A church bell was ringing in a neighboring village the following
morning when Ida awoke. The sunlight streamed in at the open window
through the half-closed blinds, flecking the floor with bars of
light. Birds were singing in the trees without, and a southern
breeze rustled through the foliage as a sweet low accompaniment.
Surely it was a bright pleasant world on which her heavy eyes were
opening.
Poor child! she was fast learning now that the darkest clouds that
shadow our paths are not the vapors that rise from the earth, but
the thoughts and memories of an unhappy and a sinful heart.
The sunlight mocked her; and her spirit was so out of tune that
the sweet sounds of nature made jarring discord.
But the church bell caught her attention. How natural and almost
universal is the instinct which leads us when in trouble to seek
the support of some Higher power. No matter how wayward the human
child may have been, how hardened by years of wrong, or arrogantly
entrenched in some phase of rational philosophy, when the darkness
of danger or sorrow blots out the light of earthly hopes, or hides
the path which was trodden so confidently, then, with the impulse
of frightened children whom night has suddenly overtaken, there is
a longing for the Father's hand and the Father's reassuring voice.
If there is no God to love and help us, human nature is a lie.
Thus far Ida Mayhew had no more thought of turning Heavenward for
help than to the philosophy of Plato. Indeed, religion as a system
of truth, and Greek philosophy were almost equally unknown to her.
But that church-bell reminded her of the source of hope and help to
which burdened hearts have been turning in all the ages, and with
the vague thought that she might find some light and cheer that was
not in the sunshine, she hastily dressed and went down in time to
catch one of the last carriages. When she reached the church, she
found her mother had preceded her, and that her cousin Ik Stanton
was also there; but she correctly surmised that the only devotion
to which he was inclined had been inspired by Miss Burton, who sat
not far away. She was soon satisfied that Van Berg was not present.
As a general thing, when at church, Ida had given more consideration
to the people and the toilets about her than to either the service
or the sermon; but to-day she wistfully turned her thoughts to
both, in the hope that they might do her good, although she had as
vague an idea as to the mode or process as if both were an Indian
incantation.
But she was thoroughly disappointed. Her thoughts wandered continually
from the services. With almost the vividness of bodily presence,
three faces were looking upon her--her father's with an infinite
reproach; Sibley's, with smiling lips and wolfish eyes; and Van
Berg's, first coolly questioning and exploring in its expression,
and then coldly averted and scornful in consequence of what he had
discovered. Not houses, but minds are haunted.
The clergyman, however, was an able, forcible speaker, and held
her attention from the first. His sermon was topical rather than
textual in its character; that is, he enlarged on what he termed
"the irreconcilable enmity between God and the world," taking as
his texts the following selections:
"The carnal mind is enmity against God."
And again, "Whosoever, therefore, will be a friend of the world,
is the enemy of God."
The sermon was chiefly an argument; and the point of it was that
there could be no compromise between these contending powers--God
on one side, the world on the other--and he insisted that his hearers
must be, and were with one party or the other. The trouble was,
that in concentrating his thoughts on the single point he meant to
make, he took too much for granted--namely, that all his hearers
understood sufficiently the character of God, and the sense in which
the Bible uses the term "world," not to misapprehend the nature
of his "enmity." To seasoned church-goers the sermon was both true
and very satisfactory.
But when the minister reached the conclusion of his argument with
the words, "So then, they that are in the flesh cannot please God,"
poor Ida drew a long dreary sigh, and wished she had remained at
home. She was certainly "in the flesh," if any one were; and in
addition to the fact that she neither pleased herself nor any one
else that she respected and loved, she was now given the assurance,
apparently fortified by Holy Writ, that she could not "please God."
The simple and divine diplomacy by which this "enmity" is removed
was unknown to her.
She turned to note how Miss Burton received a message that was so
unwelcome to herself, and saw that she was not listening. There
was a dreamy far-away look in her eyes that clearly was not inspired
by the thought of "enmity."
"She is probably thinking of the artist and the ideal future that
he can give her. How foolish it is in poor Ik there to try to rival
HIM! It was an unlucky day for us both, cousin of mine, when we
came to this place!"
More disheartened and despondent than ever, she rode homeward with
her mother, answering questions only in monosyllables. All that
religion had said to her that morning was: "Give up the world--all
with which you have hitherto been familiar, and have enjoyed." God
was an infinite, all-powerful, remote abstraction, and yet for His
sake she must resign everything which would enable her to forget,
or at least disguise the pain and jealousy which were at times
almost unendurable; and she knew of no substitute with which to
replace "the world" she was asked to forego.
This religion of mere negation, expulsion, and restraint is too
often presented to the mind. Dykes and levees are very useful,
and in some places essential; but if low malarial shores could be
lifted up into breezy hills and table-lands, this would be better.
This is not only possible, but it is the true method in respect to
the human soul; and one should seek to grow better not by sedulous
effort to keep out an evil world, but rather to fill up his heart
with a good pure world such as God made and blessed.
The sermon Ida heard that morning, therefore, only added to the
burden that was already too heavy to be carried much longer.