# Held to Answer/Chapter 40

The auditorium of All People's was cunningly contrived to bring a very large number of people close to each other and to the minister. Roughly semicircular, with bowled main floor and rimmed around by a gallery that edged nearer and nearer at the sides, it was possible to seat fifteen hundred persons where a man in the pulpit could look each individual in the eye, and except where the screen of the gallery broke in, each auditor could see every other auditor.
The special meeting for an object unannounced but clearly understood was, of course, an assemblage of the church itself; yet so great was the general interest in what was to transpire, and so willing were the moving spirits to play out their act in public, that no one was turned away. By an instruction from Elder Burbeck, the ushers merely sifted people, sending the members to the main floor, and the non-members up-stairs into the gallery.
Hampstead entered the church at precisely eight o'clock.
The auditorium was filled with the buzz of many voices, but as the pastor of All People's advanced down the aisle, this hum gradually ceased, and every eye was turned upon the man, who tall and grave, with features slightly wasted, nevertheless wore a look serenely confident and even happy.
This expression in itself was instant occasion for wonder and surprise. Was this man really unbreakable? ​Knowing nothing of what had happened in the day to encourage its pastor and make him strong, his congregation was much better prepared to see him as Bessie had found him three hours before than as he now appeared.
There were glances also for the faithful Rose, pale and worn, but bearing herself with true Hampstead dignity; for aggressive, wizened Dick, and for Tayna, emotional and ready, as usual, for tears or laughter. But there were more than glances for the lady who walked at the pastor's side proudly, with a possessive air as if she owned him and were glad to own him. There was searching scrutiny and attempt at appraisal.
All People's had never seen this woman before. She looked young; yet bore herself like a person of consequence. She was beautiful, but the dignity of her beauty was detracted from by dimples. Yet with the dimples went a masterful self-possession and a chin that was a trifle square and to-night just a trifle thrust out, while her head was a little tilted back and her blue eyes were a little aglint with shafts of a light something like defiance, as if to say: "Hurt him at your peril. Take him from me if you can!"
Who was she? No one knew. Everybody asked; but no one answered.
After standing in the aisle before his family pew, while Rose, Dick, Tayna, and Bessie filed in before him, the minister stood for a moment surveying the scene. As he looked, the serenity upon his features gave way to pain. The situation saddened him inexpressibly. He was like a refugee who returns to find his home ruined by the ravages of war. How peaceful and how helpful had been the atmosphere of All People's! How happily he had seen its walls rise and its pews fill! How many good impulses had been started there! What a pity that the note of inquisition and of persecution should now be ​sounded. How sad that strife should come! And over him of all beings! He had often looked upon a congregation torn by dissensions concerning its pastor, and he had said that no church should ever undo itself over him. When his time came to go, he would go quietly.
Yet now he was not going quietly, but that was because he felt it was not himself that was involved; instead it was a principle. Either this congregation existed to mediate love, helpfulness, and a charitable spirit to the world, or it had no reason for existence at all. It had better be disrupted, this gallery fall, this altar crumble, these walls collapse, these people be scattered to the winds, than All People's become a society for the advancement of pharisaism.
He noted that the gallery was packed, but on the main floor empty spaces stared at him from the central tier of pews. Half of All People's members must have remained away. John realized with new emotion what this meant: that there were men and women in his congregation who could not see their pastor arraigned like this, who could not bear to witness the rising waves of bitterness, the charges and the counter-charges, the incriminations, the malicious spirit of partisanship which invariably breaks out in times like these. But it meant too that these same soft-hearted folk were also soft in the spine; unwilling to take a stand with him; unwilling to be recorded pro or con upon a great issue like this; people for whom he had done a service so great that they could not now turn down their thumbs against him, yet lacking in the strength of character either to sit as his judges or to cast a vote in his favor.
From this thought of jelly-fish the minister turned, almost with relief to where, stretching widely behind the Burbeck pew, was a mass of close-packed faces, with super-heated resolution depicted upon their features. ​The bearing of these partisans in itself reflected how they had been solicited, inflamed, and organized. They were there like an army to follow their leader.
Good people, too, some of them! Doctor Hampstead's very best people. Yet to recognize them and their mood gave him a sense of personal power. He believed that he could walk over there and talk to these people ten minutes, and they would break like sheep from the leadership of Brother Burbeck. They would come pressing around him with tears and expressions of confidence. But it was not in John's purpose to do that. He was on trial. If on the record of his life among them, these people could condemn and oust him, his work had been a failure. It was as well to know it.
One thing more the minister took into account. The number of persons who, half in an attitude of aggressive loyalty and half in tearful sympathy had gathered in the tiers behind his own pew was less by half than that massed behind the Burbeck leadership. The issue was not in doubt. It had been decided already,—in the newspapers, in the court room, and in all this busy bell-ringing of the last two days.
And now, having seen as much and reflected as much as has been recorded, Hampstead sat down and slipped a furtive lover's hand along the seat until it found the hand of Bessie, and took it into his with a gentle pressure that was affectionately reciprocated.
But if to the congregation the entry of the minister and the woman of mystery by his side was sensation number one in this evening of sensations, the entry of the Angel of the Chair was sensation number two. Mrs. Burbeck, propelled as usual by Mori, the Japanese, was just appearing at the side door; and this time there was no trundling to the center between two factions. Instead, with Japanese intentness of purpose, and as if he had his instruc​tions beforehand, Mori drove the chair straight across the neutral ground to the end of the Hampstead pew.
