"GOD SATISFIED AND EARTH UNDONE"
"And if with milder anguish now I bear
To think of thee in thy forsaken rest;
If from my heart be lifted the despair,
The sharp remorse with healing influence press'd,
It is that Thou the sacrifice hast bless'd,
And filled my spirit, in its inmost cell
With a deep, chastened sense that all at last is well."
John Grayson had been directed by Miss Celandine to go to the parlour
where Shushan had bidden him farewell, and to wait for her there. It
looked as if it had had many occupants since, and as if some of them
were still in possession. Yet for the moment he was alone, a thing
unusual in that crowded house. His heart was filled with a sense of
unspeakable rest;--and, after rest, came thankfulness;--and with
thankfulness a fresh burst of weeping, his tears growing ever gentler,
ever softer and more full of healing.
In those blessed tears he found again his hope and his God. Christ was
no dream, but a living, loving Power, strong to save. He had been with
his beloved one, and had delivered her. Once more, in the darkness, his
hand touched that right Hand, so strong and so tender, which at once
upholds the universe, and supports the failing heart of every tried and
tempted "wrestler with the Spirit until the breaking of the day."
So already the cross of Christ, laid upon both their heads, had been
taken from Shushan's young brow, and she had received instead of it the
crown of life! While he--who loved her, who would love her until his
life's end--he had to bear it still. But it _was_ the cross of Christ,
and not the brand of Cain. Not _that_. Never that again! Never more
would he wander aimlessly amidst the dying and the dead,--
"Beating in upon his weary brain,
As though it were the burden of a song"
that hideous travesty of the enemy's splendid, unconscious testimony to
his crucified Lord: "He saved himself, others he did not save."
Rather perhaps might he be permitted, in some humble way, to follow Him,
and help to save others. Of himself, there seemed little left to save
now. The traveller whose purse is empty sings before the thieves; and if
he has been just relieved of a crushing, killing burden, his song may
even be one of thanksgiving.
He did not know how long he had been waiting in that room, when another
person came in and sat down, waiting also. She had with her three pale,
frightened-looking little children. Had he judged by her dress alone, he
would have thought her an Armenian woman of the very poorest class; but
one look in her face made him know her as a lady. It was a very
sorrowful face--what Armenian face was not sorrowful then?--but it was
also very beautiful, and it bore the unmistakable impress of a refined
and cultured mind. He felt sure he had seen her somewhere before; she
was associated somehow in his mind with a box of sweetmeats, an odd
fancy, for which he could find no reason. But his thoughts soon left
her, and returned to their own engrossing theme.
"Thomassian Effendi," said one of the children presently, in a wailing
voice, "won't you take me up in your lap? I am tired."
Jack looked round in surprise. Could this be indeed the beautiful,
luxurious, cherished wife of Muggurditch Thomassian? He spoke his
thoughts aloud.
"Madame," he asked, "do I speak to the wife of Baron Thomassian?"
"To his widow," she answered calmly.
So much Jack knew already, and he wondered if the lady knew any more.
"Have you had certain tidings of his----" He paused for an instant,
unwilling to voice the word.
"Of his martyrdom?" the widow said proudly. "Yes; he has gone home to
God. The way was long and rough, but the end was peace."
"Then you know how nobly he witnessed for his Lord?"
"We know that he was found faithful."
"I was with him almost to the end," Jack said.
Then he told the story of his imprisonment, and of Thomassian's courage
and faithfulness. Every word was as balm poured into the bleeding heart
of the new-made widow.
"And now, madame," he said at last, "how is it with you in your
loneliness?"
"As I suppose you know, we have been robbed of everything. My husband
was known to be a rich man, and our house was one which invited plunder.
What does it matter? When a scorpion has stung you, you do not feel the
prick of a gnat. All I want is a handful of rice to feed these poor
little ones."
"Are they--relatives perhaps?" asked Jack. He knew she had no children.
"No; they are poor orphans I found in the street crying for their
mothers. It helps me in my desolation to have them to think and work
for. That is why I have come to Miss Celandine. I think she may give me
something to do, I care not what. Anything to keep these from starving,
and me--in another way."
"Perhaps you can help her in caring for the wounded."
"I fear I have no skill for it. I am not like Anna Hanum, whom you may
have seen, and who is to Miss Celandine as another hand."
Jack remembered, with a pang, that he himself owed Baron Thomassian
money, which he had no means of repaying. Other people dropped in
gradually, to wait for Miss Celandine, and began to comment upon her
long delay.
"Amaan! Something fresh must have happened," they said. Of course they
meant some fresh calamity. What else could happen there?
At last food was brought in, great dishes of pillav and of soup, with
bread--meat there was none.
"I would Miss Celandine were here," Madame Thomassian said to Jack. "She
will not have tasted food since the early morning. Only that God gives
her strength, for our sakes, she would have been dead long ago."
