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SYLVESTERS CONFESSION,
%? Cirrus Towns en cl ‘Brady^
ID I ever tell yotf of tlie most memor
able visit to Arapahoe?" asked the
bishop, looking up from the magazine
with which he had beguiled the last
■ hour of the journey.
) "No,” I replied, "that was before my time, I believe.
I was a newcomer in the diocese, comparatively speak
ing.”
'• “Yes,” answered the bishop. “Something in this
paper recalled it to me. This notice of the Irving-
Terry performance of Macbeth in New York with the
pictures, you know,” he added, handing me the' book.
“What connection is there, bishop, between -your
most memorable visit to Arapahoe and the Irving-
Tcrry performance of Macbeth?"
"Not any,” said the bishop, "except that it reminded
me of another theatrical performance which I attended
in Arapahoe. I am not one of those clergymen who
join in the clerical hue and cry against theaters,” he
continued reflectively. "In fact, I think the theater
may be a means of grace and that a good play is up
lifting and elevating."
' 'religious party* of the town, which I am happy to say
turned out to be in a considerable majority, the con
gregation, or the opposition, was forced to leave its
guns with the ushers, and we got through all right.
They used to say it was Sunday only when the bishop
came around. But I have changed all that," continued
the old pioneer, as a quiet smile of satisfaction over
spread his face.
“But about the theater, bishop?”
“I'm coming to that. I became so popular, in fact,
that there was not a ‘show’ that could rival the church,
• so the boys put it. On church nights, which were only
once .every three months—and perhaps that accounts
for their popularity—everything else shut up shop and
the services were crowded. I always preached to them
the very best I knew how. I remember one of the ex
pressions of appreciation of tny efforts which came
from the city marshal.
“‘Wot we like about you, Right Reverend,' he said,
using the quaint form of address, ‘is that you don't
never play jour congregation fer a fool, w’icli we may
. be but we don’t like to be told of it. You alius seems
to give the best you kin to us, the best you got in the
deck,’ he added, j
barrier between them quite perceptible to a close
observer, and both appeared to be supremely miser
able. My loquacious friend, the manager, conlidcd
to me that Mr. Montague, ‘which his real name is
Henry Pearce and lie is. a young man of very re
spectable family, is in love with Miss Sylvester, which
her real name is Mary Bates, and it’s her as is
talked about for something or other, the rights of
which I don’t know, but I stake my life on her honor
and honesty.' —
“She looked like an honest girl, and I would have
backed up the manager’s confidence myself. Well, the
day dragged along somehow. A funny little thing
happened at Sewaygo, where we ate. By this time
I was one of .the party, and dined at the same table
with the rest of them at the railroad eating house.
I finished my meal before the others, rose, walked
over to the cashier's desk and banded him a ten-
dollar bill. You know I wasn’t very strong on cleri
cal costumes in that day, and 1 was dressed in an
ordinary business suit very dusty and much the worse
for wear., As the cashier took the bill I was aston
ished to have him ask, ‘Are you payin’ for yourself
alone, or for your whole party, sir?’ In the eyes
of the cashier I was the manager of the party, so
much for tny episcopal air and authority!
“A few miles from Arapahoe the manager of the
local Opera House, who was also the Warden of the
Mission and the City Marshal, boarded the train in
great perturbation. He was iit hard luck, for it was
church night, and he told tnc the manager of the tra-
(J'AND YOU WILL TAKE ME AS I AM,” SUE CRIED, “YOU WILL EORGIVE ME AND LOVE ME IN SPITE OP—" '
“Do you speak from experietiee?” I asked,
“Well, no, that is, not exactly. Of course, when I
was a young man I remember going to theaters more
or less, but since 1 have been ordained I think I have
only been twice. Once when I was taken by my host
and hostess in New York to see. this Irving-Tcrry
performance a few years ago, and the other time at
Arapahoe. But these two visits convinced me that
the theater can sometimes teach a needed lesson.”
“Arapahoe,” continued the old man—and now that
I had him fairly started I breathed softly so as,not to
interrupt him or check the current of his‘ thoughts,
hoping that I should get one of the stories we young
sters prized so much from this veteran—“Arapahoe
uied to-be one of tlie toughest places on the border.
When I flrst decided to start services there I wrote
to tffl only man in the town whose name I knew, and
announced my intention. He said I could come along
and that they would fix things up for me in good shape.
