The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, July 27, 1902, Page 4

A\ ”“'»?5 s (TUART reproachable at its worst = severe from h @ar s & Per- s the light thereof a 4 er conscientiously, re- e g the & was quaintly Law not be ught Adam must arishioner happened ife was one long, tense was the He saw ed and the ted around a em of theoi- e evening sank to her couch. n t changed, but burned received them gently. The t to themselves olive- the clover tops ceased e grain tossed its deli- onger. The low wind s of the two arded the village seemed to hose of soldiers on a passed under the elms ie revered those trees tor for forty years. donation parties ort: they had never they had known t offered h when the question, and comforted his troubles. As Mr. Law T em T the elm trees al stillness of tolling of the church bell, gregation to meeting.” The other & circus, a mile back in gayly from the meadow nd the gravel pits, that old Nath Roar (being a Universalist) eould not be dissuaded trom renting once & year to the emissaries of the devil. Now the circu came from Hartford, twelve miles over the turnpike. Mr. Law thought this eminently natural; for he had of late begun to cherish private @oubte ebout the soundness of one of the faculty of Hartford—a new acquisition, not thoroug! tested yet, as to his fit- ness to honor the ancient records of that unassailable theological seminary. Any one familiar with the ecclesiastical interests New England will be able cerstand the personal creed Adam Lew when told that soundness of Hartford. interested in such matters explanation need be offered; and to thet our hero—for in spite of his ogy he was a hero—belonged to the extreme conservative ranks of the “Old offer no elucidation. te to divine service,” e Re he questioned th To readers the ster. “The bell has al- ceased to toll. Mrs. Doom must y be constrained to prepare my evening n at the appointed hour. It e £ not-on this wise when my good wife ed my house. But God took Mrs. Doom 1s.” ught in such quaint and stetely Montaigne thought in Latin, a ri e is not—an ked ecclesiastically. His moved scripturally. Yet his blazed like a boy’s. He hur- th Ims, now deep iIn 1 cutting exquisite leaf- s against the slowly soften- ming gky. d tolling with a snap that credit to Universalism or even Athenasianism. Deacon Sleeper was alrea seat. Deacon Hopwell looked out of the big window of the meet- ing house that bounded his pew to see where the minister was. Mrs. Wayle, the town poor (there was but one in the vil- lage), untied her dyed and ironed black bonnet-strings and leaned over the front would have @ % o \J galiery seat to watch the aisle. Bab Roar, the village drunkard, loafed up to the church steps and sat down on the lowest, chewing tobacco earnestly. These things were all as usual, as they kad been, more or less, for forty years; as they would continue to be for who knew how many years to come? Everything seemed homelike and peace- ful to the minister az he hurried up the steps and went in to conduct the Friday prayer meeting on that gentle June night. It did occur to him that there were fewer loafers than usual about the steps and vestibule—in fact, Bab Roar was their solitary ornament—but he dismissed the observation as unimportant; nor did he pay attention to the clearly unusual proportion of whisper and rustle which buzzed through the church as he passed up the aisle. But the instant that he stood In his pulpit he perceived, with the trained eye of a lifelong master of audi- ences, that something had happened. His keen glance shot from pew to gal- lery, from aisle to aisle; and dropped, un- satisfied, to the pages or the big pulpit Bible, with the ten-inch broad red book- mark embroidered in gold beads by the young ladies of the congregation. As the choir struck up the opening an- them—it happened to be Waliter Scott’s “Day of the Lord,” a hymn equal in every heart-wringing quality to the best (or the worst) Dies Irae—Deacon Hopwell creaked up the broad aisle in his best and noisiest boots, and handed a folded slip of paper to the Rev. Adam Law. The minister took it and read slowly. He was prepared to find that the Ladies’ Dorces would meet next Tuesday at the ’ DIRAWN By JEISANY HARTE - Crer mRRTE ) ol'v -/ house of Mrs. Deacon Sleeper; or that the family of our late lamented sister, who passed away last week, requested the sympathy of the congregation; possibly that some one of his ten or twelve young parishioners desired prayers for an awak- ened interest; perhaps—oh, perhaps t Bab Roar was ‘“‘under conviction.” Instead, the minister read