 | Castle nowhere |  |
PETER THE PARSON.
IN November, 1850, a little mining settlement
stood forlornly on the shore of Lake Superior.
A log-dock ran out into the dark water; a roughly
built furnace threw a glare against the dark sky;
several stamping-mills kept up their monotonous
tramping day and night; and evil-minded saloons
beset the steps on all sides. Back into the pine
forest ran the white-sand road leading to the mine,
and on the right were clustered the houses, which
were scarcely better than shanties, although adorned
with sidling porches and sham-windowed fronts.
Winter begins early in these high latitudes. Navigation
was still open, for a scow with patched sails
was coming slowly up the bay; but the air was cold,
and the light snow of the preceding night clung unmelted
on the north side of the trees. The pine
forest had been burned away to make room for the
village; blackened stumps rose everywhere in the
weedy streets, and, on the outskirts of the clearing,
grew into tall skeletons, bleached white without, but
desolate picture. Everything was bare, jagged, and
unfinished; each poor house showed hasty makeshifts,
— no doors latched, no windows fitted. Pigs
were the principal pedestrians. At four o'clock this
cold November afternoon, the saloons, with their pine
fires and red curtains, were by far the most cheerful
spots in the landscape, and their ruddy invitations
to perdition were not counterbalanced by a
single opposing gleam, until the Rev. Herman Peters
prepared his chapel for vespers.
Herman Warriner Peters was a slender little man,
whose blue eyes, fair hair, and unbearded face misled
the observer into the idea of extreme youth. There
was a boyishness in his air, or, rather, lack of air,
and a nervous timidity in his manner, which stamped
him as a person of no importance, — one of those
men who, not of sufficient consequence to be disliked,
are simply ignored by a well-bred world, which
pardons anything rather than insignificance. And if
ignored by a well-bred world, what by an ill-bred?
Society at Algonquin was worse than ill-bred, inasmuch
as it had never been bred at all. Like all mining
settlements, it esteemed physical strength the highest
good, and next to that an undaunted demeanor and
flowing vocabulary, designated admiringly as “powerful
sassy.” Accordingly it made unlimited fun
of the Rev. Herman Warriner Peters, and derived
to think it was his real name, and solemnly persisting
in the mistake in spite of all the painstaking
corrections of the unsuspecting little man.
The Rev. Herman wrapped himself in his thin
old cloak and twisted a comforter around his little
throat, as the clock warned him of the hour. He
was not leaving much comfort behind him; the room
was dreary and bare, without carpet, fire, or easy-chair.
A cot-bed, which sagged hopelessly, a washbowl
set on a dry-goods box, flanked by a piece of
bar-soap and a crash towel, a few pegs on the cracked
wall, one wooden chair and his own little trunk,
completed the furniture. The Rev. Herman boarded
with Mrs. Malone, and ate her streaked biscuit and
fried meat without complaint. The woman could rise
to yeast and a gridiron when the surveyors visited
Algonquin, or when the directors of the iron company
came up in the summer; but the streaked biscuit
and fried steak were “good enough for the little
parson, bless him!”
There were some things in the room, however,
other than furniture, namely, a shelf full of religious
books, a large and appalling picture of the crucifixion,
and a cross six feet in height, roughly made of
pine saplings, and fixed to the floor in a wooden
block. There was also a small colored picture, with
the words “Santa Margarita” inscribed beneath. The
below it hung a poor little vase filled with the last
colored leaves.
“Ye only want the Howly Vargin now, to be all
right, yer riverence,” said Mrs. Malone, who was, in
name at least, a Roman Catholic.
“All honor and affection are, no doubt, due to the
Holy Mary,” answered the Rev. Herman, nervously;
“but the Anglican Church does not — at present
— allow her claim to — to adoration.” And he
sighed.
“Why don't yer jest come right out now, and be
a rale Catholic?” said Mrs. Malone, with a touch of
sympathy. “You 're next door to it, and it 's aisy
to see yer ain't happy in yer mind. If yer was a
rale praste, now, with the coat and all, 'stead of being
a make-believe, the boys ud respect yer more,
and would n't notice yer soize so much. Or yer
might go back to the cities (for I don't deny they
do loike a big fist up here), and loikely enough yer
could find aisy work there that ud suit yer.”
“I like hard work, Mrs. Malone,” said the little
parson.
“But you 're not fit for it, sir. You 'll niver get
on here if yer stay till judgment day. Why, yer ain't
got ten people, all told, belongin' to yer chapel, and
you 're here a year already!”
The Rev. Herman sighed again, but made no answer.
stepped out into the cold street. The wind blew as
he made his way along between the stumps, carefully
going round the pigs, who had selected the best places
for their siestas. He held down his comforter with
one bare hand; the other clutched the end of a row
of books, which filled his thin arm from the shoulder
down. He limped as he walked. An ankle had been
cruelly injured some months previously; the wound
had healed, but he was left permanently and awkwardly
lame. At the time, the dastardly injury had roused
a deep bitterness in the parson's heart, for grace and
activity had been his one poor little bodily gift, his
one small pride. The activity had returned, not the
grace. But he had learned to limp bravely along, and
the bitterness had passed away.
Lights shone comfortably from the Pine-Cone Saloon
as he passed.
