"TWO OF ME"
Affairs moved quietly in the Gray household as the week advanced. Mr.
Frothingham called one evening and made himself very entertaining to
the two ladies. Mrs. Gray laughed gently at his jokes, for he was a
tireless jester (sometimes a tiresome one), and he enjoyed seeing the
serious light in Winifred's eyes change to mirth under his curious
speeches.
The two sang together, and after that she played dreamy snatches from
Beethoven while he leaned back in an easy chair and listened. What a
harmonious and pleasant life stretched before the two together! Mrs.
Gray lived over again through her daughter's heart days when Robert
Gray and she were learning that life was sweetest when they were
together, and she sighed in a pensive mingling of emotions as she
mentally gave Winifred up to the reign of the ancient conqueror. She
fell asleep over the fleecy shawl she was knitting as her daughter
played, and was not aroused when Mr. Frothingham rose to go. Winifred
and he exchanged smiling glances as they saw her closed eyes, and spoke
in low tones together. Mr. Frothingham lingered just a perceptible
moment over Winifred's hand in parting, and looked down into her face
with an unspoken question she had never read before so clearly. Her
eyes fell, and the flush in her fair face deepened into lovelier red.
"Good night," each said softly, and he went away.
Winifred drank in the luxury of her own sweet thoughts until his step
ceased to sound, and then went over to her mother's chair. She stooped
and kissed her forehead. Mrs. Gray opened her eyes.
"Dear me! I lost myself for a moment," she said. Then, "Is George
gone?" she added.
"Yes, mother."
Mrs. Gray looked at the clock. "And it's time," she said with parental
duty. "You must go to bed at once, dear."
Winifred had had a happy evening, and the reflection that looked back
at her from the glass in her dressing-room was radiant. But, after
all, in the depths of her heart there was a tinge of something sad, an
unsatisfied sense of some good thing wanting. What was it that the
evening lacked? A little book upon the table suggested the answer with
a mute reproach. In all the evening's pleasure there had been no sweet
savor of Jesus Christ. Now as she took the book and tried to read her
heart beat coldly toward Him. The words did not speak to her, but
seemed like misty voices far away, spoken for other ears. The tide of
another love had come sweeping in, strong and insistent. George
Frothingham's face smiled before her, and instead of the words she was
reading she heard his voice as they sang together:
"I would that my love could silently
Flow in a single word."
She looked away from the book and gave herself to dreaming until the
little clock reminded her of the hour. Then she roused from her
reverie.
"It is too late," she thought. "I will not try to read now. In the
morning I will make up for it."
She knelt beside the bed for her customary evening prayer, and found
herself "saying" it as in former days. She stopped abruptly.
"Forgive me, Lord," she said, "I did not think what I was saying."
Then a feeling of remorse, of real unhappiness, seized her. Where was
the true worship she had coveted and found? It had flown like a bird
from her windows. In distress she prayed:
"O Lord, I have missed Thee! I cannot see Thy face, I do not hear
Thee. Do not let me lose Thee!"
Her wandering thoughts came back to the supreme need. She was not
versed in the theology of any school, and could not have stated her
case to suit any. But her sensitive soul barometer registered danger
in the atmosphere, and she had no rest until it changed. Being blessed
with the grace of honesty--with "truth in the inward parts"--she poured
out her heart before God, and found much relief in so doing. The whole
subject did not clear at once. A process was required for that. But a
simple understanding with her Lord that He was to be first at any cost
was re-affirmed, and it gave rest. With the restored sense of His
fellowship she slept.
Morning dawned with the sweet twittering of birds, the breath of
syringas and roses, and a faultless sky. It was a joy to live.
Hubert was out for an early ride, and his black horse Sahib's satin
coat shone brightly in the morning sunlight. He took the shortest way
out of the city and was soon cantering gently down the country road
beside a singing brook, filling his eyes with the beauty everywhere,
worshiping its Maker, and wondering how he might best serve Him.
Winifred sang morning psalms to the Lord, with a corresponding melody
in her heart. But sometimes the shadow of a question fell athwart the
prospect that seemed so shining. It was about Mrs. Butterworth's
party. Sunday it had seemed very clear that she should not go, but
since, with the seventeenth of John not so fresh in her mind, the
matter seemed not so settled. How should she excuse herself at this
late day? What would Mrs. Butterworth think? More than that, what
would her mother think? Would she not be much annoyed? There was
another factor, too. When George Frothingham was there last evening
she was so glad the party was not mentioned. How could she have told
him she was not going? And when she thought of him she wished to go.
