'No! not doubts as to religion; not the slightest injury to

that.' He paused. Margaret sighed, as if standing on the verge of

some new horror. He began again, speaking rapidly, as if to get

over a set task: 'You could not understand it all, if I told you--my anxiety, for

years past, to know whether I had any right to hold my living--my

efforts to quench my smouldering doubts by the authority of the

Church. Oh! Margaret, how I love the holy Church from which I am

to be shut out!' He could not go on for a moment or two. Margaret

could not tell what to say; it seemed to her as terribly

mysterious as if her father were about to turn Mahometan.

'I have been reading to-day of the two thousand who were ejected

from their churches,'--continued Mr. Hale, smiling

faintly,--'trying to steal some of their bravery; but it is of no

use--no use--I cannot help feeling it acutely.' 'But, papa, have you well considered? Oh! it seems so terrible,

so shocking,' said Margaret, suddenly bursting into tears. The

one staid foundation of her home, of her idea of her beloved

father, seemed reeling and rocking. What could she say? What was

to be done? The sight of her distress made Mr. Hale nerve

himself, in order to try and comfort her. He swallowed down the

dry choking sobs which had been heaving up from his heart

hitherto, and going to his bookcase he took down a volume, which

he had often been reading lately, and from which he thought he

had derived strength to enter upon the course in which he was now

embarked.

'Listen, dear Margaret,' said he, putting one arm round her

waist. She took his hand in hers and grasped it tight, but she

could not lift up her head; nor indeed could she attend to what

he read, so great was her internal agitation.

'This is the soliloquy of one who was once a clergyman in a

country parish, like me; it was written by a Mr. Oldfield,

minister of Carsington, in Derbyshire, a hundred and sixty years

ago, or more. His trials are over. He fought the good fight.'

These last two sentences he spoke low, as if to himself. Then he

read aloud,-'When thou canst no longer continue in thy work without dishonour

to God, discredit to religion, foregoing thy integrity, wounding

conscience, spoiling thy peace, and hazarding the loss of thy

salvation; in a word, when the conditions upon which thou must

continue (if thou wilt continue) in thy employments are sinful,

and unwarranted by the word of God, thou mayest, yea, thou must

believe that God will turn thy very silence, suspension,

deprivation, and laying aside, to His glory, and the advancement

of the Gospel's interest. When God will not use thee in one kind,

yet He will in another. A soul that desires to serve and honour

Him shall never want opportunity to do it; nor must thou so limit

the Holy One of Israel as to think He hath but one way in which

He can glorify Himself by thee. He can do it by thy silence as

well as by thy preaching; thy laying aside as well as thy

continuance in thy work. It is not pretence of doing God the

greatest service, or performing the weightiest duty, that will

excuse the least sin, though that sin capacitated or gave us the

opportunity for doing that duty. Thou wilt have little thanks, O

my soul! if, when thou art charged with corrupting God's worship,

falsifying thy vows, thou pretendest a necessity for it in order

to a continuance in the ministry. As he read this, and glanced at

much more which he did not read, he gained resolution for

himself, and felt as if he too could be brave and firm in doing

what he believed to be right; but as he ceased he heard

Margaret's low convulsive sob; and his courage sank down under

the keen sense of suffering.




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