RETURN TO LIFE.
Charity is a virtue loudly preached in our age, but unfortunately
practised by few. The story of the good Samaritan finds but scanty
application in the Old World, and if we would discover charity exercised
sacredly and simply, as the gospel teaches, we must obtain our examples
from the deserts of the New World.
This is sad to say, even more sad to prove, but mankind is not to blame
for it; the age alone must be held responsible for this egotism, which
has for some years past been planted in the heart of man, and reigns
there supreme. To two causes must be attributed the personalism and
egotism which crown the actions of the great human family in Europe; the
discovery of gold in California, Australia, and on Frazer River, and,
above all, the Stock Exchange.
The Bourse is the scourge of the Old World; so soon as everybody fancied
that he was enabled to enrich himself between today and tomorrow, no one
thought any longer of his neighbour, who remained poor, save as being
incapable of ameliorating his position. The result is, that the men who
have the courage to leave the intoxicating maëlstrom that surrounds
them, to despise those riches which flash around them, and go under the
impulse of Christian Charity, the holiest and least rewarded of all the
virtues, to bury themselves among savages, amid hordes most hostile to
every good and honourable feeling, in the most deadly countries--such
men, we say, who, impelled solely by a divine feeling, abandon all
earthly enjoyments, are chosen vessels, and in every respect deserve
well of humanity.
Their number is much larger than might be supposed at the first blush,
and that is very logical; the passion for devotion must go side by side
with the thirst for gold, in order that the eternal balance of good and
evil which governs the world should remain in those equal proportions
which are conditions of its vitality and prosperity.
Red Cedar's condition was serious; the moral commotion he underwent in
recognising the man whom he had once attempted to assassinate, had
brought on a frightful attack of delirium. The wretch, a prey to the
most gnawing remorse, was tortured by the hideous phantoms of his
victim, evoked by his diseased imagination, and which stalked round his
bed like a legion of demons. The night he passed was terrible. Father
Seraphin, Ellen, and Valentine's mother did not leave him for a second,
watching over him anxiously, and frequently compelled to struggle with
him in order to prevent him dashing his head against the trees, in the
paroxysms of the crisis that tortured him.
Strange coincidence! The bandit had a similar wound in his shoulder to
the one he had formerly dealt the missionary, which had compelled the
latter to go and seek a cure in Europe, a voyage from which he had only
returned a few days, when Providence permitted him to find the man who
wished to assassinate him, lying almost dead at the foot of a tree.
Towards day the crisis grew calmer, and the squatter fell into a species
of slumber, which deprived him of the faculties of feeling and
perception. No one else slept during this long and mournful night, spent
in the heart of the forest; and when Father Seraphin saw that Red Cedar
was calmer, he ordered the Indians to prepare a litter to receive him.
They were much disinclined to the task; they had known the squatter for
a lengthened period, and these primitive men could not understand why,
instead of killing him when chance threw him into his power, the
missionary lavished his assistance on such a villain, who had committed
so many crimes, and whose death would have been a blessing to the
prairie. It required all the devotion they had vowed to Father Seraphin
for them to consent to do, very unwillingly we allow, what he ordered
them.
When the litter was, ready, dry leaves and grass were spread over it,
and the squatter was laid on this couch in an almost complete state of
insensibility. Before leaving the forest the missionary, who knew how
necessary it was to rekindle the drooping faith of the redskins, for the
sake of the patient, resolved to offer the holy sacrifice of mass. An
altar was improvised on a grassy mound, covered with a rag of white
cloth, and the mass was read, served by one of the Indians, who offered
his services spontaneously.
Assuredly, in the large European cathedrals, beneath the splendid arches
of stone, blackened by time, to the imposing murmur of the organ
re-echoing through the aisles, the ceremonies of the faith are performed
with greater pomp; but I doubt whether they be so with more magnificent
simplicity, or are listened to with greater fervour than this mass, said
in the heart of a forest, accompanied by the striking melodies of the
desert, by the pale-browed priest, whose eyes glistened with a holy
enthusiasm, and who prayed for his assassin groaning at his feet.
