It went sorely against Marian's nature to enjoy her nice breakfast, knowing that one who sat so near was hungry, and not offer to share with him. She would have felt the same if he had been a shaggy old man instead of an attractive young one. If only she were an old lady, now, she would go and insist that he should not starve himself. She might get courage to do it even yet, if, now that he was awake, he did not look so haughty and self-sufficient; the very curl of his moustache, as she glanced at him, was proud. Why would he not decline her kindness, too, with a grand air? No, no! He might go hungry until he attained to more humility.
Stuart Lynde had arrived at some conclusions also. Under half-closed eyelids, he had critically looked his fair neighbor over again by the morning light, after she had made her toilet, by shaking out her wrinkles, twisting her long hair into the smooth coil, running her fingers through the short curls on her temples and setting her little hat in its place. After that she looked fresh, and in order, with none of that forlorn and dishevelled appearance some women take on after having sat up all night in the cars.
But the conclusions: It must be confessed that this face from the first fascinated and attracted him. It was of as fine a type as he had ever seen, but her dress and air stamped her as belonging to the fashionable world; and had he not long ago decided that nothing good could come out of fashionable society, such a hollow, decayed, deceitful mass as it was? How many girls he daily met who had fair faces and innocent eyes, but when they spoke—their lips rarely dropped pearls, oftener slang; they were loud, actually coarse, some of them, or they were inane and silly. Most of them cared for no book except a novel, and even that they knew nothing of when once it was devoured. To give an analysis of a single character would be as impossible as to speak in Chinese. They had no thoughts—not more than humming-birds; they had never been taught to think; the few exceptions—in his experience—were those who possessed no personal attractions. A pretty head was sure to be an empty one; and this girl with a head like Diana, was probably a "society girl," with not an idea above dressing, dancing and flirting. It would be but courteous to address a sympathizing word to her, under these extraordinary circumstances, with this long, tedious day before them, and no companionship of any sort. But then, what good? She would probably reply in a few parroty phrases, and that would be the end, or she would resent his remark as an impertinence from a mere fellow passenger, an utter stranger, or she would imagine him desperately smitten, and would place him on one of her pretty fingers as the tenth one ensnared by her within a fortnight. No, indeed, he should make no advance toward acquaintance whatever. Upon which heroic resolution, he dived into his satchel and brought out piles of depositions, knit his brows over them, and tried to forget that he was hungry and growing more so. An hour or two of hard work on these, then he produced a volume of essays to see what consolation there might be in that for a hungry man. This reminded Marian for the first time that she had two little books herself that she had entirely forgotten. She took out the small package wrapped in brown paper, and another inner wrapping of soft white paper as if it held something precious. There was a little volume of "Daily Food" Scripture texts, arranged for each day in the year, and a copy of Thomas à Kempis' "Imitation of Christ," daintily bound in morocco and gilt. On the fly-leaf of each was written in Aunt Ruth's round cramped hand, "Marian Chester:" "The Lord bless thee and keep thee." "Dear aunt Ruth," she murmured. "What would she say if she knew where I am? And what will they think at home?" She just began to realize how forlorn and lonely she was, and actually two large tears stood on her cheeks.
Mr. Lynde was returning from one of his visits to the engine, and was just in time to catch, for an instant, the flash of that tear. A smile was a hollow thing to him. His coat of mail was proof against a whole battalion of the most bewitching; but a tear! He bowed in reverence before a tear; and, acting on that impulse, paused, and before he had given himself leave to speak was saying, "I beg your pardon, but can I do anything for you?"
Poor Marian! It was so sudden, and she was so mortified to be caught crying like a baby, that her tones were defiant and her answer curt: "No, sir, I thank you, not anything."
When she raised her eyes he was gone. Then, her sense of desolation was lost in vexation, that she had made herself an object of pity to him and requited his attempt at kindness by what must have seemed extreme rudeness.
The rained had ceased, but this was not an advantage in one way, for the air at once became intensely cold, so making it more difficult to repair damages, as washouts and bridges swept from swollen streams were reported ahead. As if to bring dreariness to a culminating point, the supply of coal was low and the cars were becoming chilly. Adversity was apparently having a good effect upon Mr. Lynde; he was developing under it, and waking up to some interest in humanity that was not in a book. He was not in general a close observer of the dress of ladies, but he knew the difference between a long sealskin cloak and an old black cashmere shawl. Consequently he was very sure where the large, soft lap robe he carried was most needed. Thereupon he took it over to the old lady, and begged her with as much deference as if she had been a duchess, to accept it. She demurred, but he insisted and folded it about her as a son might have done, and the lines about his mouth relaxed into sweetness as she showered her thanks upon him.
"Why did I not think to do that?" Marian said to herself, casting regretful eyes on her own warm shawl. It was too late now, so she drew it over herself and retired into her book.
Aunt Ruth spoke better than she knew when she talked of food for the soul. Some darkened minds would call it "cant," but those who know the secret of the Lord, know that as a few drops of stimulant revive a fainting body, just as surely will a strong, comforting word from the Scriptures send the lifeblood tingling again through a benumbed soul, if that soul belong to Christ.
So when Marian read in her "Daily Food":—
"The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms;""The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them;""The beloved of the Lord shall dwell in safety by him, and the Lord shall cover him all the day long;""Thou art my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance."
Then her faith and courage returned, and her heart already sang songs of deliverance.
Mr. Lynde had already done all that travellers usually do in such emergencies. He had stood in the teeth of a keen wind and talked with the brake man and engineer and conductor as to the extent of the accident, and what the probabilities were of soon resuming the journey; had stepped out and walked briskly up and down, and the old lady remarked as he strode by, "He's a handsome young fellow; straight as an arrow, and he walks with a kind o' spring, just like my Benjamin," and Marian had given in response an amused smile.
Now he had come back again and settled himself down to endure, with grim fortitude, what could not be cured; not with the same spirit, though, as the old saint who sat just beyond him, for, she said, "It 'll all turn out for the best somehow, and we'll likely see it some day." It would take long to convince him, though, that the important case to which he was hurrying home could possibly be bettered by his absence. But he tried to be a philosopher. He turned up his coat collar, as men do when they are cold and seem to think they have made all reasonable provisions for comfort, put his eyes on his book, and tried to merge his thoughts into the author's; but when a man is hungry, and ever so slightly cold, the circumstances are not favorable for metaphysical research.
It was noon, and the time for those who had any dinner to eat it; so Marian took down her lunch basket again. If only she had somebody to enjoy it with her! She glanced about the car; the men had gone. The old lady, thanks to the warmth of the lap robe, was enjoying a nice nap. There was just one person on whom to exercise her benevolence.
She amused herself by laying together in a fresh napkin three or four biscuits, some slices of chicken, and some cake; then, while she thoughtfully put bits into her own mouth, debated the question with herself after this fashion: I ought, I really ought to do it, but how can I? I wish he would go out; I would slip it into his seat, and he would think the ravens or something had been sent to feed him. If I should carry this over there and he should decline it with a lofty air, how could I endure such humiliation? To be sure, I did reply very haughtily when he spoke to me, and whatever possessed me, I'm sure I don't know.
The head at which she was casting furtive glances, went down at this juncture, wearily down, on the seat before him, and the action decided her.
