John Ward, Preacher Part 39

After Helen had gone, John Ward went back to the parsonage, dazed and stupefied by the exhaustion of the moral conflict which for nearly a month had strained every fibre of his soul.

The house seemed dark and empty. His face brightened a moment, as he sat wearily down at his writing-table and saw the prairie rose in the slender vase. He leaned his head on his hand, and drew the flower towards him, touching it with gentle fingers, as though he caressed the bloom of Helen's cheek. Then he pushed it in front of her picture which stood always on the same table, and thought vaguely that he would leave it there until she put a fresh one in its place.

And so his thoughts came heavily back to the old grief and anxiety. He went over all the arguments he had used, and saw new points and reasons which he had neglected to give, and he even drew his pen and paper towards him, and began to make some notes. He would send them to her; and, away from him, surely what he should say would have an added force.

Yet he could not fix his mind upon his subject. He found himself heavily conscious of the silence of the house; and by and by he rose and went up-stairs to their bedroom, standing drearily in the centre of the floor, and looking about at his own loneliness. He lifted a bit of lace upon her dressing-table, and smoothed it between his fingers, noting the faint scent of orris which it held. Again that strange, unreasonable fear of her absence seized him, and he was glad to go out and find some pressing occupation to forget it.

When he started (as he had had to do of late), alone, for prayer-meeting, his mind was dulled by its own pain of anxiety, and he went absently through the services, saying little, and "opening" the meeting as soon as he could. After that, he sat with head bent and arms folded, scarcely hearing what was said.

Just before he p.r.o.nounced the benediction, however, Elder Dean rose, and, stepping with elaborate quiet to the pulpit, handed him a note, and sat down again, covering his face with a big h.o.r.n.y hand, and swinging one foot nervously. John opened the folded paper, and held it up to one of the tall lamps beside his desk, for the writing was dim and crabbed, and the light poor, and then read a call that the Session should meet immediately after the prayer-meeting. No object for consideration was named, and the paper was signed by Mr. Dean and another elder. John put it down, and, noticing that his four elders sat together on one of the bare settees, omitted the usual request that they should all remain.

The little congregation gradually dispersed. Then Elder Dean arose, and, creaking heavily down the aisle, closed and locked the front door, and put out four of the lamps in the back of the room for economy's sake.

After that he sat down again on the settee beside the three other elders, and the lecture-room was silent.

John looked up, and waited for some one to speak, then, suddenly recalling his duty of moderator, he called the Session to order, and asked the reason for meeting.

Mr. Johnson, who was the youngest elder in the church, shuffled his feet under the bench, coughed slightly, and looked at his colleagues. Mr. Bent and Mr. Smith kept their eyes upon the ground, and Mr. Dean folded and unfolded his arms several times.

"Brethren," said the preacher, "we have asked the blessing of G.o.d upon the deliberations of this Session; it now remains to bring the business before it."

Mr. Dean poked Mr. Smith furtively, who replied in a loud whisper, "It is your place, Brother Dean."

The elder's face turned a dull mottled red; he felt John's surprised eyes upon him. Under cover of blowing his nose violently, he rose, and, shifting from one foot to the other, he glanced imploringly at his companions. But no one spoke.

"Brother Ward," he began at last, opening and shutting his mouth until his upper lip looked like a hooked beak, "this Session has been called for the consideration of--of the spiritual condition of this church. The duties of the elders of a church are heavy, and painful--and--and--large.

But they are discharged,--they are always," said Mr. Dean, inflating his chest, and raising one hand, "discharged! The church expects it, and the church is not disappointed. Yet it is most terribly painful, sometimes--most awful, and--unpleasant."

Here Mr. Dean stopped, and coughed behind his hand. Mr. Johnson crossed his legs, and glanced back at the door as though calculating his chances of escape. The other two men did not look up. Elder Dean had no reason to fear that he had not the attention of the moderator. John was watching him with burning eyes.

"Proceed," he said.

