John Travis was like a good many young men in the tide of respectable
church-going. His grandmother was an old-fashioned Christian, rather
antiquated now; but he still enjoyed the old cottage and the orchard of
long ago. His mother was a modern church member. They never confessed
their experiences one to another in the fervent spiritual manner, but
had clubs and guilds and societies to train the working-people. She was
interested in charitable institutions, in homes, and the like; that is,
she subscribed liberally and supervised them. Personally she was rather
disgusted with the inmates and their woes, whose lives and duties were
mapped out by rule, whether they fitted or not.
Then, he had two sisters who were nice, wholesome, attractive girls, who
danced all winter in silks and laces, kept Lent rigorously with early
services, sewing-classes, and historical lectures, and took their turns
in visiting the slums. All summer there was pleasuring. The young women
in their "set" were much alike, and he wondered who of them all could
show these little waifs the way to heaven.
For himself, he had gone through college honorably. He was a moral young
man, because a certain fine, clean instinct and artistic sense forbade
any excesses. To be sure, he had read Strauss and Renan after his Darwin
and Spencer, he had even dipped into the bitter fountains of
Schopenhauer. He had a jaunty idea that the myths and miracles of the
Bible were the fables and legends of the nations in the earlier stages
of their development, quite outgrown in these later days of exact
philosophical reasoning.
But as he sat there, with these children's eyes fixed upon him with an
intent life-and-death expression, uttering a strong, inward soul cry
that reached his ears and would not be shut out, a certain assurance
came to him. These tender little souls were waiting for the word that
was to lead them in the way of life everlasting. "Whoso offendeth one of
these little ones"--it was there in letters of fire.
What but heaven could compensate them for their dreary lives here! What
but the love of God infold them when father and mother had failed. For
surely they had not demanded any part in the struggle of life. Ah, if
the dead rose not again--what refinement of cruelty to send human beings
into the world to suffer like brutes, having a higher consciousness to
intensify it ten-fold, and then be thrust into the terrible darkness of
nothingness. Even _he_ was not willing to come to a blank, purposeless
end.
He had been sketching rapidly, but he saw the little faces changing with
an uncomprehended dread. Dil's sunshine was going out in sullen despair.
Yes, he _must_ bear witness--for to-day, for all time, for all human
souls. In that moment he believed. A rejoicing, reverent consciousness
was awakened within him; and the new man had been born, the man who
desired to learn the way to heaven, even as these little children.
"Yes, there _is_ a heaven." He could feel the tremulousness in his
voice, yet the assurance touched him with inexpressible sweetness, so
new and strange was it. "There is a God who cares for us all, loves us
all, and who has prepared a beautiful land of rest where there is no
pain nor sorrow, where no one is sick or lonely or in any want, where
the Lord Jesus gathers the sorrowing into his arms, and wipes away their
tears, soothes them with his own great love, which is sweeter and
tenderer than the best human love."
"Oh," cried Dil, as he paused, "are you jest certain sure? There was a
little old lady who came and sang once 'bout a beautiful country,
everlastin' spring, an' never with'rin' flowers. I didn't get the hang
of it all, but it left a sort of sweetness in the air that you could
almost feel, you know. Don't you b'lieve she knew 'bout the truly
heaven?"
Dil's brown eyes were illumined again.
"Yes--that was heaven." His grandmother sang that old hymn. He would go
up there and learn it some day, and tell her that in the midst of the
great city he had borne witness to the faith. The knowledge was so new
and strange that it filled him with great humility, made him a little
child like one of these.
"Oh," cried Dil, with a long, restful sigh of satisfaction, while every
line of her face was transfigured, "you must know, 'cause, you see,
you've had chances. You can read books and all. And now I am quite
sure--Bess an' me," placing her hand lovingly over the little white one.
"An' mebbe you c'n tell us just how to go. And when you come to the
place, there's a bridge or something that people get over, and go up
beyond the sky--jest back of the blue sky," with a certain confident,
happy emphasis in the narrow, but rapt, vision.
"Couldn't we start right away?" cried Bess with eager hopefulness, her
wan little face in a glow of excitement. "What's the good o' goin' back
home? Me an' Dil have talked it over an' over. An' there must be crowds
an' crowds goin',--people who are strong and well, an' can run. Why, I
sh'd think they'd be in an awful hurry to get there. An' you said no one
would be sick. My head aches so when the babies cry, an' my poor back is
so tired an' sore. Oh, if I had two good legs, so Dil wouldn't have to
push me an' lift me out an' in! O Dil, do let's go!"
She was trembling with excitement, and her eyes were a luminous glow.
