THE BISHOP’S VISIT
“They’re going to open up the old Beaver Creek schoolhouse Sunday for
services,” said Don, that night at supper. “Jimmie Peters went over, and
cleaned it up, and the Bishop will be here Sunday sure.”
“Why don’t they have a real chapel?” asked Isabel.
“There are only about nine people inside of thirty miles who would
come,” said Mr. Murray.
“But nine would be enough,” exclaimed Polly. “The whole Church started
with only twelve.”
“Polly, that’s very true,” Jean said, earnestly. “I had not thought of
that myself.”
“If the nine were strong, and really wanted a chapel, they could have
it. Just as you told us about that priest who traveled through the
wilderness to hold services for the Indians, and when they drove him
away, he went up on the great rock, and held them anyway, and after a
time the Indians came near. If people knew for sure that services would
be held every single Sunday at the schoolhouse, wouldn’t they come?”
“I think they would,” said Peggie. “I’m sure they would. Polly, you’re a
missionary.”
“Let’s speak to the Bishop about it,” said Ruth. “We could call it our
mission, girls, and send things out West from Trinity Church for it.”
“Land o’ rest, lassie, don’t you think you’ve started enough to look
after,” exclaimed Mrs. Murray, smilingly. “What with disturbing the
remains of poor animals that have lain in peace since before the flood,
and riling Sandy all up over it, don’t you think you can rest a bit?”
“Oh, but we love to start things, Mrs. Murray, dear, and finish them
too, which is something, you know. I’m going to ask the Bishop if it
could happen. Is he very dignified, and stately? Our Bishop is. At
Confirmation when he stands in the chancel, with his beautiful silvery
hair, and splendid old face, it seems to me,” Polly said softly, “as if
I can almost see behind him the long wonderful procession back to the
very first Apostles.”
“But do you remember, dear,” answered Mrs. Murray, “that those same
Apostles were chosen by their Master for the fight when they were young
men, and strong. So it is to-day with the fields where they need
husbandmen who can stand the heat and labor of the day. Our Bishop—God
hold up his hands!—is still young, and he can outride any man in four
counties, when it comes to endurance. They say that when he passes a
herd, all the cattle nod their heads in greeting, but that is only a
saying among the lads on the range. They think he’s a fair wonderful
man.”
So it was no wonder the girls looked forward to Sunday. Every day they
went for a good long ride with Jean or Peggie. Sometimes it was to
Picture Rocks, sometimes over to the Indian graves, sometimes to the
battlefield where Crazy Horse had made one of his last stands against
the white troops. The first Sunday they spent very quietly. Mr. Murray
read prayers after breakfast, and Jean played the hymns on the little
cottage organ in the living room at the main cabin. It gave the girls a
realization of what the kingdom of home meant out in the wilderness,
this gathering of the little Murray clan about the father; the boys,
tall and brawny, leading in the responses, the girls carrying the
singing.
“Have you always done that?” asked Sue, later in the day. “I think it’s
splendid, to hold service even by yourself.”
“We have to if we want service, and what’s the difference? I think if
you were all alone, and still worshiped God, and held his day sacred, it
would be just the same as if you had gone to church,” said Peggie,
sensibly. “As long, of course, as there was no church to go to. We
always do.”
There was much trout fishing that week, too. Ted and Sue learned to cast
and play for the speckled beauties as warily as any of the rest, and
many a delicious feast they had when they came back with a good catch.
There was very little fishing along the river, and the fish were
plentiful. Polly and Ruth found one quiet, dark pool below the rapids
where they seemed to love to bask in the dappled water.
Evenings they would sit and listen to Mr. Murray tell stories of the
early days; of times when the little, hard-earned bunches of cattle
would be found butchered by some marauding band of unfriendly Indians;
and sometimes of stolen horses, snatched away by young braves on the
path for plunder.
One day the Chief, as they always called him now, drove over from the
Alameda ranch, and stayed through the afternoon and evening at the
Murrays’, and then the girls heard wonderful tales of the old trails and
scouts. Once Polly turned with eager flushed face to Mrs. Sandy, and
asked impulsively:
“How could you leave Queen’s Ferry and come ’way out here when it was so
wild?”
The faintest bit of a blush rose to Diantha’s cheeks, and she said:
“He asked me to, child.”
“Do you know,” Polly said later, when the girls were by themselves in
the old cabin, “sometimes I just want to ask her right out why there is
any trouble between dear old Miss Calvert and herself. They make such a
darling pair of sisters, don’t you know, girls?”
“Better not lift the sacred veil of family secrets, Polly,” Isabel
replied, solemnly. “You never can tell what sort of a skeleton will pop
out at you and do a war dance.”
“There simply couldn’t be a skeleton there,” insisted Polly. “Two quiet,
dear, well-bred old ladies from Virginia, who won’t speak to each other!
