sprite refuses to go! I fancy Marion has been teasing her; you know she is very susceptible to ridicule, and it suits Marion’s fancy to amuse herself at the expense of those people who weary of Chautauqua. She has attempted something of the kind on me, but, of course I am indifferent to any such shafts, having been in the habit of leading, rather than following, all my life. It seems natural, I suppose, to do so still. I think well of Chautauqua. It is a good place for people to come who have not much money to spend, and who like to be in a pleasant place among pleasant people; and who enjoy fine music, and fine lectures, and all that sort of thing, and are so trammelled by work and small means at home that they cannot cultivate these tastes. But, of course, all these things are no treat to _me_, and I do not hesitate to tell you that I am bored. There is too much preaching to suit my fancy–not real preaching, either, for we haven’t had what you could call a sermon until to-day, but _lectures_, which constantly bring the same theme before you.
“Now you are not to conclude from this that I do not believe in preaching, and Sunday, and all that sort of thing; on the contrary, I believe more fully in them all than I did before I came. In fact I have this very afternoon come to a determination which may surprise you, and which is partly the occasion of my writing this letter, in order that you may know at once what to expect. Harold, as soon as the season is over, and I get back home, I am going to unite with the church? Have I astonished you! I am going to do this from a conviction of duty. You need not imagine that I have been wrought up to such a pitch of excitement that I don’t know what I am about. I assure you there is nothing of the kind. I have simply concluded that it is an eminently proper thing to do. So long as I believe fully in the church and in religion, and wish to sustain both by my money and my influence, why should I not say so? That is a very simple and altogether proper way of saying it, and saves a good deal of troublesome explanation. I wonder that I haven’t thought of it before.
“I do not mind telling you that it was some remarks of Marion’s that first suggested the propriety of this thing to me. You know she is an infidel and I am not; and she intimated what is true enough, that I lived exactly as though I thought just as she did; so in thinking it over I concluded it was true, and that my influence ought to be with the church in this matter. Now you know, Harold, that with me to decide is to do; so this is as good as done. I should like it very well if you choose to come to the same conclusion and unite at the same time that I do. I am sure Dr. Dennis would be gratified. I don’t know why we shouldn’t be willing to have it known where we stand; and I know you respect the church and trust her as well as I do myself.
“I told Marion to-day ‘I did not see how a person with brains could be an infidel,’ or something to that effect–and I _don’t_. I think that is such a silly view to take of life. Just as if everything _could_ come by chance! And if God did not make everything, who did? I have no patience with that sort of thing, and I am glad to remember that you have no such tastes.
“By the way, are the Arnotts in Saratoga? I hope not, for they are such fanatics there is no comfort in meeting them, and yet one has to be civil.
“Seems to me you do not enjoy the opera as well as usual, nor the hops either. What is the matter? Do you really miss me? If there is any such foolish fancy in your heart as that, prepare to enjoy yourself next week, for I shall be with you at every one of them after Tuesday. It will take me until then to get something decent to wear.
“I hear the girls coming up the hill, and I must leave you.
“_Au revoir_,
“RUTH.”
Folding and addressing this epistle with a satisfied air, and still full of the spirit which had prompted her to write a _religious_ letter, Ruth, finding that Marion had come in alone, and that Flossy and Eurie were still loitering up the hill, gave herself the satisfaction of communicating her change of views.
“I have been thinking a good deal about what you said this afternoon, Marion, and there is truth in it. I do not think as you do, and I ought to take some measures to let people know it. I have the most perfect respect for and confidence in religion, and I mean to prove it by uniting with the church. I have decided to attend to that matter as soon as I get home again after the season is over. I am surprised at myself for not doing so before, for I certainly consider it eminently proper, in fact a duty.”
Now, it was very provoking to have so religious a sentence as this received in the manner that it was. Marion tilted her stool back against the bed, and gave herself up to the luxury of a ringing laugh.
“Really,” Ruth said, “you have returned from church in a very hilarious mood; something very funny must have happened; it can not be that anything in my sentence had to do with your amusement.”
“Yes, but it has,” squealed Marion, holding her sides and laughing still. “Oh, Ruthie, Ruthie, you will be the death of me! And so you think that this is religion! You honestly suppose that standing up in church and having your name read off constitutes Christianity! Don’t do it, Ruthie; you have never been a hypocrite, and I have always honored you because you were not. If this is all the religion you can find, go without it forever and ever, for I tell you there is not a single bit in it.”
Her laughter had utterly ceased, and her voice was solemn in its intensity.
“I don’t know what you mean in the least,” Ruth said, testily. “You are talking about something of which you know nothing.”
“So are you. Oh, Ruthie, so are you! Yes, I know something about it; I know that you haven’t reached the A, B, C, of it. Why, Ruthie, do you remember that story this afternoon? Do you remember that little boy in the garret, how he turned his face to the wall and asked God to save him? Have you done that? Do you honestly think that _you_, Ruth Erskine, have anything to be saved from? Don’t you know the little fellow said, ‘_He answered_.’ Has He answered you? Why, Ruth, do you never listen to the church covenant? How does it read: ‘That it is eminently fit and proper for those who believe that God made them to join the church?’ Ruth Erskine, you can never take more solemn vows upon you than you will have to take if you unite with the church, and I beg you not to do it. I tell you it means more than that. I had a father who was a member of the church and he prayed–oh, how he prayed! He was the best man who ever lived on earth! Every one knew he was good; every one thought he was a saint; and it seems to me as though I could never love any God who did not give him a happier lot than he had as a reward for his holy life. But do you think he thought himself good? I tell you he felt that no one could be more weak and sinful and in need of saving than he was. Oh, I know the people who make up churches have more than this in them. _I_ think it is all a deception, but it is a blessed one to have. I know these people at Chautauqua have it, hundreds of them. I see the same look in their faces that my father had in his, and if I could only get the same delusion into my heart I would hug it for my blessed father’s sake; but don’t you ever go into the church and subscribe to these things that they will ask of you until you have felt the same need of help and the same sense of being helped that they have. If you do, and there is a God, I would rather stand my chance with him than to have yours.”
And Marion seized her hat and rushed out into the night, leaving Ruth utterly dumbfounded.
CHAPTER XXII.
ONE MINUTE’S WORK.
Marion struck out into the darkness, caring little which way she went; she had rarely been so wrought upon; her veins seemed to glow with fire. What difference did it make? she asked herself. If there was nothing at all in it, why not let Ruth amuse herself by joining the church and playing at religion? It would add to her sense of dignity, and who would be hurt by it?
There was a difficulty in the way. Turn where she would, it confronted Marion during these days. There was a solemn haunting “if” that would not be put down. What _if_ all these things were true? She by no means felt so assured as she had once done: indeed, the foundations for her disbelief seemed to have been shaken from under her during the last week.
Remember, she had never spent a week with Christians before in her life; not, at least, a week during which she was made to realize all the time that they were Christians; that they stood on a different platform from herself.
Now, as she tramped about through the darkening woods, meeting constantly groups of people on their way home from the meeting, hearing from them snatches of what had been said and sung, she suddenly paused, and so vivid was the impression that for long afterward she could not think of it without feeling that a voice must certainly have spoken the words in her ear. Yet she recognized them as a sentence which had struck her from Dr. Pierce’s sermon in the morning.
“God honors his gospel, even though preached by a bad man; honors it sometimes to the saving of a soul. But think of a meeting between the two! the sinner saved and the sinner lost, who was the means of the other’s salvation.” It had thrilled Marion at the time, with her old questioning thrill: What if such a thing were possible! Now it came again.
She stood perfectly still, all the blood seeming to recede from and leave her faint with the strange solemnity of the thought! What if she had this evening been preaching the gospel to Ruth! What if the words of hers should lead Ruth to think, and to hunt, and to find this light that those who were not blind–if there were any such–succeeded in finding! What if, as a result of this, she should go to heaven! and what if it were true that there was to be a judgment, and they two should meet, and then and there she should realize that it was because of this evening’s talk that Ruth stood in glory on the other side of the great gulf of separation! What kind of a feeling would that be?
“Oh, if I only knew,” she said aloud, sitting suddenly down on a fallen log, “if I _only_ knew that any of these things were so! or if I could only get to imagining that they were, I would take them up and have the comfort out of them that some of these people seem to get, for I have so little comfort in my life. It can not be that it is all a farce, such as Ruth’s horrid resolve would lead one to think; that is not the way that Dr. Vincent feels about it; it is not the way that Dr. Pierce preached about it this morning; it is not the way that man Bliss sings about it. There is more to it than that. My father had more than that. If he could only look down to-night and tell me whether it is so, whether he is safe and well and perfectly happy. Oh, it seems to me if I could only be sure, _sure_ beyond a doubt that God did give an eternal heaven to my father, I could love him forever for doing that, even though there is a hell and I go to it.”
Within the tent they were having talk that would seem to amount to very little. Even Eurie appeared to be subdued, and to have almost nothing to say. Ruth was roused from the half stupor of astonishment into which Marion’s unexpected words had thrown her by hearing Flossy say, “Oh, Ruth, I forgot to tell you something; Mrs. Smythe stopped at the door on Saturday evening before you came home; her party leave for Saratoga to-morrow morning, and she wanted to know whether any of us would go with them.”
“Did you tell her I was going?” Ruth asked, quickly. It was utterly distasteful to her to think of having Mrs. Smythe’s company. She did not stop to analyze her feelings; she simply shrank from contact with Mrs. Smythe and from others who were sure to be of her stamp.
“No,” Flossy said, “I did not know what you had decided upon; I said it was possible that you might want to go, but some one joined us just then and the conversation changed: I did not think of it again.”
“I am glad you didn’t,” Ruth said, emphatically. “I don’t want her society. I won’t go in the morning if I am to be bored with that party; I would rather wait a week.”
“They are going in the morning train,” Eurie said; “I heard that tall man who sometimes leads the singing say so. He said there was quite a little party to go, among them a party from Clyde, who were _en route_ for Saratoga. That is them, you know; nearly all of them are from Clyde. ‘Oh, yes,’ the other man said; ‘we must expect that. Of course there is a froth to all these things that must evaporate toward Saratoga, or some other resort. There is a class of mind that Chautauqua is too much for.’ Think of that, Ruthie, to be considered nothing but froth that is to evaporate!”
