At length the first sorrow fell upon the Club. The mail brought to
Corrigan one day the news of the death of his mother in New York. It was
a terrible blow to him. It had been his dream all through the years that
he had been absent from his home that some time he would accumulate
money enough to provide her with a home, where around her life every
comfort would be drawn, and from her life every heart-breaking care
would be driven away. But time would not wait for him, and the letter,
which only in gentle words told him of his mother's death, kindled in
his heart such bitter self-reproaches that for awhile the warm-hearted
man's grief was inconsolable.
The Club heartily sympathized with him, but there was little said. The
men who face death daily in a deep mine either come to think, after
awhile, that this life hangs on too tender a thread to be grieved over
so very much when that thread is broken, or, because of the nature of
their occupation, which is necessarily carried on mostly in silence,
they lose the faculty to say the words which in society circles are
intruded upon people who are in deep sorrow.
On this evening the supper was eaten in silence, Corrigan hardly tasting
anything.
As the Club took their seats Ashley found opportunity to covertly
whisper to Yap Sing that Corrigan had received bad news and he must
prepare something especially tempting for him to eat. When the meal was
nearly finished Yap Sing brought a mammoth dish of strawberries, a bowl
of sugar and pitcher of cream, and after the noiseless manner of his
race, set them in front of Corrigan's plate. No one else at the table
seemed to notice the act of the Chinaman. Corrigan gave a quick glance
around the table and when he saw that no one else was to be served with
the berries--that it was meant as a special act of sympathy for him--his
eyes filled with tears and he hastily withdrew from the room.
At his leisure during the evening Yap Sing ate the berries and the
cream, remarking to himself as he did so:
"Me heap slory Meester Clorigan; me likee be heap slory ebbly day."
For an hour after supper the Club did little but smoke. At length,
however, Harding, who usually spent his evenings absorbed in reading,
laid aside his book and in his low and kindly voice, began to talk.
"Often when a boy I heard my father tell a story of a woman, a Sister of
Charity, which, I think, may be, it will be good to tell to-night. In
one of the mountain towns of Northern California a good many years ago,
while yet good women, compared to the number of the men, were so
disproportionately few, suddenly one day, upon the street, clad in the
unattractive garb of a Sister of Charity, appeared a woman whose
marvelous loveliness the coarse garments and uncouth hood peculiar to
the order could not conceal.
"There was a Sisters' Hospital in the place and this nun was one of the
devoted women who had come to minister to the sick in that hospital.
"She was of medium size and height, and despite her shapeless garments
it was easy to see that her form was beautiful. The hand that carried a
basket was a delicate one; under her unsightly hood glimpses of a brow
as white as a planet's light could be caught; the coarse shoes upon her
feet were three sizes too large. When she raised her eyes from the inner
depths a light like that of kindly stars shone out, and though a Sister
of Charity, there was something about her lips which seemed to say that
of all famines a famine of kisses was hardest to endure. There was a
stately, kindly dignity in her mien, but in all her ways there was a
dainty grace which, upon the hungry eyes of the miners of that mountain
town, seemed like enchantment. She could not have been more than twenty
years of age.
"It was told that she was known as 'Sister Celeste,' that she had
recently come to the Western Coast, it was believed, from France, and
that was all that was known of her. When the Mother Superior at the
hospital was questioned about the new sister, she simply answered:
'Sister Celeste is a sister now; she will be a glorified saint by and
by.'
"The first public appearance of Sister Celeste in the town was one
Sunday afternoon. She emerged from her hospital and started to carry
some delicacy to a poor, sick woman, a Mrs. De Lacy, who lived on the
opposite side of the town from the hospital; so to visit her the nun was
obliged to walk almost the whole length of the one long, crooked street
which, in the narrow canon, included all the business portion of the
town.
"When the nun started out from the hospital the town was full of miners,
as was the habit in those days on Sunday afternoons, and as the Sister
passed along the street hundreds of eyes were bent upon her. She seemed
unconscious of the attention she was attracting; had she been walking in
her sleep she could not have been more composed.
"Many were the comments made as she passed out of the hearing of
different groups of men. One big, rough miner, who had just accepted an
invitation to drink, caught sight of the vision, watched the Sister as
she passed and then said to the companion who had asked him:
"'Excuse me, Bob, I have a feeling as though my soul had just partaken
of the sacrament. No more gin for me to-day.'
