Читать книгу The Measure of a Man. A Tale of the Big Woods - Duncan Norman - Страница 6
ОглавлениеA PASTORAL CALL
Pattie Batch came to the funeral unattended. In fact, she was early. A childlike little heart, she was, indeed—a tender little flower o' the woods, forever blithesome, in the sun and breezes of the world, until Rattle Water had intervened—and she was now all in a confusion of bitterest grief and dread and fluttering expectation. Except for the tote-wagon and the stolid horses, the street was empty; there was nobody to observe her shy arrival—nobody to be moved by the mourning garment she had accomplished from her dead mother's threadbare black gown and now wore with a modestly appealing little strut. It was a grotesque fashion, no doubt: she resembled, perhaps, nothing so nearly as a child masquerading in grown-up array. But she was all innocent of the modes; the limp black skirt trailed the ground for the first time in her experience, and she was conscious of having emerged into the world, upon her own resources, wherein she must bear herself with courage and resolution, playing the part of a little man in every future.
"I got t' be a little man!"
Pattie Batch was instantly aware, of course, of the significance of the tote-wagon and the gray blanket.
"Hello, pop!" she whispered.
Gray Billy Batch was indifferent to the greeting.
"Hello, pop!"
Pattie wept, in an overwhelming agony of grief, as she laid a cluster of wild-flowers on the blanket; and she wept, too, as she straightened the disordered folds to ease the rest of the form beneath, as she had done many a time, in other circumstances, when Billy Batch had come home from town.
"Hello, pop!"
No answer.
"Pop! Oh, pop!"
Pattie wept again; and snuffling still—and with a sob and a catch of the breath—she rearranged the flowers, having conceived a more lovely effect, and once more smoothed the blanket, for which she had no thanks, at all: whereupon she moved away. There was a great stir and talk in the barrooms near by. It indicated a long waiting. She dried her eyes with a sleeve of the black gown, and sighed a great deal, and blew her little red nose, and choked back her sobs; and, having long ago learned the part a woman must play at such convivial times, she sat down on the edge of the plank sidewalk in front of Pale Peter's place, her little feet swinging, and began patiently to await the convenience of the men within.
"I got t' be a little man, by ginger!" thought she.
She would if she could.
When big, bellicose John Fairmeadow, in a lather of exertion, came striding down the peaceful street, bound for the Big Rapids trail, she still sat, in a mist of grief, swinging her little feet from Pale Peter's sidewalk. A quaint, appealing, shy little figure, indeed, she was, with downcast gray eyes, but rosy-cheeked, withal, and dimpled, too, notwithstanding the gray blanket, and infinitely wistful in the summer sunshine. She was in sorrow, of course; not the most persistent of dimples, not gray-eyed twinkles of the most stout-hearted description, could conceal her woe, nor mitigate her appearance of desolation. But she did smile: once in a while, looking up from her little toes, she smiled, having with all her might summoned the courage with which to give to her woeful features the twist of a grimace. She was in the way, you see, of patching up her broken heart, after the admonition of Gray Billy Batch to be a little man. And she was in the thick of a desperate effort—and was determined to achieve her purpose—and had almost managed the last contortion of a courageous little grin—when John Fairmeadow, striding down, came abreast of the abandoned tote-wagon and caught sight of the queer little figure in black on the sidewalk beyond. It was impossible to proceed: John Fairmeadow involuntarily paused to stare; and his stare instantly exposed him to a gray-eyed flash, which immensely amused him, it was so frank, so wistful, so sad, so curious, so appealing and so glorious.
"How d'ye do?" said John Fairmeadow.
A gracious inclination failed to encourage him; and he passed on—but with twinkling backward glances—towards the mouth of the Big Rapids trail, wherein, in a moment, after a rough stride or two, he would have vanished in the silence and shadows of the forest, forever lost to Swamp's End, had not the providential dog fight summoned him back.
It was the dog fight, too, that intruded upon Pattie Batch's grieving vigil beside the tote-wagon and the gray blanket. It came in a growling, roaring, blaspheming rush from Pale Peter's bar. The blessed calm of day fled in shocked alarm before it. It startled the stolid black horses; it shook the tote-wagon's unheeding passenger. It flooded the sidewalk and overflowed on the dusty street. It drew a hurrying, swearing, howling contribution of sportive spectators from each of the thirty-two saloons to complete a brawling circle. It distracted the citizens of Swamp's End and the visitors from the woods from their accustomed employments at the Swamp's End bars; and eventually it introduced John Fairmeadow and Providence to the excited community. A worthy dog fight. Pale Peter's bulldog was concerned, being the aggrieved party to the dispute; and the other dog, the aggressor, was Billy the Beast from the Cant-hook cutting, a surly lumber-jack, who, being at the same time drunk, savage and hungry, had seized upon the bulldog's bone, in expectation of gnawing it himself. It was a fight to be remembered, too: the growls of man and beast, the dusty, yelping scramble in the street, the howls of the spectators, the blood and snapping, and the indecent issue, wherein Billy the Beast from the Cant-hook cutting sent the bulldog yelping to cover with a broken rib, and himself, staggering out of sight, with lacerated hands, gnawed at the bone as he went.
When the joyous excitement had somewhat subsided, John Fairmeadow, now returned from the Big Rapids trail, laid off his pack.
"Boys," said he, "I'm looking for the worst town this side of hell. Have I got there?"
"You're what!" Gingerbread Jenkins ejaculated.