Why, I don’t think it’s Christianlike, and here Miss Honoria trots off
to Trinity every Sunday and is Chairman of the which and t’other
committees, and Mrs. Sandy is the Lord’s right hand out here, Mrs.
Murray declares. Surely, it isn’t right for them to scrap and fall out
just like we girls do.”
“Ask her about it, Polly; you won’t be happy until you find out,” said
Ruth placidly, and Polly smiled and said nothing more, but she made up
her mind then that she certainly would ask, the first quiet chance she
got.
The very last day of that week, Archie rode over after the mail, and
there was a letter from the Doctor in answer to Polly’s. He had been
greatly interested in the news of her discovery, he wrote. As near as he
could figure it out, off hand, the ranch valley, and range to the north
where the gulch lay, belonged to the same sandstone drift he had
proposed working in about two hundred miles west.
“How can it be the same?” asked Sue. “Two hundred miles!”
“If he says so, it must be so,” Polly replied, decidedly. “He says the
bone is apparently the same character and formation as other fossils
found up here, and he will come up himself next week, and take a look at
it.”
“What’s that noise?” asked Ted suddenly, going to the open door, and
listening. There was no light inside, but out of doors the stars shone
clearly. They listened, almost holding their breath to hear the far-off
sound of music. It was some one singing far up on the road, and all at
once Polly whispered:
“Maybe it’s that herder coming after his baking powder.”
They all laughed, and then listened again. Nights were their one time
now for consultation and conclave, and they usually enjoyed a good talk
after they reached the little guest cabin.
“It sounds like somebody singing hymns,” Ruth said. “They hear it too,
over at the other house. I can see lights moving.”
Just then the door opened in the home cabin, and Jean came out.
“Girls,” she called clearly. “Here comes our Bishop. That’s Jimmie
singing to let us know they’re near.”
Then they caught the melody, and words too, as the two horsemen rounded
the last bend in the road around old Topnotch, and came down the valley.
Clear and full, Jimmie’s voice sounded as he sang,
“Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah,
Pilgrim through this barren land,
I am weak, but Thou art mighty,
Hold me in Thy powerful hand.”
“That’s Jimmie’s favorite,” Jean said, softly. “He used to herd for
father a few years ago, and you could hear him singing nights as he rode
round the cattle. He’s with the Big Bow outfit now, and they call him
the singing cowboy.”
“Where did he learn it all?” asked Polly. “He sings as if he just knew
the right way to.”
“He used to be a choir boy in Denver. I don’t know what we’d do up here
without him. He always rides over to meet the Bishop, and looks after
everything for him.”
“Isn’t it queer?” Ruth said, all at once. “People aren’t very different
any more than birds or animals are. Here you find a cowboy singing hymns
and canticles, and with all the East and South to choose from, Miss
Diantha married a Westerner who was a scout and rancher. Wouldn’t it be
queer if some day we find out we really are all brothers and sisters in
one family?”
“Ruth, pay attention. You’re dipping into social economy, and that
doesn’t come until you reach college,” laughed Jean.
When the Bishop and Jimmie rode up, all were out to greet them, and he
did seem strange to the girls, this young Bishop with the round, hearty
voice, and quick laugh, who swung from his saddle as easily as Jimmie
himself, and shook hands with them all. When he came into the low-ceiled
living room, he had to stoop a little, or surely his head would have
touched the lintel. Tall he was, and young, and broad-shouldered, with
one of the kindliest and noblest faces that the girls had ever seen,
they thought, as he smiled down on them that first night.
“And you’ve ridden far, too, sir,” said Mrs. Murray, bustling about to
prepare supper for the travelers. “We thought maybe you and Jimmie’d
stay up at Dickerman’s ranch over night.”
“I wanted to get home, Mrs. Murray,” said the Bishop. “When I strike any
point within fifty miles of the Crossbar, I feel the homing instinct
strongly. You make it so very pleasant for me here.”
Jimmie stood over in the corner, his hands clasped behind him, a
slender, curly-haired lad, with eyes like a collie’s, and the way they
looked at the Bishop told the girls Jimmie’s opinion of him plainer than
words could do.
The next morning they were up early, and after prayers they started out
for the little schoolhouse where services were to be held. It was the
same one the Murray children had attended when they were small, but now
only Peggie took the long ride over the hills.
“And you’re not a bit afraid?” asked Isabel, as the miles stretched out
before them. “Isn’t it lonely in the winter?”
“Oh, yes, a little bit, but you don’t mind it after a while,” said
Peggie cheerfully. “This year it’s closed because there aren’t enough
children to carry the expenses. We’ve had such good times here. One
Christmas, when Jeanie taught us, we wanted Santa Claus and a Christmas
tree so much, and she said we could have one. So we all went out, and
picked out our tree, and one of the Dickerman boys cut it down, and we
pulled it back ourselves.”
