complete analysis: he did not attempt the task. He preferred to believe
that he had told God the whole truth without any attempt at reservation.
He had thereby placed himself in His hands, and was no longer chiefly
responsible. He would not even think of what he was about to do, further
than that he intended to refuse the call and to preach the sermon the
peroration of which he had so carefully prepared. After dressing he sat
down in his study and committed this passage to memory. He pictured
to himself with pleasure the effect it would surely produce upon his
hearers. When Pete came to tell him the buggy was ready to take him to
church, he got up almost cheerfully, and went out.
The weather was delightful, as it is in June in that part of the Western
States. From midday until about four o'clock the temperature is that of
midsummer, but the air is exceedingly dry and light, and one breathes it
in the morning with a sense of exhilaration. While driving to church Mr.
Letgood's spirits rose. He chatted with his servant Pete, and even took
the reins once for a few hundred yards. But when they neared the church
his gaiety forsook him. He stopped talking, and appeared to be a little
preoccupied. From time to time he courteously greeted one of his flock
on the side-walk: but that was all. As he reached the church, the
Partons drove up, and of course he had to speak to them. After the usual
conventional remarks and shaking of hands, the minister turned up the
sidewalk which led to the vestry. He had not taken more than four or
five steps in this direction before he paused and looked up the street.
He shrugged his shoulders, however, immediately at his own folly, and
walked on: “Of course she couldn't send a messenger with a note. On
Sundays the Deacon was with her.”
As he opened the vestry door, and stepped into the little room,
he stopped short. Mrs. Hooper was there, coming towards him with
outstretched hand and radiant smile:
“Good mornin', Mr. Letgood, all the Deacons are here to meet you, and
they let me come; because I was the first you told the news to, and
because I'm sure you're not goin' to leave us. Besides, I wanted to
come.”
He could not help looking at her for a second as he took her hand and
bowed:
“Thank you, Mrs. Hooper.” Not trusting himself further, he began to
shake hands with the assembled elders. In answer to one who expressed
the hope that they would keep him, he said slowly and gravely:
“I always trust something to the inspiration of the moment, but I
confess I am greatly moved to refuse this call.”
“That's what I said,” broke in Mr. Hooper triumphantly, “and I said,
too, there were mighty few like you, and I meant it. But we don't want
you to act against yourself, though we'd be mighty glad to hev you
stay.”
A chorus of “Yes, sir! Yes, indeed! That's so” went round the room in
warm approval, and then, as the minister did not answer save with an
abstracted, wintry smile, the Deacons began to file into the church.
Curiously enough Mrs. Hooper having moved away from the door during this
scene was now, necessarily it seemed, the last to leave the room. While
she was passing him, Mr. Letgood bent towards her and in an eager tone
whispered:
“And my answer?”
Mrs. Hooper paused, as if surprised.
“Oh! ain't you men stupid,” she murmured and with a smile tossed the
question over her shoulder: “What _did_ I come here for?”
That sermon of Mr. Letgood's is still remembered in Kansas City. It is
not too much to say that the majority of his hearers believed him to be
inspired. And, in truth, as an artistic performance his discourse was
admirable. After standing for some moments with his hand upon the desk,
apparently lost in thought, he began in the quietest tone to read the
letter from the Deacons of the Second Baptist Church in Chicago. He then
read his reply, begging them to give him time to consider their request.
He had considered it--prayerfully. He would read the passage of Holy
Scripture which had suggested the answer he was about to send to
the call. He paused again. The rustling of frocks and the occasional
coughings ceased--the audience straining to catch the decision--while
in a higher key he recited the verse, “For whosoever will save his life,
shall lose it; and whosoever will lose his life for My sake, shall find
it.”
As the violinist knows when his instrument is perfectly attuned, so Mr.
Letgood knew when he repeated the text that his hearers had surrendered
themselves to him to be played upon. It would be useless here to
reproduce the sermon, which lasted for nearly an hour, and altogether
impossible to give any account of the preacher's gestures or dramatic
pauses, or of the modulations and inflections of his voice, which now
seemed to be freighted with passionate earnestness, now quivered in
pathetic appeal, and now grew musical in the dying fall of some poetic
phrase. The effect was astonishing. While he was speaking simply of the
text as embodying the very spirit of the Glad Tidings which Christ first
delivered to the world, not a few women were quietly weeping. It was
impossible, they felt, to listen unmoved to that voice.