"I'm looking," John Fairmeadow drawled, "for the worst town this side of hell. Is this it?"
"Swamp's End, my friend," said Gingerbread Jenkins, gravely, "is your station."
The crowd gave assent.
"Quite sure?" John Fairmeadow pleasantly inquired.
"My friend," Gingerbread Jenkins replied, "I could prove at least that much in favour o' this here town."
John Fairmeadow nodded approvingly.
"When I come t' think ca'mly about it," Gingerbread Jenkins went on, "I don't know but that this town beats hell. There's many a man has moved from here t' hell with the idea of improvin' his situation."
Again John Fairmeadow nodded.
"An' a damned sight more young women," Gingerbread Jenkins continued, "has packed up in a hurry, lemme tell you, an' done the same thing."
"That's all right, boys," said John Fairmeadow, heartily. "I like the town."
It was Gingerbread's turn to nod.
"I like it," Fairmeadow repeated, grimly. "It's just the kind of town I'm looking for; and I'm glad I've found it. It's fine, boys. I'm delighted. It seems to me," he went on, "that a man in my line might thrive in a live little burg like this. If you've no objection, boys, I'll settle."
There was a pause.
"Friend," Gingerbread Jenkins observed, inimically, "I don't quite place you."
Fairmeadow smiled broadly. "This is my first visit to Swamp's End, sir," said he, bowing politely.
Gingerbread scratched his head.
"I hope," Fairmeadow proceeded, glancing about the scowling circle, his eyes alight with amusement, "some day to be better acquainted with all you gentlemen."
"I can't place you," Gingerbread Jenkins complained, advancing.
"My name's Fairmeadow."
"Yes," Gingerbread drawled; "but I can't jus' make out what you're for."
Fairmeadow settled himself solidly.
"You see, friend," Gingerbread Jenkins patiently elucidated, "it ain't quite plain what use you could be put to. You look like a honest an' self-respectin' lady-fingered bartender," he added, gently, "but you might be a horse-thief."
Fairmeadow bridled a little. "I chance to be neither," said he.
"No?"
"Neither."
"What is your line o' business?"
"Line?" Fairmeadow replied, with a broad grin. "Boys, I'm what you might call a parson!"
"A—a—wh-what?"
"Parson, by Jove!"
Gingerbread Jenkins implored, weakly, "Do you want a job?"
Fairmeadow perceived but could not account for a sudden stir and silence. He was not, however, permitted to answer the question. Plain Tom Hitch jerked Gingerbread Jenkins away from further blundering.
Well, of course, with this disclosure the affair had instantly taken a new aspect. The crowd withdrew a space, leaving John Fairmeadow alone with the little figure in the quaint black dress, by whom, however, he was not addressed. There was a great buzz of accusation, argument and persuasion from the frowzy crew near by; and John Fairmeadow, there being nothing else to do, awaited the issue of this, mystified but patient enough. What was said to Gingerbread Jenkins, at that crisis, heaven knows! That he was accused of having made it impossible for any individual of pious inclination to accept employment in that neighbourhood may go without saying. A lady-fingered bartender—a horse-thief! Hard enough, too, on poor Gingerbread Jenkins—himself desperate for a parson! Presently, however, the circle formed again about John Fairmeadow; and Gingerbread Jenkins advanced, again, now much crestfallen.
"I guess I made a mistake, parson, an' I 'pologize," said he. "Are you lookin' for a job?"
"That's just what I am!" said Fairmeadow.
"As a parson?"
"That's right, boys!"
"Would you mind," Gingerbread pursued, apologetically, "if I was t' ask you how you was on funeerials?"
The crowd attended.
"I bury," Fairmeadow replied, smiling, all unaware of the proximity of the gray blanket, "with neatness and despatch."
"Do it make any difference t' you," Gingerbread anxiously inquired, "which landin' a man makes?"
"Once the man is dead?"
"Yes," Gingerbread drawled; "once the man's quite dead."
"Not in the least."
"An' you're lookin' for a job in this section?"
"I am."
"No objection t' lumber-jacks?"
"I confess," Fairmeadow answered, grimly, "to a slight attraction."
"Got the Holy Scriptures on you?"
"I have."
"Handy?"
Fairmeadow produced them with satisfaction.
"Boys," said Gingerbread promptly, "hold up your right hands."
Aloft went every hand.
"Now, parson," Gingerbread went on, turning full upon Fairmeadow, and gravely, too, "the truth, the whole truth an' nothin' but the truth——"
The rest, it seemed, had been forgotten.
"Anyhow," Gingerbread burst out, "so help me God, you're elected!"
Fairmeadow asked no question whatsoever. The sincerity of his call, indeed, was beyond question. It amazed him; he could not at all account for it. He felt the need of him, however; and he promptly took hold on the strange advantage. The situation passed into his control in a way to make the hearts of these simple men jump. He stepped quickly to the centre of the circle—a clean, stalwart young fellow, a man, in bearing, of the great proud and powerful world—and lifted his hand.
There was instant silence.
"Boys," said Fairmeadow, looking slowly roundabout upon the circle of grave and gaping faces, "I thank you for the call. It is gratefully accepted. In so far as God gives me strength and wisdom—in so far as He helps me to keep my heart pure, my purpose uplifted, my love undivided—I will serve both you and Him in these His woods. So help me Almighty God! Amen."
This was the call and installation of the Reverend John Fairmeadow.
