As Brent thought of the long struggle before him, he began to wish that
there might be something organically wrong with him which the shock
would irritate into fatal illness. But even while he thought this he
sneered at himself for the weakness. A weakness self-confessed holds the
possibility of strength. So in a few days he rallied and took up the
burden of his life again. As before he had found relief in study, now he
stilled his pains and misgivings by a strict attention to the work which
his place involved.
His was not an easy position for a young man. He had to go through the
ordeal of pastoral visits. He had to condole with old ladies who thought
a preacher had nothing else to do than to listen to the recital of their
ailments. He had to pray with poor and stricken families whose
conditions reminded him strongly of what his own must have been. He had
to speak words of serious admonition to girls nearly his own age, who
thought it great fun and giggled in his face. All this must he do, nor
must he slight a single convention. No rules of conduct are so rigid as
are those of a provincial town. He who ministers to the people must
learn their prejudices and be adroit enough not to offend them or strong
enough to break them down. It was a great load to lay on the shoulders
of so young a man. But habit is everything, and he soon fell into the
ways of his office. Writing to Taylor, he said, "I am fairly harnessed
now, and at work, and, although the pulling is somewhat hard, I know my
way. It is wonderful how soon a man falls into the cant of his position
and learns to dole out the cut-and-dried phrases of ministerial talk
like a sort of spiritual phonograph. I must confess, though, that I am
rather good friends with the children who come to my Sunday-school. My
own experiences as a child are so fresh in my memory that I rather
sympathise with the little fellows, and do all I can to relieve the
half-scared stiffness with which they conduct themselves in church and
the Sunday-school room.
"I wonder why it is we make church such a place of terror to the young
ones. No wonder they quit coming as soon as they can choose.
"I shock Miss Simpson, who teaches a mixed class, terribly, by my
freedom with the pupils. She says that she can't do anything with her
charges any more; but I notice that her class and the school are
growing. I 've been at it for several weeks now, and, like a promising
baby, I am beginning to take an interest in things.
"If I got on with the old children of my flock as well as I do with the
young ones, I should have nothing to complain of; but I don't. They know
as little as the youngsters, and are a deal more unruly. They are
continually comparing me with their old pastor, and it is needless to
say that I suffer by the comparison. The ex-pastor himself burdens me
with advice. I shall tell him some day that he has resigned. But I am
growing diplomatic, and have several reasons for not wishing to offend
him. For all which 'shop' pray forgive me."
One of the reasons for not wishing to offend the Rev. Mr. Simpson of
which Brent wrote was, as may be readily inferred, his engagement to
Elizabeth. It had not yet officially become public property, but few of
Dexter's observant and forecasting people who saw them together doubted
for a moment that it would be a match. Indeed, some spiteful people in
the community, who looked on from the outside, said that "Mr. Simpson
never thought of resigning until he saw that he could keep the place in
the family." But of course they were Baptists who said this, or
Episcopalians, or Presbyterians,--some such unregenerate lot.
Contrary to the adage, the course of love between the young people did
run smooth. The young minister had not disagreed with the older one, so
Elizabeth had not disagreed with him, because she did not have to take
sides. She was active in the Sunday-school and among the young people's
societies, and Brent thought that she would make an ideal minister's
wife. Every Sunday, after church, they walked home together, and
sometimes he would stop at the house for a meal. They had agreed that at
the end of his first pastoral year they would be married; and both
parent and guardian smiled on the prospective union.
As his beloved young friend seemed to grow more settled and contented,
Eliphalet Hodges waxed more buoyant in the joy of his hale old age, and
his wife, all her ambitions satisfied, grew more primly genial every
day.
Brent found his congregation increasing, and heard himself spoken of as
a popular preacher. Under these circumstances, it would seem that there
was nothing to be desired to make him happy. But he was not so, though
he kept an unruffled countenance. He felt the repression that his
position put upon him. He prayed that with time it might pass off, but
this prayer was not answered. There were times when, within his secret
closet, the contemplation of the dead level of his life, as it spread
out before him, drove him almost to madness.
The bitterness in his heart against his father had not abated one jot,
and whenever these spasms of discontent would seize him he was wont to
tell himself, "I am fighting old Tom Brent now, and I must conquer him."
Thus nearly a year passed away, and he was beginning to think of asking
Elizabeth to name the day. He had his eye upon a pretty little nest of a
house, sufficiently remote from her father's, and he was looking
forward to settling quietly down in a home of his own.
It was about this time that, as he sat alone one evening in the little
chamber which was his study and bedroom in one, Mr. Simpson entered and
opened conversation with him.
For some time a rumour which did violence to the good name of Sophy
Davis had been filtering through the community. But it had only
filtered, until the girl's disappearance a day or two before had allowed
the gossips to talk openly, and great was the talk. The young minister
had looked on and listened in silence. He had always known and liked
Sophy, and if what the gossips said of her was true, he pitied the girl.
