The next day was Sunday.
Celia had wakened early, in spite of the fact that she was up late the
night before. She lay thinking over the changes that had come into her
life, and wondering how things were going to work out. Somehow there
seemed a cloud over what she had been trying to do. She had not
accomplished much with Harry. She had kept him in the house a few
evenings, it is true, and interested him in a few good books, but
nothing really to much purpose after all. To be safe from all the
temptations that beset his path every day, he needed to be anchored on
the Rock of Christ. She did not feel that she knew how to help him in
that way, he was such a gay, bright fellow, so ready to laugh. She
thought of the minister and the influence he seemed to have over the
young man, and felt half indignant at him for not exercising it in a
religious way, instead of merely a personal one, and then she realized
that she knew nothing at all about what influences he was using, and
ought not to judge him. For aught she knew, he had spoken to him many
times. How unjust she had been! Then she remembered what her aunt had
told her about the improvements made last evening in the parlor, and
jumped up to dress and run down to see them. Aunt Hannah had already
completed her toilet and gone down to the kitchen to help Molly
Poppleton, and to direct the new waitress who had been in the house but
three days.
Celia was delighted with the bookcase. Somebody had an artistic eye and
constructive ability. The bookcase was exactly the right height, and
filled the long bare wall on one side of the room beautifully. It was
finished with a neat molding of natural wood, and the whole nicely
oiled. There were a few books piled on the floor beside it, waiting till
the shelves should be perfectly dry to receive them, evidently
contributions to the new case. She stooped to read their titles, and was
astonished and pleased to find among them several new books by best
authors, which she had been longing to read, but had as yet not seen.
They were nearly all in new bindings as if fresh from the bookstore,
though one or two had the name written inside in fine, strong
handwriting “Horace L. Stafford.”
Celia drew back, a slight flush creeping over her face. She was grateful
for the books thus loaned or donated. The newcomer was evidently bound
to be helpful, and seemed to know how to do it. Now if they could have a
few games under the lighted lamp on the table, perhaps some of the young
people might be kept in evenings. Would such things reach Mamie Williams
and her friend, she wondered? And she sighed and feared that Mamie was
too much interested in other things to be reached so simply. She
remembered that Mamie had been reading the other night. Perhaps some of
these delightful stories would reach her. There were one or two
religious books, small and daintily bound, which looked attractive.
Celia picked them up and turned the pages, her expressive face kindling
with a thought she read here and there. Then she went to the small cozy
corner by the organ and sat down. She looked about her at the few
changes they had made, and remembered the night when she had looked
around on that parlor waiting for the postman. How much difference a few
little things had made! She could see other changes that might be made
to improve matters, and she resolved to try them as soon as possible.
Then she sat down at the organ. She had never tried that whining
instrument, since she had been in the house. It had pained her some
times to hear it groaning and wheezing under the bold touch of the tenor
brakeman as he ground out an accompaniment to some of his solos. Celia
did not like a cabinet organ. She longed for a piano, but there was no
piano, and here was this organ. What could be made of it? Perhaps it
might be tuned and answer for singing occasionally. Certainly, if it was
to stay there and be used, it would conduce to her own comfort to have
it put in order. She touched the keys softly to see how bad it was, and
went on playing chords gently. She was not a finished musician, but she
had learned to play a little for the home pleasure, and now
instinctively her fingers sought out some of the old favorite tunes.
“Safely through another week,
God has brought us on our way,
Let us now a blessing seek,
Waiting in his courts to-day.”
Her conscience pricked her, as the words rang themselves over in her
mind. She had not been going to church very regularly since she came to
the city. She had wandered around from one church to another, feeling
forlorn and lonely at all, not going often enough to one place to become
noticed as a stranger and welcomed, even if the people had had the
disposition to welcome her. Since aunt Hannah had been there, she had
made an excuse to stay at home with her if she was not able to go out,
and at such times when her aunt could go, she had taken her to the
different churches near by in rotation, that she might choose where they
should go. The elder lady had not as yet made any choice, nor, indeed,
had she expressed her mind concerning the places of worship they had
visited. Celia thought of it now, and wished their dear old church from
Cloverdale could be transplanted bodily. It was so desolate to go among
strangers and not have any place or work in the church home. She sighed
and made up her mind that she must go more regularly and perhaps offer
to take a class in Sunday-school or something of the sort. Of course it
was not right to live this way; but her heart was not in her resolve.
She played on, not realizing what tune she had started till she began to
hum the words in a low sweet voice:
“The day of rest once more comes round,
A day to all believers dear;
The silver trumpets seem to sound,
That call the tribes of Israel near;
Ye people all,
Obey the call,
And in Jehovah’s courts appear——”
She broke off suddenly and played a few stray chords. She knew that the
next verse began:
“Obedient to thy summons, Lord,
We to thy sanctuary come;”
It was strange that all the words were on that subject. She would choose
something else. She thought a moment, her fingers lingering on the keys.