Stuart Lynde thought he had, in that moment, dropped asleep, and was in a blissful dream, for a soft voice just behind him, said, "Sir, I was mistaken; I would like to ask a favor of you."
The head was erect in an instant, and he began,—
"I shall be most happy;" but when he saw this haughty lady changed into a blushing girl with a half shy, and altogether winning manner, and heard her say, "Will you not please accept part of my lunch, for I have a great abundance?" then the fluent speech for which he was noted, forsook him, and he stammered out some incoherent words, and then—they looked squarely into each other's eyes, and, by a common impulse, broke into a merry laugh.
The ludicrous side of it all was too irresistible.
After that they felt acquainted and it was easy to accept the appetizing favor with a gay grace, and insist that she had been entirely too generous, although in truth, he felt equal to any number of biscuits.
"That is because you do not know what a capacious lunch basket I possess, nor how well it is stored, thanks to Aunt Ruth," Marian said, while she hastened to get ready a donation for the old lady, who had wakened, and was wondering at the cheerful sounds about her. It "quite chirked her up," she said, "to hear something going on once more."
The two young people talked together some minutes before they recollected that the rules of etiquette required that strangers should have introductions. Then the gentleman produced a card,—
"STUART LYNDE,Attorney and Counsellor at Law."
And Marian said simply, "I am Marian Chester of Massachusetts."
It would seem as if their tongues rejoiced at privilege of speech again, for the talk flowed on most delightfully. Themes were endless—the accident, the surrounding country, and people, and the advantages and disadvantages of both East and West. They compared notes finally on favorite authors, and travelled over countries both had visited, until they almost forgot that they were wrecked on a dreary prairie, miles from anywhere.
Mr. Lynde was somewhat puzzled to find a young lady who had read biographies, history, Shakespeare, and the other standard poets, and yet seemed to be ignorant of the works of well-known writers of fiction, and was obliged to confess that she had not read "Jane Eyre," old as it was, nor "Romola," nor even the lighter novels that most schoolgirls have devoured by the time they are fifteen.
"No," she said, "I know almost nothing of them; my father has his own ideas in regard to these things," and she said it reverently and sweetly, as if "anything that my father wishes is good and right;" not; "My father is an old fogy, and I, a martyr, am obliged to suffer the consequences—"
"His theory is that a taste for solid reading should first be formed, and that whatever of fiction is indulged in, should be by the best writers and quite simple. With the exception of a few books, rather juvenile in character, I am to read my first novel this winter with father. I read aloud to him a great deal, and he is my dictionary and encyclopædia. We have most delightful times, and we read all sorts of books. Perhaps, if one were to come down to my level in the line of light reading, I might intelligently discuss the merits of some works," she said archly; "I know almost by heart 'Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales' and the 'Tanglewood Tales;' as well as 'Alice in Wonderland,' and 'Water Babies,' and several other lovely stories."
Happy daughter! To read her first novel—some pure, noble work of his choosing—with her father, instead of stealthily devouring a vile, yellow-covered thing at midnight, when she should have been sleeping, or secreting it under her desk at school, and snatching a guilty morsel when she should have been studying.
The father's theory had been well carried out, and he must have been delighted with results, for the girl could enjoy a scientific research, or a simple story, one of which would have been voted dull, and the other childish, by those reared on more highly seasoned mental food. Then there was in her a cheery freshness, and a hearty enjoyment of simple pleasures, in sharp contrast with many specimens of restless, languid young ladyhood, interested in nothing on earth or under it—nothing except themselves.
Mr. Lynde was charmed. Here was an anomaly, a rare study: a girl not made up of artificialities, nor morbid sentimentalism.
The time passed pleasantly away, despite the gloomy surroundings, until Marian was called to account by Dame Propriety, who administered so sharp a reprimand that the color came to her cheeks, and she grew suddenly demure and silent. She conversing with a stranger! What would her father think? And what did the stranger himself think? Who would have believed that she could have been guilty of making advances, of drawing the attention of anybody, much less one of whom she knew utterly nothing? She had heard of others doing such things, and she had judged them severely. It was too humiliating! Her transparent face reflected her inner self like a mirror, so, when she became suddenly silent and wore a troubled look, Mr. Lynde divined the cause and reverenced her for it. He had a strong impression that he ought to go back to his own seat, and leave this sensitive plant to itself, but it was dreary work to sit alone and think over one's misfortunes, and her society was so charming; so he lingered, taking the burden of talk upon himself, and managing so adroitly as to necessitate few replies; and Marian listened, taking very little part in the conversation, as she supposed. She forgot, though, that eyes and mouth can talk when tongues are still, and it would have been an obtuse person, indeed, who would not have felt flattered with the responses he received from the eloquent face of his listener, as the eyes lighted with a smile or grew dark with shadows of thought. When he went away at last he asked her to take pity on him, and lend him a book, as he had exhausted his library.
"And this is the extent of mine," Marian said, producing her little books, "my Christmas present from a dear old auntie," and she gave them into his hands, and received his volume of essays.
It had been such a pleasant diversion from the wearisome monotony, this new acquaintance, with his varied knowledge, his fascinating conversation and graceful courtesy, and yet Marian felt ill at ease and disturbed by what she had done. He would never have noticed her, she told herself, if she had not invited his attentions. But how could she do otherwise? It was a mere act of humanity. She did not compel him to talk with her all the afternoon, though it was too true that she felt acquainted with him at once and talked on as if he had been an old friend, and that encouraged him. Perhaps he was the greatest villain in the world; but even as the thought flashed through her mind, it was indignantly repelled. He was good and noble; she was sure of it, and she set herself to work to see what proof she possessed on that point. His conversation was refined; he liked good books; he was kind to an old lady, and he had remarked that his chief regret at the detention was that his mother would be wretchedly anxious at his nonappearance in his home. A bad man would not care for his mother, nor concern himself as to the comfort of old ladies.
During the afternoon the condition of things changed for the better. Food was obtained for the nearly famished passengers, and at last the train was in motion again, moving heavily and slowly, and with many a jerk and jar, as if in remonstrance at being obliged to move at all. With much effort and many detentions they arrived late at night at their long-wished-for destination. Among those that were obliged to change roads at this point, necessitating a walk of a few blocks across the city, were Marian and Mr. Lynde. He took possession of her shawl and basket as if he were, without question, her protector. It was pleasant to be taken care of, too, amidst the clanging of many trains among bewildering tracks. She had expected to make this transfer by daylight. It would have been decidedly dreary in the darkness, at this late hour, without an escort, although there was quite a procession of other travellers bound for the same train.
All hint of storms had passed away. The far off sky was full of stars, and the air was keenly cold. Just twelve o'clock. The Christmas morning already begun. This thought came to at least two of the travellers as they stepped out into the calm night, and there stole into the mind of each a strain of that wondrous Christmas poem, beginning—"Within that province far away."
"'In the solemn midnight,Centuries ago,'"
quoted Mr. Lynde.
Marian was surprised into saying: "How very singular! The same words were running through my own brain at that moment, and I was about to ask if you recollected what night this is, and if you were familiar with that poem."
