HOW IT WAS DONE.
FLOSSY came quite down the broad aisle to the seat which the girls had,
by tacit understanding, chosen for their own, her face just radiant with
a sort of surprised satisfaction, and the gentleman who followed her
with an assured and measured step was none other than Judge Erskine
himself. He may have been surprised at his own appearance in that place
for prayer, but no surprise of his could compare with the amazement of
his daughter Ruth. For once in her life her well-bred composure forsook
her, and her look could be called nothing less than an absolute stare.
Of the four, Flossy only had succeeded. The way of it was this:
Having become a realist, in the most emphatic sense of that word, to
have promised to bring some one with her to meeting if she possibly
could, meant to her just that, and nothing less than that. Of course,
such an understanding of a promise made it impossible to stop with the
asking of one person, or two, or three, provided her invitations met
with only refusals.
She had started out as confident of success as Eurie; she felt nearly
certain of Col. Baker; not because he was any more likely of his own
will to choose the prayer-meeting than he had been all his life thus
far, but because he was growing every day more anxious to give pleasure
to Flossy.
Having some dim sense of this in her heart, Flossy reasoned that it
would be right to put this power of hers to the good use of winning him
to the meeting, for who could tell what words from God's Spirit might
reach him while there? So she asked him to go.
To her surprise, and to Col. Baker's real annoyance, he was obliged to
refuse her. He was more than willing to go, even to a prayer-meeting,
if thereby he could take one step forward toward the place in her life
that he desired to fill. Therefore his regrets were profuse and sincere.
It was club night, and, most unluckily, they were to meet with him, and
he was to provide the entertainment. Under almost any other
circumstances he could have been excused. Had he even had the remotest
idea that Flossy would have liked his company that evening, he could
have made arrangements for a change of evening for the club; that is,
had he known of it earlier. But, as it was, she would see how impossible
it would be for him to get away. Quick-witted Flossy took him at his
word.
"Would he remember, then," she asked, with her most winning smile, "that
of all places where she could possibly like to see him regularly, the
Wednesday evening prayer-meeting at the First Church was the place."
What a bitter pill an evening prayer-meeting would be to Col. Baker! But
he did not tell her so. He was even growing to think that he could do
that, for a while at least.
From him Flossy turned to her brother; but it was club night to him,
too, and while he had not the excuse that the entertainer of the club
certainly had, it served very well as an excuse, though he was frank
enough to add, "As for that, I don't believe I should go if I hadn't an
engagement; I won't be hypocrite enough to go to the prayer-meeting."
Such strange ideas have some otherwise sensible people on this subject
of hypocrisy!
It required a good deal of courage for Flossy to ask her mother, but she
accomplished it, and received in reply an astonished stare, a
half-embarrassed laugh, and the expression:
"What an absurd little fanatic you are getting to be, Flossy! I am sure
one wouldn't have looked for it in a child like you! Me? Oh, dear, no! I
can't go; I never walk so far you know; at least very rarely, and Kitty
will have the carriage in use for Mrs. Waterman's reception. Why don't
you go there, child? It really isn't treating Mrs. Waterman well; she is
such an old friend."
These were a few of the many efforts which Flossy made. They met with
like results, until at last the evening in question found her somewhat
belated and alone, ringing at Judge Erskine's mansion. That important
personage being in the hall, in the act of going out to the post-office,
he opened the door and met her hurried, almost breathless, question:
"Judge Erskine, is Ruth gone? Oh, excuse me. Good-evening. I am in such
haste that I forgot courtesy. Do you think Ruth is gone?"
Yes, Judge Erskine knew that his daughter was out, for she stepped into
the library to leave a message a few moments ago, and she was then
dressed for the street, and had passed out a moment afterward.
Then did he know whether Katie Flinn, the chamber-maid, was in? "Of
course you won't know," she added, blushing and smiling at the absurdity
of her question. "I mean could you find out for me whether she is in,
and can I speak to her just a minute?"
He was fortunately wiser to-night than she gave him credit for being,
Judge Erskine said, with a courtly bow and smile.
It so happened that just after his daughter departed, Katie had sought
him, asking permission to be out that evening until nine o'clock, a
permission that she had forgotten to secure of his daughter; therefore,
as a most unusual circumstance which must have occurred for Flossy's
special benefit, he was posted even as to Katie's whereabouts. He was
unprepared for the sudden flushing of Flossy's cheeks, and quiver of her
almost baby chin.