Then she began to sing:
“Father in thy mysterious presence kneeling,
Fain would our souls feel all thy kindling love;
For we are weak, and need some deep revealing
Of trust, and strength, and calmness from above.”
She felt the beauty of the words and the depth of meaning, and sang with
her heart, each word as a prayer. Her voice grew fuller and sweeter as
she went on.
“Lord! we have wandered forth through doubt and sorrow,
And thou hast made each step an onward one;
And we will ever trust each unknown morrow;
Thou wilt sustain us till its work is done.”
She had not heard the step upon the stairs and did not know that some
one entered the parlor and sat down on the divan near by, until, as she
commenced the third verse, a rich, sweet tenor, full of cultivation and
feeling, joined with her in the words:
“Now, Father! now in thy dear presence kneeling,
Our spirits yearn to feel thy kindling love;
Now make us strong; we need thy deep revealing
Of trust, and strength, and calmness from above.”
Celia’s voice trembled at first, but the stronger one sustained the tune
and she kept on, the pink color stealing up her cheeks and to the tips
of her ears. If the other singer saw her embarrassment, he did not
notice it. When the last note died slowly away and Celia was wondering
what she should do and how she should get away from the room, he said
quite in a matter-of-fact voice, as if he and she were accustomed to
singing together early on Sabbath mornings: “Will you play ‘Lead Kindly
Light,’ please?” And she had played on, glad that she knew it well
enough to do so, and they sang together.
“Thank you!” he said simply, when the last verse was finished. “That has
helped me for the work that I have to do to-day. In fact that song
always helps me. Do you, sometimes, come to a place where you want to
look ahead and see whether things are coming out as you wish? Isn’t it
blessed to think he leads the way, and makes the gloom for our sakes
that we shall not fear for what is to come, while perhaps if we could
look and see the blessings—in disguise—sometimes we might turn and
flee. You belong to him, do you not, Miss Murray? I thought I could not
be mistaken. I want to thank you for this pleasant bit of morning
praise. It has been like home.”
Celia had raised her eyes in one swift glad glance of recognition of
their kindred discipleship, when he asked her if she was a Christian,
and had answered, low and earnestly, “Yes, I do,” feeling in her heart
how very wrong she had been in calling this man unspiritual. Her heart
longed to reach that high plane of trustful living where he seemed to
move. She lifted her eyes again and timidly asked:
“Do you think it is possible for every one to feel that perfect
assurance where they cannot see the way? I wish I knew how to trust that
way and not worry over things.”
“It is hard sometimes, isn’t it, to just lay down the burdens at the
Father’s feet and realize that we need not carry them? But isn’t it
strange that it is hard?” And he looked at her with that peculiarly
bright smile which she had noticed the first night he came to the house.
“One would think that we would be only too glad to get rid of the burden
and the worry, when he, so strong and willing offers to take it. Perhaps
that is one reason why I like that hymn. It seems to help me to remember
whose I am and who is my Saviour. I am prone to forget when I think, for
instance, of some dear one whom I see fading day by day and know cannot
be long upon this earth, that the night ever will be gone
“‘And with the morn, those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!’”
A deep sadness had settled over his face, as he looked up to her and
repeated the lines of the hymn they had just sung, and her heart was
filled with pity for some sorrow she felt he was bearing. Instinctively
she remembered the sweet beautiful face in the velvet case, and while he
seemed set apart and sacred in her thought of his sorrow, she let a
shade of her old dignity creep back into her voice, which had fallen
from it for a few moments. The breakfast bell had sounded, and the
boarders were coming downstairs. With one accord the two rose and went
toward the dining-room, feeling that they did not care to have the quiet
confidences of the few moments they had spent together intruded upon or
misunderstood. Celia thanked Mr. Stafford for his words a little
stiffly, as one, as a matter of form, might thank any strange minister
for a good sermon, and perhaps the young man wondered a little at her
seemingly variable moods.
It was after breakfast, and the church bells were sending their various
calls to worship through the clear cold air of the city. Celia stood
ready dressed for church, waiting for her aunt in the front hall. Miss
Grant had been called back by Molly Poppleton, just as they were
starting out of the door, and Celia tapped her foot impatiently on the
hall oilcloth and wished aunt Hannah would hurry. Not that she was
anxious to go to church, but she wanted to get the duty done with and
come back, for Mr. Stafford had slipped a most inviting little book into
her hand, as he passed her in the upper hall after breakfast, saying
“Have you read Daniel Quorm? If not, it will interest you, perhaps. It
is along the line of our talk this morning, and it has helped me to
trust him where I couldn’t trace him.”
