The Minister's Books
by STEPHEN VINCENT BENÉT
1
WHEN young Hugh McRidden was called to the old brick church at Titusville, in the closing years of the past century, he felt that strong, slow leap of the heart which comes to all ambitious young men, no matter what their profession, who see their ambitions in a fair way of being fulfilled. Born in one of those small communities in the West Virginia mountains where the ScotchIrish speech still lingers, almost unaffected by time, he could hardly remember the day when the ministry had not seemed to him the first of callings — and the hopes that had been placed in him made him eager beyond most young men. Tall, lean, and darkly handsome, he carried a fire within him — it had made him the marked man of his time at the seminary — and there was something very appealing about the grave earnestness of his voice. “All fire and bone and sinew,” thought the leading elder, John Waynfleet, as he talked to him. “And those gray-blue eyes would face the Devil himself. We’ve made a good choice, I think —I like spirit in man or minister. Though no doubt he’ll give us something of a shaking up — and all the better. Dear old McCullough was a saint but he let us get rather sleepy, in Titusville. I shan’t take my mid-sermon nap as easily under this young man.”
And indeed, for a time, it seemed as if all John Waynfleet’s prophecies were in excellent train for fulfillment. Titusville was an old town — rather proud of itself and its red-brick pavements, its quiet, long-settled wealth and its fine Pennsylvania cooking. But religiously, as John Waynfleet said, it had grown a little sleepy — and the new broom swept clean. Not only did it do so, but people liked the sweeping, which is a different matter. Dr. McCullough had been a saint and a tradition—but Dr. McCullough, toward the end, had grown very old. The young people came to church now with a willingness they had not shown in Dr. McCullough’s time; the sick and the poor were visited with energy; the young girls, seeing the grave youthful face in the pulpit and hearing the rich voice, musical and sincere, had the thoughts of young girls but with them a sense of the Spirit they could not have explained. All in all, the town was happy in its new minister.
As for Hugh McRidden, he did not think of himself as happy, for that was not what he sought for in life, but he found his days busy and new. More comfortable also — for Titusville was proud of its manse and kept it well. He need no longer deny himself the books he coveted — indeed he had been able to take over all Dr. McCullough’s library as well as most of his furniture at a ridiculous valuation. John Waynfleet was responsible for that, as he was for Mrs. Breek, Hugh McRidden’s housekeeper, though Hugh McRidden did not know it. Mrs. Breek had only one eye but she was an admirable cook, and while Hugh McRidden seldom noticed what he ate, he was better nourished than he had been in years. It did not spoil his ascetic look, though now and then it gave him nightmares.
Church and manse were alike to his mind, the townspeople very friendly though a little foreign in their ways. And yet, sometimes, he felt homesick for the West Virginia mountains in spite of it all, and that puzzled him. The Cumberland hills in the distance were softer and rounder — they were fair in their blue haze, yet he found himself wishing for sharper, clearer outlines, he did not know why. He knew as well as any man that his work was succeeding. And yet, when the first few months had passed, he still did not feel really at home in the town, and there was not the satisfaction in these things that there should be — the satisfaction of work well done. Sometimes he thought, a trifle wearily, that the people of Titusville, despite their civil manners, were like their hills, rounded and soft — yes, terribly soft like their copious feather-beds. At first he put it down to his being a stranger, but the feeling increased instead of diminishing.
2
Sometimes he put the state of his mind down to the reading he did late into the night, and resolved to give it up. And yet it was hard to give up — he had always been starved for books, and Dr. McCullough’s library, while not very modern, was a curiously fascinating one. He would not mean to read, and then he would find himself by his study fire, bright and cheerful, with a book in his hand. He was familiar, of course, with the early persecutions of the church in Scotland; the thing ran in his blood, and sanctified John McRidden had been shot before his own plowstilts by no less a person than bloody Claverhouse himself. Yet, in these old calf-bound books, with their quaint type and browning paper, the scenes and personages of that persecution became singularly alive. They came out of the past as if to a hoarse skirl of pipes — he could see the blood on the heather and hear the wailing of the women. He told himself that profitable and searching examples might be drawn from this early church history —yet that was not the reason he kept on reading.
There were other volumes too, and odder ones — old tomes on witches and witchcraft, from Glanvil to Mather. They were foxed and the bindings worn. Many of them bore a quaint bookplate — a crowded little woodcut of a number of persons in Puritan costume gathered together for prayer or conventicle in an open glade in the forest; below the scene was the motto, “Seek it and ye shall find,” and in one corner the initials of the artist or owner, which seemed to be “ J. v. C.” These had been well read in their time, though not by Dr. McCullough, for the occasional notes in spidery brown ink on the margins were not in his hand.