The church, seeing this act, grasped instantly its solemn meaning. The house of Burbeck was divided against itself. Mrs. Burbeck had often disapproved of her husband's course in church leadership, but she had never taken sides against him. To-night she did so. The issue was too great, too fundamental, to do otherwise. That it hurt her painfully was evident. Her face had lost its smile. The pallor of her cheeks was more wax-like than ever, and there was a droop in the corners of her mouth that no physical suffering had effected. But the lips were tightly compressed, and the valiant spirit of the woman looked resolutely out of her eyes. Those near and watching the face of her husband saw that this look affected him; saw him start as if he had hardly expected such action, hardly realized what it would be to find her thus opposing him. They even noted that a fleeting expression of doubt, of sudden loss of faith in his own course, came into the eyes of the man.
Nevertheless, although with a sigh at the burdens his faithfulness to the Lord so often compelled him to bear, Elder Burbeck set his spirit sternly upon its task. He was the Nemesis of God. He would not shrink though the flame scorched him, the innocent, while it consumed the guilty.
Yet from the moment that this glance had passed between the husband and the wife, it appeared that a gloom of tragedy settled upon the gathering. Again the congregation sank of itself to awed silence, so intense that a cough, the clearing of a throat, the dropping of a hymn-book into a rack, echoed hollowly. Slight movements took on augmented significance. Thoughts boomed out like words, and looks had all the force of blows.
The polity of All People's was ultra-congregational. ​The proceedings had the form of order, but were primitive and practical; yet every step, voice, motion, detail, took on an exaggerated sense of the ominous, as if a man's body were on trial instead of merely his soul.
Nor was Elder Burbeck at all approving of Hampstead's manner to-night. The minister had shown again his utter incapacity to appreciate a situation. He was too cool, too unmoved. He had taken a full minute to stand there posing in pretended serenity while he looked the congregation over. From Burbeck's point of view, this manœuvre was dangerous tactics. There was always some indefinable power in that deep-searching look of Hampstead's. If the man should stand up there and look at these people for ten minutes longer, he might have them all over there palavering about him. He was looking in the gallery now. Well, let him look there as long as he liked. The gallery couldn't vote. Burbeck's own eye wandered into the gallery. On the other side from him, just where the horseshoe curve began to draw in toward the choir loft, sat his son, Rollie.
"Rollie should not be up there," the Elder instructed, turning to an usher. "Go and tell him to come down."
"He says he is with a lady who is not a member," reported the usher on returning.
"Huh?" ejaculated Burbeck, turning a surprised gaze upon the figure of a woman heavily veiled who sat beside his son.
That woman! What sacrilege had impelled his son to bring her here? Had she not wrought ruin enough already? Must she gloat over the shame she had brought upon this congregation and upon the church of the living God? And must his son be the means of her coming? What was that boy thinking of, anyway?
And yet, since Rollie had grown into so fine a figure of a man, his father had come to regard his son and what ​he chose to do with an indulgence he granted to no one else. He wished the boy would come to church more; he wished he would give more attention to those things to which his father had devoted his life; and yet he could make allowance for him. The young man's environment, his social gifts, his business prospects, all inclined him to another set of associations. Besides, the boy's own character seemed so fine and strong, the sentiments of his heart so truly noble, that the father's iron judgment softened even in the matter of an indiscretion so flagrant as this. He reflected too that for business reasons it was doubtless just as well if Rollie were brought into no prominence in this unpleasant affair. In fact, Elder Burbeck would have been as well satisfied if his son had stayed away altogether.
"It is time to call the meeting to order," suggested Elder Brooks, a pale, nervous man whose eyes were continually consulting the typewritten sheet which he held in his hand.
"Yes, Brother Brooks," agreed Elder Burbeck, advancing to the table below and in front of the pulpit. He was almost directly in front of where Doctor Hampstead sat in his pew.
John noticed that the Elder looked worried and over-anxious. His pouchy cheeks sagged; there were huge wattles of red skin beneath his chin, and his whole countenance had a more than usually apoplectic look.
"Brother Anderson will lead in prayer," announced the Elder in unctuous tones. "Let us stand, please!"
The congregation stood. But Brother Anderson's leadership in prayer could not be deemed very successful. He led as if he himself were lost. His prayer appeared to partake of the nature of an apology to God for what the petitioner hoped was about to be done.
During the length of these whining orisons, the congre​gation grew impatient. The gallery in spots sat down. The effect of the prayer was in total no more than a dismal thickening of the gloom of tragedy that hung lower and lower over the meeting. Yet once the prayer was ended, Elder Burbeck baldly declared the object of the meeting.
His manner was strained, his voice was harsh and halting, but he began stubbornly and plodded forward doggedly, gradually laboring himself into the hectic fervor of his assumed position as the instrument of God to purge All People's of its pastor.
Yet it was in keeping with the tenseness of the situation that as the emotions of the vehement apostle of the status quo reached their height, his words became rather less florid, and he concluded in sentences of sycophantic calm and tones of solicitous consideration for the feelings of the piece of riff-raff he was about to brush aside with a sweep of his fiery fan.