! The railroad wasn't built there in those days, and the
' last thirty miles of the journey had to be made by
wagon over the trail. I was astonished when I reached
the station to find some twenty-five or thirty horse
men portentoujly armed and picturesquely costumed
gathered about the wagon which had been provided
for me, who declared that they constituted themselvea
toy escort.
“I learned tn route from ray communicative friend
wl.o Trove the wagon, that there was some little an-'
tagonism to holding religious services in the town;
and. :.s the opposition had organised, a church party
HI ’"n gathered together to see fiir play and, as
they p!:ra«cd it, They wasn't goin' to see no shootln 9
<1 • minister les'n they c*d take a hand l*
You * ,v r nglr.e." continued the bishop, smiling at
the “rr, i, M tn«t I did not feel very comfortable
ev» n *a i rn I ! rd at my stalwart defenders. How
ever, in accordance with regulation! prescribed bv th*
“Well, that being the case in Arapahoe, you can
Imagine that the managers of various wandering the
atrical enterprises as were likely to visit such places,
were careful to avoid church nights. One day, how
ever, on this very railroad, after it was built into the,
town, I fell in with a traveling theatrical company
headed for Arapahoe. I made friends with them, of
course. They seemed to be respectable people enough.
The manager, a veteran player, assured me, ‘I don't
allow any immoral plays in my show. We're poor
and have to do bum towns'—I’m trying to quote his
elegant phrases—'but I try to be respectable, myself,
and to have everybody in my company dcccnt-likc.'
He “confided to me in secret that there was only one
member of his present troupe about whom people
talked, and he assured me that he didn't believe what
was said about her.
"I made the acquaintance of all of them, and they
talked freely to me about their experiences and ad
ventures, and certainly they had a difficult life and a
hard one.'*
“Almost as hard as being, a peripatetic missionary?* 9
I suggested.
*'01i, much harder than that,* 9 said the bishop cheer
fully, “I enjoy that, so far as I am concerned; but
the two who interested me most were a young man
whose name was Victor Montague—at least that was
his theatrical name—and a young woman who was
Introduced to me as Miss Ca riot fa Sylvester. She
had been a charmingly pretty girl, although she looked
tired, and faded, ana somewhat haggard, as if there
Was something on her mind which preyed upon her
and rendered her life miserable. It appeared to me
that Mr. Montague was very much in love with Mils
Sylvester, and by ill the signs—and you know I am
a past master in such affairs," laughed the old man,
“for 1 have had so many young couples on my hands
.U rmpru'.rfti <i M* Uu.it,-, Ut li.wc vw» a
veling company, that he and hU troupe would have
no show against the bishop, that ho had tried to
head them olT but had failed to do so, and he did
not know what to do. The two consulted in the end
of the car and finally came back to where I sat.
“‘Right Reverend,* said the warden, ‘wc’rc up agin
It hard. You know, bein’ a religious an’ a law-abidin*
town wc alius gives the church a hearty support, an*
there ain't nothin’ an* nobody as is more welcome in
these ycre parts than you be. We shuts down the
saloons, w’ich the barkccps says they wants to go to
church as much as anybody. It*s alius Sunday when
you comes around. Rut wc’vc made a mistake in
the dates somehow or n’other, an’ we’ve got a show
billed fer to-night Now this ycre man,’ pointing to
the manager, ‘sez you've been speakin’ to him durin*
the day an’ he see you've been treatin' him w’ite, w’ich
you alius docs everybody, I told him. lie's down on
his luck, he sez, w’ich he's been in breakdowns, an*
wrecks, an' washouts an* lias had poor houses, an*
mobs, an’ now he's run up agin the church. He
wants to make a proposition to you, an' I’ve told
him you’d deal fair with him if any man would.*
“'Mr. Bishop,' said the manager, 'what he says is
all true. Wc’vc had a terrible time. This is the last*
of our season, the company is goin' to disband as
soon as it gets hack to Kansas City, an* if I don't get
some receipts to-night and to-morrow—bein' as to
morrow's Saturday, we’re goin’ to have a matinee—
—I don’t sec how I can pay the salaries to those
poor people that's due them, or get them back to
civilization. We’re goin* to Rive a clean, moral show.
