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IF ANY MAN SIN
BY H. A. CODY
AUTHOR OF THE CHIEF OF THE RANGES, THE LONG PATROL, UNDER SEALED ORDERS,
THE FRONTIERSMAN, Etc.
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Copyright, 1915,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America
TO MY WIFE
THIS BOOK IS
LOVINGLY DEDICATED
CONTENTS
I. CHORDS OF MEMORY
II. THE VERGE OF TREMBLING
III. A WILDERNESS WAIF
IV. BY THE MIRRORING LAKE
V. A CABIN FOR TWO
VI. 'TIS HARD TO FORGET
VII. THE CEASELESS THROB
VIII. THE DISCOVERY
IX. THE GOLDEN LURE
X. THE AWAKENING
XI. UNFOLDING
XII. THE EDGE OF EVENTS
XIII. THE LAP OF TO-MORROW
XIV. THE SUPPLANTER
XV. SUSPICION
XVI. TOM MAKES A DISCOVERY
XVII. HEART THRUSTS
XVIII. THE ROYAL BOUNTY
XIX. BEGINNINGS
XX. UNDER COVER OF NIGHT
XXI. THE WAY OF A WOMAN
XXII. HEART SEARCHINGS
XXIII. THE MEETING
XXIV. WITHIN THE LITTLE ROOM
XXV. THE RIVER FLOWS BETWEEN
XXVI. THE FACE AT THE DOOR
XXVII. THE INNER IMPULSE
XXVIII. THE KEEPSAKE
XXIX. ATONEMENT
XXX. REVELATION
XXXI. "THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOWS"
XXXII. REFINED GOLD
IF ANY MAN SIN
CHAPTER I
CHORDS OF MEMORY
It was Sunday night and the great city was hushed in silence. A thick
mist hung over streets and houses through which numerous lights
endeavoured to force their rays. Few people were astir and all traffic
had ceased. Presently the chimes from a hidden church tower pealed forth
their sweet message to the world. A man standing alone within the shadow
of the church started and turned his face upwards. The musical sounds
seemed to fascinate him, and he listened as one entranced. He gave no
heed to the men and women hurrying by phantom-like on their way to the
evening service. Not until the last note had died upon the air did the
man abandon his listening attitude. Then his head drooped, his tense
body relaxed, and he stepped back a few paces as if fearful of being
observed. Twice he started forward, moved by some inner impulse, but
each time he shrank back deeper within the shadow. His strong form
trembled convulsively, telling plainly of a mighty fire of emotion
raging within.
The man at length left his place of concealment and paced rapidly up and
down outside the church, with his head bent forward. This he did for
some time. He at last paused, stood for a while in an undecided manner,
and then with a stealthy step approached the door. His hand was raised
to the large iron latch when strains of music fell upon his ears. Then
he heard the sound of numerous voices lifted up in the closing hymn. His
courage almost deserted him, and he half turned as if to leave the
place. But some irresistible power seemed to stay his steps and force
him to open the door and enter.
The church was warm, brightly lighted, and well filled with men and
women. No one heeded the stranger as he slipped quietly into a back seat
and looked around. The trained voices of the white-robed choir thrilled
his soul. Every word of the hymn was familiar to him, for he had often
sung it in days gone by. The congregation, too, was singing, and ere
long he distinguished one voice from the rest. He had not heard it at
first, but now it fell upon his ears with a startling intensity. It was
a woman's voice, sweet, clear, and full of mingled tenderness and
pathos. The man's firm white hands clutched hard the back of the seat in
front of him, and his face underwent a marvellous transformation. His
eyes shone with eagerness, and his bosom lifted and fell from the
vehemence of his emotion. He leaned forward until he could see the
singer and watched her intently. Then when the hymn was finished, and
ere the congregation dispersed, the stranger, having cast one more
longing look upon the woman with the sweet voice, slipped noiselessly
out of the building.