"There is before us," he assured his audience finally, "no question of the pastor's guilt or innocence of the charges made. The question is one of expediency; as to what is best to do for the good name and the future usefulness of All People's. The Board of Elders, after serious and prayerful consideration," Brother Burbeck's voice whined a little as he said this, "has felt that it was best for the pastor and best for the interest of the church to ask him to resign quietly and immediately. That request has been emphatically declined. It has become our duty, painful as it is," the Elder sighed and twitched his red neck regretfully in his white collar, "to present to the congregation a resolution covering the situation. That resolution the clerk of the church will now read."
But instead of looking at the clerk, the chairman looked at Elder Brooks.
​Those typewritten lines, the mere holding of which had given Elder Brooks that sense of importance which it was necessary for him to feel in order to be able to act decisively in a matter like this which went gravely against some of the instincts of his soft nature, were, by him now, with a final and supreme sense of this importance, passed to the clerk of the church, a fat, ageless, colorless looking man who read stolidly that:
Whereas, the pastor of this congregation, John Hampstead, has been held to answer to the Superior Court of this County upon a charge of burglary and has been otherwise involved in public scandal in such manner that he appears either unable or unwilling to establish his innocence; and
Whereas, it is the judgment of this Board that such a situation is one highly detrimental to the causes for which this church exists, and one calculated to bring reproach upon the church and the sacred cause of Christ;
Therefore, be it resolved that the pastoral relation existing between All People's Church and the said John Hampstead be, and now is, immediately dissolved.
"This, brethren," announced Elder Burbeck, with an air of pain that was no doubt real, and a fresh summoning of divine resolution to his aid, "is the recommendation of your official Board. What is your pleasure concerning it?"
"I move its adoption," quavered Elder Brooks.
"I second the motion," Brother Anderson suggested faintly.
"Are you ready for the question?" hinted the ruling Elder.
But a man stood up somewhere over behind Hampstead. "I should like to ask, Brother Burbeck," he inquired, "if that was the unanimous resolution of the Board."
​"It was not unanimous," replied the Elder, slightly nettled, "as you know, Brother Hinton. It is a majority resolution. The question is now upon its adoption."
Elder Burbeck swept a suggestive eye over his carefully organized majority, and this time his hint was taken. Calls of "question" arose.
But Hinton remained uncompromisingly upon his feet. He was a tall man and pale, with a high, bone-like brow, a long spiked chin, and gray moustaches that drooped placidly over a balanced mouth.
"I understand that the chair will not attempt to railroad this resolution," he ventured with mild sarcasm.
Elder Burbeck's habitual flush heightened as, after a premonitory rumble in his throat and an enormous effort at self-control, he replied emphatically: "Brother Hinton, the resolution will not be railroaded;" and then added warningly: "To avoid stirring up strife, however, I hope we may vote upon it with as little discussion as possible."
"Yes," admitted Brother Hinton dryly, but still standing his ground. "I think it is perfectly understood that debate where its outcome is pre-determined, is useless. Yet without having consulted the pastor of this church as to my course, I voice the sentiment of many around me in urging him to stand up here as its pastor, as he has a right to do, and as the congregation has a right to ask him to do, and tell us what he thinks should be our course in the premises."
Brother Hinton's was a well balanced mind, and it seemed for a moment that his own manner might inject some coolness into the situation. Indeed, the good Elder Burbeck trembled lest it might, for the fires of purification being up, he wished them to burn, undampened.
Certainly for John Hampstead to stand up there and tell that congregation what to do was the last thing the ​Elder wanted. Besides, he resented some of Brother Hinton's imputations as disagreeable.
The chairman answered curtly:
"If the pastor did not respect the eldership sufficiently to advise it, I think it can hardly be expected of him to advise the congregation; or that the congregation would take his advice if he gave it."
The face of Hampstead whitened, and his muscles strained in his body.
This was really a mean speech of Elder Burbeck, yet he did not wish to be mean. He meant only to be just—to All People's church. His zeal on the one hand, his prejudgment upon the other, had led him to consider no procedure as proper that did not look immediately to the hurling down of the usurper.
"The pastor is not at issue," he concluded with heat almost unholy. "It is the good name of All People's that is at issue."
The face of Hampstead whitened a little more.
"But," persisted Brother Hinton; "let our pastor make his answer to the charges, that we may determine for ourselves what is the issue."
Enough had been said. John Hampstead stood tall and statue-like in the aisle, with the manner of a man about to speak the very soul out of himself, if need be. Before this manner, Elder Burbeck recoiled a little, as he knew he must, if this man asserted himself. For one despairing moment the good man felt that the cause of righteousness was lost. But something in the manner of the minister himself reassured the Elder. The man's soul went back a little from his eyes,—receded, as it were, like a tide, while he turned toward the congregation and in kindly, patient tones began:
"I cannot speak to charges, Brother Hinton! None are presented against me. It was for this reason that I re​fused to appear before the eldership. This resolution is not a charge. It is an assault. There is no proposal on the part of this Board to find out if I am guilty of anything. They propose a course which assumes my guilt to be of no importance. I tell you that it is of all importance.
"Perhaps, brethren, I have been too reticent. Perhaps the peculiar circumstances out of which this congregation has grown during the five years of my ministry have made it difficult for all of us to see aright or to act aright in this trying situation. I stand before you to some extent a victim of misplaced confidence in you. I was surprised that the newspapers should inflame public opinion against me. I was surprised that a Court of Justice should hold me to answer for this improbable crime. Yet, during all these, to me, cataclysmic, happenings of the past week, I have looked to the loyalty of this church with an assurance that never wavered; an assurance that in the light of what is happening to-night seems more tragic than anything else. I never had a thought that you would not stand by me, at least until I was found to be guilty."
