A Sermon
ON the Sunday morning following the Morning Glory Club's entertainment,
the Rev. Elijah Flint arose after a restless night feeling physically
miserable; but thoughts of the mighty effort that he was to make that
day caused him soon to forget his bodily condition. Mrs. Flint had gone
out of town the day before to visit friends. The minister was alone in
the parsonage--alone with a narrow, stubborn idea. After a meagre
breakfast of his own getting, he started early for church, eager and
impatient for the service to begin.
A rumour had spread about town that Mr. Flint was to depart from his
usual custom on that day and preach an up-to-date sermon. Everybody knew
what that meant, and everybody--almost--went to church. When Mr. Flint
went into the pulpit, and turned the leaves of the large Bible in search
of the morning lesson, he glanced over the large congregation with the
keenest satisfaction. It never occurred to him that the addition to his
small flock was made up of victims of morbid curiosity. The idea crept
into his mind that his opposition to a recent "ungodly performance" had
brought favour to him and his church, which before had been denied them.
At last, he thought, after years of unrewarded, unappreciated labour,
the tide has turned. Poor fool; if "narrowness" and "curiosity" had been
painted all over his church in letters as tall as himself, God could not
have grieved more.
When Mr. Flint arose to deliver his sermon the stillness of a tomb fell
over devout and curious alike, and was preserved to the end. The sermon
was a general denunciation of the stage, professional and amateur, the
latter being especially stigmatized. And in reference to a recent local
performance, and the enormity of the sin of an unnamed young woman who
wore in public an undescribed costume, the preacher was unscathingly
bitter and quoted these words: "As a jewel of gold in a swine's snout,
so is a fair woman which is without discretion." Thus, for an hour, the
man raved like one insane, and during that time many of his hearers
became infected with the same malady. They believed every idea that was
hurled at them, swallowed words whole without tasting to discover
whether they were sweet or poison. The accuser's vehemence surprised
some and grieved others, but none of the curious were disappointed.
* * * * *
Barbara sat at one of Mrs. Stout's front windows, thoughtful and silent,
as she watched the people going home from church. Without, the sun was
shining brightly; within, the leaden cloud still hung over her and grew
darker without her knowing it. The last cruel blow could not be
anticipated.
Mrs. Stout had been motherly kindness itself. She had tried in every way
to lessen the sting of the outrage--to make Barbara forget; but the
rough, good-hearted woman failed, though her efforts were gratefully
appreciated. She had urged Barbara to go home, well knowing that
Manville must be unbearable, but Barbara was waiting for Will. He had
telegraphed that he would come as soon as possible, but two days had
gone by since then. Oh, how she longed to see him! He was the only one
who could comfort and help, and though she did not know how that even he
could silence the mischievous and careless tongues, she had faith to
believe that he would.
Have I done wrong? She asked herself a thousand times, and each time the
answer was "no." Would Will think that she had sinned? The thought was
torture, but Love and Faith answered the question for her.
Late that afternoon Fanny Tweedie called, and a few minutes afterward
Mrs. Stout excused herself, and went out wearing a sterner and more
determined look than her usually jovial countenance was accustomed to.
Fanny and Barbara talked girl-fashion for an hour. There was some
laughter, and many tears, but both felt better for it, and the seal of
their friendship was made secure. Fanny had brought a verbal message
from her father that pleased Barbara, and cheered her greatly. Poor
Ezra, he had been fond of her always, and now that she was in such dire
need of friends he longed to help her, but Mrs. T. stood between him and
everything--a human, female barrier.
"Is he coming?" Fanny asked, after a long pause in the conversation.
"Will?"
"Yes, of course, there's no other _he_, is there?"
"I have written him to come," Barbara replied.
"Does he know what has--happened?" said Fanny. Barbara shook her head.
Will did not know exactly what had happened, but he was sure that
something had gone wrong, and at that moment was speeding toward her in
response to her tear-stained appeal. "Well," continued Fanny, "I'm
sorry for some folks when he does find out."
Mrs. Stout would not go to Mr. Flint's church out of curiosity, or for
any other reason, but she had heard a true report of that morning's
sermon, and was filled to the bursting point with anger. She thought it
best to keep the news from Barbara, however, and cautioned Fanny not to
mention it. But a vent for her feelings she must find, and it was for
that purpose that she had gone out. She had no definite plan in mind,
but almost unconsciously walked toward the parsonage. Upon reaching the
gate she stopped. The house was dark. How she hated it, and the man who
lived there. Sometime, possibly, she might forgive the women who had
refused to shelter Barbara, and perhaps the school committee, but the
minister who had denounced her in the house of God she could never
forgive. With such thoughts in her mind Mrs. Stout went up the path to
the door and rang the bell vigorously. It seemed a long time before the
door was finally opened by Mr. Flint, who held the lamp high in order
that he could better see his visitor. Mrs. Stout noticed that his face
was flushed, and that his eyes were unnaturally bright.
