of the best families in her church, with an inward resolve to come home from the service the next day with an introduction to some of them, if it were a possible thing, and a list of all the meetings of the church at which she would be likely to meet them. Poor little woman. She did not know how few, how pitifully few, of these best families attended the different meetings of the church. Well for her that she did not, for she counted much on those “charities” that she was to take up for bringing her friends, and one more straw that night might have broken her down, she was so near to discouragement.
There came a memory now of men her husband called great, men he had met and some he wished. to meet. She wrote their names all down, wondering gravely if there was any way in which she could get to know them well enough to invite them to her home.
One in particular, a man well known in political circles and whose speeches in the United States House of Representatives had become famous. She suddenly remembered a much neglected cousin of her mother’s living in another part of the city who had an intimate acquaintance with this great man, being an old schoolmate of his sister. Perhaps she could help. At any rate she must be invited. Her cheek crimsoned at the thought that she had been forgotten, and she drew her breath quickly as she wondered what Aunt Katharine would think of Mrs. Sylvester.
Then there were a few literary people well known to Aunt Katharine. Down went their names and up came Aunt Katharine in her niece’s estimation as her heart began to lighten. Counting up, she saw she had a goodly list if—that great if—if they all came.
The little cuckoo clock that had been a cherished wedding gift came out and sang twelve times in the hallway, and Mrs. Winthrop, remembering with a sigh the hour of church and that morning was already upon her, put the list in her desk and went to bed, wondering as she closed her aching eyes if the days would ever be over when all this horror would be a thing of the past and she could lie down in quietness and peace and truly rest.
Chapter 5: An Unexpected Service
Mrs. Winthrop had hurried to church late and seated herself a little flurried over a new gown she wore, which seemed to her not to fit just right. She was anxious to put on her bravest front before the world in this her first approach for its favor. She bowed her head in reverent attitude, but her mind was still intent upon the problem which had occupied it on the way to church—whether she could achieve the making of a certain gown described in her last fashion magazine without any more help than the picture and her own wits. She raised her head and sat back in her seat as the text was announced:
“See, saith he, that thou make all things according to the pattern shewed to thee in the mount.”
The words startled her. They could not have sounded to her soul more loudly if they had been, “See that thou make all things according to the patterns showed to thee in the fashion magazine.”
Indeed, when the sentence first reached her ear, her overstrained imagination fancied the preacher was speaking to her, had read her thought, and was about to administer a reproof. Her color rose and she glanced nervously about.
But there was on every face about her a well bred apathy that betokened perfect trust in the ability of the speaker to perform his part of the services without disturbing them.
Mrs. Winthrop tried now to center her mind on what was being said. Perhaps she had mistaken his words and her own silly brain had falsified the text to suit what was in her mind.
When a third time came the words: “See . . . that thou make all things according to the pattern shewed to thee in the mount!” it began to seem an awful sentence, though without any very distinct meaning.
The sermon which followed was eloquent and learned. There was an elaborate description of the tabernacle, and the main point of the sermon, if point there might be said to be, was an appeal for certain styles of church architecture. But of all this Mrs. Claude Winthrop heard not a word, except it might have been the name of Moses.
In her younger days she had been taught the Bible. She knew in a general way that “the mount” was something holy. She did not wait to puzzle her brain about Moses in the mount nor wonder what it was he had been given a pattern of. She might have recalled it if she had tried. But instead she simply took the text as spoken to her. There had been something unearthly, almost uncanny, to her weary brain in the way the words had been said out of the stillness that came after the singing had ceased. In her uneasy state of mind it was brought home to her how far from any patterns given in any mounts had been the things that she had made of late.
Following close upon the benediction came the bewilderment of a familiar greeting. Mrs. Winthrop had been so beset by her thoughts during the sermon that she had thus far lost sight of her object in coming to church that morning. True, she grasped in her hand, as if it were something precious, the church calendar containing the announcements of all meetings of the church to be held that week, but she had forgotten to look out among the congregation those who might help in her schemes. Therefore she stood in amazement at the torrent of words spoken by the young girl who had sat in the seat before her. She knew that the girl’s name was Celia Lyman and that her mother belonged to an exclusive set of people. She had barely a speaking acquaintance with Mrs. Lyman, and had never felt that she would be likely to recognize her outside of the church.
“I beg your pardon,” the sweet voice said, while a detaining gloved hand was laid gently on Miriam’s arm, “but mamma told me to be sure and give you a message. She was unable to get out this morning. She has one of her miserable headaches, and is all worn out. But she wanted me to tell you that she was anxious to have you come to our house Thursday to the musicale. She supposed she had sent you an invitation with the rest, but this morning she found it had slipped down behind her writing desk against the wall. She remembers laying it out for Miss Faulkes to look up your street and number, for mamma had quite forgotten it—she never remembers such things—but there it lay with only your name on it. And now Miss Faulkes says she couldn’t find your address and forgot to speak to mamma about it. She is becoming careless about things. So as it was so late and mamma could not find the paper with your address she thought maybe you would just take the invitation informally this time, for there is to be some really fine music which mamma is sure you will enjoy. You won’t mind this once, will you?” and a pair of violet eyes searched her face as if the matter were of great moment.
Mrs. Winthrop endeavored to veil her amazement and murmured her thanks, saying that the manner of the invitation did not matter, and was rewarded by a most ravishing smile.
“Then you’ll be sure to come. Four to six is the hour. Oh, and I had almost forgotten, mamma told me to be sure to get your street and number so it would be on hand for another time of need,” and a dainty silver pencil and silver mounted memoranda was lifted from a collection of small nothings that hung on tiny chains at her belt, while the lovely eyes were lifted to her face inquiringly.
Mrs. Winthrop was conscious of a slight lifting of Miss Celia’s eyebrows as she repeated the street and number after her and wrote, and was there just a shadow of surprise in her voice? It was not a fashionable locality, and Miriam Winthrop suddenly saw a new difficulty in her way.
Then she turned to do gown the aisle and bowed here and there mechanically, scarcely knowing whom she met. How strange, how very strange, that Mrs. Lyman, after almost two years of utterly ignoring her since they had first met, should suddenly invite her to her home and her wonderful musicales, for their fame had reached even her ears, stranger almost though she was. It must be that a Higher Power was enlisted to help her to-day, for here was opening to her the very door the key of which she had despaired