Hugh McRidden felt a trifle contemptuous of his predecessor — obviously he had bought or inherited the library of some elder divine, set it up on the bookshelves of the manse, and paid little subsequent attention to it, for the books were not in good condition. Such things were done, as he knew — there were booksellers who made a speciality of fitting out clerical libraries. But he was a lover of books and it went against his heart to see them neglected or misused. He repaired a few of the oldest — he was clever with his hands — and gave Mrs. Breek special instructions about dusting in the study. She did not seem to take very kindly to the idea; and, indeed, during the first few days of her ministrations, there was an odd smell in the study whenever he entered — a smell of dust and crumbled leather and something else that he could not quite identify, though it reminded him a trifle of churchyard yew. But it was not an unpleasant smell and he soon became used to it, though he found, after that, that it was hard to keep flowers in the room for longer than a day.
When the winter came, Hugh McRidden noticed a further change. It was not a hard winter — indeed sometimes the lax air made Hugh McRidden long desperately for the clean cold of his mountains. But a green Christmas makes a fat graveyard — and time after time young McRidden was summoned to some old man or old woman’s bedside to put heart into them for the last journey. That is part of any minister’s duty, and he did it well — yet, though death is the joy of the Christian, it has its ugly aspects, and the faces and words of the dying come back to one’s mind. Had he done all that he could for them — had he guided them as he should toward effectual grace? Here and there, there was one who would look at him in a daze; he could not rouse that one to a pressing sense of God’s wrath and love — or so it seemed to him and he reproached himself for it. One even, a stubborn old woman, turned her face to the wall when he began to pray, and said, in a sort of whimper, “I’m wishing it was Dr. McCullough praying for me — there’s a darkness about you, young minister.” Hugh McRidden knew that such talk should not hurt him, yet it did.
He took his difficulties to John Waynfleet and got what was meant to be comfort but did not console him. “ An old town — settled ways — a sickly winter — he was doing as well as man might — the parish believed in him — ”
It was a hard thing for Hugh McRidden to say but he said it.
“Tell me, Elder Waynfleet,” he said, earnestly. “Do I seem changed to you at all?”
“Changed?” said Mr. Waynfleet, slightly puzzled.
“At times I seem changed to myself,” said Hugh McRidden, staring broodingly at the fire. “At times I feel as if what that old woman said were true, that there is a darkness about me. It is not pleasing.”
Mr. Waynfleet took a look at his face, and exerted himself, as he could upon occasion. He made the young man stay to supper and gave him much sound, sensible talk. He did not speak of a wife, though he longed to —but he spoke of the advantages of horse exercise and the dangers of overstudy. He agreed that Dr. McCullough had been little of a reader and must have purchased his library in a lot from some enterprising bookseller, remarking that some of the volumes McRidden described were odd ones for a minister’s shelves. But when McRidden began to talk of the early martyrdoms of the church, and the struggles of the saints against the Accuser of the Brethren, he fell silent and watched his companion keenly. At the end he put in some gentle, sensible words on the general subject of superstition — oddly enough, there had been quite a deal of witch lore in Pennsylvania and ignorant farmers still painted certain signs and marks on their barns against the hex. “But I never saw a witch could so much as sour a cream-pan — though I’ve met some queer cases in my legal experience,” he ended with cheerful scorn.
He spoke with authority, but when Hugh McRidden took his leave he looked after him thoughtfully. “All fire and bone and sinew,” he muttered. “But that’s the difficulty — and a Scotch-Irishman too. I wish I had a niece unmarried — ‘tis not good for man or minister to live alone. I thought he was a liberal, too, but, by my faith, when he talked of the martyrs, his eyes burned like a Covenanter’s. And as for the Accuser of the Brethren — he might have wrestled with him, hand to hand.” He shivered a little and stared about the room. “Now where have I heard of a bookplate like the one he speaks of? There was some story or other —• I wish I could remember it. I must do more for the lad.”
It would have been better for all concerned had Mr. Waynfleet been able to carry out his resolution. But the following day he sickened, and, while the case was not grave, his doctor ordered him off for change of air as soon as he was able to travel. Like most men, he was deeply concerned with his convalescence, and he and Hugh McRidden parted as elder and minister with no further chance of intimate talk.