"Ah, you are fond of it, too! Is it not fine, especially these lines:
"'The earth was still—but knew not why,The world was listening—unawares.How calm a moment may precedeOne that shall thrill the world forever!To that still moment none would heed,Man's doom was linked, no more to sever,In the solemn midnight,Centuries ago."
To Marian there came also at this moment a sharp consciousness of something else. She was walking at midnight in a strange city with a stranger. That, she could not help, but to discover that she was positively enjoying it, had the effect to make her "good-night" seem cold as the winter air as they stepped on the sleeping car and she vanished into the section assigned her.
It had been arranged by Marian and her friends that she should travel alone only to a certain city. There, an uncle would join her, and accompany her home. The distance was not great, and it was not to be supposed that any difficulties would attend so short a journey. In the uncertain state of things caused by the storm it was quite improbable that he could make connections so as to keep his appointment. Marian had decided in case he did not appear, to proceed alone, feeling by this time quite like a veteran traveller.
In the gray dawn of the Christmas morning they reached the city. They had just entered the depot, and Mr. Lynde was inquiring of Marian how he could serve her as to checks and tickets, when a stout, gray-haired gentleman bustled up with, "Ah, Marian, here you are!" bent and kissed her cheek, saying in the same breath, "So glad you came this morning, my dear. We are not going on to-day, however. My old friend, Col. Winslow, wishes me to spend Christmas with him, and I have accepted the invitation for you, too." Marian's face put in a protest.
"Oh! you will enjoy it, my dear; the house is filled with young people; you will have a gay time. Come, let us hasten, the carriage is waiting."
As soon as she had opportunity to speak, Marian presented Mr. Lynde, as one who had been kind to her. Accordingly the uncle bestowed on him a hurried bow, and a penetrating glance, from keen, gray eyes under shaggy brows. Then he tucked Marian's hand under his arm and was moving off.
One moment she lingered. There was a brief hand clasp, some murmured thanks, and she was gone.
To say that Mr. Lynde was astonished, would but feebly express it. Who was this man, and where had he taken her? She evidently went most reluctantly. He felt as if he ought to pursue them and recover her. He remembered now that she had said something about an uncle who, perhaps, would join her on the way. He discovered that he had been looking forward to a day's travel in her company with keenest pleasure. Now it had all changed; travelling was the depth of drudgery.
In his half-dazed, disappointed state, he nearly forgot the imperative need of haste on account of business, etc., and barely escaped being left as he sprang on the train at the last moment. He realized presently that a certain volume of essays was no longer in his possession. He did not regret it, though, much as he valued it, inasmuch as he had in its stead two tiny books he should greatly prize. He brought them out now, and looked at them, brought, too, from his side pocket, a sprig of evergreen that he had surreptitiously broken from the bunch fastened to the basket he had carried, partly because he enjoyed the fragrance, and partly—he knew not why. He laid it with the books. And that was every trace there was left of the bright presence that, he was obliged to confess to himself, he missed intolerably. Soon he tossed them all into his satchel almost fiercely, and called himself a fool for allowing any influence to take possession of him in that manner. He brought out his law papers again, and sternly set himself a task. But a face, that two days before he had not known, came between him and the cumbersome phrases, so that, instead of defining and arranging the strong points of the case, he went to puzzling his brain to determine whether or no there was just the least shadow of regret in her eyes as she took leave of him. Then he went over all their conversation, treasured up words and tones of hers, and pictured again her attitude and look of sweet gravity, like some veritable angel when she came to minister to his necessities. "Not one in a hundred would have done that so simply and gracefully, if they would have done it at all, indeed," he told himself.
The thing that tried him most was his own stupidity that he had not obtained her address; "Massachusetts," that was all he knew.
He took out the books again. Possibly there was a clue. Her name was there: "Marian Chester." What a fair name it was; how it just suited her. That was all, though. No tell-tale sign of where she lived, or where Aunt Ruth lived. He read the line below: "The Lord bless thee and keep thee." It was long since Stuart Lynde had prayed, but he found his heart re-echoing that prayer.
As for Marian, she found the last half of her journey dull in comparison with the first, and she was dimly conscious why. The thought sent bright flushes into her cheeks, but she did not sit down and analyze and define it, or recall looks and tones and words. She shut the door on that corner of her heart and locked it. She told herself that it was a matter of perfect indifference to her who or what he was, and yet when her uncle asked, "Who was the young man you introduced to me, my dear?" and she produced his card, she was more than pleased to hear Col. Winslow declare that he knew him well by reputation; that he was one of the most brilliant young lawyers in the State, and, morally, was without blemish.
In the busy months that followed, it was becoming a habit with Mr. Lynde to refresh himself with a look into one or other of the little books he kept among his treasures. Even when most pressed by business matters, he was sure to snatch a brief moment through the day or night to glance at a verse. He did this at first because they belonged to "the maiden," he called her in his thought; that old-fashioned sweet word just fitted her, and seemed to single her out as above and beyond all others. Then the words of Thomas à Kempis charmed him; he studied that book for the quaint simplicity of its style, and wondered that he had not before discovered such a gem. And, while he thought it childish in him, he noted with not a little curiosity the text for each day in the "Daily Food." When he went a journey, it amused even himself that he always slipped the little books into some pocket, and they went along.
One night at the close of a triumphant day, when he had come off victor in a difficult case, and had been congratulated and complimented until he was surfeited, he opened the small book to search out the text for that day. To one conscious of having gloried not a little in the very gratifying success of that day, it was almost startling to read—
"Let not the wise man glory in his wisdom, neither let the mighty man glory in his might; let not the rich man glory in his riches. Let him that glorieth, glory in this, that he understandeth and knoweth me, that I am the Lord which exercise loving kindness, judgment and righteousness in the earth; for in these things I delight, saith the Lord."
Not since he was a boy at his mother's knee, had a word of Scripture come into his heart with power such as this.
He knew he had gloried in his wisdom and power; had been proud of his triumph, and proud of his spotless life and high morality, but now how it all flashed upon him in an instant, that he was weak and foolish and sinful before God. He could speak in many tongues, and understand mysteries of science, but he did not know and understand the Lord. The one thing in which it would be right to glory, he did not possess. When a boy, he had the habit of prayer, but, as he grew toward manhood, lost his faith by reading skeptical writers, so for many years he had not spoken to God until he came into possession of these two precious books, then, curiously enough, he had begun to pray one petition: "The Lord bless her and keep her." But now, when the sense of the utter worthlessness of all he attained, and God left out, was flashed upon him, he cried, "Teach me to know and understand thee," and the first answer to that prayer was to show him that he was blind and poor and in need of all things. His eye fell upon words just then which told that another soul, generations ago, had gone by the same road to find his God, for Thomas à Kempis said:
"But if I abase and know myself to be nothing, if I renounce all self-esteem and (as I am) account myself to be but dust; thy grace will be favorable unto me, and thy light will be near unto my heart."And all self-esteem, how little soever, shall be swallowed up in the deep valley of my nothingness, and perish everlastingly."There thou showest thyself unto me, what I am, what I have been, and whither I am come; for I am nothing and I knew it not."And if I be left to myself, behold, I become nothing and all weakness."But if thou lookest upon me, I am made strong."
