Murray was appalled! He was aghast! He simply could not take this
extraordinary request seriously. It seemed as if he must somehow get
back to his former associates and tell them the joke. They wanted him
to take a Sunday-school class of young ladies! Was ever anything more
terribly ludicrous in all the world?
But he managed to keep a perfectly courteous face while he let her talk
on for a minute or two; and while he summoned his senses and tried to
figure out a line of safe reply that would not be inconsistent with his
supposed character, the door-bell rang again. Ah! Now! Perhaps here was
deliverance!
The caller proved to be the Sunday-school superintendent, Mr. Marlowe.
“Mr. Murray, I hope I’m not too late,” he began, after the
introductions. “I’ve been away in New York all the week. I just got
back late last night, and I missed you this morning at the service.
Mr. Harrison had some things to talk over, and when I looked around
you were gone. I’ve come over to see if you won’t take a class of boys
in our Sunday-school. I’ve sort of been saving them for you. They’re
bright little chaps about ten years old, and up to all that’s going,
of course, but they need a young man of your calibre, and I’ve just
eased them along with some of the elders for a few Sundays until you
would arrive. I do hope you’ll be interested in them. They are one of
the most promising classes in the school, and just at an age when they
need the touch of a young man.”
“Now, Mr. Marlowe,” pouted Jane, as soon as she could break into the
conversation, “Mr. Murray is going to take _our_ class, _aren’t_ you,
Mr. Murray? I came over _first_, Mr. Marlowe. We’ve had it in mind ever
since we heard Mr. Murray was coming, and the girls are _just crazy_ to
have him--”
The superintendent turned a keen, scrutinizing glance on Murray.
“Well, that’s up to you, Mr. Murray, of course. Which do you prefer to
teach? The young ladies or the kids? Of course I’ve no wish to bias you
if the girls have got in their request before me, but I certainly shall
be disappointed. It isn’t everybody can teach these boys.”
Murray was going to say eagerly that he had never taught young ladies
in his life, nor anybody else, till it suddenly occurred to him that he
did not know what reports of his exploits in Sabbath-school teaching
had reached Marlborough. He must go carefully. He caught his sentence
between his teeth and whirled it around.
“With all due apology to the young ladies,” he said gracefully, turning
a look on Jane that almost made her forgive him for what he was saying,
“I think I’d fit better with the kids, if I’m to teach at all. You
see--I’m--” he floundered for an explanation--“I’m just crazy about
kids, you know!”
“Oh, Mr. Murray!” pouted Jane stormily.
The superintendent brightened.
“Well, I certainly am thankful,” he said. “I didn’t know what to do
with those little devils! They spoiled the whole service last Sunday.
They had little tin pickles from some canning factory, and they sent
them whizzing all over the room. One hit an old lady’s eye, and made no
end of trouble. I’ll be grateful forever if you can see your way clear
to taking them right on this afternoon.”
“Oh!” gasped Murray. “Really, I--you know--I--”
“Yes, I know what you’re going to say. You haven’t had any chance this
week to study the lesson. They all say that the first time, but it
doesn’t matter in the least. You can tell them a story, can’t you? You
can at least keep them from raising a mob, or stealing the minister’s
hat. I’m about at the end of my rope, so far as they are concerned.
Perhaps I’m not giving them a very high recommendation, but I heard of
you before you came, that you were keen on a hard job, so here it is!
Will you come over and get acquainted with them? Let the lesson take
care of itself. Anyhow they will teach it to you, if you ask questions.
They are bright little chaps, if they are bad, and they’ve been well
taught.”
It was a strange thing, perhaps the strangest of all the strange things
that had yet happened to Murray Van Rensselaer, that fifteen minutes
later he found himself sitting in front of a class of well-dressed,
squirming, whispering lads who eyed him with a challenge, and prepared
to “beat him to it,” as they phrased it.
What he was going to say to them, how he was going to hold them through
the half-hour for which he was responsible for their actions, he did
not know, but he certainly was not going to let seven kids beat him,
and besides, had he not a reputation connected with his new name which
he must keep up? He wasn’t going to be under suspicion because he could
not bluff a good Sunday-school teacher’s line. That suggestion about
letting the boys do the teaching had been a good thing. He would try
that out.