“Nonsense!” Ruth said, sharply. She seemed to consider that an unanswerable argument, and in a sense it is. Nevertheless Eurie’s words had their effect; she began to wish that letter unwritten, and to wish that she had not said so much about Saratoga, and to wish that there was some quiet way of changing her plans.
In fact, an utter distaste for Saratoga seemed suddenly to have come upon her. Conversation palled after this; Marion came in, and the four made ready for the night in almost absolute silence. The next thing that occurred was sufficiently startling in its nature to arouse them all. It was one of those sudden, careless movements that this life of ours is full of, taking only a moment of time, and involving consequences that reached away beyond time, and death, and resurrection.
“Eurie,” Ruth had said, “where is your head ache bottle that you boast so much of? I believe I am going to have a sick headache.”
“In my satchel,” Eurie answered, sleepily. She was already in bed. “There is a spoon on that box in the corner; take a tea-spoonful.” Another minute of silence, then Eurie suddenly raised her head from the pillow and looked about her wildly. The dim light of the lamp showed Ruth, slowly pulling the pins from her hair.
“Did you take it?” she asked, and her voice was full of eager, intense fright. “Ruth, you didn’t _take_ it!”
“Yes, I did, of course. What is the matter with you?”
“It was the wrong bottle. It was the liniment bottle in my satchel. I forgot. Oh, Ruth, Ruth, what will we do? It is a deadly poison.”
Then to have realized the scene that followed you should have been there to sea. Ruth gave one loud shriek that seemed to re-echo through the trees, and Eurie’s moan was hardly less terrible. Marion sprang out of bed, and was alert and alive in a moment.
“Ruth, lie down; Eurie, stop groaning and act. What was it? Tell me this instant.”
“Oh, I don’t _know_ what it was, only he said that ten drops would kill a person, and she took a tea-spoonful.”
“I know where the doctor’s cottage is,” said Flossy, dressing rapidly. “I can go for him.” And almost as soon as the words were spoken she had slipped out into the darkness.
Ruth had obeyed the imperative command of Marion and laid herself on the bed. She was deadly pale, and Eurie, who felt eagerly for her pulse, felt in vain. Whether it was gone, or whether her excitement was too great to find it, she did not know. Meantime, Marion fumbled in Flossy’s trunk and came toward them with a bottle.
“Hold the light, Eurie; this is Flossy’s hair-oil. I happen to know that it is harmless, and oil is an antidote for half the poisons in the world. Ruth, swallow this and keep up courage; we will save you.”
Down went the horrid spoonful, and Marion was eagerly at work chafing her limbs and rubbing her hands, hurrying Eurie meantime who had started for the hotel in search of help and hot water.
That dreadful fifteen minutes! Not one of them but that thought it was hours. They never forgot the time when they fought so courageously, and yet so hopelessly, with death. Ruth did not seem to grow worse, but she looked ghastly enough for death to have claimed her for his victim; and Flossy did not return. Eurie came back to report a fire made and water heating, and seizing a pail was about to start again, when her eye caught the open satchel, and a bottle quietly reposing there, closely corked and tied over the top with a bit of kid; she gave a scream as loud as the first had been.
“What _is_ the matter now?” Marion said. “Eurie, do have a little common sense.”
“She didn’t take it!” burst forth Eurie. “It is all a mistake. It _was_ the right bottle. Here is the other, corked, just as I put it.”
Before this sentence was half concluded Ruth was sitting up in bed, and Marion, utterly overcome by this sudden revulsion of feeling, was crying hysterically. There is no use in trying to picture the rest of that excitement. Suffice it to say that the events of the next hour are not likely to be forgotten by those who were connected with them. Eurie came back to her senses first, and met and explained to the people who had heard the alarm, and were eagerly gathering with offers of help. There was much talk, and many exclamations of thankfulness and much laughter, and at last everything was growing quiet again.
“I can not find the doctor,” Flossy had reported in despair. “He has gone to Mayville, but Mr. Roberts will be here in a minute with a remedy, and he is going right over to Mayville for the doctor.”
“Don’t let him, I beg,” said Marion, who was herself again. “There is nothing more formidable than a spoonful of your hair-oil. I don’t know but the poor child needs an emetic to get rid of that. Eurie, my dear, can’t you impress it on those dear people that we _don’t want_ any hot water? I hear the fourth pail coming.”
It was midnight before this excited group settled down into anything like quiet. But the strain had been so great, and the relief so complete, that a sleep so heavy that it was almost a stupor at last held the tired workers.
Now, what of it all? Why did this foolish mistake of bottles, which might have been a tragedy, and was nothing but a causeless excitement, reach so far with its results?
Let me tell you of one to whom sleep did not come. That was the one who but half an hour before had believed herself face to face with death! What mattered it to her that it was a mistake, and death no nearer to her, so far as she knew, than to the rest of the sleeping world?
Death was not annihilated–he was only held at bay. She knew that he _would_ come, and that there would be no slipping away when his hand actually grasped hers. She believed in death; she had supposed herself being drawn into his remorseless grasp. To her the experience, so far as it had led her, was just as real as though there had been no mistake.
And the result? _She had been afraid_! All her proper resolutions, so fresh in her mind, made only that very afternoon, had been of no more help to her than so much foam. She had not so much as remembered in her hour of terror whether there _was_ a church to join. But that there was a God, and a judgment, and a Savior, who was not hers, had been as real and vivid as she thinks it ever can be, even when she stands on the very brink.
Oh, that long night of agony! when she tossed and turned and sought in vain for an hour of rest. She was afraid to sleep. How like death this sleeping was! Who could know, when they gave themselves up to the grasp of this power, that he was not the very death angel himself in disguise, and would give them no earthly awakening forever?
What should she do? Believe in religion? Yes. She knew it was true. What then? What had Marion said? Was that all true? Aye, verily it was; she knew that, too. Had she not stood side by side with death?
The hours went by and the conflict went on. There was a conflict. Her conscience knew much more than her tongue had given it credit for knowing that afternoon. Oh, she had seen Christians who had done more than join the church! She had imagined that that act might have a mysterious and gradual change on her tastes and feelings, so that some time in her life, when she was old, and the seasons for her were over, she might feel differently about a good many things.
But that hour of waiting for the messenger of death, who, she thought, had called her, had swept away this film. “It is not teaching in Sunday-school,” said her brain. “It is not tract distributing; it is not sewing societies for the poor; it is not giving or going. It is _none_ of these things, or _any_ of them, or _all_ of them, as the case may be, and as they come afterward. But _first_ it is this question: Am I my own mistress? do I belong to myself or to God? will I do as I please or as he pleases? will I submit my soul to him, and ask him to keep it and to show me what to do, or when and where to step?”
The night was utterly spent, and the gray dawn of the early sweet summer morning was breaking into the grove, and still Ruth lay with wide-open eyes, and thought. A struggle? Oh dear, yes! Such an one as she had never imagined. That strong will of hers, which had led not only herself but others, yield it, submit to other leadership, always to question: Is this right? can I go here? ought I to say that? What a thing to do! But it involved that; she knew it, felt it. She might have been blind during the week past, but she was not deaf.
How they surged over her, the sentences from one and another to whom she had listened! They were not at play, these great men. What did it mean but that there was a life hidden away, belonging to Christ? She felt no love in her heart, no longing for love, such as poor little Flossy had yearned for. She felt instead that she was equal to life; that the world was sufficient for her; that she wanted the world; but that the world was at conflict with God, and that she belonged to God, and that she _should_ give herself utterly into his hands.
Moreover, she knew there was coming a time when the world, and Saratoga, and the season, with its pleasures, would not do. There was grim death!–he would come. She could not always get away. He was coming every hour for somebody around her. She must–yes, she _must_ get ready for him. It would not do to be surprised again as she had been surprised last night. It was not becoming in Ruth Erskine to live so that the sound of death could palsy her limbs and blanch her cheek and make her shudder with fear. She must get where she could say calmly: “Oh, are _you_ here? Well, I am ready.”
It was just as the sun which was rising in glory forced its smiles in between the thick leaves of the Chautauqua birds’ nests, and set all the little birds in a twitter of delight, that Ruth raised herself on her elbow and said aloud, and with the force that comes from a determined will that has decided something in which there has been a struggle:
“I _will_ do it.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
“I’VE BEEN REDEEMED.”
“What about Saratoga?” was Eurie’s first query as she awoke to life and talk again on that summer morning. “Do you think you will take the 10:50 train, Ruth?”
Ruth gave nothing more decided than a wan smile in answer, and in her heart a wonder as to what Eurie would think of her if she could have known the way in which her night was passed.
“She is more likely to stay in bed,” Marion said, looking at her critically. “You will never think of trying to travel to-day, will you, Ruth? Dear me! how you look! I have always heard that hair oil was weakening, but I did not know its effects were so sudden and disastrous!” And then every one of these silly girls laughed. The disaster of the night before had reached its irresistibly comic side–to them. Only Ruth shivered visibly; it was not funny to her.
It was a very eventful day. She by no means relished the character of invalid that the girls seemed determined ought to be forced upon her and at the same time she had not the least idea of going to Saratoga. Strangely enough, that desire seemed to have utterly gone from her. She had not slept at all, but she arose and dressed herself as usual, with only one feeling strong upon her, and that was a determination to carry out the decision to which she had so recently come, and she had not the least idea how to set to work to carry it out. She went with the rest to the large tent to hear Mrs. Clark’s address to primary class teachers.
“I’m not a primary class teacher, and not likely to be, but I am a woman, and gifted with the natural curiosity of that sex to know what a woman may have to say in so big a place as this. I don’t see how she dares to peep.” This was Eurie’s explanation of her desire to go to the reception.
Ruth went because to go to meeting seemed to be the wisest way that she knew of for carrying out her decision, and a good time she had. She had not imagined that teaching primary classes was such an art, and involved so much time and brain as it did. She listened eagerly to all Mrs. Clark had to say; she followed her through the blackboard lessons with surprise and delight, and she awoke at the close of the hour to the memory that, although she had been interested as she had not imagined it possible for her to be on such a theme, she had done nothing toward her determination to make a Christian of herself, and that she knew no more how to go to work than before.
“When I _do_ find out how to be one I know I will go to work in the Sabbath-school; I have changed my mind on that point.” This she told herself softly as they went back to dinner.
