THE SILENCE OF DEAN MAITLAND.

Evening Star, Issue 726, 2 July 1887, Page 2 (Supplement)

THE SILENCE OF DEAN MAITLAND.

[By Maxwell Gray.]

All Bights Beserved. PART 111.-CHAPTER IV,

The voice which had been so lull ol runic in Cyril Maitland’s youth had now become r.ot only an instrument of great compass and rich tone, but it was played by an artist who was a perfect master of his craft. it was said of the Blsnop of Rclminstcr 1b he could pronounce the mystic word " Mesopotamia” in such a manner as to adec'. bis auditors to tears ; but of the dean it might be averred that his pronunciation of “ Mesopotamia ” caused the listeners’ hearts to vibrate with every sorrow and every joy they had ever known, all in the brief space of time occupied by the utterance of that affecting word. Everard had heard this saying in Bslnunstcr, and. knew well what Cyril’s voice was of old, but he was quite unprepared for the tremendous rush of emotion that overwhelmed him when the dean opened his clear-cut lips and said, with the pathos the words demanded,_ “Me took counsel together, and walked in the house of God as friends.” He then paused, as his custom was, to let the words sink deeply into his hearers minds before he began His discourse, and Everard’s very life seemed to pause wit.i him, while he felt himself shaken in his innermost depths. Then he remembered that Cyril’s passionate sermon upon innocence was the last he had heard from him. Since that he had heard only the discourses of prison chaplains to an accompaniment of whispered blasphemy and filth. Once more he saw the little church at Malbourne, the beautiful young priest offering the chalice to the kneeling people in the wintry sun-gleams; once more he saw the shadowy figure in the afternoon dusk uttering his agonised appeals to the startled listeners below, “Yes, my brothers,” said the dean (he eschewed “ brethren ” as both conventional and obsolete, and dwelt with a loving intonation on the word “brothers”), “Jesus Christ and Judaatook sweetcounsel together, and walked in the house of God as friends, strange as it appears to us, diffieult as it is to realise a fact so startling, since in all the whole range of the world’s tragic history there has never been found a character so vile as the one or so spotless as the other. “Yet they were not only friends, but they actually took sweet counsel together. Picture that to yourselves, brothers : Christ had pleasant conversations with Judas, asked his opinion on high and holy subjects, listened to his words, as you and I listen to the words of those dear and near to us. Was there ever a more strangely assorted pair ? And yet ” —the dean paused, and sent the penetrating radiance of his gaze sweeping over the mass of upturned faces before him —“it may be that even now, to night, with these eyes of mine, I see among you, my brothers, in this very house of God, another pair strangely like that mentioned by David in his prophecysome loyal follower of Christ taking sweet counsel and walking as a friend with such au one as Judas, money-loving, ambitious, false ; musing even now, with the echoes of psalms and holy words in his ears, how he may betray the friend who trusts and lo\es him. Alas, my brothers, how often is such a companionship seen; and how often, how sadly often, is the guileless friend whose trust and love is betrayed a woman! ‘Nay,’ I hear you say, ‘we have our faults, we don’t pretend to be saints, but we are not Judases.’ Dare you say that you are no Judas?” he added, in sharp, incisive tones, while his glance seemed to single some individual from the throng and to pierce bis very marrow—“ you, who sold your wile’s happiness and your children’s bread for a pot of beer ? or you ?’’ and here the penetrating gaze seemed to single out another, while the preacher launched at him another sharp denunciation of some homely, everyday vice, using the moat direct and forcible words the language contains to give vigor to his censures, till the cold sweat stood upon rugged brows, some women wept furtively, and the dean’s keen glance perceived the inward tremblings of many a self-convicted sinner. The preacher then observed that the popular conception of Judas as a truculent thief whoso ruffianly character was ill-con-cealed by his thorough-paced hypocrisy was probably false, and pointed out that Judas must have appeared to the world in which he lived a highly respectable and well-con-ducted person, if not a very saint. Nay, it was his own opinion that Judas was actually a very superior being, a man of lofty aspirations and pure life, a patriot—one who looked ardently for the promised Messiah, and had sufficient faith to recognise him in the son of the Nazarenc carpenter. Why, he asked his auditors, if he had not been all this, should he have joined that little band of obscure men, those peasants and Ushers, those men of austere morality and lofty converse, who had left all to follow the young peasant Prophet who had not even a roof to shelter Him ?

