On Monday afternoon the minister made a few calls. Keziah made out a short list for him to follow, a “sort of chart of the main channel,” she called it, “with the safe ports marked and the shoals and risky places labeled dangerous.”
“You see,” she said, “Trumet ain't a course you can navigate with your eyes shut. We divide ourselves into about four sets—aristocrats, poor relations, town folks, and scum. The aristocrats are the big bugs like Cap'n Elkanah and the other well-off sea captains, afloat or ashore. They 'most all go to the Regular church and the parish committee is steered by 'em. The poor relations are mainly widows and such, whose husbands died or were lost at sea. Most of them are Regulars. The town folks are those that stay ashore and keep store or run salt works or somethin'. And the scum work around on odd jobs or go fishin'. So, if you really want to be safe, you must call on the aristocrats first, after that on the poor relations, and so on down. You won't be bothered with scum much; they're mainly Come-Outers.”
Ellery took the list from her hand and looked it over.
“Hum!” he said musingly. “Am I supposed to recognize these—er—class distinctions?”
“Yes. That is, not in meetin' or sewin' circle or anything like that, or not out and out and open anywhere. But you want to cultivate a sort of different handshake and how-dy-do for each set, so's to speak. Gush all you want to over an aristocrat. Be thankful for advice and always SO glad to see 'em. With the poor relations you can ease up on the gush and maybe condescend some. Town folks expect condescension and superiority; give it to 'em. When it comes to scum, why—well, any short kind of a bow and a 'Mornin' 'll do for them. 'Course the Lord, in His infinite mercy, made 'em, same as He did potato bugs, but it's necessary to keep both bugs and them down to their proper place.”
She delivered this in the intervals between trips to the kitchen with the dinner dishes. The minister listened with a troubled expression on his face.
“Mrs. Coffin,” he said, “I guess I'm dull. There was a Scotch professor at college and the fellows used to say his bump of humor was a dent. Maybe mine isn't much better. Are you joking?”
Keziah stacked the cups and saucers.
“I ain't jokin',” she declared. “I've been a poor relation in this village for a good while and my brother was a shoemaker and on the upper fringe of the town-folk class. My humor bump would have to stick up like Cannon Hill afore I could see any joke in that.”
“But you're not seriously advising me to treat a rich man differently from a poor one?”
“Not openly different—no. But if you want to steer a perfectly SAFE course, one that'll keep deep water under your keel the whole voyage, why, there's your chart.”
Mr. Ellery promptly tore the “chart” into small pieces.
“I'm going out,” he said. “I shall be back by supper time.”
Mrs. Coffin eyed him grimly.
“Goin' to run it blindfold, are you?” she asked.
“Yes, I am.”
Her grimness disappeared and she smiled.
“I'll have your supper ready for you,” she said. “Bring back a good appetite.”
The young man hesitated on the threshold.
“Mrs. Coffin,” he demanded, “would YOU have called only on the aristocrats at first?”
She shook her head, smiling still.
“No,” she replied, “not me. I've always taken risks. But I didn't know but you might be a safe sailor. It saves a lot of trouble in this world.”
“How about the next?”
“Oh, well, perhaps even the scum may count for somethin' over there.” She turned to face him and her smile vanished. “Go on, Mr. Ellery,” she said. “Go and call where you please. Far be it from me that I should tell you to do anything else. I suppose likely you hope some day to be a great preacher. I hope you will. But I'd enough sight rather you was a good man than the very greatest. No reason why you can't be both. There was a preacher over in Galilee once, so you told us yesterday, who was just good. 'Twa'n't till years afterwards that the crowd came to realize that he was great, too. And, if I recollect right, he chummed in with publicans and sinners. I'm glad you tore up that fool paper of mine. I hoped you might when I gave it to you. Now you run along, and I'll wash dishes. If cleanliness is next to godliness, then a parson ought to eat out of clean plates.”
As a matter of fact, the minister's calls were in the nature of a compromise, although an unintentional one. He dropped in on Zebedee Mayo, owner of the big house on the slope of the hill. Captain Zeb took him up into what he called his “cupoler,” the observatory on the top of the house, and showed him Trumet spread out like a map. The main road was north and south, winding and twisting its rutted, sandy way. Along it were clustered the principal houses and shops, shaded by silver-leaf poplars, a few elms, and some willows and spruces. Each tree bent slightly away from the northeast, the direction from which blew the heavy winter gales. Beyond the main road were green slopes and pastures, with swamps in the hollows, swamps which were to be cranberry bogs in the days to come. Then the lower road, with more houses, and, farther on, the beach, the flats—partially uncovered because it was high tide—and the bay.
