THE PREACHER.
As Mr Jonathan Prothero's sprain proved to be a very bad one, Rowland was obliged to undertake his weekly as well as his Sunday duty, and being summoned to the vicarage early on Saturday morning for a wedding, and finding other clerical duty in the afternoon, he had no time to revise his sermon until the morning on which he was to preach it. His mind was still in a state of so much excitement, that he found, on reading it over, that he had no power to amend what he had written hastily, but feeling that it was what he earnestly desired to act up to himself, and to bring his own mind down to, he hoped the words would not be without effect on his hearers. If Miss Gwynne took them as intended personally to touch her, why, he could not help it, and besides, she probably would be at Llanfawr church, to avoid seeing him.
But this was not the case. Gwynnes, Nugents, Protheros, and many others of Rowland's neighbours, helped to fill the little church that Sunday, all anxious to hear him preach; this made him feel nervous in spite of himself. In vain he reasoned with himself, prayed to forget himself, and those present—he could not get rid of those haunting words of Miss Gwynne's, or of the consciousness that she was listening to him. However, he read the service clearly and impressively, in the manly tone, and simply religious manner of one who knows that he is leading the prayers and praises of a congregation who cannot express their wants too humbly and naturally, to One who knows what they desire, even before they ask. No one in that church prayed more earnestly to be delivered from 'all blindness of heart, from pride, vain-glory and hypocrisy; from envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness,' than he did. And as he proceeded with the litany, his mind grew calmer, and he gradually received strength to overcome the great inward struggle that he was suffering from.
Before reading the thanksgiving, he gave out in a tremulous voice, that a 'member of that congregation was desirous of returning thanks to Almighty God for her recovery from dangerous, illness.' When he thanked God for all His mercies to all men, 'particularly to her who desires now to offer up her praises and thanksgivings for late mercies vouchsafed unto her,' every one felt that he was returning thanks for his own mother's recovery, and joined him in so doing. His father was seen to put his handkerchief to his eyes, as he lifted up his heart in praise.
His earnest manner evidently impressed his congregation, who were usually accustomed to the somewhat monotonous reading of his uncle, and to his rather learned discourses.
It is generally the case, that words spoken from the overflowings of the speaker's own heart and feelings, make the greatest impression on the hearts and feelings of his hearers; so it was now. When Rowland, in simple and forcible language, told his listeners that the first words of our Lord's Sermon on the Mount were to bless the poor in spirit, and to promise them the kingdom of heaven; and went on to contrast such poverty of spirit with the pride and vain glory inherent in man, and to call up the various scriptural examples and texts that bore upon the subject of humility; he gained the attention of all. Then he enlarged more particularly on the necessity of curbing and bridling and keeping down the spirit, until it attained that lowliness to which Our Saviour alludes in the very first of the beatitudes; and finally went through that Saviour's life, as the great example for all men, of meekness, gentleness, and humility—the interest in his words increased.
Rowland preached from the heart to the heart, and so his sermon that day was not in vain, albeit not perhaps written in the very best of moods. There was no poetry, no overheated enthusiasm no display of eloquence, but the plain, straightforward announcement to rich and poor alike, that to enter God's kingdom the spirit must become even as that of a little child.
Perhaps this is the least understood, and least palatable of all subjects, and when brought before a congregation, and well discussed for half-an-hour, must make many of its members pause to consider whether, on such terms, 'theirs is the kingdom of heaven.'
Miss Gwynne was one of those who paused so to consider, and acknowledged to herself that she had never looked upon our Lord's Sermon on the Mount, as so practically and so particularly addressed to herself before. She did not for a moment believe that the sermon was intended for her, more than for the rest of the congregation, but she felt, for the first time, that she had been proud and overbearing in her conduct to the preacher, as well as to many others whom she chose to think her inferiors.
She left the church, resolved to make such amends as were in her power, for the hasty and haughty way of her rejection of Rowland, and to strive to be less proud for the future.
When she was without, her father said to her, that he must go into the vicarage to congratulate the vicar on his nephew's preaching, and to ask Rowland to dinner. Miss Gwynne endeavoured to dissuade him from doing so, but Lady Mary Nugent expressed her intention of performing similar civilities; consequently the whole party, Colonel Vaughan and Miss Hall inclusive, walked across the churchyard to the vicarage, which lay just the other side of it.