"Said another: 'It is a fearful pity. That woman was born to be loved,
and to love somebody better than nine hundred and ninety out of every
thousand could. Her occupation is, in her case, a sin against nature.
Every hour her heart must protest against the starvation which it feels;
every day she must feel upon her robes the clasp of little hands which
are not to be.'
"One boisterous miner, a little in his cups, watched until the Sister
disappeared around a bend in the crooked street, and then cried out:
'Did you see her, boys? That is the style of a woman that a man could
die for and smile while dying. Oh! Oh!' Then drawing from his belt a
buckskin purse, he held it aloft and shouted: 'Here are eighty ounces of
the cleanest dust ever mined in Bear Gulch; it's all I have in the
world, but I will give the last grain to any bruiser in this camp who
will look crooked at that Sister when she comes back this way, and let
me see him do it. In just a minute and a half--but no matter, I'm better
that I have seen her.'
"After that, daily, for all the following week, Sister Celeste was seen
going to and returning from the sick woman's house. It suddenly grew to
be a habit with everybody to uncover their heads as Sister Celeste came
by.
"Sunday came around again, and it was noticed that on that morning the
nun went early to visit her charge and remained longer than usual. On
her return, when just about opposite the main saloon of the place, a
kindly, elderly gentleman, who was universally known and respected,
ventured to cross the path of the Sister, and address her as follows:
"'I beg pardon, good Sister, but you are attending upon a sick person.
We understand that it is a woman. May I not ask if we can not in some
way assist you and the woman?'
"A faint flush swept over the glorious face of Sister Celeste as she
raised her eyes, but simply and frankly, and with a slight French
accent, she answered:
"'The lady, kind sir, is very ill. Unless, in some way, we can manage to
remove her to the hospital, where she can have an evenly warmed room and
close nursing, I fear she will not live; but she is penniless and we are
very poor, and, moreover, I do not see how she can be moved, for there
are no carriages.'
"She spoke with perfect distinctness, notwithstanding the slight foreign
accent. The accent was no impediment; rather from her lips it gave her
words a rhythm like music.
"The man raised his voice: 'Boys,' he shouted, 'there is a suffering
woman up the street. She is very destitute and very ill, and must be
removed to the hospital. The first thing required is some money.' Then,
taking off his hat with one hand, with the other he took from his pocket
a twenty-dollar piece, put the money in the hat, then sprang upon a low
stump that was standing by the trail and added: 'I start the
subscription, those who have a trifle that they can spare will please
pass around this way and drop the trifle into the hat.'
"Then Sister Celeste had a new experience. In an instant she was
surrounded by a shouting, surging, struggling crowd, all eager to
contribute. There was a Babel of voices, but for once a California crowd
were awakened to full roar without an oath being heard. The boys could
not swear in the presence of Sister Celeste.
"In a few minutes between seven and eight hundred dollars was raised. It
was poured out of the hat into a buckskin purse, the purse was tied, and
handed, by the man who first addressed her, to Sister Celeste, with the
remark that it was for her poor and that when she needed more the boys
would stand in.
"Again the nun raised her eyes and in a low voice which trembled a
little, she said:
"'Please salute the gentlemen and say to them that God will keep the
account.'
"The man turned around and with an awkward laugh said: 'Boys! I am
authorized, by one of His angels, to say that for your contribution, God
has taken down your names, and given you credit.'
"Then a wild fellow cried out from the crowd:
"'Three cheers for the Angel!'
"The cheers rang out like the braying of a thousand trumpets in accord.
Then in a hoarse under-tone a voice shouted 'Tiger!' and the deep-toned
old-day California 'Tiger' rolled up the hillsides like an ocean roar.
It would have startled an ordinary woman, but Sister Celeste was looking
at the purse, and it is doubtful if she heard it at all.
"Then the first speaker called from the crowd eight men, by name, and
said:
"'You were all married men in the States and for all that I know to the
contrary, were decent, respectable gentlemen. As master of ceremonies I
delegate you, as there are no carriages in this camp, to go to the sick
woman's house, and carry her to the hospital, while the good Sister
proceeds in advance and makes a place for her.'
"This was agreed to, and the Sister was told that in half an hour she
might expect her patient.
"Then she hurried away, the crowd watching her and remarking that her
usual stately step seemed greatly quickened.
