The New Missioner/Chapter 1

SAW the New Missioner get off the train at the station this morning," said Garvin to Lutie. "I thought you told me that Mrs. Nitschkan and her crowd had driven her away for good."

"The New Missioner back!" cried Lutie, her wan little face flushing with excitement. "Ain't you mistaken, Walt?"

"Not a bit of it," returned Garvin. "I drove up on the hack with her, saw her get off at the Thorn House, and heard her tell Mrs. Thorn she was back for good."

"I bet you a dollar that she don't stay," affirmed Lutie. "Mis' Nitschkan and her crowd won't have it."

"I bet you twenty-five that she does stay," said the millionaire of Zenith, laying down his book and speaking with earnestness and emphasis. "I had a good look at her this afternoon. Put your money up, Lutie, here's mine."

"All right," responded Lutie, with alacrity. "But if she's sure back, we'll have some fun, for I'm tellin' you, Walt, Mis' Nitschkan an' her friends won't have her. They say they don't want no woman missionary nosin' around this camp. Mis' Thomas said yesterday that it was a matter of principle with 'em; that they didn't believe it was possible for a woman to bring the tidings of salvation. I'll bet you the fun'll begin to-morrow, Walt."

"Shouldn't wonder," he returned absently.

Lutie's surmise was quite correct. Surely, never before in the history of Zenith had the advent of a quiet, rather insignificant woman created so much discussion. Yet fully to realise the importance of the situation, one must understand that Zenith, largely by virtue of geographical conditions, was almost entirely dependent upon her own resources for interest and excitement.

It was a mining village in the very heart of the Rockies, nestling in eternal beauty, and surrounded by chill, snow-crowned peaks, and yet, if one might judge from appearances, sordidly indifferent to the grandeur of its environment.

It was to this remote spot that the Bishop of the diocese that included Zenith, had sent Frances Benson, or, as she was speedily and currently dubbed, "The New Missioner."

Now the Bishop was benign and worldly as well as spiritually wise, and consequently he had asked her, perplexedly, whimsically, and a little sorrowfully, to go to this especial field.

"I hope you won't reproach me later," he said apologetically, "but you have sown such effective seed on such unpromising rocks before—and er—have shown such a genius for your work, that Well, to tell the truth,"—in a burst of confidence,—"you are the only material I have that may"—doubtfully—"prevail."

She had looked at him with something like laughter in her eyes and expressed her complete willingness to undertake the work at once. Conscious of her powers, she loved to test them. The Bishop evidently regarded Zenith as a most difficult problem; so difficult that he would intrust it to no one but her. Her heart rose in pride and gratitude. She loved difficult problems.

And she had gone, and she had liked Zenith. She was one of those whose strength cometh from the hills; and among the pines, the splendid shining peaks, where the air is blown crystal clear, there seemed to descend upon her spirit, worn by the routine of monotonous days, the calm and healing of silence.

She felt new tides of an almost electrical energy flowing to her; and her stimulated brain constantly devised fresh plans for ennobling and vivifying the stagnant village life. But from the first she was conscious of some strong, baffling force which invariably turned the current of sentiment against her most cherished views and plans. By patient observation she grew to know that the force that balked her so effectively was feminine.

Assured of the correctness of her surmise, Frances was too astute to jeopard her position by any false moves; so, after due inward cogitation, she decided upon a masterly inactivity, a withdrawal into the wilderness, as it were.

Consequently she departed, and the combating powers of Zenith believed and jubilantly announced that she would not return.

In this they erred. She not only returned, but started out the morning after her arrival with the very definite end in view of forcing the issue.

Although it was nearly ten o'clock as she walked through the one straggling village street, the sun was just beginning to peep over the peaks. But that had not retarded the day's activities. The miners had followed the trails upward through the pines two hours before; the children were all in school as the last tap of the cracked bell in the small schoolhouse belfry proclaimed, and this was the hour when the women invited their souls with a brief interlude of stimulating gossip across front gates or over side fences.

This morning the conversation with Frances for a topic had been indefinitely prolonged, and, as in many such cases, discussion had degenerated into acrimonious argument. Frances, however, had succeeded in appearing oblivious to the unrepressed comments upon her personal appearance and her calling, as she walked through the one street Zenith could boast.

She was a slender, black-robed woman, with a square, determined face, heavy, dark hair and the large, faraway eyes of the mystic. Hers was a face which in repose was strong and plain; but when lighted by a smile the soft and very feminine mouth took curves of an appealing sweetness, and even coquetry, which captured the beholder with the sudden charm of the unexpected.