Behind the Mayo house was the crest of Cannon Hill, more hills, pastures and swamps, scattered houses and pine groves. Then began the tumbled, humped waste of sand dunes, and, over their ragged fringes of beach plum and bayberry bushes, the deep blue of the wide Atlantic. The lighthouse was a white dot and the fish shanties a blotch of brown. Along the inner edge of the blue were scars of dancing white, the flashing teeth of hungry shoals which had torn to pieces and swallowed many a good ship. And, far out, dotted and sprinkled along the horizon, were sails.
“See?” said Captain Zeb, puffing still from the exertion of climbing the ladder to the “cupoler,” for he was distinctly “fleshy.” “See? The beacon's up. Packet come in this mornin'. There she is. See her down there by the breakwater?”
Sure enough, the empty barrel, painted red, was hoisted to the top of its pole on the crest of Cannon Hill. And, looking down at the bay and following the direction of the stubby pointing finger, Ellery saw a little schooner, with her sails lowered, lying, slightly on her side, in a shallow pool near a long ridge of piled stones—the breakwater. A small wharf made out from the shore and black figures moved briskly upon it. Carts were alongside the schooner and there more dots were busy.
“Eben's pennant's flyin',” said Captain Zeb. “He always sets colors when the packet's in. Keeps packet tavern, Eben does. That's it, that old-fashioned, gambrel-roofed house on the rise by the wharf. Call it 'Saints' Rest,' they do now, 'cause Eben's so mighty religious.”
The minister saw the long, rambling house, with one lonely, twisted tree in its yard, a flag flying from a pole beside it. So that was where the Hammonds lived. And where the girl lived who was certain he was a “conceited snippet.” Whatever he might be in reality he hoped it was not that. “Snippet” was not in his dictionary, but he didn't like the sound of it.
“Who owns the packet?” he asked, to make conversation.
“Zach Foster. Married Freewill Doane's daughter over to Harniss. She's dead now.”
“A good sailor, is he?”
Captain Zeb spat in supreme disgust.
“Good farmer!” he snorted. “Zach took over the packet for a debt when the chap that used to run her died. His dad, old man Foster, raised garden truck at the same time mine went to sea. Both of us took after our fathers, I guess. Anyhow, my wife says that when I die 'twill be of salt water on the brain, and I'm sure Zach's head is part cabbage. Been better for him if he'd stuck to his garden. However, I s'pose he does his best.”
“They say angels can do no more.”
“Um-m. Well, Zach'll be an angel pretty soon if he keeps on cruisin' with that old hooker as she is. 'Bijah Perry, he's mate and the only good seaman aboard, tells me that most of the riggin's rotten and the main topmast ain't sound, by a good deal. The old man's put off havin' her overhauled for two reasons, one that repairs cost money, and t'other that puttin' off is the main sheet of his gospel. When there's no rain the roof don't leak and long's it don't blow too hard 'most any kind of gear'll hold. That's philosophy—cabbage philosophy.”
Ellery decided that he should like Captain Zeb, although it was evident that the old whaler had decided opinions of his own which he did not hesitate to express. He judged that the Mayos were of the so-called aristocracy, but undoubtedly unique specimens. He visited four more households that afternoon. The last call was at Mrs. Thankful Payne's, and while there, listening to the wonderful “poem,” he saw Miss Van Horne pass the window, as has already been told. He came home to a Cape Cod supper of scalloped clams, hot biscuits, and baked Indian pudding, and Keziah greeted him with a cheery smile which made him feel that it WAS home. His summary disposal of the “chart” had evidently raised him in his housekeeper's estimation. She did not ask a single question as to where he had been.
Next day he had a taste of Trumet's real aristocracy, the genuine article. Captain Elkanah Daniels and his daughter made their first formal call. The captain was majestic in high hat, fur-collared cape, tailed coat, and carrying a gold-headed cane. Miss Annabel wore her newest gown and bonnet and rustled as she walked. They entered the sitting room and the lady glanced superciliously about the apartment.
“Hum—ha!” barked Captain Elkanah. “Ahem! Mr. Ellery, I trust you're being made comfortable. The parish committee are—hum—ah—anxious that you should be. Yes?”
The minister said that he was very comfortable indeed.
“It isn't what you've been used to, we know,” observed Miss Annabel. “Mr. Langley, our former pastor, was a sweet old gentleman, but he was old-fashioned and his tastes were queer, especially in art. Have you noticed that 'fruit piece' in the dining room? Isn't it too ridiculous?”
