Читать книгу The Stumbling Shepherd - H. A. Cody - Страница 9

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Mr. Landrose was at breakfast the next morning when he received word of Martha's death. It was an unusually late breakfast for him, but the excitement of the night had kept him awake for hours after his return from the hotel, so he did not sleep any until near morning. Rachel answered the door-bell, and when she returned to the dining-room she told him the news.

The clergyman started, and with a trembling hand set down the cup of coffee he was in the act of lifting to his lips.

"Who told you this?"

"Mrs. Wickham, sir. She stopped on her way to the store, thinking we might like to know."

"When did—did the woman die?"

"At midnight, so Mrs. Wickham told me. Susie was with her to the last."

Mr. Landrose said nothing more, but sat very erect and still, staring straight before him. The food on his plate remained untouched, and his coffee became lukewarm. Rachel moved to and fro between the kitchen and the dining-room, not knowing what to say or do. She was puzzled at her master's strange absent-minded manner, and also a little frightened at the peculiar expression in his eyes.

At length the clergyman rose slowly to his feet, unconsciously bent his head, and then walked wearily toward his study. Rachel heard him close the door behind him and then all was still.

"I wonder what is the meaning of all this?" she asked herself. "I never knew the parson to act in such a strange way before. Who is that woman, anyway? I hope Mrs. Wickham calls here on her way home."

But Mrs. Wickham did not call, and all through the morning Rachel kept listening for the clergyman to come from his study. She prepared his dinner as usual, but with little hope that he would eat anything.

To Mr. Landrose, seated at his writing-table, the passing of time was unnoticed as he filled page after page of his sermon paper. Lying before him was the little package of faded envelopes. He had read every letter that morning, and had then remained for some time in thought. After a while he began to re-write the sermon he had been working upon the first of the week. It was the parable of the Lost Sheep, but what a change had come over him since he had first begun it. In this he was putting nothing of the doctrine of the Church, but only ideas which came flaming from his heart. It was in this manner that he could best give expression to the thoughts that were surging within him. For long years they had been held sternly in check. But now an opening had been made, the barrier had been rent, and they poured forth in tumultuous order.

"When that sheep went astray," so he wrote, "the Good Shepherd did not condemn it to eternal perdition. He did not give orders that henceforth it would be beyond the pale of the fold. He did not pronounce the ban of excommunication and say that it should no longer be given the food and water which nourished the ninety and nine which went not astray. He did nothing of the kind. Instead, he went forth to search for the wandering one, and did not cease for darkness, cold, flooded streams, nor dangerous mountain steeps until he found it and brought it home rejoicing. And when He reached home, nothing is recorded of any punishment meted out to the erring one. And why? Because of the love of the Good Shepherd. His heart was overflowing with pity and sympathy. Surely the Master meant that story for every one who goes astray."

Thus on and on he wrote. There seemed to be no end to the ideas which flooded his mind. Just as soon as one was developed, he was off on another, now the love of the Father, now the lost sheep, now the duty of seeking and finding, now the simplicity of the search, with no mention of special forms and ceremonies.

He was at last aroused by Rachel's gentle tap upon the door. Like a guilty person caught in the act of some crime, Mr. Landrose hurriedly gathered up the many sheets of paper and thrust them into a drawer of his desk. He felt safer now, and much relieved. He had poured out his soul upon paper, although he knew that he would never deliver that sermon. But how could he henceforth preach as he had in the past? What he had formerly considered of the greatest importance seemed now to be nothing but mere skeletons. The teaching of the Master must have life. "The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory." This text flashed into his mind with a new meaning, stripped of all theological bias. He had been preaching the Word for many years, so he thought. But now he knew that he had missed the mark, and instead of giving his people the true food of life, he had been meteing out to them nothing but hard cold stones.

Mr. Landrose ate but little at dinner, and Rachel was worried.

"You will starve, sir, unless you eat more than you have to-day."

"I do not feel hungry, Rachel. The death of—of that woman at the hotel has been a shock to me, coming so soon after my visit to her last night."

"When will the funeral take place?"