Frances Benson had been born of the lower classes of a great city, and had begun life as a waif in the stream of the world. With aspiring energy she had caught at straws and spars and struggled ashore. She had managed, none knew how, to secure an ordinary education, and at sixteen was "in business"; but although commended for her diligence, she was unsatisfied. The hand and the brain she kept occupied; but the heart remained untouched, because the keynotes had never been sounded. But finally it vibrated, then rang true to the minor chords, the wail of distress; the cry of thousands.

She had followed this cry to the slums of cities, to the factories, and the mines; had worked side by side with the labourers, lived their lives, made their necessities hers. In comforting, managing, nursing and sometimes preaching, she found not only solace, but scope for her powers. The side which drew upon her executive ability also appealed to her imagination and to her longing to spend herself and be spent; and the composure, the self-restraint that she had acquired through those years of training stood her in good stead now, for there was no hint of inward perturbation as, the apparently unconscious cynosure of many eyes, she opened the gate and walked up the untidy path to a cabin which stood somewhat apart from the neighbouring dwellings.

There are certain houses which wear a distinct expression; which have, as it were, attained a physiognomy. This cabin was one of them, and its aspect, heedless, rakish and devil-may-care, was accentuated by its leaning chimneys and the litter of tin cans and broken washtubs in the disorderly yard.

At the Missionary's first low knock on the door there was the faint flutter of a window curtain as if an eye had been applied and hastily withdrawn. Then the door was thrown wide, and the mistress of the cabin stood upon the threshold.

She was a type to whom hardihood is a birthright. A short, stout figure in a brief cotton skirt which freely disclosed a man's boots, she stood Napoleonic and alien among her kind. A man's coat was buttoned across her burly chest, and her scant curly brown hair was pushed under a man's soft hat thrust back on her head. Small alert blue eyes twinkled in a weather-beaten red face, and her smile displayed two faultless rows of tiny teeth as white as a squirrel's.

She did not ape masculinity in the least; but merely wrapped herself in it as a garment, and remained the freebooting Amazon, unconsciously exulting in the possession of two sets of weapons—those she had appropriated from man and those of her own sex.

For a moment she surveyed Frances, and then threw the door wider open.

"Come in, won't you, Missioner," bowing with ironical and punctilious courtesy. "Us ladies is jus' a-sittin' here, chattin'. Choose yer chair, Missioner. I guess you know the ladies present."

The women referred to occupied chairs drawn close to the stove, and were to all appearances enjoying the refreshment of both tea and coffee. Behold the redoubtable Mrs. Evans sitting among her prime ministers—a tiny, black-eyed creature to whom the languors of her larger sisters were foreign. She alone had selected a straight chair, and now sat rigidly erect, her arms folded defiantly across her chest and her feet barely touching the floor.

Mrs. Thomas, on the other hand, was a tall, stout beauty, with the appearance of a Norse giantess and the appealing, kittenish manners and baby lisp which seem to be the especial temptation of the Venus Colossal. Mrs. Landvetter was a flat-faced German, large of build and of tremendous physical strength.

After the first cold greeting accorded Frances, no word was spoken. The four women among whom she sat rocked slowly back and forth, gazing fixedly at the stove, an expression of deprecatory meekness on their faces. One would almost have said that they purred. Their lids were drooped, but in their eyes was that peculiar glisten seen in those of a panther on guard.

Their silence covered the swift buckling on of armour, the marshalling of forces, the preparation for the subtlest, most merciless conflict on earth—the warfare of women, a warfare ungoverned by codes of honour or rules of the game. The combat of men is as the sport of children in comparison; it defines itself in hot words, the swift, material vengeance of pistol or knife, a fight in the open.

In her battles with man, woman uses the powerful arms of fascination, appeal, tears, and weakness; but in the struggle of woman against woman such wooden swords and paper shields are cast aside, useless toys in that warfare of strategy and ambush which employs poisoned arrows and the stiletto, so handled that the wounds bleed inwardly and show no trace.

In those brief moments of waiting the lines on the Missionary's face deepened, and the strength of her face became more apparent, even a certain vulgarity. She had mentally reverted to the frays of her childhood, and felt herself again the hair-pulling, kicking imp of the slums, shrilling coarse innuendo at her foes. The lady she had striven to make herself slipped from her as the husk from a kernel, and, like her sisters among whom she sat, she was a primitive cave-woman, stripped of all of civilisation's hard-won graces, save only self-control.

As it became evident that she had no intention of making the first move, the members of the opposition began to fidget somewhat uneasily in their chairs and glance furtively at one another. Presently Mrs. Landvetter's deep voice broke the protracted silence.

