Mrs. Strang remained silent. And the harpsichord was silent too. Even that had deserted her; its sound might have been tortured into some applicability, but its silence could be construed into nothing, unless it was taken to give consent. And then all at once Ruth struck a new chord. Mrs. Strang strained her ears to catch the first bar. The deacon could not understand the sudden gleam that lit up her face when the instrument broke into the favorite Nova Scotian song, “The Vacant Chair!” At last Heaven had sent her a sign; there was a vacant chair, and it was her mission to fill it.
“Well, is thet a bargen?” asked the deacon, losing patience.
“If you’re sure you want me,” breathed Mrs. Strang.
In a flash the deacon’s arms were round her and his lips on hers. She extricated herself almost as quickly by main force.
“‘Twarn’t to be yet,” she cried, indignantly.
“Of course not, Mrs. Strang,” retorted the deacon, severely. “On’y you asked if I was sure, and I allowed I’d show you Deacon Hailey was genu_ine_. It’s sorter sealin’ the bargen, hey? I couldn’t let you depart in onsartinty.”
“Well, behave yourself in future,” she said, only half mollified, as she readjusted her hair, “or I’ll throw up the position. I guess I’ll be off now,” and she took bonnet and mantle from a peg.
“Not in anger, Mrs. Strang, I hope. ‘Let all bitterness be put away from you,’ hey? Thet thar han’sum face o’ yourn warn’t meant for thunder-clouds.”
He hastened to help her on with her things, and in the process effected a reconciliation by speaking of new ones--”store clothes”--that would set off her beauty better. Mrs. Strang walked airily through the slushy forest road as on a primrose path. She was excited and radiant--her troubles were rolled away, and her own and her children’s future assured, and Heaven itself had nodded assent. Her lonely heart was to know a lover’s tenderness again; it was swelling now with gratitude that might well blossom into affection. How gay her home should be with festive companies, to be balanced by mammoth revivalist meetings! She would be the centre of hospitality and piety for the country-side.
But as she neared the house--which seemed to have run half-way to meet her--the primroses changed back to slush, and her face to its habitual gloom.