The backsliders

Chapter I

Tae Adirondack train departed, disappeared behind a brown hill and left the Reverend John Gray standing on the platform of Pratt’s Junction. He was tall and straight, smooth-shaven, clad in clerical black, and as dignified as a good-looking young man of twenty-five could be with a bulging traveling bag in one hand and a parrot-cage in the other. The bird had not found traveling pleasant, as indicated by his ruffled feathers and still more ruffled temper. He vented his ill-humor by squawking loudly as he swung on his perch giving sidelong glances with malevolent eyes.

There was only one other arrival, an energetic little red-haired fellow in a loud plaid suit. He had swung off the rear steps of the smoking-car before the wheels ceased turning, passed a check to the baggage-master, and hurried to a dilapidated stage-coach waiting by the track. He mounted to the front seat, from which he looked down with an air of satisfaction and triumph. ‘‘ Redny’”’ Feathers was a commercial traveler who prided himself on never ‘‘ getting left.”

John Gray had expected some delegation from the church to meet him, but there was not a solitary elder in sight, and he stood for a moment, uncertain, in the shadow of the rusty tank from which the water dripped cool and sparkling in the September sun. The car had been stuffy, and the minister was glad to fill his lungs with a long breath of mountain air as he looked around him.

Pratt’s Junction was not attractive, a few scattered houses, a dilapidated hotel, a livery stable, and the smokestained, dust-enshrouded station. On the platform was a cluster of villagers, old men smoking contemplative pipes, barefooted boys, dogs, and young girls who had made pathetic efforts with their toilets in the hope of a long-range half-minute flirtation with some traveler looking out of a car window. The show being over, the spectators were departing, and John Gray, feeling decidedly neglected, stopped the station-master, who was dragging the mailbag after him, to ask,

‘Will you tell me where I can get the stage for Wesley?”

Before that dignitary could answer, however, Gray’s black bag was taken from his hand, which was seized ina huge palm and shaken warmly with —

“Sure, you come right along with me. I’m Jude Burt, the stage-driver, an’ I s’pose you’re the new preacher. I’m awful glad to see yer.”

The speaker was a man of medium height, round-shouldered and freckle-faced, with an open brow and deep-set blue eyes. His clothes were faded to vague tints of brown and yellow, and hung loosely on him in spite of his sturdiness. He wore a winter cap with ear-flaps, and carried a whip in his hand. Jude was not the expected delegation, but John Gray felt a warmth in his heart at the cordial greeting of the stage-driver whose smile was like a benediction.

‘““My chariot’s over there,” he declared, leading the way to the stage and taking hold of the minister’s elbow in a fatherly fashion. His smile disappeared quickly, however, and the tones of his voice changed. ‘“‘Look-ahere, Redny,”’ he cried out. “Git off that front seat.”

““Noton your life, Jude. I got here first,’’ argued Redny, settling himself comfortably, his dress-suit case against the dashboard as a brace for his short legs.

“Sorry, Mr. Feathers,” replied the stage-driver cheerfully, ‘‘the Bible says the fust shall be last an’ the last fust. We’re runnin’ this stage on Bible lines to-day, seein’ we’ve got the new preacher with us.”’

“‘Your text is a good one,’’ said the young minister with a smile, ‘“‘but your application is doubtful. I’m sure my place is on the back seat.”

But Jude was firm. ‘‘Wait a minute, Preacher,’ he said. ‘‘I can’t low Redny to run my coach. Come, Red, I’m tired of your foolin’. Git back, I say.”

Redny climbed back reluctantly, and the preacher took the vacant seat with the parrot-cage beside him. Jude put the preacher’s bag under the seat, threw the mailbag after it, and helped the baggage-master hoist Redny’s big trunk of samples on to the rack behind. He then climbed to his place, seized the reins, and with a loud snap of the lash the team started. They rattled down the hill that descended from the station, enveloped by a cloud of dust, for the road was very dry. The grass by the wayside was whitened and the blue asters tarnished, but the bright yellow of the goldenrod shone undimmed. For a while the noise of the rattling wheels and squeaking springs was too great to allow conversation; but when they had left the straggling houses behind and the team slowed down to walk up a long hill, Jude began to talk. But first the parrot cried piously, ‘‘Bless the Lord,” as if relieved that the jolting had ceased.