A note of pathos had crept into the minister's voice. The gallery listened intent and breathless. Elder Burbeck felt an irritation in his throat.
But the minister was continuing:
"Indulging this faith in you, entirely occupied with the many perplexing circumstances of this lamentable affair, I am made now to feel that I neglected you too long.
"I perceive now that your minds, too, were inflamed with suspicion; that well-meaning but mistaken zealots among you have felt called upon to take advantage of the situation to purge the church of my presence.
"Once I saw this movement under way, I felt too hurt to oppose it. It seems to me that it has been done cunningly and calculatingly. No charges have been presented ​against me; therefore I cannot defend myself; and I will not defend myself. I am only analyzing the situation for you, that what you do may be with open eyes. It is urged that I am not on trial; therefore as a popular tribunal, you cannot go into the details and ascertain the truth for yourselves.
"A hasty decision is demanded; therefore there is no time for the situation to clear and for calm counsel to prevail. Bear in mind that you are called upon to take action quickly, not for my sake as a minister; not for your sake as individuals; but because the good name of this church is alleged to be suffering. Is it not in reality because the vanity of some of the members of this church is suffering?
"If that is so, it is not a reason, my brethren, for hasty action against any man. Surely it is not a reason for hasty action against me. I ask those of you who can remember, to go back, to recall the circumstances under which I became your pastor. You were humble enough then. There was small thought of the good name of this congregation when I sat in the park out there and saw this man nailing a plank across the door. I did not question his good intentions then. I do not question them now. But he is proposing to do the same thing in effect that he did then; to nail God out of His house.
"Oh, not because I am nailed out. You may cast me out, and this church will go on. But if you cast out any brother, even the humblest, wrongfully or for self-righteous reasons, you depart from the spirit of Christ. You should be helping that man instead of hurting him. How much less would you cast out your pastor for the same reason."
"Brother Hampstead!" It was the voice of Elder Burbeck, grating harshly by the forced element of self-restraint in his tones. "You are misapprehending the issue. There is no proposal to cast you out of the congre​gation. The proposal is merely that you retire from the position of eminence which you occupy, exactly as I might be asked to retire if my own name had been smirched."
"There you are!" ejaculated Hampstead. "'Had been smirched.' Your chairman's phraseology shows that he assumes that my name has been smirched. I deny it. I indignantly reject the specious argument that the action of this church to-night does not amount to a trial. Before the eyes of the world you are finding me guilty. You place upon me a stigma as a minister that will follow wherever I go, the inference of which is unescapable. From the hour when I became the minister of this congregation until now, I have gone about as a servant of the One Master, according to my judgment and my capacity. The point of view of the authors of this resolution seems to be that I have been the servant of this congregation; that I may be hired or discharged, that I am theirs, that I have been working for them. That was a mistake! It is a mistake. I know you have paid me a salary, but I have never felt that it conferred upon me any obligation to you. I thought you gave the money to God, and that he gave it to me, and that with it I was to serve Him and not you. That service was rendered in all good conscience to this hour. Are you now presuming to oust me because I can no longer serve God? Or because you are unwilling for me longer to serve you?
"Your Board has asked me to resign. To resign would be a confession of guilt. I do not feel guilty. I am not guilty. My conscience is clear. Personally, I was never so satisfied that I was doing right as now.
"Sometimes I must have done the wrong thing. Looking back, it seems to me now that sometimes when you approved most heartily, when the public ovations were the loudest, the thing achieved was either of doubtful worth or very transitory. The present case touches funda​mental issues. It has to do with one of the most sacred duties of the minister.
"The resolution to which I am entitled from this congregation is a resolution of absolute confidence. There is but one other resolution that could adequately express the situation, and that is the one which is proposed by the Board. If you cannot pass the resolution of confidence, I think that you should pass the one that has been proposed. That is the advice which I have to offer. That is the answer which I make to this unjust, this unchristian assault upon your pastor in the moment when, tried as he has never been tried before, he needs your loyalty and confidence more than he can ever need it again."
Hampstead sat down. He had spoken with far more feeling than he had intended, but he had exhibited much less than he experienced.
Yet the total effect of his words was less happy than his friends had hoped. Instead of appealing to his auditors, he appeared to arraign them. Elder Burbeck was greatly relieved. He saw that this arraignment had antagonized and solidified his own cohorts.
But the tall man with the lofty brow was on his feet again.
"I wish to move," said Brother Hinton, "a resolution such as Doctor Hampstead has suggested; a resolution of sympathy and absolute confidence, and I now do move that this church put itself upon record as sympathizing fully with our pastor in his unpleasant position, and assuring him of our confidence in the unswerving integrity of his character and of our prayers that he may be true to his duty as he sees it. I offer that as a substitute for the resolution before the house."
The resolution was seconded. There was an interval of silence, a feeling that the crucial moment had been reached. Question was called. The substitute was put.
​"All in favor of this resolution which you have heard made and with the formal reading of which we will dispense, please stand," proclaimed Elder Burbeck.
There was an uncertain movement. By ones and twos, and then in groups the persons sitting on the Hampstead side of the church rose to their feet, until with few exceptions all were standing.
"The clerk will count."
There was an awkward silence.
"One hundred and sixty-three," the colorless man announced presently.
