Mari was there, incapable and patient, her face and figure stamped with the indefinable something that marks the drunkard’s wife. And Joey, serious and old—little Joey! Bob was there, and Jean, and Tony, and all the familiar faces from the wharves. Mrs. Granite, in her rusty black, sat tearfully in a front settee, with Jane beside her. Jane looked at the minister, before all the people, as she never ventured to look at home. But nobody noticed Jane. Bayard did but glance at her pinched, adoring face; he dared not dwell upon it.
Ben Trawl was not to be seen in the audience. But Lena was. She stood the service through, for she had come in too late to find a seat; she stood behind Johnny’s mother, who wore Helen’s crape bonnet and veil, poor old lady, with a brown bombazine dress. Lena had a worried look. She did not remove her eyes from the preacher. Lena sang that day, when the people started “the minister’s hymn,”—
“I need Thee every hour,
Stay Thou near by.”
Her fine voice rose like a solo; it had a certain solitariness about it which was touching to hear.
“Temptations lose their power
When Thou art nigh.”
The melody of the hymn died away into the hush in which Bayard rose again, for it came to his heart to bless his people and his chapel in one of his rare prayers.
“Lord,” he said, “Thou art the God of the sea and its perils; of the land and its sorrow. Draw near to these sea-people who tread upon the shore of Thy mercy. I dedicate them to Thee. Father, take them from my hands! Lift them up! Hold them, that they fall not. Comfort their troubles. Forgive their sins. Take them! Take my people from my heart!... Lord, I consecrate this house of worship, for their sakes, and in Christ’s name, and for Christ’s love, to Thee, and to Thy service.... Father! Thou knowest how I have loved this people.”...
Bayard’s voice broke. It was the only time—in all those years. His prayer remained unfinished. The sobs of his people answered him; and his silence was his benediction upon them.
The audience moved out quietly. It was now dark. The lights in the chapel had been noiselessly lighted. The jets of the illuminated words above the door were blazing.
The Professor and the clergymen and Helen’s mother stepped apart and out into the street; none of them spoke to Bayard, for his look forbade them. The Professor of Theology was greatly moved. Signs of tears more natural than evangelical were on his aged face. Bayard, lingering but a moment, came down the aisle with his wife upon his arm.