3
That was a pity indeed, for the very night after he had talked with Mr. Waynfleet the desire to be at his reading again came upon Hugh McRidden with redoubled force. For a while he strove against it consciously — perhaps Mr. Waynfleet was right and he was neglecting his health for his researches. He would walk in the garden till he tired himself and go to bed early. But, when he pulled back the curtain, a chilly rain was falling and the garden looked glum and dismal. He could not stumble around it in the dark, and the study, with its fire, would be so snug and bright. He liked it better than any other room in the house — he could smell its queer smell of leather and dust already. Even as he stood, irresolute, a gust of wind snatched the window shut, and he felt a weight lifted from his mind.
The smell was unusually strong as he entered the study — for a moment he thought of ringing for Mrs. Breek and reproving her for neglecting her duties; then he let it go. He rather liked the smell, and the fire was laid — a good thing, for he felt chill. He lit the fire and pulled up his chair before it. Once or twice, while he watched the flames catch, he looked over his shoulder. Then the fire began to crackle merrily. There was a small brown book on the table beside him — he could not remember taking it from the shelves, yet he must have done so, for Mrs. Breek never touched the books except to dust them. He did not intend to read this evening — he would meditate over his sermon. Yet the only texts that came to him were fearful and gloomy ones—he needed distraction. He opened the small book idly, glanced at its curious title-page and began to read.
Some two hours later he was roused from his fierce concentration of reading by a loud and brawling voice outside. He shook his head impatiently and tried to resume his book, but the song was too loud. It was punctuated by heavy, wavering steps — he could hear them splashing in the puddles of the street. “Oh, I’m a snolleygoster and we’ll all jine the Union!” sang the raucous voice. “The Union forever, hurrah, boys, hurrah!” Hugh McRidden put down his book angrily. He knew well enough who it was — drunken Danny Murphy who lived in the shanty behind the grogshop at the end of town. He had been a good carpenter once and a Civil War hero — now his pension went to the grogshop and he was the town’s disgrace.
“Oh, I’m a snolleygoster—” roared the voice. The wavering steps began to come up the path. “Intolerable,” thought Hugh McRidden and went to the door.
The man was actually mounting the steps of the manse when Hugh McRidden flung the door open. For a moment they stared at each other in the sudden gush of light. The veined and bulbous nose, the slack mouth, the unhallowed white hair — oh yes, it was Danny Murphy, his clothes dripping with rain.
“Bejasus, if I haven’t come to the minister’s!” said Danny Murphy, in a stupefied voice. “Now why did I do that? I’m a snolleygoster if I know!”
Then a gleam of wheedling intelligence lighted the broken face for a moment.
“Ah, minister dear,” said Danny Murphy, in a practiced whine. “Sure it’s a poor man I am and neither bite nor sup in my mouth the livelong day and the shanty destroyed with rain. It was only a dry place to sleep I was searching — and a cup of hot soup maybe — and to dry my clothes, if your reverence’d be so kind —”
“You’re drunk, Daniel Murphy,” said Hugh McRidden distastefully. “Why do you come here? Be off before I call a constable.”
“Oh, it’s that way, is it?” said Danny Murphy, smitten with a sudden truculence. He advanced another step — his hot breath stank in Hugh McRidden’s face. “Not a piece of bread in charity — and ye call yourself a man of the church. But I’ll tell you what sort of minister ye are — and the black curse of Clare upon it! I’ll tell you —”
Then he stared at Hugh McRidden, and beyond him, and the color left his face completely and in a moment. For an instant Hugh McRidden thought the man had died on his feet, and stepped forward to catch him as he fell. But Danny Murphy backed away instead, and there was naked fear in his eyes.
“I beg pardon, your reverence,” he muttered. “I’ll not do it again, your reverence. I did not mean to disturb vour reverence — nor your friends—”
“My friends, fool?” said Hugh McRidden, sharply, but Danny Murphy did not answer the question. He backed down the steps, mumbling that he humbly begged all their pardons, and at the bottom turned, with a hunted look, and fairly took to his heels. Hugh McRidden watched him run — he ran swiftly for a drunken man and yet with a strained anguish of body as if he feared hands on his shoulder. “The wicked flee when no man pursueth,” murmured Hugh McRidden, approvingly. As he shut the door, he heard a shout in which only the word “minister” stood out clearly. Later on, he thought it had been “I wish you luck of your friends, minister,” or “Keep your friends from me, minister,” but which he could not be sure.
