THE CHRISTMAS BRIDE (10 page)

“But, Father, perhaps He doesn’t count us ‘righteous.’ I’ve been very rebellious in my heart all this winter. It’s just awful to me to have Margaret away off down there alone.”

“Dear heart,” said the old man with a loving look in his eyes, “He knows. But that doesn’t make any difference about the righteousness, you know. It would if it were our righteousness, but it isn’t. It’s His righteousness that He in His wonderful mercy put upon us, because He has bought us with His blood.”

“Oh, I try to remember that, Father!”

“It’s true!” said the old man with a ringing tone. “Praise His name, it doesn’t depend on me to be righteous enough for His care. He knows what’s before us, Rebecca, and His grace is sufficient!”

Suddenly the old lady put her head down and tried to stifle a little, helpless sob.

“It doesn’t seem as if there was any way out, Father.”

“There is always a way up!” said the old man reverently.

“Oh, Father! You mean…”

“I mean that He has
ways
!”

The old lady was still for some minutes thinking it out. “Yes,” she said, “if He would just take us both! I have often prayed that He would take us both at the same time. It wouldn’t be hard to die if we were going together.”

“We mustn’t limit Him to our ways, dear heart. He has a plan for every life. And He’s going to do the very best for us each,
His
very best, not ours, and someday we’re going to be glad that He had His way and didn’t always give us ours. We in our blindness can’t always tell what we’re going to enjoy the most.”

“I’ve always rather dreaded dying, Father! Not that I’m afraid. I know it’s going to be all right, Father. I believe Him. But I can’t help dreading it. For you, and for me, too.”

“Well,” said the old man with a glory light spreading over his sweet, old face, “it might just be in His plan for us that we aren’t going to die. You know His coming for His own may be
very
near at hand. I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately. Wouldn’t it be nice if that should happen? It might be tonight, or tomorrow.”

“Oh, Father! Wouldn’t that be wonderful! But Margaret! If she were only here with us, I could just look forward to it with such joy!”

“Why worry about Margaret? She is the Lord’s own. She would be caught up, too, in the air to meet Him with us. He isn’t coming for just the church in Vermont. He’s taking them all, you know.”

“But…maybe it would be some time before we could find her,” said the old lady fearsomely. “It would all be so new and strange up there.”

“Oh no,” said the old man with a ring of joy to his voice. “She’d be right close to the Lord Jesus, and we’d only have to look at Him to find her close by His side.”

Something of the glory and the peace from the old man’s face began to be reflected in his old wife’s eyes now, and she looked up with a smile.

“You always do make it easier for me, Father. I don’t know what I would do without you. It’s always been your faith that’s been the strongest.”

And then suddenly while they lingered around the humble little tea table, there came a sound of steps crunching outside on the icy pathway and a peremptory knock at the door.

The old lady started and half rose from the table, apprehension darting into her eyes, her lips trembling a little, so that she put up a frail hand to steady them, and settled back into her seat again.

The old man arose from his chair with an attempt at alertness in spite of his recent rheumatic trouble, and stepping to the door, opened it, holding a lamp from the tea table high that it might shine into the caller’s face.

“Oh,” he said with a gentle dignity that would show no dismay at the identity of the visitor, “it’s you, Mr. Horner. Won’t you come inside? It’s a stormy night. You must have had a hard climb up the hill. It’s not a nice night for traveling.”

The man came in, shaking the icy particles from his shaggy coat, flinging the sleet from the brim of his old felt hat.

“No, it’s not a nice night,” he said in a gruff voice, “but one can’t always wait fer June weather. Had a little business up this way, and I thought I’d just stop and serve you notice, too. Kill two birds with one stone, you know!”

His hard, furtive eyes glittered toward the gentle old lady like a snake’s eyes.

“Yes?” said the old man with a sudden catch in his voice as if warning himself that he must be ready for anything. Then: “Come in, sir!” That “sir” somehow placed a distance between the householder and his visitor, and perhaps the other man felt it, for he flung himself inside and sat down in a chair by the door as if he had a right. His eyes on the depth of the windows in the thick stone wall, the heavy ancient beams of oak that crossed the whitewashed ceiling; his glance was an appraising glance. The old lady recognized it, and her lips grew white with fear.

