The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 3 April 1913, Page 5

The Storyteller

JIM

Father Thorne arose from his desk and walked to the study window. A frown of annoyance wrinkled his brow, as he stood gazing into the yard. Patches of dirty snow disfigured tire lawn, and black pools of water lay close to the walk of the adjoining church. The last golden rays of the westering sun tinted the steeple and flung iridescent shafts of light into the murky pools. The watcher paid little heed to his surroundings. His troubled brain was catching at words for an important letter. Returning to his desk, he took up a pen and wrote: ‘ Grayson, N.Y., April—- ‘ The Right Rev. Francis Donan, D.D., ‘ Your Lordship : ’ He poised the pen for a moment, then dashed it aside with a mutter of impatience. Donning his hat and coat, he quit the house. The April air was sharp. A. stiff wind blew across the hill and rattled the naked branches of the trees. An early robin shivered on a waving bough and dared to sing a few notes to the dying day. The scene jarred upon Father Thorne like the clangor of discordant sounds. Turning to his left, he walked slowly along the main street of the village and entered a building serving as general store and post office. The stage had just arrived from the railway station in the valley. The mail was carried behind the desk and the priest decided to wait until it was sorted. He stood near the front window, absently surveying the village green, humorously called Central Park by some of the village wags. His mind thus occupied, he failed to notice the approach of a buggy hitched to a pair of spanking bays, until it drew up in front of the platform, directly in his line of vision. A young man leaped out of the carriage, and entered the building. Seeing Father Thorne, he raised his hat with a cheerful greeting and passed smilingly toward the rear of the store. The newcomer’s appearance aroused the priest’s interest. At a glance he took in a tall, well-propor-tioned, manly fellow, dressed tastily. He was light-’ complexioned, with wavy brown hair, and blue eyes, that danced with merriment and shone with an untold happiness. The refined young man seemed out of place the boxes and barrels of the gloomy old store, and still he was perfectly at home, the moment he entered, bantering and laughing gaily with the loiterers, but never losing his natural dignity. Who and what is he ? Father Thorne mused, watching him intently. The priest was aroused from his reverie by a soft voice calling: Your mail, Father.’ Taking a bundle of letters from the postmistress, he quit the store and walked moodily homewards. The happy, smiling countenance of the young man haunted and mocked him. Could one so educated and refined, ®°. energetic and vigorous, be forever content in this wind-swept, lonely village on the hills ? Father Thorne

shuddered and Turned up the collar of his coat. Instead of entering the rectory, he proceeded slowly up the road, and entered the cemetery that crowned the top of the hill. The scene around him was weird. The sun hung like a red disk over the western peaks, shooting a few feeble beams through the silver mist. To the priest’s right was Grayson, a straggling village that clung tenaciously to the hillside. Red and white farmhouses decked the slopes and lay scattered throughout the surrounding valley. From the centre of the village a white road wound in and out among the woods and gullies, like a great snake, until it ended abruptly as a railway station in the hollow. On his left, midway between the summit and base of the hill, was a quarry. All day long the breaker gtround and dumped heaps of stone into immense buckets. These were carried on a cable to cars waiting in the valley, and then shipped to a nearby city, to be used in making soda, borax, and other household necessities. The loneliness of the village, the barrenness of the hills and valleys, that had just ,cast off their winter shroud, seemed to the watcher the epitome of desolation. He loved the city and its call was in his ears. The flare of the electric lamp, the jangle of cars, the rush of the auto, and the thousand noises that pulse and throb in a city’s bosom, all appealed to him. And then his large congregation of energetic parishionershe had left all to come to this. He had been here but a week, and oh, how he longed to get away ! With a sigh, he turned back to his house. Supper was over, and Jenny, the old housekeeper, entered to clear the table. { Jenny,’ the priest said, standing in the doorway, 1 1 met a young man in the post office to-day. I wonder if you know him?’ Father Thorne gave an accurate description of the person in question. ‘ I think they called him Jim,’ he concluded. Jenny’s face lit up with a knowing smile. ‘lt was Mr. Rockwell. A very fine boy. He and his sister live at Oakdale, the country home of the Rockwells for generations.’ ‘ I wish to meet him and know him better.’ ‘ Call on him, Father. He and his sister would be glad to see you. They are very nice.’ The priest turned into his study and sat at his desk. The letter he had started lay before him, and he resolved in his mind what he was to write his superior. ‘ Your Lordship: ‘ After a week’s residence at Grayson, I find it absolutely impossible to remain longer. Remember, you promised ’ He could get no farther, for a_ feeling of shame at his cowardice .came over him. A low wind moaned through the pines outside his window, and the bright, happy face of the mysterious Jim Rockwell flashed before him. He could write no more that night. Dropping his pen, he took up a book to while away the crawling hours. *’* * * *

