Authors: Grace Livingston Hill
Ruth's face shone with the joy that comes with the knowledge of having helped another human being. Her heart was relieved about another matter also. There was no mistaking the true ring to the minister's voice. She felt sure he would be a helper for her brothers. Before there was time for any answer a step came across the hall and David entered.
DAVID wore a collar now almost all the time. It had come about through the influence of the beautiful things with which the old house had been filled. He did not feel at home among them without a collar, and so he was gradually becoming accustomed to its stiffness. It is true he always took it off as soon as he reached the solitude of his own room and gave a sigh of relief, but he nevertheless put it on the next time with less reluctance. As soon as his farm work was done and he could come in the house he put on the collar. As for Joseph, he took to collars and the like much more naturally. He had at one time had longings toward a glass scarf pin and oiled hair, but having little use for such things his longings had not met with much encouragement. But David dressed as a distinct mark of respect for the new sister and the new order of things in the house. So Ruth was not ashamed of the appearance of her brother when he entered the room to meet the minister.
He did seem somewhat surprised to find a stranger there, it is true, for visitors at the Benedict farm had been few in the lifetime of the boys. But David's welcome was cordial, and Ruth noted with pride that he did not seem to be embarrassed by the young minister, but talked well. She thought that Robert Clifton's face expressed some surprise and admiration at David's intelligence. She sat by listening and praying and watching the two. Would they become warm friends and mutual helpers? She saw that they were mentally measuring one another, and that each was at least pleasantly impressed by the other. She wished that Joseph would come in, and excused herself once to go in search of him, but he was not to be found. However, just as the minister was going out the front gate he met Joseph coming in, and with his naturally frank, pleasant impulse he greeted him and introduced himself. It was but a moment they stood together within the fast gathering twilight, but the younger man went into the house with his heart completely won over. He had not been in a state of mind to resist, and the new minister had a very winning way with him.
Joseph was in a softened mood these days. Ever since Ruth had been hurt he had been different. All the repressed child-love that had found no expression seemed to be stored up in his nature, and was seeking an outlet. Now he poured it upon Ruth. They had been a happy family during Ruth's temporary confinement to the house, and though they did not know it, the two young men had been growing in knowledge of many kinds so rapidly as to astonish any one who had known them well before. It is wonderful what a refining influence a few pictures and books can have upon a human soul. Ruth was delighted, but yet her heart was heavy, for though she had been able to reach her brothers in many ways, there had not been one little minute when she felt she had done anything toward influencing them to come to Christ. It is true she recognized that she was gaining an influence over them that might help her in the future, but she was anxious to have them one with her on this great vital question at once, that she and they might grow together. She had been pained to discover that the subject of church-going was very doubtful, so doubtful that it often did not come up as a question at all. She knew that they would be willing to accompany her, at least one of them at a time, perhaps as soon as she was able to go, but she would so much rather have had them go from love of it, or at least from habit. She had wondered so many times what sort of a minister the Summerton Church had, that it was a great relief to know at last who he was. Somehow she felt a great deal more certain of his help for her brothers since that earnest speech of his about Sabbath keeping. To be sure it was no way to judge a man, by his theory on some one subject, but still it was, in a way, an index to his character, and as he had said, led off into other subjects. Still she had seen men whose ideas of right and wrong fitted hers exactly, and who were by no means fitted to be helpers to young men who were not Christians. Therefore Ruth prayed much during the Saturday that followed the minister's call at their home, for a blessing on the Sunday with its services. She had arranged with both of her brothers to accompany her to church. They had acquiesced as a matter of course. If it pleased her to go to church they were entirely willing. Indeed on Joseph's part there was not a little pride connected with escorting his beautiful, well-dressed sister to church. He hoped the Brower boys would be there, and if they dared once to even so much as look in her direction, and he saw them, woe betide them. David wanted to amuse his sister in every way possible, and his only fear was that she would find their church a dull place. However, there was also an element of interest in the person of the young minister with whom both brothers had been pleasantly impressed. They would like to see if he could preach. He had talked with them so well and freely, just as if he had always known them and had worked beside them. At least David so put it to himself as he thought over his conversation with Robert Clifton.
Sunday morning dawned bright arid beautiful. There had been a sharp frost during the night and the air was clear and crisp.
Ruth somehow felt very happy as they drove down the long white road, so smooth and hard and straight. She had just come from communion with Jesus and her face was shining with the peace in her heart. She had been enabled to leave all her cares and perplexities to him who was guiding, sure that he knew the way and could not make a mistake.
The minister had spent much time upon his knees that week. It seemed to him that he could not pray enough. As the week neared its close and the Sunday services were at hand he began to realize the awful responsibility of speaking the word of God to the people. He was beginning to know some of his young people now, and to be personally interested in them for their own sake, and as he had inquired about this one and that, he had been pained to learn how few of the younger ones were members of the church. He had been told that Summerton was a hard field and indeed he feared from what he had seen that it would so prove itself.
He had laid aside some of his cherished sermons which seemed to him the best fruit that thought and study could produce through his brain, and had written a plain, simple, earnest appeal to sinners from the text, “What think ye of Christ?” He had written it out fully, but he felt that he would not have to read it, for every word of reason and exhortation seemed burned into his soul, and he wanted to speak from his heart to his hearers. The more intellectual sermons would have their place by and by, but he wanted to find out now what each one of them thought of Jesus Christ. He wanted to know what those two Benedict brothers thought of him; and what the two low-browed men in the back seat thought, and what some of the pretty giggling girls thought; and what the elder members of his church, both men and women, thought. Did they think enough of Jesus the Christ to enter into the work heart and soul for his church, bringing all the tithes into the store-house and proving the Lord of Hosts for a blessing such as there should not be room to receive? One might almost have called his mood exalted as he entered the house of worship and made his way to the little study which occupied a small space at one side of the pulpit and opened into the “ladies' parlor.”
