The Yellow House; Master of Men

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CHAPTER IX

  A TERRIBLE INTERRUPTION

  By some means or other the news had spread in the village, and such acongregation as I had never seen filled our little church long beforethe usual time. In a dark corner I saw, to my surprise, Bruce Devilleleaning against a pillar with folded arms, and on my way to my pew Ipassed Adelaide Fortress seated in a chair in the nave. Neither ofthese two had I ever seen in church before, and what had brought themthere on that particular evening I never clearly understood. It wasa little irony of fate--one of those impulses which it is hard tobelieve are altogether coincidences.

  The Bishop came early, and sat by Lady Naselton's side, the centreof all eyes. I looked away from him to the chancel. I was strangelynervous. It was still dimly lit, although the bells had ceased toring. There was only a moment's pause, however, then the little spacewas filled with white-robed figures, and my sister's voluntary, undulyprolonged in this instance, died away in a few soft chords. I drew along breath of relief. Everything was going as usual. Perhaps, afterall this night might be a fateful one to us.

  I watched the Bishop's face from the first. I saw him glance up as ifin surprise at my father's rich, musical voice, which woke the echoesof the dark little church with the first words of the service. Atthe singing, which was always wretched, he frowned, and, catchinga sideway glance from Lady Naselton, smiled somewhat. Studying himthrough half-closed eyelids, I decided that country services in theabstract did not attract him, and that he was a little bored.

  It was only when my father stood up in the pulpit and looked aroundhim in that moment or two of hushed suspense which precedes the givingout of the text, that the lines of his face relaxed, and he settledhimself down with an air of interest.

  For me it was a terribly anxious moment. I knew my father's state ofhealth, and I remembered the few weary and pointless words which hadgone to make his morning sermon. Contrary to his usual custom, hestood there without any notes of any sort. I scarcely dared to hopethat he would be able to do himself justice. Yet the first words ofhis text had scarcely left his lips when some premonition of whatwas to come sent a strange thrill through all my nerves. "The wagesof sin is death." No words could give any idea of the marvellous yetaltogether effortless solemnity with which these words passed from myfather's lips. Scarcely uttered above a whisper, they yet penetratedto the utmost corners of the little church. Was it really intenseearnestness or a wonderful knowledge and appreciation of true dramaticeffect which made him close the book with a slow movement of hisforefinger, and stand up there amongst the deep shadows as pale as thesurplice which hung around his pale form? Yet when he spoke his voicedid not tremble or falter. His words, tense with life, all vibratingwith hidden fire, penetrated easily to the furthest and darkest cornerof the building.

  "The wages of sin--the eternal torment of a conscience never sleeping,never weary!" It was of that he went on to speak. I can scarcelyremember so much as a single sentence of that sermon, although itseffect upon myself and those who formed the congregation of listeners,is a memory which even now thrills me. From those few opening words,pregnant as they were with dramatic force, and lit with the fire oftrue eloquence, not for one moment did the attention of the littlecongregation wander. A leaf could have been heard to drop in thechurch, the rustle of a pocket handkerchief was a perfectly audiblesound. Not even a child looked sideways to watch the dark ivy wavingsoftly against the stained glass windows or wondered at the strangepattern which a ray of dying sunlight had traced upon the bare stoneaisles. There was something personal--something like the cry of humansorrow itself in that slow, passionate outpouring. Was it by anychance a confession or an accusation to which we were listening? Itwas on the universality of sin of which my father spoke with suchheart-moving emphasis. Our lives were like cupboards having manychambers, some of which were open indeed to the daylight and the gazeof all men, but there were others jealously closed and locked. Wecould make their outside beautiful, we could keep the eyes of allmen from penetrating beneath that fair exterior. We could lock themwith a cunning and secret key, so that no hand save our own could laybare the grisly spectre that lurked within. Yet our own knowledge, orwhat we had grown to call conscience, sat in our hearts and mockedus. Sometime the great white light swept into the hidden places,there was a tug at our heartstrings, and behold the seal had fallenaway. And in that church, my father added slowly, "he doubted whetherany one could say that within him those dark places were not."

  Suddenly his calm, tense eloquence became touched with passion. Hispale face gleamed, and his eyes were lit with an inward fire. Gestureand tone moved to the beat of a deeper and more subtle rhetoric. Hewas pleading for those whose sin beat about in their bosoms and laylike a dark shadow across all the sweet places of life. Passionateand more passionate he grew. He was pleading--for whom? We listenedentranced. His terrible earnestness passed like an electric thrillinto the hearts of all of us. Several women were crying softly; mensat there with bowed heads, face to face with ghosts long sinceburied. Bruce Deville was sitting back in his corner with foldedarms and downcast head. Adelaide Fortress was looking steadfastly uptowards that pale, inspired figure, with soft, wet eyes. Even theBishop was deeply moved, and was listening to every word. For mypart there was a great lump in my throat. The sense of some terriblereality behind my father's impassioned words had left me pale andtrembling. A subtle sense of excitement stole through the church. Whenhe paused for a moment before his concluding sentence, there wassomething almost like a murmur amongst the congregation, followed byanother period of breathless suspense.