"Good evenin', Mr. Flint," she said, coldly.
"Oh, it is Mrs. Stout?" he replied when he heard her voice.
"Yes."
"Won't you come in?"
"No, thanks, I can say what I've got to right here."
Mr. Flint placed the lamp on a table. His hand trembled, and as he
turned he staggered, but caught and steadied himself by grasping the
door-knob.
"I've come," Mrs. Stout began, "to say somethin' that won't do any good,
prob'ly, but I want to be sure that you don't think that everybody in
Manville has got the same ideas as you about some things in pertic'ler."
"I have never entertained that idea," replied the parson.
"Perhaps not, but you might have." Mrs. Stout hesitated for a moment,
and then her anger broke forth. "Mr. Flint, you made a big mistake this
mornin'. You said everything that you could say to spoil the good name
of one of the best women that ever lived. She never did you, or anybody
else, any harm, but you and all the rest seem bound to drive her away
with as black a name as you can give her. The women folks wa'n't
satisfied with kickin' her out of their houses, they must get the school
committee to discharge her. And then you, a man that is s'posed to show
folks how to live right, and believe in God, spend a whole Sunday
mornin' runnin' her down." Mrs. Stout stopped because she was out of
breath.
"My dear Mrs. Stout," the parson replied, "it is not the woman that I am
opposed to, but the principles involved and violated, the morals
offended and endangered. Those susceptible to corruption who--"
"Corruption!" snapped Mrs. Stout. "Do you mean to say that she could
corrupt anybody in any costume?"
"Well--er--the--er--minds of the young--"
"The young, yes; but how about all those women, most of 'em belonged to
your church too, that wore such corruption clothes when they all had
bicycles, and the fever was at its worst?"
"Exercise, Mrs. Stout, excuses--"
"Exercise fiddlesticks! You've got the wrong idea, Mr. Flint, and for
that reason I s'pose you've done more'n anybody else to disgrace a good
woman--the one that your son cares more about than--"
"Stop!" cried the parson, feebly, as he raised his hand protestingly.
"I will stop, because I ain't sure about that. But I must say this much,
that I hope you'll live long enough to repent, though from what I've
heard, and know about you, you'll have to live to be a hundred. Good
night." Mrs. Stout turned as abruptly as she had spoken, walked down the
path and up the road toward the home of Mr. George, the chairman of the
school committee. Mr. Flint closed the door, returned to his study, and
sank wearily into a chair. Sick though he was, Mrs. Stout had made him
realize that there was another side to the question, and he asked
himself repeatedly, as Barbara had been doing, have I done wrong? And
the answer was the same. No; he had performed his duty as he saw it--man
can do no more than that and serve God. But the view-point, there is
always more than one, and then his mind wandered to the women on the
bicycles.
Mr. George was at home when Mrs. Stout called, and was delighted to see
her. He asked her to come in, and she accepted the invitation. She
afterward explained, when relating the story to Peter, that "I wouldn't
have gone in only I had so much to say, and Mr. George is so bald I
didn't want him to catch cold and die, and then be called a murderer by
his wife."
"Rather unusual to see you on a Sunday evening," said Mr. George,
cheerfully, when Mrs. Stout was comfortably seated.
"It's an unusual case," she replied, stiffly.
Mr. George raised his eyebrows, and then frowned.
"Indeed," he replied, a little perplexed.
"Don't you think that the school committee was in an awful big hurry
about dischargin' Miss Wallace?" asked Mrs. Stout, coming to the point
at once.
"Hem--er--I don't know--I--"
"Well, if you don't, who does?"
"Oh,--er--well, of course I understand the case, if that is what you
mean. I assure you that it was gone over very thoroughly."
"There ain't any doubt about that," replied Mrs. Stout, with sarcasm.
"It's been gone over too thoroughly by everybody. Now what I want to
know is, if Miss Wallace tried to get another place somewhere else
she'd have to tell where she'd been before, wouldn't she?"
"Yes."
"And they'd write to you, wouldn't they, about what kind of a woman she
was, and so forth?"
"It is customary."
"And you'd write back, and tell 'em exactly how she happened to leave
Manville, wouldn't you?"
"I should consider it my duty to state the truth." Mr. George was
getting uneasy.
"And she wouldn't get the place."
"Hem--probably not."
"Pretty hard for a woman that's got to earn a livin'. It ain't too late
for the school committee to take back what it's done, is it?" Mrs. Stout
continued earnestly.
"No; but--"
"You won't do it. _Now_ I'm comin' to what I've got to say. You
discharged Miss Wallace without any good reason. You--"
"Mrs. Stout, I protest," interrupted Mr. George. "There was a reason,
and you know it as well as I do. Her costume at your club's
entertainment was--"
"Be careful," warned Mrs. Stout.
