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Title: Profiles
Author: Pansy Alden
Mrs. C. M. Livingston
Release date: December 30, 2024 [eBook #74998]
Language: English
Original publication: Boston: D Lothrop Company
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROFILES ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: IMPROVEMENTS HAD BEEN MADE IN THE GREENHOUSE
AS WELL AS THE COTTAGE.]
PROFILES
BY
PANSY (MRS. G. R. ALDEN)
AND
MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON
[Illustration]
BOSTON
D. LOTHROP COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1888,
BY
D. LOTHROP COMPANY.
CONTENTS.
——————
CLEAN HANDS _"Pansy"_—_Mrs. G. R. Alden_
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CIRCULATING DECIMALS " " "
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
FISHING FOR PHIL " " "
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
OUR CHURCH CHOIR " " "
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
HIS FRIEND _Mrs. C. M. Livingston_
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
"MY AUNT KATHERINE" " " "
THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS " " "
JUANA'S MASTER " " "
TEN BUSHELS " " "
MISS WHITTAKER'S BLANKETS " " "
THE DOCTOR'S STORY _"Pansy"_—_Mrs. G. R. Alden_
PROFILES
—————
CLEAN HANDS.
———
CHAPTER I.
"AND I hope, Elsie, you will be careful, all the while you are gone,
not to soil your hands."
They stood together in the hall, Elsie Burton and her pastor; he had
held out his hand to bid her good-by, and added these words which
brought a puzzled look to her eyes, and a rich glow of color to her
cheeks.
What could Dr. Falconer mean? Elsie glanced swiftly down at her
delicate, gracefully shaped hands, and then back to his face; he was
not laughing; although there was a smile on his face, it was backed by
an earnest gleam in his eyes that meant business. It was not probable
that he was trying to rally her a little on the exquisite care which
she took of those same hands, always managing to keep them in a state
of dainty cleanliness, with the shapely nails of just the right length.
No, that was simply absurd! In the first place, all respectable people
took as good care of their hands as circumstances would admit, of
course; and, in the second place, Dr. Falconer was not the man to rally
people in regard to personal habits; he was too intensely in earnest
for that, unless, indeed, there was some important end to be gained.
Could he possibly mean to refer to the fact that she took out her
handkerchief, and carefully rubbed her hand, last Sabbath, after Teddy
Reilly had held it! But there was certainly excuse for that; poor
little Teddy's hand was so exceedingly dirty that it left its stain on
the fair skin, and it was unnecessary, and therefore foolish, to draw
on her delicate kid gloves over the brown marks, when a few passes of
her handkerchief would efface them! She had waited until little Teddy
was fairly out of sight; she would not have wounded his loving heart,
nor indeed have missed the caressing from his dirty hand, for a great
deal. Dr. Falconer certainly could not mean that.
She decided for frankness, as Elsie Burton was very apt to do. "Dr.
Falconer, I don't in the least understand you; all people are careful
of their hands, not to soil them more than is necessary in getting
through this dirty world." The sentence closed with a little laugh, but
the great bright eyes, fixed questioningly on his face, showed that
Elsie was honestly in pursuit of light.
"Do you think so?" he said, and his voice was grave. "On the contrary,
I think people are almost more careless of their hands than of any
other organ which they possess. And hands soil readily, and are not
easy to cleanse. Let me bring you a little book I have been reading;
the marked passages in it will show you what I mean, and how I came to
suggest my caution to you. I must not detain you longer, or you may
miss your train. I have to call at the depot this morning, and I will
give you the book there. I hope you will have a happy visit, and be the
means of doing an incalculable amount of good."
"Oh! I shall not have much opportunity for doing either good or evil,
Dr. Falconer; I am not going to be gone long enough. You know I have
but a week's vacation."
"And you think a week not long enough to accomplish much! I see I shall
have to mark another passage in my little book. Be sure to read the
marked portion."
And then he was gone, and Elsie Burton went hurriedly about the final
preparations for her journey. "Clean hands!" she repeated with a
curious smile, as, having given the final touches to her brown hair,
she applied the sweet-smelling soap lavishly, making a fine white foam
in which to lave them. "I wonder what Dr. Falconer is aiming at! If he
had told me to guard my tongue, I should have understood him without
difficulty; but if there is anything about me that gets taken care of,
I'm sure it is my hands." Whereupon she gave them an extra dash of
fresh water.
Fairly seated in the East-bound express, shawl-strap and hand-satchel
tucked away behind their proper lattice, herself by no means tucked
into the corner, but spread out as luxuriously as a young lady of
eighteen or so knows how to arrange, Elsie Burton had leisure to draw a
long breath of satisfaction and look about her. The last few days had
been so full of the bustle of preparation, combined with the closing
hours of school, that she had had little leisure for anything. Now for
the long-promised holiday week at Uncle Leonard's. Elsie Burton had few
fittings from the home nest to remember. Indeed I may say that she was
one of those fortunate young ladies who had never, until that time,
been on the cars without either mother or father. A sweet, sheltered,
happy life she had led, and a sweet, bright girl was she. Occasionally
a little restless flutter had shown the mother-bird that her nestling
longed to try her wings alone; hence this visit, promised and planned.
And Elsie, curled comfortably in her seat, with the seat before her
turned to receive her lunch basket and any stray apples or papers that
she might purchase, felt that she was a little school girl no longer,
but in the last half-hour had blossomed into a young lady.
"Take care of yourself, daughter," had been her father's last tenderly
spoken message, a little anxious look about the eyes telling her that
this business of trying one's wings was not so pleasant for the old
birds as for those who wire experimenting; Dr. Falconer had added, with
a meaning smile, "And remember the hands." This latter message lingered
with her. She meant to take care of herself, to be so wise and prudent
that both father and mother would be delighted with her. And of course
she meant to take care of her hands! But the hint half-vexed her; she
did not understand it, and felt for the little book which she had
dropped into her pocket but a few minutes before. What a tiny book it
was! Paper-covered too, but daintily illuminated; looking, indeed, as
though it had been gotten up for choice moments.
"I wonder," said our young lady to herself, "if this bit of a volume
can be a dissertation on the care of hands?" She laughed a little as
she said it, and stopped to fasten the fourth button of her dark, neat,
exquisitely-fitting kid gloves; her hands certainly looked well in
them. She could not endure ill-shaped gloves, and as for wearing ripped
ones, she never did it; nor, truth to tell, did she like to wear mended
ones. It would have been a pleasure to her, on the discovery of the
first rip, to have consigned the offending gloves to the waste bag,
but this was by no means the teaching of her mother; so the shapely
hands were sometimes marred—in the estimation of their owner—by mended
gloves, albeit the mending was very neat. Dr. Falconer could hardly
have meant that. Now she began to look for the marked passages. Marked
passages? Why, the little book was full of them!
Could her pastor have expected her to spend the hours of her first
journey alone in reading them all? Ah, no; here was one, marked in
different colored ink, and on the upper margin of the page was her
own name, "Elsie." This, then, was the portion meant for her. (Not
a lengthy passage; she could accomplish so much with a fair hope
of remembering it.) And she read, "It may seem an odd idea, but a
simple glance at one's hand, with the recollection, this hand is not
mine; it has been given to Jesus, and it must be kept for Jesus,' may
sometimes turn the scale in a doubtful matter, and be a safeguard from
certain temptations. With that thought fresh in your mind, as you
look at your hand, can you let it take up things, which, to say the
least, are not 'for Jesus'? Things which evidently cannot be used, as
they most certainly are not used, either for Him or by Him. Can you
deliberately hold in it books of a kind which you know perfectly well,
by sadly-repeated experience, lead you farther from, instead of nearer
to Him? . . . Books which you would not care to read at all, if your
heart were burning within you at the coming of His feet? Next time any
temptation of this sort approaches you just look at your hand."
Elsie Burton paused in her reading and looked down at her hand, a
singular expression on her face. Given to Christ! Certainly it was true
of her; she had given herself to Him and promised to be His disciple;
yet never until this moment had occurred to her that even her hands
actually belonged to this Master. What a strange idea! How singular it
would be for one to stop and think whether her hands were doing what He
would have them? Yet, why not? If they really were given to Him, what
more reasonable than that they should be kept for His service?
Would that make any difference with the work of her hands, she
wondered, supposing she had thought of them in this light before? Such
dainty care as she had taken of them! Had she possibly soiled them in
His sight? There were other marked bits in this strange little book,
her name attached; she read on: "Danger and temptation to let the hands
move at other impulses is every bit as great to those who have nothing
else to do but to render service: and who think they are doing nothing
else. Take one practical instance—our letter writing. Have we not been
tempted (and fallen before the temptation), according to our various
dispositions, to let the hand that holds the pen move at the impulse to
write an unkind thought of another; or to say a clever and sarcastic
thing, which will make our point more telling; or to let out a grumble
or a suspicion; or to let the pen run away with us into flippant words?"
The rich color on Elsie's cheek was deepening every moment. This was
certainly narrow ground. She felt herself jostled against. "Clever
and sarcastic things" were so natural to her pen that they almost
seemed to write themselves. What a ridiculous report she had given of
Ned Holden's failure in geometry. How skillfully she had turned into
ridicule his mortified attempts to recover himself. She had imagined
her cousins, Carrie and Ben, laughing immoderately over the whole
thing. Well, what harm? Her account of it would never reach poor Ned's
ears: she would not have given it for anything had there been the
least fear, but—what good did it accomplish? Had she written it with
a purpose? Yes, she had; her purpose had been to give a few minutes'
fun to her cousins. Anything wrong about that? Yet the truthful girl
admitted to herself almost immediately that it was fun at the expense
of certain fine feelings which she had jarred. Was she inclined to be
so sympathetic with failures as she would be if it were not such fun to
write them up? What a caricature she had made of Ned as he stood there
on the platform, his face aglow, the eyes of a hundred girls leveled
at him! She laughed again as she remembered how funny her picture was;
but then she sighed. Soiled hands. Was it possible that she had soiled
hers that day? Did Dr. Falconer mean such things? Did he know about
the letter and the caricature? She felt her face grow hot over the
possibility; she would not have him know it for anything! Here again
was a revelation. Why not? And if not Dr. Falconer, surely not the Lord
Jesus! Yet He knew.
There really was not much comfort in thinking about it. But Elsie
decided that these things must be thought about and decided another
time. If it really was wrong to repeat in a ludicrous way the ludicrous
things that the boys, and sometimes the girls, and sometimes the
professors were doing, why, then she must give it up; but it was great
fun. Another marked sentence—her name again: "Perhaps one hardly needs
to say that kept hands will be very gentle hands. Quick, angry motions
of the heart will sometimes force themselves into expression by the
hand, though the tongue may be restrained. The very way in which we
close a door, or lay down a book, may be a victory or a defeat."
At this point Elsie closed the little book and laid it down with no
gentle hand. She was vexed with it. What nonsense was this! The idea
that when one banged the door a little with nobody around to see, and
not meaning anything in particular, only a general vexation, one had
dishonored Christ! That was straining a point! Just as if people could
keep from doing those little things! And just as though they did any
hurt! The little book was fanatical; she didn't like it at all.
What sent her back, just then, to her little class in Sabbath-school?
seven or eight of the babies under her care. What verse was that which
she had taught them only last Sabbath? "Who shall ascend into the hill
of the Lord, and who shall stand in His holy place?" That was the
question she had asked. How had she taught them to answer? She seemed
to see the sixteen little hands raised, while eight little voices
repeated: "He that hath clean hands and a pure heart." Whose fanaticism
was this? What had she herself taught those little ones that "clean
hands" meant? Had she really meant that they, those babes in Christ,
must carefully watch their small hands, lest they slam the door in
anger or throw the book, and that she, Elsie Burton, eighteen years old
and for four years a Christian, could do any of these trifles without
soiling hers? It was illogical, certainly.
Yet, can I make you understand, I wonder, what a ferment all these
little things set Miss Elsie into? They seemed so new to her; so
unexpected. She was a bright young Christian; she desired in general,
to honor her Master. Yet, like many another, she had selected great
ways in which to honor Him, and, occasionally, at least, looked about
for something large to do in His service, forgetting, or ignoring, many
small daily opportunities. She liked her own way royally well, did this
young lady; and when on occasion older wills in authority crossed hers,
she submitted indeed; it would be unladylike to do otherwise, and Elsie
Burton did not like to be unladylike; but she frowned and banged the
door; yes, she did, a little, a very little, occasionally, and threw
her books on the table with determination, and wrote sarcastic letters
to her special friend, and grumbled occasionally to mamma. All these
things she had rather looked upon as her perquisites; little personal
rewards for submitting. In what a different way did the tiny book talk
about them all!
She sat very still and thought it over. "It reaches too far," she told
herself, catching her breath. "It would make perfectly awful work of
living! Just think! One couldn't—oh dear! one couldn't do anything,
without looking at it to see if it were just exactly the right thing to
do. According to that doctrine, I don't belong to myself at all. Such
fanaticism!"
"Ye are not your own; ye are bought with a price; therefore glorify God
in your bodies and your spirits, which are His." Who whispered that
verse to her? It was not in the offending little book. Whose fanaticism
was this?
Meantime the car had been filling up. Her luxurious turned seat had
been unceremoniously returned, while she was too busy with her book
even to frown. There come next a man with a child in his arms, and
leading one by the hand; a commonly-dressed, jaded man; he looked
about him right and left for a seat; vain hope; Elsie's was the only
unoccupied one in the car. "May I sit here?" he asked meekly and
prepared to seat himself, taking the other child on his knee, her small
hand which was not of the cleanest coming in dangerous contact with
Elsie's faultless bronze travelling suit. She saw it and twitched the
skirt of her dress, not gently, away from the disagreeable member,
muttering low as she did so, that the seat was "not intended for four
persons."
"Perhaps one hardly need to say that the kept hands will be very gentle
hands." She did not repeat the words, but they repeated themselves to
her, in a way that startled. Once more she looked down at her hands.
Was He actually dishonored by that quick, irritable movement? The face
of the man beside her looked troubled; he had seen the movement and had
reached forth and clasped the offending little hand in his own rough
one. He looked very careworn, and the smaller of the children, who was
but a baby, began to utter wailing cries which he vainly tried to hush.
Hopeless little cries they were; they went, someway, to Elsie's heart.
She was sorry her hand had been so un-Christ-like in its movement. How
could she atone for it? She reached forth for her lunch basket, and
drawing therefrom a rosy-cheeked apple presented it to the little girl.
The small soiled hand grasped after it eagerly, and the father smiled
and leaned forward to admonish the child to thank the giver. "They both
look very tired," Elsie said, gently; "travelling is hard for children."
The man drew a heavy sigh. "It is hard for them," he said. "They miss
their mother; they don't know what to make of it, and I don't know how
to do for them as she would. I buried her last Tuesday."
CHAPTER II.
A DISMAYED exclamation from Elsie; then she added, "Poor little
things!" in a tone that conveyed much to the sad father's heart.
"You may well say that," he said, getting out his handkerchief hastily,
to wipe the great tears that would gather in his eyes. "Two babies, you
may say, with no one but a blundering father to do for them! I'm bound
to do the very best I can, but what's a man worth when it comes to such
work as that! And them crying for their mother every little while! This
one," touching the head of the older child with gentle hand, "couldn't
get herself to go to sleep, no how, last night. I patted her, and
coaxed her for an hour; but she said she 'wanted mamma too bad for
anything.'"
There were tears in Elsie's eyes now, and she reached for the soiled
little hand and gathered it tenderly into her gloved one. For the rest
of that journey the motherless child had a friend. The baby slept
on his father's shoulder; and Elsie devoted herself to making the
five-year-old happy. Among other womanly offices, she took the child
forward to the water-cooler, and by dint of patient use of handkerchief
and some of her own sweet-scented soap, she made the small hands rosy
with cleanliness. This was so that she could have a delicately tinted
card from the lady's pocket. An illuminated card, with an outline
picture of two hands clasped; the one a small, childish hand, the other
large and firm, suggestive of strength and protection. There were words
underneath, and the child demanded that they be read. It was one of
Elsie's class cards, and the verse: "Who shall ascend into the Hill of
the Lord, and who shall stand in His holy place? He that hath clean
hands and a pure heart."
"It means, who shall go to live with Jesus in heaven?" explained Elsie.
The little girl looked gravely down at her small pink hands. "My hands
are clean," she said, reflectively. "I guess I can go, mamma went. It
was Jesus who took her."
Elsie's eyes dimmed again as she answered the child gently, "Yes, and
He wants you; wants you to keep your hands clean, so you can go. Not
simply clean with water, you know, but clean from every wrong and
naughty thing."
The grave-eyed child considered. "I slap Johnnie, sometimes," she said,
sadly, "when he's cross."
"Oh! And that soils your hands with the kind of soil that water will
not wash away. Look at the picture; that little hand is clasped in a
strong one; the picture is to make you think of Jesus' hand; He holds
it out for you to put yours in it, so He can keep it safe from getting
soiled."
"How?" said the child, looking puzzled. "Where is He? Why doesn't He
hold His hand out to me?"
"He does, darling; you cannot see it, nor feel it, because He has not
given you the kind of eyes yet with which to see Him; but if you give
your hand to Him, and then ask Him every day to keep it from doing
wrong things, and make it clean, He will; and by and by He will take
you up to Heaven, where mamma is, and where you can see Him, and feel
the touch of His hand."
Such sweet, serious eyes as that child had! She looked down at her
small unmothered hand, in such a grave, considering way, as seemed
almost too much for Elsie to bear; and at last she said, "I will do it;
I mean to go to mamma." And the shadow of a smile was on her face—a
serious little face, old beyond its years. Elsie did not wonder that
the father wiped great tears away; but he grasped her hand heartily and
said, "God bless you, ma'am, for showing the little girl how to smile.
She hasn't smiled since—" and the sentence was left unfinished.
There was no time for further words. The car bell was ringing, and the
dinner gong of the eating house was clattering, and the car was in a
bustle of preparation to depart. Elsie gathered her wraps and packages,
secured the little book which had told her strange truths, made tender
by the practical commentary on them drawn from her new acquaintances,
then shook hands with the little girl, bending to kiss her and whisper,
"Remember."
"I will," the child said.
"And I will," murmured Elsie. "I must surely take the counsel which I
have given her; else how could I bear to meet the child when we both
see Him face to face?"
"Hurrah! here you are. I was afraid you did not come, after all. I
left Carrie consumed with anxiety lest you had missed the train, or
something."
It was Cousin Ben, face and voice full, of eager welcome. He seized
upon Elsie's belongings as he spoke, managing shawl-strap and bag and
bundles with the air of one long used to business; called for checks,
and gave rapid, business-like orders to a porter in waiting, talking to
Elsie incessantly all the time—at least, so it seemed to her.
"Now, shall we take a carriage or a sleigh? We have both at your
service, you see; and the wheeling is so abominable that there is but
one thing worse, which is the sleighing. The fact is, we have neither
wheeling nor sleighing just now. Whichever way you take, you will be
sure to wish you had chosen the other."
"Why can't we walk?" Elsie asked, laughing at his description and his
volubility.
"Walk! A young lady, just arrived from a fatiguing journey of three
hours' duration, walking up from the depot! I'm afraid Carrie will
faint. Still, in all sincerity, it is much the better way, if one
only thinks so. Do you honestly vote for it? Sensible young lady—the
first one I have met this winter. Halloo, porter! That scamp has gone
already, I declare! He will be back here, ready to earn another fifty
cents, before we get started. I wanted to palm off some of these
dry goods on him. O, no, not at all," as Elsie tried to offer her
assistance; "they are not heavy, only slippery. This wretched little
box is such a nuisance. I found it at the express office, and I wish I
had left it there. Ah, well, now, if you insist, you may carry the box.
It is small, you see, but slippery; seems to have an affinity for the
pavement. I've landed it there once, already."
The small, compact box, neatly wrapped in paper, was transferred from
Ben's crowded arms to Elsie's empty ones. Then the walk commenced.
A bright sunny day, the air just keen enough to be exhilarating,
and the business street down which their road lay was aglow with
holiday trappings. A walk was certainly not an unattractive thing.
Yet there was a cloud on Elsie's face; and if her gay cousin had been
watching her, he would have discovered that she bestowed suspicious
glances on the innocent-looking box which she carried. It was not its
weight that disturbed her; that was a mere trifle. What then? She
watched her opportunity, when Ben was busy re-arranging his load, and
unceremoniously applied her nose to the box. Faugh! It was as she
suspected. Here was she, Elsie Burton, who hated the sight and smell
and very name of the vile weed tobacco, actually carrying a box of
cigars through the street! She could have dropped them into the muddy
carriage drive, across which they were just picking their way, with a
good grace.
"I wonder if Ben smokes!" This was her indignant mental query. "I
declare, if that boy has gone and spoiled himself in such a hateful
way, I shall drop him." There were certain phases of moral courage
in which Elsie was by no means lacking. She was entirely willing
to express then and there, to her handsome young cousin, her utter
and intense abhorrence of everything pertaining to tobacco; and the
probabilities are strong that her very manner of doing so would have
outwitted any good which she desired to accomplish; that is, if she
really wished to accomplish anything beyond expressing her indignation.
Something quieted her just then. The memory of certain words: "Can
you let it take up things which, to say the very least, are not 'for
Jesus'?" Suppose people really did govern their lives by such rules as
that? Suppose Ben did. Would he be carrying home cigars to smoke? What
a thing it was that he had been the one to lead her unwittingly into
this first soiling of her hands! Almost before she realized that she
was doing so, she spoke her thoughts aloud: "Oh, Ben! You have made me
soil my hands."
Her cousin turned to her quickly, his face expressive of concern. "I
beg ten thousand pardons! Was I such a stupid dolt as to give you a
soiled paper to carry? What is it? Are your gloves ruined?" But he
looked in vain for soil; the delicate bronze gloves were as delicate as
before she touched the box, and the neat manilla wrapping was guiltless
of a stain.
Elsie laughed a little. "I was thinking aloud," she said. "I did not
mean my gloves, but my hands. Ben, I don't like the soil of cigars."
"Are they so very offensive to you?" This with a puzzled air. "It isn't
possible that you get their odor at this distance!"
"O, Ben! You know you are not stupid. Why do you pretend that you don't
understand me to mean moral soil?"
"Upon my word, I never thought of such a thing!" And Ben stared at his
cousin in genuine astonishment. "Isn't that straining a point, my wise
little cousin?"
"Is it? Suppose I believe that my hands should do nothing to help along
anything that is wrong in the world, could I, in that case, handle
cigars much?"
"That depends. Are cigars wicked?"
Elsie flashed a pair of keen eyes on him. "Are cigars good?"
He laughed good-naturedly. "Why, no; I haven't been in the habit of
attaching any moral character to them whatever."
"Very well; then why do you pretend that I am talking about their moral
character? The question is, do I believe that it is wrong to spend
money for cigars, and to spoil one's breath, and poison the air that
belongs to other people with their vile odors? In that case, I must be
consistent with my belief, and not let my hands help along that which I
consider mischievous."
"Pitch them into the gutter if you want to," he said, good-humoredly.
"You see they are not mine; I promised to bring them up for Hal; so I
can afford to be generous."
"Does Hal smoke?"
"Like a furnace. I won't tell him, though, that you helped the matter
along. I'll appear to have carried the offending box every step of the
way myself."
But Elsie did not smile. "If I were Emmeline," she began, then stopped.
"What then? Supposing I can stretch my credulity enough to imagine
anything so preposterous."
"Never mind; perhaps I ought not to say it."
"But it will do no harm for me to guess it. In the light of your last
sharp remarks, I fancy you were going to say: If I were Emmeline I
would not marry a cigar smoker.'"
"It is true," Elsie said, laughing a little, "I wouldn't."
"Really? Are you serious about this thing? Do you honestly think there
is anything so very wicked about smoking a cigar now and then?"
"What a way to put it! As if a thing must be 'so very wrong' in order
to be—not right. As to the 'now and then'—Oh, if you needed a lecture,
Ben, I think I could give it; I've thought a great deal about the
matter; but just now I was looking at it from such a simple platform
that it doesn't need argument. Hal, you know, is a Christian, and he
professes to govern all his life by one rule, as a servant who belongs
body and purse to Christ. How very easy it would be for him to decide
whether he ought to spend his money on cigars!"
Ben, I regret to say, was guilty of the ungentlemanly act of whistling.
A low whistle, instantly suppressed, but it expressed his views. "How
many Christians do you suppose govern themselves by any such rules?"
"The question has nothing whatever to do with the argument," Elsie
said; "but I'll answer it. Very few, I think. Does that annihilate the
rule?"
"How fortunate it is for me that we are just at the door," Ben
answered, gayly. "Give me the box of cigars, quick; and don't convert
Emmeline to your way of thinking, or we shall have no wedding to
attend."
I do not know whether, had Elsie known all the temptations and
embarrassments to beset her on that very next day, she would have been
able to make so emphatic a resolution as the one with which she left
the car. A shopping excursion was in order for the morning. Cousin
Carrie had a dozen trifles which must be bought that day, and it suited
Ben to attend them gallantly all the morning. Now shopping was not a
trial to Elsie; it had all the charm of novelty for her, for hitherto
her busy young life had known comparatively little of it. On this
particular morning the circumstances were particularly agreeable. She
had no grave responsibilities, but was merely an interested looker-on,
ready to give bits of advice as occasion offered; while nestled away in
her pretty porte-monnaie were two shining gold pieces which her father
had given her that morning to spend as she pleased. Oh, the charming
things that a girl of eighteen may please to buy! Cousin Carrie was a
helpful companion in that direction. She had wide-open eyes, and dealt
in superlatives:
"Oh, Elsie! Do look at this lovely shade in kids. Aren't they perfectly
exquisite? Just your number, too, and, match your new hat exactly.
Really, Elsie, you ought to have a pair of those. I never saw a more
perfect match."
Elsie looked interested but doubtful. "I have just bought new gloves,"
she said, "and they match nicely, I think."
"Oh, they do; they are charming. But these are that lovely, peculiar
shade which one so rarely finds in kid—just the tint of your long
plume. Oh, I do think they are too lovely for anything!"
"They are expensive."
"Oh, I don't think so. Only two and a quarter. You can't get really
good kid for less than that, and poor gloves are not worth buying.
Besides, they have the Foster fastenings. Now I really dote on Foster
fastenings."
Elsie was being persuaded. They did look as though they would fit her
shapely hand so well, and they really were a remarkable match. What
if she had just bought a pair? Gloves would keep and would be always
needed. Mamma approved of good gloves, and papa had told her to spend
the gold pieces just as she pleased.
"Well," she said, a slight hesitation still in her voice, "I think
I'll—" and she glanced down at her hands.
"Next time any temptation of this sort approaches you, just look at
your hand." It was to Elsie as though the words were written on the
back of her glove, so distinctly did she seem to see them. A temptation
of what sort? Was this box of gloves in the list? "Can you let it take
up things, which, to say the least, are not for Jesus?" Were the gloves
for Him? The question startled her, seemed a little irreverent, yet she
was a clear-brained girl and knew what the query meant.
Was she buying them because she felt that she needed them to complete
a neat and tasteful toilet? If—it was a sufficiently startling thought
to make the color run into her cheeks, yet she thought it—if the Lord
Jesus Christ stood there in the flesh, occupying the space at her side
now filled by Cousin Ben, would she spend two dollars and a quarter for
an unneeded pair of gloves? Should the hand belonging to Him do aught
that His glance would not approve?
She was ready to finish her sentence. "I think I will not take them,
Carrie. I have gloves enough for the present, and the styles may
change, before I need them."
"What nonsense! These are in the very latest shade. I never saw any
quite like them before. I wish they would match anything of mine and
would buy them in a moment, although Auntie gave me a full box of
gloves at Christmas. How many pairs have you, Elsie?"
This question amused Ben wonderfully. "An official report, if you
please," he said, his eyes twinkling with laughter. "How many
handkerchiefs have you, and how many ribbons and how many ruffles? Do
you young ladies keep an inventory for each other's special benefit?"
Elsie laughed, but Carrie turned from her coldly. She set her heart on
managing the glove matter, and it was ignominious to fail.
CHAPTER III.
THIS is but a faint specimen of the ways in which temptation assailed
the fair hands in whose stewardship two gold pieces had been placed. It
seemed to Elsie a curious coincidence that the first temptation should
have to do with a covering for those hands. But for that she might not
have gotten through so well.
It was wonderful, the number of articles that Carrie found which she
was sure her Cousin Elsie needed and ought to purchase; delicate
laces of a peculiarly rare and choice pattern that might not be found
again; soft, fluffy ruches particularly becoming to Elsie's face; fine
handkerchiefs, delicately embroidered, sold at a bargain; a peculiar
perfume, the like of which had never been smelled before; even scented
soaps joined hands with Elsie's companions that day and tried to
beguile her; yet she stood firm.
It was a curious experience. Could she have divested herself of
personal feeling, and looked on as an outsider, she would have enjoyed
the study. There was absolutely nothing presented which stood the test.
His hands, they must make no purchase save such as would please their
Master.
"I cannot think what is the matter with you!" Carrie said, watching her
cousin curiously. "You used to be ready enough to buy pretty things.
I've seen at least a hundred and fifty articles this morning that I
should have bought if I had as much spending money as you have. Papa
keeps me dreadfully close these days; everything has to be saved for
Emmeline. I tell papa just to wait until I get engaged, and I'll be
revenged. It can't be that you are saving up for that, Elsie; you are
not out of school yet."
Through it all Ben watched with amused face, not helping his cousin in
the least; on the contrary, he made several wise suggestions as to the
utility of some of the temptations.
"It is worse than cigars, isn't it?" he queried at last, his wicked
eyes dancing mischievously. Elsie felt that he was amusing himself at
her expense—turning her scruples into ridicule. Would it not be better
to lay aside her new ideas, and change the current of his thoughts by
disposing of the spending money that seemed to be the cause of so much
trouble? Wasn't it a sort of "casting pearls before—" and here she
paused; partly because she did not like to apply the simile, and partly
because her brain was too keen to admit of such reasoning. If Ben chose
to be led into sin through her conscientious effort to do right, he
must bear the blame of it.
But she was to be tried in a way that was harder to bear. Carrie,
positively vexed because she could not persuade her cousin into buying,
at the jewel counter, a lovely little charm for her chain, turned from
her and spoke to Ben in a very poor undertone: "I don't understand
Elsie. I'm afraid she is growing penurious, and that is really a more
hateful fault in a girl than in a boy. She used to be so free and
generous with her money."
"Perhaps Uncle Wells keeps her close," was Ben's hateful suggestion.
"He is well off, to be sure, but he may not be growing liberal as he
grows older."
Dear! You should have seen the flush on Elsie's face then! The idea of
that upstart of a boy daring to speak so about her dear father! He was
not rich either, and everybody knew he denied himself to have the more
to give to others. For a moment Elsie wondered whether she did not hate
her Cousin Ben—just a little!
Also, she felt just like dashing out in some wild expenditure that
would show her cousins how indifferent she could be to money when she
chose. What should she buy? There was plenty of opportunity. Just next
door in the plate-glass window stood temptations enough. Grapes, out of
season, large; white, luscious. They were marked fifty cents! Suppose
she should buy a bunch for herself, and one each for Carrie and Ben,
and two or three bunches to take home to Aunt Carrie? Beside them was a
silver-papered box of choice bonbons, marked one dollar; she might add
that and a bouquet of rare flowers. Would not these expenditures show
that she knew how to use money and had it to use?
Her hand was on the door-knob. She was burning with the desire to slip
in next door and make her purchases while Carrie studied over shades
of ribbons. Suddenly she withdrew the hand quickly, as though it had
come in contact with something that repelled it. "Clean hands!" To
what base uses was she about to put hers! Why did she want to buy the
fancy bonbons and the fruits and flowers out of season? As a tribute of
love? Her honest heart told her that it was rather a tribute of anger!
Did her father's reputation rest on such slight ground that it could
be injured by the ignorant chatter of a silly boy, or be built up by
a daughter's ill-humored extravagance? Very much astonished with, and
ashamed of, herself, Elsie turned away, and stood quite still for a
moment, eyes and head drooping. After that, she was better prepared for
the rest of the hour, even though the cousins chose next a way of being
cousinly that was almost unendurable. Ben actually bought some of the
great white grapes, and forced a few on her, though she felt as though
it would take but one to choke her. The truth is, fair Elsie, during
that and several following days, took lessons in the fact that Satan
makes sharp battle for every power of our being; and that the cross is
still waiting to be borne; the only reason that we feel its weight so
little being the fact that we have fallen into the habit of slipping
quietly around it, instead of boldly taking it up.
The curtains were drawn and the gas was lighted in the cosy back
parlor. Without the rain was steadily falling, and there was a rush
of wind every few minutes against the casement, which sharpened the
contrast between the dreary outside and the brightness of the home
scene within.
Over the family there had come the sort of lull which follows special
days of eager life and keen excitement. There had been the whirl of
preparation for, and then the excitement of participation in, wedding
festivities, and then the bustle of departure. Emmeline and Hal were
made one, and had gone away together, Elsie taking note, with much
inward disgust, that the groom actually smoked a cigar at the depot,
while waiting for the belated train.
Now those who tarried behind had reached a stormy Saturday evening,
with nothing to do but lounge amid the easy chairs and rest and visit.
Somewhat to their astonishment, they found this dull work. The reaction
from so much excitement was upon them, and many a yawn was hastily
covered so that the others might not suspect.
"Somebody read something," proclaimed Ben at last. "We are all too
indolent to talk—let some fellow who knows how talk for us. Who will
volunteer?"
"Elsie must read," said Carrie. "Papa says she is the best reader in
the set. I've been sulky over that remark ever since he made it, so of
course I will not."
Some gay talk followed this statement, but at last they settled down to
listen. Elsie, by no means unwilling to be appointed reader, for, like
most persons who are accustomed to reading aloud and who like to do it,
she hated to listen.
The book selected was a recent publication by a popular author. It
opened well, and in a very few minutes the listless company was giving
absorbed attention.
A half-hour passed, and then a dismayed, "Oh! Dear! Who is coming to
disturb us!" from Carrie, mingled with the sound of talking in the hall.
A moment more, and the relieved exclamation, "It's only Freem!" greeted
a newcomer.
"Freem," or Mr. Freeman Vance, was a gentleman who was much at home
with the young people of the house, and, during her visit Elsie had met
him several times. He was older than the cousins, having passed beyond
the age in which he was spoken of as "one of the boys." Carrie called
him a "full-fledged young man," but admitted that he was "nicer" than
most of them.
He dropped readily into an easy chair, drawn up near the grate,
murmured that this was delightful, and that it was a wretched night
outside, then begged that the reading might go on; there was nothing
that he enjoyed better than listening to a good reader.
There was a heightened color on Elsie's cheeks, but it was not brought
there by the implied compliment. She knew that she was a fairly good
reader. To-night, however, she was giving only partial attention to the
book. With by far the keener portion of her brain she was carrying on
an argument somewhat after this fashion: "I don't know about this book.
There are some queer expressions in it; I doubt whether papa would
approve. I wonder if that sentence is really intended as a covert sneer
at religion? I don't believe I like to hear the Bible quoted in just
this manner. Mamma wouldn't call that girl prudish; she would think she
showed a proper degree of self-respect."
You are to understand that these mental comments did not all rush
forward at one time and demand attention, but presented themselves at
intervals during the reading. Yet the doubt in Elsie's mind about the
book grew so rapidly that, just as Freeman Vance was announced, she
had almost resolved to declare boldly her objections and decline to
read. But his coming had made this a doubly difficult thing to do. Poor
Elsie felt instinctively that she stood alone; she was breathing an
atmosphere so unlike the one in which she had been reared that it would
be almost impossible to make her audience understand her scruples. She
shrank from trying. "What mattered a few pages of a book?" she told her
conscience. She need not admire the book; certainly there was no danger
that she should. Once through with this disagreeable evening, and she
need never look into it again.
So the reading continued. And the mental arguments continued, also, for
to the reader's wide-open eyes the sentiments expressed did not grow
less objectionable. It was not that they were pronounced in their form;
there was neither downright mockery of things sacred nor downright
ridicule of things pure. It was simply like many a book which is being
read in parlors; full of delicately-served, sugar-coated poisons. And
it was commended, too, in a general way, by some of the very newspapers
that might have been expected to stand guard over its intrusion into
Christian homes.
It was charmingly written. The pale hero was so fascinating in his
manner that, when he languidly quoted a moral lie and gracefully
propped it with arguments, you, being eighteen and guileless, could not
help admiring him a little.
Yet did Elsie read under protest. "Mamma" appeared before her
frequently, with keen eyes and clear brain, and swept away a filmy
web which would hide a falsehood from less cultured minds. "Papa's"
strong logic came often to mind to overthrow some subtle reasoning. Dr.
Falconer's very last sermon loomed up before her once, text and all, to
refute utterly a hint which the pale hero put forth.
If Freeman Vance had not appeared on the scene the book would certainly
have been laid aside; but how utterly foolish would her position appear
to him! He would call her a prude, as she had heard him call a young
lady who had been the subject of conversation the other day. She knew
just how his lip curled when he said it. Not that she cared for Freeman
Vance's opinion, she told herself; but, then, nobody liked to be talked
about. As she reached this conclusion she turned another leaf. The
interesting hero was in the midst of a statement given with as much
energy as he ever used, and, by way of emphasizing his point, he used
an unmitigated oath.
"Can you deliberately hold in your hand books of a kind which you know
perfectly well lead you farther from instead of nearer to Him?"
The quotation came to the reader suddenly, with almost as much force as
though it had been spoken by an audible voice. She made an instant's
pause—the oath unread—and looked down at her fair hands. They were
being soiled! There was no question in her heart about it. With a
sudden, impulsive movement, she spread open her hands with a repellent
gesture, as though she recoiled from the thing touched, and the book
fell to the floor. Freeman Vance sprang to return it and Carrie gave a
nervous start.
"Why, Elsie Burton, what is the matter? You made me drop six stitches
off my hook."
"Is there a ghost on that page?" queried Ben, mischief in his voice.
"No," said Elsie, her courage and her color rising. "I think it is a
serpent. Thank you, Mr. Vance; I don't want the thing again. I have had
quite too much of it. You must all excuse me from farther reading of
that book. I am not in sympathy with the morals or the manners of its
characters. I am ashamed that I have allowed myself to read it so long."
"I'll venture that it is another case of 'soiled hands,'" Ben said,
nothing but amusement in his voice.
His cousin turned toward him with flashing eyes. "Yes," she said, "it
is."
CHAPTER IV.
THEN began a babel of tongues. The book was "elegant!" "Charming!"
Everybody said it was the best one from that popular writer's pen. The
"critics were just raving over it." "Certainly it was written in a most
fascinating manner."
These were some of the statements which Elsie seemed to be expected to
answer. She had very little to say. The truth was, she felt painfully
conscious of the fact that many of her arguments would sound to this
company like an unknown tongue. What did they know of loyalty to the
Master who owned her, heart and hands? What wild fanaticism would they
think it, if she said that she felt herself to have dishonored Christ,
in having lent her hands and her voice to the book which she had just
dropped?
Yet she said this, speaking steadily, albeit with glowing cheeks. She
felt it to be the least that she could do, as His witness, to speak
the simple truth, and bear the storm of words, the incredulity, the
laughter, the raillery; and the almost more disagreeable attempt to be
patient with her, as with an ignorant child, fresh from country life
and country ideas.
"Oh, well!" said Carrie, at last. "We might as well save our breath,
as to coax her after she has made up her mind. You always were an
obstinate child, you know, Elsie, my dear. Ben, suppose you read."
"Not I," said Ben, with emphasis. "It is my brains, instead of my
hands, that I am afraid of; I never had the proper amount to bear me
out in reading aloud. Vance, will you volunteer?"
An expressive shrug of shapely shoulders was the young man's only
reply, but it seemed to be considered decisive.
"Then we must give it up," Carrie said, great vexation in her voice.
"What shall we do? I'm too dull to talk. Oh, I'll tell you, let's have
a game. Freem Vance, I owe you a grudge for beating me, the last time
we played. Get the cards, Ben, and I'll see if I cannot redeem my
reputation in that line."
Ben laughed good-humoredly, but made no attempt to obey.
"You are dull to-night, Carrie, duller than usual, that's a fact, if
you have any idea that our fair cousin will let her hands go so far
astray as to dabble with cards."
"Well, I should like to know why not. There is no irreligion about
them, certainly, poor little innocent things! Elsie, you will play a
game with us, won't you?"
"Thank you," Elsie said, trying to make her voice sound natural; "I
never play cards."
"Oh, that's of no consequence! You can easily learn. Ben, you could
teach her in five minutes, so she could play with you, couldn't you?"
"Doubt it exceedingly. There is an insurmountable objection, I fancy.
Unless I am mistaken, she will decline to be taught."
"No, she won't; we can't make up a set without her, and she will not be
so disagreeable as to refuse. Come, Elsie, you will be accommodating,
won't you?"
Poor Elsie felt like nothing so much as bursting into tears, and
running away, but she stood her ground bravely.
"I am sorry to appear unaccommodating, Carrie, but Ben is right; I
cannot play cards any better than I can read that book."
"What is the matter with cards?" There was a sneering tone to Carrie's
voice; perhaps it was well for Elsie that such was the case. Sneers
were apt to give her courage.
She choked back the tears, and tried to answer lightly: "They are
innocent enough, I suppose; it is the rough handling that the poor
things get to which I object."
"That is begging the question. Our professor of rhetoric says people
always do that when they are unable to prove their statements. I am
tired of hints and sanctimonious flings. Everything is wicked nowadays.
You used to have as much life in you as anybody; if there is any reason
for such pokiness, I should like to hear it. Why won't you play cards?"
"The prisoner will stand and answer to the solemn charge preferred
against her."
This from Ben. His sister's manner was so dictatorial that he was
ashamed of her, and was inclined, in a rollicking way, to aid Elsie.
She glanced toward him, smiling, then turned to Carrie.
"Why, Caroline, my dear, you surely do not need the ordinary arguments
against card-playing quoted to you! Everybody who has given any thought
to the subject understands them, and it wouldn't make them any plainer
or more forceful to quote them. For myself, I am sure I need only give
you one. My father and mother do not approve of the amusement."
Ben gave a curious little laugh at this point. "No more do ours, eh,
Carrie?" he said.
"Nonsense!" returned that young lady sharply. "I'm sure papa said
only the other night that times were changed since he was young, and
lived in the country. A great many people who live in little country
towns get narrow views of things, breathe them in the atmosphere which
surrounds them; but that is no reason they should hold to them when
they get a chance to see the world. I don't know what you mean, Ben;
I'm sure papa has never forbidden us to play cards. I am going to have
a game—I know that; and if Elsie won't play, I'll call Mary down. She
will like the fun of joining us."
"Mary" was the fourteen-year-old sister who was tolerated only
occasionally among the older young people.
As Carrie arose to summon her, Mr. Freeman Vance spoke the first
sentence he seemed to have considered himself called upon to utter
since the conversation commenced.
"At the same time, Miss Carrie, suppose you secure little Belle to take
my place. I do not feel equal to cards this evening."
Whereupon Ben burst into hearty laughter. "Amusement under
difficulties, upon my word!" he said, as soon as he could speak. "What
shall be done with them, Carrie?"
"Oh, well!" Carrie said, returning to her seat with an offended air.
"Since you are all disposed to be so very accommodating, you may
entertain yourselves. I'm sure I shall make no farther attempt. It is
the first time I ever knew you, Freem Vance, to decline cards. You are
playing a new game to-night, I should think."
Whereunto this embarrassing and ill-humored conversation would have
grown, I cannot tell you; for at that point occurred an interruption,
in the shape of a summons for Ben.
His father desired to see him at once, in the library, on a matter of
business.
And no sooner had he, with a little good-humored grumbling, departed,
than Carrie unceremoniously left the room by another door, and the two
guests were alone together.
I am aware that I have had to present Miss Carrie to you in a very
unfavorable light. As a rule, she was good-humored and ladylike, and,
being a year or two older than Elsie, was in the habit of being looked
up to by her. But, being a young woman without a settled purpose of
life or a guiding motive for speech or action, she was left, more or
less, at the mercy of the passing mood; and the excitements of the past
few days had served to unsettle her nerves to an unusual degree.
Left to themselves, an embarrassing silence followed. Elsie did not
know how to commence a conversation with this cultured man of the
world; especially, after the experiences of the last hour.
It was he who finally led the way:
"Would you mind giving me some of your objections to card-playing for
amusement? I think I am not well posted as you suppose your cousin to
be."
There was neither banter nor sarcasm in his voice; instead, he seemed
to be in earnest. But Elsie, full of sparkling logic for the boys and
girls, was unused to arguing with a gentleman, and hesitated.
"Don't they become snares to some young men, and lead them into
temptation and misery sometimes?" she said at last.
He seemed surprised at the answer, and waited a moment before he said,
"I think they do; but it does not seem to me that your cousin Ben is
tempted in that direction."
"I was not thinking of him at all. If any person came to mind it
was little Teddy Reilly, my Sabbath-school boy, whose father is a
professional gambler, and who lives in an atmosphere of impurity. I
want to keep my hands so clean from all such things that there shall
never be the possibility of his associating me with them. And the world
is full of Teddy Reillys; we may meet them when we do not know it, and
influence them when we are not thinking of such a thing. Besides, I
have two little brothers. I don't want them ever to find in gambling
saloons anything that will remind them of home and home pleasures."
"I am answered," he said, smiling; but there was nothing unpleasant in
the smile.
After a little, he spoke again, still in the same gentle tone: "Would
it be disagreeable to you to tell me what you meant, a little while
ago, about the book, and what Ben's reference to 'clean hands' had to
do with it?"
This question caused the color to deepen on Elsie's cheeks. Such things
were harder to explain; she doubted his ability to understand.
"It began with Dr. Falconer, my pastor," she replied, hesitatingly. "He
said, when he bade me good-by, that he hoped I would be careful not
to soil my hands. Then he lent me a little book of Miss Havergal's,
and I read it on the cars. There were marked passages in it, about
hands having been given to Christ and being kept for His service. One
sentence is, 'Can you let your hands take up things which, to say the
least, are not for Jesus? Can you deliberately hold in it books of
a kind which you know perfectly well lead you farther from, instead
of nearer to, Him?' I thought of that all the time I was reading the
book; and at last, when it came to a direct profanation of His name, I
dropped it. I wish I had done so before."
"It is narrow ground," said Freeman Vance.
"Yes, it is. I am amazed to see how it hedges one in. One of my
Sabbath-school verses is, 'He that hath clean hands and a pure heart.'
I have been very careful to teach the children what the words mean, and
that has made them plainer to myself, I think. At home, with my father
and mother, the way is plain enough, and bright and pleasant, but in
this atmosphere things are hard. I think I need mamma to-night."
Her lip was quivering. With the quotation of the Bible verse, Freeman
Vance had shaded his face with his hand. He made no response to her
words, and she struggled silently for composure.
At last he spoke again; a quiet voice, but it revealed a good deal of
suppressed feeling.
"Cards are a great temptation to me. I am very fond of them, and, like
you, I need my mother, and can never have her any more."
"Oh!" said Elsie, and the sympathy she put into that word must be
imagined, not described. "You need Jesus, Mr. Vance. If you give your
hands to Him, He will keep them and you."
There were footsteps in the hall. Carrie, ashamed apparently of her ill
humor and rudeness, had returned in a better mood. But there was no
more conversation. Freeman Vance arose almost immediately, saying that
he had but waited to bid her good-night.
