Reverend Pendlebury's Past

by Richard Connell

 

Two Big Problems Worried the Elders and Deacons of the Struggling Congregation.

Reverend Pendlebury's Past

By RICHARD CONNELL

THE story about the Reverend Pendlebury had already gained considerable headway when it first came to my ears. One day as I sat in my kitchen trimming the lamp wicks, my antique neighbor, Cephas Bonner, bustled in, stamping the snow from his felt boots

"Wall, what do you think about him?" he gretted me, as he pulled off his mittens.

"Him? Who?"

"About the Reverend Pendlebury. Ain't you heard——"

"Heard? What?"

"Of course," he began. "I myself personally don't believe it, and I guess none of the folks does But bein' you're an elder, I thought you oughta know what they're sayin'. They're sayin', that he's had a past!"

"Past? Of course. Most man near sixty-five have had one."

He shot ma a quick, cunning look.

"I reckon you know the sort of past I mean, elder," he said.

I snorted.

"I don't know what bit of scandal you've heard, but if it reflects on the Reverend Daniel Pendlebury. I'll say right here and now, I don't believe it."

"Wall, elder," Cephas began again, "they're sayin' that Pendlebury isn't his real name at all—and that before he came east to our church—"Cephas whispered the last words—"he was an out-and-out bad 'un!"

"Exactly what do they charge Reverend Pendlebury with having been?" I demanded. Cephas Bonner, I knew, was a fair-dealing man, an important member of our church; and if he placed any credence in the rumor, it was worth investigating. As an elder, jealous of my church's reputation, I couldn't ignore it. "What's the rumor? 'A woman?"

"No."

"Was he a drunkard?"

"No, they don't say that."

"A convict?"

"W# might better have been."

"Then what was he?"

Cephas Bonner came close to me. "They say he was a common, professional gambler!"

"Rot!" I said. "Pure rot!"

"Well, that's what they're sayin'."

"Any facts, Cephas?"

"Well, not exactly. But you know Matt Cobb.,Luke Cobb's brother that was visitin' him last week?"

"Yes; the brother that went to the Klondike in the gold rush."

"Well, Matt said to Luke that he'd seen Reverend Pendlebury before, out west. Matt said it was the way the reverend has of pinching his moustache when he's a bit excited that brought it all back to him. And the little queer limp the Reverend has—that made Matt sure."

"Sure? Of what?"

"That he'd seen the Reverend Pendlebury out on the Klondike in the old days."

"What of that?"

"But," Cephas was growing excited, "the Reverend Pendlebury wasn't a clergyman in those day. Matt said. No, sir. He was the biggest, smartest gambler in Alaska, and he ran the largest gambling outfit on the Klondike."

"Bosh! Utter bosh!"

"Mebbe it is. I'm just tellin' you what Matt Cobb said," answered Cephas.

"Well, go on. What else."

"Matt said that the Reverend was known as Diamond Steve Paige out there, because he always wore a big diamond stud plumb in the center of his shirt. And he always wore a loud checked suit, Matt Cobb said.

*⁠*⁠*⁠*

"CEPHAS," I broke in, "checked weakness but suits may be they are hardly a sin."

"But he was a gambler, elder—and that limp—well, Matt Cobb said he got that from being shot by a miner he'd won $16,000 from in one night playin' poker!"

"Bah, Cephas. Matt Cobb is a loose-tongued old fool. Because a minister with a limp has a habit of pinching his moustache he reminds Matt of some gambler Matt saw twenty-live years ago. Then a lot of folks take up the yam and spread around town that the man who has done so much for them was a card sharp and a crook. That sort of thing makes me sick."

"Matt Cobb didn't exactly say he wag a crook," admitted Cephas. "He said Diamond Steve Paige was known all over the west coast as a square gambler. I don't believe there's no such thing as a square gambler."

"Cephas," I said to him, in my most serious, elders'-meeting manner. "I don't believe a word of this story. Neither should you. We know that Reverend Pendlebury has worked for us night and day for ten years; we know him to be a gentle, good soul, and a real man. Only mighty mean people would believe that story. I'm sure the elders and the deacons won'y"

Cephas stroked his unshaved chin dubiously.

