LIFTED UP.
IT was a very quiet, cold-faced girl who presently obeyed the summons
to dinner. Had it not been for those suspiciously red eyes, and a
certain pitiful droop of the eyelids, Mrs. Foster would hardly have
ventured to break the casing of haughty reserve in which her young
music teacher had decided to wrap herself.
A rare woman was Mrs. Foster. I wish you knew her well; my pen pauses
over an attempt to describe her. I believe descriptions of people never
read as the writer intended they should; and there never was a woman
harder to put on paper than this same Mrs. Foster.
Ostensibly she was the principal of this little academy, which was at
present engaged in reaping the results of years of mismanagement and
third-rate work. People shook their heads when she took the position,
and said that she was foolish. She would never earn her living there in
the world; the academy at South Plains was too much run down ever to
revive, and there never had been a decent school there anyway, and they
didn't believe there ever would be. And, of course, people of this mind
did what they could, with their tongues and their apathy, so far as
money and pupils were concerned, to prove the truth of their prophecies.
But Mrs. Foster, wise, sweet, patient woman that she was, quietly bided
her time, and worked her way through seemingly endless discouragements.
She was after much more than bread and butter. In reality there was
never a more persistent and patient and wise and wary fisher for
_souls_ found among quiet and little known human kind than was Mrs.
Foster. Had they but known it, there were communities which could have
afforded to support her for the sake of the power she would have
been in their midst. Nay, there were fathers who could have afforded
to make her independent for life, so far as the needs of this world
were concerned, for the sake of the influence she would have exerted
over their young and tempted sons and daughters. But they did not know
it, and she, being as humble as she was earnest, did not half know it
herself, and expected nothing of anybody but a fair chance to earn her
living, and do all the good she could.
In point of fact, she had some difficulty in getting hold of the
little, badly-used academy at South Plains. The people who thought
she was utterly foolish for attempting anything so hopeless, were
supplemented by the people who thought she could not be much, or she
would never be willing to come to South Plains Academy. So between them
they made it as hard for her as they could.
Claire Benedict did not know it until long afterwards, but the fact
was, that during her father's funeral services she had been selected
as the girl whom Mrs. Foster wanted with her at South Plains. It
happened, so we are fond of saying, that Mrs. Foster was spending a
few days on business in the city that had always been Claire's home,
and she saw how wonderfully large portions of that city were stirred
by one death, when Sydney Benedict went to heaven. She speculated
much over the sort of life he must have led to have gotten the hold
he had on the people. She began to inquire about his family, about
his children. Then she heard much of Claire, and grew interested in
her, in a manner which seemed strange even to herself. And when at the
funeral she first caught a glimpse of the pale face and earnest eyes
of the girl who looked only, and with a certain watchful air at her
mother, as if she would shield her from every touch that she could,
Mrs. Foster had murmured under her breath, "I think this is the girl
I want with me." She prayed about it a good deal during the next few
days, and grew sure of it, and waited only to make the way plain, so
that she could venture her modest little offer, and felt sure that
if the Master intended it thus, the offer would be accepted. And it
was, but in blindness, so far as Claire Benedict was concerned. I have
sometimes questioned whether, if a bright angel had come down out of
heaven and stood beside Claire, and said: "The King wants you to go
with all speed to South Plains; he has special and important work for
you there; he has opened the way for you," the child would not have
been more content, and had much less of the feeling that her work was
interrupted. But I do not know, she might rather have said:
"Why in the world must I go to South Plains? I had work enough to do at
home, and I was doing it; and now it will all come to nought because
there is no leader! It stands to reason that I, in my poverty and
obscurity, down in that out-of-the-way village, can not do as much as
I, with my full purse, and leisure days, and happy surroundings, and
large acquaintances could do here."
We love to be governed by reason, and hate to walk in the dark. I
have always wondered what Philip said when called to leave his great
meeting, where it seemed hardly possible to do without him, and go
toward the south on a desert road. That he went, and promptly, is, I
think, a wonderful thing for Philip.
Well, the red eyes of the young music-teacher by no means escaped the
watchful ones of Mrs. Foster. Neither had her short, almost sharp,
negative in reply to a somewhat timidly put question of a pupil,
as to whether she was going out to church that evening. There were
reasons why Mrs. Foster believed that it would be much better for her
sad-hearted music-teacher to go to church than to remain glooming at
home. There were, indeed, very special reasons on that particular
evening. The Ansted girls' uncle was going to preach, she had heard,
but should she go to this young Christian, of whom she as yet knew but
little, and offer as a reason for church-going that a stranger was to
preach instead of the pastor! However she managed it, Mrs. Foster was
sure she would not do that. Yet it will give you a hint of the little
woman's ways when I tell you that she was almost equally sure she
should manage it in some way.
Half an hour before evening service there was a tap at Claire's door,
and the principal entered, and came directly to the point: Would Miss
Benedict be so kind as to accompany Fanny and Ella Ansted to church
that evening? Miss Parsons was suffering with sick headache, and she
herself could not leave her. There was no other available chaperone
for the young girls, who were not accustomed to going out alone in the
evening, but who were unusually anxious to attend church, as their
uncle, who had been stopped over the Sabbath by an accident, was to
preach.
Miss Benedict had her lips parted, ready to say that she was not
going out, but paused in the act. What excuse could she give? No sick
headache to plead, and nobody to care for; the night was not stormy, if
it was sullen, and the church was not a great distance away. She had
been wont to accommodate people always, but she never felt so little
like it as to-night. However, there stood Mrs. Foster quietly awaiting
an answer, and her face seemed to express the belief that of course,
the answer would be as she wished.
