FullReads

“I was for putting in a disclaimer, but he went on:

“‘She has a soul to save–a very precious soul. Mark you, if works could save a soul, hers would be secure. And I have thought sometimes God cannot judge her harshly; for consider of how much value the life of one such woman must be in such a community as this! You should observe how the men respect her. And yet we have the divine assurance that works without grace are naught; and her carelessness on sacred matters is appalling. If, when I am gone’– and it struck me sharply that not only the western mountains but the cemetery gate lay in the direction of his nod, and that the gate lay nearer–‘if you could speak to her now and then–ah, you can hardly guess how it would rejoice me some day when I return, bearing’–and his voice sank here–‘bearing, please God, my sheaves with me!’

“‘But why,’ I urged, ‘go farther, when work like this lies at your hand?’

“‘I have thought of that; but only for a moment. It may sound presumptuous to you; I am very young; but there is bigger work for me ahead, and I am called. I cannot argue about this. I know. I have a sign. Look up at the mountain, yonder–high up, above the quicksilver mines. Do you see those bright lights flashing?’

“Sure enough, above the disused works a line of sparkling lights led the eye upwards to the snow-fields, as if traced in diamonds. The phenomenon was certainly astonishing, and I couldn’t account for it.

“‘You see it? Ah! but you didn’t observe it till I spoke. Nobody does. Miss Montmorency, when I pointed it out, declared that in all the time she has lived here she never once noticed it. Yet the first night I came here I saw it. My window looks westward, and I pulled the curtain aside for a moment before getting into bed. It had been dark as pitch when the coach dropped me; but now the moon was up, over opposite; and the first thing my eyes lit on was this line of lights reaching up the mountain. When I woke, next morning, it was still there, flashing in the sun. I think it was at breakfast, when I asked Miss Montmorency about it, and found she’d never remarked it, that it first came into my head ’twas meant for me. Anyhow, the idea’s fixed there now, and I can’t get away from it. I’ve asked many people, and there’s not one can explain it, or has ever remarked it till I pointed it out.’

“His hand trembled on his stick, and a fit of coughing shook him. While we stood still I heard a banjo in a saloon across the road tinkle its long descent into the chorus of ‘Juliana’–“

‘Was it weary there
In the wilderness?
Was it weary-y-y, ‘way down in Goshen?’

The chorus came roaring out and across the street; ceased; and the banjo slid into the next verse.

“‘I wish they wouldn’t,’ said the Bishop, taking the handkerchief from his lips and speaking (as I thought) rather peevishly.

“‘It’s a weariful tune.’

“‘Is it? Now I don’t know anything about music. It’s the words that make me feel wisht.’

“‘And now,’ said I, ‘you’ve eased my soul of the curiosity that has been vexing it for twenty-four hours. Your voice told you were English; but there was something in it besides–something almost rubbed out, if I may say so, by your training for the ministry. I was wondering what part of England you hailed from, and I meant to find out without asking. You’ll observe that as yet I don’t even know your name. But Cornwall’s your birthplace.’

“‘I suppose,’ he answered, smiling, ‘you’ve only heard me called ‘the Bishop.’ Yes, you’re quite right. I come from the north of Cornwall–from Port Isaac; and my name’s Penno–John Penno. I used to be laughed at for it at the Training College, and for my Cornish talk. They said it would be a hindrance to me in the ministry, so I worked hard to overcome it.’