"All opposed, same sign." Burbeck's adherents arose en masse at the motion of the Elder's arm, which was as involuntary as it was injudicial.
The clerk did not count. It was unnecessary. "The motion is lost," he said to the presiding officer.
"The resolution is lost," announced Elder Burbeck loudly, in tones that quickened with eagerness. "The question now recurs upon the original resolution."
Erect, poised, feeling a sense of elation that he was now to let loose the wrath of God upon a recreant shepherd of the flock, the Elder stood for a moment with his eyes sweeping over the whole congregation, and taking in every detail of the picture; the disheartened, defeated group behind Hampstead, the flushed, determined face of the minister, the defiant blaze in the eyes of the rosy-faced young person by his side,—who was this strange woman, anyway?—and then his own well-marshalled loyal forces, who to-night played the part of the avenging hosts of Jehovah!
Up even into the gallery the Elder's eyes wandered with satisfaction. These galleries should see that All People's would not suffer itself to be put to shame before the world. Something centered his eye for a moment upon Rollie. His son was gazing intently, leaning for​ward with a hand reached out until it rested on the balcony rail. Then the Elder's eye returned to the lower floor and to the mission now about to be accomplished.
"Are you ready for the question?" he inquired, with forced deliberation, enjoying the suspense before its inevitable outcome of satisfied justice.
"Question! Question!" came the insistent calls.
But now there was something like a movement in the gallery. The old Elder's eye, noting everything, noted that; looking up, he saw that Rollie's seat was empty; but higher up the gallery aisle the young man was visible, making his way quickly toward the stairs. That was right, he was coming down to vote; but he would be too late.
"All in favor of the resolution severing the pastoral relation between All People's Church and John Hampstead will signify by standing."
The Elder rolled the words out sonorously. In his mind they stood for the thunder of divine judgment!
The solid phalanxes upon his left arose as one man and stood while their impressive numbers were this time carefully counted by the clerk. The tally took some time.
"Opposed, the same sign!" The Elder barked out the words like a challenge. Again the straggling group behind Hampstead arose. The minister himself stood up. As a member of the congregation, he had a right to vote, and he would protest to the last this injustice to him, this slander of All People's upon itself.
Mrs. Burbeck could not stand, but raised her hand, so thin and shell-like that it trembled while she held the white palm up to view.
Elder Burbeck saw this and noted with a slight additional sense of shock that Rollie was now beside his mother and standing also to be counted with the Hampstead adherents.
​"The resolution is carried," said the clerk to the Elder.
"The resolution—" echoed Burbeck, his voice beginning to gather enormous volume. But when he had got this far, his utterance was arrested by the sudden action of his son, who remained standing in the aisle, with one hand grasping his mother's, and the other outstretched in some sort of appeal to him.
"Father!" the boy whispered hoarsely; "don't announce that vote! Don't announce it!"
This startling interruption appeared to freeze the whole scene fast. The throaty, excited tones of the young man floated to the far corners of the auditorium, and again the sense of some impending terror forced itself deeper into the crowd-consciousness.
"Don't announce it? What do you mean?" ejaculated the father in an irritated and widely audible whisper.
The suddenness of this outbreak and the astounding fact that it should come from his own flesh, had thrown the Elder completely off his stride.
"Because," the young man faltered, his face white, his eyes wild and staring, "because it's wrong!"
The huge dominating figure of a man stood for a moment nonplussed, wondering what hysteria could have overtaken his son; but annoyance and stubborn determination to proceed quickly manifested themselves upon his face.
"Don't, father!" pleaded the young man, advancing down the aisle, "Don't! I've got something I must say!"
By this time, Hampstead, quickly apprehensive, had stepped out from his pew and was seeking to grasp Rollie's arm; but the excited young man avoided him, and standing with one hand still appealing toward his father, and with the other pointing backward toward the minister, he
​announced with a sudden access of vocal force: "That man is innocent."
The words had a triumphant ring in them that echoed through the auditorium.
"Innocent?"
The tone of the senior Burbeck was scornful in the extreme. Increasing anger at being thus interfered with, especially by Rollie had turned the Elder's face almost purple. "Young man," he commanded harshly, "you stand aside and let this church declare its will."
"I will not stand aside," protested the son. "I will not let you, my father, do this great wrong. He forbade me to speak; but I will speak. Yes, no matter what happens, I must speak."
The young man turned a frightened glance upon his mother. Mrs. Burbeck was gazing intently at her son, a look of shock giving way to one of comprehension and then a pitiful half-smile of encouragement, as if she urged him to go on and do his duty, whatever that involved.
"That man," Rollie began afresh, his neck thrust forward desperately, while he pointed to the minister, who had stepped back once more as though he felt the purposes of God in operation and no longer dared to interfere; "that man is innocent. I am the thief. I stole the diamonds. I did it to get the money to cover a defalcation at the bank. Fearful of the consequences, I turned to him in my distress. He got the money to restore what I had stolen. I put the diamonds in his box for an hour, and by a mistake he went off with the key. That explains all. When I returned from the cruise on the Bay and learned what had happened, I was paralyzed with fear. At first I did not even have the manhood to go and tell him how the diamonds got into his box. When I did, he made me keep the silence for fear the blow would kill my mother. It seemed to me that this was not a sufficient reason. But ​I was weak; I was a coward. Yet the spectacle of seeing this man stand here day after day while his reputation was torn to pieces, unwavering and unyielding whether for the sake of my mother or such a worthless wretch as I am, or for the sake of his priestly vow, made me stronger and stronger. Yet I was not strong enough to speak. Not until to-night. Not until I saw my mother's hand tremble when she held it up to vote for him. I only came down here to stand beside her. But one touch of hers compelled me to speak. I am prepared to assume my guilt before this church and before the world. I was a defaulter, and John Hampstead saved me. I was a thief, and he saved me. I was a coward, and he made me brave enough at least for this. I tell you, the man is innocent, absolutely innocent. He is so good that you should fall down and worship him."