No Uncle-Tom's-Cabin affair, doctor, but it's re
spectable an' anyone can see It with pleasure. We
near from Bill here that there ain’t no show for us
in Arapahoe unless you help us out. What I pro
pose is this. If you’ll have your show—I mean your
•artiu*—* little earlier, well have our services—I
mean our show—a little late. Say you have your'n
at quarter past seven, an we'll have our’n at quarter
to nine. And we’ll do more than that,’ he added
hastily, lest 1 should decide before 1 had heard all
that he had to offer. 'We’ll all come to your sho—
services 1 mean—if you coinc to ours, and we'll give
you a part of the proceeds to-night to help the church.'"
“What did you do, bishop?" I asked.
“Well,” answered the old man, “I promptly accepted
two propositions and rejected the third.
“I said that I wouldn’t take any of their money.
From the looks of things they needed it ail. and my
friends in Arapahoe were so generous that the church
ill that particular section lacked nothing. The church
in Arapahoe lias always been more or less unique,
you see. I think that one reason 1 deeided so
promptly was because I intercepted an appealing
glance, a piteously appealing glance, I might say, from
Miss Sylvester when she heard the proposition. She
came to me after the two managers had retired to
discuss their • arrangements and clasped my hand im
pulsively.
“‘Oh!’ she said, T ain so glad you arc going to
have church. 1 haven't been to church for years, it
seems to me, and you have been so kind to us and
have treated us so much like rc—respectable people,
that I wanted to go to your services so much to
night.*
" ‘I am very glad,' I replied, 'that you arc to have
the opportunity.’
“About this time the train pulled into the station,
and the townspeople, informed of the change in the
hour of services and delighted at the prospect o! a
•double treat, or as they phrased it, Two shows in one
evenin’,* immediately busied themselves in spreading
tlie news throughout tlie settlement. The place was
smaller in those days than it is now, and it was not
difficult to advise everyone.
“I had, of course, a lot of sermons with me— in
my head, that is; you know the first thing you learn
in the West is to ‘shoot without a rest,’ so they say,
which is their euphemism for preaching without notes
—and I had previously selected a theme for the evening,
but something, I did not know what, unless it were
Providence, turned my thoughts in another direction
and I chose that text of Scripture. ‘Neither do I :
condemn tlicc: go, and sin no more.’ And I deter
mined to preach upon forgiveness, as exemplified in
that exquisite incident cited hy St. John, as the very
first lesson in Christian practise.
“You see, the first thing a man expects is forgive
ness, although it is usually the last thing he wishes
to bestow. There has been much discussion about
that chapter,” said the bishop, “and it is believed, you
know, to be an interpolation, but whether it is or not,
I, for one, am convinced that it represents a true
incident, and I bless the interpolator, whoever lie may
have been.
“There was something in the girl, Miss Sylvester,
to call her by her stage name, which kept recurring
to me when I thought over the points of the sermon.
Not that she looked bad, only troubled. Beneath her
indifferent hardness, or her forced pleasantry, there,
was an undercurrent of agony, such ns only comcj
from great sorrow, and too often in a woman’s case,
the sorrow is based upon—well, at any rate, 1 thought
hard over the sermon, and when the services canid/
off I think I never prcachbd better in my.life.
“The thoughts were very old, as the story itself
is old, but 1 pointed out in a way Which was told me t
afterward was very convincing, the duty of forgive-!
ness and how Jesus Himself, in touch with the gross
est sort of aberration, forgave it.
“The theatrical people were all there, although to
keep his promise the manager had been compelled to
po without his supper, he had been so busy arrang- •
’nig for the performance. The most interested listener
in the congregation crowded into the saloon-church
was the young woman. On the other side of the room
from her Mr. Montague followed the sermon with
scarcely less eagerness. You know, when you arc
preaching, sometimes without volition you direct your
arguments to one or two in the congregation, and my
appeals and exhortations seemed to be aimed straight
at those two young persons.
“Well, after the services, I went to the* play, ns
I had promised, and the whole congregation did like
wise, for the manager had kept his promise faithfully.
As I remember, it was rather a poor play, but very
respectable.”