It was a strange afternoon to her. She became unable to interest herself heartily in the public services; her own heart claimed her thought. It was noticeable also that for the first time Chautauqua chose this day in which to be metaphysical and scientific, to the exclusion of personal religion. Not that they were irreligious, not that they for a moment forgot their position as a great religious gathering; but there was an absence of that intense personal element in the talk which had so offended Ruth’s taste heretofore, and she missed it.
She wandered aimlessly up and down the aisles, listening to sentences now and then, and sighing a little. They were eloquent, they were helpful; she could imagine herself as being in a state to enjoy them heartily, but just now she wanted nothing so much as to know what to do in order to give herself a right to membership with that great religious world. Why should Chautauqua suddenly desert her now when she so much needed its help?
“If I knew a single one of these Christian people I would certainly ask them what to do.” This she said talking still to herself. She had come quite away from the meeting, and was down in one of the rustic seats by the lake side. It struck her as very strange that she had not intimate acquaintance with a single Christian. She even traveled home and tried to imagine herself in conversation on this subject with some of her friends. To whom could she go? Mr. Wayne? Why, he wouldn’t understand her in the least. What a strange letter that was which she wrote him! Could it be possible that it was written only yesterday? How strange that she should have suggested to him to unite with the church! How strange that she should have thought of it herself!
There came a quick step behind her, and a voice said, “Good-evening, Miss Erskine.” She turned and tried to recall the name that belonged to the face of the young man before her.
“You do not remember me?” he said, inquiringly. “I was of the party who went to Jamestown on the excursion.”
“Oh, Mr. Flint,” she said, smiling, and holding out her hand. “I beg pardon for forgetting; that seems about a month ago.”
“So it does to me; we live fast here. Miss Erskine, I have been looking for your party; I couldn’t find them. Isn’t Miss Shipley in your tent? Yes, I thought so. Well, I want to see her very much. I have something to tell her that I know will give her pleasure. Perhaps you would take a message for me. I want her to know that since last week, when she told me of her Friend who had become so dear to her, I have found the truth of it. He is my Friend now, and I want to thank her for so impressing me with a desire to know him that I could not give it up.”
Ruth looked utterly puzzled. Something in the young man’s reverent tone, when he used the word “Friend,” suggested that he could mean only the Friend for whom she herself was in looking; and yet–Flossy Shipley! What had _she_ to do with him?
“Do you mean,” she said, hesitatingly, and yet eagerly, for if he indeed meant that here was one for whom she had been looking; “do you mean that you have become a Christian?”
“It is such a new experience,” he said, his face flushing, “that I have hardly dared to call myself by that name; but if to be a Christian means to love the Lord Jesus Christ, and to have given one’s self, body and soul, to his service, why then I am assuredly a Christian.”
This was it. There was no time to be lost. She had spent one night of horror, she could not endure another, and the day was drawing to its end. To be sure she felt no terror now, but the night might bring it back.
“How did you do it?” she asked, simply. “How?” The very simplicity of the question puzzled him. “Why, I just gave myself up to his keeping; I resolved to take a new road and follow only where he led. Miss Shipley was the one who first made me think seriously about this matter; and then I went to the service that evening, and everything that was said and sung, was said and sung right at me. I was just forced into the belief that I had been a fool, and I wanted to be something else.”
“Miss Shipley!” Ruth said, brought back by that name to the wonderment. “You are mistaken. You can not mean Flossy. She isn’t a Christian at all. She never so much as thinks of such things.”
“Oh, _you_ are mistaken.” He said it eagerly and positively. “On the contrary, she is the most earnest and straightforward little Christian that I ever met in my life. Why, I never had anything so come to my soul as that little sentence that she said about having found a _Friend_.’ I know it is the same one. I have seen her with you since, but not near enough to address. Her name is Flossy; I heard her called so that day on the boat.”
“Flossy!” Ruth said it again, in a bewildering tone, and rising as she spoke. “I am going to find her; I want to understand this mystery. I will give her your message, Mr. Flint, but I think there is a mistake.” Saying which she bade him a hasty good-afternoon, for the flutter of a scarlet shawl had reached her eyes. No one but Flossy wore such a wrap as that. She wanted to see her at once, and she _didn’t_ want Mr. Charlie Flint to be along. She went forward with rapid steps to meet her, and slipping an arm within hers, they turned and went slowly back over the mossy path.
“Flossy, I want you to tell me something. I have heard something so strange; I think it is not so, but you can tell me. I want to know if you think you are a Christian?”
I wonder if Flossy has any idea, even now, how strangely Ruth’s heart beat as she asked that simple question. It seemed to involve a great deal to her. She waited for the answer.
There was no hesitation and no indecision about Flossy’s answer. Her cheeks took a pink tint, but her voice was clear.
“I _know_ I am, Ruth. I do not even have to speak with hesitancy. I am so sure that Christ is my Friend, and I grow so much surer of it every day, that I can not doubt it any more than I can doubt that I am walking down this path with you.”
And then, again, Ruth’s astonishment was in part lost in that absorbing question:
“How did you get to be one?”
“It is a simple little story,” Flossy said. And then she began at the beginning and told her little bit of experience, fresh in her heart, dating only a few days back, and full to the brim with peace and gladness to her.
“But I don’t see,” Ruth said, perplexed. “I don’t find out what to _do_. I want to be told how to do it, and none of you tell me; you seem to have just resolved about it, and not _done_ anything. I have gone so far myself. Such a night as last night was, Flossy! Oh, you can never imagine it!”
And then she told her story, as much of it as _could_ be told; of the horror and the thick darkness that had enveloped her she could only hint.
What an eager flash there was in Flossy’s bright eyes as she listened.
“When you said that!” she began, eagerly, as Ruth paused. “When you said, ‘I will do it.’ What then? Did you feel just as you did before?”
“No,” Ruth said, “not at all. The night had gone by that time. As I looked about me I realized that it was daylight, and I fancied that my feelings were the result of a highly excited state of nerves. But the resolve was not to be accounted for in any such way. I meant that. The horror, though, of which I had been telling you was quite gone. It was as if there had been a fearful storm, with the constant roll of thunder, and suddenly a calm. I hadn’t the least feeling of fear or dread, and I haven’t had all day; but to-night I may have the very same experience.”
“No, you will not,” Flossy said, her voice aglow with feeling and with joy. “Oh, Ruthie, Ruthie! There _is_ no night! You have got beyond it. I tell you, you have come into God’s light! And isn’t it blessed? You are a Christian now.”
“But,” protested Ruth, utterly bewildered, “I do not understand you, and I don’t think you understand yourself. In what way am I different from what I was yesterday? How can I be lost in God’s sight one moment and accepted the next?”
“Easily; oh, _so_ easily! Don’t you see? Why, if I had been coaxing you for a year to give me something, and you had steadily refused, but if suddenly you had said to me, ‘Yes. I will; I have changed my mind; I will give it to you,’ wouldn’t there be a difference? Wouldn’t I know that I was to have it? And couldn’t I thank you then, and tell you how glad I was, just the same as though I had it in my hand? It is a poor little illustration, Ruthie, but it is true that God has been calling you all your life, and if you have all the time been saying ‘No,’ up to that moment when you said solemnly, meaning it with all your heart, ‘I will,’ I tell you it makes a difference.”
I can not describe to you how strangely all this sounded to Ruthie. Up to this moment she had not realized in the least that the Lord was asking her simply for a decision, and that having solemnly given it, the work, so far as _she_ was concerned, was done, and the new relations instantly commenced. She thought it over–that sudden calming of heart–that sense of resolve–of determination, so strong, and yet so quiet. She remembered what a strange day it had been. How she had tried to keep before her mind the horror of the night, and had not been able.
She went on talking with Flossy, telling her about Charlie Flint, noticing the happy tears that glistened in Flossy’s eyes as she received her message, taking in the murmured words, “To think that Christ would honor such a feeble little witnessing as that!” and realizing even then that it would be very blessed to have one say to her, “You have been the means of leading me to think about this thing.” Why should _she_ care, though, whether people thought about this thing or not? Yesterday she didn’t. During all the talk she kept up this little undertone of thought, this running commentary on her sudden change of views and feelings, and wondered, and _wondered_, could it be possible that she was utterly changed? And yet, when she came to think of it, wasn’t she? Didn’t she love Christ? And then it struck her as the strangest thing in the world _not_ to love him. How could any one be so devoid of heart as that? Why, a mere man, to have done one-half of what Christ had done for her, would have received undying love and service.
As they walked they neared the stand, and there came just at that moment a burst of music, one of those strange, thrilling tunes such as none but the African race ever sing. The words were familiar, and yet to Ruth they were new:
“There is a fountain filled with blood, Drawn from Immanuel’s veins,
And sinners, plunged beneath that flood. Lose all their guilty stains.”
A sinner! Was _she_, Ruth Erskine, a sinner? Yesterday she had not liked it to be called a prodigal. But to-day, oh yes. Was there a greater sinner to be found than she? How long she had known this story! How long she had known and believed of a certainty that Jesus Christ lived and died that she might have salvation, and yet she had never in her life thanked him for it! Nay, she had spurned and scorned his gift! So much worse than though she had not believed it at all! For then at least she could not have been said to have met him with the insult of indifference.
Then the chorus swelled out on the still air. Only those who heard it under the trees at Chautauqua have the least idea how it sounded; only those who hear it, as Ruth Erskine did, can have the least idea how it sounded to her.
“I’ve been redeemed, I’ve been redeemed!”
Over and over the strain repeated. Now in clear soprano tones, and anon rolled out from the grand bass voices. And then the swelling unison:
“I’ve been redeemed–
Been washed in the blood of the Lamb.”
The girls had stopped, and almost held their breaths to listen. They stood in silence while verse after verse with its triumphant swell of chorus rolled out to them. The great tears gathered slowly in Ruth’s eyes, until, as the last echo died away, she turned to Flossy, and her voice was clear and triumphant:
“I believe I _have_. Flossy, I believe I have. It is a glorious thought, and a wonderful one. It almost frightens me. And yet it thrills me with perfect delight. The fountain is deep enough for us all–for them and for me. I have ‘been redeemed,’ and if God will help me I will never forget it again.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
SWORD THRUSTS.