"You have made an enemy of poor Freem," Carrie said, trying to laugh,
as the outer door closed after him. "He thinks an evening without cards
is a dreadful bore. People do say that he plays for something besides
amusement. But he has so much money that I suppose he thinks it no
harm to throw away some of it if he wants to. They say he never keeps
any that he wins. It seems a pity, though, to have him play with those
fellows. I always keep him at cards just as late as I can, so that he
will not be tempted to go to the saloons."
But Elsie had no answer for this phase of virtuous self-abnegation.
She was sore-hearted and disappointed. The world was not the beautiful
thing she had thought it. The shelter of home and mother were treasures
to be prized. The atmosphere of home was something to look forward to
with longing. The week was gone; she was glad of it. On Monday she was
going home. But—and here was the place for tears—she had disappointed
herself. She was not going back with hands as clean as she had hoped.
They were stained. His hands? Yes, but not kept always sheltered in His
grasp. And her lips had spoken few words for Him.
Here was this young man, Freeman Vance, in danger, it seemed, and
motherless; and she had met him every day for a week, several times a
day, indeed, and to-night's stammering sentence had been the first that
she had ever spoken to him of Christ. What a servant was she?
It was evening, and it was raining; and in the back parlor there was a
fire in the grate, throwing its bright gleams of light over the room
and playing gayly with the pictures on the walls.
Two easy chairs were drawn near to the grate, that their occupants
might the better enjoy the play of firelight and shadow. In one of them
sat Elsie Burton. A trifle over a year older than when you saw her
last. Not changed much, unless the brightness on her face has toned
into something softer, something which, while it belongs still to the
freshness of girlhood, hints of the coming woman.
The parlor is not the same in which you last saw her. It is her
father's own.
Elsie graduated a few weeks ago, just a little past nineteen; but she
preferred to spend the following months in the quiet of her own home,
though Cousin Carrie eagerly urged the delights of the great city upon
her.
The other occupant of an easy chair I presume you would also recognize,
though he, I think, is more changed than Elsie; but you would like
the change. I don't remember whether I told you that Freeman Vance
was a handsome man. A year ago, if you are a careful student of human
nature, you would have been a little troubled over the face. Handsome
dark eyes, but with an unrest about them that made you not sure of his
future. Handsome, quiet mouth, but with a look of strength about it, or
of firmness; and to be firm in a wrong direction means obstinacy—means
danger. And about the whole man there had been a certain something
which told you that he thought himself master of himself; and when a
man thinks that, wise people know that he is a slave.
But he was changed. What is the change which comes into these handsome,
manly faces, when their owners give themselves over, body and soul,
into the keeping of the King? Is it a stamp of the King's signet ring?
Is it a hint of the coming fulfillment—"We shall be like Him when we
shall see Him as He is"? Whatever it is, you saw it plainly on Freeman
Vance's face.
"It is singular that it rains." This was what he was saying.
"Why?" The word mellowed into a happy little laugh. The laugh said:
"Let it rain, and let the wind sigh and moan among the leafless
branches; I don't care in the least; the night, and the darkness, and
the sighing are as nothing to me; they are all 'without,' and I am
hedged in, and sheltered, and safe, and happy."
"It rained, that night, you know. I remember just how the drops sounded
on the window-pane, and how the wind moaned, and shook the trees
angrily because it could not get in at you. It seemed to know that it
would never be able to touch you, and to know, also, that in a few
minutes I would have to come out to it in the darkness and be whirled
whither it would."
"What a dreadful picture!" Still there was content in the voice. "I
remember the night, and the rain, and the wind; but I did not think
you noticed it, or cared whether it touched me or not. Carrie said I
offended you that evening."
"Poor Carrie! It is difficult to conceive of a young lady making less
of life than she is doing."
"How is it with Ben? He is getting on well, is he not?"
"Splendidly! The dear fellow! I saw him last night. Some memory of old
times came over us, and he spoke of that very evening; said he should
have reason to remember it forever; though it was words spoken on the
first day of your coming, during the walk up from the depot, he said,
which set him to thinking."
"No one ever acted less as though he were thinking! I was sure that he
was simply amused with me, as a little country dunce. Many a time he
helped to make it hard for me."
"I presume so; trying the temper of the steel. Ben is developing well.
He is the chief dependence of the young men's meeting in his church;
and he has a great deal of influence over the boys younger than
himself. Fenton tells me that he has about broken up the card-parties
which used to be so fashionable in that set; not by any aggressive
measures, you know—just a steady, quiet influence.
"'Clean hands,' he said to me last night. 'That is my motto, Freem.'
And there were tears in the dear fellow's eyes. You did good work in
the field during that one week, little Elsie. Went into the enemy's
ranks and captured right and left."
"I remember," said Elsie, when the laughter and the blushing over
part of this sentence had subsided—"I remember I cried that night,
because I felt that I had spent such a useless week, and, after all
my resolutions, was coming home with soiled hands and stained heart.
God was very good to own my feeble, blundering attempts. Poor Carrie
thought I cried because I had offended you."
"Poor Carrie!" repeated Arr. Vance, laughing a little. Then both of
them sighed. The year that was past had not improved Cousin Carrie.
"Does Ben know—" began Elsie, then stopped. Mr. Vance seemed able to
understand half sentences.
"Ben does not know anything, except where I am gone for vacation; but
I think he suspects a great deal and keeps his own counsel. I do not
visit often at your uncle's, now, for reasons that you may possibly
surmise."
Just a moment of silence, during which both watched the play of the
firelight.
Then Freeman Vance bent toward the other easy chair, which was lower
than his.
"I have something to show you, Elsie, and something to tell you. Will
you let me see if this fits?"
Then the firelight flashed about a cluster of small, pure diamonds,
quaintly set.
"It was my mother's ring, Elsie, and there is something to tell you
about it—something strange, which will make you feel more than ever
that God plans all our ways for us.
"When my mother gave it to me, a boy of twenty, she said: 'It is for
your wife, Freeman, with a mother's blessing. And, my son, promise me
this: the girl on whose finger you place it must have clean hands and a
pure heart. Will you be careful of that, my boy?' I promised it on my
knees, by my mother's dying bed.
"You may judge now something of the thrill it gave me to hear you quote
those words.
"I have carried the ring on my watch-guard, hidden from sight, for five
years.
"Now it has found its rightful owner, and, my darling, I know I have
obeyed my mother's words."
CIRCULATING DECIMALS.
———
CHAPTER I.
THE Sabbath-school library of the Penn Avenue Church was really in a
disgraceful condition. For years it had been let alone, until it had
finally put itself into that state of dilapidation which let alone
things can so skillfully assume. Covers were sadly torn, corners
curled, fly-leaves gone, in many cases the first dozen or twenty pages
of the book missing, to say nothing of great gaps in the middle of the
story or history. Some books had almost every leaf defaced by those
irritating scribblers, who are never safe creatures with a lead pencil
in their hands. Many of the books were missing, having been swallowed
in that mysterious vortex which ingulfs lost things, no person living
being able to give a lucid account of their departure. And, to crown
all, according to the statement of Mrs. Marshall Powers, who knew most
things, "Not more than half the books were fit for a Sabbath-school
library in the first place."
Who needs a photograph of a disabled library? Alas, the ghastly
remains lie around so profusely that there is no need for more than
a word to recall the very bend of their limp covers—those of them
which have covers left. Such was, and had been, the condition of the
Penn Avenue library for many a month. It had been long since a book
had been spoken of by the bright girls and boys who belonged to its
Sabbath-school without a contemptuous curling of upper lips. Spasms of
interest had been from time to time awakened, and much talk had been
wasted in repeating the patent fact—"We certainly ought to do something
about our library," the main difficulty being that the effort went no
farther than talk; and the day came when a suggestion of this sort
would set the aforesaid lips to curling in derisive incredulity. They
believed—those boys and girls—that the Penn Avenue library was dead.
Such, however, was not the case. One summer morning it revived. The
young ladies' society took hold of it with interest; they would have a
fair and festival forthwith; they would spare no pains and no expense
to make the matter a grand success, and secure the means for a new and
complete library, which should at once be the admiration and the envy
of every other church in town.
Do you need to be told how that society hummed and buzzed after that?
Meetings were held each week, sometimes twice a week. Committees were
formed, and dashed hither and thither through the crowded streets.
Worsted, and canvas, and embroidery silk, and ribbon, and beads, and
lace came to the front, and became matters of even more importance than
usual. The air was full of them, parlors were full of them, tongues
were full of them; go where you would, you were destined to hear about
"a lovely rose-colored tidy in a new stitch," or "an elegant afghan,"
the materials for which were to cost twenty dollars, or a "magnificent
Bible cushion" that was all a mass of raised silk embroidery that would
take "days and days of close work to finish"; or of some other of the
endless pieces of fancy work getting ready for the fair. Neither was
the festival part neglected. The city was districted, the streets were
canvassed, miles of energetic walking were accomplished, and the result
was cake—black cake, white cake, brown cake, chocolate, delicate,
cream, cocoanut, sponge, and, to crown all, the "loveliest great mound
of angels' food that was ever made in this town!" So one enthusiastic
miss reported. Think of a company of rational beings, meeting and
eating up a loaf or two of angels' food, for the purpose of securing a
Sabbath-school library! Cakes were not all! Jellies, pickles, chickens,
ham, tongue—oh! What not? If you had looked into the receiving room of
the Penn Avenue Church, on the afternoon of the eventful evening, you
would have almost supposed that the dear people were making ready to
give a Christmas dinner to this great, cold, homeless outside world,
so bountiful were the provisions. But they were not; they were only
preparing to eat their way into a Sunday-school library for the use of
their own boys and girls.
But let no novice suppose for a moment that the afternoon of this day
had been reached in peace. If I should undertake to give you a history
of one third of the troubles through which the self-sacrificing leaders
walked, my story would be far too long. Did not Helen Brooks say that
Sallie Stuart's pincushion was a "dowdy-looking thing," and should not
be on her table; that Sallie did not know how to do fancy work anyway,
and never ought to have tried? Did not Alice Jenkins say that Stella
Somebody had marked her sofa pillow "ridiculously high;" that it was
really a disgrace to a church to charge such exorbitant prices? And did
not both Sallie and Stella hear of these things, by that mysterious
process which is rife in all society, and which nobody understands,
and did they not both withdraw in affront, declaring that they would
have nothing more to do with the Penn Avenue fair, nor the Penn Avenue
Sabbath-school? This is only a hint of the miasm of which the air was
full.
But one story I must tell you: an "ower true tale" it is. If any of
the Penn Avenue people read this, I ask their pardon for making it
public, but it should be recorded as a matter of history. It was all
about a doll. A great, beautiful waxen doll, direct from Paris, having
wonderful real hair, and wonderful eyes that looked as though they must
be real, and rosy parted lips, and teeth that gleamed like pearls. This
doll was a special grant of grace to the young ladies' society. Mrs.
Archer, just returned from a European tour, had brought it home for
the very purpose to which she now dedicated it, namely, the library
of the Penn Avenue Sabbath-school. Think of the number of children in
that Sabbath-school whose very arms would quiver with the desire to
clasp such a treasure as their own! Assuredly there were fifty fathers
in the congregation who would think nothing of investing a dollar for
the possibility of securing it for the darling at home. Nothing easier
than to sell fifty tickets, at a dollar each, and let the child whose
fortunate number corresponded with the number on the inside of the
Parisian lady's Parisian slipper carry off the prize in triumph, while
the forty-nine other children held their breaths and controlled their
sobs as best they could.
Now all this proved to be very correct reasoning. Hot buckwheat cakes
on a frosty morning never disappeared faster than those fifty tickets
were exchanged for shining silver spheres or crisp national currency.
With great satisfaction did the committee count out its fifty dollars
for the treasury of the Lord, mourning over but one thing: "We might
have had seventy-five or a hundred tickets just as well as fifty."
Still, it was not all smooth sailing. Murmurs long and deep began to
be heard, and presently they waxed loud enough to claim attention.
There were those among some of the fathers and mothers in Israel who
succeeded in making it understood that they had conscientious scruples
against gambling, even for religious purposes. They declared that
this thing ought not to be, and therefore must not be. Triumphant
were the answers: "The tickets are all sold; what are you going to do
about it?" But the conscientious element was in earnest. Something
ought to, and therefore something could, be done about it; the money
could be refunded, the tickets destroyed, the Parisian lady valued
at a reasonable price and set up for sale, if they would, but never
raffled for. Great was the consternation—loud were the voices. Give
back the fifty dollars! Guess they would, hard as they had worked for
it! Great need in being so squeamish! They had heard of people who
strained at a gnat and swallowed a camel. They believed, if the truth
could be told, the trouble started with somebody who was disappointed
because his little girl did not get a ticket. They were not going to
give up the doll, not they. Did people suppose they would do all the
work, and then be dictated to by a few narrow-minded men and women?
The strife ran high; it threatened to rend in pieces the young ladies'
society. There were those who would do nothing if the Parisian lady
was insulted; there were those who would do nothing if the raffle was
permitted. Into the midst of the turmoil came the Sabbath to make what
lull it could. The offending lady was carried home on Saturday by one
of her allies, and securely locked in the "spare chamber" to spend the
Sabbath in repose. Alas, and alas! The day was warm, the windows of the
spare room fronted the south; the blinds had been thrown wide-open, the
evening before, to catch the last rays of light for a special object,
and by some strange mismanagement had not been closed again. The
blue-eyed lady in her arm-chair directly in front of the window, looked
her loveliest all day; and all day the sunbeams hovered around her,
and wooed her, and kissed her, and caressed her, never realizing the
fierce heat of their love; and on Monday morning, when the determined
committee went to remove my lady to her throne in the church parlor,
behold, her delicate complexion was seamed and soiled; what had been
red cheeks were simply long faded streaks, extending in irregular
lines to her neck; her eyelashes were gone, her nose was gone, her
lovely lips were washed out, and she was, in short, a ruined wreck of
her former self! There was no raffling at that fair. The money was
returned, the doll was patched up, and packed up, and sent to a little
niece of one of the committee—the disappointed auntie having bought my
lady for a trifle—mid apparent calm succeeded the angry threatenings.
Yet, despite all their efforts at composure, the young ladies could
not get away from the miserable feeling that the trouble was in some
way due to the opposition; and cold looks, and sarcastic speeches, and
discomfort and distrust had it very much their own way among certain of
the workers.
Well, the fair was held. Tidies, and tidies, and tidies! The number and
variety seemed endless.
"Tidies to right of us, tithes to left of us, tidies before us, tidies
behind us, tumbled and tangled," paraphrased a young man who caught
his sleeve button in one of the meshes and drew a small avalanche of
them to the floor. Another, looking on hopelessly at the mass, asked
what sort of carpets they would make. And another, turning from them
to the pincushions, wanted to know if some of those things were not
large enough for bolsters. All this aside, of course. Sales were
brisk, apparently, and yet many articles were unsold. The trifles, the
small keepsakes, the pretty nothings found ready purchasers; but the
pieces that represented miles of silk embroidery, and hours of toil,
and were to bring large returns, were still the property of the young
ladies when the evening was over. It was over at last, and weary bodies
and excited brains sat down to count the spoils. There was a bill to
pay at the fancy store for materials; there was a bill to pay at the
confectioner's; there was a bill to pay for dishes rented, and broken,
and otherwise injured; there was a bill to pay for cream—where do all
the little bills come from which swarm round a distracted treasurer
at such a time? Unexpected expenses, and enough fancy work on hand to
stock a modest store! The bills were paid, and the wearied soldiers
went into camp for repairs—mental and moral; and there was deposited
with the treasurer of the library fund the sum of twenty-two dollars
and sixteen cents!
After that there was a lull in the Penn Avenue Church.
CHAPTER II.
THE next spasm that seized them started in the choir. They would give
an entertainment, musical and literary. No such gross and material
things as food for the body should intrude. Committee meetings were
again the order of the day. It was soon found that even in preparing
for "a feast of reason and a flow of soul," differences of opinion
would arise. Should it be the cantata of Queen Esther, or the operetta
of the Milkmaid, or something lighter than either, say, the Dance of
the Fairies? There were those who thought a series of tableaux would
be better than any of these, and there were those who thought there
was talent enough in the Penn Avenue Church to get up a genuine play,
instead of one of these milk-and-water affairs. At last, after some
plain speaking, and a few heart-burnings, it was decided that the
cantata of Esther should have the right of way, the casting vote in
its favor being made because there was a young man visiting at the
Judsons' who had just graduated from the theological seminary, and
would make a "magnificent Haman." Then began rehearsals. Music was to
be interspersed between the various scenes, and certain sopranos were
asked to prepare choice selections, such as: "I think only of thee,
love," and "My heart's dearest treasure," and "Ever thine own, love,"
and a few other of those gems which we hear screamed out by seraphic
voices to large and appreciative audiences. I have never heard it
explained why so much of our popular music should be wedded to words
which the performer would blush to repeat in prose to an audience of
more than one; but the fact, I suppose, is indisputable.
Oh, those rehearsals! Why are they attended with so many trials? Does
Satan make special arrangements to be present at all efforts of this
kind? And, if so, why? Does his superior genius recognize in these
gatherings fruitful soil for the developments dear to his heart, I
wonder?
Miss Minnie Coleman was general-in-chief of this particular
entertainment, and she dropped a limp heap among the cushions one
evening and recounted her trials to sympathetic ears: "Such a time,
mamma! You never saw anything like it. It really is enough to
discourage one with any attempt at doing good! Who do you suppose
wants to be Vashti? That ridiculous little Kate Burns! She says she
knows more than half of the part already, because she helped them get
this up in the Vesey Street social; the idea! Everything she did was
to prompt at one of the rehearsals! She is too dumpy for a queen; and
she has a simpering little voice. Oh! It would be just too ridiculous
for anything, and yet she is bent on it; she has talked with each one
of the committee separately, and hinted that we ought to propose her.
Then there's that Jennie Harmon, vexed because she hasn't been chosen
for Esther. She makes all manner of fun of Essie (whom everybody says
is just the one for the part), and I'm really afraid Essie will hear
of it, and refuse to act; the girls are so hateful, mamma, you haven't
an idea! They get so excited about things that don't go just as they
want them; they burst right out with whatever is in their minds. Three
of the committee went home crying to-night just because of things that
they had overheard said; and I'd cry, too, if I were not so provoked.
It does seem too bad when we are working for benevolence, and trying
our best to make a little money, to have people go and spoil things
in this way. (Jessie Morrison is fretting, too; she doesn't like her
part; says her mother thinks the dress is unbecoming. 'What of it?' I
asked her, somebody had to wear it, and it might as well be she as any
one; well, she said her mother did not think it was exactly a proper
dress to appear in, in public. So absurd!) I am just tired of the whole
thing. I told Fannie to-night I would give anything if we were safely
out of it all, and if I once get through I shall wash my hands of all
benevolent enterprises in the future. Fannie was a poor one to talk to,
though; she is so vexed because she hasn't been asked to sing a solo
that she could tear everything to pieces. I'm sure I hope those library
books, if we ever get them, will do a great deal of good; they ought
to, such a world of trouble as they have made."
Ah, well, they lived through it. It is surprising how many trials we do
succeed in pushing through and coming out alive on the other side!
The cantata argued and frowned and sparred and grumbled its way into
perfection. The large hall was engaged for two evenings, because a
complete rehearsal at the hall was a necessity. The town was duly
placarded, inviting the public to the unique entertainment gotten up
by the energetic young people of the Penn Avenue Church. The usual
number of street jokes floated through the air, about the "Penn Avenue
Theatre," or the "religious opera," sent afloat by that large class of
irreligious young men who inhabit every town and city, and who seem to
know by instinct just what is appropriate to a religious body, and just
what is not. When the church and the world start out to walk hand in
hand, it is a curious thing that it is always the world that sees the
inconsistencies, and laughs, and always the church that is blind.
The modern Queen Esther did hear of the trouble, and, unlike her great
namesake, faltered and pouted and would have nothing to do with the
affair, so at a late hour a new queen had to be hastily chosen, who
marred the occasion by forgetting some of her parts; and this is only
a hint of the sea of trials which encompassed the executive committee
that evening. Still, as I said, they lived, and came to the hour when
they sat down to count their gains. From this exercise they rose
up sadder and wiser girls. The costumes had been so unique, and so
rich, and were of such brilliant colors that, being available for the
occasion only, many things had to be bought, and the bills sent to the
treasurer. The purchases did not seem many nor heavy, as they were
bought by different people, at different times, but they counted up so
mercilessly when the figures were set in those inexorable rows! Then
the charge for the hall was simply enormous. The poor committee looked
at each other and said this a dozen times during the counting up; the
idea of charging as much for the use of the hall for the rehearsal as
they did for the regular evening! Who would have imagined such a thing!
Then the bills of the piano lenders were more than they had supposed
possible, and the printer's bill was another ruinous item. Will it not
be easily credited by the great army of the initiated that nineteen
dollars and two cents gave the sum of the net proceeds of all these
weeks of outlay! Actually nineteen dollars and two cents! "There!" said
the treasurer, tossing down her pencil with a determined air, "I shall
not add that column again! I've begun at the top, and in the middle,
and added the fives and the nines separately, and done everything I can
think of, and it comes every time to that miserable little nineteen
dollars and two cents! Let's take the nineteen dollars to pay for the
shoe leather we've worn-out, and hand in the two cents to the library
committee, and then go and drown ourselves."
They laughed, as girls will, at almost anything, if somebody will only
lead off. But when they reached home they, every one of them, cried.
Poor things! My heart aches for them. There is no class of workers more
utterly to be pitied than those who struggle and toil, making bricks
often times without straw, and who find at the close that, some way,
the bricks seem not to have been worth the cost.
It was months afterward, winter indeed, before the library association
gasped again. Then up rose the women, the respectable, middle-aged,
matronly women. The library must be replenished, money must be
raised. It would not do to set girls at it; girls always got into
trouble, they were so sensitive, so quick to take offence, so lacking
in self-control. They—the matrons—would do this thing speedily and
quietly. They would have an oyster supper on a large scale, make
preparation for a great many guests, furnish oysters in every possible
style, and with them such coffee as only they could make, to say
nothing of the inevitable cake and cream, and side dishes, for those
who did not relish oysters. So they went to work, quietly, skillfully,
expeditiously. Baking, broiling, frying, stewing! What tales could
not the kitchens and pantries have told during those days! They got
through to the weary end, not without heart-burnings and a few tears,
and much pressure of lips lest they speak unadvisedly, and occasional
home confidences not flattering to their fellow workers, and I protest
that in this age of the world, with Satan so manifestly at the helm as
he is, it is not possible to get up a church fair, festival, opera, or
what not, without these, but the matrons were as they had promised to
be, on the whole, discreet, forbearing, and silent; no open breaches
came.
The evening of the supper came. Dark!—was it ever darker? Rain!—not a
fitful dash with gleams of moonlight between. Just a steady, pelting,
pitiless rain, mud at every crossing, pools of water at some. Warm—so
warm that, to the average oyster eater, the very thought of one of
those bivalves was disgusting. A few damp yet resolute people stood
around in the corners of the great room, and steadily ate large dishes
of oysters, double dishes, some of them, and the minister, the one who
perhaps could afford it least, ushered in from the dark outer world, in
the course of the evening, seven wet, hungry newsboys, and gave them
such a supper as they will tell of twenty years hence, and paid the
bills! Meantime the cooked oysters in huge quantities were sent out to
the deserving poor, and the uncooked ones were forgotten and left in
the warm room all night, and by morning were not fit for the deserving
poor, or any other poor! In the early forenoon of the next day, while
the rain was thus falling drearily, a few draggled and discouraged
females wended their way homeward, laden with soup tureens, cooking
utensils, and a loaf each of cake! And this was the outcome of Penn
Avenue's third effort!
Now you are not to suppose that this church was poor. It was not
wealthy in the sense that some city churches are, which need only
to mention a want to have it supplied from a full treasury; but its
members, the great majority of them, lived in comfortable, and some
of them in elegant homes; none of them ever arranged for himself to
have a supper brought in by his friends, and eaten by his friends,
and paid for by his friends, in order to help him through with the
current expenses of the year. Not one of them had ever been known to
solicit articles for a fancy fair in order to help pair house rent, or
even pew rent. All of them were in the habit of putting their hands in
their pockets and furnishing the money with which to meet all these
reasonable needs. Why, then, did they resort to such pitiable devices
to replenish their church library? Is there any person who can give a
satisfactory answer to that question?
I want also to be understood about those young ladies. They were by no
means working for self-gratification; they were honest in their desire
to raise money for the cause; neither were they of a more quarrelsome
disposition than others of their age and position. The simple fact
was, that the unusual surroundings, the endless rehearsals, the
posing in characters strange to them, the curious costumes which made
them feel unlike themselves, the need for haste, and undue exertion,
the necessity for planning for so many contingencies, the sense of
responsibility, the consciousness of criticism freely offered, the
possibility of failure, all these strained heavily on young nerves
unused to great strains, and produced the highly wrought condition
of nervous irritability which made molehills loom up like mountains,
and made the things that would on ordinary occasions have raised a
merry laugh start the quick tears instead. I take the bold ground
that misunderstandings, and heart-burnings, and coldnesses, sometimes
far-reaching in their influences and results, are almost necessary
accompaniments to work of this character; there are notable exceptions,
but exceptions emphasize rules. Really now, how many church festivals,
fairs, concerts, cantatas, Christmas dramas, and what not, have you
watched closely from their inception to their close, without hearing of
a jar which did more or less harm?
What does this prove? I am not proposing to prove anything by it, I am
only stating certain facts. Also, I am advocating the cause of the Penn
Avenue Church; it was like unto other churches.
CHAPTER III.
IF you please, now, go back with me to the early summer in which the
first spasm of interest in regard to the library took hold of the young
people. The new superintendent, unwittingly, perhaps, set the ball to
rolling, by remarking that the library had been closed and locked by
vote of the executive committee of the school, until such time as there
were found to be any books worth giving out. Then, among those who had
looked at each other and shaken their heads in disapproval of such a
state of things, were the young ladies in Mrs. Jones's class,—ten of
them. They occupied the corner down by the door, between the door and
the east window; a corner that was cold in winter and warm in summer;
a corner that other classes shunned. Perhaps that will give you a hint
in regard to Mrs. Jones's class. They were young ladies belonging to
a certain clique. None of them wealthy, none of them even well-to-do,
in the sense which you probably mean by that term. They represented
comfortable homes, where the fathers worked hard, daily, for daily
needs, where the mothers took their share of daily burdens, where the
daughters did what they could to help lighten the burdens of both.
For instance, one was a sewing girl, and went every day among the fine
houses on the fashionable streets to do plain sewing. Another was a
milliner's apprentice, and in the busy season worked over bonnets
from seven o'clock of a Monday morning often until twelve o'clock
of a Saturday night. The fact was, she knew some of the Penn Avenue
Sabbath-school teachers who had their bonnets sent home in the gray
dawn of the Sabbath morning, because they must have them for that day's
worship. Another managed the entire culinary and kitchen department
for a large family, in order that the mother might sit all day, and
sew (on the many garments which were brought to her, to cut and fit,
and repair and make). Still another was clerk in a fancy store, and
knew much about the pretty things that less busy girls than she were
fond of making. Two were teachers in the graded school and spent
their Saturdays in helping with the family ironing, to relieve an
over-burdened mother. Workers they were, every one; not a drone in the
hive. By common consent they were almost entirely counted out of the
"fancy department," as they had named the young ladies' society. They
had not time for fancy work, neither did they move in the same circle
with the fancy workers. Oh, they attended the same church, and were on
friendly enough terms with the young people, at least with those whom
they knew sufficiently to exchange bows when they met on the street;
they met nowhere else save in church. I am sure you know all about
those subtle, oftentimes mysterious, yet plainly defined, society
distinctions. They are to be found in every village, however small, as
well as in our largest cities.
This corner class looked at each other and shook their heads with the
rest, but they did one thing more. Sarah Potter said, "Girls, let us do
something. Mrs. Jones, let us have a Sabbath-school library."
"Well," said Mrs. Jones, briskly, heartily, "I'm agreed. Let us, by all
means." Then they laughed a little. Mrs. Jones was a tailoress, and
worked hard all day, and every day, and was devoted to her ten young
ladies.
But Sarah Potter had more to say: "Oh, now I mean it. It is high time
something was done. Let us meet to-morrow evening at Jennie's and talk
it over."
Now Jennie was one of the ten, and all meetings to discuss ways and
means were always held at her house. In fact it was the settled place
of meeting for anything connected with this class. It had been two
years since Jennie had met with them elsewhere than in her own room.
Yet the class was always counted as numbering ten. One glance at her
pale, bright face would have told you the story. She never left her
room, nor her bed, and looked forward now to but one way of leaving
that spot, which would be when they carried her out into the world once
more, in her coffin! Yet Jennie was the strong bond of union in that
class. "She is the class soul!" affirmed Mrs. Jones in her strong and
somewhat quaint language, and the one to whom she spoke understood, and
did not controvert it.
Workers are very apt to move promptly in whatever line they take up.
The next evening the ten met in Jennie's room. She was eager to receive
them, ready to further their plans to the best of her powers. But had
they any plans? "Sarah began it," they said, "she must tell us what she
wants."
"I want a new library; and I say, let's get one, somehow."
"Very well, I'll be secretary and put that down. So much decided. 'A
library somehow.'" Hannah Wood wrote the sentence in large letters, the
others gleeful meanwhile. "Now, Sarah, proceed. We are all ready for
the plans."
"I haven't any plans; only that the thing must be done. It has been
talked long enough. Yes, I have plans. Look at the Woman's Board; see
how much money they are raising with ten cents a month. Why couldn't we
draw up pledges for ten cents a month and get signers? There are ten of
us to work; ten cents a month from everybody that we can wheedle into
giving it. A regular decimal performance."
"Circulating decimals at that," laughed her sister. "Think how we shall
have to circulate through this town to get signers!"
"Jennie, you must be our treasurer; we'll report to you once a month.
Mrs. Jones, won't that be nice?"
The subject was fairly opened for discussion, and vigorously was it
discussed. Before the evening closed, each of the ten had a copy of the
pledge written in a fair round hand. "We, the undersigned, do pledge
ourselves to give ten cents each month at the call of a person holding
this paper, for the benefit of the Penn Avenue Sabbath-school Library
Fund, until such time as we shall ourselves erase our name from this
paper."
"And it will be one while before you get a chance to do that,"
affirmed Sarah Potter, reading the pledge with grave satisfaction. "If
ever our church gets into another muddle over a library, I shall be
disappointed."
This was the beginning. The girls pocketed their papers, kissed
Jennie, and went home. Thereafter, steady, silent work was done with
these pledges. The thing created scarcely a ripple on the surface
of the church society. The sum asked for was so small; it was so
easy to change your mind and erase your name at any time; it was so
improbable that those girls would call for so small a sum many months
in succession; it was so much easier to comply than to refuse; people
laughed and said one to another: "Do you know what those girls in Mrs.
Jones's class are trying to do? Poor things, they want books badly. I
hope they won't be old and gray before a new library is bought, but I
am afraid they will at that rate. Oh, yes, I put down my name! It is a
whim that will blow over very soon, and it is just a trifle anyway."
Very few members of the fancy department even heard of the plan; they
were busy making pincushions for the fair, and did not often meet the
other class. But the original scheme widened. The ten met one evening
at Jennie's call in her room; she had a plan.
"I've been thinking all the week, girls, and praying over it. Don't you
believe we could each give an evening a week to the library?"
"Oh, dear, yes, two of them if there was money in it! I'm becoming
interested and mercenary." This from Sarah Potter.
"Well, why don't you each go into business?"
"Why don't we what!" unbounded amazement in tone and manner.
"Go into business," repeated Jennie. Then she laughed. "I've been
thinking, and I find there is some one thing that each of you can do,
and do well; why not get up an evening class, one evening a week, and
give the result to the library fund?"
"Bless your dear heart! What an idea! There isn't a thing in life that
I know how to do!"
"Yes, there is. Don't you know, Trudie, that you make better cake for
the festivals than any of the fancy cooks? People always say so, and I
know two girls this minute who would be delighted to learn. I believe
you could have a large class."
"To learn to make cake! What an idea!"
"It is a good one, isn't it, girls? I'll tell you, Trudie; I was
praying about our library this very morning, and I asked the Heavenly
Father to give me an idea; and just then the Emmons girls came in; they
expect company, and they were dreading all the work there would be to
look after; Sadie said if it were not for cake she wouldn't mind, but
she never had success, and it gave her the blues to think of having to
attend to it. Just then it flashed over me this whole plan, and I knew
it was an answer to my prayer."
"Oh, Jennie, Jennie! Cake making and praying are too far apart to get
mixed in that way. Do you really think God attends to such things?"
Then it was time for Mrs. Jones. "Why, dear, me!" she said. "Don't you
know your Bible? 'Whether, therefore, ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye
do, do all to the glory of God.' If he is to be glorified by our work,
it is likely he knows a good deal about it."
"You can't glorify God by making cake!"
"Can't? Then I should like to know what business you have spending your
time making it. There's the direction."
"If you can turn cake into library books, Trudie, I should say the way
was plain." This from Mary Brooks. Then Nettie Brooks: "Come, Trudie,
take your cake and move out of the way. This is a splendid notion, but
what in the world can I do? I know how to sell fancy goods, and sort
colors, and bear all manner of impudence from ladies who tumble them
over, but I have no colors to sell."
"O Nettie, I thought of you! Look at your lovely handwriting. Think of
that winter when you took lessons to help the writing teacher pay her
board, and said you did not know what in the world you learned for. It
may be that God had you do it for just this time; and, don't you think,
I know three scholars for you. I've had ever so many calls to-day."
"Put her down," said Hannah gravely. "She'll get scholars; Jennie has
prayed it all out for her. I know what I can do; I can teach decimal
fractions; I've been at it all day, and I think I could teach them to a
post. But the question is, where is the post?"
"Mr. Nelson is willing to send his chore boy to an evening class, if
one is started; and Mrs. Silverton is willing to send both the Brewster
boys."
"I shall teach an evening school; and teach decimal fractions, and
circulating decimals at that. Every scholar shall circulate around a
new Sabbath-school library before another year. I begin to see floods
of daylight."
Do you think this scheme came to naught? Not in a single instance.
During the long winter evenings, the cake classes, and the soup
classes, and the writing classes, and the dress-cutting classes and the
arithmetic classes, were busy and enthusiastic.
"I suppose Jennie prayed them all there," said Sarah Potter,
thoughtfully, when after a night of heavy rain they met to compare
notes, and found that all could report progress. It grew to be their
working motto, "Jennie prayed us through." They worked carefully; if
Jennie was praying, the work must match the prayer.
"Girls," she said to them one night, "I've been thinking. Hannah, you
dear child, Bud says he begins to understand how to divide; he thought
he would never know. He said the carrying business bothered him always,
until last night you made it as plain as day. Can't you teach him how
to carry himself over bodily into the service of the Lord?"
Said Hannah, with amused voice, but tearful eyes, "O you blessed little
fraction! I'll try! I truly will."
"We must all try hard," Jennie said. "It is God's chance for us each.
It grows on me. The library will come; I feel sure of that, but so much
else will come if we teach for His glory. O girls, it is blessed to
work for Him! I cannot do it, and over again, but I am glad to say over
and over again, 'They also serve who only stand and wait.' I can only
lie and wait, but I pray for the workers."
"Ah," said Hannah, "foolish child! She doesn't see that she is the hub,
and we nothing but the spokes in the wheel!"
They went home strengthened. There was more to do than merely to secure
a Sabbath-school library; and there was more done.
It was about this time that the fancy department counted over its
nineteen dollars and two cents, and wept!
Well, the winter hasted away; spring came and passed, and the workers
worked steadily, quietly on. Almost anything that takes a year to do
is done quietly. The mere surface talkers always get through talking,
early in the year, and conclude that because they are tired of the
subject it has, therefore, dropped. Very few people even took time
to notice the regularity with which their pledge was presented to
them and their ten cents claimed. Those who noticed it said, with a
patronizing, and somewhat pitying, smile: "So you are not tired of
that little effort of yours yet, eh? It reminds me of the old fable of
the bird trying to carry away the sand on the seashore. Well, every
little helps, and I am sure every effort is commendable. Our library is
certainly a disgrace." This class, having encouraged (?) the workers,
calmly shouldered the "disgrace," and went on their way thinking no
more about it. And the ten-cent pieces accumulated. New names were
constantly added. Most of Nettie Brooks's customers in the fancy store
signed to please her, she was so accommodating they all liked her.
The high school girls signed because Miss Wood was interested in it,
and all the scholars liked Miss Wood. And a whole army of people signed
because poor Jennie, lying always on her white bed, was pleased to have
them, and it was "very little to do for one so afflicted."
This same Jennie, as the days went by, and the little iron bank
in which she kept her money grew full, and must needs be emptied
again, had another plan, which involved taking the minister into
confidence. So one day, a little before the spring opened, he came
and sat by Jennie's couch, and they talked long together. And at the
next meeting of the "Decimals," which by tacit consent had come to be
considered their pet name, he was present; and there was more talking,
and the minister's wife and the minister's mother were received
into confidence. Not long thereafter came an express package to the
minister's door—books; but nobody thought anything of that, ministers
were always buying books. There was a certain upper room in the
parsonage, clean and sunny, and destitute of furniture, save shelves
and chairs. The shelves had been crowded with newspapers, but one day
they gathered themselves into systematic bundles and took their silent
way to the attic; they had been superseded. The shelves were dusted
and treated to a row of new books in tasteful bindings. Thereafter
the "Decimals" spent many leisure moments in the upper room of the
parsonage, admiring books. People wondered, occasionally, why "those
girls in Mrs. Jones's class were running to the parsonage so much."
Mrs. Marshall Powers explained the mystery by saying she supposed the
pastor and his wife were trying to get an influence over girls of that
class. The pastor heard it and laughed, and said to his wife that the
fact was girls of that class were getting a great influence over him;
he wished they were multiplied in every church in a tenfold ratio.
And the days passed, and more express packages came; and on one or
two occasions certain packages went back again, for the committee on
selection was very choice, and very cautious.
CHAPTER IV.
THERE came a day toward the close of summer when the Penn Avenue Church
called a congregational meeting.
The object thereof was to discuss—not a Sabbath-school library,
their hopes in that direction had sunk below zero. Neither the fancy
department nor the choir would venture a pincushion or a song. Not a
matron could be coaxed to offer suggestion. Nobody dare say "cake" or
"oysters" aloud. The subject under discussion was a new carpet for the
church parlor. One was sadly needed; indeed, no more church socials
could be held until the parlor was re-furnished, because no matron
could be found who would preside as hostess.
It was voted to secure means for a carpet forthwith. Then did the
chairman of the library committee delight the hearts of the carpet
committee by announcing that they had unanimously voted to place the
funds raised toward a new library in the hands of the carpet committee
to use at their discretion, inasmuch as there was no present prospect
of a library, and the amount raised would be such a trifle compared
with what would have been needed for that purpose.
Then arose a cloud that presaged a storm. The funds were raised for the
purpose of securing a library. What right had this committee to vote
them away? Could they not be placed in the bank until such time as the
needed amount was secured, and then used for their legitimate purpose?
Tongues were numerous now, and waxed eloquent; differences of opinion
were marked, and were urged with energy. The cloud, at first, no bigger
than a man's hand, bade fair to spread over all the congregation, and
involve them in a party squall.
Then up rose the pastor; the long weeks of silent action were over;
the time for speech-making had come. It was true that the funds under
discussion had been raised toward the purchase of a new library; it
was also true that without a general vote to that effect the committee
would not be justified in turning those funds into another channel. At
this point the belligerents who desired a new carpet, and meant to have
it at once, looked disgusted and the belligerents who desired a new
library, and meant to have one sometime, if they could get it, looked
complacently defiant, and affirmed with nodding heads that they should
never, no, never, vote away that sum of money for any other purpose
under the sun! But the pastor had more to say; also he had something to
do. The congregational meeting was held in the Sabbath-school room, and
just behind the pastor was the great handsome library case, closed and
unoccupied for many a day; for, to the honor of the Penn Avenue church,
be it written, they had not left the old library to lie in dust on the
shelves, but had selected, and mended, and re-covered, such of the
books as were deemed worthy of being missionaries, and freighted them
to a Western Sabbath-school.
That was accomplished during the pincushion and tidy fever, when
expectation ran high over the immediate prospect of re-peopling those
library shelves; but, as you are aware, the hopes centered on fairs
and festivals had been vain, and the library shelves were vacant and
dust-covered. So thought every person in that church that afternoon
save ten.
"I have something to show you," said the pastor, and, as if by magic,
those handsome doors swung open, revealing rows upon rows of books
unmistakably new, handsomely bound, delightfully large, many of them.
Tier upon tier they rose. It took but little arithmetic for those
familiar with the library case to discover that there must certainly be
more than three hundred books.
"Three hundred and forty-five!" said the pastor, reading the
mathematical calculations all over the room. "Handsomely bound," and he
took one in his hand; "duly marked and numbered," and he opened to the
fly-leaf and read: "'Penn Avenue Sabbath-School Library. No. 7.'"
What did it mean? Where did they come from? How were they obtained?
Nobody spoke, yet these sentences seemed to float all over the room, so
distinctly were they written on the sea of eager faces.
"I can tell you about them," said the pastor. "Yes, they are new, every
one of them, and they are ours if we vote to accept them. I have very
little doubt but that we will accept them, for they were bought by
our own money which we had deliberately and in sound mind dedicated
to that purpose." He further explained that the money was procured by
a system of decimal notation not so thoroughly understood as it ought
to be; it had long been known that ten times one were ten, but the
power of the number ten divided into tenths, and circulating freely and
repeating themselves after the peculiar manner of decimals, was not
generally understood or appreciated. We were indebted to the rising
generation for many things, and not the least among them, in this
church hereafter, would, he thought, be the exposition of the power of
circulating decimals.
Had the pastor suddenly become insane? What in the world was he talking
about! The opposing forces forgot their opposition and were lost in a
common curiosity. Why were people looking over to those girls in Mrs.
Jones's class? What had they to do with it?
Hark! The pastor was speaking again. He had forgotten certain
statements that he was to make. One was, that these books were not
evolved from cake and pickles, nor yet from tidies and slippers; but
were the representatives of the value of systematic offerings, and
systematic work done by individuals and individually devoted to this
cause. Another was a request that, for reasons which would be better
understood in the future than they now were, the library be named
the "Jennie Stuart Library." And still another was the announcement
that, as the library pledges held good until the signers erased their
own names, the collectors would still continue their duties, hoping,
by this means, to render any future leanness of library shelves an
impossibility in Penn Avenue Church.
Light was beginning to dawn, albeit it was still much obscured by
fog. The "Jennie Stuart Library." She was one of Mrs. Jones's girls.
Decimals—one, two, three—well, there were just ten of them; it had not
been noticed before. But how could they have secured such a library as
that? Could it be possible that that little ten-cent affair of theirs
had grown to such dimensions!
I suppose it is needless to tell you that the threatened storm blew
over, and smiles and congratulatory speeches ruled the hour. The
decimal class received a vote of thanks, which overwhelmed them with
blushes; their suggestions were adopted by a unanimous vote. Penn
Avenue rose to the acknowledgment of the fact that the only proper way
to manage a Sabbath-school library was to have a standing committee to
supply and add new books, in monthly installments.
Of course the opposition to the appropriation for the new carpet was
withdrawn, and gracefully, too. Everybody was willing to have a new
carpet.
Everybody shook hands with everybody, and congratulated themselves
and the world generally, and said, "Who would have thought that such
trifling subscriptions would amount to anything!" And "they were sure
those girls deserved a great deal of credit;" and "who were they,
anyway?"
It is true that Mrs. Marshall Powers said it was a queer way to manage
business! And there ought to have been a committee of selection. She
was sure she hoped the books were worth reading! But even she was
almost satisfied when she had examined them.
And so, at last, Penn Avenue Church had a new library.
"We have lost our motive power," said the girls, laughing a little, as
they met together in the evening to talk things over.
"I'm afraid," said one, "it will be humdrum work now. It was such fun
to ask people for their ten cents and see some of them look bored, and
some look like martyrs, suffering, in order that we might learn the
folly that was in us."
"Yes," said another, "now that it is all out, and the glorification has
begun, I shall grow tired and ashamed of collecting money. There will
be so much said, and so many questions to answer. I'm almost sorry we
promised to continue."
"Oh, you wretches!" said Mrs. Jones. "What is the use in being sorry
about anything, when Susy Perkins has learned to make cake and keep
her temper in the bargain; and Alice Burns can make her own dresses,
and means to work for something besides her own self hereafter; and
poor Bud is going to join the church to-morrow, and be a minister for
anything you know? The library is the very least of it, you ungrateful
creatures!"
The girls laughed again, but with tender notes in the laughter. "Oh! We
know it," they said with shining eyes; "that part of it is lovely, and
we are glad to go on. But we are afraid the library business will grow
commonplace after this. We must ask Jennie to give us something that
will lift it up."
Dear, thoughtless girls! Even then was preparing that which would
forever lift the Penn Avenue Library above the commonplace!
It was only the next afternoon that they were summoned, the class and
their teacher and the pastors to Jennie's room to meet a guest whose
presence has power to hush all other interests. The "King of Terrors"
he has been named; but there was no shadow of terror anywhere about
that room, least of all on the peaceful face of the one who lay on her
white couch, with a spray of late blossoming roses in her hand. Yet
they had gathered to say good-by.
The circle was to be broken; the central figure, as they loved to call
her, had been called. They were very still; there was no sound of
weeping in the room. Tears would have seemed out of place in view of
the shining of that face on the couch.
"Girls," she said, breaking the hush; she was not looking at them; her
eyes were resting on a heavy gold band which encircled her finger.
"Girls, I have been thinking—" the same simple words with which she had
been wont to preface her sweet and helpful thoughts to them during all
the days gone by. It struck them like a knell. Was it possible that
this might be the last time? "I have not been sure about this ring
until to-day. There was a time when I thought to take it into the grave
with me; but why should my poor worn-out body be decked with a ring? It
will not need it in the resurrection morning; I will not let this ring
lie in the dust and wait. I will leave it to work, while I go away to
rest. Girls, some of you knew Kent Pierson? You did, Nannie? Yes, and
you all know he is in Africa to-day, working for Christ. But you did
not know that I was to go out to him, did you? When he put this ring
on my finger I thought I would surely be well enough to go in another
year. But I am going to Heaven instead, and I have been thinking that
our ring should do some of my work for Africa. Will you take it, girls,
and change it into books for the library? Books about the needs of the
heathen? and the work of the missionaries, and tell all the boys and
girls who read them that those books are Kent Pierson's voice, calling
them to service?"
The tears came then, and low sobbing. Not from fair Jennie; her eyes
were bright and her face smiling. "Don't cry," she said gently, "you
need not; for me, you know, all the bitterness is passed. I am too near
home to cry. I suppose it will be hard for Kent for a little while, but
then, it will soon be over, and Heaven is as near to Africa as it is to
you."
They kissed her silently that day—their voices were not to be
trusted—and went out softly, as from the guest chamber of the royal
palace. Nearer they were to the invisible presence than they had known.
That very night, "or ever she was aware," Jennie saw the "shining of
His face." No noise, or sound of wings, or rush of music, at least so
far as those left behind can tell:
"They watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.
"Their very hopes belied their fears,
Their fears their hopes belied.
They thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died."
