REFLECTIONS
"And gradually, out of the material of his school experience, he built
again the old bulwark, behind which he could laugh at his confusion of
the hour before."
Since that first chance meeting at the depot when he had looked into the
nurse's eyes and heard her voice only for a moment, Dan had not been
able to put the young woman wholly out of his mind. The incident on the
street when she had gone to Denny, and the scene that followed in Denny's
home had strengthened the first impression, while the meeting at the old
Academy yard had stirred depths in his nature never touched before. The
very things she had said to him were so evidently born out of a nature
great in its passion for truth and in its capacity for feeling that, even
though her words were biting and stung, he could not but rejoice in the
beauty and strength of the spirit they revealed.
The usual trite criticisms of the church Dan had heard, and had already
learned to think somewhat lightly of the kind of people who commonly
make them. But this young woman--so wholesome, so good to look at in her
sweet seriousness, so strong in her womanliness and withal so useful in
what she called her ministry--this woman was--well, she was different.
Her words were all the more potent, coming as they did after the
disquieting thoughts and the feeling of dissatisfaction that had driven
him from his study that afternoon. The young minister could not at first
rid himself of the hateful suggestion that there might be much truth in
the things she had said. After all under the fine words, the platitudes
and the professions, the fact remained he _was_ earning his daily bread
by being obedient to those who hired him. He had already begun to feel
that his work was not so much to give what he could to meet the people's
need as to do what he could to supply the wants of Memorial Church, and
that his very chance to serve depended upon his satisfying these
self-constituted judges. He saw too, that these same judges, his masters,
felt the dignity of their position heavily upon them, and would not be in
the least backward about rendering their decision. They would let him
know what things pleased them and what things were not to their liking.
Their opinions and commandments would not always be in definite words,
perhaps, but they would be none the less clearly and forcibly given for
all that.
He had spoken truly when he had told Miss Farwell, as they parted, that
he had lost something. And now, as he walked the country road, he sought
earnestly to regain it; to find again his certainty of mind; to steady
his shaken confidence in the work to which he had given his life.
Dan's character was too strong, his conviction too powerful, his purpose
too genuine, for him to be easily turned from any determined line of
thought or action. Certainly it would require more than the words of a
stranger to swing him far from his course, even though he felt that there
might be a degree of truth in them. And so, as he walked, his mind began
shaping answers to the nurse's criticism and gradually, out of the
material of his school experience, he built again the old bulwark, behind
which he could laugh at his confusion of the hour before.
But withal Dan's admiration of the young woman's mind and character was
not lessened. More, he felt that she had in some way given him a deeper
view into her life and thoughts than was due a mere stranger. He was
conscious, too, of a sense of shame that he had, in a way, accepted her
confidence under false pretense. He had let her believe he was not what
he was. But, he argued with himself, he had not intentionally deceived
her and he smiled at last to think how she would enjoy the situation
with him when she learned the truth.
How different she was from any of the women he had known in the church!
They mostly accepted their religious views as they would take the
doctor's prescription--without question.
And how like she was to his mother!
Then came the inevitable thought--what a triumph it would be if he could
win such a character to the church. What an opportunity! Could he do it?
He must.
With that the minister began putting his thoughts in shape for a sermon
on the ministry. Determined to make it the effort of his life, he planned
how he would announce it next Sunday for the following week, and how,
with Dr. Harry's assistance, he would perhaps secure her attendance at
the service.
Meanwhile Hope Farwell passing quickly along the village street on her
way home from the old Academy yard, was beset by many varied and
conflicting emotions. Recalling her conversation with the man who was to
her so nearly a total stranger, she felt that she had been too earnest,
too frank. It troubled her to think how she had laid bare her deepest
feelings. She could not understand how she had so far forgotten her
habitual reserve. There was a something in that young man, so tall and
strong, and withal so clean looking, that had called from her, in spite
of herself, this exposition of her innermost life and thoughts. She ought
not to have yielded so easily to the subtle demand that he--unconsciously
no doubt--had made.
It was as though she had flung wide open the door to that sacred, inner
chamber at which only the most intimate of her friends were privileged
to knock. He had come into the field of her life in the most commonplace
manner--through the natural incident of their meeting. He should have
stopped there, or should have been halted by her. The hour should have
been spent in conversation on such trivial and commonplace topics as
usually occupy strangers upon such occasions, and they should have parted
strangers still. She felt that after this exhibition of herself, as she
termed it in her mind, she at least was no stranger to him. And she was
angry with herself, and ashamed, when she reflected how deeply into her
life he had entered; angry with him too, in a way, that he had gained
this admittance with apparently no effort.
She reflected too, that while she had so freely opened the door to him,
and had admitted him with a confidence wholly inexcusable, he had in no
way returned that confidence. She searched her memory for some
word--some expression of his, that would even hint at what he thought,
or believed, or was, within himself; something that would justify her in
feeling that she knew him even a little. But there was nothing. It was
as though this stranger, whom she had admitted into the privacy of the
inner chamber, had worn mask and gown. No self-betraying expression had
escaped him. He had not even told her his name. While she had laid out
for his inspection the strongest passions of her life; had felt herself
urged to show him all, and had kept nothing hidden. He had looked and
had gone away making no comment.
"Of course," she thought, "he is a gentleman, and he is cultured and
refined, and a good man too." Of this she was sure, but that was nothing.
