Divers Women | Page 8

the getting
ready the Sunday feast, all the time with the flush on her cheek and the
fire in her eye that told of a turbulent, eager, disappointed heart, and not
once during the time did she think of the solemn words of prayer or
hymn or sermon, or even benediction, of the morning. She had gotten
her text in the church aisle. It was, "Wherewithal shall I be clothed, in
order to sit down at the marriage-supper of Mrs. Jamison's son and
daughter?" And vigorously was it tormenting her. What an infinitely
compassionate God is ours who made it impossible for Dr. Selmser, as
he sat alone in his study that afternoon, to know what was transpiring in
the hearts and homes of some of his people!
Those chickens sputtered themselves done at last, and the hot and tired
mother, with still the anxious look on her face, stooped and took them
from their fiery bed, and the father awoke with a yawn to hear himself
summoned to the feast. It was later than usual; many things had
detained them; four o'clock quite, and before the army of dishes could
be marshaled back into shape, the bell would certainly toll for evening

service. "Let the fear of the Lord be upon you." And He said,
"Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy."
Dwight Brower was summoned, too, from his room; and his mother,
who had just realized the strangeness of his absence, looked up as he
came in, and said:
"Are you sick to-day, Dwight?"
"No, ma'am," he answered.
And something in his voice made her look again; and something in his
face made her keep looking, with a perplexed, half-awed air. What had
happened to Dwight? What change had come to him amid the afternoon
hours of that Sabbath day? Very different experiences can be passing in
the same house at the same time.
It was only across the street from the Browers' that little Mrs. Matthews
poured coffee for herself and husband, while Mollie, the cook, stood on
the side-piazza and sang in a loud, shrill, and yet appreciative tone,
"There is rest for the weary." Little Mrs. Matthews had glowing cheeks,
though she had done nothing more serious than exchange her silken
dress for a wrapper, and lie on the sofa and finish the closing chapters
of George Eliot's last new novel, since her return from church. Aye, it
is true. She had been a listener in the same sanctuary where the earnest
charge had rung, "Take heed what ye do; let the fear of the Lord be
upon you." At least Mrs. Matthews had taken her handsomely clothed
little body to church; I will not say that her mind was there, or that she
had heard much of the sermon. Some of it, however, she undoubtedly
had heard, and she proved it at this point, breaking in upon Dr.
Matthews' musings as he stirred his second cup of coffee:
"Dr. Matthews, how do you like being preached at?"
"Preached at?" the doctor echoed, with a sleepy air.
"Yes, preached at. I'm sure, if you were not asleep this morning, you
must have heard yourself all but called by name. Who else could Dr.

Selmser have been hinting at when he burst forth with such a tirade on
whist parties? It isn't a week since we had ours, and he almost
described what we had for supper."
"Fudge!" said Dr. Matthews. He was occasionally more apt to be
expressive than elegant in his expressions. "What do you suppose he
knows about our party? There were a dozen, I dare say, that very
evening, and as many more the next evening. They are common enough,
I am sure. And he didn't say anything personal, nor anything very bad,
anyhow. They all take that position--have to, I suppose; it's a part of
their business. I don't like them any the less for it. I wouldn't listen to a
preacher who played whist."
Mrs. Matthews set her pretty lips in a most determined way, and
answered, in an injured tone:
"Oh, well, if you like to be singled out in that manner, and held up as
an example before the whole congregation, I'm sure you're welcome to
the enjoyment; but as for me, I think it is just an insult."
"Stuff and nonsense!" echoed the doctor. "How you women can work
yourselves into a riot over nothing. Now you know he didn't say any
more than he has a dozen times before. In fact, he was rather mild on
that point, I thought; and I concluded he considered he had said about
all there was to be said in that line, and might as well slip it over. There
wasn't a personal sentence in it, anyhow. The doctor is a