While Ida's manner at the breakfast-table was quiet and self-possessed,
she still maintained the same distant bearing which had been
characteristic the evening before. It was evident to Van Berg,
however, that pride, wounded vanity, and resentment were no longer
the motives for the seclusion in which she sought to remain, even
while under the eyes of others. It was the natural shrinking of
one who would hide weakness, trouble, and imperfection. It was
the bearing of one who had been deeply humiliated, and who was
conscious of a partial estrangement towards those having a knowledge
of this humiliation. Thus far he could understand her; and in the
proportion she was depressed and withdrew from social recognition
and encouragement, his sympathy and respect were drawn out towards
her.
"She is not trivial and superficial, as I supposed," he thought
twenty times that morning. "There is not a sudden calm after
the storm that has been raging, as would be the case were she in
character like a shallow pool. Her manner now proves daily the
largeness of the nature that has been so deeply moved, and which,
like the agitated sea, regains its peace but slowly;" and the sagacious
Van Berg, whose imagination was not under very good control began
to react into the other extreme, and query whether Ida Mayhew's
moral nature, now that it was aroused, was not her chief characteristic.
Meanwhile, the subject of his many-colored speculations had driven
away in the low basket phaeton, having first explained briefly to
her mother that she intended to spend the morning again with the
two old people she had visited the previous day.
Stanton volunteered this amount of information to his friend, and
there was much surmise and curiosity in their minds in regard to
these "old people," and her motive in seeking them. But even Mrs.
Mayhew had begun to realize that they must take Ida at her word
and leave her to herself.
It was with something even more than hopefulness that Ida drew near
to the garden again. She was alive; that fact, in contrast with
what might have been, was like solid ground beneath her feet. Then,
again, in the place of the cold, distant manner of the guests, after
the departure of Sibley, she had already noticed friendly glances
and an evident disposition to make amends. It also gave her not a
little satisfaction that her cousin and the artist were experiencing
such sincere compunctions, and were realizing the enormity of their
offence. Ida was very human, and always would be. She was also
a little elated over the fact that she had been able to tell the
truth the evening before. The memory, however, that nestled most
warmly in her heart was the assertion of Van Berg, "I NEED your
forgiveness." "How much does that mean?" she asked herself again
and again. "Does he really wish to be a friend, or is he only
trying to smooth over matters and calm me down so he can leave me
decorously, as after our hateful episode on the stage?"
Her wishes colored her thoughts. "He spoke too earnestly to mean
so little," she said to herself, with a dreamy smile that Van Berg,
as an artist merely, would have given much to see.
After all, perhaps one of the chief causes of her reviving spirits
was in the fact she was young. She could not take a very sombre
view of life that fresh summer morning, even in view of the past and
the future, and her manner of greeting Mr. Eltinge and of telling
her experiences since they parted suggested to him that she was
gaining in self-complacency, earthly hope, and youthful spirits,
rather than in the deep and lasting peace and moral strength which
is built up from the Living Rock. She was finding relief from
depression and suffering from causes as transient as they were
superficial. Chief of all, she had not realized as he had supposed
the shadow of the awful crime that was resting upon her, and the
need of God's forgiveness. Almost unconsciously the old man, wise
and experienced in spiritual life, sighed deeply as she finished
her story.
Her quick ear caught the sigh, and her woman's intuition gathered
from his face that the outlook did not seem so encouraging to him.
Her heart began to sink, and she said earnestly:
"Mr. Eltinge, I've tried to be true; I want you to be faithful to
me. Don't hide anything from me."
Yes, my child," he replied gravely, "you are sincere--you hide
nothing. I think I understand you. I thank God he gave you strength
last night to tell the truth under very trying circumstances, and
you have greatly increased my respect for you that you did so. But,
to use a little figurative language, if I were your doctor I might
tell you that you don't realize how sick you are and have been.
There have been some encouraging symptoms and circumstances, and
your spirits and hope are reviving, and you are looking to these
things rather than to him who taketh away the sin of the world. I
tried to encourage you yesterday, my child, because I saw you were
deeply depressed; and to discourage us is one of the chief aims
of the Evil One. I do not wish to discourage you to-day--far from
it--but I wish to realize that only the forgiveness and healing
touch of the Son of God are equal to your need.
"My child," he continued, with a solemnity that made her grow very
pale, "suppose I should take you to a room in the house there, show
you a fair girl with eyes that should look for her duty in life
closed forever, and the hands that should faithfully and bravely
do it paralyzed in death. Suppose I should tell you that I had
given her a poisonous drug the night before, what would I be?"
"A murderer," whispered the girl with eyes dilated with fear and
horror.
