Ida's sleep was almost as deep and quiet, and when her mother stole
in to look at her from time to time the following morning, her face
was as colorless, as if she had taken the drug which Van Berg's
heel had ground into the earth; but Mrs. Mayhew observed with
satisfaction that her respiration was as regular and natural as
that of a little child. Wronged nature will, to a certain extent,
forgive the young and restore to them the priceless treasures of
health and strength they throw away. Ida had been a sad spendthrift
of both lately, but now that the evil spell was broken, the poor
worn body and mind sank into a long and merciful oblivion, during
which a new life began to flow back from the, as yet, unexhausted
fountain of youth.
She awoke late in the morning, and it was some moments before she
could recall all that had happened. Then, as she remembered her
dreadful purpose, there came a strong rush of grateful feeling that
she HAD awakened--that life and its opportunities were still hers.
For a moment she portrayed to herself what she had supposed would
have happened that day--she imagined herself lying white and
still--the people coming and going on tiptoe and speaking in hushed
tones, as if death were but a troubled and easily broken sleep;
while they looked at her with faces in which curiosity and horror
were equally blended; she saw her father staring at her in utter
despair, and her mother trying, in a pitifully helpless way, to
think how appearances might still be kept up and a little shred of
respectability retained. She saw the artist looking at her with
stern, white face, and heard him mutter: "What were you to me
that you should commit this awful deed and lay it at my door, thus
blighting a life full of the richest promise with your horrible
shadow?"
"Thank God, thank God!" she cried passionately. "It's all like a
dreadful dream and never happened."
"Why, Ida, what IS the matter?" said Mrs. Mayhew, coming in hastily.
"I had a bad dream," said Ida, with something like a low sob.
"Ida, I want you to see the doctor, to-day. You haven't acted like
yourself for over two weeks."
"Mother, what time is it?"
"Ten o'clock and after."
"Please draw the curtain. I want to see the sunlight."
"The sun is very hot to-day."
"Is it?" Then under her breath she murmured: "Thank God, so it
is."
She arose and began making her toilet slowly, for the languor of
her long sleep and excessive fatigue was on her still. But thought
was very busy. The subject uppermost in her mind was the promised
visit to old Mr. Eltinge, and she resolved to go at once, if it
were a possible thing. Mrs. Mayhew having again referred to her
purpose of sending for a physician, Ida turned to her and said,
decisively:
"Mother, do you not realize that I am not a child? What is the use
of sending for a doctor when I will not see him? I ask--I insist
that you and Mr. Stanton interfere with me no longer."
"My goodness, Ida, shall not I, your own mother, take any care of
you?"
"It is too late in the day now to commence taking care of me. You
have permitted me to grow up so wanting in mental and moral culture
that you naturally suspect me of the vilest action. Henceforth
I take care of myself, and act for myself;" and she abruptly left
the room and went to Mr. Burleigh's office, requesting that the
light phaeton and a safe horse, such as she could drive, should be
sent around to he door at once.
"Miss Ida, you've not been well. Do you think you had better go
out in the heat of the day?" asked Mr. Burleigh, kindly.
She looked at him a moment, and then said, a little impulsively,
"Mr. Burleigh, I thank you for speaking to me in that way. Yes,
I wish to go, and think I shall be better for it."
As she entered the large hall, Van Berg, who had been on the watch,
rose to greet her, but she merely bowed politely and distantly,
and passed at once into the dining room. After a hasty breakfast
she returned to her room by a side passage, and prepared for her
expedition, paying no heed to her mother's expostulations.
Van Berg was on the piazza when she came down, but she passed him
swiftly, giving him no time to speak to her, and springing into the
phaeton, drove away. His anxiety was so deep that he took pains to
note the road she took, and then waited impatiently for her return.
After driving several miles, and making a few inquiries by the
way, Ida found herself approaching an old-fashioned house secluded
among the hills.
It was on a shady side road, into which but few eddies from the
turbulent current of worldly life found their way.
The gate stood hospitably open, and she drove in under the shade of
an enormous silver poplar, whose leaves fluttered in the breathless
summer air, as if each one possessed a separate life of its own.
As she drew near to the house she saw old Mr. Eltinge coming from
his garden to greet her.