The plain gold band was exchanged for books, and it came to pass
that an upper shelf in the Penn Avenue library was cleared and held
as sacred ground for those five books. Never had books been more
carefully chosen than these, and as the pastor marked them, "The Kent
Pierson Library, presented by Jennie Stuart, gone to Heaven," he almost
wondered whether there hovered over him angel witnesses to see whether
his part of the commission were well done.
"It lies around us like a cloud,
The world we cannot see."
One of the five, the first in the row, was that wonderful record of a
consecrated life, "Crowned in Palm-Land"; and the pastor, as he read
the sweet, and simple, and unutterably pathetic story of that life of
love and service, and finally of that lonely death, with not a human
eye to watch the last triumph of faith as the feet touched the valley
of the shadow, felt that such a book would do faithful work for Jennie
and for Africa.
Barely five days after Jennie had been laid to rest in the hillside
Cemetery that consecrated book began its work for foreign missions, the
story of which can only be told when we all meet where they will never
say foreign missions any more, because the foreigners will have become
fellow-citizens.
"There are ten of us still," said the girls, looking through tears at
the consecrated upper shelf. "Jennie is working with us."
And they felt, every one, that the Penn Avenue library had received its
"lifting up."
FISHING FOR PHIL.
———
CHAPTER I.
SHE, Daisy, knelt upstairs in front of the window, looking down on the
snowy street. A pretty picture she made, framed in the frosty window,
her fresh young breath making fancy shapes of the frost-work.
A brown head, crowned with masses of hair of that peculiar shade of
brown which makes you think when you look at it on a cloudy day, that
the sun is certainly shining somewhere and rippling those waves of hair
with gold.
It was not banged; it was not even frizzed. Daisy's mother belonged to
that class, of which there are a few rare specimens still extant, who
liked neither style, and Daisy herself belonged to that possibly still
rarer class of girls, who liked above all things to dress to please her
mother. There had been an attempt to make the brown hair lie in smooth
and glossy bands, but Nature had been too much for the owner. The hair
escaped, and waved and frizzed itself to that inimitable way which is
so very pretty and becoming, and of which all the hair-pin efforts are
such exasperating imitations.
Brown eyes under the hair, large, bright, sweet, sad or grave,
according to the mood of the wearer. Eyes which changed with the
changing expression, and seemed to do much of the speaking. For the
rest, you may imagine her.
There was a clear complexion; there was a sweet mouth and rosy cheeks.
There are a great many such girls, and yet they lack the something
which, shining in Daisy's face, made the looker want to turn and look
again, and half smile, in sympathy with the charm lingering there.
What is it? Who shall describe it? I fancy it is one of the ways in
which the soul looks out from its prison-house of clay. Yet who will
undertake to describe a soul?
She was looking down and smiling at, and bowing to Phil on the street
below, while he tarried in the frosty air to execute a series of bows,
extravagant in their burlesque of profound respect; also he was at
intervals tossing up delicate balls of the soft snow, which it amused
him to see her dodge, though the glass protected her from their touch.
"Throw up the sash," he shouted, "and crown your hair with ermine!"
But she shook her head merrily, albeit there was a wistful look in her
eye, and she would have liked nothing better than to have gone down,
coated and mittened, and had a snow-frolic in the street.
Had it been some friendly back-yard, instead of one of the public
thoroughfares, or had they been seven and ten, instead of seventeen and
twenty, she would have gone in a minute.
And then she gave one of those flitting sighs to her happy past, which
is all that a happy girl of seventeen ever troubles herself about her
past.
She sighed again, though, and her face grew grave with a sweet, sad
gravity, born of something deeper than the desire for a snow-frolic;
and as she looked after the handsome young fellow, who had used up his
brief space of time in fun, and was now striding rapidly toward the
bank, to get there before the clock struck nine, she said aloud, and
wistfully:
"If I could only coax him to go with me! It might be a beginning of
something better. It would certainly be better than what he is doing
now. Mr. Easton is so interesting; I am almost certain he would enjoy
it if he could once form the habit of going."
Not all of this aloud. After the first slow, wistful sentence, she went
over the rest in her own thoughts, as she had done often and often
before, and advanced no farther toward a solution; for her face did not
clear as she arose and went about arranging the ribbons and laces in
her drawer.
There was need for anxious thought. At least, so it seemed to Daisy
Morris, Phil's cousin, and so it seemed to Aunt Mattie, Phil's mother.
Aunt and niece had spent hours already in serious talk over the
possibilities and dangers of this young man.
"He used to be such a good boy," would Aunt Mattie say, with a sigh,
and then hasten to correct herself: "Not but that he is a good boy
now, so devoted to his mother and sister, so careful of their comfort!
There isn't a better boy in the city in all such ways; but you know
what I mean. He used to go to church as regularly as I do, and to
Sabbath-school. I have a box full of reward cards which he received in
the school for perfect lessons when he was a little boy; and he used
to go to prayer meeting, too, and seemed to like to go; his father
would often remark on its being unusual in such a little fellow. But
he fell in with those unfortunate companions, and little by little the
change came. Why, he had stayed at home from church for five or six
successive weeks before I realized it! There always seemed to be a good
reason; and now he only goes occasionally of an evening, and as for
Sabbath-school, he seems to be disgusted with the very thought of it!
"Every Sabbath, he goes out for a walk, or sometimes a ride, with a
party of young men who are far from being of the sort that a mother
would choose for her son's companions, and he goes less and less to
church, even in the evenings.
"Since Mr. Easton has come here, I have tried very hard to induce Phil
to go to Sabbath-school. I thought if he would but go once into that
Bible class, he would be attracted; for Mr. Easton has such a winning
way with young men, and Phil is so intellectual, that he could not fail
to be pleased. We have done our best, Blanche and I, but he seems fully
resolved upon having nothing to do with Sunday-school in any form. I am
so disappointed! For I had really counted a great deal on Mr. Easton's
influence, but of course he can't do anything so long as Phil avoids
him. My dear, there is another thing on which I am counting now, and
that is your influence over Phil.
"If you can induce him to go to Sunday-school once, to please you, I
believe that a good deal would be accomplished. And you know boys will
often do for a young and pretty cousin what they will not even for a
mother."
This is only a general view of the numerous talks which had been held
on the same subject since Daisy Morris had come from her distant home
to visit Aunt Hattie Hurst.
Many particulars had been added from time to time, and Daisy's quick
eyes had seen some things of which she did not speak to either mother
or sister. She believed that her handsome young cousin was in more
danger than his own family realized. She know that the cigarettes which
he smoked grew daily more numerous, and she had once or twice detected
the odor of wine about him, and had been frightened over a certain gay
recklessness which was unlike his usual courtesy. She believed that,
while the restraints of a business life and the responsibility of
standing somewhat, at least, in his dead father's place, held him in
check during the week, the freedom of Sunday and the influence of his
chosen friends were dragging him downward faster than his mother knew.
She had tried hard to use her influence in the right direction; but
while she certainly had influence with him, it was not strong enough to
draw him to church or to the Sabbath-school.
Since Daisy had made acquaintance with the new pastor, Mr. Easton,
and joined his Bible Class, she had begun to share her aunt's almost
superstitious belief that if Phil could only be gotten under that man's
influence, great things would be accomplished.
But it was just that man's influence which he seemed determined to
avoid. Only the Sabbath before had Daisy spent the entire morning
coaxing and arguing, being gayly answered by her quick-witted cousin;
she alternately hopeful and fearful; but so earnest had been her effort
and her prayer, that hope had really predominated until she saw him
drive away from the door with one of his friends, just as she was
tying her ribbons in a flutter of haste to catch him and make one last
effort. After that she sat down in a little heap before her window and
cried, and told herself that it was of no use, she had done all she
could.
No wonder that on this Saturday morning she sighed when the young man
was gone. Last evening the odor of wine had been distinct about him,
and the wildness which his mother called good spirits, Daisy believed
meant danger in a more terrible form than the mother had even thought
of as yet.
A succession of low, rapid, impatient knocks sounded at her door, and
almost before she could answer, her Cousin Blanche flitted in.
A marked contrast to Daisy was this Cousin Blanche. Not that her hair
was not brown, and her cheeks rosy, and her whole face full of sparkle;
pretty she was, decidedly, if she had kept her hair out of her eyes,
which, when fully dressed, she never did. And there was a certain
pleasure in looking at her. She took life in all its forms, even its
forms of care such as touched her, with a sort of joyish abandon.
Yet I think if you understood girls, you would have looked at her
again, and sighed. There was such a chance to fade; you felt that
she would fade, perhaps, with the first storm. You could not find
what there was in Daisy's face that looked as though it might glow
even amidst the storm, and certainly shine serene and sweet after the
fierceness of storm was past.
She was in full flutter of excitement this morning, and caught at Daisy
and whirled her about the room until the child was breathless, and
her hair blown in waves into her wondering eyes, before there was an
explanation of her mood.
"Oh, Daisy, Daisy, I have such good, splendid news for you! What do you
think Phil says?
"We've been talking with him, mamma and I, and he promised; he actually
promised! Daisy, do you hear?
"And when Philip Hurst promises anything, it is as good as done."
"What did he say?" This from Daisy, her cheeks like two blush roses,
and the shadow gone.
"Why, he said he would go to Sabbath-school with you to-morrow, and go
into Mr. Easton's class, and stay through the entire session, if we
would get you to do something for him."
CHAPTER II.
"OH, I'll do it!" said Daisy, with a happy little laugh, her eyes
shining, "I'm ready to do anything. I'll go down on Madison Square and
snowball with him if he says so."
"I told Phil you would do it, and it isn't such a very dreadful thing
to do, Daisy Morris. I know girls, plenty of them, who would jump at
the chance.
"He wants you to go to Dorrance Hall with him this evening. It will be
just lovely! I promised Harry I would go, and I wanted you along all
the time."
The smile and the brightness faded together, and the shadow returned.
Daisy's voice was low, almost tremulous. Her disappointment was great.
"Blanche dear, I don't go to the theatre, you know."'
"I know you don't, and no more do I—at least, not often; but this is a
special occasion; everybody goes. They say the characters are perfectly
wonderful! It isn't like these miserable travelling troupes generally.
Everything is first-class, and they say the principal actress is a
lovely woman. Besides, why, Daisy, I'm sure you will not hesitate.
Think of Phil's promise. You said you would do anything."
The tone was reproachful, and Daisy felt it.
"I meant anything that is right," she made answer, speaking low.
"Well, of course, I would not ask you to do anything wrong; at least,
mamma would not. I think you may trust her, if you cannot me. I tell
you this is very different from an ordinary theatre; everybody goes.
The same company was here last winter, and you ought to have seen the
crowded houses! The very best people in the city. Why, Mrs. Schuyler
Van Vorst went three nights in succession, and so did her husband, and
he is an officer in our church."
"Blanche, did Mr. Easton go?"
"Mr. Easton! What an idea! Of course not! Public opinion doesn't
exactly approve of ministers going to such places, though I am sure I
don't see why; and I think it is mean, too. If I were a minister, I
would not stand it. I think he has as good a right to go as anybody
else."
"So do I," declared Daisy significantly.
But Blanche made haste with her arguments:
"But I don't care, Daisy, whether you ever go to a theatre again
in your life—you needn't if you don't want to—if you will only go
to-night. Think how much is at stake.
"We have been coaxing Phil for so long, and mother is almost
discouraged. You said yourself last Sunday that you had given up all
hope of his going to Sabbath-school; and here the matter is in your own
hands. You can't think how delighted mamma is! She says she knows Mr.
Easton will fascinate him right away."
"How came Phil to make such a condition as that? He has asked me before
to go to a theatre, and he knew just what I thought."
"Oh, well; but you see, he feels like everybody else, that such a
theatre as this is an exception. He says it is the very fact that you
have never been, which makes him want to take you. He wants to see what
the effect of the scenery, and the costumes, and everything, would be
on one who sees it all for the first time. Then he says you have great
talent in the way of personating people in dialogue, and he wants
to see how it will affect you to hear it done in its perfection. He
said it would be as good as a play to watch your face, and he added
some very complimentary things about your eyes and cheeks, which you
will not mind since you are his cousin. Oh, Daisy Morris, I know
you will go! You would never be so cruel as to disappoint us. Mamma
began to plan at once about your dress. She hopes you will wear that
wine-colored silk, with plenty of white about it. That dress ought to
be trimmed with ermine for such occasions, Daisy. Oh, dear! mamma's
calling me."
Daisy was not sorry for this. Her brain was in a whirl. She needed to
be alone.
Ermine trimming suggested the handsome face that had been raised to
hers in petition to crown her hair with ermine. He knew she looked
pretty in red and white. She knew it herself. Her wine-colored dress
was lovely.
But she put it firmly from her thoughts. Here was a question to be
decided, with which it ought to have nothing to do.
Seventeen years spent in a city, and she had never attended a theatre.
It was by no means for lack of opportunity. It was because of what some
people called the narrowness of her environments.
It was at first because mother and father never went, and did not
approve. It was because, afterward, she adopted their views and
feelings, and did not desire to go.
Many had been her invitations, but here came her first great
temptation. Not for herself, but for this young cousin whom she
admired, whom she thought was in danger; for his mother, who was
troubled, and who looked to her for help. Ought she to yield her
scruples on this occasion? She need not change her view; she need never
go again. She could tell Phil frankly that she was going in order to
secure the fulfillment of his promise, and for no other reason.
While the question was still in chaos, came her Aunt Mattie, with
radiant face.
[Illustration: DAISY CANNOT DECIDE IN FAVOR OF THE THEATRE.]
"Our little girl has caught him in her snare," she said, kissing Daisy
tenderly. "The naughty boy declared to me only two months ago that he
could not think of any inducement strong enough to make him submit to
the boredom of an hour in Sunday-school; and here, for the sake of
witnessing the innocent delight of his pretty cousin over new sights
and sounds, he is willing to pledge himself. You must look your very
prettiest to-night, my dear."
"But, Aunt Mattie, you know what mamma and papa think about these
things; and how I have been brought up to feel."
Whereupon her Aunt Mattie kissed her again. "Yes, dear child, I know.
Your mother and I had the same bringing up, and we thought very much
alike; and your uncle was fully in sympathy with such views; but he
died before his children became of an age to modify them in the least;
and your father and mother have been blessed with one dear child
who imbibed their views so early that they have had no need to make
sacrifices on her account; but there is a great difference in children.
"Neither Blanche nor Phil thought as I do about these things, though I
brought them up. And, indeed, my views, as I said, have been somewhat
modified. I do not approve of the indiscriminate theatre any more than
I ever did, nor of frequent attendance. But occasionally, when there
is a strictly moral play, presented by artists of acknowledged worth,
I have found it necessary to let my children go; and I have, once or
twice, yielded to Phil's coaxing, and gone myself."
"Aunt Mattie, it is Saturday evening."
"I know, my dear, and that part I regret. I do not, by any means,
consider it the best preparation for the Sabbath; but the occasion,
you know, is exceptional. It is this evening, or not at all, for this
play; and I thought you would not mind making your little sacrifice for
Phil's sake, when there may be so much at stake."
After that, Daisy was glad at the coming of callers who took her aunt
to the parlor, and left her alone. She must think. What was her duty?
What would mamma and papa say? It was certainly an exceptional case;
she had never heard the line of argument which would have helped her
to answer her aunt and cousin. She, too, believed that Mr. Easton's
influence over her handsome and brilliant young cousin would be
invaluable, and she knew only too well how much he needed influencing.
Ought she not to help, when the way was plainly opened to her? This was
an exceptional play; she knew enough about the theatre to be sure of
it. She did not fear hearing or seeing what would cause her to blush.
Her pretty new dress was all ready to wear to some place demanding
a brilliant costume. Her aunt would be bitterly disappointed if she
failed her. Perhaps, just for this once, she ought to go.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, she came to this decision; but she opened
the little box of delicate laces, and let herself think: "If I should
go, I wonder if this, or this, would look the prettiest?" She opened
her glove-box, and wondered whether she ought to get new kids.
Oh, there was her darling little hand-painted bouquet-holder. Phil
ought to get her some lovely flowers to wear in it to-night. She
wondered if he would think of it.
She reached down into the box for the pretty toy, and her hand
touched a little book in a plain gray paper cover. What was this? Oh,
she remembered; papa had brought it home on the evening before her
departure, and had said: "There is something for you to study at your
leisure, daughter. I don't know that you need it; but it is well for
every Christian to be prepared to give a reason for his opinions."
She had thanked him, and kissed him, and dropped the book into the box
she was packing, and had not thought of it since. There had been no
occasion to go to the bottom of this particular box before.
Now she drew it out, and felt startled and flushed over the title:
"Plain Talks About the Theatre." Could this be mere chance?
She hesitated but a moment, then closed the drawer and sat resolutely
down with the little gray book. Certainly, if ever she needed any plain
talk about the theatre, it was now. There was much to read; much that
was new and startling to this young girl.
The statements made there, coming from the honored minister whose name
she well knew, were such as to make the glow on her cheek something to
notice and remember. Still, they all had to do with the regular drama,
and not those occasional and exceptional plays such as were being
performed by a rare company in this little city. Could there not be
such things as exceptions, which even a Christian might be justified in
enjoying?
Wait; what was this? She bent her brown head lower over the page, and
read the keen, clear-cut sentences: "What if it be also true that
this dark programme of the theatre is padded here and there with the
so-called standard drama, to win the countenance and patronage of the
most respectable and decent! I do not need to be told that to some
extent it wins them. But neither do you need to be told, moral and
Christian men and women, of decent and cleanly homes, thus drawn to
see an exceptional play of high and chaste form and tone, that you are
quoted and paraded as friends and supporters of the establishment—an
establishment, three fourths or nine tenths of whose influence is
pernicious and poisonous. Your patronage goes to swell the receipts
of, and to give countenance to, the house whose common and most
characteristic features are an offense to purity, to religion and to
God."
The gray book dropped from her hands and slid to the floor. The young
girl put both hands up to her flushed forehead, and pushed back the
masses of hair. Then she spoke four words, fraught with intense and
far-reaching meaning, "I want to pray," and dropped upon her knees.
CHAPTER III.
DURING the afternoon, the handsome house in Lincoln Place was filled
with uncomfortable and disappointed people.
Daisy, the bright and generally-yielding cousin, was quiet and gentle,
but firm as a rock in her decision to attend no theatre, either on that
evening or any other. She had tried to present her arguments to Aunt
Mattie and to Blanche, but neither mother nor daughter was in the mood
to be reached by argument.
The former had silenced her young guest by coldly referring to the
tendency of the times, which led young people to fancy themselves wiser
than their elders, even in matters of morals and religion, and the
latter had only that unanswerable reply, 'Oh, fiddlesticks!' to make to
any form of argument.
Matters had not improved by the six o'clock dinner hour.
Daisy watched for and waylaid Phil in the hall, and dashed eagerly into
her subject without introduction:
"Oh, Phil, I am sorry; but I can't do what you want, because I don't
think it is right. I don't approve of any sort of theatre, and I
cannot, of course, attend one; yet you know I would do anything to
please you that I could."
But Phil had been cold, too, and had replied with dignity that he was
sorry he was supposed to desire to take her to improper places; that
she must, at least, give him the credit of not intending anything wrong.
And to her earnest attempts at explanation, had finally answered in his
usual tone of gayety that it was all right; of course, he did not want
to take her where she did not want to go, and that he had expected no
other answer to his invitation, which was what had made him so willing
to give the promise that Blanche had been ridiculous enough to claim.
Then they had gone in to dinner; and all through the dinner hour Phil
had been ceremoniously polite, and the other members of the family had
been noticeably silent. At last the mother broached the sore topic:
"My son, will you be willing to take your old mother for a companion
this evening? I suppose it is too late for you to make pleasanter
plans; and while you know it is not my custom to go out on Saturday
evening, yet there is no sacrifice I am not ready to make, and no place
where I am not ready to go, if it will give my boy any pleasure."
Then had Phil arched his eyebrows slightly, but answered promptly that
it would give him great pleasure to attend her, if she would really
like to go; but he hoped there would be no martyrs on his account,
as he was not absolutely dependent upon the theatre that evening for
occupation; or, for the matter of that, he could go alone.
It was finally decided, however, that the mother would accompany him,
and she made her young guest miserable with elaborate excuses for
leaving her alone. Under ordinary circumstances, she would not think
of such a thing, and the theatre was the last place where she cared
to go; but she desired above all things to help Phil to find always
his companionship at home, and dreaded above all things his seeking
doubtful acquaintances under the impulse of a sore feeling of repulse
from those whose society he had imagined he could command.
With a swelling heart, and eyes that wanted constantly to brim with
tears, did the young Daisy go through with the trials of the early
evening. She arranged the flowers in Blanche's frizzed hair, and the
bows of her sash, and buttoned her kids, and attended to all the little
details of that particular young lady's toilet; and folded her aunt's
shawl, and held her fan and gloves, and went herself to the door with
them, to see the carriage roll away, leaving her to solitude. After
that she cried, but not long.
Then she wrote a cheery letter to her mother, saying not a word of
theatre or loneliness. Then she read a little more in the gray book,
and went from that to her Bible, choosing words that matched the
thoughts of her heart, beginning, "Wherefore, come out from among them,
and be ye separate;" and from that she went to her knees.
Her face was peaceful when she at last began to prepare for rest; and
she even hummed a sweet, tender tune, breaking once into language:
"Father, I know that all my life
Is portioned out by thee;
And the trials that will surely come,
I do not fear to see.
But I ask thee for a present mind,
Intent on serving thee."
It proved the next morning that the week had been too much for Phil. He
did not come to breakfast, and sent word that he meant to rest until
afternoon.
From the lunch table, at noon, he was summoned to see some friends in
the parlor.
"There," said the mother, with an air and tone of general reproach,
"I was going to advise you, Blanche, to remain from Sabbath-school,
and try to entertain your brother this afternoon. Sabbath-schools and
everything else sink in importance compared with the effort to keep
a soul from going astray. Now those miserable fellows have come for
him, and he will be away with them all the afternoon. I knew there was
some special scheme for to-day, which made me doubly anxious that Phil
should be rescued from them; but it is too late now."
The tone and manner of the speaker made poor Daisy feel like a criminal
who had deliberately led her Cousin Phil to his ruin. Blanche had only
a sigh for answer. Presently she said:
"I shall stay at home, anyway, mamma, if Daisy will excuse me. My head
aches, and I don't feel like talking nor thinking."
"Oh! Daisy will excuse us, I think. She is quite an independent little
lady, I am sure, and able to go alone to Sabbath-school or elsewhere;
aren't you, dear?"
"Yes 'm," said Daisy bravely, "I shall not mind going alone, if you are
not able to go."
Then she went away in haste, lest the tears should fall. They had not
cared to have her stay: She would willingly have done so, if that
would have helped Phil; but she had lost her influence over him, and
disappointed mother and sister, and she felt as she set her brown
hat on her head, that she wanted to go home to her mother. She had
done right; of that she felt sure. But doing right was very hard work
sometimes, especially when one was away from one's mother.
Down-stairs she could hear Phil moving up and down the room, whistling
snatches of tune. He had not gone out yet, it seemed. Perhaps if she
hurried away, Blanche could coax him to stay and sing. She seized her
Bagster Bible, and ran hastily down-stairs. The whistler came to the
hall to meet her.
"What a ponderous book!" he said, in mock dismay. "Is it really
necessary to carry such a great Bible as that?"
"I like it," she said simply.
"Like to carry it, I suppose. You ought to have it expressed; but that
would not do for Sunday. I see that I shall have to go and carry it."
He was donning his overcoat with speed, and possessed himself of the
Bible before Daisy could recover from her surprise.
It was a long walk to the church, and the air was brisk and clear. The
sun shone brilliantly, and Phil was at his brightest; every trace of
ill humor seemed to have passed away. It was not until they neared the
church, that he referred to the events of the day before.
"So, Daisy, you wouldn't go to a theatre with me, even to save my soul,
which has seemed to trouble you so much?"
"Oh, Phil, I couldn't do wrong, you know, whatever the imaginary
motive; and I had no hope at all that my doing a wrong thing would help
you or any one in the least. I had to do as I did; I wish I could make
you understand that."
"Was it hard work?"
"What? To stay at home, do you mean?"
"Yes; did you really want to go?"
"It was hard to refuse you, and disappoint Aunt Mattie and Blanche.
Yes; I should have wanted to go, should have liked to go, if it had
seemed right. But you know I couldn't want to do anything that it was
made plain to me would dishonor Christ. I desire above all things to
please him; and he made it very plain to me, Phil."
Now they were at the church door, and she reached for her Bible.
"You are not going to invite me in, I suppose? You are tired of that
effort, and have given me up?"
"'You said you would not go," she answered, with a wistful smile. She
believed he was mocking her eagerness, and meant nothing else.
"I know I did; but isn't a bad promise better broken than kept? You
need not ask me again. There is no need. I am going to accept your
former invitations. Take me into your class, and introduce me to Mr.
Easton."
"Did he really go into the class?"
"Oh, Daisy, you darling, you don't mean it? And what did Mr. Easton
say? He liked him, didn't he? I knew he would."
"Oh, Daisy, how did you get him to go? I thought it was all over."
These were some of the exclamations and queries of the delighted mother
and sister, who had waited between alternate hope and fear, to see
whether Phil would really return with his cousin, or had joined his
Sunday friends elsewhere.
Before she could make other than the most general answers, he had come
down-stairs again, and joined the group in the back parlor.
"He is here to answer for himself," she said, with a smile, as he
leaned over his mother's chair.
"My dear boy," she said fondly, reaching up her hand to his, "you have
made your mother very happy. Do tell me that you mean to go again."
"Yes 'm, I mean to go again. I have joined the class, and promised to
be there regularly."
"Oh, Phil!" This from the mother, with tremulous lips.
"I knew Mr. Easton would fascinate you." This from Blanche, with a
pleased little laugh.
Her brother turned to her.
"No, Blanche; I must be honest. I liked him, and shall like him, I
think. But the decision of to-day was made before I saw him, and
reaches farther than to the Bible Class. I have determined to serve
God. I have gone on my knees, and asked him to make what he can of me.
"And the immediate reason for doing so is, because I have decided that
there is such a thing as genuine religion which satisfies, so that
the heart does not need the world in the shape of theatres or operas
or dancing-parties, or any such thing; and that one who unreservedly
gives herself to Him can resist all the lighter and safer forms of its
fascinations, if she suspects evil lurking in them—can resist them
steadily and gently, and remain calm under fire."
He paused for a moment, while the astonished group waited for what
might come next. Then he bent lower over his mother.
"Mamma dear, I honor your intentions, but believe it is a mistake. No
young man will ever be won to Christ by going with him to the theatre.
He understands them too well. And while I never asked you or my sister
to attend a place of amusement that was in itself objectionable, I knew
in my soul that I insulted your religion by asking you at all. They all
flourish under the rebel flag.
"Mamma, when our Daisy here refused to compromise one inch of the way,
I knew that my tower of defence was broken, and that I must own that
Christ had been sufficient for one soul, and could be for another."
By this time the tears were falling fast from his mother's eyes.
"My boy," she said, "it is what your father believed; but I have let
the mother in my heart come between me and Christ. I was so anxious for
you, that I thought I must yield even his honor to save you."
But Blanche, bewildered, and flushing red, declared this:
"I must say I don't see why a boy should coax a girl to do what he is
ashamed to have her do; and be all changed around because she refuses
to do it."
Yet there is many a boy who coaxes a girl to go where he wishes in his
soul she may have Christian firmness enough to refuse.
OUR CHURCH CHOIR.
———
CHAPTER I.
THERE was a time when our church had no choir, but gloried in the fact
that we had congregational singing. At least the conservative fathers
gloried in it; but the aggressive young people grumbled much.
And certainly the most gentle spirit might have found some occasion
for grumbling. If the thing had been named "congregational drawling"
instead of "singing," perhaps it would have been as correct. Our church
was large, and the leader, a dear old man who had led the singing from
time immemorial, until his ears had deafened and his voice cracked in
the service, was unable to keep the scattered elements of his army in
order. Sing as slow as he might, he always finished the line at least
two syllables in advance of old Auntie Barber, who sat in the southwest
corner back pew, and who had a chronic affection of the nose and throat
which caused her to pronounce her words somewhat after this fashion:
"Naow be the gospil banner
I-n'every lan-d'unfurl';
An' be the shout hosanner
Re-yeehoed raound the worl'."
Auntie Barber was fond of singing, and sang loud. Then there was Uncle
Charlie Bennett, who had a deep bass voice, and who always sang a note
below the key, making a distinct heavy monotone of growl, all on one
note, and who frequently paused in the middle of a line to clear his
throat with an "Ahem-h-e-m," then quickened his growl to catch up, and
come in triumphant on the last word.
This is only a hint of the peculiarities of our music.
The day came when our exasperated young people arose en masse and
declared it was not in human nature to endure such tortures longer.
No doubt this climax was hastened by the fact that the church had
received a thorough renovation—fresh carpets, fresh paint, modernized
pulpit, even a new minister. What better time to introduce a thorough
change in the music?
The modern element prevailed. A congregational meeting was held, in
which, after much discussion, and not without a sharp word or two, the
matter was put into the hands of a committee, every one of them young
people, without instructions, to perfect their plans and report them at
a called meeting.
The young people lost no time; in fact they had known just what they
wanted to do at least three weeks before the meeting was called. There
was a certain Theodore Pemberton in town, a clerk in one of the drug
stores, who was a perfectly elegant singer, and the way he sang:
"I wander alone, my love, to-night"
was enough to draw tears from the heart of a stone. Then, he was an
excellent leader. He actually drilled a chorus in Grandville to sing
one of the most difficult operas in the list, and they say that every
member of his chorus cried when they found he was coming away. And if
Grandville thought so highly of him, he must be superior.
It was the unanimous opinion of the young people that the immaculate
Theodore should be invited to take charge of the music in their church,
and be allowed to follow out his own ideas. Then they would have music
worth hearing.
This report was followed by much discussion. There were difficulties
which presented themselves to the minds of some. First and foremost,
money. Brother Hoarding did not consider it just the thing to pay
people for singing the praises of God. But then, Brother Hoarding
believed that everything connected with the church should be free as
air—always excepting the oil for the lamps, which was bought from his
store, and the wood for the stoves, which was chopped from his wood
lots. So, really, Brother Hoarding's opinion did not weigh as much as
it might. The truth is, Auntie Barber put in her weak word at this
point. "I always love to sing," she said; "and I always sang the air in
our choir when I was a girl, and nobody thought of paying for it. But
then, times is changed; and I ain't one of them that think it's a sin
to spend money paying folks for giving of their time and their talents
for the church. If this young man will spend his Saturday evenings in
teachin' folks how to sing better, why shouldn't he be paid for it? The
Lord's people ain't paupers!"
"Free-will offerings, Sister Barber," spoke up Brother Hoarding, in a
good, strong voice; "freewill offerings. That is what the church should
have."
"Well, I don't know. Why in the singin' any more than in kerosene and
wood and sich things?"
Auntie Barber couldn't sing; I will insist that she couldn't; but she
could reason, bless her! And her keen, clear eyes saw through the films
of selfishness and penuriousness wherever found. The committee of young
people looked over at her and smiled and nodded approvingly. They had
found an unexpected ally.
Here Deacon Turner put in a demur. He had no objection to a church
spending money for music, provided they had it to spend; but did the
brethren think that in their condition, with a larger salary to raise,
and the home mission collection not yet taken, and new books to pay
for, they ought to put in an extra bill for music?
Now, this argument might have had more weight, but for the fact that
Deacon Turner was in the mood to want all the money given to foreign
missions when the subject of home missions was broached, and he wanted
it given to the library, or the salary, or some other needy cause, when
the question of foreign missions was before them. Anything but the
matter in hand, was Deacon Turner's motto.
I have not time to give you all the pros and cons of that discussion;
but the result was a partial vote to invite Theodore Pemberton to take
charge of their music.
Great was the joy of the young people. So pleased were they with
Auntie Barber that they gave kindly answer to her somewhat timidly put
question:
"I suppose he is a good young man?"
"Oh, dear, yes! Judge Bourne said his habits were very correct, indeed;
noticeably so for a young man in his position. Those were Judge
Bourne's very words."
"Yes—but I meant—you know—I hope he is a Christian?"
"Well, as to that, I believe he is not a church member; but he respects
religion. Why, when he put his price so very low, he said it was
for the sake of the cause. 'We must work cheap for the cause, you
know,' he said, and he smiled very pleasantly. I am sure that sounds
Christian-like."
Auntie Barber sighed a little. She could not be certain from that
remark that the young man served the Lord.
"Besides," said little Miss Parker briskly, "it will be a help to him,
you know; he isn't very regular in his attendance at church; no young
men are, nowadays. I think it will be doing a good deed to put him in a
position where he will feel obliged to be in church."
Over this idea, Auntie Barber went home to think, and the triumphant
committee went to formally invite Mr. Pemberton.
The next Sabbath morning, it must be confessed that our church was
unusually full, and all eyes turned expectantly toward the choir
gallery, which was just back of the pulpit, and had for several years
been vacant. All the seats were filled now, with bright, expectant
faces. Mr. Pemberton believed in a chorus choir, and had been prodigal
in his invitations. All the pretty girls he knew had been cordially
asked to come and help sing.
Auntie Barber looked up at the rows of faces with a benignant smile.
"The young folks like it," she murmured, "and it ain't a bad looking
sight. They'll drown'd our voices, and that will be all right. I've
been most afraid this good while that I sung too loud, for I s'pose my
voice is getting old, but now I needn't be afraid of troubling anybody."
"You'll have to permit congregational singing," explained lively Miss
Parker to Mr. Pemberton, at their first rehearsal. "It was the only
ground on which the innovation was permitted, that the choir should
simply lead the congregation. It's in the charter, or the constitution,
or something; no, the man who gave the organ, fifty years or so ago,
stipulated that there should always be congregational singing."
"Oh, certainly," said the affable Mr. Pemberton; "we'll simply lead
the congregation; that is all in the world we propose to do; they may
sing to their heart's content." And he twinkled his handsome eyes, and
looked so good-naturedly about him, that the girls voted him "perfectly
delightful."
So now everything was in readiness, and the pastor was reading the hymn:
"All hail the power of Jesus' name;
Let angels prostrate fall;
Bring forth the royal diadem
And crown Him Lord of all."
"Coronation!" Auntie Barber's special favorite, and the tune to which
Uncle John Bennett always growled his heaviest bass. Old Deacon
Slocumb, the former leader, adjusted his spectacles, found the place
and meekly waited. He was about to sing the songs of Zion in a strange
land, or at least under strange circumstances; but he loved the
service, and struggled for a meek and quiet spirit.
And the song burst forth. Coronation indeed! Old Coronation was
hoary-haired when the tune was born. How it rolled and swelled in
triumph through the astonished church!
"All hail!" said the tenor in clear, full tones. "All hail!" repeated
the bass in voice of thunder. "All hail!" shrieked the soprano in full
volume, followed hard after by the alto, who would not be outdone; and
then the entire strength of the choir took up the words and shouted
and roared, "All hail the power!" Then, wonderful to relate, went back
to the "All hail" and did it over. About this time Auntie Barber had
reached, through much quavering, the last word of the second line, then
lifted her bewildered eyes to the choir and listened.
"I must have lost the place," she meekly said. Even yet, it had not
occurred to her that the choir could possibly be singing anything but
Coronation to those words!
As for Deacon Slocumb, he took off his spectacles, carefully wiped and
re-adjusted them, and was looking for his place again by the time the
choir reached the word "power." They finished the line in unison, then
went off into a whirl of ecstasy over the angels. "Let a-a-a angels—"
sang one part, "prostrate fall, FALL, FALL," thundered another part;
until Joe Slocumb, the Deacon's graceless son, looked about him and
grinned, and wondered where they were falling to!
Before this time Uncle Charlie's growl had been vanquished, and Deacon
Slocumb's book was closed; and dear Auntie Barber, although she kept
her book open and her meek eyes fixed on the page, knew that Coronation
had gone far beyond her reach.
The triumphant choir swept through to the close, and seated themselves
in smiling satisfaction.
"I'm sure we led the congregation," whispered Mr. Pemberton into the
ear of the first soprano. "They can't complain of our part of the
contract."
And that entire company let itself explode into a succession of
giggles, over the peculiar aptness of the text at that moment
announced: "He leadeth me by a way that I have not known."
"That's as true as preaching!" whispered the leader of the choir, and
then that ripple of laughter went again through the triumphant company.
CHAPTER II.
THIS was the beginning, but by no means the end. The smiling Theodore
was a perfect gentleman, no doubt, as regarded affability of manners,
and he carried his point, whatever it was, by sheer good-natured
audacity, but reverence for the house of God seemed to have no place in
his nature.
When he wanted to hum a new tune during prayer time, why he hummed
the tune, in decorous undertone, it is true, and looking perfectly
good-natured the while; but to hum tunes and turn leaves seemed to be
the gentlemanly Theodore's idea of decorum in prayer time. Indeed,
as time passed this grew to be by no means the most trying part of
the proceedings of the choir. It became necessary to transact a great
deal of business after the services had fairly commenced. It suited
the leader's idea to sometimes change the tune but the moment before
singing, and of course the whispered word had to be passed down the
choir. This proceeding served as a sufficient explanation or excuse
whenever one of the more daring spirits ventured to criticise: "Why we
have to consult, of course. What would you have us do?—Sing hap-hazard?
Why must there always be such a fuss made over the consultation of
singers? Deacon Simmons can squeak down the aisle and consult with the
Brother Sharp about the hour for prayer meeting, in a whisper which can
be heard all over the room; and it is all right; but the moment one of
the choir ventures a whisper, people act as though we had committed the
unpardonable sin." This will serve as a specimen of the spirit in which
criticisms were received. Generally the fault-finders-were subdued by
these hints of volcanic eruptions, and did not venture to explain that
Deacon Simmons and Brother Sharp were never caught giggling behind
their fans, nor, however loud their whispers, no such sentences as
these floated through the room from their lips: "Have a chocolate
drop? Chocolate's good for the voice, you know;" or, "Isn't the sermon
dreadfully long drawn out this morning? I do wish he'd get through."
The winter waned, and the good-natured Theodore kept his position, and
introduced innovation after innovation in his gentlemanly way, until it
is a wonder the old church knew itself. Among other things the old reed
organ, which had done good service for several years, was pronounced
a wheezy, squeaky, harsh-throated old thing; in which opinion let me
hasten to confess my sympathy. I had no love for that organ, which,
when all the stops were out, had the power to drown any voice, however
sweet. It was declared that a pipe organ was the only thing fit for a
church, anyway; and here, again, I must admit that my heart approved. I
love the music of a pipe organ.
It was found that a certain church, known to the friendly Theodore,
was about to set up a new organ, and would dispose of their old one,
purely out of consideration for the said Theodore, at a very low figure
indeed. And our choir, which could be very enthusiastic indeed when it
chose, declared its intention of raising enough money, forthwith, for
that organ.
Vigorously did they set to work. A busy winter we had of it. And by
pop-corn parties, and white-apron parties, mid post-offices, and
prize pincushions, and grab-bags, necktie sociables, and sheet and
pillow-case sociables, and every other kind of sociable or game of grab
which was ever invented, the organ fund actually swelled to respectable
proportions. Never was a busier winter, nor a more popular man than the
gentlemanly leader of our choir. His good nature and his self-sacrifice
knew no bounds. Indeed, the young people were all self-sacrificing.
They sacrificed the prayer meeting, and the mission band, and the
reading circle, and almost everything else except the skating rink, in
their zeal for the pipe organ. "It is all for the sake of the cause,
you know," grew to be the motto of the young people, and it was really
wonderful what marvels of ingenuity they became!
And they succeeded; just as a band of young people, plunged heart and
soul into anything, are almost certain to succeed. The everlasting pity
is that so often success is not worth the price paid!
But there came a happy day in which the pipe organ was set up by
skilled hands in our church, and the Sabbath following the choir outdid
themselves. It was long since Auntie Barber had attempted to sing; but
on this particular day she was seen moving her lips. She explained it
afterwards. "The critter rolled so loud, and the girls all sang so
high, that I just put in Old Hundred, softly, because I wanted to have
a share in the praising. I thought nobody would mind. They drownded it,
you know."
But Auntie Barber was mistaken; the echo of her tremulous notes:
"'Praise Him all creatures here below,'"
went up to Heaven, and the angels minded it very much. And the
good-natured Theodore happened to notice the movement of her lips, and
whispered to the first soprano during an organ interlude:
"Look at old Auntie Barber mouthing it; won't she have a time, though,
keeping up with the next strain!"
Whereat the first soprano giggled, and whispered to the second soprano,
who giggled, and passed the whisper down the line, and all were so much
amused that they liked not to have been ready for the next strain,
which ran so high that they expected to leave old Auntie in the lurch.
But this time the gentlemanly Theodore was mistaken. Old Auntie's
mouthing reached higher than any strain of music his small soul had
ever felt.
Whether the pipe organ was at fault, or whatever was the cause of it,
hilarity seemed to develop in our choir, during the spring, to a really
alarming extent. The gentlemanly Theodore took to writing notes, not
always about the next selection, as was proved by finding one or two
ran thus:
"Father Stearns didn't approve of our last effort. Notice his face; it
looks as though he had eaten a ten-penny nail preserved in vinegar."
At another time a paper containing advice as to the next selection was
found, and read as follows:
"If Dr. Prosy ever subsides, let's sing 'Oh, long expected day begin,'
as more appropriate to our feelings than the one we have chosen."
Those notes, of course, had to travel the entire length of the large
choir, and great was the amusement created; fans, handkerchiefs and
hymn books were in constant requisition to cover the explosions of
untimely mirth.
There were also sundry little private missives, passed by the leader to
his special favorites, which, of course, must be answered; and as there
were young men in the choir who had favorites, and as a leader is to be
followed of course, this form of entertainment became very popular.
The gentlemanly Theodore also developed artistic talent, and adorned
the fly-leaves of his note book with certain photographs labeled "The
Deacon in the dumps," or "Old Auntie in a seraphic state;" and down
the line would be passed the caricature of Deacon Slocumb with his
chin dropped into his shirt collar, his thumbs interlocked in the act
of twirling, and a frown on his forehead so deep that it seemed to
cast a shadow over his whole face. Then dear old Auntie Barber's face
would travel from one simpleton to another— her rather old-fashioned
black bonnet exaggerated until it was larger and queerer than any she
ever thought of wearing, and yet looking enough like it to suggest the
old lady, even though her placid face hadn't peeped out from under
it, her head slightly thrown back, her eyes closed, a pair of immense
spectacles pushed up on her forehead, and a sort of exaggeration of
satisfaction on her old face; the whole calculated to make the young
and heedless laugh. It was really a good comic likeness of the old
lady; there is no denying that the affable Theodore had other than
musical talent. But there was that about the picture, after all, which
it seemed to me was calculated to make a young person who had a dear
old mother flush with indignation.
It always seemed to me a bad sign to see people amused with caricatures
of good, pure old faces.
I don't remember how long the members of our choir indulged in these
various entertainments; but I know that, as the weeks went by, they
waxed bolder and bolder. Candies, nuts, and even lemons, circulated
freely; notes were industriously written and boldly passed, and the
whispering became almost incessant. The fact was, our choir was
becoming noted for something besides its music; some of us were
actually ashamed to take a guest to church with us, lest our choir
might shock them. Well do I remember the Sunday on which the crisis
came.
The whispering had been almost incessant during the first part of the
sermon, and more than once an audible chuckle had rippled down to
those who sat nearest. The minister, good, long-suffering man, tried
earnestly not to let his annoyance be seen; but he had borne a great
deal; and those who knew him well watched anxiously the steadily rising
flush on his unusually pale face. Once he stopped in the middle of a
sentence, and waited for full half a minute, which of course seemed
to us anxious ones like half an hour, for the whispering behind him
to cease. I do not know to this day whether it was unusual and almost
unaccountable heedlessness, or a spirit of defiant recklessness, which
took possession of our choir for the rest of the morning. Whatever it
was, Satan must have been proud of them, for certainly he had it very
much his own way among most of them. Suddenly the minister made another
ominous pause; so sudden was the silence that part of the loud whisper
behind him was heard in the still church; "Tell him I'll flat in the
next hymn awfully if he doesn't—"
CHAPTER III.
WE never knew what the accomplished flatter wanted when she spoke out
in meeting. She became suddenly aware that the noise just below her had
ceased. The minister turned slowly around and faced his tormentors, and
into that tremendous silence came his voice: "I shall have to ask the
members of the choir to desist from whispering during the sermon; else
it will be impossible for me to continue."
Had an angel from Heaven appeared suddenly among us, more startled
quiet could not have ensued. The members of the choir did not even dare
to glance at one another. One by one their faces dropped behind book or
fan or handkerchief, and some of them, at least, shed indignant tears.
The minister continued his sermon, and perhaps somebody listened, but
Uncle Charlie Bennett cleared his throat several times, with hoarse
growls, a way he had when much agitated; and Auntie Barber fanned
violently, though the day was cool. As for the affable Theodore, he
presently took his hat, and slipped quietly and decorously from a side
door; and part of the choir rendered the last hymn as best they could
without him.
What a week was that which followed. The whole town was in a ferment,
and seethed and boiled in an alarming manner. The choir was large,
and many homes had been touched. There was every shade and grade of
indignation and disapprobation expressed concerning the minister, from
the extreme wrath of Miss Armitage, the first soprano, who thought that
"after insulting half his congregation, he ought never to be allowed to
show his head in the pulpit again," down to patient old Auntie Barber,
who said she knew the minister had been dreadfully put to it, poor dear
man; she didn't blame him, but then, if he could have spoken to the
young things kind of softly, she would have been dreadful glad.
Well, another Sabbath came; and with much fear and trembling we went
to church. The minister was in his place as usual; but the long rows
of seats behind him were vacant. Not a singer put in an appearance.
Here and there through the church were scattered a few of them, seated
decorously beside their parents, wearing ominously set lips, which
boded silence, so far as they were concerned, but for the most part the
choir had followed the example of its leader and remained away from the
sanctuary.
The hymn was announced, and read; and silence followed; even the new
organ was dumb. The young performer thereon had been one of the most
efficient whisperers, and was, of course, aggrieved.
Deacon Slocumb fumbled for the spectacles with which he saw to read,
and exchanged for them the spectacles with which he saw the minister
and commenced—
"Alas, what hourly dangers rise,
What snares beset my way,"
and suddenly stopped. He had been snared in his haste and perturbation
by a long metre tune for this common metre hymn, and it was too long
drawn out, even for Auntie Barber, though she quavered in tremulously,
on the last word. Of course the members of the choir who were present
giggled scornfully, and Joe Slocumb, the wicked, disgraced himself by
an audible laugh, but the deacon, red in the face, tried again, and
acquitted himself better, and all the congregation lived through that
hymn.
Stormy times ensued for our church. In fact there was a time when Satan
must have gloried in it, so wonderfully did it live up to his ideas of
church management.
Really, it seemed as though the throes of this eruption would rend us
to pieces. It had been made plain to the church and the world generally
that the long-suffering Mr. Pemberton was now roused. He said with
severe dignity that there was a time when patience ceased to be a
virtue, and that time had come to him. He had endured enough. He should
never enter the doors of that church again, until the minister should
either in person or by letter make satisfactory apology to him, and to
all the members of his choir, for the insult which they had received.
Just what he meant by having "endured enough," or what had so exercised
his patience, did not appear. But the roused and indignant Theodore
wore all the time a look which translated would have filled volumes.