"THEY'RE MIGHTY STRICT, ELDER," CEPHAS SAID. "YOU KNOW HOW THEY FEEL ABOUT A GAMBLER."

"I ain't so sure about that, elder," he said. "You're a younger man than the rest of them; you've lived in a bit city; you see something different. But men like Luke Cobb and Joe Sanderson— they're of the old school. They're mighty strict; you know how they feel about a gambler. Well," Cephas drew on his mittens, "this ain't getting to the post-office, I guess."

As the black of Cephas' buffalo fur coat became speck on the vast whiteness of the hills I returned to my lamps. My heart was a little sick as I thought of old Mr. Pendlebury. The story was a lie, of course. But lies can make trouble, can hurt.

The people up here around Willowton deem a gambler the most scarlet of all sinners. We're extremely, almost unbelievably, careful of our money. We have to be. We respect our dollars because they represent our hard and unremitting toll; they are the trophies of our unending slugging match with a tough and stubborn Nature. When we do get hold of an extra dollar our roughened fingers close tightly on its green throat, and we bear it off to the savings bank or invest it in solid first mortgage. Gambling—the risking of money—Is a heinous sin. So, if that story about the Reverend Pendlebury did prove to have even a vestige of truth in it—but, of course it couldn't have.

*⁠*⁠*⁠*

AN added reason why we around Willowton particularly hated gamblers was the presence in our community of Jesse Hornbeck. We were a little afraid of Jesse Hornbeck. He was so shrewd, and he had an inconvenient habit of foreclosing mortgages and taking up notes. We kept out of his clutches if we could; he was a vindictive man.

Jesse Hornbeck was a gambler. He owned and operated Bald Eagle Inn, up on Black Mountain, outside Willowton. and it was an open secret what sort of place Bald Eagle Inn really was. We tried to pretend that Bald Eagle Inn didn't exist, but we were unpleasantly aware that it did. Rich summer people motored there at night, and, obviously, they did not go there for the view or the bracing mountain air. In winter the Inn advertised "winter sports," but that was a blind; its real winter sport was conducted indoors.

We felt that the Bald Eagle Inn was a blot and a disgrace. But there was nothing we could do about it. Jesse Hornbeck, and his lieutenant and Jackal, Roy Siller, were too powerful and too canny. But we resented the place, and we resented Jesse. His fat right hand was adorned by a remarkable ring made of an obese gold snake with ruby eyes in the act of being choked to death by a diamond in its mouth the size of a hazel nut. No one doubted the rumor that he had won this ring playing poker with a Chicago traveling man who, on an unlucky evening, had ventured into Bald Eagle Inn.

Jesse Hornbeck's automobile, with its screaming red paint and its sllverized trimmings, he had brought back from Boston where he won it from a Jockey—so the story ran. it was a selfish car, a roadster with but one seat. it was a high-powered car, that roared and coughed like a hundred asthmatic devils, as he drove it careening along the roads, quite heedless of the safety of any of us.

it followed that when any of us heard the word "gambler" we saw the puffed and poisoned visage of Jesse Hornbeck.

*⁠*⁠*⁠*

NO two men could have been more unlike, physically, than Jesse and the Rev. Pendlebury. Our minister was such a mild-seeming, small man, slender and erect; he always wore cheap suits of black serge, well brushed. His voice was quiet, and so were his gray eyes. And yet he did not give the Impression that he was a meek man or one who could be imposed on with impunity.

He had come to us from the west when we were sorely in need of a minister. His hair was iron gray then—that was ten years ago—and it had grown white in our service.

it wasn't much that we did for Reverend Pendlebury, but it was the best we could do. You see, our church was in a bad hole, financially. Two years before the building had been burned to the ground. There had been no insurance and on Reverend Pendlebury's shoulders had fallen the job of building a new church with nothing but the ashes of the old one to start with. He worked with the carpenters himself, although his hands were as delicate as a woman's and blistered easily, as If he were not accustomed to rough work. He raised the necessary funds for the material by a species of miracle.