He drew a beautiful sketch of the sweet and simple brotherhood of disciples clustering about the Master, who seemed to have inspired them up to the moment of the crucifixion more with tender and passionate human devotion than with awe and worship, «nd with whom they lived in such close and intimate communion, taking sweet counsel together on the loftiest subjects, and yet aharing the most trivial events of everyday life; and asked his hearers if they thought a mere money-lover and traitor could have endured such a fellowship, or been endured by it. But if Judas were indeed worthy to be chosen as one of that small and select band (and it was an undoubted fact that he was thought worthy and tenderly loved up to the last by his Divine Master), how was it that he fell into so black a sin, and stamped his name upon all time as a symbol of the utmost degradation of which man is .capable? “ Ah I nay brothers,” said the dean, he was a hypocrite, but so consummate a hypocrite that he deceived himself. He knew that he loved God and his Master and Friend, but he did not know, or would not know, that he loved mammon—the riches of tills world and its and vanities, its fleeting honors and transient foam-flake of fame—better. The bag naturally fell to him because it had not attractions for the dueiples whose hearts were set upon heavenly treasure only. The renown of the miracles he witnessed spread so that idlers flocked as to a show to see them; and this and the hope of the revival of the Jewish monarchy which filled the minds of all the disciples till after Calvary, stimulated the man’s ambition, which he probably mistook for devout zeal till that terrible hour, when the contempt and hatred which fell upon his Teacher and Friend made him desert the falling King in his disappointed ambition, and finally betray Him. ,C I charge you, my brothers, continued the dean, with a passion that shook his audience, “ that you beware of self-decep-tion. You may deceive others —yea, those who love you most dearly and live with you most intimately, who sit by your hearth and break bread at your table-through long, long years you may deceive them ; and you may deceive yourselves —you may devote all to God, and yet keep back one darling sin, one cherished iniquity that is poisoning the very springs of your being, like the young man who made the great refusal, like Ananias and Sapphira—but remember, you cannot deceive Ood!” Here the preacher paused and choked back a rising sob. “ AH : is open in his sight.” Here the dean trembled, and his voice took a tone of heart-brokenanguish. “ 'fbore, my brothers, op there is no shuffling.” There was silence for some Elements in the vast building, broken only by the 4«ep or quick breathing of the hushed, attentive multitude, and the great secret of the dean s power flashed swiftly upon Everard’s mind, ft was the fact that the thoughts he was uttering were not his own; that he was possessed and carried sway by some irresistible power, which forced him to speak what was perhaps pain and grief to him, what was utterly beyond his will. A atronge power, truly, which _made Ezekiel pronounce his own dire mischance, and predict the taking away the desire of his eyes for which he dared not mourn j which made Balaam bless when ho tried to curse; and caused Isaiah to foretell ,in torrents of fiery eloquence things be desired in vain to look into—* great and awful gift when given in even the smallest measure, a gilt

called in olden times prophecy, in these genius. A deep awe and compassion fell upon Everard as he looked upon the agitated and inspired orator, whose soul was so deeply stained with guilt, and he thought of the disobedient prophet and of other sinful men, singled out, in spite of their frailty, for the supreme honor of being the instruments of the Divine Will, “ . ,