~ e)

Jude looked admiringly at Cesar’s ruffled green feathers, red tail, yellow beak, and bright eyes. ‘‘What part of the world did he come from?” Jude asked.

‘“‘He’s from some part of tropical Mexico,’’ answered Gray. ‘‘He belonged to an old sea-captain who was very profane, for the bird knew a great many bad words when he came to us, but most of them he’s forgotten.”

‘“‘T s’pose he’s a reformed parrot now,’’ remarked Jude; ‘“‘but he don’t look real pious, does he? He’s sure gota - wicked eye.”

Feathers had not taken his suitcase with him, and the minister’s legs being several inches longer, he found it uncomfortable against his knees and moved it so that it stood upright between him and Jude. It was so covered with hotel labels that only fragments of the leather were visible.

Jude examined it critically. ‘‘Tell me, Red,” he demanded, “how did you find the folks in Cairo? You must have made a hurried trip to Egypt, seems to me. You was in Wesley only ’bout a month ago.”

“‘T ain’t been to Cairo, Jude, an’ you know it.”

“Well,” continued Jude, “here’s a very handsome sticker on your baggage of ‘Shepheard’s Hotel, Cairo, Egypt,’ with a picture of the Sphinx lookin’ out over the desert, jest as I used to see her in the old geography years ago. An’, by gracious! right next to it is the ‘Continental Hotel, Paris.” You’d be sure to have a good time in Paris, from what I’ve heard about it, an’ from what I know ‘bout you.” |

“Dry up, Jude!”’ exclaimed Redny. ‘‘I was down to the big city a coupla weeks ago an’ there was a feller that had a lot of ’em to sell. I bought a few, thinkin’ they might interest my customers an’ help my trade. If I’d thought of the fool questions you’d be askin’ me, I’d saved my money.”

“Well, Red, don’t get het up. I’m admirin’ them. They look real handsome, but you'll have to watch out or they'll paste a cheap yeller sticker of the Mountain House, Wesley, in among them ’ristocratic neighbors.

‘““There’s the spire of the Wesley Church, right ahead,” exclaimed Jude. ‘The only thing ag’in’ it is that I’ma member, but you must n’t take me for a sample. They certain did n’t ‘deacon’ the barrel when they let you see me fust.”’

“They sure did n’t,” agreed Redny heartily from the rear seat.

“Of course,” Jude continued, declining to notice this remark, ‘“‘the Bible says, ‘We have this treasure in earthen vessels.’ It’s my favorite text, an’ I git consider- *ble consolation outer it.”

“It’s a good text,” declared the minister, ‘but we must not take it as an excuse for our shortcomings.’

A little later they came to a turn from which there was a wide view, and Jude pointed out White Face, Gare, and McIntyre Mountains as they stood out plainly against the horizon. Then the road dipped and ran by the side of a pond surrounded by tall reeds in which the frogs were chorusing.

For a while conversation flagged; but the silence was broken by Jude, who turned to the minister and asked, “What do you think of the pair o’ hosses that’s draggin’ our chariot?”

John Gray had been watching them absent-mindedly, and they certainly were an extraordinary combination. The off horse was a tall, rangy bay, so thin that her back was like the keel of an inverted boat, and her ribs the framework. She carried her head high, and when she trotted she stepped out as if she thought it was a real chariot she was pulling. The nigh horse was a muddy brown beast, flat-backed and flat-footed, long-bodied and slow-gaited. He carried his head low, and, in spite of the constant flicking of the whip on his thick hide, he scarce kept the traces taut.

‘“‘They’re not very well mated,” replied John Gray, smiling. ‘‘I don’t remember ever seeing two horses so unlike hitched up together.”

“Still they’re closer than the mule an’ cow Jed Small ploughs with up on the mountain. They’re both real hosses, anyhow; they do thirty miles every day, rain or shine, an’ they might be wuss.”

Here Jude began whistling, “‘Shall we gather at the river,’ but this cheerful tune was shattered by a yell from Redny, who had been attracted to the parrot, and, wishing to be sociable, had put his finger between the wires of the cage and wagged it tantalizingly. He had not, however, realized Czesar’s quickness, and the curved beak made a vicious stab which drew blood from his finger and words from his mouth which no censor would have passed. From Redny’s cries Cesar caught a familiar word and he squawked ‘“‘dammit,” as fast as he could speak.