Rollie's confession in detail was addressed to the congregation as a whole, and he finished with his arms extended and chest thrown forward like a man who had bared his soul.
After standing for a moment motionless, his eyes turned to his mother, and with a low cry he dashed to where Hampstead was bending over her. She lay chalk-white and motionless, one hand in her lap, the other swinging pendant, the hand that had just been raised to vote. The eyes were closed; the lips half parted; the expression of her face, if expression it might be termed, one of utter exhaustion of vital forces.
For a moment the young man stood transfixed by the spectacle of what he had done. How shadow thin she looked! This was not the figure of a woman, but some exquisite pattern of the spiritual draped limply in this chair.
And yet, as if affected by his appealing gaze, the features moved, some of the looseness departed from the ​corners of the mouth, the eye-lashes fluttered and a delicate tint showed upon the cheek, disappeared, came again, and went away again; but with each appearance lingered longer. The lips moved too as if a breath were passing through them; almost indistinguishably and yet surely, the bosom of her dress stirred, collapsed, and stirred again. The young man had rather unconsciously seized both wilted hands, forcing the minister somewhat away in order to do so. It was his mother. He had struck her defenseless head this blow. Unmindful of the sudden awe of silence about him, followed by murmurings, ejaculations, and then a universal stir of feet, the blank looks, the questionings, the staring wonder with which neighbor looked to neighbor, the young man watched intently that stirring of the mother breast until it became regular and rhythmical.
The lips were moving now again; but this time as if in the formation of words. Rollie bent low, until his ear was close.
"Let me think, let me think," the lips murmured wearily. "My son—was a defaulter and a thief—John Hampstead knew. John Hampstead showed him the better way." She turned her head weakly and eased her body in the chair, as if to make even this slight effort at conversation less laborious, and then began to speak once more:
"But he was not strong enough to walk that better way, so John Hampstead took the burden upon his own shoulders and carried it until my boy was strong enough to bear it for himself."
Sufficient strength had returned for one of her hands to exert a pressure on the hand that held it.
"Yes, mother," Rollie breathed fervently into her ear.
"But now," and the voice gained more volume, "but now he is strong enough. He has done a brave and noble ​thing at last. I forget my shame in pride and gratitude to God for my son that was lost and is alive again—forever more."
The last tone flowed out upon the current of a long, wavering sigh, which seemed to take the final breath from her body.
"Yes, mother!" the young man urged anxiously, putting an instinctive pressure upon the hands he held, as if to call the spirit back into her again. There was an instant in which he felt that it was gone. She had left him. But the next instant he felt it coming back again like a tide and stronger, much stronger, so that there was real color in her cheeks, and then the eyes opened and looked at him with a clear and steady light, with the glow of love and admiration in them.
"Thank God!" murmured the voice of Hampstead hoarsely. "She is back. She will stay."
"Yes," Mrs. Burbeck affirmed, faintly but valiantly, turning from the face of her son to that of the minister with a look of inexpressible gratitude and devotion. "Yes, I am back," she smiled reassuringly, "and to stay. I never had so much reason—so much to live for as now."
The enactment of this scene at the chair, so intense and so significant, could have consumed no more than two minutes of time. The congregation, keenly alive to the effect the disclosure must have upon the life of the mother, was in a state to witness with the most perfect understanding every detail of the action about the invalid's chair. While the issue was in doubt, the audience remained in an agony of suspense and apprehension.
With the sudden look of relief upon the face of the minister, followed presently by a luminous smile of pure joy while his shoulders straightened to indicate the rolling off of the burden of his fears, the suspense for the congre​gation was completely ended. Reactions began immediately to occur.
Far up in the gallery a woman laughed, an excited, hysterical, brainless laugh, and every eye darted upon her in reproach. Then down in front somewhere near the first line of the Burbeck adherents, a man began to sob, hoarsely and with a wailing note, as if in utter despair. Again every eye swung from the woman who had laughed to the man who was crying. As they fell on him, he stood up. It was Elder Brooks, the man who had written the resolution declaring the pastoral relation severed. With streaming eyes he was hurrying toward Hampstead. But now other women were laughing hysterically, other men were sobbing. Everywhere was exclamation, movement, and a sudden impulse toward the minister. The people in the gallery came down, crowding dangerously, to the rail. On the main floor little rivulets of excited human beings trickled out from the pews and streamed down the aisles. The first to reach Hampstead was a woman. She caught his hand and kissed it. Elder Brooks came next. He flung an arm about the minister's neck, but instead of looking at him or addressing him, covered his face in shame.
But it was no longer possible to describe what any one individual was doing. The entire audience had become a sea which at first rolled toward Hampstead and then swirled and tossed its individual waves laughing, cheering or applauding frothily. In mutual congratulation men shook each other's hands and some appeared even to shake their own hands. Women kissed or flung their arms about one another. Two thirds of the main floor was devoid entirely of people. The other third was a struggling eddy in which the tall form of the ex-pastor,—for they had just voted him out of the pulpit,—stood receiving every one who reached him with a sad kind of graciousness.