By the next morning it became clear to our girls that a change of programme was a necessity. Ruth had by no means recovered from her shock and the sleepless night that followed, and some of the comforts of invalidism must be found for her. At the same time she utterly repudiated the idea of Saratoga, which was now urged upon her; it had lost its charms; neither would she go home.
“I have decided to stay until the _very_ last meeting,” she said, with quiet determination.
Flossy laughed softly; she knew what charms Chautauqua had taken on, but the others supposed it to be a whim, resulting from the ridicule she had suffered because of the Saratoga scheme.
After many plans were discussed it was finally decided that Flossy and Ruth should seek quarters at the hotel in Mayville, Ruth coming over to the meetings only when her strength and her fancy dictated, and having some of the luxuries of home about her. It seemed to fall naturally to Flossy’s lot to accompany her; indeed, a barrier was in the way of either of the others being chosen. The hotel arrangement, when one took into consideration the numerous boat-rides to and from the ground, was by no means an economical proceeding, and as Flossy and Ruth were the only ones who were entirely indifferent to the demands of their purses, it must of necessity be them.
Neither of them was disposed to demur; there had never been much congeniality between these two, but they had been friendly, and now there was a subtle bond of sympathy which made them long to be together. So, during the next morning hours, those two were engaged in packing their effects and preparing for a flitting to the Mayville House. Meantime Marion and Eurie, having stood around and looked on until they were tired, departed in search of something to interest them.
“It is too early for meeting,” Marion said. “There is nothing of interest until 11 o’clock. I’m sorry we missed Mrs. Clark. I like to look at her and listen to her; she is just bubbling over with enthusiasm. One can see that she thinks she means it. If I were a Sunday-school teacher I should be glad I was here, to hear her. I think it has been about the most helpful thing I have heard thus far; helpful to those who indulge in that sort of work, I mean.”
“I wonder what those normal classes are like?” Eurie said, studying her programme. “We haven’t been to one of those, have we? What do you suppose they do?”
Marion shrugged her shoulders.
“They are like work,” she said. “‘Working hours,’ they are named; and I suppose some hard thinking is done. If I didn’t have to teach school six hours out of every day at home I might be tempted to go in and listen to them; but I came here to play, you see, and to make money; they are not good to report about. People who stay at home and read the reported letters don’t want to hear anything about the actual _work_; they want to know who the speaker was and how he looked, and whether his gestures were graceful, and–if it is a lady–above all, how she was dressed; if they say anything remarkably sarcastic or irresistibly funny you may venture to report it, but not otherwise, consequently reporting is easy work, if you have not too much conscience, because what you didn’t see you can make up.”
At the end of this harangue she paused suddenly before a tent, whence came the sound of a firm and distinct voice.
“What is this?” she said, and then she lifted a bit of the canvas and peeped in. “I’m going in here, after all,” she said, withdrawing her head and explaining. “This is a normal class, I guess. That man from Philadelphia–what is his name? Tyler? Yes, that is it–J. Bennet Tyler–is leading. I like him; I like his voice ever so much; he makes you hear, whether you want to or not. Then, someway, you get a kind of a notion that he not only believes what he says but that he _knows_ it is so, and that is all there is about it. I like to meet such people now and then, because they are so rare. Generally people act as though you could coax them out of their notions in about twenty minutes if you tried–when they are talking about religious subjects, I mean. Obstinacy is not so rare a trait where other matters are concerned. Let’s go in.”
“What is the subject this morning?” Eurie asked, following her guide around to the entrance, somewhat reluctantly. She was in no mood for shutting herself inside a tent, and being obliged to listen whether she wanted to or not. But Marion was in one of her positive moods this morning, and must either be followed or deserted altogether.
Mr. Tyler was reading from a slip of paper as they entered. This was the sentence he read:
“Difficulties in interpretation which arise from certain mental peculiarities of the student. Some minds, and not by any means the strongest or noblest, must always see the _reason_ for everything.”
Marion gave Eurie a sagacious nod of the head.
“Don’t you see?” she said. “Now, by the peculiar way in which he read that, he made believe it was _me_ he meant. And, by the way, I’m not sure but he is correct. I must say that I like a reason for things. But what right has he to say that _that_ is an indication of a weak mind?”
“He didn’t say so,” whispered Eurie.
“Oh, yes he did; it amounted to that. There is where his peculiar use of words comes in. That man has _studied_ words until he handles them as if they were foot-balls, and were to go exactly where he sent them.”
“He is looking this way. The next thing you know he will throw some at us for whispering.”
This was Ernie’s attempt to quiet Marion’s tongue. That or some other influence had the desired effect. She whispered no more, and it was apparent in a very few minutes that she had become intensely interested in the theme and in the way it was being handled. An eager examination of the programme disclosed what she began to suspect, that the subject was, “Difficulties in the Bible.” Her intellectual knowledge of the Bible was considerable; and having read it ever since she could remember, with the express purpose of finding difficulties, it was not surprising that she had found them.
Something, either in the leader’s manner of drawing out answers, or the peculiar emphasis with which he contrived to invest certain words, had the effect to cause Marion to feel as though she had been very superficial in her reasoning and childish in her objections. She grew eager her brain, accustomed to work rapidly and follow trains of thought closely, enjoyed the keen play of thought that was being drawn forth.
But there was more than that; almost unconsciously to herself this subject was assuming vital proportions to her; she did not even herself realize the intensity of the cry in her heart, “If I only _knew_ whether these were so!” Presently the voice which had once before struck her as being so peculiar in its personality sounded distinctly down the long tent.
“Remember the conditions under which the Bible promise clear apprehension of the truth.”
It chanced–at least that is the way in which we use language–it chanced that Mr. Tyler’s eyes as he repeated these words rested on Marion. Speaking of it afterward she said:
“So far as the impression made on me was concerned, it was the same as though he had said: ‘Do you understand what an idiot you have been not to take that cardinal point into consideration at all? Open your Bible and read, and see how like a weak-minded babe you are.'”
Beside her lay a Bible just dropped by some one who had been called out. Following out the impulse of the moment she turned to the reference, and her clear voice gave it distinctly:
“If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine whether it be of God or whether I speak of myself.”
The effect of this simple, straightforward and reasonable proposition, on sounding back to her spoken by her own voice, was tremendous. Very little more of the talk did she hear. A thrust, from God’s own sword had reached her. What a fool she had been! What right had she to presume to give an opinion before applying the test? Had not the most common-place statements a right to be tried by their own tests? Yet she had never given this simple direction a thought.
So this was the Bible promise? “He _shall_ know.” Not that these things are so, but a more logical, more satisfactory statement to the natural heart. He shall judge for himself whether these things be so; follow the directions, and then judge by your experiences after that whether these things be true or false. Could anything be more reasonable?
“I shall never dare to say that I don’t believe the Bible again, for fear some one will ask me whether I have applied the test, and if I have not what business have I to judge. That man now, if I should come in contact with him, which I shall endeavor not to do, would be sure to ask me. He has almost the same as asked it now, before all these people. He has a mysterious way of making me feel as though he was talking for my confusion and for nobody else.”
This Marion told to herself as she eyed the leader, half sullenly. He had strangely disturbed her logic and set her refuge in ruins.
“Let’s go,” she said suddenly to Eurie. “I am tired of this; I have had enough, and more than enough.” But the hour was over, and she had had all that was to be secured from that source.
All the younger portion of the congregation seemed to be rushing back up the hill again, and inquiry developed the fact that Mrs. Clark was to meet the primary workers in the large tent. It was wonderful how many people chose to consider themselves primary workers? At least they rushed to this meeting, a great army of them, as though their one object in life, was to learn how successfully to teach the little ones. Our girls all met together in the tent. Ruth and Flossy had finished their preparations, but had concluded to wait until afternoon service.
“I declare if _you_ are not armed with a pencil and paper. Have you been seized with a mania for taking notes?” This Eurie said to Ruth. “Now I’m going to get out _my_ note book too. Here is a card–it will hold all I care to write I dare say. Let me see, who knows but I shall go to teaching in Sabbath-school one of these days! I am going to make a list of the things which according to Mrs. Clark, we shall need.”
True to her new fancy, she scribbled industriously during the session, and showed her card with glee as they left the tent.
“I’ve a complete list,” she said. “If any of you go into the business I can supply you with the names of the necessary tools. Look!
“A blackboard.
“A picture roll.
“A punch!
“Cards.
“Brains!
“Blank book.
“Children.
“More brains!
“That last item,” she said, reflectively, “is the hardest to find. I had no idea so much of that material was necessary. Now let me see what is on your papers.” This even Marion stoutly resisted. And Flossy quietly hid hers in her pocket, saying with a smile:
“Mine is simply a list of things needful for such work.”
If she had shown her paper it would have astonished Eurie, and it might have done her good. This was what she had written:
“What I need in order to be a successful teacher.
“Such a forgetfulness of self as shall lead me to think only of the little ones and their needs.
“Such a love for Christ as shall lead me to long after every little soul to lead it to him.”
As for Marion her paper contained simply this sentence, carefully written out in German text as if she had deliberated over each letter;
“If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of God.”
They went in a body to hear Dr. Hatfield.
“I want that lecture,” Marion said, “‘Perils of the Hour.’ I’m very anxious to know what my peril is. I know just what is hovering over every one of you, but I can’t quite make up my mind as to my own state. Perhaps the distinguished gentleman can help me.”
And he did. He had selected for one of the perils that which was embodied in the following ringing sentence:
“The third peril is the prevelancy of skepticism. A class of scientists have discovered that there is no God! What the fool said in his _heart_ they proclaimed on the house-top!”
Eurie looked over at her, smiling and mischievous, and said in anything but a softly whisper, “That means you, my dear.”
But Marion did not hear her; she was absorbed in the intense scathing sentences that followed. Of one thing she presently felt assured, that whoever was right or whoever was wrong in this matter, Dr. Hatfield believed with all the intensity of an intense educated intellect that God ruled. Was it probable that he had met the condition, done his will, and so _knew_ of the doctrine? That was an hour to be remembered. Eurie ceased to whisper or to frolic; there was too much intensity, about the speaker’s manner not to claim her attention. She listened as she was not in the habit of listening. She could give you a detailed account even now of that hour of thought; so could I, and I am awfully tempted; but, you see, it is only Tuesday, and the girls have six more days to spend at Chautauqua.