But when he went on to show the necessity of renunciation as the first
step towards the perfecting of character, even the hard, keen faces of
the men before him began to relax and change expression. He dwelt, in
turn, upon the startling novelty of Christ's teaching and its singular
success. He spoke of the shortness of human life, the vanity of human
effort, and the ultimate reward of those who sacrifice themselves for
others, as Jesus did, and out of the same divine spirit of love. He
thus came to the peroration. He began it in the manner of serious
conversation.
All over the United States the besetting sin of the people was the
desire of wealth. He traced the effects of the ignoble struggle for
gain in the degradation of character, in the debased tone of public and
private life. The main current of existence being defiled, his duty
was clear. Even more than other men he was pledged to resist the evil
tendency of the time. In some ways, no doubt, he was as frail and faulty
as the weakest of his hearers, but to fail in this respect would be, he
thought, to prove himself unworthy of his position. That a servant of
Christ in the nineteenth century should seek wealth, or allow it in
any way to influence his conduct, appeared to him to be much the same
unpardonable sin as cowardice in a soldier or dishonesty in a man of
business. He could do but little to show what the words of his text
meant to him, but one thing he could do and would do joyously. He would
write to the good Deacons in Chicago to tell them that he intended to
stay in Kansas City, and to labour on among the people whom he knew and
loved, and some of whom, he believed, knew and loved him. He would
not be tempted by the greater position offered to him or by the larger
salary. _“For whosoever will save his life shall lose it; and whosoever
will lose his life for My sake, shall find it.”_
As his voice broke over the last words, there was scarcely a dry eye in
the church. Many of the women were sobbing audibly, and Mrs. Hooper had
long ago given up the attempt “to pull her tears down the back way.” She
expressed the general sentiment of her sex when she said afterwards,
“It was just too lovely for anythin'.” And the men were scarcely less
affected, though they were better able to control their emotion. The
joyous renunciation of five thousand dollars a year struck these hard
men of business as something almost uncanny. They would have considered
it the acme of folly in an ordinary man, but in a preacher they felt
vaguely that it was admirable.
When Deacon Hooper met his brother Deacons before the platform where the
collection-plates were kept, he whispered, “The meetin' is at my house
at three o'clock. Be on time.” His tone was decided, as were also the
nods which accepted the invitation.
After the service Mr. Letgood withdrew quietly without going, as usual,
amongst his congregation. This pleased even Mrs. Parton, whose husband
was a judge of the Supreme Court. She said: “It was elegant of him.”
* * * * *
Mr. Hooper received the twelve Deacons in his drawing-room, and when the
latest comer was seated, began:
“There ain't no need for me to tell you, brethren, why I asked you all
to come round here this afternoon. After that sermon this mornin' I
guess we're all sot upon showin' our minister that we appreciate him.
There are mighty few men with five thousand dollars a year who'd give
up ten thousand. It seems to me a pretty good proof that a man's a
Christian ef he'll do that. 'Tain't being merely a Christian: it's
Christ-like. We must keep Mr. Letgood right here: he's the sort o' man
we want. If they come from Chicago after him now, they'll be comin' from
New York next, an' he oughtn't to be exposed to sich great temptation.
“I allow that we'll be able to raise the pew-rents from the first of
January next, to bring in another two thousand five hundred dollars a
year, and I propose that we Deacons should jest put our hands deep down
in our pockets and give Mr. Letgood that much anyway for this year, and
promise the same for the future. I'm willin', as senior Deacon, though
not the richest, to start the list with three hundred dollars.”
In five minutes the money was subscribed, and it was agreed that each
man should pay in his contribution to the name of Mr. Hooper at the
First National Bank next day; Mr. Hooper could then draw his cheque for
the sum.
“Wall,” said the Deacon, again getting up, “that's settled, but I've
drawn that cheque already. Mrs. Hooper and me talked the thing over,”
he added half apologetically, and as if to explain his unbusinesslike
rashness; “an' she thinks we oughter go right now to Mr. Letgood as a
sort of surprise party an' tell him what we hev decided--that is, ef
you're all agreed.”
