Celia aroused herself from her unhappiness in time to hurry to her
Sunday-school class. She purposely went late that she might not be
obliged to walk with any one, and she intended to hurry home before any
of the others from their house had left the chapel, but it so happened
that one of her scholars had a sad tale to tell her of trouble and need,
and she was obliged to linger and get the particulars. There was an
address to be taken down and several items of information she would need
in helping him to find work. When this was done and she glanced
hurriedly round to see if the others were gone, she saw that one of her
boys was lingering with an embarrassed expression, half smiling, half
doubtful, as though he might wish to speak a word with her. Something
told her that this heart was ready for a quiet personal word and here
was the time. The other boarders were gone, the minister with hat in
hand was standing by the front door talking with a man. He was evidently
about to go also. There were one or two groups in earnest conversation,
a teacher with two of her class, three women in a corner, and a young
man and a young girl talking. “Ben,” she said, “can you sit down and
talk with me a few minutes?”
The hunger for souls was awakened within the young teacher. Her own
heart’s unrest and sadness made her long to plunge into some other
interest. She put her whole soul into the words she spoke, and the young
man listened intently. There was no doubt but that she had reached his
heart and that he was on the point of yielding to the Holy Spirit. Celia
prayed as she talked and forgot herself, forgot everything but her
desire for this soul’s salvation. She listened to his hesitating, low
words in answer to her earnestly put questions with bated breath. She
could almost hear her own heart beat while she waited for his final
decision, as he sat minute after minute thoughtfully looking down at the
toe of his rough, unblackened shoe and trying to fit it between two
nails in the floor, where the boards were somewhat worn away by the many
feet that tramped over them.
The decision was made at last, and the boy, with a furtive glance around
him, drew his coat sleeve hurriedly across his eyes as he strode out of
the room after having murmured an incoherent good-bye.
Celia stooped to pick up her rubbers which lay under the seat, and then
looked about the deserted room. The sexton was doing something to a
refractory window, which refused to go up and down right. He was used to
busying himself while lingerers kept the church open. Celia thought
everybody else was gone, till, as she neared the door, the minister
arose from one of the back seats and came toward her.
“Would you mind sitting down a few minutes longer?” he said. “I want to
tell you something, and it seems to me that I can tell it better here
than anywhere else.”
Celia felt her heart throbbing and her knees suddenly grew weak, so that
she sat down more because she felt she could not stand without tottering
than because Mr. Stafford had asked her to do so. The day had been an
exciting one for her, and her emotions had been stirred to their depths
by the wonderful talk she had just had with the boy Ben. What could be
coming now? She could not understand, and yet she felt in some way that
it would have to do with the things which had been hurting her so all
day, and would probably hurt her more. She passed her hand across her
forehead wearily, and tried to brace herself to bear whatever might be
said. Perhaps he would ask for sympathy in his sorrow, and how could she
give it? She sent up a swift prayer for help.
Mr. Stafford must have seen the weary expression and the piteous baffled
look in her face, for a troubled one came over his own, as he took his
seat in a chair near her, and asked, anxiously,
“Are you too tired just now? Perhaps I ought to wait. I know you have
been working hard, and your work is telling, too, I could see by that
boy’s face as he went out, that he will be a different fellow from this
time forth. Now, if you would rather go right home, please say so.”
But there was a note in his voice of longing to be heard now, that made
Celia push aside her desire to slip out of it on the plea of weariness
and assert, a little coolly perhaps, that she could hear him now just as
well as to wait.
Her manner made his heart sink, but he began what he had to say with a
frank, “Well, then I’ll try not to keep you long.
“Miss Celia,” it was the first time he had ever called her that, though
several of the other boarders had adopted it from hearing Molly
Poppleton address her in that way, “I do not know whether or not you
know that I have been passing through deep waters during the past week;
I have been by the deathbed and then by the grave of one who was very
dear to me. I felt as though I wanted to tell you about her, not only
because I need the sympathy which I know you can give, but because she
knew all about you and your work, and was deeply interested in you.”
If Mr. Stafford had not been looking down and struggling to control his
voice, so that it would be steady and without the deep emotion he felt,
he would have noticed that Celia’s face grew swiftly white. It was worse
then than she had feared. Not only was she asked to give sympathy, but
this other woman had known all about her. They had talked her over
together. Why this should seem so dreadful to the girl she could not
quite understand, but at the time it seemed more than she could bear. It
was well Mr. Stafford did not pause for a reply, for Celia would have
been incapable of giving any just then.
“She had been ill for a long time,” he went on, his voice breaking a
little, “we knew she could not stay with us much longer, and yet, you
will understand that it was hard to part with her.”