Presently there was a stir amongst them all.
"Here she comes," passed from lip to lip.
She came, but not alone. Her arm was around the waist of a tall, slender
girl, who but for its support might have fallen to the ground. Another
girl, much younger, clung to her side, and two boys followed, the elder
carrying in his arms his little brother, a child of three. Her wasted,
sorrow-stricken face was lit up with a glow almost of triumph.
"We have got them _all_!" she said.
Those in the room rose up and crowded round. Some said, "Park Derocha!"
others wept aloud for joy, for all knew the Pastor's children.
"Oh, if the Badvellie could only look down and see them all safe here!"
some one cried.
"He does not want that," Madame Thomassian answered quietly, "for he
knows the end of the Lord."
The children were soon seated on the divan. Every one wanted to kiss
their lips, their hands, their feet even. Their clothing was an odd
mixture; Elmas wore a dress of Miss Celandine's, the rest, whatever
garments had come first to hand, for the Turks had stripped them of
almost everything.
"My zaptiehs have just found them in a mosque, and brought them to me,"
Miss Celandine explained. "They are starving."
Indeed the lips of little Ozmo were already quite blue; he seemed unable
even to cry. Some one ran to get milk for him, and in a short time all
were being fed and tended by loving hands.
Then everybody ate, in a primitive, informal way. Jack had his handful
of rice and his piece of bread with the rest, and no food he had ever
tasted seemed to him more wonderful than this. He was eating with
Christians again. There sat Miss Celandine, in her frail womanhood, a
tower of strength to them all; there were the dear Pastor's rescued
children, pale and changed indeed from the unfathomed depths of
suffering they had passed through, but all there, not one lacking from
the little flock. There was the sweet face of Elmas, his Shushan's
friend. And Shushan was safe too. God had _not_ forgotten to be
gracious, nor had He in anger shut up His tender mercies from them. Jack
went over to Elmas.
"Dear Oriort Elmas," he said, "do you know me? I am John Grayson. My
Shushan loved you well. And you will be glad to know that she
is--_safe_; so are all the rest, although Gabriel only is with us
still."
But now Miss Celandine was clearing the room, that the Pastor's children
might have the rest and quiet they so sorely needed. There was not
another spot in the crowded mission buildings that could be given up to
them. With those who needed her she would speak in the passage outside.
Jack waited patiently for his turn, and it came at last. It may have
been a relief to the lonely woman to use the tongue of her native land
again, for she took time to tell him how the Pastor's children had been
saved. "The captain of my zaptiehs saw my anguish during the awful
days," she said. "He was moved, and asked me was there anything he could
do for me. I said, 'Stop these horrors.' He answered that he could not.
'It is the will of Allah,' he said, as they all say. Then I answered,
'Find those children for me, and bring them here. They are mine; they
belong to the Mission.' And I described them all to him. I believe he
sought them diligently; and now here they are at last, after nights and
days of cold and hunger and of agonizing fear. Yet God has kept them.
Now, as for you, Mr. Grayson, will you come with me? I have something to
give you."
He followed her to another room filled with people, where washing and
cooking were going on. Motioning him to stay at the door, she made her
way over beds, mats, babies and cooking utensils, to a press, which she
opened, took something out, and came back with it. They went to the
court together without speaking, and there, under the leafless branches
of a fig-tree, John Grayson got back his father's Bible, the Book of his
betrothal. "Shushan said to me one day that if her end of the cross was
the first lifted off, I was to give this to you. See, there is a bit of
silk put in, to mark the place she was reading when she was sent for to
receive her father's blessing."
Jack opened the Book, and these were the words his eyes fell upon:
"Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem, and cry unto her that her warfare is
accomplished, that her iniquity is pardoned, for she hath received of
the Lord's hand double for all her sins."
He pointed them out to Miss Celandine, who only said, "'_Of the Lord's
hand_,'--it is _that_ that makes it possible to live. But, Mr. Grayson,
what will you do now?"
"Anything _you_ tell me."
"For the present, you will stay here with us, until the way opens for
your safe return home."
"Miss Celandine, _you_ did not go home."
"The passport, which I asked for more than two months ago, was only sent
to me on Saturday, one hour before the massacre began. Then the Pasha
was most anxious to get me away; he advised, he even urged me to go. So
I knew that evil was determined against this people; and, of course, I
stayed."
"If you had gone, I suppose that not one of them would now be left
alive," Jack said.
"Certainly not one of the three hundred that were in our premises
then," Miss Celandine answered quietly. "Mr. Grayson, it is but poor
hospitality I have to offer you. Not a room even, only a place to lie
down in somewhere, and day by day a morsel of bread."
"_And_ safety, _and_ peace," Jack said. "If you permit me, Miss
Celandine, I might spread a mat in the church, and give a little help,
especially at night, to the wounded who are lying there. Then I could be
near Gabriel, the only living thing left to me--of my own."