They were, although one or two objected to a “surprise party” being held
on Sunday. But Deacon Hooper overruled the objection by saying that
he could find no better _word_, though of course 'twas really not a
“surprise party.” After this explanation, some one proposed that Deacon
Hooper should make the presentation, and that Mrs. Hooper should be
asked to accompany them. When Mr. Hooper went into the dining-room to
find his wife she was already dressed to go out, and when he expressed
surprise and delivered himself of his mission, she said simply:
“Why, I only dressed to go and see Mrs. Jones, who's ill, but I guess
I'll go along with you first.”
* * * * *
The same afternoon Mr. Letgood was seated in his study considering a
sermon for the evening--it would have to be very different from that of
the morning, he felt, or else it would fall flat.
He still avoided thinking of his position. The die was cast now, and
having struggled hard against the temptation he tried to believe that he
was not chiefly responsible. In the back of his mind was the knowledge
that his responsibility would become clear to him some time or other,
but he confined it in the furthest chamber of his brain with repentance
as the guardian.
He had just decided that his evening address must be doctrinal and
argumentative, when he became aware of steps in the drawing-room.
Opening the door he found himself face to face with his Deacons. Before
he could speak, Deacon Hooper began:
“Mr. Letgood! We, the Deacons of your church, hev come to see you. We
want to tell you how we appreciate your decision this mornin'. It was
Christ-like! And we're all proud of you, an' glad you're goin' to stay
with us. But we allow that it ain't fair or to be expected that you
should refuse ten thousand dollars a year with only five. So we've
made a purse for this year among ourselves of two thousand five hundred
dollars extry, which we hope you'll accept. Next year the pew-rents can
be raised to bring in the same sum; anyway, it shall be made up.
“There ain't no use in talkin'; but you, sir, hev jest sot us an example
of how one who loves the Lord Jesus, and Him only, should act, and we
ain't goin' to remain far behind. No, sir, we ain't. Thar's the cheque.”
As he finished speaking, tears stood in the kind, honest, blue eyes.
Mr. Letgood took the cheque mechanically, and mechanically accepted at
the same time the Deacon's outstretched hand; but his eyes sought Mrs.
Hooper's, who stood behind the knot of men with her handkerchief to her
face. In a moment or two, recalled to himself by the fact that one after
the other all the Deacons wanted to shake his hand, he tried to sustain
his part in the ceremony. He said:
“My dear brothers, I thank you each and all, and accept your gift, in
the spirit in which you offer it. I need not say that I knew nothing of
your intention when I preached this morning. It is not the money that
I'm thinking of now, but your kindness. I thank you again.”
After a few minutes' casual conversation, consisting chiefly of praise
of the “wonderful discourse” of the morning, Mr. Letgood proposed
that they should all have iced coffee with him; there was nothing so
refreshing; he wanted them to try it; and though he was a bachelor, if
Mrs. Hooper would kindly give her assistance and help him with his
cook, he was sure they would enjoy a glass. With a smile she consented.
Stepping into the passage after her and closing the door, he said
hurriedly, with anger and suspicion in his voice:
“You didn't get this up as my answer? You didn't think I'd take money
instead, did you?”
Demurely, Mrs. Hooper turned her head round as he spoke, and leaning
against him while he put his arms round her waist, answered with arch
reproach:
“You are just too silly for anythin'.”
Then, with something like the movement of a cat loath to lose the
contact of the caressing hand, she turned completely towards him and
slowly lifted her eyes. Their lips met.
21 APRIL, 1891.
* * * * *
EATIN' CROW
The evening on which Charley Muirhead made his first appearance at
Doolan's was a memorable one; the camp was in wonderful spirits. Whitman
was said to have struck it rich. Garotte, therefore, might yet become
popular in the larger world, and its evil reputation be removed.
Besides, what Whitman had done any one might do, for by common consent
he was a “derned fool.” Good-humour accordingly reigned at Doolan's,
and the saloon was filled with an excited, hopeful crowd. Bill Bent,
however, was anything but pleased; he generally was in a bad temper, and
this evening, as Crocker remarked carelessly, he was “more ornery than
ever.” The rest seemed to pay no attention to the lanky, dark man with
the narrow head, round, black eyes, and rasping voice. But Bent would
croak: “Whitman's struck nothin'; thar ain't no gold in Garotte; it's
all work and no dust.” In this strain he went on, offending local
sentiment and making every one uncomfortable.
Muirhead's first appearance created a certain sensation. He was a fine
upstanding fellow of six feet or over, well made, and good-looking.