"Yes," said the old man, shaking his head sadly; "I would have
destroyed a life that God had given, and destroyed endless chances
for happiness and usefulness, and sent a poor soul to judgement,
perhaps unforgiven and unprepared. My child, it cuts me to the heart
to pain you so, but the physician's probe must go to the depth of
the wound. It is no kindness to the patient to put on a soothing
surface application and leave death to rankle in the blood. We
have no reason to believe that in the eye of God he that destroys
himself is any the less guilty than he that kills another, and even
in the judgment of man it's a cowardly flight from misfortunes that
should be triumphed over with courage and patience, or endured with
fortitude and resignation. Mark my words, it is only a flight,
not an escape, for every evil you sought to shun would have been
intensified and rendered eternal. Now, the simple truth is, we
hold our own lives in trust from God, to be used according to his
will, and we have no more right to destroy the life he entrusts to
us than the life he gives to others."
Ida had buried her face in her hands and was trembling violently.
"I did not realize it before," she murmured in a low, shuddering
tone. "Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? Why doesn't the
earth open and swallow me up?"
The old man came to her side again, and placing his right hand
gently on her bowed head and holding a Bible in his left, continued
in grave by very gentle tones:
"Take this Book, my child; it will tell you what to do. It will
tell you that merciful and all-powerful arms are open to receive
you, and not a hopeless grave. The Son of God has said to the heavy
laden, 'Come unto me,' and 'whosoever cometh I will in nowise cast
out.' Heaven is full, my child, of just such guilty souls as yours,
but it was HE who saved them. It was His precious blood that washed
them whiter than snow. When you seek for forgiveness and healing
at His feet all will be well, but not till then, and not elsewhere."
"O, Mr. Eltinge," she sobbed, "you have pierced my heart as with
a sword."
"I have, indeed, my poor child--with the sword of truth; and what's
more, I can't heal the wound I've made."
"What shall I do? oh, what shall I do?" and she fairly writhed in
the agony of her remorse.
"'Behold the Lamb of God, that taketh away the sin of the world,'"
he said gently but firmly, and his strong faith and the words of
Holy Writ were like a rock, at which, from out of the overwhelming
torrent of her remorseful despair, she grasped as her one chance,
her one hope.
Lifting her streaming eyes to heaven, and clasping her hands, she
cried passionately:
"O Christ, hope of the sinful, if there is mercy for such as I,
forgive me, for my crime is like a falling mountain!"
A moment later she sprang up and put her arms around the old man's
neck.
"My friend, my more than father!" she sobbed, "I think--I almost
believe God has heard me. It seems as if I had escaped from death,
and--and--my heart was breaking; but now--oh, it's all a heavenly
mystery!"
"Yes," replied Mr. Eltinge brokenly, and with answering emotion,
"it is a heavenly mystery. 'Not by might, nor by power, but by my
Spirit, saith the Lord.'"
Ida could never forget the remaining hours which she spent that
day in the old garden. it was then and there that she experienced
the sensations of those entering a new spiritual life and a new
world; and with some, these first impressions are very vivid; and
with some, these first impressions are very vivid.
It was according to nature that it should be so in the instance of
Ida Mayhew, for she was simple, positive, and warm in her feelings,
rather than cold and complex. But she was sane, and abounded in
the homely common sense which enabled her to understand herself and
those about her. She formed fairly correct estimates of all whom
she had met, and with the same simple directness she began to
recognize the character of the Divine Man that Mr. Eltinge and the
Bible they read together presented.
No earthly casuistry could ever lead her to doubt that he had heard
her prayer that morning. She might reply simply to all cavil and
questioning:
"I know he heard and answered me, and if I do not know this to be
true, I cannot know anything to be true;" for never before had her
consciousness made anything so distinct and real.
To say that she and multitudes of others are mistaken, is begging
the whole question. It is baldly taking the ground of denial of
everything outside of personal understanding and knowledge. The
skepticism of very many would blot out the greater part of science,
history, and geography. The facts of Christian experience and
Christian testimony are as truly facts as those which are discovered
by people who are hostile or indifferent to the Bible.
The broad, liberal man is he who accepts all truth and humbly
waits till the fuller wisdom of coming ages reconciles what is
now apparently conflicting. The bigot is he who shuts his eyes to
truth he does not like, or does not understand; and he is as apt
to be a scientist as the man who has learned that the God who made
him can also speak to him, through his inspired word and all-pervading
Spirit.
We are surrounded by earthly mysteries which the wisest cannot
solve, and some of them are very sad and dark. Why should there
not be, as Ida said, a heavenly mystery?
After all, it is a question of fact. The Christ of the New Testament
offers to give peace and spiritual healing. Does he keep his word?
We say yes, on the broad ground of human experience and human
testimony--the ground on which is built the greater part of human
knowledge.
If this be true, what a reproach is contained in the words of our
Lord: "Ye will not come unto me that ye might have life"!