During an interval when a hymn was announced, he overheard two of the
boys talking about the football scores in the last night’s papers, and
as soon as the superintendent announced that the classes would turn to
the lesson, he collected the attention of his young hopefuls with one
amazing off-hand question.
“You fellas ever see a big Army and Navy game?”
This, perhaps, was not the most approved method for opening a lesson
in Acts, but it got them. The seven young imps as one man dropped the
various schemes of torment which they had planned for this first Sunday
with their new teacher, and leaned forward eagerly.
“Naw! D’jou?”
A moment more and he was launched on a vivid and exciting description
of the last Army and Navy football game he had seen, and for twenty
brisk minutes he had the undivided attention of the most “difficult”
class in the Sunday-school.
“He’ll do,” whispered Marlowe to the minister as they stood together on
the platform looking toward Murray, with his head and shoulders down
and the knot of seven heads gathered around him. “We picked the right
man all right. He’s got ’em from the word go.”
The minister nodded with shining eyes.
“It looks that way. It certainly does,” he beamed, and the two good men
turned to other problems, fully satisfied that the seven worst little
devils were well started on the way to heaven, led by this wonderful
young Christian, who had not yet stopped at anything he had been asked
to do. They began to plan how much more they could get him to do in
places where they sorely needed help.
The superintendent’s warning bell rang before Murray suddenly came
out of that football game, and realized that something had been said
about a “lesson”--that, in fact, the lesson had been supposed to be
the principal thing for which they were here as teacher and pupils.
It would not do to ignore that utterly. Some of these young scamps
would be sure to go home and tell, and his good name, of which he
was beginning to be a little proud, would be damaged if he made no
attempt at all to teach something sort of ethical. That was his idea of
Sunday-school teaching. “Boys, you must grow up to be good citizens,”
or something of that sort. He supposed there was some kind of a code,
or formula, for the thing, and he recalled that he was to ask the boys
to tell him, so he straightened back and began:
“But we must get at our lesson, kids, the time is almost up.”
“Aw shucks!” spoke up the boldest child impudently. “We don’t want’ny
lesson. We want you to tell us more about that game.”
“I’ve talked enough now, it’s your turn. What’s your lesson about? Who
can tell me? I’m a stranger here, you know.”
“’Bout Paul,” said another boy, whom they called “Skid” Jenkins.
“No, ’twas Saul,” said “Gid” Porter.
“It was Saul first,” explained Jimmy Brower. “He got diffrunt after a
while. Then he got a new name.”
“I see,” said Murray, fencing for time. What a queer lesson. Who was
this Paul he wondered? Not Paul Revere, of riding fame? He searched
his scant knowledge of history in vain. Of Bible lore he had not the
slightest shred.
“Well, he was Paul the longest, anyhow,” insisted Skid. “Everybody
calls him Paul. You don’t never hear him called Saul.”
“Tell me more about him,” said Murray. “What did he do?”
“Why, he was _fierce_!” said Jimmy earnestly. “He _killed_ folks!” The
teacher sat up sharply and drew a deep breath. _He_ had killed some one.
“Yes,” said Skid, “he went right into their houses and took ’em to
the magistrates, and had ’em whipped and sent to prison, and burned
their houses and took their kids’n’everything, an’ he was the one
that held the men’s sweaters when they was stoning Stephen, ya know.
Gee, I’d like to a been living then! It musta been great! When they
didn’t like what anybody said they just stoned ’em dead! We had Stephen
last Sunday. And Saul--I mean Paul--but he was Saul then when he held
the cloes--he was to blame, ya know. He couldda stopped ’em stoning
Stephen ef he’d wanted. He was some kinda officer, ya know. But he
didn’t, ’cause he didn’t wantta. Ya know he thought he’s doin’ right.
That’uz before he was born again.” He looked at his new teacher for
approval, and found a flattering attention. Murray’s face was white,
and beads of perspiration were standing on his brow, but he summoned a
wan smile of approbation, and murmured faintly:
“Yes? How was that?”
Jerry Pettingill raised a smudgy hand.
“Lemme tell. He’s talked long enough. It’s my turn.”
Murray turned his eyes nervously to this new boy, and he continued with
the tale.