Every member of the choir heartily sympathized with this outburst, and
waited for their apology. Now in regard to this apology there was one
difficulty. The minister declined to make it! It was not that he was
not willing to "become all things to all men," it was not that he did
not "study the things which make for peace;" it was simply that he
could not very well tell a lie.
He was willing to say that perhaps he had erred in judgment in thus
publicly addressing the choir; though even here, in justice to the
truth, he would have to explain that he had heretofore spoken seriously
and gently with several individual members, with no apparent results;
and that he came to the serious conclusion that the course he pursued
was the best, and perhaps the only one calculated to remove the
difficulty.
No explanation of this sort would the affable Theodore admit for a
moment. The minister must say in so many words that he was sorry and
ashamed for his sin in thus publicly disgracing his choir, or the choir
would refuse to perform, and Mr. Pemberton would never again enter the
church. As I said, there was a constitutional and moral objection on
the part of our minister to this decision, so it seemed to be necessary
for the accommodating Theodore to stay without.
Several miserable weeks ensued, during which time our music was at
its worst. It had not even the redeeming feature of being enjoyed by
Deacon Slocumb and Auntie Barber. The Deacon sang under protest; and
dear old Auntie seemed to understand that her voice was in disgrace,
and wailed forth her notes with a tremulousness not all due to age.
It was during this time that certain of us made a discovery as to why
our congregational singing was so unusually poor. It was apparent that
the fresh young voices which had rolled out so jubilantly from the
choir seats were absolutely dumb when they were scattered about in the
congregation. Look where you would, during Deacon Slocumb's struggles
with a tune, and among the young people you would find only apathetic
faces and closed lips. They could sing like birds, but they would not.
In due course of time the important question, "What shall be done about
our church music?" came up again for official discussion. Some things
which we could not do were plain. We could not again enjoy the services
of the good-natured Theodore. Not only did he refuse to yield one inch
of his dignity, but the triumphant hour came when he refused to return,
even though a dozen apologies were furnished him. He declared with
dignity that he had waited a reasonable time for advances, and could
not be expected to do more. Certain wise ones hinted, however, that the
real reason was because the Park Street church had borne him off in
triumph, at an advance of fifty dollars on his salary.
In the midst of our perplexities came a ray light in the shape of H.
Beethoven Smith, the common-placeness of the surname being utterly lost
in the melody of the given names, "Handel Beethoven." He, too, was a
newcomer, and came heralded as a musical genius of no common order.
It was represented that a wonderful series of accidental, not to say
providential, circumstances had given us opportunity to secure his
services.
In fact the incidents which seemed to point in the direction of Handel
Beethoven Smith became so marked that it would have seemed almost like
a tempting of Providence to ignore them. Yet there were difficulties
in the way. In the first place, he demanded a much larger salary than
had satisfied the genial Theodore; and, in the second place, it was
rumored that he had in time past lent the glory of his voice to an
opera troupe. But with perseverance these and other difficulties were
overcome, and Prof. Handel Beethoven Smith was duly installed as leader
of our choir.
Prosperity seemed to crown our efforts. The members of the choir came
trooping back; it was folly to nurse their wrath to the extent of
losing such an opportunity as this. But we had hardly settled into
calm, when it became apparent that it was a deceitful calm.
CHAPTER IV.
HANDEL BEETHOVEN SMITH proved to be of uncertain temper. At times he
was sullen, or sarcastic, and he was always severe. He would not have
this, and he would have that. He told the leading bass that his voice
sounded like a trombone, without its correctness of pitch. He said
the Emmons girls had harsh, grating voices, and that Carrie Fowler's
singing reminded him of a certain rooster which used to disturb his
morning slumbers. You hardly need to be told the results of all this.
They became apparent to us by degrees. One by one the choir grew
smaller. The leading bass accepted an invitation elsewhere. The Emmons
girls felt their throats needed rest from regular singing. Cissy Burton
decided that she preferred a seat by mamma. Poor Cissy was a nervous
little thing, her mother said, quite unused to Mr. Smith's brusque
ways; dear Mr. Pemberton had always been so considerate of people's
feelings. It is true that Mr. Smith had been rather brusque. He told
her savagely one day that she was always half a tone behind, and
sang with no more expression than a hand-organ! Nor was it the choir
alone, who were the subjects of these home thrusts. Handel Beethoven
Smith carried things with a high hand in every direction. He told Dr.
Powers, who asked to have the chant, "Suffer little children to come
unto me," rendered the Sabbath after the funeral of his little child,
that they had sung it but three Sabbaths before at somebody's request,
and he couldn't afford to establish such a precedent as that; a leader
of a choir couldn't be all the time practising funeral chants because
people's babies would die. That "Suffer little children" was nothing
but trash, anyway; ought never to be sung; he had strained a point to
sing it once, and he didn't mean to get caught in that way again.
I must do Mr. Smith the justice to explain that when he called the
chant in question "trash," he referred to the words, not the music.
Words were the merest nothings to him; indeed, he had been heard to say
that all music ought to be rendered in Italian, that the clumsiness of
the English tongue might be lost sight of. Handel Beethoven Smith had a
very cultivated ear.
Dr. Powers was by no means the only senior whom Mr. Smith subdued
with savage speech. The long-suffering minister ventured one day to
suggest to the organist the wish that he would not send the people out
of church to the sound of music which seemed to belong to the dance,
or the parade, or some festive scene, when the organist assured him
that he was himself under orders, that he did not dare to hint to the
leader that his soul was his own, much less his fingers. After due
consideration, and also after the minister had preached a sermon on the
betrayal, and heard a young lady exclaim, as she fluttered down the
aisle a few minutes after its solemn closing, "Oh, isn't that music
perfectly exquisite! I can hardly keep my feet from whirling off with
me in a waltz," he determined to brave the fierce Handel Beethoven
himself; and little did he gain by the operation. The great artist
informed him that he did not presume to dictate to him what texts he
should select, nor, indeed, how long he should make his discourses;
however much he might dislike their length, he was in the habit of
leaving that matter entirely to the minister's judgment, and he desired
and expected to be treated in the same way as regarded the music. If
the minister would see to it that his part of the service was properly
managed, be sure that he, Handel Beethoven Smith, was entirely capable
of attending to his part.
Neither did the constant resignations from the choir apparently disturb
the leader in the least. Indeed, he sometimes, with an approach to
almost complaisance, remarked that they were well rid of such an one,
and the choir improved with each departure. He had no very high opinion
of chorus choirs, anyway; you could never do really classic work with a
mixed chorus.
He imported in the place of the irate bass singer a young man with a
faultless voice and dress. To be sure, this importation created dismay;
it was whispered abroad that the owner of the divine voice supported
himself by selling fancy liquors in a fashionable up-town saloon!
Could it be endured that he should roll out the praises of God in our
choir on Sundays, and deal out liquid death to our young men during
the week? There were many who thought it could not, and Deacon Slocumb
was appointed chairman of a committee to interview the savage leader,
who, after hearing his somewhat lengthy complaint, silenced him with
the severe statement: "You are laboring under a foolish mistake, Deacon
Slocumb. I engaged the young man because of his voice, not because
of his business. He does not sell his fancy drinks in our choir on
Sunday, and it is a form of business which has not, as yet, affected
his throat. He has a very cultured voice, which can be said of very few
singers in this town, I assure you; music is at a very low ebb here,
and lower nowhere than in your church. I tell you frankly I do not
think there is a man among you who knows real music when he hears it,
and therefore it is absurdly impossible that you should be permitted to
dictate to me."
The deacon was silenced, but not convinced. Still, we had been through
such seas of trouble with our choir that we trembled at the thought of
touching it. And then, there was dear old Auntie Barber, who murmured:
"Well, the young man gets to church twice a day by this means; and they
do say he hasn't been in the habit of going to church for years. If
he has a mother, poor soul, she must be glad of something that brings
him within sound of the Gospel." And yet Auntie Barber remembered,
within her honest, sinking heart, how they had rejoiced in bringing the
affable Theodore under the sound of the Gospel, and how disastrous had
been the apparent results.
There came a morning in our church which I am inclined to think was
a triumph to our highly cultivated leader. One by one the chorus had
slipped away, until now there were left just four singers—the leading
soprano, the best alto we had, the divine bass voice of the saloon
clerk, and for tenor, Handel Beethoven himself. That he was satisfied
with the situation he showed in his face, and the first piece they
rendered certainly astonished the congregation. Joe Slocumb, who was
learning to take notes of what was said and sung, for the benefit of
the dear old grandma at home, gave the following copy of the words:
"Whytee ugh seeeepro take tip ou-ou-ou-ouur
Beem I'ven wiiiish us till,
Nan mate is conseek raaateee tower,
We uth beeeta ropes by Phil."
In vain did grandma don her spectacles and study carefully for a
familiar word. Then she laid the paper down with a sigh and a protest:
"I didn't think, Joe, that you would be for playing tricks on your old
grandma."
Then Joe, virtuous and indignant: "I didn't, Grandma, do any such
thing. Them's the very words, jist as near as I can make them out. It
wasn't a piece the minister read; they just squealed it out, without
anybody telling what it was; and if them ain't the words, then it
didn't have any words."
By all of which I trust you will understand how entirely Handel
Beethoven Smith succeeded in training his choir to overcome the
clumsiness of the English language.
CHAPTER V.
BUT, alas for us, the day of peace was not yet!
It took a great deal to satisfy our leader, and he sat down after his
last effort, gloomy and unsatisfied. His fierce brows remained drawn
and unbending during the entire service. Almost before the "amen" of
the benediction was pronounced, he expressed his mind, quite loud
enough for the soprano to hear: "It is of no use to bring classic music
into this choir; the singers are not equal to it. After all our drill,
that A was flatted wretchedly! This is the last time; I shall never
again attempt anything but the most ordinary psalm tune."
I regret that I cannot give you his rendering of the word "psalm."
It was spoken as though the "ordinary psalm tune" was the lowest and
most discouraging of all human productions, and to be reduced to the
necessity of singing it conferred a degree of self-abasement below
which it would be hard to fall.
Alas for our leading soprano! It was she who had flatted that miserable
"A." It was she whose cheeks now glowed a painful crimson as she
listened to the stinging criticism. It was also she who handed in her
written resignation to Handel Beethoven that very afternoon, couched
in language which he could not fail to understand. Since she, who had
for years borne the name of being the most correct singer in town,
and of having an unusually pure soprano voice, could not give him
satisfaction, she was more than willing to resign her seat, and let him
fill it when and where he could.
Over this note Handel Beethoven did look thoughtful. Soprano singers
whom he could control were certainly growing scarce.
In his perplexity, he actually consulted Deacon Slocumb, or, at least,
he grumbled before him to the effect that he didn't know what they were
going to do, as their soprano had a severe attack of ill humor. He
presumed he could hardly be expected to manufacture sopranos to order,
free of charge; though almost everything else was expected of him. If
the church had a paid quartette choir, as it ought to have, all these
nuisances would be avoided.
Deacon Slocumb had no word to offer, but when was dear old Auntie
Barber other than sympathetic in any form of trouble? She, waiting in
the aisle, overheard the grumbler, opened her mouth to speak, then
thought better of it and moved on, then turned back and stood in the
leader's way, wrapping and unwrapping her hymn hook in a painfully
embarrassed manner. She was very shy of Handel Beethoven.
"Well," he said in a surly tone, "do you want anything?"
Then Auntie Barber found voice. Mrs. Adams, her neighbor, had a niece
visiting her, a young thing from Boston, who sang around the house like
a lark, and Mrs. Adams told her they set store by her in a church in
Boston; she had come to the country for the summer, to rest, and Auntie
Barber did not know but maybe he would like to get her to help him for
a little while; at least, she thought it would do no harm to mention it.
Handel Beethoven Smith forgot to thank her, did not relax one muscle of
his gloomy face, and merely remarking that because somebody in Boston
"set store" by a singer, was no sign that he would be able to tolerate
her, brushed past meek old Auntie, and went his way. Nevertheless, in
the course of the afternoon, he did call on Mrs. Adams, and hold a
consultation with the niece from down East.
Evening came, and those who knew of the latest disturbance in our
choir, waited, some of them in anxiety, and some in amusement, to see
what development we would have next. A little thrill of comfort stole
into Auntie Barber's heart as she saw the down East niece in the choir,
but the rest of us did not know the fair-faced stranger.
The organ, contrary to its usual manner, was filling the church with
slow, sweet sounds, as the people gathered, and then, suddenly, we had
a sensation. A voice, sweeter, it seems to me, than could ever have
sounded on earth before, rose on the hushed air, and rolled in melody
down the aisles, each word as distinctly spoken as though it was a
sermon by itself, reached our hearts:
"While Thee I seek, protecting power,
Be my vain wishes stilled,
And may this consecrated hour,
With better hopes be filled."
What was there in that voice to make us feel the solemn hush of the
great "protecting power" all around us? Why, under its spell, did we
feel our petty strifes and bickerings and jealousies hushing into
stillness? How came the longing stealing over us for a higher life, and
holier aims, and "better hopes?"
Perhaps none of us understood the "why," but we were under the spell.
And certainly none of us knew or even dreamed that we were listening to
the same words which Joe Slocumb had taken down verbatim in the morning.
The wonderful voice continued its marvelous sermon:
"Thy love the power of thought, bestowed."
What a wonderful thing to have bestowed upon us, and to what uses had
we sometimes put it! But the voice went on:
"To Thee my thoughts would soar."
Oh, yes, gracious, protecting Power, lift Thou our thoughts up into thy
plane!
"Thy mercy on my life has flowed,
That mercy I adore."
Did we need a sermon after that? We had had our sermon; and yet, our
minister had never preached a better one. We could feel that his faith
had soared upward on the wings of that prayer-song, and taken fresh
heart for work.
For the first time in our lives we had the pleasure of seeing Handel
Beethoven Smith in thoroughly good humor. The wonderful voice which he
had invited into his choir shed a reflected glory on him, and filled
his small soul with as much elation as it could hold. His expressions
of satisfaction might not have sounded remarkable to the fair singer,
but for him they really were profuse:
"It is certainly a great pleasure to hear your rendering, after the
soul-torturing performances which I have endured so long. I permitted
you to use the same selection which we attempted in the morning, in
order that this obtuse congregation might feel the difference, if it
has any musical taste, which I doubt."
Then was the pretty singer discomfited: "Is it possible I chose
something which was sung here this morning? I was not here; I went with
Uncle to his church. I wouldn't have done it for the world! I am afraid
I hurt somebody's feelings."
Our leader made haste to reassure her. No solo had been attempted; he
had been too wise for that. It had only been sung as a quartette; and
really, she need not be troubled. Nobody in that congregation knew good
singing from bad.
Perhaps there was truth in the statement, but some of the congregation
went away that night with a queer feeling tugging at their hearts that
their lives, so wonderfully encircled by that Protecting Power, ought
to be living exponents of its greatness, as they could but feel they
were not.
CHAPTER VI.
THERE was much looking forward to next Sabbath's services, and
much eagerness to hear the glorious voice again. And we were not
disappointed. With much elation did Mr. Handel Beethoven Smith spread
the news. Miss Haviland, of Boston, was in the country for rest, but a
little quiet Sunday singing she would not mind in the least: indeed,
she would help them all she could; would like to do it. And when
Handel Beethoven repeated this gracious acceptance of his invitation,
he added thoughtfully that he presumed she would not be sorry to have
the benefit of his training for a few weeks, and that it was a comfort
to him to feel that he need not accept her help without being able to
give a very adequate return. However that was, Miss Alice Haviland made
glorious music for us all that Sabbath day.
"She sings like a nightingale," said Deacon Slocumb, "but when I look
at her I can't think of nothing but one of them little bright-winged
critters who flutter all ways to once."
As for Joe Slocumb, when he tried to describe her to his grandmother,
he got no further than to say: "She's all in white, bunnit and all,
only some blue ribbons a flying, and fluffy hair, the color of—say,
Grandmother, do you s'pose the angels wear hair, and ribbons and
things?"
A second Sabbath came and almost passed. The hush of the Sabbath
evening was upon us. Our church was very full; people not accustomed
to church-going had been drawn in to hear the singer whom we were all
beginning to understand was wonderful. We had almost held our breaths
that evening in the fear that she would not be there. For she came a
trifle late, and looked flushed, and troubled. But she sang the soprano
in the opening hymns with her usual power, then dropped back into her
seat, and some of us noticed that she kept her eyes shaded by her hand
during the entire sermon. Mr. Smith touched her hand just before its
close and whispered: "The doctor wants you to sing this as a solo. The
words are mere doggerel, but the music will set off your voice to good
advantage."
Her face, which had grown pale, flushed a little over that; and I knew
her afterwards well enough to understand that she would have refused to
sing it, had not the minister's name been in the direction. She took
it, however, without demur, and presently her marvelous voice filled
the church:
"Take my life, and let it be
Consecrated, Lord, to Thee.
Take my hands and let them move
At the impulse of Thy love."
Each word as distinctly enunciated as though the singer was reciting
them. On, through the description of mental and physical powers, until
she reached the words:
"Take my voice, and let me sing,
Always, only for my King."
She was singing from sheet music, and the arrangement was such that
the word "voice" rolled up into the higher notes, strong and pure, as
though the singer would reach up, even to the throne, with the offering.
"Take my voice, and—"
Suddenly the singer faltered, the voice ceased. The organ, which had
been keeping only a modest undertone of accompaniment, hurried into the
melody, the player striking the chords with firm hand, as though to
encourage the singer, but in vain. She only looked pleadingly at the
leader and shook her head. And the minister who had been listening with
closed eyes, and a heart attuned to the words wafted to him, caught the
pleading look, and, rising, lifted his hands in benediction.
Following hard on the "amen" came questions. Anxious friends had
hurried to the choir gallery. "What is it?" "Were you faint?" "Get her
a glass of water." "Where's a fan?" "Do you feel sick?"
She turned from them toward the leader: "Mr. Smith, I am very sorry,
but, indeed, I could not sing it; those words are awful!"
"Words!" he said, in high indignation. "Is it possible you stopped for
them? I told you they were mere doggerel. It was the marvelous tune,
and your voice fits it. What are words?"
She shivered as she answered him: "Words are awful, Mr. Smith—those
words are. I could not speak them. Think of me calling God to witness
that I give Him my voice, to sing only for Him, when I never sang a
line for Him in my life!
"'Always, only for my King!'
"And I have never owned Him as my King! I tell you I could not speak
those words. It is mockery. And, oh! How much of it I have done. It is
all mockery; I do not mean any of it."
And she buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears.
Utter, silent consternation took possession of us. Not one seemed to
know what word to offer.
But there was more than consternation on the face of Handel Beethoven
Smith, and he was the first to regain power of speech as he turned to
move away:
"Well, I had supposed myself familiar with all the forms of hysteria in
which lady singers can indulge, but this is new!"
The minister had come to offer sympathy, but had been struck dumb by
the singer's outcry. But now he rallied:
"My dear young lady, there is a remedy for your trouble. He is ready to
blot out all the past. Will you give your voice to Him for the future?"
The rest of us were moving away, but the singer suddenly arrested us
again. She seemed not to have heard the minister; but at that moment
she caught sight of the wistful old face of Auntie Barber.
"Auntie—Auntie Barber," she said, springing up, and leaning over the
choir rail, "Wait! I want to see you." And then she vanished from our
sight.
CHAPTER VII.
IT was some weeks afterwards that I heard from Alice herself the rest
of the story.
On that Sabbath afternoon she had been bustling about her room making
ready for the evening service, singing snatches of sacred song, with no
more thought of the words than had the wood robin just then singing his
evening song. "I never thought words," she vehemently told me; "they
had always seemed to me like so much necessary machinery on which to
exhibit the tune."
While she fluttered from bureau to dressing table, then loitered a
moment by the open window trilling her song, from the open window of
the next house, separated from her only by a narrow passage way, came a
voice, distinct and tremulous with earnestness. It took but a moment to
realize that it was Auntie Barber at prayer.
"And I heard her pray for me," said Alice, her voice awe-stricken as
she told of it. "You never heard such a prayer! At least, I never have.
I was not used to hearing people pray for me. And she asked the Lord to
get me ready to sing with the angels. Think how that must have made me
feel! I, who had never thought about angels, and was afraid to die, and
afraid to hear about death! But she prayed more than that. She asked
God to let me sing for some soul that night; sing it a song that would
make it want Christ for a friend. Think of it; I sing for a soul! It
frightened me. I turned from that window feeling all white and faint. I
thought I could not sing at all, and yet I must. But I cannot describe
to you what an evening it was. I could not get away from that prayer.
It seemed to float all about me. Try as I would, I could not put it
aside. What if Auntie Barber's prayer should be answered, and I should
sing some soul into peace with God, and there was I, afraid of Him!
But that last hymn just stabbed me. Standing up there, all alone, and
singing those awful words:
"'Take my voice, and let me sing
'Always, only for my King.'
"It seemed to me that I mocked Him with the words; that I had always
been mocking Him, and I was afraid. I had just found out that it was
a fearful thing to be able to sing. You remember that I called out to
Auntie Barber as she passed, and went away with her? But I said hardly
anything to her that I meant to. I began: 'O, Auntie Barber, you don't
know me. You think I sing for God, but I don't. I've been mocking Him
with just words all my life, and I am frightened, frightened!' She
interrupted me just there.
"'Dear heart,' she said, 'He knows all about you, and he loves you, and
is waiting for you. Come in, and tell Him the whole story.' And she
drew me into that very room where she had prayed for me!
"The rest of the story isn't long to tell," said Alice, smiling on me
with eyes that glistened; "but it will take eternity to live it! I
finished the hymn that evening in Auntie Barber's room:
"'Take myself, and I will be
Ever, only, all for Thee!"
And she meant the words.
I wish I had time to tell you the rest of the story about our church
choir. Once more it was reconstructed. He declared that all our singers
were either ill-humored or hysterical, and every one of them flatted.
Then our Boston guest took up the burden. For three weeks she preached
the Gospel to us in song, alone, utterly unsustained, save by the
organist, who bravely held the fort with her. During those three weeks
she worked. She gathered the girls about her—those elements of power in
every church, if they were only understood. "Let us have a new choir,"
she said; "let us take this for our motto:
"'Take my voice, and let me sing
Ever, only for my King.'"
She printed those words in illuminated text, and framed them and hung
them in the choir gallery.
In process of time they found a leader, one who was willing to sing
by the new motto. I will not tell the story; it is long. But, in its
details, it shows what we each need to more fully realize; the power of
reconstruction which lies in one young consecrated life. Three months
our borrowed songstress stayed with us, and when she went away she left
our choir singing by the motto; the essential difference between their
music and all others which we had ever enjoyed being embodied in that
one brief sentence: They meant the words.
The last time I heard Alice Haviland sing was in our church, on a
week-day afternoon, just as the autumn leaves were beginning to fall.
She stood near to an open coffin, in which lay an old, worn body, a
wrinkled face, crowned with white satin hair, and the most reposeful
smile that ever Auntie Barber's dear old face had ever worn. And the
young singer, looking down on the quiet sleeper, breathed out the words
to wondrous melody:
"Forever with the Lord,
Amen, so let it be;
Life from the dead is in that word,
'Tis immortality.
"Servant of Christ, well done;
Praise be thy new employ;
And while eternal ages run.
Rest in thy Saviour's joy."
And as the voice ceased, and the singer turned toward me with
tear-dimmed eyes, while they closed the coffin-lid, she murmured: "I am
sure Auntie Barber has already joined the choir. Her soul was just full
of song. And, oh! How she can sing now. And she will always mean the
words."
HIS FRIEND.
———
CHAPTER I.
IT would have puzzled many of his friends to understand what possible
interest Mr. Thornton could have had in the old cottage which he
stood surveying. What was there in the dingy, cobwebby place to call
for so much thought as he seemed to be putting upon it? He was not
a real estate agent estimating its value, nor a mechanic contriving
how he might make it good as new; for his cultured face had not the
sharp business look of the one, neither did his elegant attire belong
to the latter. The old place might have been picturesque in its day,
but now the luxuriant growth of lawn and garden were all in a tangle;
the maples and elms were locking arms, and that "gadding vine," the
woodbine, had strayed away to the top of the tall hemlock.
It may be that Mr. Thornton was musing upon the possibilities of the
forlorn little house, thinking it pitiful that even houses, trees and
vines should not make the most of themselves. He had a passion for
bringing up human ruins from depths of sin. It would not be strange if
this divine outgoing widened and extended to inanimate things.
People said that Mr. Thornton was very peculiar. He puzzled the world
in which he moved in more ways than one. It was incomprehensible to
them why a man with thousands to bestow in charity, did not sit in
his easy chair, and with a few flourishes of his pen make munificent
gifts to public institutions, which would trumpet his praises far and
near, instead of giving it out in driblets as he did, and half of the
time nobody ever heard of it, except by chance; giving himself such
extra trouble, too, hunting out objects of charity that nobody else
would ever think of. Ah! That was just what he did accomplish; things
that most people would not think of doing; little helps given here and
there, tiding a discouraged man over it rough spot, saving the home
to a widow, giving a month's rest to a poor sewing woman, a barrel of
flour or load of coal to a family suddenly driven to straits who would
starve rather than beg. And money was not all he gave; no one but God
and themselves ever knew how he followed young men in and out, bringing
them back from the very door of the pit to respectability and to Christ.
Among the poorest classes he was a most successful worker, because,
like his Master, he brought not only the bread of life, but also the
material, homely loaf for fainting bodies.
Whatever could possess one of intellectual tastes, with wealth and
leisure and the wide world before him to spend time in such a strange
way? People who could see no farther than the outside said that
he wanted to be a sort of patron saint to the unfortunate; others
explained it by that convenient word "eccentric." That which really
was the true motive power of this life they could not understand or
appreciate.
Every person finds his greatest pleasure in some particular way. It
was natural for Mr. Thornton to find his in making others happy. As a
boy, he often gave a bit of silver to a beggar or a rose to a forlorn
woman, because he so loved to see the face change from dullness to glad
surprise. Of late years, though, there had come into his life something
stronger and purer as a controlling power. He had been taken into near
companionship with the Lord Jesus. He consulted with him in every small
affair of his life, and received special guidance, consequently he had
no worries and anxieties; he was under orders, not as servant only,— it
was more as one might carry out the least wish of a dear absent friend.
The beneficence that flowed from his purse was simply dispensing
another's bounty. Every flower or kind word bestowed, were the cups of
cold water given in the Friend's name, for none of which he claimed
merit.
After many years spent abroad Mr. Thornton had returned to his native
city. This neglected cottage, along with other pieces of property,
had fallen into his hands at the death of an old aunt, and with the
rest had much needed his attention for some time past. It was an
old-fashioned house with low ceilings, small windows, wide fireplaces
and broad hearthstones. Outside, there were broad verandas, a garden
full of roses, shrubs and vines; a disorderly mass now, but capable of
being a delight.
True to himself, he immediately set to work—in imagination—transforming
the shabby house into a thing of beauty. His artistic eye could see how
charming the parlor would be with the sunlight and the roses peeping
through white-curtained windows, the lawn a velvety green, cleared of
all but one grand oak, and the garden with trained vines and trimmed
walks. What wonders might not paper, and paint, and pruning-knife
accomplish! He grew enthusiastic over it as he went on. But what of it
all when it was finished? It would be easy to give it into the hands of
an agent to dispose of, and so have no further trouble about it, but
he had an impression that in some way this house might be used for the
comfort and help of some one in the Father's family, and he resolved to
dedicate it to that purpose.
He sat on the porch and thought it all out while the shadows of the
vines danced over him and the morning-glories nodded approvingly. Yes,
he would make the place fresh and fair, and it should be to refresh the
heart of some old saint who was homeless and friendless, with nothing
left but memories of the past and hopes of the future.
"She will train these vines into orderliness and sit with her knitting
in this shade," he said to himself, as he turned the key in lock
and went his way. So eager was he to have the work commenced that
he brought out his knife and clipped disorderly branches from the
sweet-brier that overhung the gateway as he passed through.
The vacant cottage stood on a pleasant street that stretched itself
on out into the country, and Mr. Thornton, lured by the beauty of the
autumn days and the flaming colors hung out on a piece of woods not far
distant, turned his steps thitherward, pausing a moment on the brow
of the hill to take in all the beauty. He was rewarded by a tableau
of surprising loveliness. Nature, growing lavish with the dying year,
had again festooned the old tree trunks and brown limbs with royal
hangings. Red maples, yellow elms and the pine's dark green, wove such
tapestry of gorgeous tints and rare blending as Persian looms might
assay in vain to imitate.
Under one of the maples, standing on tiptoe, and reaching up to the
bright branches, was a young girl. The little figure was trim and neat
in soft gray suit and well-fitting thick boots. She was no sylph-like
maiden that a breath might blow away. Every curve of her form was
instinct with life and energy, yet the attitude was the personification
of grace. Her broad-brimmed hat had fallen back on her shoulders, and
the upturned face was eager and rosy as a child's as she reached a
plump hand far above her head, and almost grasped the coveted scarlet
branch; like a child's, too, in the wave of disappointment that swept
over it when she found her utmost efforts unavailing. She picked up
the basket at her feet, already half filled with ferns, and moved
on a few steps; then her face glowed again, and her eyes beamed on
some new discovery. This was apparently no city maiden, come out for
a sentimental stroll, for down she went on her knees before a clump
of wood violets growing about an old stump. Eagerly she seized her
trowel, carefully loosened the earth about them, and lifted them almost
reverently into her basket.
Mr. Thornton was a devout admirer of the beautiful in art and nature,
but he had not lived thirty years without knowing that a fair face
and form may hide a hollow heart. He had studied, in the galleries
of Europe, perfect faces, painted by the old masters; he had met in
society women gifted with glorious beauty, and discovered that one was
no more soulless than the other, consequently mere external charms
failed to impress him deeply. And yet, screened by the friendly sumach,
he watched with keen interest the pretty pose under the tree, and the
childish attitude on the ground, as the energetic little worker lifted
root after root of the homely plants into her basket. And this, not
alone because she made a pretty picture, but it was refreshing as a
breath of mountain air to discover one who could bring such enthusiasm
to autumn leaves and a few wildwood plants, and step about with that
joyous, unconscious air as if it were not in her nature to think of
herself, or do anything for the mere sake of effect.
She fitted in well with the bright sky, bracing air and song of birds.
He loved simple pleasures so much himself that he shared in her
delight. As she disappeared into the woods far enough away for him to
escape observation, he came and stood under the tree that had refused
to give her one of its branches. From his height it was easy to reach
the very one the little hand had aspired to; he broke it off, and
several other bright sprays still higher up, then he dropped two or
three of the finest just in the path by which she must return. And this
he did, not from mere sentimentality; he would have done the same for
any wrinkled old woman. It was this man's nature to help everybody to
what they wanted, if it were right and he could do it.
He had the satisfaction after a little to see her come down the path,
pause with a puzzled look beside the branches in her way, send a
swift reconnoitering look about her, then with a smile and a murmured
expression of delight, place them in her basket, the crowning glory
of the whole. Then another scrutinizing sweep of her eyes, all about
her,—half-frightened this time, as if she just realized that she was
not alone, and she took up her basket and sped away like the wind.
Had she only known how true and good a man stood guard over her she
need not have put herself in such a flutter. She walked steadily on,
bearing her burden as bravely as though it were customary for the young
ladies to walk through city streets carrying large baskets.
Lily Winthrop's home was on one of the broad avenues; a large old
mansion that had been palatial in its day, but now owed its chief
attraction to its location, and the fine grounds surrounding it. She
was met in the broad gateway by a tall, silver haired old gentleman,
who looked reproachfully at the basket and said:
"Lily, my child, is it possible you have brought that through the
streets? Why did you not take Gretchen with you to carry it?"
"O, Grandpa! it is not at all heavy, and Gretchen was busy. See my
spoils; look at that lovely bright maple branch. It is the strangest
thing where that came from. I tried so hard to get it, but it was above
my reach, and when I came back that way, there it lay right in the
path! It must have been some good fairy or friendly squirrel who took
pity on me. Aren't these ferns beautiful?"
"What if you had met the Berkeleys or the Madisons, and you carrying a
great basket like any market woman?"
"I would have made my best bow to them, Grandpa, exactly as if I had
nothing in my hand, and with my best clothes on, was sailing out to
kill time; and I would have shown them all my worldly treasures, and
perhaps I would have given them this lovely little bouquet which I will
now give to you, my best grandpa, if you don't scold me any more." And
she fastened on his coat a small bunch of scarlet berries, tiny white
flowers, and dark leaves.
The old gentleman smiled down into her merry eyes, despite his
vexation, and put his arm about her fondly.
"Poor child!" he said. "How can you keep a gay heart under such crosses
as you have to carry!"
"All the crosses I carry are good for me, dear Grandpa. I have had a
delightful time in the woods this afternoon. Now let us go in to tea.
After that I have a fresh newspaper for you."
She stepped to her room and freshened herself with a soft lace necktie
and a few bright leaves in her hair and at her throat, so that
Grandpa's old eyes might imagine he had a lady in full dress at his
table. Then she sat down and presided over the tea-urn with all due
dignity and grace, taking care to have everything just as he liked
it; the table in faultless array, and Gretchen with spotless apron
in waiting, and certain other little ceremonies that he was fond of
keeping up.
Supper over, and Mr. Winthrop comfortably established with his paper,
Lily slipped off to the greenhouse to pot her ferns and violets. This
was her workshop; here she toiled early and late, surreptitiously
often, for it grieved the grandfather sorely that his darling had been
brought to such straits, so she managed by various small strategies to
keep from him the full extent of her labors.
It was the old story—unfortunate speculations—signing a note for
another, etc., and a fortune had taken wings. Affluence and luxury
had been exchanged for poverty, debts and anxieties. Lily had been
bequeathed to her grandfather at the death of her widowed mother. So
they two, the first and the last of the family, had been left alone
in the old homestead; and it had been a happy life until this great
change. Mr. Winthrop came out of the storm with nothing left but a
small bank account.
A lifelong friend bought the residence at auction sale, telling Mr.
Winthrop to stay just where he was; that when he needed the place he
would let him know, giving him plainly to understand, however, that
probably he should never ask him to leave it. And now the question
arose as to what could be done to eke out a support without consuming
at once the little they possessed. Mr. Winthrop had long since given
up active business life; if there had been anything for him to do he
was too feeble and aged to attempt it. Lily was a proficient in music,
but, alas! there were many teachers and much competition. She succeeded
by dint of great exertion in obtaining two or three pupils. They had
many friends in their prosperous days who were "very sorry" for them
now, but who considered it their solemn duty to employ none but German
professors.
An inspiration came to Lily one day in this form: There was the
greenhouse well stocked with plants, why should it not be a source
of profit to them? It had always held a sort of fascination for her.
She had watched John for hours, and asked questions innumerable,
had even learned how to arrange flowers in different styles, little
thinking the knowledge would ever prove useful to her. John had been
dismissed, but she felt quite sure that by the aid of books she could
care for the plants and realize a sum—with their other sources of
income—sufficient for their wants. But there were difficulties in the
way of accomplishing this. Her grandfather was a born aristocrat, and
held to the belief that a lady, especially a Winthrop, must be hedged
about with all sorts of dainty care, must not harden her hands with any
manual labor, above all things must not engage in petty traffic like
any huckster, in fine, that she was a rare and delicate flower that the
winds must not visit too roughly, and that some chivalrous man must
guard and cherish, as he had cared for her, and as he meant to do until
this horrible thing had come upon them. "No, indeed, she must not think
of putting her own hands to such work. If worst had come to worst, and
they must make merchandise of the plants, then John must be recalled
and the thing done up properly."
Poor Lily sighed, and tried to make her unpractical grandfather see
that John would swallow up all the profits; but he was inexorable,
declaring that as long as he lived she should never thus demean
herself. Meanwhile, he should get into some business, he was sure. And
now he cast about to see what he could do. Ah, yes, what? His business
for forty years had been to direct others. He had been president of
a bank and of a railroad company; but such offices are not open to
men over seventy. He put pitiful little advertisements in the papers
to the effect that "a skilled financier, one of large experience in
railroading and banking desired a position." Then growing humbler
would come down to "a ready accountant, a skillful penman, wishing a
situation," forgetting that his poor old brain could scarcely add a
column of figures correctly if life depended upon it, and that the
trembling hand could no longer make graceful curves.
Day after day he sat and waited for the postman's ring; it sometimes
came, but the longed-for letter did not come; then he was sure he
should hear something to-morrow, and so the hours passed in trembling
expectancy. While this was going on, Lily was hard at work pruning,
potting, gathering out dead leaves and transferring plants from lawn to
greenhouse, working in the early mornings while her grandfather slept.
She must have it all in order, for she hoped to win him to consent to
her plan after a time. And so it proved; by many womanly manœuvres
she brought it about. She made her grandfather see that it was highly
necessary to her health and happiness to be among the plants; then—"the
shelves were getting crowded; would he sell a few young plants to Mr.
Harris, the grocer."
At this, the old gentleman was nettled, saying, "Oh, that is small
business; give Mr. Harris a few plants if he wishes them; we have more
than enough."
Then Lily would fix her innocent brown eyes on her grandfather's and
say, "Grandpa, I suppose I don't know much about business, but when you
come right down to it, isn't it about the same thing to receive four or
five dollars from Mr. Harris who wants our plants, as for you to have
received four of five thousand dollars when you were a banker from men
who wanted your services?"
At this grandpa laughed and said, "Go on, child, have your own way; you
are a real Winthrop. If I once you take a thing into your head, you'll
never give up till it is accomplished." He said to himself, "Sure
enough, when you put it in that way, what is the difference?"
And now business began in a lively manner. Lily rose before the sun,
cut her flowers and arranged them in attractive style, and Gretchen
carried them to the market—transmuting rosebuds into beefsteak for the
morning meal.
These bouquets were much in demand among people of good taste; they
were not the stiff, ungainly things one usually sees, but were grouped
loosely and tastefully together with a rare grace that could not be
imitated. She possessed true womanly tact, and succeeded in interesting
her grandfather in the structure and habits of plants. She brought
books from the library, scientific and practical, and, during the long
evenings they studied them together until the elder student began to
catch some of the enthusiasm of the younger, and both grew to be wise
in plant lore. Mr. Winthrop even came into the greenhouse himself and
made bungling efforts to be useful. It touched Lily to the heart to
see her stately, dignified grandfather, who had never dealt much with
details of any sort, sitting before a basket of flowers, sorting out
heliotrope, primroses and smilax with painful precision.
As for herself she was perfectly in love with the work; busy and happy
she hind almost forgotten to notice that her many dear friends had
nearly all ceased to visit her, so she had ample time for her new
pursuit. Bringing to it such zeal and love, success was sure. Shut in
her little green world, that other world where she had flitted about
with gay butterflies of fashion, seemed far off—another state of
existence; this greenery was a better, purer world; it was easier to
remember the Heavenly Father when intimate with his delicate creations.
Perhaps the work he gave man to do for the new-born earth always
has peculiar blessings attending it. However it was, new color and
roundness came to her cheek and unwonted love and consecration to her
heart.
So two years passed away in quiet contentment. With much economy they
were more than comfortable, were even able to pay a small rent which
added not a little to the happiness of the proud-spirited old gentleman.
Just as they were looking forward to another winter of pleasure and
profit everything was changed in the space of a few hours. Satan long
ago intruded himself among vines and flowers and here he came again—in
the person of a sharp, covetous man who claimed the property as his
own. The friend, to whose generosity they owed so much, passed to
another world without so much as a moment's warning. It had been his
purpose to bequeath the Winthrop estate to its lifelong owners, but he
had neglected to add this to his will. Much of the property now fell
into the hands of a distant relative who claimed the last dollar that
the law allowed him, although knowing the often expressed intention of
the one whose wishes and words, as far as this life is concerned, had
forever come to an end.
This very September morning, when the golden sunshine seemed full of
blessing, the cruel order came to vacate the premises within three
months. This was a heavy blow indeed, and Mr. Winthrop was almost
crushed beneath it. To be turned out into the world without a home
at his age was bad enough, but to bring this upon the dear child was
fearful. All the old struggle of regret and remorse returned. To
think that he should have imperiled all, when he had such a treasure
entrusted to him. He walked the floor nights and days calling himself
by all hard names, sometimes trying to pray, but in despair declaring
that he had been so proud and covetous the Lord had forsaken him in his
old age.
"Poor child!" he would exclaim to Lily. "What a pity it is that you
belong to such a senseless old dolt."
Lily did not try to talk much at such times. She would sing low and
tender in bird-like notes some sweet assuring words, oftenest his
favorite hymn that he had sung and believed for fifty years:
"How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,
Is found for your faith in his excellent Word."
The grand words of promise were sure to bring relief, and by the time
she came to:
"I'll never, no, never, no, never, forsake—"
the poor heart was calmed.
"Here is a good place to read to-night, Grandpa," she sometimes said,
turning the leaves of the large Bible to some chapter where God's
loving heart whispers words that have comforted sad souls in all ages.
When he had again realized these gracious promises it was easier to
kneel and commit all to "Him who careth for us."
And so for the time being it seemed necessary that the learner turn
teacher, and keep constantly before the fainting heart the unfailing
Refuge.
"It will all come out right, dear Grandpa. You told me long ago that
God cares for each of his children exactly as if that one were all
alone in the world," she would say when the next dark cloud began to
settle over him. "The Heavenly Father knows we need another home. He is
surely getting it ready for us. We haven't suffered any yet; I know it
will come in time."
Then Grandpa would murmur, "Blessed child, you shame my feeble faith."
Strong as Lily's confidence was, however, she went about the work of
seeking some employment exactly as if everything depended upon her
own efforts. Day after day with untiring perseverance she answered
advertisements, seeking interviews with this and that one, but "the
place was just filled," or they "needed no more help," or they "would
consider her case." Nothing definite opened, though, through rain and
mud, late and early, in schools, offices and families, she pursued her
inquiries for a situation as copyist, teacher, governess—anything;
pursued them without avail. "In all God's fair, wide world no corner
for me," another might have bitterly murmured, but when he sweetens a
spirit, what can make it bitter?
"It is His way for me, it must be the best way," she continually told
herself as she plodded on, "walking with God in the dark," knowing
that it was "better than to walk alone in the light;" then brought a
cheerful face home to her grandfather, made his tea, sung his evening
song each time as fresh and sweet and hopeful as if she had just
concluded an engagement at a salary of a thousand or two a year. There
were times, though, when it required all her fortitude to bear up
against impertinent stares or cold rebuffs as she pushed her way into
places where she would never have gone but from necessity. She was
often obliged to struggle to keep back tears as she withdrew from some
place where she had been rudely repulsed.
CHAPTER II.
AH! It is pitiful—a woman knocking at iron doors and tugging with
feeble fingers at heavy bars, watching eagerly if perchance the great
gates may open never so little and let them into a niche—to work for
bread. It is not the laborers, at their posts from sun to sun, who
need our sympathy, after all. It is the long line of discouraged men
and women who cannot get the work to do, who do what is harder than
work—wait.
One morning in November, business took Mr. Thornton to one of the banks
of the city. While he stood waiting for his account to be balanced, he
heard a low, clear voice not far from him that thrilled and interested
him at once, because there was trouble in the tones. One needed only to
be in misfortune to possess strong attractions for Mr. Thornton.
A young girl stood at the counter below, conversing with one of the
bank officers. The interview was not intended to be public, but the
tones of one speaker were gruff and loud naturally, and could not
easily be softened, while those of the other were clear and penetrating
as a flute.
"Mr. Haines," she said, "would you not be so kind as to allow us to
remain in our—in your house for the winter? We can pay a small rent,
and it will relieve us of much embarrassment and distress if you will."
The voice matched the face, pure, true, and sweet, and the brown eyes
looked pleadingly into the dead eyes of the speaker.
Not a muscle of his face changed as he said, "The time cannot possibly
be extended beyond what I mentioned—Christmas week."
How could he speak of the glad Christmas-tide, the blossoming out of
"peace on earth, good will to men," in that stony way and with that
eager face before him!
"Sir," she said, and a little flash came into the eyes now, "I would
never ask it for myself, but my grandfather is growing old. It is very
hard for him to be turned out of the home where he has lived for forty
years. Will you not have pity on an old man?"
"My plans are all made; I regret that I cannot accommodate you, Miss
Winthrop. You must excuse me now, as I have an engagement," was the
answer to the appeal, in the same business-like tones that he would
have used if reading from his ledger. Then he walked away, and she
stood for a moment, indignation, mortification and disappointment
struggling together in her face.
As she turned to go, her eyes met Mr. Thornton's; such true, kind eyes
they were; if only this man were Mr. Haines!
And Mr. Thornton, looking down at her, thought, "If only she were a
little girl, or an old lady, I could go to her and say, 'Tell me your
trouble, won't you?' But now, how can I help her?"
While he asked it, she was gone, and, as he stood wondering where he
had seen the face before, there came a dim memory floating about it
like a frame, of a blue September sky, bright leaves and ferns, and
then he knew where. He resolved to know more of one apparently in deep
trouble of some kind. He searched the directory, found the street and
number, and soon after walked by the house. Yes, there was the name
"Winthrop" on the door-plate, the letters nearly defaced by time, and
the grand old place giving evidence that its owner had been growing
old and poor. He saw the grand-looking old man, too, walking up and
down the long veranda, his white hair blowing in the November wind, his
hands crossed behind him, his head down, musing, the young man thought,
on the past that had been lived in that house, and the future that was
to be lived—where?
His heart went out in tender pity over him, and Mr. Thornton's pity was
not wont to spend itself in mere emotions. He stepped into a street-car
on his way home. There were but two passengers besides himself for
several squares—two ladies, who, living in the same vicinity, and
having just passed the house, were, naturally enough, discussing the
very persons who occupied his thoughts just then.
"I'm sure I don't know what they are to do?" one said. "They are
obliged to leave that house by Christmas. Just think of that! As many
grand Christmas doings as they have had there! Pretty gay the old house
used to be when Lily's father and mother were living. I should think it
would break the old man's heart to go then; the contrast would be so
sharp; his children gone, his wife gone, and now the old place must go,
too."
"Yes, it is hard," the other lady replied, "but he has a great deal to
be thankful for yet. He has his religion left, and the dearest comfort
in Lily that anybody ever had. Lily is a noble girl. It is perfectly
marvelous what she has accomplished. She has taken the entire care
of the greenhouse and worked like any market woman; sold plants and
flowers enough to realize a nice sum, besides teaching two or three
music scholars. They have a little money left yet, I hear, and could
probably get along nicely, situated as they were, but, as you say,
I don't see just what they will do now. Old Mr. Winthrop is so much
respected people would help them, I dare say, if they thought of it,
but he is the last one to give hints, or even let them know how he
is situated; pretty proud, the old gentleman is, but it is not to be
wondered at, he's always been up, and he don't know how to come down."
"Everything would have turned out all right," said the first speaker,
"if Mr. Walters had just put into his will what he intended to. He
mentioned to several that he should give the place in the end to Lily.
If only people would not procrastinate."
"If only he had given it to her then, you mean," returned the other.
"It is a good deal better to help people over a rough place when they
need it, I think, than to leave them a great sum at death, just as they
are getting ready to die, and are beyond wanting any help. If I had
much money to give away I am sure I should want to see it doing good as
I went along."
They said much more, thoroughly discussing the situation as two women
will who have no troubles of their own on their minds, and are free to
attend to their neighbors. But then this was not ill-natured gossip,
and Mr. Thornton really felt obliged to them for telling him so many
things he wished to know.