There was no mistaking the words which, uttered with great distinctness, hushed Redny with amazement. Jude’s face was purple with suppressed laughter as the preacher soothed the parrot into silence.

“TI am sorry he hurt you,” said the preacher apologetically.

Redny grunted something unintelligible, with his wounded finger in his mouth, and the stage rattled on over the rocky road. The minister noticed how pleased every one seemed to be to see Jude; nearly all he met had something to say to him, and he never was at a loss for a cheerful or a sharp reply. When Jude spoke to the minister again, his thoughts had wandered back to his horses.

“Funny, is n’t it, Preacher, how they always have to - give aname toa hoss? Sometimes they give ’em jokin’ names. The slowest hoss we've got in the stable is named ‘Lightnin’.’ I’ve given these two sensible names. That’s ‘Patience’ there,’’ touching the nigh horse with his whip, “‘an’ that’s ‘Impatience,’’’ pointing to the off one. ‘‘I call ’em ‘Pat’ and ‘Imp’ for short. Did it ever occur to you how much matchin’ hosses is like matrimony?”

“No,” replied the minister, smiling, “I never thought of it before.”

“Well,” said Jude, ‘‘it’sa heap alike. You scarcely ever see a man an’ wife jest suited to each other, an’ there’s no such thing as a perfect mated pair o’ hosses. Of course, a married couple don’t need to look alike, an’ it’s principally disposition you have to think about. With hosses, there’s a heap more to keep in mind — size, weight, conformation, color, gait, an’ disposition. In marriage size don’t count. Seems if the big man most often chooses a little wife, an’ the large woman picks out a small chap for a husband. Hosses don’t choose their mates like humans, an’ it often seems to me that some outsider could do better pickin’ than those most interested.”’

Redny had been silent for a long time, occasionally inserting a word. He now interposed with ‘‘Look-a-here, Jude, I thought you wanted the minister to sit by you so you could listen to his conversation. Why don’t you give him achance? You’ve done nothin’ but talk since we left the Junction. You’ve discouraged the parrot. What are o you goin’ todo? Give up drivin’ stage an’ take the job of public matchmaker?”’

“‘No, Red,” answered Jude good-naturedly, ‘‘I don’t want that job. Matchmakin’ would be like peace-makin’, an’ I’d be gettin’ a dressin’-down from both parties. Of course, if I took the job I’d try to hitch you up with Maud Green right off. You’ve played with that lady’s young affections in a way that’s scand’lous.”’

“T can ’tend to that affair without assistance from anybody,” declared Redny resentfully, subsiding into silence, and Jude continued his dissertation on horses.

“This here Patience is a steady, strong, slow, an’ lazy beast. I wear outa lash a month on him, not by poundin’, but flick, flick all day. If I didn’t he’d set down in the road an’ go to sleep or crawl into the pasture an’ eat grass. He’s turned twenty an’ will live to be a hundred. On the other hand, the mare is high-strung an’ nervous. She pulls two thirds of the load till she gits tired, an’ then she won’t pull at all. Just sulks an’ balks.”’ |

“Has she always balked?’’ asked the minister.

““Long’s I’ve known her she has. Tom Lunn got her from some gypsy feller. They know how to fix ’em all right. She balked with Tom the fust time he used her, bringin’ a load o’ meat into the village. Now, Tom is both bad-tempered an’ brutal. He pounded her until his arm give out, an’ she was welted all over the back criss-cross like a cane-seated chair, but she would n’t budge. Then he coaxed her, but naturally after the poundin’ it did n’t dono good. Then he hit ona bright idea. ’T was bright, in more ways than one. He got some dry grass an’ sticks from the side o’ the road an’ lit a fire under her. Imp waited till she found the temperature was gittin’ uncomfortably hot an’ the hair on her belly was beginnin’ to | singe; then she took three steps forward, jest three steps, an’ stopped. The result was that the fire was burnin’ right under the wagon. The floor was gettin’ well scorched an’ ’t was mighty near bein’ a barbecue of beef, pork, an’ mutton, all mixed up together, when Tom got presence o’ mind enough to unfasten the traces an’ pull the wagon outer danger.”

