AT HIS DOOR.
Naomi thought long and deeply of that last interview with Arnold
Pentreath. She was in nowise inclined to admit to herself that the
sea-captain could now, or in any time to come, take the place of
his missing brother--that the heart which had been so freely and
so entirely given to Oswald could ever belong to another. Yet,
while looking upon this change of feeling as impossible, Naomi was
conscious that Arnold had begun to exercise a powerful influence upon
her mind, and that his most unexpected avowal of affection for her
had moved her deeply.
He was like his brother and he loved his brother. These two
circumstances were alone sufficient to insure her regard. And now
he had paid her the highest tribute that man can offer to woman. He
had given her his loyal and kindly heart--that heart whose wide
benevolence she had seen in many an unconsidered act of his life; he
had tendered her his happiness, his future; and she had found only
one cold answer to his prayer: ‘It cannot be.’
‘If I loved him better than I ever loved Oswald my answer must have
been the same,’ she said to herself in those long hours of sorrowful
meditation which made up the larger half of her joyless life. ‘While
the dark cloud rests upon Oswald’s fate I can have but one answer for
any lover--you, Arnold, of all others. How do I know that I have the
right to stand up with unbowed head, among honest men and women, when
my heart is tortured by the thought that my father--he who preaches
the Gospel and exhorts other men to repentance--may be the vilest
sinner of all?’
This was the gist of Naomi’s meditations. She had tried to put
that awful fear away from her, but it was rooted in her heart. As
weeks and months went by and brought no news of Oswald, the fear
grew stronger; and with the fear came remorse, a slow and consuming
anguish. Had she been but patient, had she borne her own burden in
silence and kept the secret of that cruel letter, this horror need
never have been. She had put the scorpion into her father’s hand--the
scorpion which had stung that once noble nature to madness.
‘O my father, my lost and erring father,’ she cried, in an hour
when her fear became almost conviction, ‘would to God that I could
bear the burden of your sin! ’Twas I who tempted you; it was my
vile jealousy that urged you to despair and guilt. Let the avenging
rod fall heaviest on me. O God, pity and pardon him, Thou who hast
promised pardon and pity for the darkest sin!’
That there might be pardon even for this last and most hideous
sin of blood-guiltiness, Naomi firmly believed; but could there
be forgiveness for a sinner who added the sin of hypocrisy to his
darker crime, and held his head high among men when it should have
been bowed in the dust under the burden of his shame? Could there be
pardon for a sinner who kept the secret of his guilt, and pretended
to lead other men along the shining path to heaven? No, assuredly.
That smooth-faced hypocrisy--the sin for which man’s Teacher and
Redeemer reserved His most scathing denunciations--must treble the
infamy of the darker guilt it masked, and render pardon impossible.
To the sinner who repenteth pity and peace had been freely offered;
but what mercy was ever promised to the Pharisee who, under the
semblance of exceptional piety, concealed a deeper infamy than the
worst act of the despised publican?
These thoughts were in Naomi’s mind as she sat in her narrow deal
pew, in the soft June twilight, listening to her father’s preaching.
The chapel was full to suffocation, for this was one of those
meetings which the people of Combhaven particularly affected; a
service in which Joshua Haggard was expected to surpass himself,
and in which Satan--so often and so directly appealed to as to seem
an actual member of the congregation--was to be worsted and driven
forth in confusion by the minister’s eloquence. Some even went so far
as to call these evening services ‘devil-hunts.’ The part which the
congregation took in them was not altogether negative or quiescent.
There were times when eager spirits assumed an active share in the
proceedings--when from smothered sighs, and head-shakings, and hollow
groans, as of inward and bodily disorder, the convulsed auditor was
moved to speech, and poured forth his Satanic experiences before
a hushed and awe-struck congregation. Joshua did not encourage or
favour these lay utterances, and his powerful influence and vigorous
eloquence did much to hold his flock in check; but he could not
always dam the flood of inspiration.