"I had about given you up," he said, "and so you are doubly welcome.
Old people are like children, and don't bear disappointments very
well."
"Did you really want to see me very much?" Ida asked, as he assisted
her to alight.
"Yes, my child," he replied, gravely, holding her hand in a strong,
warm grasp. "I felt, from your manner last evening, you were
sincere. You come on an errand that is most pleasing to my Master,
and I welcome you in his name as well as my own."
"Perhaps if you knew all you would not welcome me," she said in a
low tone, turning away.
"Only for one cause could I withdraw my welcome," he said, still
more gravely.
"What is that?" she asked in a lower tone, not daring to look at
him.
"If you are not sincere," he replied, looking at her keenly.
Giving him her hand again, and looking up into his face, she said,
earnestly:
"Mr. Eltinge, I am sincere. I could not be otherwise with you
after your words last night. I come to you in great trouble, with
a burdened heart and conscience, and I shall tell you everything,
and then you must advise me, for I have no other friend to whom I
can go."
"Oh, yes, you have, my child," said the old man, cheerily. "The
One they called the 'Friend of sinners' is here to-day to welcome
you, and is more ready to receive and advise you than I am. I'm
not going to do anything for you but lead you to him who said,
'Come unto me, all ye that are heavy laden;' and, 'Whosoever cometh
I will in nowise cast out.'"
"How much you make those words mean, as you speak them," faltered
Ida. "You almost lead me to feel that not far away there is some
one, good and tender-hearted, who will take me by the hand with
reassuring kindness, as you have."
"And you are right. Why, bless you, my child, religion doesn't do
us much good until we learn to know our Lord as 'good and tender-hearted,'
and so near, too, that we can speak to him, whenever we wish, as
the disciples did in old times. So don't be one bit discouraged;
see, I'll fasten your horse right here in the shade, and by and by
I'll have him fed, for you must spend the day with us, and not go
back until the cool of the evening. It hasn't seemed hospitable
that you should have stood so long here under the trees; and I
didn't mean that you should, but things never turn out as we expect."
"It is often well they don't," thought Ida, as she looked around
the quiet and quaintly beautiful spot, to which a kind Providence
had brought her. It seemed as if her burden already were beginning
to grow lighter.
"Now come in, my child, and tell me all your trouble."
"Please, Mr. Eltinge, may I not go back with you into the garden?"
"Yes, why not? We can talk there just as well;" and he led her
to a rustic seat in a shady walk, while from a tool-house near he
brought out for himself a chair that had lost its back.
"I'll lean against this pear-tree," he said. "It's young and
strong, and owes me a good turn. Now, my child, tell me what you
think best, and then I'll tell you of One whose word and touch
cures every trouble."
But poor Ida had sudden and strong misgivings. As she saw the
old gentleman surrounded by his flowers and fruits, as she glanced
hesitatingly into his serene, quiet face, from which the fire and
passion of youth had long since faded, she thought. "So Adam might
have looked had he never sinned but grown old in his beautiful
garden. This aged man, who lives nearer heaven than earth, can't
understand my wicked, passionate heart. My story will only shock
and pain him, and it's a shame to pollute this place with such a
story."
"You spoke as if you were alone and friendless in the world," said
Mr. Eltinge, trying to help her make a beginning. "Are you an
orphan?"
"No," said Ida, with rising color, and averting her face. "My
parents are both living."
"And yet you cannot go to them? Poor child! That is the worst
kind of orphanage."
"Oh, Mr. Eltinge, this place seems like the garden of Eden, and I
am bringing into it a heart full of trouble and wickedness."
"Well, my child," replied the old gentleman, with a smile. "I've
brought here a heart full of trouble and wickedness many a time,
so you need not fear hurting the garden."
"But I fear I shall pain and shock you."
"I hope you will. I'm going to feel with and for you. What's the
good of my sitting here like a post?"
"Well," said Ida, desperately, "I promised to tell you everything,
and I will. If there is any chance for me I'll then know it, for
you will not deceive me. Somehow, what I am and what I have to say
seemed in such sad contrast with you and your garden that I became
afraid. You asked about my parents. My father is a very unhappy
man. He seems to have lost hope and courage. I now begin to see
that I have been chiefly to blame for this. I do nothing for his
comfort. Indeed, I have been so occupied with myself and my own
pleasure that I have given him little thought. He does not spend
much of his time at home, and when I saw him he was always tired,
sad, and moody. He seemed to possess nothing that could minister
to my pride and pleasure save money, and I took that freely, with
scarcely even thanks in return.