"Well," he continued, "as we always perform our painful, most painful duties, we are here to-night. We are here to-night, Mr. Moderator, to consider the spiritual welfare of the church, and of one especial soul connected with the church. This soul is--is far from grace; it is in a lost condition; a stranger to G.o.d, an alien from the commonwealth of Israel. But that is not all. No. It is--ah--spreading its own disease of sin in the vitals of the church. It is not only going down to h.e.l.l itself, but it is dragging others along with it. It is to consider the welfare of that soul, Brother Ward, that this Session has been convened.

It is a very difficult task which is set before us, but we are sustained by duty,--by duty, sir! We will not have to reproach ourselves for neglect of an immortal soul. We wish to summon"--

"Do you refer," said John Ward, rising, his hands clenched upon the pulpit rail, his face rigid and his teeth set,--"do you refer to my wife?"

The three men on the bench started as though they had received a galvanic shock. Elder Dean, with his lips parted, looked at his minister in silence.

"Answer me," said John Ward.

"Mr. Moderator," replied the elder in a quavering voice, "if I do refer to your wife, that is not the way it is to be considered. I refer to a sin-sick soul. I refer to a--a cause of falling from grace, in this church. I refer to a poor neglected sinner, who must be saved; yes, sir, saved. If she happens to be your wife, I--I--am sorry."

The room was very silent. The flaring lamps shone on the bare, whitewashed walls and on the shamed faces of the four men; the shadows in the corners pressed upon the small centre of light. One of the lamps smoked, and Mr. Bent rose to turn it down, and a deeper gloom settled upon the group. Mr. Johnson nervously opened a hymn-book, and began to turn the pages. For a moment the rustle of the paper was the only sound that broke the quiet.

John Ward, appalled and angry, humiliated that his most sacred grief was dragged from his heart to be gazed at and discussed by these men, was yet silenced by his accusing conscience.

"There is no need," he said at last, with painful slowness, and breathing hard, "to bring this matter before the Session. As preacher of this church, I prefer to deal with that soul according to the wisdom G.o.d gives me. I neither ask nor desire your advice."

Elder Dean turned to his companions, and raised his hands slightly. Mr.

Smith responded to his look by rising and saying, still gazing fixedly upon the floor, "This ain't the way, Brother Ward, to consider this matter. Your wisdom ain't enough, seein' that it has allowed things to get to this pa.s.s. All we desire is to deal with Mrs. Ward for her own good. Brother Dean speaks of the evil in the church,--ain't it our duty to check that? It appears, sir, that, preacher of this church or not, you've allowed her sin of unbelief to remain unreproved, and the consequence is its spread in the church: that's what we're responsible for; that's our duty. If you've neglected your duty, we ain't a-goin' to neglect ours." He wagged his head emphatically, and then sat down.

John Ward was too entirely without self-consciousness to feel the change in the tone of these men. Their old sincerely felt admiration and awe of their preacher was gone. The moment they became his critics, they ceased to feel his superiority. Disapproval was power, and their freedom from the trammels of respect made them cruel. But the outcry of John's conscience made him deaf to smaller things. He sat bending forward, his hands locked together, and the vein in his forehead standing out like whip-cord; his lips were white and compressed.

Mr. Dean got on his feet again, with much less embarra.s.sment in his manner. Mr. Smith's share in the responsibility was a great relief.

"It is exactly as Brother Smith says," he said. "If it was just--just her, we wouldn't, perhaps, meddle, though I ain't sure but what it would be our duty. But the church,--we have got to protect it. We would wish to summon her, and see if we can bring her to a realizing sense of her condition before proceeding to any extreme measure. If she remained in a hardened state, it would then be our duty to bring charges and proof. And we should do it, bein' supported by a sense of duty--and by the grace of G.o.d."

Here Mr. Johnson rose, rather noisily, and Mr. Dean looked at him impatiently.

"He'll spoil it all," he muttered, as he sat down between Mr. Smith and Mr. Bent.

