RECOGNITION.
AND now I desire you to imagine the worshipers gathered one morning
in the little church at South Plains. The winter over and gone; the
time of the singing of birds and of sweet-scented flowers had come.
The marvel of the annual resurrection from the grave of winter was
being lived over again in nature. But within the sanctuary it seemed
more than resurrection, almost creation. Was it the same church at
all? What had become of the dusty floors, and the smoky walls, and the
rusty stove-pipe, and the smoking stoves, and the square table, and
the swaying, faded, red curtains, and the faded and worn ingrain rag
which had covered the platform, and the dust, and the rust and the
dreariness? What a strange effect that paper of a quiet tint, and
yet with a suggestion of sunlight in it, had on those hitherto bare
and smoky walls! How high the frescoing made the ceiling look! What
an excellent imitation of "real" were the carefully-grained seats!
How perfectly the carpet harmonized in pattern and coloring with the
paper on the walls! Small wonder, this last, if you had known how
many patient hours mamma and Dora had spent in reaching the important
decision, "Which shall we send?"
As for the pulpit, it was "real," without any paint about it, and
so neat, and pretty, and graceful, that the girls had exhausted all
adjectives on it. And really, the stove-pipe, though it wandered about
according to some wild freak that was considered necessary in order to
"draw," did not look so objectionable now that it was real Russia; and
nothing could glow more brilliantly than the stoves, which smoked no
more. Engineer Bud had been a success.
Still, I know that I can not make you realize the difference in that
church. Unless you were there on that dreary winter morning when
Claire Benedict first looked upon it with utter sinking of heart, and
then were there again on that spring morning, and caught the breath
of the flowers, and saw the shimmer of awakened life over everything
within and without, you will never understand it. Unless, indeed, you
look up some other man-forsaken sanctuary, and try the delightful
experiment of transformation.
There were those in South Plains who knew and felt the difference.
They gathered softly, the worshipers, the men on tiptoe, though they
need not have done that, for the heavy carpet gave back no sound of
footfall, but it was one of their ways of expressing admiration and
reverence. They gave quick, admiring, amazed glances about them, then
riveted their eyes, as the workers had meant they should, on the motto
which glowed before them, strung from lamp to lamp in some spirit-like
fashion which those unacquainted with the management of silver ware
cannot comprehend, and which made the triumphant announcement: "THE
LORD IS IN HIS HOLY TEMPLE." And I tell you that, so much has the
outward and tangible to do with our spiritual vision, there were those
present who grasped this stupendous fact for the first time.
The organ squeaked no more. It had only been a matter of a drop of oil
which quieted that, and yet that congregation had actually sat under
its squeak almost for years! So many things in this world squeak for
the want of a thoughtful hand to administer a drop of oil!
Then the choir--that almost hardest thing in country or city to manage
successfully--had been transformed. There had been no violent wrenches;
occasionally it happens that a combination of circumstances bring about
unlooked-for and delightful results. The discordant alto had married,
bless her, and gone to another town; the flatting tenor had sprained
his ankle, poor man, and must needs abide at home. The tremendous bass
had that rare quality, common-sense, and discovered on the evening
of the concert that South Plains had taken a musical prize, and was
himself the one to propose that Miss Benedict and her class should be
invited to join the choir; and further, that Miss Benedict should be
requested to drill the choir, and had put himself under training, and
his voice being really grand, he bade fair, under culture, to become
the power in song that God designed.
I do not know whether it was accident, or a blessed design, that the
much astonished, much-encouraged, young-old minister, in a new coat
which was an Easter gift from the young men of his congregation, read
the hymn--
I love her gates, I love the road;
The church adorned with grace,
Stands like a palace built for God,
To show his milder face.
But I know that he read it as that people had never heard him read a
hymn before, with an unction and a quiver of feeling which said almost
as plainly as words:
"The Lord reigneth, and this is his holy temple, and I am his chosen
mouthpiece to this people: I had almost forgotten it, but it is so."
Then when that reconstructed choir rolled out the words, led by the
centre voice of exquisite melody and power, the worshipers felt the
sentiment of the hymn fill their hearts, and admitted that they did
love her gates, and that they must rouse up and show their love as they
had not done heretofore.
Ah! there was more in that church that day than new carpet, and new
furniture, and paint, and paper, and light and beauty. These were all
well enough, and Claire Benedict's sense of the fitness of things
rejoiced in them all. But what were they to the thrill in her heart as
she heard the minister read among the names announced for reception
into the visible communion of the church, that of Hubbard Myers. There
were some who did not know to whom the name belonged; and it was not
surprising, for Hubbard Myers had been called only Bud for so many
years, the wonder was that he remembered his name himself.
There had been great astonishment among some, and not a little
shaking of heads, when Bud presented himself as a candidate for
church-membership. It had not been supposed that he had intellect
enough to understand the meaning of the step. There was close
questioning on the part of the minister, not for himself alone, but for
the enlightenment of others; but before the examination closed, more
than one of the listeners drew out their red handkerchiefs, and blew
their noses suspiciously, and at last, one of the most stolid of them
remarked:
"It is my opinion, brethren, that the boy has been taught of God, and
I think we would do well to accept him without any further delay." And
they did.
There were other trophies. Where would be the church of Christ without
its living, working members? One who was pledged to prefer Jerusalem
above her chief joy, had not been, and in the very nature of the case,
_could not_ have been, content with toiling simply for the outward
adorning of the temple.