"Oh, I am _so_ sorry!" she said, and there were actual tears in her blue
eyes.
Judge Erskine saw them, and felt as if he were in some way a monster. He
hastened to be sympathetic. If she was alone and timid it would afford
him nothing but pleasure to see her safely to any part of the city she
chose to mention. He was going out simply for a stroll, with no business
whatever.
"Oh, it isn't that," Flossy said, hastily. "I am such a little way from
the chapel, and it is so early I shall not be afraid; but I am so
disappointed. You see, Judge Erskine, we girls were each to bring one
with us to the meeting to-night, and I have tried so hard, I have asked
almost a dozen people, and none of them could go. At last I happened to
think of your Katie Flinn: I knew she was in our Sunday-school, and I
thought perhaps if I asked her she would go with me, if Ruth had not
done it before me. She was my last chance, and I am more disappointed
than I can tell you."
Shall I try to describe to you what a strange sensation Judge Erskine
felt in the region of his heart as he stood there in the hall with that
pretty blushing girl, who seemed to him only a child, and found that her
quivering chin and swimming eyes meant simply that she had failed in
securing even his chambermaid to attend the prayer-meeting? He never
remembered to have had such an astonishing feeling, nor such a queer
choking sensation in his throat.
His own daughter was dignified and stately; the very picture of her
father, every one said; he had no idea that she could shed a tear any
more than he could himself; but this timid, flushing, trembling little
girl seemed made of some other material than just the clay that he
supposed himself to be composed of.
He stood regarding her with a sort of pleased wonder. In common with
many other stately gentlemen, he very much admired real, unaffected,
artless childhood. It seemed to him that a grieved child stood before
him. How could he comfort her? If a doll, now, with curling hair and
blue eyes could do it, how promptly should it be bought and given to
this flesh-and-blood doll before him.
But no, nothing short of some one to accompany her to prayer-meeting
would appease this little troubled bit of humanity. In the magnanimity
of his haughty heart the learned judge took a sudden and almost
overpowering resolution.
Could _he_ go? he asked her. To be sure, he was not Katie Flinn, but he
would do his best to take the place of that personage if she would
kindly let him go to the said meeting with her.
It was worth a dozen sittings even in prayer-meeting, Judge Erskine
thought, to see the sudden clearing of that tearful face; the sudden
radiant outlook from those wet eyes.
_Would_ he go? Would he _really_ go? Could anything be more _splendid_!
And, verily, Judge Erskine thought, as he beheld her shining face, that
there hardly could. He felt precisely as you do when you have been
unselfish toward a pretty child, who, someway, has won a warm spot in
your heart.
He went to the First Church prayer-meeting for the first time with no
higher motive than that--never mind, he went. Flossy Shipley certainly
was not responsible for the motive of his going; neither did it in any
degree affect the honest, earnest, persistent effort she had made that
day. Her account of it was simple enough, when the girls met afterward
to talk over their efforts.
"Why, you know," she said, "I actually _promised_ to bring some one with
me if I possibly could; so there was nothing for it but to try in every
possible way up to the very last minute of the time I had. But, after
all, I brought the one whom I had not the least idea of asking; he asked
himself."
"Well," Marion said, after a period of amazed silence, "I have made two
discoveries. One is, that people may possibly have tried before this to
enlarge the prayer-meeting; possibly we may not, after all, be the
originators of that brilliant idea; they may have tried, and failed even
as we did; for I have learned that it is not so easy a matter as it at
first appears; it needs a power behind the wills of people to get them
to do even so simple a thing as that. The other important thought is,
there are two ways of keeping a promise; one is to make an attempt and
fail, saying to our contented consciences, 'There! I've done my duty,
and it is no use you see;' and the other is to persist in attempt after
attempt, until the very pertinacity of our faith accomplishes the work
for us. What if we follow the example of our little Flossy after this,
and let a promise mean something?"
"My example!" Flossy said, with wide open eyes. "Why, I only _asked_
people, just as I said I would; but they wouldn't come."
There was one young lady who walked home from that eventful
prayer-meeting with a very unsatisfied conscience. Ruth Erskine could
not get away from the feeling that she was a shirker; all the more so,
because the person who had sat very near her was her father! not brought
there by any invitation from her; it was not that she had tried and
failed; that form of it would have been an infinite relief; she simply
had not tried, and she made herself honestly confess to herself that
the trouble was, she could not be satisfied with one who was within the
reach of her asking.
