So desirable a candidate was speedily ordained, and Brother Prout
himself rode with the boy on his two first rounds of the not far-distant
circuit which was soon to be placed in charge of this youth who had so
suddenly taken on the duties, responsibilities and desires of a man.
Grif s temperament had always been so merry and frank and full of
the joyful side of life that he found himself at once ill at ease and
hampered by the feeling that he must curb his spirits. Brother Prout,
whose own nature was only less buoyant, patted Grif on the back and
advised against the change which he clearly saw the boy was trying to
compass.
"Don't grow dull, Brother Davenport," he said one day, as they were
riding toward the home of one of their members to make a pastoral visit.
"Don't grow dull and old before your time. Religion is joy, not gloom.
Your message to these people is happiness. Let your bright young face
and voice bear testimony for the Lord, and prove to them that all His
ways are ways of pleasantness, and all His paths are paths of peace. Let
your neighbors see that in forsaking your old life you have not lost the
best and most glorious part of it. You take that with you in addition to
the rest. Laugh with them that laugh, and weep with them that weep. I'm
an old man, now, and I never did have your spirits; but we need just
that in our labors, my son. Don't allow yourself to grow dull. With your
nature you will win and not drive souls to the Lord."
Such advice cheered the boy and made him feel less strongly the great
change in his life. The long hours of riding his fine horse over the
roads and by-paths of his beloved and beautiful valley; the talks with
friends or strangers who were never strangers for long, since mutual
acquaintance or intermarriage had made of the whole state almost one
family, proved attractive and interesting to him. He found in this new
work a real and fresh happiness. Fording swollen streams, searching for
obscure mountain passes, riding alone or with a chance companion through
extensive stretches of woodland, listening to, and often answering the
notes of birds or the cry of some animal, were congenial occupations
to the young parson, and his form rounded out and his face gradually
settled into mature but gentle and kindly lines, and it was now grown to
be his invariable rule to compose his sermons as he rode. He never wrote
them. Some text would fix itself in his mind as he read his little black
Testament night or morning, and upon that text he would build a simple
and kindly talk which reached and touched his handful of listeners as no
elaboration of rhetoric could have done.
Some days he would ride along for miles, humming or singing a single
tune, while a train of thought for his next sermon was building itself
up in his mind. Selim, the fine young sorrel, knew quite well what to
do, and fell into a walk or a gentle canter, according to the
briskness or volume of the notes that rose over his back. If
"How-tedious-and-tasteless-the-hours, when-Jesus-no-longer-I-see,"
trailed out softly, with long and undevised breaks in the continuity of
sound and sense, Selim walked demurely, and saw no ghosts or interesting
things whatsoever in woods or stream or distant valley. But when "Joy
to the world! The Lord has come!" rang out, continuous and clear, Selim
knew that he might even shy at a stone, and make believe a set state of
terror at sight of a familiar old post or a startled groundhog; or that
if he were to break into an unexpected gallop, no harm would be done,
and that he would be pretty sure of some playful remarks and a bit
of teasing from the rider, whose sermon, Selim knew full well, was
finished. But so long as "Joy to the mm-mmmm-mmmmm-mmm-Let earth
mmmm--mmmmmmmmher King," greeted his ears, Selim knew that the
responsibility of ford or path rested with him, and many a ford did
Selim take before his rider realized that he had come to it. If swimming
were necessary, Selim struck out with a powerful stroke, and came up on
the other bank with a proud stamp of his feet and a whinny that bid for
the recognition of his prowess that he knew was sure to come to him.
"Whoa, old fellow! Stop and get your wind! Steady! That was a pretty
stiff current, wasn't it? There, take a nibble! Been some pretty heavy
rains around here, haven't there? But what do you and I care about rains
and currents? Whoa, there, you rascal, keep your nose off my sleeve! O,
you will, will you? Well, there, there, there, I've wiped it all off as
good as ever. T-h-a-t's right; nip off some of these fresh buds. Here,
let's take our bit out. Tastes better, doesn't it? Oh, you will, will
you, old wet nose? Ha! ha! ha! Selim, you know more than most folks, you
old hum-bug!"
If his master sat down and became absorbed in thought, or in his little
black book, Selim would browse about for an hour; but at the first note
of a hymn the faithful fellow came to have his bridle replaced, and was
ready for a gallop or a walk, as his rider should indicate.
At first the young circuit rider would take a swollen ford, when a safer
one could have been found a mile or two farther on, or he would ride
miles out of his way to make a pass in the mountains, when, had he known
the fact, an obscure but safe one was near at hand. But, as the years
passed by, both Selim and his master would have scorned a guide, and,
night or day, the country became to them like the fields of one's own
estate, so familiar were they with it all. In this pass was a great
nesting place, where, year after year, the circuit rider talked aloud to
the birds, and fancied that they knew him. Many a friendly note of reply
to his whistle or call gained a hearty laugh.
"Feel jokey to-day, do you, you ridiculous Bob White? Wish I could
translate that into English. Know it was a good joke from the twist you
gave it, but I'm no linguist. You'll have to excuse me if I don't reply
intelligently," he would call out to some unusually individualized note,
and Selim would whisk his tail in utter disapproval of a man who would
so foolishly converse with birds--such little insignificant things as
they were--when here was a full-grown, blooded horse, right under his
nose! The pride and arrogance of species is great within us all--and
Selim had associated much with man.
"Hello! Where's that great-grandfather of yours that I saw here the last
time we crossed jour ford?" Griffith remarked aloud to a frisky little
trout, as it whisked past Selim's feet. "Hope nobody's caught him. Give
him my regards when you get home."
Just then Selim's feet struck the bank, and, as he scrambled up, he
shied a little, and his master recognized the long legs before him as
those of the mountaineer in homespun trousers and hickory shirt, who had
vexed the old Major at the baptizing in the Opquan that now seemed so
long ago.
"Good-morning----" began the young minister, when Lengthy's gun went
suddenly to his shoulder, there was a flash, a report, Selim sprang to
one side, and the mountaineer poked with his gun where the horse had
stood. "Look down. Say nothin'." Few words comprehend th' whole he
remarked to the astonished circuit rider, as he held up on the end of
his gun a still writhing, ugly, dying snake, which had been coiled to
spring. He was too confused, or too mentally embryonic to do more than
grin in gratified silence at the thanks and compliments from the young
preacher; for it was somewhat infrequently that Lengthy was addressed by
one of Griffith's type, and the very sincerity of his evident admiration
for the circuit rider still farther handicapped his already abnormally
developed awkwardness of manner. It is possible that the vocabulary of
this swarthy mountaineer (whose six feet and seven inches of bone and
sinew had fixed upon him the only name that Pastor Davenport had ever
heard applied to him), it is possible, I say, that his vocabulary may
have been fuller than it was generally supposed to be. Among his fellows
it is just possible that he may have ventured upon language with more
freedom; but certain it is that when Lengthy was in the presence of
what he was pleased to call "quality," the limitations were painfully
apparent, and there was a legend---which appeared to have as solid
a basis as belongs to most--that whatever slight variations he might
venture upon as an opening remark, the _finale_, if one may so express
it, was sure to be the same.
Mr. Davenport asked after his health, that of his family, the
neighborhood in general and finally, unable to extract anything beyond a
nod or a single word from the giant who had pitched the still squirming
rattlesnake from the end of his gun into the river, Griffith took
another tack.
"River seems to be unusually high. Selim had all he could do, didn't
you, old fellow? Been having a freshet here, haven't you?"
Lengthy pointed with his gun, to the remnants of a rail fence, now high
on the bank, in the top rails of which clung half-dry weeds and river
refuse.
"Look there. Few words comprehend th' whole."
Griffith smiled, gave up the task of conversing with his admirer, shook
the bridle on Selim's neck and with a cheery "Well, I'm glad to have met
you. Good-bye," rode on toward the village where he was soon to begin
his first year's pastorate as a "located" preacher. As he rode along
he almost regretted the change. These had been happy years to the
simple-hearted, but ardent young fellow; but he was consoled when he
saw before him in mental vision the home in which pretty, black-eyed
Katherine LeRoy was to preside--for the young circuit rider had found
his fate and, alas! it had not been inside the Episcopal paddock nor
even in the Methodist fold--such pranks does Fate play with us, such
liberties does Cupid take, even with the hearts of those whose mission
it is to deal with other things! Very early in the new life Griffith had
stayed one night at the hospitable home of Katherine's father. In spite
of all, his heart was lonely and his face less bright than in the old
days. Miss Katherine saw. Miss Katherine was kind--and Miss Katherine's
sweet face traveled many a mile with the young preacher after he, as
Selim was well aware, should have been humming a hymn and composing that
sermon for the morrow. But Selim was discreet; and when he shook his
head or whinnied or changed his gait and Griffith did not heed, Selim
plodded demurely on and waited. But as the months had gone by and
Selim had carried the young master up the same lane a few times and had
observed the same silent abstraction after each visit, he had grown to
know very well indeed that this was a marked house and that Griffith
liked to go there. So it came to pass that after the dark eyes had
traveled with the young preacher and peered over his shoulder into his
Testament and interfered sadly with the trend of his thoughts on sacred
things, it had grown to be very certain to Griffith that something would
have to be done. Then it was that for the first time he thought how
little he had to offer. Not even a home! Not even his own companionship!
For all these six years he had traveled his different circuits and slept
where he found himself as night came on, and preached here or there as
he had been directed. His home had been literally in his saddle, and his
salary had been too insignificant to mention. The old Major, who to a
degree, had become reconciled to the new order of things, had at first
insisted that Jerry follow and care for the young master; but Griffith
had argued that it ill became one who had taken such a step to take
with him a body servant, and it had almost broken Jerry's heart to be
compelled to stay at the old home-place and allow young Mos' Grif
to saddle and feed Selim, if need be, and care for and brush his own
clothes. This latter had, indeed, led to the loss of most of his limited
wardrobe, for he had left behind him, at the house of some "member" a
piece of clothing or some toilet article very often, at the first; but
as it never failed to be returned to him on his next round, the leather
saddle-bags retained about the same proportions from month to month,
replenished as they were by his mother and Jerry on his frequent visits
home.
But it was when the thought of a wife and a home of his own first came
to Griffith that the life of a circuit rider grew less attractive and he
wondered if it would be right to ask to be "located" or "stationed"
as some of the married men were. To be sure they must change their
"station" year by year and so tear up the little roots they could strike
in so brief a period, but at least it gave something like a home and a
"charge" to the preacher, and he--not his family--was the sole subject
of solicitude and consideration to the authorities who governed his
movements. Had not the Lord said to those whom He sent forth to preach
that they must go from place to place leaving behind all family ties?
Had not He so lived? Had not Paul and Timothy and the twelve? Later on
had it not been so with the many until wealth and love of ease and the
things of this world undermined the true faith?
But human nature is strong, and all faiths in the past have--as all in
the future will continue to do--accommodated themselves to the human
needs and demands of those who sustain the theory as infallible,
immutable, unchangeable and unchanging; but modify it to fit the times,
the natures and the conditions in which they strike root. If Mohammed
will not go to the mountain, the mountain will come to Mohammed.
So when the young circuit rider had stopped again, as had grown to be
his habit, with the family of Katherine LeRoy, and when she, with quaint
coquetry, had met his equally quaint courtship by finally accepting him
on condition that he "take a charge" he had asked the presiding elder
to locate him as a married man for the next year since he was about to
marry. Brother Prout had approved, and the matter had been settled with
little difficulty.
The courtship was unique. The young parson had grown to be so great a
favorite where-ever he went that his cheerfulness, his kindly, simple
and sincere nature insured him hearty welcome even outside of his own
flock. His superior birth and breeding made him a marked man within
his denomination. Many were the speculations as to which rosy-cheeked
Methodist girl he would find nearest his ideal, and jokes were many at
the expense of this or that one if he but stopped twice at her father's
house.
At last it became plain that in one neighborhood he preferred to stay
overnight with the family of Bernard LeRoy, a staunch and uncompromising
Presbyterian, and it did not take long for others to discover why; but
so sure was Mr. LeRoy, himself, that it was to his own superiority to
his neighbors that the visits were due, that the times when a few words
alone with Miss Katherine were possible were few indeed. The large,
ready, hearty hospitality of the time and of Virginia were exemplified
in this household. All welcomed him. Old, young, white and black alike;
and the wide porch or great rooms and halls gave space and hearty
invitation to family and neighborly gatherings. So it came about that at
last Griffith felt that he could wait no longer. He must know his fate.
The demure Katherine had reduced him to a mere spirit of unrest in spite
of the presence of others, and while all sat talking of crops, politics,
religion, neighborhood happenings, rains, swollen streams and the recent
freaks of lightning, the young minister took from his pocket the little
black Testament and drew a line around the words, "Wilt thou go with
this man?" and handing it to Miss Katherine he asked: "Will you read
and answer that question for me, Miss Katherine?" Their eyes met, and
although Griffith returned to his seat and essayed to go on with the
conversation with her father, they both understood.
Her dark eyes ran over the words, her color rose and fell, but, contrary
to the hope of the young preacher, she did not mark and return the
reply. She carelessly turned the leaves and his heart sank. He gave
abstracted replies to her father and twice failed to hear what was said,
and still Miss Katherine turned the leaves. At last he believed that she
had either not understood or that she did not intend to reply, and with
a sinking heart he rose to go. Selim had been put away. The circuit
rider was always expected to stay overnight. He explained in a vague way
that this time it would be best for him to go to a Methodist neighbor's
two miles farther on. Was it that reply which decided darkeyed Katherine
not to farther tease her lover? Did she fear the wiles of the plump,
demure girl in the quaint, unribboned bonnet who looked such open
admiration into the eyes of the young preacher. However that may be,
certain it is that at this juncture and under cover of the general
movement to send for the guest's horse, Miss Katherine took from her
belt a pansy and putting it between the pages to mark where she had
drawn a line, she gave the little book back to its owner. He saw the
movement and glanced within: "Why have I found grace in thine eyes that
thou shouldst take knowledge of me--seeing I am a stranger?" He read and
his heart leaped. "A stranger!" She was not of his fold! It was _that_
she thought of! He looked at her and both understood. He could ride away
now and both would be content, even though he were under the roof with
the quaint little Methodist bonnet.
As they moved toward the door the two young people managed to pass out
alone and Griffith took her in his arms for one brief instant and kissed
her lips.
"Thank God!" he whispered. "Thank God, for this last and holiest
blessing! I love you next to my Saviour, Katherine. Sometimes I pray it
may not be more than I love Him."
She laughed, a soft little ripple, and drew back just as her father
appeared at the door.
"I shall not pray that," she said, as he mounted, and the young preacher
rode away into the darkness with no disapproval of the heresy upon his
radiant face. Selim knew that this was a strange proceeding--this late
departure--and he shook his head so violently that the buckles of his
bridle rattled. The young minister made no sign, but when, a little
farther on, there suddenly arose over his back, the notes of a
long-forgotten song, Selim cast one eye backward and started at the
break-neck pace of his youth.
"The moon is beaming brightly, love.
Te tom te turn te te!
A trusty crew is waiting, love,
Away, away with me!"
Selim's surprise knew no bounds. He had not beard that song since before
the day his young master went, for some strange reason, into the Opquan
river, with Brother Prout. Something unusual had happened, that was very
clear. Something that carried the young preacher quite out of himself
and into a world where sermons and hymns were not; and, although the
song was gay, Selim felt a tag at his bridle that meant a slower pace.
"Yea! old fellow, y-e-a!" Selim was surprised again. He stopped short.
"G'ap! g'lang!
"Far o'er the deep, o'er the deep, o'er the d e-e-o p,
Far o'er the deep blue sea!
Far o'er the deep, o'er the deep, o'er the d-o-o-o-p,
Far o'er the deep blue sea!
Oh, come and share a sailor's heart--for o'er the deep blue sea!"
Perhaps Selim was not exactly scandalized, but he felt that it would
not be judicious to reach the home of the quaint Methodist bonnet too
prematurely. And Selim walked.