One morning, a week later, Father Thorne drove along the road that led northward. Ten minutes passed before he turned into a lane, lined on each side by tall oak trees. He drew up in front of the house and leaped from the carriage. With a cheery welcome a little old man came around from the barn and took charge of the priest’s horse. Father Thorne mounted the broad steps that led to the verandah, but before he could ring the bell, a door swung open. ‘ Good morning, Father,’ a clear voice called. ‘Mr. Rockwell, I presume?’ The two clasped hands. ‘You don’t mind this unsolicited call?’ the priest continued as he followed his host into the hall. ‘ You are a thousand times welcome. I am delighted you came. I heard that a new priest would take charge. I would have called, but I have been away since I saw you in the post office.’ Father Thorne cp,st a quizzical glance at him. Rockwell noticed it and smiled.

‘I am one of your flock, Father.’ He led the priest through the dining-room into - a large sun-parlor that flanked the entire south side of the house. All day long the warm rays from heaven poured through the glass, bathing every nook and corner with their radiance. At present an April sun flooded the room, and fell upon the wan spectre of a once beautiful girl reclining in a steamer chair. In her smouldered nothing more than the cinders of life. On each cheek was the hectic glow of consumption. ‘ Father Thorne, this is my sister, Nellie.’ A hand more like an apparition than human flesh was held to the priest. ‘ We heard of your arrival, Father,’ Miss Rockwell said, ‘ but brother was away. Otherwise he would have called.’ The young man drew up a chair for the priest, then sat beside his sister. ‘ Calling is my duty,’ Father Thorne replied, ‘ but my time has been occupied adjusting the internal affairs of the parish.’ ‘I trust you will like Grayson,’ Miss Rockwell ventured, smiling at him. Unwilling to commit himself, the priest replied, Young Rockwell laughed heartily. ‘ You will become accustomed to our quiet mode of living. Then you will have no desire to leave.’ * ‘ Perhaps,’ Father Thorne said. ‘ Time alone will tell.’ Jim made a quick gesture and said half in earnest, half in humor: Away with your cities and their gay rushing life; their clamor and jangle. In the country man finds peace and rest and quiet; with nature and his God.’ * True, true,’ Father Thorne exclaimed, 1 but I love the whirr of sound and I have found God amid the throngs of bustling humanity.’ ‘ Still,’ continued the young philosopher, ‘ in your modern Babylon deceit stalks the street, and graft stares at you from every corner. All is tinsel and glitter, and the more trappings a man has the farther he thinks he is above his brothers. While here all are on a common ground. You will find nature unalloyed, and perfect tranquillity which is the first step to happiness.’ The visitor looked at brother and sister. Joy akin to perfect bliss shone in Miss Rockwell’s eyes as she gazed fondly at her handsome, exuberant brother. All his words and gestures seemed to thrill her, and his attitude of contentment filled her with a feeling of pleasure she could not conceal. What a truly devoted pair, mused the priest. And in truth they were, for a love akin to the angelic sealed soul to soul. Father Thorne recalled his scattered thoughts to the subject in hand. ‘ You have a grim conception of the city,’ he replied, answering Rockwell’s denunciation. ‘ I never viewed it from that angle. Its din and roar always spoke to me of activity and progress. What you would call a modern Babylon, I would name a mill fed by .human grist, where wheat and chaff are flung in the hopper together. It was my duty to separate the good from the bad ; preserve the former and endeavour to save the latter from the burning.’ The two young people watched him closely, and his eyes glowed as he continued : ‘ Oftentimes, when the hoarse-throated whistles announced the quitting hour, I would mingle with the crowds • surging from shops and factories. Friendly i nods, hostile looks, and suspicious glances met my gaze, i and I would think of the immense amount of work to be done in such a vineyard. Encourage the strong, support the weak, overcome suspicion and crush hostility. There was work, and I loved it,’ Father Thorne’s animated countenance confirmed his words. Rockwell’s brow wrinkled as if with unspoken pain and his eyes were pools of unfathomable trouble. He shot a glance at his sister and the look disappeared. ‘ Well, Father,’ he cried, ‘ when the din lessens and the bird-songs fill your ears, you will never wish to leave us.’