​Songs broke out. For a time the people in the gallery were singing: "Blessed be the tie that binds." Those below sobbed through "My faith looks up to Thee", and presently all were singing "Nearer my God to Thee, nearer to Thee." This continued until the gathering seemed to sing itself somewhat out of its hysteria; and then, weaving to and fro, the tide began to ebb back up the aisles and into the pews again.
At first the people thought they had done this of their own accord, but later it appeared that it was Hampstead who was making them do it. He was a leader. In the temporary chaos, his will alone retained its poise, and it was the suggestion in the glance of his eye and finally in the gestures of his hands that sent them back to their seats.
When the singing stopped, and the audience sat somewhat composed and considering what should happen next, the minister remained master of the situation.
To protect himself somewhat from the surging waves of humanity, Hampstead had stepped upon the platform. He stood now with one hand resting easily upon the back of the chair beside the communion table. The chair was not empty, for it contained the huge, collapsed bulk of the Elder, the upper half of whose body had sunk sideways upon the end of the table, with his huge red face fenced off from view by one arm, as if to shroud the shame of his features. He was inert and still. The fragile human orchid in the chair had not been more motionless than he. The tip of an ear, one bald knob of his head, were all that showed to those in front; and the other arm was extended across the table, the fingers overhanging the edge of it.
The spectacle of the man lying crushed and broken upon the very table from which so often he had administered the communion, cast a deepening spell over all. But it also forced on all a thought of sympathy for this rashly ​misguided man, who as a spiritual leader of this church had shown himself so utterly lacking in spiritual discernment. This was quite in keeping with John Hampstead's mood.
"Our very first emotion," the minister began, "must be one of sympathy for this well-meaning brother of ours who has been the unfortunate victim of a series of mistakes in which his has been by no means the greatest. While he sits before us overcome with humiliation and remorse, Elder Burbeck will pardon me if I speak for a moment as if he were not here. I wish to urge upon you all that no one—least of all myself—should reproach him for the thing which he has done. I have never doubted that he was acting in all good conscience. The succession of events, once it had begun to march, has been so remarkable that now, looking back, we must each and all of us feel how puny are men and women to resist the winds of circumstance which blow upon them.
"To me, granting the beginning of this strange series of events for which I am at least in part to blame, it seems now that all the rest has been inevitable. I think we should reproach no one. Certainly I shall not. Instead, I am thinking that it is a time for great rejoicing. That mother who has so many times shown us the better way, has shown it to-night. Looking up to her son whose act of moral courage, witnessing to the new character that he has been building, has made possible the happy climax of this tragic hour—looking up to him she has said: 'I never had so much to live for as now.' That should be the feeling of each one of us.
"The events of to-night must have been graven deeply into all our hearts. None of us can ever be quite the same. Each must start afresh, with our lives enriched by the lesson and by the experiences of this hour.
"It has brought to me the keenest suffering, the bit​terest disappointment, that I have ever known. It has brought to me also a deepening faith in the marvelous power of God to overrule the most untoward incidents to His glory. It has brought to me also the greatest gift that any man can have upon the side of his earthly relations,—a joy so great, so supreme, so ineffable that I cannot speak farther than to say to you that it is mine to-night; and that you look into my eyes at the happiest moment I have ever known."
There was a movement in the gallery. A tall woman, heavily veiled, with an air of unmistakable distinction about her, arose and mounted the aisle step by step to the stairway leading downward.
Desiring with all the violent impetuosity of her nature to break out with the truth that would vindicate the man she loved so hopelessly and had involved so terribly, Marien had nevertheless been true to her vow of silence. But she had brought Rollie Burbeck to this meeting, and she had kept him there. At the critical moment she had sent him down to stand beside his mother, until the young man's clay-like soul at last had fluxed and fused into the moulding of a man. Having seen the mischief she had wrought undone, so far as anything done ever is undone, she was leaving now, when the minister had begun to speak of what she could not bear to hear.
Hampstead's gaze watched the receding figure, and a poignant regret for her smote in upon him in the midst of all his joy.
Desperately, with that enormous resolution of which she was capable, Marien Dounay was stepping undemonstratively out of his life. But as she went, he knew that the verdict pronounced upon him by the court was one now pronounced upon her. All through life she would be held to answer for the love she had slain for the sake of her ambition.
​Of those who followed the eye of the minister as it marked the departure of the woman from the gallery, some, of course, recognized her, and for a moment they may have been puzzled over the mystery of the part she had played in that moving drama, the last act of which was now drawing to its end before them; but the minister was speaking again:
"It seems to me best for us all," he was saying, "to disperse quietly, to go each to his or her own home, to our own families, into the deeper recesses of our own hearts, to ponder that through which we have passed and plan for each the future duty.
"Upon one point I am inclined to break into homily. The great lesson which I myself have learned can be best expressed in the verdict of the court at my preliminary hearing: 'Held to Answer.' It seems to me there is a great philosophy of life in that. In the crowding events of the week past, I have been 'Held to Answer' for many mistakes of mine. Some of you must find yourselves held to answer now for the manner in which you have borne yourselves. Our young brother, Rollie Burbeck, for whom we feel so deeply and whose courage to-night we have so greatly admired, will be held to answer to-morrow before his associates and the world for his past mistakes and for his proposals for the future. But we shall be held to answer also for our blessings and our opportunities. A great joy has come to me. The woman I have loved devotedly, but perhaps undeservingly, for years, has come thundering half way across the continent to stand beside me here to-night. She brings me great happiness, an increasing opportunity to do good. For that also I shall be held to answer, since joys are not given to us for selfish use, but that we may enlarge and give them back again.