The light had entered the darkened soul. The Spirit used a few texts of Scripture and the devout words of an old monk to teach him "that all our righteousness is as filthy rags," and that "the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin." The old miracle was repeated in him. In silence and quiet the change went on. A proud, ambitious, self-seeking man, learning to pray with that other saint:
"Grant me, O, most gracious and loving Jesus, to rest in thee above all creatures:"Above all health and beauty, above all glory and honor, above all power and dignity, above all knowledge and subtlety, above all riches and arts, above all joy and gladness, above all hope and promise, above all desert and desire; above all gifts and presents that thou canst give and impart unto us: above all joy and triumph that the mind of man can receive and feel."
A year went away, and the stars of Christmas night glowed in the sky as brightly as long ago, "when shepherds watched their flocks by night," and "the angel of the Lord came down." Mr. Lynde, as he walked and thought—thought of that night, "within that province far away," to which his destiny was now "linked" in a peculiar and tender relation. He would not have been human not to have recalled that other night, too, a year ago. So he walked the silent, moonlight streets, and repeated softly—
"'In the solemn midnight,Centuries ago,'"
He might walk and walk miles, though, it would not bring that other one who walked by his side then. He might not have sighed so heavily at that thought if his vision could have compassed distance and known who watched the stars with him.
That these two paths should ever cross again, would seem as impossible as that two small ships adrift on the wide ocean should "speak" each other.
The ingenuity and perseverance with which he had prosecuted the search all these months was something remarkable. As Boston is the metropolis of Massachusetts, he made business trips to Boston, and the "business" was to walk the streets, haunt picture galleries, attend lectures and concerts, always searching for one face. He read Boston papers, especially the list of marriages and deaths. He took the westward journey many times, hoping she might have repeated the visit to Aunt Ruth. Once he ventured to send her a letter through the Boston post-office, and it came back to himself.
"She knows where I am," he would tell his unreasoning self. "How easily she could send me some little sign, but, such as she never would, even though she cared."
All this time Marian was hidden away in a suburban town ten miles from Boston, in her father's country home, though spending much time in the city. Why did not one or the other of their good angels cause them to turn their eyes in the right direction that day they almost brushed against each other in the crowd?
Through the year she had stoically crushed out pleasant remembrances of the brief acquaintance, never allowing the thought that possibly they might meet again, and yet she always searched an audience with a keener interest than had been her wont. It might just be possible, but how preposterous, after all! He lived far away in a Western city. Why should he come to Boston?
'Tis true, too, that on Christmas night she indulged herself in a bit of dreaming, lingering purposely at her chamber window, looking out on the white world until the clock in the steeple should chime out twelve, feeling, unconsciously, that she was keeping an indefinable tryst with some mythical being by so doing. She, too, went in memory over the walk and the poem, recalled the excellent rendering of the few lines recited, and then being dimly conscious that it would be the most delightful thing in life to go on and on in an interminable walk, with that one voice sounding always in her ears, she brought her reverie to an abrupt ending, drew her curtains and shut out the witching moonbeams with tantalizing memories,—like a sensible maiden that she was.
Mr. Lynde's book had been diligently studied by her, partly because it was his, and for the reason that it was in rather a different line from anything she had read. She did not at once comprehend its subtle logic, and her ambition required that she should. Her well-trained mind was not long in discovering that this book was not all gems and pearls, as she had supposed when the fascinating rhetoric attracted her. There were half-truths, skeptical suggestions, and flings at doctrines dear to Christian hearts. It filled her with sorrow and surprise that such high, beautiful thoughts should be so marred.
Did Mr. Lynde believe these things? From a remark he dropped, she half-feared he did. From that time his name came into her daily prayer as she asked that her little books might not be lost, but be seed that should spring up and bear fruit.
It was not in a crowded assembly, nor on the city streets, nor on a railroad train, that Mr. Lynde finally found his treasure. He was returning from a trip in the Northwest, and near the end of a day's travel was obliged to wait at a small town a few hours, in order to take an express train. Finding the time hang heavily, he walked out and turned his steps into a little foot path that led out into the country.
It was a perfect day. The clear sky, the tinted woods, the stream, the "rare blue hills," made lovely pictures on all sides.
He had not the most remote idea that this noisy brook bounded Aunt Ruth's farm, and that the next bend in the road would reveal a charming picture that would make his pulses stand still with joy.
A narrow footbridge spanned the stream, and leaning over the railing, intently watching the hurrying waters, her white dress fluttering in the breeze, stood Marian. He knew her in an instant, and came forward, his heart in his face. Marian looked up quickly, in a startled way, at the sound of a footstep, and the joyful radiance that lighted her eyes when he said, "At last I have found you," revealed the whole story. There was scarcely need of question and answer.
And then? They sauntered along the bank of the winding stream, and began a walk that did not end till life ended.
The express train went its way without the traveller, and they two came up through the lengthening shadows to the old farmhouse, where Aunt Ruth sat on the porch. They told the whole long story to her, and she listened, with now a smile and then a tear, and when it was finished she laid a hand on the head of each, and said sweetly and solemnly, "Children, the Lord bless thee and keep thee!"
JUANA'S MASTER.———
A PICTURESQUE object it was, this old Spanish-looking house, in the City of Mexico, with turrets and towers and balconies, set amid tall trees and clambering vines. The hot breath of the summer afternoon had sent most of the inhabitants to search out cool, dark retreats, and lose the sense of languor in sleep. Even the leaves and the flowers were drowsy, and universal silence settled upon all things, broken only by the plashing of fountains and the sleepy little songs of birds.
In an upper balcony of the old house a young wife sat, her head resting on one hand, her eyes fastened on the distant mountains just discernible through a soft haze. She was not building pretty air-castles, nor absorbed in the dreamy, wondrous beauty of the scene before her; nor when she bowed her head on the railing, did her eyes close in happy forgetfulness.
"Sleep seldom visits sorrow," and this sad heart was breathing out sobs and moans.
Juana Valerie, descended from both Mexican and Spanish ancestors, was, with the exception of an old aunt, the last of the family, which, in its day, had been one of much note. Left an orphan at an early age, her only remaining relative—feeble in both mind and body—found it no easy task to bring the fiery, frisky little mortal under any great degree of control. As she grew older her positive nature and keen mind outgeneraled both teachers and aunt. When she chose to spend the livelong day frolicking in the grounds, or clambering trees, instead of poring over dull books, she did so, always being able by means of ready wit and winning ways to escape punishment. However, as the years went on, she contrived to secure a fair share of education, absorbing it, it must be; surely it was not accomplished by hard study.
Juana's parents had been staunch Roman Catholics, and while they lived she was trained in the strict observance of the rules of that church. Whether it was that the little maiden was a born rebel, or that from some honest-hearted ancestor she had inherited a hatred of shams, it turned out that at a very early age she began to throw off the shackles the Church of Rome binds about its victims. The Confessional had always been to her childish mind a dread and horror, and as she grew to girlhood she stoutly refused to go to it. The aunt and the old priest scolded and threatened, which had the effect only to drive her from the church entirely. Then they persecuted and warned, holding up to her view the awful fate of an apostate soul. They tried to hedge her in on this side and that, but she shook her willful little head, and leaping over all inclosures, ran free as the wind. No threats or persuasions availing to bring her under control, she was deemed incorrigible, and the anathema of the Church pronounced against her. This did not bring the least shadow upon her spirit, however; a strange intuition seemed to make this young girl aware that truth in its purity was not there, and that a mere man had no power to pronounce either blessing or curse upon her.
