The Romance of a Christmas Card | Page 7

the dazzling idea of disobedience.
"Land sakes, Maria! There ain't alders enough on the river-bank to
switch religion into a boy like Dick Larrabee. It's got to come like a
thief in the night, as the ol' sayin' is, but I guess I don't mean thief, I
guess I mean star: it's got to come kind o' like a star in a dark night. If
the whole village, 'generate an' onregenerate, hadn't 'a' kep' on naggin'
an' hectorin' an' criticizin' them two boys, Dick an' Dave,--carryin' tales
an' multiplyin' of 'em by two, '_ong root_' as the ol' sayin' is,--I dare say
they'd 'a' both been here yet; 'stid o' roamin' roun' the earth seekin'
whom they may devour."
There was considerable truth in Ossian Popham's remark, as Letty
could have testified; for the conduct of the Boynton-Gilman household,
as well as that of the minister, had been continually under inspection
and discussion.
Nothing could remain long hidden in Beulah. Nobody spied, nobody
pried, nobody listened at doors or windows, nobody owned a

microscope, nobody took any particular notice of events, or if they did
they preserved an attitude of profound indifference while doing it,--yet
everything was known sooner or later. The amount of the fish and meat
bill, the precise extent of credit, the number of letters in the post, the
amount of fuel burned, the number of absences from church and
prayer-meeting, the calls or visits made and received, the hours of
arrival or departure, the source of all incomes,--these details were the
common property of the village. It even took cognizance of more subtle
things; for it observed and recorded the fluctuations of all love affairs,
and the fluctuations also in the religious experiences of various persons
not always in spiritual equilibrium; for the soul was an object of
scrutiny in Beulah, as well as mind, body, and estate.
Letty Boynton used to feel that nothing was exclusively her own; that
she belonged to Beulah part and parcel; but Dick Larrabee was far
more restive under the village espionage than were she and David.
It was natural that David should want to leave Beulah and make his
way in the world, and his sister did not oppose it. Dick's circumstances
were different. He had inherited a small house and farm from his
mother, had enjoyed a college education, and had been offered a share
in a good business in a city twelve miles away. He left Beulah because
he hated it. He left because he could not endure his father's gentle
remonstrances or the bewilderment in his stepmother's eyes. She was a
newcomer in the household and her glance seemed to say: "Why on
earth do you behave so badly to your father when you're such a
delightful chap?" He left because Deacon Todd had prayed for him
publicly at a Christian Endeavor meeting; because Mrs. Popham had
circulated a wholly baseless scandal about him; and finally because in
his young misery the only being who could have comforted him by
joining her hapless fortunes to his had refused to do so. He didn't know
why. He had always counted on Letty when the time should come to
speak the word. He had shown his heart in everything but words; what
more did a girl want? Of course, if any one preferred a purely fantastic
duty to a man's love, and allowed a scapegrace brother to foist two
red-faced, squalling babies on her, there was nothing to be said. So, in
this frame of mind he had had one flaming, passionate, wrong-headed

scene with his father, and strode out of Beulah with dramatic gestures
of shaking its dust off his feet. His father, roused for once from his
lifelong patience, had been rather terrible in that last scene; so terrible
that he had never forgiven himself, or really believed himself fully
forgiven by God, though his son had alienated half the village and
nearly rent the parish in twain by his conduct.
As for Letty, she held her peace. She could only hope that the minister
and his wife suspected nothing, and she was sure of Beulah's point of
view. That a girl would never give up a suitor, if she had any hope of
tying him to her for life, was a popular form of belief in the community;
and strangely enough it was chiefly the women, not the men, who made
it current. Now and then a soft-hearted and chivalrous male would
observe indulgently of some village beauty, "I shouldn't wonder a mite
if she could 'a' had Bill for the askin'"; but this opinion would be met by
such a chorus of feminine incredulity that its author generally withdrew
it as unsound and untenable.
It was then, when Dick had gone away, that the days had