Nevertheless, when Danny Murphy came to him the following morning, wan and tremulous with sobriety, to offer his apologies, he accepted them. Indeed, though the man was not of his congregation, he even went so far as to spare him a five-minute discourse on the deep damnation of his drunken ways — a discourse to which Murphy listened with a white-faced, strained attention. Now and then his eyes strayed uneasily over Hugh McRidden’s shoulder but he kept perfectly still. Next day the word went through town that Danny Murphy had taken the pledge for the new minister — and Hugh McRidden won added glory. But, by that time, Hugh McRidden was past caring.
He was past caring because he had read the book. It was a manuscript volume, bound like certain old diaries and written throughout in the spidery copperplate hand with which Hugh McRidden was already familiar. It called itself, soberly, An Examen into the Powers of the Invisible World, and it bore the familiar bookplate — but, as Hugh McRidden read it, the words seemed to enter his veins. The style was entirely lucid and reasonable — he could bring no arguments against it, though he tried. After he had finished it, in the early morning, he felt entirely composed and better than he had in many days. So that was the way things were — it only remained to prove them. He must go and look at a barn or two in the country, when he had the opportunity, and talk to some of the farmers — he knew what the signs and the marks meant now.
Nevertheless, such things are not borne without revulsion, and the next day he found himself praying alone in his church —praying like a frightened child till the tears ran out of his eyes. But that evening he went to his study again and looked at the bookplate under a strong reading glass. It was as he had thought —the figures were gathered together in the grove, but for no innocent or Christian purpose. Under the glass, the faces were extraordinarily lifelike and vivid. As he gazed at them, they seemed to move a little. Then he knew that he was lost, and opened the book anew.
4
The epidemic waned at last; oddly enough with only two deaths, and those long-expected. The town began to think of testimonials, and Mr. Waynfleet at the Springs began to think of coming home. The minister himself looked haggard and worn, as was to be expected, but he preached as powerfully as ever and with a strange fervor that moved his sparse congregation to their marrowbones. So must some of the martyrs of the Covenant have preached among the mists — the men who knew sin like an enemy in their own hearts.
Then he would go back to his study and his lamp burned late there. There were other books beside the Examen — soon he knew them by heart. The first steps in the knowledge were easy — after that they grew more taxing on the strength. He felt a certain contempt for the broomstick rides and hexings of tradition — he had saved the child at death’s door, though they had not asked him in whose name. There must be a price paid for it, of course. Well, let there be a price. He began to understand the fearful joy of the warlocks, who let themselves be put to the question and burned to ashes rather than abandon their power and their sin. Between good and evil there was a deep gulf fixed — there was a fearsome joy in crossing to the other side.
Yet let it be said to his credit that remorse walked with him often — and sometimes at night he would wring his hands in pain. And when the spring began to come, sweet and daunting, the first breaths of air from the garden were almost more than he could bear. And yet, with the coming of the spring, he knew something else must come.
He fought against the knowledge stubbornly — but one may not stand still in these matters. The shadow in the depths of the grove within the bookplate was darker and more tangible each time he viewed it — soon enough he would see the face. When the sun was hot, in May, there would be the meeting of the coven —he did not know where or when, but doubtless he would be shown. But first there must be a sacrifice. And that sacrifice would be the man Daniel Murphy — Hugh McRidden knew it well enough, in spite of his prayers and tears.
On the whole, it speaks well enough for the remnants of his character that it was this soul and no other that he selected. By any rule of life, Danny Murphy was a scoundrel and a wastrel — he had been scared into righteousness for a moment, but, left to himself, he would sink to the gutter again. The world would be well rid of him indeed — and yet it was a fearful thing to contemplate. But there were things more fearful still, and they were becoming impatient — he knew it by the look of the books.
It was the last night of April that he called Dan into his study, having sent Mrs. Breek away. There were glasses and a decanter on the table, and the fire was very bright and clear on the hearth. The old man’s eyes looked longingly at the decanter.
“Come in, Dan, and sit down,” said Hugh McRidden with cheerful heartiness. “There’s something I want to say to you.”
“Your lordship — your reverence, I mean — won’t be entertaining your friends tonight?” said the old man, timidly. “Faith I wouldn’t want to disturb them.”
“Nonsense, Dan,” said McRidden, still cheerfully though with altered color. “Besides, what other friends have I but you?”