He took his sister’s hand in his. A flush mounted her checks like the maiden blush of spring. Her eyes, swimming with happiness, met her brother’s. And, Jim, you will be Father Thorne’s guide. You know,’ she continued, turning to the priest, ‘ these hills breathe history and the legends of ancient days. Brother knows them all. He will be your guide. I know you will enjoy it.’ The priest smiled vaguely, but his troublesome thoughts he hid in the inmost chamber of his mind. ‘ I will be delighted to explore these hills. It will be a pleasant introduction to Grayson.’ Before the visit ended, the three had become fast friends. As the priest drove over the hills, he could not efface the image of Rockwell and his sister from his memory. r During the following week, Jim Rockwell and Father Thorne were constant companions during their leisure hours. There were fishing trips to the mountain brooks an exploration of Indian Gorge; and journeys to all the historic and legendary spots of which Grayson boasted. On these jaunts the two discussed literature, art, philosophy, or some current topic that vexed society. Thus the rosy days slipped into eternity. Sitting upon the brow of a hill late one afternoon, Rockwell asked his companion : ‘ Do you like Grayson or is the city’s call as strong as ever?’ Father Thorne shot an inquiring glance at him. ‘ A tree deeply rooted is not easily transplanted,’ the priest said, gazing wistfully toward the distant peaks beyond which lay the busy metropolis. The gray mists of the evening clung to the wooded heights and poured into the valley like filmy clouds. The sun struggled vainly to shoot its rays through the vapory blanket and, failing, sank disheartened behind the towering pines. The priest continued speaking, as if to himself. ‘ I was happy in the city because I had plenty of work I liked. My energetic nature will not be contented with Grayson. I have decided to return.’ He smiled knowingly. as he thought of the unfinished letter to his Bishop. ‘ You will like it here,’ Rockwell said enthusiastically, ‘ if you give it a better trial.’ With glowing words he spoke of the' beauties of nature, the happiness, the content to be obtained on these cloud-reaching hills. With a hearty laugh and a wave of his hand the vigorous Rockwell banished fame, ambitions, and the outside world. A chilly evening blast reminded them of the lateness of the hour. They quit the hill; the priest quiet and thoughtful; his younger companion gay and happy. During the succeeding days, thoughts of the unfinished letter sat brooding on Father Thorne’s spirit like an ugly thing of ill omen. He had not seen Rockwell since their conversation on the hill. The priest had been busy unravelling the tangled affairs of the parish and his out-mission. Rumor said that the young man’s sister was in a critical condition. This was denied. In spite of his good intentions, Father Thorne had no chance to call. During this entire morning he had remained faithfully at his desk, working on the parish books. Now he had completed his task. With a sigh he replaced the registers in a safe. ‘ All is settled and everything is in order for some one to step in and take charge. Now for the resignation.’ He took the unfinished letter from beneath his blotter. Coolly and calmly he set about finishing it. ‘Grayson, N.Y., April, ‘The Right Rev. Francis Donan, D.D. ‘ Your Lordship, —At your word I came to Grayson and assumed charge of Our Lady of the Hills. I have straightened the tangled affairs of this parish and, now that I have completed the work, I find it impossible to remain longer. I sigh for the city; for a larger field of activity. You promised me a change if this proved unsatisfactory. I find it so and anxiously await my removal. —I remain, ‘ Your humble servant in Christ, ‘James Thorne.’

