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Page 71
The Rev. Paul Ford was sick at heart. Month by month, for a year
past, conditions in the parish under him had been growing worse
and worse; until it seemed that now, turn which way he would, he
encountered only wrangling, backbiting, scandal, and jealousy. He
had argued, pleaded, rebuked, and ignored by turns; and always
and through all he had prayed--earnestly, hopefully. But to-day
miserably he was forced to own that matters were no better, but
rather worse.
Two of his deacons were at swords' points over a silly something
that only endless brooding had made of any account. Three of his
most energetic women workers had withdrawn from the Ladies' Aid
Society because a tiny spark of gossip had been fanned by wagging
tongues into a devouring flame of scandal. The choir had split
over the amount of solo work given to a fanciedly preferred
singer. Even the Christian Endeavor Society was in a ferment of
unrest owing to open criticism of two of its officers. As to the
Sunday school--it had been the resignation of its superintendent
and two of its teachers that had been the last straw, and that
had sent the harassed minister to the quiet woods for prayer and
meditation.
Under the green arch of the trees the Rev. Paul Ford faced the
thing squarely. To his mind, the crisis had come. Something must
be done--and done at once. The entire work of the church was at a
standstill. The Sunday services, the week-day prayer meeting, the
missionary teas, even the suppers and socials were becoming less
and less well attended. True, a few conscientious workers were
still left. But they pulled at cross purposes, usually; and
always they showed themselves to be acutely aware of the critical
eyes all about them, and of the tongues that had nothing to do
but to talk about what the eyes saw.
And because of all this, the Rev. Paul Ford understood very well
that he (God's minister), the church, the town, and even
Christianity itself was suffering; and must suffer still more
unless--
Clearly something must be done, and done at once. But what?
Slowly the minister took from his pocket the notes he had made
for his next Sunday's sermon. Frowningly he looked at them. His
mouth settled into stern lines, as aloud, very impressively, he
read the verses on which he had determined to speak:
" 'But woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye
shut up the kingdom of heaven against men: for ye neither go in
yourselves, neither suffer ye them that are entering to go in.'
" 'Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye devour
widows' houses, and for a pretence make long prayer: therefore ye
shall receive the greater damnation.'
" 'Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye pay
tithe of mint and anise and cummin, and have omitted the
weightier matters of the law, judgment, mercy, and faith: these
ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone.' "
It was a bitter denunciation. In the green aisles of the woods,
the minister's deep voice rang out with scathing effect. Even the
birds and squirrels seemed hushed into awed silence. It brought
to the minister a vivid realization of how those words would
sound the next Sunday when he should utter them before his people
in the sacred hush of the church.
His people!--they WERE his people. Could he do it? Dare he do it?
Dare he not do it? It was a fearful denunciation, even without
the words that would follow--his own words. He had prayed and
prayed. He had pleaded earnestly for help, for guidance. He
longed--oh, how earnestly he longed!--to take now, in this
crisis, the right step. But was this--the right step?
Slowly the minister folded the papers and thrust them back into
his pocket. Then, with a sigh that was almost a moan, he flung
himself down at the foot of a tree, and covered his face with his
hands.
It was there that Pollyanna, on her way home from the Pendleton
house, found him. With a little cry she ran forward.
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