Читать книгу The Stumbling Shepherd - H. A. Cody - Страница 14

Table of Contents

In the morning Doris Randall came again to the rectory. Mr. Landrose was in his study preparing his Sunday's sermon, so Rachel informed her. She then told the girl of the clergyman's visit to the city the day before and of his failure.

"I thought it very amusing at first, but it seems pathetic to me now. That dear man is so anxious to do what is right, that it is really wrong for anyone to laugh at him. He is very headstrong, though, and hard to convince. I never saw him so badly defeated before. He was much downcast when he came home, and from the look in his eyes this morning I am sure he did not sleep well last night. His new duties are worrying him a great deal. He knows so little about the ways of women that he feels perfectly helpless with such a charge as you on his hands."

"So he has told you, then, that he is my guardian?"

"Yes he has. And he has asked me to help him."

"Oh, I am so glad. I know that we shall get along splendidly together. I can talk to you much better than to a man. And you will help me buy my clothes?"

"That is what Mr. Landrose asked me to do. We shall go to the city whenever you are ready."

Doris was silent for a few minutes while Rachel went on with her work. Her mind was very active. What would John say to this new arrangement? she asked herself. Would it not interfere with the plan they had worked out so carefully? Anyway, for the present she was glad that Rachel was going with her to the city.

All through the morning Mr. Landrose sat at his desk trying to work out his sermon. But most of the time he remained lost in thought, gazing through the window on his left. He had not slept well during the night, as Rachel had truly surmised. He was feeling more and more the burden of responsibility that had been so suddenly placed upon him. He could not get the thought of Martha out of his mind, and the sin he had committed in giving her the Communion. Parson Dan looked upon his office as did the ones in ancient days who bore the Ark of the Covenant. His was a most sacred trust, and he had tried to be worthy of it in the past. But he had fallen. He had been untrue to his high and holy calling. And for this he was now being punished. He recalled what had happened to the man who had touched the Ark and had been smitten with death. It had seemed right to him to do so to keep it from falling. Surely that man must have felt justified in what he did. Yet he was stricken down. Did the Lord intend to teach that although He wanted the assistance of men in His work, yet there was a limit beyond which they must not go, and that He was able to protect His own? Had he, Daniel Landrose, overlooked that, and had been too presumptuous in taking matters into his own hands? But the ancient Law had passed away, and Christ had come bringing mercy and not sacrifice. And had Christ ever forbidden anyone from giving the Holy Communion to a dying woman? Martha had been excommunicated. But who had spoken the words which barred her from the Sacred Feast? Was it Christ? No, it was a Bishop of the Church. Would Christ have done that?

This thought agitated him, and he tried to banish the idea from his mind as another temptation of the evil one. But over and over again there came to him Christ's own words, "I will have mercy and not sacrifice. I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance."

As usual the clergyman went for his mail just before dinner. There were only two letters, one for himself and the other for Rachel. As he glanced at the one for him, he recognized the handwriting. It was from his Bishop! At once his heart sank within him, and his hands trembled. There could be but one meaning to that letter. It had been months since he had heard from the Bishop, and then in connection with his Confirmation visit. It must, therefore, be something of considerable importance which would cause him to write to him now, for the Bishop was a very busy man and had no time to write mere friendly letters. This one he felt was in connection with Martha, the excommunicated woman. The Bishop must have heard what had taken place, and had written for an explanation from the rector himself. He was anxious to know what the Bishop had to say, and yet he dreaded to open the letter. He would wait until he reached home, so he decided. He preferred the seclusion of his study where he could best bear whatever the message might be.

Placing the letters in his pocket, he walked slowly homeward. His heart was heavy, for he felt that he had at last come to the parting of the ways. He had committed a grievous offence against the Church, and nothing but shameful disgrace awaited him. He would be an outcast for the rest of his life, and branded in his old age as a man who had fallen in the discharge of his sacred office. He met several people, but hardly noticed their words of greeting, so intent was he upon his own worries.

No sooner had he reached the rectory than he found there Mrs. Tim Bendle, who had been anxiously awaiting his coming. Of all the women in his parish she was the last one he desired to meet just then, for her visit was a certain sign of trouble in her home.