Later in the day Mr. Thornton called upon Mr. Haines to inquire about
the property, hoping that he might be able to get it into his own
possession, but he was informed that it was not for sale—that the
location was the choicest in the city, and the house was soon to be
remodeled for the owner's own residence. Moreover, he could not extend
the time, as carpenters were to commence work on the inside as soon as
possible. He considered it a marked favor that he gave the family as
much time as he did, but then, some people were always ungrateful.
The more Mr. Thornton heard of this family the more interested did he
become. This old man to be turned out of his home; this fair, brave
girl battling with poverty appealed to everything sacred and chivalrous
in his nature. How much he wished they were friends of his that he
might say, "Share my home with me." He passed the house frequently
the next few days and hunted his brain for a pretext for calling. The
opportunity came in an unlooked-for way. One morning while he was
passing, Mr. Winthrop happening to be coming down the stone steps
leading from his lawn, lost his footing and would have fallen forward
on the pavement had not Mr. Thornton sprang to his aid. As it was,
one of his ankles was injured so that he was obliged to lean on Mr.
Thornton's arm and return to the house. On examination both gentlemen
agreed that it was probably only a slight sprain, not requiring the
attendance of a surgeon. Mr. Thornton remained and assisted in bathing
and bandaging it with his own hands, declaring that he was experienced
inasmuch as he once had a sprained ankle himself.
Mr. Winthrop was slow to take in strangers, but who could wrap himself
in cold reserve before the fascination of Mr. Thornton's manner? It was
the perfection of kindness and delicate politeness. Mr. Winthrop found
himself conversing with the freedom of an old friend, and begged him
when he took leave, to come again.
Mr. Thornton in turn was perfectly captivated with the old gentleman.
A most delightful plan began to loom up in his mind, and he betook
himself to his favorite retreat to perfect it. The cottage had passed
through the renovating process and was now as neat and pretty a home as
could be desired.
Inside, it was finished up according to Mr. Thornton's own taste,
which was of the best. He had pleased himself by fitting up one room
in the style of the olden time. The modern wall-paper adorned with
morning glory vines, and the fern leaf carpet chimed in with the idea
sufficiently well. He procured a wide lounge covered with chintz, two
high-backed old rocking-chairs, and several others of antique patterns
and splint-bottoms. From an old aunt's possessions, he begged a tall
secretary and bookcase, curiously carved, a table with claw feet, and
a stand with three legs. He put tall candlesticks of silver on the
high mantel, brass andirons in the broad fireplace, and when he had a
veritable hickory log snapping on them, the firelight dancing on the
wall, and gayly flowered damask curtains at the windows, he delightedly
pronounced the room as much like his great-grandmother's as he could
make it.
To-night he dropped the curtains, drew the arm-chair to the fire, and
settled himself to the solving of a problem. He often came to this
room when he wanted to be specially quiet; indeed, so fascinated was
he by it that he would have enjoyed taking up his abode there. The old
lady for whom all this comfort was intended, had not yet appeared. He
had been quietly waiting and watching, certain that in due time his
offering would be needed, and now he felt assured the time had come.
But how to bestow it on Mr. Winthrop without bringing him under a sense
of obligation that would be embarrassing whenever they met, for he had
no idea of dropping the acquaintance just begun! His sympathies had a
wide scope, and yet his friends were few and choice; he hoped to number
this pure-hearted, clear-headed old man among them, and, mayhap, this
maiden of heroic deeds.
Open fires must be favorable to untying hard knots, for after knitting
his brows for a time he seemed to have arrived at some conclusion that
pleased himself, at least, and he turned to his table and wrote a
letter, sealed and addressed it, then sank back in his chair with the
air of one who has dispatched his business and is free to dream dreams
of firelight.
The letter was not the only result of the cogitations. It was but a
day or two after that when workmen were busy with shovel and saw and
hammer engaged in building a greenhouse. The season favored the plan;
the frosts not having penetrated the ground yet. Mr. Thornton was
there continually, directing, watching with as much interest as if he
contemplated taking up the vocation of a florist at once.
One evening the postman brought a letter of importance to the
Winthrops. It was just at dusk, and Lily, returned from another day of
fruitless wanderings, sat by the fire, feeling more depressed in heart
than was at all usual with her. The day had been "dark and cold and
dreary," and chilled her through and through, soul as well as body.
None of this appeared, though, in the cheerful words she forced herself
to speak to her dispirited grandfather, who had almost lost hope,
though struggling hard to keep up. He did not know that in the dark and
drizzle of the November night a light was on the way to him.
And now appeared Gretchen with a letter for Mr. Winthrop. Lily turned
it over curiously, noting, as she passed it to her grandfather, that
it was a city letter, and a feeble hope sprang up that Mr. Haines had
relented, and would allow them to remain until spring.
Mr. Winthrop read it slowly through, once and again, and then almost
sprang to his feet, forgetting his lameness in the excitement. "Lily,"
he called, "come here, quick! This is most extraordinary; read
that—read it aloud! It must be that I have made some mistake." And Lily
read:
"MR. WINTHROP:
"Dear Sir: I write to inform you that I have been entrusted by a dear
friend of yours—who is at present absent—with a piece of property which
he desires to bestow upon you as a Christmas gift. The cottage is in
the city, pleasantly located, with a fine greenhouse in good order. The
key and the deed of it will be sent to you in the course of a month,
when it will be ready for occupancy. I advise you thus early that you
may shape your plans accordingly.
"Yours truly,
"A. HATHAWAY.
"Now, dear child, what is the meaning of all this? Could anybody play
such a cruel joke upon us?"
"Oh, no, no, Grandpa," Lily said, her face radiant. "It is the answer
to our prayers. Have we not asked and asked Him for a home, and now he
has sent it to us?"
Grandpa closed his eyes, and there was silence for a moment; each knew
that the other was whispering thanksgivings too deep for spoken words.
"Bless the Lord, O my soul," Grandpa murmured at length. "This
deliverance came for the sake of you, his little one; such stupid
unbelief as mine could never have brought the blessing. But who is Mr.
Hathaway, and why in reason did he not tell me the name of my friend? I
will write to him this very evening, and know something more about this
wonderful transaction."
It was as good as a play could have been to others, and much better
than one could possibly be to Mr. Thornton, when he called later in the
evening to inquire after the sprained ankle, to observe the change in
the manner of both. The grandfather appeared to have chopped off ten
years of age, and seasoned his speech with lively sallies and sparkles
of wit as he had not done for a long time. The girl's eyes, too, had
lost their look of patient care and sparkled with repressed joyousness.
She seemed like one in possession of some happy secret, and in haste
to be alone that she might turn it over and look at it. This was pure,
exquisite pleasure to turn sighs into smiles. He knew us well who said,
"It is more blessed to give than to receive."
"Hathaway" was Mr. Thornton's middle name, after one of his ancestors,
"Allan Hathaway." He had never lived in that vicinity, so his namesake
knew that he might safely hide behind it, especially as there was no
one of the same name in the city. He felt too that he could truthfully
say that he acted under the directions of another, who was Mr.
Winthrop's dear friend, for was not the Lord whom they served both
Master and Friend, and who but he had put it into his own heart to
remember his servant?
The sprained ankle, though doing well, yet gave Mr. Thornton continued
pretexts for calling very often. He brought in new books and the daily
papers, and sometimes stopped to read the news to the invalid; then the
two held many arguments and discussions on the topics of the day. Their
views were too nearly alike to make the discussions very lively, though
the fact gave each an exalted opinion of the other. Lily seldom joined
them; not that she was indifferent to the fascination of such brilliant
society, but there was much work to be done, now that they were not
to be bereft of their beloved plants, and she took the opportunity to
attend to it while her grandfather was being so pleasantly entertained.
Perhaps too, the fact that the visitor seemed indifferent to either
her absence or presence made her less anxious to be present. She was
not one to thrust herself upon any person's notice. She had not done
that when she was a courted heiress, certainly not now, when in the
estimation of the world she had fallen from a great height. Had her
spirit, been less sweet she might have felt a degree of pique at not
being considered the chief attraction in the house, especially to
gentlemen from whom she had received homage enough to spoil an ordinary
girl. She settled finally down to the theory that Mr. Thornton was
a philanthropist, not a wholesale one, but a grand, loving-hearted
Christian, doing his Master's will in small things as faithfully as if
they were great; and that he considered it his Christian duty probably
to extend kindness and good cheer to her grandfather—and that he was
only one of many objects of his charity—for of course he must know by
this time about their reduced circumstances. She would have enjoyed the
sweet savor of his conversation, as did everybody who ever talked with
him, but she declared within herself, "He shall never have a shadow of
cause to imagine that I appropriate these visits to myself, and so be
annoyed and cease to come—that is probably the reason he never inquires
for me at the door. I do want him to come, he is such a comfort to
Grandpa."
With this tormenting suggestion, that some officious elf thrust into
her mind, she allowed herself but seldom to remain in the room during
his visits, and, depriving herself of a pleasure she would have enjoyed
exceedingly, rarely joined in the conversation, only occasionally
forgetting ugly suggestions of prim propriety, and putting in her
vivacious word or merry laugh with such childlike abandon as made Mr.
Thornton remember the maple leaves and the violets.
He did not mean to be an artful man, but the truth was, that there was
not a look or tone or motion of this maiden's but he noted and studied,
no matter how absorbed he pretended to be with the subject in hand. It
puzzled him not a little that she seemed to avoid him, for he too was
accustomed to being considered a person of importance. And yet it was
almost refreshing to meet a young lady who did not constantly seek his
society, oppress him with attention and smile approval upon him. Always
smiling, it was restful to meet this face that could be grave, and
lips that could be silent, or speak of something besides trifles and
inanities.
And so the visits and the—studies—continued, twice, three times a week;
if he were late, the old gentleman would fidget like a maiden waiting
for her lover.
And now the greenhouse was completed, furnished with all the
appurtenances that such an establishment requires. Some little changes,
too, had been made in the cottage in consideration of the choice
spirits who were to occupy it; in short, nothing more could be asked
for it in the way of taste and convenience. The deed and the key had
been sent as promised, and the Christmas gift had been searched out
and found to be no myth, but a joyful reality; two delighted people
had pronounced it "cosy," "lovely," "home-like." They were still in
wonder and perplexity as to the donor. Mr. Winthrop lay awake nights,
going as far back among the families of the city as his memory would
travel, to find the name "Hathaway," but could get no clue. He turned
over in his mind the names of all his acquaintances whom he knew to be
abroad, and surmised it to be this one, and then that one, to whom he
was indebted for this princely gift, but could never settle permanently
upon any one. As much at home as Mr. Thornton had become in a short
time in the household, Mr. Winthrop had never mentioned the matter to
him; with true Puritan reticence, he kept his personal affairs, if
possible, within his own family. So, as the time drew near for removal,
the former could scarcely conceal a smile when Mr. Winthrop, with a
touch of his old stateliness in his manner, said that he must make a
disclosure that, perhaps, should have been made long ago; that he never
liked to sail under false colors, and, while he would not hint that
wealth was the sole standard Mr. Thornton set up for his friendships,
still he wished him to know that he himself was a poor man, that his
home had been taken from him, in fact, he was to leave it in a few days
forever, for a small property that "was given to us by some unknown
friend, and for which we hourly thank God," he said with moist eyes.
"But that is not all," he went on, as if determined to further mortify
his remaining pride. "We are to be known hereafter as those who earn
their daily bread by the toil of their own hands. I have been among the
fools who thought it a disgrace to do so, but I have been rebuked for
my foolish pride of birth, and now I lay it down forever; but I wish
every one who seeks friendship with us to know the truth."
Mr. Thornton heard this speech with kindling eyes, and simply said, as
he gave him a warm hand clasp, "Then, sir, you may have fewer friends,
but truer.
"'The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel.'
"May I be so happy as to be one such friend?"
"What a thing it would be, eh? To be the father of such a son!" Mr.
Winthrop said within himself, as he watched the young man spring
lightly down the steps and walk away; and there were tears in the old
eyes as he remembered a handsome profligate son who had found an early
grave.
A few days before Christmas found the Winthrops established in their
new home, happy, grateful souls as ever opened eyes on Christmas
morning. The delightful old-fashioned house reminded one of a hen and
chickens, so many small rooms joined on here and there clustering
about it. Inside, it seemed to open in all directions, so that when
you stood in the center you had a peep into every room. And each room,
fitted up by Lily's artistic taste with articles that had long been
heirlooms in the family, had an individuality of its own. The living
room, warm and bright in rich colors, the dining room, with antique
sideboard and a few old pieces of silver shining on it, the tiny green
carpeted library, glimpses into one fair and white, the guest chamber,
and another in rose tints, such as girls love, then the old-time room,
which Mr. Winthrop declared was to be his the moment he saw it.
"It carries me back sixty-free years to my mother's knee," he said.
Mr. Thornton had come as soon as possible after the settlement of the
new home and taken a delighted survey. He could scarcely have believed
it to be the same, evidences of refined taste and deft fingers were
everywhere.
"The most charming effect without exception that I ever saw in any
house," he told his happy host, who took almost a childish pleasure in
displaying his new possession, carrying his visitor at last in triumph
to his own room and seating him in the arm-chair, with "Now did you
ever see anything to equal this, even to the candlesticks and snuffer
tray, all complete? This room does me more good than anything that has
come to me in years."
And Mr. Thornton, looking into the old man's happy face, the firelight
throwing a halo about his white hair; thanked God for money. His
pleased eyes took in the fact, too, that the room remained unchanged in
every particular, a tribute, he smilingly thought, to the taste of Mr.
Hathaway.
CHAPTER III.
ON Christmas Day, while her grandfather was safe in his room taking his
afternoon nap, Lily resolved to surprise him, as well as commemorate
this wonderful Christmas. Bringing out her store of pressed ferns and
autumn leaves, together with some evergreens she had supplied herself
with, she turned the little house into a bower of beauty. Vines
festooned the pictures, and vines of bright autumn leaves ran along
the gray walls. Evergreens wreathed the doorways, and chrysanthemums
bloomed out unexpectedly from everywhere. She prepared the table
in spotless old damask and shining silver, for their six o'clock
dinner—sumptuous repast, by the way, which was not often indulged in,
these days.
When all was done she put on a dress that she did not often have
occasion to wear in her workaday world—a white cashmere, her
grandfather's favorite. She put roses in her hair and at her belt,
for grandpa's favorite flower was a rose. Then trembling with delight
at the success of her plans, she tinkled the little bell and waited
for him. He, too, had made some little attempts at festivity; had
exchanged his dressing-gown for his best black coat. And now when he
came into the room, ablaze with light, with odors of heliotrope and
roses in the air, and a lovely vision in white demurely waiting to
receive him, sweeping a low courtesy with "A merry Christmas to you,
sir; happy and oft this day return to thee," he rubbed his old eyes in
amazement and thought time had gone back forty years. There were two
lookers-on in this scene, Gretchen standing just inside the kitchen
door, her face in a broad smile of delight, and a gentleman who was
guilty of pausing just for a moment on the porch, taking advantage
of a forgotten uplifted curtain to enjoy the exquisite picture. He
murmured "Beautiful!" but whether it referred to the charming room, the
faultless table, the lovely girl, or the grand old man, who can tell?
He came in presently, bearing a basket of rare fruits; oranges, white
grapes and bananas, which he presented with a "Merry Christmas" to Mr.
Winthrop.
"You have friends with you?" he said, glancing about him.
"Oh, no, indeed! My little girl got up all this festive appearance
to please her old grandfather. If you would honor us so much, Mr.
Thornton, what pleasure it would give us could you remain and take a
seat at our table. A friend is the only article we lack to make our
Christmas a happy one."
So sincere an invitation needed little urging, especially as the guest
experienced a sudden consciousness of the truth that in all the world
there was not a table or a company that he would prefer. It was a most
enjoyable Christmas dinner; not alone because the fare was delicious
and delicate, but that these three, meet as often as they might, never
lacked either topics or thoughts for conversation.
In the course of the evening, as they were discussing plants, Mr.
Winthrop turned to Lily, saying, "My dear, take our friend out and show
him that rare rose that opened to-day. I think there is not another
plant like it in this country."
"Here is something finer than roses," Lily said, pausing at the
entrance of the greenhouse by pots of English violets, white with
blossoms.
"They are wonderfully sweet," he said, bending over them, "but I have
a great partiality for their less pretentious American sisters, sturdy
little souls, who push up green leaves through the snows fairly, and
open their blue eyes smilingly in all sorts of weather. They are not
exclusive, either; they make up for what they lack in fragrance by
scattering themselves about the woods so that poor people may have them
as freely as water or air."
"I can show you some of those, too," she said. "I brought them from the
woods for the sake of old times. Here is my pet corner."
This was a moss-covered rock, the water trickling over it, tall ferns
behind it, and clusters of wood violets nestling at the foot.
"This is a bit of the woods, you see, Mr. Thornton, except that the
ferns are in pots, and the violets in boxes. Will not these violets be
astonished when they wake up in this strange place instead of down by
the stump in the woods where I found them?"
It seemed that Mr. Thornton's lips opened of themselves to say, "Yes, I
very well remember the day."
And Lily, just then, remembered the day, too, and the curious
circumstance that had often puzzled her—the maple branch broken off
and laid in her path, and yet no one appeared to be in the woods but
herself. "Was Mr. Thornton there, too?" She gave him a quick look, but
he was absorbed in studying the violets with a perfectly grave face,
and she put the idea from her as absurd.
"He is very absent-minded," she told herself; "is in haste to be gone,
and considers me tiresome."
He came over again to the English violets and took long breaths of
their sweetness, then said, "I have a friend who calls this her flower,
and these blossoms are not more fragrant than is her spirit. Will you
kindly cut a few for her?" And drawing out his watch, "It is quite time
I was gone." He took his violets, lingered again outside, admiring the
beauty of the scene. Everything was clear-cut against a cloudless sky
and white moonlit earth.
"Gloriously beautiful, is it not?" he said. "Think of looking up at
such a sky as that,—
"'In the solemn midnight, centuries ago,'
"searching for the one star."
"Think of seeing a multitude of angels appear in such a sky," she said,
with upturned face.
The pure, rapt expression and the white robes made her companion
fear for an instant that she would vanish out of his sight, and he
involuntarily drew her hand through his arm and moved on.
"After all, Mr. Thornton," she said, "my thoughts are rather on the
earth than the sky, to-night. 'Peace on earth, good will to men.'
I've been singing it all day. The Lord has been very kind to us this
Christmas. He sent us this lovely home for our very own—Grandpa told
you, did he not? See it in the moonlight! Does it not look like a dear
little gray dove nestled down among the snows and the evergreens?"
It was a glowing face Mr. Thornton turned to her. These were precious
words to hear, and he rejoiced that his secret had been well kept.
In lieu of other friends this young florist held much converse with her
flowers, fairly investing them with souls. She went back to them now,
and looked them over lovingly.
"He has a friend who loves white violets," she told them. "Do you
suppose she is like him?" but the perfumed breath did not answer.
"You darling!" to a white rose, "I'm so glad you have come; I have
watched for you so long; perhaps she is like you, my queen," and
she touched her lips to the delicate petals. "What if she were like
you, Madam Camelia, in stiff white silken robes, or you, Lady Calla,
beautiful, and white, and cold—not sweet? What if she be some little
plain, humble creature like you, my mignonette, he would love her none
the less, I am sure. But none of you tell me about her. You pansies,
in your new purple and buff velvets, you are full of thoughts. Is she
wise and good? She must be like him," she whispered to the heliotrope,
putting her face down amid its sweetness, "or he could not have
called her life fragrant." She put a sharp, quick check just then on
both tongue and fancies, and reminded herself that she was taking an
unwarrantable amount of interest in Mr. Thornton's affairs, and had
enjoyed the evening far too much for one who had made such resolutions
as she had. What a happy evening it had been! She had forgotten to
put on her mantle of reserve when she donned her white cashmere. She
had shown such pleasure at his coming, too, and so he was obliged to
take early leave to impress it upon her that it was not she he sought;
that his visits were purely benevolent. Speaking of his friend, too,
as if to say, "Be careful, do not set your heart upon me." She felt
vexed with herself. She talked no more to the flowers, but went about
preparations for the next day's work with a resolute, business-like
air. She clipped off blossoms energetically, and made them swiftly into
little knots or graceful handfuls for the next day's market, for people
would need flowers, even though Christmas had come and gone. Somehow
the day had left a weight upon her spirits, indefinable and vague, but
the very touch of the soft flowers and the cool green leaves calmed
her, and brought sharp rebukes from her conscience. What ingratitude!
It should end up in gladness, this day of days to them, and she shut
the door on all disturbing thoughts, and broke out in song—snatches of
old Christmas hymns. If she had but known that the violets travelled
as fast as they could go to "The Old Ladies' Home," and gave out their
fragrance by the bedside of an invalid who loved English violets as she
did no other flower, because it was a breath from her native land; had
she known, too, that the giver of them hastily plucked out a few before
he parted with them, carefully placed them in an inner pocket, then
stored them among his treasures when he reached home!
Life had settled down in the cottage to calm content. Mr. Winthrop
seemed to have forgotten that he was ever other than a dweller in a
humble home, with no more important business than sorting flowers and
pruning plants.
Sturdy Gretchen was still at her post, maid of all work. In the time of
the deepest trouble Lily had told her she must go as they had no means
of paying her, but she shook her faithful head, saying, "No, no, I will
stay. I haf leetle money, petter days come for you. You die if I leaf
you; you haf so too much work; you good to me, I not go," whereat Lily
bestowed upon her a warm embrace, thus forging the last link that bound
her in loving servitude to the family.
By many skillful manœuvres Mr. Thornton had contrived to have his
own gardener relieve them of much of the drudgery in the greenhouse,
assuring Mr. Winthrop that the man must have more to keep him from
idleness. Mr. Thornton himself was the best patron the greenhouse had,
paying his own prices, which were exorbitant. One might suppose he
furnished flowers for all the weddings and parties in the city. Certain
it is that all his friends, and public charities with which he had to
do, were kept well supplied. Plants, too, bloomed in attic windows that
had been bare, and every old lady in the "Home" had her pet in the
shape of a plant of his giving.
The winter was gliding away, and Mr. Thornton still spent long evenings
at the cottage. He did not longer conceal from himself the fact that it
was not benevolence alone that drew him thither, nor because a fireside
and a welcome from a genial old friend awaited him. He had come to know
that while he enjoyed Mr. Winthrop's conversation, and the room was as
cosy as ever, yet there was a painful void about it all unless a maiden
stole in, dropped the curtain, shaded the lamp, stirred the fire and
sat in the corner opposite him, where his eyes might often meet hers;
indeed she could converse well with her eyes, and give one a tolerable
impression of her thoughts and convictions without spoken words, as
they thoughtfully gazed into the fire, rested in smiling affection
upon her grandfather, or flashed an appreciative look at some word of
his own. If he had sometimes made reply to a profound opinion of Mr.
Winthrop's in words that were floating through his mind, they might
have been these:—
"A sweet attractive kinde of grace,
A full assurance given by lookes,
Continuall comfort in a face
The lineaments of Gospell bookes."
And yet he had by no word or look to her given a sign of all this.
The truth was, Mr. Thornton had been engaged in an intricate though
delightful study. His heart was pleading to go in a certain direction,
and he, holding it back, declared it never should, unless reason and
conscience approved.
There was a cause for this excessive caution. He had seen much
hollowness and deceit in society, had found a low standard among
young ladies themselves, and their pleasure being so universally the
aim of life, that he was tempted to believe that sterling worth in
womankind had died with his mother and grandmother. Moreover, he had
in early manhood a bitter experience; had been carried captive by a
beautiful face, and came near linking his life to one who proved to
be empty-headed and empty-hearted, and yet she was fair as an angel,
and counterfeited all virtues and graces most admirably. It was a
keen disappointment, and inclined him to place no confidence in mere
appearances. And so he had watched this lovely flower unfolding day
by day before him, hardly daring to hope that the self-sacrifice, the
consecration and sweetness were genuine, trembling lest some day he
should discover the hideous blight spot.
It had come to be a matter of course that as often as Mr. Thornton
came, he carried away a knot of white violets for his friend, and Lily,
while she made it up with care, made up also a pretty little romance.
She pictured his friend a fair, sweet creature, arrayed in garments
of finest texture and softest tints, with rare old laces and jewels,
and a hint odor of violets always about her. How blest and happy must
she be, having the right to wait and watch for him, to be glad at his
coming—always with her flowers! How lovely she must be when that rare,
delicate fragrance typified her to him!
If sometimes while she worked, a tear sparkled on the white blossoms,
she dashed off the intruder and took herself sternly in hand. What was
this? Was she growing envious? Jealous? What? Ah! She must look well
to her heart, treacherous heart repining at another's happiness. This
was only momentary weakness that nobody guessed aught of—that she did
not admit even to herself. She still went her daily rounds, cheerful,
trusting, thankful, looking with brave eyes into the future that
promised only a life of toil.
It so happened that Mr. Thornton sometimes sought her in the
greenhouse, as the evening waned and she did not appear; but she
seemed absorbed in her work, and determined to take for granted that
it was a purely business call with a pertinacity that was both amusing
and annoying; annoying in that the chief subject of Mr. Thornton's
perplexed musings in these days was, not what estimate to put upon her,
but to discover, if possible, what one she put upon him.
One evening he strayed in and laughingly declared that she "must
suspend industry for a time, and turn cicerone, as there were doubtless
many points of interest in her flowery kingdom that he had not yet
visited."
The enthusiastic florist was always pleased to do this, much more when
one could open up such treasures of riches on any theme as could this
devout student of nature. And so, all unawares as they went about,
she was drifted into a sea of most delightful talk. They discussed
families and the different members, as if people and not plants were
being analyzed. He described some of the curious relatives of these
families that he had met in foreign lands. Then they came down to the
broad plane; the wonderful variety in form, color and fragrance, of
God's beautiful creations, the thought of us in it all; and here there
were so many things to be said, such perfect harmony of thought, that
the talk flowed on and on, until Lily had forgotten that she was to
maintain a dignified reserve toward this friend of her grandfather's.
They came at last to clusters of lilies of the valley—just putting
forth creamy bells.
"Dear little hardy things," Mr. Thornton said, bending over them.
"These are petted children, but their poor relations come trooping out
before winter has fairly left us. They are my favorite lilies, so brave
and sweet and modest."
"You surely forget," Lily said, "that the lily family is a large one."
"Yes, I know. There's that immense one, all purple and gold and
crimson; you may admire it in the distance. Then the day lilies are
sweet, but they are stiff and ungraceful. The tiger lilies are showy,
but mere show never commends itself to me; they have no fragrance."
"You forget the queenly calla."
"No; she is grand and beautiful, with stately manners, but you cannot
take her right into your heart like these tiny creatures. These fit
everywhere. They may fasten the bride's veil or strew the dead baby's
pillow. You may give a handful to a beggar, or lay them in a sick, weak
hand, and their perfume will steal softly up and bring comfort. They
are such drooping, graceful bells, humbly hiding away in their green.
I repeat, I love them best. Will you give me a few for my friend? She,
too, is a lover of them."
Lily was vexed at herself that her cheek just then took on the hue of
the rose that it brushed against.
"His 'friend!' alway that friend. Why did she seem like an unwelcome
spectre?"
While she clipped the stems and put them together, he talked on.
"I said these were the flower of flowers to me; I should have excepted
one other."
Has she not been so occupied in controlling the disturbance that "my
friend" aroused, she would have noticed a quality in the tones that had
not been there before, as well as the look that searched her face when
she raised her eyes, after a little pause, with "Well?"
"This flower that I have in mind is a very hardy one, also. It will
flourish in almost any climate; indeed, the more rocky the soil, and
the rougher the winds that blow upon it, the more beautifully it
develops."
"That is strange," she said, intent on fashioning her bouquet.
"What is stranger still, it blooms all the year round."
"Is it fragrant?"
"Wonderfully so. Not a flower that ever I saw can compare with its
delicate fragrance."
"What color is it?"
"White, with a delicate flush of rose."
"It must be lovely," she said, holding off her flowers to get the
effect of the arrangement. "Where are those flowers found?"
"They are very rare. I never saw but one."
"Did you say it was a lily?"
"A lily."
"Where did you see it, Mr. Thornton?"
"Not far from this very spot, in the woods, under a maple tree, one
autumn day, was where I first saw it," he said, looking into her eyes.
And now the cheeks took on the rose hue again and went down among the
green leaves. In a flash it came to her—his meaning—and the maple bough
in the path; it was he, then, who broke it off and left it there for
her.
What words these would be to her if it were not for this bouquet she
was making that reminded her of "his friend." What right had he,
though, to trifle with her, making her show all her heart in her face?
Without speaking, she hastily broke off a few white violets, twisted
them together, and, with the lilies, pushed them toward him, saying
coldly: "Here are your friend's flowers. Excuse me, Mr. Thornton, but I
must go in. I think my grandfather is waiting for me—" "As your friend
probably is for you," she wanted to add.
Mr. Thornton did not seem quenched in the least, but he smiled in the
darkness as he walked behind the cool little lady into the house, while
the full meaning of white violets and "your friend" dawned upon him.
Here was another bright leaf in the unfolding of this rare flower—she
would have none of what rightfully belonged to another.
As Mr. Thornton took leave of her grandfather, he said to Lily,—
"Do you feel like performing a charitable deed to-morrow? Will you go
with me to see a dear old saint who has not long to live, and who would
be cheered, no doubt, by a visit from you?"
She hesitated a moment, and her grandfather answered for her:
"Why, certainly she will go; she never refuses a call of that kind. You
can go to-morrow, can't you, dear?"
And Lily answered "Yes" to her grandfather, but did not look at Mr.
Thornton, not even when he said "that he would call for her at four,
and would she please have some cut flowers ready for him?" Then he said
"Good-night!" and went.
It was not a very good night for her, though. She went over and over
that strange evening. How happy and how miserable it had been! He
probably meant nothing, after all, but a joke, and her foolish vanity
had made so much of it; but then, he looked so much more than he said.
What right had he to do that? Was he, after all, nothing but a trifler?
And what if she were mistaken, and he had no friend of the sort she
had imagined? Ah! That thought made her heart stand still when she
remembered the words he had but just spoken, the grave, tender tones,
and earnest looks. But there were the white violets, and he had said
she was like them—this friend.
She was ready punctually when the carriage came, with a bouquet she
had prepared for the old lady and the flowers he had ordered. The talk
on the way did not extend beyond the beauty of the day and the objects
they happened to pass. Arriving at the "Old Ladies' Home," they were at
once taken to the room of the invalid.
Aunt Phœbe, as all her friends called her, had a calm, pleasant face,
with gray hair parted beneath a white muslin cap, and eyes that did not
seem to belong to a sick person, they were such cheerful, satisfied
eyes. She had given her best days to Christian service, and "had now
sat down to rest a bit before she went home," she said. Her face broke
into a smile at sight of Mr. Thornton, as if he were a welcome visitor.
"Aunt Phœbe," he said, "I have brought you my friend, Miss Winthrop;
Miss Winthrop, this is Aunt Phœbe—my friend."
"Are you feeling bright to-day?" he asked, putting into her hand—with
as courtly grace as if she were a duchess—the bunch of white violets.
As he did so, he bestowed on Lily one look that meant many words;
then he left her free to do much thinking while he gave his attention
entirely to Aunt Phœbe.
They talked of books and men and women and work. They spoke glad words
to each other of Christ and Heaven, and Hope and Love. Somehow as Lily
listened she found herself repeating, "I believe in the communion of
saints."
They rose to go, and Lily bent forward and whispered a word of love as
she put the roses and heliotrope in Aunt Phoebe's hand.
"Bless you! Dear child," whispered back the old lady. "I've known you
this long time. You are a dear flower yourself. I've got more good in
looking at your young face while you sat here, never speaking a word,
than from some very long speeches." The last few words reached Mr.
Thornton's ears, who said:
"That is a blow aimed at me," then taking up the basket of flowers,
"Will you come with me, Miss Lily, and help me distribute my blessings?"
So they went, knocking at each old lady's door, leaving handfuls of
flowers, and receiving in return benedictions. "But why did you not
tell me?" Lily said, "and I would have made them into bouquets."
"Because they enjoy them best in this shape; they love to sort them
over and arrange them as they please. Then some have favorite flowers,
and I let them choose."
Here, then, was where the rare flowers went that Mr. Thornton
purchased. How many revelations were being made!
On the way home Mr. Thornton gave the history of Aunt Phœbe, as well
as that of "The Home," its organization, management, workings, etc.,
leaving nothing whatever for Lily to say, for which she was thankful.
He simply said "Good-night!" when he left her at her own door, and
drove away, giving no sign that he ever expected to come back. He came,
though, two hours afterward; he guessed where he should find her: in
the greenhouse, by the lilies. He came over to her and asked,—
"How did you like my friend? Did she look as you expected her to?" The
vision of his friend that her imagination had pictured came up before
her in such ludicrous contrast to the reality that she laughed merrily,
and Mr. Thornton joined it. There was no more talking in enigmas after
that.
While the moonbeams fell upon their heads like a benediction, there
were more revelations, as each read pages that no other eyes had looked
upon. The tale was long, but the violets, nor the nodding roses, nor
the lily bells ever breathed a word of it to anybody.
Weeks afterward it occurred to Lily to ask Mr. Thornton what the "H" in
his name represented.
"Hathaway," he promptly responded, and immediately knew that his secret
was out.
Lily and her grandfather exchanged wondering looks.
"Is it possible that you are—that you can tell me—who the friend is to
whom I am so much indebted?" Mr. Winthrop said, his voice trembling
with emotion.
"Thy Heavenly Friend," said Mr. Thornton reverently.
"MY AUNT KATHERINE."
———
"IT is perfectly absurd that she should occupy the best room in the
house. What difference can it possibly make to an old lady where she
is, so she is comfortable? She ought to be thankful that you allow her
to stay here at all."
This was said in an excited tone, by a tall, thin lady with thin lips
and flashing, light blue eyes.
Her husband was a silent man, with a horror of discord. It had taken
him but a short time to discover that the only means of avoiding it was
to let his new wife have her own way, so he held his peace and looked
out of the window, and the lady went on.
"If she had any delicacy, she would not wish to remain now that she has
no possible claim upon you. There is the 'Old Lady's Home,' why could
she not go there? It is a magnificent building, with beautiful rooms."
New wife though she was, she had overshot the mark this time. The tall
silent man drew himself up two inches taller and answered sternly:—
"Laura, you are mistaken! My mother-in-law will always have a claim
upon me. As long as I have a home she shall share it with me. What do
you take me for? As if I would ever turn my Margaret's mother out upon
charity! She is, besides, very dear to me for her own sake. She is a
remarkable example of unselfishness, and that is a rare quality in this
world."
There were two stings in this speech, which was a long one for Mr.
Agnew. The selfish woman who heard it bit her lip in vexation, and all
the jealousy in her nature rose up at the words "My Margaret"; jealous
of that other wife who had been in her heavenly home for five years;
whose husband, albeit, was more to be pitied now than when she first
left him desolate; because he was that phenomenon—over which men and
angels might weep—a true, noble man, joined for life to a selfish,
heartless, coarse-grained woman, and that of his own deliberate choice.
If some men should shut their eyes and marry the first woman they
happened to open them on, they could not make more fatal mistakes than
they do.
When Margaret Agnew selected this particular room for her mother it
was because it was large and convenient and sunny; because one window
looked off to distant hills, and another one to the busy street, while
from another you stepped into the flower garden. It was, it is true,
in many respects the best room in the house, and into it was gathered
whatever of comfort and beauty the loving daughter could devise.
As soon as the second Mrs. Agnew stepped into the house she set
covetous eyes on this room and resolved, to use her own elegant
language,—"that she would oust the old lady from that."
Whatever such women resolve to have, they usually get. After the
rebuff on the part of her husband she did not again approach him on
the subject, but planned the attack differently. By means of hints
and disagreeable thrusts she managed to make the sensitive old lady
feel quite ill at ease until she was established in one of the back
chambers. It was a dreary room. She missed the cheerful outlook, and
it was not easy, with a slight lameness, to get up and down stairs,
but, for peace's sake, she forebore to complain. So skillfully was
everything managed that it was several days before her son-in-law knew
of her removal; then he was indignant, and insisted that she must
return, but this she would not consent to do. She even displayed so
much cheerfulness that he was deceived into thinking she preferred the
change. It was a hardened nature that could not be won by her sweet
spirit. She was like her Master; she followed her copy closely; "when
she suffered she threatened not," and she had much to bear: a system of
petty annoyances that only female ingenuity could devise.
After she had passed through this furnace and suffered loneliness and
desolation, another crisis in her life arrived. Mr. Agnew fell suddenly
ill. While his life hung in the balance and reason was shaken, his
wife induced him to make his will, leaving to herself the whole of
his property. Then he died, and the chief emotion that throbbed in
the heart of his widow and hid behind the blackest and deepest crape
was—triumph!
Not for worlds would Mr. Agnew have so arranged his affairs had it
not been that in his half-delirious state he was subject to the will
of another. He had always intended to settle a competence upon Mrs.
Lyman—his mother-in-law. He had expected to live years yet. Who does
not?
Mrs. Agnew lost no time. As soon as the funeral services were over she
questioned Mrs. Lyman as to her plans for the future. The poor old lady
felt bewildered at having to make any plans, so lovingly had she been
cared for all her life. She had scarcely realized as yet that her one
protector was gone; above all, that he had made no provision for her.
Homeless and penniless and nearly seventy years of age, where should
she go? What should she do? Where would a helpless being go in straits
but to the One who plans and governs our lives? And thither she went.
She well knew the road. Old friends gathered about her with kindly
offers of aid, but she believed she saw her path plainly, and declined
their many invitations to tarry with them for a time. She had a little
money of her own, enough to insure her entrance into the "Home for Aged
Women," and there she determined to go. Mrs. Lyman had occasionally
driven with her daughter through the grounds of the "Home." She had
admired the stately edifice, and remarked that it was a grand charity;
she had also contributed to it; but it had not entered her mind that
she was ever to become one of its inmates. She thought of it that
afternoon as the carriage which conveyed her there wound slowly up the
avenue. The trials of the past few days had been peculiarly sharp. She
had gone out from the dear home, with its precious memories, forever.
She could not, without contention, claim even her daughter's gifts to
herself; contend she would not, so she left them: so many things that
almost had a tongue to speak of other days. There were no tears in her
eyes, and the old face was placid as she leaned back and looked up at
rows and rows of windows. She even repeated to herself some favorite
lines:
"That's best which God sends.
'Twas his will; it is mine."
The room Mrs. Lyman shortly found herself in was a strong contrast to
the one her daughter had carefully fitted up for her. It was spotlessly
clean and trim; the walls were high and white, the furniture of the
plainest, the floors bare except for the strip of carpet by the bed and
one by the window, where the occupant would be supposed to sit in the
cane-seat rocker. It depended entirely on one's previous surroundings
what her first impressions of life in this place would be. Old Mrs.
Carter, who had lived at sixes and sevens all her life, with scarcely a
corner that she could call her own, thought her room was next to Heaven
itself. To Mrs. Lyman it simply looked bare and dreary. The buzz in the
long dining room, mingling with the clatter of cups and spoons, was
cheerfulness itself to Mrs. Carter, while to Mrs. Lyman's refilled ears
and sensitive nerves it was positively distressing. It was trying to
her, too, to mingle with all sorts of natures, to listen to garrulous
complaints and garrulous stories from gossipy old women. She would much
have preferred to shut herself in with her books and her own thoughts,
but she did not. Her Master was always kind and helpful to the most
uncongenial people; so would she be, for his sake. Necessarily, though,
it was a lonely, monotonous life for her. Old friends were too remote
and too busy to remember her often.
One afternoon she sat at her window looking down into the street, when
a carriage drew up, and a young lady stepped lightly out. The coachman
handed her a basket of flowers, and she almost ran up the broad stone
steps, with that childlike eagerness of manner which is in refreshing
contrast to the languid air of many of her class.
Mrs. Lyman listened eagerly as her fresh young voice was heard in the
hall. The golden hair, and eyes as blue as the hyacinths she carried,
brought to her visions of another girl as bright and graceful. Just so
she looked, years ago, her dear lost Margaret. Then the mother's heart
went back over the girlhood and womanhood of her darling, and just as
she was wondering how it was possible for Robert Agnew ever to have
fancied he loved that other woman, when his life had been so blessed
with Margaret, there came a knock at the door, and the matron brought
in the bright-haired girl with her flowers, saying:—
"Mrs. Lyman, I have brought Miss Harlowe in to see you. She's come on
ahead to tell you that spring is coming some day."
She looked sweet and fair enough to be spring's herald in very truth,
coming in, as she did, out of the snow and sleet of the winter day,
roses in her hands and roses on her cheeks, looking up almost shyly
into the face of the stately old lady.
Each regarded the other for a moment with surprise and admiration, and
Esther Harlowe, yielding to a sudden impulse, reached up and left a
kiss soft as a rose leaf on the faded old cheek; then selecting the
choicest of the roses, begged her to accept them.
They both forgot themselves. The young lady forgot that she was being
kind to a "poor old body" in "The Old Lady's Home."
This dignified, handsome old lady was surely one of the friends of
their family. And Mrs. Lyman, too, imagined for a moment that she
was welcoming a young visitor to the Agnew mansion. They fell into
conversation as naturally as if this were the case, and, in the short
interview, they gained more than a glimpse of each other's lives.
"How strange that you should be here," Esther said. "I have often
passed Mr. Agnew's house; perhaps you were sitting at the window
looking out. But isn't it dreadful to you? How can you endure it?"
"No, not 'dreadful,' dear; sometimes it is a little lonely, and
this way of living is all new to me; but I daresay I shall soon get
accustomed to it. I ought to feel continually grateful that when I am
old and poor, there is such a place provided for me."
"How can you, when you have lived so differently? I'm sure I should
die. I knew you didn't belong here as soon as I saw you. It is a shame!"
"If God put me here, I must belong here, child. He makes no mistakes,"
the old lady said, smiling at her visitor's impetuous manner.
"But how can you be so calm and good about it? I should think you would
go distracted."
"I wonder if she will understand," Mrs. Lyman said, after searching the
young face a moment; then asked, "Did you ever read these lines?—
"'To will what God doth will, that is the only science
That gives us any rest.'
"The secret of calmness is in that: having God's will our will. It is
called a science, you see, and it is deep and difficult, or rather,
people make it so. It takes some of them years to learn it. I learned
it very slowly myself, but once acquired, it is forever after easier to
bear hard things. It does bring peace."
"Oh! Show me how to learn it, then," said Esther, tears starting to her
eyes. "There are so many hard things in my life."
"Poor dear! Have they come to you so early?" The motherly voice and
pitying eyes were like sunshine to this girl who was not much more than
a child, and whose heart was hungry.
"I suppose it is because I am so wicked," Esther said, hesitatingly,
"but I am afraid I never can feel as you do about God's will. Perhaps
it is his will that I shall go through terrible troubles. It frightens
me, and I can't want to have his will done."
"Is there anybody whom you dearly love," said Mrs. Lyman, "in whom you
have unbounded confidence, feeling sure that he will always do right?"
"No, there is nobody," Esther answered sadly; then flushing a little as
she realized the confession she had made, added,—
"I did have somebody once—my darling mother—but she is gone. She always
did right."
"How did you feel about her plans for you? Were you fearful she would
always be inventing something wherewith to torture you?"
"My dear, lovely mother! No, indeed. She was always thinking of my
happiness."
"And yet she was obliged to thwart your own plans and wishes often, I
presume. Did you rebel?"
"O, no I was always obedient to my mother. I loved her so, I would not
have grieved or displeased her for the world."
"There it is, my dear!—the whole secret. When once we love God with all
the heart, it is sweet to do or suffer his will."
"But I never have thought of God in that way. He seems majestic and
glorious, but I think I fear him more than I love him. I cannot realize
that he loves me either."
"It will help you greatly, my dear, to take the Bible and Concordance
and go through the words 'Love' and 'Father;' then you may see and
'believe the love that God hath for us.' He has tried very hard—has
written it plainly all through the Book to make us understand that he
is truly our Father. Call it mother love if that makes it plainer to
you: think that he feels toward you as your mother did; Father, as God
uses it, stands for father and mother both. It is the tenderness of
mother joined to the protecting care and greater strength of father."
"I must go now, the carriage has come," Esther said, rising hastily,
"but I shall never forget your talk. I am sure it will do me good. I
came here to-day with the flowers because Dr. Foster preached about
giving a cup of cold water for Christ's sake, to some of his children;
and I couldn't think of anybody to carry one to but some of these old
ladies; I didn't think I was going to have my reward so soon. It was
so nice to find you; you seem like my own dear grandma who died when I
was a little child. I am coming often to see you; may I?" And the sweet
face smiled up into hers.
"Yes, indeed, my dear, and I thank you with all my heart for coming. No
cup of cold water could have refreshed me more than this visit, if I
had been famishing for some,—and these roses!—" taking a long breath of
them as she spoke,—"each one is a separate blessing."
As the carriage rattled over the city streets in the dusk Esther's aunt
and cousin, fresh from shopping, discussed laces and silks while she
leaned back and thought of Mrs. Lyman, her heart thrilling with the new
thought that God loved her as her mother loved her.
At last her Cousin Sophy said:—
"What are you dreaming about, Esther? Where have you been all this
while?"
Esther started as the cold, fault-finding tones broke in on her reverie
and said evasively, "I went to the 'Old Lady's Home,' you know."
"Been there all this time?—Impossible! Will you never be like other
people?"
Miss Sophy Ward had passed her first youth and was growing sharp and
severe, especially toward girls who were guilty of being nineteen. She
took it upon herself to keep strict watch over every thought, word and
deed of her young cousin who had lived with them since the death of her
mother. Esther dreaded the lecture that she knew was forthcoming, so
she began eagerly to try to divert attention from herself.
"O, Cousin Sophy! you have no idea what a lovely old lady I found
there." Not even the curl that distorted Miss Sophy's lip just then
prevented her from going on.
"She looks as I should imagine an angel might,—I always thought if
I made pictures of angels they should be dear old grandmas, and not
girls. Her hair is like fine white silk, and waves beautifully. Her
eyes are hazel, and they are not old eyes a bit—they are bright
and clear. She wore a dove-colored dress, and a soft white mull
handkerchief about her neck. And do you know, she is Mrs. Agnew's
mother; you remember we saw, Mr. Agnew's death in the paper a few
months ago."
This last piece of information had the desired effect, for mother and
daughter indulged in a bit of gossip concerning it, but Miss Sophy
presently returned to the charge.
"It is perfectly incomprehensible," she went on, "what you find in a
company of poverty-stricken old women to interest you. But then, your
mother always had just such tastes; never so happy as when she was
poking about in some alley or hovel, among miserable people."
If the light had not faded, Cousin Sophy might have seen Esther's cheek
pale and flush, and her lips press closely together to keep herself
from saying what she should not. But she did not see it; she went on
and on in an exasperating manner. Her mother added a word occasionally
by way of endorsement and emphasis, and poor Esther had the grace to
keep silence, half-wishing that she were an old woman, too, so that she
could live where Mrs. Lyman did.
In her uncle's luxurious home there was everything to make life
desirable—everything but love and peace. When either mother or daughter
was in ill humor Esther was the escape valve. They lectured her on
behavior, dress, and the Christian virtues. They criticised all she
said and did and thought, and judged her without mercy.
