# The New Missioner/Chapter 9

pp. ll4–124.

#### CHAPTER NINE

IT is only in the great hives of men, where people press closely upon each other, where all day we jostle and push our fellows, and all night we hear the sound of their footfalls and laughter, that we ever achieve seclusion. In a village we afford a spectacle.
So Mrs. Thomas, who was passing through an inevitable, psychological crisis, fancied perhaps that her various emotions, doubts and perplexities were concealed in the depths of her soul, never dreaming that she was constantly under observation and being studied as microscopically as ever was beetle glued upon a card.
Mrs. Thomas, to put the fact succinctly, was floundering helplessly in the untried seas of a lately arrived freedom, struggling in some vague, instinctive effort to find herself; for to every life, even in the most unthinking and unawakened, there comes a moment when the individual makes an effort, perhaps abortive, to express himself, and the soul strives to burst into flower.
And it was this blind effort which, as her friends remarked, "had changed Marthy Thomas and made her act queer."
Married in early youth, she had long become accustomed to the dominance of a stronger nature. The first few days after her husband's death she had passed in a daze, her mind benumbed; but the sordidly spectacular event of the funeral had roused her to a sense of the possibilities of the situation.
She felt the quick response of her sensuous temperament to the rows of Red Men marching unevenly along the dusty road to the discordant strains of the funeral march from Saul, and then slowly filing into the unpainted little church. She thrilled to the importance of her position, as she, too, entered, shrouded in sombre weeds and supported on either side by a sun-burned brother, in unaccustomed black, who had journeyed from a neighbouring camp for the occasion.
Afterward followed days when the consolatory offices of friends waxed and then waned, and she had declined from a tragedy to a commonplace, and the prosaic world asserted its claim. She was at once worried and dazzled, too, by the, to her, enormous responsibility of the insurance money.
This sum served as the conveniently shifting foundation of many a towering castle in Spain, for, as she gradually realised that the weight of Thomas's personality had really been lifted, her essentially romantic and emotional nature knew a period of bloom and efflorescence, all the more exotic because so long repressed.
And Nature, too, had thrown off the stern thrall of winter. Almost in a single night, the bare, bleak mountains rippled with the pink and blue of countless penstemon, and the silvery green of the sage bushes. The magpies and the bluejays fluttered through the pine trees, and the chipmunks whisked over the rocks, and Mrs. Thomas's heart rose up and answered the summons of the spring.
Thomas had been a dour creature, with a highly cultivated gift of sarcasm, and an uncanny way of divining her hidden impulses and dragging them to the merciless light of ridicule, thus skilfully circumventing any possible expression of them; so day by day, as she became more accustomed to the absence of this cog upon her actions, her imagination fluttered its newly unbound wings and ventured in wider and wider circles.
The conversation with her companions and their amiable and authoritative dictation as to the best method of spending the insurance money, at first caused Mrs. Thomas much perturbation, but she finally followed the bent of her mind, and discarded Mrs. Nitschkan's rakish suggestions for the more alluring one of refurnishing the house.
Secure then, in the approbation of her friends, who were capable of displaying well exercised critical judgment and marked executive ability when dealing with the affairs of others, she joyously absorbed herself in cleaning and adorning her home; but when the pillow shams on the thick parlour bed were properly bordered and inserted with lace, the parlour set was glaring with red plush, and the kitchen fresh with whitewash and sticky with varnish, when any lingering sense of obligation to Thomas was fully liquidated by the planting of a headstone at one end of the grave, and a rose bush at the other, then, with a half-guilty sense of finality, she resolutely closed the portals of the past, and fingered with fascinated interest and curiosity the key which was to open the door of the future.
At first, her long-hobbled mind merely wandered within the circumscribed radius of the present; but when, at last, it dawned upon her that she was free to follow the dictates of her whim, then a sense of ennui and discouragement at the narrow limits of her environment overcame her. There was no more setting of the house in order to be done. Her children were beyond the care of babyhood, and had not yet arrived at the age when maternal ambition would brood over them.
While in this frame of mind she read in the Mount Tabor Review, a weekly paper which disseminated the news of the entire county, the fact that Professor Alexis Hartshorn, the distinguished astrologer, palmist, crystal gazer and psychic reader, was located at Mount Tabor for a few weeks, and could be consulted at his rooms at Lamont Street from 9 a.m. until 9 p.m. each day. His picture accompanied the advertisement—a dark, poetic face, with a touch of mephistophelian cynicism, eternally alluring to the feminine imagination.
Mrs. Thomas gazed long and admiringly at the smudgy halftone, read and reread the advertisement, and then cutting it out with the scissors, placed it thoughtfully between the leaves of the family Bible with as much of an expression of decision on her face as it was capable of assuming.
The next morning she hired from the village blacksmith shop, which also did duty as the village livery stable, the sole vehicle it had to rent, a rattling buckboard with but one uncertain seat. This wagon was drawn by an old and jaded white horse, whose reluctant head she turned in the direction of Mount Tabor, and slapping the lines on his back, drove slowly off with a lambent excitement and fear in her wide, appealing eyes.