“ Watch again.-.t score:.‘-in,’ wiilm'icu c:.;.pro.'V'hor, in a -ov/ and. carnc.T bat iljsti.ia;, ./■M ;i:iiiibl° voice, “ Pray for hv/'-uai hcarls, failure, misery, anything bur, t-no gratified ambition, the‘Vi.llilie-.l heart’s domra which makes it impossible K- you to renounce all a,ml follow Christ.” Tnen he spoke of the remorse of Judas and his miserable end ; said that even ho would have found instant forgiveness had he sought or desired it. But he probably did not think it would be given, since his own love was not large enough for such a forgiveness, and he thus shrank from the only possible healing for him. “My brothers,”he said, in a voice which touched the very core of Everard’s heart, “the man we think most meanly of is the man we have wronged.” He pointed out the difference between repentance and remorse ; drew a vivid picture of the latter, which he said was the “sorrow of sorrows and the worst torture of hell. He said that nothing earthly could soothe that pain—not all the riches of the world ; not the esteem of men ; not the highest earthly renown, or the en joyment of beauty, health, youth ; not all the pleasures of sense or intellect; not the sweetest and purest treasures of human affection ; and the voice in which he said this was so exquisitely, so despairing sad, that a wave of intensest pity rushed over Everard’s soul, and a great sob rose in his throat, and he knew that the long agony of the prison life, which had bowed his frame, broken his health, and shattered his nerves, if not his very intellect, was nothing in comparison with the secret tortures of the successful man who stood in purple and fine linen before him. “ Repent,” continued the dean, in a voice of agonised supplication, “ while repentance is possible. Put away the darling sin, whatever it may be, before it is inextricably wound about your heart-strings; remember that every moment’s delay makes the heart harder and the task more difficult. Cut off the right hand, pluck out the right eye ” He broke off abruptly, turned pale to the lips, and seemed for a moment to fight for breath. “Oh, my God!” he exclaimed at last, in low, agonised, shuddering tones, so different from the full voice of impassioned appeal he had been using, that they sent an electric shock through tho hushed listeners, while the chill drops bended his brow, and he gazed fixedly with horror-struck eyes before him, like one compelled by some irresistible power to gaze ou what his soul mest abhors.

It was the most acute moment in Everard’s life, one to be remembered when all else had faded—the moment when betrayer and betrayed met face to face, gazing into each other’s eyes under a fascination that each strove vainly to resist. Under the spell of the dean’s eloquence, Everard had gradually advanced his head from the shelter of the pillars, the gas-beaded girdle of which, in the deepening of the summer twilight, cast a strong illumination upon his features, and thus attracted the preacher’s gaze. That awful meeting of glances seemed to Everard to endure for an eternity, during which the breathing of the hushed congregation and the casual stirring of a limb here and there were distinctly audible in the silence.

Who shall say what these two men, between whom was so much love and such terrible wrong, saw in the eyes which had met so often in friendship in the far-off days, when each trusted the other so fully ? Certain it is that there was neither rebuke nor reproach in Everard’s gaze, and that the dominant feeling in his stirred heart was a desire to comfort the terrible misery in the false friend’s eyes. But though there was no reproach in the honest and trustful brown eyes—sunken as they were in dark orbits caused by long suffering—the bowed, gaunt form, the haggard, worn features, the sad look of habitual hopeless pain, the untimely grey hairs and aged appearance, struck into the betrayer’s soul like so many burning daggers tipped with poison. He remembered bis friend as ho had last seen him in the beauty and vigour of early manhood, happy, hopeful, full of intellect and life, and glowing with generous feeling, and the sharp contrast revealed to him, in one flash, the wickedness of his deed. There sat the friend who had loved and trusted him, marred, crushed, and broken by his own iniquity.

Ho longed for the massive pillars to crumble to ruins, and tho high stone roof to crash in and hide him from that terrible gaze, the more terrible because so gentle ; bo wished the solid pavement to yawn and swallow him up. A burning pain was stabbing him in the breast, the clusters of lights danced madly among the shadows before him, the great white sea of human faces surged in heaving billows in his sight, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth when he tried to speak.

