My Aunt Kezia and Sophy had come in while Sam was talking, and Father and Hatty followed now, so we sat down to breakfast.
“Sam has told you one story, girls,” said my Aunt Kezia, “and I will tell you another. You will find the singers changed when you go to church. Dan Oldfield and Susan Nixon are gone.”
“Dan and Susan!” cried Hatty. “The two best voices in the gallery!”
“Well, you know, under old Mr Digby, there always used to be an anthem before the service began, in which Dan and Susan did their best to show off. The second week that Mr Liversedge was here, he stopped the anthem. Up started the singers, and told him they would not stand it. It wasn’t worth their while coming just for the psalms. Mr Liversedge heard them out quietly, and then said,—‘Do you mean what you have just said?’ Yes, to be sure they meant it. ‘Then consider yourselves dismissed from the gallery without more words,’ says he. ‘You are not worthy to sing the praises of Him before whom multitudes of angels veil their faces. Not worth your while to praise God!—but worth your while to show man what fine voices He gave you whom you think scorn to thank for it!’ And he turned them off there and then.”
The next time I was alone with Sophy, she said to me, with tears in her eyes,—“Cary, I don’t want you to reckon me worse than I am. That is bad enough, in all conscience. I would have knelt down with Annie Crosthwaite, and so, I am sure, would my Aunt Kezia; but it was while she was up in London with you, and Father was so poorly with the gout, I could not leave him. You see there was nobody to take my place, with all of you away. Please don’t fancy I was one of those that refused, for indeed it was not so.”
“I fancy you are a dear, good Sophy,” said I, kissing her; “and I suppose, if Mr Liversedge asked you to shake hands with a chimney-sweep just come down the chimney, you would be delighted to do it.”
“Well, perhaps I might,” said Sophy, laughing. “But that, Cary, I should have done, not for him, but for our Master.”
I found that I liked Mr Liversedge very much, as one would wish to like a brother-in-law that was to be. His whole heart seems to be in his Lord’s work: and if, perhaps, he is a little sharp and abrupt at times, I think it is simply because he sees everything quickly and distinctly, and speaks as he sees. I was afraid he would have something of the pope about him, but I find he is not like that at all. He lets you alone for all mere differences of opinion, though he will talk them over with you readily if he sees that you wish it. But let those keen, black eyes perceive something which he thinks sin, and down he comes on you in the very manner of the old prophets. Yet show him that he has made a mistake, and that your action was justified, and he begs your forgiveness in a moment. And I never saw a man who seemed more fitted to deal with broken-hearted sinners. To them he is tenderness and comfort itself.
“He just takes pattern frae his Maister; that’s whaur it is,” said old Elspie. “Mind ye, He was unco gentle wi’ the puir despised publicans, and vara tender to the wife that had been a sinner. It was the Pharisees He was hard on. And that’s just what the minister is. Miss Cary, he’s just the best blessing the Lord ever sent till Brocklebank!”
“I hardly thought, Elspie,” said I, a little mischievously, “to hear you speak so well of a Prelatist clergyman.”