“He was on his way t’rest a lotta folks, an’ the lightnin’ struck him
blind, an’ the soldiers he had with him didn’t see no one, jest heard a
voice, an’ they didn’t know whatta think, an’ Saul--no, Paul--”
“He _wasn’t_ Paul yet--”
“Well, he was right away then ’cause when he heard God he got borned
again.”
“What is ‘born again’?” came from the lips of the unwilling teacher,
almost without his own consent. He had no idea that these children
could explain, and yet he somehow had to ask that question. He wanted
to see what they would say.
“It’s givin’ yerself up to God!” said Skid cheerfully.
“It’s quit doin’ whatcher doin’ an’ doin’ the other thing. Sayin’ yer
sorry an’ all that. Only Saul he said he didn’t know. He thought he
was doin’ good--” said another boy.
“Ya can’t born yerself,” broke in young Gideon, “the teacher said so
last Sunday. He said God had to do it. God borned Saul all over, and
made him a new heart inside him when he said he wouldn’t do them things
any more.”
“Aw, well, what’s that? I didn’t say ya could, did I?” broke in Skid.
“Saul, he was blind when he got up, an’ he had to go on crutches to the
city--”
“Aw, git out! Whatcher givin’ us? They don’t havta go on crutches when
they’re blind. The soldiers helped him on his horse--”
“They went on camels then, I guess,” said Skid, taking the front of the
stage again. “Anyhow, when he got to the city he was blind, and God
sent a man to pray about him, and then he said ‘Brother Saul, receive
thy sight,’ an’ after that he wasn’t blind any more, an’ he was born
again. He was a new man then, ya know, an’ he didn’t kill folks any
more, an’ he went and got to be a preacher.”
The superintendent’s bell brought the narrative to a sharp close, and
the new teacher sat back white and exhausted, the strength gone out of
him. Even the kids were talking about killing people. What a lesson!
How did the little devils learn all about it, anyway? Why had he ever
stayed in this awful place? Why had he ever taken this terrible class?
“Well, you certainly are a winner, Murray,” said the superintendent,
slapping him admiringly on the shoulder. “You had ’em from the word go!
I never saw the like of you!”
Murray turned a tired face toward Marlowe.
“You didn’t need a teacher for that class, man! They can teach circles
around any man you’d put on the job. I never saw the like! What you
better do is give each one of those little devils a class to teach.
Then you could all quit. I didn’t teach that class, they taught it
themselves.”
The superintendent grinned at the minister, who was standing just
behind Murray, and the minister grinned back knowingly.
“We’re glad this young man has come to live among us,” he said, with
a loving hand on Murray’s shoulder, and somehow Murray felt suddenly
like laying his head down on the minister’s shoulder and crying. When
he finally got away from them all he went to his room and buried his
face in the pillow and slept. He felt all worn out. He had never taken
a nap in the daytime before in his life, but he certainly slept that
afternoon.
It was quite dark when he woke up and heard Mrs. Summers calling him to
come down to supper.
She had a little tea-table drawn up in front of the fire in the
living-room, with a big easy chair for him and the Morris chair for
herself. There were cups of hot bouillon with little squares of toast
to eat with it, and sandwiches with thin slivers of chicken on a crisp
bit of lettuce. There were more sandwiches with nuts and raisins and
cream cheese between, and cups of delicious cocoa, and there were
little round white frosted cakes to finish off with. Murray thought
it was the nicest meal he ever tasted, eaten thus before the fire,
with the flickering firelight playing over Mrs. Summers’ pretty white
hair, and the soft light from the deep shaded lamp over the little
white-draped table. Cosey and homey. He found himself longing for
something like this to have been in his past.
Mrs. Summers talked about the Sunday-school lesson, discussed two or
three questions that had been brought up in her class of young men
concerning Paul’s conversion, and Murray was surprised to find that he
actually could make intelligent replies on the subject.
But then it all had to be broken up by the entrance of some one after
him to go to Christian Endeavor. This time it was a stranger, the
Vice-president of the Christian Endeavor, come to ask him to talk a few
minutes. He really must do something about this. He was getting in too
deep, going beyond his depth. It might be all well enough to pretend
to teach a class of kids something he knew nothing about, but make an
address in a religious meeting he could not--at least not yet. He had
to draw the line somewhere.
