Chapter XX
A Sermon
On the Sunday morning following the Morning Glory Club's entertainment, the Rev. Elijah Flint arose after a restless night feeling physically miserable; but thoughts of the mighty effort that he was to make that day caused him soon to forget his bodily condition. Mrs. Flint had gone out of town the day before to visit friends. The minister was alone in the parsonage—alone with a narrow, stubborn idea. After a meagre breakfast of his own getting, he started early for church, eager and impatient for the service to begin.
A rumour had spread about town that Mr. Flint was to depart from his usual custom on that day and preach an up-to-date sermon. Everybody knew what that meant, and everybody—almost—went to church. When Mr. Flint went into the pulpit, and turned the leaves of the large Bible in search of the morning lesson, he glanced over the large congregation with the keenest satisfaction. It never occurred to him that the addition to his small flock was made up of victims of morbid curiosity. The idea crept into his mind that his opposition to a recent "ungodly performance" had brought favour to him and his church, which before had been denied them. At last, he thought, after years of unrewarded, unappreciated labour, the tide has turned. Poor fool; if "narrowness" and "curiosity" had been painted all over his church in letters as tall as himself, God could not have grieved more.
When Mr. Flint arose to deliver his sermon the stillness of a tomb fell over devout and curious alike, and was preserved to the end. The sermon was a general denunciation of the stage, professional and amateur, the latter being especially stigmatized. And in reference to a recent local performance, and the enormity of the sin of an unnamed young woman who wore in public an undescribed costume, the preacher was unscathingly bitter and quoted these words: "As a jewel of gold in a swine's snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion." Thus, for an hour, the man raved like one insane, and during that time many of his hearers became infected with the same malady. They believed every idea that was hurled at them, swallowed words whole without tasting to discover whether they were sweet or poison. The accuser's vehemence surprised some and grieved others, but none of the curious were disappointed.
Barbara sat at one of Mrs. Stout's front windows, thoughtful and silent, as she watched the people going home from church. Without, the sun was shining brightly; within, the leaden cloud still hung over her and grew darker without her knowing it. The last cruel blow could not be anticipated.
Mrs. Stout had been motherly kindness itself. She had tried in every way to lessen the sting of the outrage—to make Barbara forget; but the rough, good-hearted woman failed, though her efforts were gratefully appreciated. She had urged Barbara to go home, well knowing that Manville must be unbearable, but Barbara was waiting for Will. He had telegraphed that he would come as soon as possible, but two days had gone by since then. Oh, how she longed to see him! He was the only one who could comfort and help, and though she did not know how that even he could silence the mischievous and careless tongues, she had faith to believe that he would.
Have I done wrong? She asked herself a thousand times, and each time the answer was "no." Would Will think that she had sinned? The thought was torture, but Love and Faith answered the question for her.