“Hallo! Here 's Peter the Parson,” sang out a
miner, standing at the door; and forth streamed all
the loungers to look at him.
“Say, Peter, come in and have a drop to warm yer,”
said one.
“Look at his poor little ribs, will yer?” said another,
as his cloak blew out like a sail.
“Let him alone! He 's going to have his preaching
all to himself, as usual,” said a third. “Them
books is all the congregation he can get, poor little
chap!”
The parson's sensitive ears heard every word. He
quickened his steps, and, with his usual nervous awkwardness,
stumbled and fell, dropping all the books,
amid the jeering applause of the bystanders. Silently
he rose and began collecting his load, the wind every
now and then blowing his cloak over his head as he
stooped, and his difficulties increased by the occasional
gift of a potato full in the breast, and a flood of
witty commentaries from the laughing group at the
saloon door. As he picked up the last volume and
turned away, a missile, deftly aimed, took off his
hat, and sent it over a fence into a neighboring field.
The parson hesitated; but as a small boy had already
given chase, not to bring it back, but to send it further
away, he abandoned the hat, — his only one, —
and walked on among the stumps bareheaded, his
thin hair blown about by the raw wind, and his blue
eyes reddened with cold and grief.
The Episcopal Church of St. John and St. James
was a rough little building, with recess-chancel, illset
Gothic windows, and a half-finished tower. It
owed its existence to the zeal of a director's wife,
who herself embroidered its altar-cloth and bookmarks,
and sent thither the artificial flowers and
candles which she dared not suggest at home; the
poor Indians, at least, should not be deprived of
them! The director's wife died, but left by will a
pittance of two hundred dollars per annum towards
a thriving town, whose inhabitants believed in the
Anglican succession, and sent their children to Sunday
school. In reality, Algonquin remained a lawless
mining settlement, whose inhabitants believed in
nothing, and whose children hardly knew what Sunday
meant, unless it was more whiskey than usual.
The two hundred dollars and the chapel, however,
remained fixed facts; and the Eastern directors, therefore,
ordered a picturesque church to be delineated on
their circulars, and themselves constituted a nonresident
vestry. One or two young missionaries had
already tried the field, failed, and gone away; but the
present incumbent, who had equally tried and equally
failed, remained.
On this occasion he unlocked the door and entered
the little sanctuary. It was cold and dark, but he
made no fire, for there was neither stove nor hearth.
Lighting two candles, — one for the congregation and
one for himself, — he distributed the books among
the benches and the chancel, and dusted carefully
the little altar, with its faded embroideries and flowers.
Then he retired into the shed which served as
a vestry-room, and in a few minutes issued forth,
clad in his robes of office, and knelt at the chancel
rail. There was no bell to summon the congregation,
and no congregation to summon; but still he began
in his clear voice, “Dearly beloved brethren,” and
Absolution, and the Psalms, leaving a silence for the
corresponding responses, and devoutly beginning the
first lesson. In the midst of “Zephaniah” there was
a slight noise at the door and a step sounded over
the rough floor. The solitary reader did not raise
his eyes; and, the lesson over, he bravely lifted up
his mild tenor in the chant, “It is a good thing to
give thanks unto the Lord, and to sing praises unto
thy name, O Most Highest.” A girl's voice took up
the air; the mild tenor dropped into its own part,
and the two continued the service in a duet, spoken
and sung, to its close. Then the minister retired,
with his candle, to the shed, and, hanging up his
surplice, patiently waited, pacing to and fro in the
cold. Patiently waited; and for what? For the
going away of the only friend he had in Algonquin.
The congregation lingered; its shawl must be refastened;
indeed, it must be entirely refolded. Its
hat must be retied, and the ribbons carefully smoothed.
Still there was no sound from the vestry-room. It
collected all the prayer-books, and piled them near
the candle, making a separate journey for each little
volume. Still no one. At last, with lingering step
and backward glance, slowly it departed and carried
its disappointed face homeward. Then Peter the Parson
issued forth, lifted the careful pile of books with
tender hand, and, extinguishing the lights, went out
of St. John and St. James was over.
After a hot, unwholesome supper the minister returned
to his room and tried to read; but the candle
flickered, the cold seemed to blur the book, and he
found himself gazing at the words without taking in
their sense. Then he began to read aloud, slowly
walking up and down, and carrying the candle to
light the page; but through all the learned sentences
there still crept to the surface the miserable consciousness
of bodily cold. “And mental, too, Heaven
help me!” he thought. “But I cannot afford a fire
at this season, and, indeed, it ought not to be necessary.
This delicacy must be subdued; I will go out
and walk.” Putting on his cloak and comforter, (O,
deceitful name!) he remembered that he had no hat.
Would his slender store of money allow a new one?
Unlocking his trunk, he drew out a thin purse hidden
away among his few carefully folded clothes, — the
poor trunk was but half full, — and counted its contents.
The sum was pitifully small, and it must yet
last many weeks. But a hat was necessary, whereas
a fire was a mere luxury. “I must harden myself,”
thought the little parson, sternly, as he caught himself
shuddering with the cold; “this evil tendency
to self-indulgence must and shall be crushed.”
He went down towards the dock where stood the
one store of Algonquin, — stealing along in the darkness
the poorest one there, from the Jew proprietor, he
lingered a moment near the stove to warm his chilled
hands. Mr. Marx, rendered good-natured by the bold
cheat he had perpetrated, affably began a conversation.