A history of the quiet work which had been done in hearts during that
one winter would fill a volume. I have but given you a hint of it here
and there. The head of the Church has the complete record. There is
perhaps little need that I should try to give you even scattered notes
of it. Yet there was one name which made the tears come very near to
falling, as Claire listened for it, fearful that it might not come, and
at the same moment hopeful for it. It was only a transferral from a
church in the city to membership with the one at South Plains, and it
was only Alice Ansted. Her parents were not even present in the church.
But Claire knew that a visible union with the church of Christ meant
to Alice Ansted to-day what it never had before. And she knew that the
two girls, Fanny and Ella Ansted, who sat and cried, in the pew beside
Alice, were only left out because parental authority had asserted
itself, and said they were not to come. Claire knew that they had
united themselves with the great Head, and were members of the church
in the "Jerusalem which is above and is free." They could afford to
bide their time.
And there was another still which gave Claire's heart a peculiar thrill
of joy. Not that his name was read, or that many, as yet, knew about
Satan's defeat with him. It had been recent, and the public recognition
of the fact was yet to come. But the Lord Jesus Christ knew, for he had
been the victor.
It was only the night before, as they were about to leave the
reconstructed church, and Mary Burton, with a long-drawn breath of
repressed excitement, had declared that everything was ready for
to-morrow, and that the victory was complete, that Harry Matthews had
bent toward Claire and murmured:
"Miss Benedict, there has been another victory. You will know that it
is far more wonderful than this. He has 'undertaken' for me."
There had only been time to grasp his hand and flash back an answer
from sympathetic eyes, but there was a song in her heart this morning
over the news. Occasionally she glanced at Harry, and told herself that
she would have known, just to look at him, that the highest experience
this life has for us had come to him.
The little church was unusually full on this triumphant morning, and
yet most of the faces were known to Claire. Strangers were not frequent
at South Plains. Yet there was one, a gentleman, who gave that reverent
heed to the service which even among strangers distinguishes those who
really join in worship from those who merely look on. This man joined,
and with his heart. Claire was sure of it. It was this man that Harry
Matthews watched, a satisfied smile on his face the while. Harry could
imagine just how surprised the stranger was.
On the evening before, when he had reached his room, after giving
his wonderful news to Claire, instead of finding it in darkness, his
kerosene lamp had been turned to its highest capacity, and a gentleman
sat in front of his little stove, feeding it from time to time,
apparently for the sole purpose of brightening the somewhat dismal room.
"Halloo!" had been Harry's greeting.
"Just so," was the quiet response. "You did not know you had company,
did you, my boy?"
And then there had been such eager grasping of hands, and such lighting
up of faces, as evinced the satisfaction of both parties at meeting.
For this was Harry Matthews' favorite uncle, and he must lately have
come from the home where Harry's mother waited for him.
Of course there was a high-tide of question and answer at once. It was
not until an hour afterward that Harry reached the subject of which he
had instantly thought, on seeing his uncle.
"Uncle Harold, didn't you know the Benedicts?"
"What Benedicts?"
"Why, the Boston ones. Sydney L. He failed, and died, less than a year
ago, don't you remember?"
"I remember. I knew him well. I met him abroad."
"And didn't you know his daughter?"
"I knew that he had a daughter, and, in fact, I think I saw her once;
but we were not acquainted."
"Why, I wonder?"
"Why?" with a slightly-curious laugh. "There might be many reasons, I
am sure. Boston spreads over a good deal of ground. Besides, you know I
never spent a great deal of time in Boston, and I am not a society man.
Why do you ask?"
"No reason in particular; only the lady is here, and I thought if you
were old acquaintances, it would be pleasant to meet her."
"Here in South Plains! What in the world is she doing here?"
"Teaching music."
"I wonder if this is where she has hidden herself! I occasionally
hear queries as to what has become of her, but I believe I never met
a person who knew. No, I don't suppose there would be any mutual
pleasure in a meeting. I may be said to be a stranger. I have not the
least idea how she looks; and I may never have met her, though I think
I did somewhere. I remember having a passing interest in seeing how
a daughter of Sydney Benedict would look. He was a grand man, but I
suspected that his daughter was a butterfly of fashion. She lived in
the very centre of that sort of thing, and her father was supposed
to have immense wealth. I suppose she is a poor, crushed little
morsel, done up in crape and disappointment. I am always sorry for
music-scholars who have to take broken-down ladies for teachers. Still,
I don't know but I would like to shake hands with her for her father's
sake. Have you met her?"
"I should say I had! but I don't believe you ever have. You couldn't
draw such a queer picture of her as that, if you had ever seen her.
She doesn't wear crape at all. Somebody told me she did not believe in
mourning for people who had gone to heaven; at least, not in putting on
black clothes and looking doleful, you know. And as to being crushed!
why, uncle Harold, she is the brightest, sweetest, grandest girl I ever
heard of in all my life."
"Possible!" said his uncle, with a good-humored laugh. "Why, my boy,
she must be several years older than you! What does this mean?"
"Oh, nonsense!" was the impatient reply of the excited young man. "It
is just as evident as can be, that you don't know what you are talking
about. If you had been here this winter, and watched things work, and
known the hand that she had in it all, why--look here! you wait until
to-morrow; I can show you a few things, I fancy."
Whereupon he immediately closed his lips; and although his uncle
pretended to be extremely curious, and to be unable to wait until
morning for light, no hints or questions could draw out further
information in the same direction.