‘You’re a powerful praycher, Muster Haggard,’ observed a
weather-beaten old fisherman, whose rambling discourse Joshua strove
to arrest, ‘but when a hignorant man feels he’s gotten the Holy
Sperrit inside un, he ain’t goin’ to be cut short before he’s had
his say. Edication goes for nothin’ with the Sperrit. He don’t mind
grammar.’
Upon this particular evening the flock had been content to express
its feelings by means of groans and sighs, and brief ejaculations of
a self-abasing character. Joshua stood in his square deal pulpit,
with an open Bible on the green-baize cushion, and preached of erring
humanity and man’s darling sins. His sermons were always extempore,
and had of late been obviously without plan or method--a change for
the worse, which Naomi was conscious of, but which had scarcely been
perceived by the flock, that congregation being satisfied with strong
language and a flow of rugged eloquence, without looking too nicely
for logical precision or directness. Joshua turned the leaves of his
Bible, and seemed to draw new ideas from the page he glanced at.
He had been preaching longer than usual, though his sermons were apt
to be long, and the twilight deepened as he stood in his pulpit,
leaning forward with his elbow on the desk, and the other hand
nervously turning the leaves of the Bible, which there was now
scarcely light enough for him to see. He looked pale as ashes in that
gray light, but his large dark eyes gleamed with a sombre fire as
they wandered round the upturned faces of his flock. Sometimes his
eyes lingered wistfully on the pew where Naomi sat, and on Cynthia’s
empty place.
‘Yes, my brethren,’ he cried; ‘yes, fellow-sinners, each has his
darling sin. The world sees it not, knows it not. The world honours
us--we bask in its smiles and favour. Men point to us as ensamples of
godly life. Yet the darling sin is there, in our heart of hearts;
we hug it close--we hide it from every human eye. But in the still
night-watches it comes forth like a serpent out of his hole, and
rears its venomous crest, and stings us with the horror of our guilt.
We call ourselves soldiers and servants of God, yet know that our
real master and captain is the devil. Yes, my brethren, the great
recruiting sergeant has enlisted us. We have taken the devil’s
shilling; the image and superscription upon the coin is the image and
superscription of Satan.
‘Alas, my fellow-sinners! know you how swift a thing it is to fall?
The fall of Lucifer himself was but the act and passage of a moment.
There was no long deliberation--there was no broad gap of time
between heaven and hell. In one hour an angel of light standing
near the throne--in the next revolted, fallen, banished, the prince
and leader of devils. So too with us the fall is swift, the fall is
sudden. We are chosen and elected, called to grace--all our old sins
forgiven. This regeneration is the work of a moment. We look back
and remember the hour in which the light came down upon us, as at
Pentecost. But we may extinguish this light in blackest darkness--we
may lose this divine heritage, forfeit our citizenship in the eternal
city; and this extinction, this loss, may be the work of a moment.’
Groans both loud and deep, plaintive feminine sighs, disjointed
ejaculations of ‘Alas!’ and ‘Too true!’ spoke the convictions of the
assembled sinners.
‘O my brethren, wretched sinners, grovelling in the dust and ashes
of this little world, if at this moment the last trump should sound,
and the heavens be rent asunder, and the great Judge appear shining
in His unspeakable splendour, calling men to judgment, how many among
us could answer to that awful summons without fear and trembling, and
the knowledge that eternal death was our just doom? How many would
He find in this crowded chapel fit to stand before Him? how many of
those blessed ones for whom judgment would mean reward everlasting?
Would He find twenty, do you think, or ten, or five? Alas, my
fellow-sinners, would He find one?’
He lifted his arms aloft at this solemn question, looking up as
if he verily saw that appalling day--the great white throne, the
company of angels, the throng of saints and martyrs, the Divine Judge
Himself, in their dazzling glory.
‘O, come not yet, awful Judge!’ he cried; ‘we are not ready. Leave us
a little more time to wrestle with Satan, to repent our iniquities,
to loosen the bondage of this earthly tabernacle, before we stand
naked at Thy throne. Who among all these is prepared to meet Thy
summons? Who does not tremble as I do at the thought of Thine anger?’
‘Ay, tremble, sinner; quail before the God you have blasphemed!’
cried a resonant voice at the end of the chapel. ‘Tremble, hypocrite;
for the sins of those whom you pretend to teach are white as snow
beside the blackness of your guilt!’