Both Ruth and Flossy got their crumb to think over. They discussed it at the hotel that evening.
“I tell you, Flossy, if Dr. Hatfield is correct you and I have tremendous changes to make in our way of spending the Sabbath; and I have actually prided myself on the way in which I respected the day!”
And Ruth laughed as if that were so strange a thought, now that it was hardly possible to think that she could have entertained it.
“I know,” Flossy said; “and he can not but be right, for he proved his position. I am glad I heard that address. But for him, I know I should never have thought of my influence in some places where I now see I can use it. Ruth you will be struck with one thing. Now, Chautauqua is like what Madame C’s school might have been, so far as study is concerned. Every day I have a new lesson, one that startles me so! I feel that there must be some mistake, or I would have heard of or thought of some of these things before. And yet they sound so reasonable when you come to think them over, that presently I am surprised that I have not felt them before. Ruthie, do you think Eurie and Marion have any interest at all?”
“No,” said Ruth, positively, “I know Marion hasn’t. It was only the other evening that she talked more wildly if anything than before.”
About this time Marion, alone in her tent, said again, as she had said a dozen times during the last few days: “If I _only knew_!” And this time she added, “If I only knew _how_ to know!”
CHAPTER XXV.
SERMONS IN CHALK.
Now, see here, Marion Wilbur, wake up and give me your attention. I want to make a speech; I’ve caught the infection. It’s queer in a place where there is so much speech-making done that I can’t have a chance to express my views.”
“I’m all attention,” Marion answered, turning on her pillow, and giving Eurie a sleepy stare. “What has moved you to be eloquent? Give me the subject.”
“The subject is the reflex influence of preaching! It may have different effects on different natures. Its effect on mine has been marked enough. I’m thoroughly surfeited. I don’t want to hear another sermon while I am here, and I don’t _mean_ to. They are all sermons. The subject may be scientific, literary or artistic, and it amounts to the same thing; they contrive to row around to the same spot from whatever point they start. Now, I came here for fun, and I’m being literally cheated out of it. So the application of my remark is, I’ve learned since I have been here always to have an application to everything, and this time it is that I won’t go any more. I’ve studied the programme carefully, and I have selected just what I am going to do. That Mrs. Knox has a reception this morning. I’ve heard about her before; she is awfully in earnest, and awfully good. Oh, I haven’t the least doubt of it; but, you see, I don’t want to be good, nor to have such an uncomfortable amount of goodness about me.”
“She is said to be one of the most successful Sabbath-school teachers here; and I heard a gentleman say last night that her primary class was a regular training school for young ladies in Christian work. You know she has ever so many teachers under her.”
“I can’t help that. I am not one of them, I am thankful to say. What do I care whether she is successful or not? That won’t help me any. I know all about her. They say the young ladies in her classes are invariably converted before they have been under her influence long. So if you want to be converted you have only to go to Elmira and join her class; but as for me, I am not in the mood for that experience yet, and I am not going near her.”
“What _are_ you going to do then?”
“Just what I please! That is what I came for. Just think of the absurdity of we four girls rushing to meeting at the rate we have been doing for the last week. What do you suppose the people at home would think of us? Why, I didn’t expect to hear any of their sermons when I came. I as good as promised Flossy that I would frolic about with her all the time, and now the absurd little dunce acts as if she were under a wager to be on the ground every time the bell rings! I’ve declared off. I can tell you to an item just what I am going to hear. There is a performance to come off this afternoon some time that I shall be ready for. I loitered behind the King tent last night, and heard him say so. That Frank Beard is going to give his chalk talk–caricatures: that I shall hear, and especially _see_. It will be hard work to poke a sermon into that. I guess that is to be this afternoon; it is to be some time soon, anyway, and I shall watch for it. Then there is to be another extra. Mrs. Miller is going to read a story. I can give you the title of it. I didn’t sit on that horrid stump in the dark listening to Dr. Vincent for nothing. It is to be ‘Three Blind Mice.’ Now it stands to reason that a story with such a title will not be very far above my intellectual capacity, and it _can’t_ very well develop into a sermon, or close with a prayer-meeting. Then I’m going to the concert by the Tennesseeans;’ their jargon won’t hurt me; and, of course, I shall attend the President’s reception. I must have a stare at him–and that is every solitary meeting I am going to attend. I’ve heard the last preaching that I mean to for some time.”
Now this was what Eurie Mitchell _said_. Let me tell you a little bit about what she _thought_. She was by no means so indifferent, nor so bored as she would have Marion understand. She was by no means in the state of mind that Ruth had been, or that Marion was. No doubts as to the general truth of all the vital doctrines of Christianity had ever troubled her. She accepted without question the belief of the so-called Christian World. Neither was she bewildered as to what constituted Christian life. No vague notion that to unite herself with some church would let her into the charmed circle had ever befogged her brain.
On the contrary, she knew better than many a Christian does just what the Christian profession involved, and just how narrow a path ought to be walked by those professing to follow Christ. In proportion to the keenness of her sarcasm over blundering, stumbling Christians, had her eyes been open to what they ought to be.
There was just this the matter with Eurie. She knew so well what religious professions involved that she wanted to make none. She hated the thought of self-abnegation, of bridling her eager tongue, of going only where her enlightened conscience said a Christian should go, of looking out for and calling after others to go with her. She wished deliberately to ignore it all. Not forever, she would have been shocked at the thought. Some time she meant to give intense heed to these things, and then indeed the church should see what a Christian _could_ be! But not now.
There were a hundred things laid down in her programme for the coming winter that she knew perfectly well were not the things to do or say, provided she were a Christian, and she deliberately wished to avoid the fear of becoming one. Just here she was afraid of the influence of Chautauqua.
How was it possible to attend these meetings, to listen to these daily, hourly addresses, teeming either directly or indirectly with the same thought, personal consecration, without feeling herself drawn within the circle? She would _not_ be drawn. This was her deliberate conclusion, therefore her determination.
It was almost well for her that she could not realize on what fearfully dangerous ground she was treading! I wonder if those over whom the Lord says, “Let them alone,” are ever conscious at the time that the order has gone forth, and that they are to feel their consciences pressing home this matter no more?
“Well,” said Marion, after turning this resolution over in her mind for a few minutes, “I dare say you will lose a good many things worth hearing; but I have nothing to do with that–only I want you to go with me up to hear Mrs. Knox this morning. I’ve _got_ to go, for I promised especially to report her for the teachers at home, and it is stupid to go alone. _She_ won’t preach, and she won’t bore you, and I want you to help me remember items.”
So, much against her will, Eurie was coaxed into this departure from her programme, and came back from the meeting in intense disgust.
“Talk about _her_ not preaching,” she said, venting her annoyance on Marion while she energetically brushed her hair. “Every fold of her dress preached a sermon! She makes me ache all over, she is so powerfully in earnest; and didn’t she hint what angels of goodness those girls of hers were–those teachers! I’d like to know how they could be anything else but good with such an example at hand. Just think, Marion, of having the brains that that woman has, and the energy and tact and the skill of a general, and then forcing it into a Sunday-school class room for the teaching of a hundred little dots that have just tumbled out of their cradles!”
“Well, if she teaches them to tumble out on the right side so that they will come up grand men and women, what then? Isn’t that an ambition worthy of her?”
“Stuff and nonsense! Don’t you go to preaching. I shall go and drown myself in the lake if I hear any more of it, and then one worthless person will be out of the way. But don’t you dare to ask me to go and hear that woman again! I won’t give up my plans in life for hers, and she needn’t hint it to me. And, Marion Wilbur, I am not going to listen to another man or woman who has the least chance to fire words right at me–now mark my words.”
Full of this determination she carried it out during the afternoon, until the hour for Frank Beard’s caricatures; then, secure from fear of a sermon, she came gayly down and considered herself fortunate to secure a seat directly in front of the stand and in full view of the blackboard. If you have never seen Frank Beard make pictures you know nothing about what a good time she had. They were such funny pictures! –just a few strokes of the magic crayon and the character described would seem to start into life before you, and you would feel that you could almost know what thoughts were passing in the heart of the creature made of chalk. Eurie looked, and listened, and laughed. The old deacon who thought the Sunday-school was being glorified too much had his exact counterpart among her acquaintances, so far as his looks were concerned. The three troublesome Sunday-school scholars fairly convulsed her by their life-like appearance. There was the little scamp of a boy who was revealed by the dozen to any one who took a walk down town toward the close of the day; the argumentative old man, with his nose pointing out a flaw in your reasoning or on the keen scent for a mistake; and the pert fourteen-year-old girl whose very nose, as it slightly turned upward, showed that she knew more than all the logicians and theologians in the world.
This entertainment was exactly in Eurie’s line. If there was anything in the world that she was an adept at it was looking up weak points in the characters of other people; and when the silly girl with but two ideas–one of them bows and the other beaux–lived and breathed before her on the blackboard her delight reached its climax.
“She is the very picture of Nettie Arnold!” she whispered to Marion. “When I go home I mean to tell her that her photograph was displayed at Chautauqua. She is just vain enough to believe it!”
Still the fun went on. Just a few bold, rapid strokes, and some caricature breathed before them, so real that the character was guessed before the explanation was given, and the ground rang with continued and overpowering roars of laughter.
Into the midst of this entertainment came Dr. Vincent, his face aglow with the exertion of hearty laughter, every feature of it expressive of his hearty appreciation of this hour of recreation and yet every feature alive and alert with a higher and more enduring feeling.
“Frank,” he said, laying a friendly hand on the artist’s arm, “our time is almost up. Give us the symbol of the teacher’s work.”
There was an instant of rapid motion, a few skillful lines, and it needed no word of explanation to recognize the great family Bible. “Now the symbol of the teacher’s hope,” and on one page of the open Bible there flashed an anchor.
“Now the symbol of his reward,” and lo, there rose up before them the solid wall, built brick by brick. Dr. Vincent’s voice was almost husky with feeling, so suddenly had the play of his emotions changed, as he said: “Now we want the foundation.”
How did Frank Beard do it with a dull colored crayon and a half-dozen movements of his skillful arm? How can I tell, except that God has given to the arm wondrous skill; but there appeared before that astonished multitude a foundation as of granite, and there rose from it, as if suddenly hewed out before them, a clean-cut solid shaft of gray, imperishable granite. One more dash of the wondrous crayon and the shaft was done–a solid cross!
