Part 12 (1/2)

”'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 flas.h.i.+ng?'

”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 astonis.h.i.+ng, and I couldn't account for it.

”'You see it? Ah! but you didn't observe it till I spoke. n.o.body 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, flas.h.i.+ng 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.'

”'I know Port Isaac. At least, I once spent a couple of days there.'

”'Ah?' He turned on me eagerly--with a sob, almost. 'You will have seen my folks, maybe? My father's a fisherman there--Hezekiah Penno--Old Ki, he's always called: everyone knows him.'

”I shook my head. 'The only fisherman I knew at all was called Tregay. He took me out after the pollack one day in his boat, the _Little Mercy_.'

”'That will be my mother's brother Israel. He named the boat after a sister of mine. She's grown up now and married, and settled at St.

Columb. This is wonderful! And how was Israel wearing when you saw him?'

”'You have later news of him than I can give. I am speaking of ten years ago.'

”His face fell pathetically; but he contrived a rueful little laugh as he answered: 'And I must have been a boy of nine at the time, and playing about Portissick Street, no doubt! Never mind. It's good, anyway, to speak of home to you; for you've _seen_ it, you know!'

”He said this with his eyes fixed on the flas.h.i.+ng mountain; and, as he finished, he sighed.”

”During the next three or four days--for a relapse followed his rally, and he had to give up all thought of departing immediately--I talked much with the Bishop; and I think that each talk added to my respect and wonder. In the first place, though I had read in a good many poetry books of maidens who walked through all manner of deadliness unhurt--Una and the lion, you know, and the rest of them-- I hadn't imagined that kind or amount of innocence in a young man.

But what startled me even more was the size of his ambitions.

'Bishop'--_in partibus infidelium_ with a vengeance--was too small a t.i.tle for him. 'Twas a Peter the Hermit's part, or a Savonarola's, or Whitefield's at least, he was going to play all along the Pacific Slope; and his outfit no more than a small Bible and the strength of a mouse. And with all this the poor boy was just wearying for home, and every small fibre in his sick heart pulling him back while he fixed his eyes on the lights up the mountain and stiffened his back and talked about putting a hand to the plough and not turning back.

”'Hewson,' I said one morning, as we were breakfasting at the Cornice House, 'what's the cause of those curious lights up by the cinnabar mines, over Eucalyptus?'