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Updated: May 5, 2025
"I imagined you back in the East by this time." "Oh, I am procrastinating," she replied. "It is a fit of sheer laziness. I ought to be elsewhere, but I was born without a conscience. If I had one I should try to quiet it by reminding it that I am fulfilling a long-delayed promise I am making a garden for Mrs. Larrabbee. You know her, of course, since she is a member of your congregation."
Ferguson, who occasionally stroked his black whiskers with a prodigious solemnity; Mrs. Ferguson, resplendent and always a little warm, and their daughter Nan, dainty and appealing, her eyes uplifted and questioning. The Plimptons, with their rubicund and aggressively healthy offspring, were always in evidence. And there was Mrs. Larrabbee.
"Or perhaps Mrs. Larrabbee would make room for them?" "I've considered that, of course," replied Hodder, thoughtfully, though he was a little surprised that McCrae should have mentioned it. "You think their reasons are social, then, that they feel the gap. I feel it myself most strongly. And yet none of these men are Socialists. If they were, they wouldn't come here to the parish house."
Waterman wished so particularly to meet you." He did not look at her. The undisguised note of pain found an echo within him. And this was Mrs. Larrabbee! "I am sorry, but I must," he told her, and she may not have suspected the extent to which the firmness was feigned. "You have promised to make other visits? The Fergusons, they said they expected you."
Larrabbee was suddenly, at sea. And she prided herself on a lack of that vagueness generally attributed to her sex. "On on everything. On what we were talking about, the carnival feeling, the levity, on the unbelief of the age. Isn't it because the control has been taken off?" He saw an opportunity to slip into smoother waters. "The engine has lost its governor?" "Exactly!" cried Mrs. Larrabbee.
But in that moment Grace Larrabbee had a glimpse of the man who had come to arouse in her an intense curiosity. For an instant a tongue of the fires of Vulcan had shot forth, fires that she had suspected. "Aren't you too ambitious?" she asked gently. And again, although she did not often blunder, she saw him wince. "I don't mean ambitious for yourself.
Luxury in contrast to Dalton Street, to the whirring factories near the church which discharged, at nightfall, their quotas of wan women and stunted children. And yet here he was catering to luxury, providing religion for it! Religion! Early in November he heard that Mrs. Larrabbee had suddenly decided to go abroad without returning home. . . .
Why didn't that religion that she seemed outwardly to profess and accept without qualification the religion he taught set her at rest? show her the path? Down in his heart he knew that he feared to ask. That Mrs. Larrabbee was still another revelation, that she was not at rest, was gradually revealed to him as the days passed.
Larrabbee had said he reminded her of a shrivelling seed set aside from a once fruitful crop. He wore, invariably, checked trousers and a black cutaway coat, eyeglasses that fell off when he squinted, and were saved from destruction by a gold chain. No wedding or funeral was complete without him. And one morning, as he joined Mr.
Larrabbee, that she was reserved for a worldly match. A clergyman's wife! What would become of the clergyman? And yet other clergymen had married rich women, despite the warning of the needle's eye. She drove him in her buckboard to Jordan's Pond, set, like a jewel in the hills, and even to the deep, cliff bordered inlet beyond North East, which reminded her, she said, of a Norway fiord.
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