When mass was over, Father Seraphin gave a signal, four Indians raised
the litter on their shoulders, and the party set out, Ellen being
mounted on the horse of one of the bearers. The journey was long; the
missionary had left Galveston to go in search of Valentine, but a hunter
accustomed to traverse great distances, and whose life is made up of
incessant excursions, is very difficult to discover in the desert; the
missionary, therefore, decided on going to the winter village of the
Comanches, where he was certain to obtain precise information about the
man he wished to see.
But his meeting with Red Cedar prevented him from carrying out this
plan; Unicorn and Valentine were too inveterate against the squatter for
the missionary to hope that they would consent to resign their
vengeance. The conjuncture was difficult; Red Cedar was a proscript in
the fullest sense of the term; one of those outlaws, whose number is
fortunately very limited, who have the whole human race as their foe,
and to whom every country is hostile.
And yet this man must be saved; and after ripe reflection, Father
Seraphin's resolution was formed. He proceeded, followed by his whole
party, to the grotto where we have met him before, a grotto which often
served as the Trail-hunter's abode, but where, in all probability, he
would not be at this moment. Through an extraordinary chance, the
missionary passed unseen within a pistol shot of the spot where
Valentine and his friends were encamped.
At sunset they prepared for passing the night; Father Seraphin removed
the bandage he had placed on Red Cedar's wounds, and dressed them: the
latter allowed it to be done, not seeming to notice that any attention
was being paid him; his prostration was extreme. The wounds were all
healthy; that on the shoulder was the worst, but all foreboded a speedy
recovery.
When supper was over, prayers said, and the Indians, wrapped in their
blankets, were lying on the grass to rest from the fatigues of the day,
the missionary, after assuring himself that Red Cedar was quietly
sleeping, made a sign to the two women to come and sit by his side, near
the fire lit to keep off wild beasts. Father Seraphin was slightly
acquainted with Ellen; he remembered to have frequently met the girl,
and even conversed with her in the forest, at the period when her father
had so audaciously installed himself on Don Miguel Zarate's estates.
Ellen's character had pleased him; he had found in her such simplicity
of heart and innate honour, that he frequently asked himself how so
charming a creature could be the daughter of so hardened a villain as
Red Cedar: this seemed to him the more incomprehensible, because the
girl must have needed a powerful character to resist the influence of
the evil examples she constantly had before her. Hence he had taken a
lively interest in her, and urged her to persevere in her good
sentiments. He had let her see that one day God would reward her by
removing her from the perverse medium in which fate had cast her, to
restore her to that great human family of which she was ignorant.
When the two women were seated at his side, the missionary gave them, in
his gentle, sympathising way, a paternal admonition to support with
patience and resignation the tribulations Heaven sent on them; then he
begged Ellen to tell him in detail all that had occurred in the prairie
since his departure for France. The girl's narrative was long and sad,
and frequently interrupted by tears which she could not repress.
Valentine's mother shuddered on hearing things so extraordinary to her
described; heavy tears ran down her wrinkled cheek, and she crossed
herself, muttering compassionately--
"Poor child! What a horrible life."
For, in truth Ellen was describing, her life; she had witnessed and
suffered from all these terrors, all these atrocities, whose sinister
and bloody images she unrolled before her hearers. When the story was
ended she buried her face in her hands and wept silently, crushed by the
revival of such poignant sorrows and the re-opening of still bleeding
wounds. The missionary gave her a long look, stamped with gentle pity.
He took her hand, pressed it, and bending over her, said with an accent
of kindness which went straight to her heart--
"Weep, poor girl, for you have suffered terribly; weep, but be strong;
God, who tries you, doubtless reserves for you other blows more terrible
than those which have fallen on you; do not try to repulse the cup which
is brought to your lips; the more you suffer in this life, the more
happy and glorified you will be in another. If God chastise you, a poor
stainless lamb, it is because He loves you; happy those whom He thus
chastises! Derive your strength from prayer, for that elevates the soul,
and renders it better; do not yield to despair, for that is a suggestion
of the demon who renders man rebellious to the teaching of Providence.
Think of your divine Master, remember all He suffered for us; thus you
will recognise how little your sorrows are when compared with His, and
you will hope; for Providence is not blind; when it weighs heavily on a
creature, it is preparing to reward her a hundredfold for past
sufferings."
