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300 pages

English

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New England writer Mary E. Wilkins Freeman had a particular talent for capturing the rhythms of domestic life in her native region's small towns and villages, as well as illuminating the small domestic dramas and conflicts experienced by her characters. Those strengths are displayed prominently in the novel By the Light of the Soul, which follows young Maria Edgham as she grapples with grief and dashed expectations.

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 mai 2016
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776670376
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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BY THE LIGHT OF THE SOUL
A NOVEL
* * *
MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN

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By the Light of the Soul A Novel First published in 1907 Epub ISBN 978-1-77667-037-6 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77667-038-3 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII Chapter XXIII Chapter XXIV Chapter XXV Chapter XXVI Chapter XXVII Chapter XXVIII Chapter XXIX Chapter XXX Chapter XXXI Chapter XXXII Chapter XXXIII Chapter XXXIV Chapter XXXV Chapter XXXVI Chapter XXXVII Chapter XXXVIII
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To Harriet and Carolyn Alden
Chapter I
*
Maria Edgham, who was a very young girl, sat in the church vestrybeside a window during the weekly prayer-meeting.
As was the custom, a young man had charge of the meeting, and hestood, with a sort of embarrassed dignity, on the little platformbehind the desk. He was reading a selection from the Bible. Mariaheard him drone out in a scarcely audible voice: "Whom the Lordloveth, He chasteneth," and then she heard, in a quick response, asoft sob from the seat behind her. She knew who sobbed: Mrs. JasperCone, who had lost her baby the week before. The odor of crape camein Maria's face, making a species of discordance with the fragranceof the summer night, which came in at the open window. Maria feltirritated by it, and she wondered why Mrs. Cone felt so badly aboutthe loss of her baby. It had always seemed to Maria a mostunattractive child, large-headed, flabby, and mottled, with ever anopen mouth of resistance, and a loud wail of opposition to existencein general. Maria felt sure that she could never have loved such ababy. Even the unfrequent smiles of that baby had not been winning;they had seemed reminiscent of the commonest and coarsest things oflife, rather than of heavenly innocence. Maria gazed at the young manon the platform, who presently bent his head devoutly, and aftersaying, "Let us pray," gave utterance to an unintelligible flood ofsupplication intermingled with information to the Lord of the stateof things on the earth, and the needs of his people. Maria wonderedwhy, when God knew everything, Leon Barber told him about it, and shealso hoped that God heard better than most of the congregation did.But she looked with a timid wonder of admiration at the young manhimself. He was so much older than she, that her romantic fancies,which even at such an early age had seized upon her, never includedhim. She as yet dreamed only of other dreamers like herself,Wollaston Lee, for instance, who went to the same school, and wasonly a year older. Maria had made sure that he was there, by aglance, directly after she had entered, then she never glanced at himagain, but she wove him into her dreams along with the sweetness ofthe midsummer night, and the morally tuneful atmosphere of the place.She was utterly innocent, her farthest dreams were white, but shedreamed. She gazed out of the window through which came the wind onher little golden-cropped head (she wore her hair short) in coolpuffs, and she saw great, plumy masses of shadow, themselves like thesubstance of which dreams were made. The trees grew thickly down theslope, which the church crowned, and at the bottom of the sloperushed the river, which she heard like a refrain through theintermittent soughing of the trees. A whippoorwill was singingsomewhere out there, and the katydids shrieked so high that theyalmost surmounted dreams. She could smell wild grapes and pine andother mingled odors of unknown herbs, and the earth itself. There hadbeen a hard shower that afternoon, and the earth still seemed to cryout with pleasure because of it. Maria had worn her old shoes tochurch, lest she spoil her best ones; but she wore her pretty pinkgingham gown, and her hat with a wreath of rosebuds, and she felt tothe utmost the attractiveness of her appearance. She, however, feltsomewhat conscience-stricken on account of the pink gingham gown. Itwas a new one, and her mother had been obliged to have it made by adress-maker, and had paid three dollars for that, beside thetrimmings, which were lace and ribbon. Maria wore the gown withouther mother's knowledge. She had in fact stolen down the backstairs onthat account, and gone out the south door in order that her mothershould not see her. Maria's mother was ill lately, and had not beenable to go to church, nor even to perform her usual tasks. She hadalways made Maria's gowns herself until this pink gingham.