One does not talk as she had talked to a man just because he is not a
ruffian or a boor. She wanted to know him as she had made herself known
to him. She could not say why.
The nurse's work in Corinth was nearly finished; she would probably never
meet this man again. She started at the thought. Would she ever meet him
again? What did it matter? And yet--she would not confess it even to
herself, but it did, somehow, seem to matter. Of one thing she was
sure--he was well worth knowing. She had felt that there was a depth, a
richness, a genuineness to him, and it was this feeling, this certainty
of him, that had led her to such openness. Yes--she was sure there were
treasures there--deep within, for those whom he chose to admit. She
wished--(why should she not confess it after all)--she wished that she
might be admitted.
Hope Farwell was alone in the world with no near living relatives. She
had only her friends; and friends to her meant more than to those who
have others dearer to them by ties of blood.
That evening when Dr. Harry was leaving the house after his visit to his
patient, the nurse went with him to the door, as usual, for any word of
instruction he might wish to give her privately.
"Well, Miss Hope," he said, "you've done it."
"What have I done?" she asked, startled.
"Saved my patient in there. She would have gone without a doubt, if you
had not come when you did. It's your case all right."
"Then I'm glad I came," she said quietly. "And I may go back soon now,
may I not, Doctor?"
He hesitated, slowly drawing on his gloves.
"Must you go back Miss Farwell? I--we need you so much here in Corinth.
There are so many cases you know where all depends upon the nurse. There
is not a trained nurse this side of St. Louis. I am sure I could keep you
busy." There was something more than professional interest in the keen
eyes that looked so intently into her own.
"Thank you Doctor, you are very kind, but you know Dr. Miles expects me.
He warned me the last thing before I left, that he was only lending me to
you for this particular case. You know how he says those things."
"Yes," said the man grimly, "I know Miles. It is one of the secrets of
his success, that he will be satisfied with nothing but the best. He
warned me, too."
He watched her keenly. "It would be just like Miles," he thought, "to
tell the young woman of the particular nature of the warning." But Miss
Farwell betrayed no embarrassing knowledge, and the doctor said, "You
did not promise to return to Chicago did you?"
She answered slowly, "No, but he expects me, and I had no thought of
staying, only for this case."
"Well won't you think of it seriously? There are many nurses in Chicago.
I don't mean many like you--" interrupting himself hastily--"but here
there is no one at all," and in his low-spoken words there was a note of
interest more than professional.
She lifted her face frankly and let him look deep into her eyes as she
answered--"I appreciate your argument, Dr. Abbott, and--I will think
about it."
He turned his eyes away, and his tone was quite professional as he said
heartily, "Thank you, Miss Farwell. I shall not give up hoping that we
may keep you. Good night!"
"Isn't he a dear, good man?" exclaimed the invalid, as the nurse
re-entered the sick room.
"Yes," she answered, "he is a good man, one of the best I think, that I
have ever known."
The patient continued eagerly, "He told me the ladies could come here
for their Aid Society meeting next week, if you would stay to take care
of me. You will, won't you dear?"
The nurse busy with the medicine the doctor had left did not answer at
once.
"I would like it so much," came the voice from the bed.
Hope turned and went quickly to her patient saying with a smile, "Of
course I will stay if you wish it. I believe the meeting will do you
good."
"Oh thank you, and you'll get to meet our new minister then, sure. Just
to think you have never seen him, and he has called several times, but
you have always happened to be out or in your room."
"Yes," said the young woman, "I have managed to miss him every time."
Something in the voice, always so kind and gentle, caused the sick woman
to turn her head on the pillow and look at her nurse intently.
"And you haven't been to church, since you have been here, either."
"Oh, but you know I am like your good doctor in that, I can plead
professional duties."
"Dr. Harry is always there when he can possibly go. I never thought of
it before. Will you mind, dearie, if I ask you whether you are a
Christian or not? I told Sapphira this afternoon that I knew you were."
"Yes," said Hope, "you are right. I cannot often go to church, but--"
and there was a ring of seriousness in her voice now, "I am a Christian
if trying to follow faithfully the teachings of the Christ is
Christianity."
"I was sure you were," murmured the other, "Brother Matthews will be so
glad to meet you. I know you will like him."
To which the nurse answered, "But you will be in no condition for the
visit of the ladies, if I don't take better care of you now. Did you know
that you were going to sleep? Well you are. You have had a busy day, and
you are not to speak another word except 'good night.' I am going to turn
the light real low--so--And now I am going to sit here and tell you about
my walk. You're just to shut your eyes and listen and rest--rest--rest."
And the low, sweet voice told of the flowers and the grass and the trees,
the fields lying warm in the sunlight, with the flitting cloud-shadows,
and the hills stretching away into the blue, until no troubled thought
was left in the mind of the sick woman. Like a child she slept.
But as the nurse talked to make her patient forget, the incident of the
afternoon came back, and while the sick woman slept, Hope Farwell sat
going over again in her mind the conversation on the grassy knoll in the
old Academy yard, recalling every word, every look, every expression.
What was his work in life? He was no idler, she was sure. He had the air
of a true worker, of one who was spending his life to some purpose. She
wondered again at the expression on his face as she had seen it when
they parted. Should she go back to the great city and lose herself in
her work, or--she smiled to herself--should she yield to Dr. Abbott's
argument and stay in Corinth a little longer?