From that day, Mrs. Thomas was another woman, abstracted, absorbed, remote. Her friends commented on her withdrawal from the common interest; but failed to convince themselves with an adequate explanation of the alteration.
"It may be grief, or it may be comin' into property; but Thomas's takin' off has certainly changed her," remarked Mrs. Evans, as the group of intimates sat sewing one June afternoon in Mrs. Nitschkan's cabin.
"I guess she's grieved more as we give her credit for," remarked Mrs. Landvetter ruminatively. "Vell, you can't neffer tell."
"Gosh a'mighty!" exclaimed Mrs. Nitschkan, with robust contempt. "Grievin'! Well, if I'd a bin in her shoes, I'd be out kickin' up my heels in pastur' this minute. Thomas! My Lord! You know, girls, what a raspin' tongue he had, an' how his pockets was just lined with glue when it come to pullin' any money out of 'em."
"Vell, he vasn't t'rowin' his money avay like Walt Garvin, anyvay," contended Mrs. Landvetter.
"Ain't it awful!" Mrs. Evans sighed. "Why, Mr. Carrothers was sayin' only last night that he'd took a pencil an' paper an' calculated on how many missionaries could be sent to the heathen on what Walt paid for a new necklace for Lutie this last week. I forget how many he said, an awful lot. You see in those hot countries where missionaries mostly go, it don't cost much to live. They can't wear many clothes, an' they just stir up a mess of rice, or pick a cocoanut or a banana off a tree. It's awful, Preacher says, to think of all those souls lost for the sake of Lutie's vanity."
"Tink of all dat money she could save," gloated Mrs. Landvetter, an avid gleam in her eye. "It's awful."
"Speakin' of lightmindedness!" remarked Mrs. Nitschkan, "I was callin' on Mis' O'Brien yesterday, an' I says to her: 'Why, wasn't you at the last meetin' of the Ladies' Aid Society?' An' she answers cool as a cucumber, 'I got somepin' better to do than set around with a lot of hens.' 'You don't know your camp,' I says. 'Us hens, as you call us, is better fellows than them that's settin' round on your porch every night.' Well, she threw me one of her devilish looks, an' she says as prim as you please, 'Them's Shock's friends.' I burst right out laughin'. Why, she's even got the lunger preacher there, and——"
But Mrs. Nitschkan's revelations regarding the Black Pearl were suddenly interrupted by a shrill exclamation from Mrs. Evans, who had half-risen from her seat by the window, and holding aside the straight, white muslin curtain, was peering at what, judging from the expression of her face, must have been a strange and unwonted spectacle. "Girls," in a queer, strained voice, "is my eyes gone bad or my head? For Heaven's sake! Look at this!"
Along the mountain road, its head pointed to the distant peaks, ambled the dejected white horse; behind it rattled the wagon with its swaying wheels, and high upon the uncertain seat were perched Mrs. Thomas and a man—the unidealiscd and coarsened reality of Professor Alexis Hartshorn. Mrs. Thomas's beloved crepe veil floated behind her, and above her best black gown her pink and white face smiled with a tremulous and April-like joy. She appeared oblivious to the fact that behind the wagon trotted a tow-headed child of about six years, tears raining down its dirty little cheeks, while from its mouth burst a series of ear-piercing wails: "Ma—ma I—wa'—a-go—too-o-o." Further back in the road a ragged urchin, a year or two older, indifferent to his parent's pleasuring, scooped up handfuls of the deep yellow dust and threw it high in the air, to descend again upon his head in a sifting cloud.
As the pair on the wagon vanished in the same golden haze, the women who had crowded to the window with panting ejaculations of surprise and consternation turned away and sank weakly into their seats.
"Vell, my goodness gracious!" sighed Mrs. Landvetter, mechanically seizing the coffeepot, "who vas dat? One of dem brudders of hers? Hein?"
"Hm-m-m," sniffed Mrs. Evans significantly. "She was wearing her best veil and her Sunday dress—in this dust, too. Does that look like brother? Not much. Pass me the teapot, Nitschkan, I could keel right over."
"Vell, who you s'pose it vas?"
"How should I know?" replied Mrs. Evans tartly. "I only know from the way she's got up an' the way she looks, that she ain't entertainin' no relations. An' this soon, too! I don't think it looks real nice."
"Ho, ho!" chorused Mrs. Nitschkan. "Marthy's got a beau. Well, she surely ain't lost no time."
"Und dose kids, too," sighed Mrs. Landvetter. "Vasn't dey dirty now?"
"They ain't no more neglected than the rose bush she planted at Thomas's grave," remarked Mrs. Evans. "Paid two fifty for it, stuck it in the earth, an' then never went back to give it a drop of water."
"I do' know if she ever did get the stones put in his grave. For all she knows the kiotes have scratched him up an' et him," said Mrs. Nitschkan, with gloomy relish.