Maria's mother was originally from New England, and her consciencewas abnormally active. Her father was of New Jersey, and hisconscience, while no one would venture to say that it was defective,did not in the least interfere with his enjoyment of life.
"Oh, well, Abby," her father would reply, easily, when her motherexpressed her distress that she was unable to work as she had done,"we shall manage somehow. Don't worry, Abby." Worry in anotherirritated him even more than in himself.
"Well, Maria can't help much while she is in school. She is adelicate little thing, and sometimes I am worried about her."
"Oh, Maria can't be expected to do much while she is in school," herfather said, easily. "We'll manage somehow, only for Heaven's sakedon't worry."
Then Maria's father had taken his hat and gone down street. He alwayswent down street of an evening. Maria, who had been sitting on theporch, had heard every word of the conversation which had beencarried on in the sitting-room that very evening. It did not alarmher at all because her mother considered her delicate. Instead, shehad a vague sense of distinction on account of it. It was as if sherealized being a flower rather than a vegetable. She thought of itthat night as she sat in meeting. She glanced across at a girl whowent to the same school—a large, heavily built child with acoarseness of grain showing in every feature—and a sense ofsuperiority at once exalted and humiliated her. She said to herselfthat she was much finer and prettier than Lottie Sears, but that sheought to be thankful and not proud because she was. She felt vain,but she was sorry because of her vanity. She knew how charming herpink gingham gown was, but she knew that she ought to have asked hermother if she might wear it. She knew that her mother would scoldher—she had a ready tongue—and she realized that she would deserveit. She had put on the pink gingham on account of Wollaston Lee, whowas usually at prayer-meeting. That, of course, she could not tellher mother. There are some things too sacred for little girls to telltheir mothers. She wondered if Wollaston would ask leave to walk homewith her. She had seen a boy step out of a waiting file at the vestrydoor to a blushing girl, and had seen the girl, with a coy readiness,slip her hand into the waiting crook of his arm, and walk off, andshe had wondered when such bliss would come to her. It never had. Shewondered if the pink gingham might bring it to pass to-night. Thepink gingham was as the mating plumage of a bird. All unconsciouslyshe glanced sideways over the fall of lace-trimmed pink ruffles ather slender shoulders at Wollaston Lee. He was gazing straight atMiss Slome, Miss Ida Slome, who was the school-teacher, and his youngface wore an expression of devotion. Maria's eyes followed his; shedid not dream of being jealous; Miss Slome seemed too incalculablyold to her for that. She was not so very old, in her early thirties,but the early thirties to a young girl are venerable. Miss Ida Slomewas called a beauty. She, as well as Maria, wore a pink dress, atwhich Maria privately wondered. The teacher seemed to her too old towear pink. She thought she ought wear black like her mother. MissSlome's pink dress had knots of black velvet about it whichaccentuated it, even as Miss Slome's face was accentuated by theclear darkness of her eyes and the black puff of her hair above herfinely arched brows. Her cheeks were of the sweetest red—not pinkbut red—which seemed a further tone of the pink of her attire, andshe wore a hat encircled with a wreath of red roses. Maria thoughtthat she should have worn a bonnet. Maria felt an odd sort ofinstinctive antagonism for her. She wondered why Wollaston looked atthe teacher so instead of at herself. She gave her head a charmingcant, and glanced again, but the boy still had his eyes fixed uponthe elder woman, with that rapt expression which is seen only in theeyes of a boy upon an older woman, and which is primeval, involvingthe adoration and awe of womanhood itself. The boy had not reachedthe age when he was capable of falling in love, but he had reachedthe age of adoration, and there was nothing in little Maria Edgham inher pink gingham, with her shy, sidelong glances, to excite it. Shewas only a girl, the other was a goddess. His worship of the teacherinterfered with Wollaston's studies. He was wondering as he sat thereif he could not walk home with her that night, if by chance any man would be in waiting for her. How he hated that imaginary man. Heglanced around, and as he did so, the door opened softly, and HarryEdgham, Maria's father, entered. He was very late, but he had waitedin the vestibule, in order not to attract attention, until the peoplebegan singing a hymn, "Jesus, Lover of my Soul," to the