CHAPTER XX.
A STRANGE SERMON.
On the Sunday the curate walked across the churchyard to the morning
prayer very much as if the bells, instead of ringing the people to
church, had been tolling for his execution. But if he was going to
be hanged, he would at least die like a gentleman, confessing his
sin. Only he would it were bed-time, and all well. He trembled so
when he stood up to read that he could not tell whether or not he
was speaking in a voice audible to the congregation. But as his hour
drew near, the courage to meet it drew near also, and when at length
he ascended the pulpit stairs, he was able to cast a glance across
the sea of heads to learn whether the little man was in the poor
seats. But he looked for the big head in vain.
When he read his text, it was to a congregation as listless and
indifferent as it was wont to be. He had not gone far, however,
before that change of mental condition was visible in the faces
before him, which a troop of horses would have shown by a general
forward swivelling of the ears. Wonderful to tell, they were
actually listening. But in truth it was no wonder, for seldom in
any, and assuredly never in that church, had there been heard such
an exordium to a sermon.
His text was--"Confessing your faults one to another." Having read
it with a return of the former trembling, and paused, his brain
suddenly seemed for a moment to reel under a wave of extinction that
struck it, then to float away upon it, and then to dissolve in it,
as it interpenetrated its whole mass, annihilating thought and
utterance together. But with a mighty effort of the will, in which
he seemed to come as near as man could come to the willing of his
own existence, he recovered himself and went on. To do justice to
this effort, my reader must remember that he was a shy man, and that
he knew his congregation but too well for an unsympathetic
one--whether from their fault or his own mattered little for the
nonce. It had been hard enough to make up his mind to the attempt
when alone in his study, or rather, to tell the truth, in his
chamber, but to carry out his resolve in the face of so many faces,
and in spite of a cowardly brain, was an effort and a victory
indeed. Yet after all, upon second thoughts, I see that the true
resolve was the victory, sweeping shyness and every other opposing
weakness along with it. But it wanted courage of yet another sort to
make of his resolve a fact, and his courage, in that kind as well,
had never yet been put to the test or trained by trial. He had not
been a fighting boy at school; he had never had the chance of riding
to hounds; he had never been in a shipwreck, or a house on fire; had
never been waked from a sound sleep with a demand for his watch and
money; yet one who had passed creditably through all these trials,
might still have carried a doubting conscience to his grave rather
than face what Wingfold now confronted.
From the manuscript before him he read thus:
"'Confess your faults one to another.'--This command of the apostle,
my hearers, ought to justify me in doing what I fear some of you may
consider almost as a breach of morals--talking of myself in the
pulpit. But in the pulpit has a wrong been done, and in the pulpit
shall it be confessed. From Sunday to Sunday, standing on this spot,
I have read to you, without word of explanation, as if they formed
the message I had sought and found for you, the thoughts and words
of another. Doubtless they were better than any I could have given
you from my own mind or experience, and the act had been a righteous
one, had I told you the truth concerning them. But that truth I did
not tell you.--At last, through words of honest expostulation, the
voice of a friend whose wounds are faithful, I have been aroused to
a knowledge of the wrong I have been doing. Therefore I now confess
it. I am sorry. I will do so no more.
"But, brethren, I have only a little garden on a bare hill-side, and
it hath never yet borne me any fruit fit to offer for your
acceptance; also, my heart is troubled about many things, and God
hath humbled me. I beg of you, therefore, to bear with me for a
little while, if, doing what is but lawful and expedient both, I
break through the bonds of custom in order to provide you with food
convenient for you. Should I fail in this, I shall make room for a
better man. But for your bread of this day, I go gleaning openly in
other men's fields--fields into which I could not have found my
way, in time at least for your necessities, and where I could not
have gathered such full ears of wheat, barley, and oats but for the
more than assistance of the same friend who warned me of the wrong I
was doing both you and myself. Right ancient fields are some of
them, where yet the ears lie thick for the gleaner. To continue my
metaphor: I will lay each handful before you with the name of the
field where I gathered it; and together they will serve to show what
some of the wisest and best shepherds of the English flock have
believed concerning the duty of confessing our faults." He then
proceeded to read the extracts which Mr. Polwarth had helped him to
find--and arrange, not chronologically, but after an idea of growth.
Each handful, as he called it, he prefaced with one or two words
concerning him in whose field he had gleaned it.
His voice steadied and strengthened as he read. Renewed contact with
the minds of those vanished teachers gave him a delight which
infused itself into the uttered words, and made them also joyful;
and if the curate preached to no one else in the congregation,
certainly he preached to himself, and before it was done had entered
into a thorough enjoyment of the sermon.