On this particular evening it was plain that Mr. Simpson had come to
talk about the affair. After some preliminary remarks, he said, "You
have a great chance, dear Brother Brent, for giving the devil in this
particular part of the moral vineyard a hard blow."
"I don't clearly see why now, more than before," returned Brent.
"Because you are furnished with a living example of the fruits of evil:
don't you see?"
"If there is such an example furnished, the people will see it for
themselves, and I should be doing a thankless task to point it out to
them. I would rather show people the beauty of good than the ugliness of
evil."
"Yes, that 's the milk-and-water new style of preaching."
"Well, we all have our opinions, to be sure, but I think it rather a
good style." Brent was provokingly nonchalant, and his attitude
irritated the elder man.
"We won't discuss that: we will be practical. I came to advise you to
hold Sophy Davis up in church next Sunday as a fearful example of
evil-doing. You need n't mention any names, but you can make it strong
and plain enough."
Brent flushed angrily. "Are there not enough texts in here," he asked,
laying his hand upon the Bible, "that I can cite and apply, without
holding up a poor weak mortal to the curiosity, scorn, and derision of
her equally weak fellows?"
"But it is your duty as a Christian and a preacher of the gospel to use
this warning."
"I do not need to kick a falling girl to find examples to warn people
from sin; and as for duty, I think that each man best knows his own."
"Then you are n't going to do it?"
"No," the young man burst forth. "I am a preacher of the gospel, not a
clerical gossip!"
"Do you mean that I am a gossip?"
"I was not thinking of you."
"Let me preach for you, Sunday."
"I will not do that either. I will not let my pulpit be debased by
anything which I consider so low as this business."
"You will not take advice, then?"
"Not such as that."
"Be careful, Frederick Brent. I gave you that pulpit, and I can take it
away,--I that know who you are and what you come from."
"The whole town knows what you know, so I do not care for that. As for
taking my pulpit from me, you may do that when you please. You put it
upon me by force, and by force you may take it; but while I am pastor
there I shall use my discretion in all matters of this kind."
"Sophy 's been mighty quiet in her devilment. She does n't accuse
anybody. Maybe you 've got more than one reason for shielding her."
Brent looked into the man's eyes and read his meaning; then he arose
abruptly and opened the door.
"I 'm not accusing--"
"Go," said the young man hoarsely. His face was white, and his teeth
were hard set.
"You 'll learn some respect for your elders yet, if--"
"Go!" Brent repeated, and he took a step towards his visitor. Mr.
Simpson looked startled for a moment, but he glanced back into the young
man's face and then passed hurriedly out of the room.
Brent let two words slip between his clenched teeth: "The hound!"
No one knew what had passed between the young pastor and Mr. Simpson,
but many mutterings and head-shakings of the latter indicated that all
was not right. No one knew? Perhaps that is hardly correct, for on
Sunday, the sermon over, when Brent looked to find Elizabeth in her
usual place whence they walked home together, she was gone. He bit his
lip and passed on alone, but it rankled within him that she had so
easily believed ill of him.
But he had not seen the last of the Rev. Mr. Simpson's work. It was the
right of five members of the congregation to call a church-meeting, and
when he returned for service in the evening he found upon the pulpit the
written request for such an assembly to be held on Tuesday night.
Heading the list of members was the name of the former pastor, although
this was not needed to tell the young man that it was his work. In anger
he gave out the notice and went on with his duties.
"Somethin' must 'a' riled you to-night, Fred," said Eliphalet when
church was out. "You give 'em a mighty stirrin' touch o' fire. It
'minded me o' that old supply sermon." Brent smiled mirthlessly. He knew
that the same feelings had inspired both efforts.
On Tuesday evening he was early at church, and in the chair, as was the
pastor's place. Early as he was, he did not much precede Mr. Simpson,
who came in, followed by a coterie of his choicest spirits.
When the assembly had been duly called to order, Brent asked, "Will some
one now please state the object of this meeting?"
Mr. Simpson arose.
"Brothers and sisters," he said, "the object of this meeting is a very
simple one. From the time that I began to preach in this church,
twenty-five years ago, we had purity and cleanness in the pulpit and in
the pew."
Brent's eyes were flashing. Eliphalet Hodges, who had thought that the
extra session was for some routine business, pricked up his ears.
Simpson proceeded: "One in this flock has lately gone astray: she has
fallen into evil ways--"
"Brother Simpson," interrupted Brent, his face drawn and hard with
anger, "will you state the object of this meeting?"
"If the pastor is not afraid to wait, he will see that that is what I am
doing."
"Then you are bringing into the church matters that have no business
here."
"We shall see about that. We intend to investigate and see why you
refused to hold up as a warning one of the sinners of this connection.
