“It is important that we should know what those things were. The Church cannot tolerate freedom of speech under her auspices at the burial of the unbaptized dead, nor the unwarranted use of her service at the grave of one who has died scoffing at religion.”
“I wish it were in my power to reproduce my words. I should not be ashamed of them, and I am sure they would not condemn me.”
The bishop, worried and uncertain, looked anxiously around the room. But, before he could make up his mind what to say or do next, Emberly rose in his place. It was evident that the man was laboring under great excitement, but he spoke, nevertheless, with commendable restraint.
“If the bishop desires,” he said, “to know what words were used, I believe we can supply him with that information. The widow of John Bradley is here in the house. I have heard her say on more than one occasion that the words of our rector’s brief address at the burial of her husband are indelibly stamped on her memory.”
“Can the woman be brought before us?” asked the bishop.
“Without doubt,” replied Emberly. “I saw her come in, and I will try to find her.” He left the room in search of the desired witness.
It was true that Mary Bradley was in the house. She knew that the bishop was to hear the charges against the rector this night; everybody knew it; charges which, if sustained, would surely result in his humiliation and disgrace. She felt that the one man above all others to whom she owed any gleam of light that had ever fallen across the darkness of her life was in imminent peril. She was torn with anxiety concerning him. The four walls of her home on factory Hill could not contain her. She found a neighbor’s boy for an escort, and started out. Impelled by a force with which she did not and could not parley, she made her way across the city to Fountain Park, and into the arms of Ruth Tracy, stretched out to receive her. The Mary and Martha of Holy Writ were not more concerned for the welfare of the persecuted Christ than were these two women for the safety of the man to whom each, in a way and to an extent unknown to the other, was supremely devoted. In the woman from Factory Hill it was the desire to be near him in his hour of trial that was paramount. She might, by some bare possibility, be able to serve him, to defend him, to refute his enemies. At least she would know, without a night of dreadful suspense, what fate had befallen him. Then Emberly came to summon her, and when she knew what was wanted she went with him gladly.
In the library there was a halt in the proceedings, and an awkward lull. The full and florid face of the bishop was flushed more deeply than usual. With the fingers of one hand he tapped nervously the engraved seal of the big episcopal ring that ornamented the other hand, and awaited in silence the advent of the witness. The expectant and apprehensive countenances of the men who faced him marked their own agitation of mind. The rector alone of all of them sat confident and unperturbed. The wide doors into the hall, having been opened, were not again closed. Then Emberly entered with Mary Bradley. All eyes were turned on the woman. She was not abashed, nor did she appear in any way to be ill at ease. Yet there had never in her life before been a moment when her nerves were more nearly at the breaking point.
“My good woman,” said the bishop, “we are informed that the rector of Christ Church officiated at the burial of your deceased husband. Is this true?”