Murray Van Rensselaer had never held such sweet converse with a man as
he held with the minister on that ride home. Murray had never supposed
there could be such a man as that minister, so strong and fearless, yet
so tender and gentle, so wise and far-seeing, yet able to laugh and see
a joke quicker than most; so wholly given up to the will of God. That
was the secret of it all, really. He recognized that, untaught in holy
things though he was.
And the minister on his part had conceived a great love for the young
man who had come into their church under such peculiar circumstances.
Somehow it seemed as though the Lord Himself had sent him, and was
caring for him in a special way. For it was no one’s fault that Murray
Van Rensselaer was taken into the church of God without the usual
formalities, and without knowledge of what he was doing. Not that
there are not many thousands of young people swept into the church
today without any adequate idea of what they are doing, but they at
least know enough to know that they are, as they call it, “joining the
church.” Murray did not know by that name that was what he himself was
doing, but in heart he belonged to the Saviour, body and soul. The work
had been done in preparation wholly by the Holy Spirit Himself. Murray
was in every sense begotten of the Spirit. Born anew.
As they rode along in the early dusk of the mid-winter afternoon
the minister marvelled at this new-born Christian, and the simple,
childlike way in which he had grasped great truths and accepted them,
which even scholars found difficult to believe. Taught of God, that was
what he was. Not with the knowledge of men, but of the spirit.
They rode into Marlborough five minutes before time for the evening
service, and stopped only long enough to pick up Mrs. Summers and move
on to the church.
The fame of Murray’s confession had spread abroad throughout the town
that day, and the church was crowded. After the service the minister
came down among the audience to speak to one and another, and happening
to stand near Murray for a moment he leaned over and whispered:
“What a pity! See, Murray, all these people, and how you might
influence them--_if you only hadn’t to leave us_!”
“I know,” said Murray, and his eyes drooped sadly, then lifting his
gaze anxiously:
“Do you suppose that Heaven will have any way to make up for all the
opportunities I’ve wasted here?”
Mrs. Summers and Murray sat by the fire a long time that night and
talked, after Mr. Harper had left.
Mr. Harper had come to say to Murray that he had entire confidence
in him, and felt that all would still be well in every way for his
position in the bank, but he advised him to say no more about his past.
One confession was enough. He needn’t be telling it all the time. It
would soon be forgotten, and everything would be as before.
Murray waited until he was all through, and then he looked him straight
in the eye:
“That’s all very kind of you, Mr. Harper. I know you’re saying that for
my sake. But I don’t want it to be as it was before. It couldn’t be.
I’ve found out I was all wrong, and I’ll have to be telling what God
has done for me the rest of the time I have to live. As for the bank,
I’ve _got_ to leave you. You’re very kind to ask me to stay after the
way I’ve treated you and deceived you. I’m sorry to have to go away
right off without waiting till you get a temporary person in my place,
but you see it’s just this way. I’m wanted by the State to answer a
criminal charge, and there are some things that I must do to make right
a cowardly thing I did, before I’m put where there is no chance for me
to make anything right. Now that there are so many people who know who
I am there is no surety that I may not be arrested any minute, or else
I would wait till you can fill my place. But I was with Allan Murray
this afternoon, and he thinks he will soon be able to come to you, if
you still want him. He is a better man than I am. And everything will
be all right for you when he comes.”
But Mr. Harper was not to be appeased. He had taken a liking to this
young man. He fitted perfectly in with his schemes for the bank. The
other might be all right, but he wanted this one. He was under no
obligation to Allan Murray, since he did not come at the time arranged,
and besides there was room in the bank for another person if it came to
that, of course. It was with great reluctance that he finally withdrew
and left Mrs. Summers and Murray to have their last talk together.
It was then that Murray told her about Bessie and Mrs. Chapparelle.
Told of his own home and his lonely childhood, though that was merely
seen between the lines, not put into words. Told of the brightness of
the little cosey home around the corner, and of the little girl who had
been so sweet and gay a friend, then of the years between, and finally
of his finding her that afternoon and taking her to ride. He did not
tell of their visit to Grevet’s. He did not realize himself what part
that incident had played in the tragedy of the fateful afternoon. But
he told of his long wait in the hospital, and finally of the approach
of the nurse with the sad news, and his flight.
As he put it all into words his own perfidy and cowardice arose before
him in its true light, and his shame and sorrow came upon him so
powerfully that once he put his head down on the little tea table and
groaned aloud. Then the little warm rose-leaf hand of the woman was
laid upon his head tenderly, and he felt the comfort of her loving
spirit.
They read together for the last time the precious fourteenth chapter of
John, that has been the stay and comfort of so many saints in trouble
throughout the ages, and then they knelt and prayed together. Mrs.
Summers prayed for Murray, and finally Murray lifted a sorrowful voice
and prayed, “Oh, God! Bless her--and help me!” just a whisper of a
prayer, but it must have reached the throne.
In the morning he drove away in the minister’s car. The minister would
have it so.
“You are not safe in the train, son. They might get you arrested before
your work is done.”
The minister would have gone along, but Murray said no.
“I must face the music alone, you know. It was I who ran away from it,
not you. And I’m not going to take you away from your busy days. But
I’ll send the car back safely, and I’ll let you know how it comes out.
I’ll let you both know.”
So he drove away.