“Oh, your reverence has many in the town,” said Danny Murphy. “Well — thank you,” and he sat down on the edge of a chair. He wetted his lips a little, staring at the liquor and the glasses.
“Yes, Dan,” said Hugh McRidden, and his eyes were dark. “It’s for you. You’ve served me well through this epidemic — and I’ve kept you rather strictly. Now you shall have your reward.”
Some time later, Hugh McRidden wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. He felt soiled and sick at heart. The old man was snoring in his chair now — he would not wake for hours, even at the prick of a knife. But it had been a lengthy business, sitting there and watching a man grow maudlin. Danny had been, by turns, boisterous, bellicose, and pathetic — he had told the interminable tale of his bravery at Antietam and wept dishonorable tears for his lost youth. Yes, it had been like watching a soul take on corruption — a soul with not one white spot left upon it—a soul where no grace might grow. Hugh McRidden thought of his own soul and shivered but it was too late to turn back now.
He made his preparations — they took time, and a glass of the liquor in the decanter would have steadied his nerves but he did not take it. He was about to commit a mortal sin but he would not break his rule. When all was ready, he stood and listened the house was entirely quiet, the smell in the study had never been so strong. He picked up the long knife and looked at the sharp blade. It would all be over in a moment he knew just where to strike. Then at last he would see the countenance of the shadow in the grove, not as in a picture but face to face. He wondered, idly, how it would appear. Dark and comely, with the beauty of a ruined angel, or hideous yet compelling?
He picked up the knife with a firm hand and stood in front of his victim. The old man’s head had rolled to one side — that made it easier. Now it rolled back again. The eyes opened and stared Hugh McRidden full in the face. There was no recognition in the eyes but they were full of a lost and hopeless wonder. Somewhere in the wreck of that body, the soul sat prisoner and wondered at being so bound. It could no longer master the body, yet it suffered and endured, with an unbearable patience. They were the eyes of a lost dog or a beaten child. Then the lids closed over them again.
Hugh McRidden heard his knife drop to the floor. Then he sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands. He could hear the old man’s quiet breathing. After a while, he knew what he must do.
5
He wondered at his own steadiness as he got the ladder and fixed the rope to the beam of the ceiling. Perhaps this was what they had meant after all, but he did not care very much. It too was mortal sin, but the better way. Only he must be quick — he knew that he must be quick. Yes, there was a knocking at the front door — he could hear it echo. But he would be off before they came — it would anger them, doubtless. Only he must fix the rope first — there must be no mistake about the rope — and his hands were so clumsy.
“Forgive me, a sinner,” he said and adjusted the noose. The touch of the hemp at his throat was rough and clinging. He could hear someone calling his name in an agitated voice — had it come to that, already? He shut his eyes, his lips moved once more soundlessly. Then the study door was flung open and John Waynfleet burst into the room.
“Thank God!” said John Waynfleet, catching him in his arms. “Thank God, I have come in time!”
“You have come too late. I have met the Accuser of the Brethren and I am his. And yet I meant to hang myself, at the end,” said the miserable young man and burst into tears.
When the noose had been taken from his neck, John Waynfleet got him upstairs to bed. He was very biddable, but started at any slight sound, and it was some time before he sank into a heavy sleep. Then John Waynfleet returned to the study, the key of the minister’s bedroom in his pocket. As he opened the study door, he felt dizzy for a moment. “Pah!” he said, half aloud. “What has happened to the place? It smells like a fox’s earth.” He began to throw up the windows — that helped a little, though his spirits felt uncommonly depressed. He picked up the knife from the floor and shook his head at it. For an instant the thought came to him, queerly, how well and easily the haft would fit in his hand—then he caught himself, sternly. “So that’s the way of it,” he said, and broke the knife, carefully, on the stones of the hearth.
When he had done so, he felt relieved and would have said a prayer, had he been able to think of a fit one. Then his eyes fell upon a small brown book upon the table. He picked it up, his spirits sinking as he did so, and began to examine the bookplate with the minister’s reading glass.
When he put the reading glass down, his face was very white and grave. His hands beat at the air for a moment. “Yes, this is bad work,” he said. But John Waynfleet had never lacked courage and he did not do so now. “Lord, lift this burden from thy servant!” he cried, in a strong voice, and, catching up the book again in a pair of iron tongs, thrust it into the heart of the fire.
