During the sermon the Major was much excited. Apart altogether from the effect of the actual words spoken, Mr. Bradshaw had a singular and contagious power over men. The three, Mrs. Coleman, the Major, and Zachariah, came out together. Mrs. Zachariah stayed behind in the lobby for some female friend to whom she wished to speak about a Sunday-school tea-meeting which was to take place that week. The other two stood aside, ill at ease, amongst the crowd pressing out into the street. Presently Mrs. Coleman found her friend, whom she at once informed that Major Maitland and her husband were waiting for her, and that therefore she had not a moment to spare. That little triumph accomplished, she had nothing of importance to say about the tea-meeting, and rejoined her party with great good-humour. She walked between the Major and Zachariah, and at once asked the Major how he “enjoyed the service.” The phrase was very unpleasant to Zachariah, but he was silent.
“Well, ma’am,” said the Major, “Mr. Bradshaw is a very remarkable man. It is a long time since any speaker stirred me as he did. He is a born orator, if ever there was one.”
“I could have wished,” said Zachariah, “as you are not often in chapel, that his sermon had been founded on some passage in the New Testament which would have given him the opportunity of more simply expounding the gospel of Christ.”
“He could not have been better, I should think. He went to my heart, though it is rather a difficult passage in the case of a man about town like me; and I tell you what, Coleman, he made me determine I would read the Bible again. What a story that is!”
“Major, I thank God if you will read it; and not for the stories in it, save as all are part of one story—the story of God’s redeeming mercy.”
The Major made no reply, for the word was unwinged.
Mrs. Zachariah was silent, but when they came to their door both she and her husband pressed him to come in. He refused, however; he would stroll homeward, he said, and have a smoke as he went.
“He touched me, Coleman, he did. I thought, between you and me”—and he spoke softly—“I had not now got such a tender place; I thought it was all healed over long ago. I cannot come in. You’ll excuse me. Yes, I’ll just wander back to Piccadilly. I could not talk.”
They parted, and Zachariah and his wife went upstairs. Their supper was soon ready.
“Jane,” he said slowly, “I did not receive much assistance from you in my endeavours to bring our friends to a knowledge of the truth. I thought that, as you desired the attempt, you would have helped me a little.”
“There is a reason for everything; and, what is more, I do not consider it right to take upon myself what belongs to a minister. It may do more harm than good.”
“Take upon yourself what belongs to a minister! My dear Jane, is nobody but a minister to bear witness for the Master?”
“Of course I did not mean to say that; you know I did not. Why do you catch at my words? Perhaps, if you had not been quite so forward, Mr. Caillaud and his daughter might have gone to chapel.”
After supper, and when he was alone, Zachariah sat for some time without moving. He presently rose and opened the Bible again, which lay on the table—the Bible which belonged to his father—and turned to the flyleaf on which was written the family history. There was the record of his father’s marriage, dated on the day of the event. There was the record of his own birth. There was the record of his mother’s death, still in his father’s writing, but in an altered hand, the letters not so distinct, and the strokes crooked and formed with difficulty. There was the record of Zachariah’s own marriage. A cloud of shapeless, inarticulate sentiment obscured the man’s eyes and brain. He could not define what he felt, but he did feel. He could not bear it, and he shut the book, opening it again at the twenty-second Psalm—the one which the disciples of Jesus called to mind on the night of the crucifixion. It was one which Mr. Bradshaw often read, and Zachariah had noted in it a few corrections made in the translation:—
“My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me? Our fathers trusted in Thee; they trusted, and Thou didst deliver them. … Be not far from me; for trouble is near; for there is none to help. … Be Thou not far from me, O Lord: O my strength, haste Thee to help me. … Save me from the lion’s mouth: and from the horns of the wild oxen Thou hast answered me.”
“From the horns of the wild oxen”—that correction had often been precious to Zachariah. When at the point of being pinned to the ground—so he understood it—help had arisen; risen up from the earth, and might again arise. It was upon the first part of the text he dwelt now. It came upon him with fearful distinctness that he was alone—that he could never hope for sympathy from his wife as long as he lived. Mr. Bradshaw’s words that evening recurred to him. God’s purpose in choosing to smite Jephthah in that way was partly intelligible, and, after all, Jephthah was elected to redeem his country too. But what could be God’s purpose in electing one of his servants to indifference and absence of affection where he had a right to expect it? Could anybody be better for not being loved? Even Zachariah could not think it possible. But Mr. Bradshaw’s words again recurred. Who was he that he