He would be there, looking especially handsome in most careful evening
dress. She could almost hear the strains of Werner's orchestra as she
imagined herself floating over the polished floor with the best of
dancers. There was still another factor. Hanging in her wardrobe,
sheathed carefully in a protecting sheet, was the loveliest of white
dresses. It had been worn but once, and that in another town. Both
her mother and she agreed that it was the very thing for Mrs.
Butterworth's party. What a pity not to wear it! And if staying away
from Mrs. Butterworth's were a precedent to be followed, where should
she ever wear it? A very small reason this, say you. But you are
mistaken. Deeply intrenched in the feminine heart is the desire to be
beautiful, and though "holy women" since the days of old have learned
the supreme excellence of the inward adornment over the outward, the
latter is slow to lose its appeal. Not yet, at least, had Winifred
become indifferent to it.
This morning before descending the stairs she was beguiled into taking
down the dress, just to look at it, spreading it out in fleecy, shining
folds upon the bed. How beautiful it was! She had not learned for her
soul's comfort that the wise man's counsel is very profound when he
instructs, "Look not upon the wine when it is red"! Even in the
daylight tiny brilliants flashed out from their setting in foamy lace
about the neck. Well Winifred knew what a radiant picture would stand
within her mirror-frame when the dress should be donned, and eyes
bright with excited anticipation should rival the glow of diamonds. If
she went, she should wear the slender gold necklace with its single
pendant of diamonds which her father had given her. But she was not
going--and for what an intangible reason!
Hubert had returned from his ride, and Winifred met him in the upper
hall and confided to him her perplexity.
"I feel as though there were two of me instead of one," she said. "One
of us would like to go to Mrs. Butterworth's party."
"And the other one?" asked Hubert.
"Decided last Sunday not to go," she answered.
"Which one do you think is on the Lord's side?" he queried.
"The one that says not to go," she replied, without hesitation.
"I should stand by that one if I were you," he advised.
"I will," she said, and slipped her hand in his as they went down the
stairs.
At the breakfast table the dreaded discussion was precipitated. Mrs.
Gray addressed her daughter.
"Winifred, dear," she said, "have you looked at your new white dress to
see if it requires anything to be done before Mrs. Butterworth's party?
Did we not think the girdle should be altered slightly?"
"I was looking at it this morning, mother," faltered Winifred, and
Hubert shot a sympathetic glance across the table.
"Will it need altering, do you think?"
"N--no," she hesitated, "I think it is all right." Then she girded the
loins of her intention and added: "But I think, mother, if you do not
mind, I should prefer not to go to Mrs. Butterworth's party."
"Why, Winifred!" exclaimed her mother in surprise. "What can you be
thinking of? The invitations were accepted long ago. You are not ill,
certainly?"
"Oh, no!" said Winifred. "But I think I can excuse myself to Mrs.
Butterworth so that she will not be offended. My chief regret will be
if it disappoints you, mother."
"But what can be your reasons?" said Mrs. Gray. "They must be very
good if you would decline the invitation at this late day. It will be
very rude unless you are positively hindered."
"I know it," said Winifred humbly. "But the reasons seem very strong
to me."
She was of a sympathetic nature, and it was easy to look at things
through another's eyes. She saw the case clearly from her mother's
standpoint, and it was difficult to muster her own defense. But she
prayed inwardly that the One she sought to please would come to her
aid, and He did. It was no small help, also, that Hubert,
strong-minded and firm as a rock, was on her side. She went on
bravely, but in a low voice and with downcast eyes:
"You know I have begun to try to worship God, mother; and to know Him
just a little is the sweetest thing I ever knew. Hubert and I were
reading the Bible together Sunday"--she glanced across at him
appealingly, and his face encouraged her--"and we read some of the
words of Jesus to His Father. He said that we--that is, those who were
given to Him--were 'not of the world,' just as He is not. It impressed
me very much. I could not help seeing Mrs. Butterworth's party, and it
seemed to me like 'the world,' and that perhaps I did not belong there.