"I don't like to speak against my mother, but truth compels me to
add that she acts much in the same way. I don't think she loves
papa. Perhaps our treatment is the chief reason why life, seemingly,
has become to him a burden. When he's not busy in he office he
drinks, and drinks, and I fear it is only to forget his trouble.
Once or twice this summer he has looked like a man, and appeared
capable of throwing off this destroying habit, and then by my
wretched folly I made him do worse than ever," and she burst into
a remorseful passion of tears.
"That's right, my child," said Mr. Eltinge, taking off his
spectacles that he might wipe his sympathetic eyes; "you were very
much to blame. Thank god, there are no Pharisees in this garden.
God bless you; go on."
"This that I've told you about my father ought to be my chief
trouble, but it isn't," faltered Ida. "I fear you won't understand
me very well now, and you certainly will never be able to understand
how I could be tempted to do something at the very thought of which
I now shudder."
"No matter; my Master can understand it all if I can't. He's
listening, too, remember."
"It frightens me to think so," said Ida, in an awed, trembling
tone.
"That's because you don't know him. If you were severely wounded,
would you be frightened to know that a good physician was right at
hand to heal you?"
"But isn't God too infinite and far away to listen to listen to
the story of my weakness and folly? I dare not think of him. My
difficulty is just this--he IS God, and what am I?"
"One of his little children, my dear. Yes, he is infinite, but
not far away. In the worst of my weakness and folly he listened
patiently, and helped me out of my trouble. How are you going to
get over this fact? He has listened to and helped multitudes of
others in every kind of trouble and wrong. How are you going to
get over these facts?"
Ida slowly wiped her eyes. Her face grew very pale, and she looked
at Mr. Eltinge steadily and earnestly, as if to gather from his
expression and manner, as well as words, the precise effect of her
confession.
"Mr. Eltinge," she said, "at this time yesterday I did not expect
to be alive to-day. I expected to be dead, and by my own hand.
Will God forgive such wickedness?"
"Dead!" exclaimed the old gentleman, starting up.
"Yes," said Ida, growing still paler and trembling with apprehension,
but still looking fixedly at Mr. Eltinge as if she would learn
from his face whether she could hope or must despair because of
her intended crime.
"And what changed your awful purpose, my child?" he said, very
gravely.
"Your words at the prayer-meeting last night."
The old gentleman removed his hat and reverently bowed his head.
"O God," he murmured, "thou hast been merciful to me all my days;
I thank thee for this crowning mercy."
"But will God be merciful to ME?" cried Ida, in a tone of sharp
agony.
The old man came to he side, and placing his hands on her head spoke
with almost the authority and solemnity of one of God's ancient
prophets.
"Yes, my child, yes, he will be merciful unto you--he will forgive
you. But in your deep need you require more than the assurance
of a poor sinful mortal like yourself. Listen to God's own word:
'Thus saith the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose
name is Holy: I dwell in the high and holy place, with him also
that is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of
the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones.'
"'Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them
that fear him.'
"'If we confess our sins he is faithful and just to forgive us our
sins; and the blood of Jesus Christ, his Son, cleanseth us from
all sin.' God answers your question himself, my child."
"Oh, may He bless you for your kindness to me! It has saved me
from despair and death," sobbed Ida, burying her face in her hands,
and giving way to the natural expression of feeling that ever
relieves a heart that has long been overburdened.
For a few moments Mr. Eltinge said nothing, but gently stroked the
bowed head as he might caress a daughter of his own. At last he
asked, with a voice that was broken from sympathy with her emotion,
"How about my Master, whose kind providence has brought all this
about?"
Ida gradually became more quiet, and as soon as she could trust
herself to speak she lifter her head and answered:
"Mr. Eltinge, I think I can learn to love God as you portray him
to me. But in my imperfection and wickedness I have not dared to
think of him till I came here."
"Now, isn't that just like the devil's work!" exclaimed Mr. Eltinge.