Prof. Sherwin was sitting, for want of a better position, on the floor of the stand. It was the only available space. He had been looking and enjoying as only men like Prof. Sherwin can; and now, as he watched the outgrowth of this wonderful cross, as the last stroke was given that made it complete, and a sound like a subdued shout of joy and triumph murmured through the crowd, moved as by a sudden mighty impulse that he could not control, his splendid voice burst forth in the glorious words:
“Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me _hide_ myself in Thee.”
And that great multitude took it up and rolled the tribute of praise down those resounding aisles until people bowed themselves, and some of them wept softly in the very excess of their joy and thanksgiving. It was all so sudden, so unexpected; yet it was so surely the key-note to the Chautauqua heart, and fitted in so aptly with their professions and intentions. They could play for a few minutes–none could do it with better hearts or more utter enjoyment than these same splendid leaders–but how surely their hearts turned back to the main thought, the main work, the main hope, in life and in death.
As for Eurie, she will not be likely to forget that sermon. It almost overpowered her. There came over her such a sudden and eager longing to understand the depths from whence such feeling sprung, to rest her feet on the same foundation, that for the moment her heart gave a great bound and said: “It is worth all the self-denial and all the change of life and plans which it would involve. I almost think I want that rather than anything else.” That miserable “almost!” I wonder how many souls it has shipwrecked? The old story. If Eurie had been familiar with her Bible it would surely have reminded her of the foolish listener who said, while he trembled under the truth, “_Almost_ thou persuadest me to be a Christian.”
Shall I tell you what came in, just then and there, to influence her decision? It was such a miserable little thing–nothing more than the remembrance of certain private parties that were a standing institution among “their set” at home, to meet fortnightly in each other’s parlors for a social dance. Not a ball! oh, no, not at all. These young ladies did not attend _balls_, unless occasionally a charity ball, when a very select party was made up. Simply quiet evenings among _special_ friends, where the special amusement was dancing.
“Dear me!” you say, “I am a Christian, and I don’t see anything wrong in _dancing_. Why, I dance at private parties very often. What was there in that thought that needed to influence her?”
Oh, well, we are not arguing, you know. This is simply a record of matters and things as they occurred at Chautauqua. It can hardly be said to be a story, except as records of real lives of course make stories.
But Eurie was _not_ a Christian, you see; and however foolish it may have been in her she had picked out dancing as one of the amusements not fitting to a Christian profession. It is a queer fact, for the cause of which I do not pretend to account, but if you are curious, and will investigate this subject, you will find that four fifths of the people in this world who are not Christiana have tacitly agreed among themselves that dancing is not an amusement that seems entirely suited to church-members. If you want to get at the reason for this strange prejudice, question some of them. Meantime the fact exists that Eurie felt herself utterly unwilling to give up the leadership of those fortnightly parties, and that the trivial question actually came in then and there, while she stood looking at that picture of the cross; and in proportion as her sudden conviction of desire lost itself in this whirl of intended amusement did her disgust arise at the thought that she had been actually betrayed into listening to another sermon!
CHAPTER XXVI.
“THEIR WORKS DO FOLLOW THEM.”
Marion went alone to the services the next morning. It was in vain that she assured Eurie that Miss Morris was going to conduct one of the normal classes, and that she had heard her spoken of as unusually sparkling. Eurie shook her head.
“Go and hear her sparkle, then, by all means I won’t. Now that’s a very inelegant word to use, but it is expressive, and when _I_ use it you may know that I mean it; I am tired of the whole story, and I have been cheated times enough. Look at yesterday! It was a dozen prayer-meetings combined. No, I don’t get caught this morning.”
“But the subject is one that will not admit of sermonizing and prayer-meetings this morning,” Marion pleaded; “I am specially interested in it. It is ‘How to win and hold attention.’ If there is anything earthly that a ward school-teacher needs to know it is those two items. I expect to get practical help.”
“You needn’t expect anything _earthly_; this crowd have nothing to do with matters this side of eternity. As for the subject not admitting of sermonizing, look at the subject of blackboard caricatures. What came of that?”
So she went her way, and Marion, who had seen Miss Morris and had been attracted, looked her up with earnest work in view. She had an ambition to be a power in her school-room. Why should not this subject help _her_?
The tent was quite full, but she made her way to a corner and secured a seat. Miss Morris was apparently engaged in introducing herself and apologizing for her subject.
“I tried to beg off,” she said; “I told them that the subject and I had nothing in common; that I was a primary class teacher, and in that line lay my work. But there is no sort of use in trying to change Dr. Vincent’s mind about anything, so I had to submit. But for once in my life I remind myself of Gough. I once overheard him in conversation with a committee on lectures. They were objecting to having him lecture on temperance, and pressing him to name some other subject. ‘Choose what subject you please, gentlemen,’ he said at last, ‘and I’ll lecture on it, but remember what I _say_ will be on temperance.’ So they have given me this subject and I have engaged to take it, but I want you to remember that what I _say_ will be on primary class-teaching.”
By this time Miss Morris had the sympathy of her audience, and had awakened an interest to see how she would follow out her programme, and from first to last she held their attention. Certain thoughts glowed vividly. I don’t know who else they influenced, but I knew they roused and startled Marion, and will have much to do with her future methods of teaching.
“Remember,” said the speaker, “that you can not live on skim-milk and teach cream!” The thought embodied in that brief and telling sentence was as old as time, and Marion had heard it as long ago as she remembered anything, but it never flashed before her until that moment.
What an illustration! She saw herself teaching her class in botany to analyze the flowers, to classify them, to tell every minute item concerning them, and she taught them nothing to say concerning the Creator. Was this “skim-milk” teaching? She knew so many ways in which, did she but have this belief concerning heaven, and Christ, and the judgment, in her heart, she could impress it upon her scholars. She had aimed to be the very _cream_ of teachers. Was she? She came back from her reverie, or, rather, her self-questioning, to hear Miss Morris say:
“Why, one move of your hand moves all creation! and as surely does one thought of your soul grow and spread and roll through the universe. Why, you can’t sit in your room alone, and think a mean thought, or a false thought, or an unchristian thought, without its influencing not only all people around you, not only all people in all the universe, but nations yet unborn must live under the shadow or the glory that the thought involves.”
Bold statements these! But Marion could follow her. Intellectually she was thoroughly posted. Had she not herself used the illustration of the tiny stream that simpered through the home meadow and went on, and on, and on, until it helped to surge the beaches of the ocean? But here was a principle involved that reached beyond the ocean, that ignored time, that sought after eternity. Was she following the stream? Could she honestly tell that it might not lead to a judgment that should call her to account for her non-religious influence over her scholars? Marion was growing heavy-hearted; she wanted at least to do no harm in the world if she could do no good. But if all this mountain weight of evidence at Chautauqua proved anything, it proved that she was living a life of infidelity, for the influence of which she was to be called into judgment.
No sort of use to comfort herself with the thought that she talked of her peculiar views to no one; it began to be evident that the things which she did _not_ do were more startling than the things which she did.
On the whole, no comfort came to her troubled soul through this morning session. To herself she seemed precisely where she was when she went into that tent, only perhaps a trifle more impressed with the solemnity of all things.
But, without knowing it, a great stride had been taken in her education. She was not again to be able to say: “I injure no one with my belief; I keep it to myself.” “No Man liveth to himself.”
The verse came solemnly to her as she went out, as though other than human voice were reminding her of it, and life began to feel like an overwhelming responsibility that she could not assume. When one begins to _feel_ that thought in all its force the next step is to find one who will assume the responsibility for us. She met Ruth on her way up the hill.
“Flossy has deserted me,” Ruth explained as they met; “Eurie carried her away to take a walk. Are you going to hear about John Knox? I am interested in him chiefly because of the voice that is to tell of him to-day; I like Dr. Hurlburt.”
Marion’s only reply was: “I don’t see but you come to meeting quite as regularly, now that you are at the hotel, as you did when on the grounds.”
Then they went to secure their seats. I am not to attempt to tell you anything about the John Knox lecture; indeed I have given over telling more about the Chautauqua addresses. It is of no sort of use. One only feels like bemoaning a failure after any attempt to repeat such lectures as we heard there. Besides, I am chiefly interested at present in their effect on our girls.
They listened–these two, and enjoyed as people with brains must necessarily have done. But there was more than that to it; there were consequences that will surely be met again at the last great day.
Ruth, as she walked thoughtfully away, said to herself: “That is the way. _Live_ the truth. It is a different day, and the trials and experiences are different, but _life_ must be the same. It is not the day for half-way Christianity nor for idling; I will be an earnest Christian, or I will not dishonor the name and disgrace the memory of such men as Knox by claiming to be of their faith.”
While Marion, as she turned her flushed cheeks hastily away from Ruth, not willing to show one who knew nothing about this matter, save that it was expedient to join a church, had gotten one foot set firmly toward the rock.
“The power that enabled _that_ man to live _that_ life was certainly of God,” she thought. “It _must_ be true. God must be in communication with some of the souls that have lived. Is he now, and can I be one of them? Oh, I wonder if there are a favored few who have shone out as grand lights in the world and have gone up from the world to their reward? And I wonder if there is no such thing now? If the blundering creatures who call themselves by his name are nothing but miserable imitations of what was _once_ real?
“Such lives as that one can understand; but how can I ever believe that Deacon Cole’s life is molded by the same influence, or, indeed, that mine can be? Must I be a Deacon Cole Christian if I am one at all?”
The afternoon clouded over, and a mincing little rain began to fall. Marion stood in the tent door and grumbled over it.
“I wanted to hear that Mr. Hazard,” she said; “I rather fancy his face, and I fancy the name of his subject. I had a curiosity to see what he would do with it, and here is this rain to hinder.”
Ruth and Flossy had come over for the day, and were waiting in the tent.
“Haven’t you been at Chautauqua long enough to catch one of its cardinal rules, never to stay at home for rain?” Flossy said.
Marion looked around at her. She was putting on her rubbers.
“Are you really going?” She asked the question in great surprise. “Why, Flossy, it is going to rain hard!”
“What of it?” said Flossy, lightly. “I have waterproof, and rubbers, and umbrella, and if it gets to be too wet I can run to a tent.”