—“*T was a brutal thing to do!”’ exclaimed the preacher.

“‘It was,’”’ agreed Jude, ‘‘but it did n’t hurt the mare none. Impatience can take care of herself. She’s got consider’ble more brains than Tom, an’ is more human.”

The church spire had appeared and disappeared again and again as the stage wandered up and down over the winding road. It now rose up suddenly before them on the top of a high hill. It seemed to John Gray like an emblem of Faith triumphant over Doubt, and his heart beat faster as he thought of it as his church, the place where he was to deliver the message given him by God. He would do his best to make it a perfect church.

At the foot of the hill was a sawmill, close by a river which was crossed by an old red bridge. Jude pointed to the bridge and said, ‘‘That’s Impatience’s favorite place for balkin’. I’ve worn out a lot of the gray matter in my poor old head wonderin’ what makes her choose that spot. Of course, she often does the round trip without a sign of stoppin’, an’ she’s balked fust an’ last at about every spot on the road.”

_ Jude chirruped cheerfully as they came to the bridge and said, ‘“‘She’s goin’ strong to-day, an’ I’m inclined to think she’ll take us through all right.”

As he spoke, Impatience stopped short in her tracks. Jude chirruped to her, but she set her ears back and would not move. ‘‘Ain’t women contrary?” he remarked. He

II chirruped again and touched her gently with the whip, and to this she replied by settling back on the whiffle-tree and snorting.

The stage was immovable and Jude sat still and placid; but not so Redny. He now came tumbling out of the stage and began fussing around the balky horse.

“Dammit, Jude,” he cried, ‘‘you’ve got to start her somehow. I wrote Crocker that I’d be at the store with my samples before five o’clock. If I don’t get there then, he’ll go home and I’ll have to stay another day in this God-forsaken village.”’

“Careful, Redny,’”’ said Jude. ‘‘The minister an’ I don’t like swearin’. I can’t do nothin’. All we kin do is to wait patient an’ trust in the Lord. Hol’ on there, Red, let go o’ that bridle.’’ He cried out sharply, but it was too late, for Redny trying to make the mare start, she reared up and backed furiously until the hind wheels of the stage brought up against the side of the bridge. If the railing had not been strong, she would have put the stage into the river. Redny clung to her, and the mare carried him with her. There was a crash when the rack struck the bridge, and Redny promptly let go of the bridle and, running back, examined his big trunk ruefully.

‘Now you’ve done it, Jude; you’ve stove a hole in my trunk, an’ you’ll have to pay for it. Dammit! I’m going to charge it up against you.”

Again Ceesar’s memory was refreshed by the sound of the wicked words he had acquired in his ‘‘salad days,” and he echoed Redny with a string of ‘‘dammits”’ as fast as he could speak.

“All right,’ replied Jude good-naturedly, ‘‘charge her up if you want, but you’ll have a dum hard time collectin’. I’ve warned you to set still an’ let that mare alone.”

To this Redny did not answer, but began tugging furiously at the hind wheel. “I tell you, Jude, my trunk’s being ground to splinters. If that mare don’t start, I’ll break her bloomin’ neck.”

In spite of all Jude claimed for the mare’s intelligence, it was hardly possible that she had a sense of humor. - However, just as Red spoke, she rose suddenly on her hind legs, pawed the air, and then went plunging up the hill, carrying her mate with her and the stage behind her. Redny made a grab at the rack, but he missed it, and was left to finish the rest of his journey on foot. He did this most reluctantly after consigning both Impatience and her driver to a place where the roads were paved with asbestos and unobstructed by ice even in mid-winter.

So engrossed was the minister with watching Impatience’s actions that he hardly saw the houses on both sides of the street until Jude pulled up with a jerk before a cottage on the right side and a little back from the road. It was a story and a half high, with a barn roof. It had a porch in front with four white pillars, over which a wisteria vine climbed. It had been freshly painted, the clapboards were very white, the blinds very green, and it appeared to be doing its best to extend a welcome to its new occupant.

‘‘Here’s the parsonage, Preacher,” declared Jude, ‘‘an’ I hope you’ll have many happy days in it.”

