Old Judge Priest. Cobb Irvin Shrewsbury

even if you didn’t say it right out. I ain’t forgot that. I ain’t ever goin’ to forget it. And awhile ago, when I was all beat out and discouraged, I said to myself that if there was one man left in this town who could maybe help me to keep my promise to that dead girl, Judge William Pitman Priest was the man. That’s why I’m here.”

      “I’m sorry, ma’am, sorry fur you and sorry fur that dead child,” said Judge Priest slowly. “I wish I could help you. I wish I knew how to advise you. But I reckin those gentlemen were right in whut they said to you to-day. I reckin probably their elders would object to them openin’ up their churches, under the circumstances. And I’m mightily afraid I ain’t got any influence I could bring to bear in any quarter. Did you go to Father Minor? He’s a good friend of mine; we was soldiers together in the war – him and me. Mebbe – ”

      “I thought of him,” said the woman hopelessly; “but you see, Judge, Viola didn’t belong to his church. She was raised a Protestant, she told me so. I guess he couldn’t do nothin’.” in.

      “Ah-hah, I see,” said the judge, and in his perplexity he bent his head and rubbed his broad expanse of pink bald brow fretfully, as though to stimulate thought within by friction without. His left hand fell into the litter of documents upon his desk. Absently his fingers shuffled them back and forth under his eyes. He straightened himself alertly.

      “Was it stated – was it specified that a preacher must hold the funeral service over that dead girl?” he inquired.

      The woman caught eagerly at the inflection that had come into his voice.

      “No, sir,” she answered; “all she said was that it must be in a church and with some flowers and some music. But I never heard of anybody preachin’ a regular sermon without it was a regular preacher. Did you ever, Judge?” Doubt and renewed disappointment battered at her just-born hopes.

      “I reckin mebbe there have been extraordinary occasions where an amateur stepped in and done the best he could,” said the judge. “Mebbe some folks here on earth couldn’t excuse sech presumption as that, but I reckin they’d understand how it was up yonder.”

      He stood up, facing her, and spoke as one making a solemn promise:

      “Ma’am, you needn’t worry yourself any longer. You kin go on back to your home. That dead child is goin’ to have whut she asked for. I give you my word on it.”

      She strove to put a question, but he kept on: “I ain’t prepared to give you the full details yit. You see I don’t know myself jest exactly whut they’ll be. But inside of an hour from now I’ll be seein’ Jansen and he’ll notify you in regards to the hour and the place and the rest of it. Kin you rest satisfied with that?”

      She nodded, trying to utter words and not succeeding. Emotion shook her gross shape until the big gold bands on her arms jangled together.

      “So, ef you’ll kindly excuse me, I’ve got quite a number of things to do betwixt now and suppertime. I kind of figger I’m goin’ to be right busy.”

      He stepped to the threshold and called out down the hallway, which by now was a long, dim tunnel of thickening shadows.

      “Jeff, oh Jeff, where are you, boy?”

      “Comin’, Jedge.”

      The speaker emerged from the gloom that was only a few shades darker than himself.

      “Jeff,” bade his master, “I want you to show this lady the way out – it’s black as pitch in that there hall. And, Jeff, listen here! When you’ve done that I want you to go and find the sheriff fur me. Ef he’s left his office – and I s’pose he has by now – you go on out to his house, or wherever he is, and find him and tell him I want to see him here right away.”

      He swung his ponderous old body about and bowed with a homely courtesy:

      “And now I bid you good night, ma’am.” At the cross sill of the door she halted: “Judge – about gettin’ somebody to carry the coffin in and out – did you think about that? She was such a little thing – she won’t be very heavy – but still, at that, I don’t know anybody – any men – that would be willin’ – ”

      “Ma’am,” said Judge Priest gravely, “ef I was you I wouldn’t worry about who the pallbearers will be. I reckin the Lord will provide. I’ve took notice that He always does ef you’ll only meet Him halfway.”

      For a fact the judge was a busy man during the hour which followed upon all this, the hour between twilight and night. Over the telephone he first called up M. Jansen, our leading undertaker; indeed at that time our only one, excusing the coloured undertaker on Locust Street. He had converse at length with M. Jansen. Then he called up Doctor Lake, a most dependable person in sickness, and when you were in good health too. Then last of all he called up a certain widow who lived in those days, Mrs. Matilda Weeks by name; and this lady was what is commonly called, a character. In her case the title was just and justified. Of character she had more than almost anybody I ever knew.

      Mrs. Weeks didn’t observe precedents. She made them. She cared so little for following after public opinion that public opinion usually followed alter her – when it had recovered from the shock and reorganised itself. There were two sides to her tongue: for some a sharp and acid side, and then again for some a sweet and gentle side – and mainly these last were the weak and the erring and the shiftless, those underfoot and trodden down. Moving through this life in a calm, deliberative, determined way, always along paths of her making and her choosing, obeying only the beck of her own mind, doing good where she might, with a perfect disregard for what the truly good might think about it, Mrs. Weeks was daily guilty of acts that scandalised all proper people. But the improper ones worshipped the ground her feet touched as she walked. She was much like that disciple of Joppa named Tabitha, which by interpretation is called Dorcas, of whom it is written that she was full of good works and almsdeeds which she did. Yes, you might safely call Mrs. Weeks a character.

      With her, back and forth across the telephone wire, Judge Priest had extended speech. Then he hung up the receiver and went home alone to a late and badly burnt supper. Aunt Dilsey Turner, the titular goddess of his kitchen, was a queen cook among cooks, but she could keep victuals hot without scorching them for just so long and no longer. She took pains to say as much, standing in the dining-room door with her knuckles on her hips. But the judge didn’t pay much attention to Aunt Dilsey’s vigorous remarks. He had other things on his mind.

      Down our way this present generation has seen a good many conspicuous and prominent funerals. Until very recently we rather specialised in funerals. Before moving pictures sprang up so numerously funerals provided decorous and melancholy divertisement for many whose lives, otherwise, were rather aridly devoid of sources of inexpensive excitement. Among us were persons – old Mrs. Whitridge was a typical example – who hadn’t missed a funeral of any consequence for years and years back. Let some one else provide the remains, and they would assemble in such number as to furnish a gathering, satisfying in its size and solemn in its impressiveness. They took the run of funerals as they came. But there were some funerals which, having taken place, stood forth in the public estimation forever after as events to be remembered. They were mortuary milestones on the highway of community life.

      For instance, those who were of suitable age to attend it are never going to forget the burial that the town gave lazy, loud-mouthed Lute Montjoy, he being the negro fireman on the ferryboat who jumped into the river that time, aiming to save the small child of a Hungarian immigrant family bound for somewhere up in the Cumberland on the steamer Goldenrod. The baby ran across the boiler deck and went overboard, and the mother screamed, and Lute saw what had happened and he jumped. He was a good swimmer all right, and in half a dozen strokes he reached the strangling mite in the water; but then the current caught him – the June rise was on – and sucked him downstream into the narrow, swirling place between the steamboat’s hull and the outside of the upper wharf boat, and he went under and stayed under.

      Next morning when the dragnets caught and brought him up, one of his stiffened black arms still encircled the body of the white child, in a grip that could hardly be loosened. White and black, everybody turned out to bury Lute Montjoy.