“Sorry to see yer still limp bad. But it ain't so
hard as it would be if yer was a larger man. Yer see
there ain't much of yer to limp; that 's one comfort.
Hope business is good at yer chapel, and that Mrs.
Malone gives yer enough to eat; yer don't look like it,
though. The winter has sot in early, and times is
hard.” And did the parson know that “Brother Saul
has come in from the mine, and is a holding forth in
the school-house this very minit?”
No; the parson did not know it. But he put on
his new hat, whose moth-holes had been skilfully
blackened over with ink, and turned towards the door.
“It 's nothing to me, of course,” continued Mr.
Marx, with a liberal wave of his dirty hand; “all
your religions are alike to me, I 'm free to say. But
I wonder yer and Saul don't work together, parson.
Yer might do a heap of good if yer was to pull at
the same oar, now.”
The words echoed in the parson's ears as he walked
down to the beach, the only promenade in Algonquin
free from stumps. Could he do a “heap of good,” by
working with that ignorant, coarse, roaring brother,
with all things sacred were alike distasteful,
nay, horrible to his sensitive mind? Pondering, he
paced the narrow strip of sand under the low bluff;
but all his efforts did not suffice to quicken or warm his
chilled blood. Nevertheless, he expanded his sunken
chest and drew in long breaths of the cold night air,
and beat his little hands vigorously together, and ran
to and fro. “Aha!” he said to himself, “this is
glorious exercise.” And then he went home, colder
than ever; it was his way thus to make a reality of
what ought to be.
Passing through one of the so-called streets, he saw
a ruddy glow in front of the school-house; it was a
pine-knot fire whose flaring summons had not been
unheeded. The parson stopped a moment and warmed
himself, glancing meanwhile furtively within, where
Brother Saul was holding forth in clarion tones to a
crowded congregation; his words reached the listener's
ear, and verified the old proverb. “There 's brimstone
and a fiery furnace for them as doubts the truth, I tell
you. Prayin' out of a book — and flowers — and candles
— and night-gownds 'stead of decent coats — for
it 's night-gownds they look like, though they may call
them surpluses” (applause from the miners) — “won't
do no good. Sech nonsense will never save souls.
You 've jest got to fall down on your knees and pray
hard — hard — with groaning and roaring of the spirit
do; nothing, — nothing.”
The parson hurried away, shrinking (though unseen)
from the rough finger pointed at him. Before he was
out of hearing a hymn sounded forth on the night
breeze, — one of those nondescript songs that belong
to the border, a favorite with the Algonquin miners,
because of a swinging chorus wherein they roared out
their wish to “die a-shouting,” in company with all
the kings and prophets of Israel, each one fraternally
mentioned by name.
Reaching his room, the parson hung up his cloak
and hat, and sat down quietly with folded hands.
Clad in dressing-gown and slippers, in an easy-chair,
before a bright fire, — a revery, thus, is the natural
ending for a young man's day. But here the chair was
hard and straight-backed, there was no fire, and the
candle burned with a feeble blue flame; the small figure
in its limp black clothes, with its little gaitered
feet pressed close together on the cold floor as if for
warmth, its clasped hands, its pale face and blue eyes
fixed on the blank expanse of the plastered wall, was
pathetic in its patient discomfort. After a while a tear
fell on the clasped hands and startled their coldness
with its warmth. The parson brushed the token of
weakness hastily away, and rising, threw himself at
the foot of the large wooden cross with his arms clasping
its base. In silence for many moments he lay thus
his poor couch. But later in the night, when all Algonquin
slept, a crash of something falling was heard
in the dark room, followed by the sound of a scourge
mercilessly used, and murmured Latin prayers, — the
old cries of penitence that rose during night-vigils from
the monasteries of the Middle Ages. And why not
English words? Was there not something of affectation
in the use of these mediæval phrases? Maybe
so; but at least there was nothing affected in the
stripes made by the scourge. The next morning all
was as usual in the little room, save that the picture
of Santa Margarita was torn in twain, and the bracket
and vase shattered to fragments on the floor below.
At dawn the parson rose, and, after a conscientious
bath in the tub of icy water brought in by his own
hands the previous evening, he started out with his
load of prayer-books, his face looking haggard and
blue in the cold morning light. Again he entered
the chapel, and having arranged the books and dusted
the altar, he attired himself in his robes and began
the service at half past six precisely. “From the
rising of the sun even unto the going down of the
same,” he read, and in truth the sun was just rising.
As the evening prayer was “vespers,” so this was
“matins,” in the parson's mind. He had his “vestments”
too, of various ritualistic styles, and washed
them himself, ironing them out afterwards with fear
poor little man! No hand turned the latch, no step
came across the floor this morning; the parson had
the service all to himself, and, as it was Friday, he
went through the Litany, omitting nothing, and closing
with a hymn. Then, gathering up his books, he
went home to breakfast.
“How peaked yer do look, sir!” exclaimed ruddy
Mrs. Malone, as she handed him a cup of muddy
coffee. “What, no steak? Do, now; for I ain't got
nothin' else. Well, if yer won't — But there 's
nothin' but the biscuit, then. Why, even Father
O'Brien himself 'lows meat for the sickly, Friday or
no Friday.”