So he summoned all his graces, and made a most eloquent excuse. He had
not been very well lately, had been overworking before he came here,
and his physician had warned him he must go a little slower. Added to
that had been the nervous strain of the wreck. If they would kindly
excuse him from doing any public speaking for a month or so, at least
until he had had a chance to pick up a little and get himself in hand.
He felt that it was due the bank that he put his whole strength there
for the present, till he was in the running and felt acquainted with
his work, and so on and so on.
The young Vice-president smiled, and regretted this was so, but said
of course he understood. They would not bother him until he was ready,
though everybody was crazy to hear him, they had heard so much about
him. Didn’t he even want to lead a prayer-meeting? Well, of course.
Yes, it was fair to the bank that he give all his strength there at
present. Well, he would come over to the meeting, anyway, wouldn’t he?
And with a wistful glance at the easy chair and the firelight on
Mrs. Summers’ hair, he allowed himself to be dragged away, with the
understanding that he would meet his landlady in her pew for the
evening church service. Gosh! Four church services, with a prospect of
five for the next Sunday if they carried out their suggestion about
that Ushers’ Association! Could you beat it? He would have to bolt
before next Sunday! He must manage it after he got his week’s salary
next Saturday. That would give him a little more money to start with.
He would work his plans with that end in view. It certainly was too bad
to leave when his disguise seemed to be working so perfectly, and to
bid fair to be permanent, but he could not keep on this way. It might
have been all right if he had anything to go on, but one could not jump
into new surroundings like this and take on the knowledge that belonged
to them. That was out of the question. It was all bosh about being born
again. You could not do it. Maybe if you worked at it for years, and
studied hard you could. But it seemed like a hopeless undertaking.
That evening the sermon was on the Atonement. He recognized the word
and sat up all keen attention to discover what it meant.
That was a sermon of no uncertain sound. It pointed the way of
salvation clearly and plainly, with many more quotations from
Scripture, so that the wayfaring man, though a fool, need not err
therein, and Murray Van Rensselaer was both of those. He learned the
meaning of the word Calvary, too, and heard the story of the cross for
the first time clearly told. Before that it had been more or less of a
vague fairy tale to him. Of course one could not live in the world of
civilization without having heard about Christ and the cross, but it
had meant nothing to him. He was as much of a heathen as any one could
be and live in the United States of America.
He heard how all men were sinners. That was made most plain, in terms
that reminded him of the morning sermon about the judgment. He did not
dispute that fact in his mind. He knew that he was a sinner. Since he
had run away from the hospital his sin had loomed large, but he named
it by the name of murder, and counted it done against a human law.
Now he began to see that there was sin back of that. There were worse
things in his life than even killing Bessie had been, if one was to
believe all that the preacher said. It was an unpleasant sensation,
this listening to these keen, convincing sentences, and trying them by
his own experiences and finding they were true.
He heard for the first time of the love of God in sending a Saviour
to the world. This thought was pressed home till He became a personal
Saviour, just for himself, as if he had been the only one who needed
Him, or the only one who would have accepted Him. The minister told a
story of two sisters, one of whom was stung by a bee, and the other
fled away, crying “Oh, I’m afraid it will sting me, too!” but the first
sister called, “You needn’t be afraid, Mary, it has left its sting
in my cheek! It can’t sting you any more!” And Murray Van Rensselaer
learned that his sin had left its sting in Jesus Christ, and could hurt
him no more. Strange thing! The sin from whose consequences he was
fleeing away had left its sting in the body of the Lord Christ when He
was nailed to the cross hundreds of years ago, and could harm him no
more! Could not have the power to shut him out from eternal life, as
it was now shutting him out from earthly life and all that he loved.
Queer! Could this thing be true? There was one condition, however. One
had to _believe_! How could one believe a thing like that? It was too
good to be true. Besides, if it were true, why had no one ever told it
to him before?
Murray went home in a dazed state of mind, home to the deep chair by
the firelight, to Mrs. Summers’ gentle benediction of a prayer before
he went up to his room. And then he lay down in his bed to toss and
think, and half decided to get up and creep away in the night from
this place where such strange things were told and such queer living
expected of one. What would they ask of him next?