“If you were at home you wouldn’t think of going to church. Why, Flossy Shipley, I never knew you to go out in the rain! I thought you were always afraid you would spoil your clothes.”
“That was because I had none already spoiled to wear,” Flossy answered, cheerily; “but that difficulty is obviated; I have spoiled two dresses since I have been here. This one now is indifferent to the rain, and will be for the future. I have an improvement on that plan, though; I mean to have a rainy-day dress as soon as I get home. Come, it is time we were off.”
“I believe I am a dunce,” Marion said, slowly. “I think it is going to rain hard; but as I have to go, at home, whether it rains or shines, I suppose I can do it here. But if this were a congregation of respectable city Christians, instead of a set of lunatics, there wouldn’t be a dozen out.”
They found hundreds out, however. Indeed, it proved to be difficult to secure seats. That address was heard under difficulties. In the first place it _would_ rain; not an out-and-out hearty shower, that would at once set at rest the attempt to hold an out-door meeting, but an exasperating little drizzle, enlivened occasionally by a few smart drops that seemed to hint business. There was a constant putting up of umbrellas and putting them down again. There was a constant fidgeting about, and getting up and sitting down again, to let some of the more nervous ones who had resolved upon a decided rain escape to safer quarters. Half of the people had their heads twisted around to get a peep at the sky, to see what the clouds really _did_ mean, anyway.
Our girls had one of the uncomfortable posts. Arrived late, they had to take what they could get, and it was some distance from the speaker, and their sight and sound were so marred by the constant changes and the whirl of umbrellas that Marion presently lost all patience and gave up the attempt to listen. She would have deserted altogether but for the look of eager attention on Flossy’s face. Despite the annoyances, _she_ was evidently hearing and enjoying. It seemed a pity to disturb her and suggest a return to the tent; besides, Marion felt half ashamed to do so.
It was not pleasant to give tacit acknowledgment to the fact that poor little, unintellectual Flossy was much more interested than herself. She gave herself up to an old and favorite employment of hers, that of looking at faces and studying them, when a sudden hush that seemed to be settling over the hither to fidgety audience arrested her attention.
The speaker’s voice was full of pathos, and so quiet had the place become that every word of his could be distinctly heard. He was evidently in the midst of a story, the first of which she had not heard. This was the sentence, as her ears took it up:
“Don’t cry, father, don’t cry! To-night I shall be with Jesus, and I will tell him that you did all you could to bring me there!”
What a tribute for a child to give to a father’s love! Flossy, with her cheeks glowing and her eyes shining like stars, quietly wiped away the tears, and in her heart the resolve grew strong to live so that some one, dying, could say of her: “I will tell Jesus that you did all you could to bring me there!”
Do you think that was what the sentence said to Marion? Quick as thought her life flashed back to that old dingy, weather-beaten house, to that pale-faced man, with his patched clothing and his gray hairs straggling over on the coarse pillow. _Her_ father, dying–her one friend, who had been her memory of love and care all these long years, dying–and these were the last words his lips had said:
“Don’t cry, little girl–father’s dear little girl. I am going to Jesus. I shall be there in a little while. I shall tell him that I tried to have you come!”
Oh, blessed father! How hard he had tried in his feebleness and weakness to teach her the way! How sure he had seemed to feel that she would follow him! And how had she wandered! How far away she was! Oh, blessed Spirit of God, to seek after her all these years, through all the weak and foolish mazes of doubt, and indifference, and declared unbelief–still coming with her down to this afternoon at Chautauqua, and there renewing to her her father’s parting word.
She had often and often thought of these words of her father’s. In a sense, they had been ever present with her. Just why they should come at this time, bringing such a sense of certainty about them to her very soul that all this was truth, God’s solemn, _real_, unchangeable truth, and force this conviction upon her in such a way that she was moved to say, “Whereas I _was_ blind, now I see,” I can not tell.
Why Mr. Hazard was used as the instrument of such a revelation of God to her I can not tell. Perhaps he had prayed that his work at Chautauqua that rainy afternoon might, in some way, be blessed to the help of some struggling soul. Perhaps this was the answer to his prayer–unheard, unseen by him, as many an answer to our pleading is, and yet the answer as surely comes. Who can tell how this may be. I do not know. I know this, that Marion’s heart gave a great sobbing cry, as it said:
“Oh, father, father! if your God, if your Christ, will help me, I will–I will _try_ to come.”
It was her way of repeating the old cry, “Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief.” And I do know that it is written, “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them.” It was fifteen years that the weary father had been resting from his labors, and here were his works following him.
I have heard that Mr. Hazard said, as he folded his papers and came down from the stand that afternoon, “It was useless to try to talk in such a rain, with the prospect of more every minute. The people could not listen. It would have been better to have adjourned. Nothing was accomplished.” Much _he_ knew about it, or will know until the day when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed!
CHAPTER XXVII.
UNFINISHED MUSIC.
Meantime, this day, which was to be so fraught with consequences to Marion, was on Eurie’s hands to dispose of as best she could. To be at Chautauqua, and to be bent on having nothing whatever to do with any of the Chautauqua life, was in itself a novel position. The more so as she felt herself quite deserted. The necessity for reporting served Marion as an excuse for attending even those meetings which she did not report; and the others having gone to Mayville to live, this foolish sheep, who was within the fold, and who would not be _of_ it, went wandering whither she would in search of amusement.
After Marion left her she made her way to the museum, and a pleasant hour she spent; one could certainly not desire a more attractive spot. She went hither and thither, handling and admiring the books, the pictures, the maps, the profusion of curiosities, and, at the end of the hour, when the press of visitors became too great to make a longer stay agreeable, she departed well pleased with herself that she had had the wisdom to choose such a pleasant resort instead of a seat in some crowded tent as a listener.
Coming out, she walked down the hill, and on and on, watching the crowds of people who were gathering, and wishing she had a programme that she might see what the special attraction was that seemed to be drawing so many.
At last she reached the wharf. The Assembly steamer was lying at her dock, her jaunty flags flying, and the commotion upon her decks betokening that she was making ready for a voyage. The crowd seemed greater there than at any other point. It would appear that the special attraction was here, after all. She understood it, and pushed nearer, as the ringing notes of song suddenly rose on the air, and she recognized the voices of the Tennesseeans.
This was a great treat; she delighted in hearing them. She allowed herself to be elbowed and jostled by the throng, reaching every moment by judicious pushing a place where she could not only hear but see, and where escape was impossible. The jubilant chorus ceased and one of those weird minor wails, such as their music abounds in, floated tenderly around her.
It was a farewell song, so full of genuine pathos, and so tenderly sung, that it was in vain to try to listen without a swelling of the throat and a sense of sadness. Something in the way that the people pressed nearer to listen suggested to Eurie that it must be designed as a farewell tribute to somebody, and presently Prof. Sherwin mounted a seat that served as a platform and gave them a tender informal farewell address. In every sentence his great, warm heart shone.
“I am going away,” he said, “before the blessed season at Chautauqua is concluded. I am going with a sad heart, for I feel that opportunities here for work for the Master have been great, and some of them I have lost. And yet there is light in the sadness, for the work that I can not do will yet be done. I once sat before my organ improvising a thought that was in my heart, trying to give expression to it, and I could not. I knew what I wanted, and I knew it was in my heart, but how to give it expression I did not know. A celebrated organist came up the stairs and stood beside me. I looked around to him. ‘Can’t you take this tune,’ I said, ‘just where I leave it, and finish it for me as I have it in my heart to do? I can’t give it utterance. Don’t you see what I want?'”
“‘Perhaps I do,’ he said, and he placed his fingers over my fingers, on the same keys that mine were touching, and I slipped out of the seat and back into the shadow, and he slipped into my place, and then the music rolled forth. My tune, only I could not play it. He was doing it for me. So, though I may have failed in my work that I have tried to do here, the great Master is here, and I pray and I hope and I believe that he will put his grand hand upon my unfinished work and in heaven I shall meet it completed.'”
What was there in this to move Eurie to tears? She did not know Prof. Sherwin–that is, she had never been introduced to him–but she had heard him sing, she had heard him pray, she had met him in the walk and asked where the Sunday-school lesson was, and he had in part directed her–directed her in such a way that she had been led to seek further, and in doing so had met Miss Ryder, and in meeting her had been interested ever since in studying a Christian life. Was this one of Prof. Sherwin’s unfinished tunes? Would he meet it again in heaven?
A very tender spirit took possession of Eurie–an almost irresistible longing to know more of this influence, or presence, or whatever name it should be called, that so moved hearts, and made the friends of a week say farewell with tears, and yet with hopeful smiles as they spoke in joy and assurance of a future meeting.
Prof. Sherwin and his friends embarked, and the dainty little steamer turned her graceful head toward Mayville, and slipped away over the silver water. Eurie made no attempt to get away from the throng who pressed to the edge of the dock to get the last bow, the last flutter of his handkerchief. She even drew out her own handkerchief and fluttered it after him, and received from him a special bow, and was almost decided to resolve to be present in joy at that other meeting, and to make sure this very day of her title to an inheritance there. Almost!
Going back she met Ruth and Flossy. She seized eagerly upon the latter.
“Come,” she said, “you have been to meetings enough, and you haven’t taken a single walk with me since we have been here, and think of the promises we made to entertain each other.”
Flossy laughed cheerfully.
“We have been entertained, without any effort on our part,” she said. Nevertheless she suffered herself to be persuaded to go for a walk, provided Eurie would go to Palestine.
“What nonsense!” Eurie said, disdainfully, when Flossy had explained to her that she had a consuming desire to wander along the banks of the Jordan, and view those ancient cities, historic now. “However, I would just as soon walk in that direction as any other.”
There was one other person who, it transpired, would as soon take a walk as do anything else just then. He joined the girls as they turned toward the Palestine road. That was Mr. Evan Roberts.
“Are you going to visit the Holy Land this morning, and may I be of your party?” he asked.
“Yes,” Flossy answered, whether to the first question, or to both in one, she did not say. Then she introduced Eurie, and the three walked on together, discussing the morning and the meetings with zest.
“Here we are, on ‘Jordan’s stormy banks,'” Mr. Roberts said, at last, halting beside the grassy bank. “I suppose there was never a more perfect geographical representation than this.”