"Long afterward, the Mother Superior related that, when Sister Celeste
reached the hospital on that day, she fell sobbing into the Mother's
arms, and when she could command her voice, said: 'Those shaggy men that
I thought were all tigers are all angels disguised. O, Mother, I have
seen them as Moses and Elias were, transfigured.'
"The eight men held a brief consultation in the street, then going to a
store they bought a pair of heavy white blankets, an umbrella and four
pick handles. Borrowing a packer's needle and some twine they began to
sew the pick handles into the sides of the blanket, first rolling the
handles around once or twice in the edges of the blanket. They then
proceeded to the sick woman's house; one went in first and told the sick
woman, gently, what they had come to do, and bade her have no fears,
that she was to be moved so gently that if she would close her eyes she
would not know anything about it. The others were called in; the blanket
was laid upon the floor; the bed was lifted with its burden from the
bedstead and laid on the blanket; the covers were neatly tucked under
the mattress; four men seized the pickhandles at the sides, lifted the
bed, woman and all from the floor, a fifth man stepped outside, raised
the umbrella and held it above the woman's face, and so, as gently as
ever mother rocked her babe to sleep, the sick woman was carried the
whole length of the street to the hospital, where Sister Celeste and the
Mother Superior received her.
"Then all hands went up town and talked the matter over, and I am afraid
that some of them drank a little, but the burden of all the talk and all
the toasts, was Sister Celeste.
"After that the nun was often seen, going on her errands of mercy, and
it is true that some men who had been rough and who had drank hard for
months previous to the coming of the Sister, grew quiet in their lives
and ceased to go to the saloons.
"One day a most laughable event transpired. Two men got quarrelling in
the street which in a moment culminated in a fight. The friends of the
respective men joined and soon there was a general fight in which
perhaps thirty men were engaged. When it was at its height (and such a
fight meant something) Sister Celeste suddenly turned the sharp bend of
the street and came into full view not sixty yards from where the melee
was raging in full fury.
"One of the fighters saw her and made a sound between a hiss and a low
whistle, a peculiar sound of alarm and warning, so significant that all
looked up.
"In an instant the men clapped their hands into their side pockets, and
commenced moving away, some of them whistling low and dancing as they
went, as though the whole thing was but a jovial lark. When Sister
Celeste reached the spot a moment afterward, the street was entirely
clear. The men washed their faces, some wag began to describe the
comical scene which they made when they concluded that the street under
certain circumstances was no good place for a fight; good humor was
restored, the chief combatants shook hands with perfect cordiality, a
drink of reconciliation was ordered all around, and when the glasses
were emptied, a man cried out: 'Fill up once more, boys. I want you to
drink with me the health of the only capable peace officer that we have
ever had in town--Sister Celeste.' The health was drank with enthusiasm.
"The winter came on at length and there was much sickness. Sister
Celeste redoubled her exertions; she was seen at all hours of the day,
and was met, sometimes, as late as midnight, returning from her watch
beside a sick bed.
"The town was full of rough men; some of them would cut or shoot at a
word, but Sister Celeste never felt afraid. Indeed, since that Sabbath
when the subscription was taken up in the street she had felt that
nothing sinister could ever happen to her in that place.
"Once, however, she met a jolly miner who had been in town too long, and
who had started for home a good deal the worse for liquor. She met him
in a lonely place where the houses had been a few days previous burned
down on both sides of the street. Emboldened by rum, the man stepped
directly in front of the nun and said:
"'My pretty Sister, I will give your hospital a thousand dollars for one
kiss.'
"The Sister never wavered; she raised her calm and undaunted eyes to the
face of the man, an incandescent whiteness warmed upon her cheek, giving
to her striking face unwonted splendor. For a moment she held the man
under the spell of her eyes, then stretching her right arm out toward
the sky, slowly and with infinite sadness in her tones said:
"'If your mother is watching from there, what will she think of her
son?'
"The man fell on his knees, crying 'pardon,' and Sister Celeste, with
her accustomed stately step, passed slowly on her way.
"Next day an envelope directed to Sister Celeste was received at the
hospital. Within there was nothing but a certificate of deposit from a
local bank for one thousand dollars, made to the credit of the hospital.
"On another occasion the nun had a still harder trial to bear. A young
man was stricken with typhoid fever and sent to the hospital. He was a
rich and handsome man. He had come from the East only a few weeks before
he was taken down. His business in California was to settle the estate
of an uncle recently deceased, who had died leaving a large property.