She was not unloving to her old aunt, nor did she intend to be undutiful, but she did purpose always and everywhere to have her own way; so the feeble old lady settled down to the inevitable, and Juana came and went free as a bird. Hitherto, her flowers and her pets had absorbed her, but now she was awakening to the fact that a whole bright world of pleasure lay all about, beckoning her to its revelries. So she drifted in with the giddy throng, and was flattered and followed and smiled upon to her heart's content.
In one of the gay assemblies she met Paul Everett, a young American. At first glance each became immediately fascinated by the other, and subsequent interviews served to deepen the enchantment. As Juana could speak not a word of English, and the young stranger but very little Spanish, it would seem that the attachment could not make rapid progress; but love has a mystic language of its own, and is independent of clumsy words. The reasons for this irresistible and mutual attraction were quite as good as many lovers can plead. He was carried captive by flashing dark eyes, raven hair, and the graceful form gleaming in crimson and gold, flitting through the dance like some gay tropical bird. She, in turn, fondly believed that the tall blonde young man, with locks and mustache of golden hue, with eyes of heavenly blue, and, above all, in faultless attire, was nothing short of a demi-god. On such slender basis they built fair hopes, and were ready to promise everything, and more, that lay in mortal's power to bestow. The business that drew Paul Everett to Mexico was the same in which he had been engaged the last five years. His indulgent friends termed it "sowing wild oats," though he himself professed to be gathering material for some literary work. In this line he had much taste, and fair talents, and might have succeeded if only it had been possible for him to engage in any pursuit with earnestness and enthusiasm; or if he had known any other rule of life than self-indulgence.
The wooing was short; they were soon married, and Paul for a time exceedingly enjoyed the little idyll he was living. The situation was most novel and delightful. The flowery land, its blue skies and balmy air suited his poetical temperament. The old castle and grounds were picturesque and spacious, and he was master of them, or would be on the death of the old aunt; besides, did he not possess the entire adoration of the most charming and unique little creature that ever breathed? Paul had a mania for the unique, and one of Juana's greatest attractions to him was that she was unlike all the rest of womankind; of whom, as he assured himself, he was heartily weary, but this sparkling, piquant winning sprite—ah! She was as far beyond and above all other women as wine was above water— and that distance was immeasurable to Paul's taste.
He enjoyed teaching Juana to speak English. Her musical voice stammering out pretty broken words in his own language, was a pleasant thing to hear. She was not content with simply speaking it. Should she be the wife of an American and not be able to read his language? So under his tuition, she set about the study of it with much more industry than suited her husband's indolent temperament. These were halcyon days; seldom were a young couple more united. Their views of life and their aims were the same. The world was a gay garden, and they two were butterflies, disporting themselves in the warm sunshine and draining every drop of sweetness from every flower in their path. Innocent enough flowers they were at first; the delight in each other's society in rambling, riding, boating, and resting under the shadows of broad spreading trees, or, from a lofty balcony enjoying the panorama the summer evening spread before them; the fair city at their feet, its spires and minarets gleaming in the moonlight, and distant mountains piled in soft masses against the crystal sky.
When Juana added to the witchery of the scene by singing sweet Spanish airs to the music of the guitar, the young husband half believed he had attained heaven and the society of the angels.
When these simple delights ceased to charm, there was the outside world which they had come near to forgetting while in this ecstatic trance. So they plunged into every amusement the gay wicked city offered, and "gave their hearts to folly." They lived in a whirl of pleasure, and Juana felt that now there was nothing more to ask for in life. To be the chosen bride of such a man, and to take her fill of amusement, to dress and dance and sing the days and nights away—was ever cup of happiness so strangely full as hers?
If some stray breeze had whispered in her ear that she had tied her happiness to a slender thread, that the day would come when all these things would be to her as chaff, and that if her husband should weary of her, he would fling her aside as he did the rose he plucked in the morning, after breathing its sweetness a moment—then Juana would never have believed such a false whisperer.
Paul Everett tired of everything sooner or later. His restless, fickle nature demanded constant change and new sensations. So, after the first novelty of his new mode of life had worn off, he began to return to his old habits of roving, making only short absences at first, but gradually to extend them till weeks grew into months.
Juana though grieved at his long delays, had opportunity for rest from the whirl of gayeties, and for the first time in her life thought and conscience seemed to be awakening. Young as she was, she could enter somewhat into the experience of another one who "laid hold on folly," and found it "vanity and vexation of spirit." Of late an unaccountable feeling of depression and self-condemnation would sometimes steal over her. A voice seemed often to ask her, "If this was all of life, to frolic away a few brief days and die, and then—what? Could it be that death was the end?" One evening during her husband's absence, she walked in the grounds with her maid, and paused by the old stone gateway to watch a little group of Protestants on their way to a prayer meeting in the small chapel just beyond. She felt sad and lonely, and wished that some of those peaceful-faced women could speak to her, so that she might find out what it was that made them seem so different from all others.
"Those people are happy, Ria," she said to the maid; "they look as if they had found something that rests them. I wish I knew what it was." And Ria, casting a puzzled glance at her young mistress, wondered what she had to weary her. Juana dismissed her maid after a little and betook herself to an upper veranda, where the music of sweet hymns from the little chapel stole softly up on the evening breeze. The tender airs melted her to tears, and an unutterable yearning for something better and higher than she had ever known filled her heart. It was the first dawning cry of an immortal soul, unsatisfied with earthly good, seeking for its God.
These feelings did not pass away with the next morning's sunlight. She felt wretched and dissatisfied, and gloom settled down upon her. This could not be accounted for by the long absence of her husband; for when he returned for a brief stay the solemn thoughts still oppressed her, though she tried to shake them off and appear as usual. Genuine affection would have detected and searched out with tender sympathy the trouble that just hinted itself in the sobered look of the dark eyes. But Paul liked sunshine and laughter; and, true to his selfish nature, was only annoyed that his wife seemed to be taking on something of the dignity of womanhood, and was less like a butterfly or a frisky kitten.
There was a fascination to Juana in watching the small company of worshipers go to and from the chapel. One evening, as the melody of their hymns floated up to her, she became possessed of a desire to come nearer to the heavenly sounds. So, enveloping her head and shoulders in a large veil, she glided softly forth into the moonlight alone; her husband was down in the city and would not return until late. She was glad to go alone, though for some reason that she did not herself understand. She stole silently along, and stood under the shadow of the trees where she could observe without being seen. Now their heads were bowed in prayer. In the earnest petitions from one and another she often caught the name "God." She had never heard it in English. If they had spoken the word in her own language, though, no distinct idea would have been conveyed to her; only a dim, shadowy something that she had heard of long ago.
Soon they broke out into song again:
"Come, happy souls, approach your GodWith new melodious songs."
Although Juana could converse in simple broken words in English, she could comprehend scarcely nothing of what she now heard; and yet the music thrilled and animated her. How joyful these faces and voices were, and yet subdued and tender, and they sang about "God"—that same name! Still she lingered as if fascinated until the closing hymn, that lullaby for trusting souls in all ages:
"Glory to thee, my God, this night,For all the blessings of the light:Keep me, O keep me, King of kings,Beneath thine own almighty wings."