The priest read the letter slowly with grim satisfaction, then, placed it on the desk. The sharp screech of a whistle from the quarry announced the noon hour. From the hillside came a deep muffled rumble. Blasting was going on while the quarrymen were at dinner. The sound echoed and re-echoed from the slopes • and then died away on the distant peaks. Father Thorne mused on while a bluebird whistled outside his window. Suddenly his body became tense and he listened then leaped to his feet as rapid footfalls sounded on the walk and mounted the porch. • He was at the door in an instant, flinging it open to face a dust-stained workman. ‘ You’re wanted at the quarry, Father,’ he panted, ‘ a man hurt while blasting. I guess he’s a goner.’ Delaying for a moment to secure his oil-stocks, the priest hurried over the hill after the man. His guide was telling him the story of the accident in broken sentences. Not realising the time when the dynamite would explode, the poor fellow had lingered too near. The shock hurled him to the ground and crushed him with debris. ‘He needs you, Father; he’s sure a bad one,’ he ended with a pant. They bounded down the slope and made for the engine shanty. A crowd had gathered near the door, but fell back when Father Thorne arrived. Some saluted him ; others gazed at him gloweriugly ; while one grunted : ‘ All this priest-fuss for a dirty wop.’ The remark struck the priest like a knife-thrust. He deigned not to hear it and stalked into the shanty. On a heap of bags in a corner lay a crumpled, bloodstained man. A smile contorted his face when his eyes rested on the priest. With a feeble cry his eager hands reached toward Father Thorne. The priest was down beside him, and the burden of ten years’ sin and sorrow was lifted from his soul, as self-accusations issiu cl from his lips. The priest administered the last rites of the Church and bent over the penitent with prayers and words of consolation. Suddenly the mangled quarryman sat up, opened his mouth, and the death-rattle gurgled in his throat. He extended his arms, opened his hands, and clutched convulsively at the air, then collapsed upon the bags. He was dead. The priest arose from his knees and stepped back to gaze at the inanimate form. A shaft of light from the open door fell upon the upturned countenance of the dead man. An ineffable smile lingered upon the lacerated face and parted the lips stained with quarry dust. The eyes were open, surprised at having looked beyond the grave into the face of eternity. Father Thorne quit the shanty and walked over the hill slowly and solemnly, the death-scene still before him. His little glimpse into the lives of these men aroused in him a desire to go among them and know them better. ‘ There is work for me here,’ he mused. ‘ These men must be properly watched and tended, for temptation is the same in Grayson as in the smoky cities. I sigh for work; to be up and doing. But am I not selfish when I desire the' activity that will bring me before the eyes of the world? Here is work without fanfare or blare of trumpets ; why not accept it ?’ He. followed the path that led over the hill and dipped into the gully behind the quarry. Coming to the summit, he stopped near a clump of trees and listened intently. A long-drawn out moan reached his ears, as of one in agony. He waited, but the sound was not repeated. Then he stepped forward cautiously. Father Thorne peered between the trees, then caught his breath sharply. In front of him he discerned a man seated upon a log. His elbows rested upon his knees and he nursed his head in his hands. Across his lap lay a surveyor s transit. His bent figure was a picture of abject misery and there was the heave of a stifled sob in his shoulders. No wonder the priest was surprised. It was Jim Rockwell. Father Thorne s hand fell upon the drooped shoulders. Rockwell jerked himself up, started. ‘ Jim !’ ‘ Father!’