"Like as not," answered Mrs. Evans abstractedly; but her brow had cleared. "I tell you what, girls, I think someone had ought to talk to Marthy Thomas."
"Someone seems to be tryin' to this afternoon," chuckled Mrs. Nitschkan. "An' to-night Dan Mayhew an' Willie Barker 'll be showin' up."
"Willie Barker's engaged," said Mrs. Evans contemptuously. "An' Dan Mayhew tends to her business. He wouldn't look at Marthy Thomas anyway, when he could have his pick of all the girls in the county. Still, it don't look right for her to be cavortin' 'round this soon, an' I think Missioner is the one to speak to her. Maybe this is one of them soul problems she preached about last Sunday."
"Say, wasn't she great!" exclaimed Mrs. Nitschkan enthusiastically, slapping her knee. "Her eyes were rolled up, and her face kind of shone. I says to her comin' out, I says, 'Missioner, you minded me this mornin' of the serpent that was lifted up in the wilderness. I bet he didn't look no nicer than you.'"
"Well, that ain't the question now," Mrs. Evans spoke impatiently. "I guess I'll put on my hat an' go up an' see Missioner this evening—kind o' point out her duty about talkin' to Marthy."
It was agreed by the other two ladies that she could have thought of no better plan.
Now Frances, either because she lived near to the highway, or because she was one of those personalities bound to be sought, had grown accustomed to receiving many visitors. Therefore, it was no especial surprise to her when Mrs. Evans dropped in for an evening call. She saw the small, active figure hurrying up the hillside in the late twilight.
"I jus' thought I'd come up and set with you a spell, Missioner. Sile, he's gone to see Walt Garvin. You know Walt's made him foreman over at the Mont d'Or. Ain't it grand! My! I wisht I could think of somethin' to do for that poor thing perishin' in her laces an' jewels. She's right fond of my cookin', an' I been able to help a little that way though."
"Oh, poor Lutie!" cried Frances, with a break in her voice. Her face looked pale, there were black lines under her eyes. "You can't be with her, Mrs. Evans, as much as I've been and not learn to love her. She's so helpless and dependent, and she never complains. She tries so hard to get away from her suffering. That's the hardest thing to bear; but she's just trying to distract her mind with the foolish things."
"'Course," agreed Mrs. Evans. "Well, you surely been awful good to her, Missioner; but who ain't you good to?" real gratitude in her voice. "I tell you, I'll never forget what you done for Sile an' me, if I live to be a thousand years. Sile feels awful kind to me for sacrificin' myself to give up the hack. An' I let him feel that way, you bet; though between you an' me, I was gettin' pretty tired of spendin' half my time drivin' up an' down in all kinds of weather. I s'pose you ain't heard that I took up something new?" with importance.
"Something new?" repeated the Missionary.
Mrs. Evans nodded.
"Yes, sir, I took the agency for Vitina. Vitina's the best all round medicine for man and beast that ever was put up. You know what a way we got to live here. The nearest doctor ten miles over the pass, an' us either dead or got well before he gets here. I was surprised at Sile, when I told him I'd took the agency. He says: 'Well, I don't like it, Effie, but since you got to be in business, I guess this is quieter than drivin' the hack. That was such a darned show-off game; kind of advertised to everybody that I couldn't keep you.'"
"'Oh, this ain't no money-makin' concern,' I says, 'it's jus' sort of saunterin' in some of the back doors of a few particular friends an' handin' out somethin' that's goin' to ease their lives.' You see," concluded Mrs. Evans, with the sigh of the capable in dealing with the incapable world, "husbands have got to be managed. They ain't got no real sense. I'm makin' quite a little on the side. I calculate to get enough to get Celora's teeth fixed and buy me that piece of black silk over in Hayman's window. Who's that?" she asked suddenly, as two figures passed through the deepening twilight and on down the hill. "I do believe it's the lunger preacher and Myrtle Swanstrom. Missioner, I think Myrtle had ought to be remonstrated with. Everybody in camp's talkin' about the way she's treatin' Frank McGuire. Yes, she had ought to be remonstrated with, and you're the one to do it."
"I'll wait until I know more about the subject," said Frances coolly. She was not one to submit lightly to dictation.
"An' Marthy Thomas!" continued Mrs. Evans. "She's been actin' queer lately; us girls suspicioned it was a case of man, but we couldn't find out who, an' this afternoon we all saw her drivin' around with some stranger,—yes," nodding her head, "an' we sort of thought if you'd go to see her an' find out who it was, it might help some."
"Why, Mrs. Evans, I shall not do anything of the kind," returned Frances firmly. "What right have I to interfere in Mrs. Thomas's affairs?"
Mrs. Evans rose with a short laugh. "You'll be asked to 'fore long. You see! Marthy'll get herself into some kind of a scrape, an' then sit an' cry till the rest of us turns in and pulls her out of it. It's happened before now, an' it'll happen again. Just wait."