There was a sudden commotion in the crowded chapel; every one turned
towards the door at the end of the building, from which direction the
voice came.
Naomi’s heart sank with an appalling dread. Too well she knew that
voice, though she had never before heard it raised in those tones of
withering denunciation.
‘A worthy teacher,’ cried Arnold Pentreath, facing the excited
congregation, who were all standing up in their pews and staring at
him, as he stood conspicuous among the crowd at the door; ‘a teacher
to call sinners to repentance--a fit exponent of gospel truth--a man
whose soul is steeped in hypocrisy, whose hands are stained with
blood!’
There rose a chorus of exclamations; and then one of the stanchest of
Joshua’s followers, a brawny farmer, opened the door of his pew and
pushed his way out into the narrow aisle.
‘Now look ’ee yere, Cap’n Pentreath,’ he said; ‘I ain’t goin’ to
stand by and yere Muster Haggard abused. You’ll just hold your
tongue; and if you’re gone mazed, you’ll take your madness out o’
this yere chapel.’
On this there rose a general cry of reprobation at the Captain’s
unseemly conduct, Joshua Haggard standing up in his pulpit all the
while, looking down at his bewildered flock; firm as a rock, but pale
to the lips.
‘Come out, come out, all of you, and see the witness I bring against
him. You think I accuse him without grounds for my accusation. I
have my evidence close by--damning evidence. Let him confront it
if he can. Do you know that this man--your teacher and guide--is a
murderer, a secret assassin?’
‘It’s a lie!’ roared the man who had last spoken; ‘it’s a lie, and
I’d ram your lying words down your throat if I could get at ’ee!’
‘It’s the truth, and he knows it. Look at him. He doesn’t deny it,
you see. Look at your teacher--he is dumb. His eloquence fails him
for the first time in his life. He does not fear to insult his God
by his lying oracles, but he shrinks from the face of the man he has
injured. Come out, Joshua Haggard, and meet your accuser. He is at
the door. He is waiting--O, so patiently!--till you come and look him
in the face.’
Naomi could just distinguish the sailor’s white face in the dim
light. He stood above the crowd, raised on the step of the door,
the entrance of Little Bethel being somewhat higher than the chapel
itself.
All was over, then. The worst an avenging God could bring to pass
had come. Her father was known to others as that which she had in
so many an hour of agony suspected him to be. He was known as a
murderer. By some means or other the secret had been made known.
God’s ways are wonderful and mysterious. She had always thought that
it would be so. Her lost lover’s blood cried aloud for vengeance, and
the great Avenger had heard the cry.
At last Joshua spoke, and that firm full voice in which he had so
often swayed and moved his flock silenced all ejaculations. Every eye
was now turned towards the preacher, and all waited his indignant
denial of the charge brought against him.
‘I am accused of murder,’ said Joshua calmly and deliberately, ‘and
we are told the witness of my crime is at the door. Let us go forth
and meet him. Those who know me best here know whether God ever meant
me to be the shedder of my brother’s blood. He maketh one vessel
to honour, and another to dishonour. My position hitherto has been
honour, and you who know me can say whether I have been deserving of
any other lot.’
‘There is not a better man in the country,’ cried the farmer who had
first taken upon himself to be Joshua’s champion.
‘Nor a more pious--nor a more charitable,’ clamoured many voices.
‘God, who knows all things,’ cried Joshua, lifting up his voice with
a sudden burst of passion, ‘knows that whatever I have taught in
this tabernacle of His I have taught from my heart of hearts. I have
travailed for this people. I have loved them and striven for them. I
have not cheated them with pleasant words, though my heart yearned
towards them. Where others have chastised with whips I have chastised
with scorpions; but I have preached the Gospel with a single mind. I
have had no thought save to teach and to save. O Lord, if I have been
the vilest of sinners, at least in this Thy house I have been a true
and faithful servant!’
‘Ay, and so ye have, Muster Haggard,’ chimed in a chorus of women.
‘And now let me go forth to meet my accuser,’ said Joshua, opening
the door of his pulpit and slowly descending the stair.
