PAGE 5
Peter, the Parson
by
At dawn the parson rose, and after a conscientious bath in the tub of icy water brought in by his own hands the previous evening, he started out with his load of prayer-books, his face looking haggard and blue in the cold morning light. Again he entered the chapel, and having arranged the books and dusted the altar, he attired himself in his robes and began the service at half-past six precisely.”From the rising of the sun even unto the going down of the same,” he read, and in truth the sun was just rising. As the evening prayer was “vespers,” so this was “matins” in the parson’s mind. He had his “vestments” too, of various ritualistic styles, and washed them himself, ironing them out afterwards with fear and difficulty in Mrs. Malone’s disorderly kitchen, poor little man! No hand turned the latch, no step came across the floor this morning; the parson had the service all to himself, and, as it was Friday, he went through the Litany, omitting nothing, and closing with a hymn. Then, gathering up his books, he went home to breakfast.
“How peaked yer do look, sir,” exclaimed ruddy Mrs. Malone, as she handed him a cup of muddy coffee.”What, no steak? Do, now; for I aint got nothin’ else. Well, if yer won’t–but there’s nothing’ but the biscuit, then. why, even Father O’Brien himself ‘lows meat for the sickly, Friday or no Friday.”
“I am not sickly, Mrs. Malone,” replied the little parson with dignity.
A young man with the figure of an athlete sat at the lower end of the table, tearing the tough steak voraciously with his strong teeth, chewing audibly, and drinking with a gulping noise. He paused as the parson spoke, and regarded him with wonder, not unmixed with contempt.
“You aint sickly?” he repeated.”Well, if you aint, then I’d like to know who is, that’s all.”
“Now, you jest eat your breakfast, Steve, and let the parson alone,” interposed Mrs. Malone.”Sorry to see that little picture all tore, sir,” she continued, turning the conversation in her blundering good-nature.”It was a moighty pretty picture, and looked uncommonly like Rosie Ray.”
“It was a copy of an Italian painting, Mrs. Malone,” the parson hastened to reply; “Santa Margarita.”
“Oh, I dare say; but it looked iver so much like Rosie for all that.”
A deep flush had crossed the parson’s pale face. The athlete saw it, and muttered to himself angrily, casting surly sidelong glances up the table, and breathing hard; the previous evening he had happened to pass the Chapel of Saint John and Saint James as its congregation of one was going in the door.
After two hours spent in study, the parson went out to visit the poor and sick of the parish; all were poor, and one was sick, the child of an Englishwoman, a miner’s wife. The mother, with a memory of her English training, dusted a chair for the minister, and dropped a courtesy, as he seated himself by the little bed; but she seemed embarrassed, and talked volubly of anything and everything save the child. The parson listened to the unbroken stream of words while he stroked the boy’s soft cheek, and held the wasted little hand in his. At length he took a small bottle from his pocket, and looked around for a spoon; it was a pure and delicate cordial which he had often given to the sick child to sustain its waning strength.
“Oh, if you please, sir,–indeed, I don’t feel sure that it does Harry any good. Thank you for offering it so free–but–but, if you’d just as lieve–I–I’d rather not, sir, if you please, sir.”
The parson looked up in astonishment; the costly cordial had robbed him of many a fire.
“Why don’t you tell the minister the truth,” called out a voice from the inner room, the harsh voice of the husband.”Why don’t you say right out that Brother Saul was here last night, and prayed over the child, and give it some of his own medicine, and telled you not to touch the parson’s stuff; he said it was pizen, he did.”
The parson rose, cut to the heart. He had shared his few dimes with this woman, and had hoped much from her on account of her early church-training. On Sunday she had been one of the few who came to the chapel, and when, during the summer, she was smitten with fever, he had read over her the prayers from “the Visitation of the Sick;” he had baptized this child now fading away, and had loved the little fellow tenderly, taking pleasure in fashioning toys for his baby hands, and saving for him the few cakes of Mrs. Malone’s table.