What could John Travis say to these eager pilgrims? He did not remember
that he had ever known any one in a hurry to get to heaven. How strange
it was! And how could he explain this great mystery of which he knew so
little,--the walk that was by faith, not sight?
"You said you had been to the Mission School," catching at that straw
eagerly. "Did they not tell you--teach you"--and he paused in confusion.
"I ain't been much. Mammy don't b'lieve in thim. An' I think they don't
know. One tells you one thing, an' the nex' one another. One woman said
the sky was all stars through an' through, an' heaven was jest round
you, an' where you lived. Well, if it's Barker's Court," and she made a
strange, impressive pause, "'tain't much like the place the woman set
out for."
"She left the City of Destruction. Her name was Christiana."
"Oh, yes!" kindling anew with awakened memory. "Well, that's Barker's
Court. There's fightin', an' swearin', an' gettin' drunk, an' bein'
'rested. Poor Bess hears 'em in the night when she can't sleep. An' the
woman went away, an' took her children. But mammy wouldn't go, an' we'll
have to start by our two selves. O mister! do you know anything 'bout
prayin'? The teacher told me how, an' I prayed 'bout Bess's poor legs,
an' that mother'd let rum alone, an' not go off into tantrums the way
pop uster. An' it didn't do a bit o' good."
She looked up so perplexed. This was not scientific or philosophical
ignorance,--he could find arguments to combat that; it was not
unwillingness to try, but the utter innocent ignorance, with the
boundary of certain literal experiences. But how could he explain? From
the depths of his heart he cried for wisdom.
"It is a long journey, and the summer is almost gone," he said, after
some consideration. "The cold weather will be here presently, and you
are both so little; suppose you wait until next spring? I will find you
that book about Christiana, and you can learn a good many things--and be
getting ready--"
He knew he was paltering with a miserable subterfuge; but, oh! what
could he say? Surely, ere violets bloomed again and buttercups were
golden, Bess would have solved the great mystery. Ah, to think of her as
well and rejoicing in heaven! It moved all one's heart in gratitude.
Both children looked pitifully disappointed. Bess was first to recover.
The tears shone in her eyes as she said,--
"Well, le's wait. My clo'es is most worn out, an' the cold pinches me up
so, Dil, you know. An' it'll be nice to find how Christiana went. How'll
we get the book?"
"I will bring it to you," he promised.
"An' will there be wild roses in heaven?" Bess fingered the poor faded
buds as if her conscience suddenly smote her.
"All beautiful things; and they will not wither in that divine air."
She pressed them against her cheek with a touch so tender he could have
blessed her for it. And there came the other vision of the soft white
fingers that had torn them so ruthlessly in her anger; of the hot,
passionate words! Would she forgive if he went to her, or would she
tread his olive branch in the dust?
"Tell me something about yourselves;" and he roused from his dream
abruptly. "Where is your father?"
"'Twas him that hurted Bess's legs, an' he got jugged for it. He beat
mammy dreadful--he uster when he had the drink in him. An' now mammy's
goin' the same way. That's why I'd like to take Bess somewhere--"
"Are there just you two?"
"There's Owen an' Dan. They're little chaps, but they'd get along. Boys
soon get big enough to strike back. An' some one else 'ud have to look
out for the babies."
"Babies! How many?" in amaze.
"I keep thim when their mothers go to work. Sometimes they're cross, and
it's dreadful for poor Bess."
"And your mother allows you to do that?"
"She's got ter!" cried Bess, her smouldering indignation breaking out.
"An' keep the house. An' when there's only two or three mother swears
she'll send Dil to the shop to work. So we'd rather have thim, for it
would be dreadful for me to be without Dil, don't you see?"
Yes, he saw, and his heart ached. He had a vague idea of some of the
comfortable homes, but to be without Dil! "Did his mother and sisters
ever meet with any such lives, and such tender devotion?" he wondered.
It was enough to break one's heart. It almost broke his to think he
could not rescue them. The picturesque aspects of poverty had appealed
to him in the street-gamins and ragged old men who besieged him for "tin
cints fer a night's lodgin'," that he knew would be spent for whiskey in
the nearest saloon; but of the actual lives of the very poor he had but
the vaguest idea.
"And your mother?" he ventured, dreading the reply.
"She goes out washin'. 'Tisn't so very bad, you see," returned Dil, with
a certain something akin to pride. "Beggin's worse."
He had finished the sketches,--there were several of them,--and he began
to gather up his pencils.
"Now that the work is done, we must have a picnic," he said cheerfully.