"When carried to the hospital Sister Celeste was appointed his nurse.
The fever ran twenty-one days, and when it left him finally, he lay
helpless as a child and hovering on the very threshhold of the grave for
days.
"With a sick man's whim, no one could do anything for him but Sister
Celeste. She had to move him on his pillows, give him his medicines and
such food as he could bear. In lifting him her arms were very often
around him and her bosom was so near his breast that she could feel the
throbbing of his heart.
"As health slowly returned, the young man watched the nurse with
steadily increasing interest.
"At length the time came when the physician said that in another week
the patient would require no further attendance, but that he ought, so
soon as possible, to go to the seaside, where the salt air would furnish
him the tonic that he needed most.
"When the physician went away the young man said: 'Sister Celeste, sit
down and let us talk.' She obeyed. 'Let me hold your hand,' he said: 'I
want to tell you of my mother and my home, and with your hand in mine it
will seem as though the dear ones there were by my side.' She gave him
her hand in silence.
"Then he told her of his beautiful home in the East; of the love that
had always been a benediction to that home; of his mother and little
sister, of their daily life and their unbroken happiness.
"Insidiously the story flowed on until at length he said, with returning
health, his business being nearly all arranged, he should return to
those who awaited, anxiously, his coming. And before Sister Celeste had
any time for preparation or remonstrance, the young man added:
"'You have been my guardian angel; you have saved my life. The world
will be all dark without you. You can serve God and, humanity better as
my wife than as a lowly and poor Sister here. Some women have higher
destinies and a nobler sphere to fill on earth than as Sisters of
Charity; you were never meant to be a nun, but a loving wife. Be mine.
If it is the poor you wish to serve, a thousand shall bless you where
one blesses you here; but come with me, filling my mother's heart with
joy and taking your rightful place as my wife. Be my guardian angel
forever!'
"The face of Sister Celeste was white as the pillow on which her hand
lay; for a moment she seemed choking, while about her lips and eyes
there was a tremulousness as though she was about to break into a storm
of uncontrollable sobs. But she rallied under a tremendous effort at
self-control, gently disengaged her hand from the hand that held it,
rose to her feet and said:
"'I ought not to have permitted this; ought not to have heard what you
said. However, we must bear our cross. I do not belong to the world; but
do not misjudge me, I have not always been as you see me. I can only
tell you this: To a woman now and then there comes a time when either
her heart must break or she must give it to God. I have given mine to
Him. I cannot take it back. I would not if I could.
"'If you suffer a little now, you will forget it with returning
strength. I only ask that when you are strong and well and far away, you
will sometimes remember that the world is full of heart aches. Comfort
as many as you can. And now, God bless you, and farewell.'
"She laid her hand a moment on his brow, then drew it down upon his
cheek, where it lingered for a moment like a caress, and then she was
gone.
"After that the Mother Superior became the young man's nurse until he
left the hospital. He tried hard, but never saw Sister Celeste again.
While he remained in the place she ceased to appear on the street.
"Another year passed by and Sister Celeste grew steadily in the love of
the people. With the winter months some cases of smallpox broke out. The
country was new, the people careless, and no particular alarm was felt
until the breaking out of ten cases in one day awakened the people to
the fact that the disease prevailed generally.
"Sister Celeste labored almost without rest, night or day, until the
violence of the contagion had passed; then she was stricken. She
recovered, but was shockingly marked by the disease.
"She was in a darkened room, and how to break to her the news of her
disfigurement was a matter of sore distress to the other nuns. But one
day, to a Sister who was watching by her bed side, she suddenly said:
"'I am almost well now, Sister. Throw back the blinds and bring me a
mirror,' and, with a gentle gaiety that never forsook her when with her
sister nuns, she added: 'It is time that I began to admire myself.'
"The nun opened the blinds, brought the glass, laid it upon the bed and
sat down in fear and trembling.
"Sister Celeste, without glancing at the mirror, laid one hand upon it,
and, shading her eyes with the other hand, for a moment was absorbed in
silent prayer. Then she picked up the glass and held it before her face.
The watching nun; hardly breathing and in an agony of suspense, waited.
After a long, earnest look, without a shade passing over her face,
Sister Celeste laid down the glass, clasped her hands and said: 'God be
praised! Now all is peace. Never, never again will my face bring sorrow
to my heart.'
