CAPE COD MEMORIES
Looking back now upon those days, I see my Cape Cod friends as clearly as if the interven- i ng years had been wiped out and we were again to- g ether. Among those I most loved were two widely differing types--Captain Doane, a retired sea-cap- t ain, and Relief Paine, an invalid chained to her couch, but whose beautiful influence permeated the community like an atmosphere. Captain Doane was one of the finest men I have ever known--high- m inded, tolerant, sympathetic, and full of under- s tanding, He was not only my friend, but my church barometer. He occupied a front pew, close to the pulpit; and when I was preaching without making much appeal he sat looking me straight in the face, listening courteously, but without interest.
When I got into my subject, he would lean forward --the angle at which he sat indicating the degree of attention I had aroused--and when I was strongly holding my congregation Brother Doane would bend toward me, following every word I uttered with corresponding motions of his lips. When I resigned we parted with deep regret, but it was not until I v isited the church several years afterward that he overcame his reserve enough to tell me how much he had felt my going.
``Oh, did you?'' I asked, greatly touched. ``You're not saying that merely to please me?''
The old man's hand fell on my shoulder. ``I miss you,'' he said, simply. ``I miss you all the time.
You see, I love you.'' Then, with precipitate self- c onsciousness, he closed the door of his New England heart, and from some remote corner of it sent out his cautious after-thought. ``I love you,'' he re- p eated, primly, ``as a sister in the Lord.''
Relief Paine lived in Brewster. Her name seemed prophetic, and she once told me that she had always considered it so. Her brother-in-law was my Sun- d ay-school superintendent, and her family belonged to my church. Very soon after my arrival in East Dennis I went to see her, and found her, as she al- w ays was, dressed in white and lying on a tiny white bed covered with pansies, in a room whose windows overlooked the sea. I shall never forget the picture she made. Over her shoulders was an exquisite white lace shawl brought from the other side of the world by some seafaring friend, and against her white pillow her hair seemed the blackest I had ever seen. When I entered she turned and looked toward me with wonderful dark eyes that were quite blind, and as she talked her hands played with the pansies around her. She loved pansies as she loved few human beings, and she knew their colors by touching them. She was then a little more than thirty years of age. At sixteen she had fallen down- s tairs in the dark, receiving an injury that paralyzed her, and for fifteen years she had lain on one side, perfectly still, the Stella Maris of the Cape. All who came to her, and they were many, went away the better for the visit, and the mere mention of her name along the coast softened eyes that had looked too bitterly on life.
Relief and I became close friends. I was greatly drawn to her, and deeply moved by the tragedy of her situation, as well as by the beautiful spirit with which she bore it. During my first visit I regaled her with stories of the community and of my own experiences, and when I was leaving it occurred to me that possibly I had been rather frivolous. So I said:
``I am coming to see you often, and when I come I want to do whatever will interest you most. Shall I bring some books and read to you?''
Relief smiled--the gay, mischievous little smile I was soon to know so well, but which at first seemed out of place on the tragic mask of her face.
``No, don't read to me,'' she decided. ``There are enough ready to do that. Talk to me. Tell me about our life and our people here, as they strike you.'' And she added, slowly: ``You are a queer minister. You have not offered to pray with me!''
``I feel,'' I told her, ``more like asking you to pray for me.''
Relief continued her analysis. ``You have not told me that my affliction was a visitation from God,'' s he added; ``that it was discipline and well for me I had it.''
``I don't believe it was from God,'' I said. ``I d on't believe God had anything to do with it. And I rejoice that you have not let it wreck your life.''
She pressed my hand. ``Thank you for saying that,'' she murmured. ``If I thought God did it I could not love Him, and if I did not love Him I c ould not live. Please come and see me VERY often-- a nd tell me stories!''
After that I collected stories for Relief. One of those which most amused her, I remember, was about my horse, and this encourages me to repeat it here.
In my life in East Dennis I did not occupy the lonely little parsonage connected with my church, but in- s tead boarded with a friend--a widow named Cro- w ell. (There seemed only two names in Cape Cod:
Sears and Crowell.) To keep in touch with my two churches, which were almost three miles apart, it became necessary to have a horse. As Mrs. Crowell needed one, too, we decided to buy the animal in partnership, and Miss Crowell, the daughter of the widow, who knew no more about horses than I did, undertook to lend me the support of her presence and advice during the purchase. We did not care to have the entire community take a passionate in- t erest in the matter, as it would certainly have done if it had heard of our intention; so my friend and I d eparted somewhat stealthily for a neighboring town, where, we had heard, a very good horse was offered for sale. We saw the animal and liked it; b ut before closing the bargain we cannily asked the owner if the horse was perfectly sound, and if it was gentle with women. He assured us that it was both sound and gentle with women, and to prove the latter point he had his wife harness it to the buggy and drive it around the stable-yard. The animal behaved beautifully. After it had gone through its paces, Miss Crowell and I leaned confidingly against its side, patting it and praising its beauty, and the horse seemed to enjoy our attentions.
