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 and difficulty in Mrs. Malone’s disorderly kitchen, 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. “It was a moighty pretty picture, and looked 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 pray so powerful strong, sir, that it seems as though it 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 athlete followed him through the pine-tree aisles, but 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 York City. He wrote earnestly and ardently, deriving 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 or
dered 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 this very afternoon,—ran like he was scared to 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 clasped her hands. The light from the Pine-Cone 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,
Rose RAY.”
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 knots on the hearth, and set the fishermen’s rough 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. “I brought them all out myself—and I 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!”
Constance Fenimore Woolson Page 2