"And now, though I am no longer your pastor, you will permit me, I am sure, to lift my hand above you for ​this last time and invoke the benediction of God which is eternal upon the life of every man and woman here to-night."
"But," faltered Elder Brooks, starting up, his voice trembling, "that was our great mistake, our great sin. You are to be our pastor again!"
The minister shook his head slowly and decisively. The Elder stared in dumb, helpless amazement, while a murmur of dissent rose from the congregation, but quieted before the upraised hand of the minister.
"It seems to me," said Hampstead, speaking in tones of deep conviction and yet with humility, "that God has declared the pulpit of All People's vacant; that both you and I are to be held to answer for our mutual failure by a stern decree of separation. For there is another lesson which has been graven deeply in my life. It is this: No man can go back. No life ever flows up stream. The tomb of yesterday is sealed. The decision of this congregation is irrevocable. Less than a quarter of an hour has passed; but you are not the same, and I am not the same."
In the minister's solemn utterance, the message of the inevitable consequence of what had happened was carried into every consciousness. There was no longer any protest. The congregation bowed, mutely submissive, while John Hampstead pronounced the benediction of St. Jude:
"Now unto him that is able to guard you from stumbling, and to set you before the presence of his glory without blemish in exceeding joy, to the only God our Saviour, through Jesus Christ, our Lord, be glory, majesty, dominion and power before all time, and now, and forever more. Amen."
The meeting was over. But the audience sat uncertainly in the pews, with expectant glances at Elder Burbeck. It seemed as if he should rouse and say something. John, in recognition of the naturalness of this impulse, ​turned and laid his hand upon the shoulder of the man.
"My brother," he began, and applied a gentle pressure. But something in the unyielding bulk of the man made him stop with a puzzled look, after which he turned and glanced toward Mrs. Burbeck. Already Rollie was pushing her chair forward, her face expressing both anxiety and love. She had been eager to go to her husband before, but consideration for his own pride, which would resent a demonstration, had withheld her. She touched first the outstretched drooping finger.
"Hiram!" she breathed softly, coaxingly, "Hiram!"
Receiving no response, Mrs. Burbeck drew the obscuring hand gently from before the face. Her own features were a study. It was curious of Hiram to act this way. He was a man of stern purpose. Having been overwhelmingly shamed by his error, it would have been like him to stand bravely and confess his wrong. But his parted lips had no purpose in their form at all. The redness of his skin had changed to a purple. She laid her fingers on his cheek and held them there, for a moment, curiously and apprehensively. Then a startled expression crossed her face, and a little exclamation broke from her lips. Instead of leaning forward, she drew back and lifted her eyes helplessly to the minister.
Hampstead met her questioning, pitiful glance with a sad shake of the head and affirmation in his own tear-filling eyes. He had sensed the solemn truth from the moment of that first touch upon the huge, unresponsive shoulder.
For an appreciable interval the face of the woman was white and set and unbelieving, and then she folded her hands and bowed her head in mute acknowledgment of the widowhood which had come upon her.
With the audience aghast and breathless in sympathetic understanding, Hampstead looked down upon the silent ​figures where they posed like a sculptured group, the upper bulk of the man unmoving upon the table, the woman unmoving in the chair, and behind the chair, the son, also bowed and motionless.
Hiram Burbeck was dead. He, too, had been held to answer, but before the highest court,—for his harsh legalism, for his unsympathetic heart, for his blind leadership of the blind.
How strange were the issues of life! This leaflike shadow of a woman, her mortal existence hanging by a thread, had withstood the shock for which the minister had feared and risen strong above it. She still had strength to bear and strength to give. But the proud, stern father had crumpled and died.
Again there was the sound of sobbing in the church; but the intimates of Mrs. Burbeck quickly gathered round and screened the group of mourners from the eyes of the people who filed quietly out of the building. For a time the steady tramp of feet upon the gallery stairs, with the snort and cough of motor-cars outside, resounded harshly, and then the church was emptied. Rollie had taken his mother away. Rose, Dick, and Tayna were gone. The huge chair by the end of the communion table was emptied of its burden. That, too, was gone. All the wreckage, all the past, was gone.
The old sexton stood sadly by the vestibule door, his hand upon the light switch, waiting the pleasure of his pastor for the last time.
Absently, John Hampstead climbed the pulpit stairs and stood leaning on the pulpit itself, surveying in farewell the empty pews and the empty, groined arches. They had stood for something that he had tried to do and failed; but he would try again more humbly, more in the fear of God, more in the spirit of one who had turned failure into victory.
​Standing thus, looking thus, reflecting thus, John heard a soft step upon the pulpit stair. It was Bessie, who had lingered in appreciative silence, the faithful, indulgent companion of her lover's mood. As she approached, the rapt man swung out his arm to enfold her, and they stood together, both leaning upon the pulpit.
"To-night one ministry has ended," John said presently; "to-morrow another shall begin."
"And it will be a better ministry," breathed Bessie softly, "because there are two of us."
"And they twain shall become one flesh!"
The end