The vicarage was a snug little cottage, with a rustic porch, adorned with the Virginian creeper, which, together with the massive ivy, also nearly covered the house. Red and cheerful looked the tiny dwelling beneath the autumn sun; and very pretty was the garden which surrounded it, still bright with dahlias, fuchsias, red geraniums, and monthly roses. It was here, years ago, that Rowland, Miss Gwynne, and Netta had often played together; and it was here that Rowland had passed the principal part of his holidays when at home from Rugby or college. It was here that Mrs Jonathan had done her utmost to make a gentleman of him, and had succeeded to her heart's content. Rowland had been very happy with his uncle and aunt, and loved them almost as well as his parents.
In the pretty garden were innumerable wonderful stones heaped into all sorts of masses, which he had helped his uncle to bring from various parts in the neighbourhood, and all of which were curiosities in their way; and there, also, was a fernery which he himself had made, and which contained all the remarkable ferns of a country rich in those beautiful productions of nature. The vicarage and its garden were neatness itself. Mrs Jonathan prided herself on them, and took great pains to prove that there could be, in a Welsh country village, a clergyman's abode something akin to the far-famed dwellings of the English ecclesiastic.
The party from the church quite filled the little drawing-room. Mr Jonathan Prothero was in an easy-chair, with his foot on a cushion, and looking very much like a caged stork.
Every one began by congratulating him on the success of his nephew in the pulpit.
'He must become a popular preacher,' said Lady Mary Nugent.
'I must say I have seldom heard more simple yet forcible language,' said Mr Gwynne.
'He touched us all upon our besetting sin of pride,' said Colonel Vaughan, glancing at Miss Gwynne, who said nothing.
'And thuch a beautiful voice!' remarked Miss Nugent.
Mrs Jonathan looked delighted.
'But where is he all this time, my dear?' asked the vicar.
We must answer the question by informing the reader that, having watched his congregation leave the church, he went into the vestry and sat down there, in order to avoid meeting any of the Gwynne party; when a messenger from his aunt came to inform him that he was wanted at once. He inquired by whom, and on hearing, tried to arm himself for an unavoidable encounter with Miss Gwynne.
When he entered the room she was talking to his uncle, and had her back turned to the door. He was at once greeted by Mr Gwynne and Lady Mary Nugent, so that he did not find it necessary to shake hands with every one, and made a kind of general bow, which he addressed to Miss Hall particularly, and was therefore unconscious of the half-attempt of Freda to rise from her seat as he entered. Miss Hall, alone, saw the flush on her cheek, as she relapsed into her position by Mr Jonathan Prothero and professed to be listening to the cause of his accident. His adventurous search after trinobites in a celebrated quarry, the slipping of a stone, and consequent spraining of his right ankle, sounded into one of her ears, whilst the following conversation, entered the other:—
'I hope you will give us the pleasure of your company on Tuesday,' said Lady Mary Nugent. 'We shall not be a large party.'
'And will come to us on Wednesday,' said Mr Gwynne. 'We must have some more chess. I have never met with a fair opponent since—hem—I beg your pardon, Lady Mary—Ah—yes—or, on Thursday. You see we did not like to ask you whilst your mother was so ill; my daughter thought it would be useless.'
Rowland coloured at the allusion to Freda, but did not even glance at her.
'Thank you, Lady Mary; thank you, Mr Gwynne, very much indeed, but I intend being in London on Tuesday. I have already outstayed my prescribed fortnight.'
'My dear Rowland!' exclaimed his aunt, 'you do not mean this?'
'Yes, aunt; my fellow curate has been fortunate enough to get a living given to him, and is to read himself in next Sunday, and I have promised to take double duty.'
'But one day more or less,' suggested Lady Nugent, who did not imagine it possible that Rowland Prothero could refuse an invitation from her, which was, in her opinion, quite a royal command. She, so exclusive!
'I am very much obliged to your ladyship, but I have promised to be in London on Tuesday; and as my mother is really better, there is no longer any necessity for my staying in the country.'
'Your uncleth foot?' suggested Miss Nugent.
'Two good dinners, and more agreeable company than you will meet with in your East End parish!' said Colonel Vaughan.
'My uncle will easily find help,' said Rowland, turning to Miss Nugent, 'although I am sorry not to be able to give him more; and,' to Colonel Vaughan, with a smile, 'had you ever tried the far East, you would know that there is very good company there, as well as in the West. I should be very glad to introduce you to some, if you would come and see me in town.'