"It was our imperfection and wickedness that brought Christ to
our rescue, and yet you have been made to believe that your chief
claim upon our Divine Friend is a hopeless barrier against you!"
"Mr. Eltinge," said Ida, slowly, as if she were trying to be sure
that each word expressed her thought, "it was that word, FRIEND,
as you used it last night, that caught my ear and revived my hopes.
I now believe that if you had spoken only of duty or truth, or even
of God in the ordinary way, I should now be"--she buried her face
in her hands and shuddered--"I should not be in this sunny garden
with the memory that your hands have rested on my hands in blessing.
If I am to live, I shall need, above all things, a friend, and
a very patient and helpful one, or else my burden will be heavier
than I can carry. I have told you about my parents, and you thus
know what I must look forward to in my own home. But such is my
weakness and folly, I have a far worse trouble than that. You may
smile at it and think that time will bring speedy relief. Perhaps
it will--I hope so. I feel that I know so little about myself and
everything else that I can never be sure of anything again. Mr.
Eltinge, I have been so unfortunate as to give my whole heart's love
to a man who despises me. At first he seemed somewhat attracted,
but he soon discovered how imperfect and ignorant I was, and coldly
withdrew. He is now paying his addresses, I believe, to another
lady, and I must admit that she is a lovely girl, and every way
worthy of him. I think she will return his regard, if she does not
already. But whether she does or not cannot matter, for he is so
far my superior in every respect that he would never think of me
again. In order to hide my foolish, hopeless passion, I received
attentions from another man that I detested, and who has since proved
himself an utter villain, but it so happened that my name became
so closely associated with this low fellow, that when my heart was
breaking for another reason, all thought that it was because I was
infatuated with a man I loathed. Even Mr. Van Berg thought so,
and I intended to compel him to respect me, or at least to think
better of me, even if I had to die to carry out my purpose. I was
desperate and blind with disappointment and despair. To a strong
man, I suppose, these things do not count so greatly, but I'm inclined
to think what with us poor women our heart-life is everything. I
fairly shiver at the thought of the future. How can I carry this
heavy burden, year after year? Oh, how can I bear it? How can I
bear it?" and her eyes became full of desperate trouble again, at
the prospect before her.
"Well, my dear," said Mr. Eltinge in broken tones, "my heart goes
out to you in sympathy as if you were my own daughter, but old
James Eltinge can do but little towards curing your deep troubles."
"I do not hope to be cured," said Ida, despondently, "but I would
be very glad if I could think my life would not be a burden to
myself and others."
Mr. Eltinge pondered a few moments, and then brightened up, as if
a pleasant thought had struck him.
"What do you think of this pear-tree against which I'm leaning?"
he asked. "You remember I said it owed me a good turn, and perhaps
I can get my best fruit from it to-day."
"I think it is a pretty tree," said Ida, wonderingly; "and now I
notice that there are some fine pears on it."
"Yes, and they are about ripe. Let us see if we can't reverse
the old story with which the Bible commences. The man shall tempt
the woman this time, and this shall be a tree of the knowledge of
good, not of evil. Poor child, you know enough about that already;"
and the old gentleman climbed up on his chair, and with his cane
loosened a large yellow pear with a crimson blush on its sunny
side.
"Take my hat and catch it," he had said to Ida; and she did so.
"Now, I've made you an accomplice already, and so you may as well
eat the pear while I tell you a bit of history concerning this
tree. It may help me to suggest some very encouraging truths."
But Ida held her pear and looked wistfully at the speaker. Her
heart was still too sore to enter into the half-playful manner by
which he sought to give a less gloomy cast to her thoughts.
"Some years ago," said Mr. Eltinge, resuming his seat, "we had a
night of darkness and violent storm like that through which you,
poor child, have just passed. The garden fence was blown down,
and some stray cattle got in and made sad havoc. This pear-tree
was a little thing then, and when I came out in the morning it was
in a bad plight, I can tell you. The wind had snapped off the top,
and it lay withering on the ground. Worse than this, one of the
cattle had stepped on it, bruising it severely, and half breaking
it off near the root. I don't know which of the young men you
have named this unruly beast typifies--both of 'em, I'm inclined
to think."
Here Ida shook her head in protest against Van Berg being classed
with Sibley, and at the same time could not forbear the glimmer of
a smile at the old man's homely imagery.