Deacon Chattelton and Deacon Meakins stood in this doorway talking and the former stepped up to hand him some church notice.
“By the way, Deacon Chatterton,” said the minister, “and you too, Deacon Meakins, you will be glad to learn, I am sure, that there is some mistake about what was said of the Benedicts. I called there this week and find that Miss Benedict is the adopted child of a very dear friend of my mother's. I have met her before, and her character is beyond reproach. She is an unusually remarkable Christian, and has been brought up by a woman whose life was one long sermon. I shall rely on you two brethren to correct any absurd report that may have been spread abroad. It is very strange how such a thing could have started. You will find the young woman a great help in church work, I am sure. She was a power among the young people in her former home. She has come among us to stay, she tells me, and will bring her letter at once to this church.”
“But—but—the—the—bicycle!” gasped Deacon Meakins anxiously. He wished to have the whole trouble cleared from doubt at once, and he had himself seen the bicycle coining from the freight car, though he would not have told the other deacons so for a good deal.
“I don't understand, Deacon Meakins,” said the minister anxiously. He wanted to be alone for the last minute before the bell should cease tolling and he thought he had explained fully. “What had the bicycle to do with it? Certainly she rides, she told me so herself; but very many young ladies do that now in the city. My own sister has had a wheel for some time. It is perfectly respectable.”
The bell ceased to toll, and the minister's quiet moment was gone. The two deacons went to their seats pondering, one of them relieved in his righteous soul, the other wondering whether they had chosen their minister wisely, after all, if he was going to uphold such things as bicycling for young women. But do him the justice to remember that he forgot all about it when the sermon began. Ruth Benedict dawned on Summerton, and between her and the new minister the attention of the Summerton congregation was quite divided.
It would have been a study in human nature if the thoughts of the different people could have been pictured that morning. It might have somewhat discouraged the earnest minister, and perhaps so disheartened him that he would have given up at once and missed the blessing, for there were some souls ready for the message, and it bore rich fruit in the days that came after.
Ellen Amelia Haskins happened to sit near and almost behind Ruth Benedict, and her admiring eyes were scarcely taken away from the black velvet hat with its drooping plumes and the sweet oval of the. earnest face before her. Once she turned to watch Joseph and David a moment, to try if she could see how they felt, sitting beside such a creature and calling her sister. It was the nearest to a romantic story that had ever come into her life, and she was enjoying it to the full. An intense longing filled her soul to get nearer to this wonderful young woman and know more of her. For a few moments she studied the black velvet hat to see if it was possible to use that dark red velveteen she had intended using for big puffs to her sleeves in any such way. She wondered how the brim took on such a pretty curve and felt sure she could manage it if she only had some of the mysterious stuff they made hat frames from; but the wonderful feathers were beyond anything she had ever seen in Summerton and she gave up the hat with a half-envious sigh and let herself drift off into enjoyment of the whole lovely figure of the stranger.
Joseph had walked in with haughty mien, straight and protecting, beside his sister. He gave a glance over his shoulder to see if the Brower brothers were there, and when he discovered them sitting with lowering brows sullenly back near the door, he made himself a little straighter, if that were possible. Only toward the end of the sermon did he listen to what was going on. Then an illustration caught him and held his attention to the end; and when the final amen was pronounced he confirmed his first decision that the minister was “something like it,” whatever that meant. Who shall say that illustration did not go with him and help to influence all his future life? At least he was won to like and listen to the new minister, and that was a great point gained.
David had set himself to listen at once. He had liked the minister and he wanted to see now if he was worth listening to. The former preacher he had always considered dry. Perhaps too, the fact that he had never known any other minister in that church since his little boyhood, made his familiar voice uninteresting. The very first words this man spoke caught his attention. “What think ye of Christ?” They were spoken like a question to him and the speaker seemed to be looking directly at him. For some time it did not dawn upon his consciousness that the words were from the Bible. He almost felt that he must arise in his seat and give an answer and he began wondering what his answer would be. Perhaps if the truth must be frankly told he did not think anything of Christ. The speaker had caught his hearer. David had no more time for thought, for he was carried on the swift wings of the earnest, red-hot words that came straight from one soul, charged with an electric current from heaven, into the soul of another living, dying brother. When the end came and he stood with the rest as they sang, some badly, some indifferently, and a few with their hearts, the words,
“Behold a stranger at the door!
He gently knocks, has knocked before,
Has waited long, is waiting still;
You treat no other friend so ill,”
he felt again that strange force bidding him answer these charges. Was there an unseen choir present which helped on the village voices, and bore the song in angelic strains, straight into his soul? Long years afterward something of this thought came to him, and he did not say it nay.
“It's just as I thought,” said Mrs. Deacon Chatterton to herself, looking over her spectacles while the second hymn was being sung; “she's pretty; that kind always are! Humph!” and then she felt thankful in a moral kind of exultation that Eliza Barnes was not out at church today; she was saved at least one week of temptation. For some reason Mrs. Chatterton seemed to consider all things pretty a temptation.