Authors: Grace Livingston Hill
“Mr. Benedict, do you smoke?”
She asked the question as if she wanted to find out for a definite purpose, not as if she objected to it particularly. David looked at her in astonishment, and then a sudden light broke over his face and he smiled.
“No, I do not smoke. You thought that was why I went away for so long? It was not. I wanted to give you a rest from my company. Do you like smoking?”
“You need not do that again, Mr. Benedict; I would rather have you stay here. I am ashamed for the way in which I treated you about coming home to-day. I was—well, I—“ Louise found she could not quite explain what had been the matter without saying more than she cared to, so she stopped in confusion.
“I understand,” said David; “never mind that; and thank you for saying you would rather I would stay.” He was looking at her so earnestly now that it confused her, and struggling to find a topic for conversation she seized his last unanswered question.
“No, Mr. Benedict, I don't really like smoking; but I don't know any reason why I should object. Nearly all my friends do smoke, except my brother; but—I was a little surprised that you should, you seem so—so—well, so different—”
“Thank you. I'm glad I don't seem like a smoker; but I must be honest and tell you I used to smoke until I found my sister, and she made me see how disagreeable a thing it is. I'm sorry I ever smoked. I never will again. But, Miss Clifton, I want to presume very much on what you said a moment ago. You said you would rather I would stay here, and I am going to ask you to be kind enough to let me tell you what I have wanted to say to you for a long time. It may seem unfair to you that I should take this time, when you are so situated that you cannot get away from me if you would; but I think you will bear with me. It is very important. I don't think I can promise to stop, even if you ask me, till I have told you all I wish. Will you bear with me?”
Louise looked up with frightened eyes. She had seen David's grave, steady gaze at her during the few hours they had been together that day, and it had made her heart throb with wonder and a strange new kind of joy she did not understand, but she dreaded anything that he might say. It was so new she did not want to have it brought out and looked at till she had time to think and understand herself. Instinctively she knew that his look had been of something deeper than friendship. Was he going to speak of it now? She could not utter a syllable, and her silence seemed to give him the permission he asked. Yes, it was a story of love he had to tell—of wonderful love—but not of his own. Louise, as she listened—and she could not but listen, because the words came from a heart which had communed much with God, and knew exactly what it was speaking about—felt that she was a little child being shown Jesus for the first time. So simply, so gently did David put the whole matter of being a Christian before her, that she felt as if it would be the most natural thing in the world to give herself entirely to Christ right away that minute, and not stop to think how it would affect this or that question. David had thought about this talk for weeks and even months. He had not even fixed it in his mind that he was to have the opportunity for it; but still he felt that sometime the chance might come, and he kept asking himself just what would reach him if he were a young girl like this one. He had thought about it so much and prayed about it so much that when the Master gave the opportunity he was ready for the work, and the Spirit gave the words. He spoke, Louise afterward many a time thought, as if he were inspired for the time. If his words were written here, which they cannot be, because there is no record of them except in Louise's heart, they might not be understood. It was partly the earnestness and fire with which he spoke, the high, exalted look on his face, the firm conviction of --------- that he know and had proved what he said to be true, the great longing in his whole expression, his own great love for Jesus—that won her first to listen, then to long, and then to love this Saviour whom he would fain bring to her knowledge.
It was growing dark. The train rushed along through the blurr of indistinguishable objects. Their chairs were turned together toward the darkened window, and they did not notice that the porter coming through had lighted all the lamps. For a Full hour David had leaned forward eagerly and talked in low impassioned tones, of reason, pleading, explanation. Louise had answered very little. Her face was turned away toward the window and her eyes were drooping to hide the tears which gathered fast. To her it was as if the Saviour in very presence stood there between them pleading for her soul, and she was longing to give her heart to him but could not do it, and the ache of resistance was very great. At last David seemed to have said all that he had to say. His purpose was almost accomplished. He placed his hand reverently on one of her little trembling, cold, gloved hands and said in tones that almost pierced her with the longing they expressed,
“Won't you, oh, won't you come to him now?”
They sat for a full minute thus. David hardly dared breathe, and Louise could not speak or get control of her voice. An undiscerning observer on the other side of the car curiously wondered what kind of a quarrel that handsome bride and groom were having which kept them busy so long, and then retired behind his paper, concluding it was not worth while to watch, and never knew that a decision was being made which would affect two worlds. And then Louise turned her head toward David with a quick motion, and looking him straight in his earnest, longing eyes, with her own brimming over with tears, answered him tremblingly:
“Yes, I will. Show me how, please.” The rest of that evening's ride flew swiftly by for the two. The supper which the porter presently served to them seemed nectar and ambrosia, and might have been chips for all they knew about it. Louise said little, but she felt much. It may be because she had so joyful a leader in her first steps in the new life that she felt so very happy. Her heart seemed lighter than the air. She felt that everything was new, and Jesus had been made to her a reality. That was the secret of it all. He loved her and she loved him. She looked up with a new reverence at the young man who had shown her the way, and whose face was shining with the joy of an angel and a man together. Henceforth he would to her stand out from and above all other men on the earth. He was more like Jesus Christ than any one she had ever seen, and Jesus Christ he had made to become her ideal.
