HEMSTEAD'S HEAVY GUN AND ITS RECOIL.
The "day after the ball" has its proverbial character, and Saturday
was so long and dismal to several of the revellers that it occurred
to them that their pleasure had been purchased rather dearly. It
seemed an odd coincidence, that those who had been bent on securing
all the pleasure possible, with no other thought, suffered the
most. Bel and Addie could scarcely endure their own company, they
were so weary and stupid; and they yawned through the day, irritable
and dishevelled, for it was too stormy for callers.
De Forrest did not appear until dinner, and then came down moody
and taciturn. The young ladies had heard of his illness the evening
before, with significant glances. Mrs. Marchmont partly surmised
the truth, but politely ignored the matter, treating it only as a
sudden indisposition; and so the affair was passed over, as such
matters usually are in fashionable life until they reach a stage
too pronounced for polite blindness.
De Forrest but dimly recollected the events of the preceding evening.
He was quite certain, however, that he had been drunk, and had made
a fool of himself.
Though his conscience was not over tender upon this subject, and
though such occurrences were not so exceedingly rare in fashionable
life as to be very shocking, he still had the training and instinct
of a gentleman, to a sufficient degree to feel deep mortification.
If he had become tipsy among those of his own sex, or while off on
a fishing excursion, he would have regarded it as a light matter;
but, even in his eyes, intoxication at an evening company, and
before the girl in whose estimation he most wished to stand well,
was a very serious matter. He could not remember much after going
a second time to the supper-room in compliance with Lottie's request,
but had a vague impression that she and Hemstead had brought him
home. He was left in torturing uncertainty how far he had disgraced
himself, because it was a subject concerning which he could not bring
himself to make inquiries. That those he met at the dinner-table
treated him with their usual quiet politeness proved nothing.
Human faces mask more thoughts than are expressed. Hemstead's grave
silence was somewhat significant; but De Forrest cared so little
for his opinion that he scarcely heeded the student's manner.
Lottie Marsden was the one he most wished, and yet most dreaded to
see. But Lottie did not appear.
Whether it was true, as she believed, or not, that she was the more
guilty, she certainly was the greater sufferer, and that Saturday
became the longest and dreariest period of pain that she had ever
experienced. She awoke in the morning with a nervous headache, which
grew so severe that she declined to leave her room during the day.
Bel, Addie, and her aunt all offered to do anything in their power;
but she only asked to be left alone. She was so unstrung that even
words of kindness and solicitude jarred like discord.
It was torture to think, and yet her brain was unnaturally active.
Everything presented itself in the most painfully bare and accurate
manner. The glamour faded out of her gay young life, and she saw
only the hard lines of fact. Hemstead's words repeated themselves
over and over again, and in their light she questioned the past
closely. It was not in keeping with her positive nature and strong
mind to do things by halves. With fixed and steady scrutiny she
reviewed the motives of her life, and estimated the results. They
were so unsatisfactory as to startle her. Although the spent years
had been filled with continuous and varied activity, what had she
accomplished for herself or any one else? Were not all her past
days like water spilled on barren sands, producing nothing?
As she had before intimated, she had been receiving homage, flattery,
and even love, all her life, and yet now her heart had no treasures
to which she could turn in solid satisfaction, nor could memory
recall efforts like that she saw Miss Martell making in behalf of
Harcourt. The adulation received was now empty breath and forgotten
words, and nothing substantial or comforting remained.
But, if memory could recall little good accomplished, it placed in
long and dark array many scenes that she would gladly have forgotten.
What can be worse--what need we fear more--than to be left alone
forever with a guilty and accusing conscience, and no respite, no
solace? What perdition need a man shrink from more than to go away
from his earthly life, to be alone with memory--a pale and silent
spectre--who will turn the pages of his daily record, and point to
what was, and what might have been?
A shallow-minded girl would have been incapable of this searching
self-analysis. A weak, irresolute girl like Bel Parton would have
taken a sedative, and escaped a miserable day in sleep. But, with
all her faults, Lottie abounded in practical common sense; and
Hemstead's words and her own experience suggested that she might
be doing herself a very great wrong. She felt that it was no light
matter to make one's whole life a blunder, and to invest all one's
years and energies in what paid no better interest than she had
received that day. Her physical pain and mental distress acted and
reacted upon each other, until at last, wearied out, she sobbed
herself to sleep.