And still they sang that same name—"God." If only the poor heart standing there in the shadows could know about the "Almighty wings!" Juana did not forget the sound of the new name she had heard—that Being to whom those people prayed and sang praises, and read about in their Bible. If she could but read English and have one of their Bibles, then she should know all about Him! Oh! If somebody would tell her about Him.
"If those English people know about God, why should not Paul?" she mused, as they sat together one afternoon.
Paul was reclining in a hammock, the smoke of a cigar curling far above his head, absorbed in a French novel.
When Juana broke the silence by asking him if he owned a Bible, he answered with a frown, "Of course not."
"Paul, could you tell me about God?" Juana ventured again.
"Very easily," said Paul, puffing out a whiff of smoke. "There is no God. So you see you needn't bother your pretty head any more about that question."
He did not see the startled, disappointed look in Juana's face as he settled himself again to his book with an air that said he was not to be further disturbed. Paul's word, ordinarily, was law to Juana, but in this case she was not satisfied. She could not believe there was no God. She knew there must be one, and that not by reasoning it out. A greater than human reason had taught her. If now she could but find out about Him! She had not looked into a Spanish Bible since she was a very little child, but she could not go to that for help. She distrusted everything that the Church of Rome had to do with. "But if a Spanish Bible tells Catholics about their religion, why should not an English Bible teach the Protestant religion?" she reasoned. She resolved to have one, if possible, and when Juana resolved, her strong will left no stone unturned toward accomplishment.
A day or two after, as her husband was making preparations for another journey, Juana preferred her request:
"There is one thing I do much want. Will you not please get it for me, dear Paul, before you go? I do so want it! And that is an English Bible."
"Pray, what in the world would you do with that?" Paul asked, in much astonishment. "You cannot read English."
"Ah! Shall I not read it soon if I study much? I can try to read the stories in it, and it will help make the time to fly, so you will soon come back to me," she added coaxingly.
Paul was willing enough that other people should have what they wanted if it did not interfere with his pleasure. So as he went about attending to various purchases for himself, he remembered Juana's request, and was at not a little pains to obtain for her a copy of the Bible. "Every one to his taste," he remarked to himself as he looked it over. "I think I could find fables that would prove more entertaining to me than this one."
During her husband's stay at home Juana had much of the time been carrying on an inward struggle. She had endeavored to quiet her unrest by plunging into reckless dissipation, but the still small voice followed her even to the midnight revel. And often, when she had filled all her waking hours with busy trifles—purposely to crowd out these intrusive thoughts—she would wake as by a flash, her spirit filled with a strange dread, and then, in the still solemn hour the eternal would speak to the mortal, who, shrinking away in conscious guilt, felt that there were just two things in the universe; herself, and an awful presence who searched her through.
When left again to her lonely life, Juana gave herself with unceasing application to the study of English, so that she might read her new Bible. She could already spell out texts made up of simple words, and form a tolerably clear conception of their meaning. If she was going to read a book, she must of course begin at the beginning and read it through; so she plunged boldly into the great volume. As well might one essay to cross the ocean in a tiny sail-boat, as for this dark-minded girl to get any available knowledge from such a deep; the unbeliever would say, and truly, the undertaking would have been hopeless had it not been a wonderful Book, with a wonderful Teacher.
She labored through the first chapter of Genesis with that great name in almost every verse. Never was tale more fascinating than this one. It was read in a poor blundering way; but the truth had been gleaned that God made the world and all it contains. No doubt as to the truth of it entered her mind for a moment. Day after day she spelled her way through succeeding chapters. It was all new and wonderful, but disappointing. It was not what she craved: something that would remove the strange heaviness that weighed upon her. On the contrary she gathered that all the world had gone astray from God and were under his wrath and curse, and that agreed with what she had conceived. God to be; a stern, awful being, holding a sword over the heads of his creatures. The more she read the greater grew the mystery. "I cannot make it out," she said, almost despairingly, "it is all confusion;" then, with the superstition of her race, resolved, "I will put the book of God under my pillow; I will see if some good may not come to me from it while I sleep." Perchance there might be sweeter sleep if the "book of God" oftener pillowed troubled heads. Finally she abandoned the project of reading the Bible through, and puzzled out bits here and there, hoping to chance upon something that she could understand.
"All have sinned and come short of the glory of God," she read, then sadly murmured, "Yes, I know that; the very first of the book tells it, and that is what I am, a sinner. I have a bad heart, oh! so bad. But how shall I make it good I know not." And just here Juana discovered the old remedy that many burdened souls resort to. She would propitiate Heaven with good works. So she gave money freely and liberally whenever a hand was stretched out, and tried to be amiable and lovely, and made a solemn vow to perfectly keep all the commandments. The result was the usual one that comes to a sinner trying to justify himself by the law. Every dormant evil in the poor girl's heart awoke and clamored. Satan worried and buffeted at every turn, and, growing irritable and impatient she declared, "What should I want of a book that makes me so unhappy? It must be bad, for since I know it I am not so good as once I was."
After that the book was not opened for days, but rested in the bottom of Juana's trunk, "under much clothes, so that I could not see it," she said, and she herself wandered up and down like a lost spirit, out of heart with everything within and about her. Then, to fill up the wretched, lonely days with something, she again brought out her Bible and plunged into the laborious task more earnestly than before.
Gracious and kind as He ever is, the Lord was teaching this one poor little scholar as if she were the only soul in the universe. After Juana had thoroughly learned that she was a sinner, this blessed truth flashed up at her one day as she was toiling through a verse: "Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners." She went through it again, eagerly, with dilating eyes and suspended breath. "Ah! What is this!" she exclaimed. "This is news indeed! Christ Jesus: Who can he be? He saves sinners! And that is me."
At last she found the key. And now how intently she searched out that name, drinking in the truth, as one dying of thirst would seize a cup of cold water. Little by little she got it all—the old, old story; the birth in Bethlehem, the lowly, lovely life in Nazareth, the cross, the death, the tomb, the resurrection, the ascension, and, at last, the gracious invitation—
"Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest."
"Oh! I want rest," she cried; and falling upon her knees breathed her first prayer, "I come, I come. O, save me, Christ Jesus!" Without even realizing that this was prayer, she poured out all her heart before Him. "I know not how long I did talk to Him," she told some one afterward; "a long time it was, but I had so much to tell Him I could not stop. And when I get up from my knees, my trouble be all gone! I feel so light it seems to me I could fly. When I look out the window I say, 'O, what a world! So beautiful! The sky so blue, the trees so grand and the flowers so bright! I wonder I never see the glory before.' Then something say, 'It is wrong for you to be so happy When you are such a sinner,' so I try to get back the big heavy load, but I cannot; I can only sing for joy."
Secure in her newly found peace, Juana watched unceasingly for her husband's return, eager to tell him the good news.
"Paul is very wise," she told herself, "he will not have so hard a time to understand as I. He will soon see when he comes to read the dear book that God lives; then he will love him, and he will get rest to his soul and stay much at home, and then so happy will we be."