Upon reaching the street he stepped aside and waited for the people to
come forth. It was not long ere the big door was thrown wide open, and
as the men and women passed by he scrutinised them as closely as
possible. He was watching for one person alone, and presently he saw her
walking by herself. When she had gone a short distance he followed
after, and never once let her out of his sight until she came to a large
house, the door of which she opened and entered.
For some time the man stood outside, keeping his eyes fixed upon the
building. A policeman passing by noted the man, and, mistaking him for a
vagrant, ordered him away. The stranger's pale face flushed, and his
hands clenched as he obeyed the command. Slowly he walked along the
street with his eyes fixed upon the pavement. At length he paused,
retraced his steps, and stood once more before the house into which the
woman had entered. Here he remained until the clock of a nearby church
struck the hour of eleven. Then, drawing himself together, the man
hurried away with rapid steps. Reaching a house on a side street, he
opened a door with a latch-key, and passed within. Up three flights of
stairs he moved till he came to a little room on the top floor. Groping
around in the dark, he lighted an oil lamp fastened to the wall.
It was a humble and scantily furnished garret he had entered. In one
corner was a narrow cot. At its foot stood a wash-stand, over which hung
a small cracked mirror. A rough worn table occupied the centre of the
room, upon which rested a well-kept violin lying by its open case.
Opposite the door was an open fire-place, and as the night was chilly
the man lighted a fire from several dry sticks, and threw on some soft
coal. Soon a cheerful blaze was curling up the chimney, before which the
man sat on the one rickety chair the room contained and warmed his
numbed hands.
For over half an hour he remained thus, gazing down intently into the
fire. But hotter than the coals before him seemed the eyes which burned
in his head. At last he aroused from his reverie and, crossing the room,
opened a small grip and brought forth a carefully-folded newspaper
clipping. This he unwrapped, spread it out upon the table, and drawing
up his chair sat down. He fixed his eyes upon an article with the big
headline, "Deposed by His Bishop." A deep flush mantled his cheeks and
brow as he read for more than the thousandth time that story of disgrace
and degradation. He had really no need to read it over again, for every
word was seared upon his soul as with a red-hot iron. But the printed
words seemed to fascinate him. The tale was all there in black and
white, and the newspaper had made the most of it.
But there were things which were not recorded in cold type, and ere long
his eyes drifted from the printed page far off into space. He beheld
again the white-haired bishop sitting in his library, and heard his
voice tremble as he uttered the words which deposed him forever from the
Ministry. Then he recalled his own hot invectives hurled against the
Church, and the vow that he would banish it and its teaching entirely
from his heart and mind, and free himself from its influence. He
remembered his scornful laugh when the bishop told him that such a thing
was impossible. "Martin Rutland," he had said in an impressive voice,
"you know not what you are saying. Do you imagine that you can cut
yourself off from the influence of the Church of your childhood? I tell
you that you are mistaken, for such a thing is utterly impossible. The
Church and her teaching will follow you to the grave, no matter to what
part of the world you go." He had laughed at the bishop's words then,
thinking them to be only an old man's empty threat.
He lived over again his last visit to his aged parents. It was the day
before Christmas, and they believed that he had to hurry away to attend
the services in his parish the next morning. Never for a moment did they
suspect him of a single wrong. How proudly they had looked upon him as
he stood before them ere he left the house. He never saw them again, and
now in the loneliness of his barren room, a wretched outcast, buffeted
by the world, he bowed his head upon the table and gave vent to his
feelings in a flood of passionate tears. The whole vision rose before
him with stinging vividness: his little home and the happy days of
youth; his bright prospects, and what he would make of life; his parents
toiling and denying themselves to provide for his education. It all came
back to him this night like a mighty rushing torrent. In the excitement
of the years of aimless wandering, he had partly stifled the thoughts.
But to-night it was impossible. The pent-up stream, which could no
longer be curbed, had given way in one onward sweep, all the greater,
and over-mastering because of the restraint of years.