"The waiting nun sank, sobbing, to her knees; but as she did so, she
saw, on the face of the stricken woman, a smile which she declared was
as sweet as the smile of God.
"With the return of health, Sister Celeste again took up her work of
mercy, and for a few months more her presence was a benediction to the
place. At last, however, it began to be noticed that her presence on the
street was less frequent than formerly, and soon an unwelcome rumor
began to circulate that she was ill. The truth of this was soon
confirmed, and then, day by day, for some weeks, the report was that she
was growing weaker and weaker, and finally, one morning, it was known
that she was dead.
"A lady of the place who was greatly attached to Sister Celeste, because
of that attachment and because of her devotion to 'Mother Church,' was
permitted to watch through the last hours of the nun's life. Of the
closing moments of the glorified woman's life she gave the following
account:
"For an hour the dying nun had been motionless, as though hushed in a
peaceful sleep. When the first rays of the dawn struck on the window, a
lark lighted on the sill, and in full voice warbled its greeting to the
day. Then the Sister opened her eyes, already fringed by the death
frost, and in faint and broken sentences murmured:
"'A delicious vision has been sent me. _Deo gratias_, every act meant in
kindness that I have ever done, in the vision had become a flower,
giving out an incense ineffable. These had been woven into a diadem for
me. Every word, meant in comfort or sympathy, that I have ever spoken,
had been set to exquisite music, which voices and harps not of this
world were singing and playing while I was being crowned. Every tear of
mine shed in pity had become a precious gem. These were woven into the
robes of light that they drew around me. A glass was held before me;
from face and bosom the cruel scars were all gone, and to eye and brow
and cheek the luster and enchantment of youth had returned, and near all
radiant'--
"'The eyes, with a look of inexpressibly joyous surprise in them, grew
fixed, and all was still save where on the casement the lark was
repeating her song.'
"Among the effects left by Sister Celeste was found a package addressed
to the same lady who had watched during the closing hours of the dead
nun's life. This was brought to her by the Mother Superior. On being
opened, within was found another package, tied with silver strings,
sealed with wax, and the seal bore the date on which she took her vows.
This in turn was opened, and a large double locket was revealed. In one
side was the picture of a young man in the uniform of a French colonel.
From the other side a picture had evidently been hastily removed, as
though in a moment of excitement, for there were scars upon the case
which had been made by a too impetuous use of some sharp instrument. On
the outer edge of the case was a half-round hole, such as a bullet
makes, and there were dark stains on one side of the case. Below the
picture in a woman's delicate hand-writing, were the words: 'Henrie.
Died at Majenta.'
"The lady called the Mother Superior aside and showed her the picture.
Tears came to the faded eyes of the devoted woman.
"'Now God be praised!' said she. 'Three nights since, as I watched by
the poor child, I heard her murmur that name in her fevered sleep, and I
was troubled, for I feared she was dreaming of the youth she nursed back
to life here in the hospital. It was not so. Her work was finished on
earth, she was nearing the spheres where love never brings sorrow; her
soul was already outstretching its wings to join--' the poor nun
stopped, breathed short and hard a few times, and then incoherently
began to tell her beads in Latin.
"While they were conversing the body of Sister Celeste lay dressed for
the grave in another apartment, watched over by two Sisters. When the
Mother Superior ceased speaking, the lady said to her:
"Mother, come with me to where Sister Celeste is sleeping! When we reach
the room, send the watchers away, and then do not look at me. I want to
put this picture away.'
"The Mother Superior was strangely agitated, but she led the way to the
room, bade the nuns there go and get some rest, then knelt by the foot
of the casket, and bowed her head in prayer.
"The lady slipped the locket beneath the folds of the winding sheet,
where it lay above the pulseless heart of the dead nun.
"The whole population of the place were sorrowing mourners at the
obsequies of Sister Celeste, and for years afterward, every morning, in
summer and winter, upon her grave, a dressing of fresh flowers could be
seen.
"On the day of the funeral the miners made up a purse and gave it to
Mrs. De Lacy, the consideration being that every day for a year, the
grave of the Sister should be flower-crowned. The contract was renewed
yearly until Mrs. De Lacy moved away. In the meantime a wild rosebush
and cypress had been planted beside the grave, and they keep watch there
still."
The good-night whistles had already blown when Harding finished his
story. Not much was said as the Club retired, but Corrigan,
understanding why the story had been told, in silence wrung Harding's
hand.