“I am not sickly, Mrs. Malone,” replied the little
parson, with dignity.
A young man with the figure of an athlete sat at
the lower end of the table, tearing the tough steak
voraciously with his strong teeth, chewing audibly,
and drinking with a gulping noise. He paused as
the parson spoke, and regarded him with wonder not
unmixed with contempt.
“You ain't sickly?” he repeated. “Well, if you
ain't, then I 'd like to know who is, that 's all.”
“Now, you jest eat your breakfast, Steve, and let
the parson alone,” interposed Mrs. Malone. “Sorry
to see that little picture all tore, sir,” she continued,
turning the conversation in her blundering good-nature.
uncommonly like Rosie Ray.”
“It was a copy of an Italian painting, Mrs. Malone,”
the parson hastened to reply; “Santa Margarita.”
“O, I dare say; but it looked iver so much like
Rosie, for all that!”
A deep flush had crossed the parson's pale face.
The athlete saw it, and muttered to himself angrily,
casting surly sidelong glances up the table, and breathing
hard; the previous evening he had happened to
pass the Chapel of St. John and St. James as its
congregation of one was going in the door.
After two hours spent in study, the parson went
out to visit the poor and sick of the parish; all were
poor, and one was sick, — the child of an Englishwoman,
a miner's wife. The mother, with a memory
of her English training, dusted a chair for the minister,
and dropped a courtesy, as he seated himself
by the little bed; but she seemed embarrassed, and
talked volubly of anything and everything save the
child. The parson listened to the unbroken stream
of words while he stroked the boy's soft cheek and
held the wasted little hand in his. At length he
took a small bottle from his pocket, and looked
around for a spoon; it was a pure and delicate cordial
which he had often given to the sick child to
sustain its waning strength.
“O, if you please, sir, — indeed, I don't feel sure
that it does Harry any good. Thank you for offering
it so free — but — but, if you 'd just as lieve —
I — I 'd rather not, sir, if you please, sir.”
The parson looked up in astonishment; the costly
cordial had robbed him of many a fire.
“Why don't you tell the minister the truth?” called
out a voice from the inner room, the harsh voice of
the husband. “Why don't you say right out that
Brother Saul was here last night, and prayed over
the child, and give it some of his own medicine, and
telled you not to touch the parson's stuff? He said
it was pizen, he did.”
The parson rose, cut to the heart. He had shared
his few dimes with this woman, and had hoped much
from her on account of her early church-training. On
Sunday she had been one of the few who came to the
chapel, and when, during the summer, she was smitten
with fever, he had read over her the prayers from “The
Visitation of the Sick”; he had baptized this child
now fading away, and had loved the little fellow tenderly,
taking pleasure in fashioning toys for his baby
hands, and saving for him the few cakes of Mrs.
Malone's table.
“I did n't mean to have Saul, — I did n't indeed,
sir,” said the mother, putting her apron to her eyes.
“But Harry he was so bad last night, and the neighbors
sort o' persuaded me into it. Brother Saul does
must do some good some way; and he 's a very comfortable
talker too, there 's no denying that. Still, I
did n't mean it, sir; and I hope you 'll forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” replied the parson,
gently; and, leaving his accustomed coin on the table,
he went away.
Wandering at random through the pine forest, unable
to overcome the dull depression at his heart, he
came suddenly upon a large bull-dog; the creature, one
of the ugliest of its kind, eyed him quietly, with a slow
wrinkling of the sullen upper lip.
The parson visibly trembled.
“'Fraid, are ye?” called out a voice, and the athlete
of the breakfast-table showed himself.
“Call off your dog, please, Mr. Long.”
“He ain't doin' nothin', parson. But you 're at liberty
to kick him, if you like,” said the man, laughing
as the dog snuffed stealthily around the parson's gaiters.
The parson shifted his position; the dog followed.
He stepped aside; so did the dog. He turned
and walked away with a determined effort at self-control;
the dog went closely behind, brushing his ankles
with his ugly muzzle. He hurried; so did the dog.
At last, overcome with the nervous physical timidity
which belonged to his constitution, he broke into a
run, and fled as if for life, hearing the dog close behind
and gaining with every step. The jeering laugh of the
he heeded it not, and when at last he spied a log-house
on one side he took refuge within like a hunted hare,
breathless and trembling. An old woman smoking a
pipe was its only occupant. “What 's the matter?”
she said. “O, the dog?” And, taking a stick of
wood, she drove the animal from the door, and sent
him fleeing back to his master. The parson sat down
by the hearth to recover his composure.
“Why, you 're most frightened to death, ain't yer?”
said the old woman, as she brushed against him to
make up the fire. “You 're all of a tremble. I would
n't stray so far from home if I was you, child.”
Her vision was imperfect, and she took the small,
cowering figure for a boy.
The minister went home.
After dinner, which he did not eat, as the greasy
dishes offended his palate, he shut himself up in his
room to prepare his sermon for the coming Sunday.
