Chapter XVI.

A Deserted Flock.

Bostonians have been accused of putting too much Sabbath into their Sundays; but long may it be before the noisy waves of business or pleasure shall wash away that quiet island in the weary sea of days. There is a suggestion of peace, if not of sacredness, in the silence almost like that of the country, in the closed doors and empty streets; and when the bells

"Sprinkle with holy sounds the air, as the priest with the hyssop Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,"

he must be insensible indeed who does not--at least, momentarily--remember that there is another world than this.

On the morning after his return, Mr. Southard resumed his old Sunday habit of breakfasting in his own room, and none of the family saw him before service. He always went to his church early, and alone, and never spoke to any one on the way.

"Margaret, you really ought to go with us this time," Mrs. Lewis said. "I think you might unbend for once."

"To stoop from the presence of God to the presence of a creature is bending too far," was the reply. "Such bending breaks. I and my pet are going to see the heavens open, and the Lord descend; are we not, Dorothea, gift of God?"

Mrs. Lewis turned herself about before the cheval-glass to see the effect of a superb toilet that she had made in honor of the occasion. "Ah! well," she said. "You may be right. I have indeed a faithful heart, but a woefully skeptical head; shall we go now?"

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The night had been very sharp for the season; but when they all went out together, the sun was shining warmly through the morning haze, the air was still, and the dripping, splendid branches of the October trees were hesitating between hoarfrost and dew, and glittering with both. People in holiday attire, and with holiday faces, went past, the bells clanged out, then paused, and left only a tremulous murmur in the air, the very spirit of sound. Far away, a chime rang an old-fashioned hymn, in that quaint, stiff way that chimes have.

At a street-corner the party separated, and went their several ways.

As the Lewises entered their own church, they involuntarily exchanged a smile. Nothing could be prettier than that interior. The side-lights were all shut out, and for the first time the new window was unveiled, and threw its rich light over the choir, and up the nave, kindling the flowers that profusely draped the pulpit and platform, and edging with crimson the garnet velvet cushions. The people in this church had usually easy elbow-room, but to-day they permitted themselves to be crowded a little by visitors. There were even chairs brought into the galleries; and when the hour for service arrived, there was a row of gentlemen standing behind the last pews. But there was no sound save the soft rustle of ladies' dresses, and now and then a hushed whisper. There was the most perfect decorum and composure, and a silence that was respectful if not reverential. No belligerent mutterings ever rose through the voice of prayer or praise within these walls; no belated worshipper ever went tramping up to the very front after service had begun; and moreover, neither in this, nor in any other Protestant church, did visitors come with opera-glasses and chattering tongues, to turn what was meant as a place of worship into a place of amusement.

Quite late, Dr. Kenneth came up the aisle, and seated himself in the Lewis pew; and while every one looked at him, the door leading back from the platform to the vestry was opened, and almost before they were aware, Mr. Southard had entered and taken his place.

There was a soft stir and rustle all through the church, and the choir sang an anthem--that beautiful one of Brasbury's:

"How beautiful is Zion Upon the mountain's brow, The coming of the messenger, To cheer the plains below."

Mr. Southard sat with his eyes fixed on the cornice-wreath, and let his congregation stare at him, and they did not scruple to take advantage of the opportunity. The impression was not the one they had expected to receive. He was too pale and spiritual, and his expression was too much that of some lofty martyr fronting death unmoved, a St. Sebastian, pierced with arrows, his soul just pluming itself for flight through those lifted eyes.

Moreover, not only were all their flowers invisible to him, but he never looked at their new window, though the light from one of its golden panes streamed full in his face as he sat. Where was the smiling glance that might, surely, have made one swift scrutiny of their familiar faces, unseen so long? Where was the prayer of thanksgiving that he had been brought safely back to his people, after such an absence, and through so many dangers? Where was the joyful hymn of praise?

When Mr. Southard rose, he repeated only the Lord's prayer; and the first hymn he read was anything but joyful:

"Nearer, my God, to thee, Nearer to thee, E'en though it be a cross That raiseth me."

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"Dear me! doctor," Mrs. Lewis could not help whispering, "I do wish that for to-day, at least, he could have hidden the cross under the crown."