'That I certainly will,' said the colonel, heartily; 'and I shall be able to tell you all about your sister, as I heard yesterday that her husband has finally taken my place, and will be down here as soon as it is put in first-rate order, furnished, etc.'
'You are not likely to leave us yet I hope, Colonel Vaughan?' said Lady Mary Nugent.
'For a time, I must; but having found how pleasant you all are down here, I shall hope to come again frequently, if Miss Gwynne will second her papa's invitation.'
Freda just turned round, bowed, and smiled, and then resolutely resumed her conversation with, or rather act of listening to, the vicar.
'How interested you appear to be,' whispered the colonel, sitting down behind her.
Rowland saw this little bit of by-play, and wished himself in London; whilst Colonel Vaughan joined in the vicar's archæological description of the quarry in which he had met with his accident. Freda heard all that Rowland said more distinctly than what passed close at her side.
She heard her father and Lady Mary's repeated entreaties that he would remain until the end of the week, and the decided, but polite refusal of Rowland. She heard her father prophecy that he would soon have a good living, and Rowland's reply, 'that without interest or any particular talent for what is called "popular preaching," there was little chance of church preferment. 'But,' he added, 'I am well content to be only a curate. There is enough to do in my parish to keep one from morning to night employed, and that in real, active, heart-stirring work, that will not let one flag if one would wish it.'
'I thould like to thee the Eatht End, mamma,' said Miss Nugent. 'People in the Wetht theem to think all the inhabitanths barbarians.'
'It is a pity they don't come and try to civilise us, then,' said Rowland. 'We should be very glad of their help.'
'I will go if mamma will let me,' said Miss Nugent.
Lady Mary smiled somewhat superciliously, and observed that she did not think she would be of much use.
'All who have a desire to do good will make a path of usefulness, Lady Mary, I think,' said Rowland. 'In these days the enlightened must not hide their light under a bushel. We live in stirring, striving times, when good and evil seem at terrible issue.'
'And which will conquer?' broke in Colonel Vaughan suddenly. 'I don't see that all the meetings and tracts have done much, as yet, towards their part in the fight.'
'Good must conquer eventually,' said Rowland, 'and is conquering daily and hourly.'
'In your East End parish?'
'We hope so. If our progress is slow we are not without encouragement even there, in the very thick of the battle, and where the armies of evil are ten to one against good.'
'I know something of fighting, Mr Rowland, and I fear the odds are too great. You may as well give up the conflict.'
'Remember, Colonel Vaughan, that in all the great battles of antiquity, and not a few of modern times—the Swiss for example—those who fought for freedom and right have always found their arms nerved to resist multitudes—hundreds have conquered tens of thousands. So is it with our warfare. We have strength given us that makes the single champion of the cross, powerful against the legion of his adversaries.'
'Very well said, nephew,' broke in the vicar, 'Marathon, Thermopylæ, Platea—'
'I am afraid we are keeping you from your dinner, Mrs Prothero,' interrupted Mr Gwynne, who had a nervous dread of the vicar's antiquities, whether in war or peace. 'Freda, I think we must go.'
Freda rose from her seat, and shook hands very warmly with Mr and Mrs Prothero. She had made up her mind to do the same with Rowland; but just as she approached the door near which he had been standing, he said he would go out and see whether the carriages were ready, and did so accordingly. They followed him as soon as the leave-takings were over, and found him waiting at the gate. He immediately assisted Lady Mary and Miss Nugent into their carriage, leaving Colonel Vaughan to perform the same office for Miss Gwynne and Miss Hall. Mr Gwynne stayed to shake hands with him, and tell him that he should always be glad to see him; and Colonel Vaughan promised to pay him a visit as soon as he went to town. The former got into the carriage, the latter upon the box to drive. Rowland stood by the door a moment irresolute.
'Good-bye, Mr Rowland,' said Miss Hall, 'I shall hope often to see your mother.'
'Thank you, Miss Hall,' said Rowland, pressing the hand she held out to him with an iron pressure.
Freda was just going to put out her hand across Miss Hall, when Colonel Vaughan touched the horses, and the carriage drove off. Rowland raised his hat, and as he glanced at Freda saw that she was looking at him not altogether unkindly. After those words of hers, he never could have shaken hands with her, unless she made the advance; and so they parted, he believing her too proud to acknowledge him after what he had said to her; she admiring what she considered his pride and resentment a great deal more than she had ever done his humility.