"I'll find a fruit-stand somewhere. Keep right here until I return."
The children gazed at each other in a sort of speechless wonder. There
were no words to express the strange joy that filled each heart. Their
eyes followed him in and out, and even when he was lost to sight their
faith remained perfect. Then they looked at each other, still in
amazement.
"It's better'n Cunny Island," said Bess. "I've wisht we could go
sometime when mother's startin' out. But if she'd been good an' tooken
us, we wouldn't a' seen _him_. But I'm kinder sorry not to start right
away, after all. Only there's the cold, an' I ain't got no clo'es. Mebbe
he knows best. An' he's so nice."
"It's curis," Dil said after a long pause. "I wisht I could read quick
an' had some learnin'. There's so many things to know. There's so many
people in the world, an' some of thim have such nice things, an' can go
to places--"
"Their folks don't drink rum, mebbe," returned the little one
sententiously.
"I don't s'pose you can get out of it 'cept by goin' to heaven. But
then, why--mebbe the others what's havin' good times don't care to go.
Mebbe he won't," drearily.
He soon returned with a bag of fruit. Such pears, such peaches, and
bananas! And when he took out his silver fruit-knife, pared them, and
made little plates out of paper, their wonder was beyond any words.
Dil eyed hers askance. She was so used to saving the best.
"Oh, do eat it," cried Bess. "You never tasted anything like it! O
mister, please tell her to. She's alwers keepin' things for me."
"There will be plenty for you to take home. I must find you some flowers
too. And this evening I am going to start on a journey--to be away
several weeks. I'm sorry to lose sight of you, and I want to know how to
find Barker's Court. When I come back--would your mother mind your posing
for me, do you think?"
"Posing?" Dil looked frightened.
"Just what you did this afternoon. Being put in a picture."
It had suddenly come into his mind that he could lighten Dil's burthen
that way. He wanted to keep track of them.
"And what do you do with the pictures?"
"Sell them"--and he smiled.
"You couldn't sell me; I'm not pritty enough," she said, with the utter
absence of all personal vanity, and a latent sense of amusement.
"When I come back we will talk about it. And I will bring you the book.
You will learn more than I can tell you. I used to read it when I was a
boy. And then we will talk about--going to heaven."
He colored a little, and his heart beat with a new and unwonted emotion.
"You're quite sure we can go nex' spring?" queried Bess. "Do many people
live there?"
"The Lord Jesus Christ and all his angels," he answered reverently. "And
the saints who have been redeemed, little children, and a multitude no
man can number."
A perplexing frown settled between Dil's eyes.
"Seems as if I couldn't never get the thing straight 'bout--'bout Jesus
Christ," and a flush wavered over her face. "When the people in the
court get drunk and fight, they swear 'bout him. If he jest gives people
strength to beat and bang each other, how can he help 'em to be good?
Maybe there's more than one. An' why don't the one who lives in the
beautiful heaven have a different name. I ast the Mission teacher once,
an' she said I was a wicked girl. Mammy said there wasn't any God at
all. How do _you_ know?"
There was a brave, eager innocence in her eyes, and a curious urgency as
well.
"'Cause," she subjoined, "if God lives in heaven and keeps it for
people, if there wasn't any God, there couldn't be any heaven. Some
folks in the court have the Virgin Mary, but I never see God."
There was no irreverence in her tone, but a perplexed wonder. And John
Travis was helpless before it. How did the missionaries who went to the
heathen ever make them understand? They had their idols of wood and
stone, and had prayed to them; but this child had no God, not even an
idol, though she loved Bess with every fibre of her being.
And he had almost said in his heart, "There is no God." A first great
cause, an atom rushing blindly about the darkness for another atom, a
protoplasm, a long series of evolutions--how complacent he had been about
it all! Could he teach these children science? He had heard the talk of
the slums occasionally, blood-curdling oaths, threats, wishes, curses
hurled at one another. These two little girls lived in it. Could any one
enlighten them, unless they were taken to a new, clean world? Yet their
souls seemed scarcely soiled by the contact, their faces bore the
impress of purity.
Was it thus when the Lord came in the flesh, when the wickedness of the
world was very great, its hopelessness well nigh fatal? He found many
ignorant souls; but they learned of him and believed, and went forth to
convert the world. Was it so much more wicked now?
"Let me tell you about the true Jesus," he said in a soft, low tone,
almost afraid to bear witness, he was so ignorant himself. "Long ago,
when people were full of sorrow and suffering, and had forgotten how to
be good to each other, God, who lived in this beautiful heaven, sent his
Son down to teach them. He came and lived among them and helped them.