“Miss Sylvester played the leading part, and though
I suppose, ordinarily she would bo considered an in
different actress, yet when she confessed the past, in
which she had been more sinned against than sinning,
and the hero of the play, depicted by Mr. Montague,
Bave her up, her acting was a marvelous surprise,
So real and natural did it seem that I almost felt that
they were not playing parts hut speaking the truth
there on that stage. T here was such agony, such
lieartrcnding app«al to her lover for mercy, in the
woman's voice tha’t it did not sceni possible that he
could reject her even on the stage. The Opera House
rang with applause, and there were tears in many a
Tough cowboy's eyes when the girl died, still begging
for forgiveness.
“I was thinking sadly over the whole situation, and
the face and voice of the girl fairly daunted me. My
reverie was broken by a tap on the door. When [
epened it Mr. Montague came in. He was very much
perturbed and without any preliminaries burst out
that he had come to sec me on a very important matter.
“He told me in the most direct fashion that he
wildly loved Miss Sylvester; that he had seen her
^ in the little town in which lie lived a few months
rc; that lie had been so infatuated with her that
he had given up his business-—he was a lawyer—had
followed her and had finally been engaged in the com-
l» intentions were of the most honorable char
acter. He wanted to marry her am! take her away
from the. life she was leading. He had some little
property of his own, was a college man, learned in
the law, and had no fear but that he could support
her comfortably. Latterly he had heard rumors. He
had received an anonymous letter, and though he be
lieved her as sweet and pure a woman as ever lived,
yet stories of so circumstantial a character had been
brought to him, with little corroborative evidences,
Jhat he did not know what to do. He was in a state
of perfect despair.
“'Have you spoken to her of these stories,’ I
asked.
“'No/ he replied.
“'Or shown her the letters?*
"'No, I couldn't. They’d insult any honest woman.
Now, bishop,’ he continued, 'I’ve come to you for
advice. 1 never heard a sermon like that you preached
this evening. It was in my mind all through the
play. Did you notice the earnestness with which
Miss Sylvester played her part? We have acted in
that piece a number of times, and never before has
she impressed me as she did then. It was almost as
If she were really pleading for forgiveness. I love
her more than life itself, and yet there are some
things—suppose It's true? Can I forgive her? What
shall T doV
“We were Interrupted just here by the sotnd of
footsteps in the hall. Outside the door I heard the
clerk say, 'There is the bishop's office, Miss Sylvester.
I’ve no doubt he will he glad to see you.'
“There was no other exit from the room save the
door leading into the bedroom. As Miss Sylvester
approached-the parlor door 1 motioned to Mr. Mon
tague/ who immediately went in to the bedroom and
closed the door. .
"It was the woman’s side of the situation.' Mi*.
Montague loved her and she returned his affection,
but she had refused to become his wife. She had
even prevented him from declaring himself so far
as w as in her power because—ah, here was the reason I
The story was a tad but not an unusual one.
"She had lived in St. Louis, the only daughter of
two worthy parents, who had stinted themselves to
give her ail education. She had fallen in love with a
mail, whose character and, reputation did not commend
themselves to tlie judgment of those, older than she,
whp loved her, and in defiance of parental opposition,
she had made a runaway marriage. It was not long
before life became unendurable; she was yoked with
one utterly unworthy, and, the glamour passing /com
her eyes, she saw nothing but misery ahead. Of
course, the parting came; the old people had died,
broken-hearted by her conduct she believed, and she
was absolutely alone.
"Chance, to make a long story short, threw her Into
the company of the good people with whom she was
acting. She had a pretty little turn for elocution, and
she had supported herself, wretchedly and meagerly
enough,'under her assumed name for the past two
years, by acting. She had struggled against her af
fection for Mr. Montague. She considered herself
no fit wife for him or any man, but my sermpp^had
put a new idea in her mind. Might there not lie for
giveness for such as she? God would forgive- her.
Would man? In the play he would not. Which was
true and which was false? Love divine could make
excuse, would love human?
“‘You saw me act to-night, bishop. I never played t
like that before. I was myself on that stage, confess- ’
ing and pleading for forgiveness—which he would net-
grant.’
“ ‘My child,' 1 said, 'it seems to me that while you
have done grievously wrong in running awuy- from--
home and wilfully disregarding the appeals and com
mands of those who loved you, and whose judgment
you were hound to respect, and have broken the Com
mandment that says, 'Honor thy father and mother,'
yet you have been more sinned against than sinning.
I sec nothing, since you arc so repentant, whicn
•would prevent vou from being the wife of any honest
man who loved you, if you loved him. The man you
married, where is lie?.'