During the last few months, however, it had begun to dawn upon them
that the girl was grown up, and possessed decided tastes and opinions
of her own. She was becoming a person of more importance, too, because
of very pointed attentions bestowed upon her by Mr. Clifford Langdon.
He was the son of one of the oldest families—handsome, agreeable,
literary, rich. If they sought the world over, where could be found a
more desirable husband for Esther? He might have captivated the girl's
fancy, perhaps, if she had not heard her aunt and cousin ring the
changes on his name until she almost wearied of it. In their eyes he
was a paragon. They exhorted her to do this, and not to do that, as Mr.
Langdon had very fastidious tastes, and they openly expressed their
astonishment that so incomparable a person should do her the honor to
notice her.
All this naturally had the effect of causing a girl like Esther to
avoid him and to declare that it was a matter of indifference to her
what Mr. Langdon thought. She wished for no more critics.
That gentleman was as much in love with Esther as he ever could be
with anybody besides himself. Since first he had been conscious of
existence, he had never forgotten himself long enough to be absorbed in
anything or anybody. His own pleasure was the chief end of his life.
Yet he had no vices; his narrow, cold nature did not tempt him in the
direction that larger natures are tempted. The world called him a fine,
moral young man. They did not know he was selfish, domineering and
conceited; his nearest friends would scarcely admit it to themselves.
He enjoyed ruling over anything; he took pleasure in his many pets
when a boy, chiefly for the sake of training and ordering about a
parrot, or dog, or pony; and a tyrannical master he made. As a man, he
retained the characteristic. At this time he had just returned from a
four years' course of study in Europe, his education completed, and his
self-conceit intolerable. He felt competent to sit in judgment upon
the creations of genius in art and literature or in anything under
the sun, as well as to direct, advise, suggest and control the mental
food of all the young ladies of his acquaintance. He at once became
an oracle among them. The book he approved was largely read, and the
book he condemned was shunned. Whoever differed in opinion from him he
considered devoid of fine taste. Solomon must have had this young man
in mind when he wrote, "Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit, there
is more hope of a fool than of him."
When Mr. Langdon met Esther, he pronounced her a "fine creature," and
declared he would like the training of her, much as he would have
spoken of Frisk, his black colt. He was not aware that he needed to
be put in training himself and taught by Mr. Ruskin how to reverence
womanhood.
That she seemed indifferent to him was all the more reason for choosing
her. It was refreshing to find a girl who required to be won, and did
not hold her heart in her hand ready to bestow it for the asking.
It was a gloomy, rainy afternoon in autumn that Esther, sitting alone
in the library, was surprised by a call from Mr. Langdon. She was
smarting under some hateful words of Sophy's, and thinking drearily
that there was not a single person on the earth who cared very much
whether she lived or died, when, behold! here came one, offering love,
home, an honorable name, everything that a woman's heart could ask.
Ether was amazed. She had believed that Mr. Langdon simply admired her,
as he did a score of others. She was too young and unworldly to weigh
for a moment the advantages of position offered. He said he loved her,
and that was what her heart hungered for. Nobody had told her so since
her mother died. The tide of her feelings began to turn. How kind and
good he seemed. How could she ever have thought him otherwise? Then
she found herself in a whirl of thought. She was so very grateful to
him, but how could she marry anybody? Not for a great many years yet,
at least. Of course she must marry somebody—an orphan girl like her.
Perhaps she was beginning to care for him, for her feelings toward him
had changed within a few minutes. Still, it was all so different from
what she had thought it would be when that time should come in which
somebody brave and true would say these words to her. Was he brave
and true? Was he? Oh! If she had not to settle a great question. It
frightened her, and she was not glad, as she had dreamed she would be,
nor happy as girls in books were; but real life was never quite up to
books and stories, and Aunt Maria and Sophy would never forgive her if
she refused him, and—and—he said he loved her. What should she say to
him, sitting there looking down at her, waiting for her answer? What
could she say? "O, mother! What would you have me say?"
She made a lovely picture in the large chair before the fire, its light
glancing on her hair, her head leaning on her hand, the face sweet and
serious, like a troubled child's, and the eyes almost tearful. Mr.
Langdon resolved to have her painted in just that attitude immediately.
Her hesitation and long silence did not in the least annoy him; he
attributed it to maiden coyness. It almost amused him, he felt so
sure of her. It never entered his mind that she could refuse him, or,
indeed, that anybody could. And she did not; she promised she would be
his wife—when one hour before the thought of such a thing had never
come into her heart. So lightly and hastily are lifelong covenants
entered into!
Mr. Langdon was ten years older than Esther. He had always fancied
that he should choose a wife much younger than himself, it would be so
delightful to mould her unformed nature; in short, to make her over to
suit himself. So he set himself to the pleasant task at once. He had
not tact enough to wait until he had won the right, as he would say.
He was pedantic himself, so he wished his wife to shine in literary
society—to be able to discuss all isms and ologies, the merits and
demerits of all standard authors, ancient and modern, and quote freely
from their works. He brought her books and set her tasks, and made
her recite to him as if she were a schoolgirl. If she read aloud, he
criticised her elocution. If she played for him with ever so much
taste and skill, he found fault with the selection or gave a lecture
on style and delicacy of touch. Even the tenderest love ballad did not
escape. It was analyzed and measured by square and compass till all the
sweetness had gone out of it, and Esther felt vexed at having sung it,
or her voice was pronounced to be too sharp, the tones not pure; she
must begin at once to take lessons of some excellent master.
Esther bore it all meekly enough at first because of those precious
three words he had spoken to her. It was a wonderful, sacred thing,
somebody to love her, and she would endure much on that account even
though her own heart did not respond as she had striven to make it.
And, to tell the truth, she was slowly awakening to the fact that their
spirit and aims were so very unlike, that clashing was inevitable. Mr.
Langdon was more like a mentor than a lover, and she had an unpleasant
consciousness of being managed, and of continually yielding her will
to his, even in the matter of a ride, or a walk, or an evening's
entertainment, for it was contrary to his rule to do anything, or go
anywhere, that was not perfectly convenient and agreeable to himself.
They were not in sympathy on many points. She loved books and study and
music for themselves, but scorned the thought of learning anything for
the mere sake of displaying it. The pedantic airs Mr. Langdon assumed
used to amuse her, now, they mortified her.
There was yet another more important subject on which they differed.
Since the day of her first visit, Esther had gone often to see Mrs.
Lyman, and it was impossible to come into close contact with her sweet
spirit and strong faith without having the religious life quickened
and strengthened; so Mr. Langdon's views jarred her more than they
would have done a few months previous when she was a formal, worldly
Christian. He pronounced many of Esther's opinions to be "mere cant."
Some of the hymns she loved were "in very bad taste," "perfect trash,"
while the convictions of her tender conscience were "superstitions."
He assured her that the time would come when, as her mind became more
expanded and her tastes elevated, she would appreciate his criticisms.
This was too much, even though it were well seasoned with honeyed
words, and Esther's indignant protest warned Mr. Langdon not to be
too urgent in this direction. There was a limit even to meekness and
forbearance.
It was Christmas morning, and Esther was in the conservatory. Her uncle
had given her permission to take as many flowers for her own use as she
pleased. He well knew they would go to brighten some dreary home this
Christmas Day. While she worked she was thinking—going back over the
year somewhat. It had not been a happy year to her. She was obliged to
confess to herself that she had never been more harassed and worried
in her life. A shadow fell on her face as she meditated that when once
Christmas is well gone, Spring is not far distant. Then she must be
married. This home was not such a happy one that she need mourn to
leave it, but she dreaded that new home more. Her troubled thoughts and
troubled face did not accord with the beauty and fragrance about her,
and neither brightened when Mr. Langdon was announced. He came in where
she was at once, saying he was in haste.
"We have arranged a sleigh-ride for to-day," he said, after greeting
her. "It was quite impromptu, because we were uncertain about the snow.
We are going fifteen miles in the country, to Mr. Clayton's father's,
where we are invited to dine. How soon can you get ready, Esther?"
"Oh! I cannot go. You know I told you, Mr. Langdon, that I had an
engagement this morning at the 'Old Ladies' Home.'"
Mr. Langdon's lip curled. "Engagement! Surely you can postpone that."
"Surely I cannot. Patrick has gone to got me some greens, and I am
going to trim their rooms a little and make a bouquet for each of them.
They would be disappointed if I did not come—and so should I. They have
looked forward to Christmas for weeks. They are old and poor and have
so few pleasures, how can I deprive them of this when they have set
their hearts on it?"
"As if nobody could attend to that nonsense but you! Send a servant
with the flowers."
"But that wouldn't do at all. It's I they want more than anything. You
see, there are very few people who appreciate me. Those old ladies do.
I read to them and sing to them, and they think I am an angel just
dropped down from Heaven. So you will be good and excuse me this time,
and let me give you this as a Christmas token," and she tried to fasten
a small white chrysanthemum in his coat.
But Mr. Langdon stepped back and said, with much sharpness of tone,
"Esther, it is impossible that you are in earnest. I certainly shall
not excuse you, if you are. Of course you will go with me. Go quickly
and make ready. I shall call for you in an hour."
Esther reached up and clipped a spray of smilax before she spoke, which
she did in a slow, resolute way. "Mr. Langdon, I am quite in earnest; I
cannot go. I have made a promise, and I must keep it."
He had never seen Esther assume so much dignity before. She certainly
did mean what she said. He was angry enough to go without her, but
that would cause him some embarrassment; so he would condescend to
persuasion, but this was done in such a manner as to be more offensive
than some people's commands.
"My little girl," he said, smiling derisively, "what new airs have you
taken on? They do not become you in the least. What has come over you?
Is she trying to be a strong-minded female, or is she doing penance
or works of supererogation? Come, now, have done with this nonsense,
and say you will be ready, my pretty one," and he put his finger under
her chin, as one would do to a child, adding, "Look up here, and let
us have no tantrums? Some day I must get a bit and bridle for you, my
beauty; you are growing spirited."
Esther could never remember feeling more outraged at anything than at
this speech. It was a new and repulsive glimpse of his character.
Mr. Langdon had an opportunity to see her in a new character then. She
drew herself up, and said coldly: "Such language is very distasteful to
me, and I wish to hear no more of it. Please understand distinctly that
I am not going, so it will not be necessary for you to detain yourself
further."
He thought his ears must have deceived him, that she should dare to
assert herself thus, when he supposed he had her under such good
control!
He grew white with anger; so angry: that he forgot himself, and said
between his teeth,—
"I command you to go."
"You have no right to command me," Esther said calmly.
Then growing desperate, and resolved not to be baffled, he drew out his
watch, saying:—
"I will give you three minutes to decide. Once for all: I warn you; you
would better repent your decision. If a pack of old women are to be put
before me, we shall see. You may take the consequences if you refuse."
Then he turned and walked up and down the short space, while Esther
went on clipping flowers. Her fingers trembled, and her hands were
nerveless, but the steady clip, clip, of the shears came to the ears of
the man who was waiting.
The time was up; he walked toward Esther, and looked at her. She laid
another flower in the basket, and said in a low tone, without looking
at him, "I shall not go," and then he strode away without another word;
and Esther gathered up her flowers and started on her mission.
How very much hung upon her keeping her promise she could not have
imagined. She had arranged with Mrs. Lyman to sit with her after she
had gone the rounds, and she carried a book to read her some Christmas
poems. So after flitting about among the rooms, pinning a bit of the
evergreen here, and a vine there, and dispensing flowers and kind
wishes to all, she knocked at Mrs. Lyman's door. It was opened by a
nurse who told her that the old lady had met with an accident. While
going down-stairs that morning she had slipped and fallen, and could
see no one.
Hearing a voice she loved, Mrs. Lyman said, "Is it Miss Harlowe? Let
her come in."
She was in bed, pale with suffering, and a surgeon was setting her
broken ankle. Esther came softly to her side, slipped her hand
into hers, and stood still, watching the operation. It was like an
anæsthetic in its soothing effect upon the patient— this fresh young
face, with hair and eyes like Margaret's, the perfume of the flowers
filling the room, and the warm little hand in hers.
Esther watched the surgeon's fingers curiously. How swift and cool
their movements!—no uncertainty or clumsiness. A lady sorting
embroidery silks could not work more delicately. As he put the
finishing touches to his task Esther almost forgot there was any pain
connected with it, and found herself wondering if he did not enjoy
what he could do so deftly and neatly. Then for the first time she
let her gaze rest upon his face. He was a young man—she had thought
surgeons were always old or elderly. It was a strong, pure face, with
wavy dark hair falling carelessly over the broad forehead. It was but
a few seconds, but girls can think much in that time. She decided that
hair was much more becoming worn so than plastered down in a precise
manner, as she was accustomed to see it. He was surely not in the least
like the young men of her acquaintance. Sire tried to fancy him arrayed
in swallow-tail coat, light kids and slippers, dancing, and talking
nonsense at an evening party. He could never be one of that sort, she
was sure. He was too grave and earnest to be a trifler. When he had
finished his work, he lifted a pair of clear, penetrating eyes to hers,
and they surveyed each other an instant; then the doctor bowed, and
Esther turned and, bending down, whispered a few words to Mrs. Lyman,
left her flowers on the pillow, and a kiss on the worn cheek, and
glided away. She made one or two more calls that she had left till the
last, and was passing through the hall to go home, when a nurse met her
and asked her to come in and sing to old Mrs. Moore. She had been very
ill for many days, and they hoped the singing might quiet her nervous
restlessness, and soothe her to sleep. Esther went willingly; she loved
to sing, and loved to help others. But here was that eagle-eyed doctor
to spoil it. She wished he would go, but he did not.
There was a tall old rocker by the bed, where they motioned her to sit,
but she took her place at the back of the chair and folded her hands
over its top. Standing so, the doctor could not see her face. He could
hear, though, and to that he gave himself. Resting his head on his
hand, he closed his eyes and let the sweet melody flow over him.
Almost as soon as the pure, soft tones met her ear the patient ceased
her restless tossing, and listened eagerly to catch the words, which
were articulated so plainly that not one was lost. They were simple
words, just suited to the simple-minded old woman, and peculiarly
soothing because they brought to mind the prayer of childhood. Neither
was she the only one who felt the spell of the humble little song as it
floated through the still room:—
"Now I lay me down to sleep,
As the shadows softly creep,
As the bird, with folded wing,
On some tiny bough doth swing;
As the flowers, wet with dew,
Bow themselves in slumber, too,
In the stillness, awful, deep,
Now I lay me down to sleep.
"Now I lay me down to sleep,
Friends and kindred 'round me weep;
But I know no want or fear,
For no darkness, Lord, is here;
All my way is lit by thee,
Through the shade thou leadest me.
Knowing that the Lord will keep,
May I lay me down to sleep."
Refreshed and calmed, the old lady folded her, hands and said, "'Now
I lay me down to sleep.' Oh if I only had somebody to pray with me, I
believe I could go to sleep."
There was silence a moment, and one looked at another. Who could pray?
Not the doctor, surely; that was not considered to be in his line; but
Dr. Evarts knelt down, and, in a few simple, tender words, besought a
blessing on the aged mother whose journey was almost done. Here was
another evidence, Esther thought, that this young man was different
from any she had ever known. She thought about it as she walked home,
and sighed as she remembered Mr. Langdon and the angry look on his face
as he left her that morning.
Esther had promised Mrs. Lyman that she would come again to see her on
the morrow. She was free from pain, and welcomed her visitor eagerly.
"I have such great news to tell you, my dear, that I could scarcely
wait. You know it is a whole fortnight now since you were here. Such
a wonderful thing has happened! I am not a poor, lonely old woman any
longer, Esther. I have a dear boy to care for me. The young physician
you found attending me yesterday is my nephew. I was sorry I felt too
sick to introduce you. He is Paul Evarts, and he is my dear sister's
only son. His mother was left a widow, and they went to England to live
when Paul was but a boy. My sister died a few years ago, and we lost
sight of Paul. I thought he had forgotten his old auntie, but he had
not. He came almost purposely to look me up. He thinks of remaining
and going into practice in his native city. If he does he will take a
house, and I shall be his housekeeper. Now, what do you think of that,
my dear?"
"It's beautiful!" said Esther. "Just beautiful! Why, it's a book acted
out. I am so very glad."
"And the queer part of it all," said Mrs. Lyman, "is that after he had
been here a few days I must needs go and break my ankle, as if to test
his skill as a surgeon. There is no loss, though, without some gain.
Perhaps you will take pity on me and come oftener to see me because of
my affliction. But you must sing the song now, and read the poem that I
was cheated out of yesterday."
After that they had a long talk. Esther's girl friends were never
taken into such close confidence as Mrs. Lyman, and, if girls would
but believe it, a wise, sweet-spirited, youthful-hearted old lady is a
valuable friend for a girl to have. Who should know the dangers of the
way so well as those who have just passed over it?
"Your face has a shadow on it this morning, dear child," Mrs. Lyman
said presently; "I like to feel that everybody is happy when I am so
happy."
Esther wanted counsel and comfort sorely, so she told her troubles.
"Did I do wrong? Ought I to have gone with Mr. Langdon, do you think?"
she asked.
"Perhaps the wrong is further back than that. Did you wish to go, but
thought it your duty to come here because you had promised?"
"To tell the truth, I preferred coming here to taking a long ride,"
Esther said, laughing and flushing. "I enjoy bringing flowers here so
much; perhaps I was selfish, and then, I did want to keep my promise."
"Can it be that hearts have changed since I was a girl?" the old lady
said archly. "What would have tempted me to stay at home when Eleazer
asked me to go with him—anywhere? A long ride in the country! Why, that
would have been blessed. Are you sure you care for this young man in
the right way, dear—if I may ask you a plain question?"
"Why, I don't know," Esther said, stammeringly. "I suppose I do. I try
to."
"My dear little girl," said Mrs. Lyman, "can you really think of
marrying a person for whom you entertain such a vague uncertain
affection?"
"Why, that's the trouble," said Esther. "I don't really want to marry
anybody ever. I wish I could be let alone, and not be perplexed about
these things, and yet it is very pleasant to have people fond of you,
and not feel alone as I do."
"You poor little bud of a girl," Mrs. Lyman said, putting her arms
about her, "you should not have been disturbed for a long time yet;
you needed a mother to shield you; but you ought to be told that when
the one God intends for you crosses your path you will not find it
necessary to try to love him. You will, instead, have to pray God to
keep you from making him an idol, and where he is, there you will wish
to be. Marriage may be the highest state of earthly happiness, and it
may be the bitterest bondage. Take care, dear child, how you take vows
upon you that your soul revolts from. I believe much of the misery
of this life is God's protest against the profanation of this holy
ordinance."
It became evident, as the days went by, that Mr. Langdon was hopelessly
offended. He did not come to the house or write. Esther was both glad
and troubled. Relieved of his constant supervision and criticisms
she drew a long breath, and knew, as she had not before, that
whatever heart she might possess was not in his keeping. She lived in
constant dread that he would return to her after he had punished her
sufficiently. And yet his remaining away brought her into trouble with
her aunt and cousin; they were already questioning and harassing her
beyond endurance. At last, when her aunt wrote Mr. Langdon demanding
an explanation, he sent a brief note, saying the engagement between
himself and Miss Marlowe was at an end. If she wished for reasons he
would refer her to her niece.
Then the storm burst in all its fury. The tongues of mother and
daughter were let loose upon her. "Now you shall tell me just what you
have done," declared her aunt. "I will not have a gentleman like Mr.
Langdon insulted in my own house."
When the story was told, the case was no better for Esther. The rage
and disappointment of aunt and cousin knew no bounds.
"Esther, you are a fool!" said her aunt.
"She's a contemptible little minx!" said Miss Sophy. "And I would shut
her up and feed her on bread and water until she apologizes."
"I shall never do that," said Esther firmly. "I told him some time
before that I should be occupied on Christmas morning, and he had no
right to try to force me to alter my plans. The apology must come from
him. I have done no wrong."
"Just hear the stupid little simpleton! He apologize to her! The idea!
To think she should dare to go contrary to his wishes, and run the risk
of losing him, and all for the sake of amusing a few old women!"
"Do you know," Sophy said, turning fiercely to Esther, "what you have
done? Or haven't you brains enough to take it in? Mr. Langdon will be
the richest man in the city when his father dies, and you have lost
him, probably."
"I don't care for money," Esther said dreamily, her eyes out of the
window, following a fleecy cloud that was sailing by, and thinking what
she dare not speak, that it was far better to be able to pray as that
young doctor did, than to have great riches.
"You don't care for money!" screamed her aunt. "Indeed! You will find
out whether you care for it when you are left alone in the world
without a penny, as you probably will be. Go to your room, do! And stay
there out of my sight. You are too exasperating to be tolerated."
"I had no idea she was so stubborn," Mrs. Ward told her daughter, as
day after day passed, and Esther refused to send a humble confession
to Mr. Langdon. They constructed one themselves at last, ordering her
to copy it, but Esther was firm. She had nothing to confess, and she
would not, for any consideration, engage herself to him again. It was
delightful to be free again; if only they would not torment her she
could be almost happy. When she expressed something of this to them
they looked at each other aghast, as if here was proof that Esther was
a subject for a lunatic asylum.
The weeks that followed were dreary ones to Esther. She was kept on
bread and water, figuratively, if not literally, and ice-water at that.
It was curious how a house that is warmed And lighted until it fairly
glows can be rendered dark and chilly as a tomb to some of its inmates.
If the girl's life had been unpleasant before, it was wretched now.
Cold looks and sharp words were her portion, when she was not ignored
utterly, all the more so because Mr. Langdon had transferred his
affections to a Boston belle, visiting in the city, and was hopelessly
and forever lost to Esther.
It was not all dark, though. There were occasional visits to a snug
little house at the other end of the city, where dwelt a lovely,
white-haired old lady called by her devoted nephew, Aunt Katherine.
Mrs. Lyman insisted on a weekly visit from Esther, and sometimes she
was kept to cosy little suppers. It was a delightful place to visit,
and it was no wonder Esther liked it. She was warmly welcomed and
petted to her heart's content. There was usually a good, long talk with
her old friend first, then the doctor would come home, and bring out
a store of stories from his brain, of things in foreign lands, grave
and gay and instructive; he was a charming talker, and Esther was a
good questioner. Then he had great volumes of rare engravings of which
she never tired, and a microscope whereby she became wise about some
of nature's secrets. Her education was going on surprisingly, all the
more because one was entirely unaware that he was teaching, and the
other that she was being taught. Aunt Katherine watched the glowing
faces,—the golden head and the brown head bending together over one
book—and smiled. After they had sung numberless songs and hymns it was
time for Esther to go home. Of necessity, Dr. Evarts must accompany her
home, in a long walk across the city, which latter was not a necessity,
but which they much preferred to street cars, the walk being not at all
long to them.
As they thus walked and talked one winter night when the Christmas moon
shone solemnly down on a white world, and the songs of angels floated
on the clear air—heard only by those two—the breeze wafted back some of
the words. Their talk was all about themselves—how the precious gift of
each to the other began a year ago last Christmas. And they tried to
settle bewildering questions: Whether, if Esther had not insisted on
going to the "Old Ladies' Home" that morning she would be walking this
Christmas Eve with Paul, and suppose there had been no "Old Ladies'
Home," would they ever have met.
"And if your Aunt Katherine had not been there—" said Esther. "We owe
it all to her, after all."
"Your Aunt Katherine! Say my Aunt Katherine," Paul said, looking down
at her with shining eyes.
And Esther obediently repeated, "My Aunt Katherine." The old moon hid
herself behind a cloud just then, and neither she nor Paul saw the
lovely color that flushed the happy face.
In the spring when all things are made new, they two clasped hands and
began their new life together. Their wedding journey was not made to
some famous fashionable resort; they were of one mind in this, as in
everything else. They sought a quiet retreat where they might carry on
their intimacy with nature, and she rewarded them; she unsealed her
fountains and discovered to them her secret nooks and crannies, her
buds and blossoms and delicacies, as she does to no one but ardent
worshippers. They searched the woods and glens, climbed mountains and
wandered by streams, and walked and rode and talked and studied, with
not one hour of dullness. And then they went back to the little house
and lived their beautiful lives.
"Two to the world for the world's work's sake,
But each unto each, as in Thy sight, one."
And the world said, "Poor thing! She was jilted by that rich Mr.
Langdon, you know, and now she has had to take up with a poor young
doctor;" which shows just how much the world knows about Esther's
affairs, and ours.
When the years had gone away and Dr. Evarts' praises were in every
mouth, and he had become rich and celebrated, Miss Sophy Ward was fond
of speaking of "My cousin, Mrs. Dr. Evarts."
Aunt Katherine, too, had occasion for triumph and for heaping some
very hot "coals of fire," but she never thought of either. Mrs. Agnew
had lost her property, and the Agnew estate was sold to the highest
bidder, which was Dr. Evarts. Strange to say he was able to place Aunt
Katherine in her old room, with many of the dear familiar objects of
other days about her; while the wretched woman who had played her brief
part in this history, lived in a humble home not far off. She was
sick and poor and miserable. To her Mrs. Lyman ministered as if she
had received nothing but kindness at her hands. And Christ-like love
conquered in the end; it broke down the hard heart and brought her into
faith and peace.
When riches increased, Dr. Evarts obeyed the Scripture, "set not thy
heart upon them." They flowed out in all directions, blessing and
comforting others.
Every Christmas, he and Esther visited the "Old Ladies' Home," with
a bountiful thank-offering. Each recurring year they were wont to go
over every small detail of their meeting, and sometimes make little
confessions that were new to the other.
"It was here you stood to sing," the dignified doctor would remark, or,
"Was ever anything lovelier than when you stood there with those roses,
watching me set the broken bones?"
"And how you frightened me when you flashed your eyes on me so
suddenly."
"It is a good place," the doctor would say; "here we found each other,
and here began the love that has blessed our lives."
"And here I found my Aunt Katherine," Esther was fond of adding.
THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS.
———
"WHY, Auntie! What a quantity of lunch you are putting up. You don't
expect me to take my Christmas dinner on the cars, do you?"
"Stranger things than that have come to pass, even though you should,"
Aunt Ruth said, tucking in another half-dozen biscuits. "Massachusetts
is a long way off, and Christmas is pretty near at hand. You'll have
sharp work to get through by Christmas, I'm thinking. The connections
will have to be very good, and no set-backs on the way. That don't
always happen in winter, you know. Trains will be behind time, or there
'll be a bridge down, or something. Then as you get on toward the East
there will be snow-storms—snow you up for a week, maybe—better stay
till after Christmas yet."
"Aunt Ruthie, don't! Please don't prophesy such terrible things; I
shall get on all right, I am sure. Good-by, dear own auntie!" And the
young girl wound her arms about the elder woman's neck, and laid her
brown head close to the gray one.
"Good-by, dearie!" Aunt Ruth said in broken tones. "The Lord bless you
and keep you—and see here, child, I'll tuck these two little books into
your basket, and some more biscuits, then if you should have to spend a
week on the way, you will have something to feed soul and body both."
A last loving look into Aunt Ruth's eyes, and Marian sprang into a
light wagon by Uncle Eli's side, and two ponies trotted off over
the smooth country road. The frosty air, the crackle of dry leaves
and twigs, the morning sun, the fragrant cedars, and the flutter of
gay-winged birds, made the heart of this girl, whose eye and ear were
open to all sweet influences of nature, sing for joy—the mere joy of
being—on this glorious morning. And truly a winter morning in the
poetical, picturesque southwest, with its balmy airs, green fields,
and gay birds, at Christmas time, can but seem to a New Englander the
presage of that morning when all things shall be made new.
Aunt Ruth watched them far down the road, then she went into the house
with a slow step and a heavy heart. She wiped away the tears as she
gathered up Marian's woody treasures that she had forgotten—lichens,
moss twigs, and purple berries. The house was empty and dull. The
bright young creature who had filled it with an atmosphere of warmth
and gladness was gone. How grim and desolate it seemed!
For two months Aunt Ruth had lived a charmed life. Marian, the daughter
of her favorite niece, whom she loved as her own child, had come from
her far city home for a brief visit—to honor one whom her mother prized
so highly. Her stay was protracted far beyond what duty required,
though. The girl enjoyed the free, unconventional life, the novel
experiences, and the almost idolatrous love bestowed upon her.
It was hard to say which was most delighted with the other. The younger
one painted scenes of the gay, busy world, that seemed to the elder,
hard-worked woman like the tales of Aladdin. Then she, in turn, in
quaint speech, seasoned with wit, poured into the young ears the
privations and romances of frontier life, as well as the love tales
of long ago, which were far more delightful than one could find in a
book, because they had been lived out before Aunt Ruth's eyes. She
knew whether the fine gold of the marriage day had become dim; what
they did, and how they lived, and so on to the very last chapter. With
graphic words she made them live again for her eager listener—a long
line of ancestors—sketching her characters with no mean skill, her
charitable nature hiding their faults behind their graces, so that they
were most fascinating as heroes and heroines. In short, Aunt Ruth was
to Marion a delightful old book, full of wisdom and strong sweetness.
And while Marian was to her aunt a revelation of grace and loveliness,
she was besides gifted with an active brain, and was the very soul of
truth and candor, so that she seemed to the New England woman like a
breath of air fresh from the old Massachusetts hills. Aunt Ruth always
disparaged the East in contrast with the West when she re-visited it,
and yet she loved its rocky hills with all her heart. At the same time,
anything or anybody of Eastern make or birth, was held up to Western
people as a model of all excellence.
"She is just wonderful," the old lady would declare, in confidential
chats with Uncle Eli. "There she has been brought up in a great city,
her folks are rich, and she has everything she wants, and yet she isn't
spoiled a mite. You might have thought she would have brought a trunk
full of novels to this out of the way place, and only us two old folks
here, but not a bit of it! She's devouring the old yellow books in the
bookcase as if her life depended on it. The other morning she got down
the 'History of the Reformation,' and there she sat the whole forenoon,
never stirred or looked up as I went in and out—so deep in her book.
In the afternoon, when I sat down to my mending, we had a great visit
over Luther. She told me things that I forgot years ago. His reasons
for getting a wife tickled her wonderfully. Forgot them, have you? I
had, too. They were: 'That he might please his father, spite the Pope,
and vex the devil.' Said she, 'I should have wanted him to have one
more reason, Auntie, if I had been his Katy—the only reason—because he
loved me.' She looked so sweet and pretty, I spoke right out before
I thought, and I said, 'Of course he would. How could anybody help
loving you, dearie?' You ought to 'a' seen her pretty blush, then;
exactly like my tea-rose in the window there. She's reading 'Paradise
Lost,' now. She knows the Catechism from beginning to end, and she
is up in the doctrines, and knows about missions. She's a regular
old-fashioned girl. Sarah Brewster wrote me that they didn't raise
such girls around Boston any more. She said they spent the whole time
dressing and going, and reading novels and embroidering, and that they
couldn't stand a June frost, physically or morally, that they hadn't
any piety nor anything else—nothing but pretty faces. Now, there's
Marian, she can walk three miles, and she took hold and helped me with
the baking and churning, and swept the whole house. Besides all that,
she's truly pious. She isn't going to make one of the strong-minded
kind, either—stiff, and hard, and high-stepping, and homely as a hedge
fence. She's as sweet as a rose, and as humble as a chipping-bird. I
never thought I should set such store by her, when I looked out of
the window that day she came, and saw her coming up the walk, sort o'
dancing along, with her big hat on, and her curls blowing about her
eyes. I said to myself, 'Yes, there she comes! A fine Boston lady, and
she will mince about and make fun of us with her saucy airs, and then
take herself off in two days, and I shall not be sorry, even if she is
my great-niece.' But here she has been, week after week, and don't want
to go home yet."
The first fifty miles of Marian's journey was unmarked by anything of
special interest. This brought her to the junction where she was to
change cars for the main line. But there, to her dismay, she discovered
that the train with which she was supposed to connect had been gone for
an hour, her own train being late. There was nothing to be done but
to wait at a forlorn little hotel for the next one, which would not
be until noon of the next day. It was of no use to feel provoked, or
to fret, so Marian set herself to bear it patiently. She walked about
the small village, and on into the country, made the acquaintance of
children gathering Christmas greens, and returned with her hands full
of evergreen and bitter-sweet berries.
The time did not hang so heavily as she had anticipated, although she
was heartily glad when the long train glided in, and she was once more
seated in the car, and on her homeward way. As it was to be a long
journey, she was not a little interested in her surroundings. So she
began to scrutinize her fellow-passengers, to measure, and classify,
and determine, by those few swift glances, their standing—mental,
social and moral—and whether they were agreeable, or selfish and
ill-natured. She reached her conclusions—unjust ones in some instances,
perhaps; and yet the intuitions of some fine natures are a little short
of divine. When she wearied of that, she brought out pencil and paper,
and scribbled a voluminous letter to Aunt Ruth. Having a talent for
sketching, she embellished her sheet here and there with portraits of
her fellow-travellers, "to cheer up Auntie," she told herself, albeit
the artist seemed to enjoy her work immensely, and to put a deal of
painstaking into it. There was a scornful big woman with a pug-nosed
dog, a laughing baby, a great pompous man asleep with his mouth open,
the sweet face of an old lady biding away under a deep bonnet, and at
last, with careful touches, the profile of a young man who sat just
ahead of her; a fine scholarly face, bent over a book.
That letter made two old people happy for more than one evening. What
if our cheery words went oftener to brighten lonely homes!
Stuart Lynde, a young lawyer returning from a business trip, who sat
just below, across the aisle, was not in the least interested in those
about him. They were simply a number of strangers with whom he had no
possible concern. He had not raised so much as an eyelid to discover
who sat before or behind him. He was absorbed in a book, and would have
been amazed had he known that an excellent portrait of himself had just
been executed and was about to travel back over the road he had come.
That which first attracted him from the fascinating pages was a ray of
golden light falling across his book; then he put it aside and gave
himself up to the enjoyment of the sunset, which was unusually fine.
Marian made a mental note of the fact that few watched the glorious
picture hung in the sky: three or four only besides herself; the old
lady, the young man, a tired-looking mother, and a plain farmer with
a "gospel face." As for the lap-dog woman, and the pompous man, they
never saw a sunset. "Eyes have they, but they see not," applies to more
than heathen idols. It is always so: God's best things are for the few;
the many do not throng into the inner temple; hearts are stony, ears
are dull, and "their eyes they have closed."
Those who did watch the first red bars steal into the blue of the
evening sky, and the blue change to the vast golden sea, with soft
violet clouds sailing over it, could scarcely repress exclamations of
delight. It was to some of them as if the end of their journey was
near—the end of all journeyings—and that rushing train was speeding on
straight to the golden glory shining before them, where they should
meet the King in his beauty at the gate of his temple, and be welcomed
in, to go no more out forever. The old lady and the tired mother and
the farmer wished from their souls it was. But Marian Chester and
Stuart Lynde, if the thought had occurred to them, would have said,
"No, no! Not yet. We want to test the world ourselves, even though you
old people say it is a rough and thorny road. We will find the roses.
We are not afraid."
It was not strange that as Marian watched the fading light she
unconsciously and softly sang,—
"'Day is dying in the west,
Heaven is touching earth with rest;
Wait and worship while the night
Sets her evening lamps alight—'"
Followed by Keble's sweet evening hymn,—
"'Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour dear,
It is not night if Thou be near.'"
Hymn and song came one upon the other, but the refreshment was for none
but herself. Stuart Lynde caught once or twice a low, sweet strain, and
looked about him to see whence it came, but the din of the cars drowned
all but a stray, occasional note. Although he listened intently,
the music did not rise above a soft murmur. By turning slightly in
his seat, his eyes had the range of the car, and he was not long in
determining the probable singer, more by the attitude than directed
by any sounds. By the waning light he could see a slight figure in a
sealskin sacque, a small brown velvet cap resting on a coil of brown
hair. The face leaning on one hand was pressed close against the glass,
and while her eyes watched the fading colors in the sky, her lips
framed the words of song, as absently and unconsciously as if she had
forgotten that she were not leaning from her own chamber window. It was
a charming picture, and he enjoyed it.
During the evening people dropped off at the different stations
along the way, until only the few through passengers remained, who
wearily counted the miles to the city where the sleeping coach should
be attached. They were doomed to disappointment, however, for even
while they were flying on at a high rate of speed, the train suddenly
came to a stand still. A broken engine and a delay of several hours,
was the word that quickly passed about. As if to add to the gloomy
state of things, a severe storm had set in. The violet clouds that
at sunset were lovely pictures, had grown into black, overhanging
monsters. The wind howled and blew with a force that threatened to
sweep all before it, and the rain fell in torrents. It was not a
thing to be desired—standing in the midst of what seemed a boundless
prairie, exposed to the fury of the storm, miles from any station, with
telegraph wires down. It was curious how this changed state of affairs
was met by different ones. Some who had been amiably dozing the last
few hours were now thoroughly wide awake, going out and in, slamming
doors and scolding the company because they did not provide engines
that could not break down; others fretted, or were pale with fright,
fearing lest the cars should be blown from the track, or there be a
collision.
Stuart Lynde wore a calm face; whether the calmness of stoicism, or of
trust, who could tell? The old lady, who had learned patience through a
long life of disappointments, was philosophical. "What can't be cured,
must be endured," she remarked to Marian as she took off her bonnet
and hung it up, brought out a hood in its place, and made other little
preparations to spend the night just where she sat. To herself, she
said, "I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord,
only makest me to dwell in safety.'"
If only she had said those words aloud!
Marian, too, took a text for her pillow, curled herself up comfortably
in her seat, and went to sleep.
"What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee," makes a soft pillow.
Mr. Lynde resolved that he would not waste his time in sleep. It was
a good quiet time for thought. So he revolved in his mind the chief
points in an important law case, wishing he were entirely alone, so
that he might speak aloud the words of the plea, rushing to his brain,
which he expected to make on the morrow, or did expect to—probably this
miserable detention would spoil all his plans, at which he groaned
inwardly. He was scarcely aware that another process was going on in
his mind at the same time; that he was casting occasional glances
at the face of the sleeper nearly opposite, and comparing it with a
certain piece of statuary which was a favorite. Although strangers
were distasteful to him, he was fond of tracing different types of
faces, and this fair Grecian profile, outlined against the cushions,
with closed eyes and rounded cheek, was a pleasant study. The hand put
up to shade the face had slept at its post, and had fallen down and
folded itself over the other one across the chest. The childlike mouth
looked as if the lips had closed themselves on,—"I will trust." It was
a calm, sweet picture of innocent sleep, and Stuart Lynde found himself
thinking as he gazed, "If only a soul ever matched a fair face!"
If she had but known, how quickly the blood would have rushed into the
cheek, and the statue would have sprung up and away! Marian was not a
girl to pose for stranger eyes, nor any other. It was a little singular
that a connoisseur of faces should bestow all his attention upon one,
and not have noticed just beyond, the fine old face crowned with snowy
hair, and radiant with calm content.
The old lady, between her naps, watched the sleeper, too, feeling a
sort of motherly responsibility concerning her, because she was alone.
"Dear lamb," she murmured to herself, "she is taking a good sleep."
Marian kept some vigils, too. She straightened herself up after a few
hours, wondering vaguely where she was, and why the train was standing
still. The ghostly light, the silence and the rough men in a seat not
far away—one of them—an evil-faced fellow, happening to glare at her
just then, filled her with shudderings. She glanced swiftly over to
a certain seat to see if it had changed occupants. It had not, and
she felt relieved. The man who sat there might be cold and proud, but
he was honorable and chivalrous; he could defend a whole car full of
people, she was sure. Then there was the old lady beaming out even in
the gloom and darkness, as she just now roused up, saying, "How are you
getting on, my dear?" There was a world of comfort in that "my dear."
Mr. Lynde had succumbed to the power of weariness, and was fast asleep
himself now, and Marian had opportunity to retaliate, had she but
known her grievances. She ventured only a few stolen glances to see if
closer scrutiny would confirm her first intuitions. It was a shapely
head thrown back against the corner of the seat; the face of a high,
fine type, intellectually strong, and yet a trifle marred by something.
Perhaps it was the suspicion that the mouth might easily take shape in
a satirical smile; and there were other curves and lines suggestive of
the idea that sarcasm was one of the weapons of his warfare he was fond
of wielding. However, it was, as Marian decided, "a face to trust;" she
composed herself to sleep again, comforted by the nearness of her two
protectors.
When the day dawned matters had not mended. The rain had come down in
sheets through the night; the whole country was flooded, and help had
not yet come to the disabled engine. It was truly a dismal outlook for
all concerned.
The fortunate ones were those who had some breakfast. The nice old lady
had a snug little lunch basket, and she looked about her to see with
whom she should share it. This particular car was nearly deserted,
the men spending most of their time in the smoking car. Mr. Lynde was
moodily gazing through the window upon the watery world, when the old
lady trotted briskly over to him and, holding out her lunch basket,
begged him to help himself to a sandwich and a doughnut, "for I'm sure
you must be all tuckered out by this time," she added sympathetically.
But this the gentleman most emphatically declined to do, assuring her
that he was not suffering, and that he could not possibly think of
depriving her of what she might greatly need before the end of the
journey.
She looked disappointed as she went back, and Marian, who saw the
refusal, but did not hear the kindly, courteous words, inly resolved
that he should have no opportunity to decline any contributions from
her stores. She could have furnished him an excellent breakfast, she
told herself, without fear of coming to want, either. It was good, too;
wonderfully fresh and nice, considering the long time it had been on
the way, but then she had providently taken precautions when detained
at the hotel to keep it in good condition.
It went sorely against Marian's nature to enjoy her nice breakfast,
knowing that one who sat so near was hungry, and not offer to share
with him. She would have felt the same if he had been a shaggy old man
instead of an attractive young one. If only she were an old lady, now,
she would go and insist that he should not starve himself. She might
get courage to do it even yet, if, now that he was awake, he did not
look so haughty and self-sufficient; the very curl of his moustache, as
she glanced at him, was proud. Why would he not decline her kindness,
too, with a grand air? No, no! He might go hungry until he attained to
more humility.
Stuart Lynde had arrived at some conclusions also. Under half-closed
eyelids, he had critically looked his fair neighbor over again by
the morning light, after she had made her toilet, by shaking out her
wrinkles, twisting her long hair into the smooth coil, running her
fingers through the short curls on her temples and setting her little
hat in its place. After that she looked fresh, and in order, with none
of that forlorn and dishevelled appearance some women take on after
having sat up all night in the cars.
But the conclusions: It must be confessed that this face from the first
fascinated and attracted him. It was of as fine a type as he had ever
seen, but her dress and air stamped her as belonging to the fashionable
world; and had he not long ago decided that nothing good could come
out of fashionable society, such a hollow, decayed, deceitful mass as
it was? How many girls he daily met who had fair faces and innocent
eyes, but when they spoke—their lips rarely dropped pearls, oftener
slang; they were loud, actually coarse, some of them, or they were
inane and silly. Most of them cared for no book except a novel, and
even that they knew nothing of when once it was devoured. To give an
analysis of a single character would be as impossible as to speak in
Chinese. They had no thoughts—not more than humming-birds; they had
never been taught to think; the few exceptions—in his experience—were
those who possessed no personal attractions. A pretty head was sure to
be an empty one; and this girl with a head like Diana, was probably a
"society girl," with not an idea above dressing, dancing and flirting.
It would be but courteous to address a sympathizing word to her, under
these extraordinary circumstances, with this long, tedious day before
them, and no companionship of any sort. But then, what good? She would
probably reply in a few parroty phrases, and that would be the end,
or she would resent his remark as an impertinence from a mere fellow
passenger, an utter stranger, or she would imagine him desperately
smitten, and would place him on one of her pretty fingers as the tenth
one ensnared by her within a fortnight. No, indeed, he should make no
advance toward acquaintance whatever. Upon which heroic resolution, he
dived into his satchel and brought out piles of depositions, knit his
brows over them, and tried to forget that he was hungry and growing
more so. An hour or two of hard work on these, then he produced a
volume of essays to see what consolation there might be in that for a
hungry man. This reminded Marian for the first time that she had two
little books herself that she had entirely forgotten. She took out the
small package wrapped in brown paper, and another inner wrapping of
soft white paper as if it held something precious. There was a little
volume of "Daily Food" Scripture texts, arranged for each day in the
year, and a copy of Thomas à Kempis' "Imitation of Christ," daintily
bound in morocco and gilt. On the fly-leaf of each was written in Aunt
Ruth's round cramped hand, "Marian Chester:" "The Lord bless thee and
keep thee." "Dear aunt Ruth," she murmured. "What would she say if she
knew where I am? And what will they think at home?" She just began to
realize how forlorn and lonely she was, and actually two large tears
stood on her cheeks.
Mr. Lynde was returning from one of his visits to the engine, and was
just in time to catch, for an instant, the flash of that tear. A smile
was a hollow thing to him. His coat of mail was proof against a whole
battalion of the most bewitching; but a tear! He bowed in reverence
before a tear; and, acting on that impulse, paused, and before he had
given himself leave to speak was saying, "I beg your pardon, but can I
do anything for you?"
Poor Marian! It was so sudden, and she was so mortified to be caught
crying like a baby, that her tones were defiant and her answer curt:
"No, sir, I thank you, not anything."
When she raised her eyes he was gone. Then, her sense of desolation was
lost in vexation, that she had made herself an object of pity to him
and requited his attempt at kindness by what must have seemed extreme
rudeness.
The rained had ceased, but this was not an advantage in one way, for
the air at once became intensely cold, so making it more difficult to
repair damages, as washouts and bridges swept from swollen streams were
reported ahead. As if to bring dreariness to a culminating point, the
supply of coal was low and the cars were becoming chilly. Adversity
was apparently having a good effect upon Mr. Lynde; he was developing
under it, and waking up to some interest in humanity that was not in a
book. He was not in general a close observer of the dress of ladies,
but he knew the difference between a long sealskin cloak and an old
black cashmere shawl. Consequently he was very sure where the large,
soft lap robe he carried was most needed. Thereupon he took it over
to the old lady, and begged her with as much deference as if she had
been a duchess, to accept it. She demurred, but he insisted and folded
it about her as a son might have done, and the lines about his mouth
relaxed into sweetness as she showered her thanks upon him.
"Why did I not think to do that?" Marian said to herself, casting
regretful eyes on her own warm shawl. It was too late now, so she drew
it over herself and retired into her book.
Aunt Ruth spoke better than she knew when she talked of food for the
soul. Some darkened minds would call it "cant," but those who know the
secret of the Lord, know that as a few drops of stimulant revive a
fainting body, just as surely will a strong, comforting word from the
Scriptures send the lifeblood tingling again through a benumbed soul,
if that soul belong to Christ.
So when Marian read in her "Daily Food":—
"The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting
arms;"
"The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and
delivereth them;"
"The beloved of the Lord shall dwell in safety by him, and the Lord
shall cover him all the day long;"
"Thou art my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou
shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance."
Then her faith and courage returned, and her heart already sang songs
of deliverance.
Mr. Lynde had already done all that travellers usually do in such
emergencies. He had stood in the teeth of a keen wind and talked with
the brake man and engineer and conductor as to the extent of the
accident, and what the probabilities were of soon resuming the journey;
had stepped out and walked briskly up and down, and the old lady
remarked as he strode by, "He's a handsome young fellow; straight as an
arrow, and he walks with a kind o' spring, just like my Benjamin," and
Marian had given in response an amused smile.