“Like bringing in the Yule log, wasn’t it?” said Polly.
“Yes. We had such fun trimming it, and there was a Santa Claus too.”
“Where will you go to school this year?”
“I don’t know. There isn’t any place now, unless I go down to Deercroft
and board, and mother doesn’t want me to do that.”
“Why don’t you come back with us to Calvert?” asked Polly. “You’re old
enough. Crullers started when she was twelve. Oh, Peggie, why don’t you
try to? It would be lovely.”
Peggie said nothing for a minute, but rode along, her face bowed a
little, her eyes full of longing.
“I’d like to go,” she said finally, “but I don’t think it’s my turn yet.
The boys come first, and then when they’re through college, they’ll help
me.”
No more was said then, but the thought remained with Polly, and, as the
Admiral always said, once a really good and interesting thought had
taken root in Polly’s mind, it was almost certain to grow and bear
fruit.
The little schoolhouse stood at the fork of the river, a rough log
cabin, with some spruces growing back of it. What impressed the girls
was the instinctive sense of holiness that seemed to enfold the whole
place. The horses were hobbled, and a few minutes later Mr. and Mrs.
Murray arrived in the surrey. They had stopped at one point in the
journey, and turned off towards an out-of-the-way ranch, to pick up some
neighbors, Sam Brumell and his two sisters.
“Not that they’re church folks, ’cause they’re not,” Mrs. Murray had
said, in her bright, cheery way, “but I know it does ’Lisbeth Brumell a
pile of good just to feel she has touched the Hand of the Father again
in the dark, and it won’t hurt Sam any to listen to the Words of Life,
either, nor poor blind Emily, so we’ll just stop and gather them in,
father.”
There were others who wanted to be gathered in too, that day. Strangest
of all, to the girls, was the group of cowboys, friends and “pardners”
of Jimmie’s from the Big Bow outfit, who had ridden over twenty miles to
do honor to Jimmie and his Missionary Bishop. And there were several
families from outlying ranches, some with children. Mr. and Mrs. Sandy
arrived last of all, because as Sandy explained later, Diantha had
stopped to pick all her roses for the altar.
Jimmie had prepared the way as best he could. The desk was pushed back
against the blackboard, and covered with a fair linen cloth, and the
Bishop’s beautiful Cross stood on it, with the white roses on either
side. There was no organ, but Jimmie and the Murray children led the
singing, as they were familiar with the canticles and responses, and the
girls joined in. The sermon was not at all like a sermon. It was the
warmest, tenderest, best kind of a talk. The tall young Bishop stepped
down from the little platform that had served as chancel, and talked
directly to them, calling them by name.
“I hear,” he said, “there has never been a Confirmation here at the
Forks. Then we’ll have one in the spring. There are plenty of children
to gather for this, and grown people too. Donald and Margaret Murray,
James here, and the Dickerman twins—”
’Lisbeth Brumell rose determindedly in her seat at this point. She was a
little woman, with a sad, tired face, the face of a woman who had found
the wilderness too hard to bear.
“I know it ain’t right for me to speak up during service,” she said,
brokenly, “but I only wanted to say you can count me in too, Bishop,
when you round up the lot.”
“Well, I’m glad poor ’Lisbeth got that off her mind,” said Mrs. Murray,
thoughtfully, after they had returned home. “She’s always wanted a staff
to lean on, and it will make her daily grind easier.”
“What’s the matter with her, Mrs. Murray?” asked Isabel.
“Lonesomeness, most likely. She made up her mind to be lonesome all her
life, and she was a terribly disappointed girl.”
“How?”
“She didn’t marry the lad she wanted to. He went over Thunder Ridge
twenty-two years ago, in the big blizzard, with fourteen hundred cattle.
I’m glad she’s going to find rest at last.”
“Girls, girls,” exclaimed Polly, her eyes bright with excitement, when
they started for a walk after dinner that night. “Grandfather was saying
not long ago that people were getting tired of churches, and out here—”
“They’re all ready and waiting for the round-up,” finished Ted, shortly,
but fervently. “I’ll never forget to-day, or the cowboy’s voice when he
sang the ‘Inflammatus’ without any accompaniment.” And Ted began to sing
it softly.
“When Thou comest, when Thou comest to the judgment,
Lord, remember now Thy people—”
“What’s that about the Shepherd and Bishop of souls?” asked Sue.
“You’re all of you sentimental,” Ruth interposed soberly. “All you need
to do is to remember that little schoolhouse at the Forks when you get
back home, and do something for it. If it’s not going to be used for a
school any more, it could be turned into a chapel, and services held
there regularly.”
“Who’d read them?”
“I think father would, or Jimmie, or maybe Sandy, if they could be
appointed lay readers,” said Peggie. “I think so.”
“Polly, you’ve started something else,” laughed Isabel, but Polly only
smiled. She was too happy to talk.