in Deacon Hop- wellls own somewhat worldly and judiclal hand—for Deacon Hopwell was the Sheriff: “There’'s been a row at the circus. Man killed and murderer escaped. My deputy is out with search parties. I join them after meeting. Thought you ought to be informed before ou conduct the services. There is great excitement in the com- munity. The minister folded. the paper and bowed is head. t he was shocked, for he was a e man, as the un- sensitive dully perceived; some said that he was prayi or he was a devout man, as everybody knew. “Day of wrath! that dreadful* day!” the choir vigorously. The soprano was particularly shrill, and a little the local tragedy. A murder was an event too rare in the village to be unim- proved. As Mrs. Dorothy Doom, the min- ister's housekeeper, naively ohserved, *“It is quite a Godsend.” She came in late to the meeting—it being ironing day—and heard the greater part of the eloquent derunciation with which Mr. Law over- whelmed the poor wretch who had tossed another into eternity on the point of a bowie knife that June afternoon. To characterize that eloquence as flery was a mild way of putting it. Call it vi- tuperation rather than condemnation, and one would come near to the fact. The pastor seemed to be devoured, soul .and body, by white fire. Moral indignation lapped him up. “The agents of Satan—by which he meant the circus company—came in for their full share of his personal and pro- fessional abhorrence. He denbunced the general system and particular illustration of “ungodly amusements,” which had re- #ulted in the shocking occurrence now dis- turbing the peaceful course of our plous community. He pictured the degradation of the out- cast now in hiding for his life—perhaps wa, - vicious. Her upper G bored through Mr. Law’'s ears like an auger. What power shall be the sinner's stay? How shall he meet that dreadful day? ‘When the minister raised his face his people observed that it was pale. They ‘were accustomed to see him deeply moved by sorrow and by sin: For a man of such inhuman theology, he had the most hu- man heart that ever beat behind the pul- pit bars of a New England church. Deacon Hopwell glanced at him sharply. Mrs. Deacon Sleeper nudged Deacon Sleeper with her bombazine elbow. “This will give him ane of his blind headaches,” she whispered; “I must send in a dose of lixy pro.” Mrs. Wayle, in the gallery, wiped her eyes plaintively. ‘“The minis- ter will take this murder to heart like it was his own folks,” thought the town poor. But now the viclous soprano had ceased. The chords of Sir Walter's hymn had trembled out of the church and vibrated into a solemn silence. The invocatory prayer broke it. That June Friday evening will be re- membered by Mr. Law’s congregation for many years. The minister stood tall, thin, white and awful. He read the.im- precatory psalms and the denunciation of the Pharisees. He prayed like a rebuking angel. His long prayer was a flerce ac- cusation. He gave out his text from the words of the Apocalypse, “For the smoke of their torment ascendeth forever.” His sermon was a terribie onslaught. It was impossible that there should be a mistake In the minds of any of Mr. Law’'s bearers as to the pastor's view of “prf Dororw~y Door WARTC ™ ~Nve Berunvg THE GREE~ BL NS lurking in the innocent shrubbery that lines our virgin river, or in the peaceful ‘woods where our children gambol. He did not hesitate to sketch the pre- sumable biography of the murderer—the child of sin, the helr of vice, educated to damnation, and reaping the disgrace of his curriculum. He depicted this loath- some being from the outset of his days, nay, from the hour of his creation, ab- horred of God and neglected of man; sprung from the seed of the devil and bearing fruit after his kind. This repulsive soul was foreordained to his doom. When Adam fell he sinned. The system of redemption had not reach- ed him. He was thrust outside of it. He was elected to his fate. He was chosen of God to his miserable lot. He, himself (it should be understood), was, neverthe- less, quite clearly to blame for fulfilling the divine ordinances and perpestuating the gulit of his career. 