Ellery admitted that the fruit piece was rather funny; but no doubt it had been a gift and so
—“Yes, indeed. I guess it was a present, fast enough. Nobody would buy such a thing. It seems strange to pa and me that, although so many of our people have been abroad, they have such strange ideas of art. Do you remember the beautiful marbles in the palaces at Florence, Mr. Ellery? Of course you've seen them?”
The minister was obliged to admit that he had never been abroad.
“Oh, is that so? I've been so many times with pa that it seems almost as if everybody was as familiar with Yurrup as I am. You remember what I said about the marbles, pa?”
Her parent nodded.
“Hum—ha! Oh, yes, yes,” he said. “That was when I was in the fruit-carrying trade and made a voyage to Valenchy.”
“Valencia, pa,” corrected Annabel. “And Valencia is in Spain.”
“I know it. But we went to Leghorn afterwards. I sailed to Cronstadt for some years regular. Cronstadt is in Rooshy, Mr. Ellery.”
“Russia, pa,” snapped his daughter. Then she changed the subject to church and parish affairs. They spoke of the sewing circle and the reading society and the Friday-evening meetings.
“The Come-Outers are so vexed with us,” tittered Miss Annabel, “that they won't even hold prayer meeting on the same night as ours. They have theirs on Thursday nights and it's as good as a play to hear them shout and sing and carry on. You'll enjoy the Come-Outers, Mr. Ellery. They're a perfect delight.”
And as they rose to go Captain Elkanah asked:
“Is there anything you'd like done about the parsonage, Mr. Ellery? If so, it shall be done immejitly. How are you satisfied with your housekeeper?”
“Very well, indeed, Captain Daniels,” was the prompt reply.
“She's a character, isn't she?” giggled Annabel. “She was born here in Trumet, but went away to New Bedford when she was young and grew up there. Her maiden name was Hall, but while she was away she married a man named Ansel Coffin. They didn't live together very long and weren't happy, I guess. I don't know whose fault it was, nobody knows much of anything about it, for that's the one thing she won't talk about. Anyhow, the Coffin man was lost to sea, and after a while she came back to keep house for her brother Solomon. She's an awful odd stick, but she's a good cook, I believe; though I'm afraid you won't get the meals people such as ourselves, who've been so much in the city, are used to.”
Ellery thought of the meals at his city boarding house and shuddered. He was an orphan and had boarded for years. Incidentally, he had worked his way through college. Captain Elkanah cleared his throat.
“Keziah,” he commanded. “Hum—ha! Keziah, come in here a minute.”
Keziah came in response to the call, her sewing in her hand. The renovation of the parsonage had so far progressed that she could now find time for a little sewing, after the dinner dishes were done.
“Keziah,” said the captain pompously, “we expect you to look out for Mr. Ellery in every respect. The parish committee expects that—yes.”
“I'll try,” said Mrs. Coffin shortly.
“Yes. Well, that's all. You can go. We must be going, too, Mr. Ellery. Please consider our house at your disposal any time. Be neighborly—hum—ha!—be neighborly.”
“Yes,” purred Annabel. “DO come and see us often. Congenial society is very scarce in Trumet, for me especially. We can read together. Are you fond of Moore, Mr. Ellery? I just dote on him.”
The last “hum—ha” was partially drowned by the click of the gate. Keziah closed the dining-room door.
“Mrs. Coffin,” said the minister, “I shan't trouble the parish committee. Be sure of that. I'm perfectly satisfied.”
Keziah sat down in the rocker and her needle moved very briskly for a moment. Then she said, without looking up:
“That's good. I own up I like to hear you say it. And I am glad there are some things I do like about this new place of mine. Because—well, because there's likely to be others that I shan't like at all.”
On Friday evening the minister conducted his first prayer meeting. Before it, and afterwards, he heard a good deal concerning the Come-Outers. He learned that Captain Eben Hammond had preached against him in the chapel on Sunday. Most of his own parishioners seemed to think it a good joke.
“Stir 'em up, Mr. Ellery,” counseled Lavinia Pepper. “Stir 'em up! Don't be afraid to answer em from the pulpit and set 'em where they belong. Ignorant, bigoted things!”
Others gave similar counsel. The result was that the young man became still more interested in these people who seemed to hate him and all he stood for so profoundly. He wished he might hear their side of the case and judge it for himself. It may as well be acknowledged now that John Ellery had a habit of wishing to judge for himself. This is not always a politic habit in a country minister.