"So you can. Here you _must_ work, or you will die. But here also, if
you serve Christ in His brethren, you will find Him. Another thing you
can do for us: your strength is sorely needed to bring to us our
out-door patients, and to help them back again to their homes, or rather
to the desolated ruins that were once their homes."
All this John Grayson did faithfully. In body he was never alone, by day
and by night he lived in a crowd--a crowd of suffering men. But in
spirit he "sat alone, and kept silence," because he bore "upon him the
yoke," or rather, the Cross of Christ. He "put his mouth in the dust, if
so there might be hope." And there _was_ hope for him, though the light
was kindled at no earthly shrine.
It was his greatest comfort to wait upon Gabriel; but Gabriel did not
think it well that time and trouble should be spent on him. "It is
waste," he said to Jack; "there are so many wanting your help who have
hands to work with; better go to them, for what should _I_ do, if I
live?"
"God will see to that, brother."
"I know; only, if you drop a handful of piastres in the street, you try
to pick up the good ones first."
Elmas Stepanian loved well to steal a few moments from the care of her
young brothers, to sit by Gabriel and minister to his wants. His eyes
used to brighten wonderfully when he saw her.
"You are so good and sweet," he used to say. Once he added, "And, Oriort
Elmas, our Kevork loved you so."
Elmas did not blush or turn her face away; she only said quietly, "My
dear father liked your brother well." For indeed--
"Death was so near them, life cooled from its heat."
Contrary to every one's expectation, the little babe John Grayson saved
took hold of its life with a will. Two or three times it was very near
dying, but it always rallied. In spite of tainted air, imperfect
nourishment, and other disadvantages, it gave promise of growing into a
bright, healthy child. Anna Hanum, Miss Celandine's helper, who had
taken it first from John Grayson's arms, brought it one day to show to
him with pride and pleasure. But, as she held it up, he was far more
struck with her own face than with that of the babe in her arms. It was
full of peace, profound and utter, such peace as one may see in the
faces of the happy dead, only this was a living face, glowing with some
inner light of love and blessedness. When she was gone, he turned to
Madame Thomassian, who chanced to be at hand, waiting for some work.
"It does me good to look at that face of Anna Hanum's," he said. "She
comes among these suffering, broken-hearted people like a light in the
darkness; ever ready to soothe the sorrows of others, because, alone of
all here, she seems to have none of her own."
"None of her own! Oh, Mr. Grayson, how little you know! Have you ever
heard her story?"
"I have not."
"Her husband was a long time ill--paralysed. The years went on, and she
had a weary life of it, waiting on him night and day, and earning bread
for both of them. Nor, they say, did he make her toil light by loving
gratitude. She never complained, but the neighbours knew that sickness
had soured his temper, and things went not easily with her. But she had
one great joy, God's good gift to her."
The childless woman who told the tale repressed a little sigh, as she
went on,--
"Her bright, beautiful, gifted boy was the pride of all the
neighbourhood. She loved him with more than a mother's love; and she
toiled, and slaved, and almost starved herself to give him the learning
she set such store by, and he thirsted for so ardently himself. He was
the best pupil in the school here, and then he went on to Aintab and to
Marash, where every one had the highest hopes of him. You may guess his
mother's pride when he came back with all his honours to see her, before
beginning active life. He was just in time to receive his father's
blessing, and to close his eyes. But he stayed on a little while with
her; and it was God's will that he should still be here when the storm
broke upon us. Mr. Grayson, they killed him slowly, with cruel torture,
before his mother's eyes. She stood by, strengthening him to the last,
and bidding him hold fast to his faith and his God."
"And she has come through _that_!" Jack said, much moved.
"She has come through _that_, and she has come forth on the other side.
God has satisfied her with Himself. Now, her own burden gone, she goes
about helping and comforting all the rest, with Heaven in her face, and
Heaven in her heart."
"'For I have satisfied the weary soul, and I have replenished every
sorrowful soul,'" John Grayson repeated to himself. "Yes, _He can do
it_. These are the miracles He works now, instead of dividing seas and
scattering hostile hosts."
Meanwhile Madame Thomassian gathered up the needlework she had come to
fetch--coarse garments for some of the many who needed them--and Jack
could not help remembering the soft, luxurious life, surrounded by every
indulgence wealth could procure, which had once been hers. Now she
toiled on from day to day, content with the pittance which was all Miss
Celandine had to give to the poor women who were thus employed, and
contriving out of that pittance to feed the little waifs she had taken
from the street.
Even as she turned and went her way, he heard her softly singing to
herself that favourite hymn of the persecuted Armenians:--
"Jesus, I my cross have taken
All to leave and follow Thee;
Destitute, despised, forsaken,
Thou from hence my all shalt be;
"Perish every fond ambition,
All I've sought, or hoped, or known,
Yet how rich is my condition!
God and Heaven are still my own."