THE FIRST SERMON.
It was Sunday afternoon, a year and a half after this, and St. John had
just been preaching his first sermon. Missy's dream of happiness was
realized, and her brother was called to Yellowcoats parish--called
before he was ordained; and for three months the parish had been waiting
patiently for that event, and living upon "supplies." St. John had not
wished to come to Yellowcoats, his mother had not wholly desired it, but
the fire and force of Missy's will had conquered, and here he was.
"I think it's a mistake," St. John had said. "Half the congregation will
think I ought to be playing marbles yet, and wearing knickerbockers.
Besides, it isn't the kind of work I want."
Then his mother had admitted, that it would be a great happiness to have
him with her; and Missy had presented to his conscience, in many forms,
that place and surroundings were indications of duty. It was not for
nothing that he had been born and brought up at Yellowcoats; that there
he had family influence, and knowledge of the people with whom he was to
deal. Was it not his home? Did he owe any other place as much? And was
it nothing that a vacancy had occurred just as he was ready to come?
"All the same, I doubt if it is well," he said, and came; for he was
young and not self-willed, and the kind of work he wanted had not come
before him. He consented to come and try. "But remember, Missy, I do not
promise you to stay."
Upon one thing he was firm, he would not live at home. The rectory was
in tolerable order, and there he was to live, with one servant. He never
would be happy unless he were uncomfortable, said his sister;
nevertheless, she liked him better for it.
St. John was changed, very deeply changed, since that October night, a
year and a half ago; but he had come to be again sweet-natured and
natural, and they loved him more than ever at home. He had grown silent,
and never got back his young looks again. He had thrown himself into his
studies with great earnestness, and had worked, perhaps, more than was
quite wise. Lent was just over, and his ordination; and he was naturally
a little wan and weary from it; but after preaching that first sermon,
there was a flush upon his cheek. The bishop had been there in the
morning, and had preached; in the afternoon, he had had no one with him,
and had taken all the duty. He was alone with his people, and was fairly
launched. It had been well known that he was going to preach, and the
church was very full. Perhaps speculation about the knickerbockers and
the marbles had brought some. Perhaps affection and real interest in
their young townsman had brought others. All the "denominations" were
amply represented, and all the young women of the village who had smart
spring bonnets, wore them, and came with their young men. In short, it
was more like a funeral than an ordinary afternoon service; for a
funeral in Yellowcoats was an improved occasion always. The church
building was a very poor affair, shabby in detail as well as ungainly in
plan, but it was well situated, in the midst of shade, with an old
graveyard on one side, and the road that led to the door of the rectory,
fifty feet back, on the other, and beyond some green grass and trees
there were sheds for horses. The windows were of clear diamond-shaped
glass, so that when the rattling old shades were rolled up, one saw
lovely glimpses of the bay, and some green fields, and nearer, the
delicate young green of the locust trees that stood thick in the
inclosure. One could always look heaven-ward and sea-ward out of the
windows of Yellowcoats church, and that was the only advantage it
presented as a building.
Lent had come late that year; and the spring had come early. The air was
soft and sweet, the verdure more advanced than is usual for the last of
April. The earth was still sodden and wet, though the spring sun was
shining warmly on it. The crocuses were peeping up about the stones of
the foundation, and in the grass the Star of Bethlehem and the
periwinkle were in blossom. The locusts, with their thin, high-up
foliage, were just a faint green, their rough bark rusty from the
winter's storms.
It is rather an ordeal to hear one's brother preach his first sermon,
particularly if he is a younger brother, and one has more solicitude for
his success, than confidence in it. Missy's heart beat furiously while
he said the prayers--she very much wished he hadn't come to Yellowcoats.
His voice soothed her; there was no indication in it that his heart was
beating with irregularity. But then would dart in the thought of the
coming sermon, and the trepidation would return. There was one thing to
be thankful for, and that was, that mamma was not there. And when the
sermon came, she scarcely heard the text; it was several minutes before
she heard anything. By and by she got steadied by something in his voice
and manner, not probably in the words. And after that, she renounced
solicitude and assumed confidence. Yes, she need not be afraid for St.
John. Though there was nothing wonderful in the sermon. The congregation
had heard many a better, probably. But while it was simple, it was not
trite. It was thought out, and definite, and well-expressed. The Rev.
Dr. Platitude would have made three out of it, and thought himself
extravagant. But what was it that held the people so silent, that made
them follow him so? For Missy would have heard a leaf turned six pews
off; would have felt it through and through her if a distant neighbor
had even buttoned up her glove. No; nobody was turning pages, or
buttoning gloves, or thinking of spring bonnets. St. John had them in
his hand; they were his while he chose to hold them. There was an utter
simplicity about him; an absence of speculation about himself. Missy
looked at him and wondered if it were indeed her brother. There was a
deep light in his eyes, that one sometimes sees in blue eyes; there was
a faint flush on his cheek; there was a steady look about his mouth. It
began to dawn on Missy that he was going to be one of those men who are
to preach from their hearts as well as from their brains; who are to
bring out from their own soul's labor, food for the hungry souls about
them. She began to feel that St. John's sermon had come somehow from the
weary Lent that was just ended; from the hard pressure of the past
eighteen months; from the cruel wound that had seemed to find his very
life. But what were the people crying about? Heaven knows. For they had
heard many sermons before, and been like the pebbles on the shore for
hardness and rattling indifference. And they did cry, though St. John
did not; but his eyes were deep and earnest.
"Mamma," exclaimed Missy, throwing herself down by her mother's sofa,
and hiding her face on her shoulder--"it was like Paradise--all the
people cried."
"I didn't suppose they did that in Paradise."
"Oh, you know what I mean. It was like Paradise to me to see them cry.
At any rate, you needn't have any fear about St. John."
"I never had any fear of him, that way," said the mother, quietly.