the secret, yours and Will's. It was that more than anything else that made me preach as I did. From childhood to manhood I fear I have wronged him. I was narrow--blind. I have wronged you, too, and yet you came to save me. For Will's sake forgive me, Barbara, and if I never see him again tell him that I lived to realize my sin, tell him that I have suffered--" The minister stopped abruptly and listened.

There was a quick step in the hall below. Barbara turned quickly toward the door, and Mr. Flint dropped his outstretched hand. Some one was running up the stairs. Barbara half-guessed the truth and was transfixed with horror.

"Will!" she screamed, as he appeared in the doorway. "Don't come in--go quick--think of the danger!"

Mr. Flint had half-raised himself, and was staring at his son with a look of agony on his face.

"In G.o.d's name, Will, go! Your life--"

Will calmly raised his hand as though to command silence.

"Danger, my life?" he said, and then smiled as he took Barbara's hands in his own. "Your life is my life, Barbara."

"And mine," groaned the sick man.

"Yes, and yours, father," replied Will, as he went to the bed and looked into his father's eyes. "I'm sorry to find you this way, but I have good news of mother. She is better, except for worrying about you and wanting to come." A sob from Barbara caused Will to turn quickly and clasp her in his arms, and as he wiped away the tears and kissed her, he saw the worry and work written on her face.

"I have come to help, Barbara," he said. She understood and blessed him for it, but until all danger was pa.s.sed she prayed unceasingly for his safety.

That evening Sam Billings was dozing on the front steps when Will opened the door without thinking that Sam was not aware of his presence in the parsonage.

"h.e.l.lo, Sam," he said.

Sam was so startled that he almost fell down the steps. When he had recovered his balance he stood up, rubbed his eyes, and stared.

"Well, I'm blamed if it ain't Billy Flint!" he exclaimed. "How'd you get in?"

"By the back door; I knew that you would make a fuss if I tried to get in this way."

"Ain't you takin' big chances?"