Why, my little Dil, it's just like your caring for Bess. She can never
do anything to pay you back. She cannot sweep the house, nor tend the
babies, nor sew, nor earn money. But you do it because you love her, and
you only want love in return. She gives it to you."
Dil stared stupidly. "I don't want her to do nothin'," she said, with a
quivering lip.
"But you want her to love you."
"How could I help it?" cried Bess.
"No, you couldn't. And when the Lord found people ill and lame and
blind, he cured them--"
"O mister!" interrupted Bess, with her face in a glow of wonderful
light, "do you s'pose he could have cured my poor hurted little legs
so's I could walk on 'em agen?"
"Yes, my child. He would have taken you in his arms and laid his hand on
you, and you would have been strong and well."
"And where is he now?" she asked eagerly.
"He went back to heaven--to his Father." Ah, how could he explain to
their limited understanding the sacrifice that had redeemed the world.
He began to realize that faith for one's self was easier than giving a
reason for one's faith. "He told people how to be kind and tender and
loving, and to care for those in pain and sickness. He begged them to do
it because he had loved them. That was all he wanted back. But there
were ungrateful people, and those who were eager to fight and destroy
each other, and they would not listen to him. But when he went away he
left others, teachers, and they go on telling people--"
How could he make it simple enough for their comprehension? He was in
despair.
"Then he called those together who loved him and were willing to be good
and kind, and said to them, 'In my Father's house are many mansions--I go
to prepare a place that you may be with me'--"
"And that's heaven," interrupted Bess, her eyes shining and her lips
pink and quivering. "O Dil! that's where we are to go. I can't hardly
wait till spring. An' soon's we get there, I'll ast him to cure my poor
little legs poppy hurted when he threw me 'gainst the wall. Oh, are you
sure, sure he will, so I can run about agen? Seems jes' too good to
happen."
"Yes, I am sure. He took little children in his arms and blessed them
when they crowded around him so that people would have driven them away.
And he said, 'I have a heaven for all those who suffer, all those whose
parents beat or maim or starve them. I will take them to my beautiful
home, and they shall never suffer any more. They shall roam in lovely
gardens and gather flowers, and sing and love and obey me, and be
happy.'"
"O Dil, _will_ you mind if I love this Lord Jesus? For he is so good I
can't help it. I shall always love _you_ best. I will tell him how it
was--that you loved me when there wasn't any one else, and mammy wanted
me to die 'cause I was so much trouble. An', Dil, don't you b'lieve he
will say that was jest the kind of love he preached about, and 'cause
you did it you must have a place right by me?"
The tears came to John Travis's eyes. He wondered if the Master had ever
been rewarded with a more exquisite joy.
Dil squeezed her hand.
"Oh," cried Bess, "when we start to go to heaven in the spring, won't
you go along? We'd like to have you so. Don't they have grown-up men in
heaven? You're so nice an' clean an' different from most folks, I sh'd
think you'd like to go."
"Yes, I will," in the tone of one who gives a sacred promise. When he
came to think of it, very few people had asked him to go to heaven.
"Seems too good to be true," said Dil sententiously. "Good things mos'ly
ain't true. An' it all seems so strange--"
"We'll talk it over while we are going to heaven," he said with grave
sweetness, glancing at his watch and amazed at the lateness. "I will
bring you Christiana, and when you have read that I can explain many
things to you. I shall have to go now. Tell me how to find Barker's
Court when I come back."
"You won't like it," Dil exclaimed sharply. "It's dirty an' horrid, full
of women washing clo'es, an' drunken people, an' swearin'. Oh, let me
bring Bess over here. And the picture--"
"You shall have that. But I can't tell just when I shall be able to
come. Never fear but I'll find you. Here is something because you and
Bess posed."
It was a five-dollar note. Dil drew back in dismay.
"O mister, I couldn't take it. I'm afeard some one'd think I stole it--so
much money!"
He changed the bill into smaller ones. Then he slipped it into the bag
of fruit.
"This is Bess's bank," he said, with a friendly, trusty smile. "When she
wants any delicacies, you must spend the money for them. It is Bess's
secret, and you must not tell any one."
He thrust the bag at the foot of the shabby carriage, and then pressed
both hands.
"You're so lovely, so splendid," sighed Bess.
He picked up three withered buds--had some hands very dear to him held
them?
"Good-by. I shall find Barker's Court and you, never fear." Then he
plunged into the crowd, not daring to look back. What a week it had
been, beginning with sorrow and loss, and--had he found the Master? Had
these strange, brave little heathens, who knew not God, opened his eyes
and his heart to that better way?