A TERRIBLE INTERRUPTION
By some means or other the news had spread in the village, and such a
congregation as I had never seen filled our little church long before
the usual time. In a dark corner I saw, to my surprise, Bruce Deville
leaning against a pillar with folded arms, and on my way to my pew I
passed Adelaide Fortress seated in a chair in the nave. Neither of
these two had I ever seen in church before, and what had brought them
there on that particular evening I never clearly understood. It was
a little irony of fate--one of those impulses which it is hard to
believe are altogether coincidences.
The Bishop came early, and sat by Lady Naselton’s side, the centre
of all eyes. I looked away from him to the chancel. I was strangely
nervous. It was still dimly lit, although the bells had ceased to
ring. There was only a moment’s pause, however, then the little space
was filled with white-robed figures, and my sister’s voluntary, unduly
prolonged in this instance, died away in a few soft chords. I drew a
long breath of relief. Everything was going as usual. Perhaps, after
all this night might be a fateful one to us.
I watched the Bishop’s face from the first. I saw him glance up as if
in surprise at my father’s rich, musical voice, which woke the echoes
of the dark little church with the first words of the service. At
the singing, which was always wretched, he frowned, and, catching
a sideway glance from Lady Naselton, smiled somewhat. Studying him
through half-closed eyelids, I decided that country services in the
abstract did not attract him, and that he was a little bored.
It was only when my father stood up in the pulpit and looked around
him in that moment or two of hushed suspense which precedes the giving
out of the text, that the lines of his face relaxed, and he settled
himself down with an air of interest.
For me it was a terribly anxious moment. I knew my father’s state of
health, and I remembered the few weary and pointless words which had
gone to make his morning sermon. Contrary to his usual custom, he
stood there without any notes of any sort. I scarcely dared to hope
that he would be able to do himself justice. Yet the first words of
his text had scarcely left his lips when some premonition of what
was to come sent a strange thrill through all my nerves. “The wages
of sin is death.” No words could give any idea of the marvellous yet
altogether effortless solemnity with which these words passed from my
father’s lips. Scarcely uttered above a whisper, they yet penetrated
to the utmost corners of the little church. Was it really intense
earnestness or a wonderful knowledge and appreciation of true dramatic
effect which made him close the book with a slow movement of his
forefinger, and stand up there amongst the deep shadows as pale as the
surplice which hung around his pale form? Yet when he spoke his voice
did not tremble or falter. His words, tense with life, all vibrating
with hidden fire, penetrated easily to the furthest and darkest corner
of the building.
“The wages of sin--the eternal torment of a conscience never sleeping,
never weary!” It was of that he went on to speak. I can scarcely
remember so much as a single sentence of that sermon, although its
effect upon myself and those who formed the congregation of listeners,
is a memory which even now thrills me. From those few opening words,
pregnant as they were with dramatic force, and lit with the fire of
true eloquence, not for one moment did the attention of the little
congregation wander. A leaf could have been heard to drop in the
church, the rustle of a pocket handkerchief was a perfectly audible
sound. Not even a child looked sideways to watch the dark ivy waving
softly against the stained glass windows or wondered at the strange
pattern which a ray of dying sunlight had traced upon the bare stone
aisles. There was something personal--something like the cry of human
sorrow itself in that slow, passionate outpouring. Was it by any
chance a confession or an accusation to which we were listening? It
was on the universality of sin of which my father spoke with such
heart-moving emphasis. Our lives were like cupboards having many
chambers, some of which were open indeed to the daylight and the gaze
of all men, but there were others jealously closed and locked. We
could make their outside beautiful, we could keep the eyes of all
men from penetrating beneath that fair exterior. We could lock them
with a cunning and secret key, so that no hand save our own could lay
bare the grisly spectre that lurked within. Yet our own knowledge, or
what we had grown to call conscience, sat in our hearts and mocked
us. Sometime the great white light swept into the hidden places,
there was a tug at our heartstrings, and behold the seal had fallen
away. And in that church, my father added slowly, “he doubted whether
any one could say that within him those dark places were not.”
Suddenly his calm, tense eloquence became touched with passion. His
pale face gleamed, and his eyes were lit with an inward fire. Gesture
and tone moved to the beat of a deeper and more subtle rhetoric. He
was pleading for those whose sin beat about in their bosoms and lay
like a dark shadow across all the sweet places of life. Passionate
and more passionate he grew. He was pleading--for whom? We listened
entranced. His terrible earnestness passed like an electric thrill
into the hearts of all of us. Several women were crying softly; men
sat there with bowed heads, face to face with ghosts long since
buried. Bruce Deville was sitting back in his corner with folded
arms and downcast head. Adelaide Fortress was looking steadfastly up
towards that pale, inspired figure, with soft, wet eyes. Even the
Bishop was deeply moved, and was listening to every word. For my
part there was a great lump in my throat. The sense of some terrible
reality behind my father’s impassioned words had left me pale and
trembling. A subtle sense of excitement stole through the church. When
he paused for a moment before his concluding sentence, there was
something almost like a murmur amongst the congregation, followed by
another period of breathless suspense.
