Part 16 (2/2)

”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 s.h.i.+elding--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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, and that you are preachers of the gospel.”

”I do remember that it is G.o.d'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 G.o.d. 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 m.u.f.fled 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 pa.s.sionate 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 G.o.d '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.

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