Читать книгу The Stumbling Shepherd - H. A. Cody - Страница 6
ОглавлениеTHE STRUGGLE
When once outside the hotel Parson Dan regained his former self-possession. The night air cooled his hot brow, enabling him to think more calmly. He then realized the full force of the temptation that had come to him, and how he had almost given way to the pleading of the sick woman. Why had he been so weak? he asked himself. Not for a second should he have hesitated in the line of rectitude. Martha had been excommunicated. The Church had given the order, and it was his duty to obey. All through his long Ministry not a shadow of a doubt concerning the rightness of the Church had ever entered his mind. His trust had been complete. She was the body of Christ, and when she spoke through the Apostolic line of Bishops it was with divine authority. This had always been a great comfort and a tower of strength in his daily tasks.
As he walked slowly along the road this night he did not feel altogether contented. His former trust was not so strong now. That doubt which had come to him while standing by Martha's side was subtly affecting his soul. It came to him again. Was it right for the Church to forbid a dying woman the Holy Communion, no matter how great had been her sin? He tried to banish the idea, to force himself to feel that the Church was right in what she did. But the more he reasoned so much more the doubt grew.
Pausing beneath a large tree, he took off his hat and wiped his brow upon which beads of perspiration had again gathered. He was fighting his fierce battle alone there in the darkness with silence all around him.
"God help me!" he murmured. "What am I to do? How can I refuse to give Martha the Journey Food? And yet I must be true to the vows I took at my ordination. I must obey the Bishop."
And as he stood there, two young people, a man and a woman, came toward him, walking slowly side by side. Their voices were low, and so intent were they with their talk that they did not notice the dim silent form beneath the tree until they were almost at his side. Then they gave a slight start and quickened their steps toward the hotel. At length they paused and looked back, but the clergyman was no longer visible.
"It must be Mr. Landrose," the girl whispered. "He is the man I was telling you about. I wonder why he is standing there, John?"
"Planning, no doubt, how he is going to manage you, Doris," was the laughing reply. "He will have some job ahead of him, if I am not mistaken."
"Indeed he will if he agrees to Granny's crazy plan. I can't understand her at all. She has talked so much to me about that old clergyman that I almost hate him. I found it hard to be civil to him when he came to see Granny to-night."
"But you must be civil, Doris. There is a great deal at stake, remember. If you annoy the old fellow, it is hard to tell what might happen. Get on the good side of him, and be extra nice until we have tried out our scheme. If it works, as I think it will, he will be only too glad to get you off his hands in a short time."
"I shall do the best I can, John. But I am sure it is going to be most difficult as I have taken such a strong dislike to him already."
Leaving the dark shade of the tree, Mr. Landrose again moved homeward, utterly unconscious that he was the subject of the earnest conversation but a short distance away. He had hardly noticed the young people as they passed, so engrossed was he with his own worry. And this worry instead of lessening, increased. He could not get Martha out of his mind. No matter how much he thought about his duty, a vision of her as he had known her years before would return clearer than ever.
In the midst of this perplexity he came to the store at the corner of the main highway and the road leading to the hotel. The storekeeper's house was nearby, and from the open window came the sound of a gramophone. At first the clergyman paid little heed to the music so intent was he with his serious thoughts. But presently he stopped abruptly as a singer's voice welled forth in the opening verse of a familiar hymn.
"There were ninety and nine that safely lay
In the shelter of the fold,
But one was out on the hills away
Far off from the gates of gold;
Away on the mountains wild and bare,
Away from the Shepherd's tender care."
Never before had Mr. Landrose been so stirred by any words. He had always disapproved of hymns of this nature, considering them too sentimental and savoring of revival meetings. He favored the dignified hymns, especially the ones with a distinctly Church tone and teaching. But now it was different, and he stood silently on the road listening eagerly until the singing ended. It was his thought of Martha that caused this change. She was like that sheep, away from the fold. Surely the Good Shepherd had such a one in His mind when He spoke that beautiful parable. And what would Christ do now were He on earth? Would He refuse to grant a dying woman's request? No, certainly not. Would He not have gone to seek her long ago to bring her back to the fold? Would He not heed her pleadings for mercy and gladly take her back to Himself?
