And in another twinkling of eyes, both of mine and hers, I had taken her
bundle from her, seated her in the largest rocking chair, and she had
untied her bonnet strings, which denoted that she had come for a genuine
visit.
"Well, dearie, dearie me, the sight of you is good for tired eyes,
Charlotte," she bumbled in her rich, deep old voice. As she spoke she
tucked a white wisp of a curl back into place beneath the second water
wave that protruded from under the little white widow's ruche in her
bonnet and continued to beam at me. "I met Nellie Morgan and her
Annarugans hurrying to pray a pardon from Mr. Goodloe for that rock
which might have killed him, if thrown an inch to the right, instead of
only nicking that yellow head of his, the Lord be praised!"
"What was that same Lord doing when he let the rock fly from
Charlotte's hand to within an inch of the Reverend Mr. Goodloe's life,
Mother Spurlock?" I asked her, with the old warfare over the same old
subject rising at the very first minute of our meeting. I have wondered
sometimes in the last few years if the wrestling with me over her faith
was not ordained for the purpose of strengthening Mother Spurlock's
powers of patient argument. She is the only person in the world to whom
I speak from the depths, and the relief of her sweetened and seasoned
wisdom is the straw at which I often clutch to save myself.
"I surmise that He guided the hand of that child so that the verse of
the hymn, and the chastisement of the rod I hope Nellie will inflict,
might work together for her good. All of us must at times let a little
blood for another's good--heart's blood, very often, not just that from
our scalps or shins." And as she answered me without a moment's
hesitation she enveloped me in loving question. "Are you always going to
occupy the anxious seat in front of the Lord, child? Still, sit as long
as you like and go on questioning Him. You'll find the answer."
"The whole town seems to have gone into your fold and left me on the
'anxious seat' alone," I answered, as I drew my chair nearer to her and
took her lined, strong old hand in mine.
"That Billy Harvey passes the collection plate up the aisle on Sunday
and plays poker all Saturday night till Sunday morning down at the Last
Chance, in a room in front of the one in which poor Pat Burns, who
carries a hod for his money, loses his all. Mary Burns sews all day and
half the night to feed him and the children, but she puts her pittance
into Billy's plate every Sunday, and I know that she gets the strength
to go on from day to day from the words that come from the same pulpit
he sets the plate behind. That is, we call the table out at your Country
Club a pulpit, until we get our own in the chapel from which to praise
the Lord. So you see that there are some sheep who have a taint of goat
hair in their wool still left--I won't say with you--out in the world.
And speaking of that world, have you come back to say good-bye to us?"