2 He could not have helped himself—for he was elected to condemnation; but that fact could not relieve him from responsi- bility. He was a murderer. That was God’s decree. But he murdered. That was his own fault. The atonement itself could not reach him. Justification by faith was powerless to save him. The agency of the Holy Spirit could not snatch him from his doom. Mr. Law gave the audience to under- stand that this particular® doctrine had made especial effortsa to convert the wretched man, but he had hardened his heart against it. He had committed the unpardonable sin. He had offended the Holy Ghost. The doctrine was undeniably there. In fact, all the doctrines were in that sermon. Now the pastor’s voice sank, for he had reached the frightful part of his dis- course. Every nerve in his delicate or- ganization quivered as he launched tne sinner into the eternal punishment which awalts the unrepentant soul. He did not retreat from his duty; but he shrank like wounded flesh from its performance. This was plainly visible even to Deacon Sleeper; and Mrs. Wayle was convulsed with sobs. Deacon Hopwell sat up very straight. As an officer of the law he ap- proved of the Divine Judiciary. He look- ed upon the pastor as a moral sheriff, who should be supported. The audience was greatly stirred. Even the viclous soprano, who, not being a church member, usually took the liberty of going to sleep during the sermon, kept broad awake. Bab Roar himself came into the vestibule and stood with open mouth and his hat on, drinking in the pastor's denunciation. b had not gone with the crowd to nt the murderer, nor even to see the He had been told that ‘“rum done nd he felt an appreciable fear of the wnote sicuation, as if it were somewaing “catching.” Bab prided himself on being & church-goer, too. He was always sober on Sundays, and sometimes on weekly meeting days. It struck him that he was less ltkely to be knocked over the head into hell-a location in which Bab sin- cerely belleved—if he stuck to the parson to-night as usual. There was no doubt about it., It was a magnificent discourse. The Reverend Adam Law was a man of much local fame as a pulpit orator; and that night he wes clearly at his greatest. His people were thrilled. They were proud of him. Nothing could be more comfortable than to sit safe in the fold of the church on a bare-backed pine pew, and hear the vic- tims of an amusement which they were forbldden to share so scripturally and so “soundly” denounced. Deacon Hopwell meditated collecting the deficit in the sal- ary before next quartes The pastor’s deep, rich volce pealed en. It rang like the bells in the temple of ai- vine justice. He summened the vengeance of the Almighty to fall upon all hardened sinners, who, llke these wretched men whom we condemn to-day, defled eternal love. At the last two words, which no human lip spould pronounce without a quiver, his tone changed; but he went stoutly on. He sketched the doom which befalls all non-elect, who will not accept the mercy of God as {llustrated in the redemptive tragedy of Calvary. He portrayed the horrors of hell. His voice shook. But he stood to his awful guns. “O my people, my people!” he cried “Is there a soul among ye who hungers after righteousness? Fly from the doom of him who is overtaken by sudden death in the midst of his sin: Fly from the fire that burneth and the smoke that as- cendeth forever and ever!’ He shut the big Bible and stood for a moment before his audience, white and silent. Then his face dropped into his thin old hands: “Thou Maker of heaven and earth!” he cried. “Thou art inflnite holiness. Thou hast decreed that Infinite justice be wrought upon sinful man. We commend to thee the cause of justice. We commit to thee the fate of our erring Lrother. Smite him not with his unrepented guilt upon his head. Condemn him not, great God!" His voice rose to a cry that was al- most imperious, like that of one who had rights as well as the Deity himself. It was the voice of the priest appointed to interpret between God and man: “Even vet, O God, if it may possibly be thy will, save thou the soul of our miserable brother, sal sake—for Chri as if to make sure for Christ's he repeated, that his doctrines were all on record in that pleading, human outery: “For e own son's sake: Amen.” The preacher dismissed the audience almost inaudibly. He was evidently much moved—so much so that he did not linger as was his wont, with his people, who regarded a general chat as the most natural and soothing thing wherewith to close the efforts of an ex- hausted pulpit orator. Mr. Law passed quickly down the broad aisle and into the alr. Deacon Sleeper pressed forward to commend the soundness of the sermon. Deacon Hopwell whispered, “No heresy in that discourse, my dear sir as he made a dive for the woods behind the meeting-house to hunt for the outlaw. The sopranc offered a solo quite on her own account, and sang as the audience dispersed: Now, poor sinner, thus lamenting, Stand and hear thine awful doom! Brt