The congregation sang it wailingly. The preacher rose again and taking for his text these words “Love, the fulfilling of the law,” closed the Bible and resting his folded hands upon it began to speak to them, so winningly, so tenderly, that his words smote the flint of their hearts as Moses’ rod did the rock. It is one of the terrible tragedies of our imagination to think that the act which saved the wandering querulous tribes alive, condemned the weary old patriarch to only view the promised land. Our souls rebel against the thought, the dispensation seems too bitter, and it is hard to reconcile ourselves to the idea that Sidney, giving the cup of Living Water to these people should himself die athirst—because he had neglected some outward forms. For surely no one could dream but that Sidney’s whole life had been one long act of worship.
The old workman had never known before how beautiful the gospel of good tidings might be made. He felt it necessary to steel himself against its insidious charm. Humanized by Sidney’s subtle sympathy, and presented to them as a panacea for all human ills, it was little wonder that the old workman began to realize to the full the hold the Christ-word had upon those who believe—though their hearts be rived and strained by earthly cares, though their souls be carded like wool and woven with worldliness, yet there remain ever the little grains of love—the tiny shining particles of faith.
And, as Sidney quoted gentle passages from Holy Writ, a great hope fell upon the old workman that the man preaching these things really believed them—were it otherwise? He shuddered. The magnitude of the hypocrisy necessary for such a deception appalled this disciple of the barren truth. And his hope that Sidney believed was not based only upon the desire to know his idol worthy at least of respect for honesty, if not for judgment; deep down in the soul of this great-hearted man there lived a great love, a great concern for Sidney. He longed to know that Sidney was happy. There was no need to ask if he had suffered. From his appearance it would seem he had suffered almost to the point of death. It would be some compensation if he had won such consolation as he proffered his people. Now this attitude of the old workman’s proves his devotion, for it takes a deep, deep love indeed, to make us willing to forget our personal prejudices. But as Sidney proceeded a sick fear fell upon the grey-haired man. For, if unlettered in the higher sense of the word, he yet brought to bear upon any mental question that intuitional acuteness of perception, which in a worthy way corresponds to the natural craftiness which makes comparatively ignorant men so often successful in business.
Nature’s lenient mother-heart tries to protect all her children—these gifts seem to be the birthright of the poor. Alas! instead of being used as a defence they are too often upraised in offensive menace.
Beneath the eloquent imagery, the deep human sympathy, the tender lovingness of Sidney’s words, the old workman pierced—and found nothing.
Within the sanctuary of Sidney’s soul there was no benignant Christ—only the vague splendour of altruistic ideals.
And yet—he held up before his congregation this mask of formulated faith and tricked them as the priests, hidden in the hollow images, tricked the credulous people thousands of years ago.
The old workman almost groaned aloud.
A man of the most lofty mental integrity, this mummery wrung his heart.
“Oh,” he said within himself, “if he would only, only once declare the truth—even now if he would cast away these mummy cloths of deception which swathe his spirit. If he would once, only once speak and redeem himself for ever.”