.“'Dead, she flashed out through her tears.
“‘Go to Mr. Montague,' I replied promptly, 'tell him
the whote truth and let him decide.'
“‘I can’t!’ she wailed. Tic respects me now. He
loves me. I’m afraid to put him to the touch. I'm
afraid to confess and let him decide. ’Twould kill me
to lose that affection. Indeed, l could not bear to
have him fall below the standard I have set* for him
in my heart, and if he doesn’t forgive, if he cease*
to love me, I shall die. I’ve dost faith once in hu
manity and have only slowly recovered it. If I lose
it again 1 shall lose faith in God/
“There was much that was true In he/rwords, I
thought, said the bishop, digressing for the moment,
“/or our faith in God depends upon our faith 111 man
to a greater extent than wc dream of.
'"You need not confess anything,’ at that moment
exclaimed Mr. Montague, who had opened the door
and entered the room.
“'What!’ cried the girl, springing to her feet in
pitedus dismay. 'Were you there? Did you hear?*
“'I did everything.’
“'And you, sir!’ turning fiercely on me, ‘were you
a party to this deception? Did you allow me to tell
you the most secret thoughts of my heart in confes
sion with that door open so that he, of all men, could
hear?’
“‘The bishop is entirely innocent,’* returned Mon
tague promptly stepping nearer to her. 'He saw* me
close the door. 1 opened it again on my own account.
You were neither of you looking that way, and neither
of you noticed. It wasn't the right thing to do, I’ll
admit, blit I love you, and I love you more than ever
now. I intended to-night after what I had said to
the bishop, and what he preached about forgiveness
to us, and the phy, you knovy, to have told you not
to confess anything to me, for there was nothing I ;
could not and would not forgive, if you loved me
and were free to marry me. I am sorry I didn’t say
it before I heard you say that you had suffered sp
severely, and how you had been wronged. ^Now-ltJiu
_I who should plead forgiveness, for having doubted
"you for a single moment. Don’t shrink awajr TrflWt ‘
me. 1 love you more and more, and if you give me
a chance to lead you back to happiness and restore
yoifr lost faith in humanity, I will undertake the task '
so gladly that I will bless you forever for the op-
portunity.’
" 'And you will take me as I am,” she cried. jYou
will forgive me and love me in spite of—'
"Tn spite of, nay, because of, everything,' he cried.
“They had entirely forgotten me,” laughed the
bishop, “and it was almost like a scene from the play
wc had just witnessed. Perhaps because they were
players there was a little touch of the theatrical abott’
them, for he knelt at her feet, clutching a fold of her
dress as he pleaded with her. When she yielded to
his importunities, as what woman could have resisted,
she put both hands upon his shoulders and bent aiK
kissed him.
"'It is I,’ she said, 'who should kneel at your feet,
not you at mine.' , .
“Then* I coughed violently to remind them that l
was there. Hand in hand they came to me.
“'Oli, bishop! cried the girl, 'I’m so glad you came.
You have been to us like an angel from Heaven.*
‘"My services arc not ended, I trust/ I suggested.
'"No/ said the young man promptly. ‘When shal
it be?’ lie continued, turning to the girl.
“‘Whenever you like,' she answered frankly, ‘there
is no one to consult and nothing to hinder, if you art
litre—’
'"I'm very sure.*
"'Then let it be— 9
'"Tim evening?’ he cried impulsively.
“‘No,’ she answered smiling, and her face wa
fairly transformed by the happiness of the new sltua
tion. 'Let it be to-morrow in the church where tin
bishop taught us that forgiveness was the flrst lessor
of the Christian life. 9
"’•Will you be ready to officiate, sir.?' asked Mt
Montague turning to me.
'"With the greatest pleasure,' I replied, there bein
no obstacle to prevent, as I learned by questionin
them.
"So, on the • M *xt morning Mr. Victor Montague an*
Miss 'Carlotta Sylvester disappeared forever from pub
lie view while I united them in the holy bonds o
matrimony under their proper names of Mary Bate
and Henry Pearce.*
“Arapahoe!” shouted the conductor, thrusting hi
head in the doorway, as the train '"imped togethe
and ftlowcfl down by the station platform. "All oi
for Arapahoe 1” o
CorrwuT in$