It seemed so very, very different from what we were reading, that I
thought I never could go again to such a place. I shall be very glad,
if you don't mind it too much, mother, if I may stay at home?"
She stopped and waited for her answer. There was silence for a moment,
and then Mrs. Gray, who had passed through various stages of
apprehension and distress as her daughter spoke, replied as calmly as
possible:
"I am sure I ought to be very glad, Winifred, to have you religiously
inclined. But I should be extremely sorry to have you get any
fanatical ideas. I never thought you were given to eccentric things,
and I hope you will not become so. It seems to me that you and
Hubert"--she hesitated to include her son in the remark, but ventured
it--"are rather young Christians to decide such things for yourselves
in such an extraordinary way. You should look at older persons. I
suppose I am not an example"--and her tone was just a trifle icy for
such a gentle lady--"but Mrs. Schoolman will be there with her
daughters, and so will many of the most prominent members of our
church. I really cannot approve of such an extraordinary
idea!--extraordinary!" and she repeated the word which usually
indicated the high water mark of her well-bred disapproval.
Winifred looked silently at her plate, and Mrs. Gray spoke again,
looking at her husband.
"I wish, father," she said, "that you would try and set Winifred right
on this matter. We cannot let her go on in such a mistake. Where will
it lead to?" and with real distress she considered the calamity of her
beautiful daughter's withdrawal from society, and the dashing her own
fond pride to the ground.
Mr. Gray had been listening thoughtfully. Now, being appealed to, he
spoke.
"To tell the truth, mother," he said, "I do not think the idea quite so
extraordinary as you do. When I was a boy, where I lived, if young
people were converted it made all sorts of difference as to the things
they did and the places they went to. We didn't expect to see them at
dances, or at the theater, or any such places. If we did, everybody
reckoned that they had backslidden. Those things were called
'worldly.' We have almost lost the word now, but it must be
descriptive of something, I should say. If Winifred instinctively
takes a stand against such things, without being talked to about it, I
shall think it is the old sort of religion that she has somehow
discovered, and shall not be sorry. I would really prefer it to be a
kind that can be distinguished without reference to the church records.
That variety is scarce enough, in all conscience!"
Winifred was surprised at her father's defense, and it unnerved her.
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she nearly choked over the coffee with
which she sought to hide her quivering lips. Hubert looked gratefully
at his father. Mrs. Gray looked much depressed. She expected wise
words of reproach that would settle the matter with Winifred and
perhaps save much trouble in the future. And now he really inclined to
her view of the case! It was disappointing. But men, after all, did
not always see social matters as women did. She was not accustomed to
arguing with her husband, but this case required more resistance than
usual.
"I am surprised, father," she said sorrowfully, "to hear you put it
that way. I do not think you can realize what it means for a young
woman to drop out of society. And I do not see how you can compare
those times you speak of with the present. I am sure Doctor Schoolman
frequently tells us what remarkable advance we have made over those
times in every way. I hope you do not wish to go backward!" and Mrs.
Gray felt a little flutter of triumph at her own unusual skill in
argument. Nobody responded at once and she gathered courage to go on.
"I quite agree with that young man who spoke at our church in behalf of
the Y.M.C.A. Gymnasium. You remember he said that the days had quite
gone by for a 'long-faced Christianity.' I thought it a very sensible
remark."
"Winifred has not troubled us with a very long face lately," remarked
her father, glancing at her. "It has lengthened somewhat since we
began our discussion, but I think it has been unusually cheerful for a
week or so."
Winifred colored under these personal observations.
"I do not know what it will become," said her mother, "if she denies
herself all gayety like those young persons you tell about."
"My memory of those young persons," said Mr. Gray, smiling, "is not a
very melancholy one. Some of them were pretty severe upon themselves
and other people too, I will admit. But the most of them seemed to
have found something so very satisfactory that these diversions were
not required. I think Winifred is like the latter sort. I hope so.
But, Hubert," turning to his son, "you look very much interested in
this matter, but have said nothing. I suppose you agree with Winifred?"
"I do, sir," said Hubert readily.
