MINNIE'S LAST LIFE-PRESERVER.
When Tozer started after Dacres he led Minnie by the hand for only a
little distance. On reaching the acclivity he seized her in his arms,
thus imitating Dacres's example, and rushed up, reaching the top
before the other. Then he plunged into the woods, and soon became
separated from his companion.
Once in the woods, he went along quite leisurely, carrying Minnie
without any difficulty, and occasionally addressing to her a soothing
remark, assuring her that she was safe. Minnie, however, made no
remark of any kind, good or bad, but remained quite silent, occupied
with her own thoughts. At length Tozer stopped and put her down. It
was a place upon the edge of a cliff on the shore of the lake, and as
much as a mile from the house. The cliff was almost fifty feet high,
and was perpendicular. All around was the thick forest, and it was
unlikely that such a place could be discovered.
[Illustration: "'WORSE AND WORSE,' SAID TOZER."]
"Here," said he; "we've got to stop here, and it's about the right
place. We couldn't get any where nigh to the soldiers without the
brigands seeing us; so we'll wait here till the fight's over, and the
brigands all chased off."
"The soldiers! what soldiers?" asked Minnie.
"Why, they're having a fight over there--the soldiers are attacking
the brigands."
"Well, I didn't know. Nobody told me. And did you come with the
soldiers?"
"Well, not exactly. I came with the priest and the young lady."
"But you were not at the house?"
"No. They wouldn't take me all the way. The priest said I couldn't be
disguised--but I don't see why not--so he left me in the woods till he
came back. And then the soldiers came, and we crept on till we came
nigh the lake. Well, then I stole away; and when they made an attack
the brigands all ran there to fight, and I watched till I saw the
coast clear; and so I came, and here we are."
Minnie now was quite silent and preoccupied, and occasionally she
glanced sadly at Tozer with her large, pathetic, child-like eyes. It
was a very piteous look, full of the most tender entreaty. Tozer
occasionally glanced at her, and then, like her, he sat silent,
involved in his own thoughts.
"And so," said Minnie at last, "you're not the priest himself?"
"The priest?"
"Yes."
"Well, no; I don't call myself a priest. I'm a minister of the
Gospel."
"Well, you're not a _real_ priest, then."
"All men of my calling are real priests--yes, priests and kings. I
yield to no man in the estimate which I set upon my high and holy
calling."
"Oh, but I mean a Roman Catholic priest," said Minnie.
"A Roman Catholic priest! Me! Why, what a question! Me! a Roman
Catholic! Why, in our parts folks call me the Protestant Champion."
"Oh, and so you're only a Protestant, after all," said Minnie, in a
disappointed tone.
"Only a Protestant!" repeated Tozer, severely--"_only_ a Protestant.
Why, ain't you one yourself?"
"Oh yes; but I hoped you were the other priest, you know. I did _so_
want to have a Roman Catholic priest this time."
Tozer was silent. It struck him that this young lady was in danger.
Her wish for a Roman Catholic priest boded no good. She had just come
from Rome. No doubt she had been tampered with. Some Jesuits had
caught her, and had tried to proselytize her. His soul swelled with
indignation at the thought.
"Oh dear!" said Minnie again.
"What's the matter?" asked Tozer, in a sympathizing voice.
"I'm so sorry."
"What for?"
"Why, that you saved my life, you know."
"Sorry? sorry? that I saved your life?" repeated Tozer, in amazement.
"Oh, well, you know, I did so want to be saved by a Roman Catholic
priest, you know."
"To be saved by a Roman Catholic priest!" repeated Tozer, pondering
these words in his mind as he slowly pronounced them. He could make
nothing of them at first, but finally concluded that they concealed
some half-suggested tendency to Rome.
"I don't like this--I don't like this," he said, solemnly.
"What don't you like?"
"It's dangerous. It looks bad," said Tozer, with increased solemnity.
"What's dangerous? You look so solemn that you really make me feel
quite nervous. What's dangerous?"
"Why, your words. I see in you, I think, a kind of leaning toward
Rome."
"It isn't Rome," said Minnie. "I don't lean to Rome. I only lean a
little toward a Roman Catholic priest."
"Worse and worse," said Tozer. "Dear! dear! dear! worse _and_ worse.
This beats all. Young woman, beware! But perhaps I don't understand
you. You surely don't mean that your affections are engaged to any
Roman Catholic priest. You can't mean _that_. Why, they can't marry."