"I vas a-tellin' you about dat lace of mine in de pineapple pattern, vasn't I, Mis' Thomas?" she inquired innocently. "Oh, it vas fine; von foot so vide. I lef' it on my dresser von morgen und py afternoon it vas gone."

Before Mrs. Thomas could properly condole with her friend upon this much discussed loss, Miss Benson's voice broke in clearly: "I have heard of that lace so often," she remarked coldly, "that I talked the matter over with the Bishop last week, and we resolved that if it was not soon recovered, a court of law should investigate its disappearance."

This rapid return-fire was so unexpected that the enemy was temporarily thrown into confusion. An awed pause ensued, and Mrs. Landvetter, to cover her embarrassment, arose and, lifting the coffee-pot with fine nonchalance, poured her cup so full that it brimmed over and ran down into the saucer in streaky rivulets.

But a Thomas to the rescue! "I s'pose you ain't been long enough in Zenith, Miss Benson," addressing the Missionary with suave and considerate interest, "to catch on to the way the boys feel about havin' a woman preacher. It'll be pretty hard fer you right along. One of the boys was a-sayin' to me to-day, he says"

The steel of Frances Benson flashed in the air and stabbed squarely. "I suspect it was the same one that told me he was glad of the change," she said trenchantly. "He thought his grocery bills might go down, now that his wife couldn't invite the preacher in for every meal."

Mrs. Thomas fell back from the impact of the blow, but rallied hastily and feinted to gain time. She became suddenly absorbed in the contemplation of her empty cup, gazing at it with astonished incredulity, even turning it sidewise toward the light and squinting at it as a connoisseur of art might view some rare treasure.

"Why, Mis' Nitschkan," she murmured perplexedly, "I do declare, ef my cup ain't plum empty! I'll thank you fer another cup of tea."

The gipsy of the wilds, the hardy denizen of mining camps, sprang to her feet and squared her shoulders determinedly while she served her friend with a brew as strong as lye. She had made her obeisance to etiquette, and had allowed her guests the opportunity of drawing first blood. Now she meant to take command of the field herself.

"I tell you what, Missioner," she said bluntly, "they make it awful hot here fer folks they don't like; an' us girls ain't so bad at that game, either. Girls, you remember that book-agent, an' also that schoolmarm that we got rid of?"

Standing in the centre of the group she spoke directly and menacingly to Frances.

"That book-agent, she come here day after day, always with that 'Famous Women' series under her arm; but I fixed her at last. 'Mis' Tompkins,' I says, real polite, 'put your books down on that chair, an' come into the front room while I give you a cup of coffee.' 'All right,' she says, an' lays down her books. Well, I got her in the easy chair in the front room, with the photograph album to look at, an' then I run back fer a cup. Celia was a-settin' there on the kitchen floor; she was just about three then. Well, I reached her a jug of molasses an' I says, 'Celia, paint the pretty book.' An' Celia did. Oh, how that Tompkins took on when she seen it!"

She bent herself double in paroxysms of laughter, which were ably echoed by her guests, with the exception of the missionary, who made no attempt to conceal her cold scorn.

"I jus' raised myself like this, an' looked her in the eye, an' says as cold, 'You lef' them books at your own resk; now try an' make me pay fer 'em ef you dare!' An', girls, she jus' slunk out.

"An'," continued Mrs. Nitschkan, stimulated by her success, and still gasping with laughter, "you remember that schoolteacher—nasty, stuck-up thing—I couldn't stand her from the first! No more could you, Mis' Evans; nor you, Mis' Thomas. So I told Celia to cut up as many monkey tricks as she pleased at school. Well, one day she come home cryin'. 'Mommy,' she says, 'I can't go back to school no more. Teacher, she's expended me, 'cause I'm so bad.'

"'She did, did she?' I says. 'I'd like to see her deprive any child of mine of learnin',' an' I marched straight off to the schoolhouse. 'What do you mean,' I says, 'by drivin' my child away from school? I s'pose you want her to be as ignorant as you think her mommy is; but I'll show you a thing or two!' With that she begun to cry. 'Oh,' she says, 'I'm a-goin' to leave this cruel, wicked place!' 'That's right,' I says, 'an' I'll advise you to leave quick.'"

She concluded with a great burst of mirth, in which the rocking women joined, now easing and again breaking out into fresh chuckles. Then, tightening her lips, she nodded directly and threateningly at the missionary, as if to say, "You've heard me; take the lesson home." The rocking women caught their breaths in delight and admiration.

