"Oh, the faith of youth, the faith that reaches out to give itself,"
sighed father as he turned to his papers.
"Can faith give itself?" I asked, as I raised my eyes to the stars under
dull gold through which Gregory Goodloe was pouring a great smile down
into my depths.
"Sometimes--just sometimes I think that perhaps it can--it does," he
answered me slowly and took my hands in his and held them with their
palms together prayerwise, a thing he had done several times in the
weeks past. Then he turned and walked over to father's desk and stood
looking down at him.
"I want to dedicate the chapel on Sunday, Mr. Powers, as that is your
last Sunday before you go to Washington," he said, and as he spoke he
smiled first down into father's eyes raised to his and then into
mine--impersonally. I couldn't trust myself to speak but turned and went
up to my room to weep with a hurt that soon sent me to my knees, blind
for the comfort that came--that I knew always would come now, no matter
what the hurt.
"He knows it has come to me, and he's thankful--but he doesn't care," I
sobbed and then laughed at my own contradictions.
Martha found me kneeling beside my window seat when she came in with
Mother Spurlock and she shielded me until I could wipe away the tears
and be as glad to see them both as I really was.
They were full of the plans for the dedication, which it gave me another
stab to find they had been discussing with Mr. Goodloe for several days.
In the hard weeks that had passed I had been their confidant, adviser
and many times their helper in the reconstructing around the tragedies
in the Settlement, but in this matter I had not been consulted. In fact,
Mother Spurlock showed an embarrassed hesitation as she talked of it
that still further hurt me and made me unenthusiastic and cold to their
plans.
And why should I have been hurt that the surety in my heart had not
declared itself to them without words? So wonderful did it seem to me
that I thought it must be in my every word and deed and look and I was
confounded that as yet I was considered to be an outsider and not
entitled to plan for the ceremonial of the dedication of the material
fold for the Reverend Mr. Goodloe's flock. And then suddenly my hurt was
swept away by my sense of humor and I laughed to myself when I saw that
to Mother Spurlock, who had hungered and thirsted for my conversion, I
would have to prove it, tell it and repeat it.
"Instead of the festal ceremonies in the dedication Mr. Goodloe is going
to have the simplest dedication ritual and then immediately hold the
memorial services for our--our dead," said Mother Spurlock, as she took
Martha's hand in hers and stroked it. "We want everybody to be there and
I could use a few more of those trunks full of colored new clothes,
Charlotte. The people down in the Settlement can use and wear after a
dye pot when you can't, bless your sweet heart," and as she made her
ruling request, which was still strong in death, she stroked the fold of
dull black silk over my knee which was cut from the same material as
the straight black widow's gown which Martha wore.