HOME'S SERMON.
It was impossible for the Homes to refuse Uncle Sandy's kindness. Their
natural pride and independence of character could not stand in the way
of so graciously and gracefully offered a gift. When the old man came to
see them the next day, he was received with all the love and gratitude
he deserved. If he could give well, Charlotte and her husband knew how
to receive well. He now told his niece plainly that he had come to pass
the remainder of his days with her and hers; and father, mother, and
children welcomed him with delight.
Charlotte was now a very happy woman. The new and pretty house was
delightful to her. She began to understand what it was not to have to
look twice at a pound, for Uncle Sandy's purse was for ever at her
command. When she went with her old uncle to choose the furniture for
the new drawing room, she laughed so merrily and seemed so gay that
Uncle Sandy informed her that she had already lost five years of her
age. Harold and Daisy used to look into her face at this time, and say
to one another, "Isn't our mother pretty?" For, indeed, the peace in her
heart, and the little unexpected glow of worldly prosperity which had
come into her life, had wonderfully softened and beautified her face.
Her eyes, when she looked at her children's blooming faces, were often
bright as stars. At all times now they were serene and happy. She had
one little cross, however, one small shadow in her happy time. She
wanted to be much--daily, if possible--with Charlotte Harman. Her heart
yearned over Charlotte, and she would have almost neglected her children
to give her one ray of comfort just now. But Charlotte herself had
forbidden this daily intercourse.
"I love you, Charlotte," she had said, "and I know that you love me. But
at present we must not meet. I cannot leave my father to go to see you,
and you must not come here, for I cannot risk the chance of seeing you.
He may question me, and I shall not be able to answer his questions. No,
Charlotte, we must not meet."
Charlotte Home felt much regret at this. Failing Charlotte Harman, she
turned her attention to Hinton. She was fully resolved that no stone
should remain unturned by her to enable those two yet to marry, and she
thought she might best effect her object by seeing the young man. She
wrote to him, asking him to call, telling him that she had much of
importance to tell him; but both from his private address and also from
his chambers the letters were, in due course of time, returned. Hinton
was not in town, and had left no clue to his whereabouts. Thus she was
cut off from helping, in any way, those who were in great darkness, and
this fact was an undoubted sorrow to her. Yes, Mrs. Home was full of
pity for Charlotte, full of pity for Charlotte's lover. But it is to be
feared that both she and Uncle Sandy retained a strong sense of
indignation towards the one who had caused the anguish--towards the one,
therefore, on whom the heaviest share of the punishment fell. Very
terrible was it for Charlotte, very terrible for Hinton. But were they
asked to tell their true feeling towards old John Harman, they might
have whispered, "Serve him right." There was one, however, besides his
daughter, whose warmest sympathies, whose most earnest and passionate
prayers were beginning day by day and night by night, to centre more and
more round the suffering and guilty man, and that one was the curate,
Home. Angus Home had never seen John Harman, but his sin and his
condition were ever before him. He was a dying man, and--he was a
sinner. With strong tears and lamentation did this man cry to God for
his fellow man. His tears and his prayers brought love for the sinner.
Angus Home would have gladly died to bring John Harman back to God.
One Saturday night he sat up late over his sermon. He was not an
eloquent preacher, but so earnest was his nature, so intense his
realization of God's love and of the things unseen, that it was
impossible for his words not to be winged with the rare power of
earnestness. He was neither gifted with language nor with imagination;
but he could tell plain truths in such a way that his hearers often
trembled as they listened. At such times he looked like an avenging
angel. For the man, when he felt called on to rebuke sin, was very
jealous for his God. Then, again, he could whisper comfort; he could
bring down Heaven, and looked, when he spoke of the land which is very
far off, as though even now, and even here, his eyes were seeing the
King in His beauty. Nevertheless, so little was that real power of his
understood, so much better were empty words gracefully strung together
preferred, that Home was seldom asked to preach in the large parish
church. His congregation were generally the very poorest of his flock.
These very poor folks learned to love their pastor, and for them he
would very gladly spend and be spent. He was to preach to-morrow in a
small iron building to these poor people. He now sat up late to prepare
his sermon. He found himself, however, sadly out of tune for this work.
He took his Bible in hand and turned page after page; he could find no
suitable text; he could fix his attention on no particular line of
argument. He unlocked a drawer, and took from thence a pile of old
sermons; should he use one of these? He looked through and through his
store. None pleased, none satisfied him. Finally, overcome by a sudden
feeling, he forgot his sermon of to-morrow. He pushed his manuscripts
aside, and fell on his knees. He was in terror about the soul of John
Harman, and he prayed for him in groans that seemed almost as though
they must rend the heavens in their pleadings for a reply. "Lord, spare
the man. Lord, hear me; hear me when I plead with Thee. It was for
sinners such as he Thou didst die. Oh, spare! oh, save!--save this great
sinner. Give me his soul, Lord. Lord, give me his soul to bring to Thee
in Heaven." He went up to bed in the early hours of the May morning
quite exhausted. He had absolutely forgotten his sermon. He had not
prepared a word for his congregation for the next day. Before he went to
church he remembered this. There was no help for it now. He could but
put two of his already prepared sermons in his pocket and set out. He
was to read the service as well as to preach the sermon. There were
about sixty poor people present. Charlotte and the children went to the
parish church. There was not a really well-dressed person in all his
congregation. He had just finished reading the Absolution when a slight
stir near the door attracted his attention. He raised his eyes to see
the verger leading up the centre aisle an old man with bowed head and
silver hair, accompanied by a young woman. The young woman Home
recognized at a glance. She was Charlotte Harman; the old man then was
her father. He did not ask himself why they had come here or how, but
instantly he said to his own heart, with a great throb of ecstatic joy,
"God has heard my prayer; that soul is to be mine." When he mounted the
pulpit stairs he had absolutely forgotten his written sermons. For the
first time he stood before his congregation without any outward aid of
written words, or even notes. He certainly did not need them, for his
heart was full. Out of that heart, burning with love so intense as to be
almost divine, he spoke. I don't think he used any text, but he told
from beginning to end the old, old tale of the Prodigal Son. He told it
as, it seemed to his congregation, that wonderful story had never been
told since the Redeemer Himself had first uttered the words. He
described the far country, the country where God was not; and the people
were afraid and could scarcely draw their breath. Then he told of the
Father's forgiveness and the Father's welcome home; and the
congregation, men and women alike, hid their faces and wept. Added to
his earnestness God had given to him the great gift of eloquence to-day.
The people said afterwards they scarcely knew their pastor. There was
not a dry eye in his church that morning.