In the midst of that deep hush a faint sound attracted me. My seat was
on a level with the open door, and I glanced out. A man was leaning
against the porch--a man in very grievous condition. His clothes were
disordered and torn, and there was a great stain on the front of his
coat. I alone had gazed away from the preacher in the pulpit towards
him, and whilst I looked the sound which had first attracted me was
repeated. A low, faint moan, scarcely louder than a whisper, passed
between his lips. He stood there supporting himself with his hands
against the wall. His lined face was turned towards me, and, with a
thrill of horror, I recognized him. I half rose from my seat. The man
was either ill or dying. He seemed to be making frantic signs to me. I
tried my utmost to signal to Mr. Charlsworth, but, like all the rest,
his eyes seemed riveted upon the pulpit. Before I could leave my seat,
or attract any one’s attention, he had staggered through the door
into the church itself. He stood leaning upon a vacant chair, a wild,
disordered object, with blood stains upon his hands and clothes, and
his dark eyes red and gleaming fiercely beneath his wind-tossed mass
of black hair.
So fascinated was the congregation that save myself only one or
two stray people had noticed him. He stood amongst the shadows,
and only I, to whom his profile appeared against the background of
the open door, was able to mark the full and terrible disorder of
his person. And while I waited, numb with some nameless fear, the
preacher’s voice rang once more through the building, and men and
women bowed their heads before the sweet, lingering passion of those
sad words.
“The wages of sin is death. For all things may pass away save sin. Sin
alone is eternal. Sin alone must stamp itself wherever it touches with
an undying and everlasting mark. Retribution is like the tides of the
sea, which no man’s hands can stay; and Death rides his barque upon
the rolling waves. You and I and every man and woman in this world
whom sin has known--alas! that there should be so many--have looked
into his marble face, have felt the touch of his pitiless hands,
and the cold despair of his unloving embrace. For there is Death
spiritual and Death physical, and many of us who bear no traces of our
past in the present of to-day, have fought our grim battle with the
death--the--death----”
And then my father’s words died away upon his lips, and the whole
congregation knew what had already thrown me into an agony of
terror. The man had struggled to the bottom of the aisle, and the
sound of his shuffling movements, and the deep groan which accompanied
them, had drawn many eyes towards him. His awful plight stood
revealed with pitiless distinctness in the open space where he was
now standing. The red blood dripped from his clothing upon the bare
stone floor, a foam which was like the foam of death frothed at his
lips. He stood there, the focus of all horrified eyes, swaying to
and fro as though on the eve of collapse, his arms outstretched, and
his eyes flashing red fire upon the thin almost spectral-like figure
of the preacher now leaning over towards him from the pulpit. The
slight color forced into my father’s cheeks by the physical effort
of his impassioned oratory died away. To his very lips he was white
as the surplice he wore. Yet he did not lose his nerve or falter
for a moment. He motioned to Mr. Charlsworth and the other church
wardens, and both left their places and hurried down the aisle towards
the wild, tragical looking figure. Just as they reached him the cry
which his lips had twice declined to utter burst out upon the tense,
breathless silence. He made a convulsive movement forward as though to
spring like a wild cat upon that calm, dignified figure looking down
upon him with unfaltering and unflinching gaze.
“Judas! you, Judas! Oh! my God!”
His hands, thrown wildly out, fell to his side. He sank back into the
arms of one of those who had hurried from their places at my father’s
gesture. A last cry, more awful than anything I have ever heard, woke
hideous echoes amongst the wormeaten, black oak beams, and before
it had died away, I saw Adelaide Fortress glide like a black wraith
from her seat and fall on her knees by the fainting man’s side. My
father lifted up his arms, and with a deep, solemn tremor in his tone
pronounced the Benediction. Then, with his surplice flying round him,
he came swiftly down the aisle between the little crowd of horrified
people. They all fell back at his approach. He sank on one knee by the
side of the prostrate man and looked steadfastly into his face. The
congregation all waited in their places, and Alice, who was only
partly aware of what was going on, commenced to play a soft voluntary.
There was some whispering for a moment or two, then they lifted him up
and carried the lifeless body out into the open air.
My father followed close behind. For a few minutes there was an uneasy
silence. People forgot that the Benediction had been pronounced, and
were uncertain whether to go or stay. Then some one made a start, and
one by one they got up and left the church.
Lady Naselton paused and sat by my side for a moment. She was
trembling all over.
“Do you know who it was?” she whispered.
I shook my head.
“I am not sure. It was a stranger; was it not?”
She shuddered.
“It was either a stranger, or my guest, Mr. Berdenstein. I only caught
a glimpse of his face for a moment, and I could not be sure. He looked
so horrible.”
She paused, and suddenly discovered that I was half fainting. “Come
out into the air,” she whispered. I got up and went out with her just
in time.
They had carried him into a distant corner of the churchyard. My
father, when he saw us standing together in a little group, came
slowly over as though to check our further advance. His face was
haggard and drawn. He seemed to walk with difficulty, and underneath
his surplice I could see that one hand was pressed to his side.
“The man is dead,” he said, quietly. “There must have been an accident
or a fight. No one seems to know where he came from.”
“I wonder,” remarked the Bishop, thoughtfully, “why he should have
dragged himself up to the church in such a plight. One of those
cottages or the Vicarage would have been nearer.”
“Perhaps,” my father answered, gravely, “he was struggling for
sanctuary.”
And the Bishop held up his right hand towards the sky with a solemn
gesture.
“God grant that he may have found it,” he prayed.