“I just thought I’d step in and remind you that the interest on the mortgage that I hold on this house and farm comes due the twenty-ninth day of next month, four days after Thanksgiving.”

“Yes,” said the old man, “I am expecting to meet my obligations at that time.” He said it with a quiet confidence, but the old lady looked at him wide-eyed and caught her breath softly. The fright quite evident in her eyes did not escape the sharp eyes of the visitor.

“Are ye getting ready ta pay the principal as well as the interest?” asked the caller, eyeing him sharply from his shaggy, grizzled brows. “Because that’s really what I called ta tell ya. I’m askin’ ya ta pay the whole amount. The mortgage was for three years, ya remember, and the three years is up this November!”

The old man met the frowning adversary with a clear, keen glance.

“Yes,” he said, “I know. I’ve been thinking some of asking you to renew the mortgage for another couple of years. I’m not just sure yet.”

“Well, that’s what I came fer. I came to say that I’m callin’ in my money an’ I’m not renewin’. I need the money, and I’m foreclosin’ ef ya can’t pay!”

The two old people sat there stunned for a minute, the little old lady wide-eyed with sorrow, a slow tear stealing down the cheek that was turned away from the caller.

The old man still kept a calm, sweet look on his face. He took it like a blow that had been long expected.

“Do…I understand…that you…are wanting to take over the farm yourself? Or…were you expecting to sell?” he asked after a minute, quite coolly.

“Well, both,” said Horner, sliding his underjaw out in an ugly way he had when he knew he ought to be ashamed of himself. He knew he was putting these two dear old people through a cruel torture. It was the house where the old lady was born. Four generations had been born in that house. It was dear to them both.

“Ya see,” went on Horner, tilting back his chair against the wall and setting his big, muddy boots on the lower round, “I got a man what wants ta go in with me. We cal’clate ta make this a popular summer resort. That there lake needs ta be commercialized, he says. Bath houses around it in summer, canoes ta hire, a hot dog stand, and in winter a skating place, an’ skiing off on the hills. Build a little movie the
ay
ter down at the foot of the hill, an’ campers’ shacks around. It’s a wonder you ain’t never thought of developin’ yer property. So, ya see, I mean business. Ef you can’t fork over my money in November, I gotta foreclose. Just thought I’d let you know.”

“Yes,” said the old man, gently, still with that courtly dignity. “Thank you. It is always best to understand things thoroughly.”

“Wal,” said Horner, half embarrassedly, “that’s about all. That’s what I come fer. So, ef you ain’t got the money yerself, ya better get busy running around among yer rich friends.”

He laughed a hateful little guffaw and stood putting on his rough knitted mittens with their leather palms, smoothing them back on his wrists comfortably. The old lady thought she never would forget that dreadful motion and the sneer in Horner’s eyes as he gave another possessive glance around their snug kitchen, just as if he owned it already.

“Well,” said the old man, “that might be an idea. I’ll think about it. I have one very wealthy friend indeed. I think I’ll consult with him. I’m sure if he thinks it wise, he’ll see that I am able to pay the whole.”

The old lady gave another little gasp and looked at her husband standing there with the glow of the lamp on his white hair as he lighted the visitor out into the storm again. How handsome he looked. How gallant! How dared he brave that cold, hard man?

Horner gave a quick, suspicious glance back at the old man as he answered. Was it possible he did really have a rich friend? But no! Impossible! The whole country ‘round knew the Lorimers, knew their history for a century back. Margaret McLaren, their granddaughter, was down in the city, trying to eke out a scanty living for them all. Through the postmistress’s sister, who was a connection of the Horners, he knew the size of the money orders that came. He felt sure they were not even going to be able to pay the interest. He had been biding his time and waiting.

So he flung back a hateful laugh and said, “Well, get busy then,” and climbed into his rackety old machine and sent it chugging down the mountain.