The text was unexpected: "_Little children, love one another._"

Not a single war-note, not a word of that Aceldama from which he had but just come, but an impassioned exhortation that, casting aside all differences, dissensions, and uncharitableness, they should love each other even as Christ had loved them.

Mr. Southard seldom displayed any strong feeling except indignation or a lofty fervor; but now he seemed deeply moved, and full of a yearning tenderness toward those whom he addressed. And they, after the first, forgot their disappointment, and were almost as much affected as he.

"Why do I choose for my text words which recall the sufferings of our divine Lord?" he asked. "And why do I select words of parting exhortation rather than words of greeting? Because the passion is not yet ended; because Christ is no more a king to-day than he was nineteen centuries ago; because even among those who call upon his name, his commands, his entreaties are disregarded. Still his sceptre is but a reed, his purple still covers the marks of the lash, his brow still bleeds under its crown. Lastly, because I am not a pastor returning joyfully to his flock, hoping for no more partings, but one who comes sorrowfully to say farewell, scarcely daring to hope for any other meeting with you.

"A pastor? And who is he that leadeth the flocks of the Lord? He to whom the divine Shepherd hath given the charge, bidding him go. Brethren, he has not spoken to me, save in rebuking. Instead of green pastures, I have led you in the desert. For still waters, I have brought you to the banks of Marah. Who is he in whose hands the baptismal waters are cleansing, who can bind man and woman as husband and wife, who can consecrate the bread and wine, who can loosen its burden from the penitent soul? He who, looking up the line of his spiritual descent, sees the tongues of fire alighting upon his ancestors in the Lord. Bear with me, my friends! At the head of my line stands the traitor who sat at meat with Christ, and ate the bread he broke, and drank the wine he blessed, and then betrayed him."

The congregation were too much startled and puzzled by this sudden turn to notice that Doctor Kenneth's head was bowed forward on the front of the pew, and that Aurelia Lewis was leaning with her face hidden on her aunt's shoulder.

But Mr. Southard saw them, and grew yet paler. When he spoke again, it was with difficulty.

"This is no place for me to stand and advocate doctrines denied by you. Yet surely it is no treason to the trust you reposed in me when you invited me to become your pastor, if I ask, if I entreat that you will examine fairly and prayerfully before you condemn my course.

"I dare not trust myself to thank you for all your past friendship for me, to utter my wishes for your future good, or to tell you how my heart is torn by this parting. I have only strength to go.

"Do you ask whither I am going? After years of mental torment unsuspected by you, and when at last my strength was deserting me, and the waters were going over my soul, where did I find refuge and safety? In that glorious old ship whose sails are full of the breath of the Spirit, who has faith for an anchor, the cross as her ensign, and St. Peter at the helm. Brethren, I am a Roman Catholic, thank God!"

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Immediately the congregation were in confusion, and one gentleman stood up and called, "Stop, sir!"

The light that had sprung to Mr. Southard's face at the last words dropped out again. He leaned over the pulpit, and commanded silence with a gesture at once imploring and imperative.

"One word more!" he said. "Believe in my unaltered affection for you; and believe also that though my hands are not anointed to give benediction, I fervently pray that God may bless you now and for ever. Farewell!"

He turned away from them, and walked slowly toward the vestry-door. Before he had closed it behind him, a silence fell, and he heard Doctor Kenneth's trembling voice exclaim, "Let us pray!" Glancing back, Mr. Southard saw the old minister standing with upraised hands in his deserted pulpit.

Where he passed the rest of that day, the family did not know. It was early twilight when they saw him coming up the street toward the house. By that time they had recovered from their first excitement, all but Aurelia. She still kept her room.

Mr. Southard walked with a firm and dignified step, and his face was perfectly serene. He even smiled when he saw Margaret standing in the parlor window, watching for him.

"No servant shall open the door for him this time, at least," she thought, and hastened to open it herself.

"Welcome home!" she said exultingly, holding out both hands to him. "You did that nobly! A thousand times, welcome!"

Mr. Southard closed the door, then looked at her boldly, putting her hands back. "Do not mock my empty life with so slight a gift as mere kindness," he said. "If you give me your hand, give it to me to keep."

She stood one instant wavering, then gave him her hand again. "Keep it," she said.

Lingering behind him as he went to meet Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, Margaret flung her pledged hand upward as if she flung a gauge. "Louis Granger, you shall not look down and think that I am breaking my heart for you!"