The young man leaned heavily on his chair, and looked into his friend’s eyes: “If God had given me such a man as you as a father, or even as a guardian, I would not have been damned,” he said.
“ ’Sh, ’sh, my boy. Don’t say that. You’re goin’ to be all right; you’re—you’re—” Eliphalet’s eyes were moist, and his voice choked here. Rising, he suddenly threw his arms around Fred’s neck, crying, “You are my son. God has give you to me to nurse in the time of your trial.”
The young man returned the embrace; and so Mrs. Hodges found them when she opened the door softly and peered in. She closed it noiselessly and withdrew.
“Well, I never!” she said. There was a questioning wonder in her face.
“I don’t know what to make of them two,” she added; “they couldn’t have been lovin’er ef they had been father and son.”
After a while the guests began to arrive for the dinner. Many were the inquiries and calls for the new minister, but to them all Eliphalet made the same answer: “He ain’t well enough to see folks.”
Mrs. Hodges herself did her best to bring him out, or to get him to let some of the guests in, but he would not. Finally her patience gave way, and she exclaimed, “Well, now, Frederick Brent, you must know that you air the pastor of a church, an’ you’ve got to make some sacrifices for people’s sake. Ef you kin possibly git up—an’ I know you kin—you ought to come out an’ show yoreself for a little while, anyhow. You’ve got some responsibilities now.”
“I didn’t ask for them,” he answered, coldly. There was a set look about his lips. “Neither will I come out or see anyone. If I am old enough to be the pastor of a church, I am old enough to know my will and have it.”
Mrs. Hodges was startled at the speech. She felt vaguely that there was a new element in the boy’s character since morning. He was on the instant a man. It was as if clay had suddenly hardened in the potter’s hands. She could no longer mould or ply him. In that moment she recognised the fact.
The dinner was all that could be expected, and her visitors enjoyed it, in spite of the absence of the guest of honour, but for the hostess it was a dismal failure. After wielding the sceptre for years, it had been suddenly snatched from her hand; and she felt lost and helpless, deprived of her power.
Chapter XIII
As Brent thought of the long struggle before him, he began to wish that there might be something organically wrong with him which the shock would irritate into fatal illness. But even while he thought this he sneered at himself for the weakness. A weakness self-confessed holds the possibility of strength. So in a few days he rallied and took up the burden of his life again. As before he had found relief in study, now he stilled his pains and misgivings by a strict attention to the work which his place involved.
His was not an easy position for a young man. He had to go through the ordeal of pastoral visits. He had to condole with old ladies who thought a preacher had nothing else to do than to listen to the recital of their ailments. He had to pray with poor and stricken families whose conditions reminded him strongly of what his own must have been. He had to speak words of serious admonition to girls nearly his own age, who thought it great fun and giggled in his face. All this must he do, nor must he slight a single convention. No rules of conduct are so rigid as are those of a provincial town. He who ministers to the people must learn their prejudices and be adroit enough not to offend them or strong enough to break them down. It was a great load to lay on the shoulders of so young a man. But habit is everything, and he soon fell into the ways of his office. Writing to Taylor, he said, “I am fairly harnessed now, and at work, and, although the pulling is somewhat hard, I know my way. It is wonderful how soon a man falls into the cant of his position and learns to dole out the cut-and-dried phrases of ministerial talk like a sort of spiritual phonograph. I must confess, though, that I am rather good friends with the children who come to my Sunday-school. My own experiences as a child are so fresh in my memory that I rather sympathise with the little fellows, and do all I can to relieve the half-scared stiffness with which they conduct themselves in church and the Sunday-school room.
“I wonder why it is we make church such a place of terror to the young ones. No wonder they quit coming as soon as they can choose.
“I shock Miss Simpson, who teaches a mixed class, terribly, by my freedom with the pupils. She says that she can’t do anything with her charges any more; but I notice that her class and the school are growing. I’ve been at it for several weeks now, and, like a promising baby, I am beginning to take an interest in things.
“If I got on with the old children of my flock as well as I do with the young ones, I should have nothing to complain of; but I don’t. They know as little as the youngsters, and are a deal more unruly. They are continually comparing me with their old pastor, and it is needless to say that I suffer by the comparison. The ex-pastor himself burdens me with advice. I shall tell him some day that he has resigned. But I am growing diplomatic, and have several reasons for not wishing to offend him. For all