Long as it seemed to those two awestruck gazers, it was in reality but a few seconds before the dean averted his gaze by a strong effort and spoke. “I am not well,” he said quietly; and, turning, he descended the pulpit and vanished among the shadows, while u. canon present said a final prayer and gave the blessing. From the comments of the congregation as they streamed out beneath the avenue of lindens Everard gathered that it was not the first time the dean had been taken ill while preaching, the excitement of which appeared to be too much for his physical strength. He lingered about the cathedral precincts in the pleasant summer dusk, through which a few pale stars were gleaming softly, and listened to the conversation around him, gazing wistfully at the Deanery, under a strong impulse to enter it. He contented himself, however, with joining a little group of working men, who, after an interval, went to the house and inquired for the health of the popular preacher, and who were told that the dean had recovered from the spasmodic seizure to which he was subject, and was now resting. A clergyman had passed out of the cathedral at Everard’s side, with rather a strange smile on his face, and had observed to a lady who was with him “ How did you like the play ?” “ What do you mean ?” she returned, with an indignant accent. “ Well, did you ever see a better actor than the Anglican Chrysostom?” he continued, with a sarcastic accent, which caused her to accuse him of professional jealousy. This man had heard the last dying words of Alma Judkins a few hours before.

Everard was so shaken by what he experienced in the cathedral that he could not return to his hotel, where his dinner was awaiting him, but walked rapidly through the dim streets, and climbed the hill to breathe the free, fresh air of the wide downs, whence he saw the city, starred with fire-points, lying like a dropped and dimmed constellation in the valley beneath. There he thought much, walking swiftly beneath the clear, quiet sky, pale in the June twilight, and gleaming with languid stars, until something of the holy calm of Nature had entered his breast, and he returned, quieted, yet full of deeply-stirred feelings, to the George Inn. Then he took a pen and wrote as follows; —

Dkaji Cyril,—l need not tell you that I was in the cathedral to-night, since I saw witli what pain you rccogaiaed me. You possess the great secret of eloquence, earnestness, and genuine feeling, and your s.crraon revealed to mo how terribly you have suffered. You will not be surprised to hear that I know qty, I did not suspect it until that poor girl swore against me in tfie witness-box, when the whole truth flashed mien me, and every little incident connected'wifih that sad affair became clear and comprehensible. That was the saddest moment in my life, far more bitter than the moment of my conviction or that of my seyere sentence. The man never lived who was dearer to me than you, and I revered you as a man reveres his own conscience. I thought that there could be no suffering to equal mine, but to-nighi I learned from your own lips, my poor Cyril, that there is a deeper anguish still, an anguish that you have born secretly for eighteen iporiaj years beneath a semblance of outward prosperity. How shall I' comfort you? If my forgiveness can avail anything, it is yours fully and freely. Remorse, as you said to-night, is wholly poisqnouaj it is futile to lainent the unreturmeg