Chapter II

Joun Gray had been cradled in the lap of Saint Scholasticus. His father had been Professor of History in a little New England college, and his mother prided herself on being a graduate of “ Smith.” They had both died before John was five years old, and he had been adopted by Professor Elton Jones, whose mission was to teach Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. It was a large contract, but the endowment of the college was slight, the fees small. and its staff limited by the college purse.

John had acquired the three classic alphabets immediately after his A, B,C’s. Instead of marbles and baseball, he had been taken on long walks by the Professor, who was not foolish enough to neglect the physical development of his young charge. The boy had always been called “John,” never the youthful “Johnnie” or good-fellow *“‘Jack”’; though this was his misfortune and not his fault. The Professor had a horror of the normal boys of the village, with no thought of study except how to avoid it; and he watched John with an eagle eye, giving him tasks that occupied all his time. The village boys scorned John, not understanding that he was the victim of his environment; but they dared not flout him in the presence of his protector, who was a power in the college and the village.

John’s life was uneventful. He lived with his guardian and one servant in a little cottage overlooking the campus. He had a few chores in the morning, chopped wood for the stove, and attended to the parrot, whose cage hung in the study by the window. Between the parrot, who had been christened Cesar, and John there was a bitter feud. The boy had tried to be friendly, but, after his fingers had been many times lacerated by the sharp beak, he gave it up. To feed and tend Cesar was for John the fulfillment of his Christian duty toward his enemy, who certainly did ‘‘despitefully use and persecute’ him. John worked on his lessons until dinner-time and again until the late afternoon, when came the long walk among the hills, followed by supper and study until bedtime. Strange to say, the boy throve in spite of all, and made no effort to break through the walls that confined him.

At the age of ten he had his first adventure, through which he passed with honor. On an October morning he was sent, unattended, to the store for medicine, and on his return ran into a group of village boys. They surrounded him and blocked his progress homeward. First greeting him with exaggerated cordiality, they followed by asking questions reflecting upon his manliness, like “Hullo, Sissy! Where’d you leave your dollies?”’ He faced his tormentors clear-eyed and curious, for he could not understand their unfriendliness. He protested when his handkerchief was stolen from his pocket and — used by the thief! He watched his hat wonderingly when it was thrown among the branches of an elm tree that overarched the road; but he showed no signs of anger until one, more venturesome than the rest, pressed a chestnut burr down his back. This was too much, and, maddened by pain as well as insult, he burst into a veritable Berserker rage.

He turned on his last assailant and struck him between the eyes with the AZneid which he held in his hand. It was a heavy volume, the blow a mighty one, and it felled his enemy to earth. He struck again and again, and when the book slipped from his hand, he fought with fist, foot, tooth, and nail, so fiercely that he put his enemies to flight and remained master of the field. He removed the chestnut burr from his tortured back, climbed the tree, recovered his hat, picked up his book, and the bottle of medicine where it lay unbroken in the road, and reached home safe — but far from sound. It had not been a bloodless victory. His clothes were covered with dirt, there was a big rent in the sleeve of his coat, and a few drops trickled from a scratch on his forehead. He looked the hero, flushed with victory, breathing hard from his exertions and with the smear of red on his brow; but he was not treated as was Achilles after the victory over Hector. His wounds were stanched, but afterward the Professor took him‘‘ behind the wood pile,”’ not even avoiding the bruises.

The result of this Homeric combat was that the gap between John and the village boys widened. He resented their unfairness and had for them something of the scorn of the victor. They responded with dislike, not unmingled with respect for his prowess.

When John was sixteen years old, he entered the freshman class. He was fitted a year earlier, but the Professor held him back, hating to give him up. With the intensive instruction which he had received, the boy naturally took the first place in his class, but made no close friends, for the Professor’s ambition had grown almost into a mania, and every moment of the day was occupied by study. He was determined that John should set a mark in the college such as had never been attained. In this he was successful, and John was graduated with an accumulation of all the honors the college could bestow. | So brilliant was his success that he won even the respect of those who scorned an ordinary bookworm. He was the “record holder’’ for scholarship.

When all was over he sat with the Professor in the little room under the light of the student lamp, and for the first time in his life John was given an opportunity for choice. Even this was circumscribed; should he become physi-

cian, lawyer,clergyman,or professor? No other career was

open to him. He had no inclination for law or medicine. Between professorship and the ministry, he hesitated a little while; but on the following Sunday, Bishop Wayland preached the baccalaureate sermon and brought John to a decision.

