Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1906-05-18
A FAILURE


The old man was alone in his room.
He sat In an armchair by the window,
his faded eyes listlessly scanning the gray
horizon. The house stood on the edge of
the town, and there was nothing but the
prairie between him and the end of the
world. 1t was a late afternoon in De-
cember, and II was raining: life was
ending for him in a winter rain. A NOR
tai sickness was upon him. The room
in which he sat was meagerly furnished
and painfully bare. A case of we'll
thumbed books of distinctly theological
character, an old-fashioned desk Uttered
with papers, q small sheet-iron stove, the
armchair in which he sat, another chair
of the Kitchen" variety, q few pictures,
prints as good in subject as they were
poor in execution, and faded old-fash-
Toned photograph Of woman, hanging
upon the walls, summed up his earthly
possessions. His world-his field of ac-
tion-was narrowed to the room In which
he sat and a dingy little bedroom beyond.
He sat llstlessly in silence.
He was the rector of the parish church
of little Western town, but II was evil
dent that he would not be a rector OF
anything very long. He was the wreck
of a man who had never been OF the
physical stun OF which heroes are made,
yet there was a touch of fire still In his
dim eyes that spoke OF a soul over
weighted by an insufficient body. The
man was waiting, not only waiting for
the end, but waiting for any break in
the monotony of his life; at that moment
he was waiting for a visitor. He was
expecting the bishop. He had never seen
the bishop, and he longed earnestly to
meet him.
The mans history had been uneventful
| and commonplace. He had been ordained
to the ministry years and years since,
and through family influence and ecclesi-
astical connections had been made the
/ wfn1, tta 81
sequestered little Eastern town. He had
lived there and done his humble work
| faithfully all his life until the death of
his wife and the breaking up Of his fam
| lily a few months since. He had been
particularly touched while in that i'm
questionable condition by printed appeal
which the bishop had put forth for men
| to work in the neglected, untitled, needy,
clamorous fields of the West. He had
abandoned everything-torn up his life
| by the roots, as II were-and had gone
| out to become the rector of the little
parish In which he sat dying, and of the
parts adjacent, comprising perhaps fifty
| square miles.
His arrival had been the means of a
| great awakening-to himself. He saw
| the needs of the situation as perhaps
man of tougher fiber and less intro
spective nature would never have seen
them. and had plunged into the work
| with the vigor of boy. The vigor OF
boy and the constitution of an old man
do not accord; he broke down. The
bishop had been away when he came
| and he had not rightly understood the
circumstances when he accepted his offer
of services; and he did not realize that
the man was so old, or he would never
have allowed him to come TO the field and
undertake the work. But 1t was too late
now, and the bishop was coming to see
him. 1t was the first time he had been
able to visit him. The old man was
| eagerly expecting his visit.
Presently the door opened and the 1T
tie bishop entered. He started In surprise
as he saw the thin. broken figure in the
chair; stepping quickly over to the in
valid's side to prevent him from rising.
he sat down and the two began to talk.
There was a puzzled look In the bishop s
eyes, as II ne could not bring forth from
the storehouse of his memory the identi-
flying key to the old mans personality.
by saying, eagerly:
'T know you now. / thought your
name was familiar from the very first.
Are you not the man who had the parish
church at x for so many years?"
Eyes, bishop" replied the other. II am
that man"
How blind 1 have beenr exclaimed
the bishop 1T never thought. 1 ought
to have known. What on earth made
you come out here?'
you did," quietly answered the aged
priest.
'I?"
yes"
How was that?'
you remember that appeal you pub
llshed in The Church Militant some six
months ago?
"The appeal for men to work this field.
for volunteesf"
THAT was It, Well. I read It. and /
came"
yes" said the bishop. "you came, and
you alone out OF the thousands to whom
II was addressed, who might have Needed
the call"
And anybody might better have heed
ed 1t than l." replied the old man. but
came. have done nothing, and now.
instead OF help, I am a burden to you.
"A burden I am glad to bear" answered
the bishop, softly. IF only for the In
spiration you have afforded me. I think
1t would have broken my heart II nobody
had come and even one man, old and
feeble, shows that there are heroes still
on the earth"
''You praise me too much" the old
man said, in swift depreciation.
mot /. But tell me why you did 1t.
There must have been some reason to
make a man like you leave the work Of a
lifetime for this" The bishops glance
swept the room and the sodden prairie
outside. weren't you happy where you
were?" He added.
Happy! Why. my life had been the
sweetest and happiest that could have
been imagined. Had ] ordered 1t my
self, 1t could not have been cast in fairer
paths. 1t was so easy and so pleasant
that I was ashamed Of 1t. My wife died
just before read your appeal, my chill
dren were scattered abroad there was
nothing left to tie me to the home of my
boyhood manhood and old age; and so,
with the hope that might be able to do
something in the needy fields Of the
West, though 1 was an old man--and l
now see, a broken one-I came. My life
had been such failure from the point
Of view Of a man Of action-Oh, /
don't mean that neglected my duty or
anything of that sort. had always done
my best TO teach and lead my people, to
help my wife, to bring up my children,
and to lead a sober, righteous, God-fear-
in life. I succeeded in some measure.
| l trust. You will not think this
is self assertion"
mo, no, not at ALL" said the bishop
go on am deeply Interested"
xUaa al aaov Not the hafno