"Funeral! Why, I have forgotten all about it. But I suppose I shall have to bury her."

A slight shiver shook his body, and he looked very pale. This Rachel noticed, and she felt a sudden alarm.

"You are not well, sir. You should see the doctor."

"No, no. I am all right. But the thought of burying that woman in the cold ground, away from God's beautiful sunshine, has unnerved me. Although I know it is only her body that will be buried, yet somehow it seems terrible to me to-day."

"Did you know the woman, sir?"

"No, I never did. I thought I knew her, but I was mistaken. I never really knew Martha Benson."

Parson Dan was not lying intentionally. He was thinking of other things of which Rachel knew nothing. In fact, he did not realize the meaning his housekeeper might take from his words until an hour later as he was walking toward the hotel. It came upon him with a startling suddeness, causing him to stop right in the middle of the road.

"Rachel asked me if I knew the woman," he whispered. "I told her I never did. What will she think of me if she ever knows the truth? I did not intend to deceive her. But how can I explain? What shall I say to her?" He was much worried, and thought about it as he continued on his way.

When he reached the hotel, he was shown at once to the room where the dead woman was lying. There was no one present, and the blinds were partly lowered. But there was light enough for him to see the face of the woman lying in the casket. He gave a slight start as he looked upon it. In the repose of death all traces of care and suffering were gone, and what he saw was a face calm and serene with the semblance of a smile lurking about the corners of the mouth. He beheld there the Martha Benson as he had known her years before. She seemed about to speak to him, to utter his name.

"Martha," he whispered, "tell me something about your life now. Are you asleep, or are you living joyously and free in that land where pain and sorrow are unknown?"

The sound of some one approaching aroused him. Glancing quickly and nervously around, he saw the grand-daughter standing near. She was very calm and formal.

"Excuse me, sir. I hope I am not intruding. I did not know that you were here."

"No, no, it's all right," and the clergyman sighed. "I was merely waiting for you. Please accept my sincere sympathy. I would have been here sooner had I known of your grandmother's death. Is there anything I can do?"

"You will conduct the service, of course."

"Yes, if it is your wish, Miss Randall."

"It was Granny's, so that settles it."

"I suppose so."

"And the grave must be dug. Will you arrange about that, sir?"

"I shall attend to it. But perhaps you would like to go with me and select a spot."

"No, thank you. I shall leave that to you. And the funeral is to be in the evening, I understand."

"So your grandmother wished."

"Very well, then, to-night. How will that do?"

"But why so soon, Miss Randall? Why not wait until to-morrow night?"

"It will make no difference to Granny, Mr. Landrose. And, besides, the undertaker thinks we should not wait so long. That is all, I think. Thank you, sir. Good day."

Surprised and bewildered, the parson left the hotel and made his way back along the road. He had expected to find the girl somewhat softened by her grandmother's death. Instead, she was more rigidly formal than ever. She had not exhibited the least sign of emotion, but had discussed the funeral arrangements in a matter of fact manner and as briefly as possible. And he was now her guardian! A slight groan escaped his lips. What was he to do with such a creature? But he had promised Martha, and he must be true to his word. He would do his duty to the letter. But why did the girl act so strangely toward him? He had done nothing to her, and it was not his fault that he had been appointed her guardian. A feeling of anger welled up in his heart. He was a mild, peace-loving man. But when necessity demanded he could be very firm. And he was determined now that he would use a firm hand in dealing with the girl. She was under his control, and if she did not wish to obey him, she would have to abide by the consequences. Did Martha know of her grand-daughter's strong and wilful nature which caused her to make such provisions in her will? It seemed so. Perhaps the girl had given her much trouble in the past, and she had thus endeavored to provide for her future welfare.

Reaching at length the grave-yard, he went at once to a large maple tree standing in the north east corner.

"Martha would like this spot. There is no grave near, and here the flowers will bloom and the birds will sing. This tree will shade the grave in summer and shelter it from the fierce winds of winter. Dear me! how little I thought that I should be doing this for Martha Benson. And when I die I want to be buried right by her side. It cannot be long now, and the sooner the better. But, there, I must go at once and get Joe Blake to dig the grave. He will have little enough time."