It made no difference whether there would be any
one to hear it or not, the sermon was always carefully
written and carefully delivered, albeit short,
according to the ritualistic usage, which esteems the
service all, the sermon nothing. His theme on this
occasion was “The General Councils of the Church”;
and the sermon, an admirable production of its kind,
would have been esteemed, no doubt, in English Oxford
or in the General Theological Seminary of New
a keen enjoyment from the work; the mechanical
part also was exquisitely finished, the clear sentences
standing out like the work of a sculptor.
Then came vespers; and the congregation this time
was composed of two, or, rather, three persons, — the
girl, the owner of the dog, and the dog himself. The
man entered during service with a noisy step, managing
to throw over a bench, coughing, humming,
and talking to his dog; half of the congregation
was evidently determined upon mischief. But the
other half rose with the air of a little queen, crossed
the intervening space with an open prayer-book, gave
it to the man, and, seating herself near by, fairly
awed him into good behavior. Rose Ray was beautiful;
and the lion lay at her feet. As for the dog,
with a wave of her hand she ordered him out, and
the beast humbly withdrew. It was noticeable that the
parson's voice gained strength as the dog disappeared.
“I ain't going to stand by and see it, Rosie,” said
the man, as, the service over, he followed the girl
into the street. “That puny little chap!”
“He cares nothing for me,” answered the girl,
quickly.
“He sha' n't have a chance to care, if I know myself.
You 're free to say `no' to me, Rosie, but you
ain't free to say `yes' to him. A regular coward!
That 's what he is. Why, he ran away from my dog
death!”
“You set the dog on him, Steve.”
“Well, what if I did? He need n't have run;
any other man would have sent the beast flying.”
“Now, Steve, do promise me that you won't tease
him any more,” said the girl, laying her hand upon
the man's arm as he walked by her side. His face
softened.
“If he had any spirit he 'd be ashamed to have
a girl beggin' for him not to be teased. But never
mind that; I 'll let him alone fast enough, Rosie, if
you will too.”
“If I will,” repeated the girl, drawing back, as he
drew closer to her side; “what can you mean?”
“O, come now! You know very well you 're always
after him, — a goin' to his chapel where no one
else goes hardly, — a listenin' to his preachin', — and
a havin' your picture hung up in his room.”
It was a random shaft, sent carelessly, more to
finish the sentence with a strong point than from
any real belief in the athlete's mind.
“What!”
“Leastways so Mrs. Malone said. I took breakfast
there this morning.”
The girl was thrown off her guard, her whole face
flushed with joy; she could not for the moment hide
her agitation. “My picture!” she murmured, and
crossed her face, and revealed the whole secret. Steven
Long saw it, and fell into a rage. After all,
then, she did love the puny parson!
“Let him look out for himself, that 's all,” he
muttered with a fierce gesture, as he turned towards
the saloon door. (He felt a sudden thirst for vengeance,
and for whiskey.) “I 'll be even with him,
and I won't be long about it neither. You 'll never
have the little parson alive, Rose Ray! He 'll be
found missin' some fine mornin', and nobody will be to
blame but you either.” He disappeared, and the girl
stood watching the spot where his dark, angry face
had been. After a time she went slowly homeward,
troubled at heart; there was neither law nor order at
Algonquin, and not without good cause did she fear.
The next morning, as the parson was coming from
his solitary matin service through thick-falling snow,
this girl met him, slipped a note into his hand, and
disappeared like a vision. The parson went homeward,
carrying the folded paper under his cloak
pressed close to his heart. “I am only keeping it
dry,” he murmured to himself. This was the note: —
“Respected Sir, — I must see you, you air in
danger. Please come to the Grotter this afternoon
at three and I remain yours respectful,
The Rev. Herman Warriner Peters read these words
over and over; then he went to breakfast, but ate
nothing, and, coming back to his room, he remained
the whole morning motionless in his chair. At
first the red flamed in his cheek, but gradually it
faded, and gave place to a pinched pallor; he bowed
his head upon his hands, communed with his own
heart, and was still. As the dinner-bell rang he
knelt down on the cold hearth, made a little funeral
pyre of the note torn into fragments, watched
it slowly consume, and then, carefully collecting the
ashes, he laid them at the base of the large cross.
At two o'clock he set out for the Grotto, a cave
two miles from the village along the shore, used by the
fishermen as a camp during the summer. The snow
had continued falling, and now lay deep on the even
ground; the pines were loaded with it, and everything
was white save the waters of the bay, heaving
sullenly, dark, and leaden, as though they knew the
icy fetters were nearly ready for them. The parson
walked rapidly along in his awkward, halting gait;
overshoes he had none, and his cloak was but a
sorry substitute for the blankets and skins worn by
the miners. But he did not feel cold when he
opened the door of the little cabin which had been
built out in front of the cave, and found himself
face to face with the beautiful girl who had summoned
him there. She had lighted a fire of pine
furniture in order; she had cushioned a chair-back
with her shawl, and heated a flat stone for a foot-warmer.
“Take this seat, sir,” she said, leading him thither.
The parson sank into the chair and placed his
old soaked gaiters on the warm stone; but he said
not one word.
“I thought perhaps you 'd be tired after your long
walk, sir,” continued the girl, “and so I took the liberty
of bringing something with me.” As she spoke
she drew into view a basket, and took from it delicate
bread, chicken, cakes, preserved strawberries, and a
little tin coffee-pot which, set on the coals, straightway
emitted a delicious fragrance; nothing was forgotten,
— cream, sugar, nor even snowy napkins.