He told in a few words of her beautiful life of sweet patience and
cheerfulness in the face of pain that had endured for years, till Celia
felt ashamed of her selfish jealousy, and longed to shut herself away
from sight that she might cry in quiet. The great tears filled her eyes
and fell unheeded on her hands. She felt herself the meanest and
smallest of mortals, and this other one beautiful and good and bright
enough to be, as she was, with the angels. And yet her heart was very
miserable. She longed to speak a word of sympathy, but knew that she
could not, and blamed herself for it.
“I want to show you her face,” he said, putting his hand in his breast
pocket and bringing out a little velvet case, which Celia knew even
through her blinding tears. He opened and placed it in her hands, the
lovely face with its velvet-blue eyes looking into hers, as he said,
“She was my only sister, you know, and she was _so good_ to me.” Then
the strong man bowed his head on his hand and covered his eyes.
He did not see Celia start, as he said this, but he heard the difference
in her startled exclamation,
“Your sister? Why! I thought!”—and then she stopped, and when he looked
up, as he did at once, her face had changed from white to rosy red.
He looked at her face, lovely behind its tears and blushes, and read the
dawning sympathy, and was glad, even in his sorrow.
“You thought what,—may I know?”
“Why, I—” said Celia, embarrassed and hesitating, blushing deeply,
“I—I did not know you had only one sister!” she finished, desperately.
“But what was it you thought? May I not know?” he asked again, with a
searching look at her face.
“No,” said Celia, dropping her eyes to the picture, and trying to hide
her embarrassment by wiping away the tears with her handkerchief.
“Then may I tell you and you will say whether I am right?” asked the
minister, a daring light coming into his eyes. “You thought that she was
some one even nearer, and dearer than a sister?”
He looked at her long and earnestly and seemed to be satisfied with the
answer of her mute, drooped face.
“Oh, Celia, did you not know that you were the only one who ever had or
would occupy that place in my heart? Have you not seen that I love you?
Don’t you know it? and don’t you care, just a little, Celia?”
The front chapel door stood open, and the afternoon spring sunshine was
flickering fitfully across the floor. They could see the people on the
street passing, loitering and talking, some looking curiously in as they
passed, but none seeming to notice them. Celia felt it all as she sat
dumb in the midst of a whirl of joy and sorrow and shame, and she knew
not what else. She could not answer. She could not look up. The
minister’s eyes were upon her, and she felt what the look in them would
be, and knew she could not bear the joy of seeing it. The silence was
long and could fairly be heard. The sexton who was growing hungry, came
back from the little alcove where the primary class was held and where
he had been straightening the chairs for the evening service and
distributing hymn books. He drew quite near to them now, and slammed
books and put down windows significantly. Celia, feeling that she must
say something, murmured low, still with downcast eyes, “How should I
know it?”
The minister laughed and then grew grave. “That is true,” he said, “I
never could tell you, because you would not let me. But _she_ knew it,
and she was glad of it, and loved you, and left her blessing for you.”
Then he turned suddenly to the sexton, a new tone in his voice. There
was something about Celia that no longer discouraged him.
“Thomas,” he said, “I am going now. Will you kindly see if I left my
Bible in the primary room?”
Thomas went with alacrity to search the primary room.
The minister watched the sexton until he had disappeared, and then he
stooped swiftly and picked up Celia’s gloves which had fallen unheeded
to the floor. As he handed them to her he reverently touched his lips to
one of her little, cold, ungloved hands. She lifted her face for a
moment, and in that moment he got his answer from her eyes.
The sexton was coming back without the Bible, which the minister
suddenly discovered to have been lying on the floor under his chair all
the time, and the two stood decorously apart, Celia trying to keep her
cheeks from growing redder, as she walked to the open door and looked
out into the glad spring sunshine, gladder than any sunshine her eyes
had ever looked upon before.
Some little child, perhaps, had dropped a flower upon the steps, and as
she stood waiting for the minister, she saw it. It was then she
remembered the rose on her lunch tray and its sweet message of hope
“God’s plans for thee are graciously unfolding,
And leaf by leaf they blossom perfectly.”
Her heart thrilled over the joy that this had come true, while she
realized that her happiness was yet only in the bud, and she could see
the promise of the day-by-day opening of it for her. Oh, why had she
been doubting? Why could she not trust him perfectly? She lifted her
heart in one swift breath of penitence and thanksgiving. She felt in
that first gush of joy that she would never doubt her Lord again.
Then she turned to walk down the glorified street and gaze on the
familiar surroundings under a halo of joy.