Part 20 (1/2)

The Reverend Austin Thorpe was in his room at Miss Mehitable's, with a pencil held loosely in his wrinkled hand. On the table before him was a pile of rough copy paper, and at the top of the first sheet was written, in capitals, the one word: ”h.e.l.l.” It was underlined, and around it he had drawn sundry fantastic flourishes and shadings, but the rest of the sheet was blank.

For more than an hour the old man had sat there, his blue, near-sighted eyes wandering about the room. A self-appointed committee from his congregation had visited him and requested him to preach a sermon on the future abode of the wicked. The wicked, as the minister gathered from the frank talk of the committee, included all who did not belong to their own sect.

Try as he might, the minister could find in his heart nothing save charity. Anger and resentment were outside of his nature. He told himself that he knew the world, and had experienced his share of injustice, that he had seen sin in all of its hideous phases. Yet, even for the unrepentant sinner, Thorpe had only kindness.

Of one sin only, Thorpe failed in comprehension. As he had said to Anthony Dexter, he could excuse a liar, pardon a thief, and pity a murderer, but he had only contempt for a s.h.i.+rk.

Persistently, he a.n.a.lysed and questioned himself, but got no further.

To him, all sin resolved itself at last into injustice, and he did not believe that any one was ever intentionally unjust. But the congregation desired to hear of h.e.l.l--”as if,” thought Thorpe, whimsically, ”I received daily reports.”

With a sigh, he turned to his blank sheet. ”In the earlier stages of our belief,” he wrote, ”we conceived of h.e.l.l as literally a place of fire and brimstone, of eternal suffering and torture. In the light which has come to us later, we perceive that h.e.l.l is a spiritual state, and realise that the consciousness of a sin is its punishment.”

Then he tore the sheet into bits, for this was not what his congregation wanted; yet it was his sincere belief. He could not stultify himself to please his audience--they must take him as he was, or let him go.

Yet the thought of leaving was unpleasant, for he had found work to do in a field where, as it seemed to him, he was sorely needed. His paris.h.i.+oners had heard much of punishment, but very little of mercy and love. They were tangled in doctrinal meshes, distraught by quibbles, and at swords' points with each other.

He felt that he must in some way temporise, and hold his place until he had led his flock to a loftier height. He had no desire to force his opinions upon any one else, but he wished to make clear his own strong, simple faith, and spread abroad, if he might, his own perfect trust.

A commanding rap resounded upon his door. ”Come,” he called, and Miss Mehitable entered.

Thorpe was not subtle, but he felt that this errand was of deeper import than usual. The rustle of her stiffly-starched garments was portentous, and there was a set look about her mouth which boded no good to anybody.

”Will you sit down?” he asked, offering her his own chair.

”No,” snapped Miss Mehitable, ”I won't. What I've got to say, I can say standin'. I come,” she announced, solemnly, ”from the Ladies' Aid Society.”

”Yes?” Thorpe's tone was interrogative, but he was evidently not particularly interested.

”I'm appointed a committee of one,” she resumed, ”to say that the Ladies' Aid Society have voted unanimously that they want you to preach on h.e.l.l. The Church is goin' to rack and ruin, and we ain't goin' to stand it no longer. Even the disreputable characters will walk right in and stay all through the sermon--Andy Rogers and the rest. And I was particularly requested to ask whether you wished to have us understand that you approve of Andy Rogers and his goin's on.”

”What,” temporised Thorpe, ”does Andy Rogers do?”

”For the lands sake!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Miss Mehitable. ”Wasn't he drunk four months ago and wasn't he caught stealing the Deacon's chickens? You don't mean to tell me you never heard of that?”

”I believe I did hear,” returned the minister, in polite recognition of the fact that it had been Miss Mehitable's sole conversational topic at the time. ”He stole the chickens because he was hungry, and he got drunk because he didn't know any better. I talked with him, and he promised me that he would neither steal nor drink any more. Moreover, he earned the money and paid full price for the chickens. Have you heard that he has broken his promise?”

”No I dunno's I have, but he'll do it again if he gets the chance--you just see!”

Thorpe drummed idly on the table with his pencil, wis.h.i.+ng that Miss Mehitable would go. He had for his fellow-men that deep and abiding love which enables one to let other people alone. He was a humanitarian in a broad and admirable sense.

”I was told,” said Miss Mehitable, ”to get a definite answer.”

Thorpe bowed his white head ever so slightly. ”You may tell the Ladies' Aid Society, for me, that next Sunday morning I will give my congregation a sermon on h.e.l.l.”

”I thought I could make you see the reason in it,” remarked Miss Mehitable, piously taking credit to herself, ”and now that it's settled, I want to speak of Araminta.”

”She's getting well all right, isn't she?” queried Thorpe, anxiously.

He had a tender place in his heart for the child.

”That's what I don't know, not bein' allowed to speak to her or touch her. What I do know is that her immortal soul is in peril, now that she's taken away from my influence. I want you to get a permit from that black-mailing play-doctor that's curing her, or pretending to, and go up and see her. I guess her pastor has a right to see her, even if her poor old aunt ain't. I want you to find out when she'll be able to be moved, and talk to her about her soul, dwellin' particularly on h.e.l.l.”