“You are a silly boy,” said Mrs. Elliot, but she stole a glance at
herself in an opposite mirror, and smiled complacently. She did not
look old enough to be the mother of her son. She was tall and slender,
and fair-haired, and she knew how to dress well on her very small
income. She was rosy, and carried herself with a sweet serenity. People
said Wesley would not need a wife as long as he had such a mother. But
he did not have her long. Only a month later she died, and while the
boy was still striving to play the rôle of hero in that calamity, there
came news of another. His professor friend had a son in the trenches.
The son had been wounded, and the father had obeyed a hurried call,
found his son dead, and himself died of the shock on the return voyage.
Wesley, mourning the man who had been his stanch friend, was guiltily
conscious of his thwarted ambition. “There goes my city church,” he
thought, and flung the thought back at himself in anger at his own
self-seeking. He was forced into accepting the first opportunity which
offered. His mother had an annuity, which he himself had insisted upon
for her greater comfort. When she died, the son was nearly penniless,
except for the house, which was old and in need of repair.
He rented that as soon as he received his call to Brookville, after
preaching a humiliating number of trial sermons in other places. Wesley
was of the lowly in mind, with no expectation of inheriting the earth,
when he came to rest in the little village and began boarding at Mrs.
Solomon Black’s. But even then he did not know how bad the situation
really was. He had rented his house, and the rent kept him in decent
clothes, but not enough books. He had only a little shelf filled with
the absolutely necessary volumes, most of them relics of his college
course. He did not know that there was small chance of even his meager
salary being paid until June, and he had been ordained in February. He
had wondered why nobody said anything about his reimbursement. He had
refrained from mentioning it, to even his deacons.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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