The Morning Glory Club Part 28

Barbara wrote one line:

"Will, I need you, come.

"BARBARA."

Chapter XX

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 "unG.o.dly 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, G.o.d 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 antic.i.p.ated.

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 f.a.n.n.y 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.

f.a.n.n.y 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. f.a.n.n.y 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?" f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y. 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 f.a.n.n.y, "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 f.a.n.n.y 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 G.o.d 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-k.n.o.b.

"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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d. 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 a.s.sure 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?"