These thoughts brought a new thrill to the clergyman's heart. He quickened his steps and hurried along the road. He had the Great Master's words and example, and he would follow Him, no matter what the cost.
Reaching at last the rectory, he opened the door and entered. His housekeeper was nowhere to be seen, and for this he was most thankful. He was in no mood for any questions she might ask about the sick woman at the hotel. And, besides, he could not altogether suppress the guilty feeling that stole into his heart, and he was afraid that Rachel's keen eyes might detect something amiss. The glamor of that hymn was not so strong upon him now, and he did not feel so sure of himself. After many years of strict rectitude in the line of duty, it was not easy for him to remain long under the power of a sudden emotion.
As he passed into his study he began to waver in his resolution. Everything there was in accord with his firm settled mode of life and thought. The atmosphere of the room was in harmony with his habits of years and affected him now most strongly. He stood in the middle of the room and gazed around with a strange bewildering sense. It did not seem possible that he was the same man who had left it barely two hours before. Yet in that space of time a new force had taken possession of him which was on the verge of causing him to be disloyal to his Church. He glanced toward his writing-desk and saw lying there the first page of his sermon he had been preparing for next Sunday. Quickly he stepped forward and peered down upon the text he had chosen: "Rejoice with me, for I have found the sheep which I had lost." His body trembled as he read these words, and a feeling of awe swept upon him. How strange that his text should be the same theme as the hymn which had affected him so strongly that night. Was not this more than a coincidence? he asked himself. Was it not divinely ordered? He had chosen the text that he might prove to his people the great joy of the Father over the wandering ones, such as heretics and others, when brought into the fold of the Church. The sin of heresy and schism was what he had in his mind then. This was a favorite subject upon which he had preached many sermons in the past. But now he had a revulsion of feeling. Reaching swiftly out, he seized the sheet of paper in his hands, tore it into several pieces and threw them into the waste-basket at the side of the table. Furtively he glanced around, and his face flushed. He then sank down into his chair and buried his face in his hands.
"What is the matter with me?" he whispered in a hoarse voice. "I am beside myself. But I could not finish that sermon as I began. I have seen Martha since, and have listened to her voice pleading for the Sacrament of the Body and Blood of Christ. She has sinned, and for such a one Christ gave that parable. I see things in a new light."
For a few minutes he remained silently there with his white head bowed upon his hands. At length he rose to his feet, looked around the room, and carefully drew down the window-blinds. This done, he returned to the table, brought forth a bunch of keys from his pocket, and selecting one, unlocked a drawer on the right. With trembling hands he lifted out a small black tin box and laid it upon his writing-pad. This he unlocked, and as he raised the cover, he paused and gazed thoughtfully upon the contents. They were merely a little package of old letters tied together with a string, and a folded envelope lying by itself. Again he glanced around the room, especially at the windows. Feeling sure that no prying eyes could see, he drew forth a small photograph of a girl in the full flush and beauty of radiant youth. For years he had not looked upon that picture, although he had often been tempted to do so. Memories crowded thick and fast upon him as he sat there. Forgotten was everything else as he thought of Martha Benson as he had known and loved her in olden days.
At length he closed, locked the box and replaced it in the drawer. He then rose to his feet, crossed the room and opened the door of a little closet. Here hung his robes, and on a shelf was a small private Communion case. It took him but a minute to fold up his surplice and stole and place them in a grip nearby. He then opened the case, lifted out the little round silver bread-box and carried it with him to the pantry off the kitchen. Here he cut a small portion from a loaf of bread, prepared it to his liking, and deposited it into the box. Although he had often done this before, he now listened somewhat nervously lest Rachel should be near. He did not wish her to see him just then, as he did not want to explain where he was going. He felt unusually guilty and his hands trembled as he placed the box back into the case and closed the cover. Never before had he experienced such a feeling. It had always been a joy to prepare the bread and wine, and the fair white linen cloth ere hastening off to some sick or dying person. Now, however, it was different. He knew that he should be loyal to the command of his Church. And yet there was something drawing him irresistibly in another direction. It was the plant of love, deeply rooted in the past, which, although kept under subjection through the years, had at last enmeshed his heart with its subtle, tendril-like influence. Through ever-recurring thought of Martha Benson, and through countless prayers on her behalf, he had steadily nourished his love for her which only needed an occasion such as this to test its overmastering power.