Now he had come back again and settled himself down to endure, with
grim fortitude, what could not be cured; not with the same spirit,
though, as the old saint who sat just beyond him, for, she said, "It
'll all turn out for the best somehow, and we'll likely see it some
day." It would take long to convince him, though, that the important
case to which he was hurrying home could possibly be bettered by his
absence. But he tried to be a philosopher. He turned up his coat
collar, as men do when they are cold and seem to think they have made
all reasonable provisions for comfort, put his eyes on his book, and
tried to merge his thoughts into the author's; but when a man is
hungry, and ever so slightly cold, the circumstances are not favorable
for metaphysical research.
It was noon, and the time for those who had any dinner to eat it; so
Marian took down her lunch basket again. If only she had somebody to
enjoy it with her! She glanced about the car; the men had gone. The old
lady, thanks to the warmth of the lap robe, was enjoying a nice nap.
There was just one person on whom to exercise her benevolence.
She amused herself by laying together in a fresh napkin three or four
biscuits, some slices of chicken, and some cake; then, while she
thoughtfully put bits into her own mouth, debated the question with
herself after this fashion: I ought, I really ought to do it, but how
can I? I wish he would go out; I would slip it into his seat, and he
would think the ravens or something had been sent to feed him. If I
should carry this over there and he should decline it with a lofty
air, how could I endure such humiliation? To be sure, I did reply very
haughtily when he spoke to me, and whatever possessed me, I'm sure I
don't know.
The head at which she was casting furtive glances, went down at this
juncture, wearily down, on the seat before him, and the action decided
her.
Stuart Lynde thought he had, in that moment, dropped asleep, and was in
a blissful dream, for a soft voice just behind him, said, "Sir, I was
mistaken; I would like to ask a favor of you."
The head was erect in an instant, and he began,—
"I shall be most happy;" but when he saw this haughty lady changed
into a blushing girl with a half shy, and altogether winning manner,
and heard her say, "Will you not please accept part of my lunch, for I
have a great abundance?" then the fluent speech for which he was noted,
forsook him, and he stammered out some incoherent words, and then—they
looked squarely into each other's eyes, and, by a common impulse, broke
into a merry laugh.
The ludicrous side of it all was too irresistible.
After that they felt acquainted and it was easy to accept the
appetizing favor with a gay grace, and insist that she had been
entirely too generous, although in truth, he felt equal to any number
of biscuits.
"That is because you do not know what a capacious lunch basket I
possess, nor how well it is stored, thanks to Aunt Ruth," Marian said,
while she hastened to get ready a donation for the old lady, who had
wakened, and was wondering at the cheerful sounds about her. It "quite
chirked her up," she said, "to hear something going on once more."
The two young people talked together some minutes before they
recollected that the rules of etiquette required that strangers should
have introductions. Then the gentleman produced a card,—
"STUART LYNDE,
Attorney and Counsellor at Law."
And Marian said simply, "I am Marian Chester of Massachusetts."
It would seem as if their tongues rejoiced at privilege of speech
again, for the talk flowed on most delightfully. Themes were
endless—the accident, the surrounding country, and people, and the
advantages and disadvantages of both East and West. They compared notes
finally on favorite authors, and travelled over countries both had
visited, until they almost forgot that they were wrecked on a dreary
prairie, miles from anywhere.
Mr. Lynde was somewhat puzzled to find a young lady who had read
biographies, history, Shakespeare, and the other standard poets,
and yet seemed to be ignorant of the works of well-known writers of
fiction, and was obliged to confess that she had not read "Jane Eyre,"
old as it was, nor "Romola," nor even the lighter novels that most
schoolgirls have devoured by the time they are fifteen.
"No," she said, "I know almost nothing of them; my father has his
own ideas in regard to these things," and she said it reverently and
sweetly, as if "anything that my father wishes is good and right;" not;
"My father is an old fogy, and I, a martyr, am obliged to suffer the
consequences—"
"His theory is that a taste for solid reading should first be formed,
and that whatever of fiction is indulged in, should be by the best
writers and quite simple. With the exception of a few books, rather
juvenile in character, I am to read my first novel this winter with
father. I read aloud to him a great deal, and he is my dictionary and
encyclopædia. We have most delightful times, and we read all sorts of
books. Perhaps, if one were to come down to my level in the line of
light reading, I might intelligently discuss the merits of some works,"
she said archly; "I know almost by heart 'Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales'
and the 'Tanglewood Tales;' as well as 'Alice in Wonderland,' and
'Water Babies,' and several other lovely stories."
Happy daughter! To read her first novel—some pure, noble work of his
choosing—with her father, instead of stealthily devouring a vile,
yellow-covered thing at midnight, when she should have been sleeping,
or secreting it under her desk at school, and snatching a guilty morsel
when she should have been studying.
The father's theory had been well carried out, and he must have been
delighted with results, for the girl could enjoy a scientific research,
or a simple story, one of which would have been voted dull, and the
other childish, by those reared on more highly seasoned mental food.
Then there was in her a cheery freshness, and a hearty enjoyment of
simple pleasures, in sharp contrast with many specimens of restless,
languid young ladyhood, interested in nothing on earth or under
it—nothing except themselves.
Mr. Lynde was charmed. Here was an anomaly, a rare study: a girl not
made up of artificialities, nor morbid sentimentalism.
The time passed pleasantly away, despite the gloomy surroundings,
until Marian was called to account by Dame Propriety, who administered
so sharp a reprimand that the color came to her cheeks, and she grew
suddenly demure and silent. She conversing with a stranger! What would
her father think? And what did the stranger himself think? Who would
have believed that she could have been guilty of making advances,
of drawing the attention of anybody, much less one of whom she knew
utterly nothing? She had heard of others doing such things, and she
had judged them severely. It was too humiliating! Her transparent face
reflected her inner self like a mirror, so, when she became suddenly
silent and wore a troubled look, Mr. Lynde divined the cause and
reverenced her for it. He had a strong impression that he ought to go
back to his own seat, and leave this sensitive plant to itself, but
it was dreary work to sit alone and think over one's misfortunes, and
her society was so charming; so he lingered, taking the burden of talk
upon himself, and managing so adroitly as to necessitate few replies;
and Marian listened, taking very little part in the conversation, as
she supposed. She forgot, though, that eyes and mouth can talk when
tongues are still, and it would have been an obtuse person, indeed, who
would not have felt flattered with the responses he received from the
eloquent face of his listener, as the eyes lighted with a smile or grew
dark with shadows of thought. When he went away at last he asked her to
take pity on him, and lend him a book, as he had exhausted his library.
"And this is the extent of mine," Marian said, producing her little
books, "my Christmas present from a dear old auntie," and she gave them
into his hands, and received his volume of essays.
It had been such a pleasant diversion from the wearisome monotony,
this new acquaintance, with his varied knowledge, his fascinating
conversation and graceful courtesy, and yet Marian felt ill at ease and
disturbed by what she had done. He would never have noticed her, she
told herself, if she had not invited his attentions. But how could she
do otherwise? It was a mere act of humanity. She did not compel him to
talk with her all the afternoon, though it was too true that she felt
acquainted with him at once and talked on as if he had been an old
friend, and that encouraged him. Perhaps he was the greatest villain
in the world; but even as the thought flashed through her mind, it was
indignantly repelled. He was good and noble; she was sure of it, and
she set herself to work to see what proof she possessed on that point.
His conversation was refined; he liked good books; he was kind to an
old lady, and he had remarked that his chief regret at the detention
was that his mother would be wretchedly anxious at his nonappearance in
his home. A bad man would not care for his mother, nor concern himself
as to the comfort of old ladies.
During the afternoon the condition of things changed for the better.
Food was obtained for the nearly famished passengers, and at last the
train was in motion again, moving heavily and slowly, and with many
a jerk and jar, as if in remonstrance at being obliged to move at
all. With much effort and many detentions they arrived late at night
at their long-wished-for destination. Among those that were obliged
to change roads at this point, necessitating a walk of a few blocks
across the city, were Marian and Mr. Lynde. He took possession of her
shawl and basket as if he were, without question, her protector. It was
pleasant to be taken care of, too, amidst the clanging of many trains
among bewildering tracks. She had expected to make this transfer by
daylight. It would have been decidedly dreary in the darkness, at this
late hour, without an escort, although there was quite a procession of
other travellers bound for the same train.
All hint of storms had passed away. The far off sky was full of stars,
and the air was keenly cold. Just twelve o'clock. The Christmas morning
already begun. This thought came to at least two of the travellers as
they stepped out into the calm night, and there stole into the mind of
each a strain of that wondrous Christmas poem, beginning—"Within that
province far away."
"'In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago,'"
quoted Mr. Lynde.
Marian was surprised into saying: "How very singular! The same words
were running through my own brain at that moment, and I was about to
ask if you recollected what night this is, and if you were familiar
with that poem."
"Ah, you are fond of it, too! Is it not fine, especially these lines:
"'The earth was still—but knew not why,
The world was listening—unawares.
How calm a moment may precede
One that shall thrill the world forever!
To that still moment none would heed,
Man's doom was linked, no more to sever,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago."
To Marian there came also at this moment a sharp consciousness of
something else. She was walking at midnight in a strange city with
a stranger. That, she could not help, but to discover that she was
positively enjoying it, had the effect to make her "good-night" seem
cold as the winter air as they stepped on the sleeping car and she
vanished into the section assigned her.
It had been arranged by Marian and her friends that she should travel
alone only to a certain city. There, an uncle would join her, and
accompany her home. The distance was not great, and it was not to be
supposed that any difficulties would attend so short a journey. In the
uncertain state of things caused by the storm it was quite improbable
that he could make connections so as to keep his appointment. Marian
had decided in case he did not appear, to proceed alone, feeling by
this time quite like a veteran traveller.
In the gray dawn of the Christmas morning they reached the city. They
had just entered the depot, and Mr. Lynde was inquiring of Marian how
he could serve her as to checks and tickets, when a stout, gray-haired
gentleman bustled up with, "Ah, Marian, here you are!" bent and kissed
her cheek, saying in the same breath, "So glad you came this morning,
my dear. We are not going on to-day, however. My old friend, Col.
Winslow, wishes me to spend Christmas with him, and I have accepted the
invitation for you, too." Marian's face put in a protest.
"Oh! you will enjoy it, my dear; the house is filled with young people;
you will have a gay time. Come, let us hasten, the carriage is waiting."
As soon as she had opportunity to speak, Marian presented Mr. Lynde,
as one who had been kind to her. Accordingly the uncle bestowed on him
a hurried bow, and a penetrating glance, from keen, gray eyes under
shaggy brows. Then he tucked Marian's hand under his arm and was moving
off.
One moment she lingered. There was a brief hand clasp, some murmured
thanks, and she was gone.
To say that Mr. Lynde was astonished, would but feebly express it.
Who was this man, and where had he taken her? She evidently went most
reluctantly. He felt as if he ought to pursue them and recover her. He
remembered now that she had said something about an uncle who, perhaps,
would join her on the way. He discovered that he had been looking
forward to a day's travel in her company with keenest pleasure. Now it
had all changed; travelling was the depth of drudgery.
In his half-dazed, disappointed state, he nearly forgot the
imperative need of haste on account of business, etc., and barely
escaped being left as he sprang on the train at the last moment. He
realized presently that a certain volume of essays was no longer in
his possession. He did not regret it, though, much as he valued it,
inasmuch as he had in its stead two tiny books he should greatly prize.
He brought them out now, and looked at them, brought, too, from his
side pocket, a sprig of evergreen that he had surreptitiously broken
from the bunch fastened to the basket he had carried, partly because he
enjoyed the fragrance, and partly—he knew not why. He laid it with the
books. And that was every trace there was left of the bright presence
that, he was obliged to confess to himself, he missed intolerably. Soon
he tossed them all into his satchel almost fiercely, and called himself
a fool for allowing any influence to take possession of him in that
manner. He brought out his law papers again, and sternly set himself a
task. But a face, that two days before he had not known, came between
him and the cumbersome phrases, so that, instead of defining and
arranging the strong points of the case, he went to puzzling his brain
to determine whether or no there was just the least shadow of regret
in her eyes as she took leave of him. Then he went over all their
conversation, treasured up words and tones of hers, and pictured again
her attitude and look of sweet gravity, like some veritable angel when
she came to minister to his necessities. "Not one in a hundred would
have done that so simply and gracefully, if they would have done it at
all, indeed," he told himself.
The thing that tried him most was his own stupidity that he had not
obtained her address; "Massachusetts," that was all he knew.
He took out the books again. Possibly there was a clue. Her name was
there: "Marian Chester." What a fair name it was; how it just suited
her. That was all, though. No tell-tale sign of where she lived, or
where Aunt Ruth lived. He read the line below: "The Lord bless thee and
keep thee." It was long since Stuart Lynde had prayed, but he found his
heart re-echoing that prayer.
As for Marian, she found the last half of her journey dull in
comparison with the first, and she was dimly conscious why. The thought
sent bright flushes into her cheeks, but she did not sit down and
analyze and define it, or recall looks and tones and words. She shut
the door on that corner of her heart and locked it. She told herself
that it was a matter of perfect indifference to her who or what he was,
and yet when her uncle asked, "Who was the young man you introduced to
me, my dear?" and she produced his card, she was more than pleased to
hear Col. Winslow declare that he knew him well by reputation; that he
was one of the most brilliant young lawyers in the State, and, morally,
was without blemish.
In the busy months that followed, it was becoming a habit with Mr.
Lynde to refresh himself with a look into one or other of the little
books he kept among his treasures. Even when most pressed by business
matters, he was sure to snatch a brief moment through the day or night
to glance at a verse. He did this at first because they belonged to
"the maiden," he called her in his thought; that old-fashioned sweet
word just fitted her, and seemed to single her out as above and beyond
all others. Then the words of Thomas à Kempis charmed him; he studied
that book for the quaint simplicity of its style, and wondered that he
had not before discovered such a gem. And, while he thought it childish
in him, he noted with not a little curiosity the text for each day in
the "Daily Food." When he went a journey, it amused even himself that
he always slipped the little books into some pocket, and they went
along.
One night at the close of a triumphant day, when he had come off victor
in a difficult case, and had been congratulated and complimented until
he was surfeited, he opened the small book to search out the text for
that day. To one conscious of having gloried not a little in the very
gratifying success of that day, it was almost startling to read—
"Let not the wise man glory in his wisdom, neither let the mighty man
glory in his might; let not the rich man glory in his riches. Let
him that glorieth, glory in this, that he understandeth and knoweth
me, that I am the Lord which exercise loving kindness, judgment and
righteousness in the earth; for in these things I delight, saith the
Lord."
Not since he was a boy at his mother's knee, had a word of Scripture
come into his heart with power such as this.
He knew he had gloried in his wisdom and power; had been proud of his
triumph, and proud of his spotless life and high morality, but now how
it all flashed upon him in an instant, that he was weak and foolish
and sinful before God. He could speak in many tongues, and understand
mysteries of science, but he did not know and understand the Lord. The
one thing in which it would be right to glory, he did not possess. When
a boy, he had the habit of prayer, but, as he grew toward manhood,
lost his faith by reading skeptical writers, so for many years he had
not spoken to God until he came into possession of these two precious
books, then, curiously enough, he had begun to pray one petition: "The
Lord bless her and keep her." But now, when the sense of the utter
worthlessness of all he attained, and God left out, was flashed upon
him, he cried, "Teach me to know and understand thee," and the first
answer to that prayer was to show him that he was blind and poor and in
need of all things. His eye fell upon words just then which told that
another soul, generations ago, had gone by the same road to find his
God, for Thomas à Kempis said:
"But if I abase and know myself to be nothing, if I renounce all
self-esteem and (as I am) account myself to be but dust; thy grace will
be favorable unto me, and thy light will be near unto my heart.
"And all self-esteem, how little soever, shall be swallowed up in the
deep valley of my nothingness, and perish everlastingly.
"There thou showest thyself unto me, what I am, what I have been, and
whither I am come; for I am nothing and I knew it not.
"And if I be left to myself, behold, I become nothing and all weakness.
"But if thou lookest upon me, I am made strong."
The light had entered the darkened soul. The Spirit used a few texts
of Scripture and the devout words of an old monk to teach him "that
all our righteousness is as filthy rags," and that "the blood of Jesus
Christ cleanseth us from all sin." The old miracle was repeated in
him. In silence and quiet the change went on. A proud, ambitious,
self-seeking man, learning to pray with that other saint:
"Grant me, O, most gracious and loving Jesus, to rest in thee above
all creatures:
"Above all health and beauty, above all glory and honor, above all
power and dignity, above all knowledge and subtlety, above all riches
and arts, above all joy and gladness, above all hope and promise, above
all desert and desire; above all gifts and presents that thou canst
give and impart unto us: above all joy and triumph that the mind of man
can receive and feel."
A year went away, and the stars of Christmas night glowed in the sky as
brightly as long ago, "when shepherds watched their flocks by night,"
and "the angel of the Lord came down." Mr. Lynde, as he walked and
thought—thought of that night, "within that province far away," to
which his destiny was now "linked" in a peculiar and tender relation.
He would not have been human not to have recalled that other night,
too, a year ago. So he walked the silent, moonlight streets, and
repeated softly—
"'In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago,'"
He might walk and walk miles, though, it would not bring that other one
who walked by his side then. He might not have sighed so heavily at
that thought if his vision could have compassed distance and known who
watched the stars with him.
That these two paths should ever cross again, would seem as impossible
as that two small ships adrift on the wide ocean should "speak" each
other.
The ingenuity and perseverance with which he had prosecuted the
search all these months was something remarkable. As Boston is the
metropolis of Massachusetts, he made business trips to Boston, and the
"business" was to walk the streets, haunt picture galleries, attend
lectures and concerts, always searching for one face. He read Boston
papers, especially the list of marriages and deaths. He took the
westward journey many times, hoping she might have repeated the visit
to Aunt Ruth. Once he ventured to send her a letter through the Boston
post-office, and it came back to himself.
"She knows where I am," he would tell his unreasoning self. "How easily
she could send me some little sign, but, such as she never would, even
though she cared."
All this time Marian was hidden away in a suburban town ten miles from
Boston, in her father's country home, though spending much time in the
city. Why did not one or the other of their good angels cause them to
turn their eyes in the right direction that day they almost brushed
against each other in the crowd?
Through the year she had stoically crushed out pleasant remembrances
of the brief acquaintance, never allowing the thought that possibly
they might meet again, and yet she always searched an audience with a
keener interest than had been her wont. It might just be possible, but
how preposterous, after all! He lived far away in a Western city. Why
should he come to Boston?
'Tis true, too, that on Christmas night she indulged herself in a bit
of dreaming, lingering purposely at her chamber window, looking out
on the white world until the clock in the steeple should chime out
twelve, feeling, unconsciously, that she was keeping an indefinable
tryst with some mythical being by so doing. She, too, went in memory
over the walk and the poem, recalled the excellent rendering of the few
lines recited, and then being dimly conscious that it would be the most
delightful thing in life to go on and on in an interminable walk, with
that one voice sounding always in her ears, she brought her reverie to
an abrupt ending, drew her curtains and shut out the witching moonbeams
with tantalizing memories,—like a sensible maiden that she was.
Mr. Lynde's book had been diligently studied by her, partly because
it was his, and for the reason that it was in rather a different line
from anything she had read. She did not at once comprehend its subtle
logic, and her ambition required that she should. Her well-trained mind
was not long in discovering that this book was not all gems and pearls,
as she had supposed when the fascinating rhetoric attracted her. There
were half-truths, skeptical suggestions, and flings at doctrines dear
to Christian hearts. It filled her with sorrow and surprise that such
high, beautiful thoughts should be so marred.
Did Mr. Lynde believe these things? From a remark he dropped, she
half-feared he did. From that time his name came into her daily prayer
as she asked that her little books might not be lost, but be seed that
should spring up and bear fruit.
It was not in a crowded assembly, nor on the city streets, nor on a
railroad train, that Mr. Lynde finally found his treasure. He was
returning from a trip in the Northwest, and near the end of a day's
travel was obliged to wait at a small town a few hours, in order to
take an express train. Finding the time hang heavily, he walked out and
turned his steps into a little foot path that led out into the country.
It was a perfect day. The clear sky, the tinted woods, the stream, the
"rare blue hills," made lovely pictures on all sides.
He had not the most remote idea that this noisy brook bounded Aunt
Ruth's farm, and that the next bend in the road would reveal a charming
picture that would make his pulses stand still with joy.
A narrow footbridge spanned the stream, and leaning over the railing,
intently watching the hurrying waters, her white dress fluttering in
the breeze, stood Marian. He knew her in an instant, and came forward,
his heart in his face. Marian looked up quickly, in a startled way, at
the sound of a footstep, and the joyful radiance that lighted her eyes
when he said, "At last I have found you," revealed the whole story.
There was scarcely need of question and answer.
And then? They sauntered along the bank of the winding stream, and
began a walk that did not end till life ended.
The express train went its way without the traveller, and they two came
up through the lengthening shadows to the old farmhouse, where Aunt
Ruth sat on the porch. They told the whole long story to her, and she
listened, with now a smile and then a tear, and when it was finished
she laid a hand on the head of each, and said sweetly and solemnly,
"Children, the Lord bless thee and keep thee!"
JUANA'S MASTER.
———
A PICTURESQUE object it was, this old Spanish-looking house, in the
City of Mexico, with turrets and towers and balconies, set amid tall
trees and clambering vines. The hot breath of the summer afternoon had
sent most of the inhabitants to search out cool, dark retreats, and
lose the sense of languor in sleep. Even the leaves and the flowers
were drowsy, and universal silence settled upon all things, broken only
by the plashing of fountains and the sleepy little songs of birds.
In an upper balcony of the old house a young wife sat, her head
resting on one hand, her eyes fastened on the distant mountains
just discernible through a soft haze. She was not building pretty
air-castles, nor absorbed in the dreamy, wondrous beauty of the scene
before her; nor when she bowed her head on the railing, did her eyes
close in happy forgetfulness.
"Sleep seldom visits sorrow," and this sad heart was breathing out sobs
and moans.
Juana Valerie, descended from both Mexican and Spanish ancestors, was,
with the exception of an old aunt, the last of the family, which, in
its day, had been one of much note. Left an orphan at an early age,
her only remaining relative—feeble in both mind and body—found it no
easy task to bring the fiery, frisky little mortal under any great
degree of control. As she grew older her positive nature and keen
mind outgeneraled both teachers and aunt. When she chose to spend the
livelong day frolicking in the grounds, or clambering trees, instead of
poring over dull books, she did so, always being able by means of ready
wit and winning ways to escape punishment. However, as the years went
on, she contrived to secure a fair share of education, absorbing it, it
must be; surely it was not accomplished by hard study.
Juana's parents had been staunch Roman Catholics, and while they lived
she was trained in the strict observance of the rules of that church.
Whether it was that the little maiden was a born rebel, or that from
some honest-hearted ancestor she had inherited a hatred of shams, it
turned out that at a very early age she began to throw off the shackles
the Church of Rome binds about its victims. The Confessional had always
been to her childish mind a dread and horror, and as she grew to
girlhood she stoutly refused to go to it. The aunt and the old priest
scolded and threatened, which had the effect only to drive her from the
church entirely. Then they persecuted and warned, holding up to her
view the awful fate of an apostate soul. They tried to hedge her in on
this side and that, but she shook her willful little head, and leaping
over all inclosures, ran free as the wind. No threats or persuasions
availing to bring her under control, she was deemed incorrigible, and
the anathema of the Church pronounced against her. This did not bring
the least shadow upon her spirit, however; a strange intuition seemed
to make this young girl aware that truth in its purity was not there,
and that a mere man had no power to pronounce either blessing or curse
upon her.
She was not unloving to her old aunt, nor did she intend to be
undutiful, but she did purpose always and everywhere to have her own
way; so the feeble old lady settled down to the inevitable, and Juana
came and went free as a bird. Hitherto, her flowers and her pets had
absorbed her, but now she was awakening to the fact that a whole bright
world of pleasure lay all about, beckoning her to its revelries. So she
drifted in with the giddy throng, and was flattered and followed and
smiled upon to her heart's content.
In one of the gay assemblies she met Paul Everett, a young American.
At first glance each became immediately fascinated by the other, and
subsequent interviews served to deepen the enchantment. As Juana
could speak not a word of English, and the young stranger but very
little Spanish, it would seem that the attachment could not make
rapid progress; but love has a mystic language of its own, and is
independent of clumsy words. The reasons for this irresistible and
mutual attraction were quite as good as many lovers can plead. He was
carried captive by flashing dark eyes, raven hair, and the graceful
form gleaming in crimson and gold, flitting through the dance like some
gay tropical bird. She, in turn, fondly believed that the tall blonde
young man, with locks and mustache of golden hue, with eyes of heavenly
blue, and, above all, in faultless attire, was nothing short of a
demi-god. On such slender basis they built fair hopes, and were ready
to promise everything, and more, that lay in mortal's power to bestow.
The business that drew Paul Everett to Mexico was the same in which
he had been engaged the last five years. His indulgent friends termed
it "sowing wild oats," though he himself professed to be gathering
material for some literary work. In this line he had much taste, and
fair talents, and might have succeeded if only it had been possible for
him to engage in any pursuit with earnestness and enthusiasm; or if he
had known any other rule of life than self-indulgence.
The wooing was short; they were soon married, and Paul for a time
exceedingly enjoyed the little idyll he was living. The situation
was most novel and delightful. The flowery land, its blue skies and
balmy air suited his poetical temperament. The old castle and grounds
were picturesque and spacious, and he was master of them, or would
be on the death of the old aunt; besides, did he not possess the
entire adoration of the most charming and unique little creature that
ever breathed? Paul had a mania for the unique, and one of Juana's
greatest attractions to him was that she was unlike all the rest of
womankind; of whom, as he assured himself, he was heartily weary, but
this sparkling, piquant winning sprite—ah! She was as far beyond and
above all other women as wine was above water— and that distance was
immeasurable to Paul's taste.
He enjoyed teaching Juana to speak English. Her musical voice
stammering out pretty broken words in his own language, was a pleasant
thing to hear. She was not content with simply speaking it. Should
she be the wife of an American and not be able to read his language?
So under his tuition, she set about the study of it with much more
industry than suited her husband's indolent temperament. These were
halcyon days; seldom were a young couple more united. Their views of
life and their aims were the same. The world was a gay garden, and
they two were butterflies, disporting themselves in the warm sunshine
and draining every drop of sweetness from every flower in their path.
Innocent enough flowers they were at first; the delight in each other's
society in rambling, riding, boating, and resting under the shadows of
broad spreading trees, or, from a lofty balcony enjoying the panorama
the summer evening spread before them; the fair city at their feet, its
spires and minarets gleaming in the moonlight, and distant mountains
piled in soft masses against the crystal sky.
When Juana added to the witchery of the scene by singing sweet Spanish
airs to the music of the guitar, the young husband half believed he had
attained heaven and the society of the angels.
When these simple delights ceased to charm, there was the outside world
which they had come near to forgetting while in this ecstatic trance.
So they plunged into every amusement the gay wicked city offered, and
"gave their hearts to folly." They lived in a whirl of pleasure, and
Juana felt that now there was nothing more to ask for in life. To be
the chosen bride of such a man, and to take her fill of amusement,
to dress and dance and sing the days and nights away—was ever cup of
happiness so strangely full as hers?
If some stray breeze had whispered in her ear that she had tied her
happiness to a slender thread, that the day would come when all these
things would be to her as chaff, and that if her husband should weary
of her, he would fling her aside as he did the rose he plucked in the
morning, after breathing its sweetness a moment—then Juana would never
have believed such a false whisperer.
Paul Everett tired of everything sooner or later. His restless, fickle
nature demanded constant change and new sensations. So, after the first
novelty of his new mode of life had worn off, he began to return to
his old habits of roving, making only short absences at first, but
gradually to extend them till weeks grew into months.
Juana though grieved at his long delays, had opportunity for rest from
the whirl of gayeties, and for the first time in her life thought and
conscience seemed to be awakening. Young as she was, she could enter
somewhat into the experience of another one who "laid hold on folly,"
and found it "vanity and vexation of spirit." Of late an unaccountable
feeling of depression and self-condemnation would sometimes steal
over her. A voice seemed often to ask her, "If this was all of life,
to frolic away a few brief days and die, and then—what? Could it be
that death was the end?" One evening during her husband's absence,
she walked in the grounds with her maid, and paused by the old stone
gateway to watch a little group of Protestants on their way to a prayer
meeting in the small chapel just beyond. She felt sad and lonely, and
wished that some of those peaceful-faced women could speak to her, so
that she might find out what it was that made them seem so different
from all others.
"Those people are happy, Ria," she said to the maid; "they look as if
they had found something that rests them. I wish I knew what it was."
And Ria, casting a puzzled glance at her young mistress, wondered what
she had to weary her. Juana dismissed her maid after a little and
betook herself to an upper veranda, where the music of sweet hymns from
the little chapel stole softly up on the evening breeze. The tender
airs melted her to tears, and an unutterable yearning for something
better and higher than she had ever known filled her heart. It was the
first dawning cry of an immortal soul, unsatisfied with earthly good,
seeking for its God.
These feelings did not pass away with the next morning's sunlight. She
felt wretched and dissatisfied, and gloom settled down upon her. This
could not be accounted for by the long absence of her husband; for
when he returned for a brief stay the solemn thoughts still oppressed
her, though she tried to shake them off and appear as usual. Genuine
affection would have detected and searched out with tender sympathy the
trouble that just hinted itself in the sobered look of the dark eyes.
But Paul liked sunshine and laughter; and, true to his selfish nature,
was only annoyed that his wife seemed to be taking on something of the
dignity of womanhood, and was less like a butterfly or a frisky kitten.
There was a fascination to Juana in watching the small company of
worshipers go to and from the chapel. One evening, as the melody of
their hymns floated up to her, she became possessed of a desire to come
nearer to the heavenly sounds. So, enveloping her head and shoulders
in a large veil, she glided softly forth into the moonlight alone;
her husband was down in the city and would not return until late. She
was glad to go alone, though for some reason that she did not herself
understand. She stole silently along, and stood under the shadow of
the trees where she could observe without being seen. Now their heads
were bowed in prayer. In the earnest petitions from one and another she
often caught the name "God." She had never heard it in English. If they
had spoken the word in her own language, though, no distinct idea would
have been conveyed to her; only a dim, shadowy something that she had
heard of long ago.
Soon they broke out into song again:
"Come, happy souls, approach your God
With new melodious songs."
Although Juana could converse in simple broken words in English, she
could comprehend scarcely nothing of what she now heard; and yet the
music thrilled and animated her. How joyful these faces and voices
were, and yet subdued and tender, and they sang about "God"—that same
name! Still she lingered as if fascinated until the closing hymn, that
lullaby for trusting souls in all ages:
"Glory to thee, my God, this night,
For all the blessings of the light:
Keep me, O keep me, King of kings,
Beneath thine own almighty wings."
And still they sang that same name—"God." If only the poor heart
standing there in the shadows could know about the "Almighty wings!"
Juana did not forget the sound of the new name she had heard—that Being
to whom those people prayed and sang praises, and read about in their
Bible. If she could but read English and have one of their Bibles, then
she should know all about Him! Oh! If somebody would tell her about Him.
"If those English people know about God, why should not Paul?" she
mused, as they sat together one afternoon.
Paul was reclining in a hammock, the smoke of a cigar curling far above
his head, absorbed in a French novel.
When Juana broke the silence by asking him if he owned a Bible, he
answered with a frown, "Of course not."
"Paul, could you tell me about God?" Juana ventured again.
"Very easily," said Paul, puffing out a whiff of smoke. "There is no
God. So you see you needn't bother your pretty head any more about that
question."
He did not see the startled, disappointed look in Juana's face as he
settled himself again to his book with an air that said he was not to
be further disturbed. Paul's word, ordinarily, was law to Juana, but
in this case she was not satisfied. She could not believe there was no
God. She knew there must be one, and that not by reasoning it out. A
greater than human reason had taught her. If now she could but find out
about Him! She had not looked into a Spanish Bible since she was a very
little child, but she could not go to that for help. She distrusted
everything that the Church of Rome had to do with. "But if a Spanish
Bible tells Catholics about their religion, why should not an English
Bible teach the Protestant religion?" she reasoned. She resolved to
have one, if possible, and when Juana resolved, her strong will left no
stone unturned toward accomplishment.
A day or two after, as her husband was making preparations for another
journey, Juana preferred her request:
"There is one thing I do much want. Will you not please get it for
me, dear Paul, before you go? I do so want it! And that is an English
Bible."
"Pray, what in the world would you do with that?" Paul asked, in much
astonishment. "You cannot read English."
"Ah! Shall I not read it soon if I study much? I can try to read the
stories in it, and it will help make the time to fly, so you will soon
come back to me," she added coaxingly.
Paul was willing enough that other people should have what they
wanted if it did not interfere with his pleasure. So as he went about
attending to various purchases for himself, he remembered Juana's
request, and was at not a little pains to obtain for her a copy of the
Bible. "Every one to his taste," he remarked to himself as he looked it
over. "I think I could find fables that would prove more entertaining
to me than this one."
During her husband's stay at home Juana had much of the time been
carrying on an inward struggle. She had endeavored to quiet her unrest
by plunging into reckless dissipation, but the still small voice
followed her even to the midnight revel. And often, when she had filled
all her waking hours with busy trifles—purposely to crowd out these
intrusive thoughts—she would wake as by a flash, her spirit filled
with a strange dread, and then, in the still solemn hour the eternal
would speak to the mortal, who, shrinking away in conscious guilt, felt
that there were just two things in the universe; herself, and an awful
presence who searched her through.
When left again to her lonely life, Juana gave herself with unceasing
application to the study of English, so that she might read her new
Bible. She could already spell out texts made up of simple words, and
form a tolerably clear conception of their meaning. If she was going
to read a book, she must of course begin at the beginning and read it
through; so she plunged boldly into the great volume. As well might one
essay to cross the ocean in a tiny sail-boat, as for this dark-minded
girl to get any available knowledge from such a deep; the unbeliever
would say, and truly, the undertaking would have been hopeless had it
not been a wonderful Book, with a wonderful Teacher.
She labored through the first chapter of Genesis with that great name
in almost every verse. Never was tale more fascinating than this one.
It was read in a poor blundering way; but the truth had been gleaned
that God made the world and all it contains. No doubt as to the truth
of it entered her mind for a moment. Day after day she spelled her
way through succeeding chapters. It was all new and wonderful, but
disappointing. It was not what she craved: something that would remove
the strange heaviness that weighed upon her. On the contrary she
gathered that all the world had gone astray from God and were under
his wrath and curse, and that agreed with what she had conceived. God
to be; a stern, awful being, holding a sword over the heads of his
creatures. The more she read the greater grew the mystery. "I cannot
make it out," she said, almost despairingly, "it is all confusion;"
then, with the superstition of her race, resolved, "I will put the book
of God under my pillow; I will see if some good may not come to me
from it while I sleep." Perchance there might be sweeter sleep if the
"book of God" oftener pillowed troubled heads. Finally she abandoned
the project of reading the Bible through, and puzzled out bits here and
there, hoping to chance upon something that she could understand.
"All have sinned and come short of the glory of God," she read, then
sadly murmured, "Yes, I know that; the very first of the book tells it,
and that is what I am, a sinner. I have a bad heart, oh! so bad. But
how shall I make it good I know not." And just here Juana discovered
the old remedy that many burdened souls resort to. She would propitiate
Heaven with good works. So she gave money freely and liberally whenever
a hand was stretched out, and tried to be amiable and lovely, and made
a solemn vow to perfectly keep all the commandments. The result was
the usual one that comes to a sinner trying to justify himself by the
law. Every dormant evil in the poor girl's heart awoke and clamored.
Satan worried and buffeted at every turn, and, growing irritable and
impatient she declared, "What should I want of a book that makes me so
unhappy? It must be bad, for since I know it I am not so good as once I
was."
After that the book was not opened for days, but rested in the bottom
of Juana's trunk, "under much clothes, so that I could not see it,"
she said, and she herself wandered up and down like a lost spirit, out
of heart with everything within and about her. Then, to fill up the
wretched, lonely days with something, she again brought out her Bible
and plunged into the laborious task more earnestly than before.
Gracious and kind as He ever is, the Lord was teaching this one poor
little scholar as if she were the only soul in the universe. After
Juana had thoroughly learned that she was a sinner, this blessed truth
flashed up at her one day as she was toiling through a verse: "Christ
Jesus came into the world to save sinners." She went through it again,
eagerly, with dilating eyes and suspended breath. "Ah! What is this!"
she exclaimed. "This is news indeed! Christ Jesus: Who can he be? He
saves sinners! And that is me."
At last she found the key. And now how intently she searched out that
name, drinking in the truth, as one dying of thirst would seize a cup
of cold water. Little by little she got it all—the old, old story; the
birth in Bethlehem, the lowly, lovely life in Nazareth, the cross, the
death, the tomb, the resurrection, the ascension, and, at last, the
gracious invitation—
"Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you
rest."
"Oh! I want rest," she cried; and falling upon her knees breathed her
first prayer, "I come, I come. O, save me, Christ Jesus!" Without
even realizing that this was prayer, she poured out all her heart
before Him. "I know not how long I did talk to Him," she told some one
afterward; "a long time it was, but I had so much to tell Him I could
not stop. And when I get up from my knees, my trouble be all gone! I
feel so light it seems to me I could fly. When I look out the window
I say, 'O, what a world! So beautiful! The sky so blue, the trees
so grand and the flowers so bright! I wonder I never see the glory
before.' Then something say, 'It is wrong for you to be so happy When
you are such a sinner,' so I try to get back the big heavy load, but I
cannot; I can only sing for joy."
Secure in her newly found peace, Juana watched unceasingly for her
husband's return, eager to tell him the good news.
"Paul is very wise," she told herself, "he will not have so hard a time
to understand as I. He will soon see when he comes to read the dear
book that God lives; then he will love him, and he will get rest to his
soul and stay much at home, and then so happy will we be."
In a few days Paul came, bringing as he always did loving greeting.
He was not insensible to the fact that it was a pleasant thing to
have such comfortable headquarters, and a pretty creature ready to
minister to him, glad to obey his slightest nod, for Juana, spirited
maiden though she was, had found in Paul her master, bending her head
meekly to the reins that were not always silken, or guided by a gentle
hand; consequently her married life had flowed on without a ripple
of discord, and thus far conscience had put in no parleying voice.
Why would she not gladly please and obey him? Was not her Paul the
embodiment of manly beauty, grace and goodness?
"My love doth so approve him, that even his stubbornness, his checks
and frowns have grace and favor in them," was the honest feeling of
this deluded soul.
It was pitiful to see her childlike trust thrown back upon itself when
she first told Paul the glad secret that she had been keeping for
him, pouring out with sweet enthusiasm the story of her struggles and
triumphs. Paul sat like a stone giving no word or sign of sympathy, but
as she went on pledging undying faith and love to her new master, he
grew darkly angry, and then, when eager to justify herself and convince
him, she placed in his hands her Bible, saying, "Do, dear Paul, read
about the wonderful Christ Jesus for yourself; you will see it is all
true," he dashed the book from him and strode out of the room.
Juana picked it up with a low cry of pain and a tender clasping of it
to her heart, as if it had been human and was hurt, too.
The young husband would have been jealous indeed, could he have seen
her hasten to her chamber, and tell all her sorrows in another ear than
his own.
He waited sullenly for Juana to come to him with penitential tears, and
promises that she would certainly abjure any faith that did not meet
his perfect approval. He waited in vain, though, and was not a little
puzzled by the gentle sad dignity of her manner. He finally resolved
to treat the whole affair as a bit of childish nonsense, and little by
little in the gayeties that should surround her, she would forget her
new whims.
To please her husband Juana accompanied him once to the theatre,
and spent one night whirling in the dance. Then this pagan girl's
conscience asserted itself clearly and unmistakably. She was not thrown
into a bewildering state of perplexity such as troubles young converts
in our Christian land. She needed not to consult the authorities of
any church, or inquire of wise theologians "what she must give up" if
she became a disciple. Her heart in absolute self-abandon had turned
to Christ, as naturally and gladly as the flower to the sun, and the
way was not clearer for the dews and life-giving rays to reach the tiny
blossom, than for his slightest wish or suggestion to reach and control
his child. She knew, without settling it by a process of argument, that
Christ and worldly pleasures are antagonistic, and that whoever merges
heart and soul in the one must give up the other. To her surprise and
delight she found, too, that the keen relish for scenes of revelry had
left her. How could it be otherwise? Christ had come into her heart. By
a law of natural philosophy, two bodies cannot occupy the same space at
the same time; so, by a law of divine philosophy, Christ and the world
cannot occupy a soul at the same time; and every spiritually-minded
Christian is acquainted with that law, either by sad or sweet
experience.
Paul Everett loved his young wife as well as he was capable of
loving anything besides himself. Like many weak, tyrannical natures,
he rejoiced in a sense of ownership concerning her, and in the
hitherto complete submission of her will to his. What, then, was his
astonishment and anger when she told him, as gently as she could,
that her conscience would not allow her any more to attend balls and
theaters, or engage in several other forms of amusement which used to
delight her?
What wonderful transformation was this? A wild, frolicsome girl, a
doll, a plaything, suddenly discovering that she had a conscience, and
asserting her right to rule her own soul, even daring to have a thought
contrary from his!
"What do you mean by such foolishness, Juana?" he demanded.
What a heart of stone he had that it did not melt when the dark eyes,
filled with tears, turned pleadingly up to his, and the stammering
tongue in pretty, crooked words, said: "The Lord, Christ Jesus, he is
my Master," and Juana's tongue lingered lovingly over the word—she had
lately learned it in English, and it meant so much to her—"I fear, oh!
very much, to not please Him; I must follow what He says to me here,"
and both small hands clasped themselves over her heart.
Paul's answer was a torrent of invectives and reproaches, ending
with—"I am your master! You are to obey me and none other." And then he
stooped lower, close to her ear, and whispered words that he knew would
be terrible to her: "If you do not, I will cast you off!"
It was not will-power, nor strength of purpose—inherited from any
ancestor, either Spanish or Mexican—but grace divine, that enabled
Juana to maintain outward calmness, though her cheek blanched, and lift
her soul to her Lord, breathing a solemn vow to be faithful to Him,
come what would.
When Paul was angry, he came nearer to being in earnest than at any
other time. He hated "religionists," and was determined not to have
the wings of the pretty bird he had caught clipped by such fanaticism.
Moreover, he wished to be the God himself to whom she bowed down.
He would brook no rival. So he ordered her to give up her Bible
reading and her praying, and cast her faith to the winds, expecting
to be meekly obeyed; but Juana, although nearly heart-broken at his
displeasure, remained firm, and when he saw that neither commands,
threats, nor persuasions availed with her, he was furious, and resolved
to leave her to herself, hoping that by an unusually protracted
absence, loneliness would bring her to terms.
"I shall soon return if you write me that you will be perfectly
obedient," Paul had said, as he rode away, and now Juana, in the glory
and beauty of the summer afternoon, sat on that upper balcony watching
him disappear through the great gateway—gone and she alone in her
sorrow. "What if he never came up that flower 'broidered path again?
Her Paul was firm, he would not relent." (The poor, blind child did not
know that Paul was stubborn instead of firm.)
Martyrs of all ages have cheerfully given up their lives, but who shall
say which is most heroic—to be torn limb from limb, or to tear the
heart from its clay idol? To give the body to be burned, or through the
slow-going years yield the heart to the crucible for His sake?
Weary days, and weeks, and months passed, and still Paul remained away,
but the heart of the young disciple, though it often fainted, did not
fail. Her Bible was her constant occupation, and the blessed Saviour
her friend and guest, for he did abide at her house and in her heart;
so that the loneliness was not so great as Paul imagined. He received
many letters from her, but with no word of retraction. She plead for
his return, begging him not to cast her off. She would do anything for
him but deny or displease "the dear Christ Jesus." "He do make me happy
even in my sorrow," she wrote. This was more than the vain man could
bear; as if Juana should be made happy by anything when he was absent!
Paul's next letter brought news that made the blood stand still in
the heart of the young wife. He was to leave that part of the country
for years, perhaps forever. Whether they ever met again depended on
herself. When she was ready to give up her religion she might write to
him to a certain address and it would be forwarded, otherwise he wanted
to hear nothing from her. She need not try to seek him out, neither
should she have any word from him. It may have been that Paul came to
this cruel decision more easily from just having received news that
Juana's old aunt had died, and had willed the bulk of the estate to the
church, leaving her niece but a small sum on account of her apostasy
from the faith. It was all this elegant young man could do to maintain
himself, with his refined and luxurious tastes. How, then, could he be
burdened with a portionless wife? He had not planned in that way.
For weeks after this blow Juana lingered between life and death. As
strength returned she prayed to die. She said over and over in her
anguish, "I can never, never live without him."
She did not die. The Lord had a work for her. When fully recovered, a
wild desire took possession of her to look again upon the face of her
husband. She must go to the United States, his home. She might find
him, he might forgive her, or, joyful possibility, he might change.
She could not change, but she must see him once more. Disposing of her
small property, she started on her unknown way, and after a dreary
journey arrived—a stranger in a strange land. Wearily she traversed
the cities mid towns, till courage and purse were well-nigh spent. The
search proved fruitless, and her heart was sore and almost rebellious.
Faint and ready to perish—did some one speak her name? "Child, come
unto me, I will give you rest." And then Juana's heart leaped, and she
answered quickly, "Master." Then were her eyes opened, and she knew
that the Lord was with her, knew, too, that she had again been setting
up in her heart a clay idol in his place. When she sorrowfully sought
forgiveness, he showed the "vividness of His mercy," and gave her not
only comfort, but an overcoming faith which enabled her to lay herself
and her husband at his feet with, "Thy will be done."
In loving submission she asked now, "What wilt Thou have me to do?"
And for answer came the thought of her country in bonds of Romanism
and idol worship. Her heart yearned over its darkness and misery, but
what could she do for it now, far away in a strange land, with very
little money left? Soon, however, the divine plan began to unfold
itself! As she walked the city street one day and passed a church, the
door stood invitingly open, and the sound of singing reached her ear.
Juana was always attracted by music. As other ladies were passing in
she followed and took a seat among them. It proved to be a woman's
missionary meeting. After the hymn came reports and papers on different
subjects. Some of these were very long and dull, and read in such low
tones that she understood scarcely nothing of what was said; but then,
the faces of those good women rested her, and she was sure it was a
good place to be. Besides, they sang often, and that was sweet, and
then, they prayed. Ah! Now she felt at home, she could understand that.
After prayer, a lady spoke in clear, distinct tones a few words about
Mexico. She did not read, she talked. Her sentences were not long and
fine, her words were short and simple, and Juana comprehended them.
She listened as if spell-bound, and then forgetting all else but her
commission and her country, stood up and with downcast eyes and timid
tones, said, "Ladies, Mexico is my dear country. Let me say one little
word for her?" It was only a few sentences, in broken words, but never
was appeal more effective as she pleaded with them to "send help now,
for they are dying every day, and they know not Christ Jesus at all."
Then, half-frightened at what she had done, she sank into her seat.
But the ladies begged her to go on, to talk as long as she would,
persuading her to come up to the front. At first the consciousness of
so many eyes fastened upon her was confusion, but presently, forgetting
everything else, she told them the simple story of her conversion.
The eloquent face and vivid words, with pretty foreign accent, as she
described her despair and her joy, stirred the hearts of those women
to their depths. What a fair field for work was Mexico if gems such as
this young stranger were hidden away there.