He rose abruptly to his feet and paced rapidly up and down the room. He
knew what had brought upon him this mood. Why had he been so weak as to
enter that church? he asked himself. And what was she doing there? He
could not separate the two. The Church and Beryl were always connected.
He recalled the last time he had seen her in his old parish. It was the
evening of the day he had said good-bye to his parents. He wished to see
her, but upon approaching her home his courage had failed him. How could
he look into her face with the great stain upon him? Her large lustrous
eyes would have pierced his very soul. She believed him to be true,
noble, and upright. But how little was she aware as she sat at the piano
that night, practising the Christmas music, that Rutland, to whom she
had given her heart and hand, was watching her longingly through the
window. He had stood there until she ceased her playing. Then she had
come to the window and looked out upon the world of snow and ice. He
remembered how he had shrunk back fearful lest she should see him. For
some time did she stand there, and Rutland knew that of him she was
thinking. He had waited until the house was in darkness, and then crept
back to his own lodging place.
How every incident of that night was burnt upon his brain! He had left
the parish like a coward, and when several days later the startling news
of his fall and deposition reached Glendale he was swallowed up in the
great world of seething humanity. He knew nothing of the grief and agony
of his parents, nor the overwhelming blow which for a time almost
prostrated Beryl Heathcote. But he read the accounts of his degradation
in the papers, and heard men by his side discuss the affair in a light
careless manner. How he had recoiled as he listened to their rough
remarks, and their apparent delight that another clergyman had gone
astray. In a few weeks the story of wrong was forgotten, save by those
whose hearts had been most sorely stricken.
Rutland had wandered far and wide, staying only long enough in any one
place to earn enough money to supply his scanty needs. He would prove
the bishop's words to be false. He would get away from the influence of
the Church and all religious teaching. He attended no place of worship
during the years of his wanderings, and though living in a country of
churches and Church activities he believed that he had so steeled his
heart and mind that never again could they exert any influence over him.
He lived entirely for himself, and to the few people he occasionally met
he was a mystery.
But Rutland had found that he could as easily walk through a
flower-garden and not touch the flowers nor inhale their fragrance as he
could pass through the world and not be affected by the influence of the
Christian religion. He upbraided himself for his weakness in entering
that church. That it should never happen again he was determined. He
must get away far off into the wilderness. He would go where the
influence of the Church was unknown, and where it was not even a name.
He would penetrate regions never before trodden by the feet of white
man, and there at last he would find the rest and peace he desired. To
stay longer in this city so near to Beryl he could not. The thought of
her, however, brought a degree of calmness to his troubled mind. He had
ever associated her with peace. In days gone by her mere presence was
refreshing. Now she was near, but he must not go to her, neither must
she ever know how close he had been to her this night. When she thought
of him, he mused, it must be with the deepest loathing. What a terrible
change the years had brought about! There was a time when he could
hasten to her side, and rejoice in her love. How she would listen to him
as he played upon the violin, and often she would accompany him upon the
piano. All that was changed now. They were sundered more widely than by
the broadest ocean.
At length he paused before the table and picked up the violin, one of
the few cherished things he had carried with him. It alone had been his
comforting companion in his wretched wandering life. And so to-night as
he seated himself upon the cranky chair, and drew the bow across the
strings, the old mystic spell swept over his soul. He was a child once
more, care-free and happy, playing around his home with the flowers,
birds, bees, and butterflies as his companions. He passed into his first
and only parish. He saw the faces of those to whom he ministered turned
up to him, their chosen leader. But brightest and most-outstanding of
all was the face of Beryl as she watched him from her seat by the little
church organ.
When Rutland ceased the fire was out in the grate, and a clock in a
nearby steeple was striking the hour of two. A shiver passed through his
body as he rose and laid his violin tenderly upon the table. Hastily
blowing out the light, he threw himself upon the narrow cot, and drew
over him the two thin blankets. At length the outcast slept, and for a
time the fierce agony of heart and mind troubled him no more.