IT was late that evening when Louise Clifton finally arrived in Summerton. Her anxious brother had paced the platform for an hour trying to escape his mother's reproaches. He was afraid that his sister would come and afraid that she would not come. He was not sure which would be the worse for his mother was in a terrible state about the impropriety of her traveling so far in company with a young man. However, he was relieved to see her. As she kissed her brother, she wondered shyly if he would care for the decision she had made this evening, and she drew a sigh of almost dismay a few moments later when she realized that David, who had been such a strong tower of help to her, was to leave her now, and she would have to walk alone. No, not alone either, for Jesus would be with her; but that thought was so new that she did not always remember it at first.
She wondered what David would do, in her place, a few minutes later when she saw her mother. Mrs. Clifton met her daughter with open arms and tears. “You poor, dear child! To think you had to come with that man! It was dreadful! I could not help it. I suppose you did not dare to stay there when Robert had sent him. I was so sorry for you.”
“Why, mamma dear, what do you mean?" said Louise, her happy face puzzled for a moment. "Mr. Benedict was very kind and good. I could not have had a more considerate traveling companion; he did everything that a mortal could do to make it pleasant for me. And, mamma dear, I've something I want to tell you, something I think you will be glad about. I have given my heart to Christ, and I'm going to try to be a Christian. I haven't been the kind of daughter I ought to have been in lots of ways, and I wanted to tell you the first thing, that I'm going to try to be different now.”
But the mother looked at her with dismay. She did not understand such talk.
“My darling child!” she exclaimed; “don't talk in that way, I beg of you. You have always been a dear, good daughter, and as for being a Christian, of course you are. You have been well brought up and taught to believe. You have never known anything else. Come now, my dear, and get to your room. You are utterly tired out. You will not feel so melancholy in the morning.”
In vain did Louise urge that she was not in the least melancholy. She was very happy. The mother only looked the more frightened, and smiled and tried to get her to rest, and at last with a sinking heart she gave up the attempt and let her mother go. David had been so heartfelt in his joy over her salvation that she had unconsciously felt that her own loved ones would be also. It rather chilled her to have her mother take it in this way. Was the new life going to begin so hard at once?
The mother, poor bewildered soul, went to her long-suffering son for comfort.
`“Robert,” she said in excited tones, when she had closed his study door, “Louise is ill. She is not herself. She is talking religion, and you know how utterly foreign to her nature anything sad or melancholy is. I am afraid she is going to die or have a fit of sickness or something. I have heard of people talking in this way before dying. I knew something terrible would come of all this—putting meetings before your own family. Oh, if you or I had only gone for her instead of letting her be brought in this way!”
“What do you mean, mother?” demanded the thoroughly aroused and much-berated young minister. His nerves were quivering with the strain of the past two days. But the mother turned away, and he walked out of the study and went at once in alarm to his sister's door.
“Louie, may I come in?” he called anxiously. “Mother says you are sick. What is it? Tell me all about it. Didn't David take good care of you?”
She opened the door, laughing and crying all at once, and burying her face in his coat had a good cry, which was what she needed after the excitement of the day and the nerve tension she had been under for weeks. In a minute, when she could get control of herself, she told him shyly and sweetly how David had helped her, and how she had given herself to Jesus. “And mother doesn't understand me,” she added wistfully.
“But I do,” said her brother, a ring in his voice she had never heard him use for her before. And he stooped and kissed her in such a way that she felt comforted.
Coming back to his mother in the study later the minister said in joyful voice: “Mother, you are mistaken about Louie. She is not going to die; she had only just begun to live.”
During these days Ellen Amelia Haskins had been steadily improving in mind and spirit. She was much under Ruth's influence, which could not be other than a blessing to her. Some things were happening too which helped to change the current of her life and give her a purpose. The minister's wife in West Winterton had a sister, a missionary, and it chanced this winter that she came home on a visit and spent a week with her sister. The minister availed himself to this opportunity to hold a missionary meeting, and as it came on a week night when Ellen was in West Winterton, and was held in the academy hall, she attended the meeting. Then a new influence reached her. She listened spellbound to the woman's story of the trials, the joys, the triumphs, of the missionary's life, and her soul, was filled with longing to go. She recognized that here was something great in life that she could do which would please her Master, and she formed a settled purpose in her heart that she would do all she could toward getting ready, and then if the Lord willed it she would go. “I'll just get as far ready as I can,” she said to herself, “and then he can do as he pleases about sending me.” She said it with a humble, willing spirit and she set her energies to learn all she could in every way she could. Her mother began to be proud of her and to take heart of hope and predict a marriage with a thrifty farmer, and ask her if she didn't intend to try to secure a school to teach in a good district for the next winter, but Ellen said she didn't know and worked steadily on.
And then something wonderful happened to her. The Lord was opening her way step by step. It was almost time for the summer vacation when the word came that Uncle Timothy had died very suddenly, and that he had left to Ellen Amelia the sum of three thousand dollars to do with as she pleased.