Yet conscience, working all alone, is a very uncomfortable and
disagreeable companion, and often accomplishes for the time being
nothing beyond making his victim disagreeable. This was Ruth to the
fullest extent of her power; she realized it, and in a measure felt
ashamed of herself, and struggled a little for a better state of mind.
It seemed ill payment for the courtesy which had made Harold Wayne
forsake the club before supper for the purpose of walking home with her
from church. He was unusually kind, too, and patient. Part of her
trouble, be it known, was her determination in her heart not to be
driven by that dreadful conscience into saying a single personal word to
Harold Wayne. Not that she put it in that way; bless you, no! Satan
rarely blunders enough to speak out plainly; he has a dozen
smooth-sounding phrases that mean the same thing.
"People need to be approached very carefully on very special occasions,
which are not apt to occur; they need to be approached by just such
persons, and in just such well-chosen words," etc. etc.
Though why it should require such infinite tact and care and skill to
say to a friend, "I wish you were going to heaven with me," when the
person would say without the slightest hesitation, "I wish you were
going to Europe with me," and be accounted an idiot if he made talk
about tact and skill and caution, I am sure I don't know.
Yet all these things Ruth said to herself. The reason the thought
ruffled her was because her honest conscience knew they were false, and
that she had a right to say, "Harold, I _wish_ you were a Christian;"
and had no right at all with the results.
She simply could not bring herself to say it; she did not really know
why, herself; probably Satan did.
Mr. Wayne was unusually quiet and grave; he seemed to be doing what he
could to lead Ruth into serious talk; he asked about the meeting,
whether there were many out, and whether she enjoyed it.
"I sort of like Dr. Dennis," he said. "He is tremendously in earnest;
but why shouldn't a man be in earnest if he believes what he is talking
about. Do you suppose he does, Ruth?"
"Of course," Ruth said, shortly, almost crossly; "you know he does. Why
do you ask such a foolish question?"
"Oh, I don't know; half the time it seems to me as if the religious
people were trying to humbug the world; because, you see, they don't act
as if they were in dead earnest--very few of them do, at least."
"That is a very easy thing to say, and people seem to be fond of saying
it," Ruth said: and then she simply would not talk on that subject or
any other; she was miserably unhappy; an awakened conscience, toyed
with, is a very fruitful source of misery. She was glad when the walk
was concluded.
"Shall I come in?" Mr. Wayne asked, lingering on the step, half smiling,
half wistful. "What do you advise, shall I go back to the club or call
on you?"
Now, Ruth hated that club; she was much afraid of its influence over her
friend; she had determined, as soon as she could plan a line of
operation, to set systematically at work to withdraw him from its
influence; but she was not ready for it yet. And, among other things
that she was not ready for, was a call from Mr. Wayne; it seemed to her
that in her present miserable, unsettled state it would be simply
impossible to carry on a conversation with him. True to her usually
frank nature, she answered, promptly:
"I have certainly no desire for you to go to the club, either on this
evening or any other; but, to be frank, I would rather be alone this
evening; I want to think over some matters of importance, and to decide
them. You will not think strangely of me for saying that, will you?"
"Oh, no," he said, and he smiled kindly on her; yet he was very much
disappointed; he showed it in his face.
Many a time afterward, as Ruth sat thinking over this conversation,
recalling every little detail of it, recalling the look on his face, and
the peculiar sadness in his eyes, she thought within herself, "If I had
said, 'Harold, I want you to come in; I want to talk with you; I want
you to decide now to live for Christ,' I wonder what he _would_ have
answered."
But she did not say it. Instead, she turned from him and went into the
house; and--he went directly to his club: an unaccountable gloom hung
over him; he must have companionship; if not with his chosen and
promised wife, then with the club. That was just what Ruth was to him;
and it was one of the questions that tormented her.
There were reasons why thought about it had forced itself upon her
during the last few days. She was pledged to him long before she found
this new experience. The question was, Could she fulfil those pledges?
Had they a thought in common now? Could she live with him the sort of
life that she had promised to live, and that she solemnly meant to live?
If she _could_, was it right to do so? You see she had enough to torment
her; only she set about thinking of it in so strange a manner; not at
all as she would have thought about it if the pledges she had given him
had meant to her all that they mean to some, all that they ought to mean
to any one who makes them. This phase of it also troubled her.
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