The miracle was this: He persuaded Simon Middlemass, octogenarian president of the First National Bank and not a church member, to loan from his own private funds $14,000 on a note. Of course, that note meant that, the ladies of the church had to give suppers, entertainments and bazaars at a furious rate to pay back old Simon, who, after the first glow had cooled, had begun to worry about his money. We appeased him somewhat by paying the interest and $900 in less than a year—a colossal sum for a community as poor as ours.

I was running these things over in my mind as I trimmed the wicks and oiled the lamps. But, well—if he'd ever even touched a card, it might be enough to damn him. Men like Luke Cobb and Job Sanderson were as rigid as granite shafts; they were just men, but they were hard men. Suppose he did have to leave our church? At his age and with that charge against him, who would take him? What would become of him?

I went to the window and looked out. Very faintly I could see the snow'-whitened steeple of the church down the valley—his church—that he had built for us. Then, on the road, I saw a moving smudge. it came nearer; it was Cephas Bonner in his cutter, his old mare plodding homeward.

I saw him clamber from his sleigh and stump up my path. He exploded into my kitchen, breathless.

"Elder——"

"What is it, Cephas?"

"Bad news! Old Simon Middlemass is going to move to Florida and is selling all his holdings here."

"Well, what of that?"

"Plenty. Last night he sold the church's note for $13,000 to Jesse Hornbeck."

"He didn't do that?"

"Yes, he did, the old devil. And, elder——"

"What?"

"Job Sanderson asked me to tell you that there will be a special meeting of the elders and deacons at the minister's house tonight at 8. That rumor has got too strong, I reckon."

*⁠*⁠*⁠*

WE gathered a little before 8 in the threadbare study of the Reverend Pendlebury. There were six of us. three elders and three deacons. At the head of the table sat Job Sanderson, first elder, a huge, grizzled man, who'd never owed any man a penny or cheated a man out of a penny. Next to him sat Luke Cobb, second elder, bald and bearded and austere.

I sat at Job's left hand, the youngest of the elders. Deacon Bogardus overflwed one of the horsehair chairs; then came Deacon Fuller, a patriarch of a man, and, finally, Deacon Peck, even more grave than when he read the ritual at lodge meetings. We were distinctly not a jolly gathering.

"Gentlemen," said Job Sanderson, "he's upstairs in his bedroom, waiting for us to send for him. Some folks around this town, appear to believe this story. We've got to do something about it—give him a clean bill of health or a vote of confidence or something——"

"We might ask him if it's true first," put in Luke Cobb, dryly.

I stood up.

"I'm ashamed to be here." I said. "Our presence on such a mission is an insult to that good man upstairs. Rev. Daniel Pendlebury was never any more a gambler than you were, Job Sanderson, or you, Luke Cebb. We've got enough on our hands as it is, I guess. Do you know that today Is the fifteenth of the month and the note falls due? Simon Middleman agreed that he would renew it. But the note Isn't his property now. Do you think he'll renew it?"

"He hasn't made a move not to," said Deacon Peck.

"But suppose he won't, what then?" I asked. "At the end of today—at twelve midnight—he has a right to take over the church property. I asked Judge Easterly on the way down. Do any of you happen to have thirteen thousand dollars on you?"

Job Sanderson reflectively rasped his thumb along his stubbled jaw.

"I reckon we all know about that note," he said, slowly, "and I reckon we all know what we can expect from Jesse Hornbeck. But," he went on, "I reckon it would be almost better to have no church at all, than to have one whose minister is accused of being an ex-gambler."

"Job Sanderson." I said, "now you're calling names. What proof——"

"Easy, elder, easy." he said "I'm not the man to judge any man without a fair trial. I'm confident Reverend Pendlebury can clear himself of this charge."

"Then why go any further with this miserable business?" I asked. "What grounds have we for even suggesting Reverend Pendlebury had a past?"

"My brother Matt," said Luke Cobb in his high, nasal tenor, "ain't exactly a fool. I admit he started the story, before he went back to Nome. He says he remembers his Klondike days like they was yesterday and he says he remembers Diamond Steve Paige, too. I admit Reverend Pendlebury don't conduct himself like no gambler, but—did you ever notice the way he picks up the little cards with the announcements on them."