“Do you really think it has any practical value?” Eurie asked, skeptically. Mr. Roberts looked at her curiously.
“Hasn’t it to you?” he said. “Now, to me, it is just brimful of interest and value; that is, as much value as geographical knowledge ever is. I take two views of it. If I never have an actual sight of the sacred land, by studying this miniature of it, I have as full a knowledge as it is possible to get without the actual view, and if I at some future day am permitted to travel there, why–well, you know of course how pleasant it is to be thoroughly posted in regard to the places of interest that you are about to visit; every European traveler understands that.”
“But do you suppose it is really an accurate outline?” Eurie said, again, quoting opinions that she had read until she fancied they were her own.
Again Mr. Roberts favored her with that peculiar look from under heavy eyebrows–a look half satirical, half amused.
“Some of the most skilled surveyors and traveled scholars have so reported,” he said, carelessly. “And when you add to that the fact that they are Christian men, who have no special reason for getting up a wholesale deception for us, and are supposed to be tolerably reliable on all other subjects, I see no reason to doubt the statement.”
On the whole, Eurie had the satisfaction of realizing that she had appeared like a simpleton.
Flossy, meantime, was wandering delightedly along the banks, stopping here and there to read the words on the little white tablets that marked the places of special interest.
“Do you see,” she said, turning eagerly, “that these are Bible references on each tablet? Wouldn’t it be interesting to know what they selected as the scene to especially mark this place?”
Mr. Roberta swung a camp-chair from his arm, planted it firmly in the ground, and drew a Bible from his pocket.
“Miss Mitchell,” he said, “suppose you sit down here in this road, leading from Jerusalem to Bethany, and tell us what is going on just now in Bethany, while Miss Shipley and I supply you with chapter and verse.”
“I am not very familiar with the text-book,” Eurie said. “If you are really in the village yourselves you might possibly inquire of the inhabitants before I could find the account.” But she took the chair and the Bible.
“Look at Matthew xxi. 17, Eurie,” Flossy said, stooping over the tablet, and Eurie read:
“‘And he left them, and went out of the city into Bethany; and he lodged there.'”
“That was Jesus, wasn’t it? Then he went this way, this very road, Eurie, where you are sitting!” It was certainly very fascinating.
“And stopped at the house on which you have your hand, perhaps,” Mr. Roberts said, smiling at her eager face.
“That might have been Simon’s house, for instance.”
“Did _he_ live in Bethany? I don’t know anything about these things.”
“Eurie, look if you can find anything about him. The next reference is Matthew xxvi.”
And again Eurie read:
“‘Now when Jesus was in Bethany, in the house of Simon the leper.'”
“The very place!” Flossy said, again. “Oh, I want so much to know what happened then!”
“Won’t Miss Mitchell read it to us?” Mr. Roberts said, and he arranged his shawl along the ground for seats. “Since we have really come to Bethany, let us have the full benefit of it. Now, Miss Shipley, take a seat, and we will give ourselves up to the pleasure of being with Jesus in Simon’s house, and looking on at the scene.”
So they disposed of themselves on the grass, and Eurie, hardly able to restrain a laugh over the novelty of the situation, and yet wonderfully fascinated by the whole scene, read to them the tender story of the loving woman with her sweet-smelling ointment, growing more and more interested, until in the closing verse her voice was full of feeling.
“‘Verily I say unto you, Wheresoever this gospel shall be preached in the whole world, there shall also this, that this woman hath done be told as a memorial of her.'”
“Think of that!” said Mr. Roberts. “And here are we, eighteen hundred years afterward, sitting here in Bethany and talking of that same woman still! Miss Mitchell, are you going to do something for Christ that shall be talked over a thousand years from now? There is a chance for undying fame.”
“Doubtful!” Eurie said, but she did not smile; her face was grave.
“Or, better still, are you going to do such work for Christ that, hundreds of years after, your influence will be silently living and working out its fruit in human hearts?”
“It is altogether more likely that I shall do nothing at all.”
“Out of the question,” he said, with a grave smile. “Either for or against, every life must be, whether we will it or not. ‘He that is not with me is against me,’ was the word of the Master himself, and as long as eternity lasts the fruit of the sowing will last.”
“That is a fearfully solemn thought,” Flossy said, earnestly.
Mr. Roberts turned toward her a face aglow with smiles now.
“And a wondrously precious one,” he said, and Flossy answered him in a low tone:
“Yes, I can see that it might be.”
Now, the actual fact is, that those three people wandered around that far-away land until the morning vanished and the loud peal of the Chautauqua bells announced the fact that the feast of intellect was over, and it was time for dinner They went from Bethany to Bethel, and from Bethel to Shechem, and they even climbed Mount Hermon’s snowy peak, and looked about on the lovely plain below. In every place there was Bible reading, and Eurie was the reader, and it was such a morning that she will remember for all time.
“Pray, who is this Mr. Roberts?” she asked, as they parted company at the foot of the hill. “Where did you make his acquaintance?”
“He is Mrs. Smythe’s nephew,” Flossy said. “She introduced me to him the other evening.”
“The other evening! You seemed to be as well acquainted as though you had spent the summer together.”
“Some people have a way of seeming like friends on short acquaintance,” Flossy said, with grave face and smiling eyes.
“You two missed a good deal by your folly this morning,” Ruth said, as they met at dinner. “We had a grand lecture.”
“So had we,” answered Eurie, significantly, and that was every word she vouchsafed concerning the trip to Palestine.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
MENTAL PROBLEMS.
“Dr. Deems,” said Ruth, looking up from her programme with a thoughtful air. “I wonder if he is a man whom I have any special desire to hear?”
You must constantly remember the entire ignorance of these girls on all names and topics that pertained to the religious world. Ruth knew indeed that the gentleman in question was a New York clergyman; that was as far as her knowledge extended.
“His subject is interesting,” Flossy said.
“I don’t think it is,” said Eurie. “Not to me, anyhow. Nature and I have nothing in common, except to have a good time together if we can get it. She is a miserably disappointed jade, I know. What has she done for us since we have been here except to arrange rainy weather? I’m going to visit his honor the mummy this morning, and from there I am going to the old pyramid; and I advise you to go with me, all of you. Talk about nature when there is an old fellow to see who was acquainted with it thousands of years ago. Nature is too common an affair to be interested in.”
“Oh, are you going to the museum?” said Flossy. “Then please get me one of the ‘Bliss’ singing books, will you? I want to secure one before they are all gone. Girls, don’t you each want one of them to take home? The hymns are lovely.”
“I don’t,” said Eurie, “unless he is for sale to go along and sing them. I can’t imagine anything tamer than to hear some commonplace voice trying to do those songs that he roars out without any effort at all. What has become of the man?”
“He has gone,” said Marion. “Called home suddenly, some one told me. His singing is splendid, isn’t it? I don’t know but I feel much as you do about the book. Think of having Deacon Miller try to sing, ‘Only an armor-bearer!’ I don’t mind telling you that I felt very much as if I were being lifted right off my feet and carried up somewhere, I hardly know where, when I heard him sing that. I was coming down the hill, away off, you know, by the post-office–no, away above the post-office, and he suddenly burst forth. I stopped to listen, and I could hear every single word as distinctly as I can hear you in this tent.”
“Hear!” said Eurie, “I guess you could. I shouldn’t be surprised if they heard him over at Mayville, and that is what brings such crowds here every day. Did you ever _see_ anything like the way the people come here, anyhow?”
“I don’t feel at all as you do,” said Flossy, going back to the question of singing-books. “After we get let down a little, ‘Only an armor-bearer’ will sound very well even from common singers. It has in it what can’t be taken out because a certain voice is lost; and the book is full of other and simpler pieces, and lovely choruses, that people can catch after one hearing.”
“Flossy is going home to introduce it into the First Church,” Eurie said, gravely.
Flossy’s cheeks flushed.
“I had not thought of that,” she said, simply; “perhaps we can. In any case get me a couple, Eurie.”
The discussion on the morning service ended in a division of the party. Ruth, who had come over early on purpose to attend, was obliged to succumb to a feeling of utter weariness and lie down.
Eurie steadily refused to go to the platform meeting, assuring them that she knew Dr. Deems would be “as dry as a stick; all New York ministers were.”
So Flossy and Marion went away together, Marion with her note-book in the hope of getting an item for a newspaper letter that must be written that afternoon.
They were late, and almost abandoned in despair the hope of getting within hearing, until a happy thought suggested a seat on the platform stair at the speaker’s back. There was a “crack” there, Marion said, into which they presently crept.
The address was already commenced. Marion listened at first with that indifferent air that a face wears when its owner perforce commences in the middle of a thing, and has to _wait_ his way to a tangible idea of what is being said.
There was not long waiting, however. Her eyes began to dilate and her face to glow; she was almost a worshiper of eloquence, and surely no one ever sat for two hours and listened to a more unbroken flow of rich, glowing words, shining like diamonds, than fell lavishly around the listeners that Friday morning at Chautauqua. But a few minutes and Marion’s pencil began to move with speed. This was the thought that had thrilled her:
“First, light; then liberation from chaos; then grass; and then God stopped his work and gazed with delight on the picture he had drawn. Think what a picture it must have been! There was nothing but rocks ground down when God said, ‘Earth, grow!’ Then straightway the mother power fell down upon the earth, life pulsed in her veins, and the baby shoot of grass sprang up, and the rocky earth wrapped herself in her garment of emerald, and God, stopping his work said, ‘Useful, beautiful!'”
When the speaker touched upon the doctrine of the resurrection Marion’s pencil paused, and she leaned eagerly forward to get a glimpse of his face. That doctrine had seemed to her doubting heart the strangest, wildest, most hopeless of the Christian theories. If clear light could shine on that, could there not on _anything_? Her face was aglow with interest not only, but with anxiety.
This morning, for the first time in her life, she could be called an honest doubter. She had fancied herself able to believe any thing of which her reason had been convinced; but she found, to her surprise and dismay, that so fixed had the habit of unbelief become, it seemed impossible to shake it off, and that she needed to be convinced and reconvinced; that her questionings came in on every hand, seized upon the smallest point, and tormented her without mercy. What about this strange story of the resurrection?
As she listened a subdued smile broke over her face–a smile of sarcasm. How very absurdly simple the argument from nature was, how utterly unanswerable! And after the sentence, “Tell me how that