the minister had gone. It was now quite dark. He strode on under the elms and lifted his hat. He was shaken. The duty of the evening had wrought heavily ypon him. He had performed it as he believed God willed. He quivered with the awful burden of his task. His own denunciation rang in his ears. Fis most terrible language stung through his brain. “I hope,” gasped the good man, “that I have vindicated—the Truth.” He turned his face toward the river. It lay asleep. Black and somber, at the right, a shadow towered against the light, bright outline of the stream. It was the woods. There fled the hunted man, denounced by God, pursued by men. A sudden vision of the doomed wretch smote upon the preacher with sickening distinctness. He felt as if he had joined in hounding down a bleeding animal; he who would not catch a trout on his va- cation because he could not bear to see it writhe. He stood still and wiped his cold, wet brow. After a moment’s hesitation he turned aside into the thicket and dropped upon his knees In the dark. But only God and the elm trees heard that prayer. His people were not present, and no dea- con has taken notes of it for our con. sideration. When he rose from his knees he turned quickly and retraced his steps toward the church. On the way he met the sexton and the drunkard, as he expected, coming home together. When Bab feit penitent he con- sidered a sexton as a species of celestial policeman calculated to see him home straight. The minister drew him aside and linked his arm within that of the sodden creature. He spoke with him for some minutes in a gently inaudible tone. “Ain’t wuth it, sir,” urged Bab, mourn- fully. *“I ain’t wuth tarnation shucks. Rum done it.” £ Mr. Law’s low voice continued to plead indistinctly. “I would if T had any friends,” sald Bab, falling back upon the drunkard's favorite argument. “But T hain’t got a friend to my name, I ain't.” ‘‘Suppose you countion me—for one?” proposed the minister, quite like any other man. Bab's heavy eyes opened in dull surprise. He was. not accustomed to hear the minister talk “like folks.” “T'll be drunk as a shad in a week," objected Bab, frankly. “I try to under- stand religion, but I don’t sense it. I'm as hard to convert as a circus monkey." “I am not taking religion just now,” said Mr. Law, instinctively. “I mean I'm talking—" “Sense,” Interrupted Bab, admiringly. “Horse sense. But I ain’t wuth it I'm too darn soaked.” ‘‘Come up to my house next week,” re- plied the minister, in quite a secular tone. “I have some things to do about my barn, T'll pay as long as you keep sober. If you want a friend, just try me.” “I'll be —* sald the village drunkard, But the minister had vanished in the dark road. Beyond the brigade of elms the street widened and the unmown pastures opened softly. In one of these flelds a crumbling hut lolled back, llke something that was too tired to sit up. It was the home of the town poor. The minister rapped at the door. Mrs. ‘Wayle answered his summons slowly. She looked pale and half-fed and discour- aged. The glow of the prayer meetiug had passed out of her old heart. She needed meat and a cup of good, strong tea. ‘You did not look quite well at the even- ing service, 1 thought,” said the pastor kindly. “T have had it in mind for some time to bring you a little remembrance.” He tucked a half-dollar into her shrunk- en hand. One must remember that half- dollars mean something on a salary of five hundred and fifty a year. “And Mrs. Doom has a basket about ready for you,” added Mr. Law. “I think she sald there was an excellent soupbone in it, besldes—other matters. I hope you will not lose courage, Mrs. Wayle. I know it is hard to be poor—and old—and alone.” He spoke with such tenderness that she could have fallen on her knees and kissed his band. But people do not do such things in New HEngland. She tried to thank him—as a Connecticut woman should—but he had hurried away. At the door of his house Mrs. Dorothy Doom v the green blinds. Mrs. Dorothy Doom voice and s cellent car fry his beefstca ame heavily to Mr. Law sed nga bushes. The cinnamonr rose g7 e back yard by the fence. The thick air was sweet and homelike. “Have they ketched him?" asked Mrs. “I bope to mercy they h. The m! ter passed his hand over his forehead wearily. He had almost forgot- ten the murderer. For a blessed moment he <lipped his mind Perhaps the ad driven it out. His wife had planted those roses. She liked pretty, pleasant things. She wae a very gentle woman. She used to understand the unfortunate makeup of his mind. She knew how he felt about wretched