some chance word
may strike upon an inattentive ear
and rouse the soul from selfish slumberings,
to wrestle with a thousand subtle foes
that would destroy its hope of paradise.
outside the snow fell fast and thick from the dull impenetrable sky, but within the church all was warmth and light. owing to the primitive civilization of the village the holy edifice was only illuminated by a few oil lamps, which just sufficed to fill it with shadows. the great arched roof above was completely in darkness, and hanging low down, almost on a level with the pews, the lamps burned with a dull yellow light in the heavy atmosphere. on the communion table four tapers shone like amber-coloured stars, touching the white limbs of the christ hanging on the ebony cross with fitful lights. a lamp enclosed in a red globe swung from the centre of the chancel arch, naming fiercely crimson like a red eye glaring out of the semi-darkness, and on each side of the pulpit two candles threw a doubtful glimmer on the open bible. amid all this fantasy of shadow and light knelt the simple villagers with bowed heads, following, with murmuring voices, the lord's prayer, recited by the vicar. the confused sound buzzed among the multitudinous arches, losing itself in faint echoes amid the great oaken beams, and then the thunder of the organ rolled out a melodious amen which died away in a whisper as, with a rustle, the congregation arose to their feet to make the responses.
during the singing of the psalms, the door at the lower end of the church opened and, heralded by a blast of cold air which made all the lamps flicker, a man stole stealthily to a dark seat and knelt down. this was duncan nestley, who, tortured by maddening thoughts and overpowering mental anguish had come to religion for consolation, now kneeling, with hot dry eyes and clasped hands, amid the shadows.
the evening psalm was that magnificent chant wherein david describes jehovah as coming forth in all his glory, and the choir, really being an excellent one, the rolling verse of the hebrew poet was well rendered. the thin treble of the boys rang out piercingly shrill through the mystic twilight.
"he rode upon the cherubims and did fly: he came flying upon the wings of the wind."
then, without pause, the deeper voices of the men thundered out the sublime words:
"he made darkness his secret place his pavilion round about him with dark water and thick clouds to cover him."
no wonder, as the great volume of sound rang through the church, the heart of the unhappy man was filled with fear.
this terrible deity who came forth in such appalling splendour was his enemy, this awful jehovah of the hebrews, in whose hand flashed the sword of vengeance, was his merciless judge, and kneeling there with tightly clenched hands he felt crushed to the earth by the fierce denunciations thundered forth by the choir. but then a change came over the terrible vehemence of the music, and sweet as a silver trumpet rang out the proclamation:
"the lord liveth, and blessed be my strong helper and praised be the god of my salvation."
there was mercy then--this unknown splendour whose terrors had been shadowed forth with such grandeur had pity as well as vengeance; a dull feeling of exhaustion stole over him as the psalm ended with the promise of mercy, and his dry lips moved mutely as though to join in the final "glory be to the father."
he did not rise from his knees, but still in a posture of abject supplication heard, as in a dream, the reading of the lessons and the sweet kindly music of the hymns. it was only when the vicar, tall and stately in his white surplice, mounted the pulpit and gave out the text, that he stirred. with a weary sigh he arose and sat down in the pew, utterly exhausted by the conflicting emotions roused within him by the music, but the words of the text given out by the resonant voice of dr. larcher seemed to convey some comfort to his despairing soul.
"then they cry unto the lord in their trouble and he saveth them out of their distresses."
he listened to the sermon idly at first, but soon found, to his surprise, that he was following the words of the preacher with close attention. dr. larcher was no golden-mouthed chrysostom by any manner of means, but he preached a plain, homely sermon, eminently adapted to the simple congregation of which he was pastor. never for a moment did he lose himself amid abstruse theological arguments which they would not have understood, but told them practical truths in vigorous saxon, the meaning of which no one could fail to grasp.