  In the midst of that deep hush a faint sound attracted me. My seat wason a level with the open door, and I glanced out. A man was leaningagainst the porch--a man in very grievous condition. His clothes weredisordered and torn, and there was a great stain on the front of hiscoat. I alone had gazed away from the preacher in the pulpit towardshim, and whilst I looked the sound which had first attracted me wasrepeated. A low, faint moan, scarcely louder than a whisper, passedbetween his lips. He stood there supporting himself with his handsagainst the wall. His lined face was turned towards me, and, with athrill of horror, I recognized him. I half rose from my seat. The manwas either ill or dying. He seemed to be making frantic signs to me. Itried my utmost to signal to Mr. Charlsworth, but, like all the rest,his eyes seemed riveted upon the pulpit. Before I could leave my seat,or attract any one's attention, he had staggered through the doorinto the church itself. He stood leaning upon a vacant chair, a wild,disordered object, with blood stains upon his hands and clothes, andhis dark eyes red and gleaming fiercely beneath his wind-tossed massof black hair.

  So fascinated was the congregation that save myself only one ortwo stray people had noticed him. He stood amongst the shadows,and only I, to whom his profile appeared against the background ofthe open door, was able to mark the full and terrible disorder ofhis person. And while I waited, numb with some nameless fear, thepreacher's voice rang once more through the building, and men andwomen bowed their heads before the sweet, lingering passion of thosesad words.

  "The wages of sin is death. For all things may pass away save sin. Sinalone is eternal. Sin alone must stamp itself wherever it touches withan undying and everlasting mark. Retribution is like the tides of thesea, which no man's hands can stay; and Death rides his barque uponthe rolling waves. You and I and every man and woman in this worldwhom sin has known--alas! that there should be so many--have lookedinto his marble face, have felt the touch of his pitiless hands,and the cold despair of his unloving embrace. For there is Deathspiritual and Death physical, and many of us who bear no traces of ourpast in the present of to-day, have fought our grim battle with thedeath--the--death----"

  And then my father's words died away upon his lips, and the wholecongregation knew what had already thrown me into an agony ofterror. The man had struggled to the bottom of the aisle, and thesound of his shuffling movements, and the deep groan which accompaniedthem, had drawn many eyes towards him. His awful plig
ht stoodrevealed with pitiless distinctness in the open space where he wasnow standing. The red blood dripped from his clothing upon the barestone floor, a foam which was like the foam of death frothed at hislips. He stood there, the focus of all horrified eyes, swaying toand fro as though on the eve of collapse, his arms outstretched, andhis eyes flashing red fire upon the thin almost spectral-like figureof the preacher now leaning over towards him from the pulpit. Theslight color forced into my father's cheeks by the physical effortof his impassioned oratory died away. To his very lips he was whiteas the surplice he wore. Yet he did not lose his nerve or falterfor a moment. He motioned to Mr. Charlsworth and the other churchwardens, and both left their places and hurried down the aisle towardsthe wild, tragical looking figure. Just as they reached him the crywhich his lips had twice declined to utter burst out upon the tense,breathless silence. He made a convulsive movement forward as though tospring like a wild cat upon that calm, dignified figure looking downupon him with unfaltering and unflinching gaze.

  "Judas! you, Judas! Oh! my God!"

  His hands, thrown wildly out, fell to his side. He sank back into thearms of one of those who had hurried from their places at my father'sgesture. A last cry, more awful than anything I have ever heard, wokehideous echoes amongst the wormeaten, black oak beams, and beforeit had died away, I saw Adelaide Fortress glide like a black wraithfrom her seat and fall on her knees by the fainting man's side. Myfather lifted up his arms, and with a deep, solemn tremor in his tonepronounced the Benediction. Then, with his surplice flying round him,he came swiftly down the aisle between the little crowd of horrifiedpeople. They all fell back at his approach. He sank on one knee by theside of the prostrate man and looked steadfastly into his face. Thecongregation all waited in their places, and Alice, who was onlypartly aware of what was going on, commenced to play a soft voluntary.

  There was some whispering for a moment or two, then they lifted him upand carried the lifeless body out into the open air.

  My father followed close behind. For a few minutes there was an uneasysilence. People forgot that the Benediction had been pronounced, andwere uncertain whether to go or stay. Then some one made a start, andone by one they got up and left the church.

  Lady Naselton paused and sat by my side for a moment. She wastrembling all over.

  "Do you know who it was?" she whispered.

  I shook my head.

  "I am not sure. It was a stranger; was it not?"

  She shuddered.

  "It was either a stranger, or my guest, Mr. Berdenstein. I only caughta glimpse of his face for a moment, and I could not be sure. He lookedso horrible."

  She paused, and suddenly discovered that I was half fainting. "Comeout into the air," she whispered. I got up and went out with her justin time.

  They had carried him into a distant corner of the churchyard. Myfather, when he saw us standing together in a little group, cameslowly over as though to check our further advance. His face washaggard and drawn. He seemed to walk with difficulty, and underneathhis surplice I could see that one hand was pressed to his side.

  "The man is dead," he said, quietly. "There must have been an accidentor a fight. No one seems to know where he came from."

  "I wonder," remarked the Bishop, thoughtfully, "why he should havedragged himself up to the church in such a plight. One of thosecottages or the Vicarage would have been nearer."

  "Perhaps," my father answered, gravely, "he was struggling forsanctuary."

  And the Bishop held up his right hand towards the sky with a solemngesture.

  "God grant that he may have found it," he prayed.