"I just want to say," said Mr. Johnson, in a quick, high voice, "that I'm not in sympathy with this meeting."

John looked at him eagerly.

"It is my idea that these sort of things never do. The day has pa.s.sed for forcing people into believing things,--yes, sir,--and it doesn't do any good, anyhow. Now, my advice would be, don't disturb things, don't break up the peace. I'm for peace and quiet and a happy life, before anything else. Just let's not say anything about it. There's nothing, brethren, like argument for disturbing a church or a home. I know it; I'm a married man. And I just advise you to keep quiet. Use your influence in a quiet, easy way, but nothing else. May be it will come out all right, after all."

He sat down again, and Mr. Dean and Mr. Smith began to whisper to him with evident indignation.

But the preacher's face was full of doubt and grief. "No," he said at last, moving his dry lips with a visible effort, "we cannot conquer sin by hiding it or forgetting it, and I believe that this Session has the welfare of the church sincerely at heart; but I do not believe the plan you propose will profit either the church or the soul of whom you speak.

Her absence at present would, at all events, make it necessary to defer any action. In the mean time, I believe that the Lord will teach me wisdom, and will grant grace and peace to her whose welfare is the subject of your prayers. If I reach any conclusion in the matter which you ought to know, I will communicate with you. If there is no further motion, this meeting is adjourned."

The elders rose, and with the exception of Mr. Johnson, retreated in embarra.s.sed haste. They ducked their heads, and made a guttural noise in their throats, as though to say good-night; but they were ashamed to speak to him, though Mr. Bent said as he turned his back on the preacher, "We'll--ah--pray for her."

Mr. Johnson stopped to justify his presence, and say again, "Don't notice it, Mr. Ward. I'd just gently like bring her round some time; keep on prayin', an' all that, but don't force it. It will only make trouble for you."

John hurried away from him, stung to the quick. This, then, was his own real att.i.tude; this was what his plea of wisdom had meant this last year.

His own deceit loomed up before his soul, and the sky of faith grew black. One by one, the accusations of the elders repeated themselves to him, and he made no protest. His a.s.senting conscience left him absolutely defenseless.

CHAPTER XXIII.

There was a strange unreality about Helen's wakening, the first morning in Ashurst.

The year in Lockhaven seemed to have made as little change as a dream.

Here she was, back in her old room. How familiar everything looked! Her little white bed; the old cherry-wood dressing-case, with its shining bra.s.s rings and spotless linen cover; the morning sunshine dancing with the shadows of the leaves, and falling in a golden square upon the floor; the curtains at the south window blowing softly to and fro in the fresh wind, and the flutter of wings outside in the climbing roses; even the bunch of white lilacs on the little table, apparently all just as she had left them nearly a year ago. Lockhaven and theology were behind her, and yet in some indefinable way she was a stranger in a strange land.

The consciousness of a difference had come the night before, when Lois poured out her fears and griefs to her cousin (all except her promise to Mrs. Forsythe) as soon as they were alone.

Lois felt no difference. Helen had been away for a long time, but she was still the same Helen to her; strong, and true, and gentle, with perhaps a little more gravity in her eyes, but Lois was so grave herself she did not notice that. Whereas with Helen there was a dual life: the one, absorbing, pa.s.sionate, and intense; the other, a memory; a tender, beautiful past, no longer a necessity.

Helen's joys had come between her and this once dear home life, and even while Lois was telling her of her cruel anxiety, and Helen was listening with a face full of sympathy, her thoughts were following John on his lonely walk back from prayer-meeting, and greeting him in the doorway of the empty house.

Of course the consciousness of the difference and the strangeness wore off in a few days; perhaps if Ashurst had been its usual quiet self, it would have lasted longer, but there was so much to do, and so little appreciation of change in the mind of any one else, she almost forgot to notice it herself, but only knew that all the time, under all her sympathy with Ashurst joys and sorrows,--mostly sorrows, now,--was a deep, still current of thought flowing towards her husband.