The text was, ‘“‘Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature.’’ The Bishop was fervent and eloquent. His purpose was to bring the doubtful ones to a decision, and to gain educated young men to fill the gaps in the Methodist ministry. It was the same appeal that Peter the Hermit made to ‘take the cross,’’ and John accepted it with the spirit of a crusader. His heart was full of love for God and zeal in His service. He resolved to devote his life to the church without reservation or question.

With the disappearance of the Bishop, and under the calm counsel of the Professor, John settled down to the study of theology. He did not go to a divinity school, for three of the professors in the college were ordained clergymen, and his guardian did not wish to lose him. Elton Jones had trouble with his heart, which caused his friends much worry. A little later John relieved him from the teaching of Hebrew, then Greek, and finally Latin also. It was understood that this was only temporary, and with the hope that the Professor would recover sufficiently to resume his work.

More even than the association with careless youth, scornful of scholarship, did the Professor fear the influence of women upon his charge. When a young man, and plain “Elton Jones,” he had been crossed in love, the young lady very wisely deciding not to link her life with one so stern and dictatorial. It had made him a woman-fearer if not a woman-hater. He had fought coeducation “to a finish.’”’ He was barely civil to the wives and daughters of the other professors, and absolutely ignored every woman in the village. In the classroom, when he came to the fourth book of Virgil and the lines ‘‘ Varium et mutabile semper femina,” it was wonderful to hear him enlarge upon his theme. He discovered Schopenhauer’s ‘Essay on Woman,” which he read until he had it by heart. He delighted to quote such sentences as:

“They form the sexus sequior—the second sex — inferior in every respect to the first’’; ‘‘It has never managed to produce a single achievement in the fine arts that is really great’’; and, ‘‘A woman who is perfectly truthful and not given to dissimulation is an impossi- BLUE

Above all else he enjoyed maligning woman’s physical beauty, and quoted with delight, “It is only the man whose intellect is clouded by his sexual impulses that could give the name of ‘the fair sex’ to that undersized, narrow-shouldered, broad-hipped, and short-legged race.”

In connection with the study of the Bible, Elton Jones did not overlook the weakness and wickedness of men, but he took a special joy in exposing the frailties and sins of women. It was Eve and not Adam that he condemned for ‘‘the fall.” It was Bathsheba that he blamed for ‘‘the sin of David.’ Poor innocent David who, walking upon his roof, could not avoid seeing the wife of Uriah in her bath! Emphasis was given to Sapphira’s falsehood instead of Ananias’s lie. It was Jezebel’s wickedness, and not that of Ahab, that chiefly interested the Professor. Indeed, any female wrongdoing, of which he heard in the village or of which he read in the newspaper, always called from him the invective of ‘“‘The Jezebel!’’ The parrot, which had come to the Professor with an evil vocabulary, had been reformed so that it only rarely exclaimed “‘Dammit”’ interlarded between ‘‘Amen’”’ and ‘Bless the Lord.”’ But frequent repetition of the words added “‘The Jezebel”’ to his dictionary.

The result was that John learned to scorn women as creatures elevated but little above the dog; for the latter had the qualities of faithfulness, sincerity, and honesty, all of which women lacked. Only once was there a chance that John’s mind might be enlightened. It so happened that the wife of the Professor of English had a pretty cousin to visit her soon after John reached his majority. She was very attractive, and all the young men in the college and the village were at her feet. Even the older and the married men became more particular about their personal appearance. John only failed to notice her, and went about his work as if she did not exist. The natural result was that little Miss Ferguson, of the black eyes and trim ankles, coveted what she had not, and resolved to capture the young man who was so handsome and so cold. She might have succeeded had it not been for Professor Jones’s interference. Realizing the peril, he called on the President of the college, declared that Miss Ferguson was seriously disturbing the calm of their Parnassus, and demanded that she be sent away. Elton Jones was aided by the ugly wife of the Professor of Mathematics, who appeared later in the same evening and accused the pretty lady of winning the affection of her lord and master. The outcome was that the President spoke to the Professor of English a few words which resulted in Miss Ferguson’s immediate departure.