There was one quick heave of Frances Benson's bosom, and then she slowly lifted her head, her eyes fixed unwaveringly upon those of the burly mountain lioness—no longer the unseeing orbs of the mystic, full of strange visions, but the cold, quick eyes of the shrewd organiser, alight with exultant power. Her voice rang high, almost shrill.

"What was the name of this teacher, Mrs. O'Donnell—I mean Nitschkan?" Steadily, mercilessly, she held her tormentor's eyes while the gipsy gazed at her as if fascinated. Thus challenged, Mrs. Nitschkan's face went white, her lids drooped, and her defiant figure grew limp and nerveless; but the missionary was implacable. "Strange that I should have used that name!" she ruminated. "It belonged to a man I used to know in Arizona, and met in Denver a week ago. He was searching for some trace of the wife who had deserted him several years back, taking with her his watch and five hundred dollars in money. He has never divorced her!"

The breath that broke from Mrs. Nitschkan's lips was almost a sob. Forgetful of the friends who scanned her with quick, curious glances, she stood perfectly still, twisting the corner of her apron and gazing with drooping mouth and hunted eyes about the cheerful room—her home—hers! Her gaze roved about the walls and out through the window where the towheads of her children shone in the sunlight. For a moment she heaved and trembled, and then the fire came back to her eyes. She straightened, stiffened, and sprang at the missionary, seizing her by the shoulders and shaking her back and forth.

"You'd come here with your lyin' tales, would you?" she screamed hoarsely. "You'd come here an' try an' take my husband an' children away from me? That's what you're up to! But I'm a-goln' to kill you! That's what I'm a-goin' to do—kill you! Wring the neck of you like you was a chicken, which you are! You skinny monkey, you want to get me out of the way so you can have my man an' my children. You've been after him a'ready!"

The Missionary struck the mountain woman across the face. "You're a liar!" cried the daughter of the slums. There ensued a moment of fierce tussle, while the onlookers collapsed in hysterics, with the exception of tiny Mrs. Evans. That intrepid soul hurled herself into the fray, and, seizing Mrs. Nitschkan by the arm, dragged her around.

"Are you crazy?" she cried. "Fer God's sake, stop poundin' her! Darn you, Nitschkan, don't you know us ladies is got some social position to keep up? Now stop it, I say! Missioner ain't goin' to say nothin' outside if we fall in with her; are you, Mis' Benson?"

The missionary fell back against the wall, pale, bruised, trembling, but with "no capitulation" written on every line of her face and figure.

"No," she gasped; "I'll never tell as long as you're willing to help me in the Lord's work."

"Now, you hear that, Mis' Nitschkan, an' all you ladies," crisped the decisive Evans. "We're a-goin' to consider everything unsaid, an' all unpleasantness over. Here, Nitschkan, set in this chair an' pull yourself together while I rustle around fer fresh tea. Mis' Thomas, get Miss Benson a clean cup."

For a moment or two Mrs. Nitschkan cowered in her chair, pulling with trembling fingers at her torn coat sleeve. Then, throwing her apron over her head, she broke into wild sobbing, which alternated with a rasping and mirthless laughter.

"The 'strikes,'" said Mrs. Evans composedly, pouring boiling water into the teapot. "It'll be a relief fer her; jes' let her be."

"How'd ever we poor women bear our lives if it wasn't fer 'em?" murmured Mrs. Thomas. "Lay off your hat, Miss Benson," she continued, in a voice which was as oil. "How's your health, now? If you've ever had anything wrong with your lungs, this is just the place fer 'em. If it's your liver, well, I'd say a cup of sage tea night an' mornin'. Oh, you got your hand tore, didn't you? Why, it's a real bad scratch. Let me rub in a little 'Rocky Mountain' salve—do."

But the missionary seemed not to hear her. She, too, had fallen into a chair, and sat staring before her with a white face and staring eyes.

"I came to Zenith to try and help," she stammered, "but I"

"That's right, to try an' help. Well, woman dear, what else are we on earth for? To do for others, I say."

Mrs. Nitschkan, despite her dishevelled appearance, had quite recovered herself, and was even more desirous than her sisters of ignoring the past.

Frances Benson struggled to her feet. "I can't stay, unless you ladies really want to help me." She stood leaning weakly against the door, her face white and deadly fatigued; but her eyes steady, no hint of failing purpose in them. "Will you help?"

"Well I guess yes," said Mrs. Nitschkan heartily, speaking for all. "You can depend on us, Miss Benson, now an' hereafter. Ain't it so, girls?"

"You bet!" returned Mrs. Evans with even more decision. "Marthy Thomas, pour the Missioner a nice, hot cup of coffee."