But Garotte had too much experience of life to be won by a stranger's
handsome looks. Muirhead's fair moustache and large blue eyes counted
for little there. Crocker and others, masters in the art of judging
men, noticed that his eyes were unsteady, and his manner, though genial,
seemed hasty. Reggitt summed up their opinion in the phrase, “looks as
if he'd bite off more'n he could chaw.” Unconscious of the criticism,
Muirhead talked, offered drinks, and made himself agreeable.
At length in answer to Bent's continued grumbling, Muirhead said
pleasantly: “'Tain't so bad as that in Garotte, is it? This bar don't
look like poverty, and if I set up drinks for the crowd, it's because
I'm glad to be in this camp.”
“P'r'aps you found the last place you was in jes' a leetle too warm,
eh?” was Bent's retort.
Muirhead's face flushed, and for a second he stood as if he had been
struck. Then, while the crowd moved aside, he sprang towards Bent,
exclaiming, “Take that back--right off! Take it back!”
“What?” asked Bent coolly, as if surprised; at the same time, however,
retreating a pace or two, he slipped his right hand behind him.
Instantly Muirhead threw himself upon him, rushed him with what seemed
demoniac strength to the open door and flung him away out on his back
into the muddy ditch that served as a street. For a moment there was a
hush of expectation, then Bent was seen to gather himself up painfully
and move out of the square of light into the darkness. But Muirhead did
not wait for this; hastily, with hot face and hands still working with
excitement, he returned to the bar with:
“That's how I act. No one can jump me. No one, by God!” and he glared
round the room defiantly. Reggitt, Harrison, and some of the others
looked at him as if on the point of retorting, but the cheerfulness
was general, and Bent's grumbling before a stranger had irritated them
almost as much as his unexpected cowardice. Muirhead's challenge was not
taken up, therefore, though Harrison did remark, half sarcastically:
“That may be so. You jump them, I guess.”
“Well, boys, let's have the drink,” Charley Muirhead went on, his manner
suddenly changing to that of friendly greeting, just as if he had not
heard Harrison's words.
The men moved up to the bar and drank, and before the liquor was
consumed, Charley's geniality, acting on the universal good-humour,
seemed to have done away with the discontent which his violence and
Bent's cowardice had created. This was the greater tribute to his
personal charm, as the refugees of Garotte usually hung together, and
were inclined to resent promptly any insult offered to one of their
number by a stranger. But in the present case harmony seemed to be
completely reestablished, and it would have taken a keener observer than
Muirhead to have understood his own position and the general opinion.
It was felt that the stranger had bluffed for all he was worth, and that
Garotte had come out “at the little end of the horn.”
A day or two later Charley Muirhead, walking about the camp, came
upon Dave Crocker's claim, and offered to buy half of it and work as a
partner, but the other would not sell; “the claim was worth nothin'; not
good enough for two, anyhow;” and there the matter would have ended, had
not the young man proposed to work for a spell just to keep his hand
in. By noon Crocker was won; nobody could resist Charley's hard work
and laughing high spirits. Shortly afterwards the older man proposed
to knock off; a day's work, he reckoned, had been done, and evidently
considering it impossible to accept a stranger's labour without
acknowledgment, he pressed Charley to come up to his shanty and eat.
The simple meal was soon despatched, and Crocker, feeling the obvious
deficiencies of his larder, produced a bottle of Bourbon, and the two
began to drink. Glass succeeded glass, and at length Crocker's reserve
seemed to thaw; his manner became almost easy, and he spoke half
frankly.
“I guess you're strong,” he remarked. “You threw Bent out of the saloon
the other night like as if he was nothin'; strength's good, but 'tain't
everythin'. I mean,” he added, in answer to the other's questioning
look, “Samson wouldn't have a show with a man quick on the draw who
meant bizness. Bent didn't pan out worth a cent, and the boys didn't
like him, but--them things don't happen often.” So in his own way he
tried to warn the man to whom he had taken a liking.
Charley felt that a warning was intended, for he replied decisively: “It
don't matter. I guess he wanted to jump me, and I won't be jumped, not
if Samson wanted to, and all the revolvers in Garotte were on me.”
“Wall,” Crocker went on quietly, but with a certain curiosity in his
eyes, “that's all right, but I reckon you were mistaken. Bent didn't
want to rush ye; 'twas only his cussed way, and he'd had mighty bad
luck. You might hev waited to see if he meant anythin', mightn't ye?”