“If I was you I'd quit school at once,” said her mother, a pleased, proud look on her face; “you'll not have any need for any more schoolin' now; you won't have to teach, and anybody'll be glad to get you, now you're well off. It makes a difference, in spite of all they say, and you can be more independent when you marry, if you have money of your own (Mrs. Haskins had been possessed of eight hundred dollars when she married the deacon, which she had willingly and humbly put into his business to help him along, but she often used the remembrance of her dowry as a rod with which to rule her husband). I wouldn't stay on at the 'cademy another day 'f I was you. You don't need to care whether you pass or not now.”
But Ellen Amelia closed her lips which were becoming refined with gentleness and following her Saviour and went to pray about the matter. Having laid the subject before her all-wise Leader she went quietly to her father and put her plan before him.
The deacon sat on the back porch whittling and waiting for his dinner. He put down his knife and the front legs of his chair and listened carefully to his daughter's story, a film of mist gathering over his eyes as she talked. He answered her slowly at last and with a choke in his voice.
“Wal, Ellen, you couldn't do anythin' that would be greater honor to yer ancestors 'n to be a missionary. I mus' say I am pleased to have a child of mine willin' to make such sacrifizes. I nightly hate to lose my little girl, but dyer heart's set on goin' I sha'n't say the word that'll stop you. Go ahead to your college or whatever you like. The money's your an' it might be worse spent. I'll help you all I can,” and then he sat and chewed the end of his stick and remembered how Ellen Amelia had looked when she was two years old in a pink calico pinafore and her face all bread and molasses.
But when Mother Haskins heard of the proposed plan, her first practical objection was: “Wal, I should like to know what you need of more schoolin' ef you're goin' to bury yourself out in some outlandish place in the-land-knows-where, with little naked heathens. I guess, if you've got enough knowledge to teach here in this Christian land, you've got enough to teach sinners that don't know their a-b-c's.
Mother Haskins, it must be explained, was disappointed. Missionaries were well enough, she felt, for a cousin once or twice removed, but she had looked to sec her daughter marry a rich farmer and settle down where she might superintend the new home and manage Ellen Amelia's children. However, she found that her talk was of no avail as she could not immediately produce the rich, thrifty farmer to help her out, and so she settled down to console herself with what glory reflected upon her for having brought up a daughter who was to go to college with the life of a missionary as a halo in the future. And she found it not empty of honor, but rather one upon which she reflected with increasing satisfaction.
One afternoon in the sewing circle she remarked with pardonable pride and a pin in her mouth: “Yes, it will be hard to give her up, but then it's a great blessing to have one's children turn to the ways of righteousness; and they do say that 'out there' (which term applied to some far-away mission field and represented her daughter's future home veiled in the mist of somewhere or nowhere to her mother) they don't have sech hard times, with plenty of servants to do everythin' for one and not a livin' thing to do but preach the gospil. No, I don't suppose she'll have much trouble learnin' the langwidge; she's so up on her Latin an' Greek that these uncivilized langwidges can't be much mor'n a-b-c's to her.”
Mrs. Deacon Chatterton, on the other side of the room, felt that Deacon Haskins' wife was getting too puffed up and needed her pride taken down, and so she remarked with one of her characteristic “Humphs!” that she would “just like to see Ellen'melia when she got real seasick on the ocean, and if she wouldn't be ready to cry for Summerton and her ma then she'd miss her guess”; and then she shut her lips firmly, feeling that she had done her duty, and experienced a pang of something like envy for the woman who had a daughter who was to go as a missionary; for Mrs. Chatterton really loved the Lord and was zealous for his work, and enjoyed what glory reflected upon her as being a member of a church whence should go out a messenger who should help to bring in the Kingdom.
But Ellen Amelia went about her work from day to day with a growing expression of sweetness and content. The way in which the Lord was leading her was so wonderful to her that she had been awed into perfect trust.
'Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus,
Just to take him at his word,
Just to rest upon his promise,
Just to know, “Thus saith the Lord.”
She had heard those words sung in that missionary meeting in West Winterton and had asked for the book that she might copy and learn them. There was another hymn that went over and over in her mind and she hummed it at her work in these days. It was this:
I would not have the restless will
That hurries to and fro,
Seeking for some great thing to do,
Or secret thing to know:
I would be treated as a child,
And guided where I go,
I ask Thee for the daily strength,
To none that ask denied,
A mind to blend with outward life,
While keeping at thy side;
Content to fill a little space,
If thou be glorified.
She was learning to make these words truly her own and as she sang them she sometimes thought of the time when Joseph Benedict had told her that if she would try to be, faithful in the little things there might be a chance some day that she would rule over many. She wondered if he ever thought about her and her Christian life and if he knew how she thanked him in her heart for the words he had spoken before he knew the Lord, and of the promise he had made her give. She resolved that if, in the future years, the Lord ever opened the way for her to go to a foreign land and teach others the way to Christ, she would, before she went, if there was any opportunity, tell him how much he had done for her, and thank him for it all under God. She felt that it would be fitting time when she was leaving her home perhaps forever.