"It is my custom," replied the committeeman, testily, "to speak with
caution of one woman to--another woman."
"If you'd be as considerate when talkin' to men about one woman in
pertic'ler there wouldn't have been any need of my comin' here
to-night."
"Yes--hem--well, as I was about to say, she was--er--indiscreet,"
stammered Mr. George.
"That's what they all say," said Mrs. Stout, scornfully. "I s'pose it
would have been all right if she'd worn a bathin'-suit. If Miss Wallace
was indiscreet, what would you call your two girls when they went in
bathin' down to Horse Shoe Beach last summer at the Sunday-school picnic
before half the folks in Manville? Miss Wallace's costume wa'n't half as
indiscreet as a wet bathin' suit is."
"Custom, Mrs. Stout, excuses many things," replied Mr. George, his face
very red.
"Custom is often a mean excuse for not doin' right," retorted Mrs.
Stout. "Because it's been the custom since the year one for men to get
drunk, and women's tongues to wag about other folkses business, does
that make it right?"
Mr. George was silenced--completely out of action, and sat staring at
his inquisitor, wondering what would come next.
"Mr. George," Mrs. Stout continued, "I'm goin' into politics next fall.
The law of this State only lets a woman vote for school committee, but
in this case that's enough. That's all I've got to say, I guess, just
now. If you should make up your mind to take Miss Wallace back I wish
you'd let me know." With a glance of contempt at the man before her,
Mrs. Stout left her chair, and started for the door. Mr. George
followed, mechanically opened the door, and when she had gone out,
closed it softly.
Mrs. Stout felt relieved, but not satisfied, after the two calls that
she had made, and as she walked slowly homeward, planned the campaign
that was to defeat Mr. George and his colleagues at the next election.
But her dreams of political victory were quickly dispelled when she
reached home. Barbara and Fanny were in tears.
"Well, well, what's happened now?" she asked.
"I--I told her about the sermon," sobbed Fanny. "But I didn't intend to,
really I didn't, Mrs. Stout."
"Well, she'd better hear it from her friends than somebody else," said
Mrs. Stout, soothingly. "Secrets never do any good, anyway."
"I ought to know it," said Barbara. "Oh, what a wicked, wicked woman
they think I am!" she moaned.
"But you're not, indeed you're not," cried Fanny as she impulsively
threw her arms about Barbara and kissed her.
"There, there," said Mrs. Stout, "cryin' won't help--hark!" Some one ran
up the steps, and set the door-bell to jingling furiously.
"Goodness! who can that be?" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, as she started for
the door. Barbara sprang to her feet. Her hair was disarranged, her
cheeks were wet with tears, there was a look of longing in her eyes, and
on her lips trembled a smile.
"Why, Willie Flint!" they heard Mrs. Stout exclaim. Barbara did not
move, but Fanny tiptoed from the room. There was a heavy step in the
hall. At the sound Barbara took a step forward.
"Will, Will!" she cried, as he came into the room.
In a moment his arms were about her, and then some one closed the door
softly.
"Did I do wrong, Will?" Barbara asked an hour later when she had
finished the story of the past week, omitting only the miserable part
that his father had played.
"No, Barbara," he replied, and she was satisfied. But Will was not
satisfied. He had walked up from the station with some one who had told
him of his father's sermon, not knowing that Barbara was more to him
than an acquaintance.
"And father, what has he done?" he asked, gravely.
Barbara looked up quickly, started to reply, but Will continued before
the words came.
"Do _you_ know what he did to-day?"
"Yes," replied Barbara, faintly, "but--"
"And mother, have you seen her?" (What would she not have given to spare
him that?) "Why did you not go to her?" Will was determined to know all.
"I--I did," Barbara faltered.
"When?"
"Will, dear, please don't ask me. I'm sure that she would have helped me
if--"
"She refused to take you in?"
"Yes, but Will, don't judge them, please. I am sure that your father
thought he was doing right and--"
"Yet he preaches of Christ."
"Will!"
"God seems to have forgotten Manville," he said, bitterly.
"No, Will, he is only showing us the way--and the others too."
"How can you say that, Barbara, when they've taken everything from you,
position, name--"
"Everything but you, Will," she interposed, lovingly. It was growing
late, the lamp was burning low and sputtering. Mrs. Stout knocked at the
door, and to Will's response came into the room.
"Excuse _me_," she said, "but I forgot to fill that lamp to-day, and--"
"All right, Mrs. Stout," Will laughingly interrupted, "I understand, I'm
going in a moment."
"'Deed you ain't goin' a step," replied Mrs. Stout, determinedly. "I've
got a room all fixed for you, and I don't want to hear one identical
word about _not_ stayin'."
While Mrs. Stout went for another lamp, there was time for Barbara to
give Will the answer that he had striven for--and won.