"No."

"Well, he shuffles 'em and than fans 'em out exactly like they was a hand at cards!" Luke said this with a triumphant air.

"By thunder, that's so," admitted Deacon Peck.

"I've noticed it myself," said Deacon Bogardus. "He looks down at the anouncement cards sort of excited like, as if he expected to see three aces 'stead of 'Ladies' Aid Society will meet at three.'"

"And when he lays 'em down." pursued Luke Cobb, "he don't just lay 'em down, all at once, like you or I would. No, sirree. He deals 'em down, one at a time."

"You're gabbling like a bunch of school-kids," I said warmly. "I don't believe he knows an ace—from a—now—Jack."

"Neither do I," said Deacon Fuller.

"Well," said Job Sanderson in his deep, presiding voice, "that's neither here, there nor elsewhere. I reckon the best thing for us to do is call him down, tell him what we've heard, then tell him we don't believe it, and see what he has to say."

*⁠*⁠*⁠*

BEFORE any one could object he had moved to the door, and called up the stairs.

"Oh, Mr. Pendlebury, would you mind stepping down here a minute?"

On the stairs we heard the brisk, uneven tap of his limp and the Reverend Pendlebury came in smiling. I felt like a dog. I think the others did, too.

"At your service, gentlemen," he said. Job Sanderson flushed and he fumbled about with his words.

"Well, you see, now Reverend," he began, "we've been sort of hearing things lately; of course we don't take any stock in them, but we feel that something ought to be done to—to put the kibosh on them, as the boys say—so——" He stopped and traced patterns with his thumb nail on the study table.

Still smiling, the Reverend Pendlebury spoke.

"There, there. Job, you've no reason to be flustered. You're doing your duty. Don't think I haven't heard the talk that's been going round about me. But before I say anything further about this story you've heard. I really think we'd better talk about that note. I've worried about it all day. it's more pressing than the other thing.'"

A series of loud raps on the front door made him stop. Deacon Peck opened the door. Into the room came a lanky, long-nosed, youngish man. Roy Siller, doer of odd and dirty jobs for Jesse Hornbeck. We all stiffened hastily in our chairs.

"Well?" said Job Sanderson, curtly.

*⁠*⁠*⁠*

ROY SILLER lit a cigarette, discharged blue smoke from long nose and smiled.

"I guess you ain't heard." he said, "that Jesse Hornbeck bought a franchise in the Marcus-Gruber burlesque circuit when he found he was probably goin' to gave a swell site for a theater."

Job Sanderson rose up from his chair, his body and voioe quivering with wrath.

"You damnable jackal," he cried, "do you mean to say that Hornbeck is going to turn our church into a burlesque show?"

Siller shrugged his shoulders.

"It will he his property, I reckon," he said, "and I guess he can do what he pleases with it."

Job Sanderson seemed about to throttle him. but the Rev. Pendlebury stepped between them and laid his hand on Job's thick arm.

"it's no use, Job," he said. "The law is on his side. I signed the note in the name of the church with the consent of all of you. Mr. Middlemass insisted that it be a time note and promised to renew it. He's gone back on us. There's nothing we can do but pay. And where are we to get $13,000?"

He turned to Roy Siller.

"Couldn't you give us, say, three days? In three days we could perhaps raise the money."

Siller spat into the grate.

"Nothing doing, dominie. Jesse Hornbeck's last words were 'Get the dough.' I don't mind tellin' you that there's a big game runnin' at the inn tonight and Jesse could use the money very handily there. Well," his voice hardened, "do 1 get the money?"

I saw the beginning of a glitter in the Rev. Pendlebury's gray eyes, as he consulted his watch.

"Eight thirty." he said. "Your money is not due until midnight. Will you wait here, or will you come back at 12 for it?"

"I'll wait here, right here," said Roy Siller, staring at him, suspiciously.

"Gentlemen," the Rev. Pendlebury turned to us,"we were were discussing another matter when Mr. Siller came in. We'll take it up again, if you wish."