The parson spoke not a word.
But the girl talked for both, as with flushed cheeks
and starry eyes she prepared the tempting meal, using
many pretty arts and graceful motions, using in
short every power she possessed to charm the silent
guest. The table was spread, the viands arranged,
the coffee poured into the cup; but still the parson
spoke not, and his blue eyes were almost stern as
he glanced at the tempting array. He touched nothing.
“I thought you would have liked it all,” said the
girl at last, when she saw her little offerings despised.
was so glad thinking you 'd like them — and now —”
Her voice broke, and the tears flowed from her pretty
soft eyes. A great tenderness came over the parson's
face.
“Do not weep,” he said, quickly. “See, I am eating.
See, I am enjoying everything. It is all good,
nay, delicious.” And in his haste he partook of each
dish, and lifted the coffee-cup to his lips. The girl's
face grew joyous again, and the parson struggled bravely
against his own enjoyment; in truth, what with the
warm fire, the easy-chair, the delicate food, the fragrant
coffee, and the eager, beautiful face before him, a
sense of happiness came over him in long surges, and
for the moment his soul drifted with the warm tide.
“You do like it, don't you?” said the girl with
delight, as he slowly drank the fragrant coffee, his
starved lips lingering over the delicious brown drops.
Something in her voice jarred on the trained nerves
and roused them to action again.
“Yes, I do like it, — only too well,” he answered;
but the tone of his voice had altered. He pushed
back his chair, rose, and began pacing to and fro in
the shadow beyond the glow of the fire.
“Thou glutton body!” he murmured. “But thou
shalt go empty for this.” Then, after a pause, he
said in a quiet, even tone, “You had something to
tell me, Miss Ray.”
The girl's face had altered; but rallying, she told
her story earnestly, — of Steven Long, his fierce temper,
his utter lawlessness, and his threats.
“And why should Steven Long threaten me?” said
the parson. “But you need not answer,” he continued
in an agitated voice. “Say to Steven Long, —
say to him,” he repeated in louder tones, “that I
shall never marry. I have consecrated my life to
my holy calling.”
There was a long silence; the words fell with
crushing weight on both listener and speaker. We
do not realize even our own determinations, sometimes,
until we have told them to another. The girl
rallied first; for she still hoped.
“Mr. Peters,” she said, taking all her courage in
her hands and coming towards him, “is it wrong to
marry?”
“For me — it is.”
“Why?”
“Because I am a priest.”
“Are you a Catholic, then?”
“I am a Catholic, although not in the sense you
mean. Mine is the true Catholic faith which the
Anglican Church has kept pure from the errors of
Rome, and mine it is to make my life accord with
the high office I hold.”
“Is it part of your high office to be cold — and
hungry — and wretched?”
“I am not wretched.”
“You are; now, and at all times. You are killing
yourself.”
“No; else I had died long, long ago.”
“Well, then, of what use is your poor life as you
now live it, either to yourself or any one else? Do
you succeed among the miners? How many have
you brought into the church?”
“Not one.”
“And yourself? Have you succeeded, so far, in
making yourself a saint?”
“God knows I have not,” replied the parson, covering
his face with his hands as the questions probed
his sore, sad heart. “I have failed in my work, I
have failed in myself, I am of all men most miserable!
— most miserable!”
The girl sprang forward and caught his arm, her
eyes full of love's pity. “You know you love me,”
she murmured; “why fight against it? For I — I
love you!”
What did the parson do?
He fell upon his knees, but not to her, and uttered
a Latin prayer, short but fervid.
“All the kingdoms of the world and the glory of
them,” he murmured, “would not be to me so much
as this!” Then he rose.
“Child,” he said, “you know not what you do.”
And, opening the door, he went away into the snowy
“Herman, Herman.” He turned; she had sunk upon
the threshold. He came back and lifted her for a
moment in his arms.
“Be comforted, Rosamond,” he said, tenderly. “It
is but a fancy; you will soon forget me. You do
not really love me, — such a one as I,” he continued,
bringing forward, poor heart! his own greatest
sorrow with unpitying hand. “But thank you, dear,
for the gentle fancy.” He stood a moment, silent;
then touched her dark hair with his quivering lips
and disappeared.
Sunday morning the sun rose unclouded, the snow
lay deep on the ground, the first ice covered the
bay; winter had come. At ten o'clock the customary
service began in the Chapel of St. John and
St. James, and the little congregation shivered, and
whispered that it must really try to raise money
enough for a stove. The parson did not feel the cold,
although he looked almost bloodless in his white surplice.
The Englishwoman was there, repentant, —
the sick child had not rallied under the new ministration;
Mrs. Malone was there, from sheer good-nature;
and several of the villagers and two or three
miners had strolled in because they had nothing else
to do, Brother Saul having returned to the mine.
Rose Ray was not there. She was no saint, so she
stayed at home and wept like a sinner.
The congregation, which had sat silent through the
service, fell entirely asleep during the sermon on the
“General Councils.” Suddenly, in the midst of a
sentence, there came a noise that stopped the parson
and woke the sleepers. Two or three miners
rushed into the chapel and spoke to the few men
present. “Come out,” they cried, — “come out to the
mine. The thief 's caught at last! and who do you
think it is? Saul, Brother Saul himself, the hypocrite!