"Well, according to my creed," continued Mr. Eltinge, "'while there's
life there's hope,' so I lifted up the poor, prostrate little tree,
and tied it to a stout stake. Then I got grafting wax and covered
the bruises and broken places, and finally tied all up as carefully
as I used to my boys' fingers when the cut them, sixty odd years
ago. And now mark, my child; I had done all that I could do. I
couldn't make the wounds heal or even a new twig start; and yet
here is a stately young tree beginning to bear delicious fruit.
Nature took my sorry-looking little case in hand, and slowly at
first, but by and by with increased vigor and rapidity, she developed
what you see. I have an affection for this tree, and like to lean
against it, and sometimes I half fancy it likes to have me."
"I should think it ought to," said Ida, heartily, with tears in
her eyes, but a smile on her lips.
"Well, now, my child, to go on with my parable, what nature was
to this pear-tree, nature's God must be to you. We cannot find in
nature nor in the happiest human love that which can satisfy our
deep spiritual need; but we can find all in him who came from heaven
in our behalf. Jesus Christ is the patient, helpful Friend you
need. He brings more than joy--even the peace and rest that follow
full trust in One pledged to take care of us and make everything
turn out for the best. He says of those who come to him, 'I give
unto them eternal life, and they shall never perish.' If you will
take this life from him it will never be a burden to you, and it
will always be a blessing to others."
"I fear I don't quite understand you, Mr. Eltinge. What is this
'eternal life'--this new, added life which you say Christ offers,
and which I'm sure I'd be very glad to take if I knew how?"
"Let Jesus answer you himself, my child. He said plainly: 'This
is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true God, and
Jesus Christ, whom thou has sent.' Perhaps I can make our Lord's
words clearer from your own experience, if you will permit me to
refer to your feelings toward the man who, whether worthy or not
has won your love. Suppose he is all you imagine, and that he
lavished on you the best treasures of his heart; would not life
at his side seem life in very truth, and life elsewhere but mere
existence?"
"Yes," said Ida, with bowed head and pale cheeks. "I begin to
understand you now. It seems to me that I could welcome sorrow,
poverty, and even death, at his side, and call life rich and full.
But as it is--oh, Mr. Eltinge, teach me your faith, lest I give
way to despair again!"
"Poor child! poor child! Don't my white hairs teach you that I
am on the threshold of the home in which 'God shall wipe away all
tears'?"
"I envy you," cried Ida, almost passionately. "Think how far I am
from that home!"
"Well, you are not far from the Divine Friend who leads to that
home, and when you come to KNOW him and his love your life will
begin to grow richer and sweeter and fuller to all eternity. This
is eternal life. It's know the God who loves us and whom we have
learned to love. It's not living on and on forever in a beautiful
heaven, any more than the earthly life you crave is living on and
on in a pleasant home such as the man of your heart might provide.
The true life is the presence of the loved one himself, and all
that he is to us and all that he can do for us; and if a mortal and
finite creature seems to you so able to impart life, how infinitely
more blessed will the life eventually be which comes from a God of
boundless power and boundless love!"
"Alas, Mr. Eltinge, God seems too boundless."
"Did God seem too boundless to the little children whom he took in
his arms and blessed?"
"Oh that I had been one of them!" said Ida, with a sudden rush of
tears.
"Come, my dear young friend, do not expect too much of yourself
to-day. You cannot take in all this truth at once, any more than
this young pear tree could take all the dew and sunshine, cold
and heat (for autumn frosts are needed as well as spring showers)
that nature had in store for it, but its life was assured from the
moment it was able to receive nature's restoring influences. So
with greater certainty a happy, useful life is assured to you
as soon as you receive Jesus Christ as your Saviour, Teacher, and
Life-giver. 'As many as received him, to them gave he power to
become the sons of God,' and I assure you the Great King will look
after his children right royally. But you don't know him very
well yet, and so cannot have the life which flows from his fulness
of life. Suppose you come here mornings, and we'll read together
the story of Jesus, just as it is told in the New Testament, and
I don't believe it will be long before you will say to me that my
Friend is yours also. Now, come up to the house and I'll introduce
you to my sister. You think me a saint; but I'll show you what a
human appetite I have."