"I thought so--I thought so," said his father, far from displeased with
the reply. He did not explain to the little company that he, himself,
had been one of the "young persons" referred to, and that great had
been his comfort in the early days of the new life; but that a series
of decoys had gradually led him back to the world's excitements and
ambitions, until his professed Christianity had crystallized into the
formal, eminently respectable, but powerless mold of conventional
religion. His memory of early, ardent days was stirred, and he gladly
warmed himself by its fires.
"But, Hubert," he went on, "you are a thoughtful young man--how do you
account for the fact that Christ, Himself, attended social functions?
He was not a recluse. He was at the marriage in Cana of Galilee, at a
dinner in the house of Simon the Pharisee, at a feast in Bethany, and I
do not know at how many other social gatherings. Indeed it was charged
against Him that He received sinners and ate with them. What do you
make of it?"
"It is a difficult question, father," said Hubert. "But I should think
if we consider in what capacity He went to those places, and what He
did when He got there, it might give us light."
"That is so," said Mr. Gray. "In what capacity do you think He went?"
"He had come to give life to men," said Hubert with kindling eyes. "He
must go wherever He might find them--wherever occasion presented
itself. I do not think He sought His own gratification."
"Nor do I," said Mr. Gray. "What about 'what He did when He got
there'?"
"He performed a miracle, for one thing, at Cana," replied Hubert, whose
diligent study of the Gospel of John now served him well.
"So He did," assented Mr. Gray. "If our little girl could do that,
now, it might do to let her go," and he glanced at her fondly.
"Yes," said Hubert, "and He evidently became the central figure there,
manifesting His glory. If one of His followers could capture Mrs.
Butterworth's ball for Him it would surely pay to go. If I thought
Winnie were to do that I would certainly put on a dress suit and go
myself."
Hubert could not resist a teasing glance at his mother. That lady was
plainly horrified. The thought of Winifred's "preaching," as she
mentally called it, to anyone at the party, or doing any other
eccentric thing, was far more shocking than her staying away.
Mr. Gray secretly enjoyed the look upon his wife's face.
"And the other places?" he went on.
"I am not familiar with the incident in the house of Simon the
Pharisee," said Hubert.
"It is very striking and beautiful," said Mr. Gray. "Christ forgave a
sinner--a woman of the city--and He had somewhat to say to His host,
the Pharisee, about it. He spoke a very telling parable at that
dinner."
Mrs. Gray again looked uneasy. She hoped Winifred would not feel it
her duty, finally, to go, if it involved a religious errand.
"And at Bethany?" Mr. Gray continued.
"He was anointed for His burial," said Hubert, gravely.
"Ah, yes!" said his father in a subdued voice.
Both men thought reverently of the scene when one who had been raised
from the dead sat at meat with Him who, for his sake and for all
others, was Himself to die; and where one of the company poured upon
His blessed feet love's grateful, costly sacrifice. To such a feast
the true worshiper might indeed gladly go.
It was tacitly agreed that Winifred was to follow her own inclination
with regard to the party. Mrs. Gray was far too loyal and amiable a
wife to seriously oppose her husband's wish, and the sudden fear that
Winifred, if she went to the party, might feel called upon to bear some
sort of unusual testimony to her Lord affected the case strongly. But
she grieved much over her daughter's prospective withdrawal from the
assemblies of the "best people."
Winifred wrote a simple, truthful note to Mrs. Butterworth, and was
relieved when it was dispatched. A sensitive dread of criticism and of
doing an unusual thing was offset by the sweet consciousness of a happy
fellowship conserved. No rude breath from the gay assembly's sensuous
delights was to blow upon this flower of communion, so pure, so
fragrant. So Winifred rejoiced, only an occasional shadow falling
athwart her peace when she thought of one whose increasingly intimate
fellowship threatened the life of the fair flower as surely as could
Mrs. Butterworth's party. It was an uneasy suggestion, not a
recognized fact, and she put it hastily from her when it arose.
The evening of the party came and Mrs. Gray prepared herself and went,
not too early and not too foolishly late. She had a faculty of
striking the happy mean in life's proprieties. Winifred looked at her
admiringly, with the candid conviction that no better dressed nor finer
looking woman of her years would be there. She felt a pang of sorrow,
too, in her mother's disappointment at leaving her behind, as she
kissed her good-night. The carriage rolled away and presently bore its
fair passenger to the door of her friend's brilliantly lighted house,
where we will leave her.