We propose to ask whom you were shielding--a sinner in the pew, or a
sinner in the pulpit as well. We propose--"
"Stop!" The young man's voice broke out like the report of a rifle.
"Stop, I say, or, as God sees me, here in His temple, at His very altar,
I will do you violence. I speak to you not as your pastor, but as a
man: not as an accused man, for you dare not accuse me."
The church was in a commotion. In all its long history, such a scene had
never before been enacted within the sacred walls. The men sat
speechless; the women shrank far down into their seats. Only those two
men, the young and the old, stood glaring into each other's faces.
"Remember, brethren," said someone, recovering himself, "that this is
the house of God, and that you are preachers of the gospel."
"I do remember that it is God's house, and for that reason I will not
let it be disgraced by scandal that would stain the lowest abode of
vice. I do remember that I am a preacher, and for that reason I will not
see the gospel made vindictive,--a scourge to whip down a poor girl, who
may have sinned,--I know not,--but who, if she did, has an advocate with
God. Once before in this place have I told you my opinion of your
charity and your love. Once before have I branded you as mockeries of
the idea of Christianity. Now I say to you, you are hypocrites. You are
like carrion birds who soar high up in the ether for a while and then
swoop down to revel in filth and rottenness. The stench of death is
sweet to you. Putridity is dear to you. As for you who have done this
work, you need pity. Your own soul must be reeking with secret foulness
to be so basely suspicious. Your own eyes must have cast unholy glances
to so soon accuse the eyes of others. As for the thing which you, mine
enemy, have intimated here to-night, as pastor of this church I scorn to
make defence. But as a man I say, give such words as those breath again,
and I will forget your age and only remember your infamy. I see the
heads of some about me here wagging, some that knew my father. I hear
their muffled whispers, and I know what they are saying. I know what is
in their hearts. You are saying that it is the old Tom Brent in me
showing itself at last. Yes, it has smouldered in me long, and I am
glad. I think better of that spirit because it was waked into life to
resent meanness. I would rather be the most roistering drunkard that
ever reeled down these streets than call myself a Christian and carouse
over the dead characters of my fellows.
"To-night I feel for the first time that I am myself. I give you back
gladly what you have given me. I am no longer your pastor. We are well
quit. Even while I have preached to you, I have seen in your hearts your
scorn and your distrust, and I have hated you in secret. But I throw off
the cloak. I remove the disguise. Here I stand stripped of everything
save the fact that I am a man; and I despise you openly. Yes, old Tom,
drunken Tom Brent's son despises you. Go home. Go home. There may be
work for your stench-loving nostrils there."
He stood like an avenging spirit, pointing towards the door, and the
people who had sat there breathless through it all rose quietly and
slipped out. Simpson joined them and melted into the crowd. They were
awed and hushed.
Only Mrs. Hodges, white as death, and her husband, bowed with grief,
remained. A silent party, they walked home together. Not until they were
in the house did the woman break down, and then she burst into a storm
of passionate weeping as if the pent-up tears of all her stoical life
were flowing at once.
"Oh, Fred, Fred," she cried between her sobs, "I see it all now. I was
wrong. I was wrong. But I did it all fur the best. The Lord knows I did
it fur the best."
"I know you did, Aunt Hester, but I wish you could have seen sooner,
before the bitterness of death had come into my life." He felt strangely
hard and cold. Her grief did not affect him then.
"Don't take on so, Hester," said the old man, but the woman continued to
rock herself to and fro and moan, "I did it fur the best, I did it fur
the best." The old man took her in his arms, and after a while she grew
more calm, only her sobs breaking the silence.
"I shall go away to-morrow," said Brent. "I am going out into the world
for myself. I 've been a disgrace to every one connected with me."
"Don't say that about yoreself, Fred; I ain't a-goin' to hear it," said
Eliphalet. "You 've jest acted as any right-thinkin' man would 'a'
acted. It would n't 'a' been right fur you to 'a' struck Brother
Simpson, but I 'm nearer his age, an' my hands itched to git a hold o'
him." The old man looked menacing, and his fist involuntarily clenched.
"'Liphalet," said his wife, "I 've been a-meddlin' with the business o'
Providence, an' I 've got my jest desserts. I thought I knowed jest
what He wanted me to do, an' I was more ignorant than a child. Furgive
me ef you kin, Fred, my boy. I was tryin' to make a good man o' you."
"There 's nothing for me to forgive, Aunt Hester. I 'm sorry I 've
spoiled your plans."
"I 'm glad, fur mebbe God 'll have a chance now to work His own plans.
But pore little 'Lizabeth!"
Brent's heart hurt him as he heard the familiar name, and he turned
abruptly and went to his room. Once there, he had it out with himself.
"But," he told himself, "if I had the emergency to meet again, I should
do the same thing."
The next morning's mail brought him a little packet in which lay the
ring he had given Elizabeth to plight their troth.
"I thank you for this," he said. "It makes my way easier."