Solomon Part 17

'"The truth is simply this, Mitch.e.l.l," continued the Doctor, quietly.

"We herewith give you up our Lady,--ours no longer; for she has just confessed, openly confessed, that she loves you."

'Mitch.e.l.l started back. "Loves me!"

'"Yes."

'Black Andy felt the blade of his knife. "He'll never have her alive,"

he muttered.

'"But," said Mitch.e.l.l, bluntly confronting the Doctor, "I don't want her."

'"You don't want her?"

'"I don't love her."

'"You don't love her?"

'"Not in the least," he replied, growing angry, perhaps at himself.

"What is she to me? Nothing. A very good missionary, no doubt; but _I_ don't fancy woman-preachers. You may remember that _I_ never gave in to her influence; _I_ was never under her thumb. _I_ was the only man in Little Fishing who cared nothing for her!"

'And that is the secret of _her_ liking,' murmured the Doctor. 'O woman!

woman! the same the world over!'

'In the mean time the crowd had stood stupefied.

'"He does not love her!" they said to each other; "he does not want her!"

'Andy's black eyes gleamed with joy; he swung himself up on to the platform. Mitch.e.l.l stood there with face dark and disturbed, but he did not flinch. Whatever his faults, he was no hypocrite. 'I must leave this to-night,' he said to himself, and turned to go. But quick as a flash our Lady sprang from her knees and threw herself at his feet. 'You are going,' she cried. 'I heard what you said,--you do not love me! But take me with you! Let me be your servant--your slave--anything--anything, so that I am not parted from you, my lord and master, my only, only love!'

'She clasped his ankles with her thin, white hands, and laid her face on his dusty shoes.

'The whole audience stood dumb before this manifestation of a great love. Enraged, bitter, jealous as was each heart, there was not a man but would at that moment have sacrificed his own love that she might be blessed. Even Mitch.e.l.l, in one of those rare spirit-flashes when the soul is shown bare in the lightning, asked himself, 'Can I not love her?

But the soul answered, 'No.' He stooped, unclasped the clinging hands, and turned resolutely away.'

'"You are a fool," said the Doctor. 'No other woman will ever love you as she does.'

'"I know it," replied Mitch.e.l.l.

'He stepped down from the platform and crossed the church, the silent crowd making a way for him as he pa.s.sed along; he went out in the sunshine, through the village, down towards the beach,--they saw him no more.

'The Lady had fainted. The men bore her back to the lodge and tended her with gentle care one week,--two weeks,--three weeks. Then she died.

'They were all around her; she smiled upon them all, and called them all by name, bidding them farewell. 'Forgive me,' she whispered to the Doctor. The Nightingale sang a hymn, sang as he had never sung before.

Black Andy knelt at her feet. For some minutes she lay scarcely breathing; then suddenly she opened her fading eyes. 'Friends,' she murmured, 'I am well punished. I thought myself holy,--I held myself above my kind,--but G.o.d has shown me I am the weakest of them all.'

'The next moment she was gone.

'The men buried her with tender hands. Then in a kind of blind fury against Fate, they tore down her empty lodge and destroyed its every fragment; in their grim determination they even smoothed over the ground and planted shrubs and bushes, so that the very location might be lost.

But they did not stay to see the change. In a month the camp broke up of itself, the town was abandoned, and the island deserted for good and all; I doubt whether any of the men ever came back or even stopped when pa.s.sing by. Probably I am the only one. Thirty years ago,--thirty years ago!'

'That Mitch.e.l.l was a great fool,' I said, after a long pause. 'The Doctor was worth twenty of him; for that matter, so was Black Andy. I only hope the fellow was well punished for his stupidity.'

'He was.'

'O, you kept track of him, did you?'

'Yes. He went back into the world, and the woman he loved repulsed him a second time, and with even more scorn than before.'

'Served him right.'

'Perhaps so; but after all, what could he do? Love is not made to order.

He loved one, not the other; that was his crime. Yet,--so strange a creature is man,--he came back after thirty years, just to see our Lady's grave.'

'What! Are you--'

'I am Mitch.e.l.l,--Reuben Mitch.e.l.l.'

MACARIUS THE MONK.

BY JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

In the old days, while yet the church was young, And men believed that praise of G.o.d was sung In curbing self as well as singing psalms, There lived a monk, Macarius by name, A holy man, to whom the faithful came With hungry hearts to hear the wonderous Word.

In sight of gushing springs and sheltering palms, He lived upon the desert: from the marsh He drank the brackish water, and his food Was dates and roots,--and all his rule was harsh, For pampered flesh in those days warred with good,

From those who came in scores a few there were Who feared the devil more than fast and prayer, And these remained and took the hermit's vow.

A dozen saints there grew to be; and now Macarius, happy, lived in larger care.

He taught his brethren all the lore he knew, And as they learned, his pious rigors grew.

His whole intent was on the spirit's goal: He taught them silence--words disturb the soul; He warned of joys, and bade them pray for sorrow, And be prepared to-day for death to-morrow; To know that human life alone was given To test the souls of those who merit heaven; He bade the twelve in all things be as brothers, And die to self, to live and work for others.

"For so," he said, "we save our love and labors, And each one gives his own and takes his neighbor's."

Thus long he taught, and while they silent heard, He prayed for fruitful soil to hold the word.

One day, beside the marsh they labored long,-- For worldly work makes sweeter sacred song,-- And when the cruel sun made hot the sand, And Afric's gnats the sweltering face and hand Tormenting stung, a pa.s.sing traveller stood And watched the workers by the reeking flood.

Macarius, nigh, with heat and toil was faint; The traveller saw, and to the suffering saint A bunch of luscious grapes in pity threw.

Most sweet and fresh and fair they were to view, A generous cl.u.s.ter, bursting-rich with wine.

Macarius longed to taste. "The fruit is mine,"

He said, and sighed; "but I, who daily teach, Feel now the bond to practice as I preach."

He gave the cl.u.s.ter to the nearest one, And with his heavy toil went patient on.

As one athirst will greet a flowing brim, The tempting fruit made moist the mouth of him Who took the gift; but in the yearning eye Rose brighter light: to one whose lip was dry He gave the grapes, and bent him to his spade.

And he who took, unknown to any other, The sweet refreshment handed to a brother.

And so, from each to each, till round was made The circuit wholly--when the grapes at last, Untouched and tempting, to Macarius pa.s.sed.

"Now G.o.d be thanked!" he cried, and ceased to toil; "The seed was good, but better was the soil.