And what did Seth and Mrs. Rivers say? asked Hamlin composedly, but with kindling eyes.
They stuck up for ye ez far ez they could. But ye see the parson hez got a holt upon Seth, havin caught him kissin a convert at camp meeting; and Deacon Turner knows suthin about Mrs. Riverss sister, who kicked over the pail and jumped the fence years ago, and shes afeard a him. But what I wanted to tell ye was that theyre all comin up here to take a look at ye some on em to-night. You aint afeard, are ye? she added, with a loud laugh.
Well, it looks rather desperate, doesnt it? returned Jack, with dancing eyes.
Ill trust ye for all that, said Melinda. And now I reckon Ill trot along to the rancho. Ye neednt offer ter see me home, she added, as Jack made a movement to accompany her. Everybody up here aint as fair-minded ez Silas and you, and Melinda Bird hez a character to lose! So long! With this she cantered away, a little heavily, perhaps, adjusting her yellow hat with both hands as she clattered down the steep hill.
That afternoon Mr. Hamlin drew largely on his convalescence to mount a half-broken mustang, and in spite of the rising afternoon wind to gallop along the highroad in quite as mischievous and breezy a fashion. He was wont to allow his mustangs nose to hang over the hind rails of wagons and buggies containing young couples, and to dash ahead of sober carryalls that held elderly members in good standing.
An accomplished rider, he picked up and brought back the flying parasol of Mrs. Deacon Stubbs without dismounting. He finally came home a little blown, but dangerously composed.
There was the usual Sunday evening gathering at Windy Hill Rancho neighbors and their wives, deacons and the pastor but their curiosity was not satisfied by the sight of Mr. Hamlin, who kept his own room and his own counsel. There was some desultory conversation, chiefly on church topics, for it was vaguely felt that a discussion of the advisability or getting rid of the guest of their host was somewhat difficult under this hosts roof, with the guest impending at any moment. Then a diversion was created by some of the church choir practicing the harmonium with the singing of certain more or less lugubrious anthems. Mrs. Rivers presently joined in, and in a somewhat faded soprano, which, however, still retained considerable musical taste and expression, sang, Come, ye disconsolate. The wind moaned over the deep-throated chimney in a weird harmony with the melancholy of that human appeal as Mrs. Rivers sang the first verse:
Come, ye disconsolate, whereer ye languish, Come to the Mercy Seat, fervently kneel; Here bring your wounded hearts here tell your anguish, Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal!
A pause followed, and the long-drawn, half-human sigh of the mountain wind over the chimney seemed to mingle with the wail of the harmonium. And then, to their thrilled astonishment, a tenor voice, high, clear, but tenderly passionate, broke like a skylark over their heads in the lines of the second verse:
Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying, Hope of the penitent fadeless and pure; Here speaks the Comforter, tenderly saying, Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure!
The hymn was old and familiar enough, Heaven knows. It had been quite popular at funerals, and some who sat there had had its strange melancholy borne upon them in time of loss and tribulations, but never had they felt its full power before. Accustomed as they were to emotional appeal and to respond to it, as the singers voice died away above them, their very tears flowed and fell with that voice. A few sobbed aloud, and then a voice asked tremulously,
Who is it?
Its Mr. Hamlin, said Seth quietly. Ive heard him often hummin things before.
There was another silence, and the voice of Deacon Stubbs broke in harshly,
Its rank blasphemy.
If its rank blasphemy to sing the praise o God, not only better than some folks in the choir, but like an angel o light, I wish youd do a little o that blaspheming on Sundays, Mr. Stubbs.
The speaker was Mrs. Stubbs, and as Deacon Stubbs was a notoriously bad singer the shot told.
If hes sincere, why does he stand aloof? Why does he not join us? asked the parson.
He hasnt been asked, said Seth quietly. If I aint mistaken this yer gathering this evening was specially to see how to get rid of him.
There was a quick murmur of protest at this. The parson exchanged glances with the deacon and saw that they were hopelessly in the minority.
I will ask him myself, said Mrs. Rivers suddenly.
So do, Sister Rivers; so do, was the unmistakable response.
Mrs. Rivers left the room and returned in a few moments with a handsome young man, pale, elegant, composed, even to a grave indifference. What his eyes might have said was another thing; the long lashes were scarcely raised.
I dont mind playing a little, he said quietly to Mrs. Rivers, as if continuing a conversation, but youll have to let me trust my memory.
Then you er play the harmonium? said the parson, with an attempt at formal courtesy.