There was flame and a roaring noise — and yet to John Waynfleet, when he remembered it, it always seemed more like a flame of shadow than a flame of fire. Certainly there was darkness about it — a darkness that pressed upon the eyeballs. It only lasted for a moment, but when it was done John Waynfleet felt himself panting as if he had run a race. There had been something like the tones of a voice as well — but that he never cared to remember. When he looked once more, the book was red ash and the room much clearer.
“And now, I suppose,” thought John Waynfleet with resignation, “I must get this drunken reprobate of a Danny Murphy back to his kennel before he wakens. Well, well, it has been a strange night. Yet it was Danny who wrote the letter that brought me back here — that may be accounted to him for righteousness — though I could not make head or tail of what he said except that the minister ailed. I must never tell McRidden that — it would break him. Best get the lad to my house.”
He did so, but when the minister was well enough to sit up, Waynfleet found himself obliged to answer questions, much against his will.
“Yes,” he said. “My dear fellow, you are quite sure you are strong enough? Well — the books belonged to a man named Jacobus van Clootz. It was quite a famous case at the time — I have looked it up since, though I do not advise you to read the testimony. Oh yes, he was accused of sorcery and witchcraft — but he disappeared rather strangely during the trial and the body was never found. Before that he had made some sort of incoherent statement that his soul lay in his books and woe be to them that meddled with it — the usual rant. I am telling you this just to show you there is not a word of truth in such tales. His effects were sold at auction — I can only suppose that some cheap-Jack bookseller bought them and, finding them hard to dispose of, let them molder in his cellar for years before he finally foisted them off on Dr. McCullough. McCullough must have had them some forty years — I must say I am very much surprised at him.”
“Forty years!” said Hugh McRidden, with a bleak look. “And they were with me but a few months — and yet — ”
“You must not take it like that,” said John Waynfleet heartily, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Even supposing there could be a grain of sense in such moonshine,
— and as Christians we must disbelieve it,
— well, well, there are men who can walk through pestilence untouched. My father told me of such, in the days of the yellow fever. And others no less honest and honorable, who — ahem — are not so fortunate. Besides, as you know, McCullough was nothing of a reader. I doubt if he so much as took down a volume from one year’s end to another. He was a man of great simplicity of soul. And as for the books themselves — well, they’re burned now, every one of them. I saw to that myself. Indeed, when you return to the manse, you will find it has quite a different atmosphere about it.”
“I shall not return to the manse,” said Hugh McRidden slowly, shaking his head. “I have been greatly ambitious since my youth, Mr. Waynfleet — the core of the matter lies there, you see. Had I thought more of God and less of my own ambition, I would not be as you see me. Now I think I must spend the rest of my life in rooting that ambition out.”
“My dear man,” said Mr. Waynfleet, “I assure you — the best medical opinion — a breakdown from overwork that might happen to anyone — you are young and able — I’ll not hear a word against you —”
“It is not that, though I thank you,” said Hugh McRidden. “What manner of man was this Jacobus van Clootz — an old man, with a barren face, rather pockmarked, and singular, searching eyes?”
“Why, he is so described in the records,” said John Waynfleet, uncomfortably. “But—”
“You see?” said Hugh McRidden. “No, Elder Waynfleet, it is useless. I hope and believe in God’s providence, even for the worst of sinners — but my road lies straight before me, and it is not the road I once thought of.”
So it came about that the young and beloved minister left Titusville, after so short a stay. At the farewell service, his words were few and simple, yet there was a gentleness in them that moved his congregation as no other words of his had done. Later on, they heard from time to time of his work among the obscurer missions — and every word was of praise. The last letter John Waynfleet had from him was dated two weeks before the Army of the East overran and burned his outpost mission, and it contained the sentence, “My dear friend, I think and trust that my penance is at last worked out, for I see the old man no longer. Wish me joy.” And when John Waynfleet, later, read the accounts of that heroic martyrdom, he knew it was with joy and faith that Hugh McRidden had gone to his doom. He muttered a text about another joy promised in the Scriptures, and felt the tears come to his eyes, for he was a very old man.
There have been three ministers in Titusville since — good men, all of them, but Hugh McRidden is a legend. There will never be another like him, say the ladies who were girls in his time — and they used to point to Danny Murphy for a proof. But Danny has some years gone the way of reformed characters and no longer sits in the back pew of the old brick church, attentive and doglike, an example to all the churchgoing. He sleeps well, no doubt, in the churchyard — but no sweeter than Hugh McRidden in the foreign soil that gave him at last the release and peace for which his spirit craved so long.