people. She defended him in all his lapses into human sympathy. Then— ah, then she knew and bore his troubles. The dark spot in his family history she had sheltered with loving, lifelong, wom- snly tenderness. In all these years before Joshua died— before they knew for certain that the long tragedy of the wanderer's life was ended —=she had shared the minister’s often ter- rible, always alert, anxiety. When had sghe ever turned a beggar from the par- sonage door? When had she ever object- ed to the scores of tramps that she had sheltered in the barn? How many stormy nights Ead she seen him light the lantern ané wade out In the snow to give some homeless wretch a night's lodging? How many suppers had she warmed up for vil- la looking vagabonds? In twenty vears he had never turned away one homeless creature. “Suppose it had been Joshua,” he used to say. Or else: 5 “Perhaps somebody may do as much for my poor brother—somewhere.” And she had smiled and kissed him. Thus together had they fostered the se- cret of his life and the tenderness of his heart. He felt that he was at liberty to regard poor Joshua as a subject o ghastly bject h: cinnamon 1o ous ology. He could not feel that it was sound to do as he would like to have somebody do to the little fellow with whom he used to sleep In the trundle bed in his father’s home. When the news came from some pal of the poor boy’s, some miner in Montana, that death had put an end to the lad's miserable story, it was a certain reliof vet it was an added sorrow. Hell presumably worse than sleeping in barns. And where, if dead, was the outcast, Joshua? Theology gave but one answer But the theologian's wife had said: “Dear, he had a praying mother. was What are they for?” And he had not known for which to thank God more—her sweet love or her sweet heresy. “Miss Deacon Sleeper's sent you over another dose of her 'lixy pro!” called Mrs. Doom, perceiving that her swered question was'unwelcome. hall I feed it to the caouw, or to the hens? SR e e G e e e Thus vaguely reminded of his evening “chores” Mr. Law turned to go into the barn to water his old horse and cow. It was now quite dark. He groped about for a moment, unsteadily. “I must have a lantern,” he sald aloud. He went back Into the house. Mrs. Doom lighted his lantern. He returned and flashed it about the barn. As the swathe of light cut the dark place the minister started. A figure seemed to flit, llke a bat, before him, and to disappear. The old man thought of the murderer. Visions of personal danger turned him a lttle dizzy. But he called out manfully enough: “Who is there? I would have you speak, my friend.” “I daresn’t,” replied a 'You'll turn e out.” “If I do, you will be the first wanderer I have ever turned from my doors,” an- swered the minister stoutly. “Is that a fact?” asked the volce, wav. ering. “Just my luck, them, to be the first!”* “You are in the boxstall,” replied the minister. He swung his lantern in that direction and followed the circle of light. ‘Within it, huddled against the orib of the empty stall, a buman figure crouched. It was a woman. She was of medium height, sallow and pale. She wore an old shawl pinned over her head, and a lank cotton dress clung closely to her. She trembled, and her dark eyes had the stare of terror. Her frowsy halr hung in rude ‘“bangs’” above them, and she looked out through it. The Reverend Adam Law confronted this apparition In a dismay the equal of her own. He could have met the circus murderer in comparative comfort. To de- cide how to treat the outlaw would have been, relatively, an easy problem. But—a woman! And such a woman! He drew himself into his ministerial atti~ tude. His brows, severe and pure as those of an archangel, gathered into a frown. “I will summon my housekeeper,” he said promptly. “Then I'll bolt,” with equal decision. “T will call Mrs. Doom,* repeated the minister, decorously. “She will attend to all your wants.” “No, she won't,” sald the woman rudely. “I know the sort she is. I won't have her round. I haven’t any wants. Just you let me sleep here, won't you? TI've been tramping, and I'm dead beat. Just you let me stay till morning. T can't low voice. replied the woman, do any harm—if I was to try.” The poor wretech looked at the min- ister dully. She seemed to expect bad treatment. “If I could bave a little hay,” she sald, “I could sleep right here in this stall.” “You'd better get into the loft seryed Mr. Law in the tone of a man who was becoming interested In the subject. “I will help you to mount. Thers 1s quite an easy ladder.” “Oh, I can climb,” protested the woman.