Naomi had come out into the aisle. She threw herself in his way as
he passed, and linked her arm through his; and thus linked they came
along the narrow space together, the congregation falling back a
little to let them pass.
Joshua did not repulse his daughter. He suffered her to hold his
arm, seeming scarcely conscious of the contact. His dark deep-set
eyes looked straight before him under bent brows; his firm lips were
closely set. He looked a man who was ready to confront Satan himself
in bodily form.
‘Come,’ cried Arnold, beside himself with suppressed passion, ‘your
accuser is not loud or clamorous. He will wait quietly till you go to
him. It is I that am impatient to set you face to face.’
Joshua and his daughter were at the door by this time. They came
close to Arnold. Naomi almost touched him as the crowd swayed against
her. She looked at him with an expression which he never forgot.
‘O Arnold, what have you done?’ she said piteously, in a low voice.
‘My duty to my brother.’
They were outside the chapel in the next moment, in the clear summer
evening. The stars were shining in the pale gray; the great green
hills stood up against the cool night sky. All wore its accustomed
look of rustic peace. And just in front of the chapel-door four
men were standing with a litter, on which there lay a quiet figure
covered with tarpaulin.
‘Come and look at my witness,’ said Arnold, seizing Joshua by the arm
and dragging him towards the litter, and bending over it to lift the
edge of the covering which shrouded that motionless form.
‘Stop,’ cried Joshua, with a shuddering movement, ‘you need not lift
it; I can guess. It is death you would have me look on.’
‘Yes, death--the body of the man you murdered; my dead brother, whom
you slandered in his unhallowed grave, telling me that he had died
the death of the suicide. Hark ye, neighbours,’ cried Arnold, turning
to the awe-stricken crowd; ‘it is my brother--Oswald Pentreath--who
lies here, shot through the heart by yonder villain nearly a year
ago. God only knows if there is evidence enough to bring him to the
gallows; but God knows, and I know, that he did the deed. Before
you all I accuse him--your preacher, your pastor, your example of
righteousness--he is my brother’s murderer. The corpse lies here,
silent witness of the crime. He--your preacher yonder--was seen
waiting for my brother close to the spot where that corpse was found,
shots were heard by the witness who saw him, and my brother was never
seen after those shots were fired--never seen; he was lying at the
bottom of the old shaft, murdered, and flung there to rot forgotten
and unknown. And the murderer looked me in the face, and told me
my brother was a coward and had slain himself. If earthly justice
cannot touch him, if human ingenuity cannot bring this crime home to
his door, may God’s justice punish him as never man was punished by
mortal avenger! May Heaven make his lot more bitter than the hardest
doom man’s inhumanity ever devised for his fellow-man’s torture!’
‘Take your corpse to the dead-house,’ cried Joshua, with a
contemptuous calmness, as if those passionate threats of Arnold’s
passed him by like the wind, ‘and make your complaint to the coroner.
It is his business to find out the cause of your brother’s death.
All here know that I saved Oswald Pentreath’s life at the peril of my
own. That is my answer to your charge.’
‘Ay, that we do!’ cried ever so many voices, and the crowd turned
angrily upon Joshua’s accuser. ‘We all remember how he saved the
young Squire that stormy day four year ago--risked his life as if it
weren’t worth a groat, and brought him in alive off the rock when
ne’er another would ha’ done it. Doant ’ee be afraid, Muster Haggard.
Let un try to lay a finger on ’ee!’
‘Come home, father, come home,’ whispered Naomi, white as death, and
trembling so that she could hardly stand, yet with firmness to make
her careful for the father who had always been first in her love and
reverence--who was first to-night even, when her lover’s corpse lay
there before her under its dark pall, awful, unsightly, a thing to be
thought of with horror.
She held her father by the arm and led him away from that
dreadful spot, scarcely able to walk herself, and yet supporting
and sustaining him. The crowd followed, as if to protect their
minister--followed and congregated round the garden-rails as Joshua
went into his house; and Arnold was left alone with his dead and the
little group of farm-labourers who had helped him in his hideous
discovery.