The sun of the following Thursday morning rose behind a curtain of fog as dense as that of the day upon which Ellery arrived. A flat calm in the forenoon, the wind changed about three o'clock and, beginning with a sharp and sudden squall from the northwest, blew hard and steady. Yet the fog still cloaked everything and refused to be blown away.
“There's rain astern,” observed Captain Zeb, with the air of authority which belongs to seafaring men when speaking of the weather. “We'll get a hard, driving rain afore mornin', you see. Then, if she still holds from the northwest'ard, it'll fair off fine.”
“Goin' out in this, Mr. Ellery!” exclaimed Keziah, in amazement, as the minister put on his hat and coat about seven that evening. “Sakes alive! you won't be able to see the way to the gate. It's as dark as a nigger's pocket and thicker than young ones in a poor man's family, as my father used to say. You'll be wet through. Where in the world are you bound for THIS night?”
The minister equivocated. He said he had been in the house all day and felt like a walk.
“Well, take an umbrella, then,” was the housekeeper's advice. “You'll need it before you get back, I cal'late.”
It was dark enough and thick enough, in all conscience. The main road was a black, wet void, through which gleams from lighted windows were but vague, yellow blotches. The umbrella was useful in the same way that a blind man's cane is useful, in feeling the way. The two or three stragglers who met the minister carried lanterns. One of these stragglers was Mr. Pepper. Kyan was astonished.
“Well, I snum!” cried Kyan, raising the lantern. “If 'tain't Mr. Ellery. Where you bound this kind of night?”
Before the minister could answer, a stately figure appeared and joined the pair. Lavinia, of course.
“Well, Mr. Ellery,” she said. “Ain't you lost, out in this fog? Anybody sick?”
No, no one was sick.
“That's a mercy. Goin' callin', be you?”
“No.”
“Hum! Queer weather for a walk, I call it. Won't be many out to-night, except Come-Outers goin' to holler their lungs loose at prayer meetin'. He, he! You ain't turned Come-Outer, have you, Mr. Ellery? You've headed right for the chapel.”
Ellery's reply was hurried and a bit confused. He said good night and went on.
“Laviny,” whispered the shocked Kyan, “do you think that was a—er—polite thing to say to a parson? That about his turnin' Come-Outer? He didn't make much answer, seemed to me. You don't think he was mad, do ye?”
“I don't care if he was,” snorted Miss Pepper. “He could tell a body where he was goin' then. Nobody can snub me, minister or not. I think he's kind of stuck-up, if you want to know, and if he is, he'll get took down in a hurry. Come along, don't stand there with your mouth open like a flytrap. I'd like to know what he was up to. I've a precious good mind to follow him; would if 'twa'n't so much trouble.”
She didn't. Yet, if she had, she would have deemed the trouble worth while. For John Ellery stumbled on through the mist till he reached the “Corners” where the store was located and the roads forked. There, he turned to the right, into the way called locally “Hammond's Turn-off.” A short distance down the “Turn-off” stood a small, brown-shingled building, its windows alight. Opposite its door, on the other side of the road, grew a spreading hornbeam tree surrounded by a cluster of swamp blackberry bushes. In the black shadow of the hornbeam Mr. Ellery stood still. He was debating in his mind a question: should he or should he not enter that building?
As he stood there, groups of people emerged from the fog and darkness and passed in at the door. Some of them he had seen during his fortnight in Trumet. Others were strangers to him. A lantern danced and wabbled up the “Turn-off” from the direction of the bay shore and the packet wharf. It drew near, and he saw that it was carried by an old man with long white hair and chin beard, who walked with a slight limp. Beside him was a thin woman wearing a black poke bonnet and a shawl. In the rear of the pair came another woman, a young woman, judging by the way she was dressed and her lithe, vigorous step. The trio halted on the platform of the building. The old man blew out the lantern. Then he threw the door open and a stream of yellow light poured over the group.
The young woman was Grace Van Horne. The minister recognized her at once. Undoubtedly, the old man with the limp was her guardian, Captain Eben Hammond, who, by common report, had spoken of him, Ellery, as a “hired priest.”
The door closed. A few moments thereafter the sound of a squeaky melodeon came from within the building. It wailed and quavered and groaned. Then, with a suddenness that was startling, came the first verse of a hymn, sung with tremendous enthusiasm:
“Oh, who shall answer when the Lord shall call
His ransomed sinners home?”
The hallelujah chorus was still ringing when the watcher across the street stepped out from the shadow of the hornbeam. Without a pause he strode over to the platform. Another moment and the door had shut behind him.
The minister of the Trumet Regular church had entered the Come-Outer chapel to attend a Come-Outer prayer meeting!
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