She had read a few pages while aunt Hannah tied her bonnet and put on
her gloves, and had already grown deeply interested in the quaint
phrases of Daniel in his story of his little maid. She wanted to get
back to it. She stilled her conscience when it pricked her for not
caring to go to church, by telling it that the book would probably do
her more good than a sermon in a strange church, but her conscience was
too well trained to let her forget that God had promised to meet her in
the church.
Some one was standing in the shadow of the parlor curtains, Celia did
not know who. She thought that perhaps it was the brakeman. He had
returned the night before, and was off duty for the day. She unfastened
the door and breathed in the clear sunny air with delight, then glanced
up the stairs to see if aunt Hannah was coming. But just then came Miss
Grant’s voice, as she leaned over the stair railing, and Celia saw that
her gloves were off and her bonnet untied again.
“Celia, don’t wait for me. I am not going this morning. I have made up
my mind my duty is with Mrs. Belden. She is feeling very despondent. Go
on without me. Isn’t there some one else you can go with?” she asked, as
she saw the look of dismay on Celia’s face and heard her exclaim, “Oh
auntie!”
Then the figure that had been standing in the shadow of the window
curtain in the parlor moved forward and Harry Knowles stepped out.
“Miss Murray, would _I_ do?” he asked humbly, “or—would you rather not
go with me?” There was a hesitancy and shamefacedness about him which
was not like his usual manner, and he seemed anxious to have her accept.
While Celia hesitated, Miss Grant said:—“Why, yes, Celia, that is very
nice. You and Mr. Knowles go together. I am so glad he is going,” and
then slipped away from the stairs pleased in her heart, both for Celia’s
sake that she would not be alone, and for the young man that he was
willing to go to the house of the Lord.
As Celia turned to go with him, she reflected that she had been wishing
he would go to church, or wishing she might say some word to help him,
and now he had himself opened the way by inviting her to go. She felt
reproached, that she had never invited him before. But Harry seemed
uncomfortable, and when he had closed the door, he stopped on the upper
step and asked again, “You are sure you are willing to go with me? You
aren’t afraid or anything?” and Celia looked up in surprise, and saw the
earnest, eager, shamed face and said, “Why surely, Harry, I am willing.
Why should I be afraid?”
“Well, I thought,—I was afraid you—after that night—you know—” he
said, growing red and grinding his heel into the stone on which he
stood, “I can’t forgive myself, Miss Murray, that’s all, and I thought
you didn’t like me asking you.” He looked up bravely through his
embarrassment with his sorry, boyish eyes asking forgiveness.
“Harry,” said Celia turning her clear, honest gaze full upon him, “I was
truly glad, and was only being ashamed myself because _I_ had not asked
_you_ before, for I have been wishing you would go to church, and—I
have been praying for you.”
She spoke the words low and embarrassedly, for she was not used to
talking much about such things to strangers, but the young man’s eyes
filled with moisture, and he said, “Thank you,” in such hearty tones
that she knew he meant it. Then he added, “So is the minister, and maybe
I’ll amount to something, after all.”
Celia was surprised to find that she suddenly felt a sense of
satisfaction in what he had told her about the minister. She did not
understand all her feelings to-day. She must sit down and analyze them
when she reached home.
“But where are we to go, Harry?” she asked, pausing on the sidewalk a
moment. “Have you any choice? I have not put my letter into any church
yet, though I ought to have done so before this.”
She tried to remember in her mind which of the churches she had attended
would be the most likely to help the young man, but could not remember
any of them definitely, and concluded that since she had been in the
city she had taken her body to the church and left her soul at home, or
wandering in fields of other thoughts than those presented for her
deliberation at the sanctuary.
Harry’s face grew eager again.
“Well, then, that’s nice. Maybe you wouldn’t mind going to hear Mr.
Stafford, because I’ve half promised him that I would come there this
morning, you see.”
“Oh, of course we will,” said Celia, wondering why it was she had never
thought to go and hear him before, and why it was that the thought of
hearing him preach had suddenly become so pleasant.
She wondered again as she listened to his opening prayer. Every word
seemed to be prayed for her, and to fit her needs exactly, and she
pulled herself up sharply when she found that she was actually imagining
that he remembered their talk before breakfast, and was praying thus for
her. The hymn just before the sermon was wonderful, and again she
reprimanded herself severely, for thinking he looked at her while he
read that last verse, so perfectly did it appeal to her need. He read it
exquisitely and tenderly, and as he reached the last line he looked at
her again, and it gave her a strange pleasure to feel those words spoken
so to her, even as if the Father himself had sent her an especial
message that morning, and by a noble messenger.
“Take, my soul, thy full salvation!
Rise from sin, and fear, and care.
Joy to find in every station
Something still to do or dare.
Think what Spirit dwells within thee.
Think what Father’s smiles are thine!
Think what Saviour died to win thee!
Child of heaven, shouldst thou repine?”