Both De Forrest and Hemstead were greatly in hopes that she would
be at the supper-table, but they did not see her that day. The
former, with his aching head and heavy heart, learned, if never
before, that the "way of transgressors is hard." But, though the
latter could not be regarded as a transgressor, his way was hard
also that long day; and he whom Lottie, in the memory of his severe
words, regarded somewhat as her stern accuser, would have been more
than ready to take all her pains and woes upon himself, could he
have relieved her.
He now bitterly condemned himself for having been too harsh in the
wholesome truth he had brought home to the nattered girl. It was
rather severe treatment; still she was vigorous, and would be all
the better for it. But now her faithful physician, as he heard how
ill and suffering she was, almost wished that he had but faintly
suggested the truth in homoeopathic doses.
At the same time he supposed that her indisposition was caused more
by her shame and grief at the conduct of De Forrest than by anything
he had said. The impression that she was attached or engaged to De
Forrest was becoming almost a conviction.
Though Lottie had never, by a word, bound herself to her cousin,
yet her aunt and all the household regarded her as virtually engaged
to him, and expected that the marriage would eventually occur. With
Hemstead, they regarded her illness and seclusion as the result
of her mortificatoon at his behavior, and, underneath their politic
politeness, were very indignant at his folly. But they expected
that the trouble would soon blow over, as a matter of course. The
mantle of charity for young men as rich and well-connected as De
Forrest is very large. And then this slip could be regarded somewhat
in the light of an accident; for when it became evident that Bel
understood the nature of De Forrest's "spell," as the coachman
called it, Lottie had taken pains to insist that it was an accident
for which she was chiefly to blame; and had also said as much to
Mrs. Marchmont. Thus they all concluded that her relations with
De Forrest would not be disturbed.
Harcourt was the happiest of the party; but it must be confessed
that, clearer than any law points, he saw still among blooming
exotics a being far more rare and beautiful, who stood before him
the whole day with clasped hands and entreating eyes, whose only
request was, "be a true man." Under the inspiration of her words and
manner he began to hope that he might eventually grant her request.
As far as Lottie's intruding image would permit, Hemstead concentrated
all his energies on the great sermon, the elaborate effort of many
months, that he expected to preach on the morrow. He hoped that
Lottie, and indeed all, would be there, for it seemed that if they
would only give him their thoughtful attention he would prove beyond
a shadow of a doubt that they were in God's hands, and that it
would be worse than folly not to submit to His shaping and moulding
discipline.
At last Sunday morning came. It was a cold, chilly, leaden day,
and even a glance from the windows gave one a shivering sense of
discomfort.
The gloom of nature seemed to shadow the faces of some of the
party as they gathered at a late breakfast; and of none was this
more true than of Lottie Marsden, as, pale and languid, she took
her wonted place. Her greeting of De Forrest was most kindly, and
he seemed greatly reassured, and brightened up instantly. But
Lottie's face did not lose its deep dejection.
To the others she appeared to take very little notice of Hemstead;
but he thought that he observed her eyes furtively seeking his
face, with a questioning expression. Once he answered her glance
with such a frank, sunny smile that her own face lighted up. As
they were passing into the parlor he said, in a low tone, "I wished
a hundred times yesterday that I could bear your headache for you."
"That is more kind than just. It is right that I should get my
deserts," she replied, shaking her head.
"Heaven save us from our deserts," he answered quickly.
Before she could speak again, De Forrest was by her side and said,
"Let me wheel the lounge up to the fire, and I will read anything
you wish this morning."
"O, no; I'm going to church."
"Miss Lottie, I beg of you do not go. You are not able."
"Yes, I am; the air will do me good. It's the Sunday before Christmas,
Julian, and we both ought to be at church."
"O, certainly, I'll go if you wish it."
"I hope your sermon will do me good, Mr. Hemstead. I'm wofully
blue," she said, as she left the room to prepare for church.
"I think it will," he replied; "for I have prepared it with a great
deal of care."
The building was a small but pretty Gothic structure, and its sacred
quiet did seem to Lottie somewhat like a refuge. With an interest
such as she had never felt in the elegant city temple, she waited
for the service to begin, honestly hoping that there might be
something that would comfort and reassure.
But Hemstead went through the preliminary services with but
indifferent grace and effect. He was embarrassed and awkward, as
is usually the case with those who have seldom faced an audience,
and who are naturally very diffident. But as he entered upon his
sermon his self-consciousness began to pass away, and he spoke with
increasing power and effect.
He took as his text words from the eleventh chapter of St. John,
wherein Jesus declares to his disciples, in regard to the death of
Lazarus, "I am glad, for your sakes, that I was not there, to the
intent ye may believe."