‘ What is the matter? Your sister, is she— ?’ ‘ No, she is not dead,’ Rockwell returned, rising to his feet. He leaned wearily against a. nearby tree. The priest’s hand was still upon his shoulder. ‘What is it, Jim? Perhaps I can do something for you.’ Rockwell shook his head feebly, and the ghost of a smile flickered across his face. ‘ You wonder why one so gay and light-hearted can come to this ? Sometimes lam a hypocrite, for often my smiles are false and my gaiety a sham.’ The priest waited patiently, just a. little astonished. Rockwell continued : ‘ I sometimes hate this place and pant for the great world beyond, where lies work and fame.’ ‘ But— ’ cried Father Thorne. The younger man waved him into silence. ‘ The stuff I, told you was put on. I act the contented country gentleman for my sister’s sake.’ A little light was breaking upon the priest, but the problem was still hazy. Rockwell turned upon him and cried vehemently. ‘Have you ever burned with zeal, desires, ambition to do something big, noble, great for yourself and your fellows? Did the temptress, Success, ever hold the shining goblet to your lips ? And did you ever spurn it and not feel remorse? I rejected all and I sometimes suffer.’ Then he proceeded more calmly. When I graduated from college I toox a .civil engineering course at a technical school in Boston. I had great hopes for the future, and I felt that my dreams would soon be realised. Upon graduation a prominent position would be given me, and from this place I would rapidly spring to the top. During my last year at the ‘ Teck.’ school, I was called to the bedside of my dying mother. With her expiring breath she made me promise I would never leave my sick sister. This I did readily, and my mother died content. ‘ All was lost. My castles came crashing about my ears. When I graduated, I did not accept the position, for I could not take my sister with me. Removal from these hills would kill her in six months. I could not and would not abandon her. So I gave up all, and here I have lived for five years.’ Father Thorne’s heart leaped with a happy thrill of admiration for this young man.' What a noble sacrifice? How could he do more in this world, for was not this greater than fame, ambition, and success ? The silence of the woods seemed to breathe an impressive answer. Rockwell’s voice aroused the priest. ‘Nellie realised what I had given up, but I love her so much I cannot let her see that I suffer sometimes. That is why I try to be happy, gay, light-hearted, to fill the last days of her life with sunshine. When I feel sad, like to-day, I come to the hills with my transit and spend a few hours surveying. Then Nellie’s, love always fills the void left by the flight of ambition and success. Again comes the thought, is it not sinful to waste my talents; throw away my education, loitering among these hills?’ b The priest shook his head slowly. ‘You spoke of success, doing something great for your fellow beings. Have you not succeeded in filling one life with joy ? Have you not done marvellous things for one of your fellows, the nearest and dearest to you on earth? _ What is that if not ambition fulfilled, success attained, and noble deeds done?’ Yes, cried Jim Rockwell, his old voice and manner returning, ‘Milton’s words on his blindness always console me. You remember them: ‘ “God doth not need Either man’s work, or His own gifts: who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed And post o’er land and ocean without rest : They also serve who only stand and wait.’” The words died away like a solemn benediction. Rockwell’s countentnce was lit with smiles when he faced Father Thorne. Their hands met in a firm knowing grasp, and their eyes read the secret of each other’s actions. It was contained in the word * sacrifice.’

Swinging hia transit over his shoulder, Rockwell stalked across the ; field whistling. Father Thorne walked home, slowly deliberating, like a man with a settled determination. Entering his study, he went to the desk and took up his letter of resignation to his Bishop. The faces of the dead quarryman and Jim Rockwell flashed before his eyes, and he slowly tore the letter into bits and cast them into the waste-basket.— Rosary Magazine.