In a few days Paul came, bringing as he always did loving greeting. He was not insensible to the fact that it was a pleasant thing to have such comfortable headquarters, and a pretty creature ready to minister to him, glad to obey his slightest nod, for Juana, spirited maiden though she was, had found in Paul her master, bending her head meekly to the reins that were not always silken, or guided by a gentle hand; consequently her married life had flowed on without a ripple of discord, and thus far conscience had put in no parleying voice. Why would she not gladly please and obey him? Was not her Paul the embodiment of manly beauty, grace and goodness?
"My love doth so approve him, that even his stubbornness, his checks and frowns have grace and favor in them," was the honest feeling of this deluded soul.
It was pitiful to see her childlike trust thrown back upon itself when she first told Paul the glad secret that she had been keeping for him, pouring out with sweet enthusiasm the story of her struggles and triumphs. Paul sat like a stone giving no word or sign of sympathy, but as she went on pledging undying faith and love to her new master, he grew darkly angry, and then, when eager to justify herself and convince him, she placed in his hands her Bible, saying, "Do, dear Paul, read about the wonderful Christ Jesus for yourself; you will see it is all true," he dashed the book from him and strode out of the room.
Juana picked it up with a low cry of pain and a tender clasping of it to her heart, as if it had been human and was hurt, too.
The young husband would have been jealous indeed, could he have seen her hasten to her chamber, and tell all her sorrows in another ear than his own.
He waited sullenly for Juana to come to him with penitential tears, and promises that she would certainly abjure any faith that did not meet his perfect approval. He waited in vain, though, and was not a little puzzled by the gentle sad dignity of her manner. He finally resolved to treat the whole affair as a bit of childish nonsense, and little by little in the gayeties that should surround her, she would forget her new whims.
To please her husband Juana accompanied him once to the theatre, and spent one night whirling in the dance. Then this pagan girl's conscience asserted itself clearly and unmistakably. She was not thrown into a bewildering state of perplexity such as troubles young converts in our Christian land. She needed not to consult the authorities of any church, or inquire of wise theologians "what she must give up" if she became a disciple. Her heart in absolute self-abandon had turned to Christ, as naturally and gladly as the flower to the sun, and the way was not clearer for the dews and life-giving rays to reach the tiny blossom, than for his slightest wish or suggestion to reach and control his child. She knew, without settling it by a process of argument, that Christ and worldly pleasures are antagonistic, and that whoever merges heart and soul in the one must give up the other. To her surprise and delight she found, too, that the keen relish for scenes of revelry had left her. How could it be otherwise? Christ had come into her heart. By a law of natural philosophy, two bodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time; so, by a law of divine philosophy, Christ and the world cannot occupy a soul at the same time; and every spiritually-minded Christian is acquainted with that law, either by sad or sweet experience.
Paul Everett loved his young wife as well as he was capable of loving anything besides himself. Like many weak, tyrannical natures, he rejoiced in a sense of ownership concerning her, and in the hitherto complete submission of her will to his. What, then, was his astonishment and anger when she told him, as gently as she could, that her conscience would not allow her any more to attend balls and theaters, or engage in several other forms of amusement which used to delight her?
What wonderful transformation was this? A wild, frolicsome girl, a doll, a plaything, suddenly discovering that she had a conscience, and asserting her right to rule her own soul, even daring to have a thought contrary from his!
"What do you mean by such foolishness, Juana?" he demanded.
What a heart of stone he had that it did not melt when the dark eyes, filled with tears, turned pleadingly up to his, and the stammering tongue in pretty, crooked words, said: "The Lord, Christ Jesus, he is my Master," and Juana's tongue lingered lovingly over the word—she had lately learned it in English, and it meant so much to her—"I fear, oh! very much, to not please Him; I must follow what He says to me here," and both small hands clasped themselves over her heart.
Paul's answer was a torrent of invectives and reproaches, ending with—"I am your master! You are to obey me and none other." And then he stooped lower, close to her ear, and whispered words that he knew would be terrible to her: "If you do not, I will cast you off!"
It was not will-power, nor strength of purpose—inherited from any ancestor, either Spanish or Mexican—but grace divine, that enabled Juana to maintain outward calmness, though her cheek blanched, and lift her soul to her Lord, breathing a solemn vow to be faithful to Him, come what would.
When Paul was angry, he came nearer to being in earnest than at any other time. He hated "religionists," and was determined not to have the wings of the pretty bird he had caught clipped by such fanaticism. Moreover, he wished to be the God himself to whom she bowed down. He would brook no rival. So he ordered her to give up her Bible reading and her praying, and cast her faith to the winds, expecting to be meekly obeyed; but Juana, although nearly heart-broken at his displeasure, remained firm, and when he saw that neither commands, threats, nor persuasions availed with her, he was furious, and resolved to leave her to herself, hoping that by an unusually protracted absence, loneliness would bring her to terms.
"I shall soon return if you write me that you will be perfectly obedient," Paul had said, as he rode away, and now Juana, in the glory and beauty of the summer afternoon, sat on that upper balcony watching him disappear through the great gateway—gone and she alone in her sorrow. "What if he never came up that flower 'broidered path again? Her Paul was firm, he would not relent." (The poor, blind child did not know that Paul was stubborn instead of firm.)
Martyrs of all ages have cheerfully given up their lives, but who shall say which is most heroic—to be torn limb from limb, or to tear the heart from its clay idol? To give the body to be burned, or through the slow-going years yield the heart to the crucible for His sake?
Weary days, and weeks, and months passed, and still Paul remained away, but the heart of the young disciple, though it often fainted, did not fail. Her Bible was her constant occupation, and the blessed Saviour her friend and guest, for he did abide at her house and in her heart; so that the loneliness was not so great as Paul imagined. He received many letters from her, but with no word of retraction. She plead for his return, begging him not to cast her off. She would do anything for him but deny or displease "the dear Christ Jesus." "He do make me happy even in my sorrow," she wrote. This was more than the vain man could bear; as if Juana should be made happy by anything when he was absent!
Paul's next letter brought news that made the blood stand still in the heart of the young wife. He was to leave that part of the country for years, perhaps forever. Whether they ever met again depended on herself. When she was ready to give up her religion she might write to him to a certain address and it would be forwarded, otherwise he wanted to hear nothing from her. She need not try to seek him out, neither should she have any word from him. It may have been that Paul came to this cruel decision more easily from just having received news that Juana's old aunt had died, and had willed the bulk of the estate to the church, leaving her niece but a small sum on account of her apostasy from the faith. It was all this elegant young man could do to maintain himself, with his refined and luxurious tastes. How, then, could he be burdened with a portionless wife? He had not planned in that way.
For weeks after this blow Juana lingered between life and death. As strength returned she prayed to die. She said over and over in her anguish, "I can never, never live without him."
She did not die. The Lord had a work for her. When fully recovered, a wild desire took possession of her to look again upon the face of her husband. She must go to the United States, his home. She might find him, he might forgive her, or, joyful possibility, he might change. She could not change, but she must see him once more. Disposing of her small property, she started on her unknown way, and after a dreary journey arrived—a stranger in a strange land. Wearily she traversed the cities mid towns, till courage and purse were well-nigh spent. The search proved fruitless, and her heart was sore and almost rebellious. Faint and ready to perish—did some one speak her name? "Child, come unto me, I will give you rest." And then Juana's heart leaped, and she answered quickly, "Master." Then were her eyes opened, and she knew that the Lord was with her, knew, too, that she had again been setting up in her heart a clay idol in his place. When she sorrowfully sought forgiveness, he showed the "vividness of His mercy," and gave her not only comfort, but an overcoming faith which enabled her to lay herself and her husband at his feet with, "Thy will be done."