The importance of faith--believing--as the source of Christian
life, and the ground of man's acceptance with God, was his subject,
from which he wandered somewhat,--a course often observed in the
ministerial tyro.
He presented his views strongly, however; but they were partial and
unripe, giving but one side of the truth, and therefore calculated
to do injury rather than good. He did not--he could not--over-estimate
the importance of faith, but he unwittingly misrepresented God, in
his efforts to inspire this faith, and the Christian life resulting;
and he under-valued our earthly state and its interests.
He sketched in strong outlines the experience of the little family
at Bethany, portraying with vivid realism the suffering of the man
whom Jesus loved; the anxiety of the sisters when Lazarus became
ill; this anxiety passing into fear, dread, sickening certainty,
and despair; the anguish of bereavement, the loneliness and
heart-breaking sorrow of four days; and that most agonized wrench
of the heart when the beloved form is left alone to corrupt in the
dark and silent sepulchre.
Having presented this picture in such true and sombre colors that
the gloom was reflected from the faces of all his hearers, they
being reminded that this would be their lot ere long, he passed
suddenly from the painful scenes of Bethany to Bethabara, beyond
Jordan, where was sojourning the mysterious Prophet of Nazareth,
who had so often proved His power to heal every disease. He enlarged
upon the fact that Jesus, seeing all the suffering at Bethany,
which He could change by a word into gladness, did not interfere,
but decreed that the terrible ordeal should be endured to the bitter
end.
From this he reasoned that the transient sorrows of the household
at Bethany were of little moment, and that God, in the advancement
of His own glory and the accomplishment of His great plans, would
never turn aside because His human children in their short-sighted
weakness would stay His heavy hand if they could. He knew all that
was occurring at Bethany, but calmly permitted it to take place,
and in this case it was the same as if He had willed it.
He then proceeded to show that the Divine purpose had not only a
wide and general sweep, embracing the race, and extending through
all time, but that there was a minute providence encompassing each
life. If there were any good in us, God would bring it out, nor
would He spare us in the effort. The preacher, unfortunately and
unconsciously to himself, gave the impression that God acted on
the principle that He could accomplish far more with the rod of
affliction than with anything else, and that when He fully set about
the task of winning a soul from sin, His first step was to stretch
it upon the rack of some kind of suffering. He also intensified
this painful impression by giving the idea that God thought little
of the processes, which might be so painful to us, but fixed His
eye only on the result. If people became sullen, rebellious, or
reckless under His discipline, they were like misshappen clay, that
the potter must cast aside. The crude ore must go into the furnace,
and if there was good metal in it the fact would appear.
"Sooner or later," he said, "God will put every soul into the
crucible of affliction. Sooner or later we shall all be passing
through scenes like that of the family at Bethany. We may not hope
to escape. God means we shall not. As Christ firmly, while seeing
all, left events at Bethany to their designed course, so He will
as surely and steadily carry out the discipline which He, as the
unerring physician of the soul, sees that each one of us requires.
Does the refiner hesitate to put the crude ore into the crucible?
Does the sculptor shrink from chiselling the shapeless block
into beauty? Does not the surgeon, with nerves of steel and pulse
unquickened, cut near the very vitals of his agonized patient? He
sees that it is necessary, in order to save from greater evil, and
therefore he is as remorseless as fate. If to cure some transient,
physical infirmity, man is justified in inflicting--nay, more, is
compelled to inflict--so much suffering upon his fellow-creatures,
how much more is God justified in His severest moral discipline,
which has as its object our eternal health. Though we shrink from
the sorrow, though we writhe under the pain, though our hearts
break a thousand times, He will not waver in His calm, steadfast
purpose. He sees eternity; the present is as nothing to Him. He
will break our grasp from all earthly idols, even though He tear
our bleeding hearts asunder. If we are trusting in aught save Him,
that upon which we are leaning will be snatched away, even though
we fall at first into the depths of despairing sorrow. What He makes
us suffer now is not to be considered, in view of His purpose to
wean us from this world and prepare us for the next. Christ, as we
learn from our text, is as inflexible as fate, and does not hesitate
to secure the needful faith by remaining away, even though the
message of the sisters was an entreaty in itself. Nay, more, he
distinctly declares to his disciples, 'I am glad, for your sakes,
that I was not there, to the intent ye may believe.'
