So the fitful calms and Elizabeth’s love had not cured Frederick Brent’s heart of its one eating disease, the desire for freedom.
Chapter XI
It was not until early in Brent’s second year at the Bible Seminary that he was compelled to go through the ordeal he so much dreaded, that of filling a city pulpit. The Dexterites had been wont to complain that since the advent among them of the theological school their churches had been turned into recitation-rooms for the raw students; but of “old Tom Brent’s boy,” as they still called him, they could never make this complaint. So, as humanity loves to grumble, the congregations began to find fault because he did not do as his fellows did.
The rumours of his prowess in the classroom and his eloquence in the society hall had not abated, and the curiosity of his fellow-townsmen had been whetted to a point where endurance was no longer possible. Indeed, it is open to question whether it was not by connivance of the minister himself, backed by his trustees on one side and the college authorities on the other, that Brent was finally deputed to supply the place of the Rev. Mr. Simpson, who was affected by an indisposition, fancied, pretended, or otherwise.
The news struck the young man like a thunderbolt, albeit he had been expecting it. He attempted to make his usual excuse, but the kindly old professor who had notified him smiled into his face, and, patting his shoulder, said, “It’s no use, Brent. I’d go and make the best of it; they’re bound to have you. I understand your diffidence in the matter, and, knowing how well you stand in class, it does credit to your modesty.”
The old man passed on. He said he understood, but in his heart the young student standing there helpless, hopeless, knew that he did not understand, that he could not. Only he himself could perceive it in all the trying horror of its details. Only he himself knew fully or could know what the event involved—that when he arose to preach, to nine-tenths of the congregation he would not be Frederick Brent, student, but “old Tom Brent’s boy.” He recoiled from the thought.
Many a fireside saint has said, “Why did not Savonarola tempt the hot ploughshares? God would not have let them burn him.” Faith is a beautiful thing. But Savonarola had the ploughshares at his feet. The children of Israel stepped into the Red Sea before the waters parted, but then Moses was with them, and, what was more, Pharaoh was behind them.
At home, the intelligence of what Brent was to do was received in different manner by Mrs. Hodges and her husband. The good lady launched immediately into a lecture on the duty that was placed in his hands; but Eliphalet was silent as they sat at the table. He said nothing until after supper was over, and then he whispered to his young friend as he started to his room, “I know jest how you feel, Freddie. It seems that I oughtn’t to call you that now; but I ’low you’ll allus be ‘Freddie’ to me.”
“Don’t ever call me anything else, if you please, Uncle ’Liph,” said the young man, pressing Eliphalet’s hand.
“I think I kin understand you better than most people,” Mr. Hodges went on; “an’ I know it ain’t no easy task that you’ve got before you.”
“You’ve always understood me better than anyone, and—and I wish you knew what it has meant to me, and that I could thank you somehow.”
“ ’Sh, my boy. It’s thanks enough to hear them words from you. Now you jest calm yoreself, an’ when Sunday comes—I don’t know as I’d ought to say it this way, but I mean it all in a Christian sperrit—when Sunday comes, Freddie, my boy, you jest go in an’ give ’em fits.”
The two parted with another pressure of the hand, and it must be confessed that the old man looked a little bit sheepish when his wife hoped he had been giving Fred good advice.
“You don’t reckon, Hester, that I’d give him any other kind, do you?”
“Not intentionally, ’Liphalet; but when it comes to advice, there’s p’ints o’ view.” Mrs. Hodges seemed suspicious of her husband’s capabilities as an adviser.
“There’s some times when people’d a good deal ruther have sympathy than advice.”
“An’ I reckon, ’cordin’ to yore way o’ thinkin’ this is one o’ them. Well, I intend to try to do my dooty in this matter, as I’ve tried to do it all along.”
“Hester, yore dooty’ll kill you yit. It’s a wonder you don’t git tired a-lookin’ it in the face.”
“I ain’t a-goin’ to shirk it, jest to live in pleasure an’ ease.”
“No need o’ shirkin’, Hester, no need o’ shirkin’; but they’s some people that wouldn’t be content without rowin’ down stream.”
“An’ then, mind you, ’Liphalet, I ain’t a-exchangin’ words with you, fur that’s idleness, but there’s others, that wouldn’t row up stream, but ’ud wait an’ hope fur a wind to push ’em.” These impersonalities were as near “spatting” as Mr. and Mrs. Hodges ever got.
Through all the community that clustered about Mr. Simpson’s church and drew its thoughts, ideas, and subjects of gossip therefrom, ran like wildfire the news that at last they were to have a chance to judge of young Brent’s merits for themselves. It caused a stir among old and young, and in the days preceding the memorable Sunday little else was talked of.
When it reached the ears of old Dan’l Hastings, who limped around now upon two canes, but was as acrimonious as ever, he exclaimed, tapping the ground with one of his sticks for emphasis, “What! that young Brent preachin’ in our church, in our minister’s pulpit! It’s a shame—an’ he the born son of old Tom Brent, that all the town knows was the worst sinner hereabouts. I ain’t a-goin’ to go; I ain’t a-goin’ to go.”
“Don’t you be afeared to go,