The fire thus kindled rapidly spread. Juana went from church to church,
and the tide of enthusiasm rose high, gifts flowed in, and many hearts
turned warmly to the "land of the sun," as this young wife, a miracle
of God's grace, told the tale of his redeeming love, and in broken,
eager words, pleaded with tears for "my dear Mexico."
Gladly would these Christians have sent her through the land that by
this means the hearts of many of her Christian sisters might be reached
and moved to lay upon the altar themselves or their treasures.
The Master, though, had other work for Juana. He had her return to her
native country, and in her own tongue tell her own people the good
news, and she obeyed, glad that He counted her worthy to do this work
for Him. She came out poor and friendless. She went back laden with
treasures; means to carry on the work, and followed by the prayers and
loving farewells of hosts of God's people.
To-day in her musical mother tongue, Juana in her own fair city, tells
the glad story, and hungry souls are hanging on her words. While she
works her prayer goes up that Paul may become "a new creature in Christ
Jesus," and that the glad day will dawn when he shall come and work
by her side. Let us have faith to plead it with her, believing that
the Divine Alchemist can transmute even such worthless material into a
saint.
Patiently, trustingly, Juana is waiting. Through all her sorrows she
has come to "the valley of blessing," to rest and peace, and the song
she loves best to sing, is—
"Emptied, that He might fill me,
As forth to His labor I go,
Broken, that so unhindered
His life through me might flow."
TEN BUSHELS.
———
MRS. LYMAN was in the kitchen superintending dinner. She was but a
young housekeeper, so there was a certain amount of anxiety connected
with making even a kettle of soup. She stirred and tasted and put in
another shake of pepper and another pinch of salt, and said to her maid
of all work, who stood by watching the process:
"I do wish I had an onion to put in it; soup is not very good without
an onion flavor."
The remark was made more to herself than to Barbara, whose knowledge of
English was somewhat limited. If it had not been, and if she had known
the way and it had not been too late, she might have gone down town and
bought some onions. As those obstacles were all in the way, the soup
must needs go without.
When the six o'clock dinner was spread in the very prettiest dining
room that can be imagined, the table glittering in its new silver, and
the soup smoking in the tureen, the master of the house—a young man who
had only enjoyed the privilege of sitting at the head of his own table
for a couple of months—took it all in, as his own tastes were capable
of doing. The savory odors, the cheery room, the careful attention to
every detail of comfort and beauty, and then the slight figure opposite
him, an embodiment of dignity and grace—he found nothing lacking in it
all.
"This soup is not quite perfect," the young wife said, as she began to
serve it, "I had no onions to put in it. I wish you would order some
when you go down town to-morrow, Philip; they are nice just now for
boiling, too."
This young couple had compared views on Browning and Ruskin, but not on
onions. They had long ago discussed poetry, philosophies, and art, as
well as architecture and house furnishings, and they had found hitherto
that their tastes were in most delightful accord. Mrs. Lyman was not
prepared, therefore, for the frown that contracted her husband's
handsome brows as he ejaculated:
"Onions! Don't mention them. Excuse me from that purchase, please.
They are abominable; not fit for human beings to eat. They ought to be
banished from every respectable table."
"I beg your pardon," Mrs. Lyman answered, with rising color, "but
all do not agree in such a sweeping denunciation. Many of the best
physicians consider them most nutritious and healthful."
"Well, at all events, I shall not have my house polluted with the
vile things. If there is anything that reminds one of a third-rate
boarding-house, it is to get a whiff of onions the moment you enter the
front door. It is vulgar and low. I can't see how any one of refined
tastes can touch them. I hope you are not an onion eater, Nettie,
because if you are, I fear you will have to abstain; I cannot abide
them."
Now Mrs. Annette Heyward Lyman was exceedingly fond of onions. She was
not of the sort to declare that she was "passionately fond of them,"
but she did think a nice dish of boiled onions, pretty white ones,
swimming in hot milk and butter, was just the thing to go with—stewed
chicken, say. Then, she enjoyed thin slices of raw onions cut into
vinegar; and crisp, green-topped young ones, dipped in salt and eaten
with bread and butter, were just delicious. And yet, if Philip had
mildly hinted that he had a special aversion for that vegetable, she
would have declared, "I will eat no onions while the world standeth."
But to attack them in this sharp way, to declare them vulgar, and,
above all, to dictate to her what she should or should not eat, as if
he were her master, and to say "my house!" it was too much, and she
answered in an icy tone that "she must beg leave to differ; to her mind
the onion was a most delicious vegetable, and she must reserve for
herself the right of choice in this and in other matters."
Their first quarrel! And all about an onion! What cares Satan whether
it be an apple or an onion, so that he spoil the Edens?
There were many more words quite as pungent as onions, and then
there fell a silence between them that was not broken after Barbara
had lighted the gas in the parlor, and drawn the table under the
drop-light, and they were seated with books and newspapers. There was
no reading done, but much ugly thinking. One line of it ran after this
fashion:
"Strange that so delicate, refined a nature should have a taste for
that vile, flagrant, odious onion!" A wretched discovery, that his
wife should be fond of that for which he had always felt disgust! And
evidently she did not mean to give them up, not even for his sake. Was
she selfish and proud and obstinate and—and high-tempered? Had he been
mistaken in her character and her regard for him?
The wife meantime was recalling an opinion long ago expressed by a
friend, who said that Philip Lyman possessed a domineering spirit and
was bound to rule all connected with him. She, herself, had never
believed it, but this looked like it—wishing her to give up whatever
he did not fancy, and hinting that she would be obliged to. Indeed! He
would find that she did not drive well; no, indeed. If her husband had
observed the glowing cheeks and flashing eyes just then he would have
been justified in concluding that she was "high-tempered."
And now came a break in this uncomfortable state of things in the shape
of Mr. John Lyman, on a business trip; "could only spend the night with
his brother. He was sorry to spoil their evening together." He would
have been sorrier had he known they had not spoken for just two hours.
Annette soon retired, leaving the brothers to talk over home affairs
while she went to her room to indulge in the luxury of grief. How
dark it all looked. Philip was changing. Perhaps he was sorry they
were married. He had the same as said she was vulgar and coarse. He
was fastidious; she could never please him; they would have dreadful
quarrels, for she could not submit to be ordered. And now the tears
that had been stored up all these bright years fell in most surprising
showers, until sleep had got the better of them.
The morning was a hurrying time; the brother must get down town for the
early train. A hasty good-by with averted eyes, and Philip was gone.
As he lunched near his office, two miles away, he would not be at home
again until night.
A long, unhappy day before Annette! She felt ten years older than
yesterday morning, when Philip had come all the way back from the gate
to put a rose in her hair. She wished she could see her mother; she
wished she could go off where Philip wouldn't find her in years; that
is, she thought she did. Oh! What a wretched world it was. Poor foolish
child! But she had only lived twenty little years.
Mr. Philip Lyman alone in his office, tried to settle himself to his
usual duties, but he felt ill at ease and uninterested. Finally he
threw down his pen, tipped back in his chair, and locked his fingers
together at the back of his head, a favorite thinking attitude. His
eyes wandered out the window, resting on white clouds sailing through
the sky. Perhaps the deep blue reminded him of Nettie's eyes, or the
wrapper she had worn that morning. However it was, he soon fell to
confessing to those soft clouds.
"What a consummate idiot! She thinks me a tyrant, and rude and selfish.
She ought to be vexed at me. As if I should make over her tastes, and
try to control her. I was rude and hateful and unkind. Contemptible!"
And with that he seized his hat and dashed down-stairs into the street.
He went straight to a market, bought a peck of onions and ordered them
sent home. An unpoetical peace offering, he reflected, but the most
appropriate for him under the circumstances. But stop, those were red
onions. This fact was brought to his consciousness by observing on the
sidewalk a basket of unusually fine white ones; and she had especially
wished white onions. Immediately he stepped in and bought a peck of
those.
As he walked along, filled with the peaceful consciousness of having
made some atonement, he spied a wagon filled to the top with clean
shiny-skinned, white onions. "They really look attractive," he said to
himself. Then there darted into his mind a new idea. What if he should
prove to Annette what a magnanimous, self-denying being he really was,
and take to eating the obnoxious things himself just to please her; be
a philosopher, a stoic, and will to like what he detested?
There must be no half-way work about this act of self-abnegation;
he would provide a generous supply. Now that he thought of it,
autumn was just the time to lay in a supply of vegetables. What had
he been thinking of, buying only a peck? Nov, how many was a good
quantity—enough to last all winter? That was a conundrum. He had dim
memories of ten bushels of this and that stored in his father's cellar.
True his father had a large family. But then, they should have a
great many visitors. The proprietor of the wagon stared when he heard
the order, but his business was to sell onions. If Philip Lyman was
complacent before, he was jubilant now in contemplation of his virtues.
He bounded up the stairs, resolving to go home at noon, surprise
Nettie, and "make up." He was a monster to have left her in such a cold
way. He was obliged to abandon that plan, though, having already lost
so much time.
Annette meantime had been aroused from her despondent mood by the first
installment of onions. Onions have healing properties, everybody knows.
They began to prove efficacious in this case. Philip wanted to show her
that he was sorry, she reasoned, and had taken this way to do it. It
was just as delicate and kind as if the onions had been flowers,—she
ignored the fact that they were red. While her spirits were being thus
soothed and comforted, the second peck of onions arrived. This was
perplexing. Why had he done that? Ah! These were white, and he had
recollected that she liked white ones. How thoughtful and good! How
unselfish and candid and noble to own himself wrong, and she—had been
foolish and wicked to get angry at nothing.
She was just beginning to feel that life was worth living, when another
man presented himself announcing that he had brought some onions.
Annette assured him there was some mistake, as they had sufficient
for a long time. But he affirmed most strenuously this was the spot,
producing the directions in her husband's handwriting. Then Annette
told him that she must countermand the order; that she positively
wished for no more onions.
"But ye see I got my pay for 'em," he answered, with a horrible grin,
whereupon the discomfited young woman retired into the house and the
triumphant onions went into the cellar.
Tramp, tramp, and roll, roll. Would he never have done? He seemed like
an arch fiend, sent to torment her. If she could but have known the
soliloquy he of the onions carried on as he went back and forth, and
that he took a malicious delight in getting the better of her, it might
have turned the tide of her rising wrath into a laugh. When a laugh
comes in, wrath goes out.
"That's jest the way with wimmin folks—headstrong! They think they know
a leetle the most about everything. The young feller likes onions, I
s'pose, and she don't, and she's 'tarmined he sha'n't have 'em. I'm
glad she's got a boss. She needs it."
By the time the tenth bushel was deposited all Annette's late estimates
and decisions had been reversed. Of all despicable acts this was the
climax—to send a whole load of those horrible things, as if to say,
"Grovelling creature, can't live without onions! Take them!" It was
just a simple exhibition of spite and sarcasm. She would never have
believed he could do so cruel a thing. Since she was a child she had
not been so angry. It was a lofty, scornful anger that did not vent
itself in tears. Besides, the tears were all used up.
Snatching her hat and mantle, she went out into the air to try to calm
herself. On and on she went out into the country, dreading to return.
Finding herself within half a mile of her cousin's house, she decided
to call in order to get away from her thoughts. It proved the right
place for that purpose. Little Harry had become suddenly ill, and the
distracted mother welcomed her gladly. The two worked over him all
the afternoon. As night came on Annette felt that it would be cruel
to leave until there was some ray of hope. So she wrote a note to her
husband, briefly and coldly explaining her absence. A passing boy
agreed to deliver it, but it never got beyond his own pocket.
Toward evening Barbara began to wonder what kept her mistress, and
decided to take matters into her own hands and get up a dinner. Seeing
the large bin of onions in the cellar, she said within herself, "This
is what she all time want; I will cook some!" During the process of
cooking she made many trips to the front door to watch for her lost
mistress. Each time she left all the doors open behind her, and so
thoroughly perfumed the whole house with the odor of the dinner.
In the city Paul had picked up an old college friend and persuaded him
to stay over a train and dine with him. As he ushered his friend into
the pretty house, with a pardonable pride, it was somewhat taken down
by the unmistakable odor that greeted him.
"Onions! As I live," he said to himself, "and Merwin is such a
fastidious fellow! However, wait till he sees Annette." So he went in
haste to bring her.
Upstairs and down and in the garden he searched. She was not to be
found. This was a new departure—to be away on his return. He told his
friend she had probably been detained—would be in presently.
Chagrined and mortified almost beyond his power to conceal, after
waiting an hour, he was obliged to invite his friend to a table
without a hostess. The first cover he removed disclosed a dozen huge
specimens of that obnoxious, ill-odored vegetable that had caused their
unhappiness. He forgot his heroic resolve and shut it with emphasis—not
to-night would he eat onions. It was unlike the delicate tact of his
wife to have ordered them cooked that night, while she was still
ignorant of what had passed in his mind.
Barbara was not yet perfect. The dinner both in cooking and serving
missed the supervision of the mistress. The host was ill at ease and
absent, and was not sorry that his guest soon bade him good-by.
And now Philip grew positively uneasy, and proved himself not a whit
behind a woman in the power to conjure up dire probabilities. Perhaps
she had slipped from that high bank where they sometimes walked along
the river! And he rushed out through the garden and over the fields
till he stood on the bank amidst the gathering shadows and peered
remorsefully into the dark waters. What if somebody had abducted her;
had brought word that he was ill and had carried her off! That thought
was maddening. Then he remembered her one relative in that vicinity—her
cousin.
No public conveyance went that way, and in hot haste, he started on
foot. His speed astonished himself. Breathless and panting, he arrived
and was about to ring, when, obeying an impulse, he stepped to the
side porch and looked through the vine-covered window. Yes; surely,
there was Annette! A little group near the open fire; she kneeling by
a low chair, her bright head bending over little Harry, who lay in his
mother's lap.
The first feeling was of relief and gratitude. She was safe. And then,
it was his turn. There came surging over him, like a hot breath from
a furnace, a wave of anger, and he strode away. His hasty glance had
not shown him the death-like pallor on the baby face, nor the anxious
expressions of the others. His conclusion was that the baby was being
made ready for bed, and the two were admiring his pretty pink toes.
On he went in the darkness, his resentment gathering force at every
step. Here she had deliberately planned to put him to torture. How
little she must care for him when she would allow him to spend a
whole night in anxiety. He had supposed her nature to be gentle and
forgiving, and here she had treasured up a few hasty words and was
intent on revenge. He had made concessions, and she had scorned them.
Alas! He had not the dimmest suspicion that those ten bushels of
concessions were just what widened the breach. He walked the floor for
hours, then flinging himself on a lounge, toward morning chopped into a
heavy sleep.
The result of the night's meditation was a decision that the next
advance toward reconciliation must come from Annette herself. Just as
he was about starting for the office in the morning, Annette was driven
up to the door. They looked at each other in silence. He lingered a
moment to see if she had any explanations to offer, and she waited in
the hall hoping that possibly he had repented of the odious conduct
of yesterday and was willing to confess it. Silence is not always
"golden;" the proverb is misleading. If he had but asked, "Why did you
go away?" Or she had said some pleasant word! But, no; they passed each
other in grim silence.
Another day of gloom and despair for both. This unwonted strain, added
to the night's watching, brought upon Annette a nervous headache, so
that by the time of Philip's return she could not raise her head. It
was fortunate. But for this they might have gone on till happiness was
wrecked. Annette, with spirited little head erect, sailing through the
house, was to be considered somewhat differently from this one, her
head on a pillow, racked with pain. No mother could have cared for her
more tenderly and skillfully than Philip. Throwing his resentment to
the winds, he administered to her for hours until she fell into a quiet
sleep.
In the morning, with the pain all gone, explanations were in order. It
was hard to tell which was the more astonished as the misunderstandings
of each began to come out.
"And you did not go away to have revenge on me?" "And you did not send
home all those onions just to tease me?" were some of the questions
asked. Then the ludicrous side began to appear, and they laughed long
and merrily.
"Whatever shall we do with all those onions?" queried Annette when she
found her breath.
"We will make sweet fragrance to our names by means of them," said
Philip. "We will send gifts to the poor—always of onions. We will
become famous as philanthropists, and our eccentric charities will be
the theme of succeeding generations. But, Nettie, I wish you would make
a picture of some of those silvery-skinned onions. We will hang it up
in the dining room, and it shall teach us wholesome lessons that nobody
else can read but just us two. Shall teach me not to forget the 'small
sweet courtesies of life.'"
"And shall teach me," said Annette humbly, "'that anger dwells in the
bosom of fools.'"
"And that 'greater is he that ruleth his own spirit than he that taketh
a city,'" added Philip.
"My darling," he said, as their lips met in the kiss of reconciliation,
"let us never again misinterpret, misjudge, or lose faith in each
other, whatever comes."
MISS WHITTAKER'S BLANKETS.
———
MISS RACHEL WHITTAKER, as the years went by, found herself sole
occupant of the old family homestead. Father and mother had lived
their long honored lives, finished their work, and entered into rest.
Brothers and sisters had one after another made for themselves new
homes and gone their different ways. Miss Rachel had passed safely
through the romances of youth and settled down to sober middle-aged
life. She had also resisted all persuasions of friends to sell the old
place and make her home with some one of the various families. "Because
there is no man in the case," said Miss Whittaker, with a slightly
contemptuous emphasis on the "man," "is no reason why I should not have
a home of my own."
So life went on in the old Whittaker mansion with the same zest and
order as if the household numbered a half-dozen, instead of a single
lone female and her servant. There was the same punctilious regard
to times and seasons. The house-cleaning paroxysm invariably came on
a certain day of the month, the Monday's wash flapped in the wind,
and the Saturday's baking sent forth spicy odors as regularly as they
had done for the last forty years. The cellar continued to be stocked
each autumn with "Mercers" and "Pink-eyes," with "Greenings" and
"Spitzenbergs," with "Golden Pippins" and "Pound Sweets." The closet
shelves contained their due amount of riches: rows of jars and glasses,
filled with peaches, pears, quinces and jellies. In short, everything
pertaining to good cheer was literally brimming over.
And Miss Rachel fed her chickens, counted her eggs, watered her plants
and pattered upstairs and down, or sat in her large, sunny room and
read her books and magazines, or clicked her knitting needles to the
ticking of the tall old clock. Or she gathered a few friends about her
for a social tea drinking, or, flung wide the doors of the old house
to a troop of nieces and nephews. It was not alone that Miss Whittaker
was fond of company, but it was pleasant to keep up the old customs. It
was a pitiful attempt to bring back, as far as possible, the old times.
It was easier when gay chatter and merry prattle filled the rooms, to
see the white-haired father and mother as of old in their arm-chairs
by the fireside. The most prosaic have a vein of sentiment somewhere.
Rachel Whittaker's took this form; she guarded with a reverence that
amounted to idolatry every object and principle belonging to those two.
Her father's old hat occupied the identical peg on which he himself
hung it the last time he went out; and mother's darning basket stood on
the little stand, with balls and thimble and glasses; the needle stuck
in the ball of blue yarn just where her own fingers placed it so long
ago. And so, housekeeping was something more than ministering to her
own wants or entertaining friends; it was having things go on as "they"
would like to see them go on.
This devoted daughter was careful, as well, to direct the family
benevolences into the well-worn channels in which they were accustomed
to run. The church subscription and the contributions to home and
foreign missions, and the various "Boards," were as faithfully attended
to as if good Squire Whittaker still sat at the head of his pew.
She even loved and perpetuated her father's prejudices, and was
too apt, like him, to have more sympathy for the unfortunate in
Booroboolagha, than for those at her own door. She was prone to set
all these down as "drunken" or "shiftless." However, she had not much
opportunity to cultivate the grace of charity in home work, as nearly
all the little community were well-to-do.
One of Miss Rachel's duties as a good housekeeper was to see that the
large stock of bedding, packed away in trunks and closets, was aired
at frequent intervals. It was more than abundant for the needs of a
large family—and the Whittaker family was a large one when gathered
in the old home at Thanksgiving and the holidays. One day in early
winter—"just the right sort of a day for airing bedclothes, so warm and
bright," Miss Rachel declared—the lines in the yard were filled with
blankets, quilts, comfortables, etc., and the piazza roofs were adorned
with feather beds and pillows.
Among the passers-by was Mrs. Barnes. She lived in the little gray,
weather-beaten house just under the hill. She was neither shiftless
nor drunken, yet she was pitifully poor, and was a widow as well,
with three little children. She could "dig," though to "beg" she was
ashamed, and managed by hard work and much pinching and stinting to
piece out a living. What a tempting sight was this goodly array to the
half-frozen woman!
Nobody knew but herself how hard she had tried to get enough bedding
together for the winter; how she had saved every old scrap and pieced
it up and eked out the cotton with newspapers that she had secured from
Miss Rachel; and yet, with all that, the old house was so open it was
going to be hard work to keep warm in the long, cold nights.
She stood and looked at those soft double blankets and thick
comfortables, and said to herself, "What a thing it must be, eh, to
have such lots of bedclothes; to pile on as many as you please and be
warm as toast all night! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—I
don't know how many blankets, double at that, and ever and ever so many
comfortables, besides quilts and spreads. And there she is with all
them warm things and nobody to keep warm but herself, and here I be,
with three little children and no warm things. Oh dear! Why couldn't
the two 'a' gone together, I should like to know." Then she brushed
away a tear with the corner of her shawl and went on her way.
Miss Whittaker sat near the side window and noticed that the Widow
Barnes stopped and looked over the fence. Somehow she didn't like to
see her standing there, her thin dress blowing in the wind, her faded
old shawl drawn close about her, and with such anxious-looking eyes
fixed on those blankets. But now the obnoxious figure in the old shawl
moved on, and Miss Rachel could once more give her undivided attention
to a very difficult piece of embroidery she was engaged in making for a
fair.
That very night winter began in earnest. The north wind and the frost
went out hand in hand. They built bridges over streams, made rocky
roads, and crept in here and there, unbidden and unwelcome. They
found their way to Miss Rachel's chamber, but she got a victory over
them by simply reaching out her hand and drawing over her self a soft
comfortable.
The same unmerciful couple visited the poor as well as the rich; they
crept into the cracks and crannies of the Widow Barnes' little house.
She awoke with chills creeping over her, and got up and hunted about
in the dark for something more to put over the two little girls in the
trundle-bed, who had once or twice sleepily called out "cold!" She
tucked her shawl and their old sacks about them, then snuggled little
Bessie close in her arms and "wished for the day."
The frost and the wind had their own way all through the following
day. It was a gloomy prospect for the night to Mrs. Barnes. She had
hoped before cold weather set in to manage in some way to get more
bedclothes. A fire all night was out of the question. As a forlorn
hope, she put on her hood and shawl and went towards night, up the
hill to Miss Whittaker's. Why, she scarcely knew. There was the least
glimmer of a prospect that she might get some plain sewing to do, or,
"Who knows," she told herself, "but that Miss Whittaker will say, 'Mis'
Barnes, here is an old comfortable; if you can make it useful, you
are welcome to it.' Oh! if she only would." And while the poor woman
struggled up the hill against the wind she was unconsciously concocting
a suitable reply to such a gracious proposition.
Miss Rachel had an excellent habit of employing her odds and ends of
time in reading. By means of it she kept up familiar acquaintance with
old authors.
To-night, after the lamps were lighted—and there were yet a few minutes
before tea—she took a dip into "Thomson's Seasons." She was just
reading:
"See, winter comes to rule the invested year,
Sullen and sad with all his rising train,
Vapors and clouds and storms."
* * * * * * *
"'Tis done! dread winter spreads his latest glooms,
And reigns tremendous o'er the conquered year,—"
when the kitchen door opened and Mary admitted Mrs. Barnes. What a
heavenly place that room, with its warmth and brightness, seemed to
this other woman. Miss Rachel laid aside her book and gave kindly
attention to her poorer neighbor. They talked about the weather, how
very early the cold had come on, how sharp the wind had been all day,
and what an exceedingly cold night last night was.
"I put everything I could lay my hands on over us, and yet we shivered
in our beds," Mrs. Barnes said.
Then Miss Rachel suggested that the house was probably open, and gave
some valuable advice as to the best method of making doom and windows
weather-proof. "Stop up all the chinks, and I think you will be more
comfortable," she said; and then added that she was sorry she knew of
no work for her. It was very difficult to get anything to do in the
winter time. Had she not better try to put out her children and go into
some nice family herself? It would be a great deal better all round.
Mrs. Barnes got up hastily, then, and said she must go. She wanted
to say that if she could get work to do she could take care of her
children without help from anybody, but something choked her, so that
she could not speak. This was the horrible thing that was always
staring her in the face—to part with the children. Must she come to it,
just for want of a little help over this hard spot?
She pushed out into the cold and darkness, and went on her way, slowly
and heavily. "I most hope she'll be cold herself some time, just to see
how it feels," she murmured, half aloud, as she caught the last glimpse
of Miss Rachael's light, in the bend of the road. "Why couldn't she let
me have a couple of old comfortables and pay for it in work? I don't
want to beg, goodness knows, but I'll have to come to it, for all I
see."
Miss Whittaker was not so hard-hearted as she might seem. All the time
Mrs. Barnes was talking, she was engaged in consultation with herself
as to whether there was anything in the way of bedclothes that she
could possibly spare. She did not wish to commit herself, so she made
no promises, but she inwardly resolved that on the morrow she would
take a look to that end.
Accordingly, the next morning found her with her head in chests and
closets amid piles of blankets and the like. It was astonishing how
many beds one woman, who lived all alone, had to provide for.
That pile was for Sister Martha's bed, that for Elvira's, that for
Brother Ephraim's. Then, suppose they should all come at once and bring
a couple of children apiece; they never had yet, but then they might,
and if they did, at least six beds would need to be made ready; and if
the weather should prove to be very cold at the time, why, it would
take an enormous amount of covering, and it was always best to be ready
for emergencies. Then there were certain quilts that she would not part
with under any consideration, even though they were somewhat faded.
The "album" quilt contained precious association of all the Whittaker
family. The "wheel within a wheel" mother pieced and quilted; "the
birds in the air" she pieced herself, beginning at the early age of
four. As for common comfortables, it was needful to have a good many to
spread over feather beds and mattresses.
There! It was done. Miss Rachel had gone laboriously through them all,
and yet nothing had been found that was in any way suitable to bestow
upon the Widow Barnes.
Dinner time came now, and she put them all away with—"I will see about
it some other time." Ah, how many good things Satan hinders with that
salve to the conscience—"some other time"!
After the cold came the snow, pouring out from the sky one ceaseless,
silent stream for three days and nights. It piled itself in huge drifts
in roadways, hid the fences, and—most buried the little house in the
hollow. The widow occupied her time in shovelling snow before her
doors and windows, lest they should be buried entirely. Her thoughts,
meantime, were gloomy and sad. She knew about the God who hears the
young ravens when they cry, but she did not believe He would hear her,
and—like many more of his children—when trouble came, stopped her ears
to gracious promises and fell into sullen gloom.
Miss Whittaker was a prisoner, too, in her cheery rooms. She was
pleasantly employed, though; she knit bright socks for Martha's baby
boy, made up a store of mince pies and fruit cake, and read a new
book called "Snow Bound." In short, she was altogether comfortable
and happy, or would have been but for one thing. And that thing was
not snow; she liked that. What disturbed Miss Rachel's serenity
during those few days, was, that she could not shake off a feeling of
uneasiness with regard to the Widow Barnes. Her face, pale and worn,
kept coming up before her, and the words, "We shivered in our beds,"
sounded in her ears. Then all the texts in the Bible she had ever
read about the poor kept coming and going through her brain. She was
a diligent reader, and her memory was good. When she would fain have
entertained herself recalling the musical flow of—
"Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing,"
she could think of nothing but—
"Blessed is he that considereth the poor, the Lord will deliver him
in time of trouble."
Or,—
"If any of you see a brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels
of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?"
She was not unmindful of the poor; she had helped Mrs. Barnes in
various little ways. Why must she feel so condemned? she asked herself
again and again.
With fair weather came the cold again; came stealing down upon the
sleeping world like a thief in the night. Miss Rachel was unusually
tired and slept very soundly, so that she did not waken even when the
fire on her hearth had died out, and the cold become so intense in her
room that the windows were frost covered, and the breath of the sleeper
went up in little clouds of smoke. She stirred uneasily several times,
and was just awake enough to know that she was cold, and not awake
enough to bestir herself and get more covering. For a few minutes she
lay in that half-waking state, thinking she ought, and would, and must
rouse up and get more blankets. Finally, she thought she had done so
and slept on.
Very soon after that she found herself far away from her own home,
trying to walk over a floor of solid ice. She gazed about her in
horror! The place was a large, deep pit, lighted by a lurid glare.
Whichever way she turned her eyes, she saw nothing but ice, icy floor
and icy walls, smooth and shining like glass. She clutched at them to
save her sliding steps, but there was nothing to hold to; her hands
slipped and she fell in a heap on the floor. She looked wildly above
her for a way of escape. At the top of the pit she saw pretty rooms,
with bright fires and happy-looking people sitting about sewing,
reading and chatting. She shrieked for help, but they only shook their
heads and went smilingly on with their occupations.
On one side she saw the Widow Barnes and her children. They sat amidst
piles of blankets, heaped all about them, and they were soft and fleecy
as her own had been. Oh! If she had but one to keep out this deathly
chill. She screamed out again in an agony of torture, begging that just
one blanket might be thrown down to her. But a mocking voice only came
back to her, and it said, "Stop up the chinks, and I think you'll be
comfortable."
In shivering terror she awoke, relieved beyond measure to find herself
at home in her own bed, and then there flashed over her mind the story
of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.
Had the Widow Barnes been praying that she might never be warm again?
And must she go through life with her teeth chattering as they were
now? Mingling confusedly with the words of the old ballad, "Chatter,
chatter, chatter still," came a rush of Scripture texts, vivid and
startling as if a voice spoke them in her ears, and they were all about
the poor.
She was so thoroughly stiffened by cold and fear that she could
scarcely rise and go to the closet for the needed covering which on
this night she had forgotten to place by her bedside.
Miss Rachel had been accustomed to draw up and write out, at the
commencement of each year, a series of severe resolutions; the fact
that she never kept one half of them not abating their rigor in the
least. But never in calmest moments, with pen in hand and diary before
her, had any such earnest, self-denying resolves been made as were now
made by the woman who stood in night array in her closet, holding a
flickering lamp in one hand, and with the other taking down blankets
and comfortables and piling them on chairs.
That done, she took a bountiful supply for herself and went back to
bed. Her shivering soon ceased, and for the remainder of the night she
slept the sleep of the just.
As a matter of course, when the daylight streamed into her room, and
the red sun sent a slanting bar across her bed, Satan told Miss Rachel
that it was perfect foolishness to pay any attention to a dream, and
that it was simply improvident to go and give away that great pile of
bedding she had laid out; that a couple of old ragged quilts would
answer every purpose. He was obliged, however, to leave her in peace,
for when Miss Rachel shut her lips tight, and said, "I shall do it," in
that decisive way of hers, there was no need of further parley.
No sooner were the roads broken than she went in search of a man with
a sleigh. When all was ready, it was a sight to behold—at least to the
eyes of cold and hungry people. In the very bottom was a quantity of
dry wood, then came a layer of meat, potatoes, apples, flour. And this
was crowned by blankets and comfortables, more than enough for two beds
in the very coldest weather. "I'll see if I don't get the upper hand of
this mean, selfish spirit," Miss Rachel had ejaculated, as she stowed
an extra blanket on the load at the last minute.
The Widow Barnes was bending over her smoky old stove, trying to coax
some green knots to ignite, when the sleigh stopped in front of her
house. She had a dream, too, last night. It was about Heaven. That
happy place seemed to be filled with blankets and warm fires. But here,
behold, was Heaven come down to her door! She assured the man he had
come to the wrong place, but the note he handed her, with money to buy
a whole load of wood, settled the matter.
From that time forth Miss Rachel took it upon her, as a sacred trust,
to see to it that the Widow Barnes lacked for nothing. And, strange to
relate, her subscriptions to foreign missions, home missions, freedmen,
education, etc., have not been cut down a particle in consequence.
[Illustration: THE DOCTOR'S STORY.]
THE DOCTOR'S STORY.
———
"I WANT to tell you a story, young man."
The speaker was the Rev. Joseph Mentor, D. D., a gray-haired,
keen-eyed, large-brained, sweet-faced, grand old Christian. He sat
in his own parlor, which was not a parlor, after all, but a sort of
study; lined with books on every hand, almost crowded with easy chairs;
convenient little writing-tables occupying cosy corners, with all the
appurtenances thereto lavishly furnished, coaxing the privileged guest
to write his letters, or arrange his neglected accounts, or read items
from the various journals of the day, at his elbow, as his taste might
dictate.
The present occupants of the room were three; the aforesaid Doctor,
leaning back at rest in his favorite study chair—his life had been
a long, grand one, and if ever disciple of the Master could afford
to rest on earth, the Rev. Joseph Mentor might have claimed the
privilege; yet his very rest was active; the Doctor's son, a young
man of twenty-five or so, now co-pastor, who had excused himself to
their guest, in the manner that one may treat guests who are almost as
much at home as they are themselves—on the plea that there were two
important letters to answer for the evening mail—and then had turned to
one of the writing-tables, leaving his father to entertain the young
man with a pale face and scholarly air, who sat in a half-dejected
attitude in the straight-backed, old-fashioned chair near the Doctor.
It was to him that the old gentleman had turned with the apparently
abrupt statement,—
"I want to tell you a story, young man?"
That the young man would be glad to hear any story that Doctor Mentor
might choose to honor him with, was evident from the flash of his eyes
and the instant look of interest that overspread his face.
Then the Doctor began: "About a month ago I attended the funeral of a
man in whom I have taken a deep interest all my life. He was an old
man, and a plain man all his long life; yet, though I have attended a
great many funerals in the last half-century, I don't think I ever saw
a greater uprising of the people to offer the last tribute of respect
and affection to a plain man in their midst. I want to tell you a
little about that man. Miller, his name was, Daniel Miller; he was
older than I, and in my young days I used to watch him from his pew in
the church. I liked his face, even then, before I knew him; a grave,
half-sad face, yet never gloomy—only a look of patient resignation to
the inevitable. A Christian man he was, one of the sterling sort. Talk
with anybody in that town about him, and they would pay almost instant
tribute to his sterling worth, and almost always close with, 'What a
pity that such a good man as he is should be so hard of hearing.'
"That was his trouble, and a great trouble it was. I suppose it was
the means of breaking in pieces a number of plans of his youth. Well,
the thought was written all over his patient, sad face: 'I am hard of
hearing and growing worse. It destroys my usefulness, it hinders my
work in every direction, it makes me appear unsocial and unsympathetic,
in short, it is a burden hard to be borne.' As I watched him, I could
see that this feeling grew upon him; grew with his infirmity, and that
progressed quite rapidly.
"You have no idea, I suppose, what a drawback it was to him on all
occasions. It got so that he didn't dare to open his lips in the prayer
meeting. He would look all around him, to see whether anybody was
speaking, but some of the members had a way of keeping their seats when
they talked, so he found that he couldn't tell by their position, and
once or twice he arose and began to pray when some one was talking; he
was a diffident man, and it embarrassed him dreadfully. Then he used to
say that he never knew whether what he had to offer was in a line with
what had been said, or was very wide of the mark; and if the minister
asked him to pray, he had to shout out the request, and sometimes poor
Mr. Miller couldn't hear it, and his wife would have to give his elbow
a nudge, and lean over and whisper to him loud enough for all the house
to hear, 'He wants you to lead in prayer.'
"It was a real embarrassment all around. People didn't wonder that he
gradually grew into the feeling that he couldn't take part very often
in religious meetings; though I never thought that was right; I always
believed that his prayers would be in a line with what the Lord wanted
to have said, and that he would be safe enough, whether he followed the
line of the others or not.
"So it went on, Daniel Miller growing deafer and deafer, and the
patient, sad look on his face deepening, and the feeling growing in his
heart that he wasn't of any use to the Church of Christ that he loved
with all his soul.
"One day somebody in that church had an inspiration. 'I tell you what
it is,' one of the members said, bringing down his doubled-up fist on
the seat before him for emphasis, 'I believe we ought to make Daniel
Miller our treasurer. That thing would suit him, and he is just the man
to do the work.'
"'But Daniel Miller is so deaf,' objected one. 'He grows worse and
worse; I notice that his wife always has to find the hymns for him, and
the place in the Bible, and point to the text.'
"'What if he is deaf?' said his champion; 'a man doesn't have to hear
in order to add money and keep accounts, and make out bills and send
them out, and keep everything straight. I believe it is work that he
could do, and I believe it would do him good; make him feel that he can
do something for the church, and that we have confidence in him. I tell
you what it is, brethren, I'm going to propose his name at our next
election.'
"Well, he was as good as his word, and sure enough, all the people
said 'Amen.' They did it with so much enthusiasm, and with such a look
on their faces that said, 'What a splendid idea! I wonder we never
thought of it before,' that there was quite an excitement, and Mrs.
Miller looked about her, and the tears began to gather in her eyes, and
she put her head down suddenly on the seat in front of her. She was a
grand, good woman—a helpmeet to her good husband in every sense of the
word.
"Well, Daniel Miller looked around with that meek, inquiring look on
his face, a little troubled, as much as to say, 'Are you having a good
time, brethren, or is there something going on in the Lord's house that
oughtn't to be; I'm jealous for his honor; I hope all is well.'
"The chairman got out of his chair of office and went down the aisle,
and bent over Mr. Miller, and said in a good, loud voice, 'You have
been elected our Church Treasurer by a unanimous vote.'
"You ought to have seen his face then; it was a picture. It flushed and
glowed, and his eyes grew dim, and his lips quivered, and it seemed for
a minute that he couldn't speak at all. Then he stammered out something
about not being fitted for the work—his infirmity being so great; he
wished he could do something, he would be glad to, if he could, but
maybe it was a risk to try it.
"Then the chairman put down his mouth to his ear again, and called out,
'We all stand ready to go your security, every one of us.'
"And then, sir, if you will believe it, that decorous assembly, made
up of a class of people who believed every one of them in doing things
decently and in order, just clapped their hands, and he understood it,
and he got out his handkerchief very suddenly. You never saw anything
work more like a charm than that arrangement did all around.
"Daniel Miller took hold of the work with a will, I tell you, and the
work was never better done. His 'infirmity,' as he always meekly called
it, was a positive advantage to him. There wasn't any use in trying
to tell him how the accounts stood, or explain away this or that; he
couldn't hear; it all had to be reduced to writing. And when a man sits
down in quiet to make a written account of anything that another man
is expected to fully understand, why he uses language carefully, don't
you see? You don't suppose they were foolish enough, when his year was
out to go and put in another treasurer, do you? Not a bit of it; the
machine was running too smoothly. They elected him again by as large a
vote as before.
"'It does my heart good,' one old lady said, 'to see Daniel Miller go
up for the collections on Sundays. He does it with such a glad look on
his face, as if he had found out something he could do for the church,
and do well.'
"He did it well, too; no mistakes. By and by he began to send out
little notes with his bills: 'We owe it to our pastor to pay his
quarter's salary on the day promised.' Well, sir, when the next
quarter's salary was paid the morning of the day: on which it was due,
without having been asked for or run after, that minister thought
the millennium was about to dawn! He hadn't been used to that sort
of thing. You never saw anything like the promptness with which pew
rents were paid in the church. If a man was twenty-four hours behind
time, he was almost sure to receive a call from Mr. Miller; no writing
notes this time. That man understood human nature well. Just imagine
a gentleman standing in his store or office, and trying to carry on a
conversation with Daniel Miller about not having paid his pew rent.
'Money has been a little short with me lately,' he begins, 'and I
thought a few days' delay—'
"'What is it?' interrupts Daniel, with his hand to his ear. 'I'm hard
of hearing, you know; speak a little louder, please.'
"Do you suppose that man is going to yell out for the benefit of the
passers-by that he is a little short of money, and had deliberately
planned a few days' delay for his minister? The way it worked was
for him to scream out, 'You shall have the money at noon to-day, Mr.
Miller.' Very likely, he grumbled that he wouldn't get caught in that
trap again, and he didn't. People didn't enjoy calls from Daniel Miller
when they owed the church any money. I watched that thing with the
greatest interest. It grew all the time. It made a wonderful difference
in Daniel's life; he kept his head straighter, and walked faster on the
street. The church was large, and there was a good deal of business
to be transacted, and Daniel had no temptation to brood over his
infirmity. Then he knew just what was going on; just what the church
gave to Foreign Missions and Home Missions, and all benevolences. He
had no need any more to wonder painfully what was being done, and after
hesitating over it a good while make up his mind to ask somebody, and
feel sorry for them all the time to think they had got to answer him.
Instead, people had to come to him for information. Nothing could be
paid for, not a cent of money could be sent anywhere or done anything
with unless the thing passed through Daniel Miller's hands. And I tell
you the treasurer's reports of that church were curiosities; they were
managed with such exactness and clearness. He had a little witch of a
daughter, Nettie her name was, as pretty as a picture.
"Do you remember her, my son?"
"Yes, sir, distinctly," came promptly from the table where the son was
writing letters.
And the Doctor continued: "Her father made her his clerk almost as soon
as she could talk plainly, and began to train her up to business habits
and business terms; he took her with him a good deal. 'Daniel Miller's
ears' we used to call the bright little thing; and she was as bright
as a diamond. We used to notice that Daniel could hear her to the last
better than anybody else, even his wife. 'She's got a voice like an
angel,' he said to me once; 'I know by her that I shall be able to hear
the angels.' His hearing grew steadily worse. For a good many years he
was able to hear some of the sermon, the loud parts as he used to call
them, but by degrees, he lost the power of doing that. 'Did you hear?'
the minister would shout at him, after service, as he came up for the
collection. He would shake his head, but his eyes would look bright as
he answered, 'No, sir, not with my ears; but I've got it here.' And
he would lay his hand on his great, noble heart. It was true, too,
and he went out and lived it a great deal better than many who heard
everything. You must understand, young man, that I am covering a good
deal of ground with this long story. The years went by, and at each
election Daniel Miller was re-instated, until at last that congregation
would have laughed in the face of any man who had suggested a change.
'What should we do without Daniel Miller?' That is as near as they ever
came to mentioning the time when they might have to do without him; and
the time came when they said that in lowered tones and with a hint of
tears, for he was growing an old man and the church couldn't afford to
lose him.
"Bless you! I hope you don't think that keeping the finances of the
church straight was all the man did? It would take all night to tell
you half the things that grew out of it; and then it wouldn't be told;
it can't be. The Lord of the vineyard is the only one who has the whole
story. I told you, he took to writing little marginal readings on the
church bills and receipts. Well, is there any reason why marginal
readings on church bills can't be about other matters than money?
The 'words in season' that this deaf man spoke in this way, in quiet
hours, to one and another of the flock, and the fruit they bore, I know
something of, a good deal of, in fact; but, as I tell you, the Master
is the only one who has the entire record.
"One night he had a new idea, or rather, he worked out what was to him
an old idea. He went on Saturday evening to the parsonage with the
quarter's salary; he apologized for intruding on Saturday, but said he,
'According to date this money should be paid to-morrow morning, and of
course I couldn't do that, so I made bold to come to-night.'
"Well, he happened to be one of those men who never intrude on a
pastor, no matter what time they come; so his pastor told him he was
glad to see him, and would talk with him while he finished and put
up his sermon; but Daniel didn't seem to want to talk; he watched
that sermon with a curious, wistful air. At last he spoke, 'I've been
turning a ridiculous idea over in my mind for a long time; I don't
suppose it could be done, but I've thought sometimes that I would just
like to try an experiment, and read over one of your sermons before you
preached it, and see if I couldn't follow you from the pulpit better
after that.' It was a queer notion, but it took the pastor's fancy.
The fact was, he loved Daniel Miller so much that almost anything he
said took his fancy, and he handed over the sermon and told the old
gentleman to try it, by all means, he could have it as well as not. It
would have done your heart good to see Daniel Miller's radiant face the
next day. 'It worked, sir, it worked!' he said to the pastor, and he
rubbed his hands together like a gleeful boy; 'I could follow you right
along a good piece at a time.' If you'll believe it, that thing grew
into a regular custom; the pastor had a boy, a bright enough fellow,
who was always ready to scamper over to Daniel Miller's with the sermon
on Saturday nights as soon as the minister could spare it, and wait
while Daniel Miller went over it. Fact is, as the years went by, he was
more willing to do that than any other errand the father could get up,
and he and Nettie went over church accounts, and some other accounts
together, many a Saturday night. But I happen to know that that pastor
came to have a queer feeling that he couldn't preach a sermon until
Daniel Miller went over it! That might be in part because he discovered
that the old man had a way of going over it on his knees, and every
sentence he came to that seemed to him ought to do a certain person any
good, he would pray, 'Lord, bless that to John Watkins,' and so on, you
know. Little Nettie, she let that secret out to the boy one night; and
the minister came to feel that Daniel Miller was the associate pastor,
and was praying the sermon into the hearts of the people all the time
it was being preached. When a minister really feels that, he preaches
carefully, I believe.
"Well, sir, it was a wonderful life; and when it ended, as I tell you
it did a little more than a month ago, I never saw anything like the
demonstration; and I didn't wonder at it. Twenty-nine years they had
elected that man to office, and the Lord had elected him to a much
higher office here on earth; his little notes bore a big harvest; and
when the Lord called him to his seat in the Church triumphant, the
Church on earth looked around for some one on whom his mantle could
fall, and I tell you it seemed for a time impossible to do without him.
Why, I moderated the meeting for them when they met to try to fill his
place, and they just spent the first half-hour in tears and praying!
Such lives tell. 'Infirmity,' indeed! God grant us more men like Daniel
Miller."
"What became of Nettie and the boy? Did they get their accounts all
settled?" It was the first time the intent listener had interrupted
the old Doctor's vivid story. Indeed, it could not be called an
interruption, now, for the Doctor had paused, and let his thoughts run
back into the tender past. He roused himself with the question and
laughed a little:—
"How is it, my son?" he asked, looking over toward the writing-table.
"Have you and Nettie finished the accounts, or are they open yet?"
"We mean to keep them open, sir, until we join the 'Church
triumphant.'" The young man answered quickly, albeit his voice was
husky, and he brushed his hand hastily over dim eyes. Then he turned to
the guest.
"My father has given you a true picture of my father-in-law's fruitful
life; as good a picture as can be drawn on the moment; but it is as he
says: no one can tell the story in its fullness. I think we shall have
a wonderful account of it some day."
There was silence in the pleasant room for a few moments. Then the
guest turned to Dr. Mentor. "Thank you," he said brightly, "thank you
very much; they say that 'a word to the wise is sufficient,'" and he
stammered as he tried to speak; then he arose to go.
"Father," said the son, returning from seeing the guest to the door,
and stopping for a moment before his father, "do you think Frank Horton
in danger of becoming deaf? Or is it because he stammers, or just what
is the hidden purpose of the story?"
"Well," said the Doctor, "I told him that story because he is like
Moses, 'slow of speech and slow of tongue.' I think he caught the
lesson and will put it in practice. I am told that he is a very bright,
earnest Christian, but that he broods over his infirmity and is very
sad; you can see it in his countenance. There is a niche for him,
just where, perhaps, the infirmity will tell for God's glory. Look at
your father-in-law. I tell you there is a defect in most lives, an
'infirmity' of some sort, that grace must supplement. It is not for us
to fold our hands and say, 'What a pity!' but to help find the niche
where the marble fits. Mr. Horton is like Daniel Miller. He could not
be a good Sunday-school teacher, or elder, or minister, but he can do
something."
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