"Just a minute, reverend," said Job Sanderson. He bent over and whispered something to Luke Cobb. I saw Luke nod. Then Job spoke.

"I guess the rest will agree with me," said Job. "when I say that we don't want to go any further with that other matter. I reckon we were fools to listen for a second to such a wild yarn, and we're sorry, reverend. The matter is closed. We'll forget it."

We all nodded to show we were behind him.

*⁠*⁠*⁠*

THE Rev. Pendlebury's eyes were glistening and for the first time his voice faltered.

"Thank you, gentlemen, from the bottom of my heart," he said. "it means everything to me to have your confidence in my work for the church. Our church-" Then his eye fell on the striped back of Roy Siller, lolling in his chair. "Our church——" he began again, but be couldn't go on. Roy Siller spat into the fire. Then I saw the Rev. Pendlebury's small hands go up to his face and pinch the ends of his white mustache; I saw the glitter in his gray eyes grow pace to the door and back. Then I saw the glitter in his gray eyes grow sharper. Suddenly he walked to the ancient desk in the corner of the room, sat down, grasped a pen and began to write. He finished a short note, sealed it and handed it to Job Sanderson.

"ELDER SANDERSON," SAID REVEREND PENDLEBURY, "I AM GOING OUT. YOU ARE NOT TO OPEN THIS NOTE TILL I HAVE BEEN GONE FIVE MINUTES."

"Elder Sanderson," he said, all business. "I am going out. You are not to open this note till I have been gone five minutes. Then do me one favor; stay here till midnight and do not deliver the keys of the church to Siller until then. Will you do that?"

"Yes."

"Very good. Good night, gentlemen."

He closed the door behind him, and we heard him go upstairs; then we heard him moving around in his bedroom; then, after about ten minutes, we heard the tap, tap tap of his limp as he came down the stairs; then we heard the front door slam as he went out.

At last Job Sanderson's stiff, hurried fingers tore open the envelope. His lips read the words to hlmself; then, louder, to us.

"Elders and deacons of Willowton Church:

"I herewith resign as your minister."

"DANIEL PENDLEBURY."

We looked at each other blankly.

"I don't understand," began Luke Cobb.

"What can he mean?" said Deacon Pack.

"What'as be going to do?" said Deacon Fuller.

"Was he Insured?" naked Deacon Bogardus.

"it's too late to atop him now, anyhow," said Job Sanderson.

Roy Siller broke in upon our speculations.

"You might as well hand over the keys," he said, "If you haven't the cash. Then we could all go home."

I saw the cords stand out on the becks of Job Sanderson's knotted fists.

"You'll wait till 12, Siller," he said fiercely.

We sat about in heavy silence, as if we were watching at a bier. The clock on the mantel ticked off the minutes. At 11:30 Roy Siller stood up, yawned and said:

"Aw, what's the use of waitin'? The dominie's probably lit out for Boston on the 10:20 train. Let's have the keys. I wanta get back to the Inn.'

Luke Cobb looked questioningly at the rest of us.

"I reckon mebbe Siller's right," he said sadly. "Eleven-thirty's the same as 12, so far as we're concerned——"

We were beaten. Luke Cobb began to struggle into his shaggy ulster; Deacon Peck began to hunt around for his mittens. The big, bass voice of Job Sanderson stopped them.

"Wait a bit," he boomed. "We promised the reverend we'd stay till 12, and we're going to."

Roy Siller took a seat, surveyed our gloom-ridden faces with great deliberation, then drawled:

"Evenin', gents. I called about a little matter of a note owed by the church as party of the first part, to Mr. Jesse Hornbeck, party of the second part. Of course, I'm a bit early. You've got till 12, if you want to stand on your legal rights. But I thought you'd be glad to pay now so we can all go home. I'll trouble you to hand over thirteen thousand in cash, and then I'll give you the note and the deed to the church property you executed when you made the note."

He tapped a long envelope in his coat pocket.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Siller," the Rev. Pendlebury said in his level tone. "Of course, if we don't happen to have the money at this time, Mr. Hornbeck will be kind enough to extend the note, I'm sure."