past. Dear Cyril, let us manfully face the consequences, and cease bewailing what cannot bo mended. Much peace and usefulness, yes, and much happiness, may yet be yours. I have suffered not only the penalty, but an exceeding penalty, for that tragic moment in the wood—against my will, it is true; but now I ask you, who believe in vicarious sacrifice, to take those eighteen years as a free gift, and remember that, as far as this life is concerned, that poor fellow’s death has been amplyatoued fv-r. 1 see that you err struggling with youm-b to eotur*; and make moment before Ihe world, but tlm i.hiv. Ims gone by for that, and it eouhl avail nothin;,' now, Lilian has always horn pul- \ inced ef my innocence, an- 1 , nearly all oth-u» to whom ;y good name v.as dear aie gar..a. I have lived through the obloquy as fur as the world is concerned; the. revelation of the truth could only bring sorrow unspeakable to many, and no help to me. Besides, you have unusual gifts; you have acquired a position and a character which give you singular power over men; you ought not to trifle with these. If I am to bo useful to my it must be in quite other ways. But you, with your remarkable gifts and the great position you have achieved, have also incurred a great responsibility, and the very failings and faults which have caused such pain have _ led you through such unusual paths of spiritual experience as may give you unusual power in dealing with the sickness of men s souls. You have told men the terrors of remorse; tell them now the peace of repentance, the joy of forgiveness. If you need a penance, take that of silence on that one sad subject. Let that lie between you and me as a bond of friendship, and let it be heard in the ears of men no more ; and let us meet again on the old pleasant footing. I have seen and spoken with your son, and hoard his beautiful voice, and I am glad that ho bears our name. May Heaven’s blessing and peace be yours for ever!— Your friend, Henry Everard. It was not until the following morning that the dean received this letter, along with many others, at breakfast. Physical pain had mercifully come to his relief in the moment of extreme agony in the cathedral, and so benumbed and clouded his mental faculties. It had further obliged him to use a prescription of his physician’s intended for such seizures, and of an aniesthctic nature, so that he had passed the night in artificial slumber, if that could be called slumber which was animated by a continual torturing consciousness of the dreaded face he had seen in the cathedral, and an unspeakable terror of some impending descent into yet greater misery. Yet he awoke in the morning so permeated with this dread consciousness that he had not to face the shock of emerging from the balm of oblivion to a new and unfamiliar grief, the shock that greets us on the threshold of a new day with such a numbing power in the beginning of a fresh sorrow. Of course lie had contemplated the possibility of such a meeting as that of the previous evening, but he had no idea it was so near, since Lilian had long ceased to give him any intelligence of Everard, and also, with his characteristic unreason, he hoped something might in the meantime turn up. Everard’s death was one of these bright possibilities. He did not recognise the handwriting, changed as it was by long disuse and the stiffening of the joints resulting from habitual hard labor, and ran rapidly through the pile of letters, taking the known correspondents first. It was only when he had opened the envelope, and read the familiar commencement of “ Dear Cyril,” that the writing struck a chord in his memory, and he turned with a sick dread to the signature. Marion saw him turn livid, and then, when he glanced rapidly over the contents, Hush a deep red. Then he laid the letter aside, and went on quietly with his breakfast, joining, in his accustomed manner, in the household chat; bathe ate little, which Marion attributed to his recent seizure and the anodyne he had taken. Immediately after breakfast be went to his study, giving orders to Benson, as he frequently did, that he was on no account to be disturbed till luncheon, at which meal he appeared as usual. Marion observed, and remembered afterwards, that lie was extremely pale and very quiet, only addressing herself and her brother occasionally, and then with unusual gentleness. He was always gentle to them, for lie was a most lender father, passionately fond of his children, and having the art, by virtue of his winning manner and personal charm, to keep them in absolute discipline while indulging them to the utmost, so that, without ever using a harsh word to them, his will was their law, and they obeyed him without knowing it; but to-day his gentleness amounted to tenderness, and his voice and glances, when he spoke to them, was like a caress.

“Well, Marry,"’ Iv; said, breaking into a conversation between the children and their tutor and governess, which he had evidently nob heard, “ what do you say to running down to Portsmouth to your Uncle Kcppel’s with Everard for a few days ?” “Nothing, papa,” she replied, with her pretty spoil Fair. “Would you not like to go, dear?” he asked. “ The sea is charming just now, and all the naval gaieties are in full swing. The new ironclad is waiting for you to inspect and help launch her, and your cousins are all at home, and Evcrard would enjoy the military bands and the bathing ; on, laddie ? ’ “ Well, I suppose it will be a fair time to go; but how can you get away ?’’ said Marion, when her father replied that he did net intend to accompany them. “ Then, we don’t want to go,” she returned ; and Everard endorsed her words heartily. “ You don’t get tired of your old father?” he asked, his eyes clouding and his voice quivering a little. There never was such a daddy-sick pair,” laughed Miss Mackenzie. “But you cannot always be tied on to the old father,” said the dean, pinching Marion’s soft cheek. “ Come now, suppose you pack up your smartest bonnets and frocks, and Everard’s violin, and run down this afternoon. Your Aunt Keppel will be at the station to meet you at six.” “To-day? Oh, papa, what can possess you ?” cried Marion. “ Oh, not till Monday !” pleaded Everard. “ I am to take a solo to-morrow afternoon.” “Never mind the solo, lad,” said his father, looking wistfully on the boy’s sightless face. “Dr Hydal will recover from the shock; a little adversity will do him good, autocrat that he is. You will go, darlings, by the 4.30 train. And if the bonnets and frocks are not smart enough for fashionable Southsea, you can get what you want there. Here is a cheque, Marry. And there, Everard, is a sovereign for you to buy toffee with. Herr Obermann is tired of his unmanageable pupil, and will be glad of a holiday to rummage over old parchments with Canon Drake and the dean rose from the table with a look that said that business was concluded, and strolled languidly into the garden, Everard’s hand in his. “ Miss Mackenzie,” said Marion, remaining behind a minute, “there is something unusual about papa to-day. Do you think I ought to leave him? He ate nothing ; he looks ill.”