"Tim's broke out ag'in, parson," she announced, as the clergyman drew near and bade her "good-day". "He's jist awful this time an' is breakin' up the furniture and threatenin' to kill me. He threw a dish at me which jist missed my head. Oh! oh! I don't know what to do with sich a turrible man."

"What started the trouble, anyway, Mrs. Bendle?" the rector asked, while an expression of sternness came into his eyes.

"It's all on account of Tim's laziness, Parson. He hasn't done a tap of work fer weeks, so when I told him to git a hustle on, he got mad an' started on his rampage. I can't live with that man no longer. I am goin' to Bob. I wish he was here now, fer he's the only one who kin handle Tim. But Bob's too fer away, so I've come to you."

"Suppose I go home with you, Mrs. Bendle. Tim took my advice the last time he was in a tantrum, didn't he?"

"Yes, sir, he did. But that won't work on him ag'in. He's very superstitious, Tim is, an' he thought that you might bring a curse upon him if he didn't do as you told him. But he's changed durin' the last year, an' talks awful ag'inst parsons an' churches. It makes my blood run cold to hear him."

"He does! What is the reason of that?"

"Oh, he's been readin' books that are all ag'inst the Church an' religion. An' he says the Bible is all bosh, full of mistakes, an' that there is no hell an' no devil. Jist think of that!"

The clergyman's face grew very grave and he drew a long breath as he straightened somewhat his stooped shoulders. Although a timid man when trying to buy a woman's clothes, he had the courage of a lion in defence of the Faith.

"Come, Mrs. Bendle, I want to have a talk with Tim."

"But he won't listen to ye, parson. He might kill ye, he's so desp'rate."

"Let him kill me, then. But I don't think he will go that far with his rashness."

It was not far to the Bendle house, which they reached in about fifteen minutes. The building was a poor ramshackle affair, unpainted, and with a clutter of rubbish about the dooryard. As they drew near, Mrs. Bendle paused and clutched the clergyman's arm.

"He's at it yit," she whispered. "Can't ye hear him smashin' things an' swearin' awful? It isn't safe fer you to go in."

Paying no heed to the woman's words, Mr. Landrose moved swiftly forward, and only stopped when he had reached the open door. And in truth, the sight which met his eyes was enough to deter the boldest. Like an infuriated demon Tim was smashing the stove with an axe. Everything else in the house had been demolished. Chairs, tables, cupboard and dishes were scattered around in the wildest confusion. Not thinking of the risk he was running, the parson sprang forward and caught Tim's right arm as it was raised for another blow. The axe came down with a bang upon the battered stove, and with a startled and savage oath, Tim wheeled fiercely around. Seeing the clergyman, he raised his clenched fist as if he would knock the intruder down. But before Mr. Landrose's steady and reproving gaze, he drew back a step and his arm dropped to his side.

"What is the meaning of this, Tim?" the parson asked.

"It's none of yer d—— bizness. You git out of this house or I'll smash every bone in yer body."

"Tim!"

A complete silence followed this one stern word. It caused the angry man to look up into the clergyman's face. But his eyes again dropped and he shuffled uneasily on his feet.

"Well, what is it?" he growled.

"Do you call yourself a man or a beast?"

"Aw, none of that stuff. You git along out of this before I hurt ye. I don't want nuthin' to do with parsons."

"But you will need one some day, Tim, and very soon at that if you allow your passions to get the better of you like this. Your heart can't stand such a rage much longer. Stronger men than you have dropped dead in wild tantrums."

"Aw, I'm strong as a moose. Ye needn't think ye kin scare me with sich twaddle."

"If you are so strong, then, why don't you go to work?"

"Work! me work! I can't git a job."

"Yes, you can. The Norton Company wants men in their quarries. There has been a notice in the post office for several days."

"Huh, I wouldn't work in a hole like that. It's not safe with them d—— blasts. They might kill a feller."

"You'd rather stay home, it seems, smash things up here and threaten to kill your wife."