In loving submission she asked now, "What wilt Thou have me to do?" And for answer came the thought of her country in bonds of Romanism and idol worship. Her heart yearned over its darkness and misery, but what could she do for it now, far away in a strange land, with very little money left? Soon, however, the divine plan began to unfold itself! As she walked the city street one day and passed a church, the door stood invitingly open, and the sound of singing reached her ear. Juana was always attracted by music. As other ladies were passing in she followed and took a seat among them. It proved to be a woman's missionary meeting. After the hymn came reports and papers on different subjects. Some of these were very long and dull, and read in such low tones that she understood scarcely nothing of what was said; but then, the faces of those good women rested her, and she was sure it was a good place to be. Besides, they sang often, and that was sweet, and then, they prayed. Ah! Now she felt at home, she could understand that. After prayer, a lady spoke in clear, distinct tones a few words about Mexico. She did not read, she talked. Her sentences were not long and fine, her words were short and simple, and Juana comprehended them. She listened as if spell-bound, and then forgetting all else but her commission and her country, stood up and with downcast eyes and timid tones, said, "Ladies, Mexico is my dear country. Let me say one little word for her?" It was only a few sentences, in broken words, but never was appeal more effective as she pleaded with them to "send help now, for they are dying every day, and they know not Christ Jesus at all."
Then, half-frightened at what she had done, she sank into her seat. But the ladies begged her to go on, to talk as long as she would, persuading her to come up to the front. At first the consciousness of so many eyes fastened upon her was confusion, but presently, forgetting everything else, she told them the simple story of her conversion. The eloquent face and vivid words, with pretty foreign accent, as she described her despair and her joy, stirred the hearts of those women to their depths. What a fair field for work was Mexico if gems such as this young stranger were hidden away there.
The fire thus kindled rapidly spread. Juana went from church to church, and the tide of enthusiasm rose high, gifts flowed in, and many hearts turned warmly to the "land of the sun," as this young wife, a miracle of God's grace, told the tale of his redeeming love, and in broken, eager words, pleaded with tears for "my dear Mexico."
Gladly would these Christians have sent her through the land that by this means the hearts of many of her Christian sisters might be reached and moved to lay upon the altar themselves or their treasures.
The Master, though, had other work for Juana. He had her return to her native country, and in her own tongue tell her own people the good news, and she obeyed, glad that He counted her worthy to do this work for Him. She came out poor and friendless. She went back laden with treasures; means to carry on the work, and followed by the prayers and loving farewells of hosts of God's people.
To-day in her musical mother tongue, Juana in her own fair city, tells the glad story, and hungry souls are hanging on her words. While she works her prayer goes up that Paul may become "a new creature in Christ Jesus," and that the glad day will dawn when he shall come and work by her side. Let us have faith to plead it with her, believing that the Divine Alchemist can transmute even such worthless material into a saint.
Patiently, trustingly, Juana is waiting. Through all her sorrows she has come to "the valley of blessing," to rest and peace, and the song she loves best to sing, is—
"Emptied, that He might fill me,As forth to His labor I go,Broken, that so unhinderedHis life through me might flow."
TEN BUSHELS.———
MRS. LYMAN was in the kitchen superintending dinner. She was but a young housekeeper, so there was a certain amount of anxiety connected with making even a kettle of soup. She stirred and tasted and put in another shake of pepper and another pinch of salt, and said to her maid of all work, who stood by watching the process:
"I do wish I had an onion to put in it; soup is not very good without an onion flavor."
The remark was made more to herself than to Barbara, whose knowledge of English was somewhat limited. If it had not been, and if she had known the way and it had not been too late, she might have gone down town and bought some onions. As those obstacles were all in the way, the soup must needs go without.
When the six o'clock dinner was spread in the very prettiest dining room that can be imagined, the table glittering in its new silver, and the soup smoking in the tureen, the master of the house—a young man who had only enjoyed the privilege of sitting at the head of his own table for a couple of months—took it all in, as his own tastes were capable of doing. The savory odors, the cheery room, the careful attention to every detail of comfort and beauty, and then the slight figure opposite him, an embodiment of dignity and grace—he found nothing lacking in it all.
"This soup is not quite perfect," the young wife said, as she began to serve it, "I had no onions to put in it. I wish you would order some when you go down town to-morrow, Philip; they are nice just now for boiling, too."
This young couple had compared views on Browning and Ruskin, but not on onions. They had long ago discussed poetry, philosophies, and art, as well as architecture and house furnishings, and they had found hitherto that their tastes were in most delightful accord. Mrs. Lyman was not prepared, therefore, for the frown that contracted her husband's handsome brows as he ejaculated:
"Onions! Don't mention them. Excuse me from that purchase, please. They are abominable; not fit for human beings to eat. They ought to be banished from every respectable table."
"I beg your pardon," Mrs. Lyman answered, with rising color, "but all do not agree in such a sweeping denunciation. Many of the best physicians consider them most nutritious and healthful."
"Well, at all events, I shall not have my house polluted with the vile things. If there is anything that reminds one of a third-rate boarding-house, it is to get a whiff of onions the moment you enter the front door. It is vulgar and low. I can't see how any one of refined tastes can touch them. I hope you are not an onion eater, Nettie, because if you are, I fear you will have to abstain; I cannot abide them."
Now Mrs. Annette Heyward Lyman was exceedingly fond of onions. She was not of the sort to declare that she was "passionately fond of them," but she did think a nice dish of boiled onions, pretty white ones, swimming in hot milk and butter, was just the thing to go with—stewed chicken, say. Then, she enjoyed thin slices of raw onions cut into vinegar; and crisp, green-topped young ones, dipped in salt and eaten with bread and butter, were just delicious. And yet, if Philip had mildly hinted that he had a special aversion for that vegetable, she would have declared, "I will eat no onions while the world standeth." But to attack them in this sharp way, to declare them vulgar, and, above all, to dictate to her what she should or should not eat, as if he were her master, and to say "my house!" it was too much, and she answered in an icy tone that "she must beg leave to differ; to her mind the onion was a most delicious vegetable, and she must reserve for herself the right of choice in this and in other matters."
Their first quarrel! And all about an onion! What cares Satan whether it be an apple or an onion, so that he spoil the Edens?
There were many more words quite as pungent as onions, and then there fell a silence between them that was not broken after Barbara had lighted the gas in the parlor, and drawn the table under the drop-light, and they were seated with books and newspapers. There was no reading done, but much ugly thinking. One line of it ran after this fashion:
"Strange that so delicate, refined a nature should have a taste for that vile, flagrant, odious onion!" A wretched discovery, that his wife should be fond of that for which he had always felt disgust! And evidently she did not mean to give them up, not even for his sake. Was she selfish and proud and obstinate and—and high-tempered? Had he been mistaken in her character and her regard for him?