A few in the congregation were disappointed because they had looked
for a justification and enforcement of the confessional, thinking
the change in the curate could only have come from that portion of
the ecclesiastical heavens towards which they themselves turned
their faces. A few others were scandalized at such an innovation on
the part of a young man who was only a curate. Many however declared
that it was the most interesting sermon they had ever heard in their
lives--which perhaps was not saying much.
Mrs. Ramshorn made a class by herself. Not having yet learned to
like Wingfold, and being herself one of the craft, with a knowledge
of not a few of the secrets of the clerical--prison-house, shall I
call it, or green-room?--she was indignant with the presumptuous
young man who degraded the pulpit to a level with the dock. Who
cared for him? What was it to a congregation of respectable people,
many of them belonging to the first county families, that he, a mere
curate, should have committed what he fancied a crime against them!
He should have waited until it had been laid to his charge. Couldn't
he repent of his sins, whatever they were, without making a boast of
them in the pulpit, and exposing them to the eyes of a whole
congregation? She had known people make a stock-in-trade of their
sins! What was it to them whether the washy stuff he gave them by
way of sermons was his own foolishness or some other noodle's!
Nobody would have troubled himself to inquire into his honesty, if
he had but held his foolish tongue. Better men than he had preached
other people's sermons and never thought it worth mentioning. And
what worse were the people? The only harm lay in letting them know
it; that brought the profession into disgrace, and prevented the
good the sermon would otherwise have done, besides giving the
enemies of the truth a handle against the church. And then such a
thing to call a sermon! As well take a string of blown eggs to
market! Thus she expatiated, half the way home, before either of her
companions found an opportunity of saying a word.
"I am sorry to differ from you, aunt," said Helen. "I thought the
sermon a very interesting one. He read beautifully."
"For my part," said Bascombe, who was now a regular visitor from
Saturdays to Mondays, "I used to think the fellow a muff, but, by
Jove! I've changed my mind. If ever there was a plucky thing to do,
that was one, and there ain't many men, let me tell you, aunt, who
would have the pluck for it.--It's my belief, Helen," he went on,
turning to her and speaking in a lower tone, "I've had the honour of
doing that fellow some good. I gave him my mind about honesty pretty
plainly the first time I saw him. And who can tell what may come
next when a fellow once starts in the right way! We shall have him
with us before long. I must look out for something for him, for of
course he'll be in a devil of a fix without his profession."
"I am so glad you think with me, George!" said Helen. "There was
always something I was inclined to like about Mr. Wingfold. Indeed I
should have liked him quite if he had not been so painfully modest."
"Notwithstanding his sheepishness, though," returned Bascombe,
"there was a sort of quiet self-satisfaction about him, and the way
he always said Don't you think? as if he were Socrates taking
advantage of Mr. Green and softly guiding him into a trap, which I
confess made me set him down as conceited; but, as I say, I begin to
change my mind. By Jove! he must have worked pretty hard too in the
dust-bins to get together all those bits of gay rag and resplendent
crockery!"
"You heard him say he had help," said Helen.
"No, I don't remember that."
"It came just after that pretty simile about gleaning in old
fields."
"I remember the simile, for I thought it a very absurd one--as if
fields would lie gleanable for generations!"
"To be sure--now you point it out!" acquiesced Helen.
"The grain would have sprouted and borne harvests a hundred. If a
man will use figures, he should be careful to give them legs. I
wonder whom he got to help him--not the rector, I suppose?"
"The rector!" echoed Mrs. Ramshorn, who had been listening to the
young people's remarks with a smile of quiet scorn on her lip,
thinking what an advantage was experience, even if it could not make
up for the loss of youth and beauty--"The last man in the world to
lend himself to such a miserable makeshift and pretence! Without
brains enough even to fancy himself able to write a sermon of his
own, he flies to the dead,--to their very coffins as it were--and I
will not say STEALS from them, for he does it openly, not having
even shame enough to conceal his shame!"
"I like a man to hold his face to what he does, or thinks either,"
said Bascombe.
"Ah, George!" returned his aunt, in tones of wisdom, "by the time
you have had my experience, you will have learned a little
prudence."
Meantime, so far as his aunt was concerned, George did use prudence,
for in her presence he did not hold his face to what he thought. He
said to himself it would do her no good. She was so prejudiced! and
it might interfere with his visits.--She, for her part, never had
the slightest doubt of his orthodoxy: was he not the son of a
clergyman and canon?--a grandson of the church herself?