"Oh, are you?" My fingers itched to choke the gloat out of Siller's voice. "Well, you've got another think comin', dominie. My orders were to get the money."

"And if you do not get it?"

"Pay up or close up."

"Don't you think if I saw Mr. Hornbeck and had a talk with him——"

"Not a chance, dominie," cut in Siller. "it'd be a waste of breath. Jesse Hornbeck means business. He ain't forgot the cracks that have been made about him by some people in this town——" he looked pointedly round the table—"and now that he's in the saddle, he's going' to ride. He said to tell you you could bet your bottom dollar on that."

"But," said the Rev. Pendlebury, "in time we could pay. What possible good would it do him to take over the property? What use could he make of a church?"

Roy Siller spat peevishly. His smile was sour. "Guess I can wait, too," he drawled. "You might as well enjoy this place as long as you can." He sprawled himself with a proprietary air in the Rev. Pendlebury's chair by the fire.

*⁠*⁠*⁠*

HE watched the minute hand of the clock climb up to the arc toward twelve. Five minute to twelve. Roy Siller stood up and began to wind a gaudy muffler around his pale neck. Deacon Peck began again the search for his mitten under the table. Job Sanderson slowly, gainfully, straightening out his big body; his lips were shut tight; his hands ploughed down into the deep cave of pocket in his corduroy trousers, and I heard the jingle of the church keys. Then we all heard another sound—a roaring, coughing noise—and we all recognized it. It was the sound that heralded the approach of Jesse Hornbeck and his red car.

The jingle of keys in Job's pocket stopped, and I knew that his big hand had closed on them vise-like, and stilled them. Hate wrinkles converged round his eyes. There was a warlike spark behind the spectacles of Deacon Fuller; I saw Luke Cobb biting his lip.

Deacon Peck had gone to the window.

"It's Jesse Hornbeck's car, right enough," he said. "He's coming up the path."

We heard the sound of feet on the porch, and unconsciously we moved together, shoulder to shoulder. Roy Siller took a step forward to greet his employer; he was smiling widely. Then the door opened.

A man stepped into the yellow light. it was not Jesse Hornbeck. It was a stranger, with the face of our minister. He was dressed in a checked suit of old fashioned cut, a flamboyant, ribald sort of suit. The vest, cut low, revealed an expanse of stiff white shirt bosom and in the center of the bosom was a big diamond stud that caught the rays of the oil lamp and shot them back into our amazed eyes. A black string bow tie fitted into an old-time collar. On the man's head was a wide-brimmed black slouch hat, tilted back at an angle. The face underneath the hat was the face of the Rev. Pendlebury; it was pale, but it was calm, and there was a slight smile on it. We stood there, gawking at him. We saw him walk, with that slight, hitching limp of his, to the table. We saw his thin right hand go into a pocket of the checked suit. When he drew it out there was a largo roll of bills in it; he laid the money on the table—big bills, yellow hundreds.

"Mr. Siller*" he said, clearly. "I'll trouble you to hand me that deed and note."

On the second finger of the Rev. Pendlebury's right hand, as he reached for the note, I saw the glint of an unwonted ring; a fat gold snake with ruby eyes, in whose mouth was a diamond as big as a hazel nut.

Roy Siller automatically fingered the money on the table.

"Thirteen thousand," he muttered. "Here's your note."

He handed the Rev. Pendlebury the long envelope. The Rev. Pendlebury stepped to the fireplace and tossed the note among the blazing pine logs. Then he walked briskly to the front door, held it open, and said, pleasantly.

"Now, good night, Mr. Siller."

Jesse Hornbeck's lieutenant stumbled out into the snowy night and the Rev. Pendlebury closed the door after him. We still stood there in a group; no one spoke. The Rev. Pendlebury was smiling.

"I hope you gentlemen will excuse me," he said. "I am going to bed. I'm a bit tired. Good night."

Job Sanderson plucked from the table the sheet of paper on which the Rev. Pendlebury had written his resignation, and moved swiftly toward the fireplace. Then, suddenly, the room grew very much brighter.