"Very well," came at last from the teacher's lips, and she began at
once to make ready.
"It is for this I was hired," she told herself bitterly. "I must not
forget how utterly changed my life is in this respect as in all others.
I am my own mistress no longer, but even in the matter of church-going
must hold myself at the call of others."
As for the principal, as she closed the door with a gentle "Thank you,"
she told herself that it was much better for the poor child to go; and
that she must see to it what she could do during the week to brighten
that room a little.
The stuffy church was the same; nay, it was more so, for every vile
lamp was lighted now, and sent a sickly, smoky shadow to the ceiling,
and cast as little light upon the surrounding darkness as possible.
But the uncle! I do not know how to describe to you the difference
between him and the dreary reader of the morning! It was not simply
the difference in appearance and voice, though really these were
tremendous, but he had a solemn message for the people, and not only
for the people whose Sabbath home was in that church, but for Claire
Benedict as well.
She did not think it at first. She smiled drearily over the almost
ludicrous incongruity of the text as measured by the surroundings. "If
I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy."
The folly of supposing that any sane person preferred such a desolate,
modern Jerusalem as this above his chief joy! The very care with which
the men brushed a clear spot for their hats on the dusty seats, and the
manner in which the women gathered their dresses about them, to keep
them from contact with the floor, showed the place which the sanctuary
held in their affections.
But as the preacher developed his theme, it would almost seem that
he had selected it for Claire Benedict's special benefit. It was not
what had been done, or was being done, that he desired to impress, but
rather what ought to be done.
The earthly Jerusalem, instead of being one particular church building,
was any church of Christ where a Christian's lot was cast, even for
a single Sabbath. He or she was bound by solemn covenant vows to
do all for that church which lay in his or her power; as fully, as
unreservedly, as though that church, and that alone, represented his
or her visible connection with the great Head. What solemn words were
these, breaking in on the flimsy walls of exclusiveness which this
young disciple had been busy all the afternoon building up about her!
The church at South Plains her place of service! actually bound to it
by the terms of her covenant!
Others had their message from that plainly-worded, intensely-earnest
sermon. I have no doubt there was a special crumb for each
listener--it is a peculiarity belonging to any real breaking of the
bread of life--but Claire Benedict busied herself with none of them.
Her roused and startled heart had enough to do to digest the solid food
that was given as her portion.
The truth was made very plain to her that she had no more right to
build a shell and creep into it, and declare that this church, and this
choir, and this Sunday-school, and this prayer-meeting, yes, and even
this smoking stove and wheezing organ, were nothing to her because she
was to stay in South Plains but a few months, and her home was far
away in the city, than she had to say that she had nothing to do with
the people or the places on this earth, no sense or responsibility
concerning them, no duties connected with them, because she was to be
here only for a few years and her home was in heaven.
Gradually this keen-edged truth seemed to penetrate every fibre of her
being. This very church, cobweb-trimmed, musty-smelling, was for the
time being her individual working ground, to be preferred above her
chief joy! Nay, the very red curtain that swayed back and forth, blown
by the north wind which found its way through a hole in the window, and
which she _hated_, became a faded bit of individual property for which
she was, in a sense, responsible.
She walked home almost in silence. The girls about her chattered of
the sermon; pronounced it splendid, and admitted that they would just
a little rather hear Uncle Eben preach than anybody else, and it was
no wonder that his people almost worshiped him, and had raised his
salary only last month. Claire listened, or appeared to, and answered
directly put questions with some show of knowledge as to what was being
discussed; but for herself, Dr. Ansted had gone out of her thoughts.
She liked his voice, and his manner, and his elocution, but the force
behind all these had put them all aside, and the words which repeated
themselves to her soul were these: "If I prefer not Jerusalem above my
chief joy!" What then? Why, then I am false to my covenant vows, and
the possibilities are that I am none of His.
Mrs. Foster was in the hall when the party from the church arrived.
Wide open as to eyes and mental vision, quiet as to voice and manner,
she had staid at home and ministered to the victim of sick headache.
She had been tender and low-voiced, and deft-handed, and untiring; but
during the lulls when there had been comparative quiet, she had bowed
her head and prayed that the sad-hearted young music-teacher might meet
Christ in his temple that evening, and come home up-lifted. She did not
know how it was to be done.
She knew nothing about the Ansted uncle save that he was an ambassador
of Christ, and she knew that the Lord _could_ use the shabbily-dressed
ambassador of the morning as well as he; she did not rely on the
instruments, except as they lay in the hand of God. She did not ask
for any special thought to be given to Claire Benedict; faith left
that, too, in the hand of the Lord. She only asked that she should
be ministered unto, and strengthened for the work, whatever it was
that he desired of her. And she needed not to question, to discover
that her prayer, while she had yet been speaking, was answered. The
music-teacher did not bring home the same thoughts that she had taken
away with her.
She went swiftly to her room. The fire had been remembered, and was
burning brightly.
The first thing she did was to feed its glowing coals with the letter
that had been commenced to mamma and Dora during the afternoon. Not
that there had been anything in it about her heaped-up sorrows, or her
miserable surroundings, or her gloomy resolves, but in the light of the
present revelation she did not like the tone of it.
She went to her knees, presently, but it would have been noticeable
there that she said almost nothing about resolves, or failures. Her
uttered words were brief; were, indeed, only these: "Dear Christ, it
is true I needed less of self and more of thee. Myself has failed me
utterly; Jesus, I come to thee."