"for, my brethren, when a man is at the lowest depths of despair it is then that he first calls upon the name of the lord. in time of peace and plenty, when our friends are around us and our coffers are full, we are alas too apt to forget that all these benefits come from the almighty, and thus at times neglect to thank him for his many mercies. but when the clouds of adversity gather around us, when the loved ones sink into the grave, when our worldly wealth disappears like snow, when our name becomes a by word of scorn and reproach, it is then that we turn to god for that help which is denied to us by man. and does he ever refuse to aid us?--no!--in the words of the psalmist, 'cast thy burden upon the lord and he shall sustain thee'--to the heart that is truly contrite he gives peace and help in time of need; none so low but what he will not hear and grant their prayers if made from the heart. it is not to the terrible jehovah of the jewish nation, with pomp and pride of sacrifices and blowing of silver trumpets, that we of later generation appeal. no, since the coming of our dear lord, who forms the link between most high heaven and lowly earth we offer up humble prayers to him in solitude and he, the mild and merciful father of us all dries the tears from our eyes and takes the sorrows from our hearts. if a man is weak and would commit sin let him call upon the lord and he will be strengthened--if the temptations to which he has been exposed have been too heavy for his bearing and he has succumbed, let him implore mercy of the almighty and he shall surely find it. alas! how often do we find unforgiveness in men forgetting the words of christ, 'forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,' they turn their faces away and leave us abased in the dust, but christ lifts us from that position of humiliation with comforting words, 'arise poor sinner and thy sins be forgiven thee, for to this end did i come into the world.' if there is any one of you present who has sinned let him repent this night and he will find the peace of god which passeth all understanding. if he is weak, god will give him strength to conquer; if he is in despair, god will give him hope of pardon. pray--pray unceasingly, for it is by prayer alone that our weak voices can reach the ear of the eternal father."
nestley waited to hear no more, but with a stifled cry of anguish fled from the church into the cold, white world outside. stumbling over the tombstones, through the blinding snow--now falling in thick flakes--he soon found himself in the open street, and urged by some mad impulse, he knew not what, he sped wildly onward through the market-place, over the bridge and on to the trackless common. with clenched teeth and wild, staring eyes he made head against the storm that was sweeping along. his feet made no sound on the yielding snow and he glided along like an unquiet ghost, the burning words of the sermon ringing in his ears.
he was in the lowest depths of despair and all men had turned their faces from him; he would call upon the lord to help him--but would god attend?--surely he would--what were the words of the text?
"then they cry unto the lord in their trouble and he saveth them out of their distresses."
he also would cry and the lord would save him from the terrible agony he was enduring. he would kneel down there and then in the snow and call upon this unseen god, pavilioned in the terrible splendour of encircling clouds, to aid him.
"god! help me!"
no answer save the whistling of the wind and the soft sound of the snow sweeping past, caressing his cold face with delicate touch.
"god! show me how to be saved."
nothing, nothing, only the black sky above, the white earth below, and himself, between the two, a reckless, despairing man holding up his helpless hands.
"our father which art in heaven----"
how sweet those words sounded; he had surely heard them at his mother's knee--then he was an innocent child, but now! oh god, the evil life he had lived since then!
"god! god!--pity and save!"
it was getting quite warm now and he felt drowsy; if he slept for a while he would then awake and ask god once more to save him; but no, if he fell asleep in the snow he would never awake again, for this treacherous snow would slay him with cold embraces. he would die--die. ah! he could not die, even though lulled to sleep by the siren voice, and soft caressing of the snow queen; life was sweet, so he would fight to retain it.
a long struggle and he was on his feet; the road! where was the road? he could not see it. never mind, the snow and wind were at his back, he would walk on till he came to the bridge, then he would be in safety. oh, the weary, weary miles--half dazed, half mad, he staggered on, reeling like a drunken man. would the road never come to an end? oh this incessant whirl of snow-flakes that he was in, it was the dance of death and he was the dancer.
quicker and quicker fell the flakes on the white common and over to the dark surface of the gar but no figure was struggling along now; no, it was lying upon the bridge, a disordered heap of black clothing, which the snow was rapidly hiding beneath its soft white mantle.
over the bridge comes the horse and gig of a sturdy farmer who has to cross the wild white waste beyond to reach home, and the sturdy farmer himself with his buxom wife beside him drives the wise old horse. suddenly the old horse shies at the figure lying in the snow--a start on the part of the farmer and his wife--then exclamations and calls for help, black figures come gliding over the snow like shadows, and kindly hands raise duncan nestley from his deadly resting-place.
take him to the inn, place him before a roaring fire, force some hot brandy between his blue lips, and rub his frozen limbs to bring back the circulation of the chill blood.
dead! no, not dead! he opens his eyes. in them there is no intelligence, only a vacant stare--he babbles a few words and then falls back in a faint.
delirious, yes, and delirious for many a long day, poor soul.
