“Dan’l,” said Thomas Donaldson, as he helped the old man down the church steps, “I was mistaken about the docterns an’ the whisky. It was stronger an’ better, because it was the pure stuff.”
“I ain’t got a word to say,” said Dan’l, “ ’ceptin’ that a good deal of it was jest sass.” But he kept mumbling to himself as he hobbled along, “Jedge not, fur you’re a-pilin’ up sentences on yoreself. I never thought of it that way before; no, I never.”
Brent did not come out of his room to dinner that afternoon. Mrs. Hodges was for calling him, but the old man objected. “No, Hester,” he said, “Freddie jest wants to be let alone. He’s a-feelin’ now.”
“But, ’Liphalet, he ought to know how nice people talked about his sermon. I tell you that was my kind o’ doctern. It’s wonderful how a child will learn.”
Notwithstanding his belief that his young friend wanted to be left alone, the old man slipped into his room later on with a cup of tea. The young man sat before the table, his head buried in his hands. Eliphalet set the cup and saucer down and turned to go, but he paused at the door and said, “Thank the Lord fur the way you give it to ’em, Freddie. It was worth a dollar.” He would have hurried out, but the young man sprang up and seized his hand, exclaiming, “It was wrong, Uncle ’Liph, it was wrong of me. I saw them sitting about me like jackals waiting for their prey; I remembered all that I had been and all that I was; I knew what they were thinking, and I was angry, angry. God forgive me! That sermon was preached from as hot a heart as ever did murder.”
The old man stroked the young one’s hair as he would a child’s. “Never mind,” he said. “It don’t matter what you felt. That’s between you an’ Him. I only know what you said, an’ that’s all I care about. Didn’t you speak about the Lord a-whippin’ the money-changers from the temple? Ain’t lots o’ them worse than the money-changers? Wasn’t Christ divine? Ain’t you human? Would a body expect you to feel less’n He did? Huh! jest don’t you worry; remember that you didn’t hit a head that wasn’t in striking distance.” And the old man pressed the boy back into his chair and slipped out.
Chapter XII
Bedside an absolute refusal again to supply, Brent made no sign of the rebellion which was in him, and his second year slipped quickly and uneventfully away. He went to and from his duties silent and self-contained. He did not confide in Mr. Hodges, because his guardian seemed to grow more and more jealous of their friendship. He could not confide in Elizabeth, on account of a growing conviction that she did not fully sympathise with him. But his real feelings may be gathered from a letter which he wrote to his friend Taylor some two months after the events recorded in the last chapter.
“My dear Taylor,” it ran, “time and again I have told myself that I would write you a line, keeping you in touch, as I promised, with my progress. Many times have I thought of our last talk together, and still I think as I thought then—that, in spite of all your disadvantages and your defeats, you have the best of it. When you fail, it is your own failure, and you bear down with you only your own hopes and struggles and ideals. If I fail, there falls with me all the framework of pride and anxiety that has so long pushed me forward and held me up. For my own failure I should not sorrow: my concern would be for the one who has so carefully shaped me after a pattern of her own. However else one may feel, one must be fair to the ambitions of others, even though one is the mere material that is heated and beaten into form on the anvil of another’s will. But I am ripe for revolt. The devil is in me—a restrained, quiet, well-appearing devil, but all the more terrible for that.
“I have at last supplied one of the pulpits here, that of my own church. The Rev. Mr. Simpson was afflicted with a convenient and adaptable indisposition which would not allow him to preach, and I was deputed to fill his place. I knew what a trial it would be, and had carefully written out my sermon, but I am afraid I did not adhere very strictly to the manuscript. I think I lost my head. I know I lost my temper. But the sermon was a nine days’ wonder, and I have had to refuse a dozen subsequent offers to supply. It is all very sordid and sickening and theatrical. The good old Lowry tried to show me that it was my duty and for my good, but I have set my foot down not to supply again, and so they let me alone now.
“It seems to me that that one sermon forged a chain which holds me in a position that I hate. It is a public declaration that I am or mean to be a preacher, and I must either adhere to it or break desperately away. Do you know, I feel myself to be an arrant