They tracked him to his den, and there they
found the barrels and sacks and kegs, but the stuff
he 's made away with, most of it. He took it all,
every crumb, and us a starving!”
“We 've run in to tell the town,” said another.
“We 've got him fast, and we 're going to make a
sample of him. Come out and see the fun.”
“Yes,” echoed a third, who lifted a ruffianly face
from his short, squat figure, “and we 'll take our own
time, too. He 's made us suffer, and now he shall
suffer a bit, if I know myself.”
The women shuddered as, with an ominous growl,
all the men went out together.
“I misdoubt they 'll hang him,” said Mrs. Malone,
shaking her head as she looked after them.
“Or worse,” said the miner's wife.
Then the two departed, and the parson was left
alone. Did he cut off the service? No. Deliberately
he finished every word of the sermon, sang a
everything in order, he too left the little sanctuary;
but he did not go homeward, he took the road
to the mine.
“Don't-ee go, sir, don't!” pleaded the Englishwoman,
standing in her doorway as he passed. “You
won't do no good, sir.”
“Maybe not,” answered the parson, gently, “but
at least I must try.”
He entered the forest; the air was still and cold,
the snow crackled under his feet, and the pine-trees
stretched away in long white aisles. He looked like
a pygmy as he hastened on among the forest giants,
his step more languid than usual from sternest vigil
and fasting.
“Thou proud, evil body, I have conquered thee!”
he had said in the cold dawning. And he had; at
least, the body answered not again.
The mine was several miles away, and to lighten
the journey the little man sang a hymn, his voice
sounding through the forest in singular melody. It
was an ancient hymn that he sang, written long ago
by some cowled monk, and it told in quaint language
of the joys of “Paradise! O Paradise!” He
did not feel the cold as he sang of the pearly gates.
In the late afternoon his halting feet approached
the mine; as he drew near the clearing he heard a
sound of many voices shouting together, followed by
than the clamor. The tormentors were at work. The
parson ran forward, and, passing the log-huts which
lay between, came out upon the scene. A circle of
men stood there around a stake. Fastened by a long
rope, crouched the wretched prisoner, his face turned
to the color of dough, his coarse features drawn apart
like an animal in terror, and his hoarse voice never
ceasing its piteous cry, “Have mercy, good gentlemen!
Dear gentlemen, have mercy!”
At a little distance a fire of logs was burning,
and from the brands scattered around it was evident
that the man had served as a target for the
fiery missiles; in addition he bore the marks of blows,
and his clothes were torn and covered with mud as
though he had been dragged roughly over the ground.
The lurid light of the fire cast a glow over the faces
of the miners; behind rose the Iron Mountain, dark
in shadow; and on each side stretched out the ranks
of the white-pine trees, like ghosts assembled as silent
witnesses against the cruelty of man. The parson
rushed forward, broke through the circle, and
threw his arms around the prisoner at the stake,
protecting him with his slender body.
“If ye kill him, ye must kill me also,” he cried,
in a ringing voice.
On the border, the greatest crime is robbery. A
thief is worse than a murderer; a life does not count
that the Lynch law was made, but for the
thief. For months these Algonquin miners had suffered
loss; their goods, their provisions, their clothes,
and their precious whiskey had been stolen, day
after day, and all search had proved vain; exasperated,
several times actually suffering from want, they
had heaped up a great store of fury for the thief,
— fury increased tenfold when, caught at last, he
proved to be no other than Brother Saul, the one
man whom they had trusted, the one man whom
they had clothed and fed before themselves, the one
man from whom they had expected better things.
An honest, bloodthirsty wolf in his own skin was
an animal they respected; indeed, they were themselves
little better. But a wolf in sheep's clothing
was utterly abhorrent to their peculiar sense of
honor. So they gathered around their prey, and esteemed
it rightfully theirs; whiskey had sharpened
their enjoyment.
To this savage band, enter the little parson.
“What! are ye men?” he cried. “Shame, shame,
ye murderers!”
The miners stared at the small figure that defied
them, and for the moment their anger gave way before
a rough sense of the ludicrous.
“Hear the little man,” they cried. “Hurrah, Peter!
Go ahead!”
But they soon wearied of his appeal and began to
answer back.
“What are clothes or provisions to a life?” said
the minister.
“Life ain't worth much without 'em, Parson,” replied
a miner. “He took all we had, and we 've
gone cold and hungry 'long of him, and he knowed
it. And all the time we was a giving him of the
best, and a believing his praying and his preaching.”
“If he is guilty, let him be tried by the legal
authorities.”
“We 're our own legal 'thorities, Parson.”
“The country will call you to account.”
“The country won't do nothing of the kind.
Much the country cares for us poor miners, frozen
up here in the woods! Stand back, Parson. Why
should you bother about Saul? You always hated
him.”
“Never! never!” answered the parson, earnestly.
“You did too, and he knowed it. 'T was because
he was dirty, and could n't mince his words as you
do.”
The parson turned to the crouching figure at his
side. “Friend,” he said, “if this is true, — and the
heart is darkly deceitful and hides from man his
own worst sins, — I humbly ask your forgiveness.”
“O come! None of your gammon,” said another
miner, impatiently. “Saul did n't care whether you
coward.”