"But that's just what I like them so for," said Minnie. "I like people
that don't marry; I hate people that want to marry."
Tozer turned this over in his mind, but could make nothing of it. At
length he thought he saw in this an additional proof that she had been
tampered with by Jesuits at Rome. He thought he saw in this a
statement of her belief in the Roman Catholic doctrine of celibacy.
He shook his head more solemnly than ever. "It's not Gospel," said he.
"It's mere human tradition. Why, for centuries there was a married
priesthood even in the Latin Church. Dunstan's chief measures
consisted in a fierce war on the married clergy. So did
Hildebrand's--Gregory the Seventh, you know. The Church at Milan,
sustained by the doctrines of the great Ambrose, always preferred a
married clergy. The worst measures of Hildebrand were against these
good pastors and their wives. And in the Eastern Church they have
always had it."
Of course all this was quite beyond Minnie; so she gave a little sigh,
and said nothing.
"Now as to Rome," resumed Tozer. "Have you ever given a careful study
to the Apocalypse--not a hasty reading, as people generally do, but a
serious, earnest, and careful examination?"
"I'm sure I haven't any idea what in the world you're talking about,"
said Minnie. "I _wish_ you wouldn't talk so. I don't understand one
single word of what you say."
Tozer started and stared at this. It was a depth of ignorance that
transcended that of the other young lady with whom he had conversed.
But he attributed it all to "Roman" influences. They dreaded the
Apocalypse, and had not allowed either of these young ladies to become
acquainted with its tremendous pages. Moreover, there was something
else. There was a certain light and trifling tone which she used in
referring to these things, and it pained him. He sat involved in a
long and very serious consideration of her case, and once or twice
looked at her with so very peculiar an expression that Minnie began to
feel very uneasy indeed.
Tozer at length cleared his throat, and fixed upon Minnie a very
affectionate and tender look.
"My dear young friend," said he, "have you ever reflected upon the way
you are living?"
At this Minnie gave him a frightened little look, and her head fell.
"You are young now, but you can't be young always; youth and beauty
and loveliness all are yours, but they can't last; and now is the time
for you to make your choice--now in life's gay morn. It ain't easy
when you get old. Remember that, my dear. Make your choice now--now."
"Oh dear!" said Minnie; "I knew it. But I can't--and I don't want
to--and I think it's _very_ unkind in you. I don't want to make _any_
choice. I don't want any of you. It's _so_ horrid."
This was a dreadful shock to Tozer; but he could not turn aside from
this beautiful yet erring creature.
"Oh, I entreat you--I implore you, my dear, _dear_--"
"I do _wish_ you wouldn't talk to me that way, and call me your
_dear_. I don't like it; no, not even if you _did_ save my life,
though really I didn't know there was any danger. But I'm not _your_
dear."
And Minnie tossed her head with a little air of determination, as
though she had quite made up her mind on that point.
"Oh, well now, really now," said Tozer, "it was only a natural
expression. I _do_ take a deep interest in you, my--that is--miss; I
feel a sincere regard and affection and--"
"But it's no use," said Minnie. "You really _can't,_ you know; and so,
why, you _mustn't_, you know."
Tozer did not clearly understand this, so after a brief pause he
resumed:
"But what I was saying is of far more importance. I referred to your
life. Now you're not happy as you are."
"Oh yes, but I am," said Minnie, briskly.
Tozer sighed.
"I'm _very_ happy," continued Minnie, "very, very happy--that is, when
I'm with dear, darling Kitty, and dear, dear Ethel, and my darling old
Dowdy, and dear, kind papa."
Tozer sighed again.
"You can't be _truly_ happy thus," he said, mournfully. "You may think
you are, but you _ain't_. My heart fairly yearns over you when I see
you, so young, so lovely, and so innocent; and I know you can't be
happy as you are. You must live otherwise. And oh, I pray you--I
entreat you to set your affections elsewhere!"
"Well, then, I think it's very, very horrid in you to press me so,"
said, Minnie, with something actually like asperity in her tone; "but
it's _quite_ impossible."
"But oh, why?"
"Why, because I don't want to have things any different. But if I have
to be worried and teased so, and if people insist on it so, why,
there's only one that I'll _ever_ consent to."
"And what is that?" asked Tozer, looking at her with the most
affectionate solicitude.
"Why, it's--it's--" Minnie paused, and looked a little confused.
"It's what?" asked Tozer, with still deeper and more anxious interest.
"Why, it's--it's--Rufus K. Gunn."