The old lady waited until her husband had closed and locked the door, set down the lamp upon the supper table, and started to wind the clock. Waited until the sound of the chugging flivver down the mountain had died away in the distance before she spoke. Then she said, “Father! You were wonderful! I feel as if Satan had just gone away from here!”

“‘If God be for us, who can be against us?’” softly quoted the old man. “In God have I put my trust: I will not be afraid what man can do unto me.”

The old lady was still for a minute, and then she lifted troubled eyes: “But, Father, I never heard you tell anything that wasn’t
true
before. Father, you…you
told a lie
! What made you do it?”

The old man came around and looked down at her sweet, trembling face.

“What did I say that wasn’t true, Rebecca?” he asked, smiling down at her.

“You said we had a very rich friend, and you were going to consult with him.”

“And so we have,” said the old man, “and so I will. Dear heart, isn’t our Father rich? Doesn’t it say the silver and the gold are His, and the cattle upon a thousand hills? Come, Rebecca, let us go and consult Him right away. It shall be just as He says.”

He reached down and took her two fine, little, frail hands, and lifting her up, led her to the old, patchwork-cushioned chair. There they knelt as they had done many times before, his arm around her, her two hands held close in his own warm brave one.

“Father, we’ve come to ask you what you want done. If you want the old place to go for an amusement park to make Elias Horner rich, it’s all right, but Father, if you’re willing to let us keep it the rest of our journey, then you’ll have to send some miracle to save it for us.”

And while they knelt there, telling all their anxieties and laying their burdens upon the Almighty, the old plotter drove down the dark mountain road smiling to himself as he thought over the interview. Rich friends indeed. The Lorimers hadn’t a friend who had a cent to loan! The farm and the mountain and the rare old house and the gem of a lake were as good as his already. He could go on now and make his plans. There wasn’t a thing Lorimer could do!

And the Lorimers, hand in hand, knelt and prayed till they could look up with shining faces and say, “Thy will be done!”

J
ust about the time that Margaret was vanishing around the first corner from the hospital, Miss Gowen arrived at the door of the room where a half hour before she had left her patient quietly eating her breakfast.

She had paused for an instant in the hall to speak to another special nurse who was on a case at the other end of the corridor, then gone swiftly on, a light in her eyes, a pleasant smile on her lips, for she had a box of violets for her patient, and she guessed from whom they came. She liked the two young things for whom she was working just now, and she was anticipating the excursion of the morning. Hospital life at best had so many sad happenings that it was enlivening to come on a morning when one could go out and get a little breath of the outside air and forget for a little while that there was so much sorrow and pain in the world.

And it was especially interesting this morning to think that she could bring pleasure to the little old lady who wanted so much to rent her treasured rooms and so keep her beloved home for a while longer.

So she went with springy strides to the door, swinging her wrist up to consult her watch and see how much time there was in which to prepare her patient for the trip.

But what was this? The door, standing wide open, and the scrub woman down on her knees just sloshing the first application of soapy water onto the floor. Why! How outrageous! What could this mean? This room was just cleaned before the patient came in, and it couldn’t need cleansing now. Besides, it was beyond precedent to go at a room this way with the patient still in bed!

She gave a quick glance toward the bed, which was a trifle out of the range of vision from the doorway, and there was no patient lying in it! The bed was stripped of its linen entirely. Another glance showed a stepladder by the far window and a man standing on it taking down the curtains! Had she made a mistake and turned the wrong way in the corridor? She looked back to the desk that stood at the junction of the two halls. No, she was in the right wing of the building. Well, she must have come to the wrong floor. That was it. She had been so preoccupied with anticipation of the morning that she had not noticed what floor she was on. This wouldn’t do! She must snap out of this. A nurse ought to have her faculties about her all the time, no matter if she wasn’t on a critical case. It was a bad habit to fall into.

She wheeled around and started back to the elevator, but just then the door of the room across the hall swung open, and there she saw the little woman with the broken leg lying in her bed as usual, and her own special nurse just coming out the door. Why, this
was
the right floor! What could it mean?