“'Fraid of a dog! 'Fraid of a dog!” shouted half
a dozen voices; and a frozen twig struck the parson's
cheek, and drew blood.
“Why, he 's got blood!” said one. “I never
thought he had any.”
“Come, Parson,” said a friendly miner, advancing
from the circle, “we don't want to hurt you, but you
might as well understand that we 're the masters here.”
“And if ye are the masters, then be just. Give
the criminal to me; I will myself take him to the
nearest judge, the nearest jail, and deliver him up.”
“He 'll be more likely to deliver you up, I reckon,
Parson.”
“Well, then, send a committee of your own men
with me —”
“We 've got other things to do besides taking
long journeys over the ice to 'commodate thieves,
Parson. Leave the man to us.”
“And to torture? Men, men, ye would not treat
a beast so!”
“A beast don't steal our food and whiskey,” sang
out a miner.
“Stand back! stand back!” shouted several voices.
“You 're too little to fight, Parson.”
“But not too little to die,” answered the minister,
throwing up his arms towards the sky.
For an instant his words held the men in check;
they looked at each other, then at him.
“Think of yourselves,” continued the minister.
“Are ye without fault? If ye murder this man, ye
are worse than he is.”
But here the minister went astray in his appeal,
and ran against the views of the border.
“Worse! Worse than a sneaking thief! Worse
than a praying hypocrite who robs the very men
that feed him! Look here, we won't stand that!
Sheer off, or take the consequences.” And a burning
brand struck the parson's coat, and fell on the
head of the crouching figure at his side, setting fire
to its hair. Instantly the parson extinguished the
light flame, and drew the burly form closer within
his arms, so that the two stood as one. “Not one,
but both of us,” he cried.
A new voice spoke next, the voice of the oldest
miner, the most hardened reprobate there. “Let go
that rascal, Parson. He 's the fellow that lamed you
last spring. He set the trap himself; I seen him
a doing it.”
Involuntarily, for a moment, Herman Peters drew
back; the trap set at the chapel door, the deliberate,
cruel intention, the painful injury, and its life-long
result, brought the angry color to his pale face.
The memory was full of the old bitterness.
But Saul, feeling himself deserted, dragged his
knees. With desperate hands he clung, and he was
not repulsed. Without a word the parson drew him
closer, and again faced the crowd.
“Why, the man 's a downright fool!” said the old
miner. “That Saul lamed him for life, and all for
nothing, and still he stands by him. The man 's
mad!”
“I am not mad,” answered the parson, and his
voice rung out clear and sweet. “But I am a minister
of the great God who has said to men, `Thou
shalt do no murder.' O men! O brothers! look
back into your own lives. Have ye no crimes, no
sins to be forgiven? Can ye expect mercy when ye
give none? Let this poor creature go, and it shall
be counted unto you for goodness. Ye, too, must
some time die; and when the hour comes, as it often
comes, in lives like yours, with sudden horror, ye will
have this good deed to remember. For charity —
which is mercy — shall cover a multitude of sins.”
He ceased, and there was a momentary pause.
Then a stern voice answered, “Facts won't alter,
Parson. The man is a thief, and must be punished.
Your talk may do for women-folks, not for us.”
“Women-folks!” repeated the ruffian-faced man
who had made the women shudder at the chapel.
“He 's a sly fox, this parson! He did n't go out to
meet Rosie Ray at the Grotter yesterday, O no!”
“Liar!” shouted a man, who had been standing
in the shadow on the outskirts of the crowd, taking,
so far, no part in the scene. He forced himself to
the front; it was Steven Long, his face dark with
passion.
“No liar at all, Steve,” answered the first. “I
seen 'em there with my own eyes; they had things
to eat and everything. Just ask the parson.”
“Yes, ask the parson,” echoed the others; and with
the shifting humor of the border, they stopped to
laugh over the idea. “Ask the parson.”
Steven Long stepped forward and confronted the
little minister. His strong hands were clinched, his
blood was on fire with jealousy. The bull-dog followed
his master, and smelled around the parson's
gaiters, — the same poor old shoes, his only pair,
now wet with melted snow. The parson glanced
down apprehensively.
“'Fraid of a dog! 'Fraid of a dog!” shouted the
miners, again laughing uproariously. The fun was
better than they had anticipated.
“Is it true?” demanded Steven Long, in a hoarse
voice. “Did you meet that girl at the Grotter yesterday?”
“I did meet Rosamond Ray at the Grotto yesterday,”
answered the parson; “but —”
He never finished the sentence. A fragment of
iron ore struck him on the temple. He fell, and
he still protected even in death.
The murder was not avenged; Steven Long was
left to go his own way. But as the thief was also
allowed to depart unmolested, the principles of border
justice were held to have been amply satisfied.
The miners attended the funeral in a body, and
even deputed one of their number to read the Episcopal
burial service over the rough pine coffin, since
there was no one else to do it. They brought out
the chapel prayer-books, found the places, and followed
as well as they could; for “he thought a deal
of them books. Don't you remember how he was
always carrying 'em backward and forward, poor little
chap!”
The Chapel of St. John and St. James was closed
for the season. In the summer a new missionary
arrived; he was not ritualistic, and before the year
was out he married Rosamond Ray.
| Castle nowhere | |