The doctor bent over her for her pulse and her respiration;
then when he turned to examine the crimson handkerchief
which ’Manda Grier showed him, Lemuel dropped
on his knees beside her and put his face down to hers.
With her lips against his cheek she made, “Don’t
go!”
And he whispered, “No, I’ll not leave
you now!”
The doctor looked round with the handkerchief still
in his hand, as if doubting whether to order him away
from her. Then he mutely questioned ’Manda
Grier with a glance which her glance answered.
He shrugged his shoulders, with a puzzled sigh.
An expression of pity crossed his face which he hardened
into one of purely professional interest, and he went
on questioning ’Manda Grier in a low tone.
Statira had slipped her hand into Lemuel’s,
and she held it fast, as if in that clasp she were
holding on to her chance of life.
Sewell returned to town for the last time in the third
week of September, bringing his family with him.
This was before the greater part of his oddly assorted
congregation had thought of leaving the country, either
the rich cottagers whose family tradition or liberal
opinions kept them in his church, or the boarding
and camping elements who were uniting a love of cheapness
with a love of nature in their prolonged sojourn among
the woods and fields. Certain families, perhaps
half of his parish in all, were returning because
the schools were opening, and they must put their
children into them; and it was both to minister to
the spiritual needs of these and to get his own children
back to their studies that the minister was at home
so early.
It was, as I have hinted already, a difficult and
laborious season with him; he himself was always a
little rusty in his vocation after his summer’s
outing, and felt weakened rather than strengthened
by his rest. The domestic machine started reluctantly;
there was a new cook to be got in, and Mrs. Sewell
had to fight a battle with herself, in which she invited
him to share, before she could settle down for the
winter to the cares of housekeeping. The wide
skies, the dim mountain slopes, the long, delicious
drives, the fresh mornings, the sweet, silvery afternoons
of their idle country life, haunted their nerves and
enfeebled their wills.
One evening in the first days of this moral disability,
while Sewell sat at his desk trying to get himself
together for a sermon, Barker’s name was brought
up to him.
“Really,” said his wife, who had transmitted
it from the maid, “I think it’s time you
protected yourself, David. You can’t let
this go on for ever. He has been in Boston nearly
two years now; he has regular employment, where if
there’s anything in him at all, he ought to
prosper and improve without coming to you every other
night. What can he want now?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said
the minister, leaning back in his chair, and passing
his hand wearily over his forehead.