"In conclusion, we assert that we ought to rise above our human
weakness and co-work with God. Instead of clinging so to the present,
we ought to think of the eternal future, and welcome the harshest
discipline which prepares us for that future. We should mortify
ourselves, trample our earthly natures under our feet. To that
degree that we can bring ourselves to think less of earth, we shall
think more of heaven. Our business, our earthly hopes and plans,
our dearest ties, may be fatal snares to our souls. The husband
may make an idol of his wife, the mother of her child. God jealously
watches; we should watch more jealously. The sisters may have been
loving their brother and trusting to his protection more than in
Christ. We should hold all earthly possessions in fear and trembling,
as something not our own, but only committed for a brief time to
our trust. We should remember that the one great object of this
life is to secure that faith which leads to preparation for the
life to come. The harsher our experiences are here, the better,
if they more surely wean us from earth and all earthly things, and
make eternity the habitation of our thoughts. We see how stern and
resolute God is in His great purpose to stamp out unbelief from
the world. Jesus would not save the family at Bethany that He
loved,--the family that freely gave hospitality and love in return
when nearly all the world was hostile. Do not think, then, that
He will spare us. Let us therefore not spare ourselves, but with
remorseless hands smite down every earthly object that hides from
our view the wide ocean of eternity. As the wise men from the East
travelled steadily across arid wastes with eyes fixed only on the
strange bright luminary that was guiding them to Bethlehem, so we
should regard this world as a desert across which we must hasten
to the presence of our God."
As Hemstead forgot himself, and became absorbed in his theme,
he spoke with impressiveness and power; and everywhere throughout
the audience was seen that thoughtful contraction of the brow and
fixed gaze which betoken deep attention. But upon the faces of nearly
all was the expression of one listening to something painful. This
was especially true of Miss Martell and her father, while Harcourt's
face grew cold and satirical. Lottie looked pale and sullen, and
De Forrest was evidently disgusted. Mr. Dimmerly fidgeted in his
seat, and even complacent Mrs. Marchmont seemed a little ruffled
and disturbed, while her daughter Addie was in a state of irritable
protest against both preacher and sermon. Poor Bel was merely
frightened and conscience-stricken,--her usual condition after
every sermon to which she listened.
As, during the brief remnant of the service, Hemstead dropped into
consciousness of the world around him, he felt at first, rather
than saw, the chill he had caused, instead of a glow answering to
his own feelings. As he looked more closely, he imagined he detected
a gloomy and forbidding expression on the faces turned towards him.
The Gospel--the message of good news that he had brought--appeared
to shadow the audience like a passing cloud.
After dismission, the people aroused themselves as from an oppressive
dream. The few greetings and congratulations that he received
as he passed down the aisle seemed formal and constrained, and,
he thought, a little insincere. He was still more puzzled as he
overheard Miss Martell say to Harcourt at the door, "I am sorry
you heard that sermon."
"I am, too," he replied, "for it seemed true."
"It's only half-truth," she said earnestly.
"The Lord deliver me, then; this half is more than I can stand."
Lottie scarcely spoke during the drive home, and Hemstead noted,
with pain, that her face had a hard, defiant look. It occurred
to him that he had not seen any who appeared to have enjoyed the
service.
There were long pauses at the dinner-table, and after one of the
longest, Mr. Dimmerly abruptly remarked, in his sententious manner:
"Well, nephew, I suppose you gave us a powerful sermon this morning.
It has made us all deucedly uncomfortable, anyhow. But I've no
doubt the old rule holds good, the worse the medicine is to take
the more certain to cure."
Lottie's response to this remark was a ringing laugh, in which the
others, in the inevitable reaction from the morbid gloom, joined
with a heartiness that was most annoying to the young clergyman.
"You must excuse me, Mr. Hemstead," said she, after a moment, "I
have had the blues all day, and have reached that point where I
must either laugh or cry, and prefer the former at the dinner-table."
Hemstead stiffly bowed as his only response. He was too chagrined,
puzzled, and disappointed to venture upon a reply, and after this
one lurid gleam of unnatural mirth the murky gloom of the day seemed
to settle down more heavily than before.
After dinner De Forrest tried to secure Lottie's society for the
afternoon. The refusal was kind, not careless, as had been often
the case. Indeed her whole manner towards him might be characterized
as a grave, remorseful kindness, such as we might show towards a
child or an inferior that we had wronged somewhat.
De Forrest, finding that Lottie would persist in going to her room,
went to his also, and took a long, comfortable nap.
Bel wanted to talk about the sermon, but as Lottie would not talk
about anything, she, too, soon forgot her spiritual anxieties in
sleep.
But Lottie sat and stared at her fire, and Hemstead, deserted by
all, stared at the fire in the parlor; and both were sorely troubled
and perplexed.