"I hear a brook near by," said Ida; "may I not go to it and bathe
my face?"
"Yes, do what you like best while here. Would you rather bathe in
the brook than at the house?"
"Yes, indeed. Everything seems sacred here, and I can imagine the
brook yonder to be a rill from the Jordan."
"Don't be superstitious and sentimental," said the old gentleman,
shaking his head gravely. "The life of a Christian means honest,
patient work, and Christ's blood alone can wash us till we are
whiter than snow."
Ida's face grew earnest and noble as she stepped to the symbolic
tree and placed her hand on one of its lower branches.
"Mr. Eltinge," she said gently and gravely, "as this broken, wounded
tree received all the help nature gave it, so I, more bruised and
broken, will try to receive all the help Christ will give me to
bear my burden and live a life pleasing to him. I shall be very
glad indeed to come here and learn to know him better under your
most kind and faithful teaching, and as I learn, I will try to do
my best; but oh, Mr. Eltinge, you can't realize how very weak and
imperfect--how ignorant and full of faults I am!"
"Just so the poor little tree might have spoken if it had had a
voice. Indeed I thought it WOULD die. But now look at the fruit
over your head. You shall take some of it home, and every pear
will be a sermon to you--a juicy one, too. If you will do as you
say, my child, all will be well."
She bathed her tear-stained face in the brook, and came back looking
fairer than any flower in the garden. Then they went up to the
old-fashioned house.
"My dear, this is my sister, Miss Eltinge," he said, presenting a
white-haired old lady, who still was evidently much younger than
her brother. Then, turning suddenly around in comical dismay, he
said, "Why, bless you, my child, I don't know your name! Well,
well, no matter! I know YOU. There are people whose names I've
known half my life, and yet I don't know them and don't trust 'em."
"My name is Ida Mayhew," said the young girl simply. "I heard Mr.
Eltinge speak at the prayer-meeting last night in such a way that
I wanted to see him and ask his help and advice, and he has been
very, very kind to me. He can tell you all."
"Yes, if he chooses," said the old gentleman with a laugh. "Sister
knows me too well in my character of father confessor to expect me
to tell everything."
They made her at home as the simple and well-bred only can do.
After dinner Miss Eltinge tried to entertain her for a while, but
at last said, with appreciative tact:
"My dear, I think you will best enjoy yourself if you are left to
range the old house and place at will. After my brother has rested
he will join you again."
Ida was glad to be alone. She had made a promise of far-reaching
and vital import that morning. Life was taking on new aspects that
were so unfamiliar that she was bewildered. She went back to the
garden, and, taking Mr. Eltinge's seat, leaned against the emblematic
pear-tree, which she curiously began to associate with herself,
and for which she was already conscious of something like affection.
"Oh," she sighed, "if my life would only come to abound with deeds
corresponding to the fruit that is bending these boughs above me,
it could not be a burden, thought it might be very sad and lonely.
I now begin to understand Jennie Burton--her constant effort in
behalf of others. But HE will comfort her before long. Her dark
days are nearly over. No matter how deep or great her troubles may
have been, they must vanish in the sunshine of such a man's love.
I wonder if he has spoken plainly yet--but what need of words?
His eyes and manner have told her all a hundred times. I wish she
could be my friend, I wish I could speak to her plainly, for she
is so kind and wise; but I must shun her, or else she'll discover
the secret that I'd hide from her even more carefully than from him,
if such a thing were possible. I wonder if they ever met before
they came here. I never saw one human being look at another as
she sometimes looks at him. I believe that deep in her heart she
fairly idolizes him, although her singular self-control enables
her, as a general thing, to treat him with the ease and frankness
of a friend. Well, she may love him more deeply than I do because
possessing a deeper nature. I can but give all I have. But I think
my love would be like the little brook over there. It's not very
deep or obtrusive, but Mr. Eltinge says it has never failed. Well,
well! these are not the thoughts for me, though how I can help them
I cannot tell. I will try to win a little respect from him before
we part, and then my life, like this pear-tree, must be full of
good deeds for those who have the best right to receive them," and
taking a small pen-knife from her pocket she mounted the chair, and
carved within the two lower branches where they could not easily
be discovered the words,
"Ida Mayhew."