“Ho is always languid and week after one of his attacks, Marry. The great thing is not to worry him, and, of course, he has a great deal on his mind now. Perhaps, until the bishopric business is quite decided, ho would rather have you out of the way.” Miss Mackenzie’s words were reasonable, and Marion felt that she must abide by them, and yet she could not conquer the vague disquiet she felt on her father’s account. She followed him into the old-fashioned, red-walled garden with a solicitude hitherto unknown in her spoilt-child existence, and watched him narrowly. “ You are becoming a perfect ogre, daddy, hustling us off in this despotic manner ; now, isn’t he, Everard ?” she said, joining them. “ A regular tyrant,” laughed the boy. “ But, I say, why can’t you come with us, papa ? It is on your way to Osborne.” “Of course it is ; how delightful!” added Marion.

“lam not going to Osborne,” replied the dean,' “ Not going to dine at Osborne to-night? exclaimed the children, who knew that a royal invitation is also a cbminaud. “Why, what will the Queen say ? Will she send you to the Tower ?” asked Everard, his mind idled with visions of scaffolds and axes. “ Never ndnd the Queen,” said the dean, sitting down on a garden seat and placing the boy between his knees, passing his arm round the girl with a grave’ and preoccupied air, which surprised his daughter, whom he was wont perpetually to tease and banter io ft way that she thought delightful. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes, and then the' dean asked the children jf

they were happy, and they replied heartily in the affirmative, adding that they were always happy with him, and thought all pleasures dull without him. “ I have tried to make you happy,” ho said, in his rich, pathetic tones; “I have wished so much to give you a happy youth to look back upon. My own youth was very, very happy, and I have always been so thankful f>r it; it is a possession for a wiioh.> lifetime, in spit*' of the sorrow with •-.viiK'h the v/oihl is idled, ;md which we i.r-ist. all into f-.i0.-inr or Inter. V-.ui' father is a -sinful man, hear t 'uhbvn, hut lio has ti i-d lo be good to you—that Inn; been ins ••{i’catiat earthly aim. And you have been dutiful and aftectionato. I am a successful man, and have boon able to give you a pleasant home, but who can say if it may last ? Trouble may come —wc may be parted. Well, dears, if that time comes, think gently of the father who, whatever his faults were, earnestly soughthischildren’s happiness.” The children protested with half-frightened affection; but he scarcely heeded them, and, gently unwinding their clasping hands, withdrew, unable to speak for tears, and, waving them off with a gesture of command, went back to his study. “Oh, Marry!” cried Everard, “something dreadful has happened. Perhaps the Queen is angry. What can it be ?” Marion comforted him with all the wisdom of her sixteen years, saying that there was probably some hitch about the bishopric, and this had saddened their father.

He took them to the station and saw them off, arranging all he could for their comfort and security, and embraced them on the public platform with unusual tenderness, apparently oblivious to all the bustle and noise going on around him. He put a basket of fruit into their hands to refresh them on tho road when they were in the carriage, and then stood on the step and kissed and blessed them solemnly once more, and, when the train finally moved off, stood wistfully gazing until the last flutter of Marion’s handkerchief was invisible in the distance.

All her life Marion remembered his yearning gaze and his pale, sad face, as he stood without a, trace of his usual playful animation when in their presence, a solitary black figure, watching them with his hand shading his eyes, until the distance had swallowed them up. “Can you see him still?” asked the blind boy. “ Not now ; he is lost,” replied Marion ; and she burst into tears under the pressure of an indefinable sadness.

(To he continued.)