And he looked his listener in the face as he spoke.
“That's it,” Charley replied, after a long pause, “that's just it. I
couldn't wait, d'ye see!” and then continued hurriedly, as if driven
to relieve himself by a full confession: “Maybe you don't _sabe_. It's
plain enough, though I'd have to begin far back to make you understand.
But I don't mind if you want to hear. I was raised in the East, in Rhode
Island, and I guess I was liked by everybody. I never had trouble with
any one, and I was a sort of favourite.... I fell in love with a girl,
and as I hadn't much money, I came West to make some, as quick as I knew
how. The first place I struck was Laramie--you don't know it? 'Twas a
hard place; cowboys, liquor saloons, cursin' and swearin', poker and
shootin' nearly every night. At the beginning I seemed to get along
all right, and I liked the boys, and thought they liked me. One night a
little Irishman was rough on me; first of all I didn't notice, thought
he meant nothin', and then, all at once, I saw he meant it--and more.
“Well, I got a kind of scare--I don't know why--and I took what he said
and did nothin'. Next day the boys sort of held off from me, didn't
talk; thought me no account, I guess, and that little Irishman just rode
me round the place with spurs on. I never kicked once. I thought I'd get
the money--I had done well with the stock I had bought--and go back
East and marry, and no one would be any the wiser. But the Irishman kept
right on, and first one and then another of the boys went for me, and
I took it all. I just,” and here his voice rose, and his manner became
feverishly excited, “I just ate crow right along for months--and tried
to look as if 'twas quail.
“One day I got a letter from home. She wanted me to hurry up and come
back. She thought a lot of me, I could see; more than ever, because I
had got along--I had written and told her my best news. And then, what
had been hard grew impossible right off. I made up my mind to sell the
stock and strike for new diggings. I couldn't stand it any longer--not
after her letter. I sold out and cleared.... I ought to hev stayed in
Laramie, p'r'aps, and gone for the Irishman, but I just couldn't. Every
one there was against me.”
“I guess you oughter hev stayed.... Besides, if you had wiped up the
floor with that Irishman the boys would hev let up on you.”
“P'r'aps so,” Charley resumed, “but I was sick of the whole crowd. I
sold off, and lit out. When I got on the new stage-coach, fifty miles
from Laramie, and didn't know the driver or any one, I made up my mind
to start fresh. Then and there I resolved that I had eaten all the crow
I was going to eat; the others should eat crow now, and if there was any
jumpin' to be done, I'd do it, whatever it cost. And so I went for Bent
right off. I didn't want to wait. 'Here's more crow,' I thought, 'but
I won't eat it; he shall, if I die for it,' and I just threw him out
quick.”
“I see,” said Crocker, with a certain sympathy in his voice, “but you
oughter hev waited. You oughter make up to wait from this on, Charley.
'Tain't hard. You don't need to take anythin' and set under it. I'm not
advisin' that, but it's stronger to wait before you go fer any one. The
boys,” he added significantly, “don't like a man to bounce, and what
they don't like is pretty hard to do.”
“Damn the boys,” exclaimed Charley vehemently, “they're all alike out
here. I can't act different. If I waited, I might wait too long--too
long, d'you _sabe?_ I just can't trust myself,” he added in a subdued
tone.
“No,” replied Crocker meditatively. “No, p'r'aps not. But see here,
Charley, I kinder like you, and so I tell you, no one can bounce the
crowd here in Garotte. They're the worst crowd you ever struck in your
life. Garotte's known for hard cases. Why,” he went on earnestly, as if
he had suddenly become conscious of the fact, “the other night Reggitt
and a lot came mighty near goin' fer you--and Harrison, Harrison took
up what you said. You didn't notice, I guess; and p'r'aps 'twas well you
didn't; but you hadn't much to spare. You won by the odd card.
“No one can bounce this camp. They've come from everywhere, and can only
jes' get a livin' here--no more. And when luck's bad they're”--and he
paused as if no adjective were strong enough. “If a man was steel, and
the best and quickest on the draw ever seen, I guess they'd bury him if
he played your way.”
“Then they may bury me,” retorted Charley bitterly, “but I've eaten my
share of crow. I ain't goin' to eat any more. Can't go East now with the
taste of it in my mouth. I'd rather they buried me.”
And they did bury him--about a fortnight after.
July, 1892.
* * * * *
THE BEST MAN IN GAROTTE.