Joe was not at home, but his wife explained that he was at the undertaker's getting the right measurements.

"It's a queer thing, I call it," she declared, "to have a funeral after dark. Joe's been diggin' graves for the last twenty years, an' he never had to attend a buryin' by night. It doesn't seem at all right, to my way of thinkin'. Why that woman should want to be put in the ground at night is more'n I kin understand."

"No doubt it is, Mrs. Blake," the clergyman quietly replied. "There are many things we cannot understand."

"I hear strange stories, too, about that grand-daughter of hers. She's a flighty one, all right, that's what she is, goin' about so much while her grandmother is lyin' dead."

"What stories have you heard, Mrs. Blake?" There was a note of sternness in the clergyman's voice which caused the woman to hesitate.

"Oh, nuthin' in particular, parson. But I hear she goes off to dances with the manager of the granite works. She was away last night, too."

"To a dance!"

"Oh, no, I wouldn't like to say that. But it doesn't look right, as I said, with her grandmother—"

"There, that will do, Mrs. Blake. It is only hearsay, after all, and I know very well how people will talk, especially in this place. I wish they would attend to their own affairs, and not bother about what other people are doing. But, there, I must get along. Be sure to tell Joe to dig the grave right under that big maple tree in the north east corner. I hope he will get it done in time."

"Oh, Joe'll have it ready, parson. He hasn't dug many graves of late, more's the pity. Times are hard these days, an' we are in need of money. I suppose the pay'll be all right, sir?"

"It will. I shall see to that, so don't worry."

Mrs. Blake stood watching the clergyman as he walked toward the rectory.

"I wonder what's comin' over the parson? I never saw him so solemn an' stern. I believe he knows something about that dead woman accordin' to what Susie Wickham told her ma. He was with her the night she died, an' had Communion. I'm goin' to that funeral even though it is at night. I wouldn't miss it fer anything."

And more than Mrs. Blake decided to attend the funeral, and some gathered at the grave-yard before dark. When Mr. Landrose arrived he was surprised to find so many people present.

"What are all these folks doing here?" he asked Joe.

"Jist waitin' to see the funeral, parson. It isn't every day we have a funeral at night."

Mr. Landrose robed in the little vestry by the light of an oil lamp, and went to the churchyard gate, holding his book in his hand. Slowly he walked before the casket which was borne by several men. In a clear voice he read the opening sentences of the Burial Service, and as the words "I am the resurrection and the life" sounded forth the voices of all were hushed in an awed silence. By the clergyman's side walked Joe, with a lighted lantern to illuminate the narrow path. When the grave had been reached, the people drew close and watched everything that was taking place. At the head of the grave stood Doris Randall with a young man by her side. Calmly she watched as the casket was lowered into the ground, apparently unmoved. But at the words "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust," she gave a low moan and leaned somewhat for support against her companion. But no other sound did she make, and as soon as the service was ended she left the grave.

Mr. Landrose remained until the last shovelful of gravel had been placed upon the mound. The crowd had dispersed, so he and Joe were alone.

"Good job, that, sir."

The clergyman started at these words, and looked around.

"Have they all gone, Joe?"

"Why, yes. We've been alone here fer some time. Guess we can't do no more now. Say, parson, I don't want a job like this ag'in."

"Why, Joe?"

"Oh, I can't very well explain, sir. But I had a creepy feelin' all the time I was shovelin' in the earth. It seemed as if that dead woman was standin' by my side watchin' to see that I done the work right."

"Nonsense, Joe."

"It may be so, that's a fact. But I had the feelin', anyway, an' who kin reason ag'inst a feelin'? I can't."

"Let us go home, Joe. Come to me in the morning and I shall pay you for your work."

"A'right, parson. But I hope t'goodness that woman doesn't appear to me ag'in when I go to bed. I done a good job, now didn't I, sir?"

"You certainly did, so don't worry any more. Your conscience should be clear. Good-night."