"Well, that's my bizness, not yours. You git along before I throw ye out of the door."

"No, you won't."

"Yes, I will. I won't have a sneak of a parson orderin' me around in me own house. Ye can't frighten me. I'm not under yer thumb, an' ye can't cram any of yer silly Gospel pap down my throat. Git off about yer bizness of scarin' people about the devil an' hell-fire."

Tim paused for breath and glared fiercely at the clergyman.

"Ye know there's no devil an' no hell-fire. Ye only preach that to frighten people into goin' to church. But ye can't fool me. I've had me eyes opened to sich nonsense."

"If I ever had any doubt about the devil and hell-fire it would be entirely removed by watching you," Mr. Landrose quietly replied. "Your actions are all the proof I would need. But I see it is hopeless to talk to you any longer. There is only one thing left for me now."

"An' what is that?"

"To have you arrested. The Law must step in to protect your wife and save you from yourself."

At this announcement Tim's face grew livid with rage and he took a quick step toward the clergyman. He lifted his right arm to strike, but ere the blow could fall he uttered a shriek of pain, clutched his left side, and fell heavily to the floor. In an instant his wife was by his side, bending over him.

"I knew it would come," she cried. "I knew if ye laid hands on the Lord's anointed something dreadful would happen."

"It's his heart, no doubt. Let me feel his pulse," and the clergyman stooped over the prostrate man. "Bring some water, quick."

After Tim's face had been bathed, he opened his eyes and stared blankly around.

"What's the matter? Who hit me?"

"The Lord hit ye, Tim Bendle," his wife replied. "An' it's a wonder he didn't strike ye dead fer attemptin' to lay hands on the Lord's anointed. Ye'll be all right in a jiffy, so jist lay still. Guess he'll pull through," she continued, turning to the clergyman. "This'll learn him a lesson he won't soon fergit."

"Did he ever have an attack like this before, Mrs. Bendle?"

"Never like that, sir. But often when he's had his tantrums I've seen his face turn suddenly pale an' he had to set down. But he soon fergot all about it."

"And so he will this."

"'Deed he won't, sir. This is the Lord's doin's, an' it's a sign of His anger ag'inst him fer the way he's been goin' on about religion an' the Church."

"It's his heart, Mrs. Bendle, which could not stand such a violent rage. See what Tim's done to this house. How will you ever get it cleared up? You will need new furniture, too."

"Oh, I'm done with Tim, parson. He kin go his way an' I'll go mine. D'ye think I'd live with him any longer after the way he's acted to-day?"

"Oh, no, you must not leave him, Mrs. Bendle. He will need you now more than ever. You must take care of him."

"Me take care of Tim! Ye might ask me to take care of a ragin' tager right from the jungle an' I'd undertake the job quicker'n I would take care of Tim. I'd put the tager in a cage an' keep it there. But I can't do that with Tim. No, I'm goin', so that's the end of it."

At these emphatic words Tim opened his eyes, and attempted to rise.

"Don't go, Becky!" he pleaded. "Don't leave me! I'm dyin'!"

"Now, jist listen to him, parson. He doesn't want me to leave him. What in the world am I to do?"

"Stay with him, of course."

"But he won't behave himself. Jist as soon as he gits well, he'll act the same as before."

"I swear I won't, Becky," Tim declared. "I'll never raise sich ructions ag'in."

"Will ye swear that, then, before the parson, Tim?"

"'Deed I will, Becky. I'll swear right now that I'll never git into sich a tantrum ag'in. Ye kin bring the Bible an' I'll kiss it."

"That will do," the clergyman ordered. "Don't go too far. You're a very much frightened man now, and willing to do and say anything. But I haven't much confidence in that kind of repentance. It isn't fear the Lord wants, but faith and love. You need a new heart, Tim."

"Yer quite right, parson. I sartinly do need a new heart. But as that is out of the question, I'll have to see the doctor an' git this old one patched up."

"That's not what I mean, Tim. It's not a new heart of flesh you need, but a spiritual heart which the Lord will give if you ask Him."

"Will He, now! Well, I must 'tend to that. In the meantime, I must see the doctor."