"Alas, father," Ellen replied, sorrowfully, "I am only a miserable
child, without strength or courage; the burden laid on me is very heavy;
still, if it be the will of the Lord that it should be so, may His holy
name be blessed! I will try to stifle the feelings of revolt which are
at times a wound in my heart, and struggle without complaining against
the fate that overwhelms me."
"Good, my sister, good," the priest said; "the great God, who searches
all hearts, will have pity on you."
He then made her rise, and led her a short distance to a spot where a
bed of dry leaves had been prepared by his care.
"Try and sleep, my child," he said; "fatigue is crushing you; a few
hours' rest is indispensable for you."
"I will strive to obey you, father."
"May the angels watch over your slumbers, my child," the priest replied;
"and may the Almighty bless you, as I do."
Then he returned slowly and thoughtfully to Valentine's mother. There
was a long silence, during which the missionary reflected deeply; at
length he said--
"Madam, you have heard this poor girl's narrative; her father was
wounded when fighting with your son. Valentine, I feel assured, is not
far from us; still, the man we have saved claims all our care, and we
must watch that he does not fall into the hands of his enemies, I
therefore ask you to delay awhile in rejoining your son, for Red Cedar
must be placed in safety. Above all, I implore you to maintain the
deepest silence as to the events of which you have been and will be a
witness. Forgive me, but I implore you to delay the time of your
meeting."
"Father," she said, spontaneously, "for ten years, without despairing
for a day or a moment, I have been patiently awaiting the hour which
will rejoin me to my beloved son. Now that I am certain of seeing him
again, that no doubt as to his existence dwells in my heart, I can wait
a few days longer. I should be ungrateful to God and to you, who have
done so much for me, if I insisted on the contrary course. Act as your
charity and your devotion impel you to do; fulfil your duty without
troubling yourself about me; God has willed it that we should come
across this man. The ways of Providence are often incomprehensible; obey
it by saving him, however unworthy he may be of pardon."
"I expected your answer: still, I am pleased to see that you confirm me
in what I intend to do."
The next morning, at daybreak, they started again, after saying prayers
together, according to the custom established by the missionary. Red
Cedar was still in the same state of prostration, and the two following
days passed without any incident worthy of recording. At the evening of
the third day they entered the defile, in the centre of which, on one of
the mountain sides facing it; the cavern was. Red Cedar was carried up
to it cautiously, and placed in one of the distant compartments, far
from all external sounds, and so as to be concealed from the sight of
any strangers whom accident might lead to the cavern while he was in it.
It was with a feeling of indescribable joy that Valentine's mother
entered the grotto which served as an abode to that son whom she had
been so long afraid she should never see again, and her emotion was
extreme on finding a few valueless articles used by Valentine. The
worthy woman, so truly a mother, shut herself up alone in the
compartment which the hunter had made his sleeping room, and there, face
to face with her reminiscences; she remained for several hours absorbed
in herself.
The missionary pointed to each the room they would occupy; he left his
comrades to their repose, and sat down by the side of the wounded man,
where Ellen already was installed as nurse.
"Why do you not sleep, my child?" he asked her.
Ellen pointed to the sufferer with a gesture full of nobility.
"Let me watch over him," she said; "he is my father."
The missionary smiled softly and withdrew. At daybreak he returned. Red
Cedar, on hearing him come, gave vent to a sigh, and rose with
difficulty on his bed.
"How are you, brother?" the missionary asked, in his gentle voice.
A febrile flush covered the bandit's face, a cold perspiration beaded on
his temples, his eyes flashed, and he said in a low voice, broken by the
extreme emotion that oppressed him--
"Father, I am a wretch unworthy of your pity."
"My son," the priest answered gently, "you are a poor straying creature,
on whom I doubt not God will have pity, if your repentance be sincere."
Red Cedar let his eyes sink; a convulsive movement agitated his limbs.
"Father," he muttered, "would you teach me how to make the sign of the
cross?"
At this strange request in the mouth of such a man, Father Seraphin
clasped his hands fervently, and raised his eyes to Heaven with an
expression of sublime gratitude. Was the evil angel defeated? Or was it
a farce played by this perverse man to deceive his saviour, and by these
means escape the numerous enemies that sought his death